Chapter 18: 18. Goodbye Beth

Lunch is quiet. Possibly the worst since I fell in with the Girls. Jessie is clearly still worrying about how the future is going to treat her—I can see her, every now and then, casting a wary eye over someone who passes by, probably wondering whether they'll respect her as a gay woman or not—but bless her, she clearly also sees that it's for her to worry about. She doesn't badger me about it. She's not the sort of girl who would. I know that, no matter how much it scares her, she'll support me when I transition publicly. Jessie will never say a word that might dissuade me. But dwelling in her thoughts as she is, she finds little time to talk. The other Girls notice that something's up. How could they? It's unlike Jessie to just remain on the periphery of the group, nibbling silently at a sandwich. But she assures them that it's nothing that need concern them—and the thing about girls that I'm only learning now I am one is that it's hard to convince them that your hurts aren't their business. Maybe it's just the crowd I've fallen in with, but they're always happy to lend an ear to listen to someone's struggles.

For my part, I'm still running through my own complicated web of thoughts. This whole part of transitioning happens much more smoothly in the stories I've been reading online—Olivia sent me a link to some, and it turns out there's an entire genre dedicated to cutesy little stories about trans girls like me and their egg-cracking adventures; when I've not been chatting with one of the Girls or doing my homework, I've been reading. And envying. In the stories, it seems as though the biggest obstacles the protagonist faces come from their own dense egginess, and the reluctance to actually start transitioning. When it comes to coming out, the people in their lives are either fully supportive or else their bigotry surfaces and they are excised from the protagonist's life altogether. The stories didn't prepare me for reality. The people in my life aren't characters. They're not fictional constructs whose goals and beliefs are built specifically to complement my transition. Tom, Jessie, Mum, Beth, they've all got their own shit going on. And the fact of the matter is: sometimes my intended course collides with theirs, and that doesn't make them bad people. Jessie's not a villain for being scared to be publicly out. She's just a teenage girl trying to navigate a complicated fucking world.

It's clear that I can't just abandon my own transition. I don't want that, and I don't think Jessie would want that for me either. So life is going to have to be complicated for a while—and if Jessie isn't ready to come out until she's left school behind, I'll just have to deal with that. And support her, as she's supported me.

Normally, my silence would pass unnoticed. I've not been one of the Girls for long enough that my presence is integral to the group, nor do I usually dominate the conversation. That honour goes to Jessie or Kiah, depending on which of them had the most eventful evening yesterday or the most unreasonable teacher in morning lessons. Had I not already told Kiah this morning that I had news to share at lunch, I'd probably have been allowed to shrink into a quiet silence. But I did tell Kiah, and she did pester me.

So I told them. About my appointment with Doctor Anderson, about the queen bitch on reception and Mum's verbal sparring match with her, about Nana's arrival and the revelations that followed it.

"So jealous of you for having a cool nan," says Emma. "Mine still simps for Margaret Thatcher."

"I mean, I've always known Nana was cool," I say. "But not that cool."

"Yeah, that's next level," Kiah agrees.

"And she hid her true self for that long? Even had a husband for the illusion?" Olivia is wide-eyed. "I could never pretend to be something I'm not."

"I dunno, Liv, you pretend to be single but I definitely saw you snogging Josh Nixon the other day," says Kiah, to laughs from us all.

"Snogging," Olivia shrugs. "Not dating. And anyway, we're talking about Hannah, not me. Han, did your doctor talk about hormones?"

"He talked about it, but he referred me to a specialist," I say. "I guess I have to wait a bit."

"Yeah, ouch," says Olivia. "I don't know if you can afford it, but I really recommend looking into private care. The NHS is slow as balls. You'll probably be a married woman before they get around to you."

"It can't be that bad," I joke. "I plan on enjoying my twenties before getting married."

Olivia looks me dead in the eye. "You'll get to enjoy your thirties and your forties before the NHS sees you, hun. Wait time according to the net is twenty-five years."

"What? That's bullshit."

"It's how it is to be trans in the UK," Olivia sighs. "We make do. I'm luckier than most—I got into the system back before there was too much of a backlog, and once I got my hormones my GP was able to just keep renewing the prescription. But some of my friends were referred three years ago and they still haven't heard anything. So don't get your hopes up for boobs by Christmas or anything."

*

Before I know it, Friday's come around. Jessie had processed her feelings before we got to school on Thursday, and so for the last two days of the week I get my happy, wonderful girlfriend back. She even invites me to spend another weekend at her place, and I would absolutely fucking love to—but Beth's last night is tonight, her big meal, and I definitely can't miss that. I tell Jessie she's welcome to join us—Beth, the doll she is, would definitely take no issue with me bringing an extra guest. But Jessie declines the offer. She's never met Beth, after all, and she doesn't want to feel like she's intruding on Beth's special night. I tell her that I'll come round on Saturday afternoon instead; I know I'm going to be sad, watching my sister drive off to a far-away city, and I'll need the company. We part with a kiss at the school gates. My heart flutters, as it always does. I don't think I'll ever grow tired of it.

When I get home, Beth's bedroom door is open. I can see her inside, sat on her bed; a heaving suitcase is resting on the bed beside her, but her eyes are on the wall. I knock on the door. It's polite, even when the door's already open! She turns to face me. "Hiya, Hannah," she says, with a smile. "How was school?"

I shrug. "It was school," I say. "Not much more to tell."

"Are you looking forward to tonight?" A devilish grin creeps onto Beth's face. "Your public debut. No, I know you're going to point out that technically you were out as yourself with your girlfriend the other week, but that doesn't count. I wasn't there. Hannah, darling, this might be my farewell meal, but you are going to be the star of the show."

