The Letters of Milo Saint-James

Six

Friday, July 1

I cried myself to sleep last night, dangerous thoughts swirling in my mind.

Maybe He's right.

Maybe I'm not a boy.

I sure as hell can't pass for one.

In the morning, even though I have work, I don't want to get up.

I, at the risk of destroying a precious antique nightstand, slam my fist down on the little digital alarm clock that chirps a ridiculously wretched song each morning with the hopes that I might wake up in peace. I've come to resent that song. No one can be subjected to something so painfully stupid every day for a year and still wake up sane.

Once the stupid thing shuts up, I roll back over and tug the covers up to my chin.

I just want to lie here.

If I get up, if I go to work, people will see me. They'll look at me and they'll know.

What if the woman from the other day saw right through me? What if she was just being polite?

At least she had the decency to be polite, a voice in my head reasons.

What if she knows I'm not a boy.

I frown and throw my covers off of me and sit up.

No. I'm a boy.

I know I'm a boy.

I have always been a boy.

And He doesn't get to tell me otherwise. He doesn't get to have this effect on me.

So I get up.

I feel like shit, but I get up.

I get dressed in the same loose jeans and dark colored button up shirt as always.

And I go to work.

Isabelle says hello to me like always and I give her a small smile, suddenly wondering if I smile like Isabelle, like a girl.

I swiftly turn away and head straight for the break room, mumbling to myself, "Shut up, Milo."

I set my phone down on the table by the lockers and take a deep breath.

You can do this, Milo Saint-James.

And then I hear my therapist's voice as it breaks through the barrier I rebuilt over the past few days.

Hell yeah, you can do this, Milo.

Ethan considers himself "hip and totally in touch with today's youth, young man".

He is twenty-seven and he talks like a middle-aged soccer mom. (I probably shouldn't find it as refreshing as I do, but he's different from my old one. She wasn't very good with kids, I don't think. She was professional and distant and much more textbook-oriented. She was probably a good person, but she just refused to show it, and she kinda freaked me the fuck out.)

As Ethan cheers me on in my head, I leave the break room and find Donna for my assignment today.

As it turns out, she wants me back in the young adult section. Apparently, I did a good job the other day.

I stand there adjusting my shirt until Donna calls "places!" like the former theater kid she is.

Donna loves to tell stories about her days as the lead in her high school plays. Once, she even gave us a real inspiring performance of that one song from Phantom of the Opera that I can never remember the name of.

I stand up straight, and don what I hope is a relaxed smile as I wander through rows upon rows of bookshelves.

Unfortunately, I find not a single book out of place, leaving me to wait for someone to approach me with a question.

I spend the first half hour of my shift making sure that all the books are rightfully in their place, making sure each shelf is seamless and spotless. I mutter greetings to my fellow employees when Anna passes with the book cart, or Jonah rushes past me muttering something about Donna needing to stop drinking coffee.

I'm rearranging the table displaying copies of The Midnight Library by Matt Haig (a beautiful book, I assure you), when I hear a thud and a muttered, "Father fucker."

It's the last bit that sparks my curiosity and urges me to turn around.

On the floor surrounded by fallen books is a girl about my age with the prettiest hazel eyes I've ever seen. Even from a distance, they glimmer.

She scowls and blows a strand of wavy blond hair out of her face.

"Need any help?" I ask, jogging over.

She looks up. "If you wouldn't mind." She gives me a polite smile as she stands up. "I have a problem," she tells me with a laugh. "I have a serious lack of self control when it comes to books. I swear one day I'll go broke!"

I squat down to start picking up some of her books. She immediately joins me.

I want to ask. I want to ask her what in the world a father fucker is.

I place my stack of books on top of the ones already in her arms and she staggers a bit, the books swaying from side to side ever so slightly. It's bound to fall over any second now. I reach out. But I'm too late.

"Father fucking shit." She swears under her breath as the books fall once more. One paperback's cover folds in half.

This girl . . . she's intriguing.

"What's a father fucker?" I can't help myself.

Her frown is replaced by a smile and she laughs light heartedly. "We'll, it's a 'fuck you' to the patriarchy. One of my own making. You know, why are all the mothers being fucked by the mother fuckers? I think we should change that up. Some fathers should start taking the fucking instead, don't you think?"

I laugh. I can't help but do it. She's so incredibly funny and straightforward. So I laugh.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Scarlet Robinson," she says, extending her hand and promptly dropping the rest of the books. "Fuck."

I introduce myself with poorly concealed laughter, "Nice to meet you. I'm Milo."

"Nice to meet you, Milo," Scarlet says, squatting down once more to pick up her books. "You know, I'm such a klutz. I'm kind of a danger to society."

She shifts the books for one arm to the other, pushes her sunglasses back up onto her head, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"So, Milo, do you work here?"

"I do, yes. Best job in the world."

She nods. "You should stop by the cafe at some point. I'm always in there reading or working on homework and stuff."

"Maybe I will."

"Well, I hope to see you around." She turns away, takes a step and then pauses, turning slowly back to me with a grin. "And remember, don't feed into the patriarchy. Be a fatherfucker, Milo."

I snort quite ungracefully into my hand as she winks and walks away.

"See you 'round!"

"See you, Scarlet!"

She and her leaning tower of Pisa glide away from me, on their way to the checkout where Isabelle will most likely greet her with a bright smile and some small talk about her choice in books.

As I go about the rest of my day, I find I'm no longer thinking about the letter in my desk. I'm thinking about Scarlet. And I can't seem to stop smiling.