Читать книгу What We Left Behind - Robin Talley - Страница 11

3

SEPTEMBER

FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE

1 WEEK APART

TONI

I dodge an unusually aggressive squirrel as I cross Cambridge Street and take out my phone to text my roommate. I’m going to be late for lunch. Ebony will probably already have eaten and be long gone by the time I get there. Ebony’s on the varsity tennis team and inhales food by the shovelful.

I played tennis in high school, too. I even thought I was good. Until I saw Ebony play.

Ebony is cool, though. Vastly superior to our other roommates. We all moved in a week ago, and right away Ebony and I decided we should share the smaller of the two bedrooms in our suite, and let Felicia and Joanna have the bigger one. We avoid running into them in our shared common room as much as we can. In return, Joanna and Felicia use their alone time to complain about Ebony and me. (We know. You can hear everything through the walls in this place.)

Sure enough, when I get to our usual table near the front of the dining hall, there’s already an empty food tray in front of Ebony, who’s wearing gym clothes and munching on a protein bar.

“Sorry.” Ebony sweeps a manicured hand over the tray, indicating the plates full of crumbs and salsa splotches. “I was about to starve to death. I’ll sit with you while you eat, though.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I should be reading Race and Politics.”

“Classes have barely started,” Ebony says. “Stop being such a psycho overachiever and go get some food. The only thing you need to know about race and politics is that white people suck.”

“Totally.” I stand up. “Want anything?”

“A banana, maybe? Actually, make that two bananas.”

My phone buzzes with a text while I’m in the food line. Gretchen.

Hey remember I told u about Briana from debate?? Crazy Texas chick w big hair?? Guess what she’s here!!! In my nat sci lab.

Yeah. I remember Briana.

Briana was the star of the national high school debate circuit. Gretchen ran into Briana at tournament after tournament over the past couple of years. They started out as rivals but they got to be friends, sort of.

Here’s what Gretchen told me about Briana: One, Briana was a cheerleader during the off-season. Two, Briana was hot. Three, Briana was brilliant. Four, and best of all, Briana was gay.

Now Briana’s at NYU.

Not that it matters. Sure, Briana gets to see Gretchen every day, but that doesn’t mean anything will happen. Obviously. I trust Gretchen. Mostly.

No, not mostly. I do trust Gretchen. Gretchen only kept the NYU thing a secret to avoid hurting me.

I understand. For real, I do.

I just wish I could force my brain to stop obsessing about it so much.

Gretchen sent me an email the day we left with a list of bus times, but I said I thought we should wait a week before our first visit. I said it was because we needed time to settle in, but the truth was, I also wanted time to figure out what all this meant. How we’d wound up hundreds of miles apart instead of across the river from each other like we’d planned.

I mean, I’m not one of those people who would insist my girlfriend go to a certain school just to be closer to me. I’m not some Neanderthal.

But, damn, this sucks.

What if Gretchen meets someone in New York? What if stupid Briana from Texas screws up everything we have?

Why couldn’t Gretchen just leave well enough alone?

I text Gretchen about how funny it is that Briana’s at NYU. Then I pick up my burger and fries, and trudge back to where Ebony’s drinking from an enormous water bottle. I manage not to slam my tray down on the table, but it’s hard.

I hate being mad.

“You’re lucky you can eat that crap.” Ebony takes the bananas and gestures to my tray, stealing a french fry at the same time. “You’re so skinny. What do you weigh, ninety pounds?”

“More than that,” I say. Five pounds more than that.

Ebony whistles. “I know girls that would kill to look like you.”

Yeah.

Except for the part where I don’t want to look like a girl. At least, not most of the time.

Like, for example, I have this enormously complicated relationship with my chest.

I’m told most people have complicated relationships with their chests. My sister reads Cosmo and Marie Claire, so I’ve absorbed via osmosis the insecurities you’re supposed to have about different body parts. If you have breasts, they’re either too big or too small. They stick up too much or they hang down too far. Your nipples can be too pointy or not pointy enough. There are so many ways your breasts can be weird that I doubt anyone thinks they have normal, acceptable breasts.

