by Aimee Herman
There is a genuine warmth to your mother. As we were talking, I started to feel guilty that I took something from your room without asking. And then she said something right before we left.
After she hugged me goodbye, she said, “You found everything okay in there?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I . . . thanks.”
“I’m glad to be able to give you something of his. Maybe he had some books you might like as well. Did you happen to check his shelf?”
James, your mom gave me this look that, I don’t know, seemed kind of like she knew something.
“I didn’t want to take without asking, but . . .”
Then, Shirley said something, and they started talking and I was left to feel like maybe she knew about your journal. Maybe she wanted me to take it? Do you think she would have read it, James?
All I know is I just wanted to lock myself in my bedroom and read your journal, but I promised I’d spend the weekend at my dad’s, so I left it inside my pillow case, inside my closet, and it waits for me.
Your words wait for me.
P.S. Your mom’s chicken was like from a restaurant.
Saturday, November 6
Dear James,
I thought maybe I missed an important detail about when I was born, so I figured my dad could fill in the details that Shirley had missed. I know this sounds CRAZY, but the way I’ve been feeling lately, maybe the doctor took something away and everyone just forgot to tell me.
“What do you remember about my birth?” I asked him.
We were both too full from taco night to engage in talk of dessert.
“I remember that after her water broke, she just went about her day.”
He stopped, smiled, and I noticed his eyes getting watery. “She mopped the floor, laid down on the couch and turned on M*A*S*H. Your mom must have seen that movie twenty times. Ask her and she’ll tell you she notices something different each time. She didn’t call me until the credits rolled.”
“Were you mad?”
“Mad? Why?”
“That she didn’t call you right away?”
“No, I’d come to expect the oddities of your mother.”
“So . . . then she called you. And you . . . what? Came to pick her up? Brought her to the hospital?”
“Actually, she asked me to stop at the deli first and get her a corned beef sandwich with extra mustard. And a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Once we got to the hospital everything just happened so quickly.”
“And then I just popped out?”
“Something like that, kiddo.”
“And how’d you feel when you saw I was a girl? Or—”
“You know, in those days, people didn’t know beforehand what sex the baby was. Or we didn’t, at least. We found out that moment you arrived. I think we both wanted another girl so much that we believed we’d wished you into one.”
“So, you had names picked out in case I was a boy too?”
“Yes. Evan.”
Evan. I liked the sound of that name. I knew no Evans, so it had a sense of mystery. It was kind of plain but also close to the word even. You know: flat, smooth, uniform, steady. These are the things I wanted. These are the things I longed for. Instead, my parents wished me into a girl and now I’m curved and loose. I want to feel like an Evan, but instead I’m an Eleanor.
“The thing is, I . . . well, I guess I wonder if I looked okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, was I extra bloody or did I have any organs born on the outside or . . . Well, I know Mom smoked during the whole pregnancy. Doesn’t that cause some kind of side effect? Was I . . . missing anything?”
“In those days, Eleanor, we had no idea about things like that. The doctors even smoked in the room with you! But you came out fine. Don’t you think? All we kept saying through the whole pregnancy was we wanted a healthy baby. Everything else really didn’t matter.”
“But . . . but you just said you wished I would be a girl.”
“Yes. And we were blessed with two.”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess.”
James, you know how you feel after you’re sick with a cold? Like you’ve spent days unable to breathe, all clogged up, sneezing and blowing your nose and it starts to hurt because the skin is all red and chapped and you think to yourself: I’m never going to breathe again! My nose is always going to be red and sore and this is my life! But then miraculosly miraculously you get better and your nose clears up and you can suddenly smell everything. But it’s like your nose is improved, better than it was, and you can smell things you weren’t able to before, or at least it feels that way. Is this making any sense?
What I am trying to say is that I feel super aware of my body these days. It’s only a matter of time until I start menstrating menctrating menstruating and my body will feel less like mine. I’ve already started to grow some hair under my arms and on my legs and Shirley keeps saying that I need to start wearing deodorant because I guess puberty has a smell or something? But James, what if I don’t want to get my period? What if I’d prefer to skip it. Bigger boobs? No thanks. Don’t I get a say in all this?
Anyway, I’m wiped. Goodnight.
