Linus and Etta Could Use a Win, page 1
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FOR MY STUDENTS,
WHO REMIND ME WHO I AM AND WHO I CAN BE
1
Linus
YOU NEVER GET A SECOND CHANCE AT A FIRST IMPRESSION.
(UNLESS YOU MOVE TO A NEW STATE!)
I’m nervous. Not this-will-give-me-the-edge-I-need nervous. I’m-gonna-puke nervous. And puking would be a huge problem because I’m just about to walk into Doolittle Middle School for the first time. I keep fiddling with the friendship bracelet Olive tied to my backpack the day before I moved away from her and the rest of my life back in New York. Mom pulls the car up to the main entrance of the school, and my heart kicks into hyperdrive. I squeeze my backpack hard against my chest, pressing against my binder beneath my shirt and my budding boobs under that. It’s the same green L.L.Bean backpack I’ve had forever. Well, not exactly the same. My parents got me a new one when I changed my name—because my old one had my old name embroidered in white thread that had turned gray over time. Now I’ve got a new green backpack with bright white thread. And even though I’m pretty sure no other eighth grader in the world has their name embroidered on their backpack, it was such a sweet thing for them to do that I really couldn’t … not use it. Even though I kind of didn’t want to.
Linus. That’s what the white thread says. That’s me.
“Here we are,” Mom says. Even though we’ve been here for like a full minute.
“Yeah. I guess I’d…” My voice trails off. I mean, we both know what’s going to happen. I’m going to get out of this car, walk into the brick building, exist for six hours, and then … well, let’s just make sure I make it to 2:30. Or, I guess, technically 2:32, according to the schedule printout the school sent me over the summer. The schedule I’ve worried to tatters.
“I’ll be right here to pick you up after school, okay?”
I nod.
“And then we’re going to head over to Grandma’s, all right? I think we’re going to do dinners with her on Mondays and Fridays.”
I nod again. But I don’t move.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” Mom goes to unbuckle her seat belt and my heart slams against my chest, beating against my ribs at an alarming rate.
“No!” I say, a little too loud. A little too forceful. Except maybe it’s not too much of anything because, to be completely clear, the idea of my mom walking me to class on my first day of eighth grade is high-key horrifying.
Mom pulls her hand away from the buckle, but my heart doesn’t quite return to normal. The image of her waving at me cheerfully through the doorway of a classroom as I sit down to learn algebra is still flooding my brain.
“Do you want a hug?” she asks after a moment.
This time my response comes less immediately to me. I’m not sure if the answer is supposed to be “Yes, of course I want to hug you! You’re my mom, and I’m never too old for hugs!” or “Ugh, I’m a teen, and I’d rather die.” I settle for giving her a pained grimace.
She laughs. “Say no more!”
I really wish I could stall a bit longer, but according to my schedule, civics class starts at 8:10, and it’s 8:06 right now. And I literally have no idea where I’m going. Other than, you know, inside.
“Okay. Bye, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you too, Liney.”
I push open the door, and the world that was muffled behind the glass car window is suddenly sharp and insistent. And hot. Sure, early fall in the city can still be hot and gross, but a part of me thought things might be different in the Midwest. Apparently, the start of a new school year in Ohio can also be really hot. I think about closing the door, retreating to the cool and quiet car interior, but I’m pretty sure everyone is staring at me. The new boy. So I push through the I’m-almost-gonna-puke feeling and move toward the front door.
The sound of my shoes hitting the shiny blue floor echoes as I walk in. Am I walking too slowly? Should I look more excited? Am I too bouncy now? Is that off-putting? Should I stand up more? Will that make my boobs push out, even though I’m wearing a binder? Can people see the lines of my binder under my shirt? Will I have to explain that I really am a boy? Will I have to explain it again later after I’ve already told them? Am I standing like a boy? How do boys stand? Am I … My mind won’t settle down.
Before this past year, I never really noticed my nerves. Or, at least, they never seemed to get in the way of things. When I was younger, my nerves made my ears turn pink, which no one really noticed because I had long hair. I guess the stuff I used to be nervous about was different too. Like … will I score a goal in the soccer game? Or … will Viola Bee make fun of me for giving her a beach towel for her birthday? (My mom made me do it.) That stuff is different than Will people like me? I guess it’s not just will people like me. It’s will anyone?
This kind of nervousness really started to kick in when I came out to my parents as trans last year. At the time, I mistakenly believed that coming out would just be a one-and-done event. Hurray! I’m a boy! Everyone is on board!
Not everyone was on board.
Because I kept having to tell people. My teachers. My soccer team. My friends. My friends’ parents. I kept having to go into it.
Once I told people, they were really supportive. I mean it. Some people hugged me. Some people cried. Some people shrugged like it was no big deal. Only one person said, “I knew it!” But the whole thing was just exhausting. I feel like I spent the whole fall of seventh grade telling people I’m a boy. And the whole winter recovering from telling them. I backed away from a bunch of stuff—stopped playing soccer, stayed home during school dances, and slept through the weekends.
