by Cris Beam
Melissa looked stumped. “Crap. Now I don’t know what to do with this dance.”
“Think about the cutting,” J said. Focus on yourself. You do all the time, anyway. “Maybe if you make a dance about it, you won’t have to do it anymore.”
“God, J, you’re always talking about the cutting,” Melissa whined. “It’s just not that easy.”
“Neither is being trans.”
“Okay, J,” Melissa said. “Point taken.” She balled up her tights and her leg warmers and left for rehearsal without saying good-bye.
J sat for a long time on Melissa’s bed, petting one of the cats. She purred when he rubbed behind her ears, tilting up her chin, directing him. He loved animals; they never judged, never threw you out, never wanted to dance your life story on a stage. He leaned back into Melissa’s pillows, smelled her cinnamon-ish Melissa smell. Why had he been in love with her for so long? Yes, she had protected him when he was younger, and, true, she was loyal, but a real girlfriend has to understand you. Melissa was more like an older sister, a nosy, bossy one, even though they were the same age. There were things he couldn’t tell her. Like, he couldn’t tell her about Blue.
Blue had understood him. She hadn’t known he was trans, but so what? She had drawn his portrait, asked him important questions, looked deep into his eyes. She saw him as a man, so she really saw him. Nobody else had done that. Why had he screwed everything up? Blue wouldn’t try to choreograph his weirdness; she would just paint him as he was, and he would take her picture. They would have a good life together, get an apartment in Brooklyn, go to the same college. They would have some cats, name them Green and Red, for variety.
He’d called her so many times since Chanelle gave him her advice. He’d left one message, a stupid one, saying, “It’s J, call me,” but she knew by now he wasn’t great with words. And she never picked up. He couldn’t call again; how desperate could he look? Still, he knew, if only he had a girlfriend right now, if only he had Blue, his life would be okay.
CHAPTER
TEN
J had been staying with Melissa and Karyn for five full weeks before Carolina called, saying she wanted to see him and take him out for an early birthday. She had phoned a few times, now and then, to ask if he needed fresh clothes or money, but they didn’t talk about anything real, and neither of them mentioned Manny. J told his new shrink about the call.
The shrink’s name was Philip, and he was a dark-skinned man in his late twenties, with glasses and wrist braces on both arms. It was Chanelle who had made J go. Even though J felt at times that his brain was just as duplicitous as his body, talking to a stranger about his problems seemed idiotic. Still, Chanelle promised him, there was no way around the psychiatric requirement.
“Biological women can get titties out to here,” Chanelle had said, waving her arms in front of her chest, “and nobody will tell them they’re crazy. But a transperson needs a few little hormones, and we’ve gotta sit in a chair for three months.”
Chanelle and J had taken to climbing the stairs in the school building after class, five flights at a time, and then a cigarette break on the roof. Chanelle called it her “exercise.” J said he’d just wait until he turned eighteen, then; it was coming up the next month.
“Doesn’t matter,” Chanelle said, peeling off her sweater and tying it around her waist. “Everybody has to see a shrink. They’re the gatekeepers.”
J worried that all this stair climbing would give him a bigger butt. He stopped on a landing. “Can’t you fake a letter from a shrink?”
Chanelle kept climbing. “If you’re too chicken to see a shrink, you’re too chicken to get on T,” she said. He couldn’t see her anymore, but her voice echoed through the stairwell.
J told himself he wasn’t afraid, exactly, but he felt embarrassed when he made the appointment at the clinic, embarrassed when he first walked into the office, and embarrassed when Philip asked J to tell him something about his life during the first visit.
How’d you injure both wrists? J wanted to ask, looking at the braces. Were you strangling a patient? J didn’t know what to say.
“Let’s start with why you’re here,” Philip prodded. He sat back in his chair and brought his fingers to his chin. Poking out from the braces, they looked like lobster claws.
“I just want testosterone,” J said.
Philip looked at him.
“I mean, I want to get shots here.” J thought of the transmen in the waiting room. He worried about how long it would take before he could get all the people to sign the right forms and start the damn shots. Sitting in front of Philip, J felt sure of his decision again, almost desperate for the hormones that would change his voice, his face, his muscles, his life.
Philip explained the process. He said every patient was different, but once he got to know J and could determine that hormones would indeed be appropriate, he could write a letter that would approve him for testosterone—likely in about three months.
“But,” Philip said, settling a lobster claw in his lap, “testosterone is not magic. It doesn’t fix your life. That’s why therapy is a good idea—to help you with everything else you have going on.”
Three months! J hadn’t wanted to believe that terrible number when he’d heard it originally; he thought somehow with him it would be different. The first day with Philip, the timeline was all J could focus on, and it took most of his energy not to run from the room and kick over some garbage cans outside. Philip asked him questions about his mom, his dad, his childhood, and J was resolutely mum: Lobster Man was a gatekeeper, and that was it. J wouldn’t spill.
Over a month of sessions, though, J started to tell Philip little things. Stupid things. Like the fact that Blue still hadn’t returned the messages he’d left asking if he could see her. And he told Philip when Carolina wanted to take J out to dinner before his birthday.
“Do you want to go?” Philip asked.
