A few of the message boards I’ve read said things like facial hair growth contributes to body or gender dysmorphia. So that was a fun thing to learn. I don’t exactly remember when I discovered the whole thing made me uncomfortable. It was just one of those gradual things, like my hair, or my nose.
Mariam: gasp! I almost forgot! You haven’t met the new girl!
Me: New girl?
Mariam sends me a selfie of them with a girl at a coffee shop or restaurant or somewhere. They’re both really cute, Mariam as always, their dark purple lipstick matching their hijab. This girl is kissing Mariam’s cheek, her hair dyed a similar purple, eye shadow dark. She looks vaguely witchy, and I love it.
Me: She’s so cute!!!
Mariam: omg she’s so amazing. Her name is Shauna. like we’ve been out every day this week. We went to the movies last night and she held my hand the entire time and it was PERFECT! Like I think I died and I’m in heaven right now honestly.
Me: Sounds nice
I stare at their messages while I try to imagine Mariam walking down the street, getting to hold hands with their new girlfriend. I don’t know much about Mariam’s parents, but they’ve never had any problem with them being nonbinary or pansexual, so Mariam never really had to worry about hiding their sexuality or their identify from their parents.
I hope they know how lucky they are. Of course, they’d also had more than their fair share of problems. When their family lived in Bahrain, things weren’t perfect. Mariam’s family is Shia, not Sunni, which made things difficult for them.
But after they moved to the United States, things only got worse. Too many times Mariam has told me about people yanking on their or their mother’s hijab out in public or walking in front of them while they prayed. And California isn’t some 24/7 queer-pride parade. Mariam told me one time that they never go anywhere without two cans of pepper spray, so I don’t really have a right to call them lucky, I guess.
Plus, there’s the whole YouTube side of things. Those comment sections can get downright hideous.
Mariam: You okay???
I stare at their message, thinking about how I could tell them.
Me: I think I really like this boy…
But before I press send, Hannah slides open the glass doors and pokes her head outside. “Hey, I’m gonna shower and head out. You want to come with me or stay here?”
I glance at my phone, holding down the backspace button, and watch the message vanish before I look back at her. The dog that might be Ryder is still barking. “Yeah, I’ll go get ready.”
“This one looks good.” Hannah grabs a shirt off the rack and holds it out in front of me. “And it goes with your eyes,” she adds.
“Yeah, maybe.” I take it, adding to the pile I’m trying to balance on my arms. So far, she’s handed me a few button-up shirts, three pairs of jeans, and a cardigan. It’s going to get too warm for sweaters soon enough, but it’s still pretty cute. Cheap too.
“You want to go ahead and try them on?”
“Sure.” I glance around for the dressing rooms, one clearly marked “male” and the other “female.”
“Sorry, sib,” Hannah says, realizing this for the first time.
“It’s whatever.” I march toward the “male” side and pick one of the empty rooms. I hate trying on clothes. Besides there rarely being gender-neutral changing rooms, I get all hot and sweaty, and changing out of stuff six or seven times tends to get really old really quick.
I stare at the ones Hannah’s picked out. There’s one we grabbed that I’m actually excited for, this short-sleeve collared shirt, bright floral print set against black. I’ve always loved these kinds of shirts.
The rest are fairly basic colors. Burgundy, olive green, and purple. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what Hannah is doing for me, but the second we stepped in, she took charge, heading right over to the “men’s” section without giving it a second thought.
I mean, I should expect these kinds of things by now. Every retailer pretty much does the same thing. Men’s, women’s, and children’s sections; even the ones with the neutral changing rooms can’t escape the way things are gendered.
And this is just the stuff that fits me best, I guess, with my body type and everything, but still. Sometimes when I was out with Mom, I’d follow her over to the “women’s” side of the store, staring at all the options. The really cool baggy sweaters, the tank tops, and the thin, flowy dresses. It was hard not to be jealous, but I knew no matter where I went, I’d never be able to really go out dressed how I wanted to.
Boys aren’t supposed to wear dresses. Even if I’m not a boy, even if clothing shouldn’t be gendered. Whenever anyone looks at me, that’s all they’ll see. I sigh, finishing buttoning the shirt and rolling up the sleeves because it’s already getting hot in here, the too-bright lights hanging over the naked ceilings. I turn around in the mirror, watching the tag on my arm fly back and forth. It looks nice enough. Maybe I could save this for more special occasions. Not that I have many.
But the more I stare at my body, the more I hate it. It’s the same feelings I had before I realized I’m nonbinary. Things just aren’t where they’re supposed to be, and I feel like I’m larger and smaller than myself at the same time. Like nothing adds up.
“You okay in there?” Hannah asks.
“Yeah.” I unlock the door and walk out.
She’s waiting on a bench just outside and has the biggest smile on her face when she sees me. “Damn, kid. You look good!”
I can’t resist a smile. “You think?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t want to try on the other ones, but Hannah makes me. “What’s the point of buying them if they won’t fit you?”
I don’t make a fuss about it, but when we’re done and she walks over to the other section of the store, I feel the pang in my gut. There are these really cool-looking sweaters, the “two sizes too big” kind that come down to your thighs and swallow your hands. And they’re thin but chunky, so they wouldn’t get too hot.
“You should get that one,” I say.
“Cute.” Hannah grabs one, eyeing it before putting it back on the rack. “I don’t think it’s me though.”
I sort of wish she’d see what I’m saying, but she’s never really been the best at that. Maybe I could hide it under my clothes, so Hannah won’t notice. But there’s really no way to sneak it past her, especially if she’s footing the bill for all of this.
“What do you think?” She pulls out this bright white dress with red polka dots. I’d never be able to pull off something like that, but I sort of like the idea of being able to wear it. Maybe how it would feel brushing past my legs.
“Looks good,” I say.
“You look like you’re thinking,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Like your brain’s busy.” She chuckles. “Thomas says I have a look like that too. Maybe it runs in the family.”
“Maybe.”
She nudges me a little. “So, what’re you thinking?”