I can’t relate to any of those problems, though. My problems are more like...sometimes, I wish my breasts weren’t there.

It isn’t as if I hate them. Sometimes I almost like them. I usually don’t want anyone else to notice them, though. Most days I wear loose-fitting tops and sports bras and try not to think about it.

It’s worst in the summer, when there are pool parties and water parks and trips to the beach and all those other torturous hot-weather activities. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid wearing a bathing suit in front of other people. It’s creepy, when you think about it, that people will strip down in front of complete strangers just because it’s warm out. I’ve always found air conditioning vastly preferable.

There are things that can be done about breasts. There’s chest-binding. And then there’s top surgery.

Surgery just seems so...extreme. So permanent. My chest is part of me. It’s bizarre to think about getting rid of a part of myself, forever.

Except—people get rid of parts of themselves all the time. Isn’t that what shaving is? Cutting your hair? Getting your ears pierced? It’s all costume. Fitting in to what society expects. Gender’s no different.

It’s exhausting, thinking about all this. It’s easier to talk it through. But Gretchen is the only person I’ve really talked to about this stuff so far, and even Gretchen can’t totally relate. My girlfriend’s great at listening, but I can never tell how much Gretchen really understands.

“T? T, are you there?” Ebony’s been calling me T lately. It makes me homesick. “Are you listening?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“You always get that look on your face when you’re missing the honey,” Ebony says. “Is it that bad?”

I shake my head. “I can handle it,” I say, though I’m not actually sure that’s true.

We didn’t get to talk last night. Chris and Steven are having issues again, so I spent hours online with Chris instead. I resisted the urge to say I told you so. Instead I read over drafts of the long email Chris was planning to send explaining why open relationships weren’t a good idea. I also listened patiently and tried to offer helpful tips while Chris ranted about some hot freshman interloper at Stanford who had the audacity to be named Elvis. (Seriously, only Steven would find a guy named Elvis attractive.)

It’s been a week since Gretchen and I last saw each other, though, and I hadn’t realized how lonely it would feel. Even with how complicated everything’s gotten, I still wish I could see Gretchen. I wish we could touch. I need someone I can be honest with. Someone I don’t have to act around.

I thought talking on video chat would help. We were used to that since we talked online every night back home. But it’s completely different, talking from my dorm room to Gretchen’s dorm room instead of talking from one house to another.

Back home, I knew Gretchen’s room almost as well as my own. When we talked I could see Gretchen stretched out on the bed, ankles crossed, lips twitching into the camera. I could pretend I was right there, my arm around Gretchen’s shoulders, my lips moving in for a kiss.

When we talk now, Gretchen’s dorm room looks wrong. Alien. White painted cinder block walls and brand-new Target sheets on the bed, still showing the wrinkles from their cellophane wrapper. I’ve never leaned back against those walls or felt those sheets against my skin.

I can’t imagine being in that room. I can’t imagine seeing Gretchen in my tiny bedroom, either, with the ancient bunk beds and the obnoxious roommates cackling on the other side of the door.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s not about our dorm rooms at all. But I don’t want to think about what else it might be.

“Well, you’re way better than me,” Ebony says. “I was online with Zach for six hours last night. Almost slept through class.”

“Crap, that sucks.” Long-distance relationships. Hatred of our roommates. Tennis. This is what people bond over in college, I’m finding.

I like Ebony, but we’re not exactly BFFs. I’m pretty sure Ebony’s just nice to me because I don’t have any other friends here. I just haven’t figured out how to meet people yet. At least, not people I actually want to hang out with.

Everything will be easier if Gretchen transfers to BU. I can’t imagine making it even one semester on my own here.

“So, do you know what groups you’re signing up for?” Ebony asks.

I shrug. “Mostly.”

The campus activities fair is this afternoon. Ebony and I spent breakfast going through the list of student organizations. Now we’re about to come face-to-face with the upperclassmen who run all the clubs, and I’m getting nervous.

