Stay Gold

by Tobly McSmith

I feel sweat dripping down my back. I am literally melting. Texas summers are twelve months long and scorching, unbearable, oppressive, icky hot. It must be—and I am not being dramatic—at least three thousand degrees out.

“Emily, how hard is it to match your socks? I’m being super serious because I want to help you. Help me help you on this sock thing, Emily.”

I’m friends with nearly everyone at this school: the theater kids, athletes, activists, gamers, skateboarders, even those girls who throw flags in the air when the band plays. Thanks to my middle school days, I know all too well how it feels to be an outsider. So, I friend everyone. I’m a cheerleader of the people.

Maybe I’d always known deep down, I just hadn’t been ready to seriously think about transitioning until Caitlyn Jenner. She’s not the perfect trans icon—I can’t unsee her in that red Make America Great Again ball cap—but her level of fame and bravery for coming out under intense scrutiny raised awareness for trans people and cleared the way for more visibility.

Everyone files out of the classroom without giving me a second thought—the novelty of the new kid has already worn off. I hit the packed hallway and get lost in the crowd. I’m invisible, like a ghost haunting the school. I have no past here, only future. This is what I have dreamed about for so long. My brand-new life starts today.

“Well, Ponyboy, I’m glad you asked. There’s something I need to tell you . . . I’m a unicorn now!” I rest my case. “Congrats!” I say. “When will the horn grow in?” “Ugh, come on, Pony. The amount you know about this world could fit in a Diva Cup.” Gross.

Forget whiskers on kittens; correct pronouns are a few of my favorite things. It’s like hearing your name pronounced wrong all your life and then all of a sudden, people say it correctly. It’s shocking and exhilarating. It’s one small victory stacked on another.

Mia raises her Styrofoam cup. “A toast is in order!” We all begrudgingly raise our cups. “Girls, we are seniors! This is our year. Let’s do things that scare us! Let’s do things that we will regret! Let’s do things that will put us in the Hillcrest history books!” “Like get good grades and go to college?” Kelly sarcastically asks.

“Of all the 7-Elevens in all of Addison,” I say with a smile, “you end up at this one.” Pony takes off his sunglasses. “Isn’t this the only 7-Eleven in this town?” “Shhh,” I say. “It must be fate, then,” he says, and smiles. I nod toward his Volvo station wagon. “Get all the ladies with this ride?” I ask. “Why do you think I had to move?” he asks.

pink. I look over at him. “Pony, if we’re going to be friends, I can’t have you talking this much. Seriously, it’s on and on with you. Story after story. When will it end?” He laughs. Oh no. He’s really freaking cute when he laughs. “You got me.” “Do I?” “You wish,” he says. “You wish,” I repeat.

“Can I see your phone?” I ask. “Why would I give my phone to a Russian troll?” “Troll?” I ask, deeply offended. “Pretty troll?”

Mom is usually cooking dinner now, but she must be out shopping. Probably at Target—that place is like crack for moms. They wheel the big red carts around looking for their next hit of smartly designed wash towels.

I dig the remote out of the couch cushions and put on Netflix. I’ve been working my way through the cannon of David Cronenberg. He’s made movies for decades, but I’m focused on his campy horror films from the eighties. Movies like Videodrome and Scanners are equal parts awful and awesome. They leave me completely unsettled.

It’s fair to say that I’m at the obsession level with movies. It started very young with Disney and Pixar and escalated to Kubrick and Scorsese. Movies have helped me get through some dark times. They are my escape from the real world, even for just ninety minutes.

Eating a pound of pretzel M&M’s won’t stop me from enjoying some pad Thai and green curry. Also, family dinner isn’t optional around here. We sit down at the table with no TV or phones and eat like a family from 1953.

I hate that I hate my body, but I hate it. Like Photoshop, I wish my body came with the Copy/Paste function. I’d paste a male chest over mine. Then I would drop in some abs with just a hint of six-pack, broader shoulders, and that trail of hair that starts at the belly button and goes down. Most importantly, I would add a dick. Any size, don’t care.

It’s the money. My new job will help, but it’s going to take years to come up with that amount. I have begged my parents for a loan with interest to no avail. I can still hear my dad: “Not one of my dollars will go to this, and that’s final.” They think I’m going through a phase, and I’ll regret any permanent changes. If they only knew how it felt to live in this body, even for a day, they would be writing checks and driving me to the hospital.

