DYLAN

We're moving. To England. Apparently.

Why?

Fuck knows. I sure as hell don't. If it was up to me, we'd never leave Michigan. But it's not up to me. Apparently it's never up to me.

Just what I needed. A new school for my senior year of high school. A new crowd of students and faculty I would need to adjust to. A whole new fucking country that I'd surely forget how to drive in. Fucking Europe. Who the fuck would think that driving on the left side of the road would be a good idea? I sure as hell don't. Yet another thing that's among the list of things apparently not up to me.

So the real reason we're moving across the pond to a country where neither me nor my dad have ever been, despite the past 200 something years of American history that all points to Englishmen are bad is that my dad can't stand being here anymore. He can't stand all the memories that I can't let go of.

Mom is here, and we very well can't just dig up her grave to take her with us. I go to visit her every Sunday. Dad refuses to. He says everything reminds him of her. The house. The neighborhood. The cemetary (obviously). The state. The whole fucking country apparently. And he can't handle it. He took his fill for about three months after the accident. Accident. Incident. Whatever you want to call it. Random act of God during a freak weather tantrum. "Trees don't just fall on people! She must have committed such an atrocious sin that the Lord had to remove her from the earth!" Old Mrs. Jans had said that at church the following weekend. That's when I stopped going to church. Instead, I bring a picnic to Mom every Sunday and refresh her on whatever novel it is I'm reading at the time. I just finished Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. All I could think about for the past three days was telling Mom how the story ended. And then Dad hit me with the news.

"We're moving to England. I've purchased a house already for us, and enrolled you in a new school. This one actually teaches magick! I know I didn't tell you, but I was afraid you'd fight me on it," Dad said over dinner.

"Of course I'd fight you on it! How could you do this to me? To mom? You're just gonna leave her here?" I had shouted back at him.

I didn't finish my meal that night. I ran right up the stairs and into my bedroom. I slammed the door for good measure and cast a lock the doors so he couldn't get in. Then I threw myself onto my bed and cried. And cried. I woke up hungry and lost inside.

I pack my things very carefully. I hate moving. I like constants. I like knowing where I am and not having to think about what side of the damn road I need to be on. I wrap my breakable items in socks and bubble wrap. I shove stuffed animals in between them. I'm crying again. This was Mom's house. It's been in the family for generations. Dad says we're not selling it, but I'm not stupid enough to think we'll be able to afford a new mortgage as well as the bills and taxes here. And Mom. Who's gonna visit her on Sundays? Who's gonna refresh the flowers on her grave and sweep the dirt off her headstone every week? She'll be here, and I won't be.

Somewhere along my packing I come across a photo album. It's pink with ribbons on it. My baby book. Mom bought it as soon as the doctor said I'd be a girl. I could slap him for that. The first several years of my life were so confusing. Dresses and long hair and pink. I had Barbie dolls galore. I had Kens too. And Allen. I liked Allen the most. The Kens would get into ninja fights over Allen. Barbie was forgotten in the bottom of my toy chest. I liked Naruto more than her. My mom didn't know what to do with me. Her little girl was running around playing field hockey in a dress when she was supposed to be sitting playing with dollies. Instead she was having gay ninja showdowns and rough housing with boys. The older I got the more pants and t-shirts I wore. I cried when I hit puberty. Suddenly the boys didn't want to play with me anymore. I had girl cooties. I was too fragile to explore the woods.

I was 14 when Arlo said he wanted to be a girl. He said he never felt like he was a boy. He wanted to be Arlene. We became fast friends after that. I gave Arlene my dresses and dolls and she would show up at our house with boxes of action figures. I think she might have had a crush on me. I never asked because I'd feel guilty if I ever had to reject her. She moved back to Puerto Rico in our sophomore year. We still write each other. Dad won't let me have a cell phone. It was nice, having someone who understood how I felt. Having someone who had already figured it all out and could explain it to me. Transness. She was a girl. I was a boy. We were just born in the wrong bodies.

Coming out hadn't been as bad as I had feared. Mom and Dad had been so relieved when they found out the reason for my "weirdness". They supported me immediately. And neither of them questioned any of it. Dad still doesn't ask me anything outside of "is it okay if I do this?" Which is nice.

I flip to the first page of the baby book. There's Mom, holding me in the hospital after I was born. The gloriously shitty quality of late '90s cameras. It makes me even more nostalgic. When I came out Mom had took white-out to the inscription on the photo to replace my given name with my chosen one.

The next page features several photos of baby me with both my parents. A few fun facts are written along the way as well. I keep turning page after page, watching myself grow up. There's still a half a book of pages left when I reach the last picture. It's from last Christmas. Mom had taken a picture of the three of us in the living room. I was holding up a series of Ken doll outfits with a "really, Mom?" Look on my face as she and Dad were laughing. I don't play with Kens anymore, but Mom had thought it'd be funny to buy a bunch of outfits for my collection (I hadn't told her that I still kept them in a box under my bed, but she must've figured it out).

