by Amy Brent
“So, I read your paper,” the professor said, putting on her reading glasses. She picked up the pages from her desk and glanced over them. I could see marks in red pen all over the page. I ground my legs harder into the wood.
“I haven't really done this kind of paper before, Professor,” I said. “I mean, I write blog posts, but that's about it. So that's why this was so different.”
“Call me Maria,” she said, smiling at me. She gestured to the paper. “You're sure you've never written something like this before?”
I shook my head, keeping my lips pressed together. I focused my entire being into the pinching against the back of my legs. I'd always been a very tactile person. It's not like I'd call myself a masochist or something. Well, maybe. But I just liked texture. The roughness against my skin helped smooth out my thoughts.
“Well, I'm impressed,” Maria said. “This is college-level writing.”
“Really?” My eyebrows shot up and I leaned forward.
“Indeed. I made some notes and suggestions for revision, but overall this was quite good. Probably the best in the class.”
She handed the paper to me and I looked it over. All of the notes in red pen were less scary once I actually looked at them. They said things like “Interesting!” or “This is good, though you can expand on this idea.” I smiled as I skimmed the notes. I didn't usually get feedback on my writing, unless you counted the comments section of my blog.
I eased the tension of my legs against the chair, just a bit. Maybe my writing wasn't so bad after all.
“I was especially interested in the topic you chose,” Maria said. She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and studied me. “Most of the other students chose more bland topics. Sports, or their favorite hobby. The fact that you chose an LGBT topic shows how bold you are, and that's a sign of strong writing.”
“Thank you.” I lowered my eyes bashfully. I wasn't used to writing openly about topics related to my sexuality. This was my first time in a formal academic environment, and I wasn't sure what was and wasn't okay to write about. I'd been homeschooled my entire life, but after I turned eighteen, I'd decided I needed to enter a real academic program in order to prep for my high school equivalency degree. The informative essay I'd written, titled, “Bisexual Invisibility: How Nonbinary People are Shunned by the LGBT Community,” was based on a lot of my own personal experiences as a shy, sheltered homeschooler who had only recently started coming out as bi. If I'd written that sort of essay back home in Georgia, everyone I knew would have said the devil had his claws in me. They would have prayed for me to “find the right path” and “come back to Jesus.” I could never stand the way they treated my sexuality like it was a sin.
Not that I'd ever actually had sex. But I was attracted to both men and women. Especially older women.
I looked up at Maria as she continued. “You're not very comfortable talking about this sort of thing, are you?” she asked. She gave me an encouraging smile.
I shrugged. “I'm not used to people being so accepting.”
“Well, I, for one, accept you the way you are. I think you'll find a lot of people who do, now that you're not living in the south anymore.”
I smiled gratefully. I knew Maria was straight. At least, she'd mentioned a boyfriend from time to time when telling stories to the class. But to know that she didn't judge me for being different was a new and wonderful experience.
Moving up north and getting out of Georgia had definitely been a great idea.
“Have you thought about what you're going to write for your next assignment?” Maria asked. “I'd love to see another LGBT think piece. It seems like a topic you're really passionate about.”
“I have a few ideas,” I said. I sat up a bit straighter, wishing I had a subject to pitch to the professor here and now. “I'm sure I'll come up with something.”
“I look forward to reading it.”
She stood when I did and led me to the door. She touched my arm for a moment as she guided me outside. Her fingers were soft. I also sort of, kind of, snuck a peek down her blouse. My face started to feel warm.
Why did all of the really hot women have to be straight?
“I'll see you in class next week,” Maria said. I caught her eyes and my blush deepened. I really hoped she hadn't caught me checking her out.
“Have a good weekend,” I said, my voice trembling. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed down the hall, hoping I hadn't made too big of a fool of myself.
At the bus stop, there was a man wearing torn jeans and a stained denim jacket. He was smoking. I always hated it when people smoked at the bus stop. It was so inconsiderate.
“Hey,” he said, eyeing me up and down. I kept my back straight and didn't look at him. I also hated it when guys at the bus stop checked me out. I didn't know what he found so appealing. Whether it was the way I'd dyed my hair a bright, vibrant red, or my short skirt and tank top. I wasn't trying to show off my breasts or my long legs. It was just hot outside today, and besides, I'd spent so many years living in the purity culture of the south, where showing any skin was considered sinful, that I couldn't help reveling in the freedom I now had to dress the way I liked.
“You're really cute,” the guy said. He flashed me what I suppose he thought was a charming smile. “You got a boyfriend?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Sorry.”
“Ahh,” he said, shrugging. “Lucky guy.”
I sighed. I didn't have either a boyfriend or a girlfriend. I'd done some things online with guys and girls at different points over the last few years, but I'd never been kissed in real life. I was a virgin, unless you counted touching myself on a webcam while my ex-online-boyfriend watched me and jerked off.
I wished I did have a real-life boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Either way, as long as it was someone sweet, kind, respectful, and good in bed. But definitely not some skeevy guy who hit on me at the bus stop.
