Beautiful Music for Ugly Children

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  I slide into my seat in geography about a second before the bell rings. This class is sort of okay, but Heather Graves is in here, and she’s Beyoncé, J.Lo, and Christina Aguilera all together. I’ve had a crush on her since we were freshmen. We were in the same gym class, and she and I had to be square-dance partners once since we didn’t have a matched set of guys and girls. I looked at her shoes the entire time.

  Mr. Anderson doesn’t call the roll out loud, so I don’t even know if he knows I’m here, which is fine. I prefer to be white paint on the wall—something you’d never notice. But I always stick out. Plenty of other kids take shit from everyone, but I get it double because nobody knows where to put me. Lesbian? Guy? Ugly and can’t dress herself? I don’t fit anywhere.

  “Elizabeth Williams.”

  I jump. “What?”

  “Come to the board, please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No excuses—come to the board, please.” There’s a blank map of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia up there.

  I stand up and bang my knee on the bottom of the desk. I hear a snicker and a “lesbo!” from the back of the room as I slouch my way up there. Two random guys I don’t know are giving me the look usually reserved for dog shit on your shoe.

  Mr. Anderson clears his throat. “Please label all the countries that were once part of the USSR.”

  “Excuse me?” I stall for more time.

  “Once again, no excuses—please label all the countries that were once part of the USSR. There are fifteen countries.” He sits next to the board on a high stool, straight and prim.

  My hand is frozen, marker tip resting on Russia. I do know that one. I write it slowly, and my brain begins to feed me more answers. I label as many as I can, as fast as I can, and sit down. In my hurry to get back to my seat I manage to kick a desk, and a voice from the back hisses, “carpet muncher.”

  I bury my face in my notebook.

  Mr. Anderson peruses the board. “Very good, Elizabeth. You only missed Kazakhstan. All right, class, who can tell me … ” The sound drones on as I recover.

  I pull my notebook away from my face and look at the picture taped there. It settles me, just a little. It’s my senior picture. My other senior picture. I went to another photographer the week after my mom made me do the Elizabeth ones. Those were outdoors, and my mom wanted at least six poses with two different sets of clothes. I look like I’m going to barf in every single shot, and she was pissed beyond belief when she got the proofs. This one is more my style—soft lighting with a dark background, me in a dress shirt with a good-looking tie. I’m looking straight into the camera with no smile. Gabe the businessman. You kind of have to squint your eyes to believe it’s a guy, but it’s a start. It was a good day.

  The photographer thought I was nuts when I asked him for only one four-by-six print. But who else would I give them to?

  “Who’s that?” Someone’s talking in my ear. I whip my head around to see Heather. When did she start sitting behind me? Or talking to me, for that matter?

  I almost can’t speak. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Anderson just rearranged us, remember?”

  “I forgot.” I’m not even sure I remember my name right now.

  Heather’s still staring over my shoulder. “Who’s that? He’s kind of cute. Hold it up.”

  What would Elvis do? He would show her the photo. Somehow I have strength in my hand, and I lift the notebook so Heather can see it over my shoulder.

  “He looks … hey, is that you, just really butched up?”

  “Well … ”

  “Or is it a cousin or someone?”

  “It’s … hard to explain.”

  “He’s kind of cute.”

  I try not to fall out of my chair. We’ve never said more than three words to each other and she thinks Gabe is kind of cute. Go figure.

  “Ouch!” Heather yells it in my ear. I’m sure talking to me has caused her brain to melt down into one massive headache.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not you.” I look behind me and she’s picking up a pen. “Them.” The two dudes with the stupid comments are waving at her.

  “Elizabeth Williams and Heather Graves!” Mr. Anderson’s paying more attention to me today than he has the whole semester.

  “What?”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson?” Her answer is better than mine.

  “Focus on the board, not on your neighbor.”

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson.” We say it together.

  At graduation I’ll be the happiest senior in the history of the universe. Hands down.

