by TJ Klune
He was watching me closely, the pen seemingly forgotten in his hand. “That must have been rough.”
“It could have been worse. I think I was more than they could handle. They didn’t understand gender dysphoria, though I think they tried. She did, anyway.”
“Your foster mother?”
I made a face at that. “We didn’t really get to the whole Mom and Dad thing. But I get your point. Hell, I didn’t even understand it, and when you get a little older, your hormones are normally all out of whack, and everything is confusing. I couldn’t find the right words to explain to them why I felt the way I did. I couldn’t make them understand why some days I woke up and wanted to wear a dress or put on makeup. And it didn’t help that one of the caseworkers used the term transvestite as an explanation.” I tried for a smile. I thought I almost made it. “That was almost better than saying there was something wrong with me mentally. I heard that more than a few times. Imagine being a kid with identity issues and being told it’s because of a mental illness.”
Jeremy looked stricken. “Christ.”
I shifted in my seat, trying to find the right order to my words. “I fought back against it. I probably wasn’t the most… well-mannered kid. I fucked up a lot. And looking back, I think it was the only thing I knew how to do to get everything out of my head.”
“How did you cope?” he asked. “I mean, there had to be something, right? You’re more self-aware than most people I know.”
It was a terrible time to learn that I apparently had a thing for soft compliments given to me by a man behind a desk. “I got lucky. I was in this thrift store. I was supposed to be in school but decided to skip that day. I was barely seventeen and wearing this terrible dress that didn’t fit. I don’t even remember where I got it, but I’d woken up that morning wanting to buy something new, something I could wear to school. I hadn’t done that before, and I’d finally worked up the nerve to try it and see what happened.”
“That’s brave,” he said quietly.
I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking in terms of bravery. It was about doing something right. About feeling comfortable in my own skin. I knew I was probably going to get shit, but if I got it while being dressed how I wanted to be, I thought I could take it. So I ditched school and went to this thrift store, because even though I had these big ideas, I still only had seven bucks to my name.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Thrift store it was, then.”
“Yeah. And I was looking through this rack of clothes, getting really pissed off that I couldn’t find what I was looking for. I remember wanting a skirt. That’s all I wanted. Just a skirt. I couldn’t tell you why, but it had to be a skirt. And it had to look… nice. I didn’t want something flashy or revealing or anything. I just… I needed it. It’s hard to explain.”
“You’re doing a good job so far,” he assured me. He set down the pen and leaned forward, elbows on the desk again.
I tore my gaze away from his arms. “I was about to melt down or, at the very least, give up, when this skinny dude appeared right beside me, looking through the same rack. I thought at first that he worked there and that he was going to tell me to leave because I shouldn’t be looking at women’s clothes, and just who the hell did I think I was? He was muttering to himself, but I could see him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, and right before I ran in the opposite direction, he pulled out this terrible something that had sequins and feathers and held it up to his waist and asked if I thought that would look good when strobe lights were flashing on it.
“And then I thought he was making fun of me, and I was about to punch him in the throat because this motherfucker didn’t know who he was messing with, when he held out his hand and introduced himself. I’ll never forget what he said, the asshole. ‘I don’t know you, baby doll, but you’ve probably heard of me. Though what you see before you might not seem like much, I transform into someone spectacular when I take the stage. Helena Handbasket, at your service.’”
Jeremy’s jaw dropped. “Helena Hand—wait, Sandy? Who I met at the wedding? That was Sandy?”
I nodded, smiling quietly at the shock in his voice. “Oh yeah. Sanford Stewart, aka Helena Handbasket, the fiercest drag queen who ever lived. But I didn’t know who the hell Helena Handbasket was or what this guy was talking about. I told him as much, and Sandy was not impressed by that. That dick was offended that I’d never heard of him before. And then he told me who exactly Helena Handbasket was, and I remember being in such awe of him. He wasn’t like me, but it was almost like he could understand better than everyone else. I somehow managed to tell him what I was looking for, and he helped me pick out the right skirt. He told me that since I had hips, I needed a cut that flattered my lines better. And that led to him buying the clothes for me, and then buying me lunch, and before we said goodbye, he had my phone number and told me that he was going to call me the very next day to see how it went.”
“And how did it go?” Jeremy asked.
I snorted. “I wore a skirt to a public high school in Arizona six years ago. How do you think it went?” Before he could speak, I held up my hand and said, “Nothing I couldn’t handle. You think words can hurt me? I’ve heard them all. Calling me a freak doesn’t say anything about me, but it says all you need to know about the person hurling it like a grenade. It never got physical. But I can take care of myself when I need to.”
“And Sandy called, didn’t he?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course he did. I know you don’t know Sandy very well, but when he gets his claws in you, it’s impossible to break free, even if you want to. Just ask Darren.” My eyes widened. “But you can never tell Sandy I said that. I like being alive.”
Jeremy chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I thought I could believe him but still planned to make sure he and Sandy were never alone in the same room. “He called, and made threats against the assholes who gave me shit, and then demanded that I come over to his apartment the following weekend. He and his best friend were going to marathon Battlestar Galactica—”
“The original or the reboot? It better’ve been the reboot.”