“What’ll you do if you get hit on at the UBA table?” Ebony asks. “Tell them you’re already taken or play it cool?”

“That,” I say, “is the least of my worries.”

Before I’d even gotten accepted to Harvard I already knew I wanted to join the Undergraduate BGLTQIA Association. (It stands for Undergraduate Bisexual, Gay, Lesbian, Transgender, Queer, Intersex and Asexual Association. I think. Actually, I get confused about what some of the letters stand for. They seem to change a lot.)

I started the Gay-Straight Alliance at my high school in ninth grade. It was awesome, but Harvard’s UBA is in another league altogether. Last year, they held the first Intra-Ivy Queer Asian Weekend. People from all the other Ivy League schools came down and held panel discussions and led a Queer Asian Equality March. Then they had a dance party and played Margaret Cho routines on the big screen.

The UBA is one of the most important student groups at Harvard. Visiting their table at the activities fair will be putting my first foot in the door.

Sure, odds are, no one will even notice me there. Two hundred freshmen will probably sign up today. There isn’t much I can do this year anyway—freshmen can’t hold leadership roles in the big organizations. But I have to make a good impression, or at least avoid making a bad one, if I want to get a decent spot as a sophomore.

“You don’t need to stress,” Ebony says, stealing the rest of the fries off my tray as we get up. “You’re going to comp that political blog, right? So you’ve already got your big activity.”

“I might not make it onto the staff, though. Not everybody who comps their first semester gets invited.” We turn in our trays and push through the doors into the open air. Everyone is already streaming toward the Yard. I shift on my feet. It’s stupid to be nervous.

“Oh, no, I heard everyone makes it on those things unless they’re seriously lame,” Ebony says as we join the flow of people. Even in gym clothes, my roommate’s tall, muscled form and long, swinging braids stand out as we walk through the crowd. People always turn to look when we’re out together. Probably thinking I look like a little person next to Ebony.

It’s weird being surrounded by classmates and not recognizing anyone. In high school I’d known everyone since we were kids. Sure, I hadn’t liked a lot of them, but at least I’d known what I was dealing with.

“Anyway,” Ebony says, “if you don’t like the UBA you can always join one of the other gay groups instead.”

“None of the other groups has as much clout as the UBA,” I say. “You’re not planning to settle for one of the lesser engineering groups, are you?”

“Well, no, but that’s because the geeks in FES can kick the geeks in ESH’s asses.”

“Hell yeah, we can! FES has got it going on!” a guy on the sidewalk next to us yells, making the “Live Long and Prosper” sign from Star Trek at Ebony. Ebony laughs and signs back. I roll my eyes, but I laugh, too.

The truth is, I already love Harvard. I knew I would before I got here, but the real thing is even better. I may not know many people yet, but the way it feels is exactly what I always hoped it would be.

The Yard is packed—more crowded than it was on move-in day. I try to take deep breaths as I scan the booths for the groups I’m signing up for: the UBA, the PolitiWonk blog and the Model Congress. All I see in every direction is people jumping up and down, hugging, and eating the free candy the groups have set out on their tables. Am I the only lost freshman here?

Someone to my left yells, “Eb!” Ebony grins and waves at a girl in tennis gear.

“I’m going to go say hi,” Ebony says. “You’ll be okay on your own, right?”

What am I, a toddler?

“Of course,” I say, but Ebony’s already gone. All right, then. I push past a group of guys high-fiving each other by the Ukrainian-American Brotherhood table and find a spot blessedly free of people so I can collect myself.

A girl rushes up to me and presses a mini Snickers bar into my hand. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re interested in the HSWMS! Let me tell you about what we’ve got planned for this year!”

I blink at the girl. Then I realize this spot was only free because I’m in front of the Harvard Students Waiting for Marriage Society table.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I’m not interested.”

I put the Snickers back on the table in case it has abstinence cooties.

I back away from the HSWMS table and allow the throng to carry me from booth to booth. There must be hundreds of them.

