Girl Boy Girl by Savannah Knoop

Author:Savannah Knoop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2010-06-10T16:00:00+00:00

“What if I don’t know the answers?” I said, changing my tone to a whine. I had only done that one interview in New York and it hadn’t gone very well. This time Laura wouldn’t be there to back me up. My stomach felt cramped from anxiety about the upcoming press, and distended and heavy from traveling.

I got out of the shower and frisked myself dry, wrapping the towel around me. I pulled out Laura’s past interviews. There were so many questions about JT’s life. Why didn’t they ask about his writing? Reporters rarely asked about the books, more mesmerized by his survivor story. As long as people stuck to questions about the mundane details of JT’s life, I was okay. What was JT’s favorite color? Yellow. His taste in literature? Nabokov, Flannery O’Connor, Breece D’J Pancake. He liked Wiffle ball and dark chocolate. We definitely didn’t have the same taste in music; he had Laura’s taste. It shouldn’t have mattered to me, but I am a music snob. And it pained me to say I liked Pearl Jam and Silverchair. And it seemed to hint that JT was not who he said he was. None of my peers—JT and I were supposed to be the same age—liked the new music Laura listened to.

At the readings in New York and Los Angeles, I met fans who were hungry for JT’s acknowledgment. They told me how the books had affected them, and they recounted their own life stories. I listened silently and held their hands. I rationalized to myself that JT was a conduit for many people who had suffered and survived. JT existed as a force of energy flying above our heads, a symbol of hope for those who had undergone the same kind of trauma and lived through it. Laura, JT, and I were a trinity. I didn’t know what our mission was yet, but I knew it was something bigger than our trivial problems and rivalries.

Loretta brusquely rapped on the wooden door. “Asia is downstairs.” I dropped my dirty underwear on the floor. “Shit, that was quick!”

Laura went to the door, “Right, hold on! JT’s just getting dressed. We’ll be down in two shakes!” She turned back, directing her head to the door. “If he ever finds his underwear!” she added as I riffled through a pile of dirty clothes that had exploded from my bag. I primped my wig on my hand like I had seen Mike Potter do.

I scrambled to put on the same clothes, and a new undershirt. We had gotten my pants from a designer named Gary Graham, whom we met through Mike Potter. They were made out of hand-dyed canvas, an almost metallic brown, with channels of cording around the knees. Then I put on an old white synthetic lace shirt from the ’60s that I had stolen from the costume room at boarding school, an old man’s v-neck, and a bomber that I had gotten from a stylist, with a cracked white leather arrow coming up and around the shoulder.

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