At lunch, Dare hands me an iced blueberry Pop-Tart from her double pack before I even sit. I take it as a good omen that she’ll be receptive to what I need to tell her. With Pop-Tart in hand, I lean across the table and whisper in her ear, “I’ve decided to make small steps. I know I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it. I think it’s important now that I’ll be getting the hormone blockers. Small steps toward being me.”
What I don’t tell Dare is my reason—my endgame—for doing these small steps. My big idea. But she’ll find out.
Dare raises an eyebrow as I sit, and she passes me her other Pop-Tart.
It’s her way of saying she forgives my past failed attempts and approves of my new resolve.
If she only knew how much resolve I’ll need for my final goal.
I take a huge bite and let the sweet taste linger on my tongue.
That night, I paint my fingernails bold blue with shimmery sparkles. I think they go nicely with my eyes. It’s not the first time my nails were painted.
When we were younger, I’d beg Sarah to paint my nails, and of course she did. We’d play spa, and she’d do my nails and give me a facial, which consisted of putting a warm washcloth over my face, then smearing on Mom’s Noxzema until it tingled so much I made her wash it off. Eventually, Dad put his foot down about spa days. And at sleepovers, Dare and I would paint each other’s nails outrageous colors. But I always used polish remover before coming home.
This morning, I feel so good when I look at the blue, sparkly polish on my fingernails. Mom’s already at the yoga studio, and Sarah’s left for school. Meatball couldn’t care less what my fingernails look like as long as I feed him breakfast before I leave. Dad, of course, has the newspaper shield in front of his face, so all my worrying about how he might react is for nothing.
Dare notices immediately, of course. She bumps her hip into mine and nods. “You weren’t kidding, McGrother, about those small steps.”
I waggle my fingernails at her. “No I wasn’t. You like?”
“I do.” She looks at the chipped green polish on her own fingernails. “It’s awesome, Lily.”
Lily.
Who knew a little bit of Sarah’s nail polish with sparkly bits could make me feel so good?
Unfortunately, Dare isn’t the only one who notices my first small step.
At my locker, as soon as Dare leaves, Vasquez swaggers over. He nods at my nail polish, then actually spits on me. Spits! “Nail-polish-wearing fag!”
I make sure no teachers are looking, but really, there never seems to be a teacher around when Vasquez and the Neanderthals bother me. That’s why I’ve got to start sticking up for myself. So I give Vasquez the finger—my blue polished fingernail held high—as he walks away. That’s my second small step—standing up to the Neanderthals, at least a little.
On my way to homeroom, as I wipe off the place Vasquez spit on me, I wonder what the rest of the day will hold. I admire my polish one more time. I don’t care what Vasquez says or thinks about it; I think it looks great.
I can tell that some of my teachers notice my polish throughout the day, even though they pretend they don’t. I also hear a couple kids whisper about it in some of my classes, but nobody else really bothers me.
I’m sure when a biological girl paints her nails, she doesn’t think much of it. But to me, this is huge and it felt right. I took a step today—a small step toward being me and feeling more comfortable in my own skin—and I survived, only a little worse for the wear, thanks to Vasquez.
My next small step will take more bravery.
The next day, I put on Mom’s lipstick. It’s a really subtle shade. But still. To me, I’m putting lipstick on myself because wearing it makes me feel happy. To the outside world, I know I look like a boy wearing lipstick.
Sometimes, our hearts see things our eyes can’t.
“Nice, McGrother,” Dare says when she sees me. She gives me a fist bump. “You’re getting there.” Then she’s quiet for a moment, which is really rare. Dare looks into my eyes. “I’m proud of you.”
I smile.
“Also, you have lipstick on your teeth.”
I wipe my front teeth with the side of my finger and ask her if it’s gone.
“All clear, girlfriend.”
I hold myself tall as we walk to school. Dare called me “girlfriend.”
Bring it!
Vasquez slams my head into my locker. For a second, I can’t hear anything except the ringing in my ears and the word “Fag!”
Only one thing is louder—the voice in my head: I am not a fag.
I AM A GIRL!
