Chapter 10: 10. …You Get Egg On Your Face

All the girls are looking at me. Jessie and Olivia have expressions of support on their faces, while Kiah just seems stunned, like she's not quite sure whether she believes me or not. I don't blame her. I'm not sure I'd believe me, in her shoes.

Emma, on the other hand, is alternating between a smug grin that she'd guessed right and ashen-faced embarrassment that she's put her foot right in it. Tinges of red on her cheeks, she tries to strike a middle-ground with a sort of lopsided smile. "You're a girl? For serious?"

"For serious," I nod.

"Well, that's wonderful," she says. "I've always wondered why anybody would ever want to be a boy. I mean, being a girl is so fun. Surely everyone would choose to be a girl."

Jessie pulls on Emma's sleeve. "Hannah didn't choose to be a girl," she says. "She just is a girl."

"And for what it's worth," I tell Emma, who is looking increasingly worried that she's been insensitive, "I used to think exactly the same as you. Back when I assumed I was a boy, I thought all boys wanted to be girls. That's why it broke my brain to learn about Olivia. I thought, if it was possible to become a girl, how are there any boys left at all? Surely everyone would transition."

"Of course, it's not like that," Olivia says. "Hannah, if you're anything like me, you wore the mask of a boy because you didn't believe you were allowed to wear anything else. But deep down you were never a boy at all."

I nod along. It's super validating to have my own feelings echoed by a fellow trans girl, and does a lot to ebb away at the imposter syndrome in my brain. "It's not that all boys want to be girls. It's just that I was a girl all along, wanting to be free."

Kiah shakes her head. "Okay, so you're a girl—a trans girl, like Olivia. Should there not be a trans boy or two somewhere? Like, just statistically speaking?"

"Statistically speaking there should be about six trans students," Olivia says. "Assuming one percent of the population, split evenly. So yeah, I guess you'd expect about three trans boys."

"And yet there's none," says Kiah.

"None that you know of," Olivia says, gently chiding. "But what does that prove? You're standing next to two trans girls, neither of whom knew the other one was trans a week ago."

"I didn't even know I was trans a week ago," I add.

"And you said yourself, you've never really been friends with boys," continues Olivia. "So you don't know their assigned gender at birth."

"True," Kiah squeaks.

"Plus, you're assuming the trans boys have even figured themselves out," Olivia adds. "Some people go way past school before they realise."

"Speaking of past school," I interrupt. "I may have a problem." I tell the girls about my dilemma: Mum's horribly transphobic display at dinner last night, and her insistence that I unload my burdens this afternoon. Saying the problem out loud goes some way to alleviating the pressure of that knot of nerves growing in the pit of my stomach, but I'm still really not sure how I'm going to handle the conversation. I look at each of the girls in turn, out of some vain hope that they might have the answers I'm looking for. They don't, of course. Three of them have been seen as their parents' daughters since the day they were born. The other, Olivia, might be a kindred spirit in some ways but she presumably didn't suffer the curse of unsupportive parents, since she was fully socially transitioned before starting secondary school.

She does offer me a sympathetic smile, though. "It's not easy dealing with transphobes," she tells me. "I lost an aunt and an uncle because they wouldn't stop calling me a boy, but I never had to be the one to cut them off. My mum and dad made sure of that."

"Cutting Mum off isn't an option," I tell her. "Not until I'm done with school, at least."

"Then don't tell her," says Olivia. "It sucks to have to hide, but if you don't feel safe telling her, don't."

I shake my head. "Mum'll get the words out of me one way or another. And anyway, I want to tell her. Or rather, I want to get to a point in life where I've told her. I need to transition, Olivia. I can't keep on living like this. I can't carry on with a body I hate, a body that's betraying me more and more every passing month."

"Then own who you are," she says. "I was nervous when I told Mum and Dad that I was going to be Olivia or nothing at all, but I'd been asking for dresses and calling myself a girl since I was three. I don't think they were surprised at all. Maybe your Mum won't be the same as mine, but the important thing is that you lead the conversation. Hannah. And I'm not saying dress up pretty or anything; as long as it's Hannah who's talking, inside, you can't go far wrong. Make it clear to her that you don't need or want her approval to be a girl. That shit's happening either way, but if she wants to play the bigot then it's her who's going to be bitter and lonely in her retirement. Don't pretend to be the boy she wants you to be, or she'll guilt you into staying that boy forever."

"Hannah has to tell her, then?" I say, confusing myself by referring to myself in the third person.

"You've been wearing a mask all your life," Olivia tells me. "It's time to get rid of the mask. Throw it in the bin. You're not asking her permission to be Hannah. You're telling her that you are Hannah."

