Inappropriation Read online

  Stepping out of her stall, Ziggy now notices the bathroom. The walls are a gummy pink, and the mirrors are lined with frosted bulbs, giving the whole room a glossy, artificial glow. There are framed prints of pale sunsets, calm oceans, and insipid cloud formations. In one corner of the room stands, inexplicably, a giant gum-ball machine. Breathy through the speakers comes a feathery female voice above soft synthy beats. Being inside this bathroom is like stepping into the twee dystopia of Kate Fairfax’s Instagram or Cate Lansell-Jones’s lunch box or possibly her underpants. Ziggy feels coerced by the overidentified bathroom with its nauseating girl-palette and aggressive imperatives to Live, Laugh, and Love. Ziggy’s sweet, doting grandmother is entitled to her perennial princess party; the Cates, however, are not. Ziggy makes a gagging face in the mirror, and storms out of the toxic restroom.

  When she gets home, Ziggy goes straight onto the Red Pill.

  So where can I get some roofies?

  she asks, punctuating it with a lol in case a moderator is watching.

  But the subreddit is very forthcoming. Ziggy is informed that benzodiazepines are not available without prescription and Rohypnol is banned in most Western countries. But there are many types of muscle relaxant that do the same thing. There is a black market for all of this, and also, self-taught medicine closet chemists willing to advise her on various homemade poisons. Ziggy plays along, thrilled and horrified to be toying, even figuratively, with these possibilities. She imagines the Cates slurring and frothing their way down to Embassy’s sticky black carpet. Or the four girls stripped and incontinent on an empty football field. Waking with the harsh morning sun—panicked and disoriented, covered in mysterious grass stains, feeling for the first time in their perfect lives, the crushing sense of powerlessness. In that infinite, shivering instant the Cates would comprehend the full history of female oppression—from Eve to the internet meme who farts with her vagina—and maybe, at last, they might empathize.

  Either way, Ziggy wouldn’t even have to lay a finger on them. She could give them date-rape trauma without the actual date rape. Feminists probably won’t like this, but the Red Pill are going to find it very funny. Ziggy already receives spam for all kinds of pharmaceuticals, and knows there are countless invisible forces vying to take her mother’s credit card details. She could do this and for now that is enough. That night Ziggy pays the formal’s $180 deposit.

  THIS YEAR, HER PARENTS HAVE INVITED Ziggy and Jacob to their wedding anniversary dinner. Which can only mean imminent divorce. A reservation is made at the famous restaurant on the top floor of a skyscraper. Ascending in the elevator, Ziggy notices her brother is shaking his head at her Converse.

  “What?” she snaps.

  “If you’re going to wear a GoPro, you could at least wear dress shoes.”

  Ziggy scans her brother’s outfit: pastel pink shirt over crisp chinos. “Sorry I don’t subscribe to Satan’s clothing catalog.”

  Jacob smiles. “You dress like a homeless man from the future.”

  “Good. That’s basically what I am.”

  The doors open on a dark, hushed dining room, and Jeff glares them all into penitent silence. Ziggy notices now, with creeping shame, that her parents have really dressed up. Jeff has even removed his Fitbit and replaced it with a gold chain bracelet. Ruth sports the usual witchy frayed layers but in funereal shades of eggplant.

  When the Kleins have been seated, Jeff begins ordering feverishly off the menu. The food comes quickly, and Ziggy watches her father savor the subtle fusions with disturbing nakedness, eyes fluttering orgasmically each time the fork enters his mouth. Ruth doesn’t like it either.

  “Jeffrey, I think you’ve mistaken that entrée for the sublime.”

  But Jeff waves her off, forming a swift bond with the bald man in thick tortoiseshell frames who stands imperiously over their table, discoursing on the wines. Delightful, Jeff praises the man for his recommendation; Goodness gracious, he exclaims at the palatial architecture of a cheese soufflé. The ritual is embarrassing to Ziggy, to sit in dutiful reverence of these high-concept dishes. It reminds her of eating the symbolic items on the Seder plate, and straining for the transportive aftertastes of ancient sentiments. As if dinner is going to produce a religious miracle.

  Ziggy’s mother is clearly drunk, on to her third cocktail and unsubtly disparaging the other diners. She nudges Ziggy and with hot, berried breath points out a young couple swishing wine around their mouths while staring at the wall. Then she turns her discontent on Jeff.

