Both Sides Now

by Peyton Thomas

  “I’m really sorry, Ari,” I say, again. I mean it. I’ve been where she presently is: facing a lifetime of waxing, wincing away from it. “I obviously struck a nerve in there, and . . .”

  “Okay, okay. That’s enough. I just need to grow a backbone.” She lifts her head, opens her eyes. “You too, by the way. I don’t know why you got so angry in there just now, but it’s super sloppy to go ad hominem like that.”

  “I can’t really help it.” God only knows why, but I’m feeling tenderly toward Ari. I can see some of my former self in this anxiety she’s got, this fear that she’s not girling right. So I’m a little more honest, maybe, than I’d usually be. “This resolution is ad hominem for me.”

  She gives me a sidelong squint. “What do you mean?”

  I look at her, take in her confusion, her curiosity. She just bared her soul to me, didn’t she? Don’t I owe her the same? Maybe we have more in common than I thought.

  So I breathe in deep, and I say it: “I’m trans.”

  She doesn’t answer me. Not at first. Her eyes go wide, and then narrow, and then she sort of scans me, up and down. Like she’s confirming that I’m speaking English. That I really said what I just said.

  And then, suddenly, there’s a click of comprehension in her eyes.

  “Oh, shit,” she says, her voice softening. “Who else knows? Jonah? Nasir?”

  I shake my head. “Jonah knows,” I tell her. “Nasir doesn’t. Obviously.”

  She snorts. “Yeah. I wouldn’t spill my guts to Nasir, either.” She jams her vape into the pocket of her blazer, and then turns, placing her broad hands on my knees. “Also, like, I hope you know that everything I said in the round just now . . . I don’t actually believe that shit. It’s just the case we’re running.” She pauses, squeezes my knees. “I’ve been doing a ton of research, and I know it’s not easy for . . . for people like you. So, like, thanks for trusting me with this.”

  “. . . Thank you?” Where was this girl in that round? And if she doesn’t believe what she was arguing, what does she believe? “You can see why this debate brings up a lot of painful stuff for me.”

  “Right. Of course. It must be really hard.” She nods, and lifts her hands. “So, what do you want me to do about the pronoun thing? Just keep using ‘he’ and ‘him’ for you? Like, in public? Until you’re ready to come all the way out?”

  “Uh. Yes?” She blinks at me, mystified. Oh, God. Time to spell it out, clear as I can: “I’m a man, Ari. A transgender man.” Still nothing. I sigh. “Female to male? Assigned female at birth?”

  “. . . Wait.” Ari pulls away, her hands falling back into her lap. She rakes her eyes over the length of my body again. And then she snorts. “No way. Bullshit. I’ve literally seen you with fucking beard stubble on tournament mornings.”

  “Yeah, because I take testosterone.” I reach up, draw a demonstrative little loop around my chin. “It gives me facial hair. Makes my voice deeper. Moves the fat in my face around.”

  “Really?” She’s squinting, hard, her brows almost meeting in the middle. I can practically see the math equations dancing around her curly head. “You really were, like . . . I know I shouldn’t say ‘born a girl,’ but, like . . .”

  Part of me wants to fight her on this “born a girl” business. Another part of me—the bone-tired part—doesn’t want to prolong this conversation even a second longer than I have to.

  “That’s right.” I say it slowly, like I’m speaking to an infant. “Born a girl.”

  “And do you, like, tape your, uh . . . your chest down? To make it flat?” She lifts a hand, draws a flat line across her own round chest. “Or did you have surgery to . . .”

  Nothing I love more than getting grilled about my medical history. “I’m leaving now,” I say, as I rise—can’t do it fast enough—and turn, and start to walk, brisk, back down the hall to the library.

  “Wait. Wait! I’m sorry.” She’s leaping to her feet, hurrying after me, tugging on my arm. “It’s just, I’ve never met anyone, like . . . anyone trans, and you look so . . . I mean, you seriously look exactly like a guy.”

  I lift my arm, shake her loose. “I am a guy, Ari.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like . . .” She hurries after me, eyes bright, excited. “Not like Hilary Swank in that one movie. Like, you really look like a guy.”

