by Robin Talley
“I was, mostly, but...” I shrug. Come to think of it, I don’t remember if I was joking back then.
“So you really are that superficial?” Gretchen laughs again. Gretchen’s laughing a lot today. “You don’t need me to impress your friends. They already like you.”
“I know.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go.”
“Are you really upset about my shoes?” Gretchen makes puppy-dog eyes. “Maybe I can borrow some others from your roommates. Or do we have time to go shopping? Is there a Payless in Harvard Yard?”
I laugh. “Yeah, right between Widener and Wigg.”
“Really?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. I like your shoes. Very witchy.”
“Good.” Gretchen beams again. Just like that, we’re back to normal.
We’re already running late, but whatever. We still have time to make out some more.
Half an hour later, Inez, dressed as Princess Leia, opens the door to the guys’ room. The common area is packed. Besides my friends, there are some people I recognize from UBA meetings and some I’ve never seen at all.
“Toni! You look fantastic!” Inez smiles at me, then turns to Gretchen. “Oh, my God, this must be the famous girlfriend from NYU! I love your dress! Wow, Derek said you were gorgeous, but I had no idea!”
“Yep, this is Gretchen,” I say, beaming.
“You have to come in!” Inez grabs Gretchen by the hand before Gretchen can say hello. “Everyone has to see you! Right now! Everybody, this is Toni’s girlfriend, Gretchen, up from NYU!”
More than a dozen voices shout back as Inez leads Gretchen into the room. Gretchen waves. I push my way through the door after them so I can see everyone’s reactions.
All the guys shout “Hi,” and Nance and one or two of the others wolf-whistle. Gretchen laughs some more. Clearly I overestimated the importance of high heels.
Then, before I’ve even seen Derek, much less introduced them, Derek has come up to us, grabbed Gretchen by the elbow, steered my girlfriend into a corner of the room and started an in-depth conversation about Gabriel García Márquez.
Seriously. That just happened.
It’s been three seconds since I entered a party with my girlfriend for the first time in my college life and I’m already on my own, just like always.
God. English majors.
I talk to Nance and Inez and their friends for a while before I run out of patience and march into Gretchen and Derek’s corner. Derek is dressed as Mark Twain, in a white suit and wig with fake eyebrows and a fake white mustache. It’s disturbing.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you two starting your own final club back here or what?”
“No, we’re just telling embarrassing stories about you,” Derek says.
Gretchen squeezes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. My annoyance fades, but my chest feels tight. I can’t tell if it’s the binder or my nerves.
“I like Derek,” Gretchen says. “It makes me feel better having you all the way up here if I know Derek’s around to watch out for you.”
“What am I, a puppy?” I ask.
“No, I know what she means,” Derek says, smiling. “By the way, T, I like Gretchen, too.”
Gretchen smiles.
“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I say. Not that I object to Derek and Gretchen making friends, but this is kind of weird. “You haven’t met everyone officially yet. Come on.”
“He really is a good guy,” Gretchen whispers as we cross to the other side of the room. “I mean, I knew he would be, since you’re so picky about your friends, but I trust him. He reminds me of Chris, but older and wiser.”
“Derek’s definitely a lot wiser,” I say.
We go around the room so I can introduce Gretchen to the rest of the group. They’re all in costumes or otherwise dressed up except for Eli. Eli isn’t coming to the dance. Gretchen is distraught to learn this because Gretchen, unlike the rest of us, wasn’t there last week to hear about the dances of Eli’s past. We all dropped the subject once Eli finished the “and then they beat me up outside my senior prom” story.
“No, no, you have to come!” Gretchen tugs on Eli’s arm. “It’ll be fun. We can all dance together.”
“Hey, Gretchen, sweetheart,” Nance says, “you can dance with Eli if you want, but you have to dance with me first. I got to get in early, before Toni goes around kicking people’s asses.”
