Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,27
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.”
He makes it sound so easy. Small-town public schools are very different from liberal-arts city schools. “You go to a school where it’s weird to be straight and cisgender,” I try to explain.
“Yeah, buddy, and your new school is exactly where we need more visibility.”
I start to talk again, to defend myself and my choices, but he stops me. “I know I can’t change your mind. But I needed to say that I don’t love what you are doing. But, I love you. Just be careful.”
There are a thousand words gathering in my stomach, but I can’t get any out.
Max jumps up from the bench. “It’s hot as shit. Let’s split.”
We walk to our cars and hug. He jumps into his Jeep and hangs his head out the window.
“One more thing, Pony. You do need to tell that cheerleader that you’re trans. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll get right on that,” I say, then watch him drive off. I get in my car, heavy with the guilt Max just laid on me. He’s right. It will be over before it begins, but I’ll tell her.
FOUR
Monday, September 2
GEORGIA, 8:10 A.M.
Every night before I go to sleep, I set seven alarms on my phone. I can fall asleep on command. It’s getting up that’s the problem.
The first alarm is an hour before I need to be out of bed—that’s intended to start my waking-up process gradually and trick me into believing that I’m getting bonus sleep time, which has never once worked. I’m just too smart for my own tricks. There are five alarms around my target time, and the seventh and final alarm is always for an hour later. If I am not out of bed by that point, there’s probably no reason to leave.
This morning, I’m moving on the second alarm. That’s got to be a record. No reason, really . . . just excited to get to school. Nothing weird about that. I crank my music in the bathroom while I shower. This has nothing to do with the fact that Pony will be picking me up soon. Back in my room with one towel around my hair and another around my body, I’m singing along with Beyoncé.
I swing open my closet doors with a dramatic flair, but it’s aspirational—my closet is nearly empty. Most of my clothes are scattered around my floor and bed. Pushed into my dresser and desk drawers.
As much as I dread the brightly colored polyester prisons, sometimes wearing the cheerleading uniform is easier than picking out the right outfit. Money isn’t tight, but I try to be considerate of Dad. Good thing I’m thrifty. I can pull off Hillcrest fashion on a budget. After digging around in a couple piles of clothing—and finding a half-eaten apple—I locate the dress I had planned to wear tangled up in my bedspread. Totally planned that.
Thirty minutes later, I’m polishing off my strawberry Pop-Tart while scanning the headlines in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Dad comes into the kitchen putting the finishing touches on his tie. It must be a big day—he’s trimmed up his beard and even tucked a pocket square into his blazer.
“Thanks for taking the bus today, Georgie.”
His car is in the shop, and there’s some company-wide finance blah-blah meeting.
“It’s cool. I found a ride,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, someone I know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Dad.”
“Can we catch up tonight?”
“Dinner?” I suggest. “It’s my turn to cook.”
That’s a joke—it’s always my turn to cook. Dad never learned his way around the kitchen. He tried a couple times but burned food that didn’t need to be warmed up. I had a cooking intervention, and we ceremoniously retired his apron.
“Sounds good. Love you, Georgie.”
“You too, Dad.”
He gives me a kiss on the top of my head and takes off.
The house is eerily quiet. This is when I miss my mom most. She filled the place with her boundless energy and enthusiasm about life. Every day felt exciting and new.
Until she moved out two years ago.
I close the newspaper. If her story was in this paper, this is how it would read:
LOCAL MOM HITS THE JACKPOT
Dallas, TX—October 1, 2017
Dallas native Cindy “Cherry” Roberts turned a girls’ night out on the town into an upgrade on her life. Cherry and her gal pals hit downtown Dallas on Friday night to