The Other Me Part 30

"Nice girl?" he asks.

"I think so."

"You're young, Gabriel. Women are complicated." He turns back to the stove, having delivered his pearls of wisdom, which help not one bit. I demolish four vetkoek before hurtling out of the house and over to Dirk's.

DIRK SAYS SAYS nothing as we traipse to the koppie at the back of the park. He's p.i.s.sed with me for bailing on him at the gig. I owe him an apology and an explanation. nothing as we traipse to the koppie at the back of the park. He's p.i.s.sed with me for bailing on him at the gig. I owe him an apology and an explanation.

We settle on the sun-warmed rocks, scattering lizards from our shadows. It's late afternoon, the sun dipping toward the horizon, streaking the gathering c.u.mulus with purple and orange. A ruckus of red-billed hoopoes swoop into a nearby cypress, their raucous calls disturbing the tranquility of the park. Dirk winces and ma.s.sages his temples.

"I'm sorry about last night," I say once the birds have calmed down. Dirk lights a cigarette and pa.s.ses me the box.

"You going to tell me what happened?"

"Hooked up with Karla."

"Jislaaik, bru." He runs a hand through his hair and flicks ash at the ants scuttling across the stone. "Like, in the toilets?"

"Ja."

"That's sif sif."

"I know."

"Wasn't Treasa at the gig?"

"Ja."

"So why'd you bonk Karla?"

I take a long, slow drag of the cigarette, savoring the burn and trying not to cough. "I think I'm in love with her."

"Karla?" Dirk's eyes widen, stark white against the remnants of eyeliner gunging up his lashes.

"No. Treasa." Despite what she told me, she's still Treasa, still the girl with the crystal voice and sad eyes who knows Rachmaninoff's hand span and can talk about Graham Hanc.o.c.k theories and inspire my compositions.

"Love can make a guy a bit deurmekaar, you know." Dirk slips into philosophical mode. It happens when he's hungover.

"Thing is, last night Treasa basically told me she's a boy trapped in a girl's body. A gay boy."

"What?" Dirk crushes his stompie into an anthill.

"I'm not sure I even understood. The mampoer and all."

"What exactly did she say?" Dirk squints into the sun.

"That she wants to be a boy... with me."

"That's messed up."

"Tell me about it."

"So you slept with Karla?"

"Basically."

Dirk whistles in dismay and shakes his head. "That's seriously messed up, man."

"I know." I finish the cigarette and flick away the stompie. "Now what the h.e.l.l do I do about it?"

Treasa

FOR THE THE next few weeks, I'm going to be seeing a psychologist every Tuesday. Mom and Dad have to have private sessions with the therapist too, all for the grand purpose of trying to understand me, what I'm going through, and how best to deal with it. It, meaning my inability to accept being a girl and stop making life difficult for everyone else. Dad keeps asking why I can't be happy with being a tomboy. As if cutting my hair and not shaving my legs is enough. next few weeks, I'm going to be seeing a psychologist every Tuesday. Mom and Dad have to have private sessions with the therapist too, all for the grand purpose of trying to understand me, what I'm going through, and how best to deal with it. It, meaning my inability to accept being a girl and stop making life difficult for everyone else. Dad keeps asking why I can't be happy with being a tomboy. As if cutting my hair and not shaving my legs is enough.

My parents don't seem to understand, can't quite wrap their heads around the fact that anyone, let alone their daughter, would rail against nature and demand a do-over. They don't understand, but at least they're trying to. Mom actually helped me go through my closet. Anything floral, frilly, or skirt-shaped is destined for the jumble sale. Even though Mom did it with tears in her eyes, she never argued, not even when I tossed out the sandals I've hardly ever worn.

So, as per the head doctor's suggestion, I'm starting to dress more like a guy, and I've decided to keep my hair short. I've also stopped shaving my legs. Not shaving under my arms is just too weird, even though I know guys don't. There's been no mention yet of what it's going to take to make me a boy, physically.

Jordan helped me find a few websites. The info is sketchy, and most of it's about guys becoming girls. It's terrifying, really. As much as I want to be a boy, I wish I could spontaneously swap genders, just wake up as a guy tomorrow. Instead, I'm facing years of scalpel blades and hormone treatment with no guarantee of success, according to the Internet.

