Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 19 of 79 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  of Lefty's multiple strokes. We didn't want to skew the graph with new data, and so didn't mention that Desdemona was actually seventy-one, not ninety-one, and that she always confused sevens with nines. We didn't mention her aunts, Thalia and Victoria, who both died of breast cancer as young women; and we said nothing about the high blood pressure that taxed the veins within Milton's own smooth, youthful exterior. We couldn't. We didn't want to lose out to the Italians or even that one Bulgarian. And Dr. Muller, lost in his research, didn't notice the store display of mortuary services next to Desdemona's bed, the photograph of the dead husband next to the photograph of his grave, the abundant paraphernalia of a widow abandoned on earth. Not a member of a band of immortals from Mount Olympus. Just the only member left alive. Meanwhile, tensions between my mother and me were rising. "Don't laughs "I'm sorry, honey. But it's just, you've got nothing to . "Mom!" . to . . . ." . to hold it up." ". . A tantrum-edged scream. Twelve-year-old feet running up the stairs, while Tessie called out, "Don't be so dramatic, Callie. We'll get you a bra if you want." Up into my bedroom, where, after locking the . that my door, I pulled off my shirt before the mirror to see . mother was right. Nothing! Nothing at all to hold up anything. And I burst into tears of frustration and rage. . That evening, when I finally came back down to dinner, I retali- ated in the only way I could. "What's the matter? You're not hungry?" "I want normal food." "What do you mean normal food?" "American food." "I have to make what yiayia likes." "What about what J like?" "You like spanakopita. You've always liked spanakopita." "Well, I don't anymore." "Okay, then. Don't eat. Starve if you want. If you don't like what we give you, you can just sit at the table until we're finished." Faced with the mirror's evidence, laughed at by my own mother, surrounded by developing classmates, I had come to a dire conclu- 288 " sion. I had begun to believe that the Mediterranean Diet that kept my grandmother alive against her will was also sinisterly retarding my maturity. It only served to reason that the olive oil Tessie drizzled over everything had some mysterious power to stop the body's clock, while the mind, impervious to cooking oils, kept going. That was why Desdemona had the despair and fatigue of a person of ninety along with the arteries of a fifty-year-old. Might it be, I wondered, that the omega- 3 fatty acids and the three-vegetables-per-meal I con- sumed were responsible for retarding my sexual maturity? Was yo- gurt for breakfast stalling my breast development? It was possible. "What's the matter, Cal?" asked Milton, eating while reading the evening newspaper. "Don't you want to live to be a hundred?"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  feet raised no questions in anybody's mind. Many genetic males raised as girls don't blend in so easily From an early age they look different, move differently, they can't find shoes or gloves that fit. Other kids call them tomboys or worse: ape-women, gorillas. My skinniness disguised me. The early seventies were a good time to be flat-chested. Androgyny was in. My rickety height and foal's legs gave me the posture of a fashion model. My clothes weren't right, my face wasn't right, but my angularity was. I had that saluki look. Plus, for whatever reason— my dreamy temperament, my bookishness— I fit right in. Still, it wasn't uncommon for certain innocent, excitable girls to respond to my presence in ways they weren't aware of. I'm thinking of Lily Parker, who used to lie down on the lobby couches and rest her head in my lap, looking up and saying, "You have the most per- fect chin." Or of June James, who used to pull my hair over her own head, so that we could share it like a tent. My body might have re- leased pheromones that affected my schoolmates. How else to ex- plain the way my friends tugged on me, leaned on me? At this early stage, before my male secondary characteristics had manifested them- selves, before there were whispers about me in the halls and girls thought twice about laying their heads in my lap— in seventh grade, when my hair was glossy instead of frizzy, my cheeks still smooth, my muscles undeveloped, and yet, invisibly but unmistakably, I began to exude some kind of masculinity, in the way I tossed up and caught my eraser, for instance, or in the way I dive-bombed people's desserts with my spoon, in the intensity of my knit brow or my eagerness to debate anyone on anything in class; when I was a changeling, before I changed, I was quite popular at my new school. But this stage was brief. Soon my headgear lost its nighttime war against the forces of crookedness. Apollo gave in to Dionysius. Beauty may always be a little bit freakish, but the year I turned thir- teen I was becoming freakier than ever. Consider the yearbook. In the field hockey team photo, taken in the fall, I am on one knee in the front row. With my homeroom in the spring, I am stooping in the back. My face is shadowed with self- consciousness. (Over the years my perpetually perplexed expression would drive photographers to distraction. It ruined class photos and Christmas cards until, in the most widely published pictures of me, the problem was finally solved by blocking out my face altogether.) 304

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The grumblingofmoreandmorestomachs. Andtheyawning.The nodding offandthesnoringandthe beingelbowedawake. Our liturgy,endless; myownbodyimmune to thelaws oftime. And rightinfrontofme,ZoeAntoniou, onwhomtimehadalso been doing a number. Thelifeofapriest'swifehadbeenevenworsethanAuntZo had expected.ShehadhatedheryearsinthePeloponnese.They hadlived in a small, unheatedstonehouse.Outside,thevillagewomenspread blanketsunderolivetrees,beatingthe branchesuntil theolivesfell. "Can'ttheystopthatdamnracket!"Zoehadcomplained.Infive years,totheincessantsoundoftrees beingclubbedtodeath,she bore four children.Shesentletterstomymotherdetailingherhard- ships:nowashingmachine,nocar, no television, a backyardfullof bouldersandgoats.Shesignedherletters,"St.Zoe,Churchmartyr." FatherMikehadliked Greece better.Hisyearsthererepresented thebestperiodofhispriesthood.InthattinyPeloponnesianvillage theoldsuperstitionssurvived.Peoplestill believedinthe evileye. Nobodypitiedhimforbeingapriest,whereaslateroninAmericahis parishionersalwaystreatedhimwitha slight but unmistakablecon- descension, likea crazypersonwhosedelusionshadtobehumored. The humiliationofbeingapriestinamarket economydidn'tplague FatherMike whilehewasinGreece. InGreecehecouldforgetabout mymother, whohadjiltedhim,andhe couldescapecomparison withmyfather, whomadeso muchmoremoney. Hiswife'snagging complaints hadn'tbeguntomakeFather Mikethinkabout leaving thepriesthood yet, andhadn'tledhimtohis desperateact ... In1956Father Mikewasreappointed stateside to a churchin Cleveland.In 1958 hebecamea priestat Assumption.Zoe was happyto bebackhome, butshe nevergotused toherpositionas presvytem.She didn'tlike beingarole model.She founditdifficultto keep her childrenlooking neatandwell dressed. "Onwhatmoney?" she shoutedather husband."Maybeifthey paidyou halfwaydecent thekids wouldlook better."Mycousins— Aristotie, Socrates,Cleopa- tra,and Plato— hadthethwarted,overbrushed look ofministers' children. Theboys worecheap,garishly colored double-breasted suits.Theyhad Afros. Cleo,who was as beautiful andalmond-eyed ashernamesake, made dowithdressesfrom MontgomeryWard. She rarelyspoke,and playedcat's cradlewith Plato duringtheservice. 