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His arms fold triumphantly. He might as well spray-paint Top that, bitch! on the ceiling.

  Whatever bubble used to protect me and make me popular by proxy has been obliterated. I can feel it. If JP is magma at the center of the earth, I am now the moon. Even if nobody ever takes me on in an abandoned hallway or whatever, I know it’s over.

  “Where does it go to school?” Bryce asks.

  Ethan laughs. “We should go fuck it up. Make it put some pants on.”

  “Hold up, you fucking Neanderthals,” JP says. “Leave her alone.”

  “If a girl has a penis, it’s not a girl. That’s like Biology 101 and shit,” Bryce says just as the bell rings, scattering everyone to class.

  “Bryce, Ethan! Wait!” I call out to them. Twenty minutes ago, they would’ve stopped.

  JP’s about to bolt, and I grab him by the neck. “If anyone hurts her, believe me, you’ll get it ten times worse.”

  He works to not fidget in my grip, and we both stare at each other. I can feel my eyes burning his. I’ve never hated anyone more.

  “They’re…not gonna do…anything…,” he coughs out, and I loosen my hand. “They’re all talk. They couldn’t even remember an empty box for the can drive, remember?”

  “Dylan Ingvarsson!” Mr. Copeland calls out from left field. “You release him right now, this second. No choking people. That’s a detention.”

  Oh, so some shitstain standing up on a chair and putting me on blast in front of the entire cafeteria is Catholic-school kosher, but one tiny squeeze of a chicken neck and I get detention? This is garbage.

  “Mr. Copeland…” I try to plead my case and JP sprints off. Fucking coward.

  The slip gets written up, and I stuff it into my pocket next to my phone.

  I don’t want to go to class. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to know these people.

  Somewhere in this city, Jamie is sitting in her school and most likely not wanting to be there either. An image of Bryce and Ethan flashes in my mind. I feel sick because I know if they really want to, they’ll find her. People talk. I’m all worried they’re going to harass her as she’s just trying to ride her bike or something. Whatever happened with me and Jamie is one thing, but that doesn’t mean people have the right to give her a hard time. She didn’t do anything wrong.

  Things creak and crawl into place, and before long I have a plan.

  I get my phone out and text: Can we talk?

  SEVENTEEN

  I have a secret.

  It’s foul and dirty and sends me into a death spiral from euphoria to self-hatred every time I do it, but I can’t stop. It always happens when no one is home. I start to get idle hands. Everything starts to tingle, and a silent itch demands to be scratched. It sends me to my stash buried in the living room, where I keep the discs hidden underneath the loose floorboard. Once I have what I need (and I hate that I need it), I turn on the TV.

  As I sit in my chair, I turn the sound on low so no one will hear and ready myself. Hands hot in my lap and gripping my favorite controller.

  I play Madden NFL.

  The bestselling football video game of all time.

  Once it boots up, all my tension releases and I get lost building teams in franchise mode. I know all the players and their stats and make unstoppable brute squads that annihilate opposing teams. As the players inside the video game make their hits, my muscles twitch. Hours disappear as I play. There is only football. Nothing else matters. It’s my guilty pleasure, and no one can ever know how much I actually love football, which is why I fly to dismantle the entire system when I hear my mom’s bockety old car slow down and park.

  Racing against the clock, I save, eject, and throw it all under the floorboard as soon as her key slides into the lock. I turn off the TV and tear into the bathroom like nothing ever happened. Besides, tonight is an important night. I’ve been waiting for Mom to get home. We have to get ready for dinner.

  I hear her enter and dump her shoes off to the side. Flushing the toilet full of damp TP from wiping my brow, I leave the bathroom with a slightly sweaty face and pink cheeks.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She gives me a weird look. “I don’t want to know.”

  Good. You won’t. “Did you get the stuff?”

  Mom thrusts a thick paper bag full of groceries in my hands. “Here. But like I said this morning, I think this is a terrible idea.”

