Then I remembered my alternate binder.
I pulled off the painful white piece and hurled it across the room, then started rummaging through my box for the gray binder. It looked more like a sports bra with a zipper down the front. But the flat panels worked incredibly well as they compressed me, and the short line over my ribs allowed my waist to be free and made it easier for me to breathe. Snugness in general freaked me out, especially on my stomach. And maybe I wasn’t as smooth as I once was, but a lot of cis guys put on some weight in their stomachs. It’d distract from my hips because there was only so much I could do.
Next, I pulled out my packer, harness, and compression shorts. I didn’t always wear a packer when I went out. Really, it wasn’t like people were staring at my crotch. At least I didn’t think they were staring at my crotch. I hoped they weren’t staring at my crotch. As Aleks, as Alexis, I didn’t want that.
But now? Who was I?
I’d been Aleks when I woke up yesterday, and then I’d been Alexis after I passed out. But ever since my talk with Deacon Jameson and Sister Bernadette, I’d felt adrift. Empty. Like I was trapped in my body but not connected to it. Like part of my brain had shut off.
Like I was no one.
It was easier that way. If you were a machine, you didn’t feel. To turn off the emotional aspect meant it would be easier to do a task that would make anyone’s stomach turn.
For Michael, the voice reminded me any time I started feeling queasy. For Deacon Jameson.
You owe them.
Don’t back out now.
This was your call.
I slipped my legs through the holes, tightened the straps, and readjusted. A lot of people wore packers too high when they first started. I know I certainly did—I must’ve looked like that idiot who got high on meth and decided to steal puppies by shoving them down his pants (note to self: don’t do meth). I had to really pull it between my legs and keep it low. I tightened up the straps further. The silicone felt alien against my skin.
The compression shorts came on next, another layer of protection to keep my packer in place and slim my thighs and hips. I looked at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side. Definitely a little softer than I used to be without my workouts, but I still looked good. Different, but good.
“You’ve got this, Aleks,” I said to my reflection, but that felt like a lie. “You can pull it off, Alexis,” I tried again, but that also didn’t feel honest. My heart thudded with fear. I wasn’t a machine because I could still feel. But both parts of me were gone, leaving me like the skin of a cicada.
I was nothing. I was no one.
I waited for the voice to berate me, but it was silent. Like it had left me too. And that silence was so unbearable. Devastating. Isolating.
I got the message loud and clear. Not only was I no one, but I was completely on my own. Atonement for my sins. Not the normal seven deadly sins that people preach about, not the sins I overheard in my room beside the confessional. But the real sins of life and friendship:
Doubt.
Assumption.
Willful ignorance.
False accusation.
Hypocrisy.
Desperation for acceptance.
Hiding my true self.
Shaming someone for who they are.
Refusing to listen.
Causing irreparable hurt.
I was guilty of all those crimes.
I grabbed a hair tie, twisted my ponytail up under a wig head, then grabbed one of my most realistic wigs, the one I’d styled to have a small faux-hawk. It was easy to single out wigs if you were looking hard. The shorter the wig, however, the more likely it was that people wouldn’t question it. At one of the first conventions I went to by myself, I got a headache and pulled off my wig. Everyone around me gasped because they thought it was my actual hair. I’ll never forget their shock, or how special I felt. Like I had a secret that was for me, only me. One I could share with the world, if I wanted.
I used makeup to hollow out my cheeks and soften my eyes. For the last step, I put in colored contact lenses. It’d been so long, they hurt, but now as I looked in the mirror, blue eyes stared back at me instead of dark brown. I needed to minimize the chance of being recognized. It was dangerous enough to approach Reverend Monsignor Kline without risking that he would recognize me.
After pulling on my Tall Men Shoes, a short-sleeved dress shirt, slacks, and a tie, I looked in the mirror. I looked like a Mormon missionary, not a Catholic schoolboy. God damn it.
I rooted through my closet again, grabbing a thin vest. I slid it over my shoulders and looked in the mirror.
Now I looked like the campiest guy to ever camp, doing pirouettes on clouds as Freddie Mercury’s ghost rode past on a unicorn and sprinkled me with glitter.
Often, Aleks loved being that flamboyant. But Aleks was gone. And even if he wasn’t, if I looked like I was “asking for it” (which was such a disgusting statement), I’m pretty sure Kline wouldn’t make a move. There was no guarantee that we’d get him anyway, but we had to try and damn it! There wasn’t enough time!
After going through my clothes one last time, I slipped on a polo shirt, khakis, and a belt. I still used Tall Men Shoes, but one of the tennis sneaker variants. I looked back in the mirror. Preppy kid. Beautiful boy. A little rugged and awkward, just starting a growth spurt. Like a thirteen-year-old.
Like Michael.
I double-checked that my phone was charged. Then I opened my door.
Aunt Anne Marie was on the other side, fist raised to knock on the door. She stared at me, horrified, and took a step back.
No surprise there. We hadn’t really talked since the other day when I told her I enjoyed being a sinner, so it wasn’t like I had a lot of goodwill to draw on.
“Uh. Hi, Aunt Anne Marie,” I squeaked. “Just heading out—”
“I didn’t see this,” she said as she turned her back. “I’m going to my room. I’m going to wait ten minutes, and when I come back, you’ll be normal.”
“This is my normal,” I said as I stepped around her. “You just haven’t seen all of my normal yet.”
“Alexis—”
“I gotta go.”
“Alexis!”
“I’m sorry. I’ll talk more later. I gotta go,” I said as I slipped past her. My footsteps seemed to thud even more loudly as I went down the hallway. I could hear her behind me.
“You—you can’t go out like that. It’s not the Lord’s will!”
“Just asked God two minutes ago, he said he’s chill,” I said without slowing. She gasped.
“Have you been possessed? It was that boy, Dima, wasn’t it? You’ve been different ever since I let you go to that convention with him. You need to be purged from sin. Alexis, stop!”
Just inside the front door, I stopped. I inhaled slowly and turned around. “Aleks,” I said, even though that was a lie. Today, I was no one, but she didn’t need to have ammunition for her argument. Today, to her, I would lie. “My name is Aleks.”
“I don’t understand why you’d—why you’d want to do such a thing . . .”
“Being bigender is not a choice,” I said. “I’ve been miserable trying to pretend I was someone I’m not on the days I’m not.”
My aunt flinched, visibly upset. “So you want to be a boy?”