Such a Monday
Monday, I wake hopeful, even though it means another day of middle school and dealing with Vasquez and the Neanderthals. It’s also Halloween, which will be so much fun with Dare.
For today’s small step, I carefully draw Sarah’s black liner under my eyes, which makes the blue in them stand out. I didn’t know my eyes could look so pretty. Bare lips today. It’s all about focusing on my eyes.
“Dad?” I watch as he lowers the newspaper. Holding up the backs of my hands, I wiggle my polished nails. “I’m leaving for school now.”
He looks at my nails and at my eyes, then ruffles the newspaper. That’s it. Ruffles the newspaper like he’s annoyed, then puts it back up like a shield.
Small steps for me. And small steps for him.
At least he didn’t scream. He didn’t tell me to wash my face and take off the nail polish. And really, he could have been a beast about either thing.
I want to squeeze Dad into a big hug, but feel like it might be too much right now. So I simply say “Thank you” with my eyes to the back of Dad’s newspaper, hoping my mental message gets through to him.
Thank you, Dad, for giving me the space to be me.
Thank you for allowing me to take small steps.
Before school, Vasquez doesn’t pay a visit to my locker, and I’m so relieved. Maybe it won’t be so bad for a Monday. Maybe Vasquez will be absent today. Maybe he contracted some bizarre illness that will keep him out of school the rest of the year.
Imagining that scenario makes me smile for much of the day…until PE.
In the locker room, I change as fast as I can. I hate being undressed in there, so I never am. I wear gym shorts under my pants on PE days. I’m uncomfortable enough about my body without having other guys looking at it, judging me.
“McGrother,” Vasquez says, blocking me from leaving the locker room.
“What’s under those?” He eyes my gym shorts.
I try to march past him—head down, plow ahead—like Dare would have done.
But there’s no marching past Vasquez. He’s a mountain, plus two of the Neanderthals have shown up as reinforcements, blocking my way.
“Yeah,” Bobby Birch says, and laugh-snorts like I imagine a hyena would. “What’s under those?” He points to my gym shorts again, as though that’s any of his business.
Vasquez tilts his head. “Well, McGrother. Whatcha hidin’ under there? Hmm? Whatcha got inside?”
I channel my inner Dare and growl, “The same thing that’s inside yours.” Unfortunately! Then I shove Vasquez so hard with both hands, he stumbles backward.
It’s all I need to get out of there, into the relative safety of the gym.
I hate the boys’ locker room.
I hate PE.
I hate Vasquez, Bobby Birch and the entire band of Neanderthals.
In the gym, Coach divvies us up into four sections for two games of volleyball. “Set. Spike. Block.” Coach claps his hands to each word. “Set. Spike. Block.”
Then he blows his whistle, which means we’re supposed to start playing.
Most of the girls drag their way to the courts and get into position. Dare’s in the group on the other court. Some of the boys are excited; maybe because they like to hit things. I don’t know. I wish PE weren’t required. I’d much rather do something civilized, like read in the school library. Too bad they closed that when I was in sixth grade. Then they fired the nice librarian, Ms. Tarr. Budget cuts, someone said. If they didn’t have enough money, why didn’t they cut a few sports programs instead? Now there’s a big, book-filled room on the second floor we’re not allowed to go into because “there’s no supervision.” Mom even volunteered to sit in the library a few hours a week so the kids could at least go in and use it, but the principal said no thank you.
I hate this stupid school.
When Coach leaves the gym to talk to another teacher, Vasquez manages to spike the volleyball right into my face. It’s like a planet hurtling a million miles an hour toward me and then colliding. I bring my fingers up to my nose, expecting a waterfall of blood. But none comes.
“Nice nail polish!” someone yells from the other side of the net.
Laughter.
“Yeah, blue’s your color, Tim,” some guy says in a fake high-pitched voice. “Matches your eyes.”
More laughter.
“He’s such a fag!” Bobby Birch says.
“Yeah, she is,” Vasquez adds.
More laughter.
“Stop it!” Dare’s voice.
Then silence.
“What’s going on over there?” Coach bellows. “McGrother, come on. Get up. Let’s see you spike that ball!”
