Girl Mans Up

by M-E Girard

Colby cracks a grin, then shrugs. “Better be safe than sorry. Besides, she’s not really that fit.”

  My eyes narrow, but I keep all the words inside my mouth. If he wants to act like Blake is suddenly not thin enough for him—which is total bull because he knows exactly how hot Blake is even if she’s not skinny like most of the girls he’s usually into—then good. At least it’ll keep him away from her.

  “You should’ve let me give you a decent haircut,” he says. “Fauxhawks are so five years ago, dude.”

  My hand goes up to feel the back of my head, where it’s buzzed super short. Fauxhawks could be thirty years ago and I wouldn’t give a crap, because I think it looks pretty good.

  The three of us make our way through the store, passing right in front of the counter. I sneak a glance at Blake, and she’s looking, too. I pull out my wallet so she can see, and I peel the stickers off my shirt and hand so I can put them in my wallet. Her eyes—everything shows up in her eyes. I’m so glad I have enough balls to look into them.

  SEVEN

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, JOHNNY WAKES ME UP with a tap on the head. I’m sprawled on his couch with my face stuck to one of the cushions. “Wake up. We got work to do.” It’s as early as a school morning. We grab leftover fried chicken from the fridge and head out to the garage to lug bags of gravel down the slope to the backyard.

  We’re both in black T-shirts with our sleeves rolled up over our shoulders. I have a sweat mustache, and Johnny’s got a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “You think if I keep doing this, I’ll get pipes?” I ask Johnny, feeling my squishy upper arms.

  “You’d have to do it every day.”

  We each have a shovel and we stab them into the grass, pulling up chunks of it. There are worms and snails under there and I kind of feel like crap for destroying their home and murdering them. I wonder about picking them out and bringing them to the other side of the yard, but then I think about how only a pussy would be sitting here thinking about picking bugs out of the ground to save them.

  “You had pipes in grade ten.”

  “That’s because I’ve always lifted weights,” he says. “Plus, I’ve always been a Portuguese stallion, you know?”

  “Yeah. And I’m more like a chubby pony.”

  “Nah. You’re a . . . I don’t know, man. I don’t really know anything about horses.”

  We dig some more. It looks like we scalped the part of the yard against the right side of the house.

  “I’m getting tired of the NES emulator. I’ve been thinking about collecting retro gaming stuff,” I say. “Think we’re going to get paid for this?”

  “Ha!” he says. “That’s funny.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Forget it.”

  A text from Colby comes in: Xbox @ my place later

  Me: can’t—working outside w/ my bro

  Him: Whatever.

  My fingers are already typing something that starts and ends with the F word. But I delete it because now there’s a Facebook IM alert. Blake must’ve accepted my friend request, and now she’s messaging me. She’s right there, under my fingers.

  Her: Know that coffee shop across from St. Peter’s?

  Me: yeah

  Her: I’m meeting Robyn later, but I was thinking of checking it out before that.

  Me: that sounds like fun

  Her: Maybe I’ll run into you there sometime?

  Me: maybe—like after dinner?

  Her: Like at 7. ;-)

  “You gonna stand there and text, or are you gonna help me?” Johnny says.

  I reread the conversation one more time before shoving my phone into my pocket.

  “Hold this,” Johnny says, and he hands me his half-smoked cigarette. My face is going to split open with the grin Blake caused. Johnny walks to the middle of the dirt patch and crouches to stab stakes into the ground, while I think about later.

  Mom comes shambling down the slope of the side of the house, carrying a basket with what look like sheets and bedspreads.

  “Ma, man—you’re gonna fall.” Johnny rushes over and takes the basket from her hands.

  “Ya, ya, I fall and you no do stairs on the side and you say ‘I do it, Mãe. I do it!’” Mom says, talking about another project Johnny was supposed to do last year. He keeps his mouth shut and takes the basket to the clothesline. She waddles over to it and digs into the pile of sheets. “You come help. I teach you.”

  “But I’m full of dirt,” I say.

