Under Shifting Stars

by Alexandra Latos

  “Yeah.” I’m hyperaware of the warmth emanating from Taylor’s hands. Crazy, but I almost feel like I could do a handspring too.

  Taylor sighs. “I wish we didn’t have to go to school on Monday.”

  The moment I hear those words, the spell breaks. I flinch and take a step back, breaking our connection. “You . . .” I can’t get the words out. Tears of humiliation burn my eyes. “You knew who I was the entire time but you didn’t say anything?”

  Taylor frowns as if confused.

  “Why didn’t you say something when I told you my name was Clay?”

  “Because I thought you were telling me the name you want to be called. You weren’t?”

  “No! I thought you didn’t recognize me because you didn’t say anything.” How naïve, like putting on an eye mask and believing you’re in disguise. “I’m just trying something out. It was stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid. I wanted to hang out with you.” They take a tentative step forward, but I take a step back.

  “Except the me you thought you were spending time with is someone else.”

  “Is it? Or do you feel like this is the real you? Because that’s what I thought when I watched you walk in and out of the bathroom at Tim Horton’s.”

  I take a second to process this. “So it wasn’t chance that you ran into me here?”

  “I’ve never been here before in my life.”

  “How did you get in?”

  Taylor flashes me a sideways smile. “A fake, of course. ID from the UK. Works every time.”

  I need to sit down.

  It’s busier now and the booths are full, so I walk a few steps away and lean up against the wall, yank the beanie off. Taylor stands beside me.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. You’re figuring it out.”

  I pull the beanie back on and look them straight in the eye. “What about you? I mean, what are you?”

  At this Taylor’s eyes seem to cloud over entirely. “I’m me.”

  “I meant what you call yourself. You know what I mean.”

  “I’m nonbinary. My whole life, people have wanted me to ‘decide’ whether I’m a boy or a girl, but I can’t because I’m both. I’ve always been both.”

  I nod, taking this all in. “Sometimes I feel like a girl and sometimes I feel like a boy. I don’t know what to call myself yet.”

  “And that’s okay. Dress to show your unique personality. Wake up every morning and wear what you feel like wearing that day.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I insist. “People want to know.”

  Taylor raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t know that?”

  I feel my face heat. What a stupid thing to say.

  Taylor chuckles, letting me know they were teasing. “What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t matter what other people think; it matters what Clare thinks. It’s not up to anyone else to tell you how to see yourself.”

  I look down at my Converses. I wish I could be as self-assured as Taylor. I wish I didn’t care what other people think, but I do. The DJ starts playing Lady Gaga and there is a loud cheer of approval followed by a large group evacuating their booth for the dance floor.

  “Here’s a question for you,” Taylor says. “Do you think there are only two genders, or more than that?”

  “More, I guess.”

  “Me too. I think people are born with all kinds of traits and society teaches them which to keep and which to ditch based on one gender. But people are starting to see through the bullshit.”

  The passion in their voice makes the hairs on my arms prickle in response. “Why did you follow me tonight?”

  Taylor shrugs and offers me an almost-shy smile. “I guess when I saw you come out of the bathroom, I thought you might be a kindred spirit. That sounds lame, I know.” Taylor laughs and their cheeks flush even in the low light. “You kind of intrigue me, and I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

  I could. My life has pretty much derailed since Adam’s death, and it sometimes feels I’m losing it. Taylor is a complete mystery, an outsider and a rebel—at least that is what Sharon would have everyone believe—and maybe that’s exactly the kind of friend I need.

  I look down at my hands and thread my fingers together the way I did that day Taylor gave their presentation. How much has changed in a week. “You’re the only one who knows. This is the first time I’ve ever tried something like this.”

  “I think it’s brill.”

  I peek up, a smile tugging at my lips. “ ‘Brill’?”

  “Brilliant.” Taylor grins and holds out their hand. “How about we go back and dance?”

  So that’s what we do, and it’s the most fun I’ve had in a really, really long time. It makes me realize how long I’ve been pretending with Sharon & Co. Pretending to care about who’s cool and who isn’t, pretending to care about the boring boys in our class, pretending to care about celebrities and gossip and all the other stuff that seemed shallow in the face of Adam’s death. Taylor is the first genuine person I’ve met in years.

  At the end of the night I don’t want to go home, but I know I’ll get in trouble if Mom catches me breaking curfew again. Taylor lives in a luxury condo downtown, close enough to walk home, but waits at my bus stop with me. There are so many things I want to ask, but the bus appears too quickly, barreling toward us in the dark. I don’t want to leave. I climb on and walk to the very back, like I’m trying to return to Taylor even as the bus pulls me away.

  Once home, I slump against the wall in the front entrance and hug Adam’s beanie to my chest.

  Audrey

  Marianne actually does buy a new pad of gold stars. She tells me this as she’s doing her morning greeting.

  Happy Monday, Audrey! You’ve inspired the other students. Look at all the gold stars across the board!

  She’s right. There is a column of gold stars, each one standing on another’s shoulders. Gold stars galore.

  I’m proud of you, Marianne says. I knew you could do it.

  Thank you.

  Are you sure you don’t want extra time in the art studio?

