Back | Next
Contents

7. Flowers Plus


‘G’morning, Skye!’

Mum’s boss Paula was way too chirpy in the mornings. Just because she owned the Flowers Plus shop, didn’t give her the right to be cheerful before midday. Putting the emphasis on the ‘good’ wouldn’t win her any friends, either. Okay, I know I’m not at my best anytime I think is early, even if others don’t.

‘Mmm. Morning.’

Mum and I were busy unpacking the overnight shipment from interstate. Massive wax-covered cardboard boxes held together with thick metal staples, lined with thin packing paper, all thrown away as soon as we’d taken the flowers out. Seemed such a waste. Maybe Marla and I could flatten them out and recycle them for protest signs? Not today though. Momentarily I’d forgotten she’d wiped me.

‘Don’t cut those wildflowers too short,’ Mum warned.

People had gone nuts over natives lately, especially for weddings. Maybe it proved how patriotic you were or something. I always thought buying and selling flowers that grew wild was weird. Better than just taking them from the bush though. If everyone did that, there’d be no ‘wild’ left. I snipped the ends off the stalks and plonked them in water.

Paula bustled in and out of the workroom in her ‘sensible’ red, flat shoes. We’d be in here all day preparing the wedding orders while she served customers in the shop. That week I first cut my hair into a mohawk was mysteriously the same week Paula shuffled me out the back to work on orders like funeral wreaths and wedding bouquets. Suited me fine. Customers never knew what they wanted, even if I told them everything I knew about every flower in the shop. Wreath customers didn’t argue and weren’t allergic to pollen.

I took my bucket of wildflowers into the cooler and wandered back to the big packing table. A thought lurking somewhere in the recesses of my morning brain poked me. A mistake in timing. I’d put my binder on without thinking about it. Mum gave me sideways glances as I carried the buckets and boxes around.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sure.’ That’s the sort of instant answer you give, even if there’s a zillion things wrong.

All the preparation for dinner the other night, and I’d accidentally bound when I’d be spending the whole day with Mum.

Maybe it wasn’t an accident.

Why was I even worried? I wanted my parents to know. But I also wanted to control how they first knew. And a florist shop was too public, even the Flowers Plus backroom.

Suddenly ultra self-conscious and awake, I tried not to let it show on my face. I concentrated on my job. Unpack the flowers. Snip the ends off. Put them in buckets of water. Take the buckets to the cooler. Repeat. I’d worked out a way to squish my breasts sideways in the binder so they looked as flat as possible. Yesterday it had felt great to have such a flat chest. Was I trying to show it off?

During our morning break, Mum and I sat outside around the white plastic lunch table, unwrapping our salad sandwiches. She had been suspiciously quiet all morning. Probably thought the same about me.

‘Thanks for helping, love.’

‘No problem. I like doing up the orders. How come all the brides want the same thing ... the same flower?’ I joked, trying to lighten the awkwardness.

She kept looking at my chest. I knew she wanted to ask about it. How could she go into such detail about my appearance when it came to Grandma’s party outfit, then not even mention an obviously flat chest?

Mum glanced at the doorway to check for Paula, and then leaned in to me. ‘You know, if you need to talk about anything, I’m always here.’

‘Mum!’ I felt ten years old all of a sudden.

‘Well, if you’re having any sort of body issues ...’ She trailed off, as if unsure of what to say next. ‘We’re both women. I’ll understand. And a daughter should be able to talk to her mother.’

‘Sandra!’ Paula called out from the shop. Mum patted me on the shoulder as she got up.

This was even worse. Poor Mum, she just wanted to help out. But we’re not both women. Whenever she’d tried that ‘women together’ stuff I’d always squirmed out of it. Now I felt guilty that she’d never have that sort of bond with me. We never had done girlie stuff. Even Marla had that with her mum – they talked about body image and their periods and pregnancy and went shopping. I was Mum’s only daughter and she wasn’t likely to have any more kids. She told me that on my thirteenth birthday. ‘I was so glad to have a daughter, after having a son first. I think every parent likes one of their own kind.’

I couldn’t imagine Gran saying that to her daughter, my mum. Gran treated you like a person, whatever your gender, whatever you wore, even if she didn’t like your outfit.

