Both Sides Now

by Peyton Thomas

  My body is my house, I want to tell him. It’s where I live. I haven’t felt safe in it for a long, long time. And I’d give up anything—give up Georgetown, even—to finally, finally have a home of my own.

  “No one’s saying you can’t have the surgery,” says Mom, playing good cop. “Only that you’ll have to wait.”

  “But . . .”

  “No fucking but.” Dad brings his hand down, flat, on the tabletop; the whole room shakes. “It’s not happening. Nothing we can do. You’re just gonna have to live with this. Can you do that?”

  Well? Can I? I’ve made it seventeen years in this body. What’s one or two more? I don’t want to go on like this, but I have to go on like this. What other choice do I have? Working part-time jobs between my classes next year? Just working next year, period? Setting college completely aside?

  My breath is growing short. My pulse racing. My head swimming.

  “Can you do that?” Dad repeats.

  I nod. There are some arguments even I can’t win.

  chapter seven

  I’m curled fetal on my bed, knees to the chest I hate, when Jonah’s ringtone peals through the room. It bears mentioning that he chose it himself: “Squidward Nose,” by the rapper Cupcakke, her special euphemism for a certain piece of genitalia. It is extremely funny, highly inappropriate, and deeply jarring in my present catatonia. I startle so hard that my knee collides with my nose. The first thing I say to him when I pick up the phone is “Ow.”

  “Are you okay?” He hesitates. “Should I call you back?”

  “No, no, no.” I might be bleeding, but Jonah doesn’t need to know that. “Just bonked my nose. I can talk.”

  “. . . All right,” says Jonah—not believing me, clearly, but not wanting to pry. “I just wanted to check in, you know? After that talk we had the other day? About your mom?” He sounds tentative. “How are you holding up?”

  “Honestly?” I wince at the new pain when I inhale. Am I bleeding? “I am holding up very, very badly.”

  “What happened?” He pauses. “I mean, besides everything with your mom and the paper?”

  “Let me see. Where do I start?” My nose still hurts, but when I lift my fingers, swipe experimentally, there’s no blood. “Well, we might lose the house, and we will lose our health insurance, which means I’m not getting surgery this summer, unless you’ve got a spare ten or twenty thousand dollars lying around.”

  “Wait. Surgery?” Jonah sounds confused—and a little fearful. “I didn’t know you were having surgery.”

  “Oh, don’t worry—it’s nothing life-threatening.” I don’t know if this is, actually, strictly true. “It’s . . . what’s the word? Elective. An elective surgery.”

  “Oh,” Jonah says, confused—and then the transgender penny drops: “Oh.”

  “Yeah. That kind of surgery.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I could help you set up a fundraiser online. My dad could put a link in the church newsletter. It goes out to, like, a thousand people a week.”

  I know I should feel grateful for Jonah’s help, but I only feel ashamed. He’s really offering to fundraise, for me, among his father’s congregants, at a church I don’t even belong to. These are people with their own rent to pay, their own families to feed, their own prohibitively expensive medical bills to weep over.

  “Jonah. Please.” My throat feels tight. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Sorry,” he says, sounding stung. Was I too forceful, just now, turning him down? Did I hurt his feelings? “I just . . . want you to have this surgery. If you need it. Which it sounds like you do.”

  The silence feels heavy—with my embarrassment, with his. I’m grateful that he, clearing his throat, breaks it first.

  “So, uh, Nasir texted me. He was wondering if you wanted to drive up to Seattle this Saturday. Run a practice round.”

  My first answer is a knee-jerk: no. “Absolutely not. Treat our sworn enemies to a taste of our cases right before Nationals? No. Never.”

  He laughs. “They’re not going to steal all our points, Finch. They’re better debaters than that. Besides, when are we going to have another chance to practice with a team of their caliber?”

  Jonah’s got a point. We’ll run a few rounds in debate club, of course. But even Jasmyne, our heiress apparent, can’t sharpen my steel the way Ari would.

  “Just the one round?” I hedge. “This Saturday?”

  “Just the one,” he repeats. “Are you in?”

  “I’m . . . tentatively in.”

