Being GiLBerT

By Gail O. Dellslee

Piper is just starting her freshman year of high school in West Virginia. She is neither pretty nor smart. She has never felt like she fit in anywhere. That changes when she begins to make friends with the kids at school who dress in all black. They help her discover herself—her politics, her religion, even her gender. But as she gets deeper and deeper into the clique, she feels like she is getting in over her head. Is Piper truly finding herself, or just the self they want her to find? She wants to keep her friends, but at what cost? And what does it truly mean to be transgender?

• Language: English
• Publisher: GAIL O. DELLSLEE
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201723811

Gail O. Dellslee

Gail O. Dellslee is a multi-racial author who grew up on the west coast of the United States. She started writing novels when she was 10 years old. Gail gets her inspiration from her cats and life experiences, and she enjoys incorporating real situations and people into her fiction.

Book preview

Chapter #1:  I am a Freshman

I've been staring at the cracks and chipped paint on my ceiling for seven hours, too excited to sleep.  For one thing, it takes me longer to sleep since I can't lie on my belly anymore; my annoying breasts hurt when I try. But the bigger reason for why I can't sleep is because today will be my first day going to Bloomington High School.  I'll be what they call a freshman.  Why not a freshwoman?  Or even better, the gender neutral term frosh?  Maybe the term freshman was invented before girls were allowed to go to school.

Mom bought me a new binder and a new pair of shoes for the first time in three years. The new shoes are Nikes, which are normally very expensive, but Mom managed to find them on clearance.  Kids in middle school always made fun of me for having holey shoes and a ripped binder, so now they won't have that ammunition.  I reckon I could even make a friend or two if I really set my mind to it.  And even if I don't, I'll still get to look forward to having lunch with Anna every day.

At long last, the alarm clock calls out, beep-beep beep-beep!  I throw off my sheets and jump down from the top bunk, landing quiet like a cat because Mom's bedroom is below ours.  Anna on the bottom bunk groans and hits the snooze button.  I walk past our desk and open the closet to examine my clothing options.  I've given this hours of thought while lying in bed, but still I'm not sure what to wear. I want to pick the best looking outfit to make a good impression on my soon-to-be friends.  Anna and I share these hand-me-downs though, and the kids at school have seen them all before. 

There are a good amount of jeans and skirts, with blouses in every color of the rainbow.  On the other side of the closet are the clothes of our older sister Brenda—goth clothes—which we never wear.  We call it The Dark Side.  I don't give that side a glance; I already know I'm not wearing any of that stuff. 

When the alarm clock beeps again, Anna gets up this time and her footsteps drag to my side.

Which shirt do you think I should wear? I ask.

Anna yawns and thinks for a brief moment as she looks from me to our closet.

How about this green one? she says, pointing. It matches your eyes.

I take it off the hanger. Green is one of my favorite colors, tied with blue.  But the shirt has a little stain from when Anna dropped a bit of ketchup on it last year.  It's a small spot though—no bigger than a quarter—so maybe no one will pay any mind.

Anna notices me frowning at the shirt and laughs lightly, squeezing my cheek.

Don't worry so much, Piper, she says. You'll be fine. Today's no different than the first day of middle school.

Easy for her to say. She doesn't know that on the first day of middle school, I slipped on a chip bag in the cafeteria and fell on my face in front of everyone.

Anna doesn't have to think at all before she plucks some clothes for herself to wear: a denim skirt and a pink blouse.  We wear the same size clothes, but they're much tighter on her than they are on me. They show off her hourglass figure.  I have no figure at all.  Not that I'm jealous.  I like loose-fitting clothes.  My A-cup breasts are aggravating enough as they are (the A must stand for aggravating); I don't want them any bigger.

As Anna snaps on her bra, I turn back to the closet.  Which bottom should I pair with this green shirt?  All of the bottoms we have are denim (except the ones on The Dark Side, which of course are all black), but I have to choose between pants or a skirt.  I really hate skirts, but Anna always wears them, and she's super popular.  So I pull out a skirt.

Then I follow her into the bathroom.  We both stare at our reflections in the mirror as we brush our hair.  Anna's is auburn, smooth, and shiny.  Mine is blonde and bushy.  Bangs aren't in style, but we both have them because our foreheads look too big otherwise.  Anna makes a perfectly spaced part straight down the middle of her head with her brush.  I try to part mine perfectly down the middle too while Anna plucks her eyebrows.  I don't know why she does this just to paint on new ones.

