Both Sides Now

by Peyton Thomas

  “No, but, like . . . listen.” I pull away from him. He is saying all the right things, but I don’t know yet if he’s really hearing me. I need him to know, in his marrow, how scared I’ve been. “Most people think that being gay means being into . . . well, a certain type of body, right? A body that I don’t have.”

  His hand finds mine, squeezes. “Did I ever do anything to make you feel that way?”

  I like him putting it this way: not getting defensive, not saying I would never . . . but asking me, instead, if he’s ever done anything that hurts.

  “When Nasir asked you if you were a hundred percent into dick,” I say, “you said yes.”

  “Oh, Finch.” He sits up, shakes his head sadly. “I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Thank you. It’s just . . . it’s really, really important to me that you get this. When I was growing up, meeting with all the doctors, they kept quizzing me, trying to make sure I was really a boy. Because they don’t just hand out hormones like Skittles. Especially not to kids. You have to be really, really sure.”

  “Right,” says Jonah. “I can see that.”

  “And the biggest question was: Well, are you attracted to girls? It was like you had to say yes if you wanted to transition.”

  Jonah lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. I had no idea.” He reaches for me, running a hand along the length of my arm.

  “Can I be completely honest with you?” he says.

  “I don’t know.” I’m nervous again. “I’m not sure I can handle complete honesty right now.”

  He laughs. “Okay, well, I told you things with Bailey had been going south for a minute, right?”

  “You didn’t have to tell me. I saw.”

  “And the worse he got . . . well, the better you got.” He turns red, pushing his face into his shoulder to smother a nervous laugh. Something thrills in my chest at the sound. “And I started to wonder if I’d made the right choice. If you were the one. Not Bailey.”

  My stomach flutters. Not the way it did this morning. Joyfully.

  “You and me, we just fit,” Jonah goes on. “We work so well together. We’re a wrecking crew in debates. We help each other solve all our problems. And I just kept thinking, deep down: Finch is it. He’s the right choice. Not Bailey.”

  If he’d told me a month ago that I was as desirable as Bailey, as deserving of love, I would’ve laughed in his face. And yet, here he is, saying it. And here I am, believing it.

  “I had some similar worries to yours, I guess?” he says. “Like, if I liked you, would it make me less gay?”

  I recoil, and he reaches for me, squeezing my arm gently. “I know. I know. I know. It wasn’t about you. I promise. It was just this stupid insecurity.” He laughs. “I would literally tell myself, ‘Of course you’re still gay if you like Finch. He’s a boy. You’re a boy. That’s the literal definition of gay.’ ” He pauses; in spite of myself, I laugh, too. “And then I’d go hang out with Bailey, and his friends in the drama club, and he’d make some stupid crack about being allergic to pussy, and everybody would laugh, and I just . . .”

  I speak softly: “And you didn’t call him on it?”

  “No. Because things were already so shaky between me and him. I was already feeling so guilty about UDub.” He sighs, lifts a hand, brushes his thumb along my temple. “And I’m embarrassed, Finch. I’m so ashamed.” He sighs, falls onto his back. “I was so afraid of what people would say. And it was so stupid! ’Cause, like, if I’d gotten my shit together and dumped him? You and I could’ve been doing this ages ago.”

  I look at him for a long moment, taking in everything he’s just said, all the guilt and the shame and the fear.

  And then I laugh and collapse onto his chest.

  “This,” I say, “is the worst pillow talk ever.”

  He laughs, and looks relieved, and pulls me close to him.

  “Look,” he says, our noses brushing, “I love you. I mean it.”

  “Even though I’m—”

  “Because you are.”

  “And you don’t think it makes you less gay?”

  “Finch,” he says, “I am so, so, so gay for you.”

  And then he kisses me with all the tenderness in the world.

  We do this for a long time, and it’s glorious: aimless kissing, nothing to do, nowhere to be. It’s not until there’s a buzzing on the nightstand—Jonah’s phone—that we stop. Jonah reaches for it, swipes the screen with the hand that’s not stroking my hair.