After lunch Mum was tied up with customers in the shop. Out the back, putting the wedding bouquets together, I was glad to be left alone. I thought about Dad and Vic. For the first time I was worried about what they would think and say. The balance in the family would change. They would have to accept me as a man when they’d always been the men and boys. I felt so female compared to them. Dad and Vic, Mum and me: the boys and the girls. Would they ever see Finn? And would Mum feel that now she was the only female left, abandoned by her ex-daughter?

Victor was my slightly bigger brother. How would I feel if he suddenly changed into Victoria? Weird, but okay. Still have a Victor-ness about the person, especially the sense of humour. Was that something my gran would have faced, with Uncle Al?

‘Paula asked if you were okay. She noticed you were quiet today,’ Mum said in the car on the way home.

‘It was nice of her to ask,’ I said, avoiding the question. I felt sad and wanted to be alone.

Mum pulled up in the driveway and I leapt out to check the mail. Something for me in an unmarked envelope, with a city PO box return address. I slipped it into the supermarket catalogues.

Safe in my room, I ripped it open.


Dear Skye

An appointment has been made for you with Dr Carter at 10am on Thursday 6th October. Please advise reception at least 48 hours prior to your appointment time if you cannot attend.

Yours sincerely

Outpatient Bookings Clerk


Never in my life had I read such an impersonal letter that made me so excited. I jumped onto the computer and posted to the FTM forum.


I got an appointment for my psych assessment! It’s in three weeks. I really want to get on hormones as soon as I can. I’ve read heaps about it now and I’m certain it’s for me. I want people to see me as male. It’s so cool when it does happen. I’ve been binding more and the flat chest feels so much better than two bras.

Has anyone been to Dr Carter? I’m nervous already – do I need to say or do anything to get on hormones quicker?

Finn


It wasn’t until I’d written the post that I realised how badly I wanted to be taking testosterone. Finally, the world would see me as male, as I really am. The prospect was too awesome to describe. Sometimes I had dreams where I was male; everything fell into place and felt ‘right’, then I woke up and remembered.

But first I had to be assessed. What were they going to base it on? It was like a really important test that I had no idea how to study for.

Some of the forums listed individual doctors and reviewed them. Was that legal? Apparently. I asked and got a quick response.

Hey buddy, That’s great news! He did my assessment, too. They also assess how male you look, so make sure to bind your chest and wear male clothing. Do you want to come to a barbecue at my place this Saturday? A few of us guys will be there, and our partners. Bring some meat and salad, drinks, whatever. Be good to meet in person! We don’t bite ... well not much anyway. Corey

Mum knocked on the door. I fought the urge to flick the screen off – that only made her suspicious, like when I used to play games late at night and pretended it was homework.

‘Yes?’

Mum opened the door and waved the cordless phone at me. ‘Marla.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I tried not to sound surprised that she had called, and put the phone to my ear.

‘Hello?’ I said, as if I weren’t sure who it was.

‘Hey, it’s Marla.’ She never introduced herself. We’d known each other too long for that.

‘Hi.’

A pause.

‘Um, hey, I’m sorry about the other day.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ What else was there to say?

‘Yeah, I just got a shock, you know? I mean, you’re Skye, you’re one of us. A feminist.’

She meant a female, a woman, one of the girls.

‘I can still be a feminist. I’ll be one that always gets it, where women are coming from.’

‘Hmm. I guess.’ While Marla pondered that for a moment, something occurred to me.

‘Hey, Marla?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you remember in year ten when you really wanted me to be in your art class, and I took graphics instead?’

‘Of course I do. It sucked without you. We could have done the team projects together. What’s that got to do with anything?’ Marla’s voice was rising.

‘Well, this is sort of like that. I mean, even though it would have been awesome if I’d been in your art class, I did what I really wanted to do. Now we can still do things like making cool banners and art and stuff, whenever we want, and it doesn’t matter which classroom I was in.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I have to do my thing, Marla.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s just that we’ve been friends for ages. I never expected this.’

‘Neither did I. And we still are friends.’

‘Cool,’ Marla said quietly, and let out a long sigh.

‘So do you want to do Katie’s kick drum thing?’ she asked, sounding a lot brighter. ‘I’ve got some ideas: same style, but with the letters all tall and smooshed together, like that sixties font, only not so retro. And more blood this time.’

We arranged it for my place on Sunday. I offered to bring the recycled stuff from the florist, and said goodbye. Marla hadn’t used my new name. But then I hadn’t told her face to face that I wanted to be called Finn. It didn’t really matter right then. Friends or mates, whatever.


Back | Next
Framed