Luna Page 7

  Liam was speaking, but I could barely hear him. I deamped the volume on Dana.

  “. . . and I found all kinds of history on TG’s. For instance, did you know in ancient Greece and Rome, Philo writes about men transforming into women?”

  TG’s. Transgenders. “Well, yeah. Everyone reads Philo.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by all these piles of printouts. “And King Henry the Third of France was referred to as sa majesté. Her majesty. Abbé de Choisy in the seventeenth century actually wrote, ‘I thought myself really and truly a woman.’ Then there’s Joan of Arc.”

  “Joan of Arc was a man?” My eyes bulged.

  Liam tilted his head. “In her mind,” he said. “There’s enough evidence to suggest it.”

  Wow. I never considered that girls could be transgender. I dropped my backpack on his bed and slid down beside him. I wondered, too, what his sudden interest in history was all about. “Why are you researching TG’s?” I asked. “I mean, why now?”

  “Why not now? One day I’m going to be a part of history.”

  My heart sped up. Did he mean he was going to be history?

  “Lots of Native American tribes pass down stories about trans people,” Liam babbled on, “the Mohave, Navaho, Pueblo. They accept, even embrace, females who are men, and vice versa. ‘Two-spirit’ people, they call them. Did you know in the Yuman Indians there were groups of people called Elxa who actually underwent a ‘change of spirit’? Isn’t that cool?”

  My mind was reeling. I glanced at the page of text Liam was reciting from. He’d highlighted sections, starred names of famous people. Dana International. Oh. She was trans. I never understood why he liked her so much.

  “Mick Jagger says he cross-dresses at home.”

  I frowned at Liam. “Does that make him trans?”

  Liam shrugged. “You never know. It’s not either or. There are shades of gray to people’s gender.”

  “I know that.”

  “Ru Paul,” he said.

  “Ru Paul? I thought he was a drag queen.”

  “Maybe. Probably. But she is beautiful.”

  “Is that what you want to be, a drag queen?” God, was Luna going to be on stage? Performing?

  Liam said, “We’re not all so gifted. I just want to blend in. And look.” Liam got all excited. “I found these testimonials from TG’s who’re transitioning. What they’re going through. It’s me, exactly me, same as me.” He grabbed another stack of printouts that he’d set aside on his treasure chest. That’s what he called it — the locked steamer trunk that contained his life. His desired life. The girl clothes. The makeup. He’d even wired the trunk with an alarm system.

  “There’s this one T-girl, Teri Lynn, who transitioned a couple of years ago. She calls it ‘remaking herself.’ She’s following the Harry Benjamin standards to the letter so she can have her SRS next year.”

  “Her what? Wait. Who’s Harry Benjamin?” He was addressing me as if I was on his level, his plane.

  “Harry Benjamin,” Liam repeated. “The Benjamin standards. You know, the steps you have to go through before you can get your SRS.”

  “Slow down, Liam. You lost me. SRS?” I picked up a Web page and skimmed over it. “Welcome to the Gender Identity Center,” it said at the top.

  Liam touched my shoulder. “Sorry. I should keep you filled in on the lingo. SRS: Sex Reassignment Surgery.”

  I dropped the page. My brain engaged. “You mean a sex change operation?”

  His smile extended across his face. Her face. Luna’s eyes grew dreamy. “Oh, Re. It’s all I’ve ever wanted my whole life. You know that.”

  No, I didn’t know that. How could I know that? My eyes fell from her face and grazed the floor, unseeing. I couldn’t look at her. Why did this shock me? Because I never allowed myself to go there.

  Transition. Is that what it meant? An actual, physical transition? A sex change operation?

  Liam gathered the printouts together. On the fingerpad he’d installed atop his treasure chest, he pressed a series of numbers and letters. The latch released and he lifted the lid. He set the stack of papers inside, dug out a leather purse and a tapestry bag. The tapestry bag looked familiar. Wasn’t that Mom’s?

  Liam said, “Which of these look more everyday?”

  A wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed to my feet.

  “Re?”

