"But the flowers," Christian observed. "Surely they're not all vaginal in O'Keeffe's work? I think she wanted to make a statement. She also painted cattle skulls. Perhaps, in its most compact way, she wanted to speak about sex and death and how the two are inextricably linked."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
It was around that point in the conversation when Oliver had gotten a drink. And kept drinking, without getting too drunk, so he didn't have to keep up his side of the conversation about the politics of art and post-post-post-modern expressionism (if that was even a thing, which he was sure it wasn't). None of it interested him, but if Christian was content to talk, then Oliver wanted to at least appear to listen.
Perhaps it was perverse that the private lives of the artists always interested Oliver more than the political meaning of their works or the techniques they used—especially since this was Canada, and years ago, Pierre Trudeau had said that the government would stay out of the bedrooms of the nation.
But the bedroom was exactly where Oliver wanted to be. Inside small condos like Lydia's was where the real person came out of hiding and stopped performing their daily roles in front of their coworkers, acquaintances, and family. It was where people's stories got interesting. After hours, lives became something completely different, like an odd version of Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? Performance happening in real-time. Oliver liked to know what crazy stories people told themselves every night, and what stories they repeated to themselves again and again.
"Well," Christian said when he was getting bored of their (lack of) conversation. "I think I'm going to get a drink. Yours looks good. Sound okay?"
"Yes, love, whatever love wants," Oliver said, inflecting Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? dialect. But Christian didn't get the joke. Oliver knew that he could make all the subliminal digs at the art community in Toronto that he wanted, or even reference more of the secret lives of artists, and all of it would be completely lost on Christian. It was an impossible play between them, all of it leading to an ending that would only disappoint the audience.
"I'm sorry," Oliver said, genuinely this time. "Yes, go get a drink. But I'm going to stay here. There's someone I'm meeting in a bit."
Christian nodded, not even offended. "I'll probably see you around."
"No doubt."
Oliver watched from the sidelines of Lydia's house as Christian got a drink, and then struck up a conversation with Taylor easily. Both of them had old mentalities and ways of looking at art. They would be perfect together, Oliver knew, and wasn't even upset about it. At least it was better than talking about mortgages, Oliver told himself. It was always ten times better than talking about mortgages.
When Oliver finished his drink, he went into the kitchen to find a Coke. As soon as he stepped onto the granite tiles, he felt his body relax. He loved Lydia's kitchen. She liked to cook and was even a bit of a cooking star on YouTube before Hannah Hart stole the show with My Drunk Kitchen and Lydia had truly embraced her make-up artist roots. Copper pots hung from the ceiling over a sleek black kitchen island. A million different appliances, some of which Oliver didn't even know how to use, lined the walls. An extensive spice rack was placed alongside some dried garlic hanging on a hook, with a vase of fresh flowers right beside it.
Oliver found a case of Coke next to the steel fridge. When he opened it up to slide some inside, he saw a cold Coke right in the centre of the front shelf, a large sticky note on top of it. He could tell right away it was Lydia's writing—and most definitely addressed to him.
Hey O. Ease up, okay? You're going to drown yourself in caffeine before you even have a chance to talk to anyone. Love, L.
Oliver rolled his eyes. He took out a pen and wrote a note back, digging out a couple crumpled receipts from his pocket to use as excess notepaper when he ran out. L. I'm a big boy now and I'm pretty sure I can't get into too much trouble with all this Coke. Then again, the Heart Art House was looking at putting on a stage rendition of Scarface. I'm just getting into character. Oliver rolled his eyes at his bad joke. He cracked the can and took another sip.
After going to the doctor, LARPing earlier in the week, and having the play rehearsal, everything else felt very anti-climactic. The music throbbed from the other side of the room, most remixes that Lydia had found of some of her favourite Canadian bands. Death From Above 1979 blasted through the speakers, making the discordant rhythm of people's chatter and footsteps seem natural alongside the music's beat. Oliver didn't want to leave the safe space of Lydia's kitchen. Maybe I'll just stay in here, he thought. Everything I need is here. And maybe, if I'm gone long enough, they can forget I even came.
