Double Exposure Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Bridget Birdsall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Birdsall, Bridget.

  Double exposure / Bridget Birdsall.

  pages cm

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Alyx Atlas starts school in a new state with a new identity--as a girl--but a bully on the basketball court threatens to reveal that Alyx is an intersex person, which could disqualify Alyx and the team from playing in the state championship game.

  ISBN 978-1-62914-606-5 (hardback)

  [1. Intersex people--Fiction. 2. Gender identity--Fiction. 3. Bullying--Fiction. 4. High schools--Fiction. 5. Schools--Fiction. 6. Basketball--Fiction. 7. Moving, Household--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B511965Dou 2014

  [Fic]--dc23

  2014015992

  Cover design by Jaime Heiden and Brian Peterson

  Cover art credit Jaime Heiden

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-206-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Jeffrey and those who have been judged or bullied for being different. In the game of life there will be times you will want to give up—don’t.

  Stay in the game. The world needs you more than ever.

  And in memory of Nancy Garden, who believed in this book from the beginning.

  CHAPTER 1

  Prickman

  Living in the Valley was like being hunted every day of my life.

  Either you fit in or you didn’t. There were no gray areas at Walnut Grove High. If you were different, they’d sniff you out, track you down. You had two options: stand and fight, or run like hell. After Dad died, I guess I just got sick of running.

  Now Prickman and his apes are three thousand miles away, but my brain keeps taking random trips back in time, dragging my body along with it, and suddenly, I’m there—pushing through the grime-streaked doors of the 7-Eleven, Dad’s basketball in one hand and an icy can of root beer in the other. Hot valley air slapping my face, making me ache for the California coast.

  “Hey, Pretty-boy!” Ricky Pearlman, a senior everyone calls Prickman, barks at me from across the parking lot. He and his Neanderthals are fussing with someone’s bicycle. Stolen, no doubt.

  I pop the top off my root beer, tuck Dad’s ball under one arm, and turn toward the back of the building, hoping Rafi, the owner, is watching from inside the store, but all I see is the reflection of my own lanky body. The baggy shirt that hides my budding breasts makes me look like some strange hybrid between a pregnant giraffe and a praying mantis. And I’m wishing I’d pulled my socks up higher because, though I’d look like a complete moron, perhaps I wouldn’t have to defend my shaved legs again.

  “At-ass, I’m talkin’ to you!”

  I try to ignore him.

  It had worked before.

  “Wait up, faggot!”

  No such luck.

  He heads my way, and I pick up my pace. Root beer splashes over my fingers, and I take a quick sip hoping not to spill more. He stomps up onto the sidewalk blocking my path. I stop, hold the can up like an offering.

  “You can call me Alyx. Want some?”

  He eyes me suspiciously, pushing my arm away. “Don’t like pussies ignorin’ me.” His freshly shaved head shines in the afternoon sunlight. He reeks of sweat and stale cigarettes. Muscles bulge up under his shirtsleeves, putting my skinny arms to shame.

  “Okay, then,” I say, roll my eyes, smile, and carefully step around him. “Sorry, can’t stay and chat, gotta go.” I try not to look scared. I’d learned from experience once guys like Prickman sense you’re scared, it’s over.

  Then I decide to make a dash for it, but when I round the corner, his tough-guy buddies are waiting.

  “Did ya miss us?”

  They surround me, and I freeze. An old familiar panic pushes into my throat.

  Prickman glances back. No one is around, and I’ve managed to get myself into a fairly isolated spot, hemmed in with hedges and traffic noise, out of view from the front sidewalk. My legs begin to tremble so hard I’m afraid I might pee myself.

  “What you doin’ at our store, anyway? Didn’t we warn you already?” Prickman’s Adam’s apple sticks out like a broken bone.

  My heart’s doing double-time. Gulping down panic, I pretend to look around. “Didn’t see your name on it, unless,” I shrug, sounding tougher than I feel, “you changed it to 7- Eleven and forgot to tell me?”

