My Name Is Kyle

His name was Trenton Lloyd. It was first grade, and I was naive. I had this pageboy haircut that I convinced my mom to let me have because she saw it on a model and thought it looked “chic” on her, so why not on me? In reality, it was the closest thing to an actual boy’s haircut she’d probably let me get away with. At that time, I liked boys. I don’t know if it was because none of them had been openly mean to me yet, but I really loved them. And I hated girls, which is funny, because I actually developed a major crush on a girl at one point, but that’s a whole other can of glitter. Anyways, it was first grade, I was naïve, and his name was Trenton Lloyd.
Trenton was this outgoing person; he’d always be one of the boys to pick his football team at recess, even though third graders were playing. He had blond hair that hung down his brow and tea green eyes that were an almost indistinguishable mix of brown and leaf green. He was also very friendly and bright. Don’t worry, nothing happened to him. I’m using “was” because this is in past tense. I’m reflecting on my past to give you a backstory, and more to look deep.
I remember having the biggest crush on him since I’d first seen him. Well, the biggest crush that my young eyes had ever seen or experienced. Little did I know, I would develop a much higher admiration of…. Wait, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. So, Trenton was hot shit. And I wasn’t exactly the coolest kid. With chunky, black framed glasses, short hair, and often wearing old overalls, I was kind of a pathetic looking child. Not only that, but I was clumsy. Literally, I’d drop anything I held and trip over everything, including air. I was also really awkward, and I wouldn’t talk to anyone for a long time, to the point where my teachers thought I was autistic. So I was just this frumpy little girl with an unkempt boy’s haircut, a social deficiency, and a ruddy complexion of which I would not outgrow until my shirts suddenly became too tight and I got hair in random places.
I was madly in love with Trenton Lloyd. Every tiny gesture or movement he made, every flick of his hair, every stifled giggle during study hall, all of them were like crack to me. If Trenton Lloyd’s butt was methadone, then I was a filthy addict. I told my best friend, Adair about it. Somehow, the word got out. I don’t know if she told my other two friends, Camden and Jessie . But by the time the next day rolled around, all of the first grade knew, including Mr. Hotshot a.k.a. Trenton Lloyd.
I was even more red faced than usual. I tried to avoid Trenton the entire day, but in music he sat next to me when we were both told to go play the xylophones. He smiled at me, and my heart stopped in my chest. I was ready to pronounce my love to him when he informed harshly,
“I don’t like you, Kylin. You’re weird.”
I went home that day, in tears. When my mom asked what was wrong, I lied and mumbled some incomprehensive fibs about friend drama. She held me and told me that everything would be okay, and even offered to invite my friends over for cookies and juice. I declined, and told her that I was sure we could work it out.
My mom was better at that time. She was very bad when I was young; so bad that I had to walk five blocks to school because she was too out of it to drive me or even suggest it. She didn’t make supper either, so we had Ramen or Spaghettios every night, and I’d set hers in front of her with a fork and retreat to the TV room. I never saw her eat, but every time I returned, the food was at least partially eaten.
My mom had severe depression . It was so bad that she wouldn’t get out of bed most days, and she was unemployed because she didn’t have any motivation to work. We were living off of unemployment checks that the government handed out to us.
Why was my mom depressed? She told me when I was too young to understand the depth of the situation that “Her brain had a boo-boo.” When I was about nine and she was past it, she told me that it was because the chemicals in her brain controlling her moods weren’t even. Supposedly, that’s why she takes Abilify and Pristique. I know the real reason behind her depression. My dad is a piece of shit .
I gradually progressed in my childhood, becoming more and more boyish as the years went by. I kept the same pageboy haircut, except by second grade, I got the idea that maybe I should actually comb it. I rooted through my closet, trying to find the best excuse for boy’s clothing I had. This was a Spiderman tee with plaid shorts. I had always felt like a boy all my life; and I’m not sure why it was second grade that I decided to start dressing like it.
I remember when we went school shopping for third grade, I looked through the boys’ sections for all of my clothing. I would pick out a t shirt or shoes, and I remember my mom saying,
“Honey, is that really what you want? After all, it’s boys’ clothes.”