  “Hey, check it out,” he says. “Text from Adwoa.”

  He turns the phone’s screen to me: a pair of silver medals. One for him, one for me.

  “Yes!” I chirp. “We lost!”

  “Way to go, loser,” he says.

  I lean up to kiss him in the space between his brows, the way I saw that boy from the tennis school do it.

  “Second place never felt so good,” I tell him.

  The phone buzzes once more: Adwoa, this time, is dangling a gold medal. And then, seconds later, another text comes in. It’s a photo, a close-up, of a certificate printed on thick, costly parchment.

  BEST SPEAKER, it says. FINCH KELLY, JOHNSON TECHNICAL SCHOOL.

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe.

  “Best in the damn country,” Jonah says, and kisses my temple. “Not too shabby, baby.”

  I look at him, lift a brow. “Baby?”

  “What, you don’t like it?” He looks genuinely concerned. “It doesn’t have to be baby. I could call you, let me think . . . sweetie, or honey, or pumpkin . . . oh, or mahal, that’s a Pinoy one . . .”

  A phone buzzes—mine, this time. I groan as I grab for it. “Hold on,” I grumble. I’m really getting tired of these interruptions. “Let me tell Adwoa we need some alone time.”

  But the name on the screen isn’t Adwoa’s. It’s Lucy’s. She’s calling me.

  I tap on the green icon. “Hey, Lucy, now’s not a good—”

  “Oh, fuck off with that,” she says, and laughs. “I’ve got someone here. Someone who really wants to talk to you.”

  “Lucy?” I sit up straight, listening to the phone trade hands. “Lucy, what are you—”

  “Hey,” says a voice—a woman’s, deep, and wholly unfamiliar to me. “This is Alice Brady calling.”

  I rack my brain: “Sorry—who?”

  She laughs. “I’m running for Congress here in Olympia,” she says. “Your friend Lucy’s been canvassing for me.”

  “Oh!” My heart, for the dozenth time today, is sprinting. “Well, it’s nice to . . . to hear from you!”

  “It’s nice to hear from you,” she says. “That was a hell of a speech, kid. Brought tears to my eyes.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, and swallow. “Tears to mine, too.”

  “God, you’re funny,” she says, and I can hear her smile in the words. “We could use someone like you on the campaign.”

  “Wait.” My heart’s no longer racing; it’s at a halt. “Do you mean, like . . . like a volunteer, or . . .”

  “Well, we’ve got a job opening,” she says. “I need a comms associate. Pretty junior, but if you put in the work . . . well, sky’s the limit, kid.”

  “Oh my God.” I try to take a breath; I don’t completely succeed. “You . . . you want me to work for you?”

  “Lucy tells me you’ve got your heart set on some college in D.C.,” she says. “But if you’d rather stay here in Olympia—take a gap year, maybe—we’d love to have you.”

  I stand up, start pacing. “You really want me?” I squeak. “You want my help?”

  “Finch, I would love your help,” she says. “And, of course, if we win the race, there’s always the possibility that you could come with us to D.C.”

  I stop where I stand. Here it is. Everything, everything, I’ve ever wanted. No sh
ortcuts; no jumping the line. Just plain, hard work. Blood, sweat, and tears at the podium, falling onto a puke-stained shirt.

  “Representative Brady,” I say, “it would be an honor.”

  “Not a representative yet,” she laughs. “But I love that energy. I’ll have my campaign manager send you some paperwork.”

  “Okay.” I have to sit down again; I feel wrung out, but not anxious. Satisfied. Ready for a nice, long nap in Jonah’s arms. “I’ll . . . I’ll look out for that.”

  “Great. And celebrate tonight. You deserve it.”

  “I will,” I say. “Absolutely. Thank you, Ms. Brady.”

  She laughs again. “Just call me Alice, honey.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll do that, Alice.”

  She’s the first to hang up. I turn to Jonah. He takes me up in his arms.

  “Did I hear that right?” he says. “Did you just land your first-ever job on a congressional campaign?”

  “Yeah,” I manage, just barely, tears welling up.

