Transitions Read online

  “That’s so dumb.”

  “I know. Sorry. There were mean boys, too.”

  “No. I meant, figure skating isn’t even a lesbian sport.”

  There was a tone there Erika couldn’t decipher.

  “You wear pretty dresses and dance like a ballerina,” Jesse said sarcastically. “This one girl, Leah, she’s in dance, choir, Honor Society, drama, every club there is, and every girls’ sport. No one calls her names. I guess you can play basketball as long as you also sing soprano. I sit behind Kensuke and sing first tenor.”

  “What does Kensuke sing?”

  Jesse looked up and smiled. “Badly.”

  Erika chuckled.

  “He takes crap, too. He plays the flute.” Jesse brushed some crumbs from the counter, swiveled on her stool, then climbed down and walked to the trashcan. “He’s really good. Gets mad respect for it, actually, from some people, but others…I like the way you say his name. Your dialect, or whatever, makes him sound even hotter.”

  That probably wasn’t what Erika should be going for. “How long have you known him?”

  “Not long. Forever.” The look on Jesse’s face was as dreamy as her voice. “I only moved here last January, when my mom…when I came to live with my grandmother. It was so awful when I was younger.”

  “What was awful?”

  “I don’t know.” Jesse sat back on the stool and picked apart a cookie she’d want to clean up afterwards. “Kensuke…he came right up to me in the cafeteria that first day. I was sitting with strangers, my head hung, and he said, ‘I bet I can make you smile.’ I looked up and he asked…Never mind. I can’t make Kensuke happy.”

  “This isn’t a you problem, Jesse. It’s not your fault you and Kensuke aren’t as compatible as—”

  “You don’t get it either.” Jesse stood. “I’m going to bed.” She started through the living room, seemingly more upset than when the conversation started.

  “I want to get it, though.” Erika was right behind her and reached for her wrist.

  “I should just kill myself.”

  “My God, Jesse!” Erika grabbed her by both arms. “No!”

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

  “Because there will be other boys!” Erika remembered to lower her voice then. “It may not feel like it now, but not being with Kensuke is not the end of the world.”

  “No.” Jesse agreed. She was crying, and swiped the cuff of her long-sleeved denim shirt across her nose. “But no other guy is ever going to want me like he does. I hate my body.”

  “We all do sometimes,” Erika said.

  Jesse sputtered at the inane platitude. “I’m going to end up alone,” she said. “Because I’m not attracted to straight guys.”

  Erika fought back a laugh, and also the lump in her throat. She was exactly like the girl standing in front of her. “You are going to meet so many men—”

  “It doesn’t matter how many I meet,” Jesse shouted, partway up the stairs. “I didn’t look at Tom Alan and Milo because I want to be with them, you know. I looked because…I want to be like them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to be…I’m a boy, Erika,” Jesse loudly declared. “I always have been, even if no one else can see it.”

  The slam of Jesse’s door was the last thing Erika heard from her, right before Etsuko started wailing. Erika went up to her mother’s room, wondering, as the two consoled her baby girl, what she could do for Jesse.

  Chapter 5

  Milo was the first one up the next morning. Their whole schedule was pushed back: afternoon orientation for him and a later start to training for Tom Alan and Erika, who headed straight for the coffee maker. “Thank you for getting Etsuko. I thought she’d sleep in after being up so late last night,” Erika said.

  “Your mum took her for a walk.” Erika was always tickled when Milo called Kyoko ‘mum’. “Hey. Look what I can do.” He was at the stove, half naked, making pancakes. “Ready?” With a yank of the skillet handle and a quick jerk, he flipped one without a spatula. “Heh? I’m becoming quite domesticated, aren’t I, the real lady of the house.” He was the only one who cooked when Kyoko was away. “I’ll do it again.” He did. “With one hand, even. How impressive was that?”

  “Very. Now you can pee and cook breakfast at the same time, too.” She offered the kitties tummy rubs.

  “What are you even doing here? Is this the walk of shame? Did I miss the front door slamming?”

  As Erika dug in her bag for her phone, she wondered how he’d missed it the night before.

  Oh yeah. Loud sex.

  Etsuko had still been wide awake at midnight. Around eleven, Erika had called Billy from the landline, a good hour and fifteen minutes after she should have arrived.

