by Lisa Bunker
But there was no denying they had been wonderful in other ways. The whole girl project, front and center, obviously. Just rolling with that. Including the phone call Aunt Lucy had made in the last week of summer about PE, getting her out of that impossible puzzle with a made-up excuse.
And now an appointment with a gender doctor.
Zen had done some homework about that, despite the intense squirminess it brought on. Dysphoria, she had learned that squirminess was called—a name for the twisty, awful disconnect trans people could feel between body and brain. Oh, and let’s not neglect to mention the powerful squidginess Zen also happened to feel about medical stuff, particularly anything that changed or invaded her body. Shots, for example. Nope nope nope. When she had been smaller, even haircuts had been difficult.
Still, pushing through the discomfort, she had been able to educate herself some about the treatments the people at this clinic might talk about. Hormone blockers. Well, that wasn’t so bad. She could take a pill. Unless it was a shot. Squirm! And, later, things like surgery? Instant turbocharged shiver-willies. But then, on the other other hand, there was also the part where she wanted it with every atom of her being.
Both Aunties were looking at her, seeking response to the news. Laughing eyes and intense eyes. Zen knew she would cry if she spoke, but, manners. Her thank-you was no less sincere for being tearful. Then, overwhelmed by feels, she grabbed her pack and made a fast escape.
On her way to school, she did her best to force her mind away from the endless loops of desire and fear Aunt Lucy’s news had started spinning. Gotta stay sane. Think about anything else. Think about the hack. That would do. She had a chance maybe to use her skills for good. Holding on to this thought like a life preserver, she made her way to Mr. Walker’s room.
SIXTEEN
FIRST PERIOD BEGAN with announcements on the scratchy-sounding speaker in the corner of the ceiling, and that included Mr. Vann, the principal, telling again about the hack. People around the room exclaimed and made sad faces, but also someone snickered—one of the boys near the back. Mr. Walker looked up sharply, to see a row of carefully blank expressions. Robert’s was among them. Zen, head low over her desk, peeked at him under the curve of her arm. Was he smirking?
During class, Melissa kept trying to catch her eye, and then held out a note. Zen felt both warm and annoyed. The attention was gratifying, of course, but things with this girl were happening faster than she wanted. It wouldn’t do to just cut her off, though, so she waited until Mr. Walker was writing on the whiteboard to take the square of paper. She unfolded it and read, “Don’t you think Robert is cute? He goes to my church.” There was a smiley face and a heart.
Ugh. Really? Zen did her best to smile in response, though, because it was so clearly expected. The smile felt completely fake on her face. Melissa smiled back . . . and scribbled another note and held it out.
Zen really did not want to take this one. She shook her head minutely and made a little gesture toward the front of the room, pretending she was afraid of getting caught. Melissa’s smiled snuffed out, and she withdrew the note with a wounded expression. Zen sighed and kept her eyes forward for the rest of class.
When the bell rang, Melissa was right there. “You didn’t take my second note.”
Zen had eyes on Mr. Walker. “I’m . . . I didn’t . . . Sorry.”
Melissa frowned for another second, but then shrugged. “Well, what it said was, let’s sit together at lunch, okay?”
“Um . . .”
“What’s the matter?”
Mr. Walker’s period-two class was filling seats. “Um, I kinda already . . . I usually sit with Arli and those guys.”
Melissa made a face. “What do you want to sit with those weirdos for?”
“I don’t know. They’re fun, I guess.”
Melissa made a face. “Suit yourself,” she said coldly. But then she switched back to a lighter tone. “So, did you get permission to come over?”
“I haven’t asked yet. I will tonight.” Zen took the extra second to make eye contact and smile. “I really do want to come. It was nice of you to ask me.”
“Okay. Wanna walk to our next classes together?”
“I gotta ask Mr. Walker something.”
Melissa’s face closed up again. Back and forth, back and forth. “Fine,” she said, and turned away with a flip of the hair. Zen scowled. Girl stuff. Why did everything have to be so complicated? But her window was quickly closing. She went to Mr. Walker’s desk.
