I want to be as laid-back about gender as they are. But I’m not laid-back at all, thanks to Dad. I’m Ashley or I’m Asher and that’s that. While I’m switching, for that week or so, everything feels gross and inside out and bass-ackward until I can settle into what I’m switching to. That “identify as airport” thing Dad said was icky, but it also hit the nail on the head. I hate being in between. It’s like when a lousy radio DJ doesn’t know how to fade one song into another. That few seconds when both songs are playing but the beats aren’t blending and you’re like, Oh my god, go back to DJ school.
It makes no sense to me how anyone can hang out in between. Or be so comfortable with looking the opposite of how they feel that they’re like, This is who I am.
Mom gives me a sideways glance at a stoplight. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” The car does the screeeee—ping! sound that always makes me worry a wheel’s gonna fall off. Mom likes to joke that her car is old enough to legally vote.
“You’ve seemed a little . . . conflicted. Since lunch.” She lets the silence stretch till the light turns green. “You really don’t have to pick—”
“Yes, I do.” We’ve had this argument so many times. “My life would be so much easier.”
“Your dad wants you to see things as black-and-white, like he does. But life’s not like that. You’re not like that. No one is.”
“Can we not talk about Dad?”
She makes a face. “I know. Puts me right off my tea and crumpets too. It just makes me sad that he tries to cram all his faulty thinking down your throat.”
I keep my face aimed out the window. It’s hard to consider Dad’s thinking entirely faulty when there are so many things he’s right about: that I wouldn’t have gotten bullied if I’d been consistent. That Tyler felt lied to. That it’s a pain for other people to keep up with my changing gender. That my problems are my own fault. You can’t insist to everyone at school that you’re a girl one week and a boy the next, and switch it over and over, without picking up a nasty nickname and more than a few bruises.
I just don’t know any other way to be. I’ve wished on every birthday candle since I was eight that I could stop switching. Kids at school would quit calling me names and shouldering me out of group projects and ignoring me at recess. Dad would quit yelling at Mom that all the switching was driving him nuts and I’d stop bringing this mess down on my head if I’d just pick one and stick to it. He said it was impossible to parent a wishy-washy kid like me.
Mom says the divorce wasn’t my fault. That they had a ton of other problems that had built up over time. That the “current political climate” that “discourages rational discourse” didn’t help matters.
But it is my fault. Because when I was in sixth grade round one, I begged and begged Mom to legally change my name to Ash, which is totally different from my very gendered birth name. Dad was against changing it because he said I was too young to decide something so important—which, hello, does not jive at all with him saying I’m too old to not know what I am.
Mom changed my name without telling him. Dad was arguing with a doctor after my appendicitis surgery about the wrong name being on my chart when Mom told him. By the time I got home from the hospital, he’d moved out.
I’m still not sure if he went on his own or if Mom kicked him out.
When we get to Zoey’s huge house, she’s in the open three-car garage. One corner of it is full of musical equipment and has posters of dinosaurs all over the walls. Zoey’s plugging a cherry-red Fender into an amp. She introduces the two other girls there as Olivia and Jordan. Olivia’s a skinny redhead with glasses and freckles and Jordan is a tall girl with amber-brown skin, nearly shorn hair, and black fingernails with white skulls on them. “Together we’re Tyrannosaurus Rocks, the baddest band to rock Oakmont Middle,” Zoey finishes theatrically.
“Emphasis on the ‘bad,’” Jordan snickers. “Especially you.”
“Bite me,” Zoey says. “You only know like five notes.”
Rex comes over wagging his tail and noses my hand so I’ll pet him. Mom asks if I’m good, and leaves when I give her a nod.
Jordan grins at Zoey. “At least Olivia has a boyfriend.”
“Guys are garbage.” Zoey pops her gum. “Every single one makes eye contact with my boobs before they look at my face.”
“If you hate your boobs so much, donate some to me,” Olivia says. “I need major help in that department.”
“Me too,” I say quickly. Rex sits at my feet and looks adoringly up at Zoey.