  Finally, finally, finally the class is over and I slouch out the door. Behind me, I hear Heather Graves yell, “Mara!”

  There are bunches of Maras in this school, right? Tons of Maras.

  I sneak a look to my left, and Heather and a beautiful brunette are laughing about something. I decide to casually shuffle by and see if I can hear her. She’s never been in any of my classes. Maybe she’s a junior.

  Voice as perky as can be, the brunette says, “Do you think you’ll go to Jessie’s tomorrow night? I’m not sure if I want to.”

  I’m so lucky Mara doesn’t look at me, because I’m blushing. It’s definitely the phone girl, not to mention the fact that Phone Mara is also Change Girl. Every day, when I buy myself a Pepsi at lunch, I have to get change from her at the snack bar, and I always think, “Gee, that girl is pretty.”

  Shit.

  I see Heather wave goodbye to Mara and link arms with the guy from the back of the class who threw the pen. They walk off somewhere, and Mara goes in another direction.

  Note to self: buy a roll of quarters on the way home.

  Seventh hour. Government. Paige is in the AP version and I’m in the everybody-else section, and we’re doing group projects about the Constitution. My group has to do the Eighth Amendment, which is the one about cruel and unusual punishment. I’m not sure why group work isn’t counted in that amendment. Especially when it’s a group with Paul Willard and Kyle Marshall.

  Well, Kyle’s okay, not stupid or a bad group member, but he keeps frowning at me when I talk, like I’m speaking another language. Paul’s just dead weight. He’s flirting with Ashley Jones, who’s actually in the group next to us, and she’s got her hand on his knee. Paul’s hard-on is probably keeping him from thinking about the Eighth Amendment.

  Kyle kicks Paul under the table. “Hey, dipshit, you’re in charge of finding three sources about the Eighth Amendment.”

  Paul smiles one more time at Ashley, then turns back to us. “Why can’t she do it?” He looks at me.

  “Liz has other stuff to do. This is your shit.”

  “Whatever. ” He scoots his chair closer to Ashley and starts whispering in her ear.

  I turn back to Kyle. “So what’s my job?”

  “Find three sources about why the death penalty isn’t considered cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “Sure thing.” I grab my books and go to the front of the room. Mr. Alonzo is looking through his desk for something, which I’m hoping is a breath mint because his breath is legendary.

  “May I go to the library?” I stand back a bit, just in case.

  Alonzo looks up at me, then at the clock. “You’ve got five minutes until last bell. Sit down.” He goes back to rummaging through the crap in his drawers.

  I go back to the table where Kyle and Paul are. They’ve started talking about what’s going on this weekend and neither of them is paying attention to me, which is great. I watch the clock for four more minutes. When the bell goes off, Paul stands up before I can and kicks my chair. “Later, he-she-it girl. Get your sources.”

  “You got it, asshole.”

  When he turns around to look at me, I give him the finger,
very calmly. He laughs, not in a nice way, and reaches out to grab my hand and break it, but I pull away. Kyle stands and watches, waiting to see the fight. Nobody moves. Paul is the first one to give, and by the time he and Kyle are at the door, he’s laughing and looking for Ashley to flirt with. Mr. Alonzo doesn’t say a word.

  I stay back until everyone else is out of the room, and then I go home.

  I will survive, jackoffs. Just watch me.

  Adam Lambert is

  the New Elvis But With Eyeliner

  Friday after school, driving home, and I’m listening to the Vibe, 89.1, Your Twin Cities Station for the Cool Sound. It’s commercial but way more hip, and they play everything from college rock to alt country to James Brown, with only tiny slices of Top 40 stuff. It’s more like KZUK than any other station on the dial.

  I’m thinking about my show later on, not really paying attention, thinking how I need to get Mara’s request. Then an announcement cuts through my fog: “Want a chance to create our sound? Post your name and the titles of your top five coolest summer songs on our blog, and win a chance to compete for five thousand dollars and a seven-to-midnight weekly guest spot here at the Vibe. But here’s the twist—no songs from after 1985. We want to make it hard on you. Deadline to enter is May 1. See our website for more details.”

