Double Exposure Page 7

  She giggles, “What took you, girlfriend?”

  “Nothin’.” I sit down heavily on the bench. My eyes are drawn toward her body, but I force myself to focus on the lockers. Something about seeing people naked makes me feel scared; scared of what I’ll see; how different they are from me.

  MJ acts so self-assured. Unlike me. Not one friggin’ ounce of shame. And, at Cudahy High, in one of the most segregated cities in the country, she has to face being different every day. So, what’s my problem? No one knows my secret here. A flash of Prickman dashes through my brain, but weirdly, it’s Pepper’s voice I hear in my head. “I hate liars, don’t you?”

  “You cold?” MJ stops pulling on her last sock.

  I shake my head.

  “’Cause you got goose bumps, you know?”

  A hot shower sounds good all of a sudden. “Is the water hot?”

  “Not worth puttin’ your big toe in. It’s super hot, but just a trickle. Take you a year to get warm. Except the handicap one on the end. That’s why they all fight over it and everyone else goes home to wash.” MJ smiles. “They call these showers ghetto. Not me. All we’ve got at home is a tub and my mom says it saves her cash if I wash my beautiful black ass right here.” She hops into a pair of skin-tight blue jeans.

  Black ass. At-ass. Prickman’s voice is back. I lean my head against the locker and close my eyes.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” MJ jokes as she leaves. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Sure-shot.”

  The locker room echoes with emptiness. I kick off my shoes, then strip my damp T-shirt and shorts and sit there for a long time. I know Grizzly’s waiting, but I can’t seem to move. Everyone is gone and the motion lights go out above me. I’m alone. Safe.

  Even when I get up, the lights stay out—only the red exit lights illuminate a path to the showers. I grab my towel and go to check out the handicap stall. It’s the only one with a curtain. I yank it back—it’s got its own changing area and a full-length mirror.

  When I decide it’s clean enough, I hang my towel on the hook and make sure the curtain is closed on both sides, in case anyone comes in. Then I strip off my underwear and hit the water, feeling my feet on the cold floor. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, letting the water thaw my back and feet. Gently, I touch the scar on the right side of my pubic bone. It feels tender under the pubic hairs that started showing up last year. Though they aren’t much, in the reddish light I admire the outline of my breasts. They only fill an A cup, but so what, right? I like them. They make me feel real, feminine, soft.

  Mom bought me a bunch of bras, every color of the rainbow, and a couple with lace. Not sure yet if the super-femi ones are really my style, so I’m sticking mostly with the jog bras. With the help of hormones, my one working ovary has finally kicked into gear, and now I get a light period, which arrives monthly like clockwork. Though my body will never handle a tampon, or a baby, just having a period makes me feel like a real girl.

  I stare at the pathetic phallic membrane Dad hoped—with the miracle of reconstructive surgery—would someday become a penis.

  I avoid touching it.

  It’s tucked between two small fat-pads, gonads that refused to grow up. They’ll look more labia-like after the next surgery. Then I’ll have a clitoris that functions as a urethra, which is a little strange, but better than this baby dick. It constantly reminds me that my first fifteen years masquerading as a boy were a total lie.

  I hear snapping towels and voices in the boys locker room on the other side of the wall. I used to hate gym. I would hide when I was in the shower and practically become a professional forger, penning notes from Mom or Dad to get me out of gym class altogether.

  The truth is, I’ve always felt like a girl inside.

  “Alyx is too sensitive for a boy,” teachers said. “He needs to toughen up.”

  Someone flushes a toilet in the boys locker room on the other side of the wall. A surge of scalding-hot water spits from the tap as I leap back.

  My first surgery was a breeze, but all Dr. Royce did was remove the embedded gonad and that wouldn’t have even happened if it weren’t for the cancer scare. The second surgery will be more complicated and it won’t heal for a while.

  I wish it would happen now. I want to look and feel like a real girl, inside and out.

  A shriek of laughter erupts on the other side of the wall, then a loud thump. I wait until I hear the boys file into the gym, then I turn the shower off and put my school clothes back on.

  Inside the Sunbug, Grizzly’s eyes are closed. He’s switched the radio to a jazz station.

  “Sorry,” I say. And I am.

  He opens his eyes and shifts into gear.