352 I always liked Aunt Zo.Ilikedherbig, grandstanding voice. I liked her sense of humor.Shewaslouder thanmost men; shecould makemy mother laughlikenobodyelse. That Sunday, for instance,duringoneofthemany lulls, AuntZo turned aroundand daredtojoke."Ihavetobe here,Tessie. What's your excuse?" "Callie andIjust feltlikecomingto church,"mymother an- swered. Plato, whowas smalllikehis father,sangoutwithmockcensure, "Shame onyou, Callie.What did youdo?" Herubbedhisright index finger repeatedly overhisleft. "Nothing,"I said. "Hey,Soc," Platowhisperedtohis brother."IscousinCallie blushing?" "Shemust havedonesomethingshedoesn't want to tellus." "Shushup now,you,"saidAuntZo.ForFather Mikewas ap- proachingwiththecenser.Mycousinsturned around.Mymother bowed herheadtopray.Idid,too.Tessieprayedfor ChapterEleven tocometo hissenses.Andme?That'seasy.Iprayedfor myperiod to come.Iprayedtoreceivethewomanlystigmata. Summerspedon.Miltonbroughtoursuitcasesup from thebase- mentandtoldmymotherandmetostart packing.Itannedwiththe ObjectattheLittleClub.Dr.Bauerhauntedmy mind,judgingthe proportions ofmylegs.Theappointmentwasaweekaway, thenhalf aweek,then twodays... Andsowecome totheprecedingSaturday night, July 20, 1974. Anightfull ofdepartures and secretplans.IntheearlyhoursofSun- daymorning (whichwasstillSaturdaynightbackinMichigan), Turkish jets tookofffrombasesonthemainland.Theyheadedsouth- eastover theMediterranean SeatowardtheislandofCyprus.Inthe ancient myths, godsfavoringmortalsoftenhidthemaway. Aphrodite blotted outParisonce,savinghimfromcertaindeath at the hands ofMenelaus. She wrapped Aeneasinacoattosneakhim offthe battlefield.Likewise, astheTurkish jets roaredover thesea, they were alsohidden.Thatnight, Cypriotmilitarypersonnel re- ported a mysteriousmalfunctioning oftheirradarscreens. The screens filled withthousands ofwhiteblips:an electromagnetic 353 cloud. Invisibleinsidethis,theTurkish jetsreachedtheisland and be- gan droppingtheirbombs. Meanwhile, backinGrossePointe,FredandPhyllis Mooney werealso leaving homebase,headingtoChicago. Onthefront porch,wavinggoodbye,stoodtheirchildren, Woodyand Jane, who had secretplansoftheir own. Flying towardtheMooneys'house at thatmomentwerethe silver bombersofbeer kegs andthe tightfor- mationsofsix-packs.Carsfullofteenagerswere ontheirway.Andso were the Object andI. Powderedandglossed,ourhairhot-combed intowings,wehadsetoffforthepartyourselves.Inthincorduroy skirts and clogswecameupthe frontlawn. ButtheObjectstopped meontheporchbeforewewentin.Shewasbitingherlip. "You'remybest friend,right?" "Right." "Okay. Sometimes I thinkIhave bad breath."Shestopped."The thingis,youcannevertellifyouhavebadbreathornot.Sothething is"—shepaused—"Iwantyoutocheck it for me." Ididn'tknowwhattosayandsosaidnothing. "Isthattoodisgusting?" "No,"Isaid,finally. "Okay,heregoes."Sheleaned towardmeandhuffed a single breathintomyface. "It'sokay," Isaid. "Good.Now you." Ileaned down and exhaledinherface. "It'sfine," shesaid,decisively."Okay. Now wecango to the party." I'dnever been toaparty before.Ifelt fortheparents.Aswe squeezed bythethrongs inthe throbbinghouse, Icringedatthede- structionunder way.Cigaretteashes weredropping onPierreDeux upholstery.Beercans werespillingonto heirloom carpets.Intheden Isaw twolaughing boysurinatinginto a tennistrophy. It was mosdy olderkids. Afew couplesclimbed the stairs, disappearingintobed- rooms. The Objectwastrying toactolder herself.She wascopyingthe superior,bored expressions ofthehigh school girls.Shecrossedto theback porchaheadofme andgotinthe line forthekeg. "Whatareyou doing?"I asked. 354

• From Middlesex (2002)

  muchnoise, hercigarette smoke gotinto everything,shedrank too much wineat dinner. We got toknowour new neighbors. There werethePicketts,Nel- son, who'dplayedtackle for GeorgiaTech andnow workedfor Parke-Davis, the pharmaceutical company, and hiswife,Bonnie, who was always readingthe miraculous talesinGuideposts. Acrossthe streetwas Stew"Bright Eyes"Fiddler, anindustrialpartssalesman witha tasteforbourbon andbarmaids, andhis wife,Mizzi,whose hairchanged colorlike amood ring.Atthe endofthe blockwere Sam and HettieGrossinger, the firstOrthodox Jews we'dever met, and theironlychild,Maxine, ashy violinprodigy.Sam,however, was funny,andHettiewasloud,and theytalked aboutmoneywithout thinkingitwasimpolite,and sowefeltcomfortable aroundthem. MiltandTessieoftenhadtheGrossingers overtodinner, though theirdietaryrestrictionscontinuallybaffled us. My motherwould driveallthewayacrosstowntobuykoshermeat,forinstance,only toserveitwithacreamsauce.Orshewouldskipthemeatandcream altogether and servecrab cakes. Thoughfaithful to theirreligion, the Grossingers were midwestern Jews, low-keyandassimilationist. Theyhid behindtheir wallofcypressesandat Christmas putup a SantaGlausalongwithlights. In1971: Judge Stephen J. Rothofthe U.S. DistrictCourtruled thatde juresegregation existedin theDetroitschoolsystem.Heim- mediately orderedthe schools tobe desegregated.There was only oneproblem. By1971 the Detroit studentpopulationwas 80 per- cent black."Thatbusing judge canbusallhe wants,"Miltoncrowed, reading aboutthedecision in the paper."Doesn'tmakeanydifference now. You see,Tessie? You understand whyyourdearoldhusband wanted to getthe kids out ofthat schoolsystem?Because ifIdidn't, thatgoddamn Roth would be busing themtoschoolin downtown Nairobi, that'swhy." In 1972:Five-foot five-inchS. Miyamoto, rejectedbytheDetroit police force for failingto meet the five-foot seven-inchrequirement (hehad triedelevator heels, etc.), appeared onThe Tonight Showto plead hiscase. I wrotea letter to the police commissionermyselfin support ofMiyamoto, but I never received a reply,andMiyamoto was rejected. Afew months later, Police CommissionerNichols was thrown from his horse during a parade. "That's what youget!"Isaid. 281 In1972:H.D. Jackson andL.D.Moore,who hadbrought apo- lice brutalitycase forfourmilliondollars, hijackeda SouthernAir- waysjettoCuba,outragedatbeingawarded damages inthe amount oftwenty-fivedollars. In 1972: MayorRoman Gribbsclaimed thatDetroithad turned around. Thecityhadovercomethetrauma ofthe '67 riots.There- fore,hewasn'tplanningonrunning foranother term.Anew candi- dateappeared,themanwhowould becomethecity'sfirst African Americanmayor,ColemanA. Young. AndIturnedtwelve. Afewmonthsearlier,onthefirstdayofsixth grade,CarolHorning cameintoclasswearing a slight butunmistakablyself-satisfied smile. Belowthissmile, as ifdisplayed onatrophyshelf,werethenew breastsshehad gottenoverthesummer.Shewasn't theonlyone. Duringthegrowingmonths,quite afewofmyschoolmateshad— as adultslikedtosay—"developed." Iwasn'tentirelyunprepared forthis.I'dspentamonththeprevi- oussummer at CampPonshewaing, near Port Huron.Duringthe slow marchofsummerdaysI was aware,asoneisawareof a drum steadilybeatingacross a lake, ofsomethingunspooling itself inthe bodiesofmycampmates.Girlsweregrowingmodest.Theyturned theirbacks to dress. Somehadsurnames stitched ontonot only shorts andsocksbuttrainingbras,too.Mosdy,itwasapersonalmat- terthatno onespokeabout.Butnowand thenthereweredramatic manifestations. Oneafternoonduringswimminghour,thetin door ofthechangingroom clangedopenand shut.Thesoundcaromedoff the trunksof pinetrees,carrying past the meager beachout overthe water,whereIfloated onaninnertube, readingLoveStory.(Swim- minghourwas theonlytimeIcouldgetany readingdone,and thoughthecampcounselorstriedtomotivatemetopractice my freestyle,Iperseveredevery day inreadingthenew bestsellerI'd found on mymother'snight table.) NowIlooked up. Alongadusty brownpath inthepine needles, Jenny Simonsonwas advancingina red,white,andblueswimsuit.Allnaturegrew hushedatthe sight. Birds fellsilent.Lakeswansunfurledtremendous neckstoget a glimpse. Evena chainsawinthedistancecutits engine.Ibeheld the magnificenceof Jenny S. The golden,late afternoon lightintensified 282

• From Middlesex (2002)

  thathad happenedfor twominutes fourhundredyearsago, instead of everything thathad happenedsince.Insteadof everythingthatwas happening now! Sufficeitto say that,inseventhgrade,Calliopefound herself aligned with,taken inby,nurtured andbefriended by the year's new- comers. AsI openedmy locker,myfriendssaidnothingaboutmy porous goaltending. Instead Reetikakindlyturned thesubjecttoan upcomingmathtest. Joanne MariaBarbaraPeracchioslowly peeled offakneesock. Correctional surgeryhadleftherrightankleasdiinas a broomstick.Thesight of it alwaysmademefeelbetteraboutmy- self. NormaAbdowopened herlocker,looked in, andshouted, "Gross!"I stalled,unlacingmypads.On either side,myfriends,with quick, shiverymovements,strippedoff their clothes. They wrapped themselvesintowels."Youguys?"LindaRamirezasked."CanIbor- rowsomeshampoo?""Onlyifyou'remylunch peontomorrow." "Noway!""Thennoshampoo.""Okay,okay.""Okay,what?""Okay, YourHighness." Iwaited until theyleftbeforeIundressed.FirstItookoffmy kneesocks.Ireachedundermyathletictunicandpulleddownmy shorts.After tyingabathtowelaroundmywaist,Iunbuttoned the shoulderstraps ofmytunicandpulleditovermyhead.Thisleft mewiththetowel andmyjerseyon. Nowcamethe trickypart.The brassiere Ihadwassize 30AA.Ithad a tinyrosette between thecups and a label thatread"Young MissbyOlga."