  Hilary Swank? I stop in my tracks, turn to the wall, and plant my forehead firmly against it. “Fuck. I should not have told you this.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” she says.

  “Oh, God.” Terror rolls through me. I turn to her, eyes wide. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t!” she chirps, and mimes the zipping of her lips. “I swear. Your secret is so, so safe with me.”

  I don’t trust her. Not one iota. But the cat is well and truly out of the bag now, flailing around with its sharp little claws. Ari knows. She knows because I told her.

  And there is no way for me to walk my words back.

  chapter eight

  The rest of my weekend drags by on its knuckles. All I can think about is getting to Monday, to debate club. After the twin catastrophes of Saturday—launching World War Three between Bailey and Jonah, outing myself to Ari—I’m looking forward to some normalcy. If I can just stand next to Jonah, soak up the glow of his easy smile, then I’ll know that we’re okay. That we’re united, still. That we’ve got what we need to take Nationals.

  Jonah’s locked in a small circle when I walk in. Listening to the freshmen, the sophs, the juniors, all talking over each other about their weekends. If he sees me enter, he doesn’t show it. I wonder if I should tap him on the shoulder, say hi, but he seems absorbed: Ava ate charcoal ice cream yesterday, for the first time ever, and it tasted so weird; Jasmyne caught up on Riverdale, and the plot makes less sense with every passing episode; Tyler saw a production of Grease at Evergreen, featuring an all-female cast, and the young woman who played Danny Zuko was, reportedly, “hot as fuck.”

  Jonah says nothing about his weekend, our weekend. I try to meet his gaze, more than once, but every time, he’s got his eyes on someone else. I don’t know if he’s doing it deliberately, but I feel this funny ache, still—a flower-to-sun hunger every time he turns away.

  “All right! Ten past! Let’s get started!” Adwoa brings her fist down like a gavel against the history teacher’s desk. “First item on the agenda: Finch and Jonah went up to Annable this weekend for a pre-Nationals friendly! You guys wanna debrief? How’d it go?”

  “Great!” says Jonah brightly. You can really hear the exclamation point there: great!

  But I’ve seen him on sunny days and gray ones—that time we flew to Junior Nationals in Tampa, for instance, and Delta lost all of our luggage, and Jonah dropped his phone in a toilet at the airport. I know his moods, is what I mean. And this? It’s not an especially good one.

  “Okay. So it was great.” Adwoa spreads her hands. “Can you give us a little more than that?”

  He gives Adwoa a look equal parts miserable and apologetic. And so she turns to me. “Okay. Finch: How did the round go?”

  But I’m also at a loss. How do I talk about the round without mentioning my fight with Ari—or the subsequent outing, which I regretted so deeply that I never even told Jonah about it?

  “Okay. Looks like I need to talk to Jonah and Finch out in the hall.” She lifts her hand, points at the door, even snaps her fingers for good measure. “Boys? Out. Jas, run through this week’s Slate quiz while I’m gone.”

  We follow her into the hallway. She closes the door behind us, crossing her arms. “Okay, no more of this nonsense,” she says. “Tell me exactly what went down this weekend.”

  “. . . Maybe not while everyone’s looking?” Jonah angles a thumb through the plate of glass in the door. A cluster of kids have gathered there. Ava’s wobbling on curious tiptoe. The
y struggle—well, fail—to disperse as Adwoa glares daggers.

  “Fine. Let’s move. She plants a gentle shove between my shoulders, and then between Jonah’s. She guides us up the hallway, into a lower-traffic corner. As we walk, she asks again: “This weekend: What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say, just as Jonah says, “Not much.”

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?” Adwoa looks at us, suspicious. “Did Nasir say something hateful? Is that it?”

  Well, yes. But his comment about Jonah’s smokin’ hot girlfriend, Bailey, was really only the tenth or eleventh most screwed-up thing to happen this weekend.

  “Bailey and I got into a huge fight on Saturday morning,” Jonah blurts, suddenly. “I had to drive him to the airport for his Juilliard callback, and we started arguing in the car, so I was off my game at Annable and then, just . . .” He sighs out, plainly frustrated. “I’ve been going back and forth with Bailey all weekend—and all day today, actually—and I’m really tired, and really out of it, and . . . Yeah. That’s it. I’m sorry.”

