I stop fighting it.
* * *
I feel sick in the morning.
The alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. and I slam a hand down on it, pull the pillow over my head. A while later Mom walks through my door without knocking—surprise surprise—and announces I’m late, as if I didn’t already know.
“I’m sick,” I tell her. “I’m not going to school.”
She stands at the end of my bed and crosses her arms. “It’s Audrey’s birthday. Are you actually sick?”
Of course she doesn’t believe me. She’s probably still angry with me for last night. “Yes,” I snap. “I’m actually sick.”
Leaning down, she puts a hand on my forehead. “You feel fine. What is it? A cold? Flu?”
General unwellness. Being completely F-ed up. “I just feel off. Like I might puke,” I add so she’ll let me stay home.
“All right.” She sighs and straightens. “I’ll go get you some water and then call the school.”
Finally, after a night of tossing and turning, I drift off to sleep.
I wake up four hours later. I can hear music playing above me and know Mom’s in the attic. There’s a large glass of water on the nightstand, as well as a bottle of Tylenol and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Man, how I love Mom’s PB&J! I scarf it down and am just starting to feel better when, BAM, last night’s events hit me in the face again.
What’s wrong with me?
A deep shiver runs through me and I look at my arm. It’s covered in little red dots, like a rash. I put both hands to my cheeks. They’re hot. Burning.
All of this happened so quickly. I found the videos and I watched them, and I didn’t even think about what watching them meant. Obviously I’m not attracted to my brother, so what? Do I want to be him?
Maybe.
I don’t know.
I’m so messed up.
I mean, yeah, there’s a part of me that has always wanted to be him. But I think when I’m watching the videos and imagining Dahlia is above me, I’m not Adam. I’m me.
Mom’s singing along to her music now, totally lost in her artistic creation, so I know she won’t be coming in anytime soon. I grab my laptop from my desk and return to bed, balance it on my lap. It feels like I’m doing something bad just by going to Google. I type in Am I a lesbian?
The first result is a quiz: Am I a lesbian? I click the link to open the page, and it’s immediately obvious another teenager made it.
Question 1: What do you think this quiz is going to tell you?
I’m a lesbian
I’m bisexual
I’m straight
I click a.
Question 2: Have you ever thought about kissing a girl?
EW GROSS NO!
Yes
Girls and Guys
I click b.
Question 3: Do you find yourself wanting to do sexual stuff with a boy?
No only girls
What was the question? I was thinking about boys
Mostly both I guess
Mmm BOYS so hot
I think about Billy. In grade seven, Sharon asked Charlotte, Rhiannon, and me which boys we had crushes on. They all had their answers ready. Charlotte and Sharon liked more than one guy and could rank their crushes in order. Rhiannon only liked Adil but really liked him. Like I was kind of scared for Adil.
When they asked me, I told them I liked Billy. I didn’t even know why I said him. Probably because he was, and still is, the most popular boy in our grade. Ever since then, they’ve thought I have a thing for him. At last year’s school dance they even went so far as to tell him that I liked him, and he asked me to dance. That’s how we ended up having our disgusting kiss.
The quiz tells me I’m 70% lesbian.
Wouldn’t that mean I’m bisexual? The quiz is as useless as expected. Frustrated, I open a blank Word doc and mentally go down the rows of students in my bio class, making a tally: Who would I get with?
The problem is I know these people, and I don’t like most of them. So yeah, while they might be good-looking, there’s no way I’d want to spend more than five minutes with them. Rhiannon? Skip. Charlotte? Ew, gross. Billy? If we’d kissed again it might have been better, so I put a check in the M for male column and feel better because the F column is getting pretty long.
Then I get to Taylor and it’s like my whole body reacts. My heart beats faster, my palms get sweaty, and I can feel my checks heat. Suddenly I’m afraid my door will swing open and Mom will waltz in. My hand hovers, switching between the two columns until I settle on placing a checkmark in both.
I go back to my Google results, but all I get is link after link about how lesbians are women attracted to other women. I open each website in turn, reading the same thing over and over again until I see one that says, How do I know if I’m straight, gay, or bisexual?
I begin to read.
Trying to determine whether or not you are attracted to someone of the same sex can be very confusing and often overwhelming. It is important to remember that the process is different for everyone. Some lesbian, gay, and bisexual people know from the time they are young; they report “feeling different.” Other people don’t discover their attractions until puberty, late adolescence, or even adulthood. This can also depend on the amount of support and acceptance they have received or can expect to receive from family and friends. It isn’t uncommon to feel attracted to someone you admire, like a close friend.
Do I admire Billy? Maybe that’s the real reason he came into my mind instead of any of the other guys. He’s so there, he’s such a guy, and I like that about him.
Do I admire Dahlia? This is harder. I don’t know her very well, but what I do know about her is kind of annoying. The more I think about it, the more I have to admit I’m attracted to Dahlia entirely because of her body. Is it possible that’s because I want to have her body?
