December 23, 1984
Age fourteen, 9th grade
Absolutely (Story of a Girl)
Nine Days

This is the story of a girl
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world

I tipped my head back and sighed, feeling the hot water drip onto my cheeks, delicately soaking through my hair. I winced as it got hotter, turning my skin an angry pink. I stood there for ten minutes, nibbling on my bottom lip when it got to be too much, until steam condensed on the shower curtain. Quickly, I reached out and twisted the temperature knob in the opposite direction and the water turned frigid.

It flowed over me, straightening my curls and soothing my skin. Almost unconsciously, I sighed. It still wasn't enough. Impatiently, I reached for a dollop of citrus-smelling shampoo and wove my fingers through my hair, scrubbing viciously at my scalp. The cold water rinsed it away slowly, raising goose bumps on my arms. I shivered, reluctantly raising the temperature, just a little bit warmer.

With a washcloth and more orangey soap, I scoured every inch of my body furiously, forcing myself to think of nothing but the warm pressure of the water, and the invigorating smell of lemons and oranges. Once I was done, I started over. Three times total, I rubbed my skin raw.

My knees felt weak. I dropped the cloth and sank to the ground. I wrapped my arms around my knees and pressed my forehead against them, closing my eyes.

I hated this. I hated school and everyone in it. I hated the way they looked at me, the way they made me feel so dirty. I hated the way it never subsided, the way I would come home and spend an hour trying to wash away the filthy grime of their disapproval. Finally I forced myself to admit that it wasn't working. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, wishing for my guardian angel, oblivious to anything but the comforting hiss of the falling water.

(---)

I don't know how long it took for the hot water to run out, but eventually it did. Warily, I untangled my limbs and stood, pulling my favorite towel into the stall to dry off. I dressed slowly, caressed by a purple NYU sweatshirt that Val had let me borrow, a gift from our Tia Sabine. It clashed horribly with my red plaid pajama pants, but today I didn't even care. I tossed my towel in the laundry and eagerly escaped to my room.

My bedroom wasn't entirely mine. Up until recently, I had shared it with my younger brother, Nicholas. Patrick, our older brother, had gone off to college in Texas a few months ago, and Nick eagerly seized control of the vacated bedroom. I hadn't had time to do a full-scale redecoration yet. The walls were a very masculine navy color, and the bedspread matched it--blue plaid with red and white mixed in. Very patriotic but not very me.

There were still some personal touches, though. My desk was covered in nail polish, fabric, magazines, and a small secondhand sewing machine sat in the corner of the room. A few posters were tacked onto the walls--they featured mostly Broadway plays, and a few singers I liked. One of them was a famous drag queen who worked at a club in Las Vegas. She was so pretty that none of my family even knew she was technically a man. I wondered how long it would take for them to figure it out.

Two pictures sat on my bedside table; one of my entire family sitting down for a formal portrait, and one of me and Val visiting Tia Sabine in New York City. It was from a few years ago, when I was still shy little Angello. Poor kid. I still felt like him sometimes. Whenever I did, I would retreat to my room, comforted by the small space and the privacy. I liked being the center of attention more than being a wallflower, but sometimes it got to be a little much.

That afternoon, my door was open. I never left my door open. For a moment I was afraid that my mom had come home early and tried to search my room again. She had gone through everything when I first came out to my parents, panicking that I might be stashing drugs or sex toys or money for a transgender surgery or whatever. It was not a very pleasant experience for me.

When I stepped closer, though, I realized my mistake. My mom wasn't snooping--Val was. She sat on my bed, staring at the plastic bag on the floor. In her hands was the necklace she had given me for my birthday, just a few weeks after I came out. The charm was a small gold heart with a flower imprint. I had kept the box it came in; it said 'Sister, make a wish, put on your necklace, and remind yourself that you are my friend, teacher, comedian, therapist, and fashion consultant! Thank you for being there, willingly and lovingly. I love you!' I had worn the necklace every day since she gave it to me, and the chain was snapped.

I hadn't realized that I made any sound, but Val looked up and saw me.

"Oh, honey…"

She held out her arms and I shook my head, crossing the threshold.

"'M fine," I mumbled. But still I sat on the bed, and she hugged me close until I started crying. Shaking and sobbing quietly, I wrapped my arms around her waist, and she waited. Val was the best sister in the world.