I’d just nod, and my mom would hang her head and give this really heavy sigh like she’s so disappointed and I’m just the worst child in the world. I put on some of my new clothes in the bathroom, including Star Wars boy briefs, which I was surprised she let me get away with. I dressed myself also in a black beanie, a T Rex shirt, and basketball shorts. We went out to eat at Pizza Hut, one of my favorite restaurants. We were waiting in line to pay, when a woman behind us tapped my mom on the shoulder.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she’d began, “But you just have one of the cutest little boys I’ve ever seen!”
I beamed, but my mom gave the woman the Look of Death and hissed, “She’s a girl.”
The woman got all red and flustered and apologized over and over, but my mom just turned her back on her. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that had set my campaign back about a year. My mom took me from Pizza Hut straight back to the mall, grabbing a cart. She furiously plucked off dress after dress, flats after flats, and panties after panties before paying for them all. I’d tugged on her skirt and asked,
“Mommy, why are you buying more? I already have clothes.”
My mom had shook her head and replied, “You won’t be wearing those anymore, Kylin. For land sake’s , people can’t even tell you’re a girl anymore.”
So I wore dresses in silence for most of my second grade year, even denying my hair its every two weeks trim. I was too scared to cross my mother. By the end of the year, my hair was down to my shoulder, and my friends were wondering what happened to my cool rocker haircut but all were too nervous to ask.
I went home one day, and snuck scissors from my mother’s desk. She’s an at home accountant . I went to the bathroom, and started clipping off my hair. It fell in fawn locks in a circle around my step stool, and all over the inside of the sink. By the time it was fairly uneven, but above my ears, I stopped, stepping down and heading downstairs to show my mother.
She screamed. She screamed a lot. She screamed at me, at herself, but mostly at no one in particular. The next day, she made me wear a hat to school, and told me to wear it all day until we could get my butcher job evened out tomorrow. I did as I was told, but just knowing that below that hat was a reckless tangle of misplaced tangles was enough to keep me smiling all day long.
After the whole hair disaster, my mom gave me a lot more discretion with my clothing choices. I guess she’d rather have her daughter look like a boy than look like a lawnmower attack victim. I dressed in all boys’ clothes and for the first time in my life, and I don’t care how cheesy this sounds, I felt like I belonged. As someone who’d spent all of their life feeling out of place and alone, it was nice to finally feel… wanted?
The bliss didn’t last forever. I was rudely awakened when my peers began to pick on me. Boys especially would target me, calling me Kyle instead of Kylin and remarking on how much I looked like a boy. It didn’t bother me at first, but getting sarcastically catcalled or oinked at everyday got old pretty fast. It wasn’t that much of a problem, either. I wasn’t fazed by it at all; I’ve always had a strong sense of myself.
But then, towards the end of the eighth grade, the whole Carissa Sanchez incident happened.
Carissa Sanchez was gorgeous. She had this golden tanned skin, and amber eyes to combat it. Her lips were plump and formed a little heart, and her lashes stretched to her high cheekbones. She had long, chocolate hair that reached all the way down her back and was always perfectly tousled.
She was maybe the only person outside of my circle of friends that was nice to me. Not super friendly, like inviting me over to sleep overs or anything, but when she’d see me in the halls, she’d wave, and if I sneezed in class, she’d always bless me when everyone else wouldn’t dare. I had a major crush on her, an even bigger one than I had on Trenton Lloyd.
So once upon a time, I decide to go through the gym and into the locker room so I can bring my P.E. clothes home. I see Carissa in there, alone, and she’s just sitting in the bleachers, reading. I timidly make my way over, calling casually,
“Hey.” My heart is like a rabbit on crack, beating rapidly in my chest to the point where I’m afraid it’ll pop out like in the cartoons . I sit down next to her, and she closes her book and turns to face me.
Carissa smiles, displaying rows of straight and albicant teeth. “Hi. What’s up, Kylin?”
She knows my name! “Um, not much. Just came in here to get my P.E. clothes, you?”
“Oh, I always read here after class. I have to wait for my sister Carmen to get done with sports before he can drive me home, so I usually just do homework or read,” she answers.
I nod, and empathize, “That sounds kind of sucky.”
She laughs, a real carefree, easy sound, and replies, “It’s not too bad.” She brushes some hair from her eyes and looks down at the ground as she puts her book into her backpack. I take the opportunity to subtly move over and kiss her , taking her jaw with one cheek and moving it so she is facing me.
