The Other Boy

by M. G. Hennessey

  Madeline’s face was pale, so maybe she had been sick. I said, “You weren’t in homeroom today.”

  Without meeting my eyes, she said, “My mom drove me in late.”

  “Oh.” Swallowing hard, I asked, “So what do you want to talk about?”

  “Let’s go in here.” She motioned to the empty science lab.

  I followed her, feeling like I was being led to my execution. Alejandra’s voice echoed in my head: You might lose some of them. Madeline leaned against a lab table instead of sitting down. I stood across from her, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.

  Madeline didn’t seem to know what to say, and she was looking everywhere but at me. Friday night suddenly felt like years ago. It didn’t seem possible that a person could become a stranger that quickly.

  “Is it true?” she finally blurted out.

  I swallowed hard. “You mean, is that a real picture of me?”

  She nodded.

  I hesitated, then said, “Yeah.”

  She bit her lip, then asked, “So were you a boy with long hair, or were you born a girl?”

  No one else had asked so bluntly. Which was kind of funny, since the whole school was talking about it. I stared at her, debating how to answer. I didn’t want to lie, and It’s private clearly wasn’t going to cut it. Finally, I just said, “Back then, I was living as a girl.”

  “Because you were born that way?” she pressed.

  “Technically, yeah,” I said.

  Madeline breathed out hard, as if she was relieved. For a split second, I thought that meant she was okay with it, and my heart practically leaped out of my chest. But then she said, “I’m really sorry, but I don’t like girls.”

  “But . . . I’m not a girl.”

  “But you kind of are,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “If you were born one, right?”

  I shook my head. “It’s complicated. I’ve got a boy brain. And . . . a boy heart,” I said in a lower voice. The rush of blood in my ears was making it hard to talk, but I had to try. “I was never really a girl, not where it counts.”

  There was a long silence. Lockers slammed in the hall outside. Kids chattered, footsteps echoed; but all that normal life seemed really far away.

  “I’m sorry,” Madeline finally said, her voice thick with emotion. “I want to be okay with this, I really do. But I’m just not. It’s too . . .”

  “Weird?” I finally offered when she didn’t continue.

  Looking miserable, she nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Shane. I really like you.”

  “Not enough, I guess.” I couldn’t look at her anymore, couldn’t be here anymore.

  “Shane—”

  But I was already walking away. My feet felt heavy; it took real effort to put one in front of the other. I focused on the steps: right, left, right, left. Down the hall. Two flights of stairs. Down another hall.

  In books, when they talk about heartbreak, they describe your heart shattering, like it’s a vase in your chest that gets hit with a mallet.

  Mine didn’t feel that way at all. Instead, it was like that moment when a roller coaster starts to plummet, and everything leaps into your throat, and it’s hard to breathe again until you reach the bottom.

  The bottom wasn’t coming for me, though; it felt like I just kept dropping down, down, down. . . .

  The insides of my cheeks were raw and bloody from biting on them all day to keep from crying. I was late for practice, and I didn’t even care. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed.

  But if I did that, Josh would be furious, and Coach might not let me play this weekend.

  My phone chimed with a text: Alejandra had sent a selfie. She was standing in what was probably her bedroom, making a goofy face. Underneath, she’d written, Remember, deep down everyone is a freak.

  She was trying to cheer me up, but it just seemed like confirmation of what Madeline had said. We were the freaks, and everyone hated us.

  At least on the field, Dylan and the rest of the team behaved themselves. For two hours, life almost felt normal again.

  At the end of practice, Josh came running up to me. “Hey,” he said. “Come to the locker room, I’ve set something up.”

  “Set up what?” I asked warily.

  “Just hurry,” he urged, waving me forward.

  “Wait!” I called after him. My mom was already parked in the lot. “I’ve gotta go!”

  Josh was nearly at the entrance to the locker room. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, “C’mon, it’ll only take a minute! Everyone’s waiting!”

