Chapter 11
Eleven
Lola kidnaps me after work.
Call it a crime of opportunity. Efraín takes his foldable bike and pedals off to some activist meeting in Sonoma, and Naomi
asks Lola to drop her off at Sugarloaf for golden hour birding.
Then, instead of taking a left at the town square, Lola neatly parallel parks in front of the Starbucks, which always has
open spaces because locals know better, and Mrs. Morse at the Plumcot Inn directs tourists to the Last Drip Café for their
coffee needs.
There must be a spurious motive in play. Lola wouldn’t think twice about taking a two-block detour to drop me off at home
even if she had to loop back to run an errand.
“Bring your wallet,” Lola instructs.
My wallet and I groan preemptively.
At least, this is a distraction from obsessing about the email I’ve been mentally composing to Billy in HR ever since lunch.
Lola stops to listen to the town troubadour, crooning some indie folk song that was probably popular when he was our age.
I’m anxious and on edge, tapping my foot to the unfamiliar rhythm.
Perfectly charmed, Lola tucks literal cash in his splayed guitar case. If I didn’t work behind a cash register, I wouldn’t
believe anyone carried physical money anymore.
When the song ends, Lola squeals and claps, bracelets jangling and rings clacking. She chats with the troubadour—Joel, maybe?—like
they’re old friends. He happily accommodates her song request, and half a dozen people gather to listen as he plays.
Lola’s still gossiping with Vanessa from Blushing Blooms while I’m trying to walk away. I’m exhausted from work and overstimulated
from live music under the summer sun.
Finally, Lola leads me a few storefronts down. Tucked between Blushing Blooms and Taqueria el Pueblecito, Nine Lives thrift
store donates a significant percentage of their profits to the Sonoma County Humane Society—and to the care of the two elderly
cats who make napping spots in the strangest places around the store.
The store smells equally of catnip and mothballs. Irene waves at us from the register and Lola politely asks after Pippin’s
recent feline herpes flare-up.
Impatiently, I tap the ill-fitting saddle shoe I bought at this very store. “What are we doing here?”
Lola smiles at me like this is something we do every day. “Why, just some light gender retail therapy.”
“I don’t understand.” Shopping is a word I associate with panic attacks, not therapy.
Lola clucks her tongue. “That’s the problem, babe.” She leads me through labyrinthine racks, into the heart of retail misery.
“Have you been wearing the same pair of shorts every day?”
I look down at my shabby khaki cargo shorts. “Maybe?”
Lola sighs. “Eli.”
“I wash them every other workday. I know Efraín would say that’s a criminal waste of water, except I’m honestly still unclear
on whether he believes in crime, so—”
“I’m saying it’s a crime against fashion.” Lola’s already sifting through a rack of men’s shorts.
“Look, I can’t afford a shopping spree, not even a thrift store edition.”
“Have you spent a single cent you’ve earned this summer? Or has every paycheck made a one-way trip to your savings account?”
I’m guessing my weekly discount ticket to Blue Plate Picture Palace wouldn’t meet Lola’s definition of discretionary spending.
“Look, I need to save everything I earn this summer for—” I hesitate. One of the things I hate about living in a small town
is that everyone knows my medical history. That’s why I want top surgery in the rearview before I start college.
It’s not even about passing or not. It’s about feeling like I’m trapped in the emperor’s new clothes, no matter how many people close to me insist everything is fine.
But this is Lola, who overheard a customer and a coworker misgender me this afternoon in the span of thirty seconds. Lola,
who is trans and gave me a coming-out care package. Lola, who unironically implied we’re ride-or-dies.
Telling her the truth is the least I can do. “I’m saving for top surgery. Summer wages will cover the down payment, and hopefully,
I’ll get the internship to pay for the surgery itself. Moms will contribute as much as they can, but they can’t afford—”
“Eli, I know.”
“You . . . what?”
Lola looks up from the rack. “I didn’t hack your accounting spreadsheets, but I assumed that was the reason—I just knew.”
“How?”
“Because, I don’t know, it is a truth universally acknowledged that every trans boy in possession of—”
“An unfortunate chest?”
“—must be in want of a top surgeon. We don’t have to talk about it.” Lola thrusts a fistful of hangers at me. “Don’t worry
about the money. We’re not going to burn a hole in your top surgery fund, promise.”
