“Shut up, Mike,” I say. The girl next to me sniffs, then giggles. “How about we all go home, finish our outlines tonight and meet back here tomorrow at lunch?”
Everyone nods except Mike, but we’re all ignoring Mike now anyway.
Now I’ll have to spend all night reading about Hurricane Katrina. Because my life didn’t have enough downers in it already.
But when I get back to my room, my plan is derailed before I’m even through the door. Joanna and Felicia are sitting side by side on the couch in the common room, and as soon as they see me they stop talking. I can tell right away they’re up to something.
“What?” I ask when I get sick of the silence. I dump my coat and bag, and turn to face them, kicking the snow off my shoes.
“We need to have a meeting.” Joanna’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and pumps, and holding the same purse my mother bought in Tysons Corner for upwards of six hundred dollars. Felicia’s in a white lace top that looks more like a sundress than something you wear in Boston in November. I wonder if they’re going to a party after this or if they just got dressed up to ambush me.
Why do they always have to dress that way? Gretchen doesn’t. Neither does Ebony. It’s like Joanna and Felicia are trying to be as girlie as humanly possible. They might as well be wearing signs that say We’re Cisgender, and Don’t You Forget It.
Hang on. Is this what Nance meant? About me always trying to put people in boxes?
I remember taking one look at Joanna and Felicia on move-in day and deciding that they weren’t worth my time. Maybe Nance had a point about me and the instant judging.
On this one, though, I’m pretty sure I was right.
“Oh?” I say. “A meeting? Should I go print off some agendas?”
“We should talk,” Joanna says. “So that we’re all up front and there’s no awkwardness.”
“Is there awkwardness now?” I ask.
“Yes,” Felicia says. It’s the first time Felicia has spoken since I got here.
They’re both eyeing me closely. I’m wearing a button-down shirt from the men’s section at J. Crew that makes my flat chest slightly more noticeable than usual. My roommates have never said anything about me binding before, though.
I cross my arms and sit in my desk chair. Joanna and Felicia have to turn around to look at me. If they want to talk, I’ll talk, but I’ll do it on my own terms.
“I’m not clear on what the problem is,” I say.
“You look different than you did before,” Felicia says. “You act different, too. It makes the rest of us feel awkward.”
“By ‘the rest of us,’ I take it you’re referring to yourself?”
“Joanna doesn’t like it, either,” Felicia says.
I look at Joanna, but Joanna doesn’t say anything.
“By ‘different,’” I say, “I take it you’re referring to the increased masculinity of my gender expression?”
Felicia blinks. “Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it. Plus, there’s your friends—”
“My friends never come here,” I say. “Even if they did, what do you care?”
“The thing is,” Felicia says, “you can’t get offended about this. I’m not prejudiced or anything. It’s none of my business what you do. Plus, I have gay friends, and if you ask they’ll tell you I’m totally cool with all of them.”
I do not have the patience for this.
“What exactly is your problem?” I ask.
“There’s a box on the housing form you’re supposed to check,” Joanna says. “For if you’re, you know, like you are. So they can pick your roommates out specially.”
That’s true. The freshman housing application included a check box for transgender.
The problem was, I knew my mother would read my housing application.
“We barely see each other as it is,” I say instead of explaining that to Joanna. “I don’t see how my existence is making your life more difficult.”
“I didn’t sign on to live with a guy, and neither did Jo,” Felicia says. “I don’t like being uncomfortable in my own room.”
“No one bothered to ask if I was comfortable,” I say.
“Are you even still a girl?” Felicia asks. “Do you have—you know—the right parts?”
I sit back in my chair.
“Do I have what?” My anger spins into embarrassment, then shame. I want to go grab the quilt off my bed and hold it up in front of me.
No. I’m right, and Felicia’s wrong. I cling to that knowledge.
“Why the hell do you think that’s an acceptable question?” I ask. “Do I go around asking you about your—your body parts?”
“Look, my parents won’t feel safe with me living here if you’ve got a you-know-what,” Felicia says, chin lifted, hands folded demurely. As though this is a perfectly legitimate conversational topic and not a hugely invasive interrogation.
I knew people said stuff like this. I’ve seen it on TV.
I never thought anyone would say something like that to me, though. I didn’t think I’d know anyone stupid enough.