Both Can Be True

by Jules Machias

  “Well . . . what were you supposed to do?”

  “Right?” I’m glad she understands. “Then Cole was always ‘busy’ over the summer. I wound up hanging out with my dog, Frankie, all of June and hiding from Mitchell and listening to my parents argue, until Frankie got so sick in July that he couldn’t eat or walk anymore and we had to have him put to sleep—” My throat closes and I cough. “And Dad moved out in August right when school started”—oh lord, I gotta talk about something else—“so I felt awful and I really wanted to patch stuff up with Cole, right, so when school started I sat with him and Erin at lunch, which was awkward because I have nothing in common with her, or whatever, and Cole was a lot more interested in talking to her than talking to me, so they excluded me a lot. Which sucked. One day neither of them were responding to anything I said, and I just kept babbling about Frankie and my dad. By the end of the lunch bell, Cole was staring daggers at me and I was like, ‘Just tell me what you’re mad about.’ Erin looked at me like I was dirt and said, ‘You invited yourself to our table and talked about your dad and your dead dog for half an hour and didn’t even tell him happy birthday.’” I grimace at how stupid and selfish I felt. Still feel. “It was such a facepalm moment. I said I was sorry, but he laid into me. I got the idea he’d had it pent up for a long time. He said all I ever focused on was myself and I never paid attention when other people felt stuff and he was tired of it and no offense, but how about I sit somewhere else at lunch from now on. I ran to the bathroom crying like a freaking idiot. I haven’t talked to him since, even though we have a class together and I see him in the hallways and—well.” I clear my throat again, but the choked-up feeling just gets worse.

  “And your dog died and your dad left and now you’re taking care of Chewbarka on top of everything else,” Ash says. “That’s way too much all at once.”

  I cross my arms and look at my feet. If I lean into her sympathy, I’ll turn into a blubbering puddle.

  “Daniel . . .” She sets Chewbarka down, steps close, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Feeling stuff really hard doesn’t mean you’re selfish.”

  For a frozen, stretched-out moment, I look into her eyes. They’re warm brown at the edges and fade to a pale green by her pupils.

  I never realized how interesting hazel is. Like it’s a word for a collection, a spectrum, instead of a word for a color.

  Ashley pulls me closer and kisses me.

  I blink in surprise at the warmth of her lips on mine. Then I lean in and kiss her back, and it’s everything I ever hoped a kiss would be: so sweet and sudden and wonderful that everything else disappears. It only lasts a moment before she ends it and I make an accidental mwah sound and Ash starts laughing.

  “What?” I cover my mouth, afraid I did it badly again, that I suck at kissing—

  “It’s better from this side!” she says through her laughter. “So much better!”

  I must look confused, because she explains how she’s always disliked hearing people kiss because the shape of the sound was so doofy, but that the shape is different when it’s happening to her, with her mouth, in her head. She grins and blushes the whole time she’s explaining it, and I can’t help smiling too, sucked into her light and laughter.

  “Should we do it again?” I ask.

  “Heck yes.” We kiss again, and it’s just as magical till Ash ends with an intentional mwah, and she dissolves in giggles and so do I and all my problems with my friends and my family and my fear disappear.

  Just for a minute. Just enough that I can breathe again.

  11

  Boy Skirt Girl Punk

  Ash

  Mom pulls into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant at 1:33. Dad steps out of his car wearing a button-down shirt with khakis instead of his usual white tee and jeans. He pointedly looks at his watch.

  I suppress a sigh. If he’s already mad that we’re three minutes late, this could be rough.

  “Don’t let him give you a bunch of crap,” Mom says. “He can’t talk to you like you’re eight years old anymore.”

  “He’ll try.” Mom and Dad never got along beautifully—according to her, they first connected because they were both leftists who enjoyed arguing politics, and they each understood where the other was coming from even if they didn’t agree on specifics—but Dad’s changed a lot since the divorce. “I just hope he lets me finish my food this time.” Dad has a habit of assuming that when he’s done eating, the meal is over.