At that moment, her older sister Carmen walks in, her eyes on the screen of her phone. “Hey loser, let’s leave. No practice….” She stares at me, and I recognize all too well the Look of Death on her face. “You little bitch!”
She strides forward, and I finally break apart the kiss, pleading,
“Don’t be mad at Carissa, she didn’t-”
Carmen makes a disgusted face at me and retorts, “Mad at Carissa?! I’m mad at you, you dumb slut!”
I turn to Carissa, mouthing sorry. Carissa, her eyes still wide from shock, nods, and I know that she forgives me. She looks fearfully up at her sibling and then back to me, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s worried for my life.
Carmen takes a swipe at me, and I leap to my feet, darting past her. I run out of the school, fists clenched, and don’t stop until I’m two blocks away and absolutely positive that she isn’t tailing me. I got home later and went to bed that night thinking that it was over. I had no idea of the shit storm I had started.
When I get to school the next morning, everybody is staring at me and whispering. My stomach gives an uneasy twist, and I think, “Uh-oh. Maybe I started something serious here.”
I reach my locker, and am about to open it when Adair grabs my arm and demands,
“Kylie! What the Hell did you do?!”
I turn around to face her. She’s looking at me worried, with Camden and Jessie at her heel .
“You right messed up this one, Kyles,” Camden agrees.
“Nothing!” I lie.
“Kylie, a whole bunch of kids are talking about how you’re going to get beat up by Carmen Sanchez and a bunch of other sophomores. I’m going to say this one more time. What did you do?” she repeats. “Please tell me, I’m scared for you.”
I sigh and answer quietly, “I kissed Carissa, alright? And Carmen walked in, and now it’s a whole deal…”
Adair chews her lip and informs, “We’ll walk home with you. You’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“Whatever you say, Addie,” I mumble. She hugs me and leaves, Camden and Jessie following her.
I open my locker door, to see an avalanche of notes fall out. I fall to my knees, scraping them off the floor, their messages flashing in my head as I desperately rip them up and shove the remains back in. “Faggot.” And “You’re going to pay.” Another one catches my eye that reads, “Remember, snitches get stitches.”
I gulp, and keep that one in my pocket, as a reminder not to go to a teacher for help.
The whole day, my stomach moans and rolls around. At lunch, I sit there deadpan, too nervous to eat a bite.
Camden observes me, and then nudges Adair, who admonishes,
“Kylie, you really should eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” I complain, shoveling the food around on my plate dully. “I feel like I’m about to vomit.”
“Can’t you just go to a professor for help?” Camden questions.
“First off, they’re called teachers,” I remind Camden. Camden looks hurt; usually I love her little British terms . “Second, I got this.” I pull the crumpled note out of my back pocket and hand it to her.
Her blue eyes triple in size as she reads the paper. She hands it back to me, and bobs her head aggressively, stammering,
“I-I ag-ag-ree with y-you. W-we sh-sh-shouldn’t tell any-anyone!”
“Let me see that!” Adair snaps, snatching the paper away and turning her back to me to read it. She turns back around and gives it back to me, assuring, “Don’t worry, Kyles. They’re just trying to scare you.”
I guess they shook us all up pretty well, because as we head out the door, I see Camden’s fingers trembling at her sides, Adair is anxiously ranting, and Jessie is too afraid to even show. We walk towards my house, no one except for Adair uttering a word until we reach the halfway point.
“Why were we ever scared?” Adair wonders. “Clearly, they’re not showing up.”
“Don’t jinx it, Addie!” Camden chides.
A second after the last word leaves her mouth, a minivan pulls up next to us. The window rolls down slowly, revealing Carmen Sanchez.
“RUN!” Adair screams, grabbing mine and Camden’s hands and bolting off. She drops our hands once we’re moving, and Adair darts into the nearby woods, convinced we will lose the kids in there. We dodge the trees narrowly, whizzing throughout the forest like a locust through a field. We run until we reach a creek, about seven feet wide and eight or nine feet deep.
“Shit!” Camden curses. She glances back over her shoulder, to see the sophomores approaching, all of them laughing as they run. She backs up a bit, and jumps over, motioning for us to do the same. Adair follows, easily crossing the creek.
“Come on, Kylie!” Adair encourages. “Jump!”
