Mad Honey: A Novel (38 page)

“Friend of yours?” says Asher coolly.

“Asher,” I say, pulling back swiftly. My heart is pounding away, because with just a few choice words, Jonah could wreck my life a second time.

“Former boyfriend, actually,” Jonah corrects, and he smiles at me, as if he’s just set the universe to rights. My jaw drops.
Now?
Now is when Jonah’s decided to own up to what he should have back then?

“This is Jonah. From Point Reyes. He goes to Dartmouth now,” I explain. “I didn’t know he went to school here.”

Asher looks from me to Jonah and back again.

“It was great to run into you,” says Jonah. “I really am sorry. Really. If you ever wanted to talk—well, maybe you still have my cell.”

Asher grabs my shoulder. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he says.

Jonah looks like he’s been slapped. He turns his back, and I instinctively reach out to tell him Asher didn’t mean that; that he’s just never seen me with anyone else, and he is jealous—but before I can reach him, Asher yanks on my arm
hard,
like he’s cracking a whip.

“Oww, that
hurts,
” I say. “What are you doing?”

“What are
you
fucking doing?” says Asher. “I look down and someone else is hugging you?”

I would laugh at that, if it weren’t all so goddamned sad. I have never seen him like this—vindictive, jealous,
alpha
.

“Asher, back off,” says Maya, who has made her way through the crowd now, with my mother by her side. They’ve both witnessed the whole thing. Maya’s voice seems like it snaps him out of the spell, and he looks first at her, and then at me.

He drops my arm like it’s on fire. “Lily—I—”

My mother steps forward and clamps her arm around my shoulders. “I’m going to take my daughter home now,” she says firmly.

I pick my sword up off the ground, and Mom guides me out of the Dartmouth gym.

Asher follows us halfway, dazed, like the beast in a fairy tale who awakens from the curse. “I didn’t mean it!” he says.

I know,
I think, as tears spill down my face.
So why did you do it?

THE NEXT NIGHT,
Maya comes for a sleepover. She’s brought Captain Morgan in a S’well bottle, and neither her moms nor mine are the wiser. We eat sheet cake left over from a forest ranger’s office birthday party and watch
Naked and Afraid
. We talk about what one item we would bring with us if we were on the show. I say a knife, because obviously, but Maya says she’d take her oboe, because sometimes on that show you just need something to calm your nerves.

I do everything I can to not think about Asher, who has texted me seventeen apologies.

The truth is, my heart hurts, and not because I can’t forgive Asher, although that was some weird shit he pulled off at the fencing match. But it’s more like, up to now, everything has been a dream with him, and this is the first time I’ve had to face the obvious: that it’s not a dream, that he’s got this nasty jealous streak, and that having a relationship with him isn’t only going to be about making out on a lifeguard stand and playing “The Swan.”

I’m remembering Jonah, how different he seemed. I guess I
seemed different, too. It was my scream that let him know that I was still me, and still fighting.

When it’s time to go to bed, Maya and I change in to our pajamas. I still feel strange about undressing in front of other girls; I think I always will. It’s a behavior that was forged in making myself invisible, before, in locker rooms and bathrooms. Maya rips off her shirt and parades around in her panties, shimmying into a satin set of shorty pj’s. I shuck off my pants and turn my back and drag my turtleneck over my head, taking care that my cuff bracelets don’t come loose, so Maya won’t see my scars. I unhook my bra, folding myself forward like a bird tucking in her wings, arms crossed over my breasts until I can pull on a T-shirt.
Cranky Frankie’s BBQ
, the T-shirt says.
Grills gone wild
.

Suddenly Maya throws her arm around me and holds up her phone. “Smile!” she says, and she snaps a selfie.

“I’m getting dressed!” I complain, glancing down at my bare legs.

Maya shrugs. “If we don’t post a girls’ night in on Insta, did it even really happen?” She starts typing on her phone, but then blows up the picture, squints, and reaches for my arm. She twists it a little, until she is looking directly at the big, ugly bruise where Asher grabbed me. You can see the marks of each of his fingers, and the round blob where he pressed his thumb.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I tell Maya. “It’s nothing.”

OLIVIA
8

MAY 9, 2019

Five months after

Dr. Monica Powers lives up to her name. She is tall and self-assured, and arrestingly beautiful. Her chestnut hair is pulled back from her face in a low twist, and she commands the witness stand instead of being cowed by it. If not for the power suit and the lack of a lasso of truth, she could be the incarnation of Wonder Woman—smarter and stronger than most people, and weary of being underestimated.

“Dr. Powers,” Jordan says, “can you tell us what you do for a living?”

“I’m a gender confirmation surgeon at Mills-Peninsula Medical Center in Burlingame, California. I’m on the surgical subcommittee of WPATH—the World Professional Association for Transgender Health. I perform pro bono reversals of clitoral circumcision and genital mutilation in Africa and other countries.” Her lips curve. “And I happen to be a trans woman myself.”

I know Jordan has flown her in here to be an expert, to educate the jury. I watch them study her with unabashed curiosity. Some look patently surprised, as if the act of seeing a stunning woman and hearing her say she is transgender is already forcing them to reevaluate their opinions.