And, even though I tried to avoid the places where people might mess up, throughout the spring, months after I told everyone, even when they had the best of intentions, they still made mistakes.
They forgot my name. “Sorry! Old habit!”
Or to use my pronouns. “You’re the same person to me!”
Or they’d do other, slightly strange, things. “Oh my god, I almost said you were going into the wrong bathroom!”
They would smile. And I would smile.
Kind of.
Anyway, now I’m at a new school. And I don’t have to come out. I’m a boy here. And after a year of telling everyone and resting after telling everyone and living through everyone’s mistakes, I’m ready to just be a boy. And to, I dunno, maybe do some stuff beyond homework for the first time in a year.
At least, that’s what I told myself last night as I packed up my backpack and laid out my clothes—and by clothes, I mean my favorite T-shirt. It’s got a Venn diagram on it. In one circle, there’s a beaver playing the guitar. In the other, there’s a duck playing a keyboard. And in the middle: a duck-billed platypus playing the keytar. I chose it because when I catch myself in the mirror and I’m wearing it, I always see the shirt first and crack up. Before I get too caught up in worrying about the way I look. Or the way others see me.
I make my way through another set of doors and into a large corridor.
“Hi, you must be Linus,” says an adult—maybe a teacher or something? She’s coming out of an office area. Was I supposed to stop in there?
“Uh, yeah. How did you know?” I ask.
“Well, it’s a pretty small school. And you’re the only new eighth grader!” She smiles, which I imagine is supposed to be comforting, but her words are the opposite of comforting. The only new eighth grader? I just want to be. I don’t want to stand out! “I’m Ms. Hill.” She reaches her hand toward me, and I shake it tentatively.
“I’m Linus. As you know.” I give her one of those smiles where I don’t show my teeth. The I’m-being-a-good-sport-but-I-kinda-hate-this smile.
“Hi, Linus. I’m the school counselor. I’m going to bring you to your first class.”
Crap. No! Under no circumstances are we doing this.
“Uh, well, I feel, um, pretty confident!” I start to walk. Away. I try not to notice how the other students are looking at me. Eyeing the new boy and the overly friendly school counselor.
“Are you sure? I’m happy to help!”
“Yeah, totally. Love that. I’m just—”
And I run. I mean, I jog. I’m not really a runner. But I’m definitely a get-away-from-this-er.
As I careen around the corridor, I slam into another person. Hard to say if crashing into one of my new classmates is more embarrassing than the school counselor touring me around the school on my first day.
The girl I crashed into has green hair. And she growls at me.
Okaaaaaay. This is worse.
2
Etta
ANYONE WHO WISHE
Middle school is like a horror movie. Or maybe not, because I actually like horror movies. But I’ve been back in this school for less than five minutes, and I already hate it. Whoever this is practically dislocating my shoulder from running into me is just the icing on the cake. He goes to help me pick up my books, but I don’t want help. I don’t need help. I wave him away.
“Sorry!” The boy’s voice is kind of breathy. I haven’t seen him before. I don’t think. Not that I care.
“Yeah.” That’s all I’ve got. My mom likes to say I’m in my monosyllabic period. Kind of like how Picasso had his blue period and Harry Styles had his boy band period. Except my monosyllable period is unlikely to result in great art. And my mom doesn’t mean the phrase nicely. I can tell she’s desperate for me to say more to her. About literally anything. Which makes me less likely to do it.
I grunt as I lean down to pick up my books from the floor, and when I get back up, I’m not expecting the Mayor of Slamtown to still be gaping at me.
“Um, sorry,” he says. Again.
“You said that.” Wow. He got a full sentence out of me. Impressive.
“Yeah. This apology is for something else. I need … I need help getting to—”
He looks down at a worn printout of a student schedule. It looks old. I remember doing this project in fifth grade where the teacher had us write a letter from a fictional soldier to their family back home. We got extra credit if we “aged” the letter. You know, if we bathed it in tea and burned the edges, and used some swoopy font instead of Times New Roman or whatever. I wrote a love letter as a lesbian soldier to my fictional girlfriend from a future postapocalyptic war zone. It didn’t go over well. Anyway, this kid’s schedule looks like the other kids’ letters from that class. Stained and folded over and over again.
“Do you know where that is?”
Shoot. He’s been talking and I’ve been thinking about my fifth-grade history project. I lean over to look at the paper and cover my lack of attention.
A Period: Civics 8 (Mr. Todd) Room 2007
I pull out my phone, which I know I’m not supposed to use, but I’m a rebel like that, and check the screenshot of my own schedule. Identical words shine back at me.
“We’re going to the same place.” I sigh. “Follow me.”
I start walking, my Doc Martens clomping as I make my way to the stairs leading to the 2000s classrooms.
“I’m Linus, by the way. I’m new.”
I think about saying I don’t care. But that seems harsh. And no one is watching. No need to be a total jerk.
