Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (2 page)

I want people to listen—to my show, to me—but if they don’t, I don’t care. I’m playing it anyway.

Paige Bennett is the new Elvis even though She Could Give a Rat’s Ass

Saturday night. I am spacing out in front of VH1 Classic, learning that “Come On Eileen” is the
Top One Hit Wonder of the 80s!
when Paige calls. She’s my BFF and one of the few exceptions to my “don’t talk to people” rule. It never applied to John, even when I first met him, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because he was my neighbor, or maybe because he’s just that kind of friendly dude. Maybe because I saw how many crates of records and CDs he’d moved into his house. Even when I was ten I was a music fiend, but just about hip-hop.

She’s bored, I can tell. “Can I come over and do homework with you?”

“Why the hell would you want to do homework on a Saturday night?” Even Paige and her 3.9 GPA don’t do homework on Saturday night. Not like I was planning to do much of anything anyway. “And where’s Bobby X?” He’s Paige’s boyfriend.

She sniffs. “Grounded.”

“You can ground seniors?”

“His parents are strict.”

I laugh. “So I’m the alternative?”

“I’m bringing toenail polish.”

“Oh, please.” I hang up.

Paige constantly tries to spruce me up, though not usually with toenail polish, because she claims I’m a fashion zero, which is true. She, on the other hand, is a fashionista, a true believer in
Vogue
,
Cosmo
, and eBay for purchasing those fashion bargains. She’s rather Gwen Stefani, even down to the occasional set of bright red lips, and I have no idea why she talks to me except that we’ve been best friends since kindergarten. She was a fashionista even then. Her desk was next to mine, and there was always pink hanging out of it because she tied long pink ribbons on her pencils. Every other kid thought it was strange, but I admired her ability to match her pencils to her outfits. Pink is still her color, followed closely by purple.

By the second week of elementary school, I was already sure I was a freak, since I’d tried to line up with the boys one day and everyone laughed at me. Talking to Paige was a big move. The day I did it, she had six ribbons in her hair, three ribbons on each shoe, and a big fat plaid ribbon around the waist of her jeans. I’m not sure why I noticed or counted, but I remember those thirteen ribbons very clearly.

I walked up to her and tugged on a ribbon. “Nobody else has these. How come?”

“I don’t know. I like them.” Paige took one out of her hair and handed it to me. “Would you like one?”

“No thanks.” My hair was the shortest pixie cut possible. My mom wouldn’t let me use the clippers on it, like Dad did to his, but it was almost like David Hansen’s, the kid who sat under the flag and picked his nose.

Paige looked entirely puzzled. “Why not?”

“My hair’s too short, and the ribbon’s too pink.”

“Okay.” Paige tied the ribbon back in her hair and that was that. Nerdy loner and popular girl, BFFs from kindergarten through graduation. Don’t ask me why, because it doesn’t make sense.

Kids started picking on me around third grade, when that social thing started kicking in and the packs got defined. I never fought back, but if Paige was around, she’d chase them off. And it’s not like they knew the truth—they just knew I was a butchy girl who’d rather climb the jungle gym and play football than stand around and whisper. When we got to high school and everyone was focused on Friday night hookups, people would shout things like, “Hey, Liz, try some dick, you might like it!” And Paige would yell, “Stick it in your mouth!”

She looks at what I’m wearing—jeans, sweatshirt—and she sniffs. “Old Spice?”

“For that manly touch. May I be your man this evening? The man your man could smell like?” I stand back to let her in.

She’s not amused. “No thank you.”

We sit down at the table after we’ve taken two Mike’s Hard Lemonades from my mom’s stash, and the history papers get started. But my mind isn’t here, because I wasn’t kidding. I’ve wanted to be Paige’s man since March, when I told her about Gabe. Before then, being her man was just an idea, and not one I’d let myself think about. Everybody knows you’re not supposed to fall in love with your best friend. But now that Gabe is out, circumstances have changed. At least I hope they have.