“Trust me, this is a problem you do not want. Every guy looks at me like I’m a piece of meat.” Zoey pushes a wheeled stool over to me and tells me about meeting Olivia and Jordan in sixth grade, about how the three of them became best friends immediately since they all like punk and hate country music and they all have a younger sister and an older brother and they’re all good at math. She’s dizzying to follow, but her energy is electric. By the time she’s done talking, I’m pumped up and ready to rock.
“That skirt is literal fire,” Jordan tells me as she tunes her bass. “I love the colors.”
“Thanks. I got it at Goodwill for three bucks.” I blush. I realized last year when Jackson said something about my “thrift-store trash outfit” that not everyone thinks thrifting is cool.
Jordan doesn’t bat an eye, though. We talk about punk bands while Olivia bangs out a messy rhythm on the drum set. Rex startles at the sound and goes back into the house via a doggy door. As Jordan and I talk, I study her, trying to figure out if her works-with-any-gender name and her short hair mean she’s like me. But then she says she’s the only Black girl at school who’s hard-core into punk, so I guess she’s all female. She and Olivia and Zoey start talking about why girl punk bands are infinitely cooler than boy punk bands. I sit on my hands and pretend the guy bashing isn’t bothering me.
“What are we starting with?” Olivia finally asks.
“Let’s do ‘Typical Girls,’” Zoey says. “Ready?”
“So ready.”
The girls crash into a sloppy rendition of the song. Zoey’s A string is tuned too low, Olivia’s barely on the beat, and Jordan has more energy than skill, but they’re having such a blast as they shout into their mics that it barely matters. I spin on my stool and play air guitar and sing along to the gritty, jangled steel-wool shapes of Zoey’s guitar chords. The song’s about girl stereotypes and the blasting punk shapes are shaking the boy feeling through my blood and bones, but I don’t even care. When they finish the song, I go wild with applause. They all bow and laugh. I point to a dusty keyboard in the corner. “Does that work? I could join you.”
“Sure, let’s plug you in. Do you know ‘Rebel Girl’ by Bikini Kill?”
I’ve listened to the song a few times because Mom likes it. “Is that . . . A, G, G sharp, A?”
Zoey laughs. “Are you a legit musician? Like you know how to read music, not just tab?”
“I took piano lessons for a kajillion years.” Zoey plugs me in and I play a scale. The jack is janky and static crackles every time I come down hard on a note.
“Wow!” Zoey watches my fingers fly. “You play any other instruments?”
“Guitar.” I’m proficient, but not as good as I am at piano.
My nerves flutter as Zoey strums the chords for “Rebel Girl.” I find a voice on the keyboard called “Overdrive” that looks like wiry hair with a curving metallic ribbon in it. Jordan and Olivia fool around for a moment, and then Zoey says, “Okay, go!” and plows in.
It takes a few measures for us to line up. I don’t have a mic, but I shout the lyrics I know. I can almost hear my voice over the noise. Goose bumps prickle my skin as we head for the chorus. This sound is a living, breathing creature coming out of us, like we’re calling it into being. I throw myself into the music, banging the keyboard and shouting the lyrics and breaking the best sweat I’ve ever sweated, losing myself in the wild joy of shoving all these jaggy excellent sh
apes into the world’s empty spaces.
“Holy heck, I am hooked!” I say when the song’s over. My ears are ringing and my heart is hammering. “That made writing laptop music feel like playing with Legos!” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Does Tyrannosaurus Rocks have room for a fourth?”
“Hmm,” Zoey says, tapping her chin and looking at Olivia and Jordan.
Their faces go flat and blank.
My stomach dips. It was way too forward to ask to join their band. And what’s going to happen when girl fades all the way out and dude barges in? What if I can’t fake female and they turn on me? What if they tell everyone I’m a liar? What if—
“You’re so in,” Zoey says. Olivia and Jordan melt into laughter. “But you gotta teach us how to read music.”
I grin. “Totally can do that. I can show you how to use GarageBand too if you want.”