Gretchen laughs. “Like we’d make it through a whole song before that happened.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nance says. Nance is dressed as Clark Kent, in a suit and tie with the shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the red S underneath. It shows off a lot of cleavage, too. I’m guessing that’s not an accident. “T’s that much of an ass-kicker?”
“Nah, T just gets superjealous,” Gretchen says.
“Yeah, that’s kind of true,” I say. “One time in high school I paid someone to stop trying to flirt with Gretchen.”
“You paid her?” Eli said. “What, actual money?”
“Well, I did her calc homework for her once.”
“I was superglad you did,” Gretchen says. “She was this little track-team diva brat, but she was hard to get rid of. Even though I was already hopelessly smitten with Toni by then.”
“Aww,” Inez and Nance say in unison.
I blush. Then I get annoyed with myself for blushing.
My chest feels tight again. My whole body feels like it’s buzzing, and not in a good way. I thought people would notice I was binding tonight, but Gretchen’s the only one who’s said anything.
“So, should we go downstairs or what?” I ask.
The others stand up, grumbling, as if they’d just as soon hang out in the common room all night.
The dining hall on the first floor is already full. Some of the outfits people have on are really over the top. As Derek predicted, there are some straight guys in ridiculous, borderline-offensive drag, but they’re definitely the minority. I see more drag kings, in fact. They must’ve come over on the Wellesley bus, because if we had practicing drag kings at Harvard, surely someone would’ve told me by now. It’s funny to see girls dressed as Justin Bieber hanging out next to the three-hundred-year-old dark wood paneling and framed portraits of old, dead house masters.
Derek, Inez and Nance hang out with Gretchen and me for the first part of the night. Nance keeps leaning over to whisper things in Gretchen’s ear, which freaks me out. I overhear words like “self-care” and “sofa support groups.” Are they talking about furniture?
Derek sees me looking at them and mouths, “Don’t worry about it,” and I try not to. Then I overhear Nance saying, “It really makes you rethink your own sexuality, you know?” and Gretchen turns to me, looking panicked.
I take Gretchen’s hand and we go to get food. For a while we avoid Nance and hang out on our own. Gretchen keeps pointing out the interesting costumes to me and whispering in my ear about how cool the dance is, but I can’t relax. It didn’t bother me so much in the guys’ room, but now that I’m out in the open, I feel incredibly self-conscious about binding in public for the first time. No one seems to have noticed, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m so self-conscious I’m embarrassed of my own self-consciousness.
Having Gretchen standing next to me makes me even more nervous because I know everyone’s looking at us. Well, everyone’s looking at Gretchen. That’s what happens when your date is the hottest girl in the room and she’s dressed up as a sexy feminist witch.
What the hell am I doing here? Everyone’s going to know I’m faking it. I’m not serious enough about the trans thing to be wearing a binder yet. Plus, Gretchen probably doesn’t even want to be here with me. Why else would my own girlfriend lie to me about something as huge as college plans?
I�
��m a total failure. A fraud. Anyone who takes one look at me can tell I’m just playing at everything.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I whisper to Gretchen.
“Why?” Gretchen looks alarmed.
“Uh.” I shift from one foot to another. “I’ve gotta pee.”
“Oh, okay.” Gretchen squints toward the far end of the corner. “Is there one down here?”
“Uh,” I say again. I should’ve realized this would be a problem. Harvard’s got a few gender-neutral bathrooms around campus, so I use those most of the time, but there aren’t usually gender-neutral stalls in the dorm hallways. I usually use a women’s bathroom if there isn’t a gender-neutral one close by, because that’s never seemed like a big deal to me—I went to an all-girl school for thirteen years, after all. But I don’t really want the guys seeing me go into one. And since I’m wearing a binder, it would probably be weird.
“Actually, I’ll just go later,” I say.
Gretchen looks quizzical. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I shift again. My binder is starting to itch.
“Relax,” Gretchen murmurs. “Are you stressed?”