"You really want to be a guy and have inappropriate b.o.n.e.rs and scratch your a.s.s and forget to shower?" Jordan asks, spread out on my bed in her brand-new Stormhof High uniform. It's the longest skirt I've ever seen her wear, the hem grazing her kneecaps.

"Is that all that being a boy is about?"

"No, there's the burping and farting and inability to match s.h.i.+rts and socks." Jordan grins. "Why not just be lesbian or bi, even?"

"Because it's not like that." I slam shut my math textbook. Mom has been diligently collecting my homework for me at the end of every day. Too bad she can't write my end-of-term tests for me too, although the school is being pretty accommodating and marking me absent instead of failing me. That's all thanks to my psychologist, who got me out of school for the rest of the term. Mom tried to get me to go back, but that's not even up for discussion. No way I'm wearing a skirt ever again or putting up with more taunting by Hannah and posse. No idea what I'm going to do about school next term. I have a month to figure that out.

"What is it about, then?" Jordan asks.

"I can't explain it."

"Try." Jordan sits up, giving me her full attention.

"It's like, as comfortable as you are being a girl, as normal and okay as it feels for you, it's the exact opposite of how it feels for me."

"But how do you know being a boy will make it okay? How do you know it isn't something else?"

"That's why the shrink says I have to live as a boy for like a year before even thinking about taking the next step."

Jordan chews on the end of her pen and nods. "Will you still be Ree?"

"It's usual to pick a new name."

"You could stay Resa." Jordan jerks her head toward the posters of Liam St. Clare.

"No. That's what my folks have always called me. It needs to be something different. Something unmistakably male."

Jordan taps her pen against her teeth in contemplation. "You could be a Todd or Chad?"

"How about something that doesn't make me sound like an Abercrombie and Fitch model?"

"Heathcliff? Edmund? Henry?"

"Something that doesn't make me sound Victorian."

"How about Frikkie?" She grins, and I chuck my textbook at her.

"I could go to Stormhof as a boy." And hang out with Gabriel every day.

"Not without a new name."

"True."

"And even then, you going to start playing rugby?" Jordan raises her eyebrows, and the reality of my situation crashes down around me like a meteor shower. No amount of wis.h.i.+ng an X chromosome away is going to change who I am, what I am. I can pretend all I like with a haircut and boy's clothes. Underneath that, I'm still female. Which bathroom would I even use? One day at a time, that's what my psychologist said. One day, one thing at a time.

"How's Dirk?" I ask. Ever since she started at Stormhof, it's been Dirk this and Dirk that. She's clearly crus.h.i.+ng, although she'd never admit it.

"He's actually sort of charming, in a dorky kind of way."

"You kissed him yet?"

"We barely know each other." She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away.

"And Gabriel?"

Her smile falters as she meets my gaze. "He doesn't talk much. He hangs out with us at break sometimes." She shrugs.

"And Karla?"

"Ja, she's around."

"Around Gabriel?"

"Not like that." She gives me a pointed look. "Gabriel doesn't just give her the cold shoulder, he gives her the entire Antarctic continent."

That makes me feel better. Gabriel said he thought he was in love with me. I guess thinking you feel a certain way isn't enough, though. He hasn't called or SMSed me since the gig. I haven't been at choir to see him, although Lethi and Sibo says he still goes as usual. Jordan and I haven't been back to the self-defense cla.s.s either. Partly because of Jordan still being grounded, and partly me avoiding Gabriel.

"You should call him," Jordan says. "Talk to the guy."

"If he wanted to talk to me, he'd have called by now."

"Maybe, but you know what? If you want to be a boy so bad, why don't you grow a pair and pick up the phone?" She eyes the cellphone perched on my desk.

"I'm not sure."

"Boys should make the first move, right? So pretend you've got the b.a.l.l.s you so desperately want and call him already." She throws her pen at me.

I stare at the phone, willing him to SMS me right this very minute. Of course, the universe does not comply.

"Later," I say.

