I Wish You All the Best

by Mason Deaver

  Me: Morning!

  I text them on the off chance they’re up. It only takes a few seconds for them to reply. They must be working on something to be awake as early as they are.

  Mariam: heyo! how we doing?

  Me: Fine, you’re up early…

  Mariam: meetings, planning, editing, articles to write.

  Mariam: I’m runnin’ on fumes, Benji

  Me: Yikes…

  Mariam: What about you? Anything new???

  Me: Not really, school’s kicking my ass, dealing with some more stuff.

  Not a great excuse, but hopefully they will understand my radio silence.

  Mariam: Noice! I’m always up for some existential crises.

  Me: Always a fun time.

  Mariam: So what’s on the agenda for us today?

  Me: Hannah wants to go out, get some groceries, look at some clothes.

  Mariam: Nice, nice!

  I rub my face while I consider the pros and cons of telling Mariam about last night, my hand scratching the stubbly hair that’s just poking up on my jaw. I yank my hand away and try to forget about it, but I know I won’t feel better until I actually shave it off, which I probably won’t be able to do until tonight.

  A few of the message boards I’ve read said things like facial hair growth contributes to body or gender dysmorphia. So that was a fun thing to learn. I don’t exactly remember when I discovered the whole thing made me uncomfortable. It was just one of those gradual things, like my hair, or my nose.

  Mariam: gasp! I almost forgot! You haven’t met the new girl!

  Me: New girl?

  Mariam sends me a selfie of them with a girl at a coffee shop or restaurant or somewhere. They’re both really cute, Mariam as always, their dark purple lipstick matching their hijab. This girl is kissing Mariam’s cheek, her hair dyed a similar purple, eye shadow dark. She looks vaguely witchy, and I love it.

  Me: She’s so cute!!!

  Mariam: omg she’s so amazing. Her name is Shauna. like we’ve been out every day this week. We went to the movies last night and she held my hand the entire time and it was PERFECT! Like I think I died and I’m in heaven right now honestly.

  Me: Sounds nice

  I stare at their messages while I try to imagine Mariam walking down the street, getting to hold hands with their new girlfriend. I don’t know much about Mariam’s parents, but they’ve never had any problem with them being nonbinary or pansexual, so Mariam never really had to worry about hiding their sexuality or their identify from their parents.

  I hope they know how lucky they are. Of course, they’d also had more than their fair share of problems. When their family lived in Bahrain, things weren’t perfect. Mariam’s family is Shia, not Sunni, which made things difficult for them.

  But after they moved to the United States, things only got worse. Too many times Mariam has told me about people yanking on their or their mother’s hijab out in public or walking in front of them while they prayed. And California isn’t some 24/7 queer-pride parade. Mariam told me one time that they never go anywhere without two cans of pepper spray, so I don’t really have a right to call them lucky, I guess.

  Plus, there’s the whole YouTube side of things. Those comment sections can get downright hideous.

  Mariam: You okay???

  I stare at their message, thinking about how I could tell them.

  Me: I think I really like this boy…

  But before I press send, Hannah slides open the glass doors and pokes her head outside. “Hey, I’m gonna shower and head out. You want to come with me or stay here?”

  I glance at my phone, holding down the backspace button, and watch the message vanish before I look back at her. The dog that might be Ryder is still barking. “Yeah, I’ll go get ready.”

  “This one looks good.” Hannah grabs a shirt off the rack and holds it out in front of me. “And it goes with your eyes,” she adds.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I take it, adding to the pile I’m trying to balance on my arms. So far, she’s handed me a few button-up shirts, three pairs of jeans, and a cardigan. It’s going to get too warm for sweaters soon enough, but it’s still pretty cute. Cheap too.

  “You want to go ahead and try them on?”

  “Sure.” I glance around for the dressing rooms, one clearly marked “male” and the other “female.”

  “Sorry, sib,” Hannah says, realizing this for the first time.

  “It’s whatever.” I march toward the “male” side and pick one of the empty rooms. I hate trying on clothes. Besides there rarely being gender-neutral changing rooms, I get all hot and sweaty, and changing out of stuff six or seven times tends to get really old really quick.

  I stare at the ones Hannah’s picked out. There’s one we grabbed that I’m actually excited for, this short-sleeve collared shirt, bright floral print set against black. I’ve always loved these kinds of shirts.

  The rest are fairly basic colors. Burgundy, olive green, and purple. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what Hannah is doing for me, but the second we stepped in, she took charge, heading right over to the “men’s” section without giving it a second thought.

  I mean, I should expect these kinds of things by now. Every retailer pretty much does the same thing. Men’s, women’s, and children’s sections; even the ones with the neutral changing rooms can’t escape the way things are gendered.

  And this is just the stuff that fits me best, I guess, with my body type and everything, but still. Sometimes when I was out with Mom, I’d follow her over to the “women’s” side of the store, staring at all the options. The really cool baggy sweaters, the tank tops, and the thin, flowy dresses. It was hard not to be jealous, but I knew no matter where I went, I’d never be able to really go out dressed how I wanted to.

