Summer Love

by Annie Harper

  I sat down on a rickety chair in a corner and flipped through the book. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pages of photos of young men, but that wasn’t the remarkable part. The pictures were accompanied by side-by-side comparisons of those young men as young women. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Girls who felt as if they were actually boys? People who are open and honest about who they really are? I was shocked. I thought, if they could change, could I change too? I finally had a name for what I was and I remember I was so relieved I almost started to cry.

  I looked at the price tag on the book and gathered all my money—I had just enough. As the cashier rang it in, I felt a lump in my throat and my cheeks burning. I wasn’t ready to let anyone know my secret, but I was overjoyed knowing I wasn’t alone.

  Turns out, I wouldn’t be ready for four more years, but I really figured out who I was just before I turned eighteen.

  The summer before I started at Boston University, I got a job at a snack bar at the beach so I could save as much money as possible. Yep, the snack bar was on the beach. I mentioned that I hate the beach and tourists, right? Every day, I put on my “Dave’s Clam Shack” T-shirt and khaki shorts, walked across hot sand and worked behind the counter serving customers all manner of fried foods. The Shack (as we lovingly called it) was built in the fifties and was really run down—probably still is. The wooden building was originally covered in faded shingles; many of them blew away during our famous nor’easters. Even though it’s practically falling down, it’s still popular with tourists and locals.

  I got to work with J.P., and my boss, Joe Cohen, was pretty cool, but by the third week of summer I was already over working with the public. I really looked forward to my days off. J.P. used to laugh at me and say, “You’re such a ball of sunshine, dude.”

  A huge mix of people came through our lines, and we saw more than a few handsome college guys on a daily basis. J.P. and I had a secret code word for when a particularly hot guy came around—“Hot Dog.”

  One day, J.P. called out, “Hey! Carter—hot dog at two. I need a hot dog at two o’clock.”

  I followed his gaze and almost choked when I saw the guy. He was compact and trim and he wore swim trunks. He had wavy chestnut hair and striking blue eyes—trust me, this man was gorgeous. I figured he was a little older than me—maybe a junior or senior in college. Out of my league, definitely.

  J.P. caught my eye and winked. He said, “Go take his order, hot stuff.”

  I told J.P. to shut up, cleared my throat and managed to ask the guy what he wanted.

  “What do you recommend?” he asked.

  When I asked him what he was in the mood for he said, “Some­thing seafood-y.”

  Considering that I would rather eat cut glass than shrimp, scallops, clams or lobster—I said, “The burgers are pretty good.” I know, right? Super suave.

  He ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and oh, my, God. His smile. It was one of the loveliest smiles I’d seen in a really long time and he was aiming it at me.

  I wanted to drop to my knees and ask him to marry me, but instead I just gave him his total and accepted a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his (perfect, veiny and strong-looking) hand.

  “Thanks… Carter,” he said, reading my nametag.

  When I handed him his change all I could think to say was, “Have a good one.” Fantastic conversationalist, right? You know when you imagine yourself punching yourself in the face? Yeah, that was me.

  As he walked away holding his platter of food, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  J.P. smacked me on the back of the head. “Wake up, lover boy. We’ve got more people to make happy. You can dream about him later—I know I probably will.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and sighed dramatically. I wished that Mr. Attractive would come back and sweep me off my feet but resigned myself to the idea that I’d never see him again.

  As I pulled into my driveway that night, I saw that both Mom and Dad were home at the same time—a rare occur­rence. I love my parents. They’re not perfect by any stretch, but they’ve always been loving and supportive, and I know I’m really lucky. Mom’s a teacher, and Dad is a pedia­trician. You should see the two of them; they are so mismatched in appear­ance, it’s hilarious. My mom has really curly brunette hair and is tiny. She’s only about four foot eleven. My dad is super tall and lanky with stick-straight silver hair. He’s about six foot six, and when they walk together they make an enter­taining pair.