  “Sorry. I thought I might still make it, but it’s not looking good,” she’d said.

  “You’re okay?” There’d been worry in Billy’s voice. “Etsuko?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s fine.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do. Something just came up here and—”

  “And once again, just forget about Billy.”

  “I didn’t f—”

  Click.

  Erika read the texts again from the night before—eleven of them, starting off with U on the way? Then, Hope you get here soon; I’m already hard; and Hurry up, babe. My balls are getting blue. Those all came with smiley faces, but then the emoticons turned, with Guess I got stood up; Starting to worry; and Pick up ur goddamned phone!

  Her phone had been in the kitchen downstairs.

  Three voicemails followed much the same pattern. “Hope you just got a late start. Hit me up.” But then they got a bit panicky, too. “Babe, I’m worried.” And finally, “I’m driving over. Call me!” Apparently, that was about the time she had, because the messages stopped.

  Erika dialed him now. “Billy, I’m so sorry.”

  “I freaked the fuck out, babe.” There was sleepiness in his voice, though he’d answered on the first ring. “I mean, I know women are always late…”

  Erika was never late, not a day in her life. Tom Alan was the one who took longer to dress after competitions and do his hair before one. Since Erika was on an apology mission, she filed the slam away to fight over later.

  “But, damn. The things I was thinking, Rika…” His volume rose.

  “Jesse needed to talk. Did you find some relief for your blue balls?” Maybe sexual levity would calm him.

  “It’s not even about sex.” Billy wasn’t in the mood. “I hope you never pull that shit with Etsuko.”

  “Etsuko? What shit?” Now Erika was getting pissed.

  “Tell me she’s on her way over and then not send her.” Billy really raised his voice then. “Like, not even bother to tell me you changed your fucking mind!”

  “I wouldn’t,” Erika snarled, then added rather meekly, “It’s a completely different situation.” She looked at Milo to see if he was listening. He pretended he wasn’t. “Etsuko’s a part of you. You love her.”

  “It’s not that different, Rika.”

  “Oh.”

  “How’s Jesse?”

  “I peeked in on her. She’s still asleep. Last night was pretty intense. I didn’t dare…just…walk away.”

  “No.” One syllable had an edge. “That would have been…inconsiderate…there’s a word, huh?”

  “Billy…”

  “See, I pictured you broken down halfway here. Maybe a flat tire. I know, I know, girls can change flat tires. But you can’t, so prince that I am, I went looking, because even though you’re probably fine, all I can picture, until you called, is…you’re not. Flats can be fixed. Other stuff…Did I mention I was driving when I talked to you, because I’m a dick and also because I was so relieved to see your number I picked up the phone?”

  Erika didn’t remember if he had or not. A lot of information was coming, most of it through clenched teeth.

  “I’m watching ditches, and t
he shoulder, and the places where there are no guardrails. I’m looking at the phone, and carefully at every car that passes in case one is you, because last I knew, you were coming over to fuck. Bad shit happens when stuff is going too good.”

  “Does it?” She recalled her father’s version of the same sentiment.

  “All the time,” Billy said. “So, finally, you call and I can fucking breathe again, until I get to the roadblock and get a ticket. A hundred and fifty bucks and five goddamned points, ‘cause I still had my phone in my hand!”

  Erika couldn’t breathe for a moment.

  “Which sounds more than fair, right? Considering it’s as dumb as what you did to me!”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” One syllable was like a knife again, after so many others, so many words, so much emotion. “I almost called Fisher, but I didn’t want to interrupt the sex I figured you were getting off to. Another minute I’d have dialed the house and woke up everyone. Wakened…awake…Fuck. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Lesson learned.”

  “Is Jesse in danger or anything? I don’t know what kind of shit her mother might have been tied up with.”

  “No. Nothing life threatening, but way more serious than we thought.” Erika didn’t want to negate so-called puppy love. Still, this was pretty far out of that league, and way out of hers. “I think she’ll tell you when she’s ready.” Erika had said “she” twice and it suddenly sounded wrong. “I sort of found out in a burst of frustration that woke up Etsuko. I figured it wasn’t fair to make Mother…By the time things settled down, it was too late to come over, Billy.” She took a beat. “I’m sorry…really…I should have called before I did.”

  “It’s good you were there for Jesse.”

