by Lisa Bunker
“Yes,” Zen breathed.
On the way into the bathroom, Zen wondered something she had wondered a few times before. Did he know? Had the Aunties told him? Or had he figured it out for himself? And, should she ask? Yesterday the answer still would have been an emphatic no. But yesterday she hadn’t come out to Arli. Her heart beat faster. She said, “Uncle Sprink, I don’t know if . . . Do you . . .” She ground to a halt.
Their eyes met in the mirror. “What’s up, sweetie?” he said.
Gulp. “You . . . you do know that I’m trans, right?”
His expression remained calm. “No, I didn’t know,” he said. A pause. “Well, how ’bout that.” And then, “Okay, let’s try again, shall we?”
As she began her second effort, Zen frowned a little bit, surprised to discover herself feeling a touch of . . . disappointment? Was that the feeling? Yes, it seemed to be. Disappointment about what?
Disappointment that he hadn’t been . . . impressed?
She frowned a little more. No big deal, his reaction said. Meh. Whatever. Slowly, Zen smiled. Now that she thought about it, she liked that reaction a lot.
Her second try went better. Touching her face with her other hand helped her to guide the pencil, and she did her best to draw the mirror image of what he had drawn on the other side. A couple of minutes passed in tongue-poked-out intensity. Then she pulled back and studied her handiwork. She turned her head to look from different angles. She tweaked in one small correction. In the mirror, Uncle Sprink was nodding. “Really good,” he said, and grinned at her. “You’ve got a knack for this.”
She turned and faced him. “Are you sure?” she said.
He crouched down so his face was level with hers and stared at her forehead, his eyes switching back and forth. He nodded again. “Fabulous,” he said. “Spot on, darling.”
Zen laughed, and then impulsively hugged him. He was solid and warm and bristly and squeezable. He put an arm around her and squeezed back. “Thank you,” she said.
“No problemo, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go show the Aunties.”
FIFTY-SIX
THE AUNTIES WERE warmly appreciative, and Zen soaked up the love. But then she noticed that Uncle Sprink was staring at her face again, and her joy dropped a notch. “What?” she said. “Did I smudge it?” Her finger darted to her brow.
“Ah-ah!” Uncle Sprink said, and, startled, she yanked her hand away again. “Don’t touch, honey,” he went on in a softer voice. “Trust your work, and don’t touch.” Then he added, “And, no, nothing’s wrong.” He tilted his head the other way, still looking. “It’s just that, now that I look, you do have a really lovely face—I know some girls who would kill for those cheekbones—and your proportions are excellent. So if you’d like, just for fun, we could do a little more.” He gestured back toward the kitchen again. “How ’bout it? Wanna play?”
Zen saw the eager light in his eyes and thought, Why, you’re a makeup geek.
“I don’t know, Sprink,” Aunt Lucy said. “Your usual style . . . wouldn’t it seem a little out of place on such a young face?”
Uncle Sprink put his hands on his hips and said in mock outrage, “Honey! What do you take me for?” Then in his regular voice again he said, “No, trust me. I know exactly how to play this. An already beautiful face, with the potential for a look that’s truly stunning. Not glam. Real glamour.”
“Um, you know . . .” Zen said. Three pairs of eyes looked at her. She felt her cheeks go warm, but said what she was thinking. “You know, I wouldn’t mind maybe trying glam one time.”
Uncle Sprink smiled. “Well, sure,” he said. “But there really is a difference. We take you over the line, it wouldn’t do to show up at school like that. Maybe for Halloween or something, though.”
Aunt Phil said, “Maybe for our Halloween party next week.”
Zen looked at Aunt Lucy. “You said about that before,” she said. “And I thought you meant something for little kids.”
“I know that’s what you thought,” Aunt Lucy said. “But you seemed like you weren’t in the mood to have me tell you otherwise, so I didn’t press the point.”
Zen blushed, remembering how cold she had been. But Aunt Lucy didn’t seem angry. “So it’s . . .” She waved a hand, meaning, For adults too, for everyone?
“Well, sure, cupcake,” said Aunt Phil warmly. “Us Rainbow People, we take Halloween seriously.”