  I was an only child until I was thirteen, when my little sister Hannah was born. She’s the greatest little kid. Sure, she drove me crazy when she was really young and I was still getting used to not being the only child. Now, she amuses the hell out of me. I’m her favorite person. As I got out of the car, she flew out of the front door and shouted my name over and over. Her unruly chestnut hair escaped a loose pony tail and stuck out all over the place.

  Hannah jumped up and wrapped her arms around my neck for a hug. I used to call her Hanna-Banana—still do sometimes, just to annoy her. I asked her about summer day camp and she said, “It was really, really, good! We made bracelets and I maked you one.”

  “You did? What color is it?” I asked.

  “Purple, your favorite,” she said.

  I love when my Dad makes dinner. He’s obsessed with shows like Top Chef and Chopped and spends a lot of his spare time mak­ing up recipes and trying all sorts of new techniques. Most of the time he’s successful, but every blue moon he fails miserably—like the time he made brownies but put in salt instead of sugar. You should have seen Hannah’s face as she tasted them—I don’t think she’s fully recovered yet.

  My dad likes to give me a hard time. When I asked him what we were having for dinner he said, “Hello, Father. How was your day? Did you have a good one? Why, yes, son, I did.”

  I called him a wiseass.

  When Dad asked me about my day, I decided to be honest with him. I know some of you can’t do that with your folks, so I’ll tell you how that went.

  I said, “I met the most handsome man in the entire world at work.”

  “The most handsome?” my dad asked.

  When I told him the mystery guy should win an award for “most attractive,” my dad laughed and said, “Should he be in the paper?”

  Then I laughed because our town paper, The Enterprise, is often called “The Emptyprise” due to the supreme lack of interesting things happening in Oceanside.

  “He’d definitely earn a place on the front page,” I told him. “I keep hoping against hope he’ll come back to The Shack, but I don’t think he’s going to. I guess our love affair was not meant to be.”

  Dad made a sympathetic face and then called everyone for dinner.

  I know families can drive you crazy sometimes, but I am so lucky, mine is pretty great. I felt better just by hang­ing out with them. After dinner I read Hannah Where the Wild Things Are—a book I read to her approximately a million times. When I checked my phone, I noticed J.P. had called nine times. Nine. Times.

  I called him back immediately. “What’s wrong, man?” I asked.

  J.P. said, “I’ve got intel on your mystery man. Apparently, he’s here for the summer.”

  My heart jumped. Suddenly I had a million questions. “What? What else do you know? What’s his name? How old is he? Is he gay?”

  He said, “Here’s the problem: all I know is, his family rented a house up in the Heights. My friend Sara Fieldman lives next door, and when I told her you were all obsessed about Mr. Hot­pants, she told me the house next door was rented and she’d seen a guy who could possibly be the one we’re looking for hanging out in the back yard.”

  And my heart sank.

  I said, “You’re telling me that the only so-called information we’ve got is that he looks like a guy some girl has seen hanging out in the yard next to hers? That is ten kinds of not very helpful, J.P.”

  “Dude, it’s more than you knew before—be grateful
,” he grumbled.

  J.P. had a point.

  “Okay… I’ll take it, thanks,” I said

  The next day at work, I prayed that my gloriously handsome friend would come back, but he didn’t. All week long, I scanned the lines for him, hoping he’d be there. J.P. thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, and kept poking fun at me.

  He said, “You’ve got it hard for this nameless guy, huh? You’re at least going to have to know his name before riding off into the sunset.”

  Joe wasn’t as amused. I was distracted and kept screwing up orders and forgetting the most basic things. Customers were also not very enthusiastic. I tried to pay attention, but visions of my dream guy clouded my head.

  At the end of that week, I had the worst day yet. I messed up so much that Joe threatened to make me pay for all the food that I wasted. I burned my hand on the grill, accidentally made a little girl cry and was rude to a customer, who then demanded to speak to the manager.