(Tessie hadurgedmeto getan old-fashionedtraining bra, butIwanted somethingthat looked likewhat myfriends had,andpreferably padded.) Inowfas- tened thisitem aroundmywaist, claspsinfront, and thenrotatedit intoposition. Atthat point,one sleeve ata time,Ipulledmyarmsin- sidemy jersey sothatit satonmy shoulderslike a cloak.Working in- sideit,I slidthe braup mytorso untilIcouldslipmyarms through the armholes. When that wasaccomplished, Iputmy kiltonunder my towel, removed myjersey, puton my blouse,andtossedthe towel away. Iwasn't naked for a second. The only witness tomy cunningwasourschoolmascot.Onthe wall behind me afadedfelt banner proclaimed: "1955 State Field Hockey Champions." Belowthis, strikinghercustomaryinsouciant pose, was the B&I Wolverette. Withher beady eyes,sharp teeth,and tapering snout, shestoodleaning onherhockeystick,rightfoot crossed over left ankle.She wore a bluetunic withared sash.Ared 299 ribbonsat between herfurry ears.Itwasdifficult to tell ifshewas smilingor snarling. There wassomethingoftheYalebulldog's tenac- ity inour Wolverette, but therewas elegance,too.TheWolverette didn't justplayto win.She played tokeepherfigure. At the nearbydrinking fountain, Ipressedonefingerover the hole,making thewater squirthigh intheair.I put myheadinto this stream.Coach Storkalwaystouchedour hairbeforelettingusleave, makingsureitwas wet. TheyearIwaspackedofftoprivateschool, Chapter Eleven wentoff tocollege. Althoughhewassafefrom thelongarmof Judge Roth, otherarmshadbeen reachingfor him.Onehot day theprevious July, asIwas passingdownourupstairshall,I heardastrangevoiceema- natingfromChapterEleven'sbedroom.Thevoice wasa man'sand hewasreadingnumbersanddates."Februaryfourth,"thevoice said, "thirty-two.Februaryfifth—threehundred and twenty-one. February sixth.. ." Theaccordiondoorwasn'tlatched,soI peeked in. Mybrother was lyingon hisbed, wrappedin anoldafghanTessie hadcrochetedforhim.Hisheadextendedfromoneend— eyes glazed—andhiswhitelegsfrom the other.Acrosstheroomhis stereo amplifierwas on,theradioneedlejumping. Thatspring, Chapter Elevenhadreceivedtwoletters,onefrom theUniversityof Michiganinforminghim ofhisacceptance and the otherfrom the U.S. governmentinforminghimof his eligibilityfor the draft.Since thenmy apoliticalbrother had beentakinganun- usual interest incurrentevents.Everynight, hewatchedthenews with Milton, trackingmilitarydevelopmentsand paying close atten- tion to theguarded statementsofHenry KissingerattheParispeace talks. "Power is thegreatestaphrodisiac," Kissingerfamouslysaid, andit must have beentrue:becauseChapter Elevenwasgluedtothe setnight after night,followingthemachinations ofdiplomacy.Atthe same time, Milton waspricked by thestrange desireofparents,and especially of fathers, to see theirchildrenrepeat theirownsufferings. "Might do you somegood beinginthe service," hesaid.Towhich Chapter Eleven replied,"I'll gotoCanada." "You willnot.Iftheycall youup, you'll serve yourcountry just likeIdid." Andthen Tessie: "Don't worry. The whole thing'll be overbefore theycangetyou." Inthe summer of '72, however, as Iwatched my number-stunned brother, thewar was still officiallyon.Nixon's Christmasbombings 300

• From Middlesex (2002)

  hands. But she wasno longer counting herpains.Instead, thebeads now summoned to her mindimagesinamagazine hiddenintheir fa- ther's old desk. One beadwasahairstyle.Thenext beadwas a silk slip. The next wasa blackbrassiere.Mygrandmother had begunto matchmake. Lefty, meanwhile, carrying a sackofcocoons, wasonhiswaydown the mountain. Whenhereachedthecity,hecame downKapaliCarsi Caddesi, turnedatBorsaSokak,andsoonwaspassingthrough the arch intothe courtyardoftheKoza Han. Inside, aroundtheaquama- rinefountain, hundredsofstiff,waist-high sacksfoamedoverwith silkwormcocoons.Mencrowdedeverywhere,eitherselling orbuy- ing.Theyhadbeen shouting sincetheopeningbell at tenthatmorn- ingandtheir voiceswerehoarse. "Goodprice!Goodquality!"Lefty squeezedthroughthenarrowpathsbetweenthecocoons,holding his ownsack. Hehadneverhadanyinterestinthefamilylivelihood. Hecouldn'tjudgesilkwormcocoons by feelingorsniffingthem as hissistercould.Theonlyreason hebrought thecocoonsto market wasthatwomenwerenot allowed.The jostling, thebumpingof portersandsidesteppingof sacks madehimtense.Hethoughthow niceitwould be ifeveryonewouldjuststopmovinga moment, if theywould standstilltoadmiretheluminosityofthe cocoonsinthe eveninglight; but ofcoursenoone ever did.Theywentonyelling and thrustingcocoonsinoneanother'sfacesandlyingand haggling. Lefty's fatherhadlovedmarketseasonatthe KozaHan, but themer- cantile impulse hadn'tbeenpassed down to hisson. Near thecoveredporticoLeftysaw a merchanthe knew.Hepre- sented his sack.Themerchantreacheddeepinto itandbroughtouta cocoon. Hedippeditinto a bowlofwaterand thenexaminedit. Then he dippeditintoacupofwine. "I need to make organzinefromthese. They'renotstrong enough." Lefty didn't believethis.Desdemona'ssilk was alwaysthe best. He knew that he wassupposed to shout,to act offended, topretend totake his business elsewhere. Buthehadgotten sucha latestart;the closing bell was abouttosound. His father had always toldhim not to bring cocoons late inthedaybecause thenyou had tosellthem at a discount. Lefty's skinprickledunderhis new suit.He wantedthe 30 transactiontobe over. He wasfilled with embarrassment: embarrass- ment forthehuman race,its preoccupation withmoney, itsloveof swindle.Withoutprotest he accepted theman's price.As soonasthe dealwascompletedhe hurried outoftheKoza Han toattend to his realbusiness in town. Itwasn't what Desdemona thought. Watch closely:Lefty, setting hisderbyata rakish angle, walksdown thesloping streetsofBursa. Whenhepassesacoffee kiosk,however, hedoesn't goin.The pro- prietor hailshim, butLefty onlywaves.In thenextstreethe passes a window behind whoseshutters femalevoicescall out, but he paysno attention,followingthe meanderingstreets pastfruitsellers and restaurantsuntilhereaches anotherstreetwherehe entersachurch. Moreprecisely:aformermosque, withminarettorn downand Ko- ranicinscriptionsplastered overtoprovideafresh canvasforthe Christiansaintsthatare,evennow,being paintedontheinterior. Leftyhands a coin to theoldladysellingcandles, lightsone,stands it uprightin sand.He takesaseat in abackpew.Andinthesame way mymother willlaterprayforguidanceovermy conception,Lefty Stephanides,my great-uncle(amongotherthings)gazes upatthe unfinishedChrist Pantocratorontheceiling.Hisprayerbegins with wordshelearnedasa child,Kyrie eleison,Kyrie eleison,Iamnotworthy tocome before Thy throne^butsoonit veersoff, becomingpersonal withIdon'tknowwhy I feel thisway, ifsnotnatural.. . andthenturn- ingalittleaccusatory, prayingToumademethisway,Ididn'taskto thinkthingslike...but gettingabject finally withGivemestrength, Christos,don'tletme bethis way, if she evenknew ... eyessqueezedshut, handsbendingthe derby's brim, thewordsdriftingupwiththein- cense towarda Christ-in-progress. He prayedfor five minutes. Thencameout,replaced his haton hishead, and rattled the change inhispockets. Heclimbedbackup thesloping streets and, this time (hisheart unburdened), stoppedat allthe placeshe'd resisted on hisway down.Hesteppedintoakiosk forcoffee and a smoke. He went toacafe for a glassof ouzo. The backgammonplayers shouted, "Hey, Valentino,howabouta game?" Helet himselfget cajoled into playing, justone, thenlostandhad to go double or nothing. (The calculations Desdemona foundinLefty's pants pocketswere gambling debts.) Thenight wore on.Theouzo kept flowing. The musicians arrived andthe rebetika began.They 31