  He moves in close, kisses them away. “Congratulations, baby.”

  I laugh, disbelieving. “We landed on baby? Not sweetie, or honey, or pumpkin, or . . .”

  “Well,” he says, “if you’ve got any better suggestions.”

  “. . . Comrade?”

  His eyes go wide. And then, in an instant, we’re both reeling with laughter, falling all over each other, nearly rolling right off the bed. Finally, when we’ve tired ourselves out, Jonah reaches for the lamp on the bedside table. His hand is on the switch. I curl against him; he squeezes me tight.

  “I love you, comrade. Let’s get some shut-eye.”

  acknowledgments

  At Dial Books: Ellen Cormier for focusing the narrative, trimming the fat, and making Finch and Jonah’s love story shine as bright as Paris and Rory’s; Felicity Vallence, Carolyn Foley, Lauri Hornik, Jennifer Dee, Regina Castillo, Jennifer Kelly, Kristie Radwilowicz, and the whole team.

  At Penguin Canada: Lynne Missen, Peter Phillips, and the whole team.

  At Janklow & Nesbit: my former agent Brooks Sherman for seeing something special in me, nurturing it, and steering me through the sale of this book with expert skill; Roma Panganiban, Claire Conrad, Emma Winter, Erin Mathis, Aaron Rich, Murad Mirzoyev, PJ Mark, Kira Watson, and Emma Parry.

  At Hill Nadell: my current agent, Bonnie Nadell, for climbing aboard during a difficult and delicate time, reassuring me, and restoring my belief in myself and this book.

  At UTA: Mary Pender-Coplan.

  At Lambda Literary: Benjamin Alire Sáenz, William Johnson, Tony Valenzuela, Sue Landers, and the entire 2016 Young Adult Cohort.

  At the University of Toronto: André Alexis, Anne Michaels, Bex McKnight, Dennis Bock, Brenda Cossman, Michael Cobb, and Rinaldo Walcott, along with the entire faculties of the Political Science and Sexual Diversity Studies departments.

  At CHS: Ms. Willis, Mr. McKenzie, Ms. Breeze, Ms. Gloster, Ms. Kennedy-Carter, and Ms. Namini, for nurturing my early love of writing; Ms. Clement, for keeping me safe when I had to leave home at seventeen; Wyll M., Emily C., and Danielle P. for coaching me to Nationals and helping me to see both sides; Ms. McCrae for sponsoring the debate team, and for bearing with me even though I was a TOTAL BRAT back then, I still think about that one time I mouthed off at you and feel ASHAMED, here is my apology in writing; Alisha A. for being a world-class partner and inspiring the incident that opens this book; Noreen W. for being my very first partner and for returning to my life this year to lend invaluable insight into Jonah’s life, salamat; Alice C. for being a wonderful co-captain; Samantha L., Verity A., Catherine W., and Beth C. for their extraordinary friendship and mentorship; everyone I ever debated with or against, especially Juliette L., Frank H., Sophie B., Ashley B., Jonny and Iqbal (legends), and the Peters.

  At Pitchfork: Jeremy Larson, Anna Gaca, Jayson Greene, Philip Sherbourne, Cat Zhang, Mankaprr Conteh, Sasha Geffen, and Jill Mapes, for helping me to grow exponentially as a writer and critic.

  In the family: Dad, for his unflagging love and support when I need it most, and for his willingness to learn and grow; Sandi, the mother I wish I’d had and am lucky to have now; Peter, who I love more than anyone, most of all; Robbie, who continues to give me hope that I can thrive and grow in spite of everything; and Grandma, who has always nurtured my love of reading. Of course, also, my ten beautiful biological children: Kit Kittredge, Rebecca Rubin, Ruthie Smithens, Melody Ellison, Samantha Parkington, Kira Bailey, Hal Incandenza, Cécile Rey, Felicity Merriman, and Courtney Moore.

  The Toronto Public Library, for providing the desktop computers on which I wrote much of this book, but not for that dumb stunt with what’s-her-name the terf.

