by Cris Beam
A note landed on J’s desk. It was from Chanelle: I’M DYING HERE. COFFEE LATER?
J turned and nodded. Nature documentary to be continued.
Chanelle and J walked to the coffeeshop near the school.
“What do you think of Rivera?” Chanelle asked J once they’d settled with their drinks.
“The school? It’s okay.”
“It’s ri-tit-ulous,” Chanelle answered. “But I’m starting college classes soon.”
“Ri-what?” J asked.
“Oh. Ri-tit-ulous,” Chanelle said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I don’t like how the dick gets so much play, even in language, so I don’t say ridiculous. I’m a feminist.”
J chuckled. He thought Melissa and Chanelle would probably get along.
“So, have you started your transition?”
Wow, this girl was forward, J thought. He wanted to tell her that was kind of personal, but Chanelle pushed on.
“I mean, are you taking hormones?”
“No.”
“Do you want to? I’ve been taking hormones forever. I mean, like since I was sixteen.”
“How?” The question came out like a pistol shot.
“What do you mean, how? I get a pill, I swallow it. I get a syringe, I shoot it.”
J shifted in his seat. “I mean, how can you get the hormones if you’re only sixteen?”
Chanelle rolled her eyes. “I’m not sixteen now. I’m twenty. I used to get my hormones at parties, but now I get them at the free clinic, legally.”
“Where are the parties?” J imagined the apartment where Melissa kissed Daniel, but instead of being filled with typical New York City teenagers drinking themselves into stupors, transgender men and women sat around magically growing beards or breasts while nurses poked them with syringes.
“Oh, they were just dance clubs, where you could pay someone for a shot. But they were for the girls. I don’t know where the boys go.” J’s face fell, along with his fantasy. Chanelle continued. “I hate it that the transwomen and transmen are so separate all the time. That’s why I talked to you. You seemed different.”
J didn’t know about this gender separation, or about dance clubs for transgirls; he didn’t know very much at all. If Chanelle recognized his ignorance, she probably wouldn’t think he was so cool anymore, so he just nodded in agreement.
“Do you think the estrogen’s working well enough?” Chanelle asked, turning her body to the side and sticking out her chest. “I’ve been doing this for almost four years, and I’m still barely a B.”
J felt embarrassed to cast his eyes so blatantly. Why would anyone want the damn things? Chanelle could have his. “You look good,” he mumbled.
“I wish my boyfriend thought so,” Chanelle said, facing forward again and dramatically casting her palm to her forehead. “Don’t look so surprised!”
“It’s just—” I thought you were flirting with me.
“You don’t think I’m pretty enough to have a boyfriend?”
“No!” J said. “Why doesn’t your boyfriend like your—them?”
“Honestly? I think it’s about his own self-loathing. That’s what my therapist thinks. And my moms. Well, my foster moms. He’s insecure because he needs a woman to validate his masculinity. Bigger boobs would make him a bigger man. It’s rititulous.”
“Whoa.”
“I know. Everybody thinks I should break up with him. But we love each other, you know?”
J didn’t.
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Sort of.” J tried to explain his situation with Blue, but when he got to the part about their argument in Starbucks, he couldn’t remember why or how it had all unraveled. The story seemed petty and childish in front of Chanelle, with all her sophistication and experience.
“You should just call her, tell her you love her,” Chanelle said.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know if you love her or if you should?”
“Both.”
“Does she know you’re trans?”
J shook his head.
“Well, don’t tell her.” Chanelle straightened her back and made her mouth a straight line. “That always messes things up. A lover will drop you in a quick minute if she knows you’re trans. Unless she’s a lesbian. Lesbians love their transmen. Gay men hate transwomen, but gay women love the daddies. It’s really not fair.”
J liked that word, lover. It sounded so adult. Would he be able to be Blue’s lover and keep his clothes on? And how did Chanelle know so much, how were her categories so clear and well defined? Maybe she was running her own nature documentary, too, and was just a better observer. J thanked Chanelle for her advice and went outside to call Blue.
Blue didn’t pick up, and J didn’t know what to say into her voice mail. By the way, I love you? He had never been good at messages. He wished he could go home and hang out with Titi for a while, space out on the computer, make himself a bowl of cereal. After yesterday’s episode with Melissa, he wasn’t eager to go back to her place, and he found himself walking aimlessly for a while. After about ten blocks, he realized where his legs were taking him: back to the clinic, where he’d gone asking about testosterone. Today was the day they were giving out shots.
J hoped Janet the pencil twirler wouldn’t be there when he walked into the waiting room. He needn’t have worried; the place was packed with men. Blending with the muscular urge, J thought. He pulled his cap lower to shield his eyes, picked up a magazine, and proceeded to stare around the room.
Some of the guys looked younger than he did, with the soft, chubby faces of childhood and clothes even baggier than J’s. These kids sat far apart from one another and texted into their phones or fiddled with their iPods. Two guys who looked slightly older sat next to each other and were laughing about something private; one had a bike wheel in his hand, and the other had thick tribal tattoos snaking up both forearms. There were black, white, and Latino men in the room, and two Asian guys—one fat and one skinny. A few were businessmen straight from work, with their shirtsleeves rolled up and briefcases nearby, but most were dressed casually. There was one full-on cowboy, with a hat and a Western shirt; he seemed to have fallen asleep.
I wouldn’t spook one of these guys, J thought. Nobody looks like he was born a girl. The laughing teenagers in the back were talking about some TV show, and their voices sounded deep and authentic. Something ached in J’s stomach—it was like a clench and a pull at once. I need you, he thought. But who was he talking to? No one in the room particularly caught his eye, though each man was interesting in his own way. I need you, he thought again. The voice was insistent. I need.
J wanted to run away and also to stay and stare and kick something. These men weren’t pictures on the Internet; they were breathing, talking, reading, living. What if Carolina really did write him a letter? He would be a man in this room, he would be a man.
I hate her, J thought, suddenly vicious. She stops me from everything. I was probably born female because she wanted a girl. She probably prayed for it.
J knew he was thinking crazy, but this room was so overwhelming. What was a girl, really? It was just a word, one stupid, horrible little word. If there wasn’t a word for male and female, would everyone just be a person? Would that be easier?
“Ian?” someone called from the corridor. The cowboy shook his head from his nap and got up.
J watched him walk. His stride was loose—not quite the bowling-ball look of the guys from his neighborhood but, still, this guy had a definite bulge beneath his silver belt buckle. Was that a sock? A fake penis? Had Ian had surgery?
Is that what made a guy? Chanelle thought dicks were overrated, but then again, she probably had one. When I was a baby, I didn’t hate myself. I only started when I learned I was a girl. A sadness trailed through J’s belly like a thick steam; he felt queasy. I learned to hate my body because of other people. And then that implacable thought again: I need you.
What if, on his own private nature channel, breasts were suddenly male anatomical parts? If all the guys on his corner strutted around showing off their chests as though it were manly to have big titties? Would he want to destroy his breasts then?
Then we’d walk on water and fish would fly. I’m definitely crazy. Chanelle had a therapist; she’d mentioned it earlier as though it was no big deal. He didn’t know anyone else who saw a shrink, but so what? Maybe someone here at this clinic could help him sort out whether he had to change his body or his brain. Neither one was cooperating very well anymore.
J managed to stay out late enough to avoid talking to Melissa for a few days, but by the time the weekend hit, Melissa jumped on his sleeping bag and rolled him around like a trapped worm.
“Ow!”
“Get up; it’s already ten!” Melissa was wearing J’s favorite pajamas, and she’d tied her hair into about thirty tiny ponytails springing out of her head in all directions. “I’m making you pancakes.”