  After thinking about it long and hard, I finally decided to stop looking for my guy. It had been over a week, and there was no sign of him. I figured I wasn’t going to see him again. I don’t know what I was hoping for anyway, it’s not as though we would start a relationship or anything, right? It was just fun pretending. I was used to being alone.

  After the end of the day cleanup, J.P. grabbed my arm and said, “Remember, tonight. I’ll come by and get you at nine—we’re taking my car. I’m not about to drive around in your shitbox.”

  “Thanks, friend,” I said.

  J.P. said, “You know your car is a falling-apart piece of crap, Carter.”

  “Shut up,” I muttered, knowing full well that he was right. My 1992 Toyota Camry had seen better days, but it worked nicely getting me around town. I knew it didn’t have much more life in it though, and every time I put the key in the ignition, I crossed my fingers that it would start.

  We were going to an LGBT dance at a youth center a couple of towns away. Because I’d spent so long hiding who I really was, I’d never danced with anyone—let alone another boy. I was hoping to change that. It was so difficult explaining to people how it was possible to be a gay trans guy. It took me a long time to figure out that gender identity and sexual identity were separate, so I could see why others might not understand right away either.

  I dressed in my nicest pants, a button down shirt, T-shirt and binder. I debated wearing a tie, but that that was probably overkill.

  At nine exactly, J.P. pulled into the driveway and honked his horn. J.P.’s boyfriend, Nathan Graham, waved at me from the passenger seat. He’s this free-spirited punk rocker with multiple tattoos. He dyes his hair, and that night it was an interesting light blue. Social justice and vegetarianism are two of his favorite topics, and he’s known on campus as an activist. J.P. is more conservative, but I think the two of them work really well as a couple; they balance each other nicely.

  As I slid into the backseat I told Nathan I was nervous and he said, “You’re going to be fine. We’re going to find you a cute boy and you are going to dance the night away.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure. I’m such a catch,” I said.

  “Stop talking shit about yourself, Nathan said. “You’re really cute. I’d do you.”

  I burst out laughing. J.P. turned up the radio and we all sang along to his collection of 80’s British new wave mixes as we drove to the dance. When we arrived, the party was in full swing—a lot of dancing in couples and in small groups. Everything was fun and festive, with balloons and streamers all over the place. Whoever had decorated had really gone all out: a giant disco ball rotated over the dance floor.

  Of course, I made a beeline for the refreshment table. J.P. and Nathan gave me a “get out here, you loser” look and went out to the dance floor holding hands.

  I contemplated the array of food in front of me and grabbed a plate. Chips and salsa seemed like a pretty safe bet—snacks couldn’t reject you the way people could. I wasn’t the only per­son lurking near the table—a good number of people had the same idea. As I turned to get a cup of soda, I smacked into someone.

  I apologized and then…

  “No worries, I didn’t even spill my drink. Hey! Carter, right?”

  It was him. Him. I could barely breathe, let alone think.

  I said, “I, um, yeah. Carter. I’m Carter,” but all the time I was thinking, I am the biggest dork in the entire world.

  “Alex,” he said and held out his hand. As I shook it, I silently prayed that my hand wasn’t too clammy. I truly believed I might have a heart attack.

  We made small talk about seafood, and he laughed because I hate it and work at The Shack. You know when you can’t stop smiling? That was me. Fortunately, Alex smiled back. Then he said, “Would you like to dance?”

  My stomach flipped and my mouth went dry. I didn’t know what to say. He looked so amazing in the low light, tanned and smiling.

  I said, “I can’t dance.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know how. I’ve never…”

  “Danced with another boy?”

  “Uh, yeah. Never danced with another boy. I’m not sure I know how to either,” I said, as heat flooded my face.

  Alex laughed. “Wanna try?”

  I don’t know what came over me. I tossed my plate into the trash and, before I could think it through, grabbed his hand and dragged him out onto the dance floor. He looked so at ease, dressed in a polo shirt and crisp khakis. I prayed that I didn’t look too awkward or have food stuck in my teeth or any­thing embar­rassing like that. Loud dance music pumped out of speak­ers and I was relieved to know the song. Alex began to sway back and forth, and I started to copy him. I really hoped that I didn’t look as absolutely stupid as I felt.

