Keeping It Fluid -69

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By the time August rolled around, the sun had started to drag itself a little slower across the sky—like even it was getting tired of summer. The heat stuck around, clinging to our skin like a second shirt, but the light felt softer somehow. Hazy. Golden. Like the whole world was glowing from the inside out.

And somehow, without really meaning to, we’d filled our summer with everything.

We rode our bikes down every trail we could find—even the one that curved through the woods and ended in a muddy dip Lily immediately dubbed “The Swamp of Sadness.” She dramatically flopped into the grass like a tragic movie heroine, mud splattered up her legs, declaring she would “never emotionally recover” from losing her sandal. We all laughed so hard we nearly toppled over.

We made s’mores in the backyard firepit on nights when the stars were bright and the mosquitoes hadn’t declared war just yet. Samantha set her marshmallow on fire at least twice and then insisted, with an entirely straight face, that it was “intentional caramelization.” She even offered to make one for me. I declined. She made it anyway.

We got sunburned at the lake—real, tomato-red sunburns that no amount of aloe could fix—and floated in the water until our fingers wrinkled like raisins. We thrift-shopped for the weirdest outfits we could find (Lily scored a sweater with sequined lobsters on the sleeves), then did fashion shows in the living room while blasting 2000s pop songs like they were runway anthems.

We had movie nights on the couch with fans aimed directly at our faces, curled under mismatched blankets, eating popcorn that always somehow ended up under the cushions. Samantha finally watched The Princess Bride for the first time and spent the next week quoting it at inappropriate times. (Her “Inconceivable!” needed work, but she nailed the fencing scene.)

We helped Mom plant flowers in the front yard—zinnias, black-eyed Susans, and something that was supposed to be lavender but definitely wasn’t. Half of them wilted in the heat, but the ones that survived bloomed defiantly. We called them our “flower warriors.” Samantha turned a few spare clay pots into tiny frog homes and painted each one with glittery green eyes and little pride flags on their backs.

There were nights when the group chat never stopped buzzing. We stayed up way too late texting under the covers, swapping memes, venting about weird dreams, and telling each other things we didn’t always say out loud during the day. Sometimes we sent selfies with sleepy eyes and messy hair. Sometimes we just said, “you okay?” and it was enough.

And mornings? They didn’t always start on time. Pancakes turned into waffles turned into brunch turned into, “Hey, let’s build a pillow fort and pretend we live there now.”

It wasn’t perfect. Some days were harder than others.

Sometimes someone would stare too long at the store, or whisper something they thought we couldn’t hear. Samantha would shrink back a little, her voice fading. I’d feel my chest tighten with something between anger and protectiveness.

But those moments passed.

Because for every look, there was a kind word.
For every whisper, a hug.
For every uneasy silence, a belly laugh that drowned it out.

And Samantha?
She grew.

Not all at once. But steadily.

She started wearing the clothes she liked without flinching. Started speaking up more around Mia and Jasmine—laughing louder, teasing back, not apologizing for her existence. She danced with Lily in the backyard during our “Olympics,” even though she had no idea what the rules were and clearly didn’t care. She wore glitter on her cheeks and called herself “a competitive goddess of chaos.”

And I loved her for it.

We were all changing, in our own ways.

And now?

Now it was August.

The last full month of summer. The air starting to shift—just a whisper of cooler nights. A few leaves turning pale at the edges if you looked closely. The sound of cicadas replacing fireworks.

The State Fair was only a week away.

And school?

Closer than I wanted to think about.

It loomed just beyond the calendar like a blinking reminder that time kept moving, even when you weren’t ready for it.

But for now?

There were still popsicles in the freezer. Still warm sidewalks under bare feet. Still time to squeeze in one more lake day, one more thrift trip, one more lazy afternoon under the sun.

The countdown had started.

But summer wasn’t done with us yet.

“This is a scam,” she declared at breakfast that morning, flopping across two kitchen chairs like her body had given up. “Summer just started. I swear. I haven’t even finished my list.”

“What list?” Samantha asked, sipping her juice.

Lily sat up dramatically. “My Summer of Chaos checklist. I only got to item six: inventing a new kind of slushy.”

“Please tell me that wasn’t the watermelon-mustard thing,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“It was ahead of its time,” Lily huffed. “And I still haven’t done a cartwheel in every room of the house.”