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Another ant moved into the crack. Pam pushed me forward until we stood on wet cement looking out at the long pool. Grass and boulders lined the sides. Little boys cannonballed into the water. Teenage girls in twopiece suits rode atop the shoulders of boys and wrestled other girls on other shoulders. Kids walked through the water with their eyes closed and their arms extended in front calling out, “Marco! Polo!” Everyone smiling. Water flying. Bodies glistening. “Marco! Polo!”John nudged Pam and me toward a small room. “Go get ready in there. Then come on out.” The dressing room was a revelation. I didn’t know where to put my eyes. Naked women sat on benches pulling on or peeling off swimsuits, talking to one another or to their kids.“And then I told him if he wanted someone to do that, he’d better find a new wife.”“Wait, Jimmy. Over there. Shelly, come here.”One of the women smiled at me. I looked down. Pam pulled me into a small stall with a curtain. We unbuttoned each other’s dresses, took off our slips, and put our dresses back on. I took my shoes and socks off. My toes spread in all directions on the damp concrete. With crinolines and shoes in hand we tiptoed out of the dressing room toward the pool. Randall, John, Gary, and the tent boys stood there in their black pants and long-sleeved white shirts holding their shoes, socks, and belts. Randall’s grin took up his entire face. He bounced up and down on his naked feet.“Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go.”We placed our shoes and other things on a dry patch of ground and walked over to the white concrete steps. John put Gary on his shoulders and he and Randall ran down the steps into the water, leading with their bellies. They began splashing each other as soon as they hit the pool. Pam told the tent boys to go ahead, and they descended into the water with slow, measured steps, hands white-knuckling the rail.Randall splashed at them. “Come on, y’all. This ain’t no baptism.” The tent boys assumed a martyred air as the locals retreated toward the sides and the deep end of the pool.Pam pulled at my hand. “Our turn.” I kept my eyes fastened to her back as we walked down the steps. My ears thrummed. We moved oh so slowly. The water tugged at my legs like quicksand, only cold. I had not expected it to be so cold. Little waves lapped at my knees and thighs. Chill bumps popped up on my arms and legs. Our dresses floated open like flowers around the white stems of our legs as we stepped down into the pool. I didn’t know what to do, so I began to move slowly from right to left, watching my dress trail behind. I looked anywhere, everywhere, except at the kids staring at us.Randall pointed at me and Pam. “I see your panties, both of you.”John shushed him.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Withinthe substandardconstruction ofthe Charlevoixchurch, literally upona shakyfoundation,Iwasbaptizedinto the Orthodox faith; a faiththathad existedlong beforeProtestantismhadanything to protestand beforeCatholicism calleditselfcatholic; a faiththat stretched backto thebeginnings ofChristianity, whenitwasGreek andnot Latin, andwhich,without anAquinas to reify it,hadre- mained shrouded inthesmokeof traditionandmystery whenceit began.My godfather, Jimmy Papanikolas, tookmefrom my father's arms.He presented me toFatherMike. Smiling,overjoyedto becen- terstage foronce, Father Mikecut a lockof myhairandtossed it into the baptismalpool.(It wasthispartof theritual,Ilater sus- pected,thatwas responsiblefor the fuzzy qualityof ourfont'ssur- faces.Years andyearsof baby hair, stimulated by thelife-giving water, hadtakenroot andgrown.)But nowFatherMikewasreadyfor the dunking."TheservantofGod,Calliope Helenisbaptizedinthe NameoftheFather,Amen ..." andhepushed meunderforthefirst time.IntheOrthodoxChurch,wedon'tgoinfor partialimmersion; nosprinkling,noforeheaddabbingforus.Inorder tobe reborn, you havetobeburiedfirst,sounderthewaterIwent.Myfamily looked on,mymotherseizedwithanxiety(whatifIinhaled?),mybrother dropping a penny intothe waterwhen noonewaslooking, my grandmotherstilling her fanforthefirsttimein weeks.FatherMike pulledmeupintotheairagain—"andoftheSon,Amen"— and dunked meunderoncemore.Thistime I openedmy eyes. Chapter Eleven's penny,infreefall,glinted throughthe murk.Downitsank tothebottom where,Inow noticed,lotsofthingswere collected: other coins,forinstance,hairpins, somebody's oldBand-Aid.Inthe green, scummy,holywater,I felt at peace.Everything wassilent.The sidesof mynecktingledin theplacewherehumansoncehadgills.I was dimly awarethat this beginningwas somehowindicativeofthe restof mylife.Myfamily werearoundme;Iwas inthe hands of God. ButI wasinmy own,separate element, too, submerged inrare sensations, pushing evolution'senvelope.Thisknowledgewhizzed through mymind,and then FatherMikepulledme up again— "and of theHoly Spirit,Amen.. ." Onemore dunking togo.Down I went and backup again, intolightandair.Thethreesubmersions had taken awhile. In additiontobeingmurky,thewaterwaswarm. By thethird timeup, therefore,Ihad indeedbeenreborn: asafoun- tain. From betweenmy cherubiclegsa streamofcrystalline liquid 221 shotinto theair.Litfromthedome above,itsyellow scintillance ar- rested everyone'sattention.Thestreamrose inan arc.Propelled bya full bladder,itclearedthelip ofthefont.And beforemy nounohad timetoreact,itstruck Father Mikerightin themiddleof theface. Suppressedlaughterfromthe pews,afewoldladies gaspingin horror,thensilence.Disgraced by his ownpartialimmersion— and dabbing himselflike a Protestant— FatherMike completedthe cere- mony.Takingthechrismonhisfingertips, heanointed me,marking thesignofthe Cross ontherequired places,firstmy forehead,then eyes,nostrils,mouth,ears,breast,hands, andfeet.Ashe touched each place,hesaid, "Thesealofthegift oftheHolySpirit."Finally he gavememyFirstCommunion(withoneexception: FatherMike didn'tforgivemeformysin). "That'smygirl,"Miltoncrowedonthewayhome. "Pissedon a priest." "Itwasanaccident,"Tessieinsisted,stillhotwithembarrassment. "PoorFatherMike!He'llnevergetoverit." "Thatwentreally far? marveledChapterEleven. Inallthecommotion,noonewonderedabouttheengineering involved. Desdemonatookmyreverse baptismofherson-in-law asabad omen.Alreadypotentiallyresponsibleforherhusband'sstroke,Ihad nowcommittedasacrilegeatmy firstliturgicalopportunity.Inaddi- tion,Ihadhumiliatedherbybeingbornagirl."Maybeyoushould tryguessingtheweather,"Sourmelinateasedher.My father rubbedit in:"Somuchforyourspoon,Ma.It sortofpoopedoutonyou."The truth wasthat inthose days Desdemonawas strugglingagainst as- similationist pressures shecouldn'tresist. Thoughshehadlivedin America asaneternalexile,avisitor forfortyyears, certainbitsofher adoptedcountryhadbeenseeping under the lockeddoorsofherdis- approval.AfterLeftycamehomefromthe hospital,myfathertooka TV upto theattic to providesomeentertainment. Itwasasmall black-and-whiteZenith,prone to verticalshift. Miltonplaceditona bedside tableand wentbackdownstairs.The televisionremained, rumbling, glowing.Lefty adjusted hispillowsto watch. Desdemona tried to do houseworkbutfoundherself looking over at thescreen more andmoreoften. She stilldidn'tlikecars. She coveredherears 222

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Hello,Callie,howareyou?" "Fine, Dr.Phil." "Starting schoolagain?Whatgrade areyouin now?" "I'llbein ninththisyear.Highschool." "Highschool?Already? I mustbegettingold." His courtlymannerwasnodifferentthanithadever been.The foreignsoundshe still made, the evidenceofthe Old Worldin his teeth, put mesomewhatatease.Allmylifedignifiedforeigners had pettedand pamperedme.Iwas a suckerfor the soft-handed Levan- tineaffections.Asalittle girlIhad satonDr.Philobosian'sknee whilehis fingersclimbedmyspinalcolumn,countingoff the verte- brae. NowIwastaller than hewas, gangly,freak-haired, aTinyTim ofagirl, sittingingown,bra,andunderpantsonthe edge ofan old- fashionedmedicaltable withstep-drawers of vulcanized rubber.He listenedtomy heartandlungs,hisbaldheaddippingonthelong necklikethatofa brontosaurus,samplingleaves. "How'syour father,Callie?" "Fine." "How'sthehotdog business?" "Good." "Howmanyhotdog placesyourdadhasnow?" "Likefiftyorsomething." "There'sone nottoofarfromwhereNurse Rosalee and I goin thewinter.PompanoBeach." He examinedmyeyes andearsandthen politely asked meto standandlowermyunderpants. Fiftyyearsearlier,Dr. Philobosian hadmadehislivingtreatingOttomanladies inSmyrna.Propriety wasanoldhabit with him. Mymind wasnot fuzzy, as ithadbeenupinPetoskey.I wasfully aware ofwhat washappeningandwhere thefocusof medical scrutinylay.AfterIhadpulledmypantiesdown tomyknees,ahot wave ofembarrassmentsweptthroughmeandby reflexIcovered myselfwithmyhand.Dr.Philobosian,notentirely gentiy,moved thisaside. Therewas somethingofthe impatience oftheoldinthis. Heforgot himselfmomentarily, and behindhis aviatorlenseshiseyes glared.Still, hedidn'tlook downatme.He gazed gallandyoffatthe farwallwhile feeling forinformationwithhis hands.Wewereas close as dancing.Dr. Phil's breathing was noisy; hishandsshook. I 402 glanced down myselfonlyonce.My embarrassmenthadretracted me. Frommy angleIwasagirlagain,white belly,darktriangle,fore- shortened legsshaved smooth.Mybrassiere was bandolieredacross mychest. It took onlya minute.The oldArmenian,crouching, lizard- backed, ranhis yellowedfingersover my parts. Itwasno surprise that Dr. Philobosianhadnevernoticedanything.Evennow, alerted to the possibility,hedidn'tseemtowanttoknow. "You canget dressed now,"wasallhesaid.Heturnedandwalked very carefullytothe sink. Heturnedonthewaterandthrusthis hands intothe stream.They seemedtobe trembling morethanever. Liberallyhe squirtedouttheantibacterialsoap. "Say hello toyour dad,"he saidbeforeIlefttheroom. Dr.Philreferredmetoanendocrinologist at Henry FordHospi- tal.Theendocrinologisttappedaveininmyarm,fillinganalarming numberofvialswithmyblood.Whyallthisbloodwasneededhe didn'tsay.Iwastoofrightenedtoask.Thatnight,however,I putmy eartomybedroom wallinhopesoffinding outwhatwasgoingon. "Sowhatdid the doctorsay?" Milton was asking. "HesaidDr.Phil should have noticedwhenCalliewasborn,"Tessie answered."This wholethingcouldhavebeenfixedbackthen."And thenMilton again:"Ican'tbelievehe'dmisssomethinglikethat."