“Absolutely!” said Uncle Sprink. “Be whoever you want to be! It’s like our New Year’s Day, our national holiday.”
Zen looked back at Aunt Lucy. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it before,” she said. “Would it be too late to ask my friends?”
“Not at all,” said Aunt Lucy. “Of course you can.”
“Right on,” said Aunt Phil.
Zen turned back to Uncle Sprink, feeling shy, but determined to speak her hope. “And could you . . . maybe . . . could we play with glam then?”
Uncle Sprink grinned at her. “Sure, of course. But in the meantime”—he gestured toward the kitchen chair again—“shall we?”
So Zen sat back down in the chair, and Uncle Sprink got to work. No mirror this time. “I want you to see it all at once,” he said. Then his face went cool, distant.
First he clipped her hair back. Then, with many quick pats of a little pad, he applied powder all over her face. Next, the brushing of a darker pinkish-red powder below her eyes, as well as a few other strategic spots. Then long, detailed work around her eyes, first with a thing like a thin, inky pen-brush, and then color on pad-brushes—color with a dash of sparkle in it—and mascara applied with an applicator held in a hand gripped at the wrist by the other hand. He spoke only to give commands or reprimands. “Close your eyes.” “Don’t blink!” “Look up.” “Look down.” “Turn this way.” “Hold your head straight.” “Don’t touch!” His voice was sharp, but Zen could hear that it wasn’t mean. Just intense. He simply cared so much about what he was doing.
A pause to stare at his work so far, nudging her chin to turn her face to different angles. Some adjustments to the mascara.
Next he pulled out what looked like a skinny red pen, which he used to draw an outline around her lips. And, finally, with another soft pencilly thing, he colored them in.
Zen was squirming by now, yearning to see what he was doing. She still had to wait, though. Uncle Sprink pulled out a hairbrush, unclipped her hair, and brushed it back. He frowned at it, pulled out some hairspray, and brushed her hair the other way, with a part to the side and the length held in place with judicious spritzes from the spray can. Zen jiggled in her seat. “Hold still!” She held still.
By now both Aunties were watching intently. Aunt Phil whispered something to Aunt Lucy, who nodded and went into her bedroom. She came back with a pair of dangly earrings. They had silver spirals with blue beads in the centers. They looked antique. Zen loved them at once. Aunt Lucy said, “Zenobia, I forgot to tell you—these came in the mail the other day. From Grandma Gail. With a sweet note, asking if you might like them.”
“Really?”
“Really. She’s had them for a long time. I remember from when I was a child.” Zen drew in a sharp breath, suddenly near tears. Uncle Sprink, reading her expression, gave her a look that said, Don’t cry! She did her best to press the feels down again, and let her aunt put the earrings in her ears, free just this week from the little trainer-balls.
At last Uncle Sprink stepped back and stared hard at her one last time. Then, smiling, he handed her the mirror, facedown. “Okay, honey,” he said gently. “Go ahead and look.”
Zen was trembling. All those years of dreading the mirror. Never knowing how much boy she would see. Always, there was some. Always. On good days, only a little, so that she could put her shoulders back and go out and face the day, carrying the burden but showing up. On bad days, only able to glance for a moment, the
boyness bursting out everywhere, coarse, awful, wrong, unerasable. So it had always been.
She turned over the mirror. She gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth, then down again so she could continue to gaze at what she was seeing.
Really? Was it really her? Really really really?
Looking back at her in the mirror was a girl. A girl with a face. A face that moved as her face moved, so that she had to see, had to begin to believe, that it was her.
Her hair, soft and flowing, framing the sweet inverted teardrop shape. Skin smooth and radiant. Pretty, full pink lips with a touch of smile even when she wasn’t smiling. And, the eyes, framed in a delicately crafted black outline and artful color all around, huge and lustrous.
But, best of all: not even the tiniest scrap of boy-face left. Her eyes flitted quickly to all the problem spots: brows, nose, upper lip, chin, jaw. She couldn’t see boy even when she tried.