Hmm. Maybe I should sign up for some other groups, too, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to join the College Democrats. And the Japanese fencing-club people look like they’re having a great time waving swords around.

Then I see the giant rainbow flag pinned high on a brick wall. I’ve found the UBA.

The crowd in front is bigger than for any other table in the row. Behind the booth and wading out into the sea of students are upperclassmen wearing bright purple T-shirts that say, “We’re so gay! Harvard UBA!”

Cute. Maybe too cute.

The sign-up sheet is front and center in the middle of the table. All around me, freshmen are elbowing their way toward it, but I linger at the back of the crowd.

Just go up there and sign the list. You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just put your name down and get out of there.

“Hi!” someone perks at me before I’ve unfrozen. It’s an alarmingly cheerful blond in one of the purple shirts. “Are you a freshman?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say.

“That’s fantastic!” the girl says as if we aren’t surrounded by freshmen on every side. “We have special cupcakes for freshmen!”

The girl points to one end of the table. Eight neat rows of cupcakes are laid out, each with the pink letters QF carefully written on chocolate frosting.

“It stands for Queer Freshmen,” the girl says.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Maybe Ebony was on the right track. There are at least four other LGBT groups on campus. Surely one of them is less focused on T-shirts and cake decoration.

“Don’t worry about her,” a short black guy with a buzz cut says as the blond wanders away to pounce on someone else. The guy is wearing a matching T-shirt, too. “Shari was the bake-sale queen four years running back in Kansas City. It’s safest to humor her. Her bite is way worse than her bark.”

I smile at the guy. “Thanks for the tip.”

We shake hands. It isn’t easy in the press of moving bodies.

“I’m Derek,” the guy says.

“I’m Toni.”

“Tony with a Y?”

“No, I.”

“Ah.” Derek nods, as if this explains everything, and points to my wrist. “Great tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

“Queer history buff?”

I blink in surprise. On my eighteenth birthday I got a blue star tattooed on my wrist. Back in the thirties and forties, blue stars were one of those secret signals closeted people used to aid their gaydar. I’d thought that was cool. I’d also wanted to piss off my mother by getting a tattoo. No one has ever known its back story until I explained it, though.

“Sort of, yeah,” I say.

Derek nods. “Are you trans?”

I blink again. No one’s ever come straight out and asked me before.

No one I’ve met online. No one in the LGBT youth center where I volunteered in DC. None of my high school friends.

Not even Gretchen.

So it’s strange acting all casual about it here, with someone I don’t even know. For a second I want to look around to make sure no one’s listening. Then I decide I don’t care. I’ve been worrying about that stuff my whole life. I’m in college now. It’s time to get over it.

What am I supposed to say, though? That I’m definitely somewhere on the transgender spectrum, and that even though I’ve spent hours upon hours upon hours reading websites and thinking about every possible angle of this stuff, I still haven’t found a label that feels exactly right for me?

There are tons of options I’ve read about. I usually describe myself as genderqueer just because it’s the word the most people seem to understand, but sometimes I think gender nonconforming would be better. Sometimes I think I’d rather go with gender fluid, and a lot of the time I want to pick nonbinary, because that one sounds the least committal. Gender bender sounds cool, but I’m afraid people will think it’s a joke.

Should I try to tell Derek about how sometimes I think just trans by itself is the best word? It’s just that I’m not sure I really consider myself a guy, necessarily, or at least not every day. I just don’t consider myself a girl. If I call myself trans I’m afraid people will think I’m a dude when the truth is, I’m really not there. Maybe someday I will be, but it also seems entirely possible that I could stay exactly the way I am right now for the rest of my life.

I don’t think I should say all that, though. Probably best not to scare Derek off with an ideological rant about the evils of labels thirty seconds after we’ve met.

“I’m genderqueer,” I say.

“That’s cool,” Derek smiles. Like this is a totally normal conversation. Like those weren’t the two most nerve-racking words I’ve ever spoken out loud. “There are a bunch of other GQs on campus.”