The class has started, and Mr. Glover is warming up his pun game. “Bunsen burner? Get it? Hey, that was a chemistry joke! Why no reaction? Guys, I’m in my element here.” I have zero percent focus. I lean over to Pony. “He’s in the zone. The pun zone.” “I’m worried. I think this is a cry for help,” Pony says.

He heads over to the bar cart and readies some glasses. “What would you like?” My knowledge of alcohol is limited to warm beer from kegs and bottles of vodka stolen from parents’ liquor cabinets. “Margarita,” I say with the opposite of confidence. Victor looks at me. “How old are you?” “I’ll have water,” I say.

“Have you seen that Hoarders television show?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. “Is the camera crew stuck under some boxes around here?” He laughs. “Would you look at that? He’s got a sense of humor.”

“She has brown eyes that turn golden when the sun hits them, and—” “Oh, honeybaby.” He stops me. “What?” I ask. “You’re already on the hook,” Max warns. I sit back and fight my impulse to be defensive. I don’t feel on the hook yet, but the whole thing is intriguing. And sure, I have imagined our wedding and life together. But that doesn’t mean I am on the hook.

A week after that talk, three months into our relationship, Joni disappeared. I wish I could report that I was completely chill about her ghosting me, but I wasn’t. I continued texting and calling. It was a low point for me. About a month later, Joni finally responded: Dating a guy now. Sorry. Not another guy, a guy. That small grammatical error (or choice) broke my heart.

“Besides, what the lord forgot, the sex shop provides.” “Do you have one?” I ask. “No, don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I have three.” My face gets as red as those discarded tomatoes. Max continues, “When you’re ready, I will be your trusted shepherd to the promised land, my favorite queer-owned sex shop in Dallas.”

“Would you look at that?” the waitress says playfully to me. “You gonna let the lady pay for you?” “OK. Hi. Susanna, is it?” Max says with a frustrated but even voice. “Yeah,” she confirms, then taps her name tag. Even though I knew this was coming, I want to melt into a puddle and ooze right out the door. Max begins, “I am transgender. My pronouns are he, him, and his. And here’s my tip to you, free of charge—if a customer is dressed, or presenting, more male than female, then address them with those pronouns. Or use neutral terms like buddy or pal.”

Max sits on the bench beside me. “I need to tell you, I don’t love your stealth thing.” “I know,” I say. “The trans community is less than one percent of the population, my man. We need more voices, not less.”

“Mind if we make a stop on the way?” Pony asks. “Is this when you take me to the woods and murder me?” “No, that’s later. Just to Starbucks. My brain doesn’t function until it’s been properly drowned in some iced coffee,” he says.

“who is the new fellow who took you to school today?” “Daaaaaaad,” I say, hoping that answer will suffice. He throws his hands in the air. “What, Dad can’t ask questions? I have a right to know!” “OK, well, he’s president . . . of a notorious bike gang. He picked me up on his Harley-Davidson and does not believe in helmets. Don’t ask about his face tattoos.”

“Check this out, Dad. I read an article about an online dating site for people over forty!” He pushes the iPad away. “No, thank you, I prefer the old-fashioned way: meeting someone in person and talking.” I take the iPad back and start signing him up. “OK, that’s charming and idealistic but so very outdated. OUT-DATED. That should be the name of this site.” “One more joke about my age and you’ll be grounded until you’re forty.”

I lost my mind. He is this new person. He’s neutral, like Switzerland or beige.

“Nice attempt! A few notes. The caps lock is a little aggressive. Mustache isn’t a selling point. Let’s cut the ex-wife thing. And what does ‘will pay’ mean in your world?” “I will pay for dinner and such. Just want them to know that I’m a gentleman,” he says earnestly. “That’s awfully chivalrous, but that might read as you are willing to pay for more than dinner . . .” I nudge him with my elbow. “Oh,” he says as his cheeks blush up.

I feel like the Little Mermaid. She just wanted to be part of our world. Here I am, wanting to be a part of Georgia’s world but feeling like my body is all wrong.

But she thinks I’m a girl. No, she thinks I’m a babygirl. I’m destroyed. It must seem silly to get upset about something so small. When I’m misgendered, it feels like I was trying to pull something off and got caught because I wasn’t good enough. I failed at passing as male. My self-esteem takes an immediate nosedive.