Zen’s breath came faster and harsher. Her eyes were suddenly wet. “Don’t cry, honey,” Uncle Sprink said, but there was no stopping these tears. Aunt Phil came over, offering arms to wrap, a side to lean into. Zenobia clutched her and sobbed.
“You’re beautiful, twiglet,” murmured Aunt Phil. “So pretty. So gorgeous. Such a beautiful girl.”
The way Aunt Phil was holding her, Zen was looking at Aunt Lucy, who gazed intently back. Through her tears, Zen mouthed, Beautiful?
Aunt Lucy smiled and did a little head waggle, with maybe some yes and no in it, but mostly just, Does it matter? Then her face became still again, almost stern, and she mouthed back, Girl.
Another sob burst up inside Zen. Yes, that was it. Beauty was something she had hardly dared to think about yet. That was running, which came after walking, which came after crawling. And it didn’t matter nearly so much right now as the simple fact that what she had just seen in the mirror was girl.
Girl and nothing but girl.
All girl.
Just.
Girl.
FIFTY-SEVEN
SHE HAD TO erase the magical face. After many selfies from many angles, of course. “You can’t sleep in it, honey,” Uncle Sprink said. “It would look like hell in the morning, and you’d probably just have to throw away the pillowcase.” So, reluctantly, she submitted to the wiping away of the sweet, deep vision of self his talent had given her. He left her supplies, though: the pencil for drawing eyebrows, complete with sharpener, some pads for erasing them again at night, and some eye shadow and lip gloss too, just for fun, with tips on how to use them correctly.
Doing the eyebrows again was the first thing she thought of when she woke. The first try she drew them too high, and had to laugh at the expression of comical surprise she had created. She scrubbed them off and tried again. There really was just one spot that was exactly right, that brought her eyes out and made them glow. On the second try she found it. She added a little eye shadow and lip gloss and looked again. Not over-the-top glamour-gorgeous like last night—just natural girl coming out more, in a subtle but real way. She smiled and reached for the hairbrush.
Walking to school, her mood continued equal parts giddy and warm. Under wraps, though. There was no way it wouldn’t be awkward with Mr. Walker and especially with Robert. And Lynx was on her mind. Her invented-in-the-moment deadline of noon today had almost arrived, and she was feeling uncomfortably aware of the holes in her improvised plan. How would they know if he had written the email? What would they do if he didn’t? She wanted badly to talk to Arli, but couldn’t find ven before the bell.
The first thing that happened when she entered Mr. Walker’s room actually turned out to be eye contact with Elijah. He gave her a shy little nod. She nodded back, and wondered what it might be like to come out to him, too. Even bubbling inside with giddy warmth, she still pulled back at the thought of that. Although, it could be good, too. To talk to someone who really understood. So yeah, someday.
Mr. Walker called class to order. “Before we get started,” he said, “I have an update for you all about the website situation.” Zen sat up straighter, heart suddenly beating hard. “This morning Principal Vann received an email from someone admitting to the hacking.” A murmur passed through the room. Zen couldn’t help glancing at Robert. He scowled back at her. Okay, it wasn’t over then, with him. But that was fine. It felt clarifying, having an enemy, and in this one arena at least she knew her strength. She gave him a little nod and a touch of a smile. His face went puzzled.
Mr. Walker continued, “The email said the person was sorry and wouldn’t do it again.”
Zen didn’t dare utter a word, but fortunately someone else asked: “Who was it?”
“The email was anonymous, but I read it, and it contained information that helped us feel sure that it was from the person.” Details only the hacker would know, Zen thought. But the anonymous part, that was a bit of a problem. She had assumed Lynx would make a full confession, say who he was. But had she instructed him to do it that way? Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t feel sure that she had. She felt the need to talk to Arli.
Arli clearly had the same idea, because vo was waiting outside the door when Zen came out of class. They stepped around a corner into a little-used side hall. Arli couldn’t hide veir glee as vo said, “We got him! He confessed.”
“Yes.” They shared a look, savoring triumph. But then Zen had to speak her concern. “The only thing is, he did it anonymously.”
