late for lunch. Ebony will probably already have eaten and be long gone by the time I get there. Ebony’s on the varsity tennis team and inhales food by the shovelful.
I played tennis in high school, too. I even thought I was good. Until I saw Ebony play.
Ebony is cool, though. Vastly superior to our other roommates. We all moved in a week ago, and right away Ebony and I decided we should share the smaller of the two bedrooms in our suite, and let Felicia and Joanna have the bigger one. We avoid running into them in our shared common room as much as we can. In return, Joanna and Felicia use their alone time to complain about Ebony and me. (We know. You can hear everything through the walls in this place.)
Sure enough, when I get to our usual table near the front of the dining hall, there’s already an empty food tray in front of Ebony, who’s wearing gym clothes and munching on a protein bar.
“Sorry.” Ebony sweeps a manicured hand over the tray, indicating the plates full of crumbs and salsa splotches. “I was about to starve to death. I’ll sit with you while you eat, though.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “I should be reading Race and Politics.”
“Classes have barely started,” Ebony says. “Stop being such a psycho overachiever and go get some food. The only thing you need to know about race and politics is that white people suck.”
“Totally.” I stand up. “Want anything?”
“A banana, maybe? Actually, make that two bananas.”
My phone buzzes with a text while I’m in the food line. Gretchen.
Hey remember I told u about Briana from debate?? Crazy Texas chick w big hair?? Guess what she’s here!!! In my nat sci lab.
Yeah. I remember Briana.
Briana was the star of the national high school debate circuit. Gretchen ran into Briana at tournament after tournament over the past couple of years. They started out as rivals but they got to be friends, sort of.
Here’s what Gretchen told me about Briana: One, Briana was a cheerleader during the off-season. Two, Briana was hot. Three, Briana was brilliant. Four, and best of all, Briana was gay.
Now Briana’s at NYU.
Not that it matters. Sure, Briana gets to see Gretchen every day, but that doesn’t mean anything will happen. Obviously. I trust Gretchen. Mostly.
No, not mostly. I do trust Gretchen. Gretchen only kept the NYU thing a secret to avoid hurting me.
I understand. For real, I do.
I just wish I could force my brain to stop obsessing about it so much.
Gretchen sent me an email the day we left with a list of bus times, but I said I thought we should wait a week before our first visit. I said it was because we needed time to settle in, but the truth was, I also wanted time to figure out what all this meant. How we’d wound up hundreds of miles apart instead of across the river from each other like we’d planned.
I mean, I’m not one of those people who would insist my girlfriend go to a certain school just to be closer to me. I’m not some Neanderthal.
But, damn, this sucks.
What if Gretchen meets someone in New York? What if stupid Briana from Texas screws up everything we have?
Why couldn’t Gretchen just leave well enough alone?
I text Gretchen about how funny it is that Briana’s at NYU. Then I pick up my burger and fries, and trudge back to where Ebony’s drinking from an enormous water bottle. I manage not to slam my tray down on the table, but it’s hard.
I hate being mad.
“You’re lucky you can eat that crap.” Ebony takes the bananas and gestures to my tray, stealing a french fry at the same time. “You’re so skinny. What do you weigh, ninety pounds?”
“More than that,” I say. Five pounds more than that.
Ebony whistles. “I know girls that would kill to look like you.”
Yeah.
Except for the part where I don’t want to look like a girl. At least, not most of the time.
Like, for example, I have this enormously complicated relationship with my chest.
I’m told most people have complicated relationships with their chests. My sister reads Cosmo and Marie Claire, so I’ve absorbed via osmosis the insecurities you’re supposed to have about different body parts. If you have breasts, they’re either too big or too small. They stick up too much or they hang down too far. Your nipples can be too pointy or not pointy enough. There are so many ways your breasts can be weird that I doubt anyone thinks they have normal, acceptable breasts.
I can’t relate to any of those problems, though. My problems are more like...sometimes, I wish my breasts weren’t there.
It isn’t as if I hate them. Sometimes I almost like them. I usually don’t want anyone else to notice them, though. Most days I wear loose-fitting tops and sports bras and try not to think about it.
It’s worst in the summer, when there are pool parties and water parks and trips to the beach and all those other torturous hot-weather activities. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid wearing a bathing suit in front of other people. It’s creepy, when you think about it, that people will strip down in front of complete strangers just because it’s warm out. I’ve always found air conditioning vastly preferable.
There are things that can be done about breasts. There’s chest-binding. And then there’s top surgery.
Surgery just seems so...extreme. So permanent. My chest is part of me. It’s bizarre to think about getting rid of a part of myself, forever.
Except—people get rid of parts of themselves all the time. Isn’t that what shaving is? Cutting your hair? Getting your ears pierced? It’s all costume. Fitting in to what society expects. Gender’s no different.
It’s exhausting, thinking about all this. It’s easier to talk it through. But Gretchen is the only person I’ve really talked to about this stuff so far, and even Gretchen can’t totally relate. My girlfriend’s great at listening, but I can never tell how much Gretchen really understands.
“T? T, are you there?” Ebony’s been calling me T lately. It makes me homesick. “Are you listening?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“You always get that look on your face when you’re missing the honey,” Ebony says. “Is it that bad?”
I shake my head. “I can handle it,” I say, though I’m not actually sure that’s true.
We didn’t get to talk last night. Chris and Steven are having issues again, so I spent hours online with Chris instead. I resisted the urge to say I told you so. Instead I read over drafts of the long email Chris was planning to send explaining why open relationships weren’t a good idea. I also listened patiently and tried to offer helpful tips while Chris ranted about some hot freshman interloper at Stanford who had
