Lily and Dunkin

I decided I’ve taken enough small steps for a while, although going out in a mermaid costume with a wig, full makeup and nail polish felt more like a gigantic leap. So as I head to school these cool November days, all I have on my fingernails is some chipped polish. I leave the makeup home and wear jeans and T-shirts, especially my favorite of Dad’s rejects: The Bu Strippers. Dad definitely did that one on purpose.

Even though I’m trying to fly under his radar, Vasquez still calls me “Fag!” at every opportunity. But he’s stopped slamming my head into my locker, so that’s an improvement. And I’m incredibly creative when it comes to avoiding him in the PE locker room. One day I leave class early, so I’m changed and in the gym before anyone else arrives. Another day, I end up in the nurse’s office with a “stomachache.” And another time, I manage to help a teacher the entire period and get out of PE altogether.

Dare talks about Amy a lot now. She moved here from Portland, Maine. She can’t get used to our humid weather. And she misses her friends from her old school, since she was pulled out just after the start of her eighth-grade year, because her mom got a job down here at South Florida Waste Management.

I think Amy’s great, so I don’t mind that she’s started to join us for stuff. She’s a little heavy on the dumb jokes, but there are worse things. And she’s taken to giving me Pop-Tarts at lunch, since she’s joined us at our table, so I’m totally good with that.

And even though it’s still a month away, kids are already talking about the eighth-grade holiday dance. Whenever someone mentions it, my stomach does somersaults because of the idea I came up with the day I first saw the flyer.

Part of me can’t wait for the night of the dance.

Another part is terrified.

All I know is that the night of the eighth-grade dance is going to be an important one.

The First One

Mom drives me to the endocrinologist’s office because Dad couldn’t get away from the T-shirt shop, and I can’t believe this is going to actually happen.

“One of the side effects you may experience,” the doctor tells me as I sit on a table in a small exam room, “is tiredness.”

I nod, eager for him to hurry up and give me the shot, but he takes his time explaining a few more things.

My whole body tingles as I pull my shorts up to expose my thigh. No more facial hair. No deep voice. No Adam’s apple. No new hair growing down there. No anything else growing down there!

“That’s it?” I ask after the doctor plunges the needle into my thigh.

“That’s it,” the doctor says. “See you next month. Call if you have any problems.”

I had expected the shot to really hurt, but it didn’t.

The only one who looks like she’s in pain from the whole thing is Mom when she goes up to the counter to pay for my shot. Hormone blockers are expensive. Mom’s face loses its color as she signs the credit card receipt.

But then she wraps her arm around my shoulders as we walk out of the office. “Let’s go get ice cream sundaes.”

“Why?” I ask.

Mom bends onto one knee and looks into my face. “To celebrate, Lily. We need to celebrate this milestone.”

“Yes,” I whisper, feeling the full impact of how important today is. How important that injection was. “We do need to celebrate.”

And we do!

ON THE BENCH

I wish there was something I could take or do to make me feel less nervous about our first game. We’ve been practicing like crazy, and I even put in some extra hours with Bubbie. But I’m sure the team we’re playing has been practicing like crazy, too.

Since I passed my blood test with flying colors a little while ago, I’ve decided to cut back on my meds. Just a little. To give me that extra edge on the court, but I don’t know if it will be enough.

My stomach is in one big knot. If only I could talk to Dad about this, everything would feel better. I should visit him. We should visit him.

In the locker room, the guys are pumped. Especially Vasquez. They’re jumping around and pounding each other on the backs. “We’ve gotta win the first game,” Vasquez says.

“We’ll win,” Birch says, slopping his arm around my shoulders. “We’ve got Dorfman.”

“Dorf. Dorf. Dorf,” the guys chant.

I wish the game were already over.

All this pressure isn’t good for me. I won’t do anything but screw up with all this attention. I don’t know why I even agreed to join the team. I should have just hung out with Tim and Dare. I might have gotten made fun of, but at least I wouldn’t be in this position now—with everyone looking at me, expecting so much from me. I mean, I do okay during practices—I’ve actually improved a lot—but I know I’m going to make a fool of myself during a real game.

Coach pokes his head into the locker room. “Let’s go, boys. It’s time.”

Vasquez grunts like a caveman, and we run out of the locker room after him.

I’m surprised when there’s an announcer whose voice fills the gym. “Please welcome for the first home game of the season, our own Gator Lake Gators!”

We jog through a tunnel the cheerleaders have formed. The stands are filled with people clapping and cheering and stamping their feet. I know Mom and Bubbie are among them.

I feel the vibrations in my chest. The energy in the gym is amazing. It sets my brain into mega-overdrive.

No wonder Vasquez was so excited to get out here.

After the other team is announced—the Lions from Lakeside Middle—we put our hands over our hearts and listen to a girl from school belt out the national anthem. “Ohhhh, say can you seeeee…”

The starting lineup jogs onto center court.

I’m not in the starting lineup.

I’m on the bench, where Coach said I would be. Except the bench is not actually a bench. It’s a row of black plastic chairs. So the splinters Coach had warned me about were metaphorical. Metaphorical splinters don’t hurt.

The other team gets the ball, but Vasquez runs beside the player, steals the ball, dribbles it back to our side, passes to Birch, and we score the first two points of the game on an easy layup.

Even though I’m no superstar, I could have made that shot.

Everyone on the bleachers goes wild, even though it’s only two points.

Two points becomes four, then six, then nine, until…we’re way ahead in the second half and everyone on our team has had a chance to play. Except me.

I’m sure Coach plans to put me in, so I’m totally prepared to hear my name, launch onto the court and immediately score a couple three-pointers. I’m not nervous anymore. I’m excited. I’m ready.

