by Mason Deaver
“Like boys, girls, other nonbinary people?”
“That gets a little complicated.”
“Really?” She blows away a bit of the dust, which doesn’t seem very sanitary? I mean, that’s my fingernail essentially being filed into dust. Gross.
“I mean, I’m not like the head of the nonbinary committee or anything.”
Hannah huffs. “Well, I know that.”
“We’re not a committee anyway. More of a cult.” I laugh at my own joke.
“Is that where you go every night?”
“You got me.”
We both laugh, and I feel myself smiling, but then Hannah opens her mouth again. “But, like, for real, it can’t be that complicated. Can it?” She blows again, eyeing her handiwork before she decides to start on my other hand.
“It … Yeah, it kind of is.”
“Why?”
I can’t tell her how many times I’ve had this conversation with myself, trying to work it all out in my head only to never really come to a conclusion.
“Because, okay, so.” I take a deep breath. “For a while I thought I was gay.” I would see other guys, and I was really attracted to most of them. But it still felt like I was missing something. Something about myself.
Like who you’re attracted to and who you are as a person are two totally different things. It’s hard to explain not being confident in your own body. It just feels wrong, but only you seem to really know how and why it feels that way.
“But that still didn’t feel like the answer,” I continue. Because it wasn’t. And it wasn’t until I’d found Mariam’s videos that I really felt like I’d found someone who understood what was happening.
“So what about the sexuality thing?” Hannah asks.
“In all honesty, I’m still working through that.” Because I’m still attracted to the more masculine-presenting people, but nonbinary-ness isn’t something you can tell outright, so the boy at the coffee shop who I think is cute could actually be nonbinary.
But I’m still attracted to him. And besides, I don’t exactly have a gender, and being gay implies being interested in the same gender.
Like I said. It’s complicated.
“So, you’re not gay anymore?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” I think of myself as bisexual. I’m interested in guys and more masculine-presenting people. But then there are people who argue that bisexuality is only two genders, and that those two genders have to be men and women. I’ve heard that argument too many times now, so I’ve learned to just keep it to myself. “For simplicity, I just say that I’m queer, that I have a type.” And definitely a lot easier than explaining that I identify as bisexual. And less gatekeeping involved too.
“And what type would that be?”
“Hot people?” I offer, knowing what she’s trying to get at.
“Can’t believe you’re so shallow,” she teases.
“Shut up.”
“You ever think that ‘straight’ and ‘gay’ are gonna be obsolete one day?”
I try to stifle a laugh. “The goal of every queer person is the extermination of the cis, straight, allosexual people.”
“So that’s the gay agenda?” Hannah laughs. “But no, seriously, with all this stuff sort of evolving—sexualities and identities, the binary stuff being challenged more and more—don’t you feel like the labels are kind of pointless?”
“Not really. Labels can help people find common ground, can help them connect, with themselves and other people.”
“You know a lot about this stuff.”
“The internet.” And Mariam.
“Don’t believe everything you read. But for real, you’re a smart kid, Benji.” She gives me a quiet smile. “Okay, done. Now since you believe yourself to be a true master of the art”—she slides the glass bottle across the wooden table—“you can try first. All by yourself.”
“You trust me?” I twist the cap off and remove the excess polish before I get to work.
“Put your money where your mouth is.” Hannah’s grinning.
“So can I ask you something? Sort of personal.”
“Shoot. I’ve done enough prying for one day.”
“What happened after you left home?” I ask. The left hand is easy, and surprisingly relaxing. I don’t know exactly how much I should be putting on each finger, but Hannah hasn’t stopped me yet, so I guess it’s enough.
“I applied for a few scholarships that I never told Mom and Dad about. One of them was for State, not a full ride, but enough for me to get on my feet. I moved into the dorms, worked my ass off to save enough for the rest of my tuition. I did the basic thing and got a business degree, but it comes in handy.”
“Is that where you met Thomas?” I move from finger to finger slowly.
“We didn’t start dating until about two years after we graduated, but we actually met sophomore year, which is sort of awkward because we were both dating different people.”
“Really?”
“Did I hear my name?” Thomas peers from around the corner, still in his pajamas. Can’t blame the poor guy.
“Just telling Benji how we met.”
“Oh, did you tell them about the lobster—”
Hannah reaches onto the couch, grabs one of the pillows, and chucks it at Thomas as hard as she can. “Thomas David Waller!” Hannah shouts. Thomas ducks behind the wall just in time, his giggles echoing through the halls.
I’m laughing so hard, I have to put the brush down. “What on earth was that about?”
She huffs, straightening her shirt. “We don’t talk about lobster in this house.”
“Okay,” I say, still laughing. “So, you started dating after college?” I almost can’t get my question out.
“Yup. He ended up moving back home. We kept in touch, and then one day he tells me that he’s moving back down here to teach, so we hung out more and more and, well.” She shrugs her shoulders. “It just sort of happened.”
“Uh-huh.” I eye my hand.
