Trixie

OCTOBER 30, 1988 —

Hi, Miss Diary. It’s me Trixie. Miss me much?

So I’m fifteen now. Wow, right? Well, almost sixteen I guess. More than halfway there. Whatever. Close enough. I’ve decided that the name Thomas pretty much needs to be obliterated from my thoughts. Only prob is that it’s forced upon me on a daily basis. Just a falsely birthed boy code that needs to be cracked and discarded so I can flourish as a woman. Eventually.

So I’ve been hanging out with this boy Aron. He’s a senior over at Sweetville West. He’s kind of a babe, minus the “kind of.” Has these baby blue eyes that make me melt into a puddle of goo. Drives a hot red Camaro. He’s almost like a jock type, except he doesn’t play any sports as far as I know. Does that even make sense? I guess I like that. Maybe. I dunno. I’ll only see him when I’m dressed up, natch.

He knows the scoop, I guess. I think. I didn’t actually tell him The Truth. But I know he knows. He’s not blind. I’m not super passable yet, but as long as no one’s really paying attention to us he doesn’t mind hanging out with me in public. Grabbing some lunch or whatever. Not at the places his friends hang out, though. That’s the kicker. He’ll hold hands and make out with me if we’re hidden down in some deep forgotten crevice of Graves Park. That place is a little on the gross side, minus the “little” part, but it’s not like we can go to either of our houses.

I suppose it’s a start. Better than being lonely. Plus, he seems to be okay with…everything? I won’t really know until things really happen between us. Like, all the way happen. I want to do so many bad, bad things with this boy. Sue me.

Speaking of Graves Park, I keep sneaking away from home on the weekends whenever I get the chance, braving the sticky seats and urine smells of Bus 13 so I can scope out the uncharted streets of downtown Sweetville on my own. It’s like another universe from the ‘burbs. Well, calling my neighborhood “the ‘burbs” is being pretty generous. More like the public restroom of the ‘burbs. If you’ve got a solid four walls and a working roof then you’re like royalty around here. Our house is a little newer than most. Guess that makes me the Princess Di of East Sweetville. I really need a place to call my own, a little chunk of the world that’s willing to accept me for who I am and let me have my space. I deserve that, don’t I?

Still dealing with Mom’s illness. Not getting any better. Hank, or Dad—whatever the hell you want to call him—has been pretty much useless. Don’t really feel like talking about that stuff right now. Maybe next time, Miss Diary. Don’t put money on that, though.