The Best Damn Thing By Kamryn Kingsberry

           “Stop playing with that damn bird and help unpack!” my mother commands, her arms overflowing with a cascade of snowy linens.

          “This damn bird,” I retort, not breaking eye contact with the egg-shaped chick cradled in my palms, “is the best damn thing about moving to this shitty country.”

          “If you’re going to use profanity, can you be more creative, Morgan? Damn, really? What about the f-bomb? For example, this is a beautiful fucking place.”

“It’s a place defined by boredom and shrimps on barbies.”

            “I think that’s more of an Australian stereotype, actually.”

         “I don’t care.”

            After rhythmically tapping a socked toe in thoughtful silence, my Mom remarks, “I’m not who you want to be there right now. I may sound like a selfish bitch, but I miss when you were young, and my words were enough. But you know, sometimes you have to be in your corner.”

Without further elaboration, she pivots on her toe and disappears into the bathroom.

Something in my mom’s fortune cookie wisdom hits home as I pull my hood over my head to avoid seeing my reflection as I pass the full-length propped up against a nearby wall.

           I deposit Roo into my hoodie’s front pocket, partially zipping the sides to keep her from squirming out. She pokes her needle-shaped beak out one end, the tip scanning left and right like a periscope as we head to the kitchen. I rummage through a paper bag, unearthing a pack of trail mix. I stuff that into my bookbag and zigzag through a maze of cardboard hell to get out the front door. Time to gauge how dull the next eighteen months of my life will be. 

S’truth

          After thirty-two minutes of aimless driving in search of intelligent life, I sit slumped behind the wheel in a convenience store parking lot. New Zealand’s unbearable humidity and deserted residential streets zap my energy. Maryland was no paradise but at least it wasn’t a sauna. And the trees, I miss Maryland’s basic ass trees. 

        “I’m in a tropical hell,” I inform as she Roo pecks away at her pile of trail mix in the passenger seat, flinging the raisins to the floor like miniature turds. I leave her there and shuffle into the store. When I come back, she’s gone. I search under the seats and the car but can’t find her. 

        “What’s the matter?” a girl, maybe seventeen, asks as she abandons the wall she was leaning against to gawk at me, her New Zealand accent infusing her voice with melodic judgment.

        “I left my bird in my car. Now she’s missing.”

        “Give me a ride?”

        “I don’t know you.”

       “I’m Emma. Now can you give me a ride?”

       “No.”

       “Too bad,” she laments, reaching into the neon green fanny pack strapped around her waist. “Guess we’ll just have to hitchhike.”

       She extracts Roo from her bag.

       “Give her back.”

      “I won’t. You don’t even know what kind of bird this is, do you?”

       “Doesn’t matter. Give her back and I might buy you some Vegemite.”

       “Racist!”

       “New Zealand isn’t a race. Hand her over.”

       “I would never entrust this symbol of national pride to a xenophobe like yourself that doesn’t even know their stereotypes.”

       I ignore the urge to debate her use of “xenophobe” and inquire, “National pride?”

       “This is a Kiwi,” she informs me. “She’s something of an icon here.”

        I exasperatedly sigh and silently plead for the store manager, who’s hanging outside smoking, for rescue. He only confirms this bit of trivia by replying, “S’truth.”

1. The Collector

        “Where are you going?” I ask.

        “A little party. Park there,” she instructs as we approach a townhouse shedding paint and swelling with water damage.

        I pause in front of the deteriorating hovel, expecting her to leave Roo and get the hell out my car. She doesn’t. She takes my bird baby and prances into the garage, waving me to follow. 

       “You’re now part of my collection,” she announces as I duck into the dank-smelling room.

        I look around, observing a variety of adolescents hanging off torn-up furniture and puffing smoke. 

       “I collect transplants. You’re our first American in years. Welcome. Here’s Poo -”

      “Roo -”

“Whatever.” She dumps Roo into my hands. “Sit. Chat. I’m assuming you know this city isn’t a hotbed of activity, might as well.”

      Defeated, I sit on the floor, Kiwi in hand, as she lights a joint, waiting for my story.

Letting It All Hang Out

       “Shit,” I huff, “you got me there.”

       “That’s the spirit,” she replies encouragingly, offering me a toke.

       I wave it away and settle for soothing my nerves by patting Roo’s downy back. 

       “What do you want to know?”

       “Hmm,” she lets out a cumulus cloud and taps her chin. “You are secretive. An average person would just start with what the hell they’re doing in New Zealand.”

       “My mom’s a botanist and got a job working with a lab out here. She got like a million other offers in the States, but she wanted to get as far away from my dad as possible, so here we are.”

       “Wayward child of a Gen X divorcee. That is rough. What state are you from you?”

       “Maryland.”

       “I was kinda hoping you’d say Hollywood or New York. That’s okay.”

      “Disappointed?”

      “Very.”