  Peak has an art studio half the size of the school gym. I only get to use it two days a week because we have to rotate with the other students and work on our other subjects. What a waste. So this time I say yes.

  I’m waiting for the clock to read 2:30 when Kira appears at my desk. I look up and jump. Kira doesn’t make any sound when she walks. She wears long dresses and skirts so it’s impossible to tell if she touches the ground. I think she floats.

  Today she’s wearing a long white dress. Her black hair is halfway down her back. Her eyes are just as dark.

  Is it true you want to leave Peak?

  She looks sad. Her eyes are upside-down crescent moons.

  I heard you talking to Monsieur Martin, she says. Do you not like it here?

  Beside me George pulls his finger from his nose. Marianne cleaned his drawer so he’s starting a fresh ridge.

  No, I don’t. I want to go back to school with my twin. We used to go to school together.

  Kira drifts even closer. So it’s not because you think we’re all freaks?

  The room goes quiet. I look at the clock but the hand hasn’t moved. It still reads 2:12. I look at the front of the room but Monsieur Martin and Marianne are at the back. Then I have to look at Kira again because there’s nowhere else to look.

  There’s a weird feeling in my stomach. I know some people would lie now. They would do it to make her feel better. Mom says it’s called a “white lie.”

  I don’t even know why you’re here, I say.

  I have severe dyslexia.

  That doesn’t make you a freak. It’s a reading difference.

  That’s my point. My parents thought it would be easier for me to focus in a smaller class. That’s why most of us are here.

  I just nod.

  We’re
not freaks. Say it.

  I was right about the audience. They’re holding their pencils and watching. All I can think about is the post Sharon tagged me in.

  So FREAKING excited!

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Kira’s waiting with moons for eyes and I just sit there.

  She waits.

  I sit.

  Say it, Audrey. Say it.

  I don’t think you’re all freaks, I say. Then I realize my mistake. It’s called inflection.

  Someone gasps. At first I don’t realize Kira’s crying. At first she’s just standing there. Then her eyes fill with tears. But her eyes can’t hold all the tears so they overflow down her face.

  I grab my books and leave.

  Ms. Nguyen’s art room is on the other side of the school. I used to be afraid of Ms. Nguyen. Her face is cut in half diagonally with a scar and she sounds angry when she talks. Only she isn’t angry. That’s just how she talks. Her hair is always up in a tight bun. She wears a smock stained with paint and makes us put on one too.

  Being free to get dirty is liberating, she tell us. You won’t worry about anything except your art.

  Ms. Nguyen taught us how to use pastels and charcoals instead of boring pencil crayons. We’ve tried pointillism, pottery, and papier-mâché. But I’m kind of nervous to see her alone. The door to the studio is closed so I knock. Then I knock again louder.

  Come in, Audrey!

  I enter.

  Ms. Nguyen is wiping down one of the long tables. She smiles and places something rectangular down on its surface. I assume you want to finish this?

  She is referring to the half-finished portrait of Sirius I abandoned a few weeks ago.

  I’m no longer drawing or painting Sirius, I tell her.

  Oh. For some reason she looks sad about that. She puts the canvas away in a rack with a bunch of other paintings. And why is that?

  Her back is to me so I can’t see her face. I don’t like when people do that because it makes it harder to understand them.

  Because Sirius doesn’t exist, I say.

  Ms. Nguyen turns back around and this time puts a blank canvas and palette on the table. I watch as she fills an old jam jar with water and places a paintbrush in it. She lines five acrylic paint tubes across the top of the palette. Three primary colors plus white and black.

  So you don’t think you should paint things that don’t exist? she asks.

  I think people want me to stop. For some reason I’m being very honest with Ms. Nguyen.

  She nods as she considers this. You’re probably right, Audrey. She pats the chair. I’m ready for you. Sit down.

  I do and she brings me a smock. I feel like I’m about to get my hair cut because she doesn’t walk away. I can feel her hovering behind me.

  Can I ask, is Sirius a dog you used to have?

  I shake my head. I pick up the brush and paint a line of water on the palm of my left hand. It feels nice. Soothing.

  I’ve never had a dog, I tell her. But I really wanted one. I asked my parents and promised to take care of it all by myself. Walk it and feed it and bathe it. They always said no. (If Clare had wanted a dog, we would have gotten one. But I don’t say that.)

  I pick up the black tube. Squeeze a large dollop onto the palette and dip my brush in it. I love the first dip of the brush. It’s a controlled mess.

  I started drawing Sirius after my brother and I watched Clifford the Big Red Dog on TV. It was a Saturday morning and Clare was still at a sleepover with her friend Sharon. I called the show stupid. Red dogs don’t exist and no one would want a dog that big. Adam said it didn’t matter that he couldn’t exist; that’s what people like about it.

  Your brother was right, Ms. Nguyen says. The author of those books asks his readers to suspend their disbelief in a red dog the size of a house for the sake of entertainment. Do you understand what I’m saying?

  I think so.

  We use art as a way to escape the everyday. It allows us to explore our inner worlds, and to share our ideas and truths with other people. That is why humans create and enjoy art. In my opinion, that is the entire point of art.

