That night at dinner, it’s hard to eat because there’s a rock in my stomach. Every time I think about what happened at Dunkin’ Donuts—what happened with Dunkin and the Neanderthals—the rock grows a few centimeters. But the truth is, things could have gone much worse.
If only Dunkin had stayed with me instead of ditching me for the Neanderthals. We were having such a good time, or at least it seemed like we were. He even laughed at my stupid joke and he showed me the secret behind his cool magic trick. Why does Dunkin like those idiots? Why do I still even want to be friends with him?
Mom and Sarah are quietly eating. Meatball is curled on top of my feet, keeping them toasty. I’m forcing down a few pieces of corkscrew pasta when Dad says, “Tim, I think it would be a good idea if you got a haircut.”
Mom makes a little gasp.
Sarah says nothing, but glares at Dad.
Meatball gives a whole-body shudder, then relaxes back onto the tops of my feet.
I look at Dad—at his determined eyes—and stab my fork into a piece of corkscrew pasta. “Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
Mom and Sarah look shocked.
I stuff pasta into my mouth and chew without tasting, as though I’m chomping on bits of rubber. I think of Vasquez, calling me “her,” which shouldn’t make me angry, because that’s how I define myself, too, but coming from his mouth, it sounded dirty, like something to be ashamed of. I think of Dunkin walking away and leaving me alone at that stupid table. Of the Neanderthals staring at me and talking about me while I was sitting right there, Dunkin among them. I heard their laughter. Mean laughter that followed me out of the store.
“Let’s cut it all off,” I say.
Mom chokes. “But, Lily, you said—”
“Don’t call him that,” Dad snaps, his cheeks reddening.
“She can call my sister whatever she wants,” Sarah says, poking my thigh under the table.
Maybe Sarah wants me to stick up for myself against Dad, but I’m tired of fighting. “Buzz cut,” I say.
Dad’s got a goofy smile now. His cheeks have returned to normal color. “Oh, we don’t have to go that far, Tim.” Dad gives Mom a sideways glance. “Just a nice, short cut should do the trick.”
As though a haircut will change who I am. But Dad keeps hoping. Keeps trying things, like only boy clothes and boy bedding in my room. And now a short haircut. Just like everything else he’s tried, the haircut won’t change who I am on the inside one bit. But it might change how people see me. It might even change how people treat me. And that’s exactly what I need right now. Well, that and hormone blockers. Maybe if I give in on the haircut, Dad will give in on the hormone blockers. And that would be totally worth it.
Mom clucks her tongue and shakes her head. She looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t.
Sarah pushes back from the table and stomps upstairs.
I hate disappointing my sister, but I really think this might be a good idea.
I expect Meatball to follow her, but he doesn’t budge from his spot atop my feet. I guess he likes being close to the dinner table, in case someone drops something. But without Sarah here, his chances of being snuck a treat are slim.
I return to mechanically chewing my food, swallowing and not tasting. It doesn’t matter. Mom and Sarah must think I’ve given up. Dad probably imagines he’s won something, though I’m not sure what.
I’m the one who might win something. A short haircut is not such a big price to pay to finally fit in. I mean, it’s not like I agreed to cut off my arm or my leg. Hair grows back.
Eventually.
The Cut
As the barber cuts off my hair, my head feels lighter, but I get an ache in the pit of my stomach, like I’m making a huge mistake that I can’t take back.
I keep reaching for my hair, but it’s not there anymore.
“Sit still,” the barber grouses, like I’m a little kid.
So I put my hands in my lap, underneath the black cape, and sit very still. I peek at the floor around the barber’s chair and feel like parts of me are scattered there. It’s more painful than I imagined. I remind myself how much easier things will be at school. I’ll be what they want me to be: Timothy James McGrother. Boy.
Whatever it takes to get through middle school.
And at home, things will be easier, too. At least with Dad.
I’m eager to see how everyone reacts to my new short haircut. It’s blond and fine and reminds me of feathers. I want to pull it down and stretch it. It’s really short. I’m so glad I didn’t get it buzzed. That would have looked awful.
Mom says it looks good, but I can tell she’s disappointed. And Sarah won’t even look at me, which makes me feel terrible. But it will be worth it on Monday when I get back to school.
Monday morning, Dare says she hates it the minute she comes to the door. “You’re not being true to yourself, Tim.” She emphasizes my boy name and acts like I cut off my hair to irritate her. I don’t bother explaining the truth—that it’s temporary, so Vasquez and the Neanderthals will stop harassing me, especially in front of Dunkin. Then maybe Dunkin will feel like he can hang out with me, too.
As we get closer to school, I barely pay attention as Dare talks about her work with the horses Saturday and her uncle’s visit Sunday. I’m thinking about what it will be like today. Maybe I’ll start feeling more like a boy with the new haircut. It already feels weird not having hair on my neck.
I’m filled with hope as I approach my locker.
Why didn’t I think of doing this sooner? Thanks, Dad.
I haven’t even gotten my locker open when Vasquez comes up and shoves me. Hard. My shoulder bashes into my combination lock. It hurts like heck, but what’s more painful are the words Vasquez casually tosses off as he walks away: “Nice haircut, fag.”
I can’t win. No matter what I do…I can’t win.
I trudge to each class and barely pay attention. At lunch, I’m rubbing my sore shoulder when Dare sits at our table. She nods toward the Neanderthal table. “Vasquez?”
I stop rubbing my shoulder. “I thought maybe…if I…it didn’t matter.”
Without an ounce of compassion, Dare says, “You’re compromising. That’s your problem.” She leans forward. “Don’t do what you think will make them happy. Do what will make you happy. It’s not that complicated, McGrother.”
