Double Exposure

by Bridget Birdsall

  “Ow!” Silently cursing my stupid body, I wonder who wouldn’t hate a body that wants to be half of one thing and part of another?

  His two-tone eyes zero in on me. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “No.” I looked away, wishing in that moment that I’d just let Prickman and his apes take me out, because wouldn’t being dead or even seriously maimed be easier than this?

  The truth was I’d never had sex with anybody, not even myself. I’d always avoided touching my screwed-up parts. Covering up my legs with the blanket, his hands travel up my trying-to-be-breasts. He peels off the rubber gloves and throws them in a can, reaches under the paper gown, and squeezes each breast. They aren’t much, but still, it hurts. Then part of me leaves my body, and suddenly I’m floating near the ceiling looking down at myself—my freakoid body—waiting for it to be over.

  “Did Dr. Matthews talk to you about self-exams?”

  Numbed-out, I nod.

  “Good.” He turns to wash his hands. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll get your mother, okay?” Without glancing back, he leaves. The minute the door shuts behind him, I scramble off the table and throw my clothes back on.

  As I slip on my shoes, I hear Dr. Royce say something to the nurse outside the door and a minute later he’s back with Mom.

  At first Mom says she doesn’t want me to have any surgeries, but when Dr. Royce tells her the not-quite-a-fully-formed gonadal lump is a cancer risk, she does a complete one-eighty and agrees it needs to come out—pronto. But both she and Dr. Royce want me to wait on reconstructive surgery of any kind. Then comes the big blow—Dr. Royce recommends I live as a girl for at least two years before any further surgeries.

  In fact, he won’t do anything except take out the stupid lump and let me take hormones.

  Two friggin’ years!

  “Alyx, teens with sexual identity and gender issues have an extremely high risk for suicide, so I’ll schedule the lumpectomy. We’ll put you on a very low dose of estrogen and hopefully that will jumpstart that ovary. Then we’ll wait on the rest.” He glances over at Mom and then back at me. “It’s a lot of change, and I want you to be absolutely certain this is what you want. Understand?”

  My stomach seizes up. I look down, study my sandals, feeling both disappointment and gratitude crest over me like gigantic waves. Not now, but someday, I’ll be a girl. A real girl. My outsides will match my insides.

  We follow him out of the examination room. Mom heads to the front desk to talk about insurance stuff and I head for the bathroom. Gender neutral, of course, but also quiet and private. Locking the door, I smile at my reflection and make a motion like I’m shooting a basket. The only time I felt like I fit in was when I was playing basketball. And plenty of girls play basketball, right? I hadn’t even had any surgeries yet, but I stared at my own blue eyes, feeling more like my true self than I ever had. What stared back at me? Mom’s fair skin, her high cheekbones and perfect chin, and Dad’s long, thin nose, crooked smile, and slightly kinky hair. It wasn’t a terrible face.

  In that moment, I felt certain that my life could only get better.

  I’d be a girl. I’d still play ball. The only thing I’d be giving up would be the daily dish of abuse. I kissed my reflection in the mirror, then wiped off the smeared watermelon lip gloss, knowing Dr. Royce would never have to worry.

  I was absolutely certain.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cudahy High

  Cudahy High is humongous. In California, Walnut Grove had less than five hundred students in the entire school, which is about the size of the incoming freshman class at Cudahy. Since I never actually graduated from tenth grade because I was absent too much, Mom wanted me to start again as a sophomore.

  Another second chance.

  She filled out the enrollment paperwork online, then set up a Skype interview with the principal, arranged for me to take some online tests, emailed my scores, and with some fast talk managed to finagle a spot for me in the school’s Biology Honors program. Only one other sophomore got in.

  Dad would have approved.

  “You have a damn-fine mind, kiddo. Use it,” he’d say. “Don’t do what I did.”

  I’ll be one of a handful of transfers, but I won’t be the only new kid on the block.

  After Grizzly drops me off, it takes me a little while to locate Room 204, my homeroom. It’s Mr. Anderson’s science lab, where I have my first-hour class.

  It’s also perfectly organized in parallel lines. Some DNA mobiles hang from the ceiling. A colored poster above the blackboard reads: ORDER IS BEAUTY. Next to it is a picture of Albert Einstein.