  CHAPTER 19

  Shame

  That night, I lie in bed remembering Dr. Royce’s pep talk. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he’d said, standing up and walking to his office window where the Golden Gate Bridge arched into the fog. “It’s a big world out there, Alyx. People have all kinds of ideas about what’s right and wrong, moral or immoral, natural or an abomination. A person is your enemy only if you give them the power to be so.”

  He’d stood there in his white lab coat and purple clogs, one blue eye, one green, both fixed on me. “We all have a right and an obligation to be who we are. In another time or place, Alyx, you would have been revered—honored as a two-spirited one. Native people would have called you a healer, a being who walks in both worlds. They’d have taken you from your parents early on and trained you as a medicine person. You would have been a shaman.”

  I’d nodded.

  “Truth is the mightiest sword you’ll ever carry.” He’d turned around, his face serious, almost spooky, and he stared right at me. “The eyes are the window of the soul, so whenever anyone tries to make you feel less-than, you look them in the eyes. Refuse to carry any shame. It belongs to them if they’re judging you.”

  I knew in that moment that I’d always feel different than other people. But at least, with his help, if I could do what he said, maybe I’d fit in—somewhere.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wrong Team

  With only a week of practice under our belts, we head out for our first game. Grizzly drives the bus. Grandpa insists that he and Mom take a taxi because more than thirty years ago someone broke into Grandpa’s car on the North side. Now he doesn’t trust those people anymore.

  Grandpa never says mean things about other races, but he talks about crime, drugs, and gangs a lot. Back in the ’60s, he says Milwaukee had major race riots. One night at dinner, he talked about when the National Guard was stationed with bayonets right in front of the Polish Palace. Back then, all the black people lived on the North side, until a Catholic priest, a white guy named Father Groppi, marched them over the twenty-seventh viaduct to the South side. That’s what started the riots.

  “Best thing that ever happened to this city. Brought the bigotry out in the open,” Grizzly said, glancing over at me. “At least then people have got to deal with it. Like Stonewall for the gays. People deserve respect—same rights as everybody else.”

  “Damn near burnt the city down,” Grandpa complained.

  I agree with Grizzly, but Mom claims, even now, in spite of the riots, Milwaukee remains one of the most segregated cities in the country. If you ask me, Grandpa’s suspicious of anyone or anything that’s different. Including me.

  As we step into the Bulldog’s gymnasium, I look up at the stands and wave. Mom waves back. The Cudahy Cougar cap she crushed down on her Rasta braids looks ridiculous, but lots of other parents are wearing them, too. Beside her, Grandpa’s slumped onto a Green Bay Packer stadium chair, hooking away on his rug like he’s got a deadline. Two guys are waving from the top row. One of them, dressed in day-glow orange, is holding a sign that reads GO COUGARS! The other’s holding a camera with a gigantic zoom lens in front of his face. Joel and Peter.

  Peter lowers the camera and waves at me. I look away, feeling completely naked, my cheeks smoldering li
ke hot coals.

  Near the timer’s table, Grizzly is talking and laughing with a woman who must be MJ’s mom. She’s an older, more sophisticated MJ. Grizzly’s wearing an orange Cougar sweatshirt that makes him look like a giant pumpkin.

  “Hey, Alyx, good thing your uncle’s our driver.” Pepper comes up from behind me and slaps my back. “No one’ll try to hijack our bus.”

  Pepper drapes her arms around Shana and Liz. “Hey, you guys notice how low our bus can go. Get it? With Alyx’s uncle on board, we have a real low-rider. Don’t even have to adjust the tires.”

  Martha and Mary, who are a bit on the husky side, chime in, “Shut up, Pepper!” Mary then adds, “You’re the one with the fat mouth.”

  “Oh, go chug a beer at the family tap, would ya.” Pepper runs ahead of us to the locker room door. “Alyx knows I’m kidding!”

  I do?

  A loud, shrill whistle goes off, and Coach walks briskly past carrying a box of new uniforms. “That’s enough, girls. Save your energy for the game.”

  She calls us over alphabetically and hands us school-issued orange and black uniforms. Since we have to provide our own shoes and socks, we’ve all decided on white socks with orange stripes. But MJ managed to find a pair of black ones with orange stripes.