“Don’t,” Mom said from the sink without looking up. “Remember the ceiling fan incident.”

“That was one time!”

“Once is enough,” Dad muttered from behind his newspaper.

Samantha smiled into her toast. “You know school’s still three weeks away, right?”

“Three weeks is basically tomorrow,” Lily groaned. “This is the last real week of freedom before everything turns into folders and math and hallway stampedes.”

“She’s not wrong,” I said. “Everything smells like new crayons and panic already.”

Lily kept going on about organizing a “freedom festival” in the backyard, complete with her rock collection and a dance-off with no rules. But I noticed Samantha had gone quiet.

She was still sitting at the table, toast half-eaten, gaze drifting out the window like her thoughts were somewhere else.

I waited until Lily launched into a speech about glitter regulations before I nudged her gently. “Hey. You good?”

Samantha blinked, then gave me a soft smile. “Yeah. I mean… kind of.”

I tilted my head. “Kind of?”

She looked down at her plate. “I keep thinking about school. What it’s going to be like.”

I knew what she meant without her having to say it.

She picked at the edge of her napkin. “It’s just… what if everyone stares? Or whispers? Or what if someone says something awful and I freeze up?”

I didn’t rush to answer. I just let her speak.

“I know who I am now,” she said quietly. “I feel more like myself than ever. But I still feel like I’m walking into a building where people only remember the old me.”

I reached across the table and touched her hand. “That’s their problem. Not yours.”

She looked at me, her eyes a little unsure. “You think they’ll accept me?”

“Some will. Some won’t,” I said honestly. “But the people who matter? The real friends? They will. And I’ll be right there with you. Every day.”

She didn’t say anything right away. But she gave my hand a little squeeze.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m really glad you’re my sister.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

Across the room, Lily dramatically knocked over a stack of plastic cups and shouted, “THE GLITTER COUNCIL WILL HEAR OF THIS.”

Samantha snorted.

Mom glanced at the clock above the stove, then wiped her hands on a dish towel.

“We’ve got about an hour,” she said. “Samantha, you might want to get ready.”

Samantha froze mid-sip of her juice.

“The appointment?” Mom reminded gently.

Samantha set her glass down slowly. “Right. That’s… today.”

“It’s just a consultation,” Mom said, trying to keep it calm and casual. “We’ll meet the doctor, talk through everything, ask questions.”

“But it’s the one,” Samantha said, her voice quieter now. “The one that decides if I can start blockers.”

Mom nodded. “Yes. But no one’s rushing you into anything. It’s just the next step. That’s all.”

Samantha glanced at me, and I could see it in her eyes—how hard she was trying to be brave and how scared she still was underneath.

I gave her a small smile. “You’ve got this. You really do.”

Lily, completely oblivious, was trying to balance a pancake on her head at the other end of the table.

Samantha stood slowly. “Okay. I’m gonna go change. I want to look… like me.”

“You already do,” I said.

She smiled—nervous, but real—and headed upstairs.

The stairs creaked as Samantha headed up to change, her footsteps slow and careful.

I stayed in the kitchen, swirling the last bit of juice around in my glass. The hum of the fridge filled the silence for a moment before I finally looked at Mom.

“Is she nervous?” I asked.

Mom didn’t answer right away. She just leaned against the counter, folding the dish towel in her hands like she needed something to do.

“She’s trying not to be,” she said softly. “But yeah. I think she is.”

I nodded, staring at the table. “It’s a big deal.”

“It is,” Mom agreed. “But not in a bad way. It’s just… a step. A serious one. And she knows that.”

I hesitated before asking, “Do you think the doctor will say yes?”

Mom looked at me, really looked. “I don’t know, honey. But I think they’ll listen. And that’s the most important part.”

I swallowed. “She really wants this. She’s so sure now.”

Mom gave a small, proud smile. “I know. And we’re going to support her no matter what they say today.”

She reached out and gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

“You’ve been amazing, you know,” she added. “To her. Through all of this.”

I looked down. “It doesn’t feel like I’m doing much.”

“You’re doing more than you think,” she said. “Just being here? Just treating her like she’s always been Samantha—that means everything.”

