It was the middle of freshman year, and Tara’s fingers messed with a few strands of long hair as she sat in literature class, waiting for the period to come to an end. When the bell finally rang for recess, she got up and stretched, easily picked out in a fitted t-shirt and blue jeans. It meant that when Alyson came to find her, she grinned easily. “Hey, see you made it through without falling asleep. Thought I was going to have to throw something at you.”
Alyson’s expression then was one of wounded dignity with mischief hidden behind. “It was pretty damn close. Hope that not all of high school literature classes will be like this.” That was when she made a face. “Gym class after this, ugh. Why is it mandatory and where can I hide until it goes away?”
Tara’s stomach plummeted. The school’s changing rooms were a nightmare, enough to make her anxious, palms sweating as she tried to change with her back turned away from everyone, t-shirt moved to cover her front. Rather than highlight that, though, she shrugged and walked alongside Alyson, pulling a hairband from around her wrist to tie her hair up into a messy ponytail. “Tell me about it. You won’t catch me dead in there. You should just skip with me.”
“I can’t, I’ll get caught, and you’ll get detention.”
I’d rather get detention than be in there. “Guess we’ll find out,” she replied with a smirk, only for her gaze to wander across the quad where the football players were practicing once they left the building. For February, the weather was still incredibly mild and most of the student body were taking advantage of it. Alyson caught the direction of where Tara’s attention was at and chuckled, almost immediately misinterpreted. “You know, I thought some of the others were bad when it came to checking out the football players, but that wasn’t remotely subtle. Who are you looking at?”
Caught, Tara blushed, a rare enough occurrence that it made it look like what it wasn’t: unrequited crush. “No one,” she said quickly. It wasn’t true, but she wasn’t looking over there for the reasons that Alyson probably expected either. It wasn’t about seeing a handsome boy and wanting to be kissed, though that had crossed her mind before. No, instead, it was curiosity; wondering how it felt to move the way that they did, how it would be to live in someone else’s skin just for a little while.
To not look in the mirror and feel strangely distant.
To want to look in the mirror at all.
Spring fling. Of all the stupid dances that the school could come up with, it definitely numbered among the lamer ones. Her mom had been thrilled that she was going, of course, happy to see that she was going to go out and have fun, and had taken her shopping for a dress. Tara hadn’t been able to protest, had endured at least an hour of trying dress after dress until she finally just picked one so that it’d be over. Sarah hadn’t known that it would be a problem, but had given her a measuring glance when her hands had folded over her middle in clear discomfort, hadn’t looked at herself directly in the mirror for too long. “Honey, you know you don’t have to have this one if you don’t like it, right? You look beautiful in all of them.” She hadn’t had the heart to tell her mother that there wasn’t a single dress anywhere that would make her feel okay or less confused, so she’d grinned and talked fast, over-compensated. “No, I love this one, Mom, it’s great and it’s not too expensive.” It was a dark shade of blue in a silky material, flared out at the waist, but no matter what she tried, everything was fitted on the top half, enough to make her want to cross her arms over her chest. Seemingly convinced, her mom had smiled, and Tara exhaled inwardly in relief even as her fingers still plucked uselessly at the skirt of the dress, unable to keep still.
On the day itself, nothing convinced her that she hadn’t made a terrible decision in deciding to go. Sat in a room full of her friends, who were getting dressed, trying to follow make-up tutorials off of YouTube only halfway successfully and curling their hair, Tara felt positively claustrophobic. Why did I agree to do this again? They’d all agreed to get ready together at someone’s house, but she could barely think of putting the dress in the nearby garment bag on, let alone doing her hair and make-up. Roxanne, looking effortlessly gorgeous even with her hair only half-straightened and wearing old sweatpants frowned in her direction. “Hey, did you want the curling iron? I think Jessica had it.” That was when Tara shook herself, reached down to extract her make-up bag. “I’m good, I was just wondering what to do on my eyes,” she said. She hadn’t been wondering any such thing, and it didn’t look like Roxanne believed her either. “You know, you’ve been weird for a few days. Is there something wrong?”
I hate being a girl wasn’t something Tara could say out loud, but the urge was overwhelming. I’m so confused, why am I like this? wasn’t something she could admit to either, because that would mean that she’d have to explain what she was confused about. Instead, she pressed her lips together, shook her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll get over it, probably just PMS or something.” Roxanne nodded sympathetically then, as though that solved it instantly, and then smiled at Tara. “Is there anyone you like who’ll be at the dance tonight? Maybe that’ll take your mind off whatever’s going on. Or is that the problem and you just don’t want to say?”
Please drop it. That was the only thought in Tara’s head. “Promise you won’t tell?” Roxanne leaned in eagerly then. “I like someone, but he’s out of my league. Older, has a girlfriend, the works.” No, she didn’t. She didn’t want to be someone’s girlfriend. What she felt when she looked at boys was confusing. On the one hand, there was the potential of butterflies, but there were also more conflicting signals. Wanting to ask where they got that shirt from so she could get the same. Wanting to be strong enough to throw around a football as casually as they did. Wanting to look like that, strong jaw and tall and broad shoulders. But that wasn’t normal. This, talking about boys as crushes, should be what was normal.