She’s right about me compromising. She’s always right. “I thought it would be easier,” I admit. “If I cut off my hair.”
“Is it?” she asks, pointing her banana at me. “Any easier?”
I shake my head, and my hair doesn’t whip around my face. It just sits there, out of my eyes.
It sits there, being exactly the wrong hairstyle for me.
A clementine bonks off my shoulder—my sore shoulder. And when I look toward the Neanderthals’ table, they put their heads down and crack up.
Dunkin is sitting with them, of course. His head’s not down, though. He’s looking at me. And he’s not laughing.
I want to hold his gaze, show him I can take whatever he and his stupid friends dish out. But the truth is, I can’t. I look down, wishing I had my hair to hide behind, to make me feel a little more…like me.
What have I done?
The Letter
Sitting in Bob’s branches after school, it doesn’t matter that my hair is short.
Bob doesn’t care. And his green leaves hide me.
I love this tree. I can’t let it get cut down.
Something Grandpop Bob used to say pops into my mind: The pen is mightier than the sword.
When I was little, I didn’t know what that meant. But now I know. Maybe I can save Bob. If I write a good enough letter, maybe I’ll be like the Lorax and speak for the trees. At least for this one tree.
I pat Bob, gather my things and climb down.
There are new flamingos stuck in some lawns in our neighborhood. One of them is wearing a golf club cover on its head, which is hilarious since practically everyone around here is golf-crazy. Another flamingo is wearing a tiny Santa hat, even though it’s not even Halloween yet. And a third has a miniature knitted necktie with bright colors. It feels like a good omen when the golf cart dudes don’t come around and remove them.
Back home, Mom’s in the kitchen making tea. I finally tell her about the sign and what’s going to happen to Bob.
She gasps and puts her palm over her mouth, then shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. Remember picnicking under that tree when you and Sarah were younger?” Her eyes get a far-off look. “You both put your dolls on the blanket to join the picnic. Sarah’s was Miss Beasley and yours was, um, Minnie Mermaid?”
“Matilda Mermaid,” I say.
Mom shoves my shoulder playfully. “You loved that mermaid doll.”
I still do. “I have her on a shelf in my closet.”
“You dragged that doll with you everywhere, even into the bathroom.”
“I was totally obsessed.”
“Matilda Mermaid used to drive your dad crazy.”
I swallow hard, and we’re both quiet. But I don’t want to think about Dad right now. “Did you know Grandpop Bob used to read to me under that tree when you and Dad were both at work and he babysat?”
“Oh yes,” Mom says. “Back when I was a lawyer and worked all the time.” She lets out a big breath. “I’m glad that’s in my rearview mirror.”
“I remember envying Sarah because she got to stay at the shop with Dad and Grandmom Ruth and help make T-shirts, but I was too little.”
“But you got to do cool things with Grandpop Bob. Right?”
“Definitely,” I say. “And Sarah got stuck with Grandmom Ruth. Poor Sarah!”
We both laugh.
Mom puts her steaming mug of tea on the table and asks if I want one. I don’t.
“I remember feeling so proud, walking into the little kid section of the library with him holding my hand. He’d let me pick out a bunch of books, and he’d choose some, too. Then we’d go out front and settle under our tree, all cozy and warm, for my own personal story time. It was pretty terrific.”
Mom smiles, but her eyes look sad. “I miss your Grandpop Bob.”
“Me too.” I take a sip of Mom’s hot tea, just to melt the lump in my throat.
“And I can’t believe the city plans to cut down that beautiful tree,” Mom says.
“Not if I can help it. I’m going to write a letter to the city council to try and stop them.”
Mom’s whole face brightens. “What a great idea!”
“I’m going to tell them how important Bob is and that he shouldn’t be cut down.”
Mom cradles my cheek in her warm palm. “Of course you are, sweetheart.”
I feel pretty good as I march to my room, ready to put pen to paper and battle for Bob. The pen is mightier than the sword. I pull out my favorite fuzzy purple pen from Dare and a sheet of the fancy stationery Mom gave me for my last birthday, and then I write the letter, which I had mentally composed during my walk home.
Dear City Council Members,
Please don’t cut down the tree on the lot next to the Beckford Palms Library.
It provides shade for people walking their dogs. It provides a home for many species of birds and squirrels and insect life. People have picnics under it.
That tree has been there my whole life, and it’s a very special place for my family and me.
I’m sure you’ll agree that having the banyan tree on that property would be better for the community than a new park.
Thank you for your thoughtful consideration.
I think for a long time. I touch my too-short hair. Then I sign my name.
Lily Jo McGrother
The Proper Pronoun
Over the next few weeks, I check our mailbox for a letter from the city council about Bob. None arrives. I also check to see if the sign about his being cut down has been removed. It hasn’t.
I don’t know what else to do, so I worry. And I go to school.
Basketball tryouts are being held at the end of the day. Vasquez and his Neanderthals have been so absorbed with that, they haven’t bothered me as much as usual. It’s been nice. I wish basketball season lasted all year.
Today in Mr. Creighton’s class, he does a quick lesson on pronouns before we break into critique groups to work on our stories. He says some of us aren’t using them correctly.
He. She. It. They. We. Them.
Mr. Creighton’s right. Some people don’t use pronouns correctly. For example, “she” is the correct pronoun for me. But people keep incorrectly referring to me as “he.”
She.
I can’t wait until the whole world calls me by the correct pronoun.
She.
Someday, they’ll get it right.
She.
Someday…