“Okay, now I have to see you try the right one.” She leans forward eagerly, on her elbows, and I realize my mistake the second I pick up the brush. This is so awkward, and is this how I held it the last time? It feels so unnatural. I try for my thumbnail first, since that’s the biggest, but I somehow manage to fuck it up almost instantly.
“Fine, here.” I wipe the coat away before it dries and hand the brush to Hannah.
“Told you,” she half sings. I should’ve just given it to her in the first place. She’s so methodical in how she does it, her hands so much steadier than I could’ve ever dreamed. It only takes her seconds to coat the nails. “Okay. Paint time. Your other hand should be dry enough.” She uncaps the actual nail polish and gets to work.
“Do you think college was worth it?” I ask.
“Eh.” She shrugs. “Lot of debt, but I like my job.”
I dawns on me that I don’t even know what my own sister does for work. Four months of living here and I have absolutely no clue what she spends her day doing. “What do you even do?”
That makes her chuckle. “I’m a Realtor. Lots of paperwork, but it’s more fun than you’d imagine.” She starts on another finger. “Why are you asking about college?”
“Just been thinking about it,” I say. “I don’t know if it’s really for me.”
“I know that feeling. Freshman year I sort of had to wonder if it was all worth it. But I knew I couldn’t go back to that house.”
Not even for me, apparently.
I don’t want to think that, but the thought rears its head like an ugly pimple. I have to actually stop myself from saying something I know I’ll regret, and I can feel myself tense up. At first, I don’t think Hannah notices, but then she pulls the brush away. “You okay, sib?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Just thinking.”
I think she believes me, because she dips the brush in the polish again and goes back to work.
“I’m going to take a year off. After graduat
ion,” I say, trying hard to get far away from anything to do with home. I’d been thinking about it for a while now, wondering what Hannah might think. She might be like Mom and Dad, demanding I get some kind of higher education. But the more I thought about the idea of four more years of school, the more I hated it. “Maybe I can think about it then?”
“That’s probably a good idea. Gap years can be good. Did you apply for anything yet?”
“A few.” But whatever I’m sent, acceptances or rejections, will be sent to Mom and Dad’s address.
“Whenever you’re ready. Thomas and I can help you with loans and paying for stuff.” She keeps her eyes on my hand, her tongue peeking out slightly through her mouth.
“You don’t have to do that. I mean the whole paying thing.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll … I’ll pay you back when I can. Somehow. For all of this.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She finally looks up. “Just consider it payback for all the birthdays and Christmases I missed.”
There we go again. I feel the guilt rising up like bile. “Hannah.”
“Nuh-uh.” She sticks the brush in front of my face. “No arguing, you just worry about graduating right now, okay?”
“I—”
“Benjamin De Backer.” She eyes me. “Don’t make me send you to your room.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Sorry.”
“You just don’t need to worry right now, okay? Things are fine. Thomas and I both make plenty, and we also have our savings. You aren’t a burden or anything. I want you to know that. Okay?”
I nod and wipe my hands on my knees, but then I stop. I don’t know if that’ll somehow mess up the paint or something like that. I just really don’t want to keep talking about it.
Hannah sets to work on the last nail, not really paying attention to me. “And we are done!” She makes a final stroke with the brush and admires her handiwork. “Not too bad, if I say so myself.”
I stare at the color, my fingers shaking a little. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Then she stops. “Are you going to leave it on for school?”
Part of me just wants to say fuck it, but high schools are rarely the most progressive places on earth, and the ridicule would probably be endless. “No.”
“Okay, when you’re ready to take it off use this.” She hands me polish remover. “Just get some cotton balls and it should come off no problem.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, kiddo.” She ruffles my hair and grabs the towel. I just sit there for a while, staring at my hands. “Now let’s do the top coat. I don’t want all my work to go to waste.”
“So, do you think you know what triggered it?” Dr. Taylor asks in her usual pose: legs crossed, head propped up with her hand, notepad on her lap.
“I don’t really know, there was a lot of noise and people. And this guy, Todd, he was drunk and talking to me and he had me in a headlock for a bit.”
“Do you normally have a problem with people touching you, Ben?”
“Not all the time, but there are some days I just can’t stand it.” I can remember a few times where family members I hadn’t seen in ten years pulled me into hugs, or when total strangers tried to shake my hand. Even with Mom and Dad, there were days they’d hug me, or sit close to me on the couch, and I’d feel ill. “Even with people I’m close with.”
“Hmmm.” Dr. Taylor hums and straightens her glasses.
“It feels worse during the panic attacks.”
“Touch aversion can be common in people who deal with panic attacks, or people dealing with anxiety. In fact, there are some people who are just born or develop that way, like asexual or aromantic people.”
“Oh,” I say. I’d never really thought of myself as ace or aro. I mean, sex isn’t really something I have a strong desire for, but it’s something I might be open to. And I’ve had sort-of-romantic feelings for people before. I suppose I’m also currently having those romantic feelings.
