The Other Me Part 29

SAt.u.r.dAY AFTERNOON AFTERNOON, Dad sits in front of the TV with a beer and biltong, watching an SABC special on Hansie Cronje. It's depressing. I can't watch a guy hailed as a national hero reduced to regrets and apologies. Dad sits in front of the TV with a beer and biltong, watching an SABC special on Hansie Cronje. It's depressing. I can't watch a guy hailed as a national hero reduced to regrets and apologies.

Mom's baking. Again. We got pancakes for breakfast, cheese scones for second breakfast, and there's apple crumble coming for tea. I could help her, I should, but she'll ask about last night, and I don't want to lie. My heart is a chunk of rock. Part of me wants to call Gabriel and tell him it's okay that I poured my guts out to him and he just walked away, that I understand his confusion and anger. Another part of me wants to tell him he was a total jerk for leaving me there alone.

So he's not perfect. What is perfection, anyway? I never meant he was perfect in some grand ideal kind of way, just that he was perfect to me.

I retreat to my bedroom and switch out the Marilyn Manson CD for something that won't make me think of Gabriel. That doesn't leave much. Anything with lyrics is out, since no matter what heartbreaking situation the singer might be on about, it'll be about Gabriel to me. Beethoven and anything with piano is clearly out. Karl Jenkins and anything choir related is out. Resigned, I sit in silence and stare at my computer screen.

"I'M NOT NOT gay," Resa said as he did up the b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rt. Tristan still lay in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin. Resa was leaving again. He never stayed the night. Once he got what he wanted, he left. gay," Resa said as he did up the b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rt. Tristan still lay in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin. Resa was leaving again. He never stayed the night. Once he got what he wanted, he left.

"Doesn't having s.e.x with boys by very definition make you gay?"

"You sound so human," Resa sneered. "Needing a label for everything. We are what we are."

"You just said what you're not."

Resa glared at Tristan as he pulled on his pants, slowly, deliberately making Tristan watch. Resa toyed with him, and Tristan let him.

"I'm not gay or straight or anything. I don't have to fit into a box."

"So what are we, then? Boyfriends, lovers, friends with benefits?"

Resa grinned and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "What does it matter?"

Tristan twisted the duvet in his fist, feeling so vulnerable, naked under the covers with Resa's lizard-green gaze focused on him.

"I love you. More than a fellow Kazarian, more than brothers. I love you, Resa."

Resa laughed, a deep belly rumble that made Tristan's blood freeze in his veins. "Of course you do." Resa smirked and opened his arms. "How could you not?"

"You might seem like the perfect guy, Resa. On the surface, at least. But I know your darkest secrets, and I still love you."

"I'm flattered." Resa shoved his arms into his jacket. "But that doesn't make you a romantic, Tristan. It makes you a fool."

Resa flung open the door and stepped into the cool of the night, leaving Tristan cowering under the covers. He was alone on a hostile planet billions of miles away from home, with no one but Resa to love him back.

THE PHONE PHONE rings, and I save the doc.u.ment, not sure if that scene is worth keeping. I glare at Liam St. Clare's impeccable face as I answer with a desultory h.e.l.lo. rings, and I save the doc.u.ment, not sure if that scene is worth keeping. I glare at Liam St. Clare's impeccable face as I answer with a desultory h.e.l.lo.

"Hey, Ree. How you doing?"

For several long moments, I battle to breathe. Jordan was the last person I expected to call.

"Treasa, you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"You drop the phone or something?" She sounds way too cavalier.

"Jordan, I don't even know where to begin."

"Save it. Honestly. I'm so over this whole St. Bridget's debacle. Between the parking lot skinder about my mom and comments about me being a s.l.u.t, I'm actually kind of glad to be leaving it all behind."

"You are? All of it?"

She sighs. "I know you think you're to blame for all this, but you're really not."

"I wrote the note to Hannah."

"Ja, and that cow would've probably trashed my art anyway. I don't regret smacking her either. I only regret Gabriel stopping me before I got the chance to really pull some moves on her."

"Jordan." Again, I sound like my mother using that warning tone.

"What? They going to expel me again?"

I migrate from my desk to the bed and splay my fingers in Riker's fur. "Candyce told me."

"About?"

"The time she kissed you." Silence on the line. "Jordan?"

"Ja, I'm here. Just thinking. Would've been so much easier to just come out about everything at the time. Then none of this would've happened," she says.

"Candyce says she's lesbian."

"Good for her."

"Are you?"

Jordan takes another minute to answer. "I don't think so. I mean, kissing girls isn't weird to me, but I like kissing boys, and to be honest, while I don't mind kissing girls, it doesn't really turn me on like kissing boys does."

"Oh, okay."

"No offense, Ree."

"None taken." We sit in comfortable silence for a bit. Riker purrs, his whole body vibrating beneath my fingertips. That's how being around Gabriel makes me feel, like every atom in my body is quivering with energy.

"So what's up with you not being at school? I heard you cut your hair."

"There's something I need to talk to you about."

"I'm listening."

I should tell her face-to-face, but this way is easier. At least I won't have to see her face twist in disgust or confusion like Gabriel's did. The words come out in a stammering ramble as I struggle to explain everything that's happened the past few days and why.