“I’m Etta.” I take a beat. “I’m old.”
“Like an old soul or an old vampire trapped in the body of an eighth grader?”
I stop and look at Linus, who turns the brightest shade of red imaginable. Like, I don’t know if neon red is a thing, but if it is, this is it. Aside from his tomato complexion, Linus is pretty unremarkable. He’s taller than me. And a little heavier. Under his blush his skin is pale, and his hair is brownish reddish and floofs up from his head in an explosion of curls.
“Sorry,” he says.
“You keep saying that.”
“Well, the first one was for knocking into you. The second was for asking for help. And the third is for being weird.” Linus runs his hand through his already floofy hair.
I think for a second, and then say, “I only accept the second one.”
Linus blinks, then says, “Okay.”
“The vampire thing was actually pretty funny.”
“You didn’t laugh.”
“I’m not a laugher.” Truer words were never spoken. I mean, maybe I used to be a laugher, but not now. Not since … Well, everyone says that middle school sucks. And they’re right. Let’s leave it at that.
Next year, though, there’s a chance that things will change. While everyone else funnels into the local public school, I’ll be making my way to Nova, an alternative high school that occupies a revamped office building downtown. Nova has been on my radar ever since my brother got in three years ago. He went there for a year, bailed, and headed over to Higgins High. Of course Jamie would get the chance of a lifetime to go to school at Nova and then say, “Thanks but no thanks!” And it is a chance. Getting into Nova is not a given. And to have a shot, I need to, you know, finish middle school and come up with a compelling application. It’s pretty much the only reason I’m here at school and literally not anywhere else.
“Okay. Too cool to laugh. Got it. Maybe we can come up with a hand signal? Like a physical version of laughter that isn’t laughter? But that lets me know that you get my jokes.”
What is this kid asking about? A hand signal? “Like a thumbs-up?”
“Sure. If you’re into that.”
I think about it. The idea of giving a thumbs-up goes against my carefully crafted vibe. “I’m not,” I say.
“Oh. That’s okay.” Linus smiles shyly. Or maybe it’s a nervous smile. I wonder what I look like to him. With my green hair, my foundation that makes my skin a full shade paler than it already is, my thick stay-away-from-me eyeliner, and my spiky choker, I’m sure I don’t really read as a thumbs-up kind of gal.
But something about the way Linus is smiling is so sweet it makes me start to consider what hand gesture I might be willing to do to let him know I get his jokes. “How about this?” I say, lifting my hand palm down and tilting it from side to side.
“That’s more of an ‘eh’ gesture. And, let’s be honest, I’m gonna be saying some pretty hilarious things.” Linus raises his eyebrows and grimaces.
I do the gesture.
“Are you saying that comment was funny?”
I respond in a deadpan voice. “It’s hilarious that you think you’re hilarious.” After about two seconds, I crack a grin. Linus gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. A part of me hates to admit it, but it’s fun talking to him.
“Aren’t we gonna be late?”
“Eh, it’s day one. How many of those opening icebreakers teachers like to torture us with are absolutely essential?”
Linus’s eyebrows pinch together, and I can tell being later than he has to be is making him uncomfortable. I sigh and start walking again.
“Don’t get used to me being this useful,” I mutter. It sounds like what I should say at this moment. Something cutting.
Linus laughs, and even though I want to hate that he’s laughing at me being unapproachable, I can’t. He’s … so sweet. Like a golden retriever. And I can’t hate a golden retriever. Or any dog for that matter. We make our way out of the stairwell, into the hallway, and down to room 2007. School isn’t so terrible, I guess. I can go through the motions. At least until I get to Nova.
And then I walk into civics.
There are two open seats.
And both of them are next to Marigold Stimpson.
Crap.
3
Linus
IT WOULD BE REALLY GREAT IF I COULD PULL OFF A SUCCESSFUL INTERACTION WITH A PEER THIS MORNING!
I really hope no one is expecting me to remember anything from this first class, ’cause it’s a blur. Despite Etta’s comment, we aren’t lucky enough to miss the icebreakers. In fact, the entirety of the class period seems to be dedicated to them. Not very much of it seems to have anything to do with civics. I don’t even really know what “civics” is. I do appreciate that Mr. Todd has clear rules and instructions. There’s no free-range interactions. Everything is scripted. Which means there really aren’t many ways to mess up. Thank goodness. Because if there are ways to mess things up, I’m going to be thinking about them. Even if the chances of me doing the messing up are slim to none, I’m still thinking about it. Almost always.
So now I’m sitting at my desk, making what Mr. Todd calls a contour drawing, where you basically just have to stare at another person and draw them while that same person is staring at you and drawing you. It’s kind of awkward. But at least it seems awkward for everyone and not just me. I’m paired up with the girl next to me. The girl between me and Etta. I wish I was with Etta. But maybe it’s okay that I’m getting to know someone else. I just wish the someone else didn’t make me blush furiously while I draw her.