  “Neither. Both. They’re fine,” I mumbled, lurching for the door.

  He called to my back, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Don’t desert him, my brain screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t let him down. Don’t let him know.

  He asked more softly, “You understand, don’t you?”

  I stopped in the threshold, my eyes squeezing shut. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Holding my stomach, I opened my eyes and forced a smile over my shoulder. “Well, yeah,” I lied. “Of course.”

  Chapter 9

  “This experiment involves two potentially dangerous chemicals. The first is potassium permanganate, a strong oxidizing agent that will react quickly with skin and clothing. The second is sulfuric acid, which is caustic and corrosive. Wash off spills of either solution with large amounts of water. Goggles must be worn at all times. Any questions?” Bruchac cleaned his nerd glasses with his Tweety Bird tie.

  Chris handed me my goggles. “You should probably leave the handling of all dangerous chemicals to me,” he intoned in a deep voice. “Since I’m the man.”

  Yesterday I might’ve smacked him. Or laughed. Today? What difference did it make? The world was all wrong, skewed, out of natural orbit. We could never be close. Not that he’d want to be.

  “Fill a Beral pipet with commercial hydrogen peroxide and label it,” I read from the lab instructions.

  “Hey, Garazzo. You coming to tryouts after school?” a voice sounded beside Chris. This senior I didn’t know had stalled at our station on his way in. Ten minutes late. Bruchac was scorching the back of his letter jacket with a glare.

  Chris said, “You know it, man. Think Hewitt will let me start? Or am I going to be warming the bench this year?”

  “Mr. Atchinson, you’re late,” Bruchac announced to the universe. “This is the second time. Three strikes and you’re out.”

  Atchinson’s eyes slit. Against his chest, he flipped Bruchac the bird.

  “Mr. Atchinson —”

  “Got it, Coach,” he gave Bruchac a thumbs up, and took off for his station.

  I resumed reading the instructions.

  Chris said, “Isn’t this the stuff you use to bleach your hair?” He unscrewed the lid on the hydrogen peroxide bottle and sniffed it. “I could streak you.” He clamped a hand down over my head like a helmet. “One long strip, right down the back. Skunky.”

  I wrenched away.

  He looked hurt. “Just messing with you, Regan.”

  My name, from his lips. It still made my heart leap. “I know. I’m sorry.” I smiled. Relaxed a little. Let down my invisibility shield. It was probably good we’d never get together. He’d never have to know.

  As we set up the experiment to prove or disprove the percentage of hydrogen peroxide claimed by the manufacturer on the bottle, Chris counted out loud the drops he was adding to the beaker, “Fourteen, fifteen ... so, you want to go?”

  I uncapped the sulfuric acid. “Where?” Tipped the bottle.

  “To the rave.”

  I had a grand mal seizure. The muscle spasm in my head caused my hand to jerk the acid bottle and sulfuric acid splashed all over my arm.

  Like a silent movie, Chris’s face registered horror. My mouth opened and a gasp escaped. It didn’t hurt, at first. Then the intensity grew and my arm began to burn. I felt myself slipping into a catatonic state — shock.

  I gaped at my skin as it bleached white and started to bubble. Did I scream?

  “Mr. Bruchac!” Chris bellowed. “Come here, quick.” Chris grabbed my wrist and screeched on t
he faucet, shoving my hand under the gushing cold water.

  Bruchac arrived just in time to witness my resurrection from the dead. The scream was real this time. Eardrums shattered. A torrent of tears gushed from my eyes as I whimpered and gulped for air.

  “Take it easy. You’re going to live,” Bruchac said. He had to raise his voice to get through to me. Chris held my arm under the cold water. “For heaven’s sake, calm yourself.” Bruchac clamped a claw around my upper arm.

  After a couple of minutes, my hand went numb. The crying ebbed and I managed to regain my composure, sort of. Bruchac examined my wrist, where most of the damage was done. “I have an antibiotic cream in the cabinet. Hold on.” His voice sounded far away, in a beaker. Was I fainting?

  “Regan, you okay?”