  “Awesome,” he says, and I can feel a smile, some relief, moving into his voice. “I have to drive Bailey up to SeaTac on Saturday morning—to his Juilliard callback. I figured we could drop him off, then drive to Annable.”

  I sit up straight. I did not consent to spend my morning in a compact vehicle with Jonah and Bailey and all their simmering tension.

  “What about his parents?” I’m desperate. Is it too late for me to get out of this? Or, at least, get Bailey out of this? “They can’t drop him off?”

  “Nah. They work weekends at Amazon. Brutal hours, apparently.”

  “I bet.” I feel an immediate flood of sympathy for Bailey—and, God, for his parents. Visions of windowless warehouses, churning assembly lines, and Jeff Bezos’s bald pate dance in my head.

  “Besides, Bailey really wanted me to see him off. Gotta give him a kiss for good luck before he gets on that plane, you know?”

  “So you guys are doing better?” I ask, dubious. “You talked about the musical?”

  “Oh, no. There’s no point, really.” He laughs; there’s a false note in it. If he were here next to me, he’d give me an equally false shrug, I bet. “I’m over the whole thing. Honestly.”

  I’m deeply unconvinced. “. . . Okay, Jonah.”

  “Seriously, Finch, he and I are totally fine.” He laughs again. “It’s amazing what a good make-out session will do.”

  I wince. “Maybe I should find my own ride to Annable, then.” One last attempt to get out of this third-wheel arrangement. “Wouldn’t want to take up the backseat if you need it for more important things.”

  “And what are you implying, Finch Kelly?”

  “Nothing! Nothing at all!”

  Jonah snorts. “Pick you up at seven?”

  “I’ll set my alarm,” I say.

  I hang up. I chew on a hangnail. It’ll be fine, won’t it? This ride up to Seattle? Jonah and Bailey haven’t exactly been on the best terms lately, but if Jonah says they kissed and made up, I guess I have to take him at his word. They haven’t had the fight about the musical. Or the fight about college. Not yet. And, God willing, they won’t have those fights on Saturday. Not with me in the car.

  I think.

  I hope.

  * * *

  —

  When Jonah told me Bailey would be flying to New York this weekend, I assumed one suitcase. A suitcase and a carry-on, tops. I was absolutely not anticipating every seat in the back of Jonah’s car, middle sliver included, to be filled with luggage, each piece carefully buckled in. Safety first, I guess.

  I tap on Bailey’s passenger-side window. His hands are occupied with his phone, so his elbow goes to work, pressing on the side-dash button to bring the glass down.

  “Hey.” He doesn’t look up from his screen. “What’s up?”

  “Should I balance one of the suitcases in my lap?” I ask. “Or, uh . . .” I don’t actually know what the “or, uh” would be, here: riding on the roof like Mitt Romney’s poor old diarrheic Irish setter?

  Jonah looks over his shoulder, apparently for the first time. “Bailey! Where’s Finch supposed to sit?”

  Bailey, finally, lifts his eyes from his phone, and follows Jonah’s gaze into the backseat. “Oh!” He sounds like he, too, is seeing this mountain of luggage for the fir
st time—even though he’s the one who put it there. “Oops! I totally forgot you’d be riding along.”

  Jonah laughs, opens his door, steps out. “I’ll clear a seat for you, Finch.”

  “I am so sorry,” Bailey says, more to Jonah than me. “My brain is soup this morning.”

  His brain’s sharp enough to call out careful instructions when we start to move his luggage, though. “Be careful with that duffel! Don’t let it drag on the ground. If the mud soaks through and stains the Xylophone, that’s, like, a forty-dollar dry-cleaning job.”

  I’m about ready to drag Bailey out of the car for some decidedly non-stage combat. But Jonah, ever the diplomat, manages a lighthearted joke: “Of course, babe. You know how much I value your sequins.”

  Duffel unmuddied, we finally make it to the trunk. Shocker: It’s completely empty back there. Nothing but a light sprinkling of pine needles from Jonah’s last camping trip. Or fir needles, maybe. I can’t say for sure. Jonah’s the outdoorsman, not me.

  We look at each other, our eyes asking the same question: Why didn’t Bailey just put his things in the trunk? Did each piece of luggage really need its own seat belt? We’re dangerously close to bursting into laughter, so Jonah presses a finger to his mouth—shh—and motions for me to slide the duffel into the empty space.

