The Sun Seekers

by Emery C. Walters

  The Sun Seekers

  By Emery C. Walters

  Published by Queerteen Press

  Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.

  Copyright 2015 Emery C. Walters

  ISBN 9781611527773

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.

  * * * *

  The Sun Seekers

  By Emery C. Walters

  That first day back in school after Christmas holidays, well, ‘winter holidays’ as the school called it now to be politically correct, was a mix of terror, horror, shame, and glee. Calls of “What did you get? How was your Chr—holiday? Isn’t it freezing?” and worst of all, “Wasn’t that New Year’s Eve party a blast?” echoed down the halls. Whit wasn’t happy to be back and didn’t want to answer any questions. Even in school, for instance, it was cold, well she was cold. What was wrong with her? Not enough sports? Not enough muscle? Not enough fat/bone/height/personality? She just hated the cold and hated being cold. Sometimes she just hated being herself, but at least she knew what that was all about.

  It was all Dusty’s fault. She hated him, but she loved him, and there was nothing she could do about him, except in her dreams, and her art. The only good thing about today was, she’d gotten her period on Christmas day so that wasn’t going to happen again for another couple of weeks.

  Today felt like the world was spinning, and she’d been thrown off and landed in the bushes, prickly ones, with snow on top of them and fleas in the frozen grass underneath. On the walk to school she’d felt like there were icicles hanging from her brown hair, but—look on the bright side, she thought—it made a nice color contrast with her red lips and blue (sort of) eyes.

  So there was homeroom; she said here like she meant it (not). She listened to the other kids and their excited, happy voices. She hated them all. She especially hated Beauregard Turner, called Beau-Tox by one and all.

  The bell rang and she moved like a zombie to English, which she loved, but hated. Well, she hated Ms. Wickers, aka Ms. Whiskers, a.k.a. Ms. Dub, who criticized her writing for all the wrong reasons, and never in a way that clarified to Whit how she could improve it. What was the point? She wanted to write and then use her art with it, like in a travel book, together, but writing was apparently not her strong point. She sat in a mist of her own emotions. When Ms. Wickers handed back their essays from before the holidays, she had a big red D at the top of hers, and her face flushed crimson.

  Daffy Duck, well, his real name was Danny Duchesne, next to her, had a big green A on his. He glanced at Whit and saw her grade, and quietly folded his paper so she could no longer see it. The thing about Danny was, other than his extra ten pounds and glasses, he never called Whit Twit like so many of the other kids. Teachers loved him, all of them except for Coach Wickers, and presumably his mother did, but that’s where it ended for poor Danny, Whit thought. She glanced at his face; had he lost weight? He looked older. He had new glasses; they looked a lot less dorky. His curly brown hair looked nicer; had he had it cut shorter? Had it always been that shiny? It had red highlights. He smiled at her, not showing his teeth. It made him look girlish, fey, perky. She realized he was shy and probably embarrassed by his teeth, though she had no idea why he should be. Other than the few obvious physical traits, and that high intelligence thing, he was an okay kid. But what a waste, for him to be born a boy, and her, not.

  She herself wasn’t exactly ugly, though sometimes she thought she might as well be. She hated how she looked, her dull brown hair cut short, her ordinary brown eyes behind glasses; she hated her breasts, medium-sized squashy things that insisted on being both there and perky. After three years of braces her teeth were nice and she opened her mouth when she smiled now, or would, if she ever smiled. That made her smile, and she glanced at Danny when she did, and he was looking at her.

  Oh crap.

  But at least, she thought later, after she looked away, he hadn’t been looking at her breasts.

  No, he had not, said Dusty in her right ear. He is kinda cute though, you think?

  Shut up, she told Dusty.

  * * * *

  Her next class was art. Unfortunately, she noticed Danny was now in that class, too, and he plunked himself down at her formerly all-to-herself table. “May I join you?” he asked. “Nobody else likes me.”

  She wanted to ask, “What makes you think I do?” but Dusty was smiling. Her face crinkled as she tried not to smile herself, but it didn’t work. Every now and then, Dusty was the boss. It used to be, well since puberty knocked her over and rolled her up in a cement blanket of fear and worry, that he was happy. Dusty was her alter-ego, her inner child, her imaginary playmate. The latter one is what her mother called him, but Whit knew that Dusty was the person she was supposed to have been. Maybe she’d been part of a set of twins and he had died and nobody had told her. Maybe she’d absorbed him in the womb. Maybe God got it wrong or Satan had hit her up while her mother carried her. Maybe her mom’s hormones had been messed up. Maybe she should have killed herself before she understood what was wrong with her.

  Nothing could spoil art class, not even Danny sitting with her. It was the only safe haven she had all day. She was very lucky she had been able to take two semesters of it, but she had flat out refused to take Home Economics or gym. Seniors were allowed some choices, thank God, and never going to gym again was hers. Undressing with all those girls, ugh. Besides, the gym was cold.

  She had no idea she was one of prettiest made girls there. She just hated how she looked. So did Dusty, but Dusty had a plan. It involved killing her off.