  Mr. Anderson’s glasses are thicker than Grandpa’s, and he’s laid out nametags and orientation packets on the desks. It reminds me of grade school in Berkeley, where we lived when Dad was still teaching.

  My desk is in the front row. Near the door.

  Behind me, a guy named Joel Buck sits down, slaps his nametag on his chest, ignores me, and turns to whisper to the guy behind him. “Peter, my man, I downloaded the app,” he motions with a smartphone in his hand.

  “Dude, check it out!” The voice sounds familiar. I turn. It’s Peter—the same Peter with the camera. He grabs the phone, then sees me. “Alyx? You’re in my homeroom!” A grin spreads across his face.

  My “hi” is pathetic. I slide the pack off my back and sit down.

  A bell sounds in the hall.

  “Girls!” Mr. Anderson booms from the front podium.

  I jump.

  “If 204 is your homeroom, please, come in and be seated. If not, please move along before the second bell.”

  A group of girls gathered in the doorway disperses in a symphony of laughter. The tallest one enters the room breathlessly and takes a seat behind Peter. There’s a butterfly tattooed on her right forearm. She’s wearing a green top identical to mine, only with blue jeans, flip-flops, and a ton of silver jewelry, rings on every finger—thumbs included.

  She sets a flute case down on her desk. A rainbow sticker on the side reads, NEW YORK: GAY STRAIGHT ALLIANCE.

  Her confidence and style don’t feel “Milwaukee normal” to me, though I’m still trying to figure out what that actually means.

  “Roslyn, you guys plan ahead?” Peter winks at her and then at me.

  Joel stares at her like someone’s whapped him upside the head with a 2x4. I stare, too. Though I don’t mean to. She has amazing hair. It’s what I’m shooting for. Long. Thick. Wavy. Wheat-colored highlights. Pulled back in a perfect ponytail.

  She gives Peter a friendly we-know-each-other grin, then puts a finger to her lips and nods up at Mr. Anderson. He’s looking down at his seating chart.

  I glance around the room. Only me and my tank top twin have orange orientation folders; everyone else has blue. And no one in the entire classroom’s wearing Birkenstocks. Except Mr. Anderson, which wouldn’t be so horrifying if his pants weren’t at flood height.

  Great! First day and I’m stylin’ after a super-nerd science teacher.

  Mr. Anderson stands up and walks to the front of the room. He gives a short welcome speech and with his thin, wiry fingers lists off a litany of rules. Just when I think I’ve escaped the painful first-day-of-school introductions, he says, “It seems we have two new students.” He smiles at me and then at the girl wearing my same shirt. “Perhaps you’ll share with us your names and where you’re from?”

  “I’m Roslyn Rothstein from Long Island, New York,” the girl jumps at the chance, answering so fast I fumble for words when Anderson turns to me.

  “Uh . . . I’m Alyx—Kowalski.” It comes out sounding like Alyx cold-wall-ski. I cough and add, “From California.” Mom thought with all the changes maybe I should take her surname. She said she didn’t want any unexpected publicity that might surface from Dad’s past to stick to me, but I didn’t want to change my first name. It works for both a boy and a girl, and it’s what I’m used to.

  I remember wondering who would actuall
y know about Dad’s past. He wasn’t famous, though his most recent work with DNA and molecular coding impressed certain scientific circles. Still, his greatest notoriety came before I was alive, when he defended the work of the guys in Scotland who cloned the first sheep, Dolly. That same year, he broke all the rules of academia and got involved with one of his graduate students, someone half his age. She got pregnant, so he married her.

  That would be none other than Sunshine, my mom. And the baby? Me.

  Behind me, Peter whispers something to Joel Buck. They both laugh.

  It’s not a mean laugh, but I hear the word hot several times. I feel my face flush, certain they’re talking about Roslyn. I know how guys talk about girls. It’s all about conquest and the cool factor, and it’s ultra-weird being on the other side.

  Anderson doesn’t seem to notice anything. After he takes attendance, he sends us out to find our lockers and stash our stuff. I’m standing in the hall, organizing my notebooks and pencils on the top shelf of my locker, when someone taps my shoulder.

