Afternoon sunlight flooded in, casting everything in a bright yellow glow. Stella’s cat was asleep on a perch in the window. I rubbed his head while I stared out across the rooftops. A fog bank was descending from Twin Peaks, like an ominous cloud of white gas out of a horror movie, creeping across the city and smothering it block by block. Soon the house would be enveloped, and I’d barely be able to see across the street.
Which would match my mood, anyway. My phone buzzed and I dug it out of my pocket. There were two texts from Josh. The first read, Dude, we won!!! 4-2.
I should’ve been stoked about that—winning meant we’d go to regionals in a couple of weeks. But instead, I felt resentful that they’d been able to win without me. The next text said, Call me. It wuz totally awesome.
I tossed the phone on the dresser, not in the mood to talk to anyone. Instead, I lay down on the bed and glared at the ceiling. I’d never been so angry with my dad before. First, he surprised me with his new fiancée, then he completely destroyed something I’d been looking forward to for months.
I punched the pillow hard. If he didn’t want a son, fine. Turned out I didn’t really want a dad anymore, either.
EIGHT
At school on Monday, it looked like everyone had grown two inches. I knew it was just in my head, but even Josh’s voice sounded deeper. The whole walk to school, he kept talking about how awesome the game had been. He’d hit a line drive to the gap in left-center, and they’d scored two runs off that, so Coach named him MVP.
“Wow,” I kept saying. “That’s really cool.”
“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.
I avoided his eyes. “Nothing, just . . . the trip kinda sucked.”
“Sorry, man. You should’ve slept over.”
“Yeah,” I said, kicking a stone off the sidewalk. “I should’ve.”
I was like a zombie in all my classes, because I’d barely slept the past couple of nights. At lunchtime, I was getting stuff out of my locker when Madeline came over. “Hey! How was San Francisco?”
“Okay,” I said. I could swear she looked older, too.
“Oh my God,” she gushed, “the game was so awesome! Olive’s brother scored a run.”
“Yeah, we’re going to regionals.”
Her forehead creased. “Is something wrong?”
I shrugged. “I’m bummed I missed the game.” The funny thing was, being depressed actually made it easier to talk to her, because I didn’t care anymore about sounding like an idiot.
“I know. I wish I’d seen you pitch! Dylan was okay, but Olive kept saying you’re better.”
“Really?” Despite everything, I was flattered that they’d been talking about me. I wondered what else they’d said.
“Yeah.” The bell rang and the hallway started emptying out. “Well, see you later!” She threw me a little wave before heading down the hall.
As I closed my locker, I turned to find Nico towering over me.
“Heard you made regionals. We did, too.”
His breath smelled like eggs. “Cool,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure why Nico was even talking to me. I’d struck him out twice this season, so I wasn’t exactly his favorite person.
“Now we just have to beat you losers for the trophy.” He smirked. “Coach says it’ll be easy.”
“Yeah, well, he’s an idiot,” I retorted.
Nico snorted. “He’s a lot better than Coach Tom. I heard you skipped the game. Too scared to pitch?”
“No,” I said defensively. “I had to go to San Francisco to see my dad.”
“San Francisco sucks,” Nico snorted. “My cousins live there and they hate it.”
“So maybe they’re losers.”
“You’d know.” Nico laughed at his own dumb joke. “Their school sucks worse than this place, too. It even has a stupid name: the Creative Academy.”
“I went there, and it doesn’t suck,” I replied without thinking. Immediately, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. I never told people about my old school, because everyone had known me as a girl there. My heart started hammering in my chest.
“Yeah? Do you know Josie and Cassie? They’re in, like”—his brow furrowed as he did the math—“fifth and eighth grade?”
“Uh—nope,” I said quickly, making a point of digging through my backpack. Actually, I did know them: two squinty-eyed mean girls. It figured they were related to Nico.
He frowned. “That’s kind of weird. They said it’s a small school.”
“Not that small.” It was getting hard to hide my panic. Nico was giving me a funny look, like he sensed that I was lying.
“Whatever,” he finally said. “And hey, you might want to miss regionals, too. Won’t be a happy memory for you.” He punched my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark before lurching away.
I zipped up my backpack and headed to class, my heart going a hundred miles a minute. When we’d first moved down here, I didn’t think we could keep my secret for long (although Mom always insisted it wasn’t “secret,” it was “private”; apparently “secret” automatically sounded like a bad thing). I mean, we hadn’t even changed my name, because I liked it so much, and it was kind of a boy name anyway.
But we got through fourth grade without anyone finding out, then fifth . . . and now, I hadn’t even thought about it for a long time. I know that was probably dumb; after all, San Francisco wasn’t very far away. But as more time passed, I became convinced that no one would ever know unless I decided to tell them. I’d even forget about being transgender for long stretches—that was the thing about finally being seen for myself: it made me believe in it, too.
And now, all it would take was Nico asking his cousins about Shane Woods, and I would be totally screwed.