He was about to settle in at Lydia's kitchen table with some of her cookbooks as reading material, when Oliver heard a rumble from the side door that led into the garage. There was a flash of light, bright like a cell phone. Lydia's cat, Scorsese, meowed and then hissed.
"Who's there?" Oliver asked. He reached into his back pocket, feeling where his pen knife was. "Hello?"
There was another flash of a cell phone, followed by a low laugh. "Hey, kitty-kitty. Come here."
"Scorsese," Oliver corrected. "The cat's name is Scorsese."
The garage door was near the back of the kitchen, where the pantry was. There were a few steps down until the knob was reached. The small ditch from the stairs to the door was where the stranger was, and they still remained invisible from Oliver's vantage point.
But their voice. Oliver knew that light, airy, sweet voice. He moved around the kitchen island and found the girl from the doctor's office, her hand extended towards the white cat, who now licked her fingers.
"Oh. Hi." Oliver shifted, swallowing as if his mouth was dry.
"Hi." She stood and folded her hands across her chest. She didn't seem surprised to see him. Her smile grew wider, even. "Sorry to startle you. I was invited, but I didn't want to go through the front door. Christian told me there was a back way he'd leave unlocked for me."
"Oh," Oliver said. He felt his heart sink being reminded of his failed conversation with Christian. "I know Christian. He didn't mention you. I didn't know he had a girlfriend."
"Oh." She laughed, her cheeks blushing. "I'm definitely not his girlfriend. I go to school with him."
"At the AGO?"
"Well, the university, but yeah, we got the same placement there." She smiled, her eyes lingering. "You're who I think you are, right?"
Oliver's eyes were wide. "I'm just a small actor hiding in the back room of a make-up artist's party. Counterintuitive, right? Actors should want the stage. But I know Lydia so I can get away with it."
She laughed again. "No, I mean. You were at the doctor's office, right? I'm not misplacing that?"
"I was." He shifted around, still feeling the slight sting of embarrassment from that meeting. He was about to apologize, eyes to the granite floors, when she spoke again.
"I thought so. They don't have a back entrance at Sherbourne or I would have gone in the same way."
Then I wouldn't have gotten to embarrass myself in front of you, Oliver thought with a slow sadness. He wished they could try their whole meeting again, right from the start. He wouldn't ask her if she had a brother this time around. Instead, he would just look at and try to impress her. Forget about the elf from the LARPing trip, he told himself. He was as good as gone.
"I'm sorry. I'm being rude," Oliver said. He walked away from his place in front of the door, where he'd been blocking her way up, and moved over to the fridge. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Sure." She walked up the stairs, her shoes making a clicking sound over Lydia's tiles. "And don't worry—I'm also being rude."
"Well, here's to us, then."
Oliver was careful to avoid his note to Lydia in the fridge. He passed the new girl a Coke and then closed the door quickly. They both held up their cans in a silent cheer before she cracked hers open and took a sip.
"I'm Avery, by the way," she said.
"Oliver."
He smiled. He felt the tension ease around them. Even the cat started to purr. They were staring over.
Avery was dressed differently than the doctor's office. Her red hair had a slight curl to the edges, as if she had styled it before leaving. She still wore her torn jeans, but her blue top was a button-up blouse, neutral but still slightly feminine. And she carried the same bag with Cygnar patches along the side. Her face was clear, but she didn't seem to wear make-up. She really didn't need it.
Oliver tried to think of a way he could turn their conversation around, away from their miscommunication at the doctor's office and towards something far better than mortgages or shitty opinions on art. He swallowed hard, remembering Avery's brief mention of Harry Potter from before, and decided to ask what he knew best:
"So, what Hogwarts house are you in?"
She laughed, so sudden and enchanting that it made his heart beat fast again. She lolled her head back and placed a hand over her mouth. "Is that your pick-up line?"