      “Eh,” I say, shrugging, “join the club.”

       Her eyes light up and I know I’ve said too much.

       “Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”

      “Ah shit.”

       She giggles, delighted with herself for getting me to talk.

      “I wouldn’t feel too bad,” a guy with indigo-black hair in a Navy blue slicker says as he walks over and casually steals Emma’s joint. “She has a way of getting people cozy with letting it all hang out. Isn’t that what Americans call it?”

       “Sometimes.”

       “I’m from Japan, by the way. Name’s Akira and I’m not some anime Wikipedia page so don’t start with your Studio Ghibli obsession.”

      “I’m Morgan. Don’t start with your hip-hop obsession.”

       He snorts out a laugh and gesturing at my necklace, asks, “Deal, but what about Black Panther?”

       “Forget Wikipedia, I am T'Challa,” I quip, adjusting the string of fake silver claws around my neck, a cheap replica of the Marvel hero’s.

      With an appreciative chuckle and a turn on his combat boot-clad heel, he glides across the room, fluidly tugging a girl from the couch and draping her arm around his neck, as he calls over his shoulder, “Cam’s a keeper.”

       “Well,” Emma says as Akira exits the garage, “you’ve gained the approval of the king himself. Nice work.”

      “Didn’t know he was royalty.”

       “Self-identified royalty that only respects people that give his shit back to him. We first met on the bus and were fighting over a seat until I put my foot down and told him to kiss my Aboriginal ass. Best friends ever since.”

       “You know how to pick’em.”

       “Uh-huh, and you know how to evade an uncomfortable question. Who have you disappointed my dear Cam?”

       I sigh, caress one of Roo’s closed eyes, and reply, “My dad, older sister, maybe even the trans population.”

       She raises a curious brow and I continue.

       “I’m non-binary. My mom signed off on my gender-confirming surgeries for my sixteenth birthday last year and my dad lost his shit when I actually got my top surgery and hysto - uh - hysterectomy. Their marriage was already on thin ice, but, uh, I think that was the final straw. They just couldn’t see eye-to-eye on my transition.”

       “Damn, that’s…that’s tough.”

      “The divorce wasn’t bad. It was just the official resignation of their marriage. I mean, at least I don’t have to hear shit like, ‘Who’s going to want you after you’ve mutilated yourself? How are going to have a family? You don’t even know what you are.’”

      “Fuck,” Emma spits out, “he said all that?”

      “Eh,” I shrug, massaging the back of my neck and running a hand over my cropped hair, “some of it was my sister.”

       “Fucking assholes.”

       “Didn’t know you were into that, Em. No judgment.”

       She sighs, “Speaking of assholes.”

The Pregnant Lady

       “What the eff, Charlie, why are you here? The garage is mine until eight. Shove off.”

       “The Pregnant Lady’s water broke so we’re studying in here. You and your pack of refugees’ll have to find somewhere else to cook your brain cells.”

       “Uh, shouldn’t we call a hospital?” I ask, which only gets me amused stares from Emma, Charlie, and the gangly girl at his side.

       “Morgan, hush,” Emma commands as she sets her fiery glare back on Charlie. “Don’t you know how to use a damn wrench?”

       “No. Now leave before I tell Auntie you smoked up the last of her weed again.”

       “You are vile, cousin,” she retorts dramatically and with the sweep of an invisible cloak, she grabs my arm and tugs me into the night air. On my way out, I notice we’re the only ones left of the group of kids from earlier.

      “To The Pregnant Lady,” she announces, dropping my arm back at its side and heading into their house.

       “Again, shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” 

      “Please follow me.”

       I nervously trot beside her, careful to tuck Roo back into my hoodie.

      Once inside, we make a beeline for the back of the house, passing years of unused furniture and knickknacks along the way. Emma plucks up a wrench as she reaches an open door leading to what I guess to be the basement. A lightbulb overhead casts a warm glow and illuminates the humid space below.

       “Welcome to The Pregnant Lady and that’s her broken water,” Emma says, gesturing to a puddle spreading in the corner of the room as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

       “What?”

       “That’s what we call the basement because its pipes are always leaking or bursting. It’s really inconvenient.”

       “Oh.”

       “Just go sit at that card table while I fix this. My cousin the coder doesn’t know how to use a wrench, but fortunately, I think this’ll be a quick fix.”

       I do as I’m told and plant myself on a rickety chair as she pushes aside a plastic tub and, hidden from view behind a pool table, starts to work. In several minutes, she resurfaces with a satisfied smirk as I notice the once rapidly expanding puddle’s circumference has ceased to grow.

       “Like I said, easy. See, no doctors needed, just an amateur plumber.”

       “Impressive.”

       She nods in hubris agreement and plunks down the wrench on a nearby bookshelf as she joins me at the table.

He, She, They...