  “You want to try again tonight? Mother said she would have—”

  “Not tonight. I’m glad you’re okay, and that you’ll be in Jesse’s corner during whatever this is, but I’m also still mad at you. I don’t know what I’d do if…I couldn’t live without you, Rika.”

  “Billy, it…Billy? He hung up on me. Again!” She wasn’t talking to Milo. She was just surprised.

  “Oh?” Still, he responded, as he set down a plate of blueberry bran pancakes then turned and did a double take. “Whoa. What’s happening here?”

  Tom Alan had paused halfway down the kitchen stairs. Normal breakfast attire for him was undershorts or sweatpants and maybe a T-shirt, maybe not. It was still the dog days of summer, and that morning he had on jeans, two shirts, and a zip-front jacket, one layer more than he would wear at the rink. “Is it safe?”

  “Is what safe?” Erika wondered if he’d heard the heated exchange the night before or somehow sensed the one via cellphone.

  “I don’t want to run into Jesse now that’s she’s seen me—”

  “Me willie?”

  “‘Seen me willie’? You’ve been in America how long, Milo, and that’s what you really thought I was going to say?”

  “That’s what I’d have said.” Milo offered Tom Alan breakfast and a smooch as he unzipped the jacket. “And giving yourself heatstroke won’t change anything. She can’t un-see what she’s seen.”

  Tom Alan even had on shoes and socks. He hardly ever wore shoes and socks at home, not just because he’d been raised in Japan, but for Milo, since they had a thing for each other’s feet.

  “And then I’d add a big ‘Who cares?’, Skater Boy.” No shoes, no shirt, no pants, no shame, Milo wore neon orange boxer briefs he’d tied a short blue apron over. “Just because I’ve never gone pro on a frat dude site like Mrs. Thor, that don’t mean I’m prudish. Nudity is beautiful. Even you said you don’t care if Flower watches us fuck.”

  “You said that?” Erika asked.

  “Not to be put on blast.” Tom Alan turned bright red.

  “Deny the picture was your idea, love. Go ahead. Lie. The one of me licking your bum.”

  “I’ll agree to just about anything when you do that. But can we please change the subject before Jesse comes down?”

  “Yes. Here’s a topic.” Erika took a breath. “Jesse…” She picked at her breakfast as she deliberated how to broach the topic without breaking confidences. “Was there ever a time, even when you were younger—especially when you were younger…” The way they were staring wasn’t helping. “Okay. At what age did you first know you were attracted to men?”

  “Five,” Milo said right away. “This cartoon called Bananaman gave me a weird feeling in my nappy every time it came on the telly. Bananaman was this superhero fellow in a skin-tight blue costume with a banana on the chest. Talk about your subtext, mate. Homoerotic British children’s television at its finest.”

  Erika looked at Milo and blinked twice. “You wore a nappy at five?” She turned to Tom Alan. “You?”

  “No. I was potty trained at two.”

  “Ha-ha. Answer the question?”

  “I don’t know, like…” He actually stopped to shovel in pancake partway through a sentence. Men! “Twelve or so…That’s when I started thinking about how much I noticed things on guys I should have been looking at on girls. Well, not the same things, obviously, because girls don’t have…” Tom Alan was about as befuddled as he’d likely been then. “It was a while before I knew what it meant. Then things got messy, as you know.”

  “This bloke. Look here.” Milo shoved his phone in Erika’s face. “Bananaman.”

  Erika spared a glance. “Lovely. So, before you realized your interest in men meant you were gay, was there ever a time you thought maybe it meant…you were really female and not male as everyone else insisted?”

  It was their turn to blink. Except neither one did. Tom Alan’s fork, dripping with syrup, hovered mid-trip between his plate and his mouth. Even Milo was quiet.

  “Tom Alan?”

  “No. I don’t think I ever—”

  “You don’t think?”

  “I know.” Dishes and silverware rattled when Tom Alan smacked the counter top emphatically. “I have nothing against women. Women are amazing and beautiful.” He looked right at Erika. “All kinds of amazing. But the idea of being one has never entered my mind, not counting that one time I dressed as Harhui Suzumiya for a Halloween party in high school, then chickened out and didn’t go.”

  “How about you, Brit?”