“Hey, Zen,” said Mr. Walker. “I wanted to let you know, I took my laptop to a friend of mine, and he said you were exactly right about that keylogger. He said he was impressed one of my students found it. So, thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” There was maybe a minute left, tops. “Mr. Walker, can I . . . Would it be okay if I . . .”
“What’s up?”
“The website hack.”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Well, you saw, I have skills. Maybe I could help figure out who did it.”
Mr. Walker nodded. “It’s interesting you should mention that, because, as it happens, I am one of the teachers responsible for the school website.” Zen only barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “And I know you know things. But do you really think you could find out who it was?”
“Maybe? If I had access to the server?”
“Hm. I don’t even know where that is.”
“Or,” she said, and this was the point she really wanted to make, “I could set up a tracker, so if the person comes back, we can snag an IP address.” The bell rang.
“Hm,” the teacher said again. “We both have our next classes. I will talk to the web committee and get back to you.”
SEVENTEEN
WHEN ZEN EXITED the food court holding her tray, eyes. The first week it had been any eyes, all eyes. A general anxiety about being seen. Now it was eyes with meanings and agendas. Over there in that corner, Natalie and her posse, noticing her. Someone made a comment, and the table giggled. At the gamer table, Wire-Frame Glasses staring at her. Paul, his name was, Clem had said in answer to a carefully casual question. Farther around the room, Melissa at the clean-cut kids’ table, giving her one flat look before pointedly looking away. And, the orphan misfits smiling hello. Except Dyna wasn’t there. Zen wove her way over.
“Greetings, earthling,” said Arli.
“Hey,” said Clem.
Zen sat down. “Hi.” She looked at the empty seat. “Where’s Dyna?”
The question sucked away the table’s mirth.
“What?” said Zen. “Is she okay?”
“As far as we know,” said Arli.
“Her parents took her out of school,” said Clem. “Because of the, you know . . . the thing that happened with the website. A couple other Muslim kids are out today too.”
“Oh,” said Zen. “Was it as bad as that? I mean, like, threats?”
“They got it down fast, but there are rumors,” said Clem.
“What was actually posted?” asked Zen. “Do we know?”
Arli said, “I heard it was just derogatory.”
Zen looked a comment: Well, now, that’s some word you just used there.
Arli’s look back said: Duh, word geek. Then, in a low voice after a glance around, “Grumpy Cat with, ‘Muslims, go home,’ is what I heard.”
Clem leaned close and outright whispered: “I heard, a picture of a guy with a gun and, ‘raghead hunting club.’”
“Jeezum.”
“I know, right?” said Clem.
“That’s just awful,” Zen said, and the other two nodded.
In the silence that followed, Zen caught sight of that kid, what was his name? Elijah. The shy boy. He was making his way among the tables. Zen knew the shy playbook, and thought maybe he was angling accidentally-on-purpo
se toward them. And now he was slowing as he passed behind Arli and Clem. He gave one forlorn look. He wanted an invite.
Poor kid. She certainly knew how it felt. This was maybe going to be a little tricky, because the feel was that Arli was boss of the table. But, that look. “Hey,” she said.
Clem and Arli turned to see who she was greeting. Elijah said something that might have been “Hi,” if it had had any actual breath behind it.
“Do you want to join us?”
Arli gave her a hard glance. Yep, definite boss vibe. But then Arli’s eyes softened. A nod. “Yeah, sit if you want.” Then space was being made, and Elijah sat down.
Clem said, “Welcome to Arli’s table of orphan misfits.” Let the ritual commence.
Elijah looked alarmed. “Thank you?”
“My name is Clem.”
Silence. Zen stepped in. “And I’m Zen.”
“And I’m Arli,” said Arli.
Yet more silence. Then, “My name is . . .”
As Zen was anticipating, Arli cut in. “Gizmo.”
Elijah looked up full-face for the first time. “Excuse me, no?” he said. “My name is Elijah?”