  And then it’s done. We’re off. We have ninety minutes ahead of us, and fifty miles of tree-lined highway. I’ve got a new Economist to keep me busy; Jonah’s got the radio. Bailey, bleary-eyed, tilts his head against the passenger-side window and sighs out loud.

  “Can you believe that the first callback is at eight tomorrow? That’s five o’clock our time. I’m going to be jet-lagged as fuck.” Another sigh; another white moon of breath on the window. “And the air on the planes is always so dry. God, my poor vocal cords. I’m so glad I remembered to pack a steamer.”

  “What’s a steamer?” All I can think of are ocean liners, the Titanic-y ones. That can’t be what he’s talking about.

  “It’s a humidifier for your vocal cords.” Bailey lifts a hand, taps on his throat. “Soothes all the muscles so you don’t lose your voice.”

  “Wow, sounds handy,” says Jonah. “Mind if we borrow it for our next tournament?”

  “Why?” Bailey laughs. “You do a lot of singing at debate tournaments?”

  “Well, no. But we do a lot of talking, and, uh . . .” His turn to tap on his throat. “Same muscles.”

  “Oh, duh.” Bailey claps the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Ignore me! Like, I said: Brain equals soup. I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot,” Jonah says fondly. “You’re just under-caffeinated.”

  So far, this ride is not at all the parade of awkwardness I worried it would be. Jonah starts a sentence; Bailey completes it. They trade jokes, private ones, you-had-to-be-theres that fly way over my head. We stop at an intersection, and Bailey’s hand reaches across the divide to squeeze Jonah’s. The bitchy boyfriend I’d glimpsed in recent days is gone. This is Bailey the devoted partner, the guy who looks at Jonah like he hung the moon. I feel a bit like a little kid, pressed into the backseat, but I don’t even mind it. The feeling is safe, cozy.

  So cozy, in fact, that I’m nearly asleep, my head tilting on the pillow of Bailey’s backpack, when I hear Jonah’s voice spike: “No! Really? This close to the opening?”

  “Right? Eddie Wong just up and quit the show! Zero warning! And now this freshman has to step in and learn Ching Ho’s entire track in a week.”

  “In a week?” Jonah lets out a low whistle. “Wow. I hope he pulls it off. Damn.”

  “Now, see, if you’d auditioned, none of this would’ve happened. Ching Ho would’ve been yours. Sewn up.”

  “Man, it’s really too bad the musical is so close to Nationals this year.” Jonah steers us into the curve of a roundabout. “Would’ve been impossible to do both.”

  “But you’re still coming to see it, right, babe? Opening night?” Bailey doesn’t wait for an answer—he turns, instead, and looks at me over his shoulder, like he’s just had a brilliant idea. “You should come, too, Finch! Take a load off before your big debate!”

  “Oh, no, thanks.” I smile, aiming for polite. “From what Jonah’s told me about the musical, it sounds a little . . .”

  That’s as far as I get—a little, dot dot dot—because Jonah’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror, begging me, without speaking, to stop talking. But it’s too late: Bailey has turned his head. He’s caught the look on Jonah’s face.

  “A little what?” he cries, clearly wounded. “I thought you loved Millie!”

  “I do! I do!” Jonah insists. “I sing along whenever you play the soundtrack, don’t I?”

  “The cast recording,” Bailey corrects him. “When I play the cast recording.”

  “I just like some of this new-school musical theater more, you know?” It’s a weak excuse, but Jonah does his best to sell it. “Like, I’m counting down the days ’til Lin starts letting high schools do Hamilton.”

  “God, yeah, can you imagine? I’d be King George, obviously, and you . . . hmm, who would you be, Jojo?” The question floats in the air as Bailey reaches for the glove compartment. “Is the aux-cord in here? We might need to have a sing-off to figure out which role fits you best.”

  Jonah’s diversion has worked. Perfectly. Bailey is rummaging through the dash, yammering about this founding father and that one. The issue of Millie, and the show’s being a little . . . has been wholly forgotten.

