“No,” Parker hissed, “that’s not how this works. You made me look like a dickhead for months, and now you don’t got Grant to look out for you. You don’t get to play hard to get anymore.” I could barely hear him, and his features were blacked out by the bright headlights of his truck. I tried to speak but all that came out was a gagging sound. “You coulda had this the easy way. Now, let’s see how close you are to the real thing.”
The sensation of his huge hands pulling up the hem of my dress brought me just far enough from my stupor to act. I let out a screaming croak and clawed at his face as I drove my knee into his crotch as hard as I could. He coughed loudly and went limp. I was still woozy and disoriented, but some animal part of my brain forced me to act. I lurched into the darkness and the underbrush, keeping one eye over my shoulder as I ran into the woods.
Parker stomped after me, snapping branches and growling my name. The dots in my eyes and the ringing in my ears made it impossible to figure out how near or far he was, but after a few minutes I heard the crunch of gravel again and the sweep of a new set of headlights followed by the sound of slamming car doors and female voices ahead.
I slowly, carefully, started creeping my way toward the road. I was about halfway there when my busted ankle slipped out from under me. I reached out to grab another branch for support, only to have it snap loudly as I cried out and fell to the wet ground.
“Found you!” Parker yelled. I tried to stand but he was bursting through the darkness in seconds, pouncing on me and pushing me down into the mud with a horrible, irresistible strength. I heard something rip as the left strap of my dress fell loose. I kicked and slapped at him but my feet couldn’t get to him and he quickly pinned my wrists down by my head. He had just kicked my knees apart when I heard a metallic click from behind him.
“I knew you were a creep,” a girl’s voice said. A beam of light landed on us, revealing Chloe’s silhouette holding a rifle pointed at Parker’s back.
Parker slowly stood. I scrambled backward until my head hit a tree trunk and pulled my knees to myself, gasping. Chloe led Parker away, leaving me in darkness again until a small hand grasped mine and pulled me up.
“Come on,” Anna said, her voice hushed.
We made it to the road, where I saw Parker standing with his hands pressed to his truck, his face red as tendons jumped in his jaw. Chloe stood vigilant behind him, her hunting rifle still raised, a look of absolute, dispassionate boredom on her face.
“We’ve got her,” I heard Layla say, sounding calm but with an undercurrent of panic. “I’ll call you back.” I turned and saw her putting her phone away as she jogged over to us. She pulled me into a hug and I winced at a burning pain in my shoulder and ribs. “We were so worried!”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Grant texted us,” Layla said, leaning in to examine my face and making a pained expression.
“Yeah,” Anna said. “He said Parker’d called him once word started getting around. Said he sounded drunk, talkin’ about helpin’ Grant get revenge on you and putting you in your place.”
“Oh,” I said, pulling on the strap of my dress. I was shivering even though I didn’t feel cold. I didn’t feel much of anything. “That was nice of him.”
“Amanda?” Layla said, taking my hand and giving me a worried look. “You okay?”
“No,” I said, realizing for the first time just how badly I was shaking.
“Want us to call the police?” Anna said. I looked over my shoulder and saw Chloe watching me, both eyebrows raised.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Layla added.
“No,” I said.
The last thing I wanted was for a nurse to take pictures of me. The last thing I wanted was a night spent with police officers who had probably already heard about me by now, and wanted to ask questions about my private parts instead of about what had happened. I just wanted to forget everything about tonight. I wanted it to be over.
Chloe prodded Parker once with the rifle and barked for him to leave. He complied quickly, jumping into his truck and driving off into the night.
“If you say so,” Layla said. She was quiet for a moment, then looked right into my eyes. “What can we do?”
“Please just take me home,” I said.
29
I laid my head against the passenger window as Layla drove silently. The chilly glass was a relief on the throbbing skin where Parker’s punch had landed. I closed my left eye—the right was already swelling shut—and willed myself through time. I wanted this car ride to be over. I wanted to skip the conversation with Dad and the bus ride back to Atlanta and Mom’s worried looks and just be back in my room in Smyrna with the blackout curtains pulled tight.
“I owe you an apology,” Layla said. I glanced in her direction but didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry we just stood there, in the gym.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I wouldn’t know how to handle me if I were you.”
“That’s not even it,” Layla said, shaking her head. “It’s—”
“Don’t lie to me, okay?” I said louder than I meant to, making a cutting motion with my hand. “Thanks for what you did with Parker, but you can stop pretending.”
“Amanda…”
“I’m a freak,” I said. Tears came but I wasn’t sad. I thought maybe I was angry, but I didn’t know who I was angry at. Grant, for not loving me. Parker, for what he had done. My dad for warning me, for being right. Myself maybe, for thinking I could ever be happy. “I’m a freak, and jerks like Parker are always going to want to see the freak show, as long as they know the truth about me.”
“Amanda!” Layla said. I sniffled and scowled at her, but the look she gave me withered my anger. “Don’t you dare talk about my friend that way.” She reached out and grabbed my left hand with her right. I flinched at the touch but quickly accepted it. “The truth is that you’re my friend, Amanda. You’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever known, inside and out.”
“Really?” I said, wiping my nose.