(---)

Flashback to school…

I hated gym. It was bad enough when I was the scrawny little kid who ran fast but couldn't do anything else. Now I was the cross-dressing freak. There was a single bathroom stall in the locker room, and I changed there every day. It smelled like shit and was as dirty as a Dumpster, but the alternative was dealing with "Oh fuck, it really is a guy!" and "Watch yourself, boys, I think it's checking you out" jokes. The first few days of school I had tried to fight back with witty remarks or fake flirting, but it just wasn't worth the effort.

We were playing basketball that day, which was too bad. I actually liked basketball. Sometimes we played three on three at home--me, Patrick, and Mom against Val, Nick, and Dad. I was a good guard, but in school no one really passed to me. We had a mini-tournament with teams of three or four players, and I had been assigned to a team with two track stars and one actual member of the basketball team. I didn't get to do very much.

I skipped back into the locker room, humming to myself. I was having a pretty good day, despite the basketball thing. It was the last day before break, so none of the teachers were giving actual work. Also, I loved Christmas vacation! I mean, who didn't? Presents, family, that tingly feeling of human connection. It was only slightly less cool than Halloween, but then again Halloween came with costumes and massive amounts of candy.

Plus, Val was going to get coffee with her boyfriend after school and she was my ride, so I would have to take the bus instead. I always sat with Kevin Ross, who was really cute. As far as reputation goes, he was straight… but he had no problem with me and didn't punch me for flirting with him, so who knows? I was wearing this particularly cute skirt and leggings today, and I decided that if he was gay, there was no way he could refuse me if I asked him out in those.

My good mood vanished the second I caught sight of my locker. It was open. My homework planner, with the combination written on the inside cover, was on the bench next to it. I started swearing in Spanish under my breath--this couldn't be good.

I pulled out my leggings and gritted my teeth. They were red and white striped, absolutely adorable, but somebody had completely shredded them. I mean, sure I could wear them, if I were a stripper or a rock star, but they were wholly inappropriate for school. (At least I still had my sense of humor. Wholly, holey. Ha?) When I looked into the locker again, though, I got really pissed.

I was in love with my skirt. I really was. I had made it all by myself, out of silky white fabric edged with fake white fur. It was now ruined. 'Guy or girl? You decide!,' 'Dress it up, it's still a fag,' and the ever-classic 'Freak' were written all over it in thick black marker. "Shit!" I threw the skirt down and dug everything out of my locker. Makeup snapped, shirt torn, shoes snapped and torn. "This is fucking illegal," I muttered angrily. "Destruction of property, harassment, discrimination, just… fuck!"

It didn't matter. Of course it didn't matter. Angrily, I stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag and stormed over to my book bag. Those assholes wouldn't dare… would they?

What escaped from my mouth might have been called an anguished cry, if it had been louder than a whisper. Slowly, carefully, I lifted my wig from the bag. It slipped through my fingers. Every strand was shaved off the top, so what was left was even shorter than my natural hair. Useless. I felt tears prick the corner of my eyes. They had no idea what this did to me. My independence, my strength, my entire personality was rooted in that wig. It was the difference between Angello and Angel, between the person I had abandoned and the one I was now, had always wanted to be.

By that time, people had noticed what was going on. They were laughing and staring at me, cracking jokes. I didn't care. With a lump in my throat, I picked up the sad pile of fake hair and placed every strand carefully in the plastic bag. There was no way I could fix it, but at least it still had sentimental value. I swung my book bag over my shoulder and stood, breathing shakily, staring at the exit. I refused to give them the satisfaction of crying, or screaming, or even looking sad. I was defiant, strong, above their contempt.

Something crunched under my sneaker, and I glanced down uncaringly. My necklace, lying on the floor, the charm yanked off and the chain snapped in half. I gasped, dropping the impartial face. I fell down and scooped up the necklace, staring at it in the palm of my hand. There was no way I could fix it; the small ring that attached the charm to the chain was bent and broken. I bit my lip, holding back tears that seemed just a little more persistent than usual. Someone tried to walk past me and shoved me in the shoulder rudely. I stood and ran out of the locker room as fast as I could.

The rest of my day was awful. People stared at me when I was in drag, but then I could stand it. I was being who I wanted to be. The looks they sent me now were different--smug, mocking, or just confused. I wasn't different anymore; I was conformed.

I felt like jumping on desks and singing out loud and dancing down the hall just to prove to them that they couldn't change me, but I didn't. Maybe someday I would be that confident. Today, I just … survived. I sewed my mouth shut in class, didn't speak to any of the few lukewarm friends I had, and raced onto the bus so I could sit in the back, where Kevin couldn't see me.

I was proud of myself. I never once cried.