  “All weekend?” I ask him quietly. “But I thought you two . . . at the departure gate, you kissed . . .”

  “Kissed, maybe.” Jonah shrugs. “Didn’t make up.”

  Listening to him, feeling the fatigue in his voice, I feel a sick rush of guilt. The fight was my fault. And Jonah’s still contending with the fall-out.

  “Jonah, I feel for you. I do.” Adwoa presses her palms together, prayer-like, beseeching him. “But if you and your boyfriend don’t get it together and stop fighting before Nationals . . .”

  “No, I understand,” he says quickly. “I’ll sort this out. I’ll fix it.”

  “Wonderful. Love to hear it.” She turns to me. “Now, Finch: What’s eating you?

  I’m wondering how to lie when I realize, suddenly, that I don’t even have to: “Ari said a lot of transphobic stuff during the debate, and when I started asking her questions, she ran out crying, so . . .”

  Adwoa rolls her eyes skyward, mutters—“Give me strength”—and sighs. “Okay. I’ve heard enough. Have a seat, both of you. We need to talk, but we gotta keep it brief. I don’t want Jas stuck running the whole meeting.”

  She leans against the wall, then slides to the floor until the seat of her jeans hits linoleum. With great reluctance, Jonah and I follow her lead and assume crisscross applesauce. His knee presses into mine, briefly, before he flinches away.

  Why do I feel like he’s just left a bruise?

  “I know you kids have a lot on your plates right now,” says Adwoa. “Jonah, you’ve got your boyfriend and his nonsense. Finch, you’ve got Ari and her nonsense.” She sighs. “And I was a high school senior myself once. Long, long time ago. But I remember what the workload was like. Lord, Jesus, do I remember.”

  “Right,” I say, simply, because I don’t want to get into everything else on my plate. My mom losing her job. Me losing my health insurance. Whether I’ll go to D.C. for college or stay here, stuck. “I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

  “Likewise,” says Jonah, just as simply.

  I wonder how much stress that one word holds for him.

  “But I need you guys to focus on Nationals.” She reaches forward—one hand on my knee, another on Jonah’s. “Tonight, after practice, the two of you are going to sit in a booth at the Green Bean. You’re going to work on your cases, and you’re going to work through whatever stresses you’re dealing with. Together. Capisce?”

  “I can’t prep tonight,” Jonah says. “I have to go to Bailey’s dress rehearsal. Opening night is this Friday.”

  “Then see the show on opening night, Jonah.” Adwoa, plainly exhausted, rakes a hand through her braids. “You do not have to be present at each and every one of your boyfriend’s rehearsals.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Jonah this depleted, this utterly exhausted: “Adwoa, if I don’t show up today, he’s going to be so, so mad, like—”

  Adwoa brings the back of her hand down into her palm, over and over, as she says, “You cannot keep doing this! Carving yourself up into smaller and smaller pieces to make room for your boyfriend!” She puts up her hands when she sees the injured look on Jonah’s face. “I’m sorry. I know I’m overstepping. But, honestly, kid, you’ve got a national championship to worry about. That’s your priority. If it makes Bailey mad, well, tough. He can stay mad.”

  “. . . Fine,” Jonah huffs, and pulls himself up to his feet. “Can’t wait to send this text to Bailey.”

  “The Green Bean. Tonight.” Adwoa helps me to my feet. “Fix your case.” She points to Jonah. “And fix that attitude.”

  * * *

  —

  After debate club lets out, Adwoa frog-marches us to the Green Bean, pushes us into a corner booth, and orders our drinks for us. She is not messing around.

  “I’m friends with the baristas here.” She points to her eyes, then us: I’m watching you. “Either of you tries to escape before closing? I’ll know.”

  “You’re a dictator,” I tell her. “A totalitarian dictator.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big part-time bucks.” She laughs, slings her Telfar over her shoulder, and steps away. “Don’t let me keep you! Get some work done. Some good work.”