("Like what?"I silentiy askedthewall,butit didn'tspecify.) Three dayslaterwearrived inNewYork. Miltonhad bookedusintoa hotelcalledtheLochmoor inthe EastThirties.He hadstayed theretwenty-threeyearsearlier asa navy ensign. Always a thriftytraveler,Miltonwasalsoencouraged by the roomrates. Our stay inNew York was open-ended. ThedoctorMil- ton hadspoken to—the specialist—refusedtodiscuss detailsbefore he'dhad achance to examineme. "You'lllike it,"Miltonassured us. "It's pretty swank, as I remember." It wasnot. We arrivedfromLaGuardiain a taxitofind the Lochmoor fallenfromits formerglory.The deskclerkandcashier worked behindbulletproofglass.TheViennesecarpetingwas wetbe- neath thedrippingradiators and themirrorshad beenremoved,leav- ing ghostly rectanglesofplasterandornamentalscrews.Theelevator wasprewar, withgilded, curvingbarslikeabirdcage.Once upon a time, there hadbeenan operator; no longer.Wecrammed our suit- 403 cases into thesmallspaceandIslid thegateclosed.It keptcoming offits track. I had todo itthreetimesbefore theelectrical current wouldflow.Finallythecontraptionrose andthrough thespray- painted barswewatchedthefloors passby,eachdimand identical ex- ceptforthevariation of amaidinuniform, oraroomservice tray outside a door,orapairofshoes.Still, therewas a feeling ofascen- sioninthatold box,ofrising upoutof a pit, anditwasaletdown to getto ourfloor,numbereight,andfind itjust as drabasthelobby. Ourroomhadbeencarvedoutofaonce-biggersuite. Nowthe anglesofthewallswereskewed.Even Tessie,pint-sized,felt con- stricted.Forsomereasonthebathroom wasnearlyaslargeasthe bedroom.The toilet stood stranded onloosetilesandrancontinu- ously.The tub hadaskidmarkwherethewaterdrained out. Therewasa queen-size bedformyparentsand,inthecorner, a cotsetup forme.Ihauledmysuitcase upontoit.Mysuitcasewasa boneofcontentionbetweenTessieandme.Shehadpickedit out for mebeforeourtripto Turkey.Ithad afloralpatternofturquoiseand greenblossomswhichIfoundhideous.Sincegoingoff to private school—andhangingaroundtheObject— my tasteshadbeenchang- ing,becomingrefined, Ithought.PoorTessienolonger knew what to buy me.Anythingshechosewasgreetedbywailsofhorror.Iwas adamantlyopposedto anything syntheticor withvisiblestitching. Myparentsfoundmynewurgeforpurityamusing. Often myfather wouldrub myshirtbetween histhumbandfingersand ask, "Isthis preppy?" Withthe suitcaseTessiehad hadnotimetoconsultme,andso thereitwas, bearingadesignlikeaplacemat's. Unzippingthesuit- caseandflippingit open, Ifeltbetter.InsidewerealltheclothesI'd chosenmyself: thecrewnecksweaters inprimarycolors,theLacoste shirts,the wide -walecorduroys.Mycoatwasfrom Papagallo,lime greenwithhorn-shapedbuttonsmadefrombone. "Dowe havetounpack or can we leaveeverythinginour suit- cases?"Iasked. "We better unpackand putoursuitcasesinthe closet,"Milton an- swered."Giveusa little moreroominhere." I put mysweaters neatlyin thedresserdrawers, mysocksand un- derpants,too,and hungmypants up.Itookmy toiletrycase intothe bathroomandputit on the shelf. Ihad broughtlip glossandper- fume withme.Iwasn't certainthat they were obsolete. 404

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  But sometimes I get worried that there already is an infection, and so I need to drain it, and the only way to do that is to reopen the wound and press out any blood that will come. Once I start thinking about splitting the skin apart, I literally cannot not do it. I apologize for the double negative, but it’s a real double negative of a situation, a bind from which negating the negation is truly the only escape. So anyway, I started to want to feel my thumbnail biting into the skin of my finger pad, and I knew that resistance was more or less futile, so beneath the cafeteria table, I slipped the Band-Aid off my finger and dug my thumbnail into the callused skin until I felt the crack open. “Holmesy,” Daisy said. I looked up at her. “We’re almost through lunch and you haven’t even mentioned my hair.” She shook out her hair, with so-red-they-were-pink highlights. Right. She’d dyed her hair. I swum up out of the depths and said, “It’s bold.” “I know, right? It says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen and also people who do not identify as ladies or gentlemen, Daisy Ramirez won’t break her promises, but she will break your heart.’ ” Daisy’s self-proclaimed life motto was “Break Hearts, Not Promises.” She kept threatening to get it tattooed on her ankle when she turned eighteen. Daisy turned back to Mychal, and I to my thoughts. The stomach grumbling had grown, if anything, louder. I felt like I might vomit. For someone who actively dislikes bodily fluids, I throw up quite a lot. “Holmesy, you okay?” Daisy asked. I nodded. Sometimes I wondered why she liked me, or at least tolerated me. Why any of them did. Even I found myself annoying. I could feel sweat sprouting from my forehead, and once I begin to sweat, it’s impossible to stop. I’ll keep sweating for hours, and not just my face or my armpits. My neck sweats. My boobs sweat. My calves sweat. Maybe I did have a fever. Beneath the table, I slid the old Band-Aid into my pocket and, without looking, pulled out a new one, unwrapped it, and then glanced down to apply it to my finger. All the while, I was breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, in the manner advised by Dr. Karen Singh, exhaling at a pace “that would make a candle flicker but not go out. Imagine that candle, Aza, flickering from your breath but still there, always there.” So I tried that, but the thought spiral kept tightening anyway. I could hear Dr. Singh saying I shouldn’t get out my phone, that I mustn’t look up the same questions over and over, but I got it out anyway, and reread the “Human Microbiota” Wikipedia article. The thing about a spiral is, if you follow it inward, it never actually ends. It just keeps tightening, infinitely.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The next day, the captain invited Amy to a café in a little strip of town that the popular girls had deemed the hangout spot that year. Amy had shown up, thrilled. But the captain had not come alone. A small cadre of girls had assembled themselves at a sidewalk table leaving open a single chair for Amy, as though conducting a job interview—the captain flanked by her lieutenants. A brief preamble of greetings occurred, in which it became clear that Amy’s affectionate giddiness and hopefulness about the previous night’s make-out would not be reciprocated. With an expression of polite sadness, the captain informed Amy that she didn’t want a boyfriend, she wanted a summer of fun; and she got the sense that Amy liked her better than she liked Amy, so she wanted to be up front. Her lieutenants nodded in accordance. Amy tried not to blush and feel stupid. She couldn’t manage to make eye contact, and nodded while she looked at the streetlights, which were of an antiquated ornate design. At some point, Amy saw that the girls expected her to verbally agree, to pledge that yes, a romantic relationship would not be forthcoming, and any future make-outs could only occur organically and drunkenly, if at all. Amy opened her mouth to say what was expected, but just then a guy who went to a different school, but with whom Amy had played guitar a couple times, drove by in a red BMW convertible. He drove with the top down, his popped collar looking like the preppy handsome villain in a John Hughes movie, complete with two summery babes, one on the passenger side, one in the back seat. Ska-era Sublime pumped from the stereo. “Ben!” shouted Amy. “Hey, Ben Ben braked into a roll, and without thinking about it, Amy propelled herself up and away from the humiliating breakup interview, sprinted across a lane of traffic, assessed in a split second that the car was a two-door coupe, but that nothing, not even a lack of doors must interrupt the boldness of this moment. Amy took a leap, vaulting the side of the car, clearing the door with ease, and came to rest with a rangy athletic grace beside the back-seat blonde, who smiled ingratiatingly at this unexpected excitement bestowed from above.