This story, third in the QUILTBAG anthology of plutograms. owes no small creative debt to XOXY: A Memoir by Kimberly M. Zieselman. Though Izzie is her own character and I’ve altered some events for the sake of narrative flow, many of the story’s key events are inspired by the book. Of the QUILTBAG identities, intersex is the one with which I have the least personal experience, so I felt I should take some extra measures to ensure a degree of accuracy.
There seems to be a little confusion about this, so let me be clear here: this is only an excerpt from “Incriminating.” The full story will be much longer!
I stood on the Winters' porch, my insecure heart fluttering like a trapped io moth. The doorbell's chime still echoed in my ears when Mr. Winters appeared inside, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at me.
"Izzie! Come in, come in. Billie's been waiting for you."
As I stepped inside, I inhaled the warm scent of cinnamon and apples. Mr. Winters had salt-and-pepper hair and illuminated eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He gave the impression of being like my own father, only more indulgent. I wondered if all doctors possessed that air of institutional infallibility.
"Thank you for having me over, Dr. Winters," I said, my voice sounding small in the spacious foyer.
He chuckled softly. "Please, call me Robert. Dr. Winters is for the office."
I nodded, a strange comfort settling over me. Robert. It felt oddly intimate, as if I'd been granted access to the innermost world of adults.
Billie's squeal pierced the air like an icepick as she bounded down the stairs, golden curls in motion with each step, ice-blue eyes iridescent. "Izzie! You're here!" She interfolded me into a crushing hug, her enthusiasm infectious.
As we climbed the staircase’s incline to Billie's room, I could hear the indistinct giggles of the other girls. I'd never been to a sleepover before, and my stomach tightened with a mix of intrigue and intimidation.
Billie's room was a riot of intense color. Posters of indie-rock girls and teen idols plastered the walls, and an infinitude of stuffed animals threatened to spill off her bed. The other girls, Lis and Mimi, were inelegantly sprawled across the plush carpet, painting each other's toenails a shade of indigo.
"Gang’s alll here!" Billie announced, indicating me as she flopped onto her bed.
I settled into an Ikea chair, and the conversation flowed around me.
“If I’m going to break the dress code, it’s going to be because I’m in something incredible.”
“Inch by inch, she’s turning into her mom…”
“I identify so hard with Ice-T. ‘I’m Your Pusher’ is, like, so deep.”
I found myself relaxing, caught up in the interchange of our ideas. But then the topic changed again.
"Ugh, mine was so heavy last month," Lis groaned, rolling her eyes. “It was, like, immense.”
Mimi nodded in sympathy. "I know, right? It's like, why do we even have to deal with this?"
I felt a ice cube form in my stomach. I had nothing to contribute to any interaction about periods. The others kept commiserating, swapping stories and irritations, while I sat immobilized in panic.
"What about you, Izzie?" Billie asked, eyes wide with curiosity. "When did you get yours?"
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The silence stretched. I could feel their gazes on me, confused and impatient.
"I... I haven't yet," I finally whispered, my cheeks burning.
The room fell silent, and I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. In that moment, I felt more alone than I ever had before.
“It’s not always on a schedule,” Lis managed to say.
But the chasm remained. I retreated into my thoughts, wondering what was wrong with me. Why was I the irregular one? Why couldn't my problems be identical to everyone else’s?
I stand before the mirror, fifteen now, my image incongruous yet familiar. The lacrosse stick leans against the wall, inseparable from me these days. My body has changed in slow increments, curves inserting themselves into my flat frame. Yet something still feels... incomplete.
I pull on my jersey, the fabric stretching across my chest in a way it didn't used to. I feel proud, yet also ill at ease. My strength and skills have improved, but the inexistence of what should have come years ago weighs on me, an invisible influence.
The whistle pierces the air, sharp and insistent. I jog onto the field, cleats digging into soft earth. With a flurry of motion and shouts, the game initiates. I lose myself in it, letting it interrupt my imaginings.
The ball arcs into my space. I catch it, cradling it in my stick's mesh pocket. Time’s flow seems inactive as I weave through the opposition, their outstretched sticks no impediments to my progress. I see the goal, a yawning mouth, insatiable.
I wind up, every muscle itching for release. And release inundates me, an intense yell escaping my lips as the ball flies true. It hits the back of the net with an inarguable thwack.
My teammates swarm me like insects, their cheers a buzz of ineffable joy. I smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. Even in this moment, I can't quite ignore the issue of feeling like an impostor, a girl playing at womanhood without truly inhabiting it.
As we leave the field in victory, I catch sight of my mother in the stands. Her smile is proud, impressed. But her eyes hold a worry I identify all too often in her. I wonder, not for the first time, if she sees the same incompleteness in me that I do.