If I Was Your Girl (23 page)

“You could've died,” he said, his voice still booming in the tiny space, “and you don't even care! Damnit, Amanda—”

“Dad—” I said, my voice cracking.

“Well, I'm done,” Dad said. “I'm not watching you destroy yourself. When we get home I want you to pack your things.”

 

NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO

I would have preferred to sit in the back of the bus, but older, meaner boys sat back there, and the assistant principal said I was only making myself a target. Not that sitting up front helped; they kicked at my legs and slapped things out of my hands when they walked by. For a while my shins were striped with green and purple bruises and my paperbacks came home with torn covers and missing pages. Now I sat quietly with my knees pulled to my chest and stared straight ahead.

The bus stopped. I clutched my legs tighter and recognized the thud of Wayne Granville's boots as he walked up the aisle. He stopped at my bench and leaned in, elbows braced on the seat backs. He was a few inches shorter than me but much denser, faster, and stronger.

“You have a good Halloween?” he asked. A blond junior girl rolled her eyes and squeezed past. He didn't seem to notice her. I didn't answer. “Billy says you did. Says he saw you trick-or-treating in a dress.” I pressed my forehead into my knees and closed my eyes. I had spent Halloween in my room, alone, playing video games. I spent every night and every weekend in my room, alone, doing homework or playing video games. “Oh, and I heard you blew a buncha dudes for Skittles. Taste the rainbow, right?” The bus driver gave him an impatient look, and Wayne turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Andy!” he called out as he stepped off the bus.

“No you won't,” I whispered, but nobody heard.

The door hissed open at my stop. I shuffled out to the sidewalk and watched the bus leave. The street was empty. The edges of every yard were fortified with black and orange leaf bags, like sandbags with no flood to hold back. I put one foot in front of the other. The wind howled down the street, whipping my hair into my eyes. I let it fall where it wanted; if I wandered into the street and a car hit me, all it would do was save me some time.

Our yard was choked with leaves. Mom had broken her ankle at work a week ago, and most days I could barely manage the effort to get out of bed. My feet broke through the upper layer of new, dry leaves to the dark, mulchy layer beneath. Old rainwater soaked through to my socks, but it didn't matter. I opened the door and entered silently.

Inside, the sound of daytime television drifted out of Mom's room. I put my backpack on the couch and walked softly to her door, peeking in. Her head poked out of the covers while her chest rose and fell slowly. Soft snoring was just barely audible over
Dr. Phil
. Two white prescription bottles and a half-empty glass of water sat on the nightstand closest to the door. I took off my shoes and socks and tiptoed over to the nightstand. I picked up the first bottle slowly and read the label: Amoxicillin. I wasn't looking for antibiotics. I set it down and took the other bottle, which I knew now was oxycodone. The bottle rattled as my hands began to shake. Mom mumbled something and I froze. A moment later she turned over and resumed snoring.

I went back to the living room and put the bottle down on the coffee table, then walked to the kitchen where I filled a tall glass with tap water. I sat next to my backpack and put the glass of water next to the pill bottle. I took my
Health & Wellness
textbook out of my backpack and put it in my lap. A running male body with muscles and veins and bones exposed stared out from beneath the title. I ran my hand down the cover and imagined the tendons beneath my skin, the bones they were attached to, the blood running through spider-webbed veins, the muscles made of a hundred thousand tiny cords. This body, this walking prison, had forced me to keep it alive for fifteen years.

I opened the textbook to the page that read, “
What Boys Can Expect from Puberty
.” Then I opened the pill bottle, removed three small white pills, and put them in my mouth. They tasted powdery and bitter. I swallowed them with a sip of water and kept reading. I read the text on the page and felt the things it described happening to my own body—I was a late bloomer at fifteen, tall but beardless and scrawny, with a high voice that still squeaked sometimes, but I could feel the changes coming like a swarm of insects skittering across my bones.

Testes will descend from the body and begin producing testosterone and sperm.

I swallowed three more pills. I wouldn't be a friendless victim anymore.

