The Letters of Milo Saint-James

One

Wednesday, June 29

Real boys are not this curvy.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror propped up against my dresser. It's not the me I see in my head. It's a distortion of that version, one with hips just a little too wide, with a flat chest, but shoulders that aren't broad enough and arms too thin to be a boy's.

I need to go to the gym.

With a frustrated sigh, I replace skinny jeans with baggy ones—skinny jeans make my hips too wide and my waist too narrow—and turn to the mess of shirts on my bed. None of them will fit right either, will they? The ten I've already tried haven't. They're either too big or too small, too long or too short, too feminine or far too rugged.

I turn away from the mirror, done letting my reflection fuck with my head.

We're done with that, remember? that little voice called my conscience reminds me. We're done with that shit.

I run a hand through my curls—

That's your favorite part, remember? and this time the voice belongs to my therapist because he always knows exactly how to get into my head. You know you love me, he says.

I groan in frustration, because my hair isn't a fucking shirt, so what the hell am I supposed to wear to work today?

I sit down on the floor, debating whether or not to invade Holden's wardrobe as I look despairingly at the discarded pants piled on my carpet. It doesn't help that half my own wardrobe is stolen from his, shirts and pants pilfered over time, enough space in between so that he won't notice they're missing.

Letting my head fall gently back against my bed, I mentally go through Holden's wardrobe, the things he usually wears to work. He always knows what to wear. His style is impeccable. I used to be so jealous of him (still am) when I was little.

I used to look up at him with his short curls (not unlike my own now), his strong jaw, his deeper voice, and want to be him.

Of course, I didn't understand it at the time, didn't understand that I didn't just admire him as my older brother, but as a boy. As I got older, things changed. I wanted his flat chest, his broad shoulders, his deeper than anything baritone voice. And I realized I didn't want to be him. I wanted his gender.

I still want his voice. I still want his shoulders. In time, those will come, I remind myself. This is all a game of patience.

As of today, my chest is flat and my name has changed, but sometimes it just doesn't feel like enough. 

My eyes begin to sting with the promise of unwanted tears just as I hear my bedroom door creak open.

"Milo?" It's a small, tired voice that calls my name.

Lady, my five year old sister, is standing in the doorway, on her tiptoes, one hand twirling her hair, the other on the door knob.

"Yeah?"

She lets go of the door and walks over, sitting down next to me, resting her head against my arm.

"I had a bad dream," she whispers. "It was scary."

I wrap my arm around her shoulders. She snuggles into my side. "I'm sorry. It's all over now. It was just a dream."

She nods and reaches her hand up to touch my chest. I freeze for a moment, just like I always do, no matter how many times her little fingers trace my scars when she's upset. She runs her fingers along the fresh scars and I slowly relax into her touch, tightening my arm around her.

It's okay. It's only Lady.

"Want to tell me what it was about?"

"You had booboos again," she says simply. "On your arms. Mommy was sad."

Lady was young back then. Young enough not to knock on the door before walking in. She saw my scars that day, angry and red on my wrist. I will never forgive myself for letting her see that. But, of course, she didn't know what was going on. So she asked if I'd scratched myself at school. In less articulate words, obviously. I made her promise not to tell anyone. I regret that more than anything.

"Oh. It's okay, Lady. I'm all better now. No more booboos."

She nods. "I know."

She's silent for a minute before she speaks again, her hand moving to trace the scar on the left side of my chest.

"You're not wearing a shirt."

I nod. "Good observation."

"Why don't boys have to wear shirts, Milo? When I'm warm, Mommy still makes me wear a shirt. But you and Holden don't have to."

I smile down at her. "Well, Lady, that's a question for whoever invented social etiquette," I tell her with a chuckle.

She nods, but I know she doesn't know what etiquette means.

"Why do you have clothes all over your room?"

"I can't decide which shirt to wear to work today."

"Oh." Lady stands up and turns around to face my bed. She digs through the pile of shirts. When she turns back around, she's holding a short sleeved, navy blue button up shirt, the one I wore to my Aunt's wedding last year. "This one. It's nice."

Just to humor her, I stand up and try on the shirt again, standing in front of the mirror.

It looks . . . okay, actually.

"Lady, do I look like a girl to you?"

"Why would you look like a girl, Milo? You're a boy." Her nose scrunches up as she looks me in the eyes.

I turn back to my reflection.

"You look like Holden," she tells me, wrapping her arms around my leg. "Holden always wears his fancy clothes to his job."

"Thanks, Lady."

"I'm still sleepy," she says with a yawn.

"Well then. Let's get you back to bed." I hoist her up and she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist like a little koala.

I carry her back to her room with a small smile on my face.