I still felt uncomfortable with it, even if I knew she’d be over tomorrow to spend the weekend with us at Sarah’s. “Okay,” I said, and went to give her a quick kiss goodbye. She didn’t let me get away so easily, and our kiss only ended when I made a strangled noise because she grabbed my packer and surprised me.
“Sorry,” she said, but she was batting her eyelashes and not looking at all sorry as she opened the bedroom door to lead me out.
Mrs Dejanovic was standing in the bathroom opposite the stairwell trying to flatten the frizz out of her hair just like Bree did every morning, and she locked eyes with me in the mirror. She had bobby pins in her mouth. I smiled more out of shock than anything else and nodded my head once, respectfully. Her face softened as Bree lead us down the stairs.
Mrs Dejanovic shouted something to Bree in Serbian—not angrily, but the shouting in front of me was still weird—and to my surprise Bree shouted back at her. My Mum would have seriously killed me if I’d shouted at her, especially in front of a guest, but Bree didn’t seem worried at all.
“What did she say?” I quietly asked Bree, when we were at the door.
“She told me to take the rubbish out, and I asked her if I could maybe take you out first,” she translated, like talking back to her parents was completely normal and ordinary.
After she’d opened it, I glanced towards the stairs to make sure it was safe, and then kissed her briefly again. “Thanks for having me,” I said automatically.
She laughed. “Thanks for not, like, actually dying after Mum pretended to be about to ram your car, and then yelled and banged on your window.”
I kissed her once again, and then tried to walk steadily down her front stairs with my wobbly legs and get into the car. After what had happened I didn’t want to spend any time sitting there, so I immediately started it and drove off. Bree was waving at me from the doorstep with a peaceful smile.
It wasn’t until I was out of the suburb that I was able to relax at all, though. It was like Bree’s home had a menacing aura around it because of what I knew had happened there; such a pity, because it really was a very beautiful house. I wondered how long they were going to be in it before it got foreclosed on.
I felt horribly, horribly guilty that I hoped it would happen soon so Bree could just move in with me. I didn’t sleep well knowing she was alone in that house, and now that I knew it was every bit as tense as Bree had described it to me, I was even keener to get her out of there for good. I wanted her somewhere safe where she could focus on her study, even if for some completely fucking inexplicable reason she wanted to go back there all the time.
I exhaled as I merged onto the M1 on the way back to Sarah’s. Now that Sarah was keeping her baby, I had to move out of her place at some point in the near future anyway, didn’t I? It occurred to me that maybe I could lure Bree out at the same time; if Sarah was due in November or December, it would be after Bree’s studies were finished, and a really great time to start fresh in a new place, with our pasts behind us.
That was an unexpectedly really pleasant thought… at least, right until the part where I realised there wouldn’t be any way I could explain living in a one-bedroom apartment with Bree to Mum. We couldn’t just get two bedrooms to avoid that, either: this was Sydney. I’d be lucky if I could afford a place with both electricity and a roof.
God, and why was I even thinking about November anyway? I only had until July 19 to either come clean to Mum about Henry, or make her think everything was okay for long enough so I could figure out what the hell I could do to prevent her from coming to Australia.
And I had three weeks to figure out how the fuck I was going to do that.
THIRTEEN
I successfully managed to avoid Mum’s calls all weekend—I was a fucking Phone Tag Champion, I swear to god—but my luck ran out on Monday, when she stopped trying to catch me and just started leaving passive-aggressive voicemails again instead. I spent twenty minutes mentally preparing myself to call her back, but when I did, in the middle of lecturing me about ‘being a better communicator’, Grandma knocked something off a surface in the background and she had to go.
Since I’d braved actually talking to her, I didn’t feel obliged to listen to her stupid messages, so I left my phone on the table where I couldn’t see it flashing, and went to sit by the potbelly stove with Wedding Dresses for the Tall Woman. I was flicking through it and hoping some ingenious idea of how to handle Mum would come to me when the back door slid open.