  She points to the hose, and waits until I’ve rinsed my hands.

  I know it’s only hanging stuff on the clothesline, but still, I’d rather be digging and working on my biceps, or checking my phone again—just to make sure that conversation with Blake actually happened.

  We spread sheets and pin them up. I’m quiet, stealing glances at Johnny while he pours sand over the dug-out rectangle. When the basket is empty, I head back over to Johnny. Mom watches us a while, then she announces that she and Dad are going to the churrasqueria tonight.

  “You come?” she asks us.

  We haven’t gone out to the restaurant in over a year, mostly because it’s boring as hell to sit there for two hours while my parents catch up with all the Portuguese people who are in and out of there, either dining in or picking up takeout. And there’s also the fact that I’d get nagged about looking like a punk druggy.

  “I bring you comida,” she says before Johnny or I have to shake our heads. This must be her thank-you to us for the work we did.

  “Potatoes, rice, lots of hot sauce,” I say.

  “Chicken,” Johnny says. “A lot of chicken.”

  “Ya, ya,” Mom says.

  My parents are probably going to be out most of the evening now. That means I can meet Blake at the coffee shop without having to make up some lie about hanging out with the guys.

  I need a massive shower, though, because I’m pretty sure there’s dirt in my ears.

  USUALLY, I DON’T CHECK myself out in the mirror. Mostly because without clothes on, I weird myself out. Maybe everyone thinks they look funny naked. My body is fine, I guess, but I wouldn’t want anyone to see it. Especially not Blake. Not, like, with the lights on at least. And it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m sort of pudgy. When I have my clothes on, I feel normal. When my clothes aren’t on, it’s like I lose something important about myself. When I think about someone else seeing me like this, it feels like they’d actually be seeing some other person. Like it wouldn’t be me they’d be looking at.

  It’s not like I want to be looking at a boy’s body in the mirror. It’s just that a girl’s body is so . . . girl.

  When I get back to my room, I find fifty bucks in an envelope on my bed with a fake independent contractor invoice from J. Oliveira Indoor & Outdoor Handyman.

  THE COFFEE SHOP IS pretty dead for a Saturday night. I should take a leak before Blake gets here, so there won’t be a chance of us needing to go to the can at the same time. I hang around the bathroom door, making sure the coast is clear. It would be great if I was better at holding my pee. Maybe it’s like other muscles, and the more you work it, the stronger it’ll become.

  “Um, that’s the ladies’ room,” someone says from behind me.

  The door falls against my shoulder. When I turn, there’s a lady standing there, looking like she wants to get by me. She makes an awkward face, lifting her shoulders. “Oh, I’m sorry . . .”

  She sweeps past me, and I move over. I should’ve pissed before I left the house.

  There’s stuff online about trans people and bathrooms. That’s what would come up when I’d search about people who avoid public bathrooms. A couple years ago, I used to be like, But I’m not trans, so why are people still jerks when I try to go take a piss? Then I realized I don’t have to be trans to still confuse people with the way I look. I had my hair then. Now, there’s nothing left that makes me a girl, except for the fact that I am one. But I guess that’s not enough.

  BLAKE AND I AR
E sitting on the curb out behind the coffee shop. There are two feet between us. I mostly look at her legs because it’s the only thing I can stare at without seeming obvious about it. Besides us, there are two Dumpsters and three recycle bins out here.

  “So, how’d you get into gaming?” I ask.

  “My dad. He has a few retro gaming consoles.”

  “Which ones?”

  “A ColecoVision, and a Commodore 64,” she says. “And an NES. That goes without saying.”

  “Your dad sounds awesome.”

  “He doesn’t game much anymore because he’s always working. But I inherited all his stuff. Robyn keeps saying I could get so much money on eBay for it all, but I’m keeping it.”

  “That’s smart,” I say. “It’s what I would do. Plus, you’d probably end up selling to resellers. I hate resellers.” I watch enough gaming YouTubers to sort of know what I’m talking about. “They jack up prices for everybody.”

