Best Woman

I want to be the girl with the most cake.

There are no malls in New York City.

I’ve only had one cup of coffee today and there’s currently an Adderall shortage in New York City. “Where’s the mirror?”

I’m hustled back into the dressing room, a space draped so aggressively in pink it feels almost vaginal, which is probably the point.

it is still just a body. It is pale and freckled and imperfect. My hips are too square, my thighs too dimpled, my stomach too curved, my ass too flat. But as I normally do, I try to find the parts of it I like, the parts I see as mine: My collarbones jut in a way that is almost delicate, the freckles on my shoulders left over from summer are sweet and girlish. Eyes wide, neck long, lips full—thank you, Juvéderm.

“Hey, dolls,” she coos, blowing us air-kisses.

This is deeply, painfully true. When I first came out to my friends, I ranted for months to anyone who would listen about just how much I didn’t care what my family thought about me, all while I was avoiding their emails and video calls so I wouldn’t have to tell them. My dad had to start the conversation by sending me a screenshot of my most recent Instagram post and the words anything u want 2 tell me???

“Why, she didn’t like the dress Rachel picked out?”

With Kim Cameron, a year ahead of me, the girl who received a standing ovation in the cafeteria last year for punching a guy in the face when he called her a dyke.

“Excuse me, I think I need the next size up.”

“And I don’t have a sample for you to try. We only carry up to a ten in store.”

It’s no secret that I’m trans, that I haven’t always identified or presented as a woman, but in the current landscape of trans politics, it’s not exactly the done thing to admit to ever having been a gender other than the one you are now, or always were, or whatever.

this is Kim Cameron, my unattainable first crush suddenly thrust back into my life, the first person I ever wanted so bad I thought I’d die from it.

“You deserve so much better than that, Julia.”

“Sure, man, no problem.”

“He’s a clueless asswipe, Julia.” Kim is looking at me with concern that I’d find condescending from anyone else, but she rests her hand on mine again, and the electricity of her touch is just as intense the second time. She looks even more open and sympathetic than she was a few minutes ago. “God, that guy, your family…cis people suck. I apologize on our behalf,” she says. It could be a joke but she says it seriously, and I’d love nothing more than to roll my eyes, but they’re too busy looking down her shirt as she leans over the table.

“Don’t worry about it.” I’m doing my best trans martyr drag, a woman struggling to be above the constant cruelty of a cisheteronormative society. This is true, in a way, but I’ve conditioned myself as much as possible to be unaffected by it, and insulated by queer people who get it and non-queer people who make an effort to be, ugh, allies.

“You deserve so much better than that,” she says, echoing her words from before. She’s laying it on thick, which feels like another point in my favor.

This part is true. My whole life, I’ve been the odd duck, not quite the black sheep but maybe…the gray goat.

“Anyway, my mother would kill me.”

“When she came out, my cellphone was a Motorola Razr. And she knew me when I had acne and greasy hair and oh, was a boy! I need every advantage I can get.”

It’s funny how we are either a reflection of or reaction to our parents.

Mom and Dad are fighting again.

Moments later, the yelling starts. They probably think that with two doors and a living room between our rooms we can’t hear them, but they’re so loud. Not loud enough to make out all the words—although reliable phrases like “just like your mother” and “how can you say that to me” are now familiar enough to hear clearly—but the feeling behind the argument all but rattles our small house.

I know how this will go. They’ll scream for an hour. Mom will cry, Dad will go quiet. Then Mom will start yelling again, and Dad will start crying, something I used to think was impossible. The cycle will repeat a few more times until finally they go quiet.

“Nah, you’re going to be the hottest girl in there.” She says it so casually, but my heart still speeds up.