“Hell yeah,” Layla said. “I mean, I’m trying to picture what you must’ve been like before you became Amanda, and I can’t even think of a way the Amanda I know could ever pull off being a boy.”
“I wasn’t very good at it,” I said, a small smile twitching at my mouth. Layla smiled in return.
“Listen,” she said, after a short silence fell between us. “We love you no matter what.”
“I love you guys too.” I smiled, and my bruised temple throbbed painfully.
We pulled into my apartment complex. I thanked her again and started to get out, but she squeezed my hand and gave me a serious look.
“You don’t have to go in,” she said. “You can come stay with me tonight.”
“No,” I said, taking my hand from hers and giving her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, but no. I’m feeling better.”
“Okay,” Layla said. “I’m gonna wait out here for half an hour though. If you feel like you need to be around friends, just come on out and we’ll have a sleepover.”
I thanked Layla again and limped up the stairs, dreading the coming conversation with Dad. I reached our door and started to turn the knob when it was yanked open from within. Dad stood in the doorway, his shoulders squared and his expression full of worry.
“Oh my God,” he said, softly at first and then louder again as he looked me up and down. He pushed past me without saying anything and started stomping down the breezeway stairs.
“Wait,” I said, trying to follow him and nearly falling down the stairs on my twisted ankle. “Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him!” Dad said, a few seconds before his car door slammed and the engine kicked to life. I reached the parking lot just in time to see him speeding off into the night. Layla was already getting out of her car and walking over, her eyes wide.
“What was that?” she said.
“We have to go,” I said, limping past
her to her car.
“Where’s he going?”
“Grant’s house,” I said, my hands shaking as I buckled myself in.
30
The car slipped in the mud as we careened down the canopied dirt road to Grant’s trailer. I had my car door open before Layla could even bring the car to a stop. Dad’s car was parked a few yards ahead, his headlights bathing the front of the trailer ghostly white. He was standing halfway in the driver’s seat, his palm pressed on the horn without letting up. The chained-up dogs barked and howled madly trying to attack him, trying to escape, trying to get the noise to stop.
Grant appeared on the porch, his jacket gone and his tie loosened. He squared his shoulders as he strode purposefully down to the yard and over to Dad, who finally let go of the horn. I scrambled to get free of my seat belt and fell down in the mud beside the car.
“Dad!” I yelled. “Dad, please—”
“Go home!” Dad screamed, stepping away from the car and closing the distance between himself and Grant.
“I don’t know what you think,” Grant said, raising both of his hands palms out, “but—”
Dad stepped forward, pivoted, and drove his fist into Grant’s face with the kind of wild, berserk swing I couldn’t have imagined he had in him. Grant made a sound like an airbag exploding and fell a few feet back, already bleeding from his nose.
“Listen close, son,” Dad growled. “You touch her again, or come near her, or talk to her, or so much as look at her, and I will put you in the goddamn ground.”
I made it to my feet and threw myself between them. Dad looked at me the same way he used to when I was four and I’d thrown a temper tantrum over something stupid, only now his eyes were rimmed red and I saw his nostrils flaring over and over. I heard the screen door slam and turned to see Grant’s mom standing on the small porch in a nightgown.
“I’m gonna count to ten,” Ruby said, “and then I want you and your faggot son off my property or I call the cops.”
“Dad,” I said, tugging gently on his sleeve and trying to avoid looking at Grant, “come on.”
“One,” Grant’s mom said.
“Dad,” I hissed. He shoved my hand away from his arm.
“Two,” she said through gritted teeth. “Three.”
“Get in the car,” Dad said finally, turning without looking at me. I followed him. Layla waved me down and gave me a wide-eyed look but I shook my head and got in the car with Dad. He jerked the gear stick like he was trying to choke it and pulled out onto the orange-glowing highway.
“It wasn’t him,” I said after a moment, trying to shrink myself down as small as possible. “It was this other guy—”
“Goddamnit!” Dad said, pounding his other fist against the steering wheel. I pressed myself into the passenger door and stared at him, afraid to speak. “I told you. I fucking told you!”
“Dad,” I said. “Please. I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve died,” he said, his voice still booming in the tiny space, “and you don’t even care! Damnit, Amanda—”
“Dad—” I said, my voice cracking.
“Well, I’m done,” Dad said. “I’m not watching you destroy yourself. When we get home I want you to pack your things.”
NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO
I would have preferred to sit in the back of the bus, but older, meaner boys sat back there, and the assistant principal said I was only making myself a target. Not that sitting up front helped; they kicked at my legs and slapped things out of my hands when they walked by. For a while my shins were striped with green and purple bruises and my paperbacks came home with torn covers and missing pages. Now I sat quietly with my knees pulled to my chest and stared straight ahead.
The bus stopped. I clutched my legs tighter and recognized the thud of Wayne Granville’s boots as he walked up the aisle. He stopped at my bench and leaned in, elbows braced on the seat backs. He was a few inches shorter than me but much denser, faster, and stronger.
