“You know,” Mr. Singer began, catching Julian’s attention some time later. “Willa Cather went by Will later on in her life. She dressed in men’s clothing and, some say, wanted to be addressed as a man.”
“Dyke,” someone shouted in class.
Julian clenched his jaw, and Mr. Singer narrowed his eyes.
“There is a more polite way to say that, James. Apologize or stay after class.”
“Sorry,” James said. Then he muttered, “Lezzie.”
“Just say lesbian,” Maria shouted. “It’s not a curse word.”
“Maria and James. Both of you. Apologize and start again.” Mr. Singer crossed his arms over his chest so the class knew he meant business. He was such a laid-back teacher 90 percent of the time that, when he did lecture the class, they had a tendency to fold almost instantly.
“Sorry, sir,” Maria said.
“Sorry,” James followed with a mumble.
“Now good. Can anyone else tell me something interesting about Cather? Or anything at all about some things I’ve just said?”
Julian, ever so slowly, began to raise his hand. He had googled Cather the night he finished the book, sensing something beneath the pages. But he hadn’t been able to find what Mr. Singer was referencing now about Willa’s desire to be Will.
“Yes, Julia?”
“Will would not technically be lesbian, if what you’re saying is true.”
“Okay,” Mr. Singer said. “Can you explain more?”
“Cross-dressing doesn’t have to do with lesbianism. Not always.”
“Then explain the bull dykes on TV,” a kid behind him asked.
“That’s different,” Julian tried to explain, blinking away the slur. He looked down at his hands and then up at Mr. Singer again. His eyes were wide, curious. He wanted Julian to continue.
“This is like Chaz Bono,” he said. “If Will wanted to dress—and be addressed—as a man, then that’s the better equivalent in our time.”
Mr. Singer nodded. “Very interesting theory. Of course, since the accounts have changed drastically over the years, we won’t ever really know what happened to Willa.”
The use of Cather’s birth name annoyed Julian. He wanted to speak up, but he didn’t know how without outing himself in the process, so he stayed quiet.
“Why are all writers such big faggots?” James complained again.
“Maybe because it’s a lot easier to live in stories, you idiot,” Maria said.
The class oohed and ahhed, encouraging Maria to make a few more remarks before Mr. Singer clapped his hands at the front for attention again.
“James and Maria—”
“Sorry!” Both of them apologized in unison.
“No. Office. Now. I will deal with you later.”
“But there’s still Julia!” James complained. “She started it.”
“I’m aware, thank you. Do not tell me how to do my job.” Mr. Singer’s eyes lingered on Julian, but not in the angry way he did with the other two. He seemed to view him in a softer, more sympathetic light before he turned back to the class. “I think we’ve had enough open discussion for today. Finish the chapter and answer these questions I’ll put on the board. We can discuss the use of hate speech in class another time.”
Low grumbling erupted as Mr. Singer wrote on the board. Maria and James packed up their things and headed out the doorway to the office, Maria not even bothering to look back at Julian. That hurt, more than Julian was willing to consider. He got out his book and wrote down the questions as they appeared on the board. After the first question, he anticipated the answers and began to finish them before the chalk eventually hit the side of the board.
“Oh, and Julia?”
Julian clenched his jaw and looked up. “Yes?”
“Please stay after class.”
JULIAN WAITED at his desk until the rest of the room cleared out. He had never really been in trouble before, but he was surprised to find out how calm he was in front of Mr. Singer. Of all the teachers he really could be stuck with, Mr. Singer was okay. At the beginning of the term, he used to joke about being a former hippy who studied in Montreal, before moving back to the Toronto area to be with his partner. He never said husband or wife, always vague and neutral. As Mr. Singer busied himself at his desk, Julian waited for every last student to leave, almost hopeful instead of worried.
“Is everyone gone?” Mr. Singer asked, looking up from his paperwork. He smiled at Julian, who was the only one there. “Good. I won’t keep you long. I know it’s lunch.”
“Thanks,” Julian said.