(---)

Val listened silently as I told her my story. She had migrated to sit in my desk chair as I lay on the bed, ranting and staring at the ceiling. After a few seconds of silence, I let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto my side so I could look at her. She was staring out the window, thoughtful.

"I feel like I want to be sorry for them," I admitted. "They have nothing better to do than bully me, and they attack anything different. There is no way they're going to survive in the real world. But then they go and do something like this, and it's just… ugh! Maybe I should join a Native American tribe or something. You know they think cross-dressers and transsexuals are completely normal? They've had transvestites in the tribes since forever." I laughed a little bit. In a perfect world… "They're called two-spirit people, and Indians believed that they had a male and female soul in the same body, so anybody with two spirits would have chores for both sexes, because they're just so blessed and capable. I wouldn't like that part very much, but still."

Val gave a small smile. She stood and kissed my temple--that's Val, my second mama. "I'm sorry these things happen to you, Angel, but it will get better. I promise."

"It's okay," I shrugged. "I feel better now."

"Good."

She left, still looking pensive. That was probably a bad sign, but I shrugged it off. Val had deep thoughts; she was a feminist to the core, and an activist for anything from animal rights to free speech. She had been a vegetarian since age nine, and became the youngest member of Flagstaff's PFLAG chapter when she was fourteen, before I even officially came out to her. In her freshman year, her English teacher made her the editor of the school newspaper, which she used to "brainwash the masses to empathize with [her] struggle while at the same time encouraging them to think for themselves instead of following the dazed herd of cows that is society," and thus her journalistic dreams began. It was not uncommon to find her gnashing her teeth over something.

I wasted about three hours with a book and a CD. Teenagers can do that, even when they're depressed and angsty. Especially when they're depressed and angsty. When I started to get hungry, I went downstairs. That was how my family was--there was always food, for those who wanted it. Eventually all of us ended up in the kitchen, and dinner was served.

I slowed down when I reached the bottom of the stairs. Val was in the living room, talking animatedly with my parents. It was probably about me. After a moment of hesitation, I silently slid down to sit on the steps, peeking under the railing to watch their faces. Sure, eavesdropping was wrong, but they probably wouldn't tell me. Interrupting would just make things awkward, and I wanted to know what was going on. Val could be pissed off with authority, but she always respected Mom and Dad. She never, ever, raised her voice with them.

"She cannot stay here, Mami, and this is not something that you can just ignore. Angel has already been in five fights that she's told us about, and that is five too many, even forgetting the fact that she's keeping things from us! How long are you going to just sit back and let people treat your child like this?" Val demanded.

"Valeyra," Papa said sternly. "Do not talk to your parents like that. We have already spoken to the school board, there is nothing else we can do."

"You can leave," she hissed. "Get her out of here!"

"We can't just fly away, mija," Mami tried to reason patiently. "What about you and your brother?"

"We can handle that. The fact is, Angel can't, not if they keep harassing her like this. Take her somewhere else."

"Where?"

I bit my lip, wondering if I had the courage to speak. The idea had been bouncing around in my head for a little while, but I could never figure out how to say it. Hesitantly, I spoke up. It was my fate, after all.

"I could go to New York."

All three of them turned and stared. I stood up, entering the living room.

"Tia would let me stay with her, probably. That way the rest of you don't have to move." I swallowed nervously. "The city would be better for me. It's a more… diverse area. I mean, I love this place, I really do, but the suburbs aren't exactly the most accepting, you know? In New York, I think I could hold my own. And besides, it's not easy to stand up to people here because I know them too well. If I had a chance to make new friends, a fresh start, I think I would do better."

"Angel…" my father said, worried. It was the first time he had ever used that name without stuttering. "Are you sure? If that's what you want I can call Sabine right now, but only if it's best for you. You'd be leaving your family, your home…"

I took a deep breath, determined.

"I would be happy."

And while she looks so sad in photographs
I absolutely love her
When she smiles

A/N: Hello, world, this is Ama, your dedicated writer. I'm sorry this is so angsty. Really, I have never written so much strife and heartache! Eh, what can I say? Angel's a teenager struggling to stay ahead of her time. It'll get happier, I promise. Also, the next fic will take place just a few days after this one because I really want to cover Angel's first few days in New York, but don't expect all stories to be this close. This isn't a chaptered fic because the topics it covers are erratic and many can be read individually; next chapter I skip eight days, later on I skip fourteen months.

So, in short, fluff will come, and don't expect a minute-by-minute translation of Angel's life. Also, sorry it took so long, but I was feeling very finicky and I was working on so much other shit, you have no idea.

Au revoir!