The Art of Breathing

by TJ Klune

  I’d never felt more flustered in my life. “I’m not scared of your hands!” To prove my point, I reached out, grabbed his hand, and held it in my own. “See? And I know what mysophobia is. I am smart.”

  He grinned. “Ah! There’s the smugness.”

  “It’s not smugness. It’s fact.”

  “God, you’re just a handful, aren’t you?”

  “Puns are the lowest form of humor.”

  “Bad day?”

  “You caught me at the wrong time.” Understatement, that. Every time seemed to be a wrong time lately.

  “Panic attack?”

  I watched him closely to see if he was making fun of me. It didn’t seem like it, so I finally said, “Something like that.”

  Corey nodded, and I was sure now he had eyeliner on, at the very least. “I used to have them too. When I was younger.”

  “Younger? How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Oh.”

  “Legal,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

  I almost laughed. “You don’t have them anymore?”

  “What?”

  “Panic attacks.”

  “No.” He didn’t say “anymore,” and I didn’t push. “This is nice,” he said after a time.

  “What?”

  “Sitting here, in the sun. And look! We’re holding hands! How very romantic this is! I surely am going to write in my diary about this tonight. I’ll probably end up dotting all the I’s with hearts.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I sputtered for a bit. I tried to pull my hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. Eventually, I stopped.

  We never did make it to class that day.

  I learned later that Corey was also Kori the day she showed up at my house in a long dress, her hair fanning out around her face, her eyes done up in smoky makeup. It’s called bigenderism, which is a subset of transgenderism. Being transgendered means identifying yourself as the opposite of the sex you are born as. Bigenders are those who identify as both genders and can live as either, even switching between the two to make themselves feel more comfortable. Corey was Kori, and vice versa, but certain things could trigger the appearance of another. Corey was brash and blunt. Kori was quieter, almost airy. Corey had a lower voice, with the tiniest bit of a lisp. Kori’s pitch was higher in register, the words flowing like water. It became so I could predict who I would be with on any given day.

  Being bigendered is different from being transgendered, though many people don’t see it that way. It is different from being a transvestite, though many people can’t see how. He’s not a drag queen. He’s not a woman trapped in a man’s body. It’s not always about the physical, for the most part. It’s about the psychological.

  Corey is Kori. And Kori is Corey.

  Even then, even at the beginning, it mattered not to me.

  He was Corey when he told me he’d grown up in foster care, never knowing who his parents were.

  She was Kori when she told me she was at Dartmouth on a full ride. Gender studies, even. It turned out she might be smarter than even I am.

  He was Corey when he waited for me outside of the science building.

  She was Kori when she waited for me outside the library.

  He was Corey the first time he kissed me. It was a surprise when it happened, but afterward, I was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. It was outside a coffee shop in the rain. Everything around us smelled of wet leaves, and I remember thinking, Oh. Oh. This is nice. I was able to ignore the little voice in my head that said, Dominic, Dominic, Dominic.

  She was Kori the second time she kissed me. My hands were in her hair, and I wondered what this meant for me. I felt guilty, for a time, wondering if I was still gay. Or bisexual. Or even pansexual. But I kissed her, and she kissed me, and I realized Kori was Corey, and it didn’t matter who I was or who she was. That little voice didn’t speak up much that time.

  He was Corey the first time he met Bear.

  She was Kori when she met Otter.

  They saw whoever he or she showed them, and it mattered not to them.

  He was Corey the first time we tried to have sex. His dorm was quiet, the lights down low. My hands were shaking, my heart thudding, and I was sure I was going to throw up all over him, either physically or emotionally. The little voice did nothing but laugh.

  She was Kori when I had my panic attack moments later, touching my hair and back, her voice high and sweet, telling me it was okay, that it’d be okay. Kori comes out more for the panic attacks than Corey. I think it’s his way of dealing too.

  He was Corey when he went with me to a PETA rally, that small smile on his face as he watched me scream that fur was murder. “I don’t think the ecoterrorist is in training anymore,” he told me later.

  She was Kori when she announced she was switching over to vegetarianism.

  He was Corey when I caught him eating a sausage pizza four hours later. “Oops,” he said through a mouthful of animal companion and absolutely no shame. “It didn’t take.” He grinned at me, and there was pig stuck in his teeth.

  He was Corey.

  She was Kori.

  I know what it sounds like, trust me. Bigenders, much like transgenders, have long had to deal with the misconception of a mental illness. Corey told me one night, when neither of us could sleep, that doctors considered him bipolar when he was younger. Even schizophrenic. They treated him and her as such. “I’d be Kori because I was scared,” he said bitterly. “And they thought I was crazy. Most of them did, anyway.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” I said, kissing his bare shoulder.

  “The crazy ones never do,” he said. Then he laughed and all was right in the world.

  At least for a little while.

  He was Corey when he broke up with me three months later. “It’s not right, Ty,” he said. His words were kind, but his voice was trembling. “You know it. I know it. I love you too much to love you like that.” I waited until he left before I let the panic overtake me. Bear found me in the bathtub and waited with me until the earthquakes went away. Until the ocean receded.