  “Good luck, baby. I’ll see you when he drops you off, okay?”

  “Yep.” I take a deep breath, then get out and cross the lot to Dad.

  “Hey, kid.” Dad pulls me into a hug. For a moment, it’s nice—he’s tall and strong and he hugs fierce, and it’s easy to feel safe. But that quickly changes to feeling suffocated. “What’s the flavor of the day?” He lets me go.

  I hate how that question reduces me to only my gender. “Um, girl still.” I guess.

  He gives my neutral outfit a once-over and we go inside. As I trail after him, I notice he smells different than usual. More . . . I don’t know, soapy. Once we’re seated in a booth, I see he’s neatly trimmed his salt-and-pepper goatee as well.

  Does he look all polished because he has a date tonight? Eew.

  A stooped, gray-haired man with warm brown eyes hands us menus and asks what we’d like to drink. I request lemonade and Dad gets a Diet Coke, which is odd. He usually goes for the full-sugar stuff.

  “So how’s school?” he asks in his clipped way as soon as the waiter leaves.

  “Good. I’m making new friends.”

  “Glad to hear it, kiddo. Oakmont seems like a big change from Bailey. More accepting.”

  “It is. And it’s more diverse, which I like.” I wish he’d use my name instead of kiddo.

  “Have you joined any clubs yet? Your mom said they’re big on extracurriculars.”

  I open my mouth to say Rainbow Alliance, but quickly change my mind. “Not yet. But I got invited to this girl Zoey’s band practice tonight. I’m sort of hoping they’ll invite me to join.” Even if they suck, I’ve always wanted to be in a band.

  Dad gives me a genuine smile. “I’m sure once they realize how talented you are, you’ll be a shoo-in.”

  “Thanks. I hope so.” His words make me feel good. But if Mom were here, she’d say calling me talented robs me of the credit I deserve for putting in the work to get skilled. “How are things at the doctor’s office?” He’s a medical technician at a cardiologist’s office and does EKGs all day.

  “Same old.” A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, like he’s having a private thought he doesn’t want to share.

  “Have you seen any interesting cases lately?”

  “People aren’t cases,” he says, straightening his collar. “Every heart is different. Like every person is different.”

  Uh-oh, here we go. “But . . . hearts behave in predictable ways, right? Like unhealthy choices make your heart unhealthy?”

  “Sometimes. If you want to reduce it that way.” He twists in the booth to make his back crack. It used to drive Mom nuts.

  The waiter brings our drinks and takes our orders. Dad says he’ll have the tilapia tacos and I ask for the deluxe vegetarian burrito. While we wait, Dad tells me about a book he’s reading on the Boston Tea Party, a topic that’s always fascinated him and bored me to tears.

  The food arrives. My burrito is cheesy-gooey-excellent, but it’s hard to enjoy it when Dad keeps glancing at his watch and then looking at me like there’s something he wants to bring up. He finishes his tacos and asks the waiter for a box for my leftovers, even though I’m not done. When the guy brings it, Dad boxes up my food like I’m a child incapable of doing it myself.

  I break a tortilla chip into tiny bits. He’s about to drop a “fatherly wisdom” bomb on me in the vein of If you don’t take my criticism with gratitude, you’re an immature child.

  He puts the box on his side of the table and looks out th
e window. “Have you been presenting as a consistent gender at school so far?”

  My lungs try to suck in a steadying breath. I keep my shoulders still to hide it. “Girl.”

  “Your mom mentioned there’s a school dance coming up.”

  I’m not sure what he wants me to say. “I saw a poster for it.”

  “Are you thinking of asking anyone?”

  I go on high alert. “Um . . . sort of?” I was just kissing a cute guy two hours ago . . .

  Dad studies my blush like he knows what I’m thinking about. “Well. Keep in mind that usually it’s the guy who asks the girl. Not the other way around.”

