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You stake out. Well, you think of it as staking out. In practice, it’s just walking around the Monangahela National Forest a couple hours each day, after school gets out but before you have to be home for dinner. It’s boring, a little bit, but there is something soothing about being in the woods. You see lots of deer, at least, and even though you see deer almost every day, there’s still something enchanting about the experience.
You catch him on your second week of stakeouts. It’s a Wednesday, which means you really should be at soccer right now, and your mama will have some strong words when she hears you skipped it again, but you don’t care. You didn’t want to go anyways. You didn’t really want to play— you think of it as cross-training for biking, really. And it’s hard for you to get along with the other girls, with their ponytails and boyfriends and how they talk to you— just this side of mocking.
Anyways, you catch him on your second week of stakeouts. He’s walking down the path, clipboard tucked under his arm, hat stuck firmly on his head. He looks… unassuming. He looks boring, really. You scrutinize him, mirroring the check you do every morning before you leave you room: feet, hips, chest, shoulders, hands. He’s shortish, maybe, but nowhere near as short as you. You’re hoping for another inch, but daylight’s fading fast on that one. He’s stocky, but not in any sort of way you’d describe as “curvy,” or anything. Heck, he’s even got the stubble of a man who wanted to shave but couldn’t find the time. Keith better not have been pulling your leg.
You step out from behind the tree you were standing behind, trying to make yourself look taller. As you open your mouth, it occurs to you just how poorly this could go. Whatever, you think. Do it scared.
“Hey,” you holler. Your own voice grates on your ears. Ranger Newton looks up, surprised. “Are you Duck Newton?” You know who he is, but first impressions are important. Wouldn’t want jump right into the “are you transgender and how does one start with that and how did you make it past 20” without some sort of salutation.
“Sure am,” he says cautiously. You would guess he doesn’t get short, half-filipino mall goths jumping out at him behind trees all that often, but so far he’s taking it in stride.
You wait till he’s walked a few more paces. There’s not really a great way to say this. Best to just bite the bullet and get ready to hightail it outta here if things really go south.
“Are you transgender?” You lower your voice to ask.
He doesn’t move a muscle. His expression stays the same neutral-curious, but you can see his eyes moving. You can see him sizing you up, you think. Sizing you up the way you sized up him. He takes it all in— your army surplus boots, a size too big but stuffed with toilet paper— your jeans (women’s section, but who would know?)— your enormous three cheers for sweet revenge hoodie. You’ve got your backpack on, too, because where else would you put it? You see him looking at you, calculating and making assumptions, and it makes you angry, because whatever conclusions he’s arriving at are probably right. And it makes you feel good, actually, in a way you almost never feel good, because you know he’s not gonna call you young lady and drag you off to call your mother.
He’s probably only quiet for about four seconds, but it does feel long.
He opens his mouth.
“You like root beer?” He asks.
——
You’re seated at a picnic table on the bank of the river. You’ve got a root beer in front of you, and so does he. “They’re kinda warm,” he says. “Sorry about that. Been in my backpack all day.” You tell him it’s fine.
It’s pretty awkward. You should’ve come up with a list of actual questions, maybe, before charging into this man’s workplace and asking him what you realize now is a pretty personal question.
“So…” he begins. He looks at you, allowing you the chance to jump in. You don’t take it. As stated, you’re out of questions.
“So,” he says again. “I am, uh, yeah. I’m transgender. But I imagine you knew that already.”
“Well, I’d heard some things.” You reply. “But you know what they say about gossip.”
He nods, and takes a sip of his cola. You’re deeply uncomfortable. He seems resigned.
“Hey, what’s your name, kid?”
“Just Hollis,” you say, quickly.
“Hollis…” he says thoughtfully. “Hollis… you Carmen’s kid?”
“Yeah,” you say.
“So, Hollis,” he continues. “Now, not to seem like I’m not happy to be here, enjoying this delicious root beer on the banks of a beautiful river, but do you got any other questions for me? Cause I’m on company time, right now.”
Fuck. You really should’ve made a list. Because you have a natural sense of what questions not to ask people, apparently, you blurt out “what happened to your tits?”
He takes another swig of root beer. “Y’know, most people consider that to be a pretty inappropriate question,” he says mildly. “But I’ll tell you, since I think we might got a couple things in common. Got ‘em chopped off about five years back.”
“They can do that?” You ask, incredulous
“Sure can,” he says. “Medical miracle. Course, it’s a little spendy, and I had to drive all the way to Richmond. But it was worth every penny.”
Now that you've asked your first question it's easier to keep going. “How do you know you’re transgender?”
He shrugs a little, and looks back to you. “How do you know?” he asks.