  “MJ, those are a distraction and not regulation.” Coach frowns.

  “They’re my good-luck socks,” MJ argues. “Come on, Coach, they’re cool.”

  “Whose got an extra pair?” Coach calls out. I hold up the three-pack Mom bought and Coach points MJ in my direction.

  I toss her a pair. She winks at me, catching them with one hand. “Guess it’s my destiny—bein’ a distraction,” she laughs.

  As we head out to the court for warm-ups, I notice MJ’s three brothers standing on the top bleacher, all wearing black socks with orange stripes, too. Grizzly, his braids splayed across his shoulders, looks enormous next to MJ’s mom where they are seated down in the front row. She’s thin and wearing funky glasses that glint in the gym lights. The two of them act like old friends. Peter’s now leaning over the side of the bleachers, pointing his camera lens down at Stephanie Wexler. Joel’s waving like a maniac, trying to get her attention, then he sees me and mouths my name. Embarrassed, I half-wave.

  Joel elbows Peter and Peter’s camera immediately swings in my direction.

  Quickly I turn away, my throat starting to tighten and my stomach twitching. I sense something subterraneous and dangerous about Peter. Like a burning building, he attracts and repels me at the same time.

  The stands are filled. Behind our bench, the faces are almost all white, except for the Johnson family. Behind the Washington bench, the faces are a wide array of browns, dark and light, including the ref who looks like Jackie Lee. He’s busy untying a lump of knotted whistles.

  Coach calls us under the basket. I force myself to stop worrying about Peter and his stupid camera. Electricity hangs in the air. My stomach’s tying itself into knots, making me wish I’d passed on the sausage Grandpa made for supper.

  “Okay, girls, here’s the starting lineup for tonight’s game. MJ, you’ll start us out at point guard and Stephanie at second half will make a switch, so you help her out as needed. I want you both to watch what’s happening in the key and keep the ball moving. Any chance at an outside shot, take it. Mary and Pepper, I want you in forward positions and remember to fake or set a screen before you pop out.”

  Martha’s face goes gray as Coach puts her hand on my shoulder. “Alyx, you’re our center tonight.” Coach nods toward the opposing team’s center. She’s tying her shoes and looks to be about seven feet tall. “Don’t let her push you around.”

  MJ whistles softly. “Toya’s one tough-ass mama.”

  A wave of nausea moves through me when I see Martha’s eyes tear up. It’s my fault she’s lost her starting position, and now, by the look on Pepper’s face, she feels demoted, too. Pepper narrows her eyes at me, and I look down at the floor. Great.

  Roslyn stands behind me and pats my back. “You can do it,” she says, as we put our hands together and cheer, “Gooooooo Cougars!” I can’t look at Pepper, though. The last place I want to be is on her bad side.

  “Bulldogs! Bulldogs! Bulldogs!” The opposing team’s audience is stomping and chanting. Their band strikes up some kind of fight song when the buzzer sounds.

  “Welcome! Today, Milwaukee’s Division I High School Girls Basketball State Champions the Washington Bulldogs host the Cudahy Cougars for the season’s kick-off game!”

  A roar rises from the crowd.

  “Starting at center for the Cudahy Cougars: number thirty-three, six-foot sophomore, Alyx Kowalski.”

  Coach directs me onto the floor. Above the polite applause, I hear Grizzly bark, “Go, Alyx!”

  I don’t look up. I can’t. I’m too terrified. I run out to the middle of the court, where I stand and stare down at my feet.

  “For the Washington Bulldogs, number fifty-two, six-foot-two senior, Toya Woods.”

  The crowd roars. The band blows a low note on a trumpet. Toya trots up, shakes my hand, then runs back to her side of the floor. Her hand was cool and dry. Mine’s hot, sticky with sweat.

  “For the Cudahy Cougars, number forty-three, five-eleven senior, Patti Pitmani.”

  Pepper jogs to the middle. The next Bulldog shakes her hand then she trots over and joins me in line. After Mary and Stephanie join us, the announcer calls out MJ’s name. The announcer says it perfectly, “For the Cudahy Cougars, number forty-six, a five-seven senior, Matisha Jordan Johnson.”

  The Johnson family stands up as one. “Go EmmmJAY!”

