Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,5

and family started calling, and even a few cards arrived in my mailbox (old-school). I was shocked by the response; I didn’t think there would be so much support and love. It made everything easier. I felt loved by the people around me, no matter what.

Cue the movie-makeover montage: Throwing out girl clothes, buying boy clothes. New socks, new underwear. Tons of push-ups. Visiting a doctor. Meeting friends at the LGBTQIA Center. More push-ups. Starting puberty blocking medication until I’m old enough to take testosterone. Even more push-ups.

And the favorite part of the makeover: a trip to an old-fashioned barber to get my first manly haircut.

My whole life before that day, my hair was shoulder-length and never out of a ponytail. Boys would tease me by stealing my hair tie. I would chase them around, holding my hair back with my hand. I couldn’t stand my hair down, not even for a minute. It was too girly.

My sister drove me and quickly befriended the barber, Mikhail, who spoke almost exclusively Russian. I didn’t know what to ask for, so she instructed Mikhail on my cut—low skin fade with side part. He got out the electric razor and went to work.

During my cut, my sister typed sentences into Google Translate and played the Russian translations for Mikhail. He would listen and laugh wildly. I still have no idea what she was telling him.

Twenty minutes later, Mikhail spun the barber chair around to show me the finished product. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I gasped.

For the first time, the person in the mirror was a guy.

I was about to jump out of the chair—ready to show the world the new me—when my sister put her hand on my shoulder, keeping me in the seat.

“Can you give him a hot shave?” she asked Mikhail.

“Not necessary,” I said. There was no hair on my face to shave.

“No hair, no need, no hair, no need,” he said.

But she stood her ground and typed something into her phone, then played the Russian translation. He laughed and started prepping the shaving cream.

Mikhail leaned the chair back until I was completely horizontal and spread hot foam on my face. He sharpened his blade and rested a perfectly folded white towel on my shoulder. I gripped the chair, nervous, but his hand was steady and precise. In one movement, the razor would drag across my face, collecting the foam and whisking to the towel with a practiced flip of the wrist. It was all so methodical. Mikhail had mastered every movement. He shaved guys all the time, and now he was shaving my (nonexistent) beard. In a way, it was a rite of passage.

After Mikhail finished my shave, he rubbed some cooling oil around my jaw and face. The mint burned my nostrils but felt refreshing, like I had jumped into an ice bath. He popped the chair up, took off the drape, and said, “Ta-da! Brand-new man! No. Brand-new boy!”

I think of Mikhail now, as I put my phone in my pocket and set off to find my first class. Brand-New Boy, indeed.

GEORGIA, 8:58 A.M.

I’m headed to first period—miraculously early—when muscly arms wrap around my waist from behind, stopping me just inches from the door. I look down at the attacker’s wrist and spot a Rolex.

Jake Carter.

He’s lucky—I was about to throw an elbow. I still might.

“Hey there, Georgie,” he says, letting me go. I turn around to a big dopey smile. I wish I could be mad, but he’s simply too good-looking. I blame his chiseled face. And curly eyelashes. And broad shoulders. I could go on. Jake is like the sun: you shouldn’t stare directly at him for too long.

When it comes to the clichés of Texas high school quarterbacks, Jake Carter checks every box. Popular. King of the keg party. Smart. Perfect hair and teeth. His family is stupid rich. He looks like a young Chadwick Boseman. And his face is nearly symmetrical, which is way more important than you’d think.

Jake and I should be a sure thing, but it’s complicated. I promised myself that I wouldn’t date my senior year after what went down this summer. And my ex-boyfriend, Anthony, was captain of the football team last year. (I’ll admit it: I have a type.) Isn’t there some football bro code Jake is violating?

“What happened to you last night?” he asks, upset. “You didn’t text me back.”

“Oh, right . . . I am so sorry, but my dog . . . gave birth