  I’d grumble something about how it’s a plan and not an idea, but this is the first time she’s said more than “Get up” and “Dinner’s ready” to me since I manhandled the basement. “Things didn’t end well,” I say, trying to justify the cost of imitation crabmeat.

  “Sometimes things don’t and that’s okay,” Mom says. “In fact, I think having Jamie out of your life is for the best. The way you’ve been acting since you met…this certain young lady…is not cool.”

  Ingredients out on the counter, I get to work blending the mix for the crab cakes in a bowl and check the oven temperature. I’m not even hopeful Jamie likes them. I’m on autopilot. “All I’m asking is for you to be nice.”

  Mom’s coffee cup hits the counter with a mad clink. “Be nice? I know a trans person; I work with a very sweet man in accounting. He’s short and has delicate hands. That’s how I knew when I asked him.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

  “Are we an expert now?”

  “No,” I mumble. Once I knew Jamie’s real deal, as with all things unknown I turned to Google for the lay of the land. “I just don’t think you’re supposed to go up to someone and ask them. It’s pretty much the opposite of your business.”

  Her finger wraps around the handle. “I work with him every day, I call him Jack when he looks like a Jill. And I’m about to sit through my son’s date with a very confused young person, what more do you want me to do?”

  “It’s not a date,” I snap.

  “Sweetie, look. It’s not that you two aren’t perfectly fine people, it’s just that I don’t think you need that level of complication right now.”

  I lump the ingredients into little patties and lay them on the tray.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Don’t worry, Mom. I heard you. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re not attracted to her, are you?”

  There’s no way I can tell her the truth that yes, I was. A lot. That it still tears me down the middle. How at night I stare at the ceiling I painted blue and wish that Jamie were with me. I miss her so much.

  “No,” I say.

  She sips and sighs. “You met in therapy. And if you were sent there, that means she had a reason to be there too. Keep a distance, is all I ask. Cordial. Hello, how are you, that kind of thing.”

  I grunt. What Mom doesn’t know is I’m going to tell Jamie my plan and then we will finagle the details over crab cakes.

  “She is very pretty,” Mom says. “But I knew, had that sixth sense. Her voice, her feet, the intangible tangibles. I put two and two together.”

  My mom, the gender whisperer.

  “All I’m getting at is that this is a big change for Jamie, and she’s struggling. And so are you. So keep it light.”

  “Okay, I heard you a million times now.” I don’t need to be reminded how I was stupid and everyone else knew immediately. “I’m just trying to be a good person.” Except I feel anything but.

  The crab cakes slide into the oven and I set the timer. Mom helped with nothing. She refused. I wish she’d helped, just like I wish she’d forgive me and start caring again. If the crab cakes taste like ass, that’s all on me, but there’s not enough time to dwell because the doorbell rings. “That must be Jamie.”

  Mom heads for the door, but I chase after her on my cane. “I’ll get it.” I brush past her, my shoulder knocking crooked some dead great-aunt’s stupid painting of a fat bunny under a gerber daisy.

  Mom fixes it for me—she can’t help herself. “Bull in a china shop,” she mutters
like old times. Maybe she’s done being mad at me.

  Seeing Jamie is like opening a door in an old cartoon to all the dancing trees and sunlight. Even with her scowling death glare, she’s as stunning as always. I want to hug her, but I can’t. Tonight I have a job to do.

  New Jamie still looks like Old Jamie, the one I remember. The one I felt every scrap of happy with. Except now there’s a major something different that I can’t get over. I know this is Portland, I know she’s not even the first trans person I’ve met—there’s a librarian at our local branch who went from a he to a she and no one batted an eye—but that wasn’t the same. That librarian was a snippet from someone else’s book. A book you could put down and leave on a park bench because you didn’t care. Jamie was a chapter in the one I was just beginning to write.

  No matter how much I lie awake at night and think of all our wonderful horrible minutes together, it’s like there’s this object Jamie’s carrying around now, and it’s shiny and distracting and it doesn’t matter what she says or does. It’s the only thing I can think about. Underneath the skirt, she’s got guy parts and I fell for it.