  “That’s true. You know, we get so many people asking if we sell retro stuff at the Depot. I keep telling my boss we should do that,” she says. “So what are you playing right now?”

  “I’m replaying the anniversary edition of War Zone with my brother. I’m playing Crypts with Tristan. And I’m doing a second play-through of Slashko 3 with Colby.”

  “Do you play by yourself ever?”

  “Sometimes. Not often, I guess,” I say, wondering if that means anything. “You?”

  “I mostly play alone. I don’t like playing online.”

  “Same.”

  “Guys are disgusting on there,” she says.

  “I know, right? There was this nine-year-old kid from Colorado I used to play Crypts: The Beginning with a couple years ago. His dad would come on headset to talk to me and make sure I wasn’t a jerk messing with his son. He was a pretty cool kid, decent gamer.”

  “That’s adorable.” The smile Blake gives me makes me feel a little gooey inside.

  “Yeah, well, you know . . .” I shrug.

  Her boots look like they lace up all the way to her knees. The silver rings on her hands, the black nail polish, the one freckle near her left wrist—those are Blake details. I wish I could look at her face that closely, so that I could see what Blake details are going on there.

  “So Slashko 3—where are you at?” she asks.

  “Just took down the guy in the sewers.”

  “That’s a tough mission.”

  “Not really. Well, unless you want the achievement.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “So you got it? On the highest difficulty?”

  “You think I’d take the easy way and get him with the plasma cannon?” she says. “Pistol, with a bullet right between the eyes. Grenade for the dogs. Got it on my first try.”

  “That’s just so . . .” So hot, is what it is. “Wow.”

  She does this little shrug like, No sweat, but with that grin on her lips, she doesn’t look cocky at all. Just badass. She runs her fingers through her hair to mess it up like she just got caught in a gust of wind, and it makes my own fingers tingle with the urge to touch it.

  “How come we’ve never hung out?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. We’ve never been in the same classes?”

  “I was in your biology class last year. And your media class.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure she realized. “Um . . . well, maybe it’s because I always sit at the back of the class.”

  “Maybe.”

  I put a hand down on the concrete between us and her hand is so close that I can almost feel the heat coming off of it. We talk about music. She likes metal bands with girl singers. “Not the kind with demonic screaming, though,” she says. I tell her about being stuck between metalcore and the old-school rock stuff Johnny’s always forcing on me. “So one second I’m blasting Asking Alexandria and All That Remains, then I’m nodding my head to Def Leppard and Skid Row.”

  I even tell her about my parents’ obsession with this Portuguese singer who’s released, like, thirty albums so far with the weirdest song lyrics ever.

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “Like, The little boy who lives in my belly, he wants fish, fish, fish.”

  She laughs. “And I thought I was bad.”

  “At lyrics?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I sing.”

  “For real? Like, in the shower?”

  Now, in my mind, she’s in the shower and she’s naked and there are soapsuds everywhere. It’s awesome.

  “Like, in a band.”

  “Yeah? Do you guys play shows?”

  “Not yet, but there’s a Battle of the Bands on New Year’s Eve. It’s at the community center. Five bands total.”

  “You guys are playing? That’s amazing.”

  She shrugs and her cheeks go red.

  “What?” I say.

  “I can sort of only sing if no one’s looking at me.”

  That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, and I hate using the word “cute,” even in my own head. I want to tell her that she shouldn’t be scared because even if all she did was stand there, mute in front of a microphone, it would probably be epic. “Maybe you just need to practice in front of an audience a couple times. Even a small one.”

  It’s really hard to keep acting cool when I’m turning into a puddle inside.

  “What time is it? I’m meeting Robyn at nine,” she says, and right away I know it’s time to go.

  EIGHT

  AFTER SCHOOL ON MONDAY, IT’S JUST COLBY AND me at the mall food court. In front of Colby are two deluxe bacon combos with extra fries and cheese sauce. I have a regular bacon combo with eight packets of ketchup.

  I wonder if Blake told Robyn about me. If there was anything to tell.

