12
O
n my way back upstairs from the production floor, I ran into Hayden.
“Aunt Meggie!”
“Hayden. So good to see you. You’ve made my day.” He gave me a hug, then we walked back to my office, chatting, and sat down. He was wearing red pants, high-tops, and a striped shirt with flowers on the cuffs. His dark hair was back in a ponytail.
“How are you, Hayden?”
Don’t kill yourself, honey, don’t.
I knew that Lacey and Matt were sending him to a counselor. I hoped the counselor knew what she was doing.
“Good. I’ve decided that I’m going to go public.”
“Public?” I froze.
“Yes. You know how I’m the features editor for the school newspaper? I write articles on students and teachers doing cool things, and fashion, what all the kids are wearing, events that are coming up, like the plays and musicals and concerts. So, I’m going to write about myself.”
My first thought was that Hayden was going to get the crap beat out of him. “What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to say the truth.”
“And that is . . .”
“That I’m transgender. I’m a girl in my head, that I want to be a girl, that I was born a girl, and I’m going to start dressing like a girl and be my own girl self and start wearing makeup and take my hair out of the ponytail and I’ll be wearing skirts and heels.”
I leaned back, stunned. He would be teased mercilessly. Harassed. Isolated. Whispered about. I tried to clear the fuzz of buzzing stress out of my head. “You’re going to write about this?”
“When I get the nerve, and I think my nerve is almost here. I’m going to post photos of myself now, and then what I’m going to wear the first day that I come to school as a girl.”
“Did you talk to your parents about this?”
“Not yet. I’m talking to you first because you’re cool. So. What do you think?”
What did I think? I thought he was going to be chop suey. “I think, Hayden, that you need to think about this.”
“You mean, like, because of the teasing and stuff? They already tease me sometimes, but I have my friends.”
He did have friends. Hayden was actually pretty popular. The kids thought he was gay, but he was nice to everyone, and the girls talked to him all the time about their problems and clothing. Still. A boy turning into a girl, from one day to the next? He would be a sitting target. Like a rose in the street soon to be trampled by stampeding rhinos.
“Hayden, I think this will raise the level of teasing to a frighteningly intense and ugly level.”
And I don’t want this to push you over the edge, honey.
He dug a toe into the floor. “I know. But what’s worse, Aunt Meggie? I can take the teasing for being gay or I can take the teasing for being who I really am. You know what I mean? I’d rather be teased for dressing like a girl when I am a girl. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, it makes sense.” I reached for his hand across the table. Hayden is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He’s had to do so much work on himself, he’s been so confused and lost, that it’s made him into a perceptive, resilient, introspective person. Many people never get near this stage of personal development and depth. They never hit the black, and they skim and they skate and remain shallow.
“It makes sense, Hayden, and I am behind you one hundred and ten per cent.” I kissed his forehead. I actually felt my hands tremble, and my stomach was jelly. “On to work . . . I need you to help me with the fashion show. You saw my e-mail from two days ago?”
“Yes, I have it. I do have a few suggestions for the show, the lighting, the invitations, the décor for the tables. I wrote the e-mail to you last night, but I wanted to edit it and think about things tonight, so I’ll send it to you tomorrow, boss.” He grinned at me. “I gotta show you the new robe I designed. The material is soft and velvety. It’s like polar bear fur and a rainbow combined. You’ll adore it.”
I adore you. We all do. Don’t take a step that will ruin all of us, forever.
Who am I to judge anyone for anything?
I have made serious, enormous mistakes in my life. I fought with Aaron often. I yelled back. I avoided him and left to travel for my work whenever I could. I nagged. I was depressed living with him, so I wasn’t much fun to live with myself. I was often cold and unresponsive because I was overwhelmed and so unhappy. I was impatient and visibly frustrated. I shut down on Aaron, then did something terrible. I probably handled very little correctly.
Worst of all, I’m so relieved, to the base of my soul, that I’m not married to him anymore, and that makes me feel more horrible than ever.