When the bus came, I made sure to sit far away from that guy. I huddled in my seat, watching the scenery move by as the bus took me home. I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and savored the feeling of the vibrations as the window rattled against my temple. Sometimes focusing on physical sensations like this was the only way to ignore the emptiness I felt all the time. I'd rather feel something, even if it was pain, than feel nothing at all.
Over the weekend, I decided to do something radical with my hair. I'd worn it long my entire life, and it hung down almost to my ass. On some days, I loved my hair. When it was its natural color, it was dark and flowing, and it made me feel beautiful. But on other days, it made me feel too stereotypically feminine. My whole childhood, I'd been encouraged to dress feminine. Not just feminine, but conservative, proper, Christian feminine. Long skirts that didn't even show any ankle. Tops that couldn't be low cut, and couldn't be too tight, because God forbid a girl show that she has curves. No, my pastor constantly told me that if I tempted boys into worldly urges, whatever happened would be my own fault.
I sat in the chair at the hair dresser's, ready for a major change. I had a new life up north, a new wardrobe that let me dress the way I wanted, and I was pursuing my education to prepare myself for my new future. Now I needed a new look to go along with it.
“I want something like this,” I said, holding up my phone and showing the hair dresser the image I'd found. It was short. Super short. Almost buzz cut length in the back, with just a bit of poof in the front that I could play around with. Kind of like a David Tennant style playfully-disheveled hairdo.
“Are you sure?” the hair dresser asked me. “Once I cut it off, it'll take years to grow it back out. And your hair is so beautiful.”
“I'm sure,” I said.
“Okay. No regrets.”
She settled the smock over me and fastened it around my neck, then grabbed her scissors. The bulk of my hair fell to the ground after a few quick snips. Waterfalls of radiant red fell to the ground all around the chair. I felt ten po
unds lighter.
I tried not to fidget when the hair dresser took the electric clippers and buzzed the back of my head. I watched in the mirror, feeling completely transformed. I could feel the breeze from the open window tickling the back of my head, barely covered now by a soft downy fuzz. When I studied myself in the mirror, I almost looked like a boy. From the neck up, anyway.
I had the hair dresser style the top in a playful twist, keeping at least a touch of femininity. I made sure to buy some of the salon's hair products so I could keep playing with the style at home. I thanked the woman and left, feeling like a whole new me. A me who didn't care if I might draw scowls from the more conservative people out there. I'd been called a dyke and a lesbo before, and while it hurt every time someone slung their hateful words at me, I was working on building up my resistance to it. I didn't care what anyone thought. At least, I was trying not to.
I walked home, stopping at the store on the way back to pick up some new hair dye. Before I'd gotten my hair cut, my roots had already been showing their natural dark brown. After the haircut, the roots now made up the majority of what was left on my head. The back of my head was completely covered in brown hair now, and the top only had an inch or so of red left. I needed to fix that.
While I was looking through the hair dye, something prompted me to take things to an even greater extreme. I moved down the aisle, past the natural colors and into the more vivid section that held everything under the rainbow. I grabbed the one that stood out the most to me, ready to make a statement.
When I went to class on Monday, everyone was staring at my new hair. Short and bright, stunning violet. I looked like Sailor Saturn, straight out of an anime.
“Wow,” one of my classmates said. “I just love your hair!”
“Thanks,” I said. I sat down, preening, a satisfied little smile on my face. I hadn't been sure what kind of reaction I would get, but so far it was a positive one.
Throughout the school day, I kept getting more compliments. During lunch, someone even asked me where I'd gotten my hair done. All of the attention kept me in a good mood all day, right up until English class, my last period of the day.
Even Professor Martinez did a double-take when she saw my hair. “Casey, wow. I love what you've done with your hair. Quite stunning.”
The compliments made me feel like I'd made the right choice, which was good, since I'd been nervous that I might have taken the change too far. Of course, there was still one student who scowled at me. He was also the one who'd been quite vocal in class one day protesting the way our government was being taken over by “the gays.” Professor Martinez had silenced him quickly and told him that sort of attitude had no place in her class. But he always made me nervous, especially with the way he looked at me today.
Maria, on the other hand, kept looking at me with delight in her eyes. Every time she glanced at me during the lecture, her eyes locked on mine and a smile touched her lips. It made me squirm in my seat. I'd never gotten such looks before. I wasn't used to the attention.
At the end of class, I walked up to Maria's desk to hand her the new essay I'd written over the weekend. Her fingers brushed against mine as she took it from me, and I felt a shiver.
“I hope you came up with another compelling topic,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. I looked down at the ground, shuffling my feet. “It's about purity culture and the gender norms society imprints on us. I...I don't like norms.”
“I can see that,” she said, glancing at my purple hair.
I giggled and ran my fingers through my hair. I lingered at the desk for a moment, wishing there were something more to talk about. I felt like a dork, but I liked talking to Maria. If she wasn't my teacher, I might have asked her if she wanted to hang out outside of class sometime. Though I would probably chicken out anyway. I'd never been good at making friends. Or girlfriends.