“I’m not stressed,” I say.
“You look stressed.”
“I’m only—”
Then Pete interrupts us, yelling from the food table on the far side of the room.
“Come hang with us, T!” Pete calls. “We’re having a support group meeting for the formerly genderqueer!”
All of my friends howl with laughter at this. Except Gretchen.
“Formerly genderqueer?” Gretchen whispers, smiling and waving at Pete and the others. “Is he joking?”
“Oh, uh, sort of, but not really,” I say, as if I’d just forgotten to mention it. Oh, God. “I mean, you know how much I hate labels. None of them are ever exactly right. So I’m thinking about not using genderqueer as much anymore. It has some classist connotations, you know? I thought about other options, like nonbinary and multigender, but I think I might like gender nonconforming best. Well, and actually I still use genderqueer sometimes, since more people know what it means. My friends just like to be brats about it because they think they’re funny. Basically, though, I’ve been, well, thinking a lot. About all of this. Yeah.”
I swallow.
“Oh,” Gretchen says. “Um. Okay. Is the classist stuff the only reason you’re thinking about changing from genderqueer?”
“Well...” I’m extremely unprepared for this conversation, and I’ve had a few drinks. So I keep babbling. “Also, something like gender nonconforming seems more accurate, since genderqueer is so neutral, but gender nonconforming is more active. Like it’s saying I’m actively opposed to the rigid gender binary. Plus, especially since, you know, I lean more toward the male end of the spectrum than the female end, maybe a label change sort of seems like a logical next step?”
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I shut up?
“What do you mean?” Gretchen’s eyes are wide. “A logical next step to what?”
I gulp. This probably isn’t the best time to mention that I’m thinking about trying out using they pronouns, too. “I don’t know.”
“When did you decide this?” Gretchen’s talking really fast. Sounding almost frantic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um.”
“Hey!” Nance comes over to us and thrusts a cup into my hand. “What’s the deal, T? Your hottie shows up and now you’re too cool to hang with us? Come over here, both of you. You’ve got to meet these Wellesley babes.”
I look over warily, but Gretchen’s smile is back in place.
“Let’s go!” Gretchen chirps.
This time when we cross the room, we don’t hold hands.
Nance introduces me to the drag kings, who did indeed come over from Wellesley, and to a punch concoction Nance invented that appears to be three-fourths vodka and one-fourth wine with a splash of fruit juice. The drag kings make less of an impression than the drinks. They both help take care of the self-consciousness, though.
Gretchen keeps smiling, laughing and joking with everyone. We stay with Nance, Derek and the group for the rest of the night. As it turns out, there’s no actual dancing at this dance. Only flirting, drinking and, in the case of Derek and Gretchen, bonding over a shared love of dead white male writers.
Nance slings an arm around my shoulders as we file outside at the end of the night. Nance has taken off the Clark Kent shirt, revealing a way-too-tight Superman shirt underneath, so this is disconcerting.
“You two comin’ out with us?” Nance’s Southern accent is a lot stronger when enhanced by alcohol. “We’re going to the Kong. Get us some General Tso’s and some Scorpion Bowls. It’s gonna be fierce.”
Drunk Nance’s grip is strong. I’m too drunk myself to shrug her off.
“Leave them be,” Derek says, unwinding Nance’s hand from my arm. “I’m sure they’ve got better things to do.”
“Ohhhh, yeah,” the guys chorus.
“You’re all a bunch of pervs.” Gretchen slurs the words, laughing. “Come on, T, let’s ditch these creepazoids.”
We say goodbye and cross the street back to the Yard.
“I’m sorry I got crabby before.” Gretchen takes off the witch hat, wraps an arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder. I wonder how drunk Gretchen is. I wonder how drunk I am. “I get it better now that Derek explained the thing about genderqueer being classist. He said some people think genderqueer is mainly used as a label just by middle-and upper-class people, but he doesn’t think that’s true anymore, and he said he’s trying to convince you he’s right. I told him there’s no way to convince you you’re wrong about something like that, but he said he’s going to try anyway.” Gretchen laughs.
