My reflection in the dim light of the window is everything I don’t want to be, because that’s not me. That’s what I might be. I’m not some old man in a sports coat; I’m a kid. I should catch a glimpse of some thin-shouldered twerp in a ratty old T-shirt and beat-down hoodie with acne all over his face.
Jamie called me sir, but not in the fun jokey way. Feels like I’m the bad guy now. She stands firm and I have no idea what to do. My only talent is growing bigger, so I wish she’d just let me chest-bump this dude all the way to Idaho.
The punk looks me up and down and all over, hands flexing in and out of fists because he can’t figure out what’s next. He wants to take me on—I can smell it, hear the blood rush in both our ears. I step back, I want no part of this. He gets tighter in my space. Daring me. Jamie watches us from the side, her hand sneaking out to grab the neck of a glass bottle, just in case.
Out of the corner of my eye, Jamie creeps back many steps. Safe.
“She’s not interested,” I say in a low whisper.
“Let her be the judge.”
“You guys…,” Jamie says.
“She already said no thanks. You got a hearing problem?” I say. “In case you do, I’ll talk real clear. She’s underage. She’s off-limits. A real judge would throw the book at you for trying to get with a minor.”
The jerk’s got nothing after that. He slinks out of the store and finds his bike, riding off into the night. I turn to Jamie just as she puts the glass bottle down. “Are you okay, miss?”
She nods but doesn’t say anything.
Please look at me, I ask her without words.
She does. Why’d you have to do that? I was fine. Everything was fine.
How could I not?
I’m so pissed at you.
Why?
You’re not my fucking bodyguard, okay? she says back as she stares at the ceiling.
Oh. “Let’s go,” I whisper, turning to leave.
She pinches the fabric of my sleeve. “Get the beer first.” I need to get shitfaced. I was kinda joking before, but I’m for real now.
I can’t be the prince, can’t be a bodyguard, definitely do not want to be the Man, and now even being a friend feels all shot up with holes. Don’t quite know what that leaves me, but it feels like nothing.
Jamie stands fast, not moving until I get more beer. Opening up a cold door, I get another six-pack and walk to the front. The counter girl’s phone is like a barnacle on her hand, practically burrowed into her skin. She was texting so hard, she never saw anything. Perhaps searching for the perfect meme GIF was involved. I hope she found it. The beer settles evenly on the counter and I wait for the girl to do something.
Card me. I dare you.
She gives me the slightest once-over and scans the bar code with her plastic wand. It beeps. “Eight dollars and seventy-five cents.”
I don’t budge. I’m fifteen years old, card me. My wallet flops open to my school ID. It’s me, only with no beard. I push it toward her. “Don’t you want to card me?”
She flips a hand. “Nah, you’re good.”
I take off the glasses. I tug at the acrylic paint in my beard and let several tiny gray tubes fall to the ground.
The clerk is oblivious to the point of pain. “Sir?”
I don’t want to be called sir ever again. “You shouldn’t be selling me this beer because I’m only fifteen years old.”
“Right. And I’m the pope.” She snorts with laughter. “Eight dollars and seventy-five cents?”
“Your Holiness.” I throw down a ten, grab the beer, and crutch as awkward and fast as possible out of the store.
Jamie sneaks outside right behind me. “One more store?”
“No. I’m done.”
TWENTY-FIVE
There is a sun setting above us and we do stare at the wonder of it all, but it’s been entirely silent between us. The incident at the store looming large. I’m afraid of bringing it up, because what if she says she doesn’t want to hang out anymore? The longer we don’t talk, the more nervous I get, and I’m starting to wonder if we should just call the whole thing off and get her home before it gets any colder out.
I make one last shot.
“Knock, knock,” I say as we walk through the chilly streets, glass bottles clanking in our backpacks.
“Who’s there?” she answers. The first words we speak in like twenty minutes.
“To.”
“To who?”
“To whom.” She laughs and I do too.
“Cheesy goodness,” she says.
Then it’s quiet again.
“I think…” My voice breaks across the cold air. “I think you’re a really brave person.”
“Ugh.” The groan comes from her gut and goes way long. “You sound like that girl who stopped me in the lunchroom at my new school and was all like, “I think it’s great you’re trans. You are so brave,” and all I could think was, I am so hungry and you are blocking me from my food.”
“I can’t think you’re brave? That you’re a warrior?”
“A warrior? Have I been drafted into battle or something? Where’s my cool armor; who’s at the gate?” she busts out. “Seriously, Dylan. You don’t have to hurt yourself. I’m not mad at you.”