It was a relief when the final bell rang and it was time to get ready for baseball. Even though we were a club team, we practiced on a field at school. Which worked out great for most of us, since more than half of the Cardinals went to McClane Junior High.
I changed in a locker room stall; thankfully, that had never been a big deal. A couple of the other boys were shy, so I was never the only one. I’d had a few close calls, but I’d learned to be careful. I always changed facing the back wall, and did it fast—I could strip off my pants, get my jock on, and have my baseball pants up in under ten seconds. Too bad they didn’t give out prizes for that sort of thing.
When I slid open the curtain, Josh, Cole, and a couple of the other guys were still changing. They nodded at me and said hey. Grabbing my glove, helmet, and bat, I trotted out to the field.
As soon as the air hit me, it felt like my whole body got about fifty pounds lighter. There was something about that combination of freshly cut grass, dirt, and chalk that went straight inside me. Like a fish that gulps and gasps on a boat or dock, but throw it in the ocean and it’s suddenly back in its element, moving and breathing the way it’s supposed to. That’s what a baseball field is for me.
The funny thing is, I hadn’t even wanted to start playing. Mom signed me up because she thought it would help me make friends.
The first day was a total disaster. I barely knew the rules and was painfully aware of being an outsider. Everyone else was talking about their favorite players and how their teams were doing, and I just sat there and listened, feeling like an idiot.
Josh was the only other new kid on the team, so the coach paired us up. He sent us to the outfield to throw a ball back and forth.
I was so clueless I hadn’t even broken in my glove; the stiffness made it uncomfortable. Josh and I threw the ball, dropping more than we caught.
“You’re the new kid, right?” he’d asked as I chased the ball to where it had rolled. The other boys were throwing their balls in long arcs that seemed to soar across the sky.
“Yeah.”
“I hate baseball,” he said morosely.
“Me too,” I agreed.
“Cool. Hey, want to come over later to play Rise of Empires?”
This wa
s the first time anyone had invited me over. Heart thumping in my chest, I played it cool. “Yeah, sure.”
“Awesome.”
Coach Tom ran us through some drills, trying to figure out what positions we’d play. In one of them, he had us try pitching. I watched the other boys carefully. The way they wound up looked weird, like they were about to topple over. Still, when it was my turn, I did my best to imitate it.
I threw the ball so hard it felt like my arm was going to come out of its socket. No one was more surprised than me when it smacked into the catcher’s glove with a loud slap!
Coach Tom blinked, then said, “Hey, can you do that again?”
The catcher threw the ball back; I was so nervous, I nearly dropped it. But while the rest of the team watched, I threw it again, and again . . . each time it started to feel a little more natural. The coach finally nodded and said, “Nice work. All right, let’s try hitting a few.”
I wasn’t nearly as good at hitting; that took longer to get the hang of. But Coach made me the team’s pitcher, and suddenly, I belonged somewhere. Every night after I finished homework, I looked up stuff about baseball online. Pretty soon I was talking about the latest Giants game in the locker room. Before I knew it, I was totally hooked.
Josh turned out to be a great second baseman, and from then on we were best friends. We even came up with a goofy nickname, “Team Shosh,” by combining our names.
That was three years ago, and now I can’t even imagine life without baseball. Practice today was the only thing that might help me forget about Nico and his cousins.
Cole was our catcher; when I arrived on the mound, he was already waiting for me.
“Hey, man. You missed the game.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
Cole shrugged. “No worries. Hey, did you see that no-hitter last night?”
While we warmed up, we talked about the Giants game. The rest of the team was throwing balls back and forth: first base to second, third to outfield, outfield to shortstop. The Cardinals weren’t the best team in our league, but we’d played together so long, it was like we could read each other’s minds. Coach Tom always said that you didn’t have to be the best, you just had to play your best.
Still, you could tell he was pretty pumped that we’d made it to regionals. None of his other teams had ever gotten this far. If we won, well . . . I couldn’t even imagine how awesome that would be.
While I was winding up for the next pitch, I caught a flash of bright pink out of the corner of my eye. Distracted, I threw the ball wide.
“Ball!” Cole called out helpfully. I grimaced, then turned to see what it was.
Madeline and two of her friends were sitting on the top row of the bleachers. She waved at me enthusiastically. I flushed and nodded at her, then adjusted my cap. Suddenly I was totally self-conscious.
I tried not to let it distract me, but I was definitely off my game the rest of practice. Coach Tom called me over after I threw three balls in a row. He was about my dad’s age, but shorter and with more of a belly. He squinted all the time, like the sun was constantly glaring in his eyes.
“All good, Shane?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Sorry about that.” I shuffled my feet. He’d made it clear on day one that no matter what we called other grown-ups, he was always “sir.”
He worked the piece of gum in his mouth, then said, “You’ll be ready for regionals, though, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few swings? I don’t want to work that arm too hard.”
I did better at hitting: two grounders, a fly, and one big hit to center field that was nearly a home run. I checked over my shoulder to see if Madeline was watching, but she and her friends were gone. I wondered if she’d been disappointed by my lousy pitching today; I knew I was. Somehow I had to get Nico and Dad and everything else out of my head, otherwise I might screw it up for the team at regionals.
