by Jeff Garvin
“He told me,” I say.
Bec’s gaze drops to her lap, and she bites at her lip ring. “I didn’t know Vickers was going to do what he did. But . . . I thought you might do something.”
“Like Gabi.”
“Yeah.”
I glance at the photo of Bec’s sister, and a lump forms in my throat. I haven’t talked about why I ended up in Pineview since my first session with Doctor Ann. I swallow and look up at Bec. “I already did,” I say. She cocks her head. “Over the summer, I chased a bottle of Xanax with a glass of my dad’s favorite Irish whiskey.”
“Why?”
“A lot of reasons, I guess.” I look up at the ceiling. “I was into this guy, Derek. He was my friend, and then I made it weird, and he just . . . cut me off. I wasn’t on meds yet, or in therapy or anything, and it kind of wrecked me. I didn’t flush my phone, but I threw it pretty hard. Smashed the screen.” I show her; she nods. “Anyway. I was getting ready for one of my dad’s big events, like the fund-raiser last week.” God, was that only last week? “Getting dressed up—it triggers my dysphoria. It was especially bad that night, and it snowballed into a full-on panic attack. And I just . . . I felt like it would never end. Like there was no other way out.” Bec nods. I take a deep breath, and then I just keep talking. I tell Bec about Pineview. I tell her about Doctor Ann.
When I’m done, Bec starts to speak, but stops herself.
“What?” I ask.
“You never told me why you transferred.”
“You don’t want to hear that sob story.”
Bec raises her eyebrows. “You owe me at least one, or we’ll be out of balance.”
I smile. “Fair enough.” I lean back against the wall. “At Immaculate Heart, I had to take PE—I don’t at Park Hills, I used my dad’s pull to get it waived.” I glance over at Bec. “I guess that makes me a hypocrite, huh?”
“No,” she says. “It makes you smart.”
“I guess. Anyway, I had to change in the locker room in front of other people. That’s when I started having really bad anxiety. I couldn’t eat. I lost a lot of weight. By the end of sophomore year I was having panic attacks two, three times a week.”
“Wow,” Bec says. I nod.
“Being undressed in front of other people . . . it’s hard. Especially on days when I don’t feel like the gender I was assigned at birth, you know?” Bec nods, and I wonder if she ever had this conversation with Gabi. “So I started wearing my gym clothes under my school uniform every day. You can imagine the harassment. One kid asked me if I was Mormon, and was I hiding my magic underwear. Catholic kids, you know? Obsessed with sex and religion.” Bec smiles. “Anyway. One day—this was during the last week of sophomore year—I was changing in the locker room, and three of my classmates came in. They said school was almost out, and before summer vacation started, they wanted to see the magic underwear.” I swallow hard. “It wasn’t enough that I had to wear that fucking uniform every day. It wasn’t enough that I changed right in front of them. They wanted to see my genitals.” My voice breaks, and it’s a few moments before I can go on. “I refused. So two of them pinned me against the lockers, while the other one pulled down my gym shorts so everyone could see. There were three other people in the locker room, but no one tried to stop it; they all just watched. One kid was about to take a picture when the coach finally came in and put a stop to it.”
I expect Bec to act surprised, or to try to comfort me, but she doesn’t, and I’m grateful. I don’t want her pity right now—just her listening. And she seems to know that.
“At the time, I thought that was the worst thing that would ever happen to me.”
I watch Bec’s jaw tighten. She nods. She gets it. I look out the window at the big sycamore tree just beyond the back fence. The branches are swaying in the strong autumn wind, leaves detaching like skydivers jumping out of a plane.
“I thought if I changed schools, things would be better. I thought I could get away from people like that.” I turn back to Bec. “But there are people like that everywhere. Just like there are people like me everywhere. Like Andie Gingham. Like your sister.”
Bec’s eyes drift to Gabi’s photo. She shifts on the bed, runs a hand over her scalp.
I glance up at the shredded rainbow sticker on the closet door. I want to tell Bec everything that’s happened to me: being stalked online, having my locker vandalized. Coming out to my parents. And, if I could tell anyone about what happened that night—how they held me down, how his stubble felt against my cheek—I would tell Bec. But now isn’t the time. Right now, I just want her back. Us back.
“Riley,” Bec says. I look up at her. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay at the hospital. I’m sorry I left. I just—”
“No,” I say. “You don’t have to apologize. I didn’t mean what I said, earlier. About you running away. You were there when it counted.”
For a moment, I think Bec is going to cry; but she doesn’t. She just takes my hand.
My parents are in the kitchen waiting for me when I get home. Mom rushes across the room to embrace me.
“Oh my God, Riley, we were so worried.” She steps back, holding me at arm’s length. Her hair is a tangled mess and her eyes are puffy. “Don’t you ever do that again. You understand me?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I won’t.” I glance at Dad, expecting to see his face red with anger, but he looks calm. “I just . . . I needed to see Bec. And I didn’t want to talk to you about it first.”
Dad walks over and puts an arm on Mom’s shoulder. “Well, now I think it’s time we did talk.”
Mom makes tea and we sit around the kitchen table with her in the middle, gripping both our hands as though she’s afraid the house might tip over and sink.