She started reading my essay right away. I stood there and waited, figuring I could use the excuse that I wanted to hear what she thought about it. I reached up to twirl my hair between my fingers before I remembered that it didn't reach down low enough anymore. I didn't know what else to do with my hands, so I played with my belt buckle, running my fingers over the hard metal and feeling the texture of the irregular bumps and grooves across its surface.
“This is quite good,” Maria said.
“Yeah?” I grinned.
“Very good. You're going to do quite well once you get to the university.”
“I can't wait.” I bounced on my toes a bit, savoring the praise. I wasn't used to being told my writing was any good. My mother had never approved of the topics I'd written about. But then, she'd never approved of anything that wasn't “good and Christian.” I hadn't even been able to read books like Harry Potter because the fundies in my hometown thought it promoted deviltry and witchcraft.
When I got out of class, I hurried to the bus stop. I saw it pulling away while I was still more than a block away. “Wait!” I shouted, knowing it was hopeless. I tried to run, but my asthma made my lungs start to burn before I got halfway there. The bus drove off, leaving me behind.
I sighed and pulled out my phone to check the bus schedule. It would be more than an hour before the next bus came.
I tucked my phone into my purse and started walking. It would take less time to walk home than it would to wait for another bus, even if my legs would be in agony by the time I got home.
I'd been walking for about fifteen minutes when a car slowed down on its way by. I braced myself, expecting it was some guy trying to hit on me. I never understood why guys thought it was okay to try to pick up a girl when they were just driving by. Most of the time they just shouted at me. Though once or twice I'd had guys stop and offer me a ride.
“Hey. Do you need a lift?”
I turned towards the car, ready to reject whoever it was as politely as I could manage, when I saw that it was Maria. She smiled and waved me over. “I didn't realize you didn't drive,” she said. “Come on, I can give you a ride home.”
My face heated up as I climbed into the car. “Thanks,” I said. “I wasn't looking forward to walking.”
“Can't you take the bus? I'm sure one comes by this way.”
“I barely missed it.”
“Ahh.” She started driving, and there was an awkward silence for a long moment. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Her skirt had ridden up her leg a bit. Her thighs were smooth and lightly tanned. I cleared my throat and looked away.
“Do you still live with your parents?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I moved out seven months ago. My family is in Georgia.”
“Georgia?” She looked me up and down, as if trying to puzzle me out. “What ever brought you all the way up here?”
“Well, my roommate, I mean, the guy I live with now, he offered me a place to stay until I get on my feet. We've been friends online for years. I work part time to help with the rent.”
“So you live with a man?” she asked.
I laughed and shook my head. “It's not like that. He's gay.”
“Ahh.” She nodded. “And what do your parents think about this whole situation?”
“Mom hates it.” I shrugged. “But she couldn't stop me. I couldn't stand living there anymore.”
“And your dad?”
I looked down at my lap, fiddling with my belt buckle. “He died last year.”
“Oh. Oh, Casey, I'm sorry.” She reached over and patted my knee. Her touch made me feel tingly. I wanted her to keep touching me, but she pulled her hand away.
I gave her directions to my apartment. She parked out front and I thanked her for the ride. I opened the door, then paused.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I started to get out, then stopped and looked at her. “Would, umm, would you like to come in? I have...soda.”
She pursed her lips in thought for a moment. Then she nodded. “Sure,” she said. “That sounds n
ice.”
I led her upstairs, where I struggled for a few moments to get my key into the lock. My roommate swore that the locks on the apartment worked just fine, but my key always seemed to stick. I shoved the door open and led Maria in. Then immediately regretted it when I saw the pile of laundry in the living room, with some of my bras and panties right on top.
“Oh, God. I'm sorry.” I grabbed an armload of the clothes and shoved them back into the hamper. I'd been digging through them that morning, searching for the skirt I wanted to wear, and I hadn't had time to put the rest of the clothes away. At least they were all clean; I'd hauled the hamper back upstairs after I did laundry on the weekend, then never gotten around to folding the clothes and putting them away.
“Don't worry about it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “My boyfriend never puts his clothes away either. It's one of the things we fight about, actually.”
“Do you fight a lot?” I carried the hamper back to my roommate's bedroom, shut the door, then went into the kitchen to pour us each a drink. I felt like I was supposed to offer her coffee or something, but I didn't drink coffee, and neither did my roommate.
“Lately? Yes.” She sighed and sat down on the futon. It sagged a bit in the middle and the back was a bit bent. I decided not to mention to Maria that the futon was where I slept. It was only a one-bedroom apartment, so the living room had become my room after I moved in. Which could get awkward since the kitchen was nothing more than a little alcove off to the side of the living room, leaving me with little privacy. My roommate had been kind enough to buy one of those Japanese folding screens to separate part of the space for me and offer me some privacy, but that was all.
“What do you guys fight about?” I poured us a couple of Cokes and brought them into the living room. I gave one to Maria, then sat on the only chair in the room, a tiny wheeled office chair set in front of the folding card table where my laptop sat. One day I planned to get a proper computer desk and all of that, but for the time being, and making minimum wage, I had to do with what I had.