Upstairs, we heard the faint sound of a drawer opening, then closing again.

I didn’t say anything else.

I just stayed there with Mom, waiting.

I stayed quiet for a moment, just watching the sunlight shift across the kitchen table.

Then I said it before I could stop myself.

“You know, before I got pregnant… I actually thought about going on puberty blockers, too.”

Mom looked over at me, surprised—but not in a bad way. She didn’t say anything, just gave me space.

“Female hormones are a nightmare,” I added. “Everything about them just… overwhelms me. But I don’t want to go on testosterone either. I don’t want to be a boy. I don’t know what I want half the time. Being gender fluid with hormones is just… confusing.”

Mom stepped closer and pulled out a chair, sitting beside me.

“I’m really glad you told me that,” she said gently. “And I want you to know… we can talk about this. As much or as little as you need.”

I nodded, but my throat felt tight.

“There are options,” she continued. “Not everything has to be permanent right away. After the baby’s born, and when your body has had some time to heal, we can talk to someone—maybe a gender specialist or an endocrinologist—about what’s safe and what makes sense for you.”

I looked up. “Even if I don’t want to commit to anything right away?”

“Especially then,” she said. “You don’t have to have all the answers now. Puberty blockers can help buy time—just like they might for Samantha. And there are low-dose options, gender-affirming care that’s tailored for people who don’t fit into one box.”

She reached over and gave my hand a light squeeze.

“You don’t need to have a label for everything you feel. What matters is that you’re listened to. That you feel in control. And that you’re supported.”

I blinked hard, because suddenly the kitchen was getting blurry.

Mom smiled. “One day at a time, okay?”

I nodded again, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Okay.”

Before either of us could say anything else, we heard fast footsteps on the stairs—then Samantha came rushing around the corner, practically glowing.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” she said, bouncing on her heels. “I’m ready!”

Her hair was tied up in a half-ponytail, and she’d picked out her favorite tank top with little pink stars on it. Her face was lit up with a kind of excitement that didn’t leave room for fear—at least not right now.

Mom stood up, smoothing her shirt. “Got everything?”

“Yep!” Samantha held up her phone and a little folder of notes she’d written for the doctor, just in case she forgot what to say. “I even made a list of questions.”

“That’s my girl,” Mom said, smiling.

Samantha turned to me. “Wish me luck?”

I gave her a grin. “You don’t need it. You’ve got this.”

She beamed, and then she and Mom headed for the door.

I stood at the window, watching them walk to the car. The sun caught the shine in Samantha’s hair, and even from here, I could see the spring in her step.

Whatever happened today—whatever the doctor said—I knew this mattered.

Because she was walking toward the future she wanted.

And that was everything.

The house felt different once the door closed.

Not empty, exactly. Just... quieter. Like it had exhaled.

I sat back down at the kitchen table, still holding my glass even though the juice was long gone. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. Outside, someone was mowing their lawn. A sprinkler clicked in the distance.

It was peaceful. But not calm.

I kept thinking about what Mom said—about talking to a doctor, about blockers, about options I didn’t even know existed. It made me feel hopeful. And overwhelmed. And a little guilty that I hadn’t brought it up sooner.

I glanced at the window. The sky was clear. Still summer, but not for long. The kind of weather that feels warm but hints at change.

Samantha had found her truth, fast and bright like a firework.

Mine didn’t feel like that. Mine felt slower. Shiftier. Some days I felt like a girl, fully and comfortably. Other days… I didn’t know. And then there were the days I didn’t want to be anything at all.

And now there was the baby.

I rested my hand gently on my stomach, still small, still quiet. Still growing.

What kind of parent was I going to be?

What kind of me was I going to be?

I didn’t have answers. Not yet. But maybe that was okay.

Maybe today wasn’t about figuring everything out.

Maybe it was just about knowing I could.

I looked around the kitchen—plates still stacked from breakfast, a napkin folded just so, the sparkle of juice glass reflections dancing on the countertop.

It felt like a pause in the middle of something important.

And sometimes… pauses are where you breathe before the next big thing.

I was just starting to feel settled again when the front door slammed open with a bang.

“SNAKE!” Lily shrieked, barreling into the kitchen like her shoes were on fire. “THERE’S A SNAKE IN THE YARD!”