"Yes," Oliver stated, a smile on his face. "You said there was a time and place for Harry Potter. I'm kind of hoping it's right now."
"Oh, I think so," Avery said. Music still hummed from the other side of the kitchen as she thought closely about her answer. "Slytherin."
"Ravenclaw," Oliver answered. "But I think I was supposed to be in Slytherin. Like Harry, you know? But I wanted to be something else, so I thought, why not Ravenclaw for now? So sometimes I'm both."
"I understand completely," Avery said.
With that smile on her face, Oliver knew she really did.
*~*~*
At first, Avery and Oliver leaned against the kitchen island as they sipped their drinks and talked about nerd culture. Then, as they began to laugh more and grew closer, they eventually sat down on Lydia's floor, their backs against the mahogany surface of the cupboards underneath. Their shoulders were inches apart as they continued to talk in hushed tones, as if they were telling more than their favourite shows—as if they were telling tangible secrets about themselves.
"I was so mad at what they did to Luna's storyline in the movies," Avery said.
"What? Her romance with Neville?"
"Well, yes, that was different, but that was one of the few things I didn't mind. I hated how they stripped her of certain qualities she had in the book. A movie is different than a book, they can't get everything they want in the story, I know—I know, but still. I felt disappointed."
"If we're talking disappointment," Oliver said. "Then let's talk about Ginny."
Avery's eyes went wide, nodding profusely, before she began to talk again. Oliver leaned back and listened closely, enjoying the slight flush to her cheeks as she got really into what she was speaking about.
The months before Oliver decided to transition, he had set out on a rigorous mission to observe male culture from affair. One thing he had noticed, above all else, was a certain nuanced language among men. As soon as they found a common denominator, they slipped away from the polite, awkward small talk and into being best buddies. More than anything else, Oliver noted how sports were used as that common language between men. If you mentioned a team, you could gauge the other person's response. They didn't even have to like the same team as you—so long as they followed sports, they were good. The code of friendship had been reached and you grew closer than ever before.
Oliver knew that transitioning from female-to-male would not necessarily allow him to converse in the same way. Moreover, he never liked sports to begin with and no amount of testosterone flowing through his veins would change that. But he did know his own secret language that he used to gauge people and whether or not they were friends. Like he had told Lydia, there were certain tiers and levels that people reached in his mind. Fandom was one of many ways he could relate to people, and aside from maybe gender, it was the highest regarded in his personal system. A fan didn't have to have the same areas of expertise or opinions that he did, but they had to be passionate. There was a new language that emerged when talking in fandom. A kind of fevered excitement that social media sites like Tumblr dealt in, where a reaction gif had just as much weight as an excited endorsement.
Avery, with her Hogwarts knowledge and her Wargaming hobby, had already won over Oliver right away. She had opinions on more than just the films and the books, but the creative sides of fandom, too. They moved from the movies to talking about a Hogwarts meme, and then to a fanfic involving some of their favourite characters. Avery also liked the BBC Sherlock and Marvel movie fandoms, where she sometimes did graphic edits. Oliver was really into Supernatural and Hannibal, though he spent most of his time lurking in those groups. Harry Potter was what solidified both of their interests, so they spent most of their conversation there.
"You know, I always related to that," Avery mentioned.
"To what?"
"Hermione in the books. She came from Muggles and she worked so hard at school to fit in among these wizards. It was more than about her being smart. She feared screwing up and then being sent back to a place where she didn't belong. She relied on Ron and Harry so much for that connection. I feel as if she was always waiting for someone to out her, and she often didn't have strength to fight back because she secretly worried that she didn't really belong."
Oliver nodded. Avery's tone had struck him, and they both got quiet as the other connotations of Hermione's past washed over them.
"So why do you see Doctor Rosenthal?" Avery asked. "We may as well talk about it, since we're here."
Oliver sighed. "Why do you think?"