  Well, forgotten by Bailey, anyway. There’s a tense set to Jonah’s jaw, an emptiness in the answers he gives Bailey. He’s not really listening. I know he doesn’t want to confront his boyfriend—but me, I have no such qualms. And I’m starting to get angry. Angry at Bailey, yes, but angry for Jonah, too. If Bailey doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care that he’s hurting Jonah . . . well, shouldn’t I say something? I could take the blows for Jonah. I could help.

  “Hey, Bailey?” I begin bluntly. “Is it true that there’s a character in Millie who dresses up in yellowface?”

  “. . . Yellowface?” Bailey sounds baffled, like he’s hearing the word for the first time ever. “What, like blackface?”

  Jonah cuts in, quick: “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

  “Actually, Finch, since you asked,” Bailey says, sort of waving Jonah down, “there is a character who sort of disguises herself as a Chinese lady, yeah. But she’s the villain. Everything she does is evil. Including the disguise. It’s not, like, endorsing dressing up like a Chinese person.” He throws his hands up, casting a helpless look at Jonah. “I mean, Jonah, if I’m saying anything problematic here, please, by all means, call me out, but—”

  “Really, Bailey? You need Jonah to tell you what’s ‘problematic’ about a white woman doing yellowface?”

  “. . . Whoa. What the hell?” That porcelain face of his is turning pink, indignant. “What is your problem, Finch? Why are you attacking me like this?” I roll my eyes and open my mouth, but he doesn’t wait for my answer. He’s already swiveling back to Jonah. “God, what is this, Jonah? Did you go behind my back and complain to Finch?”

  “I . . . I mean . . .” Jonah stammers. “You have to admit, Bailey, there’s a lot of stuff in Millie that’s, like . . .”

  “Are you serious?” Bailey looks shocked, like Jonah just leaped across the divide and smacked him in the face. “You know how much this musical means to me!”

  “Which is why I didn’t say anything!” Jonah’s brown eyes are bright, frustrated. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was accusing you of—”

  “So I’m a racist,” Bailey interrupts. He turns away from Jonah, pulling in a shaky breath that paints the passenger-side window white. “Wow. I’m racist, and I hate Asian people.”

  “Nobody’s calling you a racist, Bailey,” I say, firmly. “All we�
�re saying—”

  “Finch.” Jonah’s voice is hard. The narrow glare he gives me is harder. “Please?”

  “Me?” I squeak. “What did I do?”

  Jonah doesn’t answer, too busy pulling into a parking spot. I dig my fingertips into the flesh of my thighs, newly anxious. Up front, Bailey’s still sniffling.

  “I am not a fucking racist,” Bailey mewls, his voice thick with phlegm and tears. “And I do not hate Asian people. I’ve been dating you for two years, Jonah. Like, hello? You’re fucking gaslighting me.”

  The Seattle-Tacoma International Airport looms outside the window, a wall of hard gray concrete pillars leading to the departure gate. Bailey will be leaving now. Thank God.

  But I’ve got the feeling this fight isn’t over. That glare, that Finch, please; Jonah is not happy with me. Even though I’m on his side.

  “Look, Bailey, I’m sorry.” Jonah’s voice is quiet. He turns the key in the ignition. “I didn’t want to upset you right before your big Juilliard callback.”

  “Too late!” Bailey throws his hands up. “I’m upset!”

  “Let me help you with your bags, okay?”

  “Fine,” Bailey answers curtly. He pushes his door open, steps out, and closes it with a slam that shakes the frame.

  Jonah opens the door to the backseat. He removes Bailey’s bags. And he gives me nothing—not a word, not even a look—before closing the door. I’m left in the newly frosty air of the empty car, alone. Feeling rattled, I pull my phone from my pocket.

  FINCH KELLY: Really bad fight with Bailey just now

  LUCY NEWSOME: omg whats he doging??????

  LUCY NEWSOME: *doign

  LUCY NEWSOME: *doing

  FINCH KELLY: Defending the school musical. Google Thoroughly Modern Millie.

  A few seconds pass.

  LUCY NEWSOME: WHAT

  LUCY NEWSOME: the FUCK

  FINCH KELLY: Yeah. Bailey threw this huge temper tantrum and said it isn’t racist and also he isn’t racist because he’s dating Jonah