My third grade teacher Ms. Musgrave had a couple of guinea pigs she kept in class.  One named Ruby had smooth, perfect fur. The other named Rosette had cowlicks all over her body that never smoothed down.  All the kids loved petting Ruby, while Rosette got neglected. Whenever Anna and I brush our hair in the morning, I feel like she's Ruby and I'm Rosette.  I can never get my hair perfect like hers.

Besides fake eyebrows, Anna puts on a mess of other makeup:  foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and pale pink lipstick.  I think she's beautiful without any of that stuff.  She's so beautiful that she could be a model.  But Anna told me in the past that she's too short to be one—only 4'11".  And I'm one inch shorter than that.  Everyone in our family is short.

If only I didn't have this darn thing, she mutters.

That's the other reason she thinks she can't be a model—there's this mark on her right cheek.  It's the color of a freckle, but it's larger—like the size of her nostril.  The foundation covers up her little freckles but not that big mark.  Marilyn Monroe had a mole, and she still got famous.  Didn't folks back then even call it a beauty mark?  I guess marks on the face aren't fashionable in the 21st century.

I don't have any marks or freckles on my skin, but no one has ever called me beautiful.  I know I'm not.  I have chubby cheeks like a baby, thick eyebrows like woolly bear caterpillars, and a short neck like a Barbie doll whose head came off and someone pushed it back on too far.  But the rest of my body is stick thin.  Anna, who is naturally beautiful, puts on all that makeup to become even more beautiful.  But I'm already ugly, so I don't bother trying to fix what can't be fixed.  I'm too lazy and impatient for that.  I'm even too lazy to shave my legs or armpits.  Plus, if I can't get my hair parted right, how could I manage makeup?  I could ask Anna to help me, but I don't like asking for help. It's bad enough I asked her for advice on what shirt to wear.

When Anna is done with her makeup, my part still isn't perfect.  More hair hangs over my left eye than my right.  I give up.  I wrap my long hair in a ponytail and tie it at the base of my neck with a black hair tie (the only color we have).  Anna and I go downstairs to the kitchen and eat Frosted Flakes together without speaking, and then make our lunches—the same sandwiches we made every day last school year:  I make one with pastrami and pepper jack cheese, and she makes peanut butter and jelly.  Her choice seems childish, but that doesn't stop her from satisfying her sweet tooth. 

We each take our frozen water bottles out of the freezer, then we walk down the hall to put our lunches in our backpacks where our shoes lie waiting.  To the right of the front door is the living room. To the left is Mom's bedroom.  Anna turns to the left to finish her morning ritual while I hang back in the doorway and wait for her.

Mom is awake but still in bed.  She's scrolling through something on her smartphone.  Dad stopped living here before I was born, and it's a good thing he left because there wouldn’t be any room for him in the bed if he stayed.  Mom is a whale; her body is the width of four of me.

Anna kneels by the bed so Mom can braid her hair.  Mom sighs with irritation as she tears her eyes away from the phone to complete the task.  I don't see how Anna can stand to do this every day when Mom clearly is so annoyed about it.  Just watching makes me uncomfortable, and that's why I keep my distance.  I'd offer to do the braiding myself to save Mom the trouble, but I reckon I'd fail at that too, so I keep my mouth shut.

Thanks, Mom, Anna says when she's finished.  See you later!

Yeah.  Bye.

Mom goes back to her phone, and we go out the door.  The sky is milky white, and the air smells like ginger and oregano.  Mom's shifts at Walmart always start in the late morning, so she used to drive us to school.  But that was before she got her smartphone.

The middle school and the high school are on opposite ends of Bloomington, so Anna and I used to leave the house in separate directions.  But today we walk east side by side because today I'm a high schooler too.  It brings a smile to my face, even though we don't say anything to each other.  I'm sure she'll be more talkative at lunch when she's not so sleepy.

Not only is Anna an almost perfect beauty, but she's also almost perfect in general.  She's the perfect daughter—affectionate to Mom, cheerfully obedient, and voluntarily helpful with cooking and cleaning.  She's the perfect student—popular, gets straight A's, and she's even good at sports and music!

She's everything I wish I could be.  I reckon all the good genes from my parents got used up on her, so there were none left for me.  I'm cursed with ugliness, as I already explained.  Mom doesn't seem to like me, let alone love me, and no one at school ever has either.  I'd like to be good at sports, but having asthma and being clumsy makes that nearly impossible.  I don't even get good enough grades for anyone to call me a nerd.  Anna patiently helps me with my homework when I ask her to, but I still struggle.