*

Olivia's words get me through to the end of the day, though as the last period ticks by so the old nerves begin their resurgence. Mr Flatley's Physics classes are my least favourite. In normal circumstances, I spend the lessons clockwatching in the hopes that they'll fly by and I can be done with them. Today my clockwatching has another goal: I want this class to last forever. Mr Flatley's dry drone is infinitely preferable to the sound of my mother's bilious hate that I'm firmly expecting to hear later.

Class doesn't last forever, of course, and sure enough there comes the inevitable sound of the school bell. Time's up. I blithely think of the last fifteen years, those years where I took the love of my family for granted. An hour from now, I might not have that luxury any more. My feet are bricks of lead as I drag them to the school gates, scanning the cars parked in the bays. Mum's car is nowhere to be seen. Maybe she's not coming? Maybe plans have changed?

A foolish hope, and put paid to by the familiar sight of my mother, waving to me from the other side of the road. I hop across the road and get into the front passenger seat.

On the drive to the chippy, we barely talk, only a few smatterings of light chatter about our respective days. I don't go into much detail, because most of my day has been spent occupied by thoughts Mum specifically can't know yet. Mum, for her part, appears to have sat in the kitchen until it was time to come and get me. It's awkward being sat there with her. Honestly, it's a relief when we get to the chippy.

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Mum goes in and orders our usuals, and for a few minutes I'm left alone in the car. Alone to think. The thinking time doesn't last; before I know it, she's back, with greasy goodness in white paper bags. "I got you a can, too," she says, pressing a cold Vimto into my hand. That gets me suspicious. Mum has never bought a can from the chippy before. She's normally very vocal in her refusal to do so: "we have drinks at home". What's different about today?

She wants me to open up, that's what's different. I focus on Olivia's advice. Hannah has to be present now. I must not let the ghost of Harry take over my body. I thank Mum for the can and the food, like a good girl, and we munch away silently for a few minutes. Just sat there, in the car, in a pull-in across from the Fryer Tuck Chip Shop (a groan-inducing name if ever I heard one). The air feels heavy. We're both waiting for the explosion and neither wants to light the fuse until we've made the most of this last supper.

Mum speaks just as I'm cramming the last few chips into my mouth. "I'm worried about you, Harry," she says.

"Worried?"

"Don't speak with your mouth full." I know she's not serious. That's the kind of repartee we have, that makes me desperately hopeful that I'm not about to lose my mother. It reminds me that, more than just a parent, she's been a friend. I've always been lacking for friends.

I wait till I've chewed and swallowed every little bit of chip. "Why are you worried, Mum?"

"You're not talking to me lately," she says. "You've been closed off. For years, now. When you were young you used to tell me everything. What changed?"

"Nothing changed," I say. "I just don't have anything to say. What can I say? I have a boring life. Just school, really."

Mum shakes her head. "You were crying last night. On the way home from the restaurant. There was a time when you looked to me the moment you felt a tear coming. Now you won't even tell me you're sad. I want to help you, Harry. You're my boy. But I need you to tell me what's bothering you."

I decide to be audacious in my probing. "What if I couldn't tell you," I say, "because if I told you, you wouldn't love me any more?"

Mum looks at me. "Harry, I will always love you. No matter what."

"But what if you don't?"

"What could you possibly have to say that would make me stop loving you?" Mum frowns. "You haven't killed a person, have you?"

"No." The mask that was Harry doesn't count.

"Well, there you go." Mum smiles broadly. "Whatever you say, we'll work through it. No matter how hard it is, we'll get through it. For God's sake, Harry, you're my son."

My throat goes dry. A heavy feeling in my gut. Quiet voice. "What if I'm not?"

Silence falls then, painful silence, laden with my fears. Mum's gone wide-eyed. It takes her a second to compose herself.

"Of course you're my son," she tells me, in a soothing voice.

"No, Mum." Let Hannah do the talking. "I'm not. I'm your daughter."

A pause. Could be a minute, could be an hour. I can't tell.

"I'm transgender."

Silence. Come on, Mum. Answer me. Say something.

Finally, she speaks. "O-okay then..." Her voice is shaky. There's a hint of tears in her eyes.

"You don't hate me?"

Mum shakes her head. "I don't hate you," she says. "Harry, I could never hate you. And if this, if transgender, is what you are, who you are, then I'll be behind you. I'll always love you." 

And euphoria takes over. Mum doesn't hate me. She's got my back. All my fears were useless! I'm riding a cloud so high that I barely hear the next thing she says:

"I said I'd love you no matter what, and I mean what I said. I just wish it hadn't been this."

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