Roxanne had grinned. “Secret’s safe with me. Unless it’s someone from your Glee club, in which case you might want to rethink your options. It’s not, right?” It was no secret how half the school thought of the Glee club, but Tara and Alyson had joined anyway. Tara was quick to deny it anyway, shook her head. “No way,” she said with a laugh.
Was it worse that she lied, or that she didn’t know what was going on with herself well enough to even make an attempt at the truth?
What’s happening to me?
It was past midnight. The dance had been over for hours. Tara was at home, and she was exhausted from dancing, from smiling, from thinking about the boy who had asked her to dance and then for her phone number. She’d had a great time with her friends. Everything was perfect.
Except for her Google search history, stared at and restlessly scrolled through as she lay in bed with the lights out, unable to sleep.
Except for the fact that avoiding being honest with herself was starting to take its toll.
A girl who feels like a boy.
What does it mean if I feel like a boy and still like boys?
Transgender.
Gender dysphoria.
The list went on and had been steadily increasing every night for weeks, until it was the first thing that started to appear in the search history on her phone. Tara had never been able to bring herself to look at the search results for long; it was as difficult as looking in the mirror. Tonight, though, she’d managed to get up the courage to actually click on a couple of links before she froze up and backed out of it, feeling like she was going to itch out of her skin.
Nothing fit. Nothing ever fit. Not the pretty dress exactly her size that had wound up in a crumpled heap in the corner of her bedroom. Not how she felt, as though everything was a terrifying lie, especially her body and the way it said girl. Setting her phone aside on her bedside table, Tara stared up at the ceiling, wrapped arms around her stomach beneath the covers. With relentless, almost bruising fingers, she pressed out the shape of her waist, her hips, and there was no comfort to be found there, only something undeniably missing and lacking. The knowledge that she couldn’t ignore any more: the outside of her didn’t match the inside.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
He wouldn’t have asked you to dance if he’d known you’d rather be wearing a suit than a dress.
I’m so scared.
This wasn’t a fairytale. She cried herself to sleep.
The next day, she woke up far too early and took a listless glance at her phone when she saw the screen lit. A couple texts, one from the boy from last night, one from Alyson, some tags from Instagram. Tara didn’t open any of them. She just swiped away the notifications from the screen and rolled over with it in her hand, her back to her bedroom door, stared at the wall. This had been her Saturday mornings for a while now, and she didn’t really want to think about why staying in bed and not moving until almost midday was the better option than getting up and doing anything. Maintaining the outward appearance of feeling and behaving normally when nothing in her felt that way was exhausting, and occasions like dances just meant Tara had to amplify it until people were sold on the fiction that she was having a good time.
She could hear her mom in the kitchen downstairs, always an early riser, but getting up would mean having to talk about the dance and Tara just couldn’t do it.
Instead, she returned her attention to her phone, and tentatively, she began to tap a different search into it.
How can I make my chest look flat like a boy’s?
Almost immediately, there was a wealth of information suddenly available; websites that showed selections that talked about sports bandages, sports bras, binders, and nervously, she hovered again. I’m just looking. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
That didn’t explain why when Tara eventually exited the house, she got the bus and went to the nearest big department store on her own, without texting any of her friends. No one could know about this.
There hadn’t really been a plan, only a few nervous glances around as she headed for the floor which held all of the men’s clothing. If anyone asked or there were any accidental run-ins, she could just say she was looking for a birthday gift for her dad. No one would be the wiser. No one would guess it meant anything else, they had no reason to.
Strolling through the aisles, Tara’s gaze roamed over t-shirts, pairs of trousers, and it was with a sinking heart that she realised the sizing was a new obstacle to conquer. It meant that all of the t-shirts she casually picked up as though browsing were in a size small, and the pair of jeans grabbed as an afterthought were a guess at best. Thankfully there was only one attendant at the changing rooms when she made her way down to the women’s section, barely paying attention to the fact that Tara had a sports bra that clearly wouldn’t fit for its intended purpose slung over her arm with items from a completely different area.
Tara hated changing rooms, hated the full length mirrors, the unforgiving lighting and the way every flaw seemed magnified. She hadn’t enjoyed dress shopping at all, so that begged the question of why she was putting herself through this instead. Why was it any different?
Confirmed, the sports bra was too tight. But it was meant to be, flattening her chest into something barely there. She could bear the discomfort just to try this out.
The jeans by some miracle were about right, and when she pulled them on, they hung on her legs completely differently to the others that she owned. Shoving her hands in the pockets, the movement felt natural, to have enough room to do that a novelty. It felt good. After debating which t-shirt to choose, she picked up one in a shade of dark red and pulled it over her head. The last touch was to impatiently gather up her hair and shove it out of the way in a hair tie in a knot.
What are you doing?
Her eyes flashed up to the mirror, and the shock of what she saw, however fleetingly, made her suck in a breath and flinch a little.
Without the make-up she’d worn to the dance the night before, her hair looking almost short from a certain angle, chest almost completely flat and the clothes, she could have easily been taken for a boy. But that was exactly the point, wasn’t it?
I feel like me.
It was a revelation. Slowly, uncertainly, Tara smiled with no one there to see.