My head feels like it’s going to explode. I keep reading.
If you’re feeling confused, try to remember you’re not alone and it is not a rush. Sexual orientation and gender identity develop over time.
What’s the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity? I search the website and learn that gender identity is described as “one’s concept of self as male, female, a blend of both, or neither.” It goes on to say there is a misconception that sexual orientation and gender identity are connected, or even the same thing, but that’s not the case. A person who transitions from female to male and is attracted to women would typically identify as a straight man, but a lot of people would mistakenly label him gay. So maybe a better way to think of it is that sexual orientation is who you like and gender identity is who you are.
In that case, who am I? I’m attracted to Dahlia, but it’s not as simple as that—not even close. Because I’m also the guy in that fantasy. And wanting to wear Adam’s clothes doesn’t have anything to do with Dahlia—it has to do with me. Does that make me transgender like the example on the website?
I attack Google again, this time typing in female transgender, and it quickly becomes apparent that I needed to type it in the other way around: male transgender or female-to-male transgender. In the middle of the page is a link to a page called Extremely Handsome Men (FTM). I click on the link and my jaw drops open. The first guy is dressed as a cowboy with a mustache and a broad torso covered in tattoos. The second guy has finer facial features, but his body is all man—strong shoulders, thick arms, and thighs that could snap me in two. The third man has a closely shaved head, stubble around his jaw, and a major six-pack with a smattering of chest hair that leads to his treasure trail.
I once stole boxer briefs from a store and wore them to bed, but I never wore them to school or anything. I wear Adam’s sweatshirt, though. And looking back now, there was that one time after a party, when some guys walked us home to Sharon’s house and one of them gave me his jacket. We moved through the streets like a pack, and I felt more comfortable in that jacket than I had all night, foun
d myself slipping to the back of the group to walk with the single guys. Maybe I even started to feel like one of the guys, because when I got home and looked in the mirror, I was surprised to see such a feminine face staring back at me.
But some days I wake up and feel really feminine, too. It’s like I never know how I’m going to feel one day or how long it’s going to last. How can I possibly label my identity if my identity is always shifting?
Frustrated, I slam the lid of the laptop closed and slide it under the bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I burrow down into the middle of the mattress. I wish I’d never looked that stuff up. I wish I’d never touched Adam’s phone and found Dahlia’s striptease. I shouldn’t even be watching the videos without her permission.
Before I’m tempted to change my mind, I dig Adam’s phone out of my sock drawer and delete the videos.
Audrey
It’s my birthday. At exactly 6:25 I jerk awake from a grainy nightmare in black and white. Like an old-school film.
Adam lying stiff as a board on his bed.
Adam zombie-jerking through the basement and up the staircase.
Adam floating through the hall and up to the second floor. Pausing at the top and glancing right toward Clare and then left toward me.
I woke up too soon, but I know he chose me.
I have the same dream every few days. I’ve had it for ten months.
My eyes are still full of sand. I dig it out with my fingers. Then I toss the covers to the side and get up.
It’s a message. I’m the reason he’s still here. Adam has been down there waiting for me.
Somehow I turn into a zombie too, because I’m standing at the top of the basement stairs but can’t remember getting there. I take a deep breath and descend. I don’t realize my eyes are shut tight and I’m finding my way by count until I’m at twelve and my foot touches the concrete.
He’s sitting on the couch again, staring at a dark TV. He turns his head to look at me, only this time he doesn’t smile. His expression is blank.
I came to see you, I tell him.
He doesn’t react. He just sits there. Waiting.
The basement is cold. Colder than I ever remember it being. Goose bumps have broken out on the exposed skin of my arms and neck. I wish I’d stayed in my warm bed and ignored the message. I’m starting to think Adam might be angry with me. I’d be angry with me too. The events of that night have been burned into my memory. If I let them they’ll replay over and over again, which is why I never talk about Adam.
But I have to say this.
I know you would have been safe at home if not for me, I tell him.
Tears fill my eyes and I close them, smear the wetness across my cheeks with the back of my hand. I drag in a long breath and finally say the words I’ve wanted to say.
I’m sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry.
I’m looking away toward his bedroom, but as I apologize for the second time, I dare myself to look him in the face. For a moment he continues to sit there. Then he stands, stretching up six feet two inches. He doesn’t look dead. He takes a step forward and then another until he’s standing right in front of me.
Now something is wrong. He’s staring down at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. I take a step back but it’s too late. Adam opens his mouth and at the same time his eyes open wider. They’re mouths now too and all three of them are impossibly wide and all three are yelling the same thing. Over and over again.
It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.
I close my eyes to block out the image.
I’m sorry, I yell. I’m sorry! Tears stream down my cheeks as I say it again and again. I’m sorry, Adam! I’m sorry!
Sorry doesn’t fix anything.
I don’t know if he says it or I think it. It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth.