  Now why I say stuff like this I’ll never know.

  A slow smile spreads across Prickman’s mangy face. “Think you’re real smart, don’t you? A real val-e-dick-torian? Huh—At-ass.”

  I don’t bother to tell him my last name is pronounced Atlas, as in the World Atlas. Instead, I turn to run, but he shoves me from behind, and in a whirlwind of root beer, I slam down onto the blacktop, my arms shooting out to break the fall, a cracking sound echoing in my ears. My phone? My hipbone?

  Prickman catches Dad’s ball on a bounce, spins, does a jump shot into the dumpster. “Three points!” he cries, and they all laugh.

  My knees are on fire.

  “Make ’em fight!” The one with a six-pack rippling under his skintight Nike T-shirt sneers at me.

  I brush off embedded gravel, grit my teeth, knowing better than to cry.

  “He looks like a girl. He sounds like a girl. Let’s see if he fights like one, too.” Prickman nudges his ratty boot against my crotch. I try to scoot away, get back up, but he presses harder.

  “Make ’im fight, let’s see ’im fight.” Mr. Nike T-shirt won’t shut up.

  Surprising even myself, I spring to my feet and, swinging wildly, fly at Prickman. Warm rivulets of blood drip down my legs as my fists hit only air, but I don’t care, because this time, if I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.

  Prickman dances out of the way, laughing, “Oooo, I’m sooo scared.”

  They start ping-ponging my body from one to the other, while Mr. Nike-man stomps on my shoelace, trapping my left foot as a searing pain rips through my leg. I wince and push myself off Prickman, who has me firmly by the shorts, ready to deliver one of his famous Walnut Grove wedgies. Kicking at him with my free foot, I scramble from his grip and regain my balance when suddenly, without warning, he tightens his hold, and instead of yanking up, he yanks down. Pulling my jersey shorts along with a brand new pair of hot-pink bikini briefs straight down to my knees.

  Time stops. They stare. My legs give way.

  “H-o-l-y s-h-i-t!” is all I hear before planting face first onto the pavement.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Polish Palace

  Change is good, right?

  Dad used to say that change is the only real constant, but that was then; this is now. And now, we’re talkin’ mega change, a move across the cou
ntry. New home. New school. New identity. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It smells worse than LA smog. I plug my nose as Mom shifts into third and we cross the Harbor Street Bridge. Mom points out the window below to dozens of church steeples, smokestacks, and snaky black waterways.

  I can’t tell where she’s pointing.

  All I know is Grandpa and Uncle Grizzly live somewhere on Milwaukee’s South Side; this is her old stomping ground, not mine.

  “Usinger’s Sausage factory!” She smiles. Her graying Rasta braids whip in the wind.

  I nod. I’d have preferred to start high school on the California coast, but after the 7-Eleven incident, I agreed to move anywhere, even Milwaukee-in-the-middle-of-nowhereville, as long as I can be who I really am.

  I lick my lips. The taste of blood mixes with watermelon lipgloss. I duck down so Mom won’t see. She’ll have a meltdown if she sees blood on my face. I can’t handle that right now. Unplugging my nose, I rummage under the seat for a water bottle. Carefully wipe at my mouth before I pop back up.

  My hip still has a weird twinge in it, and I stifle a groan as the memory of Prickman’s butt-ugly face flashes in front of mine.

  Halfway across the country and he’s still haunting me.

  Wishing I could torch that memory plug, I flip down the visor to check the scrape on my cheek. It’s healed and my lip would be, too, if I’d stop chomping on it.

  “You okay?” Mom looks at me as she pulls the Sunbug up in front of the Polish Palace, a house that, until now, I’ve only seen in photos.

  I nod.

  She slams the stick into park. “Ready?”

  She sounds as scared as I feel.