       “So where were we? Oh yes, you’re non-binary, your dad and sister are scum, and your mom’s a saintly scientist that whisked you away to a boring little beach town to escape those trolls and study plants. About right?”

       “Wow, if only my mom knew someone’s mistaken her for a saint. But yeah, that’s about right.”

      “So what do you call yourself?”

       “Uh, Morgan, we’ve been through this?”

       “No, do you go by she, he, they, ze? God, who are you, Voldemort? Stop being so mysterious.”

       You want to know the freak, I think, emitting a self-depracating laugh. 

       It’s as if Emma reads my mind because frowns and says, “And don’t shit on yourself, by the way.”

      “Agreed. I guess II don’t know. I mean, I don’t care what pronoun people use as long as it’s not derogatory. Pronouns don’t matter to me tmuch. I know that probably makes me a bad transperson.”

       “Probably not,” she says, pulling a cigarette from her bra and stuffing the tip in her mouth, “that’s just you. Be you, do you, fuck everybody else, Cam.”

Sunglasses At Night

       I’m standing in the full-length mirror in my bedroom later that night, staring deep into my reflection. I’ve stripped off my shirt, my jeans hang loose around my muscled hips. I slip on the shades Emma shoved on my face before I left and study my tinted reflection. My magnificently flat chest makes me smile for the first time in weeks and my athletic physique looks almost attractive. I don’t feel like a man though…or a woman…just human. Just me. Just Morgan. Magnificent me for the first time in months since my best friend blocked me from her life. She couldn’t handle how “strange” people were going to think she was by association, and blocked me on every platform the day of my top surgery.

       I frown as the memory sneaks to the front of my mind. I tip it out like water in an overfull glass and focus on myself. But the memories keep pressing forward. My father’s words seeping in like sewer water, “You can’t blame Sandra for unfriending you, Morgan. Who will want to be around you when you make it so…uncomfortable?”

       I keep mean-mugging myself in the mirror, shades still in place, remembering Emma’s words just before she darted upstairs to sneak a beer from the fridge. I smirk at myself, my lips still buzzing from the memory as I pull up Cory Hart’s “Sunglasses At Night” and take exactly three minutes and fifty-four seconds to just do me while nerding out to an eighties hit. Fuck it. I have a flat chest, buzz cut, and…I wear my sunglasses at night.

Sister Mary

       Just as I’m starting my Whitney Houston playlist, I get a video call from my sister. I close my YouTube app, throw on my tank so I don’t freak her out again, and take the call. Her face is bathed with artificial light from her phone. Her eyes are glassy like they’ve been on every occasion she’s spoken to me since my surgeries. I wish she’d settle for texting.

       “Hey,” I say.

       “Hi…Morgan,” she haltingly replies as if she’s not sure what to call me anymore. “I talked to Dad today and he’s having a really bad day.”

       I nod silently.

       “The divorce is really fucking hard on him.”

       “Yeah, I know.”

       “Do you really?”

      “We’re all dealing with it.”

       She scoffs and spits out, “No, we aren’t. Mom and Dad lost a marriage and a daughter, I lost my family and sister. At least you didn’t have to go and - disfigure yourself right in the middle of Mom and Dad’s couple’s therapy.”

       “Are you seriously blaming me for their failed marriage? Like wasn’t going to hell long before I came out about anything. And by the way, Mom doesn’t mind I’m non-binary. You and Dad are the ones falling apart.”

       “Do you really think it doesn’t bother her? But let’s talk about you.”

       “I’d rather not.”

       “No, really,” she insists, “you threw away a chance at a reasonably typical life and have the nerve to bitch about dating -”

       “Everyone does.”

       “Well, have you really asked yourself what your gender identity means? Who’s going to accept you, romantically or otherwise as a non-person?”

       I think about Emma racing back to the basement with her pilfered beverage, gold-speckled irises sparking with mischief. She intensely met my gaze as she took a long pull and stubbed her cigarette out in an abandoned coffee mug. I felt my cinnamon cheeks burn with embarrassment as she leaned forward, the soft glow of the light above us reflecting off her copper skin. She aggressively pressed her lips against mine before I could shrink back into myself. Spicey tobacco, earthy pot, and a citric tang from her beer-flavored her mouth. She then abruptly tore her lips from mine, shoved a pair of sunglasses onto my face to keep me from gawking at her, and pushed me out the front door, clapping it shut. 

       “I am not an easy girl,” she declared as she ripped the door back open, “who just goes for anybody toting around a Kiwi in their pocket. So I recommend you be here tomorrow at one o’clock to take me on a proper date if you want your shot.” She slammed the door for good and sent me on my way.

In This Corner

       “Morgan!” My sister demands, crocodile tears waxing her eyes and sanding her voice.

       “Did you hear me? Who’s going to want you like that?”

     I end the call. The screen goes blank My grinning reflection replaces my sister’s pixelated scowl.

       I examine myself in the mirror again, satisfied with what I see.