  Then he vanished inside.

  I hesitated, torn. I really wanted to go home. But if I didn’t show up, he’d look like a fool for getting everyone together. After the way he’d stuck by me, I couldn’t do that to him.

  He was probably going to make some sort of speech, like he did before games to get us psyched up. It might even work; Josh had a gift for getting people to listen to him.

  When I stepped inside the locker room, the entire team was facing me. Most had their arms crossed, and their expressions ranged from curiosity to annoyance to disgust. Josh stood in front.

  “What’s this?” I asked uncertainly.

  “I told you I’d come up with something,” Josh said, leaning in so only I could hear him. Turning to face the rest of the team, he raised his voice. “There are a lot of rumors going around about Shane; you’ve all heard them, so don’t pretend you haven’t.”

  Lots of shifting eyes and shuffling feet as people avoided my gaze.

  “Just so you know,” Josh continued, his voice gathering strength, “Nico’s lying. He’s trying to get us to turn on each other, so that the Mustangs have a shot at beating us this weekend. Because he knows we’re better than they are. These rumors prove they’re scared. And they should be!”

  I was impressed. Josh had given a lot of good locker room speeches before, but this was definitely his best. A few boys were nodding as he continued, “We’re the awesomest team in our league, and everyone knows it! And we’re going to regionals this weekend because of Shane’s arm, and Austin’s hitting, and because we have a fantastic second baseman, if I do say so myself.”

  A few chuckles at that. The tenor of the room had shifted; they were on Josh’s side, and by association, mine. I started to relax; Josh was really doing it. I was so lucky to have him for a friend.

  “So let’s get this over with, once and for all.” Dramatically sweeping an arm toward me, Josh said, “Shane, pull down your pants.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Your pants,” he said impatiently. “Just pull them down for a second to show everyone.”

  “No,” I said, taking a step back.

  He looked exasperated. “It’s no big deal. Just get it over with.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. I had to fight the urge to turn and run. They were all staring suspiciously at me again. I stammered, “I—I don’t want to.”

  “’Cause she’s a girl,” Dylan said loudly from the back of the room.

  Josh whipped toward him and spat, “Shut up, Dylan!”

  “Josh—” I said.

  “What?” As we stared at each other, his face shifted. The sudden flash of understanding in his eyes nearly killed me.

  Before I realized it, I was running. Out of the locker room, across the field, into the parking lot. I hurled myself into the car.

  Mom stared at me as I panted in the passenger seat. “What is it? Did something happen?”

  “Just drive, Mom. Please,” I begged.

  “But—”

  “I need to get out of here, now!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  When we got home, I went straight to my room and slammed the door. Mom knocked a minute later, but I screamed at her to go away.

  My phone beeped with a text: I didn’t recognize the number. When I opened it, a photo of a drag queen stared out at me, followed by the word, Freak!

  My hands were shaking as I shut off the phon
e. I wanted to throw it across the room, or crush it under my heel, but it had been an expensive Christmas present from Dad. Instead, I shoved it in the back of my closet and piled my backpack on top of it; no point doing homework, since I’d never set foot in that school again.

  I lay on my bed. Even though I was staring at the ceiling, all I could see was every terrible thing that had happened: the gum, the name-calling, Madeline breaking up with me, the humiliation in the locker room. It was like watching a horror movie in my head.

  I should’ve let Dad get me an Xbox. I desperately needed a distraction; if I kept thinking about this, I was going to go nuts.

  Frustrated, I got up and grabbed my sketchbook, then brought it back to bed. I tried to draw, but nothing came out right, and suddenly the pages I’d already finished looked crude and stupid.

  Every so often, Mom would knock. She’d ask if she could come in, or if I wanted something to eat, or if we could talk about it, even through the door.

  Each time, I told her to leave me alone. “I’m busy!” I screamed on her fourth try.

