“All of the above.” I follow her into the kitchen to pick out my tea as she connects her phone with the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
All my friends like having music on when they study; Makayla’s flavor is R&B, and she puts on Victoria Monèt’s latest album, a mellow background that makes the room even cozier. At the table, I curl my hands around the hot mug of peppermint tea, staring down at my math homework. The assignment is due on Tuesday, with a test on Wednesday, and after asking some embarrassingly basic questions in class and ignoring the few people who whispered when Idid, I understand about half of it. Which is more than I can say for the end of last year.
Sometimes, I wonder if I actually don’t have anxiety. Maybe I’m just exaggerating, just another social media self-diagnosis with no real problems. Last year was bad, but also, was it? I could have tried harder. I could have pushed through. Dad was texting me, but he was just being Dad. Just dramatic and annoying. It wasn’t the end of the world.
Thinking about it makes my brain go all staticky. The longer I try to pinpoint what went wrong last year, the less certain I feel. What if it wasn’t real at all? The thought makes my stomach swoop.
“I have a question,” Makayla says suddenly. I push the thought to a back burner in my brain, but it’s still simmering. “How did you know you were nonbinary?”
I click the end of my pen into the table three times, then three more, and then another round. The sound is a satisfying anchor. “Gooooooood question.”
“You don’t have to answer,” she says. “I don’t want to be invasive or anything.”
I give her a look. “Dude. You’re one of my best friends. It’s fine.”
“Sorry.” She presses her hands to her face.
“Don’t apologize!”
“Sorr—OK.” She laughs. “You’re right.”
I think for a minute. It’s been a while since I really analyzed my gender, though I did plenty of it when I started questioning in middle school. “I remember I started seeinga lot of videos about being trans. My feed decided that was what I wanted. It was trans content, stuff about anxiety, and gay musicians.” I laugh.
“The algorithm knoooows.” Makayla makes a spooky ghost noise, wiggling her fingers at me.
“For real.” I click my pen again. “It wasn’t just that, though. I always felt like a person, not a gender, and when people would refer to me as a girl, it startled me. Like, oh right, that’s what I am. Or how people see me.”
“Do you want to do any medical stuff?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, maybe top surgery someday. But it’s mostly the social stuff. I like my name and the way I dress, but it was the way people saw me that was uncomfortable.”
“Like you’re a capitalGGirl instead of a human.”
“Totally! And like, I know I could just redefine what being a girl is.” I roll my eyes. I’ve seen that line in internet comments too many times to count. “But it’s not just that. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like, how do cis people know they are the gender they are? No one asks them to pinpoint it. They just feel it. So why can’t we just feel it, without having to explain it?”
“Yeah.” Makayla nods. “That’s so annoying.”
“Yeah, it is.” I look at her then. She said it like she understands what I’m talking about from the inside. “Are you ...questioning things?”
She laughs nervously. “Maybe? I don’t know. Kind of. I don’t know.”
“You can totally be nonbinary if you want,” I say.
“I know.” She doodles on her homework, focusing hard on drawing a perfect spiral.
I watch her for a minute. I’ve never thought of Makayla as anything but cis before, but that’s the thing about people; they can surprise you. For better or worse. But this is ...well, there’s nothing wrong with being cis. But if Makayla is nonbinary, that would be really cool.
“If you want to talk about anything,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Thanks,” she says, and when she looks at me her eyes are crinkled in a smile, just like her dad’s.
Shar picks me up when our study date is done, her arm out the window of her work truck. It’s a battered teal Chevy, with a bazillion gay and social-justice stickers on the back. I boost myself into the cab and she smiles.
“How’s your brain?”
“Um.” I pause for a second, wondering how she knew about my weird thoughts earlier, and then I realize she’s probably talking about studying. “Oh. It’s fine. Tired.” I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes and she laughs.
“You still feel up to some sanding?”