Mr. Singer slid his arms over his paperwork, his lips pressed together as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say. When all he asked was “You know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?” Julian furrowed his brows.
“I get by, I guess.”
Mr. Singer laughed. “You do your homework in a flash and then don’t answer questions in class—so yes, I would say you get by quite well. Though you don’t really challenge yourself in your work. But I mean about Willa Cather. Or Will, whatever people prefer.”
“Oh. Well, I googled her.”
“Is that it?”
Julian sighed. “And I used to read a lot as a kid, so I finished the book really fast. I got bored, so I looked her up.”
“You said you read a lot as a kid. As in, you don’t read now?”
Julian shrugged.
“Why don’t you read anymore?”
“Because it’s too hard believing in things that aren’t real.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know Santa, right?”
“Of course. Naturally,” Mr. Singer said. “I thought that was a good example of how myth could endure.”
“That’s the thing, though. I always thought myths were bad. Aren’t they just like gossip?”
“Whether they’re good or bad is a matter of debate,” Mr. Singer answered. “But tell me more about your Santa theory.”
“Not really a theory—it’s fact. Santa’s a hoax. We tell kids about him before they can really even read and find things out for themselves. Then we take him away from kids as soon as we think they’re old enough to handle it.”
“And maybe we shouldn’t?” Mr. Singer asked. “I suppose it would certainly make adulthood better if we kept Santa around. I’ll give you that.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Julian said. His face felt hot, and his skin felt tight, but he was also closer to articulating something that had been bugging him ever since he was nine and put all the pieces together. “I don’t want to keep Santa around even longer. I want to get rid of him altogether. I don’t think we should tell kids stories like that, because when they grow up all they have is disappointment. A false sense of reality. The world isn’t like books.”
“True, very true. And that realization you’re describing is actually quite sad.” Mr. Singer paused. “Are you okay, Julia?”
“Yes,” he lied. “I’m fine. Just, you know, bored with reading.”
Mr. Singer leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his beard as he thought for a moment longer. “Tell me, Julia. What book or story are you thinking of when you’re telling me all this?”
All of them, Julian thought. But he found himself saying “Pinocchio” instead.
“Okay, interesting. A man made of wood who could eventually come to life. What about that book made you want to stop reading? To stop believing in myths?”
“Nothing.” Julian’s cheeks were red. He felt transparent. “It just reminded me of the books I read with my dad. We like sci-fi, and I used to read about robots getting consciousness a lot. But it makes me sad to think that what we read couldn’t be real someday.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Singer said. “But there’s hope for the future. That’s what sci-fi is about.”
“But not for me,” Julian said. “I wanted something real.”
Mr. Singer nodded, turning over the words in his mind. “I think you
should write me a story about this.”
“No,” Julian said, shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t want to.”
“It would be for marks. Your final paper.”
“No. I’ve seen Perks of Being a Wallflower. I like your class, Mr. Singer, but I don’t want a teacher like that.”
Mr. Singer laughed. “Oh, you’re smart, Julia. I hope you know that.”
Julian crossed his arms across his chest. “Thanks. Can I go?”
“Yes, but tell me one thing.”
“Okay,” Julian said, though he had no intention of baring his soul. He had already said far, far too much and almost wished he could go back in time and zip his mouth permanently shut.
“Do you ever think that, even though the stories aren’t real, they could bring someone a sense of pleasure? Even if they knew they would never come true? Even if they knew that it was all lies?”
“Maybe,” Julian said. “But isn’t it good to be honest?”
“Yes, of course. But think of white lies. We tell small lies to make someone feel good. Is that okay?”
“Like my dad telling my mom she cooks well?”
Mr. Singer laughed louder than Julian expected. “Yes, anything like that. Those are white lies, and sometimes, they’re good to tell.”
“I see that. It’s also like if I told you this small talk helped me to achieve my goals in life, right?”
Mr. Singer smiled again. He seemed to enjoy Julian’s antagonism. Julian had thought for sure that his last remark would have sent him to the office, where he and Maria could have shared battle wounds. But Mr. Singer merely tented his fingers and leaned forward.