  Langley School District #35, for facilitating the Write From The Heart workshops that helped me and so many other kids, and to the Vancouver Public Library’s Writing & Book Camp for giving me the chance to meet real authors and then read my work aloud on a stage like I was one. I am a proud alum.

  For reading early drafts of this book and providing heartfelt, thorough feedback: Lena, Daniel Lavery, Frankie Thomas, Hal Schrieve, Seph M., Shreya M., and Ezra Mattes.

  For being my dear friends: Lena, to whom this book is dedicated, without whom I would be nothing; Grace, who materially supported and loved me at my lowest, helping me to blossom; Alex G. from New York; Alex G. from San Francisco; Alex G. the musician, who is not my friend, but Rocket and House of Sugar are both wall-to-wall masterpieces and I listened to them a lot while writing this book; Alexis Henderson; Alice B.; Allegra Rosenberg; Allison H.; Amal Haddad, whose insight helped to shape the mention of Rachel Corrie in this book; Andrea W.; Ave G.; Bec U.; Bethany Hindmarsh, who inspired much of the substance of Adwoa’s speech; Ben Harrison; Blythe P., for getting me and Ezra together, you legend; the Canoe; Celeste Pille; Claire Dederer; Claudia M.; Daniel G.; Daniel Lavery; David B.; Eli S.; Elise G.; Emily E.; Emily I.; Frankie Thomas; Hanna B.; Hannah S.; Harry Y.; Heidi; Ian R.; Jaime Z.; Jackson D.; James S.; James from Australia; Jason Lipshutz; Joe Shapiro; Jules Holewinski; Kaelynn Stewart; Kai Cheng Thom, a shelter in a storm; Kaya B.; Kevin F.; Lindsey G.; Lou B.; Mad J.; Mia G.; Mike Scrafford; Morgan Bimm; Morgan Jerkins; Ness Perruzza; Nick K.; Phillip Crandall; Sophie Shelton; Sam O.; Seyward Darby; Seph M.; Shreya M.; Stephanie Redekop, and her whole family, who saved my life when I was seventeen; Suzanne Greenfield; Taylor-Ruth Baldwin; Thea; Tom Phelan; Waverly SM; Zainab Javed. If I forgot you, I will never forgive myself.

  For inspiring me: Andrea Long Chu; Andrew Garfield; Bill Hader; Cardi B; Chris Colfer; Craig’s Cookies; Donna Tartt; Fresco Tours; fruitsoftheape100; Hanya Yanagihara; the LGBT Youthline; Jeremy O. Harris; John Elway; John Mulaney; Joni Mitchell; Lemony Snicket; Matt Stone and Trey Parker; Meg Cabot, who won’t remember this, but one time when I was twelve I went to see her at Kidsbooks in Vancouver after I’d just been rejected from this writing contest, and during the Q&A I asked her very seriously, “How do you deal with rejection?” and she gave me an answer so compassionate and full of love that I remember it over a decade later; Megan Thee Stallion; Mitski; Natalie Wynn; Richard Siken; Paddington Bear; Phoebe Bridgers; Pleasant Rowland; Sufjan Stevens; Telfar Clemens; Thomas Piketty; Valerie Tripp; and, of course, wolfpupy. In his immortal words, “[kicks a furby through the goals to score the winning points of the super bowl] Fuck everyone who has ever hurt me.”

  To Marina, Ned, and Trish: You made me the writer I am. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.

  To Will Barnes: I pitched this book that week in New York. I’d say that it wouldn’t exist without you, but somehow, it does.

  To Ezra Mattes: I’m typing this while you sit across the room from me, working on your own book. I wrote this novel at a time when I truly didn’t believe that love would ever find me, or that I’d ever be able to live as a queer trans man. I was writing toward you, and I didn’t even know it. You
r support made this book what it is. You are the love of my life. Uh, um, okay.

  about the author

  Peyton Thomas is a freelance journalist with bylines in Pitchfork, Billboard, and Vanity Fair. He was a 2016 Lambda Literary Fellow, studying under Benjamin Alire Sáenz. He lives in Toronto, and Both Sides Now will be his debut novel.

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