Sunday, November 7
When I got home from Dad’s, I screamed a hello to Shirley and then ran up to my room. I told her that I forgot about a homework assignment, but the truth is I couldn’t wait to open your journal. I thought about just devouring the whole thing at once. But it’s like that time Shirley bought a chocolate cheesecake to celebrate . . . wait, what were we celebrating? Oh, when Gret got into college! Dad even came over and we each had a slice. Gret’s was tiny because she was already worried about freshman sixteen or something about gaining weight when you go to college. That night, I woke in the middle of the night and ate the rest of the cake. Can you believe it? I definitely paid for it the next morning because my stomach felt like I swallowed a brick building, but it was so good.
What’s your point, Eleanor, is what you’d be asking me right now. My POINT is that once I ate the rest of the cake, it was gone. Nothing left to go back to. I guess I just want your voice to remain, to learn the mystery of you slowly. So, if you can believe it, James, I limited myself to the first three pages.
DEAR ELINORE,
SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE BEING SOMEWHERE ELSE IS THE ONLY WAY I COULD BE ME. FLOATING AROUND IN SPACE WITH THE STARS AND PLANETS AND DUST AND ROCKS AND WHATEVER ELSE IS UP THERE. I’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO REALLY BE ME HERE. MY DAD IS REALLY RELIGIOUS. MY MOM IS TOO, BUT ALSO COOL WITH ME BEING DIFFERENT SOMETIMES. I THINK SHE PROBABLY KNOWS. WHEN MY DAD IS NOT AROUND, MY MOM LETS ME COOK WITH HER. WE MAKE ALL SORTS OF THINGS. SHE TAUGHT ME HOW TO MAKE GOCCI GNOCCI. WE BAKE. SHE GIVES ME RECIPES AND THEN I MEASURE THINGS OUT. IT’S LIKE SCIENCE, BUT I LIKE IT. MY DAD IS VERY TRADITIONAL AND WOULD CALL ME ALL SORTS OF THINGS IF HE KNEW HOW MUCH I LOVED TO COOK. HE ALREADY CALLS ME THE NAMES ANYWAY. I HATE HIM. SOMETHING CHANGED WHEN I REACHED 10 8. EARLIER THAN THAT EVEN. IT’S LIKE I COULD DO WHATEVER I WANTED UNTIL 6, AND THEN THINGS STARTED TO MATTER MORE. I COOKED WITH MY MOM AND BAKED WITH HER. SHE EVEN GOT ME A BETTY CROCKER COOKIE COOKBOOK FOR CHRISTMAS ONE YEAR AND MAN, I LOVED THAT. ALL THE PAGES WERE STAINED, FULL OF FOOD FROM ALL THE RECIPES I TRIED. THEN IT WASN’T COOL ANYMORE. DAD SAID I WAS BECOMING A SISSY. A PAIRIE. YEAH, HE ACTUALLY SAID THIS. I HAVE NO FRIENDS OR PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY TELL ME I AM OK. I AM JUST REMINDED OF WHAT I AM DOING WRONG. THAT I AM NOT AND NEVER WILL BE ENOUGH.
DEAR ELINORE,
I USED TO LISTEN TO MICHAEL JACKSON’S SONG “BEN” OVER AND OVER. I HAD IT ON A RECORD, SO I JUST HAD TO LIFT UP THE NEEDLE TO PLAY IT AGAIN. YOU KNOW IT WAS ABOUT HIS PET RAT, RIGHT? RATS ARE SO UGLY AND PEOPLE RUN FROM THEM. I WENT TO NEW YORK CITY ONCE WITH MY AUNT AND UNCLE AND SAW THIS REALLY GROSS ONE ON THE SUBWAY TRACKS. HALF A TAIL WITH A BIG BLOODY SCKAB SCAB ON ITS SIDE. AFTER THAT, I THOUGHT HOW MUCH I HAVE IN COMMON WITH RATS. I MEAN, PEOPLE DON’T EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW SMART THEY ARE. THEY’RE JUST TRYING TO DO THEIR OWN THING, YOU KNOW? WE THRO
W OUT OUR PREDUDICE PREJUDICES AND MAKE IT SEEM LIKE THEY’RE ALL BAD. BUT THEY AREN’T.
NOBODY GETS ME. NOBODY.