  I blink and sit back in my chair to see the choice has been made. The canvas has been painted entirely black. The perfect background for Sirius.

  Art can also be therapeutic, Ms. Nguyen continues. She moves around the table to face me. Perhaps you want to paint Sirius because that’s what you need right now: a friend.

  My hand is starting to shake. People think it’s weird. I don’t want to be weird.

  You’re an artist, Audrey. Remember that. Artists see the world differently than other people. No artist should ever be ashamed of that because it’s what makes their work so emotional and so unique.

  Unique as in . . . special?

  Exactly! Miss Nguyen beams.

  I put the brush back into the jar. Black fog swirls around it like a hex.

  I’m tired of painting. I push the canvas away.

  Her face falls. For some reason it reminds me of Kira.

  No problem, she says. Feel free to try something else. Then her smile is back but it doesn’t look like how it did before. It’s crooked. She waves an arm toward the back of the room. The art supplies are at your disposal!

  I stand and pull off my smock. I think I’ll go to the library, I tell her. Then I grab my backpack off the floor and leave.

  Clare

  Monday morning I go to school, but I’m only there in body. I’m not listening—I’m not even pretending to listen. What I’m actually doing is reliving Friday night at the bar with Taylor over and over again in my mind. For the first time in my life, I wish I had bio today. Just so we could see each other.

  When the classroom goes quiet, I realize our English teacher has stopped lecturing and we’re supposed to be working on our essay outlines. I’ve zoned out Audrey-style. There’s a knock on the door and our teacher goes to answer it and then steps out into the hall for a moment. The class instantly erupts.

  Billy turns around in his desk and his mouth pulls into a sneer. I know it’s going to be bad before he even says, “What happened to you?”

  Everyone stops talking. They look over at us but pretend to be working. I’ve been one of them. I’ve seen Billy in action from the other side, making fun of the losers, but this is the first time he’s turned on me. I can feel my face heat but I roll my pen along the top of my notebook like I’m cool and casual and ready for anything he throws at me.

  I’m wearing another one of Adam’s band hoodies, this one Metallica. Sure, I’ve seen some girls wear them, but they’re the girls people refer to as skids or stoners. Plus it’s the last week of May and sunny and I used to wear skirts and shorts at this time of year. So of course I know what he’s referring to when I ask, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you used to be hot.” His smile widens like he’s giving me a compliment rather than being a complete douche. His friends laugh; so do some of the girls. My stomach drops at the sound, and my hand falters with the pen. If Billy looks down, he’ll be able to see.

  He’s waiting, daring me to respond, and I don’t know what to say. Part of me wonders if I should be upset that he no longer thinks I’m attractive. Another part of me wants to prevent the situation from getting worse by pretending he’s giving me friendly advice—maybe if I don’t retaliate, he’ll take pity on me and turn back around. But a third, stronger part, is itching to tell him that the last thing I’m thinking about these days is how to be hot for him.

  That part wins.

  “It’s not my job to look hot for you, Billy,” I tell him.

  He laughs and it sounds like a real laugh, like we’re friends joking around. Then he shrugs, his eyes flicking down to the pen shaking in my hand. I’m so busted.

  “I just think it’s a shame, that’s all,” he says in that deceptively casual voice. “You have a nice body, but now you hide it under all those baggy clothes. What a waste.”

  More laughter from the guys.
I glance over at Sharon, looking for help, but she’s looking back at me like she’s mortified for me. With a bit of I told you so mixed in. My face is hot now, so hot I know they can see I’m embarrassed, and that just makes it worse.

  Under my breath I say, “Screw you, Billy.”

  He’s still smiling, but I can tell from the slight twitch in his lips that he knows he went too far. He puts his hands up in a just saying gesture and turns back around in his seat. I stare at the notebook, trying to ignore the sensation of my cheeks flaring, Billy’s words running through my mind.

  You have a nice body, but now you hide it.

  Nice body. My body. So when Billy said that, why did I feel like my body belonged more to Billy than to me?

  * * *

  At noon I go to Sharon’s locker, the place we always meet for lunch, but no one shows. I send a group text asking where they are, but no one responds, so I go back down to the wrestling mats and look at my phone. Between classes I see Sharon in the halls and pull aside to ask her what happened.

  “I got caught up in class and you’d already left by the time I got there,” she tells me. Of course this lie doesn’t explain Charlotte’s or Rhiannon’s absence.

  “But I texted.”

  “We got it too late, sorry.” She flashes an apologetic pout before continuing down the hall.

  At the bar with Taylor I felt high, but now I feel like I’m crashing. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel lonely. My friends are making it very clear they’re not interested in the new me—whoever that is. If I continue to try to find out, I know I’m probably going to lose them.

  After school I tell Mom I’m still working on a school project, and then I go to the library and find the research station in the farthest corner where there is less chance of someone seeing what I’m doing. I’m too nervous to do this kind of research on my phone, and the library is surprisingly empty after school hours, which is perfect for what I want to do.

  After a quick glance over my shoulder, I open Google and type How to tell if “someone” is a girl or a guy because I don’t want to make it about me. Google gives me the following list: