Spirit Level

by Sarah N. Harvey

  A couple of minutes later, there’s a text message from her: Our donor contacted Meredith!!!!!!!!!!

  Followed by one from Alex: I need to see you.

  And one from Byron: I really miss you. I’m thinking of coming home.

  As Verna says, it never rains but it pours.

  TEN

  ROCK AND A HARD PLACE. Devil and the deep blue sea. I lie on the couch and try to think of all the ways Verna would describe my situation. I get stuck on Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  I jump when the phone rings. It’s Mom, checking in. I tell her the (partial) truth: I’m lying on the couch and I don’t feel very well. She says she’ll pick me up a variety pack of Rachel’s Ginger Beer, which is my favorite drink in the world, sick or not. A bottle of RGB—any flavor—makes everything better. I feel guilty when I thank her. Being deceitful is so exhausting. I wonder how Meredith does it.

  I turn my phone off and go for a walk with one of my favorite dogs, a calm, intelligent sweetheart named Ketch. My thoughts feel like out-of-control bumper cars, but I slow them down with some music—Fox Glove, Halsey, St. Vincent. I walk for miles, enjoying the thudding of my feet on the pavement, the slight breeze off the Sound. For a while I almost forget about half-sisters and donor dads and probably-trans boys. Almost.

  When I get back, there are seven messages on my phone. Two each from Lucy, Alex and Byron. One from Meredith. They all say basically the same thing: Where the hell are you???

  I ignore everyone but Alex. All that donor drama can wait. And Byron? A month ago I would have been ecstatic if he said he was coming home. Now I just don’t know. It’s not like I can talk to him about Alex. But part of me really wants to ask if we can be friends again. I can’t face that right now. It’s not like he’s turning up tomorrow.

  I text Alex: What’s up?

  He texts right back: I’d like to see you again.

  When?

  Tonight?

  Sure. 7 pm at that gelato place?

  Sounds good.

  I turn off my phone and spend the rest of the day on the computer, reading about being transgender. There’s a lot of stuff about puberty-suppressing drugs, but I’m pretty sure Alex hasn’t done that. You need to have your parents’ permission, for one thing, and lots of support from your family. And money. Not an option for Alex. One doctor says that without puberty-suppressing drugs, transgender kids are at risk for depression and suicide, and are subject to bullying, abuse, alienation and harassment. I hope Alex hasn’t ever been depressed or suicidal, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I would be if I’d been born into his family. Maybe Meredith saved him from that. In which case I should be grateful to her.

  I find an article called “What Happens When You Find the One… And He’s Nothing—Nothing—Like You Expected?” I don’t actually believe in the concept of “the one,” but the author has a lot of interesting things to say about falling in love with a trans guy. She says real love, true love, shakes you up inside like a Boggle board, jangling all your letters into wholly new words, some you’ve never seen before but recognize instantly nonetheless.

  She also says that to be trans is to feel the truth so acutely you can’t fake it. It is to be so consumed with the truth of who you are that you are willing to risk everything to inhabit it. To refuse to be what other people have decided you are—this is an act of courage few individuals dare try.

  I wonder if I have the courage to inhabit my own truth. I wonder what that truth is. I do feel jangled. But I also feel excited—and hopeful. Like maybe this can work.

  I borrow Mom’s car after dinner and get to the gelato place early. I’m staring into the gelato case, trying to decide between mango and bacio, when someone comes up behind me and puts their hands over my eyes.

  “My treat,” Alex says. “Let me surprise you.”

  You’ve already done that, I want to say, but I put my hands over his and we stand there for a few seconds. I can smell him—nothing gross, just a hint of something minty, like toothpaste or mouthwash. He also smells vaguely like a cedar tree. His hands are soft and the tiniest bit sweaty. We let our hands drop, and I step back and turn to face him.

  “I don’t normally like surprises, but I’ll make an exception,” I say. “Seeing as how I like all their flavors. It’s all about the combinations. The explosion in your mouth. The taste on your tongue.”

  He smiles. I smile back. A woman behind us mutters, “Get a room.”

  Alex turns to her and says, “We’re saving ourselves for marriage.”

  “After we have some gelato, we’re going shopping for purity rings,” I add.

  The woman pulls her phone out of her purse and starts playing Candy Crush.

  Alex grins at me and says, “Can you find a table for us, sweetheart?”

  “Certainly, my darling,” I reply. I lean over and whisper to the woman, “Isn’t he adorable?”

  She scowls and pokes her screen.

  I find a table and watch Alex at the counter. He samples quite a few flavors, licking the tiny spoons one by one, a look of deep concentration on his face. The girl behind the counter doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, judging by her body language—the hair flips, the way she smiles at him every time she hands him another spoon—I think she’s flirting with him. It’s a relief to see I’m not the only one who thinks he’s hot.

  He’s wearing his usual outfit—shorts and a buttoned shirt—but today’s shirt is one I haven’t seen before. It’s got very fine red-and-white stripes—from a distance it looks pink. His shorts are navy-blue plaid. Both the shirt and the shorts look as if they have been ironed. His hair is starting to curl around his ears. Nothing about him looks feminine to me. His features are strong: straight nose, broad forehead, high cheekbones. His mouth is wide, his lips full but not pouty. He has a few freckles on his cheeks and some on his forearms. He’s not nearly as pretty as Johnny Depp or Zac Efron. His hands and feet are big. His chest is flat. I wonder if he’s wearing a binder.

  When he comes back to the table, he is carrying a round tray loaded with six little white bowls of gelato, two spoons and two glasses of ice water. He places the tray on the table and then whips a red bandanna out of his pocket.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  He comes around behind me and blindfolds me with the bandanna.

  “A challenge. For every flavor you guess correctly, you can ask me a question. For every one you get wrong, I get to ask you a question. We have to answer honestly and quickly—we don’t want the gelato to melt. Fair?”

  If I was being my usual sensible self, I’d probably say, Why don’t we just ask each other questions without all this fuss? But level-headed Harry is nowhere in sight tonight. Slightly giddy Harriet has taken her place. Nevertheless, I’m glad I can’t see if people are staring at us. And I know my gelato, so with any luck I’ll learn something about Alex. “Bring it on.”

  “Ready?” he says.

  I nod and open my mouth. A spoonful of gelato lands on my tongue. “This one’s too easy,” I say. “Honey lavender.”

  “Correct,” Alex says. “Your question?”

  I consider leading with the big question—when did you know you weren’t a girl?—but I settle for “What are your parents like?”

  “My parents?” He sounds surprised. I wish I could see his face. “My parents are”—he pauses—“ignorant.”

  “Ignorant? That’s it?”

  “Yup. Next flavor.”

  The next spoonful is a flavor I’ve never had before. I take a wild guess—guava sorbet—but I’m wrong; it’s passion fruit.

  “What do you want to know?” I ask him.

  He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, “Have you ever been in love?”

  So much for holstering
the big guns.

  “Yes,” I say. “I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Not very conclusive,” Alex says. Is it my imagination, or does he sound relieved? “Next flavor.”

  I guess the next one correctly—it’s watermelon, which is tricky because it’s so subtle—and ask Alex if he ever disagrees with Meredith.

  “Not very often,” he answers.

  After I identify dulce de leche, I ask why.

  “Because she’s my best friend and she’s on my side. We’re a team. Have been since we were six.”

  When I draw a blank on zabaione, he asks me if I’ll reconsider meeting my donor.

  At which point I pull off the bandanna and toss it on the table. It lands in the passion fruit sorbet. My eyes are stinging, and I don’t think it’s just from being blindfolded.

  “So is that what this is really all about?”

  He shakes his head. “She told me he contacted her. I just wondered if you were curious. That’s all. She and Lucy are pretty excited.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve got, like, twenty texts from them.”

  “So?”

  I shrug and say, “Still not interested.” Even though I might be.

  Alex points at the only gelato we haven’t tasted. “One for the road?” he asks, scooping a bit onto a spoon and holding it out for me. I lean forward and eat it. So easy.

  “Stracciatella.”

  “Correctomundo. And your final question?”

  I take a deep breath and say, “When were you going to tell me you were born a girl?”

  Alex drops the spoon in a puddle of dulce de leche and stands up. “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

  I look at the rapidly melting gelato and grab another bite of honey lavender. Then I pick up the sticky red bandanna and follow Alex out of the restaurant. He’s moving fast down 3rd Avenue, past Benaroya Hall. I’m almost running to keep up with him. I can’t tell if he’s upset or angry or what.

  We cross University, then Seneca, and then he turns left on Spring and heads for the library. Not exactly what I’d call private, but I don’t argue when he sits down on a bench under some trees near the library’s entrance.

  “I love this place,” he says. “I couldn’t believe it when I first saw it. Such an amazing building, and it’s full of books. Paradise. It’s between work and home, so I come here a lot. Always calms me down.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask. I sit down beside him on the bench, but not too close.

  “Beacon Hill. With Meredith. It’s tiny—I sleep on a pullout couch—but it’s all we can afford right now. I want to move. Maybe to Georgetown or Columbia City.”

  “Columbia City? Really?” Columbia City isn’t exactly most people’s first pick in Seattle.

  He shrugs. “I like it. It’s…I don’t know…authentic. Meredith wants to move to the U District. Maybe we’ll end up there.”

  “Ooh. Frat boys and Huskies’ games,” I say. “Is that Meredith’s scene?”

  “Not really. It’s sure not mine. But we can’t afford Capitol Hill or Queen Anne.”

  “How about Edmonds?” I nudge him with my elbow.

  He smiles. “Now that’s too far. No one will ever give me a ride out there.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching people go in and out of the library.

  “How did you know?” he finally asks.

  I’m about to make up some bullshit story, but then I remember another of Verna’s sayings: Begin as you mean to go on, go on as you began. Lying to Alex wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to have him in my life.

  “I called Meredith’s parents,” I say. “And your mom.”

  “You what?” For a second, his voice sounds as high as mine.

  “I found them online, and I called them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to know more about Meredith. I know it sounds dumb, but I couldn’t figure out how she could have done all those things—dancing in Denver, volunteering at a shelter in Boise and working on an organic farm. It just didn’t make sense. So I did some research. Missoula newspapers, Google, Facebook. It wasn’t hard.”

  “And did they tell you about me?” It sounds as if he’s gritting his teeth, each word struggling to escape.

  I don’t want him to think that Barbara and Mark have betrayed him, so I shake my head and say, “No. I found a picture of your Little League team. Danielle and Meredith. I thought you had a twin sister. Meredith’s parents told me you didn’t, that’s all.”

  Alex turns away from me. The back of his neck is splotchy, and his shoulders are hunched.

  “And then I called your mom, and she told me that Alex and Danielle are the same person.” No way was I going to tell him how harsh his mom had been.

  “Did she tell you about the time I ended up in hospital after my dad beat me with my own baseball bat? And about that scar on my leg? That’s from when my brother and his friends jumped me. My brother had a knife.” Alex’s voice is muffled. I have to lean in to hear him. “Did she tell you that she took me to this crazy Pentecostal exorcist when I was twelve? And my brother told everyone at school I was gay? Which I’m not, by the way. Did she tell you that other kids called me he-she or it? Did she tell you that a bunch of guys shoved my head in the toilet bowl when I tried to use the boys’ washroom at school?”

  “No, she didn’t tell me any of that stuff. We didn’t talk for long.” I want to put my arms around him, tell him that I understand, but it would sound false. It would be false. I don’t really understand. I’ve transcribed dozens of horror stories for Mom, but I don’t know the girls. Except for Annabeth, their lives don’t intersect with mine. This is real. This is someone I care about. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to have your own family hate you. No wonder Meredith is so important to him.

  “You didn’t give them our numbers or anything, did you?” he says.

  “They didn’t ask. And I wouldn’t have even if they had.”

  “Meredith isn’t ready to talk to her parents. Maybe after she meets her donor…”

  I don’t want to talk about the donor thing. I don’t even really want to talk about the trans thing. Alex turns to look at me, and I can see the question on his face: Are we okay?

  In answer, I reach out and take his hand in mine. We sit side by side, watching a tiny girl stagger out of the library with a huge pile of books.

  “I was going to tell you,” he finally says, “but I was afraid, you know? A lot of girls would freak out.”

  “You thought I would freak out? Me? The most levelheaded girl on the planet?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, even you. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Yeah, I get that. And I did freak out a bit. It was a shock.”

  He grips my hand a bit tighter. “I’m not sure what to tell you.”

  “Anything you want,” I say. “I’m not going to freak out again, I promise.”

  “I started hormone therapy when we came here,” he says. “Things are starting to change—my voice is lower, I’ve got serious stubble. I wear a light binder, but I’m saving up for top surgery.”

  “So you’ve traded a bra for a binder,” I say. “And you’re shaving your face instead shaving your legs and pits.”

  Alex smiles weakly. “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just trying to, you know, lighten the mood.”

  “I get it,” Alex says. “You don’t need to apologize. But you’re the first girl I’ve really wanted to tell. The first girl I’ve really liked. So I’m glad you know. I’m a man—whatever that means. That’s part of why I came to Seattle—to live as a man, openly, in a place where no one knows me as that freak. It doesn
’t mean I tell everybody I’m trans though.”

  My hand is getting sweaty holding his, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I lean in and kiss him on the cheek. I can feel some fuzziness under my lips. And I can taste a bit of salt.

  “Do you like fish tacos?” I ask, pulling him to his feet.

  “Yes, why?” he says.

  “I know a place,” I reply.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “For what? Knowing a good taco place?”

  “For not freaking out. Or running away.”

  “What? And miss seeing Churchill again?”

  When I get home, Mom has gone to bed, but the light is still on in her room. She’s sitting up in bed, reading.

  “Fun night?” she asks.

  I slip off my shoes and lie down on the bed next to her. She puts her book on the night table and takes off her reading glasses. Her pillows smell of orange blossoms, and I think of Alex and me in Nori’s garden.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say.

  “Okay.” She snuggles down next to me, our heads almost touching.

  “You know I really like Alex, right?”

  She nods.

  I wonder for a moment if I’m about to betray Alex’s confidence, but I have to talk to someone. And Mom is like a vault. I trust her.

  “He was born a girl.”

  “Yes,” Mom says. “I suspected as much.”

  I prop myself up on one elbow and stare down at her. “You did?”

  “I’ve worked with some trans kids,” Mom says. “Maybe I’m just more aware of what transitioning can look like. And maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t notice. That you simply responded to him as a person.”

  “So you don’t think it’s weird?”

  She shoots me a stern look. “Weird? No. Difficult? Yes.”

  “But he doesn’t have a—you know—a penis.”

  “So? If it walks like a boy and talks like a boy…”

  “Then it is a boy. I know, but it’s not that simple.” I sigh and flop back onto the pillow. “And to top it all off, our donor contacted Meredith.”