“What does it mean,” Jordan asks, “to be transgender?”

“Trans people are people whose gender identity doesn’t match the gender they were thought to be when they were born,” Dr.
Powers says. “Normally, in the delivery room, a doctor says,
It’s a boy!
or
It’s a girl!
depending on what reproductive organs the baby arrives with. Most babies who are called boys at birth actually grow up to be boys. Most babies who are called girls at birth actually grow up to be girls. But for some people, what’s on the outside doesn’t match what is on the inside. They know who they are, and it’s different from what was assumed at the moment they were born. A trans woman is someone who lives as a woman right now, but was thought to be a man when she was born. A trans man is someone who lives as a man right now, but was thought to be a woman when he was born.” She smiles gently at the jury. “To make this even more complicated, gender identity isn’t always either column A or column B. Some trans people don’t identify as male
or
female, but somewhere in between, or a combination of both. Sometimes that’s called
nonbinary,
or
genderqueer
.”

I think of my conversation with Elizabeth. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to educate everyone about your right to exist in the world. I think of her shoulders, rounded as she leaned on the railing at the bridge, while two girls who were lucky enough to be born in the right bodies whispered about her.

Tired,
I think. That’s what it means to be transgender. Elizabeth must be continuously exhausted.

“So,” Jordan says, frowning, “you’re saying that just because I have XY chromosomes, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m male?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Gina says. “Relevance? I’m all for Mr. McAfee waving the Pride flag, but this is a murder case.”

Judge Byers shakes her head. “I think we can all benefit from hearing this, Ms. Jewett. Mr. McAfee, proceed.”

“We were talking about chromosomes…” Jordan prompts.

Dr. Powers nods. “There’s a difference between sex and gender. A person’s sex is the body’s biology—what’s between your legs and in your DNA. A person’s gender refers to what’s between your ears. Your own psychological sense of self—who you
know
yourself to be—is called your
gender identity
. If your gender identity doesn’t dovetail with your biological sex, you are transgender.”

“How does someone know if they’re transgender?”

“I like to think about it in terms of handedness,” Dr. Powers explains. “If I asked you to sign your name with your nondominant hand, it would feel weird. If I asked you to describe it to me, you’d probably say things like
the pen doesn’t fit comfortably in my hand;
or
it’s awkward;
or
I have to try hard to make legible something that I can do with my other hand effortlessly
. It feels forced. Even a kindergartner can tell you if they’re a righty or a lefty, even if they don’t have the words for it. It’s also true that while most people are righties, and a smaller sliver of the population are lefties, there are some people who can use either hand with equal facility. Years ago, if you were a lefty, teachers tried to break you into being right-handed. Eventually, someone realized that it’s perfectly okay to be left-handed. Right-handed people who don’t write with their left hand can still understand that some people might…even if they never do it themselves.”

She looks at the jury. “This example is a really great way to understand what it means to be transgender. Everyone has a dominant gender identity. It’s not a preference, it’s not something you can change just because you feel like it—it’s just how you’re wired. Most people who are assigned male or female at birth feel their gender identity matches that label—they’re called
cisgender
. But transgender people know that being in the body they are in feels not quite right. Some know this when they’re very young. Some spend years feeling uncomfortable without really knowing why. Some avoid talking about gender identity because they’re ashamed, or afraid.”

“Why would they be afraid?” Jordan asks.

“When trans people tell the truth about who they are, they face stigma, discrimination, harassment, and in some cases, violence,” Dr. Powers says bluntly. “Trans people have been fired for expressing their gender identity. They’ve been beaten up or thrown out of their homes. Last year, nearly thirty trans people were murdered. This year, so far, another four have been killed.”

I glance at Asher, who is staring at Jordan with undisguised confusion. It sounds, from the doctor’s testimony, like she is supporting the prosecution’s theory.

“It’s not just adults who are targeted,” she continues. “Imagine you’re a twelve-year-old girl in a boy’s body, who has started wearing girls’ clothing to school, and you are told by your principal that you have to use the boys’ bathroom. You might imagine there are some boys in there who are…less than accepting. And all you want to do is pee.”

“What does it mean to transition?” Jordan asks.

“Transitioning is the period during which a trans person starts to live according to their gender identity, rather than the gender they were incorrectly assigned at birth. It’s important to point out that you can be transgender and never transition. It’s not one-size-fits-all, and gender expression looks different for every person. For one, it may mean certain clothing, or growing your hair long, or putting on makeup. For someone else, it could be changing your name or the pronouns you use to refer to yourself. Some people change their driver’s license or passport to reflect their correct gender. Others undergo hormone therapy, or surgical procedures, so that their bodies reflect their correct gender.”

Jordan approaches the witness stand. “Dr. Powers, did you know Lily Campanello?”

“Yes,” she says. “I performed her gender affirmation surgery.”

“As her doctor, were you aware of the process she undertook to transition from male to female?”