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I noticed it in my conditioner and got right back in the shower. But I didn’t notice it in my gel. It didn’t show up in Jeff’s hair at all. But Longwell and me, we had to go with the Marine look. Thank God I have clippers.” “It suits you,” I said, although it didn’t. The short hair accentuated his features, specifically his too-close-together beady eyes, which did not stand up well to accentuation. The Colonel was trying hard to look tough—ready for whatever Kevin might do—but it’s hard to look tough when you’re only wearing an orange towel. “Truce?” “Well, your troubles aren’t over, I’m afraid,” the Colonel said, referring to the mailed-but-not-yet-received progress reports. “A’ight. If you say so. We’ll talk when it’s over, I guess.” “I guess so,” the Colonel said. As Kevin walked out, the Colonel said, “Take the can you spit in, you unhygienic shit.” Kevin just closed the door behind him. The Colonel grabbed the can, opened the door, and threw it at Kevin—missing him by a good margin. “Jeez, go easy on the guy.” “No truce yet, Pudge.” — I spent that afternoon with Lara. We were very cutesy, even though we didn’t know the first thing about each other and barely talked. But we made out. She grabbed my butt at one point, and I sort of jumped. I was lying down, but I did the best version of jumping that one can do lying down, and she said, “Sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay. It’s just a little sore from the swan.” We walked to the TV room together, and I locked the door. We were watching The Brady Bunch, which she had never seen. The episode, where the Bradys visit the gold-mining ghost town and they all get locked up in the one-room jail by some crazy old gold panner with a scraggly white beard, was especially horrible, and gave us a lot to laugh about. Which is good, since we didn’t have much to talk about. Just as the Bradys were getting locked in jail, Lara randomly asked me, “Have you ever gotten a blow job?” “Um, that’s out of the blue,” I said. “The blue?” “Like, you know, out of left field.” “Left field?” “Like, in baseball. Like, out of nowhere. I mean, what made you think of that?” “I’ve just never geeven one,” she answered, her little voice dripping with seductiveness. It was so brazen. I thought I would explode. I never thought. I mean, from Alaska, hearing that stuff was one thing. But to hear her sweet little Romanian voice go so sexy all of the sudden… “No,” I said. “I never have.” “Think it would be fun?” DO I!?!?!?!?!?!?! “Um. yeah. I mean, you don’t have to.” “I think I want to,” she said, and we kissed a little, and then.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I’d never been religious, but he told us that religion is important whether or not we believed in one, in the same way that historical events are important whether or not you personally lived through them. And then he assigned us fifty pages of reading for the next day—from a book called Religious Studies. That afternoon, I had two classes and two free periods. We had nine fifty-minute class periods each day, which means that most everyone had three “study periods” (except for the Colonel, who had an extra independent-study math class on account of being an Extra Special Genius). The Colonel and I had biology together, where I pointed out the other guy who’d duct-taped me the night before. In the top corner of his notebook, the Colonel wrote, Longwell Chase. Senior W-day Warrior. Friends w/Sara. Weird. It took me a minute to remember who Sara was: the Colonel’s girlfriend. I spent my free periods in my room trying to read about religion. I learned that myth doesn’t mean a lie; it means a traditional story that tells you something about people and their worldview and what they hold sacred. Interesting. I also learned that after the events of the previous night, I was far too tired to care about myths or anything else, so I slept on top of the covers for most of the afternoon, until I awoke to Alaska singing, “WAKE UP, LITTLE PUHHHHHDGIE!” directly into my left ear canal. I held the religion book close up against my chest like a small paperback security blanket. “That was terrible,” I said. “What do I need to do to ensure that never happens to me again?” “Nothing you can do!” she said excitedly. “I’m unpredictable. God, don’t you hate Dr. Hyde? Don’t you? He’s so condescending.” I sat up and said, “I think he’s a genius,” partly because I thought it was true and partly because I just felt like disagreeing with her. She sat down on the bed. “Do you always sleep in your clothes?” “Yup.” “Funny,” she said. “You weren’t wearing much last night.” I just glared at her. “C’mon, Pudge. I’m teasing. You have to be tough here. I didn’t know how bad it was—and I’m sorry, and they’ll regret it—but you have to be tough.” And then she left. That was all she had to say on the subject. She’s cute , I thought, but you don’t need to like a girl who treats you like you’re ten: You’ve already got a mom . one hundred twenty-two days before AFTER MY LAST CLASS of my first week at Culver Creek, I entered Room 43 to an unlikely sight: the diminutive and shirtless Colonel, hunched over an ironing board, attacking a pink button-down shirt. Sweat trickled down his forehead and chest as he ironed with great enthusiasm, his right arm pushing the iron across the length of the shirt with such vigor that his breathing nearly duplicated Dr. Hyde’s.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  But in the time between when something gets thought and when it gets done, the ball hit me square across the side of the face. I fell, the back of my head slamming against the gym floor. I then stood up immediately, as if unhurt, and left the gym. Pride had gotten me off the floor of the gym, but as soon as I was outside, I sat down. “I am concussed,” I announced, entirely sure of my self-diagnosis. “You’re fine,” Takumi said as he jogged back toward me. “Let’s get out of here before we’re killed.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I can’t get up. I have suffered a mild concussion.” Lara ran out and sat down next to me. “Are you okay?” “I am concussed,” I said. Takumi sat down with me and looked me in the eye. “Do you know what happened to you?” “The Beast got me.” “Do you know where you are?” “I’m on a triple-and-a-half date.” “You’re fine,” Takumi said. “Let’s go.” And then I leaned forward and threw up onto Lara’s pants. I can’t say why I didn’t lean backward or to the side. I leaned forward and aimed my mouth toward her jeans—a nice, butt-flattering pair of jeans, the kind of pants a girl wears when she wants to look nice but not look like she is trying to look nice—and I threw up all over them. Mostly peanut butter, but also clearly some corn. “Oh!” she said, surprised and slightly horrified. “Oh God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” “I think you might have a concussion,” Takumi said, as if the idea had never been suggested. “I am suffering from the nausea and dizziness typically associated with a mild concussion,” I recited. While Takumi went to get the Eagle and Lara changed pants, I lay on the concrete sidewalk. The Eagle came back with the school nurse, who diagnosed me with—get this—a concussion, and then Takumi drove me to the hospital with Lara riding shotgun. Apparently I lay in the back and slowly repeated the words “The. Symptoms. Generally. Associated. With. Concussion.” So I spent my date at the hospital with Lara and Takumi. The doctor told me to go home and sleep a lot, but to make sure and have someone wake me up every four hours or so. I vaguely remember Lara standing in the doorway, the room dark and the outside dark and everything mild and comfortable but sort of spinny, the world pulsing as if from a heavy bass beat. And I vaguely remember Lara smiling at me from the doorway, the glittering ambiguity of a girl’s smile, which seems to promise an answer to the question but never gives it. The question, the one we’ve all been asking since girls stopped being gross, the question that is too simple to be uncomplicated: Does she like me or like me?