As I walked back to the locker room, Josh trotted up and jostled me. “Man, you were a mess today.”
“Gee, thanks.” I pushed him back.
“Want to come over?”
I didn’t answer, because my eyes had suddenly landed on a guy standing outside the locker room. I stopped dead.
Josh followed my gaze. “Hey, is that your dad?”
I was too shocked to speak. It had been over a year since he’d come to L.A. Dad waved at me.
“Didn’t you just see him?” Josh asked.
His voice mirrored my worry, and I broke into a run. When I got to him, I asked breathlessly, “Is Mom okay? Did something happen?”
“What?” Dad’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, no, she’s fine.”
“Then why are you here?”
“What, I can’t come see my kid?” He sounded hurt.
I was so thrown, it took a second to remember that I was still mad at him.
The rest of the team checked us out as they went by; few of them had ever seen my dad before.
Coach Tom came up. “This your dad, Shane?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
Dad broke into a wide smile. “Hi, I’m Adam Woods.”
“Your son’s quite a player, you must be proud,” Coach said, shaking hands. “Hope we’ll be seeing you at regionals.”
After he left, we stood there awkwardly. “So,” Dad finally said. “There’s a big game coming up?”
I nodded, annoyed. “Regionals, in a couple weeks. I told you about it.”
“Oh.” His eyebrows went up. “Well, that’s huge, right?”
“Yeah.” I scuffed the ground. Why is he here? Did he change his mind? I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but a surprise visit was pretty weird.
Dad cleared his throat, then said, “Your mom said you can stay with me tonight if you want. I booked a room at the Marmont. It’s supposed to be great.”
After the way we’d left things in San Francisco, the thought of spending the night with Dad wasn’t exactly appealing. I couldn’t even look at him without feeling a swell of anger. I shrugged. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“We can swing by your mom’s place to pack a bag,” he said.
“Is Summer here, too?”
“Um, no.” Dad looked abashed. “I thought it should just be the two of us.”
That made me feel a little better, but not much. “You know I’ve got school tomorrow, right? I have to be there at eight.”
“I’ll get you there on time, kiddo. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He reached a hand toward me. When I didn’t take it, his face fell. “I’m parked over there. Let’s go.”
NINE
An hour later, we were sitting in a booth across from each other. We’d barely spoken during the drive over, and now that the waitress had left us alone, we were trapped in an awkward silence. Dad finally asked, “How’s your burger?”
I pushed another fry through the ketchup on my plate. “Fine.”
“Yeah? Your mom said this was your favorite place.” Dad sipped his soda.
I didn’t reply. The Counter has awesome burgers and shakes and sweet potato fries. But tonight, I was having a hard time choking any food down. I kept waiting for my dad to explain why he’d come, but so far he’d just asked about school and baseball. Like he was hoping that if we pretended nothing was wrong, everything would just go back to normal. Not this time, I thought, pushing my plate away and staring at the table.
Dad sighed. “So. You’re still mad at me.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Listen, Shane. I know it’s hard for a kid to understand, but what you’re signing up for with this hormone thing is a big deal.”
“Could you not yell about it in here?” I snapped, scanning the full restaurant; it felt like everyone was listening. “And I know it’s a big deal. It’s pretty much all I’ve thought about for years.”
He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Yeah, but . . . this is permanent. And it means giving up a lot, including some things that might not
matter when you’re twelve, but they’ll be a pretty big deal later, trust me.”
The anger boiled up inside me, but I kept my voice low. “So you want me to become a girl? Get breasts, and, and . . . a period?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “No freaking way.”
“But honey,” he said, leaning across the table and staring intently into my eyes. “You are a girl. And maybe, if you just gave it a chance—”
I pushed back from the table and stood. “I want to go home.”
“Shane, please,” he said in a pained voice. “I really want to work this out.”
“No, you don’t,” I retorted. “You just want me to be something I’m not.”
I stormed out of the restaurant. I wanted to keep going, through the parking lot and down the street. But home was miles away, and Mom would be upset about me walking alone after dark. I could call her, but then I’d still be stuck waiting with Dad. So I stood by the rental car, glaring at the ground while he paid the bill.
When my dad finally came out and unlocked the doors, I slid in and fastened my seat belt without saying anything. He didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he sat there, staring out the windshield.
“Take me home,” I repeated forcefully.
“I will. Just . . . please, give me a minute.” His fingers were white on the steering wheel. “Do you remember the fairy horse?”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The fairy horse.” He gave me a tentative smile. “You were probably three years old, and we’d gotten you this horse costume for Halloween. And you insisted on wearing it everywhere for months. We’d be in the grocery store, and someone would say, ‘Oh, what a cute little horse,’ and you’d yell, ‘I’m a fairy horse!’”
I knew what he was talking about; Mom had shown me pictures. “What’s your point?”
The Other Boy Page 4