  “I was wondering who the other newbie was.”

  I turn around. “Newbie?”

  She’s drawn little curlicues on her ROSLYN nametag.

  “Yeah, that’s what they call us around here.” She smiles. “Nice shirt.”

  “You, too—good taste,” I try to be friendly back. Remembering what Dylan said before he took off for his remote mountain village in Ecuador: You gotta make friends, Alyx. Don’t be loser loner—it’s the only way to survive high school. It’ll save your wimp-ass.

  “Pepper said you play basketball. You’re trying out for varsity, right? She’s totally talked me into it.”

  “I . . . maybe.”

  “Well, you better, because on the way to school she bragged you up to Stephanie Wexler.”

  I stick my lunch bag on top of the pile of books I collected on the way in, grab a pen, and shut the locker door. “Who’s Stephanie Wexler?”

  “Only the most important girl in the entire senior class,” Peter, three lockers away, butts in. “That is, next to my sister, of course.” He’s sneaking up behind Roslyn, pretending to use her body as a shield. He squints up and down the hallway, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. “Man, just watch out for her dad. Even hearing the dude’s name freaks me out.”

  “Wexler! Wexler! Wexler!” Roslyn sings out before explaining, “Stephanie is the principal’s daughter.”

  I like Roslyn already. And I want her hair. She must have ditched her flute case because now she’s holding a sketchbook with a purple unicorn on the cover.

  “You forgot the important part,” Pepper jumps in from somewhere behind us.

  She slides up beside her brother.

  Peter rolls his eyes. “Pepper’s on the prowl for new recruits, fresh meat, Lady Cougars.” He smiles directly at me, makes a growling sound, and adds, “Stephanie Wexler is not only the principal’s daughter, but she’s also the captain of the girls varsity basketball team, the captain of the girls tennis team, and a state-ranked runner. Notice any themes?”

  A bell rings right over our heads.

  My hands fly up to my ears.

  The others don’t flinch.

  “Five-minute bell.” Pepper looks up at the clock. “Listen, Alyx, our best forward moved to Baltimore. I’m the only senior over five-feet-eight, so we’re going to need your height. I told Roslyn to get you after school. If it rains, we’ll go to the Y. Be ready, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, dizzy from how fast she’s talking and not sure what I just agreed to.

  Pepper grabs Peter and they disappear into the crowd. Roslyn says sheepishly, “I hope it’s okay? I told her I would. It’s nice to have another newbie in town. This place is sooo different from New York.”

  I’m opening my locker again to grab the science textbook off the top of the pile. “California, too,” I say. Making sure I grab the right book, I shut my locker and stare at the cover.

  “You got into Honors Biology?” Roslyn notices the book, which I hadn’t paid much attention to until now. I turn it slowly in my hands. It’s the last book Dad, Dr. Avery Atlas, had helped edit.

  Go figure.

  Did Mom know he finished it? Was that why she wanted me to change my name?

  Roslyn flicks her finger against the book’s cover and laughs. “I tried to get in, but I bombed that online test. Don’t look so scared, you’ll do fine.”

  I force my legs in the direction of Anderson’s room, making myself walk though I want to run.

  How had Dad finished the book with tubes sticking out of every orifice in his body?

  Roslyn’s still talking. “It’s like a basketball cult around here. If you think Pepper’s fanatical, you should see her father. The guy sold us our new house, and he’s a basketball encyclopedia.”

  The bell rings again—so unlike the gong sound back in my California high school.

  A sudden and surprising pang of homesickness moves through me, more for Dylan than anything, and I wonder what school is like down in Ecuador. His last email said they had dirt floors.

  “Gotta go!” Roslyn rushes down the hall with a purple phone in her back pocket just like the one I had until Prickman slam-dunked me onto the pavement.

  Standing there, dizzy, light-headed, I wish I could call someone. Mom. Dylan. Even Dad, if he were still alive.

  Someone grabs my arm and ushers me into the classroom. “Getting busted by Wexler isn’t a good way to start the year.” It’s Peter again. “Though he must already like you because he’s the one who told Pepper to recruit you for basketball.”

  Wexler, the principal, told Pepper about me?

