****
Sam sat on a stone bench out in the gardens, watching the lights from the reception hall reflect in the dark pond. He'd done his duty. He'd chatted with all the aunts and uncles, and Grandma, and Grandpa George, and Grandpa William. He'd had sixty gazillion people tell him what a pretty girl he was and how lovely his dress was and how he was going to make some lucky man such a lovely bride. He'd smiled and nodded until his cheeks hurt and he felt like a Britney Spears bobble-head doll.
And then he'd stolen Grandpa William's scotch and soda and come down here to be alone. He'd hoped to also get drunk, but one scotch wasn't cutting it tonight. Someone had watered the old man's drink. Anyway, after a year of stealing a nip now and then from Dad's vodka, he'd clearly built up a tolerance.
Sam held the glass up, looking at the lights through it, turning it to make them refract through the cut glass. They were really going first class for Linda. No plastic stemware for her wedding. He held the glass higher, saluting the sky with it, and heard a shutter click.
Sam almost dropped the glass, spinning around. Maybe the scotch had done more than he thought. Clint stood beside him, camera in hand.
“You'll get me in trouble with that picture. I'm not supposed to drink.”
Clint's teeth flashed white in the dimness. “They're serving the sodas in the same glasses. No one will know.”
“Oh.”
“Not supposed to drink? How old are you?”
Sam hesitated, but Clint was straight, so really an extra obstacle to being hit on was a good thing. “Sixteen.”
“Ah. Sweet sixteen.”
That just hit the end of his patience. He said, “Fuck the hell off,” and to his utter disgust, started to cry.
He'd have run away, but he was wearing these damned strappy sandals with heels, and the ground was uneven. So he just set the glass aside, pulled his legs up to his chest, and hid his face on his knees. He expected to hear Clint walk away, but instead after a moment he heard him sit down on the other end of the bench. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, I'm perfect. I'm lovely, the prettiest thing since Princess Di.”
“Did someone... do something?”
“No. Nothing like that.” His breath hitched on the last word, and despite clenching his teeth and breathing through his nose, a sob escaped, and then another.
There was a pause, and then Clint said, “Do you want to talk about it? Or I could find another girl to come hang out with you.”
It ripped out of Sam's throat. “I'm not a girl!”
Clint grunted. “Huh. What are you?”
Might as well just go all the way now. “I'm a boy.”
“F to M, or M to F?”
That was so unexpected, it caught Sam in the middle of a sob, and he choked and coughed. When he had his breath back, he said slowly, “F to M.”
“Okay. And dressed as F for the family celebration?”
“Yes.” Sam sat up and rubbed his hand over his face. At least he'd drawn the line at make-up, other than lip gloss, so he wasn't smearing mascara all over.
Clint nodded slowly, a motion Sam more felt than saw. For a few minutes they just sat, both looking at the sparkling lights across the water. Sam felt the tight knot of pain in his chest ease.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Why would you care?” Sam couldn't help adding, “How did you know...?”
“Well, as for knowing, you said you were a boy, and a boy in a dress is pretty much going to be one or the other. Or cross-dressing, of course, but I didn't get a liberal, everything-goes vibe from this crowd, so I figured that was unlikely.”
“Hah, right. Not a lot of open minds up there.”
“Are you out at all?”
“No. Just to one friend. Well, and you now.”
“I'm honored. And I won't tell anyone.”
“I'm kind of to the point where I don't care anymore. Girl, boy. It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters anymore.” Sam could hear the flat, thin tone of his voice.
Clint hummed a quiet sound. “I've got to say, Sam-the-sibling, I don't like the way you say that. Of course it matters. It's who you are.”
“Not in this family.” It was funny. Sitting here in the almost-dark with a stranger, he could say things he'd never told anyone else. “I have two more years of being pretty and girly and not rocking the boat before I go to college, and then, maybe, just maybe I'll be able to be me. Part time. Of course by then...” He stopped. “You don't want to hear this crap. And you're busy.”
