Five #2
And I hate how he gets under my skin and makes me argue against what I actually believe because I know he has experienced injustice. His class privilege only insulates him so much; he’s also brown, bi, and neurodivergent.
Efraín’s always angry at the world in abstract, as a concept, on principle, and I hate it because it’s always about the white horse. Which is fine for people like Efraín, who have stables full of
pedigreed Thoroughbreds, but for the rest of us, metaphorical white horses are just as unattainable as the real deal. We’re
the ones left mucking out the horse shit. Because you can’t ride in on a white horse if you can’t afford riding lessons; saving
other people is a privilege that most of us—
And now I’m talking like him.
This is what Efraín does: He twists me up in these discursive knots that I’d need a machine saw to hack through, but all I
have is a knockoff Swiss Army knife.
Because everything I own is a knockoff. Including my generic progressivism, which has the same active ingredients as the Big-Name
Brand, but you can tell it’s not as shiny, not quite real. If I were a better progressive—a true, too-cool-for-blue leftist—I
could have my organic vegan fruitcake and eat it, too. I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d sacrifice myself to save another.
But how can I be a mensch when I’m such a selfish schmuck?
Efraín’s still talking. Did he ever stop? How long have I been tuned out? It’s not like his one-man production of Eat the Rich: The Musical needs an audience.
Efraín’s saying, “Capitalism—”
“Come on,” I groan. “This is about—”
“Listen,” Lola interrupts, “I’m always down to stick it to the man, but we’re not the ones with the real stake in this. Naomi?
What do you think? I’m down to riot, but only if this is what you want. We can walk over to Foxglove right now. If not, we
can meet up before work to style your hair—”
Goose bumps collide with freckles on my arms. Waiting for my sister to decide whether she’s willing to imperil my job and
torpedo my top surgery fund is torture.
“Foxglove,” Naomi whispers, eyes shut.
“So that means”—Lola hesitates, fruitlessly waiting for anyone else to take the conversational relay baton—“you want to go
with Efraín’s plan?”
“Yes. That.”
It’s not exactly enthusiastic consent.
I hear it for what it is, even if Efraín won’t: Naomi’s giving up. She’s burned through her circuits, and peer pressure is
the path of least resistance. She’s agreeing with Efraín’s batshit crazy plan because it’s easier to agree with him than to
disagree.
Easier to agree with him and disagree with me.
“Then let’s go buy some temporary hair dye,” Efraín says with that insufferably smug, cat-that-got-the-cream smirk.
Under the guttering fluorescent lights of Foxglove Apothecary’s hair care aisle, I regret the series of unfortunate life decisions
that has led me here.
I never should’ve agreed to the carpool.
I never should’ve let my carpool buddies peer-pressure me into coming here.
Across the square from Lou’s, Foxglove Apothecary brands itself as a boutique general store but is really an old-fashioned
five-and-dime/pharmacy duo that is always a heartbeat away from CVS or Walgreens swooping in like carrion birds.
A few aisles over, Lola’s trying to cheer Naomi up. After all, Naomi isn’t going to do anything except touch up her highlights
with the dye she has at home, and Lola has an extensive clip-in extension collection. Naomi isn’t talking much, but Lola’s
getting her to make a game of rating Squishmallows and knockoffs by huggability.
Meanwhile, I’ve been holding the same random box of hair dye I picked up five minutes ago, pretending to read it, but primarily
brooding and thinking: I did not consent to this.
If Efraín could read my thoughts—or found himself living out the NS pseudo-telepathy episode “American Psychedelic”—he’d tell me that capitalism doesn’t give a damn about my consent.
“Didn’t peg you as a blond,” Efraín jests.
Thankfully, I don’t need a steel helmet or a tinfoil hat. I do, however, need to pay attention to which boxes I pull off the
shelf. “I’m not.”
“Besides, blond’s a natural color, and that’s permanent dye.”
I shove the box onto the shelf, then immediately regret my carelessness. I don’t want to make Dr. Andersen’s life harder.
Straightening the boxes is therapeutic.
“Temporary dyes are over here.” Efraín cocks his head to the end of the aisle. “Selection’s pretty limited.”
“I’m sure whatever’s cheapest is fine,” I reply, even though nothing about this is remotely fine.
Efraín flicks his eyes at me, frowning. “Clairol tests on animals.”
“Okay, which brands don’t?”
Shoulder to shoulder at the end of the aisle, I consider the three rows of temporary dyes that Efraín considers a “limited”
selection.