  “Let’s be honest: the quality of this experience lacks depth.”

  “Sharing sublime food with the people you love?”

  “The word sublime is for Renaissance art, not cheese.”

  Though she thinks her mother is being a gnarly jackal bitch, Ziggy agrees that the soufflé needs a different adjective from very old paintings.

  “No one is asking you to call the cheese sublime, Ruth.”

  “Actually, Jeff, I think you are.”

  “Then you aren’t receiving me.”

  Ziggy and Jacob shudder in unison.

  Ruth sits up straight, an angry exclamation point in maroon. “Well, you certainly aren’t sensing into my needs.”

  “You wanted me to book a restaurant!”

  “That’s not the only job of the masculine!”

  “That’s right—I’m paying for it too.”

  Jacob chuckles and Ziggy thumps him. “Not funny,” she says.

  “You’re not.”

  “Not trying.”

  Jeff drops his fist lightly on the table. “Stop.”

  “Tell Beelzebub’s webcam.”

  Jeff glances between his children with a look of deep alienation. He throws his napkin down on the table and pushes back his chair. “I’m using the men’s.”

  “Can we please not call it that,” Ziggy scolds him. “Why does everything have to be so gendered with you people?”

  “Excuse me?” Jeff looks puzzled, then slightly hysterical. “What should I call the room with the word men’s written on the door?”

  “Jeff.”

  “I’m just asking what I’m permitted to say in front of our daughter?”

  “She’s not your daughter!” Jacob ribs. Ziggy kicks her brother’s shin.

  “I can’t call the cheese sublime,” whines Jeff. “And I can’t call the room with the little male symbol on it men’s, so what can I say?”

  “Maybe the cheese should be transcendent!”

  Jacob gets another, harder kick.

  “Stop it, both of you,” says Ruth. “Come on, this is our wedding anniversary.”

  “We’re probably not allowed that word either, right, Ziggy?” Her father is angry—she has never seen him so histrionic. “Are wedding anniversaries offensive too?”

  “Yours is.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you’re gay.”

  Jeff thrusts his chin under and snorts. He thinks she’s kidding. Ruth and Jake giggle too. For a moment, the space between the three of them looks warm and inviting. Ziggy could just slip in and join them all inside the big, hilarious joke. But the effort required to back down, to breathe evenly, is now far too great.

  “Everyone knows gays are intolerant of trans people!” she shouts over them. “You resent us because we don’t aspire to your regressive heteronormativity.”

  Ruth attempts a serious expression. “Ziggy, what are you talking about?”

  “Gays have won their rights and left their trans comrades in the dust.”

  “Where do you think you live?” scoffs Jeff. “America? We don’t have gay rights here.”

  “You would know.”

  “What are you now, homophobic?”

  “I’m only homophobic if you’re gay.”

  “Ziggy,” Ruth says, smirking. “Why do you think Dad’s gay?”

  “You think I’m gay because I take care of my body?”

  “No,” Ziggy snaps. “I know about your frie
nds.”

  “What about them?”

  “That they like men!”

  “They’re all married to women!”

  “Then what about Thailand?”

  “We were swimming!”

  “Except when you were cross-dressing!”

  Ruth interprets for her husband. “I think she means the karaoke video.”

  “Your wigs were disgustingly culturally insensitive.”

  Jeff’s jowls sag in bafflement. “To who?”

  “To me!”

  “What, that thing on your head is cultural?”

  Ziggy puffs up over the table. “Yes, it is.”

  Her father takes a fork and sticks it behind his ear. “Okay,” he says. “Then this is my culture and you need to respect that.”

  “Brilliant,” Jacob applauds. Ziggy watches her brother take a fork and wedge it behind his own ear. “I call it transcutlery,” he says.

  The three of them chuckle again, Jeff and Jacob beaming smugly at Ziggy. She can feel a sharp pain rising in her chest. And a pressure on her shoulders, like someone is pushing them down. Ziggy picks up her own fork and points it at her father.

  “You don’t scare me,” she says.

  Jeff stiffens in his chair.

  “Ziggy!” Ruth hisses. “Drop that fork!”

  Ziggy lowers it. Her father looks hurt. “You just threatened me with a fork?”

