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?”

“All the mirrors are out here,” she says, pointing toward the pink hallways branching out into dressing rooms. “People usually come here with friends and family and want to share the experience.” “How fun for them,” I manage through clenched teeth. There is nothing I hate more than trying on clothes in front of a communal mirror and fielding commentary from salespeople, other shoppers, and the odd security guard trying to get my number. The last one is mostly wishful thinking; nothing is more gender-affirming than being desired by people you don’t want to have sex with.

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.

“My family has spent most of my life desperately trying to figure out something to get me for Christmas that isn’t a coupon for conversion therapy.” “And I went to conversion therapy,”

“What did your parents get you for the holidays last year?” he asks me. I squirm on the barstool. “Laser hair removal.”

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

Seriously, Julia, we can’t have you at this wedding in something off-the-rack. This is your big I’m a gorgeous woman with amazing hair and a fabulous life moment with your entire extended family. You need to be in ready-to-wear at least, if not couture.” “River has a point, babe.”

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?”

No, she, uh, didn’t want to walk down the aisle with…you.” “One moment, please.”

Jenna got married last year and honestly, the vibe at the wedding was weird. Her dad was strapped at the reception.” “Like, with a gun?” “Yeah, can you believe it?

“Fuck. I’m sorry she had to do that.” “Don’t apologize, Jules. I’m sorry that you even have to hear this, but I thought you’d want to know who you’re walking down the aisle with now.”

“No, it’s uh…you actually won’t believe it. It’s Kim Cameron. You know, from high school?” Kim Cameron.

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.

Ah yes, the Rosenberg wedding.” “You must get a lot of those.” She glances up at me, unmoved. “Weddings?” “Rosenbergs.” Her mouth purses. “That sounds a little anti-Semitic.” “Rosenberg is my last name. The groom is my brother.” She makes a hmph noise

“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.”

“We can only make orders based on one of our sample dresses, this has already been altered.” Kim turns to her. “Ma’am”—which is just about the cruelest thing you can call a middle-aged bridal sales associate and not be thrown out of the store—“perhaps you can make an exception just this once so that I can try the dress on. I’m the maid of honor and I wouldn’t want to have to call another store, or corporate customer service, and let them know how…challenging it was to order my dress.” Kim glances down at the woman’s ugly pink name tag, clearly taking note. “Lorraine.” Oh wow, I did not expect Kim to channel her own inner Karen, but needs must.

If my high school self could see me now, she’d scream. Well, if we’re being technical about it, he’d scream.

“Well, you figured one thing out.” I laugh. “The girl thing, yes. Everything else, not so much. I somehow fell into interior design, which I like and am weirdly good at.”

“Last I heard they were trying to rent a replica of the couch from Friends for wedding photos.” “Why?” “I don’t know. Straight people?” “Straight people.”

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.”

“It’s miss, dude.” Miss Dude. Good drag name. “Her pronouns are she, her, hers.” She says it with such condescending disdain it causes the waiter to finally break out of his disaffected haze and take us in. He gulps. “I’m so sorry, uh, ladies.”

“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.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asks. I nod into the darkness, moving over to make room. We lie together in silence listening to our parents scream at each other. I wonder if this is the first time they’ve woken Aiden up, or if it’s happened before and he’s just lain in silence listening the same way I have. The thought of that makes me sadder than the fighting, which at this point is so familiar I’m becoming numb to it. “Why are they so angry,” Aiden asks, face turned away from me. “I dunno.” “Do you think…” The silence stretches out for a long moment. “Is it our fault?”

“No, of course not.” I draw an arm around his little body and squeeze him in tight. “It’s grown-up stuff. It has nothing to do with us.” “Really?” “Really,” I say, not believing it but hoping desperately that my sweet little brother does. “Now go to sleep, and don’t hog the covers.”

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

“I’m sure Jules is much happier walking down the aisle with you,” he says, grinning. “Well, I do have not being an asshole going for me,” says Kim. “No, I just mean, well,” he laughs, “she had such a crush on you in high school.”

She’s. Still. Peeing. Turning away from her, because it’s very hard not to stare directly at her vagina, I grip the sink for support that has nothing to do with my cleavage.