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  He was the first maybe-trans person she had ever met. He probably wouldn’t have called himself trans. Just a cross-dresser. Which was what Amy called herself at the time. But no one had ever seen her dressed up. Not even on Halloween. She had figured that by the time she got to college and had a lock on her door, she’d spend a bunch of her time behind it dressed up pretty. But even by her sophomore year, she had barely accumulated the basics of a wardrobe. Her makeup remained in an equally dismal state. She’d had no one to teach her the art of makeup so she stuck to the three cosmetic basics whose application was more or less explained by their packaging: lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara. Her frequent attempts to shop for women’s clothes failed more often than not. She never went into women’s boutiques—it’d be impossible to explain herself in there. Instead, she haunted department stores—Walmarts and Targets—taking circuitous routes around the edges of Women’s Wear, feigning interest in adjacent kitchen appliances, then snatching something, anything: a swimsuit, a purse, a bra. The whole exercise humiliated her. She looked like a creep, she knew. But she couldn’t be cool. The closer she got to actually buying clothes, actually browsing in the women’s section, the more her blood rushed and her face reddened. The more her hands shook. There wasn’t any way to be casual while holding a pair of panties and looking like you’re at risk of passing out. Because who did that? What the fuck was wrong with her? And how much other random shit did she buy attempting to hide those panties? Did she think the checkout girl wouldn’t think a college boy buying a baby- doll dress was weird if the purchases also included three bags of chips, some beef jerky, and a folding chair? She found Patrick in the fall of her second year at college. Forty miles away. A thirty-six-year-old divorced hotel clerk posting in a Yahoo group that he wanted someone to dress up with. Just two guys, dressing up in lingerie, to relax. He undercut his own casual, no-homo, bro-vibe by adding that he was versatile. Nineteen-year-old college student. 5'8" 140 Ibs. Do you have lingerie for me? It took Amy two hours of deliberation to send that message. No, but there’s a store for cross-dressers where I get mine, Patrick replied. Ill pick you up from your school if you want and we can go tomorrow. Which was how Amy ended up standing on the street in front of her dorm, wearing a hood low over her eyes, as if her pervert tranny intentions could be read plainly on her face by any other passing student who glanced her way. Picture an anonymous strip mall, veneered in a too-red brick, housing a Subway franchise, a vacuum cleaner store, and sandwiched between the two, a dingy painted sign that read: GLAMOUR BOUTIQUE. Now picture Amy’s disappointed face.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  them, to throw them away from her, but feared that doing so would attract attention her way, the equivalent of waving a lace-trimmed pink flag. So she stood frozen, apparently transfixed by the panties, hating the image she felt sure she presented. She wanted to apologize. She couldn’t help herself. She stared at the teenage daughter. What was the speed of calculations whirring through that poor girl’s mind? How long would her mother fake-browse before they could escape? “Wigs!” proclaimed the mother, mustering her best cheer. “Fun!” “Wigs,” agreed Jen, setting down the maid’s outfit and extending a white hand in a gesture to the wall. “The ones at the bottom are synthetic, at the top are human hair.” Like the store itself, Jen had transformed in a moment. Her previous secret celebrity had inverted itself. The polarity on her magnetism had switched: She now repelled rather than attracted. To Amy, Jen’s posture now landed with echoes of witches—had she just said “human hair’? Grotesque. As Jen walked back behind the counter into the sunlight streaming through the front window, the witchy aspect grew more pronounced. Amy, who had had Jen’s arms around her, fastening a bra in place, before she realized Jen was trans—could no longer see anything but how trans she was, accompanied by revulsion at every feature she identified: lank dark hair, heavy knuckles, gaunt cheeks, traces of last night’s makeup darkening the circles beneath her eyes. Fear had poisoned Amy’s thoughts. Cruelly and involuntarily, her vision flayed away all the beauty from Jen like sheets of skin peeled from her body. “We have wig caps, if you want to try one,” Jen said. “Mom. Let’s go,” said the daughter. The rack of books behind her were illustrated erotica labeled FORCED WOMANHOOD, their covers decorated with drawings of shemales bound and being whipped. “Yes, okay.” Out darted the daughter, but with the door open, her mother paused. She turned back, her hand resting on the frame. “Your store is fun,” she apologized, not just to Jen, but to everyone. She nodded, almost to herself, and a moment later the overhanging bell announced her departure. Patrick drove too fast on the ride home. The sky had darkened while he and Amy had shopped in the Glamour Boutique. Fat drops of an April storm splatted onto the highway, making the asphalt surface into television static. Amy didn’t trust the Geo to stick to the shiny road, slick with oil and rivulets, especially not when Patrick turned off the interstate and onto the windy state highways that cut over the Holyoke Range. “Tm sorry,” Amy said. “I was in a car accident when I was younger, so I get nervous. Can you slow down?” She hadn’t actually ever been in a car accident, but it seemed socially easier to blame her unease on herself rather than his driving.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  My stomach went queasy.“You got spit on you.”My words came out in a whisper loud enough that people turned and stared. Pam giggled, and her mother yanked her hair. Pam shot me a look that meant I would get it after church. At five, she was two years older than I was and capable of making me pay for every sin I committed against her. I placed my hands on either side of my seat and pushed my weight away from the wooden slats to relieve the pressure on my bony butt. I leaned forward slightly and the chair tossed me headfirst into one of the metal tentpoles. Two adults jumped up to see if I was okay. One of them helped me up and dusted the sawdust off my dress. The other said too bad there was no ice around. I put my hand to my head and felt a bump rise under the skin. Pam looked at me with suspicion.“You did that to get attention.”“Did not.”“Did too.”Betty Ann shushed us.“Donna, sit down. Now. Pamela Eloise, shut up and pay attention.”Pam pointed her finger at me. “She’s not paying attention.”Betty Ann pinched her full lips into a hard little knot, raised her eyebrows, and inclined her head toward the platform and my mother. I sighed and sat down. Brother Terrell preached on.“Faith changes things. When I was a boy doctors diagnosed me with cancer of the bone. They operated nine times and removed all the bone in my leg. I spent so much time in hospitals, I had to drop out of school in third grade.”I sat up and listened. This was the story of the scar. Brother Terrell clipped the microphone around his neck, bent over, and rolled up his right pant leg to just below his knee. He spoke off microphone, and his voice sounded small and distant. “They wanted to amputate, but my mother wouldn’t let them. She believed God would heal me.” He gripped the white rail of the prayer ramp behind him, balanced on his left leg, and held his right in the air, crooked at the knee. His calf gleamed white under the spotlights, exposed between the dark fabric of his pant leg and sock like some subterranean creature seeing light for the first time. Only it wasn’t the first time. Brother Terrell revealed the scar at almost every revival.“Come on up here, you that wants to see.”People rose across the tent and made their way to the front. Men, women, children, even the scoffers crowded ’round.“Go ahead, touch it. Jesus told Thomas to put his finger in the nail holes. See for yourself what faith will do.”He lost his balance for a moment and one of the ministers on the platform brought him a chair. He took a seat and stretched out his leg. The scar ran along the inside of his right leg, from knee to ankle. One by one, people laid their fingers in the long trough of purple tissue.