When the final buzzer sounds and we win by thirty-six points, the place erupts. Feet stamping. Cheerleaders leaping. People clapping and screaming. The noise in the gym is overwhelming.

But I feel like an idiot because I was the only person on our whole team who didn’t play. Not even for thirty seconds. It wasn’t even worth changing into my basketball uniform. And everyone saw me sitting there the entire time.

I know I’m supposed to cheer for my team while I’m on the bench, which I did, but it would be nice to play a little, too. To know what it feels like to be out there during a real game, with people cheering. Especially the first game of the season with Mom and Bubbie in the stands.

Maybe Coach forgot I was there. Maybe I should talk to him.

On the way into the locker room, Coach pounds me on the back. “Like I told you, Dorfman. Lots of bench time. Then when we really need you, we’re going to call you out, and you’ll be our secret weapon.”

I guess it’s not a bad thing to be a secret weapon.

“This was only the first game,” Coach says. “You’ll definitely get to show your stuff soon.”

What Coach probably means is, You’d better up your game, Dorfman, or I’ll never play you. I have eyes, he’s probably thinking. I see how lousy you are during practice compared to the other guys.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling like a fraud.

The guys in the locker room are high-fiving. I high-five a couple of them, but mostly I feel like a loser because Coach didn’t put me in, and all the guys must know it’s because I’m not good enough.

Mom and Bubbie are waiting outside the locker room, along with the other parents.

With my head down, I say, “Let’s go,” and keep walking.

They follow me outside.

“Great game, honey,” Mom says.

I swivel around. “Were you watching? I didn’t play.”

“You’ll show ’em next time, bubela,” Bubbie says, patting me on the rear end, which annoys me.

“If he ever plays me.”

“He’ll play you,” Bubbie says. “If he’s got a head in that brain of his.”

“You mean a brain in that head of his,” Mom says.

Bubbie waves a hand. “That’s what I said.”

When we’re in the car, Mom turns to me before she starts driving. “Norbert, your team did great. It was really fun to watch. I’m sure you’ll play next time.”

Bubbie unwraps a protein bar and hands it to me. “Replenish your energy.”

I look out the window and don’t take the bar.

“I’ve got nothing to replenish, Bubbie. Thanks anyway.”

She withdraws the protein bar and says nothing the rest of the way home.

I think that maybe I need to take even less of my medication. Maybe that will make a difference in my energy level and playing ability, but right now I sink into the backseat, feeling like the world’s biggest loser. And the ride back seems endless.

A New Sign

Dare, Amy and I go to the first basketball game of the season.

We end up at the top of the bleachers in the back, which is annoying because there’s a group of obnoxious boys near us, who scream and stamp their feet constantly, even during moments of the game when extreme enthusiasm is not warranted, like when a referee slips on some jock’s sweat and lands on his keister.

We stay for the whole game, and the Gators win, of course.

I feel kind of sorry for the other team. They never had a chance.

I feel sorry for Dunkin, too. It looked like every other player got floor time except him. It would have been nice to watch him play.

Of course, we can’t leave without Amy sharing a basketball joke. “Why was Cinderella thrown off the basketball team?”

Dare and I wait for the answer.

“She ran away from the ball.”

“That’s actually not bad,” I say.

Dare knocks into Amy’s shoulder, and Amy smiles.

It’s good to get away from the crush of people in the gymnasium, and the cool air outside feels great. I love when we get a reprieve from the humidity. The temperature cooled off on November fifteenth, just like I told Dunkin. I wonder if he noticed.

During the walk to Beckford Palms Estates, I’m behind Dare and Amy because the sidewalk is too narrow to fit three people.

I miss hearing some of the jokes, but I hear their laughter. It feels like they might be laughing at me. But I know that’s not the case when they each give me a big hug as soon as we arrive at my house.

I watch them walk off together.

Inside, Sarah is knitting something while petting Meatball with her bare foot. She agrees to help me with a plan I came up with.

We walk out to Bob. It’s weird being here at night. Everything looks different in the dark.

Sarah helps me tape a sign I made over the sign that’s already there.

Please save this tree.

It’s scheduled to be cut down.

Call Beckford Palms City Hall and tell

them to save this beautiful tree.

Thank you!

In school the next day, I wonder how many calls come in for Bob. I wish I’d thought of this sooner. If lots of people call to protest, they’ll have to leave Bob alone.

After school, I see Dunkin running down the hall.

“Hi,” I say.

He seems really happy to see me, but looks a little confused. “I have to get to practice.”

I point in the opposite direction he’s going. “Isn’t it that way?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, and changes direction.

“You okay?” I call.

“Never better!” he yells, breathless.

It feels great to talk to Dunkin, even for a few moments. I haven’t forgotten what he did for me on Halloween.

I hurry to Bob, expecting a crowd gathered around the sign. Maybe even news people, reporting on the story. I’ll bet dozens of people called the city to complain. If all that happens, Bob will definitely be saved.

When I get to the tree, there are no people.

And no sign.

Not our sign anyway. That one’s been torn away, and the only sign remaining is the one announcing the clearing of the land.

Score: Bob—0, City Hall—1.

Maybe you really can’t fight City Hall.

Maybe the pen isn’t mightier than the sword.

Maybe there’s nothing I can do to save Bob.

I sink onto the ground and lean back against his solid trunk and whisper, “Sorry, Bob. I tried.”

He answers with a sad-sounding rustling of leaves, and a fire ant crawls onto my leg and bites my thigh, right near where I got my second hormone blocker injection.