Dad looks at me. “You want to start?”
“Okay,” I say. But then I just stare at the table, trying to think of what to say. Finally, I speak up. “I don’t know what you think about me.”
Mom inhales sharply and grips my hand even tighter. “We love you. You know we love you.”
“I know,” I say. “But that’s not what I meant.”
She glances at my dad. He looks intensely uncomfortable, and does his habitual throat clearing before he speaks up. “Well,” he says. “We’ve only had a few days to process all this. And obviously, the circumstances weren’t ideal when you told us.”
“I know,” I say.
Dad continues. “And, so much has happened since, we haven’t really had time to deal with . . . with your gender identity stuff.” His mouth tightens into a thin line.
“Okay,” I say. “But you have to have some reaction, right?”
Dad blinks, then looks pleadingly at my mother.
“Well, honey,” she says, “this is all very new to us. I mean, we understand gay and straight. And we know there are transgender people. But, until you said it out loud, neither of us had heard of ‘gender fluid.’” She glances at him. “We had to look it up.”
Dad grips his mug. “Honestly, there’s so much information out there, and a lot of it contradicts itself. The pronouns and the . . . terminology, it’s very complex, and . . .”
Mom cuts in. “But we love you no matter what, Riley. You’re our child.”
Dad looks at her, and then he nods. “Your mother’s right.” His eyes meet mine and he says, “But you’re going to have to help us navigate this whole thing. We’re old and set in our bipolar ways.”
“Binary, Dad,” I say.
He nods. “Right. Binary.”
And then Mom sort of lunges forward and engulfs me in an awkward, suffocating hug—and after a moment, I hug her back. I expect my shoulders to start shaking, my eyes to start gushing tears, to have some profound catharsis—but apparently, I’m cried out for the night. Finally we release each other. Dad gives me a thin smile.
I say, “I think I’m ready to talk to the police now.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “
But, will you guys . . . will you stay with me while I call?”
“Of course we will,” he says.
The line connects on the third ring, and a man’s voice asks whom I’d like to be connected with.
I say, “Officer Dinning, please.”
CHAPTER 33
“THIS IS THE PART WHERE I don’t ask you how you’re feeling,” Doctor Ann says, taking her usual seat.
“And this is the part where I tell you I don’t know.”
She makes an uncharacteristic throwaway gesture with one hand. “Make something up.”
I frown; is this some new tactic to get me talking? “Make something up . . . you mean, lie?”
Doctor Ann glances at her watch. “Well, it’s a fifty-minute session. If you’re not going to talk about your feelings, you’ve got to say something.”
I blink at her. “Something.”
Doctor Ann laughs—and then I do, too. It’s the first time I’ve laughed without crying since the assault. It’s the first time I’ve thought of it as the assault. Today is Thursday; it’s been over a week.
“What’s going on over there?” Doctor Ann asks.
I fold my arms in front of my chest and look down at my feet. I know it’s a defensive posture, but I need a little defense right now. “They arrested Jim Vickers,” I say.
Doctor Ann raises her eyebrows. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
She leans back in her chair. “So you spoke to the police.”
I nod. “Tuesday night. I didn’t want to go to the station, but with reporters still camped outside my house, we couldn’t exactly have cop cars showing up—so the officers took one of their personal cars and came in regular clothes in the middle of the night.”
“That was very accommodating of them,” Doctor Ann says.
“Congressman perk,” I say.
“Are you relieved?”
“A little. Not as much as I expected to be.”
“I get that,” she says. We look at each other for a moment, and I get the feeling she really does get it. Like, maybe she’s been through something similar. But before I can ask, she goes on. “So you told them what happened, and they arrested him?”
“Not exactly. They said they’d question him, but they needed more than just my word to actually drag him away in handcuffs. They must have gotten something, though, because my dad made some calls this morning and found out he was in custody. My guess is one of his accomplices finally told the truth. Cole, maybe. Or the redheaded kid, Grady. I don’t know. I answered all the cops’ questions, but they’ve been super reluctant to tell me anything.”
Doctor Ann shakes her head. “When the people involved are minors, they can’t. Even when they want to.”
“I know, they explained it to me about nine times. And what they did tell me was only after my dad leaned on them.”
“Did you find out anything about your stalker?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, after Vickers did what he did . . . I just assumed it had been him all along.”
Doctor Ann nods. “I would have, too.”
“But they checked all his stuff—his phone, his laptop—and they didn’t find any evidence. So, it’s possible he was sending me those messages from a friend’s computer, or from the library or something—but it could be somebody else entirely. They’re still looking.”
She nods. “Are you angry? Are you disappointed?”
I look at Doctor Ann, amazed that she can read me so well. “Both, I think. The thing is, if Vickers wasn’t the one sending the messages, it means he’s in less trouble. Because stalking is a separate charge, and it would have helped prove that he was thinking about the . . . the assault beforehand.” I almost don’t say the word, and when I do, it sounds like gibberish to me.
“Do you ever find yourself asking why?”
I frown. “Why what? Why someone stalked me? Why Vickers did what he did?”
She nods. “Either. Both.”
