“And maybe,” I said, bringing my lips centimeters from his and letting my eyelids droop, “once you’ve gotten all A’s down here, you could transfer to my school and get an apartment with me.”
“For now though,” he said, pulling me tight to him and sneaking a quick kiss, “this is just fine.”
I nodded. But my mind was already racing ahead, imagining a future I had scarcely allowed myself to consider. I thought of Grant holding my hand as we walked down a New York City street, of lounging on a blanket in Central Park, reading for class as he napped peacefully beside me. I knew we were only just beginning, but I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to be with him until the end.
“I want you to be my first,” I said, chewing the inside of my cheek. “When I’m ready, I want it to be you.”
“No rush,” Grant said, burying his face in my shoulder. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
AUGUST, TWO YEARS AGO
“You really wanna come?” Mom called from the living room. “Pretty sure I know what you like by now.”
“I haven’t left the house all summer,” I called back. I accidentally turned my head as I spoke, smearing a line of eyeliner from the middle of my eyelid up to my eyebrow.
“Shit.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to stay calm. This should have been easy. I’d been drawing and painting since I was in kindergarten. But nothing was easy, not in this strange in-between time. The hormones I’d been taking hadn’t finished their work yet, and I wouldn’t be old enough for the surgery until next summer.
I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror sitting on my desk. My hair was still short and boyish, though its growth had sped up noticeably thanks to the hormones. My right eye was bare while my left eye was ringed with eye shadow and eyeliner in thick, childish smears. My cheeks were two bright, red circles like an embarrassed anime character. I watched as my mouth screwed up and my eyes started to twitch. I felt tears forming, and I knew that if I let them loose I would have to start all over, but I felt so helpless and stupid that I wondered what the point was in the first place. Mom knocked gently at my door.
“I changed my mind,” I said. I tried to sound calm but it came out as a pathetic whimper.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m f-fine.”
“You can’t lie to me,” she said. “You got ten seconds before I come in there, so if you need to make yourself decent, now’s the time.”
I shuffled over to my bed and slouched on the edge, still sniffling. My cat, Guinevere, padded across the bed and bopped her face into my shoulder, the sound of her purring only just barely lifting my spirits. The door creaked. I watched Mom’s white sandals as she came in. She sat down beside me and her soft, round hand squeezed my shoulder.
“I look stupid,” I said. “I’m not a boy or a girl anymore. I’m just broken. It would have been easier if I’d died.”
“Easier for who?” Mom said. Her hand tightened. I turned to face her and there was a steeliness in her narrowed eyes that seemed completely out of place in her soft features.
“Everybody but you I guess,” I whispered. I looked away again and her grip weakened.
“You wouldn’t hurt your mama, right?”
“Right,” I muttered.
“You promise you ain’t gonna … again…?”
“Promise.”
“Atta girl,” she said. She grabbed both shoulders and turned me toward her, looking all roses and biscuits again. “Mason girls don’t quit.”
“I’m still a Hardy.”
“Well, your dad’s mama was a hard old bitch, so she counts too.” I smiled despite myself. “Now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” She put her fingers under my chin and turned my face this way and that, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Good lord, Amanda, you got a good inch slathered on here. Who said you needed this much?”
“The Internet,” I said sheepishly. Mom made a dubious noise at the back of her throat.
“The Internet says lots of things, hon. Remember Hank?”
“The ointment guy?”
“Yup. Internet said we was a perfect match, and look how that turned out. Ointment stains in my damn carpet and just as single as ever.”
I laughed, forgetting the burning puffiness around my eyes for a moment. She grabbed the makeup wipes off my desk and started gently rubbing my face like she used to when I was little. “Makeup has lotsa uses. One of ’em is to highlight your eyes, cheeks, and lips so they stick out a little, give you a kinda feminine glow that boys think’s natural. There now.”
“What are the other uses?”
“Looking young,” she said without looking up. “But if you looked any younger, folks’d wonder why I let you out of your crib.”
I laughed. This felt right. This felt like the moment I had wanted with Mom since I was old enough to know I wanted anything at all.