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Between the two of us, Felicity is the one that looks like they’re about to vomit. Through the pain in my stomach, the ache pounding in my head, I show my teeth in something resembling a smile: I’m the one with the power here.
My deal with Daniel goes both ways.
Morgan
you know what, considering the week im about to have, a drink or three won’t be a bad idea afterward
Daniel
Well shit, I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you aren’t I?
I almost turn up my nose at his response, but I remember what Alyssa said to me at her kitchen table. Fine. If she won’t be involved, then Daniel’s going to have to pick up the slack.
The thing is, Felicity has no idea how right they are. How painfully fucking on the nose they keep managing to be.
I threw that fit with the security guard last year, I refused to go into USP East Early, because—
I don’t want to be dramatic. I despise exaggerated displays of emotion. Especially the useless, self-pitying type that so many people my age are prone to. But I knew if I walked into the Box and sat there on the other side of the bulletproof glass—if I faced down the monster that makes up half my DNA—if I let him remind me that his goal was to mold me into something like him? That he’d succeeded?
If I don’t rip him out from under my skin, prove that I’m not him, I swear to god, I’m not him, I’m not him I’m not I swear I’m not—
I don’t want to say that I’m definitely, without-a-doubt going to kill myself, but there’s always the chance that I’ll crack a little too much and do something I can’t take back.
And I’m going to put myself right back in front of him.
Hand in the vat of acid, Morgan.
Sunday morning, Mom coordinates our outfits and shoos me toward the basement before huddling in the kitchen to down two glasses of wine.
I’m already nauseated, but as I adjust my bra underwire on the basement couch, I momentarily consider going back up to grab a glass for myself. Getting through this joint interview, and then asking Mom about USP East Early, won’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it won’t be the easiest, either.
“Is she going to dress you up every time?” Daniel whispers, watching the stairs as if keeping a lookout. “She’s insane.”
“You’re just figuring it out now?” I mutter.
Usually, I compartmentalize the shit out of my gender dysphoria. Doing so is the difference between getting through the day and collapsing into a pile of self-hating viscera. Girlhood is a costume I’m putting on, a performance in exchange for the trust fund. Of course this marionette made of eyeliner and C-cup breasts and kitten heels isn’t actually me. It’s a mask, like the veil of neurotypicality I drape over my autism. The kind of mask you can forget exists, the mask that becomes so second nature that it’s difficult to take off … but a mask nevertheless.
When Mom looks almost exactly like me, though—so much like me that Washington, DC’s thirty-five thousand security cameras wouldn’t be able to tell us apart—every glimpse of her is a slap. Right. When people look at me, this is what they see.
What a miserable combination of genetics.
Mom comes down the stairs, the producer following close behind, and Daniel gives me a pitying look. I shrug him off with a huff.
Interview #03
Name of Subject 1: Morgan Slaughter (“MS”)
Name of Subject 2: Bellamy Slaughter (“BS”)
Name of Interviewer: Greg Rowe (“GR”)
Date: 10/XX/20XX
[Begin transcript 00:00:32]
Bellamy and Morgan Slaughter border on a porn parody’s idea of mother and daughter. Bellamy retains her film-perfect smile from interview #01, while Morgan has swapped a predator’s glare for something resembling neutrality. Play up visual similarity—highlight all copied reactions or movements—so conflict is more pronounced.
GR: Sorry, let’s finish getting set up—Daniel, watch the lighting with that second camera, it’s glaring.
