Birthday by Meredith Russo

Author:Meredith Russo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

MORGAN

I let my bike fall to the ground when I reach the dumpster. The Kmart bag strikes asphalt and bursts, spilling makeup across the dark pavement. Swearing under my breath, I turn on my phone flashlight and slowly pick up the pieces, one by one, until both my hands are full. I stand there for a moment, in the reeking lot behind the Shell station near our trailer, staring into the dumpster’s black maw and listening to night frogs, and I consider not doing this.

It felt good to see that face in the mirror, covered in makeup, if just for a moment, if only the one time. Amazing, actually. I recognized her and she felt like me. She was me.

But how good would it feel if I put on makeup like that every day? And how bad would it feel if Dad couldn’t look at me anymore?

Like an idiot, I had allowed myself to fantasize about living in a place like New York or Atlanta or Los Angeles, where both my parents were still alive and so sensitive that I didn’t even need to tell them. I let myself imagine alternate presents and impossible futures where I could be with someone like Eric as more than a friend. I let myself pretend I lived in a universe where my body was completely different than the one I currently exist in.

But, no.

“Wanting” to be a girl? It’s stupid. It’s stupid and insane.

I live in Thebes, Tennessee. And no one here is down with that “queer shit.” I’m trapped in the life I have, and I need to shut down any other fantasy before it hurts me even more. I want to make movies. I want a new bike. I want to not be sick in the head.

I whip the makeup up over the dumpster and into the darkness. My throat starts to close. I hear something shatter and I close my eyes.

This way that I feel, this … obsession, it’s not a thing that I want and it’s not a thing that I am, it’s something I have. Like a disease. Mom had cancer. I have autogynephilia—I saw that word online. Lots of people hate that idea and say it’s transphobic, that it makes it a disease, but this feels like a disease.

I remember the exact moment I realized Mom was sick, the moment I could hear her crying even out in the waiting room. I was young, but you never forget a moment like that, even if you don’t know exactly what’s happening. I learned a new word. “Cancer.”

And now I have word for myself. Autogynephile. It’s like I have a genetic disease I was born with, like how mom’s cells were programmed to kill her. Conversion therapy doesn’t work. I read that. There’s no way to feel better, except living your life like a woman, which is the one thing I can’t bear to do. Maybe I can’t stand the possibility of losing Dad’s or Eric’s respect. Maybe I

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