Someone bumped into me. “Sorry,” he muttered, not slowing his pace. It was the blond altar boy. He looked just as dead as I felt. He crossed the yard directly to where Deacon Jameson was standing. Side by side, they walked away from the church parishioners.
As they moved, heads bowed together to whisper, Deacon Jameson clenched his fists. His hands gripped the boy’s shoulders, digging in as he bent over, looking him dead in the eye as he said something. It was intense. I needed to get closer. I needed to hear. Biting my lip, I started to edge toward them.
I felt a hand close around my wrist. I turned to Sister Bernadette. For once, she looked furious. “That is not your business.”
“That kid, the altar boy—”
“That is not your business,” she reiterated, possibly even more harshly than before. “That’s between Michael, Deacon Jameson, and God.”
So the altar boy had a name. Michael. It was weird hearing her say Deacon Jameson when not around the kids. She’d so easily called him Joey. But this degree of anger, of ferociousness . . .
I looked down. “Sorry. I wanted to help.”
Sister Bernadette took a quick breath. I could almost hear her counting to ten to calm herself. “You need to give people their privacy. There needs to be trust in this community.”
I thought about listening in to the confessions and shuddered. If she knew . . .
She added, “Sometimes there are things you can’t fix, Alexis.”
My mouth was so dry, my tongue felt too large to fit in it. I was barely aware of speaking. “Aleks. My name today is Aleks.”
She cocked her head, the veil gaping just enough for me to see a bit of her black, curly hair. I wanted to tug a lock free and twist it around my finger. I tried to shove my hands in my pockets, remembering then that I was wearing a dress. I felt way more out of place and ugly than I had before.
“I was going to tell you before but, uh—well. This is weird.” I took a deep breath. It wasn’t like I hadn’t told people I was bigender before, but she was different. Her opinion seemed to matter so much more. That meant my explanation had to be that much clearer. There wasn’t room for error. “So I’m bigender. Before you ask, it means that sometimes I’m a girl and sometimes I’m a guy. Today I’m a guy. Aleks.”
She kept quiet for a while. “So it’s sort of like being transgender?”
“Kind of.”
“How do I know when you’re a boy or girl?”
I paused. I’d never actually been asked that question before. A lot of times people asked me how I knew but not how they were supposed to. “Um.” Well. How was anyone here supposed to know? It wasn’t like Sister Bernadette was going to see me in my guy clothes.
“You could ask,” I said. “I don’t expect people to just instinctively figure it out. It’s not like I get super butch when I’m a guy, you know?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
I flushed a bit. I didn’t have the answers she needed, and everyone varied so drastically. If I was the first bigender person she’d met, would she assume anyone who was bigender was just like me? Would I become the default? I didn’t want to be anyone’s default. Ever. If I was her primary frame of reference, I wouldn’t be invisible. I needed to be safe. “So are you going to talk about me needing to see the light? Because if so, I’m really not interested. I’m happy.”
But that wasn’t the right word. Content? Not right either. Was there even a word to describe how I felt?
“I’m not pushing my faith on you,” she said. “Trust me on that. My relationship with God is mine, yours is different. It’s as simple as that.” She paused. “Does your uncle know?”
“Yeah. Part of the deal with me coming here was that they knew and they wouldn’t push me to change. I guess it doesn’t count as ‘not pushing’ if it’s in a homily.”
“Why do you come to Mass?” she asked. “If it offends you all the time, why do you bother?”
“I have to. Part of the terms of me staying here.”
“Probably explains why he’s been preaching extra about gender roles and sexuality,” she murmured. After another moment she added, “Thank you. For telling me.”
“Of course,” I said. Because what else was there to say? Exude confidence. Ride it out. Be everything Alexis is not. Ignore the self-loathing. “I’m just glad you don’t—hate me.”
“I don’t think I could hate you. But none of that sneaking around listening to people’s private business, understood?”
Kind of hard not to, I refrained from saying. A little lie wouldn’t hurt. And was it a lie if I was just omitting some details that may or may not have been relevant? She didn’t need to know why I listened to people’s sins. I didn’t want credit for playing Raziel. Anonymity was the key. It was a little secret just for me.
She smiled, but not for long. It was like her eyes lost focus on me. She gazed into the distance. “I need to go. God bless.” She left me in a hurry, fabric of her skirt whipping behind her as she pattered along the walkway that led back toward the church entrance.
Reverend Monsignor Kline was surrounded by a growing crowd, smiling as he squeezed hands, presumably blessing people. There was an emotion radiating off of Sister Bernadette. It was so strong, it was unmistakable: fear.
I hugged my waist, having a pretty good idea about what the fear stemmed from—talking with a “sinner” like me. If anyone else here found out I was bigender and queer, she’d probably be judged for associating with me. Church leaders might even reprimand her. Although Reverend Monsignor Kline had been friendly to my face, Sister Bernadette had essentially warned me that he believed in the right to hate people like me.
There was a time when I used to crave hate. How messed up is that? It wasn’t long after I had the bigender revelation. I must have been thirteen, fourteen. I wore my boy-clothes, bound my chest, wore my packer. I just had to pass as male on those days. There was no other option. I’d add a lisp and be as goddamn fucking fabulous as I could be. I’d look people in the eye in the school hallways or the mall food court, daring them to scoff, grinning perversely whenever someone shoved into me saying “faggot” in my ear. That meant I passed. I was part of the club. I was real enough to be hated in a group instead of ignored as an individual.
Now it made me sick. I was so naïve then, such a baby enby. I didn’t know about internalized transphobia, and even now I still struggled with that same body dysmorphia. My decision to not present as male didn’t weaken that need. If anything, it became stronger. Fiercer. The voice in my head way meaner.
Through the parishioners orbiting around him, Reverend Monsignor Kline spotted me. A broad smile spread across his face. How much did he know? Had my uncle told him about me, or was I just Alexis to him?
The Reverend Monsignor wove through the crowd before extending his hand. “Alexis, how did you like the homily today?” he asked with such tenderness I was taken aback. An aura of warmth surrounded him. It was impossible not to smile back, and impossible not to wonder why Sister Bernadette and Deacon Jameson seemed so off-balance around him. Could they have misjudged him?