  I almost wreck. Today is April 30.

  Everyone wants me to go to college, of course, but I need to focus on Gabe, and a job I like ninety miles away “in the greater Minneapolis/Saint Paul metro area,” as the news always says, would be perfect. Nobody would care what my name used to be, and I could start saving money for everything. My parents would kill me, but so what? They’d already like to, so one more nail in the coffin is no problem.

  Someone Up There is smiling on me. Or it’s way too good to be true. I don’t know which.

  I’m frantic when I knock on John’s door. He can’t ignore the pounding for very long. “Hey, Liz! Time to work on your show?”

  “Not yet, but I have a question, O God of Music.” My hands are shaking, and I keep hearing Paige in my ear: You have to tell him! Not right now.

  “Lay it on me.” I see the grin flickering around the corners of his mouth. He knows he’s a god but he doesn’t like to admit it. It’s the humble thing, just like not telling me he was the first to play Elvis.

  “Have you listened to the Vibe lately?”

  “Sure have.” A bit of a smirk.

  “Did you hear about the contest they’re running—for the guest spot?”

  “Sure did.” Now the smirk is a smile. “You’re telling me this is the first you’ve heard of it?”

  “I’ve been on a Jay-Z binge. Can you help me enter it?”

  “No.” Bigger smile.

  “Why not?” Now I’m panicking.

  “You’re already entered.” He’s pulling me toward his computer. “I took the liberty of doing it for you last week, but I forgot to tell you. I’m old.” He opens a browser and pulls up the website. “There you are.”

  There are 247 entries, and I’m number 222. The songs he’s listed for me are “Summer Nights” by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John, “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper, “Wipeout” by the Surfaris, “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama, and “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry.

  Which reminds me. “Changing the subject for just a second, I don’t suppose you have a copy of ‘In the Summertime,’ do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I have one?”

  “Of course.” He motions me inside. “Not on iTunes?”

  “Nope.” I have no desire to explain about Mara, who I now think of as Mara Who Goes to My School Isn’t That Craptastic, but that’s not what matters now.

  John goes from room to room, digging through boxes and bins. “So do you like what I picked for you?”

  “The only one I would have switched out is ‘Vacation’ for ‘Cruel Summer,’ just because I like the Go-Go’s better than Bananarama.”

  John shows me Mungo Jerry on eight-track. “Do you have time to wait while I make this into a CD?”

  “Sure.”

  “In that case, let me put some other one-hit wonders on there, to balance it out. ‘In the Summertime’ isn’t very good.” He goes off to make the CD and I follow along. Maybe he’ll let me touch something, or read some liner notes. John doesn’t allow unsupervised browsing.

  While he works, I carefully examine the stuff in the crate labeled BEST SOUL SINGERS OF ALL TIME. There’s Aretha, Al Green, Alicia Keys, and John Legend—all carefully alphabetized—plus about twenty more.

  “Be gentle with those.” He sees what I’m doing. When the CD is done, he pops it out. “All sorts of things for you: Mungo Jerry, ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,’ that stupid Soulja Boy song. Why not do a one-hit wonder show tonight? Those are always good.”

  “Isn’t ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ that metal song that sounds like a serial killer’s chasing you?”

  “The very same. Scary metal was big in the late sixties.”

  “Did you know, according to VH1 Classic, ‘Come on Eileen’ was the number one one-hit wonder of the eighties?”

  “Give me another minute and it can be yours.”

  Then I realize something. “Can I see the blog again?”

  “It’s still up.” He gestures to the computer. “Did anybody else pick Alice Cooper? The Vibe won’t be able to resist that one.”

  “Um … I don’t know.” I’m not skimming song titles—I’m looking at names. And, of course, it’s there. Elizabeth. He wouldn’t know to enter me as Gabe because he doesn’t know me as Gabe. Which means exactly what Paige said—it’s time to tell him.