DEAR ELINORE,
I WISH I COULD WRITE LIKE KURT. SING LIKE KURT. THAT’S WHY I STARTED SMOKING CIGARETTES. I WANTED MY VOICE TO SOUND SCRATCHED UP LIKE HIS. I DON’T KNOW. I GUESS I THOUGHT MAYBE IF I SUCKED ON A LOT OF CIGARETTES, MY VOICE WOULD GET ALL GRAVELLY AND COOL-SOUNDING. BASICALLY I STEAL THEM FROM MY DAD, WHO SMOKES THEM IN SECRET EVEN THOUGH WE ALL KNOW ABOUT IT BECAUSE IT’S NOT LIKE THEY DON’T SMELL OR ANYTHING. SO FAR, I HAVEN’T NOTICED A DIFFERENCE IN MY VOICE, BUT IT HASN’T BEEN THAT LONG. I WANT TO LOOK LIKE KURT TOO. IT’S LIKE HE’S SO COOL, HE DOESN’T CARE WHAT ANYONE THINKS. HE’LL WEAR A DRESS AND NO ONE CALLS HIM A FAG BECAUSE HE’S KURT COBAIN. I FEEL SICK ALL THE TIME. MY DAD MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I’M SICK. I WOULDN’T CHOOSE THIS. I DIDN’T ASK TO BE LIKE THIS. I JUST KEEP LISTENING TO KURT, LETTING HIS WORDS DROWN OUT EVERYTHING ELSE. EVERYONE ELSE. BRIAN WAS MY BEST FRIEND 1ST GRADE TO SIXTH. THEN, SOMETHING HAPPENED. IT’S LIKE HE FIGURED IT OUT. SHIT, I’M LYING EVEN TO THIS PAGE. HE LET ME TOUCH HIM. ONCE. AFTER CAMP, WHEN HE CAME OVER MY HOUSE. MY PARENTS WEREN’T HOME, AND WE WERE IN MY ROOM LISTENING TO MUSIC AND IT KIND OF JUST HAPPENED. HE DIDN’T STOP ME. HE WAS TOUCHING ME TOO. THE NEXT DAY, I WAS A GHOST TO HIM. AFTER CALLING HIS NAME TEN TIMES AND BEING IGNORED, I GOT THE HINT. I STOPPED TRYING TO HAVE FRIENDS AFTER THAT. MAYBE I LOVED HIM. MAYBE I REALIZED IT WOULD ALWAYS BE LIKE THAT.
Monday, November 8
Dear James,
I fell asleep clutching your notebook. We sit in classrooms for years and years. Same faces. But we have no idea what we are all swallowing deep, deep inside us. Why were you writing to me, James? Me? And why did you choose me to bully? Do we hate the people we recognize ourselves in? I mean, parts of ourselves that we can’t exactly be? I can’t believe you were . . . were you . . . gay. Too.
Today in English class, we discussed a short story we read for homework by a guy named Sherman Alexie called “What You Pawn I Will Redeem.” I liked it because it took place in one day and he separated it by hour. This homeless guy needed to get money to buy back his grandmother’s regalia from a pawnshop. And every hour he gets money, but then winds up spending it. Anyway, during the discussion, Ms. Raimondo said it is never really about what you are striving to get or achieve, it’s the journey. Then, Matthew said something annoying.
“But who cares about the journey if you never get what you want? No one cares about everything you failed at, right?”
“I don’t know,” said Aggie. “I think failure is kind of important too. Like we should be encouraged to fail more.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Janae. “If I fail, my parents would kill me. There’s way too much pressure to get good grades.”
“Yeah, but like, we often remember the failures. I know it sucks, but don’t you think that’s when we learn so much more?” Aggie said.
“Aggie, that’s an insightful point,” Ms. Raimondo said. “Even when we fail, we are still achieving something—”
“Tell that to my dad,” Janae interrupted.
“What we achieve is the desire to thrive. We cannot always be number one. We cannot always get A pluses on everything. As much as we may want to,” Ms. Raimondo smiled. “But the thing is, our protagonist experienced so much life in those hours of trying to make the money he needed. That is really what this story is about. The real adventure is in the struggle. To risk. What is lost.”
James, I can’t even begin to express how today’s lesson affected me. Sometimes it feels like Ms. Raimondo is digging out all the secret questions in me. During lunch, Aggie and I talked more about the story. She loved it too.
Wednesday, November 10
Dear James,
I was ten when Shirley and Dad told Gret and I that they were divorcing, and it was over a game of cards. Shirley was leaning against the counter, smoking, while Dad, Gret and I played Rummy 500. I remember that I kept playing even after Dad told us. I was so focused on my cards and matching suits, that I barely heard him utter ‘separation’ and then ‘divorce’. What broke my concentration was Greta. She was crying so loudly, my ribs jumped. Really. I mean, she can get loud when she sets her tears loose.