  Jamie stands there in her coat, arms crossed, with I’m assuming her equally pissed-off mother. “You must be Dylan,” her mom drags out with a sneer.

  “Please come in!” my mom chirps, arms outstretched and full of hospitality and joy. The very picture of bullshit. “I’m Anna. May I take your coats?”

  “Jessica,” Jamie’s mother says. She is tall. Just like Jamie said. “Thank you for offering, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying. I’ve been informed I need to wait in the car.”

  Jamie’s jaw grinds so loud I can hear it. “Mom,” she says sharply.

  “Teenagers,” my mom says, and both moms roll their eyes.

  “Mom,” Jamie says again.

  “I know, I know—I’m leaving.” Jamie’s mom plants a kiss on her cheek. “See you soon.”

  Our front door shuts and we idle awkwardly in the hallway.

  “I made crab cakes,” I throw out. “Because they’re your favorite.”

  “That was nice of you.” Jamie and I lock eyes.

  “They’re in the kitchen. For eating.” Oh god.

  She looks down and slips her coat off. My mom stands there, an eager beaver, hands ready to receive Jamie’s coat and hang it up. “I got it,” Jamie says, and drapes it on an open hook. “So…” She wanders down the hall toward the light, stepping over the threshold and standing next to the refrigerator. “I’m assuming this is where we do the eating?”

  “Offer her some water,” Mom whispers up at me as she skates by.

  “Do you want some water?” I ask once I join them.

  Jamie shakes her head, her hair dancing like she’s in a commercial. “No thanks.”

  The oven hums. I hope that means it’s busy burning the crab cakes and we can hurry up and throw them in the trash and order replacement pizza as soon as possible.

  “So, Jamie…Do you have a favorite holiday?” Mom asks, cracking through the silence.

  Jamie shifts from one foot to the other. “Um…Christmas is always nice.”

  “I agree.” Mom nods. “My favorite is Martin Luther King Junior’s birthday. Always has been.”

  “Since when?” I say.

  “Since before you were born,” she says. “Except when you’ve got a little kid you’re forced to get all excited for Halloween and Christmas, wake them up on New Year’s, et cetera, but for me it’s MLK all the way.”

  Jamie and I stare at her, afraid of what’s coming next.

  “I just love his message.” Mom clears her throat. “To judge someone by the content of their character. Beautiful, just beautiful.”

  “Please stop,” I say.

  Jamie’s eyebrows shuffle and land on confused. “Okay?”

  “Mom was just leaving, right, Mom?”

  My mother looks like an angry wombat about to strike, all cuddly until you get too close. “Yes! I was. I’m going to bring your poor mother a cup of coffee while she’s waiting in the car.” She holds up the decanter. “Does she take milk? Sugar?”

  “And how,” Jamie says.

  “Great.” Mom practically throws hot coffee into a new mug, dumps in the milk and sugar, and stuffs her feet into her good house shoes. “If you need us, you know where we’ll be.”

  The door slams, and Jamie and I stand on our three legs in the kitchen. “She seems nice?” Jamie offers.

  “She’s trying too hard and she’s pissed at me. Tricky combination for her to pull off.”

  “Oh. Well. Thanks for inviting me over.” She shoots the smallest of smiles. “Even though this is weirder than weird.”

  “Uh, yeah. Right, okay. Thank you for coming.” The plan, I chant to myself. Remember the plan. “I…I didn’t like how…What happened was…You know.”

  “I know.”

  “So. I wanted to say I’m sorry for everything.” I stick out a hand. “Friends?”

  Jamie’s shoulders sag. “Yeah, sure.”

  We shake on it.

  I’m not sure I believe what we’re shaking on. The way she’s slumping into the counter makes me think she doesn’t either. It’s like we both know our coexistence is futile. We can’t just be associates on planet Earth, bumping into each other on the sidewalk to ask each other about the weather. Not without some pretty solid hits to the gut. I have no idea where we go from here.

  “I made crab cakes for you.”

  “I heard.”

  “They’re your favorite.”