Sarah gave me a bit of a weird look about the book, but was obviously having her own crisis. “Min,” she said, standing in the middle of the living room facing me. She gestured to herself, and announced with shocking gravity, “One of the pricks from Marketing asked me if I ‘have a new bra on or something’ today.”
I was struggling to understand how this was different from every other day. “This just in: Frost Marketing Execs Are Sexist Wankers?”
She rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “Well, yes, but no. My boobs are getting bigger. I can feel it, they’re so fucking sore. Obviously people can see it, too. Shit,” she said, holding the fabric of her top against her front. “What do you think, is it noticeable?”
Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I considered her chest. “Um,” I said. Unsurprisingly, they looked big. “I don’t know, they’ve always been big anyway?”
She sighed at me and flopped down on the other couch. “You’re no help. Ugh. My favourite blouse is too tight, which doesn’t make any sense because I’ve hardly been eating. Not unless my rack is exponentially bigger and I’m becoming a milk whale. I’m retaining all the water in the ocean, my ankles are the size of tree-trunks, and I hate everything. I can’t even have a wine. I can’t have anything except those disappointing pretentious teas that smell amazing and taste terrible. All the joy in my life is gone forever.”
I reached over and rubbed her leg. “You don’t look any different than you did last week, Sarah, honestly,” I told her. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard people say there’s a lot of joy to be had in motherhood.”
Sarah opened her eyes just enough to squint at me. “I am deeply suspicious of those people,” she said. “Especially right now, with my enormous sore boobs. God. The internet told me I had at least a couple more months that I’d be able to hide it—but not if I’m going to swell up like a water balloon. And if people can’t tell by looking at me that I’m pregnant, they can seriously just take one look at Rob: he’s practically swinging from the chandeliers. The clock is really ticking on how long I can keep this under wraps, at least around friends and family.”
I gazed down at my book. “I hear you on that one,” I said, joining her in a sigh.
At that, she turned her head towards my couch and frowned at me. Her eyes were travelling between Wedding Dresses for the Tall Woman and mine. “Okay, I don’t know Korean but I’m pretty sure I know what that is. From Mummy Dearest?” I nodded and stood for a second to pass it to her. She flicked through it. “Well, I can read this at least,” she said, holding the cover at me, where the only word Mum had written in English letters was ‘Henry’. She passed it back to me. “July 19’s his birthday, right? What day is it now? Like… July 4?”
I put the book aside. “Yeah.”
Sarah rested her head back on the couch. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that’s screwed up, just randomly buying your daughter a book of wedding dresses. Why is she so totally obsessed with marriage, anyway?”
I shrugged. “She’s just traditional. Plus, she’s had a really hard life and she’s just doing what she thinks is best for me so I don’t have one too.”
Sarah wasn’t buying it. “I had a few Asian friends in uni with traditional folks who’ve had hard lives, but they weren’t anywhere near as hardcore as your mum. What’s her deal?” Something occurred to her, and she sat up a bit. “Wait, maybe she knows already? Like, about your gender stuff?” I looked alarmed and shook my head. She sat forward, sti
ll frowning. “I don’t know, Toyboy, it just seems a bit too hardcore to me. That’s all I’m saying.”
I just shrugged again. Honestly, the topic of my mother exhausted me. I couldn’t stop fucking thinking about it.
“Anyway, I’m going to go put on something comfier.” She heaved herself upright. “Where’s your Schoolgirl, anyway? Isn’t Monday night Chem night?” she called back to me as she went up the hallway.
I didn’t answer her until she got back in her dressing gown. “Her dad’s off night shift, so she needed to go home and eavesdrop on her parents to find out what her mum thought of me.”
“Ah,” Sarah said, sounding interested. “How did it actually go? Is her mum crazy, too? I’ve been wondering about the type of family that produces someone like Bree. I bet they’re all a bit nuts.” She’d stopped in the middle of the living room and was looking at something on the table.