  I make myself suck in a deep breath and wipe my hands, sticky with sweat, across the thighs of my new jeans. No time to worry if my new pearlescent nail polish matches my tank top. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  With Dad gone, I try to sound strong, for her sake.

  On the peeling porch of the Polish Palace, Grizzly waves his beefy hand and pushes himself off a swing that bends dangerously in the middle. He says something to Grandpa, who’s sitting in a rickety rocker. The traffic noise drowns out every sound, except the bhonk, bhonk, bhonk of a basketball at the park across the street.

  The sound calms me.

  A girl about my age with flame-red hair, wearing a Tennessee jersey, sinks a three-pointer. The ball clangs through the chain-link net, making my fingers fidget, and my legs want to take off in a fast break—

  “Hey, Sis!” Grizzly bellows.

  I force myself to focus. Mammoth, my uncle’s leather-clad form lumbers down to greet us. Part of the porch rail has fallen off, and it’s lying in a patch of un-mowed grass. Next to it is a motorcycle graveyard. The neighboring houses are big and boxy, too, and there’s a white mansion on the other side of the park that looks strangely out of place.

  Mom jumps out and runs to hug him. He practically picks her up off the ground.

  “You made it. I was startin’ to worry.”

  His fingers and forearms are stained with tattoos and beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. Shoulder-length, almost-white blond hair blows wildly in the wind. Thank God, it’s the only Kowalski trait I seem to have inherited.

  “Wait’ll you see . . . freshly painted . . . Alyx’s room is set.” He sounds breathless. There’s a splotch of lavender paint on his T-shirt.

  “She’ll love it,” Mom says, in her eternally positive sunshine way, stressing the “she” part, which probably isn’t needed. She’s been lecturing them on the phone practically every night for the last two weeks.

  Grizzly sets Mom down. He waves and calls shyly, “Hey, Alyx.”

  “Hi, Uncle Joe,” I say through the open window, wondering if he and Grandpa will act like nothing is up. Like I’ve always been this way—just a regular girl.

  Grandpa starts to roust himself from the rocker, but Grizzly shouts, “Stay put, Pops! We’re comin’ to you.”

  Mom opens the passenger door.

  “Ready or not.” She smiles down at me.

  My heart joins my stomach, doing push-ups against the inside cavity of my chest wall, and my new jog bra suddenly feels like it shrunk two sizes. Worst of all, our little family reunion has attracted the attention of the redhead, who’s stopped shooting to stare. She whips a phone from her sock and starts texting.

  Great. I don’t let myself think about who she’s telling what, and I’m way too busy fending off a heart attack to notice the pit hollowing itself out in my belly. I hate when people stare, especially when they stare at me. It makes me feel like a freak.

  Mom reaches for my hand. “Come on, Honey. Remember, fresh start, right?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Super Freak

  Fresh start. Our new code words. A direct result of my run-in with Prickman and his apes. At first, Mom wanted to do it the old way—try to convince me that we should report them.

  “Alyx, you have every right to be safe here.” She didn’t get that it wasn’t personal with Prickman. He sensed I was different, and that’s what guys like him do; sniff out and hunt down super-freaks.

  “It’s not just Ricky Pearlman and his dweebs, Mom. You don’t get it, do you?” I’d told her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. Alyx, for God’s sake, it matters to me. You matter to me!” Both she and I knew I couldn’t survive another beating. Her guilt was palpable. “Your dad and I did the best we could.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “If you’d just talk to me, Alyx.”

  “I tell you everything, Mom!” Hot with rage, I’d whipped off the T-shirt I’d slept in. “LOOK!”

  She blushed, but she didn’t look away. I laid my hands over my small, but obviously budding breasts, tried to get her to see. “Ricky and his buddies are growing beards, and I’m growing these. What do you expect them to do? I’m a friggin’ freak!”

  “You are not a freak, Alyx.”

  “Yeah? Then what am I?”

  “I will not allow you to denigrate yourself like this.”