“Sure. Something like that. Think of the example you gave of Pinocchio. What do you think he learned about lying?”
“Not to do it.”
“Not quite. He had to become a man before he could get away with lying, so that his wooden body didn’t give him away. See the difference? Lying is part of the human condition. So long as you’re not hurting people, we all need a little fiction sometimes.”
Julian shivered. He hoped it was just the December air getting into the classroom and nothing more. “Maybe. I don’t know. Is that really all there is to adulthood?”
“I don’t even know, okay?” Mr. Singer said. “That is the big secret. No one really grows up. Just the body changes, that’s it.”
Julian was quiet. He thought back to his first known memory at three or four, of himself on his father’s knee. His dad’s body was so big, his voice loud and booming. He seemed so gigantic then, but now he was normal sized. And if I was on testosterone too, then my voice could be big and booming as well. Then maybe I could be an adult too. Julian would never feel like an adult with the breasts and body he currently had. But maybe I would with a beard.
“What do people do, then,” Julian asked, “if they don’t grow up?”
“They play dress-up with grown-up clothing. Have grown-up things. But trust me, Julia, we’re all still kids playing around.”
“So why should I hand in any papers to you?”
“Hah,” Mr. Singer laughed. “Very good point. I like you, Julia. But I still have a job, and so do you. You’ll need to hand me in a paper because that’s what English class is about. I was just hoping to get an interesting read, rather than the same What I Did on My Winter Vacation papers I’m always seeing.”
“Maybe,” Julian said, getting quiet again.
“That’s better than a no. So if you want, Julia, you don’t have to write a boring paper this term. Instead you could tell me the story of the Santa Hoax or explain to me the way the world should really be.”
When Mr. Singer began sorting through his paperwork again, Julian knew their little heart-to-heart was done. But I’m not done. Julian’s heart thudded louder and louder. His palms sweated. Even as he moved toward the classroom door, half of his body seemed to linger in the English room. You’re not done, you’re not done, you’re not done.
“Mr. Singer?”
“Yes?”
“Please call me J. Not Julia… but J.”
“Okay. I can do that. Very easy,” Mr. Singer said.
Julian tried to trace the expression on his face, but Mr. Singer seemed neutral. Maybe he smiled a little, but he went right back to his paperwork.
“Thanks,” Julian said, his cheeks hot, before he went out of the room. He stayed with his back against the lockers, ignoring his rumbling stomach as his heart rate went back to normal.
Did that count as a person? Is Mr. Singer the first person I’ve told? Julian didn’t quite tell him the technical or metaphorical nature of who he was. But he got close. So, so close. He told him the story of a wooden boy wanting to become a real boy. And he asked him to call him J. That’s close enough, right? Julian looked down at his shaking hands—not from hunger but exhilaration.
Yeah, that definitely counted, Julian decided. At least for half a point off the initial score. Julian smiled as he walked down the hallway for lunch. Only two and a half more to go.
Chapter Eleven
THE FIRST gift exchange was held at Josie and Maria’s small two-story house just outside of Toronto’s downtown core. Since Maria’s mom needed to be almost always on call at the several hotels she worked, she wasn’t going to be around. Neither were Josie’s dad (an electrician) and her mother, who was a nurse. All of this meant they got the run of the house after school, making it perfect for a small party.
“So, I’ve been thinking about this very seriously,” Maria stated as she let everyone in and flicked on the hall light. Everyone kicked off their shoes into a large pile on the worn, almost golden, orange carpet and then shuffled into the back room. Kent plopped into the huge chair with plush arms at the side of the living room while Davis and Josie seemed to trip over one another until they took spots on the floor. Maria sat down on the couch, ushering Hannah by her left side and then eyeing Julian to take her right. Instead Julian moved away from the ashtrays piled up on the right-side end tables and sat across from Josie and Davis on the floor.