“Do not question the Nickname Genius.” But Arli’s rhythm was off. The ritual was going bumpily.
Zen put out a placating hand. “It’s a thing,” she said. “We all have nicknames. Arli picks them.”
Elijah did a sort of helpless face shrug. “Okay?” he said. Then, “What does Gizmo mean?”
Arli’s eyes lit up. “It means thingamajig. Whatchamacallit. Doohickey. Thingamabob. Whatsit. Jobberdoo!”
“Synonym ecstasy,” said Zen, and to her surprise, Arli burst out laughing. Clem followed. Clem had an incredibly goofy laugh, and after a couple of seconds Zen and Elijah couldn’t help joining in.
As the laughter wound down, Zen said to Arli, “Gizmo? Where did you get that one?”
“Out of thin air. It came to me in the moment.”
“So, not always a reason.”
“You learn fast, grasshopper.”
“Grasshopper?”
“If you don’t know the reference, I’m not going to tell you.”
The table had its mirth back, and lunch went by quickly. One bit of odd unpleasantness on the way out, though, as Zen and Arli passed the popular kids’ table. Only Natalie and one friend were still there, sitting with their backs turned. As they passed, Natalie whispered, “Now,” and both girls pinched their shoulder-seams and lifted their tops toward their ears. One of them made a sort of horking noise, and they both laughed. A little pit of pain opened up in Zen’s stomach. She was wearing the dress again, just like Friday.
“What was that about?” Arli asked in the hall.
“I have no idea,” Zen said stonily. So not wanting to explain. The promised clothes-shopping trip, if that was really going to happen, could not come fast enough.
INTERLUDE: SEEING ZEN
Paul
Her nickname is Zen, but her full name is Zenobia July. I found that out. I heard them talking about her in the office, and I remembered. She’s about four feet eleven inches tall, which I know approximately because she was standing next to Walter Bowman in the hall for a minute between classes and they looked like they were exactly the same height, and then I stood next to Walter Bowman later in Mr. Ellison’s class by the pencil sharpener and looked at where his head reached on the poster on the wall, and then I measured with my hand where my head reached on the poster, and it was about two inches higher than Walter Bowman’s head, and I’m five feet one inch tall.
She knows a lot about games. I was at the table with Robert and Mike and those guys at lunch, and she came over and told us some stuff about Lukematon, which I only just learned about. Some of the guys didn’t believe her, but I looked it up, and she was right, it’s not Luke Maton, the person who made the platform, it’s Lukematon, which means, just like she said, “countless” in the Finnish language. “Countless” because anyone who wants to, well, anyone who has earned enough in-game points anyway, can get access to some of the developer tools and start building their own game. You have to earn it, and it looks like no one has been able to find any cheats, and you only get a few points at a time, but in theory you could have any number of games on the site. So that’s why “countless.”
What does she look like? Well, um, she’s . . . I don’t know . . . I guess she has dark hair that it looks like she wants to grow out, because it’s pretty short and sometimes she pulls at it like she wishes it reached down to her shoulders. And I guess her clothes are a little weird. I heard someone making fun of her clothes. But who cares about clothes, I mean, right?
Do I think she’s pretty?
I dunno. Stop bugging me, okay?
EIGHTEEN
WALKING HOME FROM school, Zen pondered the puzzle of Melissa. She had been so thoughtful about the rubric, and she had been kind to Elijah, too, but there also seemed to be this complicated set of unwritten rules, and if Zen didn’t say and do everything just right, Melissa’s feelings got instantly hurt. It was baffling.
On the other hand, an invitation was an invitation, and Zen really did want to be friends. Melissa reminded her of girls she had known back home. She hadn’t known them well— it was different when people saw you as a boy—but still, there was a familiarity there. The cross she wore. The politeness in the way she talked, that felt like Sunday at church. Being around Melissa raised an echo of an old feeling of belonging.