“You talked to Derek about me?” I have a feeling that will bother me tomorrow. Right now I’m more focused on the physical proximity situation. I put my arm around Gretchen’s shoulders.
“A little.” Gretchen isn’t slurring as much now. “I like him. He really likes you, too. He says you remind him of him when he was a freshman.”
“Uh-huh.” That will probably bother me tomorrow, too.
“Hey, T? T! Is that you?”
“Eb?”
My roommate Ebony is waving to us from the opposite sidewalk, arm in arm with a guy who is definitely not her boyfriend from back home.
“Hey!” Ebony breaks away from the guy and jogs over to us. “Is this the famous Gretchen?”
“Hiiiii.” Suddenly Gretchen’s back to slurring.
Ebony laughs and turns to me. “What have you done to her?”
“No idea,” I say. “She was fine three seconds ago.”
Ebony turns to look at me with unfocused eyes. “Something’s different about you.”
“Oh, yeah. I got my hair cut.”
“Yeah, and there’s more, too.” Ebony squints at my chest. “Ohhh.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” Gretchen agrees. Her eyes are closed. If we don’t move soon, I’ll have to drag Gretchen back to my room. I suspect that would look bad to any passing campus police officers.
“It’s such a shame,” Ebony says.
“Nah, she’ll be okay,” I say. “Gretchen has a really low tolerance. Just needs to sleep it off.”
“No, I mean you,” Ebony says. “It’s so sad. You’re so pretty as a girl.”
A hand tugs on my sleeve before I can think of a response. Gretchen’s eyes are open now. “Time to go home, T. ’S nice to meet you, Ebony.”
Ebony waves and stumbles back over to the guy. Gretchen and I make it to the dorm without any dragging required, but the pleasant buzz that surrounded us before is gone.
“I can’t believe she said that,” I say for the third time. I’m trying to swipe my car
d to get into the entryway but my hands are fumbling. I keep missing the card reader.
“You’re drunk, T. Your pronouns are slipping.”
“Sorry. It’s just so offensive. I thought people here were more enlightened.”
“I’m sure she thought it was a compliment.”
“Whatever.” I stomp up the stairs to my room while Gretchen follows.
“You can’t be so hard on everyone,” Gretchen says. “Sometimes people make mistakes. Say the wrong thing.”
“Whatever.”
I open the door. Joanna and Felicia are sitting on the couch in the common room, laughing. They shut up as soon as they see us. I go straight to my room. The only reason I don’t slam the door behind me is that I don’t want to hit Gretchen in the face.
Gretchen says hi to the others before following me in. When we’re alone with the door safely shut, I fling out my arm in the direction of the common room.
“You don’t need to talk to them,” I say. Through the wall we can hear Joanna singing one of the dumb songs from the dumb a cappella group the two of them are in. It’s a Michael Jackson medley I’ve heard them sing a million times before. Felicia joins Joanna on the harmony. I flip them off through the closed door.
Gretchen smiles at me. “You’re being such a teenager. It’s cute.”
“It’s not cute.” I sit on the bottom bunk bed and cross my arms over my chest. I hate how tiny my room is. The top of my head grazes the bottom of my bunk bed. It feels like everything is closing in on me.
“Relax,” Gretchen says, whispering so Joanna and Felicia don’t hear. “What’s with you tonight?”
“I...don’t know.”
I really don’t. I can’t remember the last time I felt so many different things in one day.
Seeing Gretchen again was automatically supposed to translate into twenty-four-hour bliss. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
Was it like this before? I can’t remember.
Gretchen sits down next to me on the bed. For a minute, neither of us speaks. Gretchen’s arms are crossed over her chest, too. Then Gretchen sighs and turns to look at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