  “You were bullying me!” Ziggy’s voice is breaking.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I won’t take it!”

  “No one is trying to fight you, Ziggy!” Ruth leans toward her with wild, shaky tenderness.

  “He thinks I’m weak!”

  “No!” Her father is angry again. “I think you’re frightening!”

  “Good!”

  Ruth’s wisdom comes booming and slightly slurred. “What is this ‘weak’?! There is nothing weak about yielding! It’s stubbornness that’s a sign of insecurity!” Ruth looks around and sees that she has confounded everyone into silence. She continues. “Women are strong in their vulnerability, and their facility for yielding is a great inner strength!”

  “That’s nice,” Ziggy snaps, the heat of her anger just holding her together. “But I’m transhuman. As in, beyond.”

  On the car ride home, Ziggy seethes, watching Jeff’s head turn stiffly in the driver’s seat; she sees intolerance in the back of his haircut, the crisp collar of his shirt. She doesn’t know what it is, but Ziggy knows he’s still hiding something.

  As they turn into the driveway, the GoPro glasses find her father in the rearview mirror. Her mother was right. Whether he’s gay or not, Jeff is a sensitive man. He stares ahead with a strange, swollen blankness; his face bereft as a peeled potato.

  AT HOME, ZIGGY GOES STRAIGHT ONLINE. Her Red Pill friends love the clip she posts from her parents’ anniversary dinner: the sea bass foam with its pubic-looking wild licorice garnish.

  Beta dad loves gay food presentation.

  Ziggy is beyond gender, but until the rest of the world joins her, the Red Pill’s mythology is very useful. Posters share GIFs of Nemo strung up in a fishing net, swaying perilously over a gay dance floor. Ziggy gets lols and fist bumps, but then, amidst the memetic fanfare, appears a frowning unicorn face from natty19.

  What are you doing here?

  Ziggy asks the queer interloper.

  u transition & str8 away become a misogynist? shame.

  Ziggy is being trolled.

  I never said my GoPro was a dick

  u said u wore a strap-on??

  The GoPro is agender

  so u identify as what?

  Trans

  You’re transgender???

  This is let_them_eat_balls.

  Transhuman

  u said u thought u were male,

  natty19 presses.

  Ziggy stays quiet. She has never felt male, but admitting it won’t win her any friends here. The Red Pill doesn’t like cisgender girls any more than the queer subreddit does.

  fyi,

  natty19 continues.

  u don’t wear a camera 2 feel like a man, u feel like a man then wear a camera.

  Now the men are insulted.

  Hey! Men don’t need 2 wear GoPros,

  writes ironman17.

  Confused, cuckoff chimes in to condemn Ziggy too:

  Run along now little beta.

  Ziggy logs out. She steps away from her laptop and feels herself crumpling forward onto the bed. She lands GoPro-first, bruising her forehead. Ziggy really didn’t mean to make this about gender, or only metaphorically. An affinity to share with the vast cyborg nation. But again, she has managed to insult everybody and get banished from the culture. It once seemed her queer friends would accept a dolphin with TV antennae, but now even they have rejected her identity.

  There is a knock at her door. It opens, and her parents move swiftly to either side of Ziggy’s bed. Her head tingles with incredulity. First her trans status is revoked, and then her parents announce their divorce? Ziggy wonders where this sits on the trauma scale.

  But Ruth belly-flops onto the mattress, cupping her face on propped elbows. Jeff tucks his feet kiddishly under his bum. Ziggy edges back to the wall. The tone is too fraternal. Their tragic tableau lacks the air of quiet devastation.

  “Your dad and I want to talk to you,” says Ruth, taking Ziggy’s hand. “About what’s happening inside your body.”

  Ziggy braces harder against the wall. They have already had this conversation. The puberty talk. Years ago: in this room, on this bed. Ziggy has never forgotten the horror of hearing her father say the words vaginal discharge.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

  “But we do,” says Jeff. “We want to know if you feel like a boy, and if there’s something more you need to do about it.”

  The wall is suddenly icy against Ziggy’s back. She feels caught. In a lie she didn’t fully realize she was telling.