  The noise in the gymnasium is deafening.

  “Play your positions,” Coach calls from the sidelines as we set up for the jump ball. Toya stands in the center circle. Planting my foot against the edge of hers, I tilt my body, ready to use my hip if needed.

  The ref blows his whistle. He tosses the ball and my body goes up first, but Toya’s height works to her advantage. She bumps the ball to a Bulldog guard, who in turn tries to pass it back to her. My hand shoots out, knocking the pass off course. For a second we scramble, then Toya lets out a Herculean grunt before I manage to grab the ball, flinging it to Pepper, who fumbles. A Washington guard lunges for control. Then, the ball pops into the air and the crowd roars as Toya and I leap together, and somehow, I grab the ball. Seizing the opportunity, I turn and race down the court laying up an easy shot—just like I’d done a million times with the wetback boys behind the 7-Eleven.

  Laughter erupts in the bleachers. A horn blares. The ref blows his whistle. Coach jumps to her feet, flagging me back to the bench. On the other side of the court, Pepper slaps her forehead and mouths, “O-M-G!”

  As I catch my breath, I realize I’m used to playing on half a court with only one basket, and now, I’ve just gone and scored a basket. For. The. Bulldogs!

  Let me die now!

  Motioning me back to the bench, Coach directs me to the empty chair next to her. “Shake it off, Alyx. Pepper move to center. Martha, go in at forward.”

  I slump into the chair and bury my face in my hands. “Go, Cougars!” I hear Grizzly shout and all I can think is Please shut up, Uncle Joe, because I’m frozen in a solid block of shock and humiliation.

  Coach puts her hand on my back. The game has resumed. She glances between me and the action on the floor. I feel warmth from her hand. “Alyx, breathe. You’re going back in.”

  I don’t want to. I’d rather crawl in a hole somewhere. Never to be seen again. Tears bump against my eyelids, and it takes every ounce of strength I have to hold them back. Even as a girl, I can’t get it right!

  “Basket by number twenty-three, Stephanie Wexler. Basket by number fifty-two, Toya Woods. Foul on number forty-three, Patti Pitmani, her third, the Cougars’ sixth.” The announcer goes on and on.

  Pepper’s dad jumps to his feet in the second row of bleachers. He’s wearing a combat green sweater with BLACKJACK REALITY stit
ched under a playing-card logo on the front. Beet-faced, he yells at the ref, “Get some glasses!”

  I look at the scoreboard. We’re down by one point with three minutes before the half. Pepper’s foul has sent Toya to the line. Toya sinks both free throws, putting the Bulldogs up by 3. Pepper looks exhausted and her dad keeps howling from the sidelines. “Patti, plant your feet. You’re too far under the boards. Move out. Get your hands in her face!”

  I can tell Pepper’s trying to ignore his wild gestures, but everyone else can’t help but notice him.

  Coach presses her hand on my back. “Go in for Pepper.”

  I start to get up. “Pepper?”

  “Go!”

  Doesn’t Coach know what a bad idea this is? Stepping up to the scoring table, I flash my number. “Thirty-three in for forty-three.” The ref waves me in. Pepper looks too tired to argue.

  “Aw, come on, what are you doin’?” her father yells. “You wanna win or what?”

  I look back at Coach, who’s watching the scoreboard.

  Stephanie catches my eye. Calmly she flashes three fingers in the air, and I immediately forget Pepper and the crowd, moving into position at the top of the key. MJ sets a pick for me, and I fake to the right then pop out. The ball flies from Stephanie to Mary to me. Toya expects me to go right, but I pivot left and knock off an easy shot just inside the key.

  “Basket by number thirty-three, Alyx Kowalski.”

  But soon we’re down by 5 when as the last thirty seconds of the first half start to tick off.

  As we race down the court on defense, MJ smacks my butt. “Keep shooting girl!”

  The next time Stephanie holds up three fingers, she’s moving the ball to the left side of the court, playing the post for all it’s worth, and Martha’s figured this out, so she sets a screen for me as Stephanie loops the ball around her back and comes flying down the center lane. Big, slow Toya steps up to guard Stephanie, leaving me open, and when I catch Stephanie’s pass, I use Martha’s screen to sink another shot.

  With ten seconds left in the half, we’re now down by 3.