“There are?” I haven’t noticed any. Unless Derek is, but I doubt that. From the amount of stubble poking out of Derek’s chin, Derek’s probably been on testosterone for a while. As far as I know, guys taking hormones don’t usually identify as genderqueer. They identify as guys.

Wait. Is that right? How do I know that for sure? Maybe there are hundreds of genderqueer people at Harvard giving themselves testosterone injections as we speak.

Shouldn’t I know how all of this works, just instinctively?

Derek lets out a deep laugh, oblivious to my angst. “Yeah, believe it or not. I’m trying to get more of you guys to join the UBA. I’m the trans outreach cochair this year.”

“Who’s the other cochair?” I don’t see anyone else in a purple shirt who looks trans.

“My roommate, Nance. She couldn’t be here. Had an ultimate Frisbee game.” Derek points to a tall guy with an expensive-looking haircut wearing a jacket, tie and suit pants with a purple UBA T-shirt despite the ninety-degree heat. “That’s Brad, by the way. He’s the UBA president.”

“Why’s Brad wearing a suit?”

“Oh, he’s probably planning to change shirts and go to an informational interview this afternoon. Every time I’ve seen Brad in the past two years he’s been on his way to an informational interview.”

I laugh. My anxiety—about Gretchen, about labels, about meeting new people—is starting to fade into the background just a little.

Derek points out the rest of the UBA board members at the table. Shari, the perky blonde, is the social chair. All the other board members are guys.

“So, are you going to sign up or what?” Derek smiles at me again.

“Oh, right.” I smile back. I can’t believe how nervous I was about this.

While I wait my turn at the sign-up form, Shari notices me again. “Oh, hi there! I’m so glad you’re signing up! I see you already met Derek!”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised to see that Derek is still standing next to me. I thought the UBA people were all supposed to run back into the crowd, seeking out more converts.

“Did you meet Brad yet?” Shari asks. I look up, but Brad has retreated back behind the table and is furiously poking at a tablet.

Shari and Derek roll their eyes at each other. I’m getting the sense that Brad is president of the UBA because it means Brad gets to go on informational interviews and talk about being president of the UBA.

“Well anyway,” Shari says just as I reach the front of the line. “Ahem!”

Suddenly Shari’s voice is projecting past the table and out to the gathered crowd. The freshmen stop talking and push toward the front of the table to hear. A hush has fallen at the booths around us, too. I have to admit, Shari’s got some serious crowd-control prowess.

“You guys,” Shari says, beaming out at the rapt group, “I’m so excited to tell you what the UBA board’s decided to do this year! I know you’ll all want to be part of it. You all know that awesome new show The Flighted Ones?”

Lots of people nod. I’ve never watched The Flighted Ones, but my sister Audrey is obsessed with it. It’s about a group of twentysomethings who turn into winged superheroes at night and fly around fighting crime. Two of the characters are gay and are considered hot by the people who have opinions about such things.

“We’ve decided to have official UBA-sponsored Flighted parties every Tuesday night!” Shari says. “We’ll watch the show and have snacks! Everyone will want to come because everyone’s watching the show anyway!”

Next to me, the other freshmen murmur assent.

“Well, but that’s not all you’re doing this year, is it?” I ask.

The murmurs stop. I can feel the other freshmen looking at me. Shari and Derek are, too. Even Brad has lowered the tablet and is peering in my direction.

Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Now, though, with all those eyes on me, I have no choice but to keep going.

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t like cupcakes and cheesy TV shows, because I do, sometimes,” I say. “But there’s also going to be advocacy work, right? We’re going to do stuff to address the key issues affecting the queer community?”

I stop talking when I realize Shari’s glaring at me. I shouldn’t have mentioned the cupcakes.

Great. I haven’t even joined yet and I’ve already pissed off the UBA’s queen bee. I should probably slink off and join the Queer Youth of America, Inc., Harvard-Radcliffe Chapter. I can see their table in the distance. A giant poster of Neil Patrick Harris is hanging from it.

