If I Was Your Girl(8)

He steepled his fingers and leaned even farther forward. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. Something tells me you aren’t like other boys.”

“I know I like boys,” I said. I stared up at the ceiling and jiggled my foot rapidly. “You don’t have to be a girl to like boys, though.”

“Is there anything specific to being a boy that bothers you?”

“Clothes,” I said quickly. I had never said these things out loud. My ears were ringing. My skin felt too tight. “I’ve wanted to wear girl clothes for as long as I can remember.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“When I was in first grade, the girl next door let me. Her parents caught us and I wasn’t allowed to go back.”

He made an ambiguous sound in his throat and I heard him jot something on his pad.

“So when you wrote ‘I should have been a girl,’ did you mean that you’re afraid to come out as gay, or embarrassed that you want to wear women’s clothes? Your mother said you’re Baptists; do you think the way you feel is wrong from a religious perspective?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think God actually cares about that kind of thing, and I think I could deal with just being gay or whatever. It feels wrong that I’m a boy, though. When my hair gets long and people mistake me for a girl, I feel happy. I try to imagine what kind of man I’ll grow up to be, and nothing comes. I think about being a husband or a father and even if it’s with a man I feel like I’m being sucked into a black hole. The only time I feel like I have a future at all is if I imagine I’m a girl in it.”

“I see,” he said. I heard more scratches as he wrote more notes. “Gender identity disorder is in the most current diagnostic manual,” he said. “It’s a real thing that lots of people experience.”

I forced myself to make eye contact with him. He was no longer leaning forward. He was sitting back, feet together, hands in his lap again.

“I have it?”

“I’m not really prepared to diagnose anything at this point,” he said. “And I have to wait until I’ve taken a look at your questionnaires, but if you don’t have major depressive disorder and panic disorder I’ll eat my hat.”

“You don’t wear a hat,” I said. He winked, and I smiled despite myself. “What happens next?”

“I’m going to refer you to a psychiatrist to see about some medicine for your anxiety and depression. I also want you to do something this Saturday, if you aren’t busy.”

“I don’t really have friends,” I said.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” he replied. “There’s a small support group that meets here at six on the first Saturday of the month. I think you should come.”





4

By the time I reached the football field on Thursday after school, cars filled the dust-choked parking lot. Parents and teachers milled outside the field, their long shadows hinting at the coming autumn.

Anna greeted me with a warm smile, her blond hair pulled back into flowing pigtails.

“Game doesn’t start for a bit,” she said as Layla strode into view, looking underdressed in a black T-shirt and black aviators.

“Hey!” she said. “What did I miss? You tell her Parker still has the hots for her yet?”

“No,” Anna said, shifting her feet uncomfortably. “It ain’t my place.”

I felt red splotches run up my neck. Parker seemed harmless enough, but something about him made me uncomfortable. He reminded me too much of guys who had beaten me and thrown me in lockers for so much of my life.

“Where’s Chloe?” Layla flipped her short bob.

“Not sure. I thought she’d meet us here, but I guess she’ll just find us in the stands.”

We passed through the gap in the fence near the bleachers. The athletic equipment shone with a surprising cleanness and the grass was lush and even. Too many dads seemed interested in us as we passed, and for just a moment I missed the near-invisibility of life as a boy.

I noticed Grant as we passed the bench. He gave me a wide, lopsided smile, the same smile he’d been giving me whenever our eyes met in homeroom or the halls. “Amanda! Hey!”

“I’ll save you a seat,” Layla said, pushing me toward him. I stepped forward gingerly, reminding myself that there was nothing to be afraid of.

“You came.”

“I did.”

“Do you even like football?”

“No,” I admitted, shaking my head and laughing. “Why, is there something else to do in this town?”

“Ouch!” He put his hand over his heart, but then turned more serious. “Don’t know if you’ve heard, but some people are gettin’ together Saturday night. Think you might wanna come?”

Saturday night. I thought about what Saturday night had looked like for the last ten years. Dinner with my mom: Chinese takeout if we were feeling adventurous; pork chops with cornbread, black-eyed peas, and turnip greens if we weren’t. Video games in my room: all alone, late into the night, until my fingers ached and I was tired enough to fall asleep without my thoughts swirling. An actual high school party had always been a distant, exotic thing, something that only existed in movies.