I made a non-committal sound. I wasn’t telling her Bree’s secrets. “They’re okay.”
Sarah went to collect what had caught her attention from the table and placed it innocuously on the arm beside me. It was my phone and my LED was still flashing from before. She didn’t mention it. “Come on, dish! Have they been Facebook-stalking their daughter’s boyfriend, too? Did they already know everything about you? Bree’s got basically no boundaries, she must have got that from somewhere.”
I looked back up at her; that was an interesting observation, but she didn’t get it from her family. “Actually, no. Bree’s mum looks like her, but that’s where the similarities end.” I paused. “Besides, Bree’s getting better with all that. She asked me before she took a photo of me on her bed. She never would have done that a few months ago.”
Sarah missed the important part of what I’d said and zoomed right in on something I should have kept my mouth shut about. “A photo of you on her bed,” she repeated, looking amused. “Gee, I wonder what she wanted that for.”
I groaned aloud. “Sarah. It was pretty innocent,” I told her, not mentioning how interested Bree had been in how my packer looked.
She smirked. “I have some photos like that of Rob,” she said, holding her phone up and waggling it. “They’re ‘pretty innocent’ too. Want to see?” Her eyes were twinkling.
I sighed at her. “I would say ‘fuck you’, but I think that’s gotten you into quite a lot of trouble lately.”
She laughed and put the phone back in the pocket of her dressing gown. “I’m kind of disappointed in you, Min. The door was so totally wide open for you to say ‘go fuck yourself’.”
I made a strangled noise. “Thanks for the glorious mental image. I don’t think I’ll be telling you to do that.”
She looked up at me with a grin. “Oh, you don’t need to,” she said faux-sweetly. “And apparently, you don’t need to tell Schoolgirl, either.” She winked.
I groaned and jammed my eyes shut. “Thanks for that!” I told her sarcastically, granted with a really intrusive image of Sarah doing exactly what she’d just hinted at.
“Serves you right,” Sarah told me, picking up my flashing phone and dropping it in my lap. I jumped. “Stop putting things off, Mister.”
As she fished a USB out of her handbag and sat down at her computer presumably to do work, I twisted in the seat. “I’m not putting things off. I actually already spoke to Mum, Sarah. Those are just the two voicemails she left before I did.”
“Uh huh, you’re not putting anything off at all, not Min Lee,” Sarah said, glancing up at me from her laptop with a smirk.
Now she was just messing with me. I rolled my eyes. Well, if she was going to do some work now, it meant that the bathroom was free, and I was free not to hang around here and be messed with. I stood. “I’m going to have a shower.”
“I know what you’ll be thinking about in there!” she called oh-so-innocently after me, basically guaranteeing that I would switch the colour-coded caps on her shampoo and conditioner again.
Unlike Bree’s bedroom, Sarah’s bathroom had a lock. I can’t even explain how much of a relief it was when I moved in and discovered it; I’d never had locks on doors in the tiny little flat I’d lived in with Mum when I was growing up. Mum always barged into the bathroom to go to the toilet while I was in the shower.
A bathroom lock was like a godsend. It made a loud noise when I latched it, though. I paused for a second afterwards, wondering if Sarah thought I’d locked the door because I was in here masturbating like she was teasing me about. I caught sight of my female figure in the mirror and made a face at it. As if, I thought, turning on the water. What the hell did I do with that, anyway? I had zero desire to interact with it, and the only time I’d ever even considered touching myself was when Henry had asked me if I’d do it for him once. When I said no, he’d never asked again. Just the idea of doing it made me feel a bit gross and wrong and uncomfortable.
After I'd switched Sarah's shampoo and conditioner so she'd mix them up and get annoyed, I had assumed that’s where thinking on the subject ended. I was wrong. While I was standing under the flow of warm water, my brain kept wandering back to the thought of Bree using that photo of me to imagine us having sex. If she did, judging from the way she’d responded to my packer being so obvious, she was probably imagining that I had a dick.