“She’s my mom; I have to.”
Philip had a way of making J feel that he had more options than he really did. This just pissed him off.
“How do you feel about not celebrating your birthday at home?”
How do you feel about having claws for fingers? J glared at him.
“She doesn’t want me there,” J said finally, thinking, All of this for hormones? Isn’t there something called cruel and unusual punishment? “Is that what you want me to say?”
“You don’t know that,” Philip said. “How would you feel if you went home?”
“A mess, Philip,” J said, looking at the clock. “I’d feel a mess.”
They met at a Chinese restaurant near Melissa’s place. Carolina hugged J quickly; she still smelled like the hospital.
“You look… different,” Carolina said, staring closely at J’s face. “You’re growing out the razor stripes?”
J had taken off his cap in the restaurant, before his mom even asked.
“How’s Pops?” Damn, J thought. He had meant to wait until Carolina brought him up.
“Let’s order,” Carolina said. She picked up the menu and scanned it. “You’re still good with mu shu pork?”
J said he wasn’t hungry and, really, his stomach was a slick and tangled rope. His mother looked different, too—more tired, maybe, her hair pulled back into a sloppy bun at the back of her neck.
“We’ve missed you, J,” Carolina said, finally, once the food had come and they’d made their way through the “how’s school, how’s Melissa, fine, fine, fine” babble that J couldn’t stand. “Your dad and me both.”
“I miss you, too.”
“J—” Carolina put down her chopsticks. “Your dad’s not ready.”
“Ready for what?” The rope in his stomach tightened.
“I tried to explain, and he just can’t hear it. He’s angry right now.”
“At me?”
“Oh, Jay-jay, at himself, I think. He thinks we did something wrong raising you.”
J felt mean, cruel even, th
e rope inside rising up into a noose around his neck. Who was his father to say he couldn’t come home? It was his apartment, too. When J took T, he could fight his father. J was younger—his muscles would be younger, too, and more resilient. “Maybe you did.”
Carolina’s eyes bulged. J pictured Manny sitting there in his mother’s place. What kind of wimp was he to send Carolina as his mouthpiece? His father couldn’t even speak for himself? “You don’t own me, you know.”
“J, I am your mother. Don’t use that tone with me.” Carolina’s voice was strong, but she looked as though she’d been slapped.
“I’m just saying,” J said, backing down. He looked at his plate. “That maybe some of this is your fault.”
“How?” Carolina’s eyes were fierce.
“Maybe you weren’t home enough.” J knew he was lying, but he had to lunge at something. How could Manny be mad at him? J had done nothing wrong. The food on his plate smelled like sewage.
“All those swim meets, J? That wasn’t enough? And the math competitions in New Jersey? And the new cameras? And the computer? And driving you to that camp? And taking you to Puerto Rico? And washing your clothes, buying your food, giving you life? This is not enough?” Carolina’s face was red, and a family at the next table was openly staring. “J, until you’re a mother yourself, you won’t understand.”
They both sat with the weight of Carolina’s mistake.
“Or a father,” Carolina finally said, weakly.
“Fathers suck,” J said.
“J!” Carolina said, slapping the table. “Do not disrespect your father!”
“Okay,” J mumbled, miserably tying his napkin into a knot. But how was he supposed to respect Manny when Manny didn’t even give him a chance? He remembered a night in the kitchen, not too long ago, when he and his father were home alone. Manny had been drinking and, for some reason, felt like talking. He was complaining about the union members, how they didn’t show up for meetings anymore, how he couldn’t get them excited about the things that really mattered. He’d turned on J, asking him what he would do in his shoes.
“Bring food,” J had suggested, thinking of the activists at his school. They always ordered pizza if they wanted people to join their groups. He thought it was a good idea.
But Manny scoffed. “That’s such a woman’s response! Cook something. Food doesn’t get us pensions, J.”
He’d been deeply stung, but of course he couldn’t tell his father why. He didn’t think pizza had a gender, but he watched his words more carefully, testing his sentences before he spoke them, for any whiff of femininity. And he knew his father didn’t really care about his thoughts or feelings, anyway; for Manny, J was just a blank wall for him to splat his rage against and see what it looked like hanging there.
At least Carolina tried. She listened to him. He looked at her watching him expectantly from across the table. Her face was strained.
“So, what do you want me to do?” J asked. His mother, he decided, he should try to respect.
“Just wait,” Carolina said. “We’ll all get used to this.”
I’ve been waiting my whole life, J thought. Pops knows who I am; he’d have known a long time ago if he’d taken the time to notice. “So I can’t come home?”
“It’s not a good idea, not yet,” Carolina said. “Things are still fine at Melissa’s, right?”
J didn’t answer. He just shook his head when the waitress asked if he wanted to take his leftovers home.
“Happy almost-birthday, J,” Carolina said, brightening her tone. “This is the big one.”
J nodded.
Carolina rummaged through her purse. “Buy yourself something special.”
She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet. This was normal; ever since middle school, when his parents could no longer decipher his musical or clothing tastes, they’d given him money for his birthdays. But usually there was a card. And cake. And Manny. His absence felt physical, like a thick weight hovering nearby. J and Carolina stared at the cash. Finally J pocketed it and stood up. He thanked her, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“And, J?” Carolina reached into her purse again. She handed him an envelope: here was the card. “Be careful.”