“We need more members,” Shari says to me, not projecting anymore. “If you know a better way to recruit members than fun social gatherings then you can run for the board next year.”

“Now, Shari,” Brad says, chuckling, even though everyone else behind the table looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that—”

Derek interrupts Brad in a voice loud enough to match Shari’s. “Hey, Toni has a point. We have a lot of other goals for this semester. Maybe the officers should each give our prospective new members some of the bullet points?”

Shari groans.

“Derek, that’s an excellent idea,” Brad says, turning back to the tablet screen. “Why don’t you kick us off?”

“Okay,” Derek says. “So, hi, everyone. I’m Derek Richmond, and I’m the cochair for transgender outreach. Now that we’ve got gender-neutral housing campus-wide, my fellow cochair and I thought this would be a good year to work on an official guide to transitioning at Harvard.”

Wow. I’d love to read that. I’ve seen stuff on the internet about transitioning, but it’s mostly about why binding your chest with ACE bandages is bad for you. It isn’t about the scary, big-picture stuff that keeps me up at night, like having to ask my professors to call me by some other name. Or having to tell my mother.

I catch Derek’s eye and nod. Derek smiles.

“So, I’m seeing a few confused faces,” Derek goes on, looking around the table at the other freshmen. “What that means is, we need a guide for transgender students who are transitioning. They could be starting to live openly as women, or as men, or as a nonbinary gender, or making some other change related to their gender presentation. The transition guide will have sections on how to tell your roommates and professors you’re transgender, how to get your name changed on your ID, where to find gender-neutral bathrooms, how to get legal hormone injections, safe places around town to shop for clothes and makeup, whatever. We’ll post the guide on the web and try to get some stories in the Crimson, too.”

The space around the table is getting even more crowded as the freshmen lean in to hear what Derek’s saying, but there are still a lot of blank expressions. I’m so busy watching the crowd I almost miss what Derek says next, but I snap back to attention when I hear my name.

“We could use some help writing the guide from someone who’s new to the Harvard community,” Derek says. “Toni, are you up for it?”

Now everyone’s staring at me again. The other freshmen in particular.

I shift from one foot to the other, but Derek looks perfectly at ease, waiting for me to answer.

It would be stupid to say no. This is as involved in the group as I can get freshman year unless I want to help with cupcake-baking duty. Besides, it sounds interesting.

I wish everyone would stop staring at me, though.

“Sure,” I say.

“Cool,” Derek says. “Why don’t you come back with me after the activities fair? You can meet Nance and we can brainstorm.”

“Excellent idea, Derek,” Brad says without looking up. “I’m sure he’ll have a lot to contribute. Kartik, your turn.”

Kartik, the treasurer, takes over and starts talking about fund-raisers, but half the people gathered on both sides of the table are still looking at me.

I push my way toward the sign-up form and write my name, fast, then back away.

As soon as I’m safely anonymous in the crowd again, my heart starts to slow down. That was terrifying.

Also...kind of awesome.

Now that I’m not nervous anymore, it’s easy to find the other clubs I liked and put my name down on their lists. I sign up for a couple of others, too. Why not? Maybe I should start being more spontaneous now that I’m in college. Maybe that’s how you meet the people who are actually worth meeting.

As the fair winds down, I make my way back to the UBA table. I dodge Shari, who’s sweeping the table clear of cupcake crumbs, just in time to see Derek look over and wave for me to follow.

Whew. I’d been half-worried Derek would forget about me.

We walk across the Yard onto a road I don’t recognize. I’ve never been to any of the houses where the upperclassmen live.

“Will Nance be home when we get there?” I ask as we climb the steps to Derek’s floor. “What about Frisbee?”

“Yeah, she’ll be there,” Derek says. “To be honest, Frisbee was an excuse. Nance hates hanging out with big groups at UBA events. She prefers to handle things behind the scenes.”

That seems odd for someone whose position title has the word outreach in it.