“Oh heck yes!” Zoey looks at Jordan and Olivia. They both nod and she turns back to me. “So there’s this thing next month called Girls Who Rock the Future. It’s a fundraiser for a women’s shelter my aunt volunteers at. Basically a battle of the bands for local under-eighteen girl groups. My aunt got us a spot and we’re supposed to play two songs. You think you could maybe help us? Like teach us to play better?”
My heart leaps. “I would love to help you!”
“Awesome. My mom was gonna get me lessons, but I’ll tell her you’ll help us instead.”
Yikes. I don’t know if I’m good enough to fill that role. “Do you, um, do you have your songs picked out?”
“We’re supposed to do one cover and one original. We’re thinking about ‘Rebel Girl’ for the cover, but, well . . . we’re not doing too hot on writing an original song.” Her shoulders slump and she makes a face. “None of us are there yet.”
I suck in my breath and hold it for half a moment. Boy-me wants to jump in and run this show. Girl-me is feeling intimidated. I need to shift my mindset if I want this to work. “I can write a song to fit everyone’s skill level,” I blurt.
Zoey brightens. “Holy cheese and crackers. You’re our new best friend.”
Olivia and Jordan laugh. To say I’m suddenly on cloud nine is a vast understatement. This is the perfect antidote to lunch with Dad. And wow, it feels good to give into the boy feeling I’ve been fighting. Even if it’s just for a little while. And sort of undercover.
“The judges at Girls Who Rock will pick the three best bands,” Zoey says. “Those bands get to go to a camp over winter break that teaches you branding and how to get gigs and stuff. We’re all dying to get in.”
“Mom said she’ll get me a decent bass if we make the cut,” Jordan says. “Instead of this crappy used one we got off Craigslist.”
“Well, then, let’s see about getting you a new bass,” boy-me says.
We practice “Rebel Girl” twice, then stop for cheese puffs and Mountain Dew. While we eat, I explain the basics of reading notes on a treble clef. By the time Mom arrives to pick me up, confident Asher is running the show, explaining the difference between major and minor chords and how volume makes a sound louder but gain makes it bigger. Correcting Olivia’s beats. Even showing off a little on the keyboard. I thank Zoey for an awesome time and tell the girls they rocked my face right off.
It takes only the short car ride home for the war between girl and punk and boy and skirt to start raging inside me. By the time we’re home, Dad’s words are ringing in my head and I’m more torn than ever about what I am. About who gets to make the first move. About which gender confident punk-rock songwriter is, and why I have it in my head that only boy-me can handle that role when Mom would say my gender doesn’t matter a whit for something like that.
It’s so freaking complicated. A math equation with too many variables.
Griffey sighs as he watches me pull my sleeping bag out of the washer and shove it in a dryer. He went on what he called “the world’s most awkward bumper-bowling date” tonight with a dude from his English class and needed to vent about the disaster, so I told him to meet me at the laundry room on the first floor of building F. For the past ten minutes, he’s been explaining exactly how stupid boys are.
It’s making me feel gross after the boy bashing at Zoey’s band practice. But I’m not gonna ask him to stop. This was his first actual date and it’s a big deal to him. The least I can do is ignore my problems and listen to his.
“Sooooo,” he finally says. “Did you tell Daniel yet?”
“Ugh, no.” I put my empty laundry basket upside down on my head and squat on the floor. “I’m just gonna hide in here till I figure out if I’m a boy or a girl.”
He pulls his arms inside his hoodie and twists so the sleeves flop. “You’re neither. Your gender is turtle.”
I snort a laugh. “Guess that’s better than airport. But maybe I should be yours. Wacky waving inflatable tube dude.”
“Ignoring your problems just gives them a chance to level up.”
“Did you get that off a motivational poster at school?” I take the basket off my head and feed the dryer a few quarters. “I want to go with Daniel tomorrow to bring Chewbarka to his dad’s. But Mom wants me to go to a PFLAG meeting with her. Which, like, I don’t even know if I’m gay.” I guess I’m headed that way, though. Being a guy, liking a guy . . . it adds up.
And I don’t think Daniel’s gay.
Griffey whacks my arm with his empty sleeve. “I’d shave off an eyebrow to have a mom who wanted me to go to any kind of LGBT support meeting with her.”
