Content Warning: Transphobic language
Crying in the mirror was so cliche–and yet, there I was. There was nothing I hated more than crying. It was ugly, and it made my eyes sting, and there was way too much snot for my liking. Worst of all, there was no way to hide it. My eyes were bloodshot, puffy. My face flushed. The tip of my nose a little red, like it had been kissed by the frost–but it was May, so it wasn’t even cold.
The longer I looked, the worst I felt.
I couldn’t look away.
My long, brown locks were pulled up and out of my face into a complicated bun-wrap thing adorned with gold hairpins in the shape of flowers, with brilliant sapphire jewels decorating the petals. The dress was just as show-stopping–it hugged my delicate frame, with a deep-v that showed off a little too much cleavage for my taste, but I guess the illusion neckline made it more modest, and a slit that went from the floor up to my knee. I had gold, strappy stilettos to bring the whole outfit together.
My mother picked the whole thing out.
It was every girl’s dream.
There was just one problem: I was not a girl.
I flinched when I heard my name called–the one that felt like a knife being shoved through my gut, not my real name. Mom was at the bottom of the stairs, waiting with Dad. They probably had the camera all ready. They probably wanted me to run down there, all smiles, and tell them how excited I was. They probably wanted to preserve this moment forever. The moment their little girl went off to her senior prom, her last big dance of her high school career.
That was why I told them.
I would be lying if I said this was how I pictured it.
Mom called for me again, and I finally tore my eyes away. I tried with all my might to pull together a brave face for their sake. I knew they were still having trouble with the whole thing. And that was ok! It took me years to accept that I was really a boy, they needed time.
Just time.
Still, I wished my mom hadn’t squeezed me into the dress.
I wished my father had let me cut my hair the way that I wanted.
I wished they hadn’t spent all that money to force me into clothes I didn’t even like.
Most of all, I wished they would use my name. The one I told them. The one I had picked out, all on my own, that finally felt like me.
Liam.
My hand brushed against the rough wood of the banister as I carefully walked down the stairs in the crazy, five-inch heels my mother subjected me to. It wasn’t that they were hard to walk in–I had more than enough practice–but they were awkward, and I had planned to wear something much different.
My parents were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, dressed to the nines. My mother was in a skin-tight purple velvet monstrosity, with huge puffy sleeves and a mermaid cut. Her hair was curled and pulled up like it was the 80s, and her makeup was even worse. As I predicted, Dad had brought out the camera, and he was obviously filming the whole thing.
But that wasn’t what caught my attention.
As if he was adding insult to injury, Dad was dressed up in his suit.
Great-grandfather’s suit.
The one all Dawson boys wore to their senior prom.
The suit I was supposed to be wearing.
Mom squealed when she saw me, called my name again, and pulled me into a tight, suffocating hug. “You look so amazing!” She pulled away and did a little twirl. “You like it? We thought it would be fun if we wore our prom outfits too!”
I forced the corner of my mouth into a smile. “That’s great, Mom. Really… cute.”
I must not have done a good enough job, because she instantly frowned. She rushed over and cupped my face in her hands, inspecting me. “Your mascara is smudged.”
“Oh.”
“And your eyes are red.”
I bit my lip, probably smudging the bright red lipstick. “I thought the makeup would hide that,” I grumbled
“Oh, baby, what’s wrong? It’s your senior prom! You should be excited!”
I struggled to hold it together. My eyes welled up again, and I pulled away from her gently. I didn’t want them to see me acting so weak. Father always said boys don’t cry, and the only reason he allowed it from me was he didn’t see me as a boy.
If I wanted him to change his mind, I couldn’t cry.
I had to be strong.
I had to be like him.
I sucked in a breath, and I looked up at her, then him. “I don’t want to wear this.”
The air in the room instantly soured. I knew it would. I knew it would, and I said it anyway. But I couldn’t change the truth–and they knew the truth. Maybe they needed time, but that didn’t mean I had to continue acting for their sake.
I wanted to wear Great-grandfather’s suit.
That was why I told them.
Mom’s expression faltered, a brief look of pure disgust tainting her features. She hid it quickly. “Why didn’t you say something? Honey, that dress was expensive. Now, if you want to wear something else, I have plenty you can choose from–oh, but I’m not sure I have any heels your size…” She began moving towards her bedroom.
I stopped her. “No, Mom, that’s not that I mean.” I let her go, and I took a deep breath. I needed to assert myself. “I mean, I don’t want to wear a dress at all.”
Mom stared at me for a moment, then laughed. Well, it was more like an awkward scoff. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about! I told you-”
Dad started to speak, but he started with my deadname, so I cut him off.
I was done letting them get away with this.
“Liam!” I snapped back. “It’s Liam. Or at least Dawny, like my friends have been calling me since middle school.”
Dad shut the camera and set it down on the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, not this again.”
“Actually, yeah, this again.” I stepped back and gestured to my whole body. “This? Isn’t me! It’s my last dance–I want to be me. For once! I’m sick of the frilly dresses! I’m sick of the floor-length skirts! I’m sick of pink blouses and not being allowed to wear jeans anymore because it’s ‘not ladylike!’ Please, Mom, Dad, if you want me to be happy, just let me wear what I wanted to wear in the first place!”
Mom put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes wide and pooled with sympathy. “We’ve been over this. You’re… confused. You’re lost! In ten years, you’re going to look back at this and be so happy we got this dress for you, I promise.”
“I’m not confused! I know who I am!” I protested, but my protests fell on ears unwilling to listen.
“You’re 17! You have no idea who you are yet.” Mom shook her head.
“You’ve been corrupted. I knew we should have put monitors on your computer sooner,” Dad huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Booker, not now.”
“Our daughter is a freak, Michelle! One of those… perverts with sick ideas in her head! Who was the one who said we needed to let her have her privacy, huh?” Dad yelled.
I flinched.
“Oh, so now this is my fault? You are the one who let her stop going to church! ‘She needs that time to study and get into a good college,’ now who said that?” Mom was quick to snap back.
I couldn’t listen. My whole body trembled, and the threat of tears started gathering in a lump in my throat.
Thankfully, before it could go any further, there was a honk outside, followed by the happy, laughing screams of approximately five extremely happy teenagers as they scurried up to the door. Mom smoothed out her outfit, fixed her hair. “Oh, hear that, honey? Your friends are here for you.”
Dad picked up the camera again, opening it back up. It seemed he forgot to stop recording because he didn’t press the button again. Which was perfect. The worst moment of my life had been caught on camera.
Mom opened the door, yelling in excitement as my friends piled in.
Just like that, it was like nothing ever happened.
I was trapped in a golden prison, and nobody even cared.
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