As for Hayden? What is there to judge? He was born a girl in his head with a boy body. He is brave enough to address it. He is brave enough to change. He is brave enough to face an unfriendly, hostile world with who he truly is.
Hayden is far braver than I am.
On Wednesday, as I returned to my office after meeting with the Petrellis, Abigail told me that Kalani had Skyped me and would be Skyping me again in ten minutes.
Tory said, “She’s your problem. I’m going to look up my horoscope, then I’m going to whip my design team into shape. They’re scared of me, you know.”
“I know.”
Lacey tried to skitter into her office, muttering something about “pregnancy-related hormone surges,” but I grabbed her elbow and wouldn’t let go. We sat at my table and turned the computer on.
When we connected, Kalani beamed at us. We heard about her foot problems—“flaky foot,” her witch sister-in-law who cursed her with black magic and caused the “flaky foot”—and her “sad and blue mood” on Saturday.
She told Lacey, “You getting even bigger, Laceeey. Ya. That baby must be size of, what you call—a monster! You face. Face much bigger now.” Kalani held her hands outside her own face about six inches, as if Lacey’s face had exploded.
“Thank you very fucking much,” Lacey muttered, and smiled sweetly, “you skinny crow.”
I kicked her underneath the table. Kalani is blunt, not mean.
“Ya! You not skinny!” Kalani laughed. She had not caught the whole sentence. Sometimes English is mangled between us, fortunately.
“So, Kalani,” I said, “I hear you have a problem at the factory?”
Kalani laughed. “Yes. Teeny problem. Teeny as a bird. The color bleed, ya, Meeegie, the color bleed. Blech. Bad. Pink and dark pink now a swirl. We got bad material. Bad. I talk to Jayanadani at suppliers and she said it our fault. It not our fault. I call her again. Tell her she lie.”
“I’ll call her.” Jayanadani was who we worked with to get our materials and supplies over to Kalani.
“Hey, but lookie!” Kalani said, always positive. She pulled her shirt off and pointed to her bra.
“What in the world is that?” Lacey groaned.
“Lookie! This like, how you say, Hippie Bleeding Bra. Remember you have hippie in America? I know, I watch show on TV about hippies. It say Woodstock. I know you do Woodstock, Meeegie and Laceeey. Woodstock and hair long and messy and no shirts and colors that bleed. Bleeding colors and hippie. Now we have new line, right? New line we call Hippie Bleeding Bras!”
I forced a smile. “I’ll take care of the problem, Kalani.”
“Ya. No problem. I likie Hippie Bra. I wear for my man tonight. Don’t let him stay with me, though. He go home. I no want his socks my floor. I pick up my husband sock once, I never do again. See my eye scar? Bad husband. And see this? That scar on my arm? Him, too. Knife.”
We listened to Kalani’s story about her bad husband and then got back to business.
“Bye, Kalani, Lacey and I have to go.” I waved. “I saw your numbers for yesterday. You all did well.”
“Ya. We do well. We women. I don’t like to hire no men. Too slow. Complain. Lazy. Don’t like working for me, I a woman. Women better employees. I no like to hire much men.”
“I didn’t hear that, Kalani.”
“What?” She looked confused. “I say again—I don’t like hire men. Sometimes they try to touch women here, that bad, I no let that happen ever. I saw man do that long time ago, he rip my employee’s shirt, she scream, and I pick up piece of steel, I hit him. Hit hard on his head. He on ground. Lots of blood. I hit again, then I fire him. I see it again, I hit other man in chest with—how you say—shovel. Bam bam! He out, too. And men, they pee pee on toilet, no clean up. They think they boss. Not them. Me. I the boss.” She pointed at herself in her Hippie Bleeding Bra. “Men likey take over even though they not smart or quick. They too dumb to know they not smart or quick. They like to boss women around and then—how Tory say, you know Tory?”
“Yes, we still know Tory.”