Derek’s house looks a lot like my freshman dorm—old and grand. Loud voices echo toward us as we climb the stairs to Derek’s room.

“Er,” Derek says before turning the key in the lock. “I should probably apologize in advance for anything my roommates might say over the course of the afternoon. Sometimes they get kind of...well. You’ll see.”

With that I’m nervous again.

Derek’s room has a huge common area that’s a lot nicer than mine. It has a bar on one side, a big-screen TV and two leather couches. As the door swings open, I see two people sitting hunched over on a couch in front of the unlit fireplace, arguing about what sounds like the plot of a video game involving toy ponies. When they see me, they stop talking right away.

“Toni,” Derek says, “this is Nance and Eli.”

Nance and Eli wave. Then in unison, as if they rehearsed it, they say, “Yo.”

Then both of them, and Derek, too, start laughing and talking about how funny it is that they both said “Yo” at the same time.

I wave back.

Derek goes over to sit on the couch, perching on the arm and gesturing for me to come join them.

I do. All three of them smile back at me.

They look almost like a family, hanging out here. They remind me of my group of friends back home. Except that in my group of friends back home, I was the only one who was trans.

“Hey,” I say. I try to smile at them as coolly as possible. In this moment, my greatest wish in the world is for the people in this room to like me.

“Toni and I met at the UBA table at the activities fair,” Derek tells the others.

An extremely short Asian person with extremely tall pants stands and slaps my hand. “Hey, man. I’m Eli.” Eli’s voice is very high.

“This is Nance,” Derek says, pointing to the girl who’s still sitting down. “Nance, Toni’s helping us with the transition guide.”

Nance squints at me through a pair of glasses that are almost identical to my own.

“You’re a freshman?” Nance asks in a Southern accent that sounds fake.

“Yep,” I say. “Sorry.”

Eli and Derek laugh.

“S’okay, man. You can’t help it,” Derek says.

I sit down on the couch next to Eli, determined to act as if I fit in here. “What, are you all sophomores?” I ask.

“No way! We look like sophomores to you?” Eli asks.

Eli’s the only one whose gender presentation I can’t figure out. I’m pretty sure Derek’s a trans guy, and I’m pretty sure Nance, whose haircut is almost identical to mine, is a butch lesbian. I can’t tell about Eli, though.

“Sorry, no, you all look really old,” I say, even though Eli looks about nine. All three of them laugh. “Grad students?”

“Juniors,” Nance says, then turns to Derek. “Was tabling as vile as usual?”

Derek shrugs. “Will you guys please at least show up at the next meeting? Don’t make me and Toni fend for ourselves all year.”

I try not to smile, but I’m positively giddy that Derek’s including me this way. As if I’m already part of the group.

“No way,” Nance says. “I put up with those bitches enough as it is. I’m sick of hearing Brad go on and on about how he’s one of the first out gay guys in his final club. It’s like, way to be a groundbreaker. You’re a rich white guy who got a bunch of other rich white guys to let you pay them to be their friend. Five points to Brad.”

Eli laughs. “I might go to a meeting or two. I like free cupcakes.”

“Does Shari make those for all the meetings?” I ask.

“Usually,” Derek says. “She’s gotten good at the food coloring. Every meeting has a different theme. Maybe she won’t make them next time, though, now that you called her out on it.”

“No way!” Nance says. “Did he really?”

It takes me a second to realize Nance is talking about me.

“Yeah, and you should’ve seen it,” Derek says. “Toni opens his mouth once, and Shari’s all over him.”

Okay, now Derek’s doing it, too.

No one’s ever called me by male pronouns before.

It’s strange. Not necessarily bad. It’s...I don’t know what it is, actually.

“So, Toni, what’s your story?” Nance asks. “You got somebody back home?”

“Back home?” Was Nance asking about my parents? I don’t usually rant about my mom to people until I know them better.

“You know, like a girlfriend?” Eli blushes. “I mean, or a boyfriend, or whatever?”