  Boys aren’t supposed to wear dresses. Even if I’m not a boy, even if clothing shouldn’t be gendered. Whenever anyone looks at me, that’s all they’ll see. I sigh, finishing buttoning the shirt and rolling up the sleeves because it’s already getting hot in here, the too-bright lights hanging over the naked ceilings. I turn around in the mirror, watching the tag on my arm fly back and forth. It looks nice enough. Maybe I could save this for more special occasions. Not that I have many.

  But the more I stare at my body, the more I hate it. It’s the same feelings I had before I realized I’m nonbinary. Things just aren’t where they’re supposed to be, and I feel like I’m larger and smaller than myself at the same time. Like nothing adds up.

  “You okay in there?” Hannah asks.

  “Yeah.” I unlock the door and walk out.

  She’s waiting on a bench just outside and has the biggest smile on her face when she sees me. “Damn, kid. You look good!”

  I can’t resist a smile. “You think?”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t want to try on the other ones, but Hannah makes me. “What’s the point of buying them if they won’t fit you?”

  I don’t make a fuss about it, but when we’re done and she walks over to the other section of the store, I feel the pang in my gut. There are these really cool-looking sweaters, the “two sizes too big” kind that come down to your thighs and swallow your hands. And they’re thin but chunky, so they wouldn’t get too hot.

  “You should get that one,” I say.

  “Cute.” Hannah grabs one, eyeing it before putting it back on the rack. “I don’t think it’s me though.”

  I sort of wish she’d see what I’m saying, but she’s never really been the best at that. Maybe I could hide it under my clothes, so Hannah won’t notice. But there’s really no way to sneak it past her, especially if she’s footing the bill for all of this.

  “What do you think?” She pulls out this bright white dress with red polka dots. I’d never be able to pull off something like that, but I sort of like the idea of being able to wear it. Maybe how it would feel brushing past my legs.

  “Looks good,” I say.

  “You look like you’re thinki
ng,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “Like your brain’s busy.” She chuckles. “Thomas says I have a look like that too. Maybe it runs in the family.”

  “Maybe.”

  She nudges me a little. “So, what’re you thinking?”

  “Mrs. Liu’s doing an art show at school,” I say, the excuse coming easy. It’s not a total deflection; I have been thinking a lot about the show. I just don’t think Hannah would really understand how I’m feeling about everything else.

  “Oh, did she ask you to submit one of your paintings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  I shrug. “Not sure yet.”

  Hannah scoffs. “Come on, your stuff is amazing. Why wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I’m just nervous.” I don’t know why. It’s just a student show. But there’s still this bundle of nerves I feel when I think about showing my stuff off to that many people.

  I’m just overthinking it; I know I am. Hell, it is just a student show; I doubt there will be a lot of people there. But still.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Benji. You should submit something.” Hannah eyes the dress again before putting it back on the rack, and all I want to do is reach out and grab it. She moves closer to the stacked piles of jeans next. “So, are you excited to be out of school? Must be nice to be able to relax for a few days.”

  “Yeah.”

  She grabs a pair of black jeans at the bottom of the pile, checks the size, and then shows them to me for approval. I nod, and she throws them in my arms.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “You like Dr. Taylor, right?” The question takes me off guard.

  “She’s fine.” Seems like an odd question since I’ve been going to Dr. Taylor for almost three months now. “Why?”

  “Just wondering. I was talking with a friend, the one that referred me. She said that it can sometimes be hard to find a psychiatrist you can stick with, especially on the first try. Dr. Taylor was their fourth option.”

  “I didn’t know you could switch like that.”

  Hannah eyes me. “Do you want to?”

  “No, no. She’s great.” Besides, I don’t think I can handle a new doctor. Start over, come out all over again, talk about Mom and Dad, and Hannah, and things I’ve already let out into the world. Even if that world only consists of two people.

  “What about the medication?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I think it’s working; I’m not really sure though.”

  “Have you given any more thought to that support group?”

  I freeze. “How do you know about that?”

  “There was the pamphlet in your dresser. I promise I wasn’t snooping, just putting away some clothes and … well …”

  “Oh. Not really.” Please tell me she wasn’t going through my things. That she was just putting away socks or shirts that she’d washed, and just opened the drawer by mistake.

  “Can I ask a question?” She throws down the other pair of jeans she was eyeing.

  “I thought that’s what you were doing?” I try to laugh, but I can feel my face heating up.

  “Oh, ha-ha.” She cackles sarcastically. “But seriously, like, why don’t you want to go? Don’t you think it’d help?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you looked up their website or anything?”

  “No.” I look around, we’re pretty much alone in this section of the store. “I just don’t want to come out to a bunch of strangers.” That’s part of it, but it’s also a local group, and I don’t think I could handle walking in there and seeing someone from school.

  “What about trying it just once? The pamphlet said you don’t have to be out or anything. You don’t have to talk about why you’re there.”

  “I just really don’t want to go.” Even if I don’t do the whole coming-out thing again, I’ll have a room full of people staring at me, wondering why I’m there. And do I really have the right to sit in on their private meetings if I’m not going to share anything?