“She say men shoot back tequila and play with their balls. I don’t need no shooting back tequila in my factory and I no want to see men play with balls. So—women only!” She smiled again, so innocent.
Other countries do not, obviously, worry about political correctness, and Kalani does not see the need to hide the fact that she discriminates against men.
“Men, they act like they smart, try make me think I not smart, but I smart because lookee me. This my factory and I make bleeding bras. For Woodstock!”
“I’ll get back to you, Kalani, but stop all production. We don’t want Hippie Bleeding Bras.”
Her face fell. “No bleeding bras for hippie women at Woodstock?”
“No. I’ll get back to you. Thanks, Kalani.”
She smiled again and cupped her boobs. “Okay-dokay. Bye-bye, Meeegie! Bye-bye, Laceeey! You big lady now, Laceeey! You getting bigger all over! How you butt? Big, too?”
“Fuck you very much,” Lacey said, smiling. “You skinny centipede.”
I flinched. So glad Kalani did not understand the f word.
“Okay, thank you much! Bye-bye, seeesters! I love you.”
Lacey waved, both hands, her middle fingers slightly up.
“Love you, too, Kalani,” I said, grabbing Lacey’s hands.
I shut off Skype.
“A Hippie Bleeding Bra line, now that’s a fab idea,” Lacey said. “You’re going to call Jayanadani?”
“Yes. I’ll get this materials problem fixed, insist they change it out or we don’t pay, then I’ll have the other factory near to Kalani ship over more materials and we’ll start over. You’re meeting with Delia and Beatrice today, right . . . have you heard from David at Tieman’s . . . I’ll call Joy Ridge’s boutique, they’re opening more stores . . . you soothe Jay’s feathers up in Seattle, I’ll soothe Marty’s in Arizona . . .”
Our conversation went on at length. We grabbed pads of paper and scribbled; we shared jobs and tasks. Lacey and I work together well.
It’s a sister thing.
Grandma
tap-tapped
in an hour later. Blue silk dress, bone-colored heels. Baubles: sapphires. Definitely adequate to keep the stench of poverty away, as she would say.
“Heard about the bleeding bras. Have that under control? Good. I talked to Adele and Zonya. They’re getting that last shipment out to Chicago. I heard from Monique’s, she said coast to coast they sold out of the lingerie that Tory advertised on You Tube, same with a whole bunch of other stores, you’re on that, right? Good.” She reached back and “patted the fairies” on her back to relieve the pain of the whippings. She was doing that more lately, I’d noticed.
“Ride Kalani’s butt, we want to catch this. I want to see the latest numbers, how’s that storm affecting New York and our deliveries, have you talked to Gildy’s Accessories in Georgia and Louisiana, good, stay on that. New markets are . . .”
When she was done, she said, “Please start dressing better when you’re here, Meggie. What are you, a plumber today? A meat grinder? A corpse? Get that hair done.” She kissed my cheek and walked out. “Lipstick. Again. Wear lipstick.”
Grandma and I work together well, too.
About ten that night, still working, I stared at my reflection in the window. I knew Mount Hood was out there. Waiting for me.
I ran my hands over my face.
I was too skinny.
My hair was ragged.
Jeans too big.
Tennis shoes, beaten up.
I didn’t care.
I wish I did.
I thought of the chief. Hmm. Maybe I could start caring a mini-bit.
Lacey called me about ten o’clock at night.
Cassidy had been suspended from school. She had been caught smoking a joint in the
boys’
locker room. Not the girls’, the boys’. Lacey was having a meltdown.
Cassidy called me from her bedroom, where her mother had banned her to, about an hour later.
“Aunt Meggie,” she whispered. I knew she was trying not to let the melting-down Lacey know she was on the phone. “I was thinking of you. Unfortunately, I’m out of school for a week—there was a slight misunderstanding—so I was thinking that you and I could go to a dessert class together. I’ve already looked it up online and there’s one in downtown Portland. Five nights, once a week, and we’ll learn how to make pastries and cakes! Want to go?”