  “I told you. I told Dad. I showed you guys. I tried telling you a long time ago, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “We did listen, Alyx. We didn’t want to overreact and regret things later. That’s why we found Dr. Max. So you would have someone to talk to.”

  “Yeah, then Dad conveniently got cancer because he couldn’t deal with the fact that you guys screwed up. Got him out of family therapy for life—right?”

  “No one screwed up.”

  “You did! Majorly. I’m living proof.”

  “STOP IT!”

  I scrambled into the corner, yanked my shirt back on, and glared at her.

  “Why didn’t you just make me a girl? That’s what everyone else does with their ambiguous babies, right?”

  “Alyx, you know it’s not as simple as a DNA test. If it was, we’d have done it.”

  “Dad would’ve rather had half-a-boy than a whole girl, right?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. He told me.”

  “We didn’t want to choose for you. That’s what he told you.” She put her head in her hands. “We wanted you to lead the way.”

  She started to cry. I wanted her to feel bad, but after a few minutes, I got up, went over, and touched her shoulder.

  “Mom?” I said. “You want to know how I feel?”

  She nodded. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face still in her hands.

  “Like I’m stuck with your mistake. And I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be a boy. Not for you. Not for Dad. Not for anyone.” My voice got all shaky. “Because, I’m a girl. I always have been. And now Dad’s gone, so we both need to face the facts.” I sank down to my knees in front of her.

  “Genetically you’re—”

  “Neither! Both! I know! Intersex. Eunuch. Hermaphrodite. Ambiguous genitalia! One of the two percent of twenty-one mutant genderless baby strains
born every year, and none of that matters, because you know what, Mom? I still need to pick a Goddamn locker room! That’s why I want to be dead.” The tears started streaming down my face. “Just like Dad. Dead. Dead. Dead.” I hit my fist on the bed.

  She grabbed me, hugged me, held me, and we both cried. Hard.

  That’s when she decided we were moving.

  CHAPTER 4

  Meat-Eating Fish

  After Grizzly helps us haul up seven black plastic garbage bags crammed with clothes, Mom says, “Alyx, before you go out and play basketball, why don’t you help Grizzly feed his fish?” It’s her this-is-not-really-a-choice voice.

  Carrying the ball Dad bequeathed to me, I follow Grizzly through the living room where Grandpa’s taken out his hearing aid, set it on the lamp table, and fallen asleep sitting up. He’s holding onto what looks like a huge set of knitting needles. A pearl-pedaled accordion leans up against his tattered La-Z-Boy. Super-thick glasses have slipped down his nose, and the sailboat pattern for a hook rug rests across his lap, which is dusted with little blue and white threads.

  “Is he asleep?” I ask Grizzly, keeping my voice low.

  “Yo, Pops, you out for the count?” Grizzly waves a handful of meat scraps in the air. “He must’ve tuckered himself out workin’ on that rug.”

  When we reach the bottom step, Grizzly turns and whispers with a sly smile, “He’d be pissed if he knew I was feedin’ my babies the good stuff.”

  “I heard that,” Grandpa grumbles groggily from his chair.

  “Course you did. When I need you to hear something, you conveniently go deaf.” Grizzly giggles. It’s an odd sound from such a huge man.

  Stepping into the basement, I’m immediately grateful Mom and I are sleeping upstairs. Two bedroom doors along the far wall are cracked open, each revealing an unmade bed. The place smells damp and moldy, like a locker room. The ceilings are cracked, yellowed curtains hang on the squatty-windows, and rows and rows of buzzing florescent lights cast an eerie glow over dozens of vaporous fish tanks.

  In the main area, there is not a single stick of furniture. Only fish tanks.

  “You know, eleven of us Zuwalskis once lived in this basement?” Grizzly trundles up and down the aisles examining the fish. “Your great-grandpa hauled stone on horseback all the way from Chicago, built the basement first, lived here with all those kids ’til they could afford to build the house on top. Took ten years.”