I’m so insane. She would kill me if she knew. Bam. Dead on the floor.

I don’t let her see, but I look at her hair. I don’t know how girls manage to make it look messy and sexy at the same time, but hers is pulled into this bun thing, with spikes and escaping pieces, and she’s adorable.

She sniffs again without looking up from her laptop. “The Old Spice is over the top. You smell like my uncle.”

“You didn’t have to come over. You can always hang out with Allison and Marta.” Allison and Marta are her secondary friends, as she calls them. She says I’m her primary.

“But hanging out with you is nice, like hanging with Jack during break.” Jack’s her brother who’s in college in Wisconsin.

“How am I like Jack?” He’s a jock, on a soccer scholarship, and women wait in line to be with him.

“You play video games, throw crap on the floor, eat like a pig, hit me when you’re mad. You always have. And you have the ultimate male accessory.”

“Awesome stereotypes, and condoms aren’t accessories. Everybody got them for Safe Sex Week. There was a huge box by the principal’s office.”

Paige arches one eyebrow at me. “Please. Only men have Zippos, and only weird men have Zippos with
ELVIS LIVES
on the side. Only fantastically weird men have Zippos when they don’t smoke.” She goes back to her laptop. “Get back to work. I didn’t come over here to goof around.”

“Yes you did.”

“Whatever.”

But my mind is done with homework. I spend more time watching her out of the corner of my eye. She chews her pen and types at the same time. Adorable.

She didn’t study for her trig final last week and got the highest score in the class. She can eat a whole package of Oreos with me and not bitch about how she shouldn’t have done that, she’s too fat, now her clothes won’t fit. And she has my back. When you get down to it, that’s what matters.

“What?” Paige catches me.

“I didn’t say anything.” I grab a book and flip through it, because I think I’m blushing.

“No, you sighed, like really loud. What’s wrong?”

Oh god. “Nothing.”

She glares again and goes back to her screen. I start reading the book for real. John Quincy Adams, here I am. Save me from thinking about Paige.

About an hour later, she shuts her computer and throws her books back into her bag. “I’m done. I’m fried.” A weird comment, because studying is like breathing to her. In the fall she’s going to the University of Minnesota on an accelerated program for pre-med students, and they want people to start studying in the summer. And she’s excited about it.

She goes and gets two more Mike’s from the fridge. Hopefully my mom will forget how many were in there. “Let’s talk, shall we?” She flops onto the couch and props her feet on the coffee table.

I sit down far away from her. “I did my first radio show last night.” She knew I was planning it, but I didn’t tell her when it was going to start.

“YOU DID? You butthead! Why didn’t you tell me? Did you suck?” Paige hates to be left out, and she throws a magazine at me for emphasis.

“According to John, I was fantastic.”

“What time was it? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“It was a … solitary journey. So to speak.”

She’s pissed. “John was with you! That’s not solitary. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” She likes John all right, but she thinks it’s dumb we hang out so much. He needs friends of his own, she says, and he has some. But none of them are radio people. And none of them treat music like a religion—or a drug.

“You can listen next time, and I’ll take you along some night. It’s not like I’m going to stop any time soon. It’s Friday night at midnight, by the way—or Saturday morning at midnight, whichever it is.”

She sighs. “See if you’re my primary anymore. Speaking of that, what’re we doing for fun this summer?”

“Driving around and listening to music.”

“We’re not just doing that. We’re shopping and going to Valleyfair and clubbing.”

“You don’t know I’ll go to Valleyfair with you.” It’s an amusement park, and I can’t say I like danger, even fake danger.

“And you need to get a job.” Her Mike’s gets gulped, then Paige burps the first line of “Jingle Bells.” She’s a better belcher than I am. “I’m not going to support your ass.”

She works at Video Rewind, and I’m not sure why they don’t change the name, except that “DVD Rewind” doesn’t have the same ring to it. It’s a big sore spot with my parents that I don’t have a job, but working with a nametag that says
Liz
would be torture, and I’m not sure getting a job as Gabe is possible.