  “I just think it might help.”

  “Well, I don’t think it will. Can we please drop it?”

  “Okay,” she says defensively, and my heart sinks. She sounds so much like Dad right now. “Do you think you’ll ever come out to anyone else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re only out to who? Me, Thomas, Dr. Taylor. Mom and Dad. Do you think you’ll ever come out to anyone else?”

  “Why does that matter?” I don’t want to get angry, but I also don’t appreciate how she’s asking all this. Why is this so important to her?

  “It was just a question,” she argues.

  “Well, that’s up to me to decide, okay?”

  “Ben.” She groans. “Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it … That wasn’t cool of me.”

  I sigh. Great. “It’s fine.” I hang my head down and pretend to look at some sweaters.

  “No, it’s not.” She grabs the clothes in my arms. “You want to get out of here?”

  Like no tomorrow. “Only if you’re ready.”

  “Yeah, sure. Mind if we still stop by the grocery store?”

  “That’s fine.” I follow Hannah to the checkout line.

  “So, when do I get to meet this Nathan kid?”

  “What?” Dear God, let these conversations end, please.

  “He picked you up last night, right?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Well, I didn’t suggest otherwise.” Hannah gives me a sly smile. Dammit. “But if you say so.”

  “I do say so,” I protest, even though part of me wants to ask her what I can do about Nathan. Either how to get rid of whatever these feelings are, or how I can actually get him to maybe, possibly, like me? Because the thought of this is terrifying.

  Nope.

  I need to distract myself, because I cannot do this right now. I stare at the junk that decorates the shelves along the checkout line. Water bottles, ChapStick, “As Seen on TV” stuff, and other things no one really needs or wants until they realize they don’t have it.

  My eyes settle on the rack of nail polish, all in these sweet-looking pastel colors. I can’t help but think about Sophie and Meleika’s nails, always flawless. And the hundreds of designs I’ve seen online, the countless tutorials I’ve watched.

  It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Another thing to add to the “I’ll Never Be Able to Go Out Like That in Public” list. I wonder what Hannah would say if I just picked up a bottle and bought it. She’d probably be more interested in where I got the money to buy it in the first place.

  Would she try to fight me on it? Or tell me to take it off before school starts back up? Like I don’t already know that. But at least if I did them tonight that would get me a few days, right? I can’t wear the clothes I want to wear, or that I think look good, but shouldn’t I at least be able to paint my goddamned fingernails?

  “Oh, those are cute,” Hannah says. She must have caught me looking.

  “Huh?” I shake myself out of my trance. “Oh yeah, they’re cool.”

  “You want to try it out?” Hannah asks.

  “Huh?”

  “You were staring at them for like five minutes. Want to pick out a color?”

  “I, um …”

  Then she giggles. “Go ahead, they’re only like five bucks.”

  Was I that obvious? “No, I …” I lose my train of thought looking at all of them again.

  “Listen, if you don’t pick one, I will, and I’ll tie you down while I paint your nails.” The woman in front of us glances over her shoulder. I give her what is probably my most awkward smile until she turns back around. “Go on, pick a color.”

  I grab the light pink and twist the bottle around in my hand. It looks cheap, definitely not the higher-end brand that most people would go for, but I like this one the most.

  “Really? Pink? The blue would match your eyes better.”
<
br />   I’m grinning despite myself. “I like pink.”

  “You do you, little sib. I’ll have to teach you a thing or two about picking colors.”

  Hannah doesn’t skip a beat when we get home. She hands me the bags, fishing out the nail polish, and goes straight for the small hallway bathroom to grab a towel, leaving Thomas to get everything else out of the car.

  “What are we doing?” He walks around sort of lost and half-asleep.

  “I’m painting Ben’s nails,” she says, then she points at me. “Living room, five minutes.”

  “Um, okay.” I climb up the stairs and drop my bags on my bed. In the living room, Hannah’s already waiting for me, of course, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. She’s grabbed a few extra things, like a long emery board, a tall bottle of something clear, and two smaller bottles that I’m guessing are the base and top coats.

  “Sit.” She points to the other side of the coffee table. “And give me your hands.”

  I kneel on the carpet and stick my hands out. “What are you going to do?”

  “Dearest sibling, I’m going to file down these claws of yours.” She motions to my fingers, which seems like an exaggeration, but I don’t argue. They aren’t that long though. “And then I’ll help you paint them.”

  “It can’t be that hard.”

  Hannah scoffs. “Okay, I’ll just sit back and watch. I’m sure that’ll go well.” She takes my right hand first. “Spread your fingers.”

  “Okay.”

  Hannah just rolls her eyes and goes to work. “So, what do you want to talk about? Cute boys? Are you into guys?”

  Well. That was fun while it lasted. “I swear to God, Hannah.”

  “I’m just kidding.” Then she waits a beat, maybe deciding whether or not the nail on my index finger is now even. “But also sort of serious. What are you into anyway? Are you into anyone?”

  “Yeah, I like people.”

  “People? Like what kind of people?”

  “People people.”