Looking back, I would say that that day was a cakewalk compared to the month that would follow. Harrowing, tedious, and emotionally exhausting are the words I'd use to describe that waking nightmare. However – pardon my French – shitty the experience was, it was temporary. At the time, it felt endless, but now that I'm far past that I can see that it was barely a blip in my lifetime.

I woke up at noon, alone in Alex’s bed. She has always woken up before me and she stubbornly refuses to tell me just how long she waits for me. I rose from the pile of a comforter, blanket, and a sheet and was instantly chilled by the artificially cooled air falling from above. Then I saw the clothes Alex had laid out for me on the foot of her bed: a plain white t-shirt and cuffed, khaki Bermuda shorts. She must have searched forever to find something that had 1) sleeves, 2) was my size, and 3) had an inseam longer than four inches. I got dressed in a hurry to escape the air conditioning, then cautiously went downstairs. Alex was sitting ‒ lying? ‒ on the couch with her legs on the armrest and her body in the seat. She had her phone barely two inches away from her face, “Jason is at soccer practice with Mom, and Dad is at the grocery store,” she said without looking at me, “Also, good afternoon.”

“Sorry I overslept, were you up long?”

She glanced at me, “No.”

I took a deep breath, now was as good a time as any, “Hey can I tell you something?”

She put her phone down, “Shoot, dude.”

I always laugh when I think that she called me 'dude' moments before finding out that I am, in fact, a dude. “I’m a boy, I’m trans. My name is Toulouse,” I said.

The silence almost consumed me as I waited. One second. Two seconds. Three. Each passing moment added weight onto my chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

When I thought my lungs would burst she said, “That makes sense.”

Relief flooded my system, “Oh my god, what was with that pause I was petrified.”

She laughed guiltily, “I was thinking back on all of my memories of you. Even when you were ‘feminine’ you were kind of unconventionally so. Also on that note, I’m pansexual.”

“That’s why you were so obsessed with Kim Possible.” I laughed, I couldn’t believe this had become a mutual coming out session.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be her or her girlfriend. Turns out it was both all along,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I can’t believe how afraid I was. I feel dumb,” I couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous my fear seemed just a moment ago.

“I feel even dumber,” she began to giggle too. Both of us were seized with fits of laughter over our unneeded fear together alone in her living room. I felt so many things at that moment, but most of all I was overwhelmed by my gratitude. “Lucky” doesn’t even begin to describe how fortunate I am to have such a magnificent friend. What would I ever do without her?

Later on, I begrudgingly decided to go home after Alex told me that Auntie Opal — her mom — told her that my dad was looking for me. According to Auntie Opal, he’d called all of my friends’ parents in a frenzied state trying to find me. I figured I ought to go home before he got the police involved or something. Would he do that after less than 24 hours? I didn’t know, but my phone was dead and I wanted to lay in my bed alone for the rest of the weekend watching Pose or something.

Three solid knocks on my front door and not two seconds later I was standing face to face with my dad. The silence weighs and doesn’t get easier. He looked awful: his eyes were puffy, his hair a mess, and he looked a little vacant like he’d mentally checked out. Then, as I took a deep breath to speak, the pungent scent of alcohol betrayed him. I made it a point not to mention it, “Hey Dad,” I said as though nothing happened. He grunted and waved me in as if I didn’t know how worried he was. I was pissed.

For the next week, my dad and I pretty much didn’t talk. When we did, he addressed me by my dead name, and I ignored him because I made up my mind that I wouldn’t listen unless he called me Toulouse. The whole thing was rather frustrating because I’m my father’s child: stubborn and unyielding. I wished Adam were there to serve as a sort of buffer, but he was at a sleep-away camp that would supposedly look good on college applications. So I did the only thing I could to avoid being alone with my dad: I invited friends over almost every day and spent a lot of time holed up in my room. Not only was this an excellent way not to talk to him, but it was great for evading my feelings on the matter.

Eventually, this wasn’t enough because he started to try to talk to me but continued to ignore my corrections. Then I gave up on correcting him not because I didn’t care but because it became a tedious chore. With this new development, I didn’t come home until late in the evening or at all. My friends’ parents were happy to host me late or overnight ‒ it was summer break after all. On the rare occasions I was home and we were in the same room, we were alone even though we were together.

Sometime after coming out to Alex, she encouraged me to come out to the rest of our friends, “We’ll do it together,” she promised, and we did. And it was OK. Of course, they had questions, some of them were rather cluelessly invasive, some confused gender with sexuality and some were basic, like “When did you know?”. They told me it would take some getting used to, but they were with me 100%. That meant the world to me.

“So, what’s your new name?” Joji asked.

“It took me forever to choose, but I settled on Toulouse Henri a year ago!” I said excitedly.

“Does that mean we can call you,” Caleb paused for effect, “‘Tutu’”.

“I‒Wha‒No! No, you cannot call me ‘Tutu’!”

“Come oooon. Please? It’s like Desmond Tutu — it’s cool.” I knew from that moment that there was no escaping my fate, but I would go down swinging.

“Dude, Lou is right there and you chose Tutu? Really?”

Alex laughed, “C’mon it’s cute.”

“Yeah yeah! It’s good, dude. Destroy gender roles and all that,” Perez said.

I may have blushed a little bit, “Fine. Fine! Just know that I hate it,” I smiled sarcastically.

Caleb pumped a triumphant fist in the air, “Yes!”

Tutu is still my nickname to this day.

My dad and I kept our avoidance of each other up right until Adam’s return from camp was less than a week away. One night I stayed at Perez’s. The sleepover was normal for a while: we talked, watched movies, goofed around, and played board games because he hates video games. But then by 4 AM when we should have been asleep for hours, I started venting to Perez about my dad. Everything spilt out of my mouth. The anger, the frustration, the hurt ‒ it was all there. I was just so tired of keeping it in and Perez has always been the best listener. When I was done he sat for a minute, I assumed he was thinking.

He looked at me, “OK. Well, what’s going on between you and your dad isn’t doing anything for anyone. When I told my mom that I’m gay we did the same thing. She didn’t blow up or anything, but I wish she did. Her ignoring such a big part of my identity hurt so much more than her words ever could. She pretended I was straight, not just to me and herself, but to everyone we knew for the better part of a year,” he said, “She was ashamed of me and so she passed that shame onto me, a child. Had we talked it out earlier I could have skipped that and I wouldn't have had to unlearn that shame. We did talk, a little late for me, but better late than never, and now she’s my biggest supporter. We were struggling because there was no communication between us.”

“Every situation is different, but you need to talk to you dad, Toulouse. By avoiding your feelings you’re only contributing to the damage. Don’t make the same mistake I did,” he warned.

Shivers ran down my spine when he spoke my name. The way he said it had a haunting effect, it felt like someone had walked over my grave. He was right, and I think I knew all along that I needed to confront my dad if things were to get better. But by having a real conversation I would have to face my fears of confrontation and my own vulnerability. That’s why I had put it off for so long. When I’d come out to him, I literally blurted it out and ran, but I should have stayed and talked. Why is it so difficult to tell people how I feel?