“Reboot,” I said slowly. I squinted at him. “Are you a space nerd?”
He flushed as he cleared his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Riiiiight. We’ll come back to that, don’t think we won’t. But I went, and I thought I was so cool, hanging out with older queer people. We were going to get drunk, and they were going to fill my head with stories, and it was going to be amazing. But when I got there, Sandy handed me a Capri Sun he’d bought especially for me, telling me he wasn’t sure what kids drank these days. When I demanded something stronger, he laughed in my face and told me I was precious. He then introduced me to Paul, and we all drank Capri Suns and watched Battlestar Galactica.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jeremy said. And what the fuck. He sounded like he meant it.
“It was,” I said honestly. “I didn’t—there were other out kids at the high school I went to, but I just—I couldn’t find a way to fit in with them. I think I tried too hard. It didn’t help that I carried this chip on my shoulder. But with Sandy and Paul, I could just… be. And then I was introduced to their families, and Charlie, and then Vince and Darren came, and it’s… look. You asked me why I want to do this. It’s because I want these kids to know that they’re not alone. That there are others like them. That while I can’t solve every problem they have or even know exactly what they’re going through, I’m here, even just to listen to them rant and rave.” I looked down at my hands. “I was one of the lucky ones, you know? There are a lot of kids out there who don’t get to have what I do. You look at the statistics of homeless youth, and while that’s heartbreaking in and of itself, the fact that a large percentage of them are queer just… compounds it. I’m not looking to change the world. I don’t think I could do that by myself. But if I could help at least one person, then I know
I’m doing the right thing.” I glanced up at him, feeling my face grow hot. “Uh. That’s it. Sorry I talked so much.”
He shook his head slowly. “That… you don’t have to apologize. At all. Thank you for sharing that with me. And while I can’t say that I understand what you went through, I can appreciate the person you’ve become. You’re pretty remarkable, you know that?”
Oh god. That compliment wasn’t so soft. And neither was I. “Thanks. That’s—thanks.”
He looked down at the folder on the desk again. I assumed it was my file. He flipped through a couple of the pages before closing it and looking back up at me. “I need you,” he said seriously.
TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS! my brain bellowed. PRESENT YOURSELF FOR INSPECTION.
“Excuse me?” I squeaked.
“I need you,” he said again, unaware that those words would haunt my masturbatory fantasies for at least the next six weeks. “I know you probably thought you were going to be the office gofer, and while that might be part of it, I think it would be best if you and I worked closely together. You’re younger than I am, and while I want to be as hands-on as possible, I think it’ll help with you by my side. The kids here will probably see me as the old guy.”
I was still stuck on need and you and hands-on. “You’re not that old.”
He snorted. “Gee. Thanks. That was so heartfelt. I feel better now.”
“That’s not what I—” Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.” He held up a hand. “And yes, I am aware of just how old that is in relation to most of the people here.”
Only thirteen years’ difference, my thirst-trap of a brain supplied helpfully. I mean, sure, he probably has clear, fully-formed memories of being a teenager the year you were born, but still! Call him Daddy and see what happens. Do it. Say, ‘That’s okay, Daddy.’
I said promptly, “That’s okay, Daaaaaaammit. Yes, that is okay, dammit!” I slammed my hand on the table. “Age is just a number!” No, no, wrong thing to say. Abort! Abort! “I mean, it’s… distinguished. You are distinguished.”
He groaned and put his face in his hands. “Oh god.”
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s a good thing! It’s like, you know. Awesome. Or whatever.”
He peeked out at me from between his fingers. “I can handle college kids,” he muttered into his palms. “Because by the time they get to me, they’re usually already in the graduate program. But if I’m being honest, teenagers terrify the hell out of me. When I got here this morning, one of them asked me if I had Snapchat. I don’t even know what that is. Did you know they can smell fear?”
I coughed roughly, trying to cover up a laugh. “I can see why you need me.”
He dropped his hands, looking relieved. “Thank god. So you’ll stay?”
I cocked my head at him. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”
He pointed between the two of us. “It won’t be… weird for you? Having me here? I know I’m probably not what you expected, seeing as how I used to be your professor and all.”
If by weird he meant bad for my libido, then yes. It was going to be very weird. Possibly the weirdest thing that ever happened. But since I was cool and calm and collected, I played it off. “Nah. I think we can make it work. Besides, you were pretty much my favorite.” I managed to cut myself off before I told him I’d anonymously gone on RateMyProfessors.com and written eight hundred words about how wonderful he was. Barely.
He frowned. “Oh. That’s… good. I just—I remember asking you to be my TA, but—”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Uh, yeah,” I said weakly. “I just—didn’t… have… the time?” That was a lie. I didn’t want to have to spend day in and day out nursing a crush on someone unattainable, though wild horses couldn’t have dragged that out of me.
“So nothing to do with me, then.” He sounded dubious.
“No,” I said, the lie coming out easy. “Nothing. You were great, and I’m happy you’re here too.”