“Yes. Lily followed a fairly typical course of transition. Around age thirteen, a trans female would start taking estrogen and spironolactone, which serve as puberty blockers. Since we typically start puberty at that age, this ensures that a transgender girl won’t develop facial hair, voice change, or the growth of an Adam’s apple—anything you’d associate with secondary sex characteristics. Following that, some individuals—like Lily—choose to have gender affirmation surgery.”

“What is that?” Jordan asks.

“Lily had what is commonly referred to as
bottom surgery
. In scientific terms, it’s a vaginoplasty, in which the testicles are removed, and the skin of the foreskin and the penis is inverted—preserving
blood and nerves—to form a fully functional and sensitive vagina. The glans of the penis forms the clitoris, with all its nerve endings. There is no cervix, and no uterus, and no ovaries. Trans women do not menstruate or get pregnant.”

I think about how, when Braden and I went for our ultrasound of Asher, the technician asked if we wanted to know the sex. She had pointed to the tiny thorn of a penis on the grainy screen. Had Ava Campanello had a similar experience? If so, how had she gone about rewriting that history in her head, in her heart?

I have seen sweet videos on social media of middle-aged parents announcing the birth of their “child”—a middle schooler with braces and a wide smile, who is now identifying as the opposite sex. They’ve always made me smile, because those kids are loved simply and unconditionally, which is so much better than the alternative…the trans teens without parental support, whose obituaries sometimes cross my feed.

But now I wonder if there’s more behind the giddy smiles and the winking rebirth announcements of those videos. Does the joy of presenting their new daughter come at the expense of losing their former son?

Has Ava Campanello grieved
twice
for her child?

“Can trans women enjoy a healthy sexual relationship,” Jordan asks, “including vaginal penetration with a male partner?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Powers says.

My face heats; this isn’t really a dialogue I ever thought I’d hear my brother have. My gaze slides to Asher, and I realize that for him, this is more than just scientific. This is personal.

This is a validation.

His jaw is clenched so tight that the muscles in his neck are strained.

Jordan tilts his head. “Would a male partner be able to tell, from intercourse alone, that a trans woman’s vagina was surgically crafted?”

I stare at Asher, who remains immobile, impassive. A cipher.

“Not unless she told him,” Dr. Powers replies. “In other words, Counselor: I am damn good at my job.”

Asher’s eyes drift shut, like he is praying. Or like a prayer has been answered.

“Nothing further,” Jordan says.

THERE IS PROOF
that the ancient Egyptians made little honey cakes for children as sweets, the way we would make gingerbread men today. I have my own version—one that is a loaf, not a cookie, that has nutmeg and cloves and coffee in it, too. I made it not as a treat for Asher but as a consolation for things that he lost: after getting creamed in a hockey championship game, when a friend moved away, when I spirited him away from his home and his father without advance notice.

When Jordan takes his seat and the prosecutor rises, I distract myself by writing the ingredients in the Moleskine notebook.
Cinnamon, sugar, eggs. Ginger and walnuts
. Easier to do that than to notice that Asher’s head is bowed toward the table now, like a snowdrop on its stalk.

Four cups of honey are in this loaf—dark honey, from the second harvest. It’s made late in the season, after the nectar drought in July, when the bees turn to goldenrod and sunflowers instead. It’s deeper and richer. It tastes like secrets.

I should make Asher a honey loaf,
I think,
for loss
.

Of Lily?
I wonder.
Or of this trial?

The prosecutor stands close to the witness stand, her arms folded. “Isn’t middle school a little early to start hormone therapy?” Gina asks.

“We don’t believe so,” Dr. Powers answers. “The trick is to stop puberty in its tracks so we don’t have to remove certain physical characteristics…but still have enough raw material, so to speak, to work with if the trans kid comes of age and wants to have surgery.”

“Lily’s surgery was at seventeen, though,” the prosecutor says. “She wasn’t even of legal age. That’s extremely young, isn’t it?”

“Honestly, no. It’s what I’m now recommending. I look for a combination of physical and emotional maturity in the child. If the
surgery is done precollege it also means they have the watchful eyes of their parents to support them through the process and to make sure the aftercare is kept up.”

“Aftercare?”

“Yes. Daily dilation of the vagina for six months to prevent stenosis postsurgery.”

“You say a man would not be able to tell that his partner was a trans female after having surgery…but there are scars, aren’t there?” Gina glances at Asher as she says this.

“We’ve gotten so good at this that the scars are practically undetectable. And postop vaginas undergo metaplasia—the lining adopts the characteristics that a cisgender vagina has. Not even a pathologist would be able to tell the difference.”

“Ah, but isn’t a pathologist different from a lover, in an intimate setting?”

Heat blooms across Asher’s cheeks.

“The surgical scars are hidden in the vulva, in the groin creases. A lot of times they’re obscured by pubic hair. If you were looking closely enough, you might ask,
What are these scars?
But something tells me that a teenage boy having sex with his girlfriend isn’t being quite so…scientific.” Dr. Powers shrugs. “A transgender girl could be standing naked in front of you, and you wouldn’t see a single visible scar.”

“Not a single visible scar,” Gina repeats. “Except for the ones caused by her boyfriend beating her up.”