  She was Kori when she showed up at our house three weeks later in the middle of the night. I hadn’t seen her since we’d broken up, though she had called. “I can’t do it!” she cried. She was angrier than I’d ever seen her before. “I can’t not have you there. You can’t cut me out, Tyson! You can’t! I won’t let you!”

  He was Corey when we met up a few days later. Both of us were nervous at first. We fumbled our words. We tripped over ourselves. But finally, we found the rhythm, the beat that we both could dance to, and instead of Corey and Ty or Kori and Ty, we became something so much more.

  Corey became part of my family, the crazy, fucked-up thing that it is.

  So did Kori.

  He was Corey when he asked me why I never went back to Oregon with Bear and Otter. I told him there was nothing for me there.

  She was Kori when she met Creed, Anna, and JJ when they came to visit. They doted on her. They adored her. And as they left, she looked at me and said, “How can there be nothing for you there when they belong to you?”

  He was Corey when the truth came out about Dominic. I don’t know how it happened or why, but all of a sudden I told him about Dominic. Everything about Dominic. Our word of the day. Our promises. Our friendship, my love, the bright and burning and god-awful thing that it was. The look on his face when everything was inevitable. His broken voice due to screaming the night his mother was murdered by his father. How big he was to me, both physically and emotionally. “It was hero worship,” I finally said, the tofu stir fry in front of me going cold. “I can see that now. That’s all it was.”

  A minor earthquake struck when I said that, but I kept it at bay. After that, the panic attacks stopped, for a time. But I wouldn’t realize that until later, when I was standing on a beach in Seafare in the rain.

  Corey watched me for a while, not saying anything. Eventuall
y, I looked away. The restaurant we sat in was almost empty.

  Then, “I knew, I think.”

  “Knew what?” I asked.

  “That there was something else about you.” He smiled sadly. “You were there, Ty, with me, when we were together. But you were never there.”

  “I was,” I said weakly. My own words felt like lies.

  “This Dominic.”

  “What about him?” I desperately wished the conversation was over. I didn’t know why Corey brought it up in the first place. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

  Corey shrugged. “He’s different. To you.”

  “Meaning?”

  He leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “Meaning, you’re a liar. You can say you’re over it, that it was just something like childhood adoration. Say that all you want, Ty. But you’re a liar.”

  You’re a liar, it agreed.

  She was Kori when she convinced me to come back to Seafare, one last time. “You’ll regret it,” she said softly. “If you don’t go back at least once, you’ll regret it.”

  “I don’t want to see him,” I said quickly.

  She laughed that Kori laugh, a light and seductive thing. “Notice how I didn’t bring him up. You did.”

  Shit.

  “Besides, it’s not about him, Tyson. It’s about your family. Anna. Creed. Their parents. JJ. And it’s about Mrs. Paquinn. I know you, Ty. I know it’s killed you not to see her again. And it’ll hurt even worse later on. Trust me. It’s easier to avoid now if you don’t think about the regret later on. But eventually, regret is all you’ll know.”

  “That psychologist bullshit doesn’t work on me,” I retorted.

  Kori smiled. She knew. She knew she was right. And what was worse, she knew I knew. “When do we leave?” she asked me.

  SO THERE it is, the history lesson. All of it, I think. At least the high points. I’m sure there are countless stories I could tell you about my time away from Seafare. Things that have molded me further into becoming who I am today. Maybe I’ll tell you, one day. But here, now, in this moment, it’s about coming home to a place that I’ve avoided for as long as I possibly can. It’s about this drive into town on a rainy afternoon, Seafare looking bigger than it has any right to, looking brighter than it ever has before.

  Here are the places of my youth.

  Here are the things I’ve tried to forget.

  Here they all are, spread out around me, and it’s like I’ve never left.

  Here is where it began.

  And here is where it begins again.

  I know what you’re thinking. This is just like Bear and Otter! A homecoming after a long absence! A reunion destined to happen! Everything will be as it was and as it should be. It is, after all, inevitable. It’s like our word of the day, or like our ability to breathe. To just breathe.

  But, in reality, life happens.

  Paths that seemed convergent instead split apart.

  It’s no one person’s fault. It just is.

  Some things, no matter how much we wish, no matter how much we hope, no matter how much we beg for them in our secret hearts, are not meant to be.

  I am here to say good-bye.

  Nothing more.

  8. Where Tyson Attends the Most Awkward Party Ever

  “MY GOD,” Corey breathes as we pull up to the Green Monstrosity. “Photos do not do justice to this house. This… this is beyond epic.”

  It is. It always has been. The Green Monstrosity is way past epic. A two-story piece of offensive architecture that rises out of the suburbs like a big fuck you to the rest of the neighborhood. It’s weird, really, the feeling that hits me when I see it again for the first time in close to four years. It is epic yes, the green so grotesque it should be illegal, but it’s still just a house like any other. It has walls and a roof and a yard.

  So why then, when we pull up next to it, the driveway already full of cars I don’t recognize, does a lump form in my throat? Why is it that I can feel heat prick my eyes? It’s just a house. That’s all it is.

