“It’s not smugness. It’s fact.”
“God, you’re just a handful, aren’t you?”
“Puns are the lowest form of humor.”
“Bad day?”
“You caught me at the wrong time.” Understatement, that. Every time seemed to be a wrong time lately.
“Panic attack?”
I watched him closely to see if he was making fun of me. It didn’t seem like it, so I finally said, “Something like that.”
Corey nodded, and I was sure now he had eyeliner on, at the very least. “I used to have them too. When I was younger.”
“Younger? How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Oh.”
“Legal,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
I almost laughed. “You don’t have them anymore?”
“What?”
“Panic attacks.”
“No.” He didn’t say “anymore,” and I didn’t push. “This is nice,” he said after a time.
“What?”
“Sitting here, in the sun. And look! We’re holding hands! How very romantic this is! I surely am going to write in my diary about this tonight. I’ll probably end up dotting all the I’s with hearts.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I sputtered for a bit. I tried to pull my hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. Eventually, I stopped.
We never did make it to class that day.
I learned later that Corey was also Kori the day she showed up at my house in a long dress, her hair fanning out around her face, her eyes done up in smoky makeup. It’s called bigenderism, which is a subset of transgenderism. Being transgendered means identifying yourself as the opposite of the sex you are born as. Bigenders are those who identify as both genders and can live as either, even switching between the two to make themselves feel more comfortable. Corey was Kori, and vice versa, but certain things could trigger the appearance of another. Corey was brash and blunt. Kori was quieter, almost airy. Corey had a lower voice, with the tiniest bit of a lisp. Kori’s pitch was higher in register, the words flowing like water. It became so I could predict who I would be with on any given day.
Being bigendered is different from being transgendered, though many people don’t see it that way. It is different from being a transvestite, though many people can’t see how. He’s not a drag queen. He’s not a woman trapped in a man’s body. It’s not always about the physical, for the most part. It’s about the psychological.
Corey is Kori. And Kori is Corey.
Even then, even at the beginning, it mattered not to me.
He was Corey when he told me he’d grown up in foster care, never knowing who his parents were.
She was Kori when she told me she was at Dartmouth on a full ride. Gender studies, even. It turned out she might be smarter than even I am.
He was Corey when he waited for me outside of the science building.
She was Kori when she waited for me outside the library.
He was Corey the first time he kissed me. It was a surprise when it happened, but afterward, I was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. It was outside a coffee shop in the rain. Everything around us smelled of wet leaves, and I remember thinking, Oh. Oh. This is nice. I was able to ignore the little voice in my head that said, Dominic, Dominic, Dominic.
She was Kori the second time she kissed me. My hands were in her hair, and I wondered what this meant for me. I felt guilty, for a time, wondering if I was still gay. Or bisexual. Or even pansexual. But I kissed her, and she kissed me, and I realized Kori was Corey, and it didn’t matter who I was or who she was. That little voice didn’t speak up much that time.