  I blinked at the voice. Chris had my arm in a vise grip, his face as green as I felt.

  I nodded. Loosening his fingers, I wiggled mine, trying to return circulation to my limb.

  He laid my hand in his, examining my arm. My wrist. Then he did a weird thing. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm.

  I died. That was like the sweetest thing.

  The damage was minimal. No skin grafts or wrappings required. For the rest of the day, though, I cradled my hand to my heart. Protective, like. Not because it hurt; just to cherish the feel of Chris’s soft lips against my skin.

  I dreamed about him that night. We were in a canoe floating down a river. The weather was warm, balmy, and we both wore white. Chris had on a white shirt, white pants, white shoes. I wore an alabaster gown. Moonlight shimmered the glassy surface of the water, reflecting off our clothes, our faces, giving us an aura, a glow. Chris held one oar, I the other, and we were rowing in perfect harmony. Strains of La Bohème drifted out from the wooded shore. We rowed and sang, rowed and sang —

  The music cut out.

  “Re, help me.”

  My eyes flew open. Beside my bed, Luna burst into tears.

  It took a minute to 1) wake up fully because I didn’t want my dream to end, and 2) calm Luna down. She was crying so hard, she was hyperventilating.

  “What happened?” She seemed fine earlier. Liam was no different at breakfast — total boy role — except he had gone to school. I’d seen him entering the media center on my way to History. “Luna?”

  She sniffled. Slumping at the edge of my mattress, she sobbed, “He made me do it. I-I didn’t want to do it, but he made me.” Heaving uncontrollably, she cried into her hands.

  “Who made you?” I asked, scrambling out of my twisted sheet to sit up beside her. “Who made you do what?”

  Luna’s shoulders shook. “Dad,” she whimpered.

  Dad. I looped an arm around her waist. “What’d he do now?”

  “He m-made me try out.” Luna gulped a breath and straightened. “He actually came to school and met me after class. I didn’t think he even knew my schedule.” She wiped her nose. “I suppose he could’ve gotten it from the office.”

  What was she talking about? “Try out for what?”

  She blinked at me, eyelashes glommed with tears. “Baseball.”

  Oh God.

  “He forced me to go out there and pitch,” she said flatly. “And he sat in the bleachers the whole time, so I couldn’t leave.”

  Silently I cursed Dad. Not so silently.

  “Oh, Re,” Luna breathed audibly, holding my eyes. “I have to transition. I don’t care how much it costs. I have to transition now.”

  I dropped my arm behind her back. “How much does it cost?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean money.”

  What other costs were there?

  “You have to help me,” she said; pleaded.

  “Help? How?” Did she expect me to perform the surgery? I’m sure.

  “I’ll start slow, start presenting myself. Dress in public. How do you think I should go about it?”

  “Why are you asking me?” My chest constricted. I didn’t know anything. Don’t do this.

  Luna shifted so she’d be more balanced on the bed, more direct, one knee bent underneath her. She took my hands in hers and rested them on her thighs. “Because I trust you, Re. I trust you with my life.”

  Don’t! I screamed inside. All these years I’d been her confidante, I’d kept the secret. But that was no reason to trust me so completely.

  She was gazing at me, hard. I couldn’t look at her.

  “You just want to dress in public?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, inching away from her.

  “Yes. I want to be me.”

  If that was all ...I pulled my hands from hers and pushed off the bed. Slogging through the crap on my floor, I trudged to my desk, which was now Luna’s little corner of heaven, and picked up a tube of lipstick. “Well, I think it’d be easier if you dressed for strangers.” I pulled off the top. Maroon. Not my color. What was my color? “I mean, you wouldn’t be risking so much.

  Like, if they couldn’t accept that you were trans, so what? You wouldn’t have to deal with them knowing who you are — were. Before. You know, being Liam.”

  “The actor,” she said. “The hologram.”

  “Whatever. They wouldn’t have to get past that.”

  “It’d give me a chance to feel comfortable in public, too. In the daylight.”

  The daylight? My head whipped around. Could she sense my panic? She seemed to emit a glow as she smiled and added, “You are so smart, Re. So. Smart.”