Spontaneous erections and nocturnal emissions are normal and should not be cause for alarm.

I swallowed three more pills. No more caring that Dad didn't care about me.

Thick, coarse hair will appear on the face, chest, and stomach, with leg and arm hair noticeably thicker than females'.

I swallowed three more pills. My limbs felt heavy and strange. No more future with no love, no kisses, no closeness.

The voice will drop by about an octave as the larynx enlarges and hardens.

I swallowed three more pills. It was difficult to focus. No more possibility of shaming Mom with the knowledge of the kind of life I actually wanted.

Bone density and muscle mass increase and shoulders widen disproportionately, giving males and females distinct skeletal shapes.

I swallowed three more pills. I was very sleepy. Everything felt okay though. I knew everything would be okay. The bottom of the page said something about acne and body odor but the words danced whenever I tried to move my eyes over them. I closed the book and set it aside. I took the remaining pills and the glass of water and moved to the bathroom. I removed my clothes and sat down in the tub because I didn't want to leave a mess. Leaving a mess would have been rude. I realized that I forgot to write a note but it was too late for that now, and soon nothing would matter at all. My eyes slid shut.

Everything was going to be okay.

 

31

The bus smelled of body odor and dry heating-vent air and urine. It was just after noon when we left; Dad had at least let me sleep in and fed me breakfast in silence. The man in the aisle seat was snoring loudly, but I didn't care. I wanted to sleep, was tired enough to sleep, but couldn't. I felt dead inside. I felt nothing.

I tried putting headphones in but by the time we reached Chattanooga and switched from I-24 to I-75, I had tried all my favorite songs and they all sounded like musical Styrofoam. I read articles on the Internet but they were all trivial. I wanted to be home, but I didn't know what home was anymore. I pressed my cheek to the glass, the road slipping by like a black ribbon thrown across the hills. I watched the changing scenery of this place where I was born that had been telling me it hated me for as long as I could remember and gave in to the static behind my eyes.

*   *   *

The jolt of the bus coming to a stop sent me sitting straight up with a sharp breath. I shuffled down the aisle and descended the stairs. I stood for a moment in the fumes and noise of the Greyhound station, still feeling numb and cold.

“Yoo-hoo!” a loud female voice called, high and musical. It took me a moment to realize it was Mom. I looked in her direction and froze when I saw her sitting next to Virginia, both of them waving, Mom in a zip-up purple Windbreaker and sneakers, and Virginia in an oversize cable-knit sweater that came to her knees. My head swam, watching them together.

“Hi,” I said, putting my bags down and hugging each of them before giving them a confused look. “So, this is weird.”

“Is it?” Mom said, giving Virginia a look of concern.

“I don't think so,” Virginia said, taking my bag for me as we made our way out to the sidewalk where Mom was parked.

“But you two barely know each other.”

“Don't we?” Virginia said, smiling mischievously.

“I started going to that support group at your therapist's office,” Mom explained as we got in her old gray SUV. I tried to picture Mom at the meetings and couldn't. Mom must have known what I was thinking because she shrugged and said, “I got lonely and I wanted to know more about you, so I decided to check it out.” She squeezed my leg and gave me a look that told me everything was going to be okay. I put my hand over hers and smiled, silently thanking her for not mentioning that I had left town with a black eye and came back with one too.

The house was even cleaner than I remembered, and decked out in decorations for Thanksgiving, which was still a few days away. The living room and kitchen were explosions of orange and brown, with paper turkeys and cornucopias on every surface with any room. I smelled a roast in the oven, and spicy cornbread, and my mouth watered.

“That smells so good,” I said. “You didn't have to go to the trouble.”

“You're my daughter!” Mom said. “And you're too skinny. I knew your daddy couldn't even be trusted to feed you.” She walked into the kitchen and announced that dinner was in half an hour.

“I need some fresh air after the bus,” I yelled back.

“I'll join you,” Virginia said, stepping outside with me.

“You staying for Thanksgiving?” I said as she put on her jacket.