  “So … are you coming with me to the station tonight?” Might as well start there.

  “Not this time. I’d rather stay home and listen.” He grins. “Find out how talented you really are. By the way, did you know you didn’t introduce yourself on the air last week?”

  “Yeah, well … ” I grab the edge of the computer table to stop my hands from vibrating off my body. “My name, um, isn’t Liz. So saying it is kind of tricky.”

  John’s expression is a mixture of confusion and incredulity, with a small dose of this person is crazy. “Your name … isn’t Liz? Have I been calling you the wrong thing for eight years?”

  “No … it’s just … well … I’m trans. Transsexual. Hormones, operations, all that.”

  His face clears. “You’re a triangle?”

  “What?” Maybe he needs hearing aids.

  “You just said you’re a triangle, didn’t you?” Now there’s a smile where there was a frown. “I knew someone who was a triangle.”

  Might as well follow along. “You did?” What the hell is he talking about?

  He starts digging through a box of albums under the table where the computer sits. “Sure. Billy Tipton. Well, I’m not sure he was entirely a triangle, or if he just knew he needed to be a guy to make it in jazz.” Flip, flip, flip. “Here.” He hands me an album and points to the guy on the front. “Billy Tipton. Incredible piano player, used to go to his shows all the time. His real name was Dorothy, and nobody knew he was a woman until the paramedics tried to resuscitate him after his heart attack. When they took off his clothes, bam. A coochie snorcher.”

  “A what?”

  “You know.” John’s blushing, just a little. “A … bearded clam. Don’t make me say the real word, huh?”

  Now I’m laughing. “So he had a coochie snorcher but he lived as a guy. I can imagine that.” I imagine it all the time.

  John’s giving me his thinking look. “Have you been a triangle all your life?”

  “Transsexual. Trans man.”

  “Triangle, transsexual, trans man, it all starts with T. Have you been one all your life?”

  “In
kindergarten I remember wondering why I had to line up with the girls when I knew I was a boy.”

  “That says triangle to me.” John’s digging again in the box on the floor. Finally he stands up and hands me a K-Tel album, Eighties One Hit Wonders. “Here we go. Do you want more than ‘Come On Eileen’? The album’s digitized already. I just needed the track list to see what else I had.”

  “Uh … sure.” This can’t be the end of it. “What I said … it doesn’t bother you?”

  He fiddles with the computer a while, then puts in a CD. “You’re you, and that’s what matters.” Click, click. “I’m sad you felt like you couldn’t tell me, but I understand. It’s a big thing to tell.” Click and drag. “So what should I call you, getting back to saying your name on the air?”

  “My name is … Gabe.” It’s a relief to say it out loud. It’s a bigger relief to know I can trust John. Then it hits me. “I can’t do my show anymore, can I?” My heart is preparing to leap out of my body. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.

  “Why not?” More clicks.

  “Because you told them there was a girl doing it, and now there’s not.” The tears are close, and I hate that. Tears are the one thing about me that’s Liz.

  His face is a mix again, curiosity and confusion. “I’ll just tell them Liz decided not to do it, and this guy I know stepped in instead. No big deal.”

  “Really?” Thank god.

  “And just so you know, it may take a while for the Gabe thing to sink in. I’ve known you as Elizabeth for a long time.” Then it dawns on him. “So this is why Sunday suppers are so tense.”

  “You got it.” Suddenly my whole body’s shaking. “Uh … I need to sit down for a sec.” John rolls me the office chair he’s standing next to and I land on it with a whump that almost sends it sliding into a stack of music crates.

  John clicks the CD out of the computer. “I know you know this, but I think of your family as my family.” John always says nobody will claim him—radio and alcohol chased away his wife and kids. He finds a Sharpie and writes one-hit wonders on the CD. “So I’m with you all the way. Are you gonna do one-hit wonders tonight?”