I looked down my body; at my breasts, my hips, and between my legs. I didn’t blame her for imagining it differently, because I certainly did. I pressed my breasts flat against my ribs for a couple of seconds and considered that change. I wasn’t particularly bothered by not having a dick, but I still wasn’t happy with the shape of my body elsewhere.
Testosterone would fix that, I thought, and for just a second I seriously considered starting the process of getting injections. Then I remembered I’d lose my androgynous voice—something I could definitely not hide from Mum—and that my smooth body would get all hairy. Testosterone wouldn't fix my chest, either, only surgery could fix that. Surgery was seriously a last resort, though. Not only because I hated doctors, but also because Mum's habit of constantly walking in on me all the time—“You really think your own mother has never seen you naked before?”—meant she would pretty quickly find out.
I let go of my breasts and leant my forehead against the warm tiles to consider all that. I wondered if that body, the reconstructed one, was the one that Bree imagined when she fantasised about us. Was her expectation that I might end up being a trans guy at least a little bit motivated by wanting me to end up being a trans guy? And was her thing about my packer kind of indicative of not really liking what was already there? Maybe, I thought. Then again, even though I’d never let her touch me beneath my underwear before, she’d wanted to, and she’d quite enthusiastically offered to go down on me more than once. It didn’t seem like something she’d offer unless she was actually happy with what I had.
The question was eating me up, and since my phone was in the pocket of my hoodie on the bathroom floor, I stepped out of the shower for a second and dried my hands so I could text her about it.
“haha where did that question come from????” she replied. “yeah i guess i do imagine you have a dick sometimes??? not always though because you dont and its nice to think about what i could do for you when you let me…….. :) :)”
I made a face, reading over that answer as I sat on the edge of the slippery bathtub. “Would you prefer if I had one though? You seem to really like my packer…”
“yeah of course because its something you actually let me touch!!! but id touch whatever was there if i could…….................. ;)”
I turned the phone over in my hands. But you never try to, I thought, and couldn't decide if that was because she was being sensitive about how uncomfortable I was with my body, or because she actually wasn't that interested. “Please be honest with me, Bree, I mean it: are you just saying that to make me feel better or is it actually true?”
“omg why do you think im lying to you??? i never lie to you about this stuff :( :( :( i promise im not......
.. :( :( why are you suddenly so worried about it??? did something happen???”
That was a lot of sad faces, especially when she'd started off with happy ones. I winced; that was my fault. “I’m sorry to grill you, I didn’t mean to suggest you’re lying.” I had a think for a bit before I decided how to continue. “Nothing really happened, but I'm just stressed out in general because I still have no fucking idea what to do about Mum. I don't know if I CAN do anything.”
“ooohhhhh” she texted me, and then followed with, “would she really come back here though?? shes not just saying it to scare you into marrying him??”
I wouldn’t have put it past Mum to try scaring me into doing something, but I didn’t think that’s what she was doing this time. “No, she means it.”
“how does she think that will help though seriously?? its not like she can physically force you to marry someone you broke up with... will she just nag you or shout at you or something??”
God. I didn't know how to explain her. “There are so many ways to force someone to do something.” Bree sent me a series of question marks, so I replied, “Once in primary school I was friends with this girl who had parents that were really hippy and alternative. Mum didn’t like it, so she hassled the teacher, and the principal, and the girl’s parents, and eventually everyone just got sick of her and wanted nothing to do with me.” That was only the beginning, too. I had so many fucking examples. Immediately after I sent that message, I started another one with, “And another time she didn’t like that I got a job while I was at uni, so she came and just sat in the store and stared at me until I had to quit because she was creeping out the other employees and customers.” I was sure Bree couldn't read as fast as I was typing. “And she wouldn’t let me fucking go anywhere. And when I’d tell her that, she’d gesture to the door and be like, ‘Go then! I’m not stopping you, go wherever you want!’ but we lived way out in the South-Eastern Suburbs and I could only get to places by train, and she never gave me any money to do that.”
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