  And I was. I sat on my floor, the trash can pulled up beside me. Page by page, I tore up Hogan Fillion Saves the World. I started by tearing each sheet into long strips. Then I took each of those strips and ripped it sideways, again and again, until there was nothing left but a pile of confetti. After that, I scooped up the pieces and dumped them in the trash.

  Doing it that way consumed a lot of time. At first I thought that halfway through I’d regret it, but it actually felt good. I loved how it sounded when I ripped the paper, and the way the long strips peeled away from each other like shedding skin. Hours and hours of work, destroyed in a fraction of the time. There was something weirdly satisfying about that.

  When I brushed the last fragments of the final page into the trash can, it was nearly filled with fluffy bits of colorful paper. I wished I could light them on fire. The thought of making them vanish completely was really tempting, but Mom would freak out if she smelled smoke.

  The clock read eleven thirty. I couldn’t hear Mom anymore; maybe she’d gone to bed. I still wasn’t hungry, but my mouth was dry. I opened the door cautiously, then tiptoed toward the kitchen.

  Mom was in her chair in the living room, dead asleep. A book was held loosely in her hands, and her lips were pursed together in a worried frown.

  I slipped past and grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen. I took a couple of granola bars and a banana, too, even though I doubted I’d be able to choke them down.

  As I passed Mom on my way back, she shifted slightly in her sleep and murmured something unintelligible. I froze, waiting until her breathing evened out. Then I kept going, closing and locking the door.

  Mom knocked first thing the next morning. With forced cheer, she said, “I made challah bread french toast for breakfast. And believe it or not there’s bacon out here! Real bacon!”

  “I’m not hungry,” I called back.

  “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late for school.”

  “I’m never going back there!” I shouted.

  A long pause, then she said, “Shane, honey, can we please talk about this?”

  “No.”

  When bribery didn’t work, she tried threats: “If you don’t open this door, I’m calling your father!”

  “Go ahead. He doesn’t care.”

  “Of course he cares.”

  “I bet he doesn’t even pick up.”

  She went away for a bit, then came back an hour later. My doorknob rattled. Sounding teary, Mom said, “Shane, you’re really scaring me. I need you to unlock this door.”

  “Or what?” I demanded.

  A long silence. She must’ve been shocked, I’d never spoken to her like that before. Which should’ve made me feel awful, but I didn’t care. Overnight, everything had ceased to matter. I didn’t feel like I needed anyone or anything. I’d sit in this room forever, and life could go on without me. If I opened the door to discover the entire world in flames, I’d just grab a bag of marshmallows.

  “Shane,” Mom said, her voice cracking a little. “Please open the door. I really need to see that you’re okay.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “If I open it, you won’t try to make me come out?”

  A long beat, then she said, “Not if you don’t want to.”

  I drew a deep breath, then unlocked the door and opened it. Mom stood on the threshold, her face tight with worry.

  “See? I’m fine,” I said coldly.

  I probably looked awful. I was still wearing my practice uniform and hadn’t brushed my teeth or showered. I hadn’t slept much all night, either; I’d doze off for a while, then startle awake, remembering everything all over again.

  “Thanks for opening the door, sweetheart. Can I get you something to eat?” she asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “But—”

  “I had a granola bar. And a banana.”

  “Okay.” Mom gnawed on her lip. “I called Dr. Terri. She’s free today at eleven if you want to talk.”

  I was already shaking my head. I hadn’t seen my therapist in over a year, and I wasn’t about to open up to her now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “On the phone, then,” she said, a pleading note in her voice. “I really think it would help to talk to someone.”

  “No.”

  Mom’s face fell. I felt a twinge of guilt; she was only trying to help. But no one could make this better. “I love you, honey. Please tell me what I can do.”

  “You can leave me alone,” I said. Then I shut and locked the door again.

  Mom left lunch outside my door. She knocked and said, “There’s a sandwich out here in case you change your mind.”