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  A giant, sweet-tempered German shepherd named Kelly met his fate there, as did Brutus, a black adolescent Great Dane whose first and last attempt to mount the long-legged and more experienced Guinevere had ended in a broken and bandaged penis. I spotted him one morning as I stepped out of the trailer. He lay stretched out on the far side of the two-lane road, his taped and splinted member glowing white against his dark fur. The neighbors shrugged and said too bad’bout those dogs. Gary and I had been raised by country people, but we were not country kids. Until we moved to Marlin, we had never cleaned a horse stall, rounded up cows (just wave your arms when they stampede toward you), ridden a horse, or raised an animal destined for the slaughterhouse. The kids who lived around us had plenty of experience at these things and had developed a mental and physical toughness we lacked. They sniffed out weakness and pretension like bloodhounds.The first Monday Gary and I stepped up onto the school bus, it went silent. Twenty pairs of eyes took our measure. Why, oh why had I worn the go-go boots? Blood thrummed in my ears. I focused on the unshaven face of the bus driver. His cheeks hung down to his chin. His eyes drooped. His lips drooped. Someone had let the air out of this man a long time ago. Mama had taught me it was my Christian duty to lift up the downtrodden. I read the nameplate on the dash and said in my most grown-up, citified voice, “Good morning, Mr. Nix.”A dark, juicy wad issued from his mouth and landed with a splat in the big coffee can he kept beside his seat. He threw the bus in gear and we lurched forward.That night at dinner, I told my mother about saying hello to poor old Mr. Nix. She looked at me with admiration.“I hope you always have the gumption to do what’s right.”“But how do you know what’s right?”“You feel it. Like you did on the bus this morning.”The next morning I stepped into the bus, took a deep breath, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Nix.” Before I could sit down, a chorus of kids echoed in my own prissy falsetto, “Good morning, Mr. Nix.” On Wednesday, a barrage of spitballs followed the chorus of mimics. On Thursday night, I prayed Mr. Nix would die in his sleep.Gary and I stood in the middle of our caliche drive Friday morning, dreading that smear of yellow on the horizon, hoping as we would for the next two years that we had somehow managed to miss the bus. He picked up a smooth, round stone and with a flick of his wrist, sent it skipping one, two, three over the blacktop. We grinned at each other. He stepped back from the highway and stood beside me. We turned our heads and eyed the bus lumbering toward us.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I stuttered again.“Glory be to God, the Holy Ghost has got a holt of this child.”Shouts of “Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus” reverberated. A hand hit my forehead and I reeled back under the blow. I fluttered my eyelids and saw a clutch of adults gathered around me, determined to help me pray through to the Holy Ghost.Getting the Holy Ghost Assemblies of God style could take hours. The petitioner pled with God to fill her with his spirit and practiced different combinations of consonants and vowel sounds to loosen the tongue. Believers mopped sweat off the brow and offered sips of water to keep the throat moist and the tongue moving. I’ve seen women and men turn pale after a few hours and look as though they were ready to faint. Just when the person reached exhaustion, the tongues came. If they didn’t, the supplicant continued pleading and babbling.I didn’t have hours. What I had was an urgent need to pee. I opened my eyes.“Don’t fight him, honey. Let him take over.”I closed my eyes.“That’s right. Let God have his way with you. Begin to thank him for giving you the Holy Ghost.”“Say, ‘Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.’ ” Another hand hit my head and shook it.“Thankyouthankyouthankyou . . .”The syllables rattled round in my mouth, flowed together, and began to sound like something altogether different.“Thanuthanuthathanunu.”The adults howled hallelujahs.I ran my “thanu thanu”s up against the “shondi shondi”s. “Thanuthanushondishondithanu . . .”The band of bodies around me broke as the adults began to shout and speak in tongues. The tall stained-glass windows beside me rattled as the breeze blew harder.The preacher’s voice shaped and narrated what was happening. “The Bible says the Holy Ghost blew upon them like a mighty wind. He’s blowing through here tonight. Lift your hands, everybody.”I kept my tongue moving. “Thanu shondi condi thanu tha nu tha than u nu nu ah.”I opened my eyes and surveyed the situation. Everyone in the church was dancing. I closed my eyes and joined them. I longed to abandon myself to God, but something stopped me. Something always did. Usually it was my inability to escape my sense of selfconsciousness, but on that night it was more basic. I had to go and soon. I crumpled to the ground as though slain in the spirit and lay there for a respectable length of time, then rose stumbling as I had seen grown-ups do and made my way down the aisle to the door marked LADIES. By the time I poked my head out of the lavatory, church was over. I walked out into the evening, where believers stood in small clutches discussing how the Holy Ghost had fallen on the young people and how different their lives would be from now on and how the Bible had foretold a great outpouring of the spirit in the last days and surely these were the last days.Everywhere I turned, I faced the backs of people.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  Social psychology comes into the picture here, because the answer that a truthful CFO would offer is plainly ridiculous. A CFO who informs his colleagues that “there is a good chance that the S&P returns will be between – 10% and +30%” can expect to be laughed out of the room. The wide confidence interval is a confession of ignorance, which is not socially acceptable for someone who is paid to be knowledgeable in financial matters. Even if they knew how little they know, the executives would be penalized for admitting it. President Truman famously asked for a “one-armed economist” who would take a clear stand; he was sick and tired of economists who kept saying, “On the other hand...” Organizations that take the word of overconfident experts can expect costly consequences. The study of CFOs showed that those who were most confident and optimistic about the S&P index were also overconfident and optimistic about the prospects of their own firm, which went on to take more risk than others. As Nassim Taleb has argued, inadequate appreciation of the uncertainty of the environment inevitably leads economic agents to take risks they should avoid. However, optimism is highly valued, socially and in the market; people and firms reward the providers of dangerously misleading information more than they reward truth tellers. One of the lessons of the financial crisis that led to the Great Recession is that there are periods in which competition, among experts and among organizations, creates powerful forces that favor a collective blindness to risk and uncertainty. The social and economic pressures that favor overconfidence are not restricted to financial forecasting. Other professionals must deal with the fact that an expert worthy of the name is expected to display high confidence. Philip Tetlock observed that the most overconfident experts were the most likely to be invited to strut their stuff in news shows. Overconfidence also appears to be endemic in medicine. A study of patients who died in the ICU compared autopsy results with the diagnosis that physicians had provided while the patients were still alive. Physicians also reported their confidence. The result: “clinicians who were ‘completely certain’ of the diagnosis antemortem were wrong 40% of the time.” Here again, expert overconfidence is encouraged by their clients: “Generally, it is considered a weakness and a sign of vulnerability for clinicians to appear unsure. Confidence is valued over uncertainty and there is a prevailing censure against disclosing uncertainty to patients.” Experts who acknowledge the full extent of their ignorance may expect to be replaced by more confident competitors, who are better able to gain the trust of clients. An unbiased appreciation of uncertainty is a cornerstone of rationality—but it is not what people and organizations want. Extreme uncertainty is paralyzing under