I lower my hands from my nose. I rise from the floor and toss the ball back to the person on our team who’s supposed to serve next. Then I bend forward, rest my hands on my knees and glare at Vasquez. “Let’s go,” I say, my voice choked.
My teammate serves the ball…right into my back.
“Sorry!”
I. Hate. Volleyball.
HALLOWEEN, PART I
Vasquez decides we’ll have a group costume for Halloween.
He doesn’t strike me as the group costume kind of guy, and I’m worried what it might be. He’ll probably make us all dress up as Freddy Krueger or something dumb like that, which I guess would be okay, although not very original. One year, my dad came up with a great group costume. He dressed as a firefighter, Mom was a Dalmatian and Mom and a friend of hers made me a fire hydrant costume. I’m not kidding. Back then I thought it was hilarious.
Mom and Dad walked me all over the neighborhood. I remember getting a ton of good candy that year. I remember Mom and Dad laughing a lot, too, and chatting with neighbors. I remember some lady telling me, “Sorry, I ran out of candy,” and dropping two quarters in my bag. Two quarters!
That was the last good Halloween with Dad.
I was eight.
There are a buttload of pink flamingos wearing tiny Halloween costumes stuck into random lawns in our neighborhood. They’re funny, but I wonder for a second if they’re really there. I look around to see if anyone else sees the flamingos. Maybe my medicine is making me see things. I’m taking all my doses like the doctor wanted, but maybe seeing pink flamingos in Halloween costumes is a rare side effect.
When some kids, dressed like hockey players, kick one of the flamingos out of the grass, then crack up, I realize I’m being a complete idiot. Of course the flamingos are really there. My mind is fine. Isn’t it?
It takes f-o-r-e-v-e-r to walk to Vasquez’s house. Of course I’m sweating the whole way, because even though it’s Halloween, it’s still a million humid degrees outside. In New Jersey, I used to worry about having to wear a coat over my costume because it would be so cold. Here, I worry about applying enough deodorant to combat excessive armpit sweat.
Way #10 to die in South Florida: drowning in my own armpit sweat.
By the time I knock and go inside Vasquez’s trailer home, the other guys are already squashed around a small table, playing poker. Vasquez’s older sister, who is introduced as Francesca, is finishing up sewing five basketball T-shirts together at the sleeves.
“We’re going as Siamese quintuplet basketball players,” Vasquez says, as though he invented a cure for acne or something. “Awesome. Right?”
“Awesome,” I say, faking enthusiasm and squeezing in at the small table. The thought of being stuck that close to these guys, especially when I’ve been sweating like Niagara Falls, seems like a mild form of torture.
Turns out I’m going to be the guy in the middle because I’m the tallest. “Awesome,” I say again.
Everyone abandons the poker game, stands in a straight line and lets Francesca put the T-shirt built for five over our heads. When she gets close to me, I notice she smells like strawberries, and I decide I’m a big fan of strawberries. Maybe I’ll try a strawberry-filled doughnut next time I’m at Dunkin’ Donuts.
We have to put our arms around each other’s waists because the T-shirt built for five forces us to stand so close together. There are two guys on either side of me. I know this is supposed to be fun—a crazy Halloween with the guys—but I have the makings of an ugly headache and don’t feel like doing this. I wonder what Tim and Dare are doing tonight. Probably something really fun.
One of us smells sour, like he hasn’t taken a shower in a while. I worry it might be me, but since we’re all attached by the dumb T-shirt, I can’t even secretly sniff my pits.
I wonder why I agreed to do this, but realize it wouldn’t work without me. We need five people, like on a basketball team. And I’m that fifth guy. Just like on the court, the guys need me.
Part of me feels like I’m too old to go out for Halloween. Last year when I went out with Phineas, I was sure that was the last time I’d go out. But here I am, stuffed into a T-shirt built for five.
Francesca takes a photo of us, then stands on her toes and kisses her brother on the cheek.
He wipes it off, and all the guys make oohing and aahing noises.
“Shut up,” he says, and punches the guy next to him with his free arm.
I’m glad I’m not standing next to Vasquez.