He nodded, looking relieved. “Good. I’d hate to think—you know what? It doesn’t matter.” He grinned at me. I wanted to climb him like a tree. I needed to get the hell out of here.
I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “Will that be all?”
His smile faded slightly. “Yeah, sure. Hey, thanks for spending some time with me. I was serious when I said I’m glad you’re here. It’s going to make things much easier for me, I think. I hope you don’t mind if I have to lean on you every now and then.”
I barely managed to keep myself from fleeing with my arms flailing over my head. “That won’t be a problem,” I choked out. “Lean away. In fact, I insist upon it. I mean, you know. In a strictly professional way.”
“Right,” he said slowly. “What other way would there be?”
“Right!” I exclaimed. “So glad we’re on the same page. I have to go now. I think Marina is calling for me.”
I turned and fled the office.
At least I attempted to. The problem with being flustered in a new place is that one has a tendency to forget how doors work. Instead of pulling on the doorknob to open the door, I pushed. Doors, for the most part, tend to swing in one direction. The direction I chose was the wrong one. So there I was, trying to make a relatively smooth exit, only to crash full-body into the door, causing it to rattle in its frame.
“Motherfucker,” I growled. “Shit ass bitch!”
Jeremy made a wounded sound, and I turned in time to see him cover up a laugh by coughing. “Are you all right?”
“Fine!” I nearly shouted. “Just fine. Doors, man! Right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without—and that makes no sense. I’m just gonna—”
I managed to make my way back out into the hall and shut the door behind me without further injury.
I slumped against it, closing my eyes. “Fuck,” I whispered.
What the hell was I going to do now?
Chapter 4: Code Orange Banana
I FOUND a mostly empty closet down the hall from Jeremy’s office. There was an old mop and bucket inside, as well as what looked like five million rolls of toilet paper. The closet smelled like feet, but it would do for what I needed it for. I looked both ways down the hall before stepping inside and closing the door behind me.
I pulled out my phone and highlighted a phone number to an insurance company. It took a few prompts through the phone tree before I put in the extension I needed.
The line connected. “This is Sandy, how can I help you?”
“Code Orange Banana!” I whispered harshly. It was the code we’d made up for a non-life-threatening emergency that was still pretty terrible but meant no one was dying or on fire. We hadn’t had a chance to use it before because it was oddly specific. He would know exactly what I was talking about.
Silence. Then, “What?”
“Code Orange Banana!”
“Sir, are you having a stroke? This is an insurance company. For cars. You need to hang up and dial 911. Is your face drooping? Oh my god, please don’t die on the phone with me. I will be traumatized if you do.”
“What the hell are you—it’s me. Code Orange Banana. Code Orange Banana.”
I heard him muffle the phone and talk to someone else. “I don’t know. It’s some man screaming something at me about bananas. Jesus, how is it still Monday morning? I swear it feels like we’ve been here for six years already. It’s not even ten yet. Paul. Paul! Are you listening? Pay attention to me! I’m about to save someone’s life. Google stroke symptoms and how to save someone. I can’t because my hands are shaking. No, not because I’m scared. I’ve had six cups of coffee already. I needed them. What? I know that’s too much, but Darren was all up in my bidness last night like you wouldn’t believe. You know, for someone who is so… him, he really doesn’t mind taking it up the—what? What are you talking about? Oh. Right. Stroke symptoms. Okay. What’s the first one?”
I hated them both so much.
&nb
sp; He came back on the line. “Okay, sir, are you still alive? Do you have weakness in your arms and legs? Is your vision blurry? You already are having trouble speaking, but—”
“Code Orange Banana!” I bellowed into the phone.
He sniffed. “No need to shout, sir. I’m trying to be amazing. And I’ll come visit you in the hospital after, and we’ll promise to stay in touch, but most likely we’ll drift apart even though there’s some kind of life debt. You won’t owe me a thing. It’s the least I could—oh, oh my god! Orange banana!”
Finally. “Yes. Yes.”
“Right?” he moaned into the phone. “I can’t even remember the last time I had Orange Julius. They made the best smoothies. Does that store still exist? They were in malls, right? Are there still malls? I can’t remember the last time I was in a mall. Paul. Paul. When was the last time we went to a mall? Was it—oh, that’s right. Christ. That would have been in our early-twenties Hot Topic days when we thought we were the type who went to raves. Remember those JNCO jeans we used to wear? And those beaded bracelets? What the hell were we thinking? How were we not murdered, going out into the middle of the desert to dance to happy hardcore from a pimple-faced DJ who was probably fourteen years old? I mean, that’s the stupidest—Code Orange Banana. Why does that sound—wait. Is this Corey?”
I was going to choke a motherfucker out as soon as we got home. “Yes,” I hissed at him through the phone.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Sandy demanded. “Why would you let me think that you were dying of a stroke? Do you know how bad I felt? I’m not even wearing the right tie for being interviewed on TV after saving your life!”
“I will burn down everything you hold dear,” I snarled at him.
“Hold please.”
Cheery music began to play. I swear to god it was an easy-listening Muzak version of Rihanna’s “S&M.” It was nice.