“Um,” you say. “I guess I… kind of… I hate my body? And I don't like girl things and I don't like it when people call me young lady? I don't know, I guess. I just know.”
“Well, you're ahead of where I was at that point. When I was your age—how old are you, 14, 15?— I didn't even really know this was a thing. I just felt bad all the time and like some sort of horror story whenever I wasn’t high. And, I don't know- I spent a couple years as a butch lesbian but that – I was just never cool enough to really hack it.
“I think I figured it out actually, uh, looking at some tabloid with some, y’know, real gross sex changes scandal sort of headline ,which probably wasn't the best first exposure. I don't know. It's just a thing you find out at some point, I guess.” He chuckles.
You nod. “Everyone at school thinks I’m a lesbian, too,” you say.
“Well, there’s worse things to be,” he says, sagely. “You ever need a door planed, those ladies can do it for you lickity split.”
You snort. He looks pleased to have made you laugh.
“Got more questions for me?” He asks.
“How did you tell people?” You ask. He winces.
“Well, I told my friend Juno while we were both high. That was when I was in high school. And I told my sister Jane right before I went to college. And I told my mother after I’d been on testosterone for two years and the “I have a cold” excuse stopped working. And, uh, she kinda took care of the rest.”
“And did people… did you lose any friends?” He inhales deep, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. But Hollis, if they wanna stop being your friend over this, they weren’t your friend to start with. You hear me?”
You’re a little choked up, all of a sudden, so you just nod, and then you take a drink of your root beer, and then you cough root beer all over the table, which turns out to be a really good excuse for why your eyes are watering. He hands you a napkin that he digs out from his pocket.
“Root beer up my nose,” you say, blowing it and wiping your eyes.
“Happens,” he says diplomatically. “Any more questions? We can keep talking, but you mind if we start walking back toward the ranger station?”
You get up from the table. You ask, “How old are you?”
He chuckles again. “Boy, you sure got a way with words, huh? I’m turning thirty-one this year, God willing.”
“Wow,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. He leads you out of the clearing and onto a path. His voice is quieter, more serious when he start talking again. “There was a time…” he trails off. “When I was in high school… Well, there was a long time, uh, when I didn’t think I’d live past twenty. I wasn’t suicidal, not the whole time, I was just convinced I would die. Get hit by a car or overdose or get beat to death. I don’t know.” He’s leading you, and you’re glad you can’t see his face. It would be too much. Too intimate for this man, who you’ve only ever met in the context of smoky the bear fire safety talks, who’s now telling you about what seems like one of the lower times in his life. He stops walking abruptly, and you almost bump into him. “Hollis, you gotta understand,” he says. “It got better. I’m happy now. I got a cat, I got hobbies, I got friends, I got a job I really love.” He turns around now, and looks you in the eyes. “I don’t really know if I should even be telling you this. Don’t wanna put any ideas in your head. I just want you to know that it’ll get better. It’ll get better for you. Heck, they put a trans guy on Grey’s Anatomy. That’s progress.” That breaks the tension, and you smile and nod, because you just don’t know what else to do after this adult acquaintance tells you about his adolescent suicidality.
“Uh, thank you for telling me all this stuff, Ranger Rick.”
He sighs. “Always with the goddamn Ranger Rick stuff. Well, you’re welcome, kid.” He digs in his pocket for a moment. “Here. This is my card. You got an email?”
You shake your head.
“Well, that’s okay. You got a landline, right?”
You nod. He grabs the pen from his breast pocket and writes an additional number on the card. “This is my apartment number. And you know where the Forestry building is. Don’t uh, don’t be afraid to call me. If you need anything.”
You nod and shove the card deep in your hoodie pocket.
“Oh. And, uh, Hollis? That’s a good name. Suits you.”
Huh.
Huh.
—
A few months later, you and a couple of your other friends are out on the slopes. It’s a beautiful January day— blue sky, fresh snow, biting cold— and you’re loving it. It really is one of those days that makes you happy to be alive. You’ve gotten pretty good on your snowboard, and you successfully execute a 360 degree turn coming off the jump. Your friends are appropriately impressed, thumping you on the back, asking you for pointers.
“Hey!” Someone shouts. You turn and see a someone running over from across the field. They’re carrying a snowboard under one arm, and their snowsuit is so bright it literally hurts to look at. When they get close enough, they flip up their visor, revealing cherry-red cheeks and bright blue eyes under a blonde fringe. You don’t think you know this kid, oddly enough.
“Hey!” He says again. “That was awesome, man! How’d you learn how to do that?” He asks you directly. “Oh, I’m Jake, by the way,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Hollis,” you respond.