“‘Trans people’ is best,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ve seen trans people in movies and TV shows, but judging by how unrealistic and shitty bi characters tend to be, I’m gonna assume I know nothing. So what’s okay for me to ask?”
“Don’t ask about my genitals,” I said, balling up my skirt and looking up at the clouds. “Just don’t.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Bee said, shrugging.
“Thanks.” I bit my lip. “Don’t ask about surgeries. Don’t ask what my name used to be. That’s pretty much it.”
“Okay,” Bee said. She put her camera away, folding the strap deliberately, her eyes locked on something just beneath the deck. “You didn’t have to tell me,” she said.
“I wanted to,” I said, releasing my skirt and surprising myself with a smile. “I really wanted to.”
“Well, you should know I was just fucking with you earlier,” Bee said, “with the stuff about the robot.” She rubbed the back of her neck and I was almost sure I saw her cheeks redden before she turned to pick up something behind her.
“I figured,” I said, my smile widening. Seeing Bee vulnerable was almost as weird as seeing emotion from my dad.
“But you know you’re gorgeous, right?” she said, shouldering her bag and turning back around. If there had been a blush there it was gone. I put my homework away and stood with her.
“Thanks. You know what happened to those girls wasn’t your fault, right?” I said. I crossed the distance like I’d wanted to before and swept her into a hug. We stood like that, our arms around each other for a long while, longer, maybe, than I’d ever hugged anyone before. “Bee, I’m really glad I met you.”
“I’m glad I met you too.”
OCTOBER, SIX YEARS AGO
Marcus didn’t save me a seat on the bus the first Monday after our sleepover.
We didn’t always sit together but I didn’t mind; he was really cute and smart, and he had a lot of friends, so he tried to spend time with as many of them as he could. That was why our friendship meant so much to me, really—he could have spent time with anybody, and he wanted to spend time with me. His friendship had been one of the best parts of seventh grade, maybe the only good part. But as I stared at the back of Marcus’s head, I could tell something was off. He hadn’t even made eye contact with me in math, and when I’d tried to flag him down after class ended and ask if he wanted to hang out again next weekend, he’d looked away from me and walked faster.
As the rolling hills outside the bus windows turned into perfectly manicured lawns, I stared straight ahead and tried to imagine what I could have done to upset him. He got off at the same stop as me; I would try to talk to him again when we were alone.
I was already on my feet when the bus hissed to a stop. Marcus stopped when his feet hit the sidewalk and stared at me while the bus churned back to life and rumbled away.
“Hey,” I said, wondering why he was looking at me like that. “How was your day?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Marcus said, scowling and turning his face away. He put a hand on his backpack strap and turned to walk away.
“Did I do something wrong?” I said, hating how wimpy and desperate I sounded. But I needed to know.
Marcus dropped his backpack onto the ground and pulled a bent black composition book out.
“That’s my diary,” I said, as a wave of sheer horror shot through me.
“Boys call them journals, faggot,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. He started reading from the open page. “‘So glad I haven’t hit puberty yet. Maybe I’ll be lucky and I never will, or maybe everybody is wrong and when I go through puberty I will turn into a woman like I’m supposed to. Probably not, but at least I can dream.’”
“Stop,” I said, looking around to make sure the street was clear. “Please stop.”
“‘Marcus is so gorgeous,’” he read, his voice lowering. He glanced up at me, his brows knitted. “‘I wish we could do more on our sleepovers, but just being near him is nice.’” He turned a page. I ran over and tried to grab the journal out of his hands. He struggled with me for a moment and then punched me in the stomach. I gagged wordlessly and fell to my knees, my hands over my aching gut. “‘Maybe one day I can finally be a girl like I’m supposed to, and then he’ll see how I feel about him, and maybe he’ll feel the same way.’” He turned the page again. I didn’t stand back up but felt tears dripping out of my closed eyes.
“‘It isn’t because he’s so hot though, really,’” Marcus continued. “‘It’s because of how wonderful he is.’” His voice faltered at the end. “I never read this part.” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “‘He’s smart, and funny, and never cruel.’” Marcus’s voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “‘Nobody has ever been as nice to me as he is. He’s made me feel like maybe the world isn’t so bad, since he’s in it.’”