Anna is the first in our family who will be going to college after high school.  Her good grades and essays earned her a scholarship.  Mom wouldn't have been able to pay for it otherwise.  Even with how busy Anna has been over the years keeping her grades up, she still manages to wake up early to work a part time job on Saturdays and walk to church on Sundays. I don't see how she does it!

Some other kids are walking to school too, but most take the bus.  We walk past small houses much like our own, with brown lawns and broken down vehicles in front. On the main road that divides Bloomington from Sutherland, there's a misty mountain on one side and businesses on the other: a gas station, a health clinic, a burger joint, a hardware store, a bank, a bar, and the bakery Anna works at.  The bank is the nicest looking building in town.  Some mining company is blowing up the mountain to get to the coal inside.  Afterward, the land will be flat, and I hear they're going to put a correctional facility up on top.  (Funny that they're called correctional facilities when they don't correct anything.)  Walmart is the last business we pass before we see the blue tennis courts of Bloomington High.

Bloomington High is a one-story brick building with some maple trees and an American flag in the middle of dying grass. A sign posted out front reads, Pride in self, pride in community, pride in the Bloomington Bobcats!  The building looks so much bigger than the middle school even though it probably only holds 60 to 100 more students.  Our town is small—less than 10,000 residents.

Anna and I join the mob of students filtering into the double doors.  Girls huddle close to their friends, gossiping while they walk.  Boys walk independently, spitting off to their side as they go.  What is it that they're spitting, and do they really need to do that?  I never see girls doing that.  Anna walks ahead of me now, kids bumping past me and between us.  I wish I could stay with her all day or at least watch her go to her class, but her head is lost among all the taller ones.

I walk into my first period class, which is science.  My schedule sheet that I got during orientation last week says that my teacher is Thompson.  She is a female teacher with curly white hair.  I never know whether to call female teachers by Mrs. or Miss since I don't know if they're married or not, so I'll just go with Ms.  Really, we should get rid of Mrs. and Miss; they're from an old fashioned time when it mattered whether a woman was married or not.  Now no one cares.  At least I think they don't.  I know I wouldn't like to be advertising my marital status in my name.  I'll probably never get married; no boy has ever had a crush on me, and I can't say I've had a crush on any of them either.

Ms. Thompson doesn't tell us where to sit, so I choose a seat in the front right by the door.  It'll come in handy to be close to the door in case I'm ever running late to school and need to get to my seat quick before the bell rings.  I also kind of need a front seat in order to see the board; Mom can't afford to buy me glasses or contacts because we don't have insurance.  I'm glad she can't afford them, because the thought of putting something in my eyes freaks me out, and glasses would just give kids another reason to make fun of me.

Sitting at my desk, I look around the room to see who's in my class.  It doesn't look good.  I see a lot of kids who don't like me: Ember Moore, Ryan Botkins, Kayla Maddox, Noah Marchington, and his sidekick Ultan Lee, the only Asian in our grade.  The last two unfortunately choose to sit to my left.  To my right is nobody, just a big machine with clear glass and empty space inside like a giant microwave oven.

Once the bell rings and roll call is over, Ms. Thompson introduces herself.  She says that she's the science teacher who gives the most lab work.  Great.  Not looking forward to that.

The first thing she has us do is a silly ice breaker activity where we all have to get in line in order of birthday, starting from today's date, August 31st.  Sounds simple, but we have to do it without talking.  When Ryan stands in front of me expectantly, I start to put my palm up to signal the fifth month of the year.  Before I can hold up two fingers on one hand and four on the other, he interrupts me:

Just tell me your fuckin' birthday.

May 24th, I whisper.

He walks away.  I glance back at Ms. Thompson who is standing by the lab tables in the back of the room.  Does she care that some of the kids are not obeying the no talking rule?  Apparently not; she's too busy focusing on her smartphone with her eyes glazed over like Mom.

I end up being the last student in the line, which means I'm the youngest.  Looks like I'm also the shortest.  Isn't the point of ice breakers to make folks feel more comfortable around each other?  It had the opposite effect on me. I feel more alone and intimidated now than I did when I walked in the door.

We all go back to our desks to await Ms. Thompson's next instructions.  After I sit down, Kayla Maddox walks by and presses her hand down on my new binder like she's trying to smash it.  For no reason at all.  I don't know why kids have to be so mean.