Melissa was a terrible cook; even when she boiled eggs, they tasted burned. “I’m afraid,” J said. He sat up and pulled a sweatshirt from his bag.
“Good morning, J,” Karyn said brightly, emerging from the bathroom and swiping on some lipstick. “Aren’t we looking gorgeous this morning?”
J managed a smile and glanced at himself in the alcove mirror. He had an imprint from the sleeping-bag zipper cutting across one cheek and drool crusted around his mouth.
“Want pancakes, Karyn?” Melissa called out. She never called her “Mom.”
“No, I’m meeting a study group. Don’t burn the place,” she said. Karyn grabbed her bag and keys and was turning the doorknob when she spun back around. “Oh, and, J, I’m so proud of you.”
J looked at Karyn, surprised. Karyn took a few steps and held J’s chin in her hand, as if he were a misbehaving dog. But she was smiling. “It’s because you’re a Capricorn. You’re so determined, but vulnerable underneath. It makes perfect sense.” She patted J’s cheek and left.
“What was that about?” J asked, though he had a feeling. He couldn’t trust Melissa to shut up about anything.
“I had to tell her, J; she studies psychology. And she was totally cool. Obviously.” Melissa was using a turkey baster to squirt pancake batter into a pan. She shaped out the letter M, but it quickly dissipated into a batter blob. The kitchen was filled with smoke from her earlier attempts, now piled in the trash. “I hate cooking.”
“Let me do it.” J turned down the flame and used two spatulas to flip Melissa’s giant pancake. He added some butter, which he found at the back of the fridge.
“Do you know how many calories that is?” Melissa shrieked.
“You need something to keep it from sticking,” J said calmly.
Melissa covered her eyes. “I can’t watch.”
The pancakes were disgusting; Melissa hadn’t used sugar or butter and had substituted water for milk. Batter was all over the counter and stuck in Melissa’s hair, and she picked at the tasteless cakes, made somewhat more palatable with sugar-free jam.
“I’m sorry these are so gross; I wanted to make you something special,” Melissa said, spooning out more jam.
“Why?”
“Because! You totally saved my performance. We’re going up in three months.”
“What are you talking about?” J poured himself some coffee. At least that tasted normal.
“I told you. I got a solo with Becky’s performance group. She rented out a space in Bed-Stuy, and everyone is dancing their own work.”
J had no idea who Becky was, but he let Melissa ramble on.
“Anyway, it’s for one night, and it’s called ‘Threshold.’ Everyone interprets that in their own way. I’m interpreting you. Isn’t that perfect?”
“Perfect.” J was designing his pancake remnants into a smiley face on his plate.
“No, J, listen. I talked to my mom. She’d read all about you in psychology class.”
“About me?”
“Not about you, about transgender, fool. And it’s really cool. Think about it—a girl becomes a guy in a dance. At the threshold—I think the music will stop—this boy comes out of the girl’s body and is free. It’s totally threshold. And the costumes could be amazing.”
J was silent.
“Becky thinks it’s a great idea. She’s helping me with the choreography, but I want it to be really mine.”
“Who’s Becky?”
“She used to dance with Sisyphus—that company I took you to see, when you fell asleep?” Melissa picked at the pancake batter in her hair. “J, are you okay?”
“It’s just—you’re talking about my life.”
“I thought you’d be honored.” Melissa looked hurt. “Doesn’t this show I’m fine with you being transgender? I mean, I messed up the other night. I thought you meant intersex—but I read all about it, and I know the difference now. I was stupid. J, I’m sorry I took off my clothes and everything.”
“It’s okay.” As usual with Melissa, he felt the conversation going in too many directions at once.
“But now I get it—I get the photograph you sent me. And I’m going to use it in my dance. I’ll project it onto a big screen behind me.”
Melissa continued, but J stopped listening. His photograph of the jackhammer would be seen in public? He barely showed anyone his photos, let alone something so private.