  But that’s a lie. It’s more than that. The Green Monstrosity was the first time since I could remember that I knew that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay for Bear and me. We said good-bye to the hole-in-the-wall apartments with the gross carpets and the peeling walls. We said good-bye to a life where we existed merely by floating along. We said good-bye to the life where I wasn’t sure we’d make it, though I tried to put on a brave face, at least as much as a nine-year-old ecoterrorist-in-training could do. I was just a little guy, but I would have torn the world apart with my bare hands for my brother if called upon to do it.

  It’s just a house, yes, but it’s also more than that. It’s a sign that things could get better.

  “Please tell me you’re never going to paint over that,” Corey says. “Seriously. It’s like the Jolly Green Giant masturbated all over your house.”

  “And there’s an image that will never leave my head,” Bear says.

  “Would his semen be green?” Otter wonders out loud. “That seems like it could be true. And very gross.”

  “It’d probably taste like peas and carrots too,” Corey says.

  “At least it’d be good for you,” I say. “Maybe that’s what the mashed peas baby food is.”

  “That is foul and offensive,” Corey says. “Most likely correct as well.”

  “Thank God this is already starting,” Bear says. “We’ve been home for a minute and we’re already discussing the Jolly Green Giant jacking off for baby food. For once in our lives, could we please have a normal conversation before we enter a social gathering?”

  “Bear’s just upset because now that’s all he’s going to think about,” Otter explains to Corey. “It’ll probably make him feel a tad bit aroused.”

  “Gross!” I groan. “I do not want to think about Bear getting turned on because of the Jolly Green Giant. Or for anything. You guys keep your weird role playing to yourselves.”

  “We don’t role-play Jolly Green Giant!” Bear says, sounding insulted. “Canned-food-mascot sex is not one of my kinks.”

  “You have kinks?” Corey asked, ears perking up. “Dish. Now.”

  “Never in your dreams,” Bear assures him.

  “You can tell me,” Corey says. “I’d listen.”

  “That’s my brother,” I say as I smack him. “And my Otter, who is my sort of dad-brother. That is not okay.”

  “We could get, like, a green body suit,” Otter tells Bear. “And tape green leaves and asparagus to you or something. That’d be kinda hot.”

  “This is why I have to go to therapy,” I say to Corey. “Because of stuff like this. It happens all the time.”

  “You want to tape asparagus to me?” Bear asks. “I could probably get into that.”

  “It’s good to know that even old people can get funky,” Corey tells me. “Gives me hope when I’m their age in like forty years.”

  “That was probably not the best thing you could have said,” I say as Bear starts to sputter indignantly.

  “Old? I will punch your kidney right out of your body, you little—”

  “He won’t really,” I say. “He just likes to sound tough. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Isn’t it normally wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

  “Normally. But this is Bear. He couldn’t even do that.”

  “Once again,” Otter says, “I don’t quite know how we got to this point.”

  “That seems to be a common occurrence with you guys,” Corey says. “I can’t wait until we go to dinner. I’ve heard Bear gets loaded on wine and cries, and then the whole thing dissolves into a big case of what-the-fuckery where everyone talks at once, and it usually ends in overshared feelings and hugging.”

  “That was one time!”

  “What about the Kid’s high school graduation dinner?” Otter asks.

  “And when you got that teaching contract?” I ask.

  “And when the New Yorker bought that pho
to of that homeless encampment I took?” Otter says.

  “And when I made the dean’s list my first year?” I say. My first and only time.

  “I might have a drinking problem,” Bear mutters.

  “And an emotional-style vomiting problem,” Otter says.

  “And a verbal diarrhea problem,” I say.

  “It was the Green Monstrosity,” Corey says, trying to reign us all in. “That’s how we got here.”

  Bear shrugs. “We talked about repainting it, especially when the paint started to peel on the siding. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Didn’t feel right.”

  “It took the Home Depot paint guy at least three weeks to match it,” Otter says. “I’m pretty sure he had to go to the Russian black market to find the components to get the color right.”

  Bear rolled his eyes. “It’s wasn’t that hard. He just wanted you to keep coming in so he could flirt with you.”

  “You were just projecting your insecurities on him, dear. He wasn’t flirting with me.”

  “Oh really? Was I? So I suppose it totally matters to paint color when he asked you how much you worked out and that he thought you were just so vascular. He laughed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman at every single thing you said!”

  “I’m funny,” Otter says. “And vascular.”

  “You’re not that funny. And when your veins stick out, it’s gross.”

  “That’s not what you said last night.”

  Bear grins and rolls his eyes.

  “Last night?” I say in horror. “In the hotel? We were sharing the same room!”

  Bear shrugs. “That’s why the bathrooms have locks.”

  “Home Depot guy definitely wanted your penis,” Corey says.

  “Here we are,” I mutter. “Back to the penises. I’m never going to get out of therapy. I’ll be in my nineties and still haunted by the memories of Bear and Otter as sexual beings.”

  “Way sexual,” Bear says.

  “Super sexual,” Otter agrees. “Asparagus and all.”