“Oh. Yeah.” A boyfriend? How weird. First the pronouns, now this. It’s been years since anyone thought I was into guys. “My girlfriend goes to NYU.”

“Cool,” Derek says. “Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah.” I try to ignore the familiar twinge of anxiety that’s flared back up in my stomach now that we’re talking about Gretchen and flip through the photos on my phone until I find a good one. “This is us at Queer Prom last year.”

“You had a Queer Prom at your high school?” Nance asks. “Where are you from?”

“DC,” I say.

“Oh,” Nance says. “Figures.”

I want to ask what Nance means by that, but then Eli peers at my phone and whistles like a trucker. Except with Eli’s high-pitched voice it sounds more like a teakettle.

“Nice,” Eli says. “Very nice.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a definite hottie there,” Nance says.

“Uh. Thanks.” I’m not sure whether to be proud or offended. I’m leaning toward proud.

“Yo, guys, don’t be crass,” Derek says, squeezing onto the couch with the rest of us and leaning over to look at the picture. “Show some respect.”

“Hey, man, I have the utmost respect for hotties!” Nance says. Everyone’s laughing, so I do, too. “Ask anyone!”

“That’s not what I heard.” Derek smiles and takes the phone out of Eli’s hand. As Eli reaches over to give it to Derek, I catch a glimpse of a chest binder through Eli’s T-shirt. I guess that means Eli presents as male, too. I wonder if Eli’s definitely trans, like Derek, or still figuring it out, like me.

Nance turns back to me. “Are you going to try to stay with your girlfriend all year? You didn’t want to take a break or anything, what with starting college?”

“‘Taking a break’ is juvenile,” I say, making air quotes. “You’re either with someone or you’re not.”

“Yeah, but freshman year is hard,” Derek says. “Long distance is tough when you haven’t done it before.”

“I know. I’ve heard all the clichés,” I say. “How everyone always breaks up freshman year. I’m just saying they couldn’t have been that committed in the first place if all it takes is some distance to split them up. Besides, Gretchen and I are barely even long distance. New York to Boston is a couple of hours on a train. We can see each other every weekend if we want to.”

“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” Nance mutters. I decide to ignore this.

“Every weekend?” Eli asks. “Are you really going to do that?”

“That’s the plan.” I don’t mention that we skipped last weekend.

“Our friend Andy used to have a girl like that,” Nance says. “She was gorgeous, too. She dumped him, though. She had issues with the trans stuff. You know how it goes with some girls.”

“Is your girlfriend cool with it, Toni?” Eli asks in a soft voice. “Or are you not out to her?”

I can’t imagine keeping such a big secret from someone I care about as much as Gretchen. Is that really normal?

Well, I guess Gretchen kept a pretty big secret from me.

“Gretchen’s very much cool with it,” I say. “We’re completely honest with each other about everything.”

“Hey, you should get her to come up for the Halloween dance so we can meet her,” Derek says. “Since you’ll be visiting back and forth all the time anyway.”

“There’s a Halloween dance?” I ask.

Nance snorts. “Dance isn’t the right word. It’s more of an excuse to dress up in slutwear and drink a ton of alcohol.”

“That works for me,” I say, and the others laugh. Not that Gretchen or I usually drink very much. Gretchen is such a lightweight, and I’m always the one stuck driving.

But I don’t have to drive up here. Everyone walks everywhere at Harvard. I can do what I want here.

I can be who I want.

“Some of the straight guys come in drag,” Derek says. “Mostly it’s respectful, though. It’s supposed to be just for the people in our house, but we can get you guys in.”

“Cool, thanks. I’ll tell Gretchen.”

Nance launches into a story about last year’s Halloween dance and Derek joins in. Soon all of them are rushing to tell me all the best stories from last year, and the details on everyone I met at the UBA table, and all the reasons we shouldn’t be hanging out and talking right now (all four of us have reading we should be doing instead).

Derek and Nance and I don’t do any work on the transition guide, but that’s okay. We have plenty of time.

And I have plenty of time to think about this transitioning stuff on my own, too.