  “Oh, right.” I turned back. Compared to Liam I was a stem cell.

  “Where shall we go?” Luna asked. “And when?”

  “I don’t know.” I set the lipstick down. Did she need all these colors? “We could hang out at the mall, maybe. Not our mall,” I added quickly. “Another one, waaay across town.” My arm flew out to the side to indicate distance. Lots of distance. “We could go shopping.”

  “Shopping,” Luna repeated. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of going shopping with you?”

  She had? I didn’t know that. I didn’t go shopping all that often. Only when Aly needed something and none of her friends was available. Aly had other friends besides me. Seniors, of course. People her age, her people. Shopping seemed such a small dream to have.

  “When?” Luna asked.

  “Huh?” I’d checked out. I was so tired. I wanted my own dream back, the one with Chris and the canoe.

  “Tomorrow,” Luna said.

  “No, I have school. You’ve heard of it. People go there to learn? To engineer their own destinies?”

  She didn’t smile. “After school?”

  What was tomorrow? Thursday? Was it already tomorrow? “I have to work,” I told her. David and Elise were starting this yoga class together, thank Buddha. They needed me.

  “When, Re? When can we go?” The desperation in Luna’s voice hurt my heart.

  “Saturday,” I said. “No, wait. I have to work then, too.”

  I caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Total devastation. But I couldn’t help it. David and Elise had asked if I could sit while they went skiing. It was an all-day gig. I didn’t need the money so much as ...I wanted to go. I needed my “real” family fix.

  “What about Saturday night?” Luna asked. “How late are the malls open?”

  Like I knew. “Probably nine, at least.”

  She waited.

  Saturday night would work for me. It’d give me a couple of days to prepare. For what, I wasn’t sure. “I won’t get home until six, probably, depending on where David and Elise decide to go skiing.”

  Luna jumped to her feet and sailed across the room. She lifted me bodily from the chair and hugged me. She held me so close her joy rippled through my bones.

  Okay, this wouldn’t be so bad. Bunch of strangers. Saturday night. Who went to the mall on Saturday night? Besides every girl in the world looking to pick up guys. This according to Aly.

  I quelled my rising terror. We’d just be two girls out shopping. Who would notice? Who would care?
Who would even look at us twice?

  “Ms. O’Neill, will you please come to the front of the room?” Bruchac crooked a finger at me. Chris was just looping a leg over his stool, having rushed in at the late bell on the heels of Atchinson. I hadn’t even had time to say, “Hi. Do you know where we can rent a canoe?”

  “Ms. O’Neill?”

  Did Bruchac want me to come up there, or what?

  “Today would be good.” He tapped his watch.

  I backed off my stool, almost toppling it. Chris caught the seat. He frowned a little, like, What’s going on?

  Like I knew. Everyone stopped what they were doing to gawk at me. Stare at me. Follow me with their eyes.

  I felt naked as I weaved through the lab stations, my pulse racing. What was Bruchac plotting?

  He motioned me up beside him. “If you would please show the class your arm, Ms. O’Neill. Enlighten them about the consequences of unfortunate mishaps such as spilling sulfuric acid on yourself.”

  Unfortunate mishaps? I was considering giving my other arm an acid bath today. My wrist was still a little red, the skin splotchy white and bubbly in spots, but it didn’t hurt.

  “Ms. O’Neill, if you please. Your audience awaits.” Bruchac swept a dramatic arm out to the side.

  Jerk. Ten on the A.B.S. Screw you, I thought. I crossed my arms over my chest self-consciously. Take the hint.

  “I spilled the acid,” Chris’s voice echoed from the back.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Continue the lover’s spat outside of class,” Bruchac sniped. “This is the kind of accident I’ve warned you about. This is what can happen when you’re not paying attention. These are toxic chemicals, girls. Play with fire and you will get burned.”

  I almost made a crack about getting him burned for sexual discrimination. Add jail time for violating my personal right to suffer in silence. Speaking would only prolong my agony up here, though. I started back to my seat.