"You all packed?" I ask her, gesturing at the suitcase.

Beth nods. "Pretty well. And hey, I'm only an hour or so away. If I find myself missing something terribly, I can always pop home one weekend and get it." She sighs. "I've just been with my thoughts for a while. This room has been my bedroom for all my life, as long as I can remember. Most of my best memories take place in here. It's weird to think that this time tomorrow I'll be somewhere else."

"Only for three years," I remind her, "and even then, you can come home for holidays."

She shakes her head. "I love you, Hannah, and I love Mum too. You'll both be part of my life, always, and I'll definitely come home to visit. But university is my fresh start. I don't want to get pulled back. I don't want to be stuck here forever. Once I'm gone, I'm gone."

"Like, gone gone?"

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"Gone gone, yes," Beth nods. "I've got three years of study. By the time that's done, I hope, I'll have a girlfriend, a job lined up, my life all straightened out. I won't need to go back to my childhood bedroom."

"I'm going to miss you, you know," I tell her. I'm trying my hardest not to cry—why does it upset me so much to learn that Beth doesn't plan on coming back?

She chuckles. "I know you are, silly. But I don't want you to get stuck here either. Look at it this way: no matter what, you've got to cope without me for the next three years. By the time I graduate, you'll be ready to go to uni yourself, and then you'll be the one fleeing the nest. We can still be big deals in each other's lives without living in the same house."

A tear falls. I can't control it, and I feel guilty for crying. What gives me the right to be sad about Beth's happiness?

"Let it out," she says. "It's fine to be upset—but I can't have you weeping at dinner. It'll ruin your make-up."

"What make-up?" I ask. We had talked of going this afternoon, but that hasn't happened and Beth's in her pyjamas and fluffy slippers so I'm getting the feeling she's not intending to run to the shops.

"I've been a busy girl today," she says. "I went to town this morning, got you all the basics. My parting gift to you. They're all on your bed."

My brain short-circuits.

Beth laughs. "You're trying to find the words to say, aren't you? You want to thank me, but you also want to tell me I shouldn't be spending all that money on your happiness. Well, tough luck. I've spent it. And I don't expect a penny back. Now, let's hug and cry ourselves dry. The table's booked for half six, so you'll be wanting to make a start on your evening look sooner rather than later."

*

Two hours later, after a long hugging session with Beth where we did nothing but idly reminisce about childhood days and bask in each other's company, I emerge from the shower and towel myself dry. Downstairs, I can hear Mum talking on the phone. Her voice is loud enough to carry up to the bathroom, but quiet enough that I can't actually make out the words she's saying. I ignore her. My dress is folded on the toilet seat, along with a clean bra borrowed with blessing from Beth and a carrier bag full of brand-new make-up. I looked through it all before I got in the shower. There's two different foundations, "in case I got your shade wrong", as well as concealer, eyeliner, mascara and blush. I have a vague idea of the order they're supposed to go on in, and where on my face each one is supposed to go. Helpfully, the eyeliner and the mascara both have little skeuomorph images of an eye on them.

Once I'm dry, I get dressed. The bra is a bit of a tricky bitch, but when it occurs to me to do it up in front of me then spin it around my body, it comes on easily. Uncomfortable, though. Definitely something I'm going to have to get used to wearing—though I suppose the weight on my chest is pleasing in a gender-euphoria sense. By now I'm familiar with the sensation of the dress settling around my knees; it's a profoundly comfortable garment, and I find myself wondering why it's not socially acceptable for men to wear dresses. I mean, it makes no difference to me either way—I'm a woman, so dresses are sort of expected—but it seems a shame that half the population are kept from such comfortable clothes by social pressures and the stereotypes of their gender.

The make-up. All new to me. I actually stand there, fully dressed, just looking at the assorted cosmetics for a few minutes before I have the nerve to actually put anything on my face. It's a fear of doing it wrong, more than anything. What if I mess up?

A knock at the bathroom door. "Are you done yet?" It's Beth.

"I need a few more minutes," I yell back at her. "Just figuring out the make-up."

"Take your time," she says, "but not too much time."

"Yes, mum." There might be a wall between us, but I just know Beth's responded to that last quip with a raised middle finger. I laugh. Then, of course, it's time to get on with it. I unscrew the cap from one of the tubes of foundation—it reminds me of the big tubes of paint in art class; sadly, I was never good for painting, so I hope my make-up skills are better than my art skills. I get a little dollop on my hand, to check how well the skin-tone matches—here, it becomes evident that Beth knows her stuff, because it's nearly a perfect match—then dive right in.

After all, if I fuck up at least I have time to wash it all off and try again.

Twenty minutes pass by before I'm satisfied. Gathering up my things, I unlock the bathroom door—

"Let me have a look at you," says Beth, bustling into the bathroom before I can make my escape. She beams. "Oh, you look a picture! You just need to finish your make-up and you'll be the prettiest girl in the place."

"I've done my make-up," I tell her. Not well, to be fair, but I've used all the powders and liquids and even darkened my eyelashes with mascara.

Beth shakes her head. "Almost. You're just missing one thing." Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a small tube. My lipstick.

The lipstick I've never worn.

"Pucker up," she says, popping off the cap. She presses the lipstick to my lips, then dabs a tissue in there to blot it. And then she steps back. "Voila!"

When I look at myself in the mirror, I know why she is happy. I'm beautiful. "Beth? Is this really me?"

"Of course it is, numpty," she says. "Now, don't stand there gawking at yourself for too long. Come on, princess: dinner awaits."

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