“I would never ask you to support my ass. Shouldn’t you go home and quit bugging me?”

She takes a big gulp again. “No. And not to change the subject, but does John know you’re trans?”

“Not yet.” Big scary B side track.

“Are you Gabe on the air?”

“Music makes me happy, being Gabe makes me happy. They had to match up somewhere. And speaking of names, it
cannot
get out at school that I’m Gabe. Too complicated.”

“Didn’t John ask you who Gabe was?”

“I didn’t say it when he was around.” I have no guts when it comes to John. If he rejects me, I’ll lose my dealer, and I’m way too addicted for that.

“Oh please! He loves you like a granddau … grandson.” Sometimes she slips. “He’ll get used to it, just like everyone else has.”

“We’ll see.”

“You have to tell him.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, you do.” She sounds pissed. “You have to get on with it, even if you’re scared.” Then she softens a little. “If you don’t tell him, you’ll still be in limbo. Haven’t you been in between for long enough?”

She leaves the room, and I hear the bathroom door shut. I know she’s right. I promised myself I’d get on the Gabe road for good after high school. But sometimes I want a detour, to some place like Antarctica where people wear so many layers of clothes that nobody cares who you are.

I hear the flush and the water in the sink. When she comes out, she’s smoothing her hair, trying to look good for her fans. If she had fans. “If you don’t tell him, I won’t help you with your term paper that’s due next week for anatomy.”

She knows I need her help. Bad. “I’ll tell him.”

She stops smoothing. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Paige’s hug is immediate and fierce, and when she pulls back, she looks me square in the eye. “You are up to this challenge, and you’re safe with him. You know that.” She hugs me one more time. “That’s why I hang out with you—you’ve got guts. You’re a beast.”

I push her away. “Oh yeah, that’s me. A beast. Now scram, why don’t you? I’ve gotta figure out a strategy and you’re cluttering up my energy.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s play with the Kinect.”

We start playing this pop-the-bubble game, but my brain’s already working on ways to drop the gender bomb on my hero, so I’m sucking wind and she’s killing bubbles like a ninja.

“So what do I say? ‘Uh, hi, John, I’m really a guy’? What about, ‘Hey, John, you thought I was a girl, but silly you, I’m not’?” I pop three more bubbles while Paige pops ten. Pathetic.

“What did you say to your folks? ‘Hi, Mom and Dad. I’m a trans guy, and my name is Gabe.’ Or some variation of that. This is your life, dude. Your LIFE.”

“If he stops being my friend, it’s your fault.”

“That won’t happen.” The smile she gives me is gentle. “You’re his protégé. He won’t care if you say you’re a Siamese cat, as long as you hang on every one of his brilliant thoughts.”

“Whatever.”

When I look at her, sometimes I think I see the word
IMPOSSIBLE
printed on her forehead. Not her, exactly, though she’s plenty difficult. Us. Romantically. We’re impossible. But I still dream about it.

Sunday night, and Paige comes over for family dinner, which doesn’t happen much, but my parents think of her like another daughter so she’s always invited. Wait until they find out she’s a daughter-in-law, ha ha yeah right whatever. John’s over, too, which is an every-week thing. My mom likes to cook for him.

Sunday night dinner is a huge deal around here. It practically takes a signed note from the President to get out of it. Since Gabe arrived in March, jail time for treason would be better. Sometimes we go out, but tonight it’s pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade bread, and strawberry shortcake. I wouldn’t say my mom is Suzy Homemaker, but sometimes she gets close.

Tonight my seventeen-year-old brother Pete tells us about his new job at Target—he’s a backroom guy in sporting goods and outdoor stuff, but sometimes kids’ toys and games—and Mom and Dad nod along, like he’s telling them he’s discovered a new use for nuclear waste. John and Paige listen politely.

“Pass the bread, please,” I ask quietly during one of Pete’s pauses, but he still glares.