None of the Above(48)

“But to be honest, I’m a bit jealous of you.”

I looked up at Jessica, who wasn’t smiling, and rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. You’re like . . . Woman 2.0. All of the girl with none of the worry. You never have to stress about getting your period, or about getting pregnant. That’s, like, huge. They’re the two things I hate the most about being a girl.”

I couldn’t believe that someone as smart as Jessica was saying these things. “Don’t you think that birth control is better than not having a uterus?”

“People always forget their pills, and things happen.”

“But at least then you can have a baby someday. I can’t.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but you can always adopt.”

I felt an unfamiliar rumble of anger boiling up inside of me. “It’s not the same,” I said dismissively.

“No,” Jessica agreed. Her voice was cheerful, but her look steely. “It’s better. You get to take a child that would otherwise be unloved and give it a home.”

Now I felt like the jerk. I looked up at Jessica. Something about the edge to her voice set off a warning bell: the topic was personal. “You’re adopted?”

“I wasn’t, but my sister was.” I thought back to Homecoming, trying to picture Darren’s date. Now that I thought about it, Becky and Jessica couldn’t have looked less alike. Becky was all petite with stick-straight dark hair, while Jessica was tall, almost big-boned, with frizzy dirty-blond hair.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

Jessica broke the silence. “So are you done feeling sorry for yourself?” She smiled to take away the sting of the words, and offered me a hand off the toilet seat.

I gave a choked laugh. “For now, maybe. No guarantees about an hour from now.”

That night as I got ready for bed, I wondered what Jessica would think if she found out her Woman 2.0 had to take estrogen pills. I’d been procrastinating about starting my hormone therapy, but my dad had picked up the bottle from the pharmacy, and each night he sent me to bed with a kiss and a “Don’t forget to take your meds!”

I opened the childproof bottle and slid a tablet into my hand. It was tiny, round, and pink-colored, as if that would somehow make you feel more feminine when you took it. I wondered if testosterone tablets were blue. Who decided that pink = girl and blue = boy, anyway?

As much as I hated the idea of popping pills, I hated the idea of hot flashes more. If Dr. Cheng was right, the meds would give me more energy, too.

Before I could change my mind, I put the pill in my mouth, and swallowed.





CHAPTER 27


When I first met the therapist Dr. Cheng had recommended, I was struck by how put-together she was. I had expected someone with frizzled hair and frumpy clothes; Dr. LaForte reminded me more of Martha Stewart, her shirt so perfectly ironed it looked like it had come fresh off the rack, the smile on her face professional and photogenic, but not exactly warm.

“Hello,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’m Susan LaForte. So very nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” I said. Her office was on the sunny side of the street and looked out into a backyard garden. She had a small desk facing the window, three wooden chairs with armrests, and—I almost laughed out loud at the cliché—a couch with an embroidered throw pillow.

I sat on the couch and clutched the pillow against my chest.

Dr. LaForte pulled over a wooden chair and sat across from me. She was tall, and the sharp angles of her body made her seem stiff rather than sleek.

“So, what would you like me to call you?” she asked.

The smile drained off my face. I felt the muscles in my shoulders clench. A defensive posture. “What do you mean?” My name was Kristin Lattimer. Not Kristopher. Didn’t she understand that I was a girl?

“Oh, sometimes my clients are very picky about their nicknames. Do you prefer Kristin, or Krissy? Or should I just call you Miss Lattimer?”

I forced my shoulder muscles to relax. “Kristin is fine, Dr. LaForte. Krissy, too.”

“All right, Kristin. Feel free to call me Susan if you so desire. Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, how may I help you today?”

God, I was so sick of open-ended questions. “Did Dr. Cheng not tell you why I was coming?”

“She gave me some of the medical details, yes, but I’m more interested in hearing from you what you hope to gain from therapy.”

I shrugged. What did people normally want from therapy? “To figure things out,” I said. “So I can be happy again.” Or, at least, feel less crappy.

“Both very valid goals. Can you tell me a bit about what’s making you unhappy?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about whatever comes to mind?”

For several moments I didn’t speak. I stared at the intricate pattern embroidered on the pillow I clutched. It looked hand-stitched—there were slightly crooked stitches here and there—and I wondered idly how many hours its maker had spent hunched over it with a needle and thread.

“Did you make this?” I asked Dr. LaForte, holding up the pillow.

She didn’t seem surprised by my question, but I guess therapists are trained that way. “Not me. A very dear friend gave it to me as a wedding gift. When she passed away a few years ago I brought it here to my office to remind me of her.”