  My blush deepens. What would he say if he knew I started the kiss with Daniel? “I’m pretty sure girls can ask guys—”

  “They can. But they normally don’t. If you want to be consistently perceived as a girl, you need to act feminine. Not just dress that way. Remember when I told you boys don’t usually giggle at My Little Pony? And girls don’t get obsessed with Fortnite? Same concept.”

  “But I mean . . . they can do those things.”

  He flicks his straw in irritation. “I’m telling you how kids usually behave, since that seems to elude you. You can’t put on khakis and a baseball hat and say you’re a boy, or a dress and say you’re a girl, if you’re not consistently coding your behavior accordingly.”

  He’s going all big-words on me to show he’s smarter than me. “Why does it matter?”

  He closes his eyes like I’m totally dense. “I’ll simplify it. Would you put on a boy outfit and ask a new guy friend to watch Frozen with you?”

  “I guess not.” It would depend on the guy. Griffey loves Frozen.

  “Would you put on a dress and ask a new female friend to, I don’t know, play baseball? Or football?”

  I stay silent. He knows I’ve never played either of those in my life.

  “That’s all I’m saying. If you insist on switching, at least do people the courtesy of acting like the gender you say you are. It’ll make it easier for them to know how to interact with you.”

  “But—”

  “It’s all about consistency. This is something you should’ve figured out by now. You’d be in eighth grade already if you hadn’t failed sixth.”

  Ouch. “I know, thanks.”

  “Consistency is especially important given your . . . unusual thinking. Have you really not thought about changing your behavior along with your outfits? Come on.”

  “My thinking’s not unusual,” I mumble. I mean, Sam and Mara exist. “Mom thinks it’s fine.”

  “I’m not saying gender roles aren’t baloney. I don’t go around preaching that women belong in the kitchen, for pity’s sake. But your mom disregards the negative consequences your switching has with your peers. She doesn’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.”

  I slump in my seat. “I didn’t choose to be like this.”

  “You choose every day what you feel like doing. I’ve told you over and over how inconvenient that is for people. If you expect your new friends to change how they interact with you based on whatever your whim of the day is, you need to make it easier for them. That’s why I’m explaining to you about being consistent with behaving like a girl and not just dressing like one.” His voice is infuriatingly calm, but he’s crimping an angry pattern in my Styrofoam leftover box with his thumbnail. “And honestly, you could avoid this whole mess if you’d finally get around to picking one gender and sticking to it. I’d be happy to defend you if you did that. Even if it’s not the sex you were born as. You know I consider myself a trans ally.”

  A familiar mix of anger and shame floods me. Mom reamed the Bailey principal a new one after Camille posted the video she’d secretly taken of Tyler and those jerks jumping me. When Dad heard about it, he was mad those kids had bullied me, but he also told me it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I’d stayed one consistent gender. If I hadn’t behaved in a way that made Tyler feel lied to. Which, ugh, he’s right about. “It just seems like you’re sort of saying I should be the one to change, instead of saying other people should stop being jerks,” I say.

  His expression softens. “I wish it weren’t that way, kiddo. I really do. Other people should not be jerks. But in the real world—not the ‘ideal’ one your mom lives in—there will always be jerks. No matter what. I want you to be safe in the real world.”

  “And safe means hiding who I am.”

  He grimaces like he doesn’t like my logic. “No. It means finally figuring out which gender you identify most with. And being consistent. Your life will be infinitely easier.” He starts crimping the Styrofoam again.

  I’m pretty sure he means Other people will find you easier to be around, not You’ll be happy and fulfilled. I steel myself and ask the question I’ve wanted to ask for a long time: “When did you decide you were a guy?”

  He cracks through the Styrofoam. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I just don’t understand how you can say you’re a trans ally if you only support, like, full-time trans people. And not . . . part-time ones.” Is that what I am, maybe? Part-time trans?