“Help me read the labels,” Efraín says. “Just because the company says they’re ‘cruelty-free’ doesn’t mean they are, so check
for the Leaping Bunny certification. But that doesn’t guarantee they’re vegan, so check the ingredients, and—”
“Got it.” I grab a box from the bottom shelf.
Strategically placed box fans whir around us, the store otherwise a stifling space. Price labels flutter in the artificial breeze.
We find two true vegan, cruelty-free brands, one half the price of the other.
Efraín, of course, immediately grabs a box of the more expensive brand in pink.
“You really want your hair to match our uniform shirts?” I ask.
He looks down, as if he’d completely forgotten about the fuchsia polos we’re still wearing. He shrugs, sending the tight fabric
rippling over his irritatingly well-defined pecs. “It won’t look that bright in my hair. Now, your turn.”
I look down at the lower shelf of cheaper dyes, half a dozen colors on offer. Except I’m not asking myself if I’m more of
an Impulsive Indigo or Vivid Violet kind of guy. I’m trying to remember when I agreed to risk my job for . . . what, exactly?
Naomi’s signature hiccup-giggle punctuates Lola’s throaty laugh. Operation: Cheer-Up is working.
“Do you hate all the colors or something?” Efraín asks. “It’s just one day.”
“Maybe I don’t want to spend money on a single-day riot that’s liable to get me fired before my first paycheck!” I burst out.
He studies me, brows furrowed, and says, “If money’s the issue, I’ll cover you.”
I want to laugh because, God, he has no idea.
Of course money is the issue, but I can afford to dip into my burgeoning top surgery fund, which primarily consists of birthday and Chrismukkah gift money and cat-sitting gratuities from Ms. Sinclair, to buy a box of hair dye—even the one that costs as much as we make in an hour.
But it’s not about that. It’s about the part where there will be no paychecks to funnel into said fund if I dye my hair Mango
Mash, Bolder Blue, or any other color of the rainbow.
“It’s not about the money,” I lie.
I don’t know what he’s thinking when he leans back against the shelves, long and languid, as he considers me anew. “You know,
I meant to check in. About earlier.”
I rewind the past eleven hours and pinpoint five discrete incidents that might warrant discussion, starting with his tardiness
and ending with . . . “What, when you accused me of being a Nazi sympathizer?”
He has the courtesy to wince. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“Impact over intent, right?” I force a sardonic smile. Echoing Efraín’s own mantras is a Pyrrhic pleasure at best. If I were
to document today’s myriad disappointments, that argument would barely make the list. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That wasn’t what I was talking about. I wanted to check in about this morning,” Efraín says, “when I corrected Anya about
your gender. It felt like the right thing to do, but I realize now that I might’ve overstepped.”
I blink up at him, nonplussed.
He’s not checking in about the light misgendering but rather how he reacted? Are his priorities so egotistically misaligned that he thinks that is what warrants an apology? Is he even apologizing? Is that what’s happening right now?
Then he elaborates, “I outed you.”
“I’m universally out. Besides, I told Anya at my interview.”
“So you don’t mind that I corrected her? I know some trans people feel patronized when other people step in.”
You know what makes me feel patronized? This entire conversation.
Efraín says, “I shouldn’t have assumed what you’d want other people to know.”
“So, instead, you’re assuming you know how I feel.”
“No, I’m checking in. I’m asking how you feel.”
Not apologizing. Noted.
The thing is, I don’t know how I feel. In the moment, I couldn’t make sense of anything except that the situation itself didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to happen, and I had to fix it. Then Efraín swooped in before I got the chance.
Maybe I do know what he means.
“I can take care of myself,” I say, because it is crucial that he know this. I don’t need his check-ins or not-apologies.
“Can you, though? You were just standing there, not saying anything.” His words come faster, unpracticed. He just can’t help
himself. “It wasn’t fight or flight; you chose freeze.”
I chose delayed processing, actually, except for the part where I didn’t choose it at all.
The same thing is happening right now. Seconds are passing, and my lips aren’t moving, and Efraín’s staring.
I glance up at the anti-theft mirror, watching Lola’s and Naomi’s distorted reflections.
“So you checked in because you thought it was the right thing to do, but you’ve already convinced yourself that you were right
to correct Anya, no matter what I say.” I can’t bring myself to look at Efraín. “Because you saw me as a helpless, hapless
baby seal that was going to be clubbed to death if you didn’t save me.” I tighten my grip on my backpack straps. “You don’t
think that’s patronizing?”
“What would you prefer I do next time, Elisha?” Efraín demands. “Stay quiet while someone misgenders you?”
“Kind of you to assume there’s going to be a next time.”