  “What?” Colby says, nudging me with his elbow.

  “Nothing, why?”

  “Because you’re acting like Tristan,” he says, “all fidgety and annoying.”

  I shrug. I must be doing something to make it obvious there’s a tiny Blake tickling my brain.

  “Did you watch 8Bit Destruction’s new video yet?” I ask Colby.

  “Damn,” he says, hitching his chin to the left, totally ignoring what I asked. “Check out that girl. I’d ask you to go work your magic, but . . . well, you know. You’re kind of useless now.” The word replays in my head, useless. Just because Blake won’t fall for his crap suddenly makes me useless? Not that it happens often, but the girl doesn’t always take the bait, and I’ve never been considered useless for it.

  Colby dips a wad of fries in cheese sauce and he says, “You should come over Saturday. We can smoke. Garrett’s hooking us up.”

  “I’ll see what my mom says. She’s been extra bitchy lately.”

  “I already told him to lay off you and Tristan,” he says, “so don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  “Man, why are you saying stuff like that to me? Seriously, dude.”

  “I’m just messing with you because you’ve been extra bitchy lately, Pen,” he says, and then he laughs.

  “If anyone’s been . . . anything lately, it’s you.”

  “What? What have I been like?” The way he’s looking at me—it makes me regret bringing this up because—what if he thinks I’m talking about that night? I do not want to talk about that.

  “You’ve been weird about this Olivia stuff,” I say, not that I meant to come out with that either, but it’s a butt-load better than the alternative. “Like one second nothing’s going on, and the next you’re ready to lose it on her.” He stares ahead, his brow heavy. I should probably drop it, but—“I thought . . . I mean, you guys hooked up for what—a week?”

  “So?”

  “So . . .” I hate the nervousness that’s sparking in my gut right now. It feels like I should’ve never brought anything up. Questioning Colby is always a stupid move. “Well . . . you knew it was her mom’s car that day.”

  “And?”

  “And maybe it wasn’t ju
st a week of hooking up?” I say.

  His jaw clenches, and he finally turns to look at me. It makes me back up just a little. “You’re talking to her.”

  “I’m not!”

  “You’re listening to her shit then. Same thing.”

  “She hasn’t said anything to me, but I’m not stupid. Something’s up, and you’re keeping it a secret.”

  “Keeping secrets? Seriously, dude? Spare me the girl talk,” he says, which makes me crush the fry between my fingers. “Besides, what I do is my business anyway. Unless I ask you for something, you don’t need to try to worm your way into my shit, got it?”

  I sigh and watch the mangled fry between my fingers until the hanging part breaks off. This Blake stuff felt like keeping secrets, something he’d be pissed about. But maybe that can just be my business. Maybe he can just leave it all alone unless I ask him for something. I wish that’s how it worked.

  “Whatever that girl says about me, it’s bull. And if she keeps on trying to mess with me,” he says, and I stare back at him with his weirded-out expression, waiting for him to finish, “well . . . anyway. She is no longer my problem. I already told you she doesn’t exist anymore, so drop it. I’m serious, Pen.”

  It looks like he’s about to say something else, but then his face changes. He pulls his shoulders up and ditches his second burger. “Guess I don’t need you anyway. Here she comes.”

  “Good thing. Since I’m useless and all.”

  “Suck it, Pen,” he says quickly, because there’s a girl in front of us now. A girl with wavy brown hair, shiny powder on her eyelids, and big hoop earrings. Her face is okay, I guess, but everything about it says snob. She pulls up the sleeves of her striped sweater.

  “Are you Chris?” she asks Colby.

  “Maybe. What’s your name?”

  “Avery. My friends think you’re this Chris guy from Castlehill Alternative.”

  “Nope. My name’s Colby.”

  She shifts her weight to the other foot, like she’s deciding whether to stay or go. “Cool.”

  My burger and I make ourselves as small as we can.

  “So, you go to Castlehill Alternative?” Colby asks, palming his chin. She shakes her head, so that means she goes to the public high school.