Jordan rolls her eyes, mumbling, "Whatever," and I try to focus on algebra. The autumn concert is in three days. Gabriel will be there, accompanying the choir. Lethi and Sibo want me there, and I sort of promised them I'd go. Three more days. If we still haven't talked by then, then I'll suck it up and approach him in person, because that's the right and manly thing to do.

Gabriel

MY BLAZER BLAZER seems too small tonight, cutting into my armpits, a straightjacket across my shoulders. My tie feels like a noose. I loosen the top b.u.t.ton and wiggle the knot lower before splas.h.i.+ng cold water on my face in the staff bathroom at the back of the music block. seems too small tonight, cutting into my armpits, a straightjacket across my shoulders. My tie feels like a noose. I loosen the top b.u.t.ton and wiggle the knot lower before splas.h.i.+ng cold water on my face in the staff bathroom at the back of the music block.

"You all right, bru?" Dirk knocks on the door. He insisted on staying to hear me play, and he insisted on bringing Jordan along to her alma mater. That alone made me nervous of performing my own composition. Then Jordan said Treasa will be here, and my hands won't stop shaking.

"Give me a minute," I say. Part of me hopes my dad will show up, but he SMSed saying he had a late meeting and wouldn't be home for dinner, without mentioning the concert. Not that I expect miracles. In the days since the shoe box incident, we've been on better speaking terms, and a few photos of Mom have found their way onto the fridge and into frames around the house. It'll take more than that to seal the Mariana Trench carved between us. It's not like he doesn't still see Mom every time he looks at me, even though I got a haircut.

"Mr. du Preez," Mrs. McArthur booms. She must be right outside the door. "We need you for warm-ups, please."

I take a deep breath and gaze at my reflection in the mirror, testing out the smile meant to rea.s.sure everyone. Looks real enough. Running my damp fingers through my hair, I follow her tie-dye train to the choir room and play the required chords as the girls sing vowel sounds.

Usually before a concert, I like to take time alone to visualize the piece, to play through the sheet music in my mind and ghost the notes across a tabletop. Tonight I won't have that luxury. Even my leg is starting to jump, my foot juddering on the pedal.

At seven on the dot, Mrs. McArthur ushers her choir onto the stage, and I take my place on the creaking piano stool at the Yamaha baby grand. The audience runs through a final round of coughs and splutters, of program rustling and seat s.h.i.+fting as the choir prepares. Mrs. McArthur gives me a smile and counts us in.

We open the concert with a stirring rendition of "Adiemus" before segueing into a sacred piece by Faure. The Faure relaxes me, the notes solid beneath my fingers, the music gentle and easy, free-flowing from the piano and from the throats of the choir. One voice is missing, though. There's a gap in the sopranos where Treasa's crystal vocals used to be. No one else will probably notice her absence. I do.

We wrap up with a pop cla.s.sic by Cher, and the audience claps as the choir files off stage to take their designated seats. I scan the crowd. Dirk and Jordan are sitting together, a smudge of charcoal in the sea of St. Bridget's burgundy. I don't see Treasa, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Taking my place, I pick up the program that was left on my seat. I'm playing last. No pressure, then. All the other performers have the piece they're playing listed next to their name. Not me. I still don't know what to call my sonata. "Sonata in C Minor" is too bland, but Beethoven took all the good names: Appa.s.sionata, Pathetique, Tempest, Moonlight. How can I possibly compete with all that and not sound like I'm trying too hard?

It's so hot in the hall, even with the side doors open. The breeze is barely a trickle, and I'm soaked in sweat. The second-to-last player gets up with her clarinet and accompanist, and I swivel in my chair to scan the crowd. The spotlight on the performer plunges the audience into shadow, and I can't be sure if the figure at the back is Treasa or someone's brother. I blow a cooling stream of air over my sweaty palms as the clarinetist jaunts through a jazzy number. The last piano chords reverberate, and the clarinetist bows, the audience claps, and now it's my turn.

I shrug out of my blazer and roll up my sleeves before approaching the piano. The spotlight blinds me as I squint at the expectant faces of my audience. I swallow, my mouth dry.