Arli’s grin faded. “Anonymously? I didn’t hear that part.”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Hmm.” A pause. “This is weird. It’s like—”
“—we have to decide if it’s good enough.”
“Yeah. We have to judge.”
“I don’t like judging,” Zen said. “It makes me feel squidgy.”
“I don’t mind it. At least not this time.” Arli thought about it. “Honestly, there’s a part of me that just wants him to suffer. He’s a terrible brother.”
“Are you talking about revenge? Because recently I’ve figured out that that makes me feel squidgy too.”
“Not revenge. Justice.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Um, I guess maybe, because what he did didn’t hurt us personally? That would be revenge, right?”
“But still. We are not the police. Not the court. Not the jail.”
“Yeah, I get your point.”
They pondered together. Then Zen said slowly, “I think it’s good enough. Mr. Walker told us he said he was sorry and that he wouldn’t do it again.”
Arli nodded. “Okay,” vo said. “I agree.” The bell rang. Time to run to their next classes. All of a sudden Zen really wanted to give Arli a hug. The blocking was wrong, though, so she just did a kind of shoulder-bump thing. “We can always do something else later if we think we have to,” she said.
“Okay, yeah,” Arli said. “Good.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
NEXT MEANINGFUL ENCOUNTER in a day destined to be full of them: coming around a corner and finding herself suddenly face to face with Natalie and a couple members of her posse.
Perhaps it was best that she had no time to prepare herself for that hostile, presumptuous stare. Given time to think, she might have second-guessed herself, talked herself into a less bold course. As it was, roller coaster so high, she followed her first natural instinct, which was to stand up straighter and stare right back.
A quick little drama played out on Natalie’s face. Momentary surprise, followed by quickly surging smugness, but then a glance at Zen’s eyebrows, followed by the least little double take, just a flicker of the eyes, and the draining away again of smugness. The reliable bullying-hook was gone. Zen’s eyebrows no longer looked like caterpillars. In fact (as she had just confirmed on her phone for the hundredth time) they looked fabulous. For once, Natalie appeared knocked off-balance. Her mouth flopped open, and Zen saw something sh
e could use. “Honey, you have something on your teeth,” she said sweetly. “What did you have for breakfast, seaweed?” Then she brushed past, exulting, as one of the queen bee’s minions failed to suppress a laugh.
And then, lunch. Standing at the staging spot, she scanned the room.
Melissa at the clean-cut kids’ table, giving her one look and then pointedly looking away. Fine, whatever. Things had been awkward again between them since the girls’ night visit, and they had hardly talked all week.
Wire-Frame Glasses—Paul—gaping openly. Zen blinked and blushed slightly. And Robert at the same table, not looking at her in a careful, stagy way that had to be on purpose. The nod and smile in class had confused him, looked like.
And then, at Arli’s table of orphan misfits, Arli, Clem, and Dyna, just like the first day, plus, for a bonus, Elijah. Zen’s face bloomed into a grin and she hurried through the crowd to join them.
At the table, two conversations were happening at once. Dyna was giving Clem another French lesson, and Arli was talking earnestly to Elijah. Zen bent an ear to hear, assuming the conversation would be about gender, but it was not. It was about something much more important: fandoms. Elijah was leaning back a bit in the face of Arli’s intensity, but answering, and one of the first words he said was “Kimazui.”
Zen did a squee. “You’re a Kimazui fan? Me too! I thought I was the only one in this whole school!” Then she got to see the shy boy smile for the first time. He had a sweet smile.
Clem took a break from practicing French to convey gossip. “Hey, did you hear?” he said. “They caught the hacker.”
Dyna said, “It was announced in all the classes, I think.”
“No, I mean, they found out who it was.”
Arli and Zen exchanged an eyes-wide look. Keeping her voice light, Zen said, “Oh yeah? Who?”
Clem indulged in a suspenseful pause, then said, “He’s sitting right over there. The hacker was our friend Chopper Robert.” All eyes at the misfit table turned to the gamer table. Then a circle of looks back around their own table, and, seeing Zen and Arli’s expressions, Clem faltered and said, “That’s what I heard, anyway.”