“I can’t!” I inform. “I can’t jump or swim!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you!” Camden promises. “You have to trust us!”
I begin to tear up, as I look back over my shoulder to see the kids even closer. I toss my bag over, and Adair catches it, setting it down on the ground. I look down at the water, back up a bit, and screw my eyes shut as I jump.
I don’t make it. I land in the water, which is freezing and murky, and flounder around for dear life . I break the surface, to see Camden extending her hand for me to grab.
I try to grab it, slapping her fingertips.
“Reach, Kylie!” Camden cries.
I try again, but I am grabbed by someone from behind. Whoever it is, they grab me by the back of my shirt and one of my legs, pulling me out of the water. They toss me onto the ground, and I shiver as I stare up at my aggressors, sopping hair partly blocking my vision.
“We got the dyke!” a girl cheers.
“Let’s kick her ass!” someone else enthusiastically suggests.
Carmen Sanchez makes her way through the small group of about six boys and girls. She grins evilly at me, and warns,
“This is what happens when you mess with the Queen Bee. You get stung, you little whore.” With that, she kicks me hard in the chest, sending me onto my back. I cry out in pain, as the others surround me and all begin striking me and kicking me. It’s so many kids and I’m so disoriented, the only face or voice I can make out is Carmen’s. I vaguely hear Adair in the distance, and from the corner of my eye, I see her rush over to this side, only to be restrained two girls while the other four continue to beat me. Camden jumps over as well, and dodges her attackers, and pries one of the girls away from me, only to be punched in the side of the head and taken to the ground. A girl pins Camden there, and Camden stares at me frightened, her navy eyes haunted.
The beating is over before I know it, and I’m left on the ground bloodied, my glasses broken, and soaking wet. Adair and Carmen rush to my side, asking,
“Oh my God! Kylie, are you okay!?”
“I’m… I’m fine,” I insist. I reach a hand up to take off my glasses, to see them spotted with blood. I unconsciously touch my nose, and when I look at my hand, it’s covered with the stuff. “I… I’m bleeding?”
Camden nods. “A lot. Come on, we’ll get you home.”
The two help me over to my house, and bring me straight up to the bathroom, ignoring my mother who calls, “Kylin?”
Adair takes my glasses while Camden tends to my wounds, which are a lot more than I thought.
“Shit,” Camden curses. “I think you may need stitches in your nose.”
“Fun,” I groan.
“What?” Adair asks. She pours peroxide onto one of my scraped arms, and I hiss in pain.
“Sounds like so much fun,” I moan sarcastically.
Adair smiles, and elbows Camden, pointing out, “Hey, she’s still our Kyles.”
My mother enters the bathroom, rushing to my side and questioning, “Kylin! Oh my Lord, what happened to you?”
“She got jumped, Ms. Hyde ,” Adair states plainly.
“What does ‘jumped’ mean?” Camden whispers .
“It’s slang for beat up,” Adair sighs.
“Who did this? Why?” my mom interrogates.
“I kissed someone I shouldn’t have, so their sibling and their buddies went after me,” I answer solemnly.
That’s why I moved. As soon as the school year was over, which felt like forever what with being called dyke on a regular basis and oinked or woofed at. Adair, Camden and Jessie were amazing though, always defending me whenever it happened in front of them. Well except for Jessie .
On moving day, my mom drives me to an entire 120 miles away, which is basically on the separate side of the earth. Camden, Jessie and Adair had all gone to my house to see me off, and every single one of them cried, including me. Now I sit in the front seat, stroking Robin with one hand and clutching my MP3 player with my other.
My mom lets me pick any room in the whole house to be mine. I can tell she’s trying to make amends, so I save a lot of misery and inform,
“Mom I’m not mad that we moved. I know we had to.”
My mom stands with her mouth agape as I head into the house. I stand in the front cell, looking at all of the rooms with mild interest. I head up the stairs swiftly, the steps still finding time to creak. I spot the room that’s mine. It has this old timey looking door, and when you open it, it’s this big fat room, with a slope on one wall. I decide that I’ll put my bed right below that slope, and it’ll make a real cozy spot.
I place Robin on the floor, and crouch down asking, “What do you think, Robin?”
Robin meows, licks her crotch and then runs away. I think she likes it.