Lily and Dunkin

At dinner, since no one’s talking, other sounds become more pronounced: forks scraping plates, Meatball’s huffing, his tags jingling as he settles under the table, Dad’s breathing.

“The funniest thing happened on the way home,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “There were plastic pink flamingos stuck in a bunch of lawns around the neighborhood. One of the flamingos wore a knit cap with a pom-pom and another wore a knit flamingo hat.” I hold a bite of pasta in my cheek. “A flamingo wearing a flamingo hat. Hilarious. Right?”

Sarah and Mom look at me, but no one laughs.

“What are those flamingos about?” Dad grouses.

“I don’t know.” The pasta goes down hard. “The Beckford golf cart dudes came around and put them in the back of their cart.” I put my fork down. “Then they asked me and Dunkin—this new kid I met—if we knew who did it, like it was the crime of the century or something.”

Sarah looks down, but I see her smile. I knew she’d think it was funny.

Dad grunts. “Probably a couple bored troublemakers. School should start earlier.”

Sarah shakes her head.

Mom pokes at her eggplant Parmesan with her fork. “So, who’s this Dunkin?”

I look at Dad and realize I don’t want to say that he was the boy who walked by while I was wearing Mom’s dress this morning. “A new boy.” Dad doesn’t react. “He just moved to the neighborhood.”

“Is he going to Gator Lake Middle?” Sarah asks.

“Not sure.” I never asked Dunkin about school. I’ll have to find out next time we get together. If we get together.

My family’s quiet again. What’s with them tonight?

Sarah winks at me, and I try to wink back, but both my eyelids close at the same time. This makes her crack up, and I can’t help but laugh. A burst of laughter comes from Mom, too, and a piece of eggplant shoots from her mouth.

“Ew!” Sarah says, and we laugh even harder.

“Knock it off.” Dad grimaces, and we finish dinner in silence, except for Meatball, who shakes his hindquarters near Sarah’s chair, which makes his tags jingle like crazy.

“Don’t feed him,” Dad says.

Why is he so grumpy? Because of what we talked about earlier today?

Meatball keeps wagging and wiggling and jingling because he knows that even though she’s not supposed to, Sarah will sneak him bits of food throughout the meal.

I wish I had the guts to break the rules like Sarah does.

—

I’m drying off after my shower when I hear Mom and Dad talking in their bedroom. Their room is on the other side of the wall from the bathroom, so I pull the thick towel tightly around myself and press my ear to the warm, wet tiles. I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but they’re talking loud enough that I can hear through the wall, and I can’t help but listen.

Maybe I do break the rules sometimes.

“We have to give her the hormone blockers,” Mom says. “I know you don’t like the idea of them, Gary. But…”

I focus as hard as I can, willing my breathing and heartbeat to quiet so I can hear them more clearly, but my pulse pounds in my ears and I miss the rest of what Mom says.

“He’ll be better off without them, Ellie. Let nature take its course. When Tim becomes more boy-like, it’ll be good for him.” I picture Dad running his hand through his wiry red hair. “Besides, those things cost as much as a mortgage. Did you read the papers Tim gave us about them? They sound like a rip-off.”

“Gary, if Lily becomes more boy-like, it’ll be the worst thing that could happen to her. I think it would kill her. And I don’t give a flying fig how much they cost. Lily needs them.”

Go, Mom!

“Stop calling him that!”

I shiver, even though I’m wrapped in a thick towel.

“It won’t kill him, Ellie. Stop being so dramatic. You’re not in court, you know.”

“Then stop making me feel like I have to defend my daughter!”

There’s a long pause. I imagine Mom pacing, taking a few calming breaths. And I picture the vein along Dad’s temple pulsing.

“Remember that time I caught Lily with the nail clippers after her bath?”

Dad’s quiet.

“She told me she wanted to cut her penis off, Gary. That it didn’t belong.” An unbearable silence, then Mom’s voice: “She was five years old, Gar. She knew when she was five.”

