Zenobia July

by Lisa Bunker

  The answer was right there. “Kimazui.”

  “Beg pardon, sweetie?”

  “Kimazui.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s . . . it’s my show. My favorite.”

  “And it has a look?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “Well . . . it’s Japanese, so you know, there’s a thing with dresses with bows. But a little different, too. Not exactly like any other show.”

  Uncle Sprink pulled out his phone and did some fast thumb-typing. Then they were looking at stills together. “Ah,” he said. “I’m with you now. Anime princess with a big dollop of cyberpunk. Very nice. It suits you well.”

  Glow glow glow. Who knew it could be so much fun talking about clothes? With a man who looked like a big friendly bear? Or anyone?

  “Tricky,” Uncle Sprink said. “No one store is going to have all of this. We’re going to have to do some sleuthing.”

  What followed was a joyous whirlwind of dress-up play. At least, that was how it felt to Zen. Uncle Sprink was amazing. He bossed the salespeople around and whipped things off racks and held them up in front of Zen and frowned and put them back or smiled and added them to a growing cartload ranging from variations on the cyberpunk anime princess theme to things Zen would never have thought of, but was astonished to find she liked in the changing room mirror. Tangerine-colored capris. A knee-length T-shirty top with a huge flower on it. As well as other more regular girl clothes such as she had seen regular girls wearing at school. Some outfits she had to hastily take off again because she could see in the mirror that the stupid bulge would be a problem, but that always happened when she was alone, so the ick factor stayed manageable, and she felt safe enough to go on. Aunt Lucy brandished the card, and their collection of bags grew.

  They had all agreed that they would try just one more store—shoes, oh joy!—when, coming around a corner, Zen found herself face to face with Dyna. There was a moment of fluster, and then the man who was clearly with her nudged Dyna a little behind him and stepped in front. Already launched into her greeting, Zen ended up delivering it mostly to him: “Hi?”

  The man’s eyes were on Uncle Sprink’s face. His expression looked frightened, edging into hostile. Dyna said something to him in a language Zen didn’t think was French. The man pushed her farther back behind him.

  Aunt Lucy stepped forward. “Hello,” she said. “It appears the girls know each other.”

  The man turned his wary gaze to her.

  “My name is Lucille Jarecky,” Aunt Lucy said. “And this is my friend Brad Haynes, and this is my niece, Zenobia.”

  Zen said, “I know Dyn— Chantal from school. We . . . we’re friends.”

  The man’s face unclenched a little. Dyna stepped around him, and he let her. “Hello, Zen,” Dyna said.

  “Hello.” Zen made a pain face. “I’m sorry about what happened with the school website.”

  “It is not your fault.”

  “No, of course not.” Pause. “But since here you are, I can tell you, I’m going to help figure out who did it.”

  The man said, “You are a friend of my daughter?” He had a heavy accent.

  “Yes. My name is Zenobia July.” She held out her hand. The man looked at it, and there was an awkward moment. Zen put her hand down again. The man did a little sort of bow-dip and said, “I am called Amadou Kasongo.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Zenobia said.

  “I try to tell him,” Dyna said. “Here in America, on the internet, always there are memes. And for the most part, they are empty. Not real danger. But he has fear.”

  Uncle Sprink said, “That’s totally understandable.”

  Another silence, but with less tension. Almost friendly. Nonetheless, shopping called. “Okay, nice to see you, but we have to go,” said Zen. Good-byes, and on to the shoe store.

  In the car on the way home, Zen said, “Brad Haynes.”

  Uncle Sprink glanced back. “Yes?”

  “So where does ‘Sprink’ come from?”

  The two adults in the front seat exchanged a look.

  “It’s part of my drag name, honey,” said Uncle Sprink. “The full name is Sprinkles La Fontaine.”

  “Oh,” said Zen, and asked no more. She knew a little about drag from her web research. Drag was performance, the gender 101 sites said. As opposed to trans, which was about who you were. So Uncle Sprink was a drag performer. As he and Aunt Lucy continued to talk to each other, she studied the side of his face. He had a big head, not much hair at all, a big nose, big ears, stubbly cheeks. Try as she might, she couldn’t see anything womanlike about him. She wondered if she would ever get to see him dressed up.

  Uncle Sprink noticed her looking and gave her a smile and a wink. Zen smiled back. It went along with a sudden warm feeling in her chest. What did it matter, whether she could see woman in him at all? And what did it matter, the words her father would have had for him? It had been truly kind of him, taking her shopping. School next week was going to be so much easier because of it. She decided to like him until further notice.

  TWENTY

  THE ROUTE AUNT Lucy’s phone chose to the Martins’ house took them around a tree-lined bay and on into quiet suburban streets. Zen stared out the window at all the green. No place in Arizona was as green as this place. She still hadn’t gotten used to it. Aunt Lucy drove intently, her mouth drawn down at the corners.

  The Martins’ house turned out to be a two-story place in a cul-de-sac, with a peaked roof and white siding, neat and prosperous-looking. Two cars stood in the driveway, and they both had fish emblems on them. One also had a church bumper sticker and a vanity plate: SOGR8FL. Aunt Lucy muttered something.

