Chapter 1 2022 (kind of) "A_________! It''s time to go! Are your shoes on?" Mom''s voice drilled through my closed bedroom door. Aglets. That''s what they''re called. Those little plasticky things at the ends of shoelaces. That would be a fun name, too. Aglet Izenson. I clicked out of the Wikipedia rabbit hole that led me to "shoelaces" and closed my laptop. I grabbed the laces of my left sneaker.
They dangled from my fingers like limp black worms. Come on, I urged myself, but my hands remained rebelliously still. "Almost ready!" I called back. I didn''t forget how to tie my shoes, I swear. Shoe-tying was a skill I mastered in first grade, the loops and knots and everything. But once my shoes were tied, I''d have to leave. "Well, hurry up!" It''s not like I loved my bedroom, this featureless box painted a babyish shade of lilac. All I had in here were books; battered old paperbacks from my mom''s youth, the ones she loved enough to keep and pass on to me, the ones I had a complicated relationship with.
No posters on the walls, no flags or pictures torn out of magazines, just a small bump in the plaster above my desk shaped like a teddy bear, and a cobweb hanging in the corner that I hadn''t knocked down yet. I was saving that task for a day when I got really bored. After spending approximately twenty-one percent of my life in this room except for going to the bathroom, shuffling downstairs for bowls of cereal, and long meanders around our backyard--thanks, COVID--you''d think I''d be thrilled for any excuse to leave. I mean, even wandering around the grocery store without a mask on still felt like a risky, thrilling adventure. But tying my shoes would take me one step closer to an intolerable fate. "A____, we''re going to be late! Let''s get a move on!" That was my dad. "One more minute," I yelled. It wasn''t too late to fake-cough and tell them that I couldn''t smell anything.
There was still the lingering fear of a new variant, one that wouldn''t register on a rapid test. Mom would freak out about a breakthrough infection, I''d go stir-crazy sitting in my room for ten days, but I''d get to miss two SOSAD meetings. That felt like a nuclear option, though. One to save for if I really needed to get out of something. Mom rapped her knuckles on my bedroom door, then poked her head in without waiting for my response. "You''re wearing that?" she asked. Well, "ask" isn''t quite the right word. It''s more like she was telling me I wouldn''t be wearing that if she had anything to say about it.
"I am," I said anyway. Because it was true, I was wearing that, "that" being plain black sneakers, my only pair of baggy jeans with decent pockets, and a red polo shirt I bought at a neighbor''s yard sale for a quarter. I wished I still had the binder I got, from this collective that shipped donated ones all over the world in discreet packaging. But when my mom found it, she whisked it away without a word, and I never saw it again. I figured she cut it into pieces or buried it in the trash or ritualistically burned it in the backyard. Now I squeezed myself into too-tight sports bras. If you didn''t look too closely I could pass as a boy with, uh, unusually well-developed pectoral muscles. "Why don''t you at least change your shirt, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice like that stuff they have to advertise as "breakfast syrup" because there''s not a drop of true maple in it.
Too sweet, and bad for you. "I bought you those nice new blouses, I''m sure everyone at the meeting would love to see you in one." I tried to keep my body language relaxed and nonchalant, while girding my mental loins. "I like this shirt," I told her. "And besides, you''re the one who''s always told me that girls get to wear whatever they want. If this is how I want to dress, isn''t it the feminist choice to let me?" Her nostrils flared. "We both know that''s not what''s going on here," she said flatly. "Change your shirt.
It''s time." Two options lay before me. One: I could argue with her. Explain, again, that being trans wasn''t a phase, and that I would be a boy even if she forced me into a bikini or a prom dress. Remind her that she was the one who gave me all those books about girls disguising themselves as knights, or princesses who didn''t want to be princesses anymore, and I was just taking those lessons to their logical conclusion. But that conversation would end with one or both of us crying, and it would solve exactly zero problems. Two: I could put on a freaking blouse. Yes, it would feel like a paper bag filled with hair.
