I get an email from A saying he’s a girl named Surita today, and not that far away. I’m ready to drop school entirely—it’s Friday, after all—but A insists on meeting after school. I get it—there’s no real reason to screw over Surita. But maybe A is a little nicer about that than I would be.
Justin’s still annoyed with me. “Feeling better, I see,” he says when we meet at his locker before class.
“Yeah. It must’ve been a twenty-four-hour thing.”
He scoffs and I get defensive.
“Sorry I didn’t text you a photo of my puke,” I tell him.
“I didn’t say a thing,” he replies, slamming his locker.
I’m not being fair. I’m getting mad at him, when I’m the liar.
Then I add another lie.
“I’m glad I’m better, since we’re going to see my grandmother this weekend. And I wouldn’t want to make her sick.”
As soon as I say this, I remember Justin’s own grandmother, who’s actually sick.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Tomorrow,” I say. Then I realize what I’ve done, and add, “But I promised Rebecca I’d go over to her place tonight.”
“Whatever,” Justin mumbles. Then he walks away without saying goodbye, which is about what I deserve.
The reason I’ve mentioned Rebecca is because that’s what I’m going to tell my parents—that I’m spending the weekend with her. They like Rebecca, so they won’t mind. But I realize now I will have to at least spend tonight with her, since I’ve told Justin that’s what I’m doing.
When I see her in art class, I ask her if she has plans. I pray that she doesn’t.
“Nope,” she tells me. “Any ideas?”
“How about a sleepover?” I suggest.
Rebecca looks so excited. “You’re on! It’s been a while since we had a Mean Girls / Heathers double feature.”
“Or Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink.”
These were our go-to movies, back when we were sleepover age. It makes me happy that Rebecca remembers, since it’s been a long time. Or at least it feels like a long time. That’s my pre-Justin life. Another lifetime ago.
“I have to do a few things after school,” I tell her. “With my mom. But how ’bout I come over around six?”
“Will you bring the cookie dough?” she asks.
“As long as you have the ice cream.”
It feels so good to be talking like this that I almost forget all the lies that surround it. I almost forget all the things I’m not telling her.
I meet A back at the bookstore. Today he’s this somewhat pudgy Indian girl. And I feel awful for thinking that right away, for noticing that first. It’s A. I am spending time with A. Focus on the driver, not the car.
As we decide to go for a walk in the park, I stare hard at Surita and imagine her as a boy. It’s not that hard. If you stare at anyone’s face long enough, it’s easy enough to imagine them as the other gender. Then I stop myself and wonder why I’m doing this. It’s not like I would stare at her and imagine her white. That would be messed up. But I still want to see her as a boy, to think of A as a boy inside.
Part of the problem is words. The fact that there are separate words for he and she, him and her. I’ve never thought about it before, how divisive this is. Like maybe if there was just one pronoun for all of us, we wouldn’t get so caught on that difference.
Part of me wants to ask A about this, to ask, Are you a he or a she? But I know the answer is that A is both and neither, and it’s not A’s fault that our language can’t deal with that.
I’m sure A must notice. The fact that I’m not holding Surita’s hand. The fact that there’s not the same charge in the air as there was when A was in a guy’s body. I want to undo this. I understand it’s the wrong way to feel. But it doesn’t feel like a knot I can actually untie.
A explains that Surita lives with her grandmother, and that her grandmother doesn’t really pay attention, so she can be out as late as she wants. Which means I’m the one with the time limit today. I tell A about this, but then I also tell A I have a plan for the weekend, and that I know a place we can go. I don’t tell A what it is, or where it is. I want there to be some surprise.
We get to the jungle gym, and since there aren’t any kids around, we allow ourselves to become kids ourselves, climbing and swinging and laughing. A asks me who I hung around with in third grade, so I tell stories about me and Rebecca, me and my crush on this boy Peter, me and Mrs. Shedlowe, the lunch supervisor who would listen patiently to any problem I wanted to share. I know I can’t ask A the same question, so I ask instead for things A remembers from being younger. And A tells me about a Valentine’s Day his (her) mother took him (her) to the zoo, a birthday party where he (she) saved the day by finding a dog that had gone missing, and a Little League game where he (she) hit a home run, because somehow the body knew when to move, even if A didn’t.
“Small victories,” A jokes.
“But you made it through,” I say. “That’s the big victory.”
“And this,” A says, pulling closer, “must be the reward.”
I know I should touch this girl’s arm. I know I should draw him (her) close and find a way to nest inside the jungle gym. But instead I say, “Look—the slide!” and jump over to it, beckoning A to follow.
If A notices, A doesn’t say anything. And even if we don’t end up physically nesting in the space that’s entirely ours, it still feels comfortable. It still feels like time is comfortable.
I’m good. Except for one moment, when I imagine Justin at home, playing video games. Sensing something wrong. Mad about it. But having no real idea how far I’ve strayed.
Then I think about what A would be doing if A weren’t here with me. Lost in someone else’s life. Erasing himself in order to be her.
After we slide, I suggest we swing. Instead of splitting into a push and a rise, we sit down on swings that are next to each other, and pump our legs to get moving in the air. At one point we’re exactly even. A reaches out her hand, and I take it. We swing like that, perfectly even, for about twenty seconds. Then we start to pull apart, the difference in our weight, or in our strength, or in the angle of our bodies—something about our bodies—preventing us from continuing like that forever.