“I’m transgender,” he says. “You’re what?” “Transgender.” Transgender? I’m gobsmacked. My jaw is on the floor. I had no idea. Or I hadn’t thought about it. Why would I think about it? I pull away from him completely. “What does that mean?” I ask, even though I understand perfectly what it means. I need to hear him unpack it for me. Pony clears his throat. “I was born in a girl body, but I’m not a girl. I’ve never felt like a girl. I’m a boy. Every part of me is a boy, except my body.”

“I just wanted you to like me.” “I did like you, Pony.” “Did?” he asks. “I do. Like you.”

I know I didn’t choose to be transgender, but it doesn’t seem fair. Why couldn’t I have been born in the right body? This would all be so easy. Last night would have been perfect. But I’m not normal. And I never will be. On days like today, I wish I could reboot my life.

“Oh, what a movie this will make someday! How will it end, Pony?” “With me dying alone,” I say too quickly to stop myself. “What a twist!” Ted says, either ignoring the comparison, or not caring.

Georgia and I kissed fifteen days ago. Or three hundred and sixty hours. Or one hundred and forty-four showings of The Shining. But who’s counting? Not me.

“Pony, no offense, but you’re seventeen. They will all feel like the one.”

“Maxy,” Wendy interrupts. “Not everyone can be out and proud. Sometimes it’s dangerous.” “I get that, Wendy-bear,” Max says. “And not everyone has to be out,” she adds. “Pony will come out when he’s ready, or not, and that’s fine, too.”

I turn to walk away but stop. “Gretchen, I’m trans.” “Pony,” she says, “that only makes me like you more.”

“I’m just saying, don’t get consumed with cheerleading. It’s not everything.” Izzy looks at me and nods like she’s getting it. Then she lets out a loud laugh. She thinks I’m lying. “I’m serious,” I say. “Georgia? Cheerleading is going to pay for my college. My friends are cheerleaders. I am proud that this my life. It’s who I am.” “But you might wake up and realize you wasted your time.” “Have you?” she asks. “No,” I lie.

“It would appear so, Pony. Women didn’t interest me the way men did. But back in the day, it was wrong. Being a homosexual was considered a mental illness until the seventies. So, I denied it. Pushed it down. I had big dreams, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way.” “You had to hide it?” “Had to hide it, yes.” He frowns and looks away. “I traded in love for anonymous sex that left me feeling empty and full of shame.”

“I’m an artist,” Rocky says. “I don’t expect you to understand what I do.” “Head in the damn clouds—that’s what I understand.” She yawns, trying her best to act ambivalent. “And you wonder why I don’t come home more.” Dad grips his glass tight and sits down. “And this one?” Motioning to me. “This one wants my money to cut her tits off. Just look at both of you. Bunch of—” “DAD.” Rocky slams her hands on the table. “Freaks.”

ROCKY: You needed an answer, and you got it. ROCKY: Just because it didn’t end happily doesn’t mean I was wrong. ROCKY: Sometimes the ending isn’t happy

“I’m trans,” I blurt out. Ted raises his eyebrows. “You’re what?” “Transgender.” “So, you were born a girl?” “I was assigned the gender of female at birth.” “And now you are a boy?” “I have always been a boy,” I say.

I scoff. “I don’t care about my image. I just want to be normal.” “Normal isn’t an image?” Ted asks, laughing one of his famous laughs, followed by a cough. “Pony, you see how hiding who I was turned out for me? I kept lying and lying until I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

Ms. Randolph puts a hand on my shoulder. “Georgia, I hope you will still write. There’s no reason to hide. And you just learned a valuable lesson.” “What’s that?” I ask. “Never try to do what you love?” “That your words have power.”

My feelings for her were loud and complicated. She made me want to write poetry. Poetry.

“Hi, I’m Pony.” I clear my throat, and the mic releases a shriek of feedback. “As many of you know, this is my first year at Hillcrest. And, I like it. But I hid something because I wanted you to like me. I wanted to feel normal.” I pause again. My binder feels two sizes too small. “But what is normal?” I think of Ted London’s regret. Of the two words he couldn’t say. And how he can never say them again. “I’m transgender,” I say into the mic.

“I love you, Pony.” My body relaxes like I was holding my breath for days and finally exhaled. That is my truth, and I don’t care who knows.