  She remembered Milo saying once, “On a scale of Chuck Norris to Zooey Deschanel, Tom Alan comes in around a Hugh Jackman, whereas I see myself trending closer to an Adam Lambert or an Ellen DeGeneres.” The analogy seemed like one of those things he could say, but others couldn’t. It was an interesting topic for discussion they might have someday on The View.

  “Milo?”

  “What is it you’re asking?” He turned away from his batter. “Did I ever secretly wish I’d been born in a different body?”

  Erika watched him study his reflection in the glass oven door.

  “Put me down for a no, love. I adore every inch God gave me. She got this one right.”

  “It must be confusing for…for young people…kids,” Erika said. “Gay guys use labels and categories…‘butch’ and ‘queen’. And I hear some call each other girl all the time.”

  “Where do you hear that?” Milo asked.

  “RuPaul’s Drag Race. You never call each other girl?”

  “He better don’t,” Tom Alan said.

  “More syrup, girl?” Milo got a shove in response.

  “How come you wouldn’t like it?” Erika asked.

  “I…” Tom Alan seemed flustered again. “I don’t know. Gay men are men, not girls.”

  “It’s just not our M.O.,” Milo said, as he offered Flip or Twizzle a bite of turkey sausage.

  “Milo referred to himself as the lady of the house, like, five minutes ago. Is it a turn-off to think of him as a woman?”

  Tom Alan looked over at Milo by the stove. “I can’t picture him as a woman.”

  “What about Adam?”

  “I can’t picture him as a woman eithe
r.”

  “I’m being serious. Milo, you called him ‘Mrs. Thor’ even though he’s not…”

  “A sissy type? Girly?” Milo goaded. “He takes it up the ass, which rather says he is.”

  “So do you,” Erika said. “So does Tom Alan.”

  “Kiki!”

  “And that’s what I mean. Why do you consider Adam a…?” She refused to repeat Milo’s words. “Johnny Weir dresses in feathers and big jewelry and sometimes wears a tiara calling the Grand Prix or Nationals on TV, right? And he once said in an interview he wanted to be Julia Roberts whenever he watches Pretty Woman, but there was also that time he took on those Canadian sports reporters, right after Vancouver, remember? They said he was a bad image for the sport of figure skating because he was too feminine. They suggested he undergo a gender test. Johnny assured them, and the world, he’s a man. But…”

  “But…?” Milo asked.

  “I adore Johnny, but here in our kitchen, can you see where people may wonder—not if he is a girl, but if he’d want to be?”

  “Firstly, I’ve known Adam Stoker since the dinosaurs roamed, and I rib him all the time. It’s a bit now, isn’t it? A joke he’s in on,” Milo said. “Mate’s as butch as they come. No flounce in his bounce whatsoever. That’s why he always ended up in the back row in group numbers at the Skating and Gymnastics Spectacular thingy with this one here.” Milo nodded toward Tom Alan.

  “Hey!”

  “No offense, love. I, for one, am grateful you were once a lumbering oaf, otherwise we’d have never been thrust together. As for Stoker, mate gives as good as he gets. You know that tank top I wore almost every day in Rio…the one Hockey Puck stretched all out when he put it on?”

  Erika did know. It read I Have Swish in My Swagger.

  “Ad-hole gave it to me for Christmas. Thought it was a gag gift. I’ve now adopted the words as my motto. As for Johnny, all cheekiness aside,” Milo promised, “whatever he wants to do, whatever he wants to wear, whatever he wants to be, he should be it. Why can’t a man wear a tiara and still be a bloody man, I say.”

  Tom Alan got up to put his plate in the sink. “I read this online article recently from a gay writer on a gay site that called Neil Patrick Harris ‘straight-acting’ on camera and off. I hate the phrase. I remember cruising dating sites back before I met Milo. Often it was in the headline…as the main attribute—’straight-acting’. This writer was using it as a slam…complaining. Above the story was a picture of Neil out with his husband and kids, like any other couple, and I had to wonder what was straight about it? They brought up Anderson Cooper, too. They said he should ‘present more as gay.’ Present more as gay? Like how? Mannerisms, by wearing Milo’s swish shirt during CNN’s election coverage, or are they hoping he’ll show up on film with a dick in his mouth? All straight men don’t ‘act’ the same, Kiki. All men in general, for that matter.”