Ms. Thompson says we're going to do our first lab experiment today.  She shows some things on the overhead projector about scales and asks the class questions.  A girl I haven't seen before is the only one who raises her hand.  Ms. Thompson calls her Nicole Dickerson.  She knows all the right answers, which reminds me of Hermione from the Harry Potter series, the last book of which I read over summer vacation.  Nicole even has bushy hair like Hermione too.  I think this girl would've made a better actress to play the character in the movies.  I've seen them all, and the folks who made them only had her hair bushy for the first two.  I reckon they cared more about making her pretty than staying true to the character.  Well, if my life is ever made into a movie, don't pick a pretty actress to play me!  I. Am. Ugly!  Not that this would ever happen anyway, since my life is too boring to be made into a movie.

It doesn't take many correctly answered questions from Nicole before Noah insults her under his breath, calling her Science Girl.  She can likely hear him because she sits only two desks behind him.  But that doesn't stop her from raising her hand. I immediately admire her and resolve to ask her to be my lab partner.

But when Ms. Thompson turns us loose to find groups, Kayla gets to her first.  Ms. Thompson said our lab groups could have up to three students in them though, so I continue to their lab table.

May I be in your group, Nicole? I ask, careful to direct the question to her instead of Kayla and to impress her with my proper grammar.

But Nicole totally ignores me!  I feel devastated.

Kayla . . . ? I start to ask.

Betsy's our third person, she says just as Betsy walks up and brushes roughly by me to sit on the stool I'm standing in front of.  Why don't you join Ryan's group?  He ain't got a third person yet.

I glance at him a table away, a table with all boys.

I don't wanna work with boys, I say.

What's wrong with boys? Betsy asks.  Are you lesbian?

Laughter erupts from everyone who hears, and I walk away, my face hot with shame.  In sixth grade, Betsy Thomas chose to partner with me in math class. I thought we were almost friends, but so much for that.  She must've only partnered with me because she assumed that my quiet and awkward nature meant I was smart.  Unfortunately for her, I was just as dumb as her.  Shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

I'm seriously tempted to just take a zero and sit at my desk for the rest of the hour, but I decide to do the right thing by going to Ms. Thompson for help.

I don't have a group, I tell her.

I've done this many times in my life.  I'm used to no one wanting me and having to ask the teacher to force someone to work with me.  Usually the teacher just walks me up to someone and tells them to let me in.  Then they can't say no.

But Ms. Thompson does something different—something worse.

Whose group doesn't have a third person yet? she asks the class.

Every head turns toward us, and they all stare at me with amused expressions.  I look down at my new Nikes which so far haven't helped me at all.  There's silence for a minute because no one wants to admit to having space for me.

Ryan's group ain't got a third person yet, Noah says.

Ryan glares across the table at him.

Ms. Thompson gestures to Ryan and slaps her thighs as if the problem is solved.  I reluctantly walk to the boys' lab table and sit next to Ryan and his friend.  They ignore me just like Nicole did.  I only get any acknowledgment from Noah, who bangs on the table at unexpected moments in an attempt to scare me. I try my best not to flinch.

My first day of high school is not off to a good start, I think.

Second period is English, the only subject I used to be good at until it started to be less about grammar and more about essays.  On the way there, someone lifts my skirt from behind.

Still as flat as a board, he remarks as I turn around to see the culprit.

It's Pat Silversmith, another of my enemies.  His friends Brandon and Jordan are beside him, and they laugh.  I clench my fist and scowl, feeling like grabbing him by his shirt collar and telling him to grow up.  Instead I rip my skirt out of his hand and continue on my way.  This is one reason why I hate skirts.  It leaves me too vulnerable to folks who lift them, and even an innocent breeze.  I vow never to wear one again.

Mr. McCoy is the name of my English teacher.  He's a balding old man with a laidback personality.  Like Ms. Thompson, he also lets us pick our own seats, so I pick one close to the board again.  The desks are arranged in a circle that borders the walls of the room.  Pat annoyingly follows me and takes the desk on my right.  His two friends sit at his other side, and Robert Philips takes the desk on my left.

Robert isn't a mean kid, but he's kind of creepy.  He has super pale skin which contrasts sharply against his black hair.  He also has facial hair already, while none of the other boys our age do; it makes him look like a werewolf and doesn't score him any points for popularity.  Robert was also one of the kids who had lice, ringworm, and scabies in elementary school. He's treated as if he still has them.  He and Pat were in my history class last year.  Right after our teacher told us not to write in our textbooks, Robert thought it'd be cool to disobey her, by writing his name