“You have a good Halloween?” he asked. A blond junior girl rolled her eyes and squeezed past. He didn’t seem to notice her. I didn’t answer. “Billy says you did. Says he saw you trick-or-treating in a dress.” I pressed my forehead into my knees and closed my eyes. I had spent Halloween in my room, alone, playing video games. I spent every night and every weekend in my room, alone, doing homework or playing video games. “Oh, and I heard you blew a buncha dudes for Skittles. Taste the rainbow, right?” The bus driver gave him an impatient look, and Wayne turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Andy!” he called out as he stepped off the bus.
“No you won’t,” I whispered, but nobody heard.
The door hissed open at my stop. I shuffled out to the sidewalk and watched the bus leave. The street was empty. The edges of every yard were fortified with black and orange leaf bags, like sandbags with no flood to hold back. I put one foot in front of the other. The wind howled down the street, whipping my hair into my eyes. I let it fall where it wanted; if I wandered into the street and a car hit me, all it would do was save me some time.
Our yard was choked with leaves. Mom had broken her ankle at work a week ago, and most days I could barely manage the effort to get out of bed. My feet broke through the upper layer of new, dry leaves to the dark, mulchy layer beneath. Old rainwater soaked through to my socks, but it didn’t matter. I opened the door and entered silently.
Inside, the sound of daytime television drifted out of Mom’s room. I put my backpack on the couch and walked softly to her door, peeking in. Her head poked out of the covers while her chest rose and fell slowly. Soft snoring was just barely audible over Dr. Phil. Two white prescription bottles and a half-empty glass of water sat on the nightstand closest to the door. I took off my shoes and socks and tiptoed over to the nightstand. I picked up the first bottle slowly and read the label: Amoxicillin. I wasn’t looking for antibiotics. I set it down and took the other bottle, which I knew now was oxycodone. The bottle rattled as my hands began to shake. Mom mumbled something and I froze. A moment later she turned over and resumed snoring.
I went back to the living room and put the bottle down on the coffee table, then walked to the kitchen where I filled a tall glass with tap water. I sat next to my backpack and put the glass of water next to the pill bottle. I took my Health & Wellness textbook out of my backpack and put it in my lap. A running male body with muscles and veins and bones exposed stared out from beneath the title. I ran my hand down the cover and imagined the tendons beneath my skin, the bones they were attached to, the blood running through spider-webbed veins, the muscles made of a hundred thousand tiny cords. This body, this walking prison, had forced me to keep it alive for fifteen years.
I opened the textbook to the page that read, “What Boys Can Expect from Puberty.” Then I opened the pill bottle, removed three small white pills, and put them in my mouth. They tasted powdery and bitter. I swallowed them with a sip of water and kept reading. I read the text on the page and felt the things it described happening to my own body—I was a late bloomer at fifteen, tall but beardless and scrawny, with a high voice that still squeaked sometimes, but I could feel the changes coming like a swarm of insects skittering across my bones.
Testes will descend from the body and begin producing testosterone and sperm.
I swallowed three more pills. I wouldn’t be a friendless victim anymore.
Spontaneous erections and nocturnal emissions are normal and should not be cause for alarm.
I swallowed three more pills. No more caring that Dad didn’t care about me.
Thick, coarse hair will appear on the face, chest, and stomach, with leg and arm hair noticeably thicker than females’.
I swallowed three more pills. My limbs felt heavy and strange. No more future with no love, no kisses, no closeness.
The voice will drop by about an octave as the larynx enlarges and hardens.
I swallowed three more pills. It was difficult to focus. No more possibility of shaming Mom with the knowle
dge of the kind of life I actually wanted.
Bone density and muscle mass increase and shoulders widen disproportionately, giving males and females distinct skeletal shapes.
I swallowed three more pills. I was very sleepy. Everything felt okay though. I knew everything would be okay. The bottom of the page said something about acne and body odor but the words danced whenever I tried to move my eyes over them. I closed the book and set it aside. I took the remaining pills and the glass of water and moved to the bathroom. I removed my clothes and sat down in the tub because I didn’t want to leave a mess. Leaving a mess would have been rude. I realized that I forgot to write a note but it was too late for that now, and soon nothing would matter at all. My eyes slid shut.
Everything was going to be okay.
31
The bus smelled of body odor and dry heating-vent air and urine. It was just after noon when we left; Dad had at least let me sleep in and fed me breakfast in silence. The man in the aisle seat was snoring loudly, but I didn’t care. I wanted to sleep, was tired enough to sleep, but couldn’t. I felt dead inside. I felt nothing.
I tried putting headphones in but by the time we reached Chattanooga and switched from I-24 to I-75, I had tried all my favorite songs and they all sounded like musical Styrofoam. I read articles on the Internet but they were all trivial. I wanted to be home, but I didn’t know what home was anymore. I pressed my cheek to the glass, the road slipping by like a black ribbon thrown across the hills. I watched the changing scenery of this place where I was born that had been telling me it hated me for as long as I could remember and gave in to the static behind my eyes.
* * *
The jolt of the bus coming to a stop sent me sitting straight up with a sharp breath. I shuffled down the aisle and descended the stairs. I stood for a moment in the fumes and noise of the Greyhound station, still feeling numb and cold.
If I Was Your Girl Page 17