Clint set his camera on the bench and turned further toward Sam. “I came down here for a few exterior shots with the lights. I got them and I have lots of reception pictures. Until the happy couple heads out, I have a few minutes off, and if I want to spend some of them chatting with a young guy who could use a friendly ear, that's my choice.”
“Oh.” Shock and wonder, to have someone say “guy” and mean Sam. Someone who knew, who wasn't being fooled by boy clothes and binder, but actually could look at Sam in a dress and say that.
“Although we can just sit here too for a bit. You don't have to talk.”
“That's...” Sam couldn't say what it was. Overwhelming. “You really don't mind? Me, I mean?”
“Not my place to mind.” Clint looked away at the lights. The sky slowly darkened, and a soft breeze picked up as they just sat there. There was an insulating quality to the darkness, and the muffled sounds from up the hill, and the slow ripples of the water. It felt like another world. Eventually, Clint said, “The first time my little brother brought home a boy instead of a girl, Mom made us all join PFLAG. He's with a girl again this month, but the one before that was another guy.”
“He's bi?”
“Yeah. And a lazy horn-dog, but PFLAG at least opened my eyes to not judging. On the bi part. I'm still gonna judge the sleaze. I did get to know a couple of trans people at the meetings. You think maybe your parents might go...”
“No.” Sam was sure about that. “Not a chance.”
“Too bad. Do you go? To any kind of group?”
Sam just shook his head.
“Even online?”
“I haven't... I feel like I...” He couldn't express it – how he could barely stand to be inside this body, and how opening up to someone, anyone, even someone sympathetic, felt like it might shred him. He'd thought about it, cruised the web, even written an intro once for a group that sounded promising, and then chickened out. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the fabric of the dress move around him. It was so wrong.
Clint nodded slowly. “I think it might be good, if you could find a group. Maybe every teenager feels like a freak on earth, who doesn't fit in. I sure did, without half of the reasons you have. Not that I'm saying you're a freak. Ah, hell, I'm doing this wrong.” He pulled out a card and held it out. “Look, I'm no expert at anything, but I have some helpline and chat group numbers written on my fridge because there was a while when my little bro wasn't half as comfortable with the bi part as he is now. If you get... sad, or desperate, or feeling like you're boxed in, well, hopefully you've got other folks you can turn to. But if not, call me, okay. I'll find something, someone.”
Sam slowly took the card.
Clint hung onto his end for a minute. “I'm not hitting on you, right? You're sixteen and I'm an adult, and I'm straight and of course, you're a boy, no matter how you look in that dress. But if you need one more person to call, who'll tell you it's okay to be who you are, put me on that list.”
Sam nodded again mutely, and Clint let go of the card. As Sam fumbled with his purse, to tuck the card away, Clint said, “So. I'll see you around, Sammy-boy. Gotta get back to work. Good luck.” He headed up the hill toward the party.
Sam watched him go, and then jumped out of his skin at a squeal beside his ear. “Sarah! Did that totally hot photographer just give you his number?” His cousin Amelia bounced over to sit beside him.
“Not like that.” Sam grabbed for a reasonable explana
tion. “He, um, thought I was a senior, and might want senior portraits.”
“Ooh. I'd pose for him any day.” Amelia slid the strap of her dress lower on her shoulder and cooed, “Oh, Mr. Hottie, I think I have a wardrobe malfunction. Maybe you can help me fix it.”
Sam shoved her roughly. “It was nothing like that. Anyway, he's into girls.”
Amelia started at him. “So? Jeeze, you are so weird.”
You don't know the half of it.
Amelia stood and tugged her skirt straighter. “Whatever. I was sent to find you. Linda and Evan are heading out and she's going to throw the bouquet. They want all us girls there. Come on. You're holding things up.”
Sam gritted his teeth, rose and followed his cousin back inside.