  “I told you this isn’t about gender,” Ziggy says, the words cottony in her mouth. She looks at her mother and Ruth’s face is so warm, so open and accepting—inviting her daughter to be whomever she is—that Ziggy relents. Peaceman shrugs his shoulders and chutes down the hot spout of her throat.

  “Why are people so intolerant?” Ziggy bawls, looking between her parents’ unconditionally loving faces. Her sadness is intoxicating. She takes a huge yawning gulp of it and the tears pump out like liquid exhalation. Even as her ribs start to sink with the dead air of insincerity, Ziggy hears herself whimpering in magnificent pain.

  Ruth strokes Ziggy’s back. “Which people?”

  “These American people I met online.”

  “Did they tease you?” Her mother looks angry.

  “I think they thought I was teasing them.”

  “What did the Americans say to you?” asks Jeff.

  “That the camera wasn’t trans.”

  “Well, I’m sure some other Americans will think the camera is trans,” her father says kindly. “That’s the good thing about the First Amendment.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” says Ziggy, wiping her nose with noble resignation. “I’m sick of fighting for my rights.”

  An opaque look passes between her parents. Then Ruth gets sphinxlike on her elbows. She speaks with diagnostic seriousness. “I think you and I need a mother-daughter weekend.”

  Daughter is still insensitive, but Ziggy doesn’t really have a substitute.

  “We can go up into the rain forest and get massages,” her mother says in a seductive drawl.

  Ziggy knows Ruth means Byron Bay. A mother-daughter weekend in the lush hinterland where all the broken men of ashram infamy came home to roost.

  “I have exams.”

  “I’ll write you another mental health note.”

  Ziggy tries to imagine what a trip to Byron Bay might be like with just her mother. Full-moon drumming and surprise acupuncture sessions. This happened once when Ziggy was studying for her B
at Mitzvah. Ruth said they were getting facials, and two hours later, Ziggy was dropped off at synagogue with religious stigmata.

  But her mother is so excited.

  “We can stay in Turiya’s cabin and swim in the creek and you’ll finally get to film something good!”

  Which is the only reason Ziggy says yes.

  Chapter 10

  Ruth rents the two of them a cabin in the hills just outside of town. In Byron Bay, wearing the GoPro feels different. It might just be the weather but Ziggy is newly conscious of the strap, which is tight and hot around her head. The glasses are also somehow disorienting. She takes the camera off in her room and then forgets it when they leave the bungalow.

  Their first excursion is to a tiny Israeli masseuse who works out of a converted garden shed humid with ferns and Japanese water features. The Israeli has a stout hourglass figure and she trots around the room, her black noodly hair swishing just above her coccyx; the more Ziggy watches her, the more she experiences the masseuse as a super-intelligent, sensual pony. The woman’s tights are flesh-toned, and Ziggy can make out the contours of her labia. It isn’t sexual attraction Ziggy feels, but awe, at this woman who seems to occupy a much higher spiritual plane.

  Drilling her thumbs into Ruth’s back, the masseuse apologizes for her plants who, she informs them, can no longer sing.

  “That’s a shame,” says Ruth. “I thought Ziggy would get a real kick out of them.”

  The woman exhales with loud, huffing regret through her nostrils. “Sadly, I have to stop after ze water experiment.”

  “What water experiment?”

  The masseuse turns to Ziggy as she explains the technology. “First we taught zem how to sing. We attached nodes to zeir leaves, and zese nodes were wired to a synzesizer. We teach zem to play Bach and some Neil Diamond. We really zought zey are enjoying zemselves.” The Israeli sighs deeply into the space between Ruth’s shoulder blades. “So zen we hooked zem up to zeir own irrigation system. We train zem for weeks, and finally zey started to feed zemselves. At first it was fantastic! Ze plants are singing for zeir food!” The masseuse claps her hands together and laughs, her mouth wide and childish with an eager crowding of teeth. Then she swoops on Ruth’s back, making short hard chops with the side of her hand as if pantomiming a sushi chef. Her tone is suddenly grave. “One morning we come in and ze plants are all droopy, ze water is spilling over zeir pots. Zey look like alcoholics. I can’t tell if it were a suicide or protest. To me, it feel very political.” She wipes her brow and then walks with great forbearance around to Ruth’s other side. “Zat’s when I decide zat plants are like people. We zink we know zem, but we don’t. So no more singing of ze plants.”