"Gender dysphoria," Jordan says. "Dysphoria, it's a really beautiful word. Good name for a band too."

I smile despite the tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g in my eyes. I'm so sick of crying. All this snot 'n' trane snot 'n' trane doesn't change a d.a.m.n thing anyway. doesn't change a d.a.m.n thing anyway.

"So what do you think?" I ask.

"I think you should take this slow. You're not talking about piercing your ears or dying your hair here. You have to be 100 percent certain you want this."

"I know." My voice breaks a little. "Mom's taking me to see someone on Monday."

"You're not going back to school?"

"No, not until I've figured this all out. I'm done pretending I'm someone I'm not."

"I wish I'd been as brave as you back when Candyce kissed me. None of this would've happened if I'd just been honest, but it totally freaked me out. Initially. Now, I mean, like, whatever, right?" Jordan says.

"And what about Gabriel?"

"Give him time, Ree. You dropped one h.e.l.l of a load on the guy. He's in shock."

I didn't tell Jordan what Gabriel confided in me about his mom. As for the fact that his dad hits him or that he burns himself-I can't even begin to process that information. My dad gets upset if he kills an earthworm. I can't imagine him ever being so enraged that he'd lift a finger, let alone a hand, to Mom or me. Dad is a placid lake. Mom is a tornado, but she bakes and keeps it under control. As for Gabriel hurting himself.... My stomach clenches as I think about the dark place he must be in to want to do that to himself.

"Hey, earth to Treasa." Jordan singsongs down the line.

"Sorry." Time to change the topic. "So what are you doing about school?"

"Urgh, it's a pain. Stormhof is the only place that'll take me immediately. St. Anne's and the Collegiate can only let me start next term."

"At least Stormhof is coed."

"Like I need more drama in my life," Jordan chuckles. "But maybe having boys in the cla.s.s to balance out the b.i.t.c.hiness wouldn't be so bad."

"What about the NSA?"

"Nah, I love art, but I want to be an actuary, so what's the point of going to some fancy art school?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you too." Jordan's voice catches, betraying the tough-cookie guise she likes to wear.

"You still grounded?"

"For life, I reckon, but if you want to come hang out tomorrow, I'm sure I could twist my mom's arm."

I promise to check with my folks and hang up. My heart doesn't feel like a rock anymore, more like a gloopy mess that might actually rea.s.semble itself into a working organ someday. One thing at a time. First, see the psychologist and deal with the fact that I was born the wrong gender.

Gabriel

SEEING MY MY dad break down like that was profoundly disturbing. He's always been the unbreakable rugby oke, the guy who gets bloodied in the scrum and goes on to score a try. I never thought I'd see him cry, I didn't think he had tears in him. dad break down like that was profoundly disturbing. He's always been the unbreakable rugby oke, the guy who gets bloodied in the scrum and goes on to score a try. I never thought I'd see him cry, I didn't think he had tears in him.

We stayed up until 4:00 a.m., poring over pictures of Mom. He told me stories I haven't heard in years, some I've never heard, like the time he stole his dad's car to take her to the drive-in when they were teenagers and reversed into a speaker pole.

Sometime around 1:00 a.m., I caught a glimpse of the guy my mom must've fallen in love with, the big softy under the Kevlar exterior. There's a whole other side to my dad, not that having discovered he actually has a heart miraculously changes things between us. This is still the guy who tore up my university application forms and who refuses to listen to me play piano.

We both sleep late this morning and tumble into the kitchen in search of coffee just before noon. I slept through thirteen calls from Nathan and send him an apologetic SMS for missing the self-defense cla.s.s. I wonder if Treasa went.

"Vetkoek?" Dad asks, already busy with a pan and oil.

"Dad, can I talk to you about something?"

His gaze flicks down to the nail polish I haven't managed to sc.r.a.pe off all my fingers.

"For the last flipping time, I'm not gay, all right?"

"Doesn't make wearing that c.r.a.p okay." He brandishes the frying pan.

"Fine." I pick up a photo of Mom. The letters are packed up in the shoe box under my bed again. The photos, Dad wanted to leave out. He hasn't decided whether he can handle having them up again, but at least he's acknowledging Mom existed.

"You wanted to talk?" He squirts oil into the pan.

How do I broach the subject of Treasa with him? G.o.d, I wish Mom was here. "I met this girl," I start. "She goes to St. Bridget's."

That piques Dad's curiosity as he prepares the dough.

"She's a little strange."

"Stranger than that pierced girl you brought home?" He never liked Karla. I think he tolerated her only because he was relieved I hadn't brought "Karl" home.

"A little."

Dad's face creases, and he bites his tongue, concentrating on rounding the dough b.a.l.l.s into similar shapes. The dough sizzles as it hits the oil, and the aroma of vetkoek fills the kitchen.

"Okay, strange how?" he asks.

"She...." I get up and go to the fridge, ransacking the shelves in search of apricot jam and cheddar. "She...." I can't have this conversation with the man who thinks my wearing nail varnish is indicative of my s.e.xual preference.

"What? Ag, bliksem." Dad leaps back from the pan as the boiling oil hits his bare arm.

"She sings, soprano, like Mom." It's not what I wanted to say, but last night didn't suddenly make us best friends. Dad serves a dripping vetkoek onto a plate and pa.s.ses it across the kitchen table to me.