“And?” Josie asked. “You kind of stopped talking there, Maria.”
“Oh. Right. Probably better to show you guys, anyway.”
Maria bounced off the couch and over to the TV entertainment unit, grabbing large bunches of wires and cords and shoving them out of the way. The more she moved and changed around, the more the room smelled like cigarettes. Julian noted a half-empty glass of Coke on the other end table, a glassy film on top of it. Josie watched him as he scanned the other out-of-place items. When Josie’s cheeks went red and she raked a hand through her curls nervously, Julian stopped looking around and tried to pay attention to what Maria was doing. She flicked through some channels and then gestured toward the battered DVD collection.
“I figured we could watch a movie and do the exchange,” she said. “Get us in the Christmas spirit, since no snow outside is really sticking.”
“Cool. But can we do the exchange first?” Kent asked. “My mom’s been texting me all day, and I think I have to take my kid sister out, so I have to leave early.”
“Party pooper. Didn’t you plan for this?”
“Come on, it’s not a big deal,” Hannah said. “We should just exchange now. The suspense is killing me anyway.”
Maria sighed overdramatically, forgetting about the TV for a moment. The screen was blue and shone over the detritus on the coffee table with an eerie glow. Maria slotted herself back on the couch and sighed yet again. “Fine. Whatever. I now know how wedding planners feel.”
“Come again?” Josie asked.
“Spending all this time finding the right thing for everyone involved, and then someone wants to ruin it with a bad china pattern.”
“You watch too much TLC,” Davis observed.
Maria laughed. “Says the guy who religiously watches Intervention and Hoarders.”
“Hey. That’s quality programming and good motivation for my future of what not to do.”
�
�That’s why I watch What Not To Wear, so we’re even.”
Maria clasped the TV remote in one hand, then brought her small backpack up with the other. As she unzipped and took out a small red-wrapped present, everyone else began to take out theirs. In a matter of seconds, the coffee table was filled with trinkets and the room buzzed with chatter.
“What were you going to say?” Julian asked. “Before? About the movie?”
Maria smiled at him, different than the way she normally did. It seemed grateful and relieved. “I wanted to watch a Christmas movie afterward. I was thinking Home Alone Two: Lost in New York.”
“Why sequels? They’re the worst,” Davis complained.
“Because of turtledoves,” Maria explained, her eyes on Julian again. “And if you all are going to ruin my plan for today, then you’re going to suffer through all the sequels, including the ones where Macaulay Culkin isn’t even in it.”
“Fine, fine,” Hannah said. “We’ll watch that. But presents! Now!”
Maria led the affair, calling out everyone’s names and then waiting for the Secret Santa to reveal themselves in order to hand over the gift. When Maria called out Kent, Julian pushed the small package he had hurriedly wrapped in the morning across the table. Kent’s eyes lit up as he took the present, still waiting until everyone had their gift before unwrapping.
“Thanks, Julia.”
“No problem.” Before Julian could even think, he was bombarded with a gift from Hannah. The package was heavy and the biggest on the coffee table. As he held it in his palms now, he felt like a small child and wanted to shake it to see what was inside. He mumbled a “Thanks” instead.
“Not at all!” Hannah said, winking.
She was then given her present by Josie, Maria got hers from Davis, and everyone else became a blur of limbs and names in front of Julian. When the presents were all handed out, Maria considered the room for a few moments. “Let’s just do a countdown, then open all at once. Okay?”
There were no objections.
“Three…. Two…. One!”
And then tissue paper, shimmery gift wrap, and newsprint were flung in the air, creating a sudden flurry of color and noise. Gasps and cries of joy sounded in the room, along with the crinkly crunch and tear of paper. Julian was relieved for the sudden blitz attack because it meant that no one could see his reaction. As he removed the tissue paper from his heavy present, the smell caught him first—heavy perfume, mixed with something earthy like patchouli. Then he spotted the Bath and Body Works logo over bright pink bath salts, followed by the same shade of hypergirly pink on a bodywash and lotion set. His heart fell.
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