  Danny sat sprawled awkwardly beside her. His elbow bumped hers. His knee bumped hers. She side-eyed him to see if he was doing it on purpose, but he was blushing furiously so she forgave him. In fact, she had to stifle a laugh. Finally she understood there was someone else in her school who felt as clumsy and uncomfortable as she did, though likely not for the same reason. She thought, Well if a transgendered girl like me (it’s the first time she’d used that word in her mind) is like, one in thirty-thousand people, and what did they say, a boy like him would be one in ten thousand, last I read on the internet, then—no. Hell no. Maybe he’s just gay.

  Dusty took over. Dusty was a whore. Or wanted to be, Whit thought uncharitably. “Are you gay?” he whispered hopefully into Danny’s delectable ear.

  Whitney told him to shut up. Now she was blushing furiously. She did laugh out loud though, at the looks that paraded over Danny’s face. She also noted his breathing doubled, he grabbed onto the table with both hands, dropping his art supplies all over the floor, and whispered back, “Oh my God, does it show?”

  And they both started to giggle. One of them risked a look at the other and when their eyes met, it only got worse. They giggled and tee-heed until the teacher, Mr. Jay, gave them a dirty look. That d
idn’t help much, because after he glared he smiled. It was obvious he hadn’t wanted to smile, but he was young (and cute) and did anyhow. When they started snuffling into their hands and tears were running down both red faces, the teacher took pity and pointed at them and nodded toward the door. “Out,” was all he said.

  Once out and with the door shut firmly behind them, there was a moment when Whit thought they might hug each other, or at least fall against each other in order to help stifle the laughter, but it passed. She only leaned weakly against the wall, steadying herself with a hand on Danny’s shoulder. He was a few inches shorter than she was, but equally weak from their fits. “I’m so sorry,” Whit finally got out, wishing she could tell Danny about her imaginary friend.

  “I-it’s okay,” Danny got out, his face starting to be less red. “But how did you know—I mean, really, does it show?” Now he was serious, confused.

  “No, I just hoped so,” Whit heard her arch-enemy say. “Crap. Shit. Piss.” That was pure Whitney. “I better tell you, Danny, there’s just no way around it.” She shook his shoulder and moved in close. This was all her female self, now. “I’ve never told anyone else,” and tears were leaking out of her eyes. “But—I think I’m transgendered.” There, it was out, she’d said it. That made it real, didn’t it? It felt like it was real. It felt so damn true. “And I call my inner self Dusty.”

  As one, they sank to the floor, very close beside each other, with the hall all to themselves, and their hands joined. “I thought that was only butch lesbians,” Danny said. “You’re not like that, you’re pretty and cute and have great boobs, er…Not that I…um.” Here came his blushes again. Furiously this time, and he snorted a few times trying not to laugh again. Making things worse, which he was good at, he added, “All the guys say that, about your, um, br-br-boobs.” And then he was holding a sobbing girl with beautiful breasts. I will never understand girls, he was thinking, even if they’re actually guys.

  Just as Whit calmed herself down to hiccups, and Danny was making soothing noises and patting her back, the door to the art room opened and Mr. Jay came out. “Is this a bad time?” he asked, his mouth quirking. He knelt down beside the two kids. He was happy he could wear jeans to work, as art got messy, at least it did in his classes. When he got home, covered variously in finger paint, oil paint, water colors, chalk or markers, Aiden, his husband, just shook his head, kissed him if he could find a clean spot, and pointed him to the shower.

  “Uh, Whit, would you like to go to the girls’ room?”

  “No, don’t ask her…” Danny started.

  Whit made a heavy gurgling sound in her throat.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mr. Jay, who suddenly felt at a complete loss. Did she have her period? Did Danny hurt her? Mr. Jay knew nothing about girls. Nothing.

  Unfortunately, Danny and Whit made eye contact with each other. Whit’s chin began to quiver. Danny started to breathe funny. He snorted. Whit somehow, someway, got it together, except, Dusty took over. Where she had been going to say politely, “I’m all right now,” Dusty said instead, “I need to go to the fucking boys’ room.” And she found herself standing up, brushing off her butt, and stalking down the hall to the boys’ restroom. She entered, and the door shut behind her.

  Mr. Jay stood up. He felt faint. “What? She’s moody, isn’t she? Is it her time of the month?”

  Danny also had made it to his feet. “Mr. Jay,” he got out. “Haven’t you ever met a transgendered person—before her? Oh, and I’m gay.” He felt his chin rise in the air and he dusted off his butt the same way Whit had. He had no idea why he had said that. Then he turned and looked at Mr. Jay. “I’ve never told anyone that before, and it feels so real now, I mean, it is real, you know? I guess it’s probably a lot worse for Whit. What should I do?”

  Danny looked so troubled that Mr. Jay actually wrung his hands. Then he squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Go get her—him—out of there before the bell rings. Both of you come see me after school, and I’ll have some ideas for you. In the meantime—just tell her—him—that she’s—he’s—going to be all right.” He managed to breathe. He was completely off balance emotionally himself, and had zoomed back to his own high school days as fast as ugly memories can take you. It was like PTSD. He looked straight into Danny’s eyes, noticing the wrinkle in his forehead that showed how worried he was. Nice kid, Mr. Jay thought. “And, Danny,” he added sincerely, “you’re going to be all right, too.”