  “I’m sorry?” said Zen.

  “Nothing,” said Aunt Lucy. “I guess I just didn’t realize how far we were venturing into the Red State part of town.” You could hear the capital letters in how she said it.

  “Oh.” Zen thought about her old family and their friends back in Arizona. She wondered what Aunt Lucy would say if she knew that Zen still said her prayers before bed.

  “No matter,” said Aunt Lucy. “I’m sure they are perfectly decent people. But if you need to call, call.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Zen got out. The front door opened, and Melissa came out onto the porch. A woman with abundant curly red-blond hair came out too. They both had big smiles on their faces as they waved and called welcome. “Thank you for the ride,” Zen said.

  “I’ll be back at five sharp to pick you up,” said Aunt Lucy, looking impatient to be gone.

  “Okay, thanks.” Zen chunked the door shut and made her way up the walk.

  Inside, Zen thought for a second that there was other company, but then she realized it was all one family: Mom, Dad, and five children. Melissa was second oldest. There were three younger ones clattering around, and older brother dude, who was in high school and who was tall and handsome. When he directed his distant boy gaze at her for a second and said hello, Zen felt a flippy sensation inside. He was cute. And he was gone, off into his room. Too mature for game day, apparently.

  Then there was Mr. Martin, a polite man with a dress shirt and army-short haircut who said, “Welcome to our home, Zenobia,” even as a couple of the smaller kids yanked him by the arms back toward the low table where he would be the grown-up in charge of crazy eights.

  And, finally, Melissa’s mom, the woman from the porch. Up close, Mrs. Martin was pretty in a way that made Zen think of mothers’ magazines. She was wearing makeup, and had earrings on that matched her blouse. She also wore a gold cross pendant around her neck, hanging just above a demure top button. “Hello, Zenobia,” she said warmly. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m pleased to meet you too,” Zen managed. She was disconcerte
d by Mrs. Martin’s eyes. They were bright, not unlike the Aunties’, but also with a quirky thing at the corners that was like a secret smile. Her mouth had a quirky thing too. Zen had seen it before, at church back in Arizona. It said, I am a person who knows what I know.

  “Would you like something to drink? We’re a big soda family.”

  “Yes, please, ma’am.”

  In moments a fizzing glass was in her hand. There were bowls and plates of snacks around too.

  “I really am pleased to meet you, you know,” said Mrs. Martin, watching all the time with those quirky eyes. “When Melissa told me she had made a new friend, I thought, well, praise the Lord. It’s been a little difficult to find like-minded people since we moved here.”

  Melissa said, “We came from Pennsylvania.”

  Zen cleared her throat. “I just moved here too,” she said.

  “Really?” said Mrs. Martin. “Where did you live before?”

  “Arizona. A little town called Westfall.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  Zen had no response to this.

  “Well, no matter. And what does your father do?”

  Zen dropped her eyes.

  “Oh, dear, have I said something wrong?”

  “Um . . . he was a contractor . . . but . . . um . . . he died.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. What about your mother, then?”

  Zen wanted to twist away, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Oh my Lord, you don’t mean to say . . . you’re an orphan?”

  Zen’s eyes stung. To hear it just said like that. Then to her startlement she was enfolded in cool, crinkly fabric and pressing arms. Mrs. Martin was hugging her. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” the woman whispered. “You poor, poor dear.”

  So many feels, so fast, all at war with each other. Old grief suddenly sharp again. The anxiety to bend her lower body away from the body pressing hers, to keep Melissa’s mother from feeling something she couldn’t be allowed to feel. And, unexpectedly, a strong urge to hug back, to wrap her arms around this stranger woman and sob out all her pent-up pain. She made a choking sound.

  Mrs. Martin hunkered down to bring their faces close. Melissa was watching, looking close to tears herself. What a warmhearted family this was. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Martin said. “I didn’t mean to pry. But I’m glad you told me.” A slight hesitation, and then, “So now you live with your . . . ?”

  “My aunt Lucy.”

  “The woman who dropped you off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Martin looked searchingly into Zen’s face. “Well, then, I’m sure that’s what the Lord intends. But, sweetheart, you should know, you always have a haven here if you need one.”

  “Thank you?” Zen said. She meant the gratitude, but was also squirming some. Things had gotten weirdly intense.

  Mrs. Martin seemed to feel the same, because she stood up again and became brisk. “My goodness,” she said. “Not exactly first-acquaintance talk. But no matter. You are welcome here. Are you ready for some word-game fun?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Because the little ones, they like the simpler games, but Melissa and I, we prefer to exercise our brains a bit more. Don’t we, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Mother.” They moved to the table where the board and racks and bag full of letter tiles had been set out.

  Melissa and her mom kept up a lively flow of chitchat while they played, but they were both playing to win, and Zen soon realized she was out of her league. Half the words on the board she had never seen before. The first game came down to the last word, with Melissa thinking she was going to win until her mom’s last big play, and, for the first time that Zen had seen, Melissa showed some temper: an angry word, a punch on a knee, and shiny eyes. This display earned Melissa a parental rebuke, which she sulked under. She shot her eyes at Zen, and Zen felt called upon as a friend in a way she wasn’t sure she understood. She did her best to come up with a way to hold her face that expressed solidarity.