  “Do you want a medal or something, Dylan? Do you know how hard it is to be here? Why am I here, anyway? Did you have me come all the way here just so you could feel better? You seriously want to just be friends? For real?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “So sticking the ‘friend’ Band-Aid on everything that happened suddenly makes it okay? I’m supposed to ignore that you were King Asshole and made me feel like the stupidest person for thinking we were…Fuck it. Yay, crab cakes.” She smudges a spot on the counter. “ ‘O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ ”

  “ ‘Jabberwocky.’ ”

  Jamie shoots me a hot glare. “You’re not the only one who likes school. Just because my head’s not all swollen up like I have hydrocephalus or whatever doesn’t mean I don’t have a party going on up here too,” she says. “Although hydrocephalus is a terrible condition and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.”

  “Cover all your bases there?”

  “Shut up.”

  It’s obvious neither one of us gives a shit about the crab cakes, and suddenly I’m doused in gasoline and she’s holding the match. Deep down, there’s a part of me that’s still into Jamie, that still wants to talk to her all the time. It hits me over the head and I swallow. Oh, Dad, I hope you hear me wherever you are and make it go away.

  I don’t know what to think about this, so instead I bury it.

  Peeking at Jamie, I watch her chip chunks of carbon off an old burner, and I realize it’s not just her anger I’ve been hearing, like sonar beeps; it’s sadness. For every black look and pissed-off word, there’s tenfold within from where she’s hurt.

  “I am sorry,” I say.

  “I heard you the first time.” Jamie doesn’t look at me.

  “I didn’t handle it well. There’s a lot I wish I could take back,” I say.

  “Well, guess what, Captain Tact, there’s nothing I wish I could take back. Other than going through all this without you even listening that day.”

  “Can you tell me now?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can listen to every word.”

  She sighs. “I was telling the group that my grandpa called me my dead name and how my dad corrected him and said, ‘Please call my daughter by her real name.’ It was a big deal. Dr. Burns asked you what you thought, but it was all crickets. Then you said it was cool.”

  “That’s unfair.” I knew Dr. Burns was a piece of work. She was trying to make
me look stupid in front of a group full of girls. “A dead name? Like I’m supposed to hear that and be like, Hark! That means Jamie is transgender. Yeah, no. Unfair.”

  “If you’d been listening and had picked up on what Wretched was saying about how well my dad was doing with my transition and how Hannah was asking me about adjusting to my new hormone schedule, then you could’ve easily read between the lines,” she says. “It’s my deal, I’m the only one who decides how it’s told.”

  “But why couldn’t you cut to the chase and say, ‘Hi, my name is Jamie and I was born a boy’?”

  Her eyes ignore mine hard. “I’ll never say that because it’s not true. I was assigned male at birth, but my gender is a girl.”

  “Look, I know it’s bad form for people to barge in with questions, but you can’t say we’re all a bunch of dummies because we can’t read your mind.”

  “That’s so far from reality, it’s stupid,” Jamie says.

  “Why did you never mention anything about being trans? Like, ever?”

  “I was as out with you as I was comfortable with,” she says. “I’m pretty low-key about it, to be honest. Most of the time I have other things on my mind. Did I forget my lunch money? Why did my dog pee by the back door when she just went out ten minutes ago? Things. Thoughts. You know, life.”

  “All I’m saying is a little clarity is a good thing.”

  “When was I unclear? Was it what I wore, every word I ever said? The pictures I took? The stories I told? Being happy being out with you? Who I frigging AM? Because I thought I was opening up to you, more than to any boy I’ve ever met before. So please, you’re so smart, when was I ever hiding who I really, truly was?”

  My mouth shuts. I didn’t realize it was open.

  The timer buzzes. I hop over to the oven and get a mitt. Tray in hand, I let the door slam shut and rest the baking sheet full of deformed patties on top of the burners. I hop backward and we both stare at them, for they are very sad.

  “It’s fake crabmeat,” I say.

  “Hmmm. Like our so-called relationship.”

  Burn. “The diabetes thing,” I point out. “That was a lie.”

  “By omission.”

  “Why lie about that?”