  Alex grinned at me.

  “You look good,” he half-shouted over the music.

  “You’re crazy—you’re the one who looks good,” I shouted back.

  I couldn’t believe it—I was actually having fun. If you had told me before that night that I’d ever dance with another man, I’d tell you that you were nuts.

  Another song came on, and Alex made no attempt to stop. We kept dancing. At one point, I spotted J.P. and Nathan across the room and they both shot me thumbs up. Two songs became five and then we started to get tired. As the latest Lady Gaga song came to an end, Alex motioned for us to leave the dance floor. We made our way back to the snack table where we could talk easily.

  “That was fun,” Alex said.

  “Thanks for a great first time,” I replied and blushed when I realized what I’d said.

  I’d never had a first kiss, and I couldn’t stop imagining us mak­ing out. Alex didn’t seem to notice my nervousness, thankfully. Somehow, he wasn’t sweaty or out of breath from dancing—he still seemed so perfect. I was entranced.

  Then Alex asked me if I wanted to go outside and talk. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do more. When we told J.P. and Nathan where we were going, J.P.’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.” he mouthed to me

  “I know,” I mouthed back.

  I introduced everyone and they all shook hands and said hello. Alex smiled the whole time and seemed to charm the socks off of my friends. When we left, J.P. said, “Have fuuuuuun.” I was pretty sure that I might try to kill him at a later date.

  We found a large stone bench right near the front entrance. The almost choking humidity of the afternoon had gone, and there was a nippy breeze. Alex motioned for me to sit first, then he sat down beside me.

  He said, “So, Carter, I only know your name. Tell me another fact about yourself? It can be really random.”

  I said, “I play the piano and I’m really good at burping the alphabet. It amuses my little sister endlessly.”

  Alex laughed. It was a glorious sound. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of hearing it. I had expected the conversation to be awkward, but instead we had this really easy back-and-forth going. It went like this
:

  “Okay, now I know three new facts. Piano, sister, burping. Interesting.”

  “Your turn. At least one thing—go.”

  “Um, I’m nineteen, I go to Boston University and I think bolo­gna smells like feet.”

  “What? That’s amazing! I’m going to BU in the fall! How cool is that?” I gushed. “Bologna smells like feet?”

  “Yep, total gross feet. And, it is cool that you’re going to BU in the fall. I’ll have to show you all around campus and stuff. I’m taking applications for new friends,” Alex joked.

  “Is there a paper application or can I apply online?”

  Alex grinned. “You’re applying right now.”

  “Oh, sneaky. Jerk,” I teased.

  Somehow, we ended up with our thighs touching, and I couldn’t get over the feeling of the heat of his body pressed up against me. It was the closest to another boy I’d ever been, and my heart fluttered. Suddenly, the sea air didn’t seem so chilly.

  Then Alex said, “Carter? Would it be too forward of me to tell you that after I met you that one afternoon, I hoped I would be able to see you again? I’ve been up in Boston doing campus tours all week, but I was planning on going back to the Clam Shack tomorrow just to see if you’d be there.”

  I stared at him, watching light from the full moon dance across his face.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just… just… I’ve never had anyone seek me out before. I’ve never dated anyone. I’ve never done… anything.”

  “Carter, you’re very cute—it’s absurd that nobody’s ever told you that. It’s a shame you’ve never dated,” Alex said. “I’m not exactly the most experienced guy around, but I do know a thing or two. You are definitely someone worth chasing.”

  I just shook my head at him. Alex didn’t know my secret. He had no idea that I was transgender. He thought I was a cis-male, a guy biologically male and labeled so at birth. I gulped. Did I need to come out to him? What the hell should I say? I watched a group of laughing teenagers head for the parking lot and contemplated my choices.