“Wish I could,” she said, fiddling with her buttons as she descended the porch steps. “I'm actually moving down to Savannah next week. Got accepted to SCAD.”

“That's so cool!” I said. She beamed at me and we walked in silence for a moment. I winced with each step. My ankle still throbbed. “So,” I said eventually, “you wanna know what happened?”

“Let's talk about something else,” Virginia said. “Give you a little time. You deleted your Tumblr, didn't you?” I nodded. “So you still don't know what everybody's been up to.” I shook my head, glad she was talking. Virginia and Mom were the only two people who could have been around me right now.

“Zeke finally got a job with insurance that covers his top surgery,” she said. “You just missed the party; he's got the surgery scheduled for next month.”

“That's great. Is he still dating Rhonda?”

“Moira's couch-surfing again,” Virginia said suddenly, as if she hadn't heard me. “She's stayed clean so far, but she's a long way from safe. Your mom's thinking of putting her up in y'all's guest room.” She put her hands in her pockets and looked up at the sheet of iron-gray clouds overhead. “Your mom's a really great person, you know.”

“I know,” I said, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes. “Virginia. What happened to Rhonda?”

“Can I tell you later?” Virginia asked, giving me a pleading look. “You're under enough stress as it is.”

“I'd like to know,” I said.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “She killed herself about a month ago, just after I got back. Didn't leave a note.”

“No,” I said, covering my mouth and wrapping my other arm around myself. “Jesus. Why?”

“You know why,” Virginia said, shaking her head slowly. “We all know why.” She was silent for a moment while I processed that information. “Her parents were monsters about the whole thing, of course. They lopped all her hair off and buried her in a suit and tie.”

We walked in silence for a while, lost in our thoughts. Rhonda wasn't the first friend I'd lost; since joining group, I'd been on the other end of that middle-of-the-night phone call too many times. I used to wonder if someone would ever have to make one of those calls for me.

“So what's next?” Virginia asked after a while, as we headed back toward home.

“I don't know,” I said, letting the wind whip my hair into my eyes as I put one foot achingly in front of the other. “This time, I really don't know.”

 

32

For most of my life Thanksgiving had been a huge, noisy day full of grandparents, great-aunts and -uncles, cousins, half cousins, and nieces, but ever since coming out and living as a girl full-time, Mom and I had been informally exiled from all family functions. That was fine by me; I much preferred the kind of quiet, cozy meal I was sharing with Mom the Thanksgiving after I came back home.

She had made too much food like she always did. We were going to be eating leftovers for weeks. We mostly ate in silence, which could have been awkward but was somehow comforting. Mom knew I wasn't ready to talk about what had happened and I loved her for giving me the space. Halfway through dinner I heard a scratch at the door.

“Could you let the cat in?” Mom said.

I opened the front door and the cat trotted through, giving me three loud, terse meows to register her complaint at having been made to wait. The cold, wet air was bracing after the drowsy heat inside. I stepped out to the porch and leaned against the rail with my eyes closed for just a moment, enjoying the chill. My eyes snapped open again when I heard the sound of tires crunching down the driveway. I recognized Dad's car immediately. I didn't say anything as he stepped out of the car with a covered casserole dish under his arm.

When he neared the porch I smelled his sweet-potato casserole with the marshmallow crust on top.

“Hi,” he said, looking rickety and out of place. He tried to smile and, despite everything in the last few weeks, I couldn't resist smiling back at him. “Am I late?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked instead. He stopped just inside the door and looked around quietly, like our living room was a strange foreign country.

“Amanda?” Mom called from the other room. Her chair squeaked and I heard her feet coming from around the corner. “Is someone—oh.” She froze when she rounded the corner. Dad finished taking off his coat and waved sheepishly.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. I leaned against the back of the couch and looked back and forth between them, waiting for the detonation. I had always wondered what would happen if they ever saw each other in person again, and the most likely outcome seemed to be a full thermonuclear exchange. Instead, Dad said, “Your home is lovely,” and Mom replied, “Thank you. Come join us.”