“And that’s the threshold, right?” Melissa asked. “Isn’t it, J?”
“Um, I wasn’t listening.”
“J! We’re talking about my art! This is important!”
J looked at his empty coffee cup. “Why don’t you dance about your cutting? That’s a threshold.”
Melissa pouted. “Why? That’s stupid.”
“It’s a threshold between life and death. Cut deeper, and you’ll die.”
Melissa got up from the table and started splashing dishes around in the sink. He could tell she was angry. “Why when we’re talking about you do you always have to turn it around and talk about me?” she asked.
“Okay, let’s talk about me,” J said, standing up. “Do you really understand transgender, M? Are you really cool with it? Or did you just read about it in a book and think it would make a cool dance? Have you asked me anything, like how it feels to be transgender, how it feels to be me?”
“Fine, J,” Melissa said, shaking soapy water from her hands. “How does it feel to be you?”
“Like shit.”
“Articulate, as usual,” Melissa shot back.
“I know you couldn’t dance it,” J said.
“Yes, I could,” Melissa said. Her voice softened, and she wiped her soapy hands on a towel. “I don’t want to fight. I’m proud of you, and this will be a beautiful dance. I’ve known you for, like, a third of my life. That’s a long time. But everything you’ve ever done is on the inside of you, inside your own head. Your photography is amazing, but you don’t show it to anyone. I’m different; I need to express.” Melissa paused, trying to get her thoughts in order. “This boy or transgender or whatever part of you makes sense to me, because I know you so well. But that’s been inside of you, too, deep inside, for a long time. So I’m the one who can express it for you, onstage. See?”
J took a long breath. “Can I smoke in here?”
Melissa opened the window, and a gust of winter air blew in. J lit a cigarette. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Melissa said. Her eyes were glittering. “See, you’re like my muse. And I’m the artist. You’re the model, and I’m Michelangelo.”
J felt like throwing up, Melissa could be so obnoxious. “I meant thank you for letting me smoke.”
“Oh.”
How could he explain to her that he was not somebody’s muse, or a puppet, or a toy? How could he explain that she couldn’t begin to understand his life if most days even he couldn’t understand? And he was pretty sure Melissa didn’t understand herself, either. Nobody did. Except for, maybe, Buddha or some
thing. Being trans wasn’t special, and yet it was. It was just good and bad and interesting and fucked-up and very human, like anything else.
J couldn’t get any coherent words out but, as usual, Melissa still could. “Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “if you were choreographing a dance about being transgender, what would you do?”
“I’d probably just sit there.”
“Why? I mean, I was looking at you sleeping this morning and I had this idea for a butterfly, except I guess it would have to be more male. Like, first you’re in a cocoon as a girl, and then you emerge as a boy.”
“It’s not like that,” J said. I’m not a bug, he thought. No matter how much you want to dissect me. And who does that? Just poof! Becomes himself in one day. Still, Melissa was trying. He didn’t want to be a total jerk. “I mean, for me.”
“Why?”
“I’ve kind of already emerged,” he said. Why can’t you see what’s right in front of your face? “I’m staying here, aren’t I?”
“But my mom said transgender people have surgery, and then they become the other gender.” Melissa looked genuinely confused.
“No,” J said. He balled up his fists and rubbed his eyes. “It’s harder than that. It’s like I’ve always been male, I think. Surgery’s just one part; it doesn’t fix everything.” He sighed, trying to find the words to make her understand. “Does cutting change everything for you?”
“It helps,” Melissa said, getting red. “Why are you so obsessed with that?”
“Okay, so surgery helps. But that’s not the threshold. I’m, like, at a fucking threshold all the time.”
Melissa stared at him. She seemed to be adding something in her head. “Well, then, what’s the point when you become male?”
“Melissa, don’t you listen? I always have been!” He stubbed out his cigarette and got softer. Maybe she’d understand if he mentioned her romantic side; girls got that. “That’s why you liked me sometimes.”