A soft knock on the door stirs me out of memory lane. I sigh before casting a who's there to release the lock that'd been on my door since last night. The door cautiously opens to my dad's face.

"I'm sorry, son. I know I should've told you sooner-" I cut him off.

"You should have asked," I respond.

He sighs and I can see his face seemingly age ten years all at once. Depression can do that to you, I suppose. "I know, and I'm sorry. I just can't be here anymore. I need a change. I think it could do you some good too, son. A new school, y'know? People who haven't known you your whole life. You wouldn't have to worry about people calling you the wrong name or pronouns. Nobody would have to know. You could just be Dylan."

My eyes cast down. I know he's right. I know he sees me every time I come home pissed off because my classmates made fun of me again. Every time I came home in tears after church because some bigoted white savior mom told me I didn't belong there. That I had to beg God to forgive me for not appreciating the way he made me. He's right and I hate it. And he knows I know he's right. He wouldn't have said it if he thought otherwise. But it's not like I have a say in the matter anyways.

I fidget with the ring on my left thumb. It was a locket that Mom used to wear. Handed down to her by her mother. Dad's a Normal, but Mom was a magician. When my parents realized I'd inherited Mom's magic, she spelled the locket for me to use to wield my own magic. After I came out, Mom took me to the local jeweler and asked him to make it into a ring for me. She kept the chain just in case I had a daughter or granddaughter to pass it onto one day. Don't know how she expected that to work. Even if I was straight, I wouldn't have sperm to give to my wife. No matter which way I had swung, we'd still have to end up adopting. And then in that case, my child wouldn't have my blood. Wouldn't have my magic. The locket would be useless even if I adopted a magician. Heirlooms only work if you're passing it onto someone with your blood in them. But I didn't say anything about that. I was too happy that she had accepted me, that she had accomodated to my needs.

I run my finger along the design now. A rose, etched into a silver circle. Inside is a picture of Mom. On my right hand is one of those fidget spinner rings. It's black, and designed so you can spin it on your finger. I like it, but I always default to my locket ring.

"I know, Dad," I whisper. "It's just hard."

He enters my room and kneels down in front of me. His large hand finds its way to my shoulder. "Son, look at me."

I do.

In his eyes is pain to match mine. It's just as hard for him as it is for me, maybe even harder. For me, the answer was so simple. Stay here with Mom. With our memories. But for him it was suffocating to live surrounded by it all. Suffocating to walk past the park where he proposed to Mom. Suffocating to drop me off every day at the school building where he first met Mom at. Suffocating to sleep in the same bed where he had held her every night since they got married. He needed to leave. But he also couldn't bear the thought of leaving Mom. She had been his everything.

I dive into my dad's arms and cry, my tears soaking his own graphic t-shirt. Dad loves those silly shirts that say stupid things. Today he's wearing one that says "I finally quit drinking for good. Now I drink for EVIL".

When we finally end our hug, Dad closes the baby book. (It obviously became more than a baby book, since I'm no longer a baby.) He hands it back to me and gives me one last clap on my trap muscle before standing back up.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"The Veil lifts next fall. Will Mom know where to find us?" I look up at him, concern in my eyes. The Veil only lifts every 20 years. I don't know what I'd do if I had the chance for a Visit and missed it.

"Why don't you go tell her where we're going so she can make sure to stop by the right place?" He gives me a soft smile. I nod before rushinf off to the cemetary.

"Hey, Mom," I whisper. I lay the fresh carnations on her grave. "Dad and I are moving. I'm sorry. He says we'll keep the house, but I won't be able to visit you anymore. You'll come Visit us next year, yeah?"

A fresh wave of tears threaten my eyes. I don't stop them from spilling over the edge of my lower lids. It's all so unnecessarily real. The move. Mom's death. The move. Everything I'd ever known my whole life. Mom's memories. Hell, even my grandparents. I'd miss it all.

"Dad's making us move to Britian. Or England. Whatever the difference is. He says there's a school there that actually teaches magicks. He thinks it'd be good for me to learn and be surrounded by people like me. Like us. Personally, unless it teaches kids how to do their taxes I don't see how it could be any better than a Normal high school. You graduated from a Normal school and you turned out great. And honestly, he really thinks senior year is the year to move me to a new school full of new people? I'll have to make all new friends. It was hard enough when Arlene moved back to Puerto Rico. You know that. But Dad doesn't care."

I'm ripping grass blades out of the ground now and peeling them apart. I look for the thickest ones and try to peel them in half longways, then again and again.

"Why didn't you magic the tree away?" I whisper. It was probably the billionth time I'd asked that question. But I still can't help it. I know she's not going to answer. She can't. And even if she did come for a Visiting next year, it wouldn't be to tell me why she let a tree collapse on her head.

I kiss my ring and stand up.

"I love you, Mom. I promise I'll try to come back as soon as school's over. Dad can't keep me there once I turn 18." I make this promise as I brush off my jeans and turn to head home.