"I don't like to assume. It's what gets Hermione in trouble. And I tend to ask, what would a wizard do? If I ever get into situations that I can't always figure out. In this case, it's best not to assume. You also don't have to tell me, either. We can discuss Snape instead. People always think his devotion to Lily was romantic, but man, that's creepy."
Oliver laughed. "No, no, it's fine. I mean—not Snape because you're right, that was creepy. I mean, we can talk about Rosenthal and me. I'm sort of used to why I go there being obvious. Even if I pass sometimes, not all twenty-something guys are only five-foot-four with small hands. And tiny feet," he added, looking down at his heels.
"Some are."
"But not all. So I'm trans."
Avery nodded. "Who isn't now?"
"Are you saying its trendy?" Oliver asked, feeling awkward. No way was that where she was going. She had been so cool and he didn't want their conversation to end like this.
"Oh, God no," Avery proclaimed, her eyes wide. "Why would anything like this be trendy?"
Like this, Oliver repeated her words in his head. She was like this too. "What are your preferred pronouns?" he asked suddenly. It was the closest thing he could think of other than asking 'are you trans too'? That was always a loaded question. Though the pronoun one seemed less so, he still felt awkward as it came out of his mouth.
Avery laughed, sudden and small. "It's okay, Oliver. We're not in group. You don't have to ask that before each speaking turn."
"Sorry. I know… I just. I don't really meet people who are trans outside of group or the doctor's office."
"Even Lydia?"
As if on cue, they heard her laughter from the other side of the door. Oliver smiled. "Nah, we met in group. We had a bet, actually. I kicked her ass." He sighed. "Now she kicks mine and begs me to socialize."
"Truthfully, socialization is overrated. I'd much rather play dress-up." Avery winked before she stood up to get another drink out of the fridge. Oliver watched her, trying not to stare too much, as she moved. From her side profile, he gazed at her small smile, her red hair, and then her small, droopy ears as it all added up in his mind.
"You're… an elf. I mean…" Oliver shifted. "Do you LARP?"
She laughed. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her breasts were visible at the beginning of her blue top, more than before. "It took you that long to realize?"
"What?"
"Of course I LARP! I thought that's
why you talked to me before, you know, in the doctor's office. You recognized me as Oakenshire."
"Oh, no, no. I thought you were two different people. Oh God." Oliver felt his chest tighten, as if he had done something wrong. Why hadn't he considered this more seriously before? Of course they were the same person. They had to be. If she was both people, then that meant she was either a guy or a girl and half of Oliver's assumptions were wrong.
Yet, when their eyes met, Avery looked happy. Her pink lips formed a grin and she sighed, contentedly, as she sat back down next to him.
"This is great, you know," she said her eyes wide. "It means the whole bi-gender thing isn't just a phase. I mean, I knew it wasn't. But it's hard to get people to believe that I feel like both a guy and a girl. You can endorse me now," she laughed, snorting slightly. "I guess this means I'm cured!"
"A phase? What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes. The joking tone from her voice disappeared. "Rosenthal, for all he is ahead of the curve with trans issues, doesn't seem to understand outside the binary issues."
"Oh? Oh." Oliver was shocked. He thought back to their doctor-patient consultations, the man's deep voice, his grey hair, and calloused hands. He was old. He was open-minded, but only because his daughter was trans and he wanted her to have the best care. Most people only opened their minds as much as they had to, then they tried to cram everyone else into their world-view. Everyone in Rosenthal's office usually had to be one or the other; even if someone was trans, the forms they were given didn't allow much room for a grey area. Oliver had been so used to thinking in gendered check boxes, desperately trying to get over to male when he had always been labelled female, that he hadn't considered anything else in between or beyond. He shook his head, realizing how stupid he had been. "I can't believe I didn't think of this before."
"Oh, don't worry," Avery assured him. "Not many people do. It's why I have a hard time convincing doctors and my family."
"Yeah, but I should be different."
"Why? You live in this culture too, and this culture doesn't give us many messages that allow for something in between. You didn't really get to meet me before tonight, so I'm a stranger."
The Good Guys Page 4