Page 18 of Leaving the Station

Nothing is promised to me anymore, because all those promises were tied up in a religion that I now know is racist and homophobic

and sexist. And yet I still can’t make my brain understand that it’s for the best.”

I don’t know what to say. I’ve never deconstructed a religion. I’ve never had beliefs that strong about anything.

But when I think back on my life in recent months—or, more specifically, Alden—a part of me understands.

“Was it better than living a lie?” I ask, because I need to know.

Oakley’s eyes are still closed. I’m about to repeat myself when she says, “Yes. The knowing is always better.” She nods, agreeing

with herself. “You can’t go back, can’t get rid of that knowledge. But at least now you get to find out who you are in the

knowing.”

The way she said it all in the second person wasn’t lost on me. It could’ve been subconscious or maybe she really was opening

the door for me to talk.

“Did you find who you are in the knowing?”

“I’m trying.”

“Me too.”

If she’s surprised by this, she doesn’t let on. “What do you know now, then, that you didn’t before?”

She asks it so casually that it disarms me. Or maybe it wasn’t that question in particular but the past day on the train with

her in such close proximity.

Either way, against all odds, I answer half honestly.

“That I might not be who I thought I was,” I tell her. “In regard to my gender, I mean.”

It’s the first time I’ve said anything like that out loud.

“That’s big.” She says offhandedly, her tone not matching her words.

“It is.”

“How’d you come to that conclusion?” Oakley’s expression is curious, and even though my whole body is tense, it’s not because

of her. She has a way of asking questions that makes me want to answer with the whole truth.

But this whole truth is a hard one, one I’m not even certain I can articulate. So I go with the version of the truth I can

give her right now.

“I’m still figuring it out,” I tell her. “But part of it was because of someone I knew at school.”

It’s the world’s biggest understatement. Calling Alden “someone I knew at school” is like Juliet calling Romeo “a guy my dad

doesn’t like.”

But Oakley just nods and stretches, accepting my answer for what it is: a start.

Seven Weeks into College

It was a bright, cloudless day at the orchard. We parked in a large open field surrounded by trees whose final leaves of the

season were barely hanging on, the last gasps of autumn in every shade of orange, green, and red.

I hadn’t wanted to leave my dorm to do anything, let alone go apple picking, but Alden had borrowed his uncle’s car for the weekend, and he wanted to put it to use. He planned

out a whole day for us, which I would’ve thought was sweet if I wasn’t hyperfocused on my body, and his, and the decidedly

non-girlfriend-like ways I was thinking about both.

The farm was packed with couples and families. Everywhere I looked there were tall boyfriends in flannel shirts and Cornell

hats who’d been brought to the orchard by their tiny girlfriends in adorable athleisure sets.

And then there was the two of us.

“Should we get a map?” he asked, already grabbing one.

The map showed the different areas of the orchard, along with the variety of apples located in each.

I pointed to a section labeled “SnapDragon.”

“Cornell developed those,” I said. Randall had told me this once when I should’ve been in class. There weren’t any apple trees

in the greenhouse, but he was proud of all of Cornell’s plant-based achievements, and I was his best audience.

“That’s amazing,” Alden said, looking at me like I’d just told him I’d found a cure for cancer. “Let’s start there.”

I continued to tell him all the apple facts I’d picked up in the greenhouse, and he continued to be impressed.

I liked being the knowledgeable one; it gave me a modicum of control over the situation.

Sure, maybe he’d planned the day and he’d driven me here and he was the only person who wanted to spend time with me, but at least I was the apple expert.

“Wanna bet I can get that apple?” Alden asked, pointing to a lone, bright red SnapDragon at the top of a tree. It must’ve

been nine feet in the air.

This was the part of hanging out with him that I loved: doing stupid shit together.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “What do I get when you lose?”

“Not gonna happen,” he told me, jumping a little to warm up. “I’ve got a huge vertical leap.”

I laughed incredulously at that, and Alden mimed thrusting a sword through his abdomen, dramatically wounded by my disbelief.

“Should we put it to the test?” I was bouncing on the balls of my feet now too. If someone passed by, they might think we

were about to fight, 1950s greaser-style.

Alden grinned. “You’re so on, dude.”