I really wasn’t that upset, nor was I surprised. It was only when my dad officially moved out that I realized things were never going to be the same. I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst when playing cards because that is when the bad news is often brought out. I remember learning about this in science class. Conditioning. When my grandma was dying, Dad told me over a heated game of Gin Rummy. And when cousin Bertie was diagnosed with leukemia, Dad and I were playing Uno. I realize now, whenever I play cards with friends, I have a terrible feeling in my stomach like someone is about to die or something.
I mention this because I went to Aggie’s house after school today and when she suggested a card game, I noticed myself start to sweat. A lot.
But nothing happened. In fact, we played Spit and the whole time we shared stories from childhood.
“My mom was a big feminist. I mean, she used to give me all sorts of books to read to learn about all the waves,” Aggie said.
“Waves?” I asked.
“Well, the one we know most about is second wave. But first was like all about women’s suffrage.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” James, I had no idea there were different types of feminism, but I was too embarrassed to ask questions.
“My mom was a bra burner, big time hippie in her prime. She mellowed once she married, but she always taught me the importance of being a feminist. You’re one, right?”
“Oh, uh, I guess. I mean, I’ve never called myself that, but . . .”
“Women are not equal, Eleanor, and until they are, we need to keep fighting.”
“Definitely.”
“My mom actually bought me my first vibrator.”
“What?”
“She felt it was important I celebrate myself and never feel shame. Oh, Eleanor, I wish you could have met her. Have you . . . have you ever . . .”
James, I was just about dying at this point. Talking about masturbation with AGGIE?!!!
“Uh, yeah. I mean, not with a . . . a . . .”
James, I was so sweaty at this point, I could have swam home in the ocean of my perspiration.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask for details. I can already see how uncomfortable you are.” Aggie smiled and pinched my arm a little, teasing me.
James, you probably won’t believe me, but I actually told Aggie all about it. Well, maybe not everything.
Shirley had all her book club people over and they were discussing—I will never forget—Carleen’s Lost Lover. They loved reading excerpts out loud that usually just made me blush when I eavesdropped, but that never stopped me from pressing my ears to the floor of my bedroom and listening to their slightly muffled words.
There was a scene they read that was kinda . . . sexy . . . I’m shy even writing that down, but I lay down in my bed and started to imagine what they were reading and then, I guess my imagination took over.
That’s where I stopped. I couldn’t tell Aggie the rest because then she would have known what I was thinking. But the thing is, James, that was just the beginning.
My hands moved down and I began pressing on myself. On my . . . self. Between my legs. Just pressing and poking. I imagined my fingers as fan blades, spinning into me. I couldn’t believe how good it felt. The intense pressure.
Images grew inside my head. Aggie’s braid against her bony shoulder. The weight of it and how soft it is and that first time she let me touch it and unravel it and a few hairs fell out and I remember finding them on my comforter the next day and putting them in my mouth and tasting her shampoo and her breath kind of sweet like pancake syrup and her collarbone which my fingers dug into and her lips pink pink pink her bottom lip bigger and thicker like an inch worm and the way her tongue comes out to lick them and the spit, her spit
creating bubbles and her teeth wrangling them in and her fingers so skinny in my hair which is still quite patchy and her legs around me and we are breathing so heavy and hard, our lungs almost break free and her lips are over mine and my cheeks swell around hers and we are on fire and we are burning and then my lungs went from inflated hot air balloon to deflated Santa ornament on front lawns during Christmastime.
How could I possibly tell that to Aggie?
James, of course this wasn’t the first time. The first time was when I was eight. No, nine. Yeah. And it was kind of accidental. I woke up all sweaty from a terrible nightmare, which I certainly can’t remember now, but I remember at that time it haunted me away from sleep. My blanket was all bunched up at the foot of my bed; my sheets were coming off at one of the corners, and my pillow was no longer by my head. It was being held captive between my legs and with each twitch and shake, I was feeling something. I just kind of rocked on my pillow and the friction was unlike anything I had ever felt.
Once, my friend Hannah told me she got excited when she went horseback riding for the first time. Since then, I have a fear of horses. I would be mortified if I orgasmed from being on an animal!
Kate likes to masturbate with her mother’s shoulder massager. I was over her house last year for her birthday party and we all took turns pressing this vibrating plastic contraption between our legs (underpants left on, of course) and there was a lot of hesitant shrieking. Dara told me that she never masturbates—tried it once and just didn’t get anything from it. I think she’s afraid to turn herself on, or maybe she just doesn’t want to share her own stories.
Thursday, November 11
Dear James,
Tonight in group, I talked a lot more. Maybe because I’ve been a little worried that Shirley is going to try and hurt herself again.