I knew before I was five. And I remember holding those nail clippers that Mom had left on the counter. But back then, I didn’t think about the possibility of bleeding to death. I just wanted it gone. And I still do.

“That night…” Mom sniffs hard. “I promised myself I’d do whatever she needed to feel okay. To keep her safe.”

Dad’s voice booms: “If you want to keep him safe, Ellie, you’ll let him stay the way he is. Middle school kids can be rotten. The world can be rotten. Letting this go on is what’s dangerous to Tim.”

Silence.

“Gary, even your dad knew.”

“What?”

“Your dad knew,” Mom says.

My breath catches as I remember the time Grandpop Bob brushed my hair with Sarah’s pink princess comb that I’d handed him. I remember twirling in Sarah’s old dress, and Grandpop saying, “You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

I shake the memory from my head because it’s too painful, and I press my ear harder against the warm shower tiles.

“Told you what?” Dad asks, and I realize I missed some of their conversation.

“Your dad told me something was different about Tim. That he was more girl-like.”

“What does that even mean?” Dad asks way too loudly.

“It means your dad knew,” Mom says. “Bob knew. And he was okay with it. He loved Lily just as she was. And so do I.”

“My mom’s sure not okay with it,” Dad counters.

Thinking of Grandmom Ruth sours my stomach.

“Ruth,” Mom says, laughing in a way that’s not funny. “The devoted grandmother who avoids visiting our home like we have the plague or something.”

“That’s just since the incident last year,” Dad says.

My heartbeat feels like it’s slamming against my ribs. I had no idea that’s why Grandma Ruth hadn’t visited. I wondered why we hadn’t seen her much. I didn’t know it was my fault.

“Ah, the incident,” Mom says, as though the word is acid on her tongue.

“Ellie, she saw Tim skipping down the stairs wearing a dress. What was she supposed to do?”

“Not drop a glass jar of strawberry jam all over our tile floor!”

“She was shocked,” Dad says.

“She’s small-minded, Gary.”

“Ellie!”

“It’s true.”

I wonder how Grandpop Bob was so accepting and Grandmom Ruth so closed-minded and yet they were married for a really long time. I also wonder which one my dad’s more like. I think I know.

“Honey,” Dad says. He doesn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. “The way my mom thinks is the way most of the world thinks. That’s why we have to protect Tim, keep him from dressing like a girl outside this house. Let him turn into the boy he’s supposed to be. That’s the best thing for him.”

“You can’t really think that, Gary. You can’t truly believe—”

“Ellie!” Dad snaps. “People are cruel. They do horrible things. We have to keep Tim safe.”

“Well, I’m glad we agree on that,” Mom says. “Just not on the best way to do it. Lily has to get those hormone blockers.”

I think they’re done talking, then Mom bursts out with one word: “Soon!”

—

I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on Mom and Dad’s conversation, because falling asleep is now impossible. After trying for hours, I climb out of bed and turn on the little lamp over my desk. I pull out a piece of stationery and my favorite purple pen and write a letter to one of my heroes. Sometimes, I write letters to people I admire because it makes me feel like I’m talking to someone who understands. I have a stash of them in my desk drawer. I’ve never had the courage to send them. Or even known how to find out where my heroes live. Just writing them has been enough for now.

Dear Jenna Talackova,

My name is Timothy Lily. I think I’m a lot like you, only not as pretty.

How did you do it? How did you stand in front of all those people and be your true self? I know you got hate mail and some people wrote mean things about you. But you did it anyway. You’re so strong. You showed the world exactly who you are––a beautiful woman, inside and out.

I want to do that, too, Ms. Talackova. I realize starting eighth grade isn’t as big a deal as being in the Miss Universe Pageant, but still, it feels so hard. Maybe too hard.

Someday…I hope I’ll be able to inspire someone, too, like you have, Ms. Talackova. (But first I have to get through the eighth grade!)

Wish me luck!

Your friend and fan,

Lily Jo McGrother