And yes, I would be betraying myself, letting her win this battle, like I let her win every battle. But it wouldn''t change anything about who I was, or what I knew about myself. All I had to do was disconnect my mind from my body, shut down emotionally, and I''d be fine. Piece of cake. Also, once I was dressed to my mother''s satisfaction I could see Yarrow. And Sal. They were worth it. "Okay," I said.
"Be down in a minute." Chapter 2 A fierce fall wind pummeled Mom, Dad, and me as we made the short walk from the front steps to the driveway. Dust and grit danced in the air, and the car door slammed itself shut as I plopped into the back seat. "We need to pick up half-and-half on the way home," Mom reminded us. "Mm-hmm," said Dad. He eyed me in the rearview mirror. "What''s that schmatte you''re wearing?" he asked, like I had any say in it. But a laugh crept into his voice, and his eyes crinkled warmly.
Like this was an amusing moment of typical teenage rebellion that we would someday reminisce about fondly. "Mom''s idea," I muttered. I had thrown on this frilly peasant blouse, the kind that was probably more popular when she was my age than today. At least I was still wearing my preferred jeans and sneakers. And the tight sports bra. It wasn''t a good look, but if they insisted on forcing me to these meetings, this is what they got. "It''s not some ugly rag!" Mom insisted, swatting his shoulder playfully. "I think she looks nice.
" Yeah, right. Dad put on his usual Simon and Garfunkel playlist. When I was little I liked their music, but once these meetings became one of the only places we drove to, the melodic guitar meant that I was on my way to the hour and a half of misery fittingly called SOSAD. "Save Our Sons and Daughters." A support group that offered zero support. I tapped my phone awake as two soft-voiced men sang about being "just a poor boy," and snuck into my secret messages. My parents couldn''t take away my laptop, because that was school now. And Sal, computer nerd that she was, got me to download an app she built, invisible on my phone''s home screen, that allowed us to text without it showing up in our history.
Then she helped me get around the parental setting my parents installed, and foiled their attempts to take away my phone by requiring constant two-factor authorization. After three days of digging my phone out of its hiding place so I could log onto my virtual classes, they gave it back to me. Being in touch with my friends was better than ten mental health hotlines put together. A: In the car, hoping for a flat tire. You two coming tonight? S: Almost there. I tried to get us stuck in traffic but my dad wouldn''t listen to my directions Y: We''re the first ones here Mom and Joanna are comparing manicures. I don''t think my black nail polish is a hit A: Try rainbow next, see if they like that better. Y: But black has every color! It''s like a goth rainbow A: Are you goth now? You''re too perky to be goth.
Y: Maybe a Visigoth? Is that a thing? A: I . don''t know what that is but sure, I support you S: I tried to get away with green nail polish once but my mom cleaned it off immediately. Green must not be my color. Y: I think you''re more of an autumn anyway. S: What does that even mean Y: Gotta put my phone away, don''t want them to see me texting A: See you soon, Yarrow! S: There''s a transphobically low amount of traffic tonight so I''ll be there soon too, oh joy oh rapture It was a little ironic that the only place in the world I got to hang out with trans people my own age was at meetings where adults thought our friendships were more dangerous than vaping or Tide Pods. Luckily (but also unluckily), critical thinking skills weren''t their top priority. I spent the ride playing an alphabet game as my dad sang along to the music, enthusiastically but off-key. I spotted an A on a passing Toyota, and a B in its license plate.
I found a C and a D in the sign of a roadside McDonald''s. Focusing on something that required my full attention but had zero stakes helped keep me from spiraling out about the meeting, replaying the latest frustrating conversation with my parents, or stressing over whatever horrible piece of news caught my eye most recently. I made it to V by the time we parked in the giant lot of the Creekwood church. The annex--this little building off to the side of the church--hosted the meetings we''d been going to for months. We walked into the windowless "community r.