“Can you remember any other cases where someone touching you like that made you have a panic attack?”
“Not really. I’ve sort of been thinking something though. Like maybe it wasn’t the touching. He just had his arms around me and he wouldn’t let go. And there were so many people.”
“This was at a party, right?” She writes something down.
I nod.
“Did you have anything to drink?”
“No,” I lie, because I’m not exactly sure what she will and won’t report to the police, or if she’ll even do something like that.
“I’m not going to tattle on you, Ben,” she says like she’s read my mind, which would probably be a lot easier than all of this back-and-forth. “Lord knows I was eighteen once too.”
“I was given a shot, and a sip of beer. I didn’t really want them, but everyone was staring at me and I felt like I had to do them.”
“I’m guessing you read the warnings about mixing alcohol with your medication?”
I nod, not meeting Dr. Taylor’s gaze, as if that’d help me avoid the shame I’m feeling right now. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re young, Ben, and I understand the desire to fit in with those around you. But alcohol does tend to inhibit your thinking. You made a mistake, just try to be more careful in the future.”
“I will.” I’d already realized that drinking wasn’t for me anyway.
“Do you think your current dosage is doing enough?”
“If I’m being totally honest, no. It doesn’t feel like much has changed up here.” I point to my head.
“Well, the medication isn’t a permanent fix, Ben, as much as we’d like it to be. It’s there to help balance you out, but it doesn’t get rid of the anxiety.”
“I know, I’m just worried I’m taking it for nothing.”
Dr. Taylor writes something down. “We’ll try a temporary increase in the dosage, see how that works. Sound good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“The panic attack, do you think it might have been a sensory overload sort of thing?”
“I’m not really sure,” I say. Isn’t she supposed be the one with all the answers? “Maybe.”
“And do you recall what brought you out of this situation?”
“My friend was there, Nathan.”
“They brought you through it?”
“Not exactly, but I got outside and he followed me. I guess just having him there helped?”
“So joint effort?” She smiles. “That’s something.”
“I guess.”
“Are you comfortable around Nathan?”
“Yeah, most of the time, at least.”
“Most of the time?”
“Sometimes I get really nervous around him.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“None that I can think of.” Except maybe it’s because I like him? And maybe I like the thought of holding his hand, of being close to him. And maybe I want to go further than that. And maybe I’m terrified of what will happen if we do.
“I’m happy to hear you’ve got someone you can trust,” she says, then her eyes move down to my hands. I doubt it’s the first time she’s noticed my nails, but she hasn’t said anything before now. “That’s a beautiful color.” She nods. “Did you do those yourself?”
“Oh.” I stare down at them, resisting the urge to hide them. I fought with myself a bit before deciding to go out in public with the paint still on. Not that a visit to Dr. Taylor’s office is really “public,” but it’s outside the house. “Hannah did them for me.”
“How are you two?” Dr. Taylor asks.
“Fine, I guess.” I rub my hands together, trying to feel less self-conscious about the paint.
“You’re doing okay? Better? Arguing?” She goes on after I don’t answer.
“We’re okay.” I stress the “okay.” “Why do you ask?”
“I was curious,” she states.
“Abo
ut?”
“I was mostly curious if you resented Hannah at all?”
I hate that my answer comes out so easily. “A little, I think.”
“Do you think she knows that?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m eager to tell my own sister how bitter I am.” I rub my eyes, the stinging feeling coming back slowly. “I just … She got so much, you know?”
Dr. Taylor nods.
“She got to get out, go to school, get a job she loves, find someone who loves her.”
“And you were left with your parents?”
“Yeah.” I slouch back on the couch, not meeting Dr. Taylor’s eyes. “It just … It felt like when she left, she just forgot about me. You know?”
“I do.”
“I get that she couldn’t call, and that it was impossible for her to come back home.”
“Well, that doesn’t make your feelings any less valid, Ben. You were hurt by what she did, you can’t control that. And in that situation, neither could she.” Dr. Taylor leaves her notepad on the coffee table and leans forward. “Have you talked to her about this?”
“No.” I shake my head. “How could I even do that? After all she’s done for me?”
“Does it feel like she’s trying to make it up to you?”
“Maybe. I don’t really know.”
“Perhaps talking with her would be a good thing? Help you get everything out in the open.”
“You think so?” I ask.
“I do, and you never know until you try, right?”
I think Dr. Taylor thinks her words will make me feel better, but they don’t. There’s still this weird feeling in my gut. I don’t think Hannah would be mad at me for feeling this way. But I don’t know; it feels like if I told her all this …
Then things would never be the same.
“Ready to go back to school?” is the first thing Mariam says when I accept their FaceTime call.
“Not on your life,” I say.
“Come on, only two more months.”
“Two and a half,” I correct.
They laugh. “So, me and Shauna went out again.”
“Shauna?” I rack my brain, trying to remember who that is.
“The girl, the one I’m quite fond of kissing and holding hands with now? Purple hair, sort of looks like she’ll turn you into a frog if you wrong her.”