  “All the sordid details.” He smiles.

  Sordid details?

  I pull away, uncomfortable with being touched. Peter takes his homeroom seat, seeming not to notice, while I try not to act all wigged-out. Usually the only time guys touch me is when they’re beating the crap out of me.

  I sink into my seat.

  CHAPTER 13

  Pressure

  I think about my promise to Dylan. No holing up in the bat cave alone. And though a part of me wants it so badly, I’m not sure playing on a girls basketball team is a good idea, at least not just yet. Plus, there’s the problem of the slightly smaller ball, the whole girls locker room scene, and now Peter saying that the principal was talking about me. You’d think in a school with a couple thousand kids, I could just be a number like everyone else.

  Then I think about shooting around with Pepper, how great it felt, how I could have played all night if Mom hadn’t called me in.

  But basketball’s a contact sport. I don’t care what they say. If I play, I’ll be bumping bodies with girls—lots of girls—and even though I’m officially a girl now, too, bumping bodies with anyone terrifies me. I’m not sure I’m even ready for strange guys touching me, either. Even though Peter’s good-looking, there’s something about him that makes me jumpy.

  Still, I can’t imagine life without basketball.

  I get Pepper.

  If I were her, I’d put pressure on me, too.

  “Change or die,” I whisper to myself. Trying not to short circuit, I set Dad’s book down on the desk and close my eyes, thinking about how screwed up everything feels. I’m being recruited to join a team when I’m used to being the faggot picked last.

  But no one here needs to know who I used to be, right? Or that Dad’s my dad. I changed my last name, my email, unfriended everyone on Facebook, became practically anti–social media. I look down at Dad’s book. No. One. Needs. To. Know.

  This place is supposed to be my do-over. The big cure. A second chance. A real life. Right?

  I sneak a quick peek at Peter. Maybe this is a place where I can actually have a few real friends.

  “Welcome to Honors Biology,” Mr. Anderson’s words arc over my head. “Mr. Pitmani, one of our sophomores, has generously offered to be our class monitor. He’ll be handing out your assignments.”

  Peter
leans over and smiles. “Anderson loves me as much as Wexler hates me.”

  Anderson goes on. “Plan to spend at least three hours outside of class for every hour you spend here . . .”

  It’s not that I’m worried about the work, but as Anderson drones on, I try to remember the Skype interview I’d had prior to coming here. After Dad died, it was like everything just blurred together. What did I tell this Wexler dude?

  During the interviewing process, Mom was way more wigged out than me. She isn’t the lying type. But she didn’t want Cudahy to be a repeat of Walnut Grove. So she did most of the talking. And it wasn’t easy, either, for her to cover up the past. I’d skipped school so much.

  Now, whenever I think about the past, the guilt about Dad seeps in. It’s just there sponging up any extra room in my brain. Poor Dad. I’d made avoiding him a full-time job. Even when he was dying. Instead of going to school, I’d be off shooting baskets all day long behind the 7-Eleven. Then one day I came home with a black eye, compliments of Prickman’s pals, and Dad had gone into a coma.

  That night Dad died. Quietly. Alone in the next room. He just stopped breathing. Just like that.

  I blink my eyes, trying not to think about Dad as Anderson paces back and forth.

  In a strange way, I think Mom and me were both relieved, but it was still hard. It seemed like we’d all been waiting forever, and after that Mom set out to save all she had left—me.

  So a few lies for survival’s sake made sense. And when it came to dealing with Cudahy High, she took the reins. She’d altered my transcripts to reflect some homeschooling she’d given me and sent them on to Wexler, assuring him I was an excellent student and could handle any accelerated science or math they threw at me.

  Anderson turns to write something on the board as the memories of Wexler rush into my brain. Of course, it makes perfect sense that he spoke to Stephanie about me. During the interview, all he cared about was my basketball acumen.

  “My daughter, Stephanie, is a senior this year,” I remember him saying. “She loves the game. Her mother wanted her to take up piano. But like you, Alyx, it’s basketball she loves. I should warn you up front, we have a winning tradition here at Cudahy, but the girls basketball program has struggled. This year we’re going to change that. You’re tall, over six-feet, right?”