“I always worry about money.” I wring the hangers between my hands. “I worry about everything.”
“Listen, I come from generations of professional coupon clippers. Trust me, okay? I’m just picking things for you to try on.”
She passes me another hanger.
“I don’t need to try these on to know they’re definitely too small.”
“Ah, the classic T-boy problem.”
“I know. My hips are—”
Lola mutters something under her breath, though I can’t hear over Irene’s New Age playlist. “Oldest urban legend in the lookbook.
Transmascs wearing baggy clothes to hide your curves when it only makes you look curvier. It’s Fat Girl Fashion 101: Wear
clothes that fit. That’s the best way to minimize your chest and your hips. Not skintight, but your actual size.”
“That’s the problem,” I retort. “Nothing fits. I’m too short, chubby, and curvy for men’s clothes, but I can’t even wear women’s clothes anymore because testosterone
redistributes fat. So the chub’s in my stomach, rather than my hips or my butt, but my pelvis is still an evolutionary blight.
Even my bones—”
“Eli. Breathe.”
“No, thank you,” I whisper, petulant.
Lola snorts, but she steers me into the dressing room. She parks me in the chair, six pairs of shorts piled over my lap, while
she leans back against the mirror, blocking my view of myself.
Then she’s just looking at me, and I’m looking at her, still in the NSX uniform. The women’s fitted polo paired with her paper-bag-waisted shorts successfully creates the illusion of an hourglass figure.
“I’m not going to ask if this is about what happened earlier,” Lola says, “because I know . . .”
She knows it happens every day.
“Wait,” I interject, finally putting two and two together and making for fuck’s sake, “is that what this is about? What happened before lunch?”
“I wanted to check in. Make sure you were okay.”
I don’t understand the point of these constant check-ins. Lola, Efraín, Ma—everyone in my life who doesn’t have alexithymia,
basically—and their pathological need to ask after someone’s feelings whenever something happens. I don’t understand, which is the entire definition of alexithymia: difficulty understanding one’s own emotions and those
of others. I also don’t understand the point because asking doesn’t change anything. It just means I have to do the cognitive labor of deciphering my emotions and then covering up the ugly bits.
Lola asking how I feel about something that happened five hours ago doesn’t change what happened, or that it will happen again.
Unless that’s the point. Lola called it “the classic T-boy problem.” She’s giving me fashion tips to make my silhouette more masculine. Maybe this isn’t a run-of-the-mill check-in; maybe it’s a misguided attempt to help.
“So, you brought me shopping for ‘gender retail therapy’ to teach me what style shorts to wear to pass better? So I get misgendered
less often?”
Lola doesn’t even have the courtesy to be offended by my misdirected outburst. She just sets one hand on her hip and lifts
an eyebrow. “You done yet?”
I shut my eyes, just for a moment, just to breathe of my own free will. “Sorry. You didn’t deserve—that wasn’t about you.”
“Oh, I know. Just making sure you know, too.”
“I do,” I admit quietly. I can’t meet her eyes, so I study the glittering gold tinsel extensions interspersed among her curls.
The dash of sparkle suits her. She’s been experimenting with new hair accessories every week in continued solidarity with
Naomi.
I should compliment her. That’s what friends do, but we’re not friends. She may have kidnapped me this afternoon, but we’re
not friends.
I know Lola’s checking in out of compassion, from a place of genuine empathy—sympathy, in this case. Because Lola cares about
proper nouns (read: real people). Lola cares that I, Eli Goldstein, was misgendered in our shared workplace.
On the other side of the dressing room curtain, a bell jingles. Loud voices and easy laughs. Grouchy yowls as the cats rouse.
“You want to know the real reason I brought you here, Eli?” Lola asks. “Finding a cute new outfit always gives me a sweet
gender euphoria sugar rush, so I thought it might cheer you up, too.
“I don’t need cheering up. I’m not—”
“Not upset?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure, Eli,” she replies with a salty-sweet smile. “Just know that you can talk to me. About any of it.”
We both know I won’t. The last time we really talked about the Struggle was when we collaborated on a rec list of “actually
good trans films” for the school newsletter. Spoiler: It was a short list.
But Lola’s trying to be a good person, and I’m just trying to feel like a person at all.
Real people talk. I try, “So, what do I need to know about these shorts?”
Lola smiles, bright, toothy, and warmer than apple pie. “Start with the corduroy.”