“Oh, okay.” Gretchen squints toward the far end of the corner. “Is there one down here?”
“Uh,” I say again. I should’ve realized this would be a problem. Harvard’s got a few gender-neutral bathrooms around campus, so I use those most of the time, but there aren’t usually gender-neutral stalls in the dorm hallways. I usually use a women’s bathroom if there isn’t a gender-neutral one close by, because that’s never seemed like a big deal to me—I went to an all-girl school for thirteen years, after all. But I don’t really want the guys seeing me go into one. And since I’m wearing a binder, it would probably be weird.
“Actually, I’ll just go later,” I say.
Gretchen looks quizzical. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I shift again. My binder is starting to itch.
“Relax,” Gretchen murmurs. “Are you stressed?”
“I’m not stressed,” I say.
“You look stressed.”
“I’m only—”
Then Pete interrupts us, yelling from the food table on the far side of the room.
“Come hang with us, T!” Pete calls. “We’re having a support group meeting for the formerly genderqueer!”
All of my friends howl with laughter at this. Except Gretchen.
“Formerly genderqueer?” Gretchen whispers, smiling and waving at Pete and the others. “Is he joking?”
“Oh, uh, sort of, but not really,” I say, as if I’d just forgotten to mention it. Oh, God. “I mean, you know how much I hate labels. None of them are ever exactly right. So I’m thinking about not using genderqueer as much anymore. It has some classist connotations, you know? I thought about other options, like nonbinary and multigender, but I think I might like gender nonconforming best. Well, and actually I still use genderqueer sometimes, since more people know what it means. My friends just like to be brats about it because they think they’re funny. Basically, though, I’ve been, well, thinking a lot. About all of this. Yeah.”
I swallow.
“Oh,” Gretchen says. “Um. Okay. Is the classist stuff the only reason you’re thinking about changing from genderqueer?”
“Well...” I’m extremely unprepared for this conversation, and I’ve had a few drinks. So I keep babbling. “Also, something like gender nonconforming seems more accurate, since genderqueer is so neutral, but gender nonconforming is more active. Like it’s saying I’m actively opposed to the rigid gender binary. Plus, especially since, you know, I lean more toward the male end of the spectrum than the female end, maybe a label change sort of seems like a logical next step?”
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I shut up?
“What do you mean?” Gretchen’s eyes are wide. “A logical next step to what?”
I gulp. This probably isn’t the best time to mention that I’m thinking about trying out using they pronouns, too. “I don’t know.”
“When did you decide this?” Gretchen’s talking really fast. Sounding almost frantic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um.”
“Hey!” Nance comes over to us and thrusts a cup into my hand. “What’s the deal, T? Your hottie shows up and now you’re too cool to hang with us? Come over here, both of you. You’ve got to meet these Wellesley babes.”
I look over warily, but Gretchen’s smile is back in place.
“Let’s go!” Gretchen chirps.
This time when we cross the room, we don’t hold hands.
Nance introduces me to the drag kings, who did indeed come over from Wellesley, and to a punch concoction Nance invented that appears to be three-fourths vodka and one-fourth wine with a splash of fruit juice. The drag kings make less of an impression than the drinks. They both help take care of the self-consciousness, though.
Gretchen keeps smiling, laughing and joking with everyone. We stay with Nance, Derek and the group for the rest of the night. As it turns out, there’s no actual dancing at this dance. Only flirting, drinking and, in the case of Derek and Gretchen, bonding over a shared love of dead white male writers.
Nance slings an arm around my shoulders as we file outside at the end of the night. Nance has taken off the Clark Kent shirt, revealing a way-too-tight Superman shirt underneath, so this is disconcerting.
“You two comin’ out with us?” Nance’s Southern accent is a lot stronger when enhanced by alcohol. “We’re going to the Kong. Get us some General Tso’s and some Scorpion Bowls. It’s gonna be fierce.”
Drunk Nance’s grip is strong. I’m too drunk myself to shrug her off.
“Leave them be,” Derek says, unwinding Nance’s hand from my arm. “I’m sure they’ve got better things to do.”
“Ohhhh, yeah,” the guys chorus.
“You’re all a bunch of pervs.” Gretchen slurs the words, laughing. “Come on, T, let’s ditch these creepazoids.”