  Right, Danny thought as Mr. Jay went back into the art room. It sounded like both the door and the teacher breathed sighs of relief. What could an old man like that possibly know about the real problems kids faced every day, nowadays. Mr. Jay was probably over thirty for crying out loud.

  * * * *

  Danny was mystified, but happy. Mr. Jay was a fox, for an old guy, and Danny was suddenly aware that he didn’t just like the man, he loved the man. He was hot, he was artistic, and it seemed safe enough to let his feelings soar. They’d not been thrown out of class, they’d been excused from class. He stalked down to the boys’ room like James Dean. He even adjusted himself inside his Dockers. He’d have to get some jeans like Whit had. He was on top of the world—until he got to the closed bathroom door. He took a deep breath—and knocked.

  “Go away!” came an oddly deep voice.

  “It’s just me, Danny,” he called, opening the door about an inch. Did girls who were boys throw things—and if so, underhand or overhand? Which was about all he knew of baseball vs softball. Another deep breath; “I’m coming in,” he growled.

  But the room was empty—no, wait, the last stall door was closed. He couldn’t see any feet below the door, but he knocked anyhow. “Are you in there? It’s okay, it’s just me. Mr. Jay says you have to come out now.” Then Danny laughed. “This is so funny, isn’t it? But you really don’t want to be in here when the bell rings. Boys are disgusting. This room will stink!”

  “It’s not locked. Open it.”

  Danny pushed the door of the stall and it creaked open.

  “I’m stuck.”

  Danny looked at a pair of feet on the toilet seat, then up the jeans to the hips, and what the hell? What was she doing? “Are you—what the hell are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I was trying to climb out through the ceiling like in the movies. And I’m stuck. Get me out of here.”

  “Are you going to cry again?” Danny was terrified, not so much of her crying, but that he was about to laugh hysterically. Whit had a ceiling tile resting on her head. The frame was stuck sideways around one arm, and she was barely on her toes on the toilet seat, in imminent danger of falling in.

  “What’ll you give me?” Danny asked automatically, as he climbed up on the seat and reached up to loosen her. Though still shorter than she was, he was somehow able to apply just enough pressure here, and enough there, to get her loose. Standing with legs entwined on the toilet seat, praying for balance, he couldn’t help but feel her body pressed against his in the nicest way. He took advantage by kissing her lightly on what turned out to be her jaw. He hoped she didn’t notice but at the same time he felt like Superman. He managed to hold onto her as he got down, and take her with him, without grunting, laughing, or falling on his ass, which would have included her ass as well. While he held her, he copped a feel. “Nice ass,” he said into her ear.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Whit hissed sincerely, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her face was red with anger and shame.

  “Want to skip and go to the mall first? I have money…And the mall cop is my uncle…And Starbucks has those delicious snow globe cookies again.”

  “All right, I guess I can kill you later. Cookies first.”

  Finally, she giggled just a bit. Danny felt better, he felt heroic. He felt—horny. No, wait, wouldn’t that mean he wasn’t gay? “Let’s get out of here,” he said. And they did.

  * * * *

  Whit was quiet on the walk to the mall. The snow falling around the
m—again—didn’t interest her. They always had a white Christmas, a white New Year’s, a white January/February/March, and sometimes a white April. She hated it—she hated being cold. She swore someday she would move to Hawaii, and never be cold again. All this was going through her mind on autopilot, while at the same time she was berating herself for her comment to Danny about killing him. She figured he knew she was joking, but with what had happened just before the holiday break, well, it just wasn’t the right time for a comment like that.

  They got their treats and sat at a table in the corner, where they had some privacy. Danny had noticed she was quiet and wondered what he had done or said wrong. In front of them they had a pile of four cookies and one soda to split. Danny waited until Whit had bitten heartily into the first cookie, then asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no, not you anyhow,” Whit said, realizing what Danny really meant. Her eyes grazed over his face with affection, then strayed to the folded over front section of the paper which had been left on the adjacent table. “It’s that, that boy, Colin. He was in our class.” Danny had been picking up a cookie. He laid it down again, his eyes drawn to the newspaper, to the picture on the front page.

  “Oh yeah. He lived down the street from me.”

  “He was in my art class last semester,” Whit said. “You know Beau-Tox? He used to pick on Colin and me equally. You know, at first, before Mr. Jay came to be the art teacher. Ms. Wilson didn’t care. Thank God she got pregnant and quit.” She nibbled some crumbs. “Have you ever thought about, you know, doing what Colin did?”

  “Not like that!” Danny replied, gaining a second wind somehow. “Never that way, how messy, and that poor truck driver, I mean, walking in front of…You know I think I understand though. He was such a beautiful boy,” Danny blushed.

  “Yes, he was. He must have…Did you see him in the play? He was a good actor, too.”

  “I loved watching him in that play. I guess I can tell you I kind of had a crush on him. Man, if Beau-Tox ever picked on him in front of me, well, I’d probably be dead anyhow because I would have tried to stop Beau and then Beau and his friends would have killed me for sure.” Danny was too honest sometimes.