“I don’t know. The cops told me Vickers’s dad is a minister at a pretty intense church. So, maybe it has to do with that. Or maybe he was just getting back at me for breaking his arm, and he was drunk, and it went too far.” I sniff, suddenly aware my nose is running. Doctor Ann hands me a tissue. I wipe my nose and look up at her. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know, or if it even matters.”
Doctor Ann looks like she’s about to argue, maybe to correct something I’ve just said, but I interrupt her. “Can I get some water?”
“Of course,” she says, and crosses to the cooler on the other side of the office. After a moment, she returns with a little plastic cup. I take a sip, and the cool water feels good on my throat.
“They’re talking about this being a hate crime,” I say. “It’s kind of surreal. Like something from the news.”
“Yeah,” Doctor Ann says. “I bet it feels strange.”
“Solo said they went all CSI on my locker. But, again, the police wouldn’t tell us anything—even when my dad gave them his righteous elected-official act—because they’re ‘protecting the identity of minors.’ Which is pretty ironic.”
“And frustrating.”
“Yeah. So, anyway. The first part of the interview was okay, but then it got hard.”
“What was hard about it?”
“Giving my statement. They wanted to record me talking about the assault.”
“Is there anything about that you want to share?”
I shake my head. “We’ve already been through all that, and it will just make me a mess.”
“That’s fair,” she says. We look at each other for a moment, almost like opponents in a chess game. Then Doctor Ann says, “How’s the anxiety been?”
And just like that, we’ve moved on.
“It’s leveled out some,” I say. “But it doesn’t really go away. Like, there’s this constant buzz in the background. My face pretty much starts tingling when I wake up, and doesn’t really stop until I go to sleep. Maybe it keeps tingling while I’m asleep. I don’t know.”
“What else?”
“Bright lights bother me. Bec bought me these yellow sunglasses to wear indoors. She says they make me look like Bono.”
Now, Doctor Ann does take the pad from her desk. She makes a note, and then sits back down. “I’m going to adjust your meds.” Before I can protest, she gives me a stern look. “Just slightly. And temporarily. You need the relief.”
“When you crank up my dosage, I feel foggy.”
“You taking the bar exam or something?” She puts down the pad. “Let’s try foggy for a month instead of buzzing. Just for a change. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“How are you doing with your mom and dad?”
“We talked. Not about what happened that night—I mean, they were there when the police interviewed me—but we talked about me. About being gender fluid.” I pause, but Doctor Ann doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “Dad’s being cool about it. But I think he might not believe it’s a real thing. Or, maybe he thinks it’s just a phase and I’m going to grow out of it.”
“Does that bother you?”
I shrug. “I mean, he’s a Catholic congressman. It might take him a while to wrap his brain around having a gender fluid kid. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
At this, Doctor Ann smiles—but she recovers her clinical expression quickly.
“Have you talked about his campaign?”
“Yeah. He says he doesn’t blame me, but I think he does, a little. But I think he forgives me, too.” I stare down at the abstract pattern in the carpet. “I didn’t know it was possible to blame someone and forgive them at the same time. But I think it is.”
“And how about your mom?”
“I think my mom accepts it without really understanding it. After we talked . . . I got the feeling she’s just relieved it’s out in the open. But I don’t know.” I run my finger back and forth over one of the cha
ir’s brass buttons. The texture is soothing. “I think she’s . . . disappointed. Mom likes to plan things—to pick out the colors and the flowers and the clothes. I think the idea that she can’t take me shopping for a tux or a prom dress leaves her feeling kind of . . . cheated.”
“You could let her take you shopping for both,” Doctor Ann says.
I look up at her. “You know, as utterly unbearable as that sounds, I think she would love it.”
Doctor Ann waves a hand. “No charge.”
I laugh. That’s the second time.
She gives me a faint smile. “Have you thought about when you might go back to school?”
I nod. “Tomorrow.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You feel ready for that?”
“No. I’m tingling head to toe just thinking about it.” But despite my nerves, my voice sounds clear, calm. It surprises me. “But I can’t hide forever.”
“Another week isn’t forever.”
“I know. But I’ve already wasted so much time hiding. And I feel like the longer I wait, the harder it will be to go back. You know?”
Doctor Ann sits back in her chair and lets out a long, uncharacteristically dramatic sigh. “Well,” she says. “You don’t need my approval.”
I frown. “I know. But I sort of want it.”
She inhales through her nose and shakes her head. “Riley, I don’t know what to say. You’ve been through a lot. I’d hate to see you push yourself too hard and have a setback. But everyone heals in different ways and at different speeds. And if you feel compelled—from the inside, not by someone else—then I think you should do it.”
A shudder of relief runs through me. “Thanks,” I say.
“Do you have a plan for how to get through the day?”
“Half a day,” I say. “But, yeah, I have a plan.”
“Why half a day?”
I smile. “I have a feeling I’m going off campus for lunch.”
CHAPTER 34
“SCHOOL SORT OF SUCKED WITHOUT you,” Solo says as we pull onto Imperial Highway. It’s Friday morning—ten days after the assault—and I’m more than a little nervous about returning.