J knew what it was before he opened it, but still he waited until he was back at Melissa’s before he broke the envelope’s seal. Melissa was at dance rehearsal, and Karyn was at a night class, so J turned off all the lights and wriggled into his sleeping bag. He felt somehow that too much illumination would make the envelope’s contents crumble. It was like a whisper or a secret—better done in the dark. And he could still see enough from the street lamp outside.
And suddenly there it was—folded up inside a card that said You’re Special (they must not have had any birthday cards at the hospital gift shop) was a note from his mom, saying he could take testostoerone; she gave her full permission. And her signature, clear and clean at the bottom, in dark blue ink. J breathed in deeply and touched his mother’s signature with the tip of his finger.
You’re too late, J thought. I’m almost eighteen. I don’t need this anymore.
He gently folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Then he found his cell phone and dialed his mother’s number. She didn’t pick up. So he texted her. Gracias.
When J was younger, he hated that his birthday fell so close to Christmas. His parents never had much money at that time of year, because they were busy buying Christmas presents for all of Carolina’s family in San Juan, and it seemed silly to throw a big celebration three days before Santa would come and they’d have to do it all again. This year, though, J was grateful. While the rest of the city was consumed with the twenty-fifth of December, J could quietly slip into adulthood without fanfare. It seemed nobody but Melissa knew the occasion.
School was out for winter break, and J woke up to Karyn and Melissa whistling “Happy Birthday” above his sleeping bag. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Melissa was holding a cupcake with a candle stuffed in it, and Karyn was grinning.
“Make a wish!” she said.
Testosterone was the first thing he thought of. Let them approve me for my shot. He blew out the flame, and Karyn and Melissa clapped.
On the kitchen table were three presents, all the identical size, wrapped in newspaper.
“We didn’t have anything prettier,” Karyn apologized, handing him a cup of coffee.
“That’s okay.” He was touched she was home, and a little embarrassed.
“Open them!” Melissa said, plopping into a chair and tucking her legs beneath her.
J carefully untied the first present, setting the red ribbon on the table next to the messy pile of college applications that he was sure, by now, was getting in the way. He peeled back the newspaper to reveal the edge of a black picture frame.
“Just rip it,” Melissa said.
He did, and there was his photograph of his shadow and the jackhammer—framed, matted, and professional.
“Wow,” he breathed. He’d never framed one of his pictures before.
“We thought we could hang it up here,” Karyn said. “Until you go to college and want to take it with you.”
J looked at her. There was so much to think: Melissa had, once again, broadcast one of his private messages to her mother; his photo looked, well, it looked beautiful, almost spooky-good, matted and framed; and Karyn was talking about him staying for a really long time. Had she spoken to Carolina? Did his parents really not want him back?
“Thanks,” he mustered.
“The other presents are the same—they just don’t have any pictures in them,” Melissa gushed, bobbing up and down.
“Melissa!” Karyn said, popping her daughter lightly on the head. “You’re not supposed to give it away.”
She was right; the other two gifts were empty frames—perfect, Melissa said, for showcasing more of J’s work. “You can’t just keep your pictures stored on CDs,” Melissa said. “You’re an adult now. Time to act like a p
rofessional.”
J cut his cupcake into thirds, and they ate. He wanted to ask how serious Karyn was about staying until the fall, but, as usual, she had to rush to class.
While Melissa was in the shower and J smoked his first cigarette as a true adult, his phone rang. Carolina.
“¡Feliz cumpleaños!”
“Thanks,” J said, taking a long drag. He was sitting outside on the front stoop, and his butt was freezing.
“Are you having a good day?”
“I guess.”
“I can’t believe you’re eighteen, Jay-jay,” Carolina said. “I remember the day you were born.”
J looked at the icicles that had formed on the tree overnight; Carolina went through this every year. J had been such a big baby; she and Manny were so excited; there was so much ice on the sidewalk, Manny didn’t want her to slip walking to the corner for a cab, but the car service took half an hour to get there, blah, blah, blah.
“Your father wants to wish you a happy birthday.”
What? J’s cigarette froze in space, midway to his mouth.
“J, are you there?”
He mumbled out a “yes,” and took another drag. He wasn’t ready for this.
“Hi, J.” His father sounded funny. His voice was deeper than usual—stern, serious. And the accent wasn’t right. He lingered on the “J” a bit too long.
“Hi.”
“Happy birthday.”
It had only been a little less than two months; could a person forget his father’s voice in such a short time? A terrible thought scuttled through: this wasn’t his father. Carolina had asked a favor of someone—a friend, a coworker: “Just say ‘happy birthday.’ J will never know the difference.” Was Carolina capable of such deception? Did she think J was a fool, a baby?
“Thanks,” J said.
“Here’s your mother.”
Where was Mami? His father always called her Mami. If that was Manny, he would have said, “Here’s Mami.” What the hell was going on? J felt a kind of panic rise in his throat. And his mother was back on the line, happily asking him how he was going to spend his day.