I still don’t know if he said it as a joke or got caught up in the moment. But either way, the word made me feel more affectionately

toward him than I had since I’d started panicking about our relationship.

After his first jump, it was clear I would lose.

He did have a giant vertical leap, and he easily could’ve grabbed the apple. As hard as I tried, my jump was much lower.

I felt stuck in my body. I wanted to shed my skin and fly through the clouds.

I conceded, out of breath and frustrated, and he took a victory leap and plucked the apple from the tree.

“I have a question,” he said through a bite of the crisp SnapDragon as we walked farther into the orchard.

My heart sped up. “Okay?”

“What were you like in high school?”

The relief I felt that it wasn’t anything deeper was overshadowed by the horror of having to relive my high school experience.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You never talk about it, and I’m curious. What were your friends like? What clubs did you do? That kind of stuff.”

There was a reason I didn’t talk about high school. It was another world from this, one where I had no say in my life.

But look at that: now that I finally had a say, I’d ruined everything.

“I did Science Olympiads.” It was a safe answer. “What about you?” He hadn’t talked much about what he was like in high school

either.

We passed by a bucket of mini gourds, and his expression darkened. “I don’t think we would’ve dated back then.”

“Why?” I asked, though on my end I knew the answer: I was a mostly out lesbian.

“I wasn’t cool,” he said, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He frowned at this. “I’m being serious.”

“What part of me doing Science Olympiads makes you think I was cool?”

“Of course you were cool.” He said it with a bone-deep certainty. “You’re so chill; you have all these other friends. You’re just... You’re awesome, Zoe.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re cool too.”

I wanted to launch myself into an apple tree.

I’d been having fun. We were jumping. Jumping was fun.

This conversation was not fun.

This was how it went. One moment, we were hanging out, and the next, he would say something slightly terrible, and I’d be

reminded that he was my boyfriend, and that he saw me as his girlfriend.

He grabbed my hand, which was too sweaty for the crisp day, and laced his fingers in mine.

A couple walked past us, and the guy nodded to Alden, while the girl gave me a tight smile. They were holding hands too, but

neither of them seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack.

They looked like an archetypal straight couple.

What did Alden and I look like?

There were queer people in relationships that appeared straight to the outside world, of course, but those happened with the

knowledge of all participants.

I owed Alden more than I was giving him. I knew it then, and I know it now.

With my hand in his, Alden pulled me close, and I let him. His scent—sour and strong—mixed with the smell of rotting apples

around us.

I leaned away, but he kept a tight grip on my waist and pushed my hair behind my ears, even though it was already back in

a ponytail.

“I’m falling for you, Zoe Tauber.” It was one of his romantic statements. He said it in a way where I knew he had a vision of how cinematic it would sound.

I wanted my life to seem majestic and grand and thrilling too. And maybe it did, to an outside observer.

But I was too close.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added when I hadn’t. “But I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling silly.

A group of boys a few years younger than us ran past, and I had a strong desire to run with them, like a domesticated horse

who spots a herd of wild ones in the distance and feels a primal pull.

That was how I wanted Alden to see me—like another guy.

The moment I thought it, I knew it was true. It was the only true thing in the entire world.

He was falling for me, and I was falling for the way he looked, the way he acted.

For the body he inhabited.

But if I told him this, if I was somehow able to articulate the mess of thoughts in my head, we’d have to break up. And if

we broke up, we couldn’t keep hanging out.

Maybe the good of dating Alden outweighed the bad. And the good was so good: card games late into the night, pressed flowers

in a dark room, jumping like fools in an apple orchard across the country from the only home I’d ever known.

So I took the path of least resistance: I squeezed his hand, and he did the same in return. We were trying to convey entirely different messages with that simple gesture.

Tuesday, 10:00 p.m., Approaching the Twin Cities, MN

“Folks, we’ll have a thirty-minute smoke break in St. Paul,” the conductor announces. “That’s right, thirty whoooole minutes.

I don’t care what you do—get drunk, get high, skinny-dip in the Mississippi River—as long as you’re back on the train at half

past.”

The few other passengers in the observation car grumble as they stretch their tired legs and make their way off the train.

I’ve never felt a stronger sense of solidarity with a group of people than I have here, sitting together, watching the view

or waiting for it to reappear.