  I didn’t answer, but after her footsteps faded, I opened the door and took the plate. The sandwich was almond butter, banana, and raisin, which was usually my favorite. I barely tasted it, though; it turned to paste in my mouth. I ate a few bites, then put the plate back in the hallway.

  I only left to go to the bathroom, then I came right back. Each time I passed Mom, she’d try to smile at me, but I ignored her. I heard her on the phone a few times talking in a low voice, probably to Dr. Terri, or maybe Dad. But she didn’t try to force me out of the room again.

  I spent most of the day lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It was really hard not to check my phone, but every time I considered it, I saw that awful text again. Instead, I passed the time by coming up with ways to escape. I could sneak out at night. Take money from Mom’s purse and get on a bus headed somewhere I’d never been. Arizona was supposed to be nice and hot; that was where a lot of baseball teams went for spring training. I bet you could sleep outside most of the year and not even get cold. Or I could go to Alaska and work on a fishing boat; there were a lot of TV shows where guys did that. They were all older, but maybe age didn’t matter as long as you were willing to work hard. I wasn’t sure if I’d get seasick, though, since I’d never been on anything but a ferry before.

  Around dinnertime, Mom knocked again. “Shane, it’s time for your shot. Dr. Anne said it’s important to do it around the same time every week, so we really should’ve done it last night.”

  I sat up in bed. Had it only been eight days since my first shot? It felt like a lifetime ago.

  “I could come in real quick and give it to you,” Mom offered.

  “What’s the point?” I growled. “It’s not like I’m fooling anyone.”

  Silence on the other side of the door. Then Mom said, “Why don’t we just go ahead and do it anyway? I have it all ready.”

  “Fine.” I rolled off the bed and stomped to the door.

  Mom was standing there, holding the needle. I pulled down my sweatpants to expose my upper thigh.

  “All set?” Mom asked.

  I nodded. She wiped my leg with an antiseptic pad and stuck me with the needle. I winced and kept my head turned away. It was funny to think I’d been excited the first time. Like a dumb kid who thought
this would change anything.

  “Done,” Mom announced.

  I pulled my pants back up.

  Hesitantly, Mom said, “I was thinking about ordering Chinese food tonight. Does that sound good?”

  “Whatever.” I shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

  Mom was wearing sweats, too, and hairs had slipped free from her ponytail. She looked pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She inhaled deeply, then said, “I rented Firefly. It’s been awhile since we watched it together.”

  “I’m too old for that.”

  “But it’s your favorite show!” she exclaimed.

  “Not anymore.” I was already heading back to bed.

  Mom peered into my overflowing trash can. “What’s all this?”

  “My graphic novel. It was stupid, so I got rid of it.”

  Mom gasped. “Oh, Shane.”

  Before I could reply, the doorbell rang.

  “Must be the food,” I muttered.

  “I haven’t ordered yet.” Mom’s brow furrowed, then suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  She was already heading for the door, pulling out her ponytail and running a hand through her hair as she went. She looked frantic.

  The sound of the front door opening, then a man’s voice. I snuck into the hall to listen.

  “I am so sorry!” Mom was exclaiming. “We’ve been dealing with a bit of a family emergency here, and it totally slipped my mind.”

  I couldn’t hear the response, his voice was too low. I crept to the living room doorway.

  There was a guy standing in our foyer. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair worn a little long over his ears, and the kind of scruff you had to work at. He was holding a bottle of wine and looking pretty bummed out.

  Glancing over Mom’s shoulder, he saw me and broke into a smile. “Hey,” he said, striding forward. “You must be Shane.”

  “Are you Chris?” I asked, automatically shaking his hand.

  “The one and only.”

  It was a goofy answer; I almost rolled my eyes. Up close, his teeth were that fake bleached white you saw a lot of in Los Angeles. He was wearing jeans that looked old but were really new, too.

  “Chris and I were supposed to have dinner tonight.” Mom was wringing her hands. “I forgot to call and cancel.”