I wish I could take it all back, I tell him. I would do anything. I’d die in your place.
Audrey?
My head jerks up. Adam is gone. The voice is coming from the top of the stairs.
Audrey? Are you okay?
I race to the bottom of the stairs. Mom is at the top holding a cup of coffee. Her expression tells me she’s been there a while. She looks more tired than usual. There are dark smudges under her eyes.
Come upstairs, Audrey.
In the kitchen she tells me Happy Birthday and gives me a kiss. Then she pulls out a frying pan and says, I’m going to make eggs. Clare’s sick, so it’s just you and me.
My heart stutters in my chest. Clare’s sick? Clare’s sick!
Mom cracks three eggs and pours their insides out.
Is it a cold? I ask.
I don’t know.
Flu?
I don’t know.
Did you take her temperature?
No.
Why not?
Because I suspect she just doesn’t want to go to school.
Not everyone exhibits flu-like symptoms, you know. It could even be something more serious like the Ebola virus.
Ebola isn’t in Canada.
Yet. It isn’t in Canada yet. For all we know it is already here but we haven’t received the memo.
Clare is fine, sweetie. She hasn’t traveled anywhere.
But someone at school could have. Then they could give it to her. And on and on. That’s why it’s called an epidemic. We should take her to the doctor just in case.
Mom drops the spatula in the pan. She grabs the counter with both hands. Tilts her face to the ceiling as if the air is better up there. I count nine seconds. Then she turns around to face me.
I understand why you’re worried, sweetie. Adam’s sudden passing shook us all. But you don’t need to worry so much about germs or natural disasters. Bad things happen in life, and no matter how prepared we are, we can’t always prevent them.
But we can try.
Mom smiles but not with her eyes. How about I keep an eye on her and take her this afternoon if she’s not better. Deal?
Deal.
Mom turns back to the eggs again. Who were you talking to just now? I mean, who were you talking to in the basement?
Uh-oh, a direct question. A direct question requires a direct answer. The situation is fraught with peril.
I was talking to Adam.
Mom freezes in the middle of poking the eggs. Then she flips them over and scoops them onto two plates. She pushes a plate toward me across the island.
I thought so. I thought I heard you apologize to him. Is that what I heard?
Another direct question. This time she’s looking right at me.
I thought if I apologized he would be able to move on and leave the basement.
Move on?
Yes, to another astral plane. Or wherever ghosts go.
Mom takes a bite of her eggs and chews for a really long time. Twenty seconds at least.
Sweetie, I know the last ten months have been very hard on you and that you don’t like to talk about what happened, but I think talking about it would be healthier than playing make-believe.
Make-believe?
Pretending Adam is still in the basement.
So that’s what she thinks. I sit there. Debating. Then I decide not to say anything. Whether I’m playing make-believe or still believe in ghosts, I’m immature.
Audrey, if you ever want to talk, I’m here for you.
The feeling develops in my stomach. The feeling that always develops when someone suggests we talk about Adam. Like my stomach is swallowing itself.
Mom waits for a moment. I don’t say anything. She turns around again and starts making my lunch.
I shove my eggs away. I don’t want to eat. There’s nothing for us to talk about. Everyone thinks it’s my fault. They just don’t know I think so too.
* * *
This time when we pass the diner, I watch Mom’s face really carefully to see if she reacts. She doesn’t. Not a twitch.
We used to go to the diner every Sunday and always sat
in the same corner booth. The owner sat us there because he knew I liked it. The booth had two windows and the couches squeaked when you sat on them. Clare and I always ordered the Belgian waffles with whipped cream and berries.
One time Dad said, No waffles today. They aren’t healthy.
I always have waffles, I said. I could feel the panic rising. I was about to get really upset but Clare did first.
Don’t claim it’s because they’re not healthy, she said. That’s bull.
Careful, young lady.
Just tell the truth. Audrey wants the truth, right? The doctor doesn’t want Audrey having sugar and I get to suffer.
There are tons of other choices, Mom said. How about bacon, eggs, and fruit?
Yeah, because bacon is healthy, Clare muttered. I don’t know why I can’t have the waffles just because Audrey can’t.
I was using my menu to block everyone except Adam out. There were a lot of choices. Too many choices. Under the table, someone kicked me. I looked up to see Adam making a funny face. I made one back.
Dad turned to me. It’s true, Dr. Jackson recommended we reduce your sugar intake to help with your concentration. He also suggested you find an extracurricular activity to focus on. Are you interested in any extracurricular activities?
Playing scenes. Only I knew that wasn’t what he meant so I didn’t say it. The server came along and Adam ordered the breakfast scramble. Then Dad ordered the everything omelet. It was my turn next and I hadn’t decided. I felt myself start to panic.
And what would you like? the server asked.
I said the first thing under the bacon section. I’ll have the farmer’s breakfast. Please.
Would you like toast or pancakes with that?
Under Shifting Stars Page 6