  “Don’t invent new identities. And don’t put words in my mouth. I’m fine with trans people. They make a full commitment to one gender, unlike you.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true for all trans—”

  “You’re a naive child who doesn’t understand the concept of trans,” Dad snaps. He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’ve looked into it. Believe me. I had to arm myself for the fights your mom always wanted to have about it. I’ve done the research on the terminology. You”—he points like he wishes his index finger were a stick he could jab me with—“are young and impulsive. And she, for whatever reason, just goes along with it. All I can do is try not to care so much that your friendships at Bailey got so screwed up over your switching that your mom had to move you to a new district. Which means my child support checks are now going toward rent on your unnecessarily expensive new apartment.” He wads up his napkin and drops it on my empty plate. “If you’ll excuse me.” He edges out of the booth and stalks off toward the bathrooms.

  I wipe away angry tears. A retort circles my brain, too late to use: Wow, Dad, I bet all the trans people in the world are so relieved that you’re “totally fine” with them.

  I can’t even imagine saying that to him. He’d have some comeback about switching and airports and inconsistency.

  The waiter stops by to refill my lemonade. “Everything okay?”

  I keep my face down and nod.

  “Do you need help?”

  I shake my head.

  He hovers for a moment, then goes to another table, looking over his shoulder at me. A few moments later, he sets the bill at the end of the table. I scrape my pulverized tortilla chip into my palm and dump the crumbs into the basket. Maybe I could use a pile of disassembled tortilla chips for my rule-of-thirds assignment. It’s an accurate reflection of my mental state.

  By the time Dad comes back, I’ve calmed down and I’m folding my napkin into a rose. Dad puts his credit card on the folder with the bill. The waiter comes to get it right away. He gives Dad a once-over while he collects our empty plates, then glances at me. I fake a smile.

  While we wait for the receipt, Dad spends a few minutes mansplaining the plot twist in that old Bruce Willis movie about dead people like it’s even remotely relevant to my life. I nod in the right places. The waiter comes back, Dad signs the receipt and leaves a stingy 10 percent tip, and we slide out of the booth. I grab the pen and write Thank You on the napkin rose’s petals while Dad pockets his wallet and digs out his keys.

  It takes a hundred years to decide what to wear to Zoey’s punk-band practice. Punk is guy music to me, but Zoey reads me as a girl. I don’t want to rock the boat before it even leaves the dock. I’m feeling gun-shy of boat rocking after that lousy lunch.

  I turn my thoughts to Daniel. I still can’t believe I kissed him. Like boom, jump in like
a dude, Ash! Don’t wait till you’re sure he likes you, or till he knows you’re not always a girl! Don’t be smart about it!

  I doodled the shape of that mwah a thousand times when I got home. I drew stick figures of us too, what we looked like—two people standing together—and what it felt like. Two people rising up from the ground. Falling through the sky. Dancing the tango. I drew the one I’m afraid of, where Daniel stays on the ground and I grow wings and float up without him.

  I pull on my vintage Ramones shirt and look in the mirror. Guy-me wants to wear it. But I need to hold on to the fast-fading girl feeling. Because Zoey thinks I’m a girl. Because I’m gonna need to feel like a girl tomorrow when I spend hours with Daniel.

  Maybe wearing a skirt will help. I put on a layered fall-colors one I got at Goodwill with Mom a few weeks ago.

  It feels so freaking wrong. So not-me.

  Mom raps on my bedroom door. “You gonna be ready sometime this century?”

  I scowl at my reflection. My shirt and skirt do not go together. I pull off the shirt, put on a plain black tee and grab the purple purse Mom cross-stitched with I am Groot under a picture of Baby Groot doing the Rosie the Riveter pose. Fiona would like it. “Ready.”

  In the car, I pick at my chipped nail polish. I feel like a dude in a skirt. I keep thinking about Sam at Rainbow Alliance, who said pronouns aren’t important to them, and Mara, who looks like a girl but uses he/him pronouns.