So, if Zen wanted to pursue the friendship, that meant she had to follow through on asking permission from the Aunties. One good time for such matters, she had figured out, was the moment that usually happened toward the end of dinner when Aunt Lucy started talking house business.
This particular evening, that moment came when they were halfway through dessert. Aunt Lucy put down her fork and announced that she had set it up with Brad—Uncle Sprink—to take a trip to the mall together on Friday night. Thank God! Zen took extra care with her thanks, wanting to make sure the Aunties understood how much it mattered to her. Then, while they were nodding and looking pleased, she cleared her throat and said, “Um, speaking of the weekend, I have a question.”
“Yes?” said Aunt Lucy.
“I’ve gotten an invitation . . . a girl at school . . . she said, could I come over on Sunday? Get a ride and go? For a family game time they do?”
Aunt Lucy said, “Who is this girl?”
“Melissa Martin, her name is. She’s in my social studies class.” Silence. “She helped me with a homework thing. She’s nice.”
The Aunties exchanged a look. It was Aunt Phil who answered. “Sure, honeybunch,” she said. “We’ll be happy to drive you, and pick you up after.” Aunt Lucy made a scoffing noise. “Well, what I should say is, your auntie Lucy will be happy to drive you. Me and cars, we don’t get along real well.”
Zen said, “Thank you.”
“It’s all right,” said Aunt Lucy.
Aunt Phil said, “So you’re making friends. Right on.”
“Yes, m— Yes, thanks.”
“Including that Muslim girl,” said Aunt Lucy.
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?” said Aunt Phil.
“Well, there’s this kid named Arli.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
“That’s what I said too.”
Aunt Phil laughed. “And what did Arli say in return?”
“‘You’re not wrong.’”
Aunt Lucy snorted. “I like the sound of this person.”
“Arli said that too!” said Zen. “‘I have to meet these people.’ Meaning, you.”
“Well, that’s groovy,” said Aunt Phil. “Maybe you could ask Arli over to play sometime.”
Zen rolled her eyes. “We’re not six years old, you know. We don’t play.”
“No?”
“So what do you do?” Aunt Lucy asked.
Zen thought for a second. “We hang out.”
“Right on,” said Aunt Phil. “Well, if you want to invite Arli to come hang out sometime, you can. Or to dinner. Or both. Feel free, pumpkin.”
“Thank you,” said Zen. She had been saving the Arli ask, not feeling sure how much she should try for at once. But, there, it had fallen into her lap. Arli would be happy. When she decided she was ready to issue the invitation. One friend visit at a time—that felt about right.
NINETEEN
FRIDAY NIGHT AT the mall, with Aunt Lucy in tow to wield the credit card, Uncle Sprink took charge. “All right, honey, talk to me,” he said as they stood by the mall map. “What’s your target look?” His eyes were alive with pleasure, and Zen all of a sudden felt a flower of happiness bloom in her chest. He was asking her what she wanted to wear. What girl clothes she wanted to wear. It was a lovely, lovely feeling.
Not that she had any clear idea how to answer. But it felt safe saying so. “I . . . don’t know for sure?”
“No problem,” said Uncle Sprink. “Let’s see if we can narrow it down.” He studied the mall map, then put his finger on one of the colored shapes. “This store, for instance,” he said. “Baby punk. Tons of attitude. Black eyeliner. Too emo to ever smile.”
“Um, no. I don’t think that sounds right.”
“Okay, then, let’s see. Hm. No, too grown-up. No, also baby punk. Hm.” He put his finger on another shape. “Okay, this one. Polite and formal, verging on prim. Tea with the queen. Very very too too.”
Zen laughed. Warming to the task, she said, “No, not that either.”
“Okay then, how about this one? Precociously sexualized, latest hot trends, don’t-mess-with-me attitude, gonna take down the queen bee someday or die trying.”
“Um . . . no, sorry? Not me either.” Though she couldn’t help thinking for a moment of Natalie.
“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way,” he said. “How about this: What looks have you seen that you like? In movies or on the net or in the world?”
