At the end of class, the cheerleader raises her hand. I sneak a look at her while she waits to be called on. She’s got shoulder-length brown hair, perfectly straight. Her face is perfect. Her smile, also perfect. Her eyes, freckles, ears, all perfect.
“Mrs. Lunsford,” she says without being called on, “just wanted you to know that I volunteer at the homeless shelter at night, so I can’t do homework.”
The class laughs, and before Mrs. Lunsford can respond, the bell rings.
Everyone files out of the classroom without giving me a second thought—the novelty of the new kid has already worn off. I hit the packed hallway and get lost in the crowd. I’m invisible, like a ghost haunting the school. I have no past here, only future. This is what I have dreamed about for so long. My brand-new life starts today.
I find the boys’ bathroom, take a deep breath, and push the door open.
When you’re transgender, bathrooms can be uncomfortable.
Keeping my eyes low, I walk past the urinals and feel instant relief when the only stall is empty. Urinals aren’t exactly my thing. Matter of fact, they are impossible for me to use. When the toilets are all occupied, I wait awkwardly and hope no one notices me.
But no waiting today. Today feels lucky.
After, I’m washing my hands (something not all guys do) when I hear a deep voice behind me. “What are you doing in here?”
I look in the mirror and see a large guy wearing a football jersey. Our eyes lock in the reflection in the mirror. Panic washes over me, but I stay outwardly calm. I shut the water off and turn around, squaring my shoulders.
“The same thing you’re doing in here,” I say.
He takes a step closer. “This isn’t your bathroom.”
And sometimes when you’re transgender, bathrooms can be dangerous.
At my old school, I would cross the highway to use the bathroom at McDonald’s. In Texas, it’s not illegal for transgender people to use the restrooms of their gender—it just made things easier for everyone at Midland High if I never showed up in one. I was the first and only trans student at my old school. It’s a lot of pressure to be that special.
After I sent my coming-out email, word about my transition spread quickly around school. Almost everyone was positive and excited for me. People asked questions that felt too personal and kept getting my name and pronouns wrong (saying she instead of he). I was frustrated and hurt but tried to be patient. It was a big adjustment, and those take time.
There was some bullying. Not surprising—this is Texas. People said mean things and I lost a few friends, but I tried not to pay them much mind.
For the most part, my friends were supportive, but maybe too supportive. I became the token trans person. It was how they introduced me: “This is Pony. He’s trans!” Then how they described me: “that trans kid” or “Oh, the trans one?” Being trans became my defining feature. I just wanted to fade into the background.
I read an article last year about transgender people going stealth at work to avoid discrimination. Stealth, as I understand it, means passing as your gender and concealing your transition. After a year of too much attention, I just wanted to drop off the radar and be a typical, average—maybe even a little boring—boy.
Going stealth sounded like the perfect solution, and it didn’t take long to get my wish. On the last day of junior year, Dad dropped his relocation papers on the table at dinner. Dad ex machina!
He’s been in the army all my life, so I’m no stranger to moving. I’m usually not happy about starting over, but this time I was boxing up the house a month early. I was ready. This was my chance to go stealth at a new school and live my dream life. A brand-new boy.
But that’s over. First day of school and first bathroom visit, and I’m already busted for being trans by this football jock. That was quick. I turn around and face him, channeling Robert De Niro. (Not Meet the Fockers De Niro; I’m talking Taxi Driver De Niro.) I look him dead in the eye and make sure to use my deep voice. “You going to make me leave this bathroom?”
“Dude. Chill. Freshmen use the bathroom in C wing, by the gym. Hillcrest tradition.”
Oh, thank god. He thinks I’m a freshman. I loosen up and take a step back.
“I’m a senior. I’m new here,” I say, then lean back on the sink to show this guy just how cool I am.
“Oh shit, my bad. You look young,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m still waiting to hit puberty.”
He laughs, thinking I made a joke, but I didn’t. I need to be eighteen before I can start injecting testosterone to trigger puberty.
“Pony,” I say.
“Cool name. Welcome to Hillcrest. I’m Jake.”
We head out of the bathroom together, and he points me to my next class. We don’t shake hands, but that’s fine with me. He didn’t wash them after taking a leak.
Did I just make my first friend here?
GEORGIA, 10:59 A.M.
I’m so hungry, I might die. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning. There’s a zero percent chance for an on-time arrival to third period. I’m hustling, but I’m also in a weakened state. I would eat a cupcake off the floor right now.
I’m navigating through hordes of kids in the D corridor when I round the final corner and run right into Ms. Randolph.
“Georgia! You startled me!”
I give her a big hug. Ms. R is probably my favorite teacher. As usual, she’s wearing a pencil skirt with a white blouse. Her glasses creeping to the tip of her nose. Hair in a tight bun. It works—she is straight-up teacher chic.
“How was your summer?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
“Oh, the perils of high school love. It will never be so urgent, it will never be—”
“Did you read the article about Syria in the New Yorker last month?” I ask, both testing her and changing the subject.
“I did indeed. It made a few good points. Did you read the piece in the Atlantic?”
“No,” I admit. She’s always going to win this game. When will I learn?
“It’s your last year here, Georgia, and the Hillcrest Reporter has become more important than ever—”
Ms. Randolph is advisor for the Hillcrest Reporter, a weekly newspaper published by the journalism club. She’s been trying to recruit me to write for years. First off, the paper needs a new name. The Hillcrest Reporter? And, last time I checked, only thirty people follow them online. That’s not a paper; it’s a sad blog.
And most importantly, I’m not going to abandon an image that took three years to build. I’m the cheerleader with the funny stories, the cheerleader who dates football guys, the cheerleader who has a pretty good shot at homecoming queen. What would people think of me if I started writing exposés about the cafeteria food?
I cut her pitch off. “Sorry, Ms. Randolph. I am so busy with football season . . .”
“We don’t publish articles about the cafeteria food, Georgia.”
How does she know my thoughts?
“You can write about anything you want.”
Oh boy, she’s not going to make this easy. “I’m a reader, not a writer. I’m a cheerleader of words!” I do a couple small rah-rah-rah motions to really drive my point home.