  I wait until she’s out the door—until we’re really alone, I mean—before I lift my head, meet Jonah’s eyes.

  “Before we get started,” I begin, cautious, “I just want to say, again, how sorry I am for picking that fight with Bailey. Especially if he’s still grilling you about the musical, I . . .”

  “Oh, no. He’s not even mad about the musical anymore. No, he . . . I mean, it’s totally ridiculous, but he thinks . . .”

  I wait to hear what, exactly, Bailey thinks, but Jonah has stopped talking. He’s sighing, stirring his portable straw through his pink drink. I’d say it’s a miracle that Adwoa remembered his order, but then, so did I: an iced raspberry white chocolate soy mocha with rose petals; surprisingly indelible.

  “What?” I ask, finally; he’s been quiet too long. “What does he think?”

  “Honestly? He thinks that I . . . that I sided with you, in the Millie argument, because I . . .”—he is really struggling here—“because I have, um . . . feelings. For you.”

  “. . . For me?” The words come out a pair of startled squeaks that might be—that I hope are—inaudible to human ears. It’s one thing when Lucy spouts her conspiracy theories on the bus. It’s quite another to hear them coming out of Jonah’s mouth. “But that’s . . . that’s bananas.”

  I don’t so much choose the word bananas as vomit it out because my cognition’s left me. But Jonah—relief of reliefs—thinks it is funny, and he laughs, and the tension that forced him to take three or four tries with his last sentence evaporates.

  “Thank you,” he says, and slaps the table lightly. “It is bananas.” His eyes go wide, suddenly, and he seems to backtrack. “Not that I wouldn’t . . . I mean, you’re not, like . . . like, anyone would be very lucky to . . .”

  “Oh, no,” I interrupt, eager to spare us both some embarrassment. “You don’t have to say that.” Among the many things I’m not in the mood for: false flattery. “And if you’re going to talk to Bailey about this, maybe leave out the ‘anyone would be very lucky’ business.”

  “Oh, trust me,” Jonah laughs, “I’ve spent the past two days trying to convince him that I’m not in love with you.”

  “You know what?” I lean forward; so does he. “I’ve been trying to convince Lucy that I’m not in love with you.”

  He laughs out loud, right up close: “What? Why?”

  “Because I got so mad at Bailey on Saturday!” I laugh when Jonah laughs, and I take a sip of my drink, relieved that he finds this as ridiculous as I do. “I was texting her about the argument, and she said something like, ‘You can’t white-knight for Jonah just be
cause you . . .’ ” I hesitate—should I say it? “ ‘. . . because you have a boner for Jonah.’ ”

  “A boner?” Jonah exclaims, voice not low in the least. He slaps the table; people stare. “Right. Totally. Because this is a very sexy secret affair we’re carrying on here. In the corner booth. At the Green Bean.”

  “Oh, definitely,” I concur. “All these torrid nights of . . . of reading the Financial Times, and . . . and color-coding cue cards . . .”

  “Seriously!” Jonah says. “Bailey is so mad that I’ve been spending all this time with you, and I’m just like, ‘Dude, we’re literally at the Annable library on a Saturday afternoon. What do you think we’re doing, exactly? We’re in a library.’ ”

  “I was actually reading an article in Law and Crime the other day about a porn star who shot—well, a ‘film,’ I guess, in a library in California.” I sip my lemonade. “So it can be done, apparently.”

  “Good to know,” Jonah says. He lifts his drink: Cheers. “Next time you find yourself alone in a dimly lit library with a certain Miss Ariadne Schechter . . .”

  I lunge across the table, throwing a punch that he dodges, giggling. “I do not . . .”

  “You guys were out there in the hallway for a long time, dude,” Jonah says. “And you still won’t tell me what you talked about.”

  “I don’t want to get into it,” I tell him. There’s a bit of magical thinking here: If I never tell Jonah what I told Ari, it’ll be like I never told her. “But I can tell you it had nothing to do with, uh . . . carnal knowledge.”

  “Whatever you say,” Jonah flicks his wrist, dismissive. “Twenty years down the line, when I’m bringing over a casserole for the Schechter-Kelly Chrismukkah celebration . . .”