  They played several games. Zen fidgeted and started glancing at the clock. It had been very kind of Melissa to invite her over, and her family was so pleasant. Still, as the hour of five approached, Zen found herself silently urging the minute hand around the clock face, and she felt a tightness in her chest loosen when, a few minutes before the top of the hour, she saw out the window that Aunt Lucy’s car was pulling up to the curb.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Hello, God.

  Today, game day at Melissa’s house. It reminded me of home.

  Is it wrong, or sick, if I miss home?

  It was killing me. But I still miss it.

  Hey, God? If you care so much about me, why did you make me like this? Having to choose between being home and being real?

  This hurts so bad I wish I could just die.

  I miss Mom. I wish she had lived longer, so I could remember more.

  I do remember some.

  I remember that she was gentle.

  I remember she sang me to sleep at night.

  I remember her reading to me.

  I remember her putting medicine on my scraped knee, and a bandage.

  I remember her teaching me to pray.

  I remember food she made.

  Hot dogs and mac and cheese.

  Meatloaf.

  Grapefruit halves with sugar spooned on.

  The cookies she baked. Gingersnaps. Crispy rice squares.

  But I also remember the time I asked her if I could try her earrings and lipstick, and she said no, because you, God, you made me a boy, and those things were for girls.

  And I didn’t know how to say that that couldn’t be right, because I wasn’t a boy, at all.

  Not then, not now, not ever.

  Why couldn’t I say?

  Seriously, why?

  Because I was FIVE!

  I was afraid.

  I wasn’t strong enough.

  I just didn’t know how to put it into words.

  And

  And now

  Now I never get to show her who I am—

  * * *

  ~

  Whispering these last words up at the dim ceiling of her bedroom, Zen could no longer keep her sobs quiet. Quick steps. A gentle knock. “Pumpkin?” said Aunt Phil’s voice, muffled through the door. “You all right?”

  Zen lay in bed and wailed. The door opened. Her craggy aunt came in, and Zen was startled to see through the prisms of her own tears that Aunt Phil’s eyes were wet too. Aunt Phil wrapped her arms around her. “Oh, boo-boo,” she murmured. “Oh, honeybunch. Chickadee. It’s going to be all right.”

  Aunt Phil smelled different from Mrs. Martin. Less like perfume, more like a human with a human body. Neither of them smelled like Zen’s mother, though. She couldn’t remember anymore what her mother had smelled like, but she knew it was different from anyone else.

  Not that it mattered. Her mother was long dead, and there was nothing she could do about it. Zen leaned into the comforting solidity of her murmuring aunt and howled out a small portion of her long-stored hurt.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THEY WERE TAKING a field trip to a radio station. A community station, it was called. Not like the Q or the Wolf or the River, but a place where volunteers did the shows. Mr. Walker had gotten them in because he did a show there himself. Radio was another geekery, it seemed. So many geekeries in the world. The station was near the school, at the university where Aunt Lucy worked.

  Zen was one of the first on the bus, and took a seat halfway back. As soon as she was settled she saw Robert and a friend making their way down the aisle. She laid her hand across the seat next to her and looked pointedly out the window. She heard them go by and sit somewhere in back.

  Eyes front again, and she saw Eli
jah just reaching the top of the steps. Gizmo? Nah. Elijah. He hadn’t seemed to like the name, and Arli wasn’t here. He gave Zen a look and a nod both so subtle that Zen felt sure no one else on the bus had seen them. He really was very good at making himself invisible. What was that word of Arli’s? Chima. Elijah was an invisibility chima.

  With a look, she invited him to sit beside her, and he did. That one act of extroversion accomplished, though, he immediately vanished again into a book.

  Fine. Zen watched out the window, marveling again at all the green. It was almost indecent somehow. Vulgar. All those leaves. Trees showing off, shouting lookitme, lookitme!

  A short drive, and the bus pulled up on a quiet street. Mr. Walker’s class poured out onto the sidewalk next to an ordinary-looking white house.

  At least, ordinary-looking on the outside. Inside was a space that reminded Zen of her dad’s workshop: full of clutter, but with the feel that it was because work was getting done. There were stickers all over the place. Some of them were station bumper stickers—WYZA!—but there were also lots of bizarre arty stickers with random words on them. The names of bands, Mr. Walker said. Zen looked for a name she knew, but didn’t see any. She recognized the music pumping from the speakers, though. Vintage country, just like she had been listening to the other night. She began to feel interested in this place.

  The radio station man was a grizzled guy with a lot of mixy white-and-black hair bushing down toward his shoulders. He had a deep mellow voice and a way of rubbing his hands together, and Zen could tell from how he talked that he loved his station and his work.

  First stop on the tour was a little room with a round table with microphones on it. Feeling crowded, Zen allowed others’ jostling forward to shuffle her back, and ended up leaning against the wall next to, no surprise, Elijah. Of course back by the wall was where Elijah would be. Invisibility chima at work.

  The man was talking about how bands played live in this room. “Hey,” Zen whispered.