None of the Above(52)

I glanced around. The tables next to us were crowded with kids. Was mine really a story for a family restaurant? I swallowed. “I can tell you the whole story later. But, long story short, my entire high school found out.”

I’d gotten used to seeing disgust on people’s faces. Anger, too, and pity. But in Gretchen’s face all I saw were shock and understanding.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked Gretchen. “He must know because he read the article, right?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She dipped a mozzarella stick into the marinara sauce and took a bite, her mouth forming a secret smile as she chewed. “But I do have a girlfriend, Julia.”

“Oh,” was all I said, which sounded kind of lame, but I’d never met a lesbian before. At least not one who was open about it. “I’m sorry I assumed you were straight.” Then I did that thing where you go back over your conversation to see if you said anything offensive.

“It’s okay,” Gretchen said easily. “I get it all the time.”

Before I had the chance to filter myself, I blurted, “How long have you known that you were gay? Is it something that only happened after you learned about the AIS?”

“Good lord. Are you afraid that having AIS means that you’re a lesbian?”

“Not really,” I said, embarrassed. “But sometimes it sounds easier. Like, girls would be more likely to understand. Most guys would probably freak out, knowing about the boy parts.”

“Good luck deciding to be lesbian,” Gretchen said. “And let me tell you, some of the most insensitive people I know are women.”

“I know,” I said, thinking of Vee. “It just sucks always having to wonder what other people see when they look at me. Don’t you ever just want to be normal?”

“Well, yeah, I used to tell my mom that all the time. But whenever I did, she always asked me the same question: ‘Do you know what another word for normal is?’” Gretchen reached out for another mozzarella stick and ate it while I racked my brain for synonyms.

I was horrible at this game. The only word I could come up with was typical.

“That’s not the one my mom always told me,” she said.

“Then what was?” I asked impatiently.

Gretchen picked up her glass of water and looked into it. Her lips formed a perfect kiss around the straw as she took a sip.

“Average,” she said.

After we paid our bill, we drove over to a half-deserted park and I told her my story.

She was a good listener. The only time she reacted negatively was when I told her about my gonadectomy.

“Wait, you called the urologist asking for surgery?” she asked. “And she let you go through with it without making you see a psychiatrist first?”

“I wanted it.”

“But you were still wigging out over your diagnosis. That is so not the best time to go ahead with something like that.”

“I know, that’s what she said too, but I needed them out.” I stopped for a second. “Wait a minute. Does that mean you still have them?”

“Have what?” Gretchen asked, smirking.

I blushed, and gestured toward my groin. “You know.”

“Oh,” she said loudly. “You mean my testicles?”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the nearest dog walker was several hundred feet away.

“Yes,” Gretchen said firmly. “I still have my testicles.”

“How can you stand it?”

“What is there to stand? Whatever higher being you believe in made me what I am. I heart my gonads.” She laughed. “But remember, I had years to come to terms with my AIS. You had to deal with other people’s reactions to your diagnosis before you really had time to process it yourself.”

We were sitting on a bench deep in the park, next to a pair of empty tennis courts with their nets taken down. A few joggers ran by, then a couple who were walking their German shepherd. They strode by arm in arm, and you could see the air fill with little clouds from their conversation.

“How long did it take you to . . . process it all?” I asked.

“I mean, years. Maybe I still haven’t.”

“You outed yourself to all the readers of Seventeen magazine!”

“That was part of processing it, you know? Coming out on my own terms. Plus, hiding who I was had started to suck my soul.”

Hiding who we were sounded like a luxury. “Do you still think of yourself as a girl?”

“Most of us with AIS do, though some identify themselves as ‘intersex women.’”

That’s what Dr. Cheng had said, and it’d driven me crazy trying to parse out what it meant. “But what does that mean, to ‘identify’ as a girl? Just because you feel like you’re a girl doesn’t mean that you really are.”

Gretchen cocked her head. “Some people would disagree with you about that. Gender is totally a social construct.”

“That’s right, you told me,” I said. “Women’s studies minor.”

She laughed. “Guilty as charged. It’s all true, though. The biggest difference between boys and girls is how people treat them—what color parents think their kids should wear, and what kind of activities they sign their kids up for.”