We all shut up and wait for him to tell us what to do next.
I know what I want to do—go home and climb into the guest bed. My bed. The meds have been making me so tired lately, and this walk over here in the heat wore me out.
When I ask Vasquez if I can have a drink, Francesca holds a glass of water for me and pours it into my mouth. Of course, I choke and spill water down my neck, and all the guys laugh.
Terrific!
“Let’s go to Beckford Palms Estates,” Vasquez says. “They’ll give out bigger candy bars. Not like the cheapskates in this neighborhood. They’d give out a single Skittle if they could. In Beckford Palms, sometimes you get a whole handful of candy at each house. Those people have some serious money.”
My cheeks heat up, and I feel like I’m guilty of something, even though I don’t really live in Beckford Palms Estates. Technically, it’s Bubbie’s house. Still, I wish I could shrink away, but unfortunately I’m too tall for that.
“You guys ready?” Vasquez asks.
He sounds pumped.
“Ready!” the guys say.
I say it, too, even though the only thing I’m ready for is sleep. Or a giant cup of coffee.
“Bring me back some good candy,” Francesca says before disappearing into one of the rooms down the hall of the trailer.
Outside, getting down the few steps from the door, we realize how hard it is for five people to move in sync.
I’m not looking forward to this.
It turns out to be kind of fun trick-or-treating with the guys.
We end up doing stupid walks together.
“Right. Left. Right. Left,” Vasquez says to keep us walking in sync, but someone always messes up, and we burst out laughing.
There are about a thousand kids trick-or-treating in Beckford Palms Estates. I never saw so many people here before. An army of pint-sized princesses, aliens, monsters, cheerleaders, football players and characters from movies have descended on the neighborhood.
“Kids come from other neighborhoods for the good candy,” Vasquez explains. “Let’s go get our share before they hog it all up.”
That’s when we try to run…and end up in a five-person heap on the ground.
We manage to get up, coordinate our walking and knock on the first door.
People crack up when they see us. Some make sure to give us five pieces of candy, even though there are only two pillowcases—one at each end.
“That’s the most original costume I’ve ever seen,” some lady says as she drops candy into our pillowcases.
A man pushing a little ladybug in a stroller says, “That’s what I call teamwork.”
I’m grateful the neighborhood is large enough that we travel many blocks and never end up on the street with Bubbie’s house. I don’t know how I’d deal with that one. Besides, Bubbie is probably giving out healthy muffins or something that the guys would use as ammunition to launch at other kids.
When Vasquez starts complaining that his bag is getting too heavy and someone else says his feet hurt, we decide to head back to Vasquez’s place. I try to figure out if there’s any way I can duck out and go home, but I can’t see how I could manage that without them knowing I live in this rich neighborhood, so I stay in formation and head toward the entrance.
I’m so exhausted, though.
Three people around our age approach from the opposite direction. They’re laughing and look like they’re having so much fun. I know one of them. Wait. Two of them.
Just as they’re about to walk right into us, my heart thuds. Do something! I purposely put my leg in front of Bobby Birch, the guy next to me. He trips and we all go down in a heap, just like I’d hoped.
I bash my right knee on the sidewalk, but it’s totally worth it.
“Damn!” Vasquez yells. “Who did that?”
Bobby starts to say something, but doesn’t.
As the five of us try to right ourselves, I glance behind us and watch Tim and Dare and another person walk past.
Safely.
I smile, feeling good that I finally did one small thing. And Vasquez doesn’t even know about it.
When we manage to get up, I slip out of the costume. “Sorry, guys,” I say, “but I’ve gotta go.” And I jog out of the neighborhood by myself like I’m heading to some other neighborhood, but I plan to make a wide loop and come right back.
I hope Vasquez and the guys don’t catch me doing it.
When I finally get to Bubbie’s house, I’m thirsty and tired, but I think that Halloween was pretty good after all and nothing bad happened (thanks to me!).
Turns out Bubbie gave out packaged granola bars to the trick-or-treaters.
Mom is eating one when I walk into the house. “How was trick-or-treating?” she asks, wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
“Pretty great,” I say, and this time I’m not even lying.