I twist the knob on the dryer. I feel guilty that my mom’s so supportive, even if maybe she’s too supportive, when Griffey’s mom is super religious and regularly tells him he’s going to hell for liking boys. “You could go in my place. I’m pretty sure my mom thinks of you as her auxiliary kid.”
“I wish I could just have your mom.” He shoves his hands through his sleeves, then gives me a let’s-strike-a-deal look. “Tell you what. If you promise to tell Daniel the truth tomorrow, I’ll tell your mom I got rejected by a boy and need your support in the form of another overnight.”
I start the dyer. “It’s like you’re helping, but you’re not helping.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. That video Camille took of those buttwads made me realize I might actually be capable of strangling another human being.” He grimaces. “I hate what they did to you.”
“They didn’t hurt me.” Not really. “And I don’t think Daniel would do . . . that. But it still freaks me out wondering what he’d do if he found out.”
“Since you kissed him already, you sort of have to tell him. Don’t you think?”
I hop up and sit on the dryer. “What part of ‘You’re not helping’ did you miss?”
“The part where I don’t want some jerk to turn on you when he finds out you’re not always a girl. Or did you miss that?”
“We’re talking in circles.”
Griff wrinkles his nose and his glasses slide down. “There’s an easy way to solve that. You know what’s great about being out? Literally everything. You should try it.”
“I did. It did not go well.” I never really came out at me and Griff’s elementary school. I just obliviously assumed it was fine to go to school dressed like a boy some days and a girl other days, because in first and second grade, no one seemed to care. But the older we got, the more my gender became a Big Freakin’ Deal. “What if you felt like you had to choose a side?” I ask. “What if people gave you a bunch of crap when you switched?”
“Ash. Your dad’s a flaming jerk. Okay? You don’t have to decide. For him or anyone else. You can be in between, or one sometimes and the other sometimes. Or a mix. Look at Sam and Mara. They don’t give a crap what people say about them.” He flicks a lint ball at me. “Just think about coming out, okay? To Daniel, to everyone. You could be so much happier.”
Funny how Dad said I would be happier if I’d pick-and-stick. How Mom tells me I’ll be happier if I do cross-country. It’s like everyon
e has an idea of what will make my life better. “I constantly think about it. But I’ll think harder.”
“I know. It’s complicated and I’m being a stubborn butt.” He yanks my shoelace untied. “‘I’ll think about it’ is good enough for me. I’ll cover for you tomorrow so you can do the dog thing with Daniel.”
I sigh in relief. “Thanks, Griff. I owe you like ten million.” I retie my shoe.
“Yep. You’re one lucky son-of-a-cuss to have a friend like me.” He starts singing the genie’s song from Aladdin. I join in while drumming the dryer lid with my knuckles until someone in the apartment above the laundry room stomps their foot and yells, “Skip track!” and we laugh so hard I nearly pee myself like an ancient Pomeranian.
12
Closed for Business
Daniel
Early Sunday morning, Mitchell scares the bejesus out of me while I’m pumping the bike trailer’s tires in the garage. “What are you doing?”
“Inventing sliced bread.”
“You’ve been weird lately. Something’s up.”
“I’m—” Ugh, I’m no good at thinking fast. “I’m taking Frankie’s old bed to the kennel. Since Mom says we can’t get another dog. They can use it.”
“Why don’t you just ask Mom to drive it? Duh.”
“You know what would be great? If you’d stop acting like you’re looking for a chance to throw me under a bus.”
His eyes narrow as he watches me hook the trailer to Vlad the Rapid. “So.” He crosses his arms. “I know for a fact that Fiona’s not busy this morning. You set me up on a blind date with her, and I won’t tell Mom you’re sneaking—”
“Mitch. Fiona has a boyfriend.”
“The guy’s a jerk who takes her for granted. She deserves better.”
“You’re better?”
“Yes.” He kicks the garage doorframe. “You’re friends with her. If you tell her you want to meet her, she’ll do what you say. And then it’ll be me instead of you that shows up. With this.” He takes something out of his pocket and shows me. It’s a tiny silver Avengers music box.
Both Can Be True Page 9