I nearly dropped my glass.

“What? Where?” I jumped up, already picturing a fanged monster coiled by the porch steps.

“In the grass by the driveway!” she said, pointing wildly. “It’s huge! Like, bigger than my arm!”

She was panting and red-faced, like she’d just survived a jungle expedition.

I grabbed my phone and slipped on my sandals, adrenaline kicking in way too fast for a quiet afternoon. “Okay, okay. Stay inside. I’ll check.”

Lily clutched the doorframe dramatically. “If I don’t make it, tell my rock collection I love them.”

I stepped outside, scanning the yard like I was on a mission.

And there it was.

Coiled in the grass, a long green thing stretching toward the flowerbed.

I crept closer.

And sighed.

“It’s a hose,” I called back.

“What!?” Lily shouted from behind the screen door.

I nudged it with my foot. “Garden hose. Not even moving. Definitely not venomous.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” she said. “Well… it looked like a snake.”

I bent over, laughing a little too loudly. The tension from earlier finally cracked open into something light.

Only Lily could turn a life-defining afternoon into a false reptile emergency.

I coiled the hose back into place, shaking my head.

When I walked back inside, Lily was already halfway into a popsicle, completely unbothered.

“Snake crisis averted?” she asked, like this was normal.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing a popsicle of my own. “The wilds of suburbia are safe again.”

I was halfway through my second popsicle and Lily her fourth, when I heard the car pull into the driveway.

Lily peeked out the window like a spy. “They’re back.”

I stood up and walked to the door just as it opened. Mom stepped inside first, holding a folder of paperwork, her expression calm but her eyes a little brighter than usual.

Right behind her was Samantha.

She looked… relieved. Like a balloon that had been held too tightly was finally let go, just enough to float.

“Well?” I asked, even though I could already guess.

Samantha’s face broke into a grin. “They said yes.”

Lily blinked. “Yes to what?”

“Blockers,” I said, smiling. “She’s allowed to start.”

Samantha nodded quickly. “Not right this second, but soon. I have to do a few tests first—bloodwork, check-ups, stuff like that—but they said everything looks good so far. They think I’ll be able to start at the next visit.”

Mom came over and set the folder down on the kitchen table. “They were kind, thorough, and made sure she understood every step of it.”

“They didn’t talk down to me,” Samantha added. “They actually listened.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “Seriously.”

Samantha’s smile softened. “I didn’t think I’d be this happy. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It is,” Mom said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And it’s happening because you made it happen. You spoke up. You asked. You were brave.”

Samantha’s eyes shimmered just a little, and I thought she might cry—but instead, she laughed. “They had a rainbow fish tank in the waiting room.”

“That’s how you know they’re legit,” I said.

Lily, finally catching up, ran over and hugged her. “I don’t totally get what blockers are, but if it makes you happy, then yay!”

Samantha hugged her back. “Thanks, Lil.”

Mom sat down with a sigh—not a tired sigh, but a full one, like the weight of worry had eased a little.

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

Samantha looked at me. “I’m proud of me too.”

“So… when’s the next appointment?” I asked, sliding into the chair next to her.

Mom looked up from the folder of paperwork. “The Friday before school starts.”

Samantha nodded, still holding her clinic bracelet between her fingers. “It’s just bloodwork and one last check-in, but they said if everything looks good, I can start that day.”

“That’s awesome,” I said, and I meant it.

She smiled, then added, “They’re going to put a small implant in my arm, so I don’t have to take anything every day. It should last a while.”

Lily’s eyes went wide. “Like… robot parts?”

Samantha laughed. “Not exactly. But kinda cool, right?”

“Very cool,” I said, nudging her shoulder.

She looked proud. Not just happy—proud. Like she was finally taking control of her own story.

Lily sat up straighter. “So… can we celebrate now or what?”

Samantha nodded. “Yeah. I think we can.”

“Ow!” I said, clutching my stomach with one hand.

Everyone froze.

“You okay?” Mom asked, halfway through rinsing a bowl at the sink.

“I—yeah, I think so.” I looked down at my belly, frowning. “It wasn’t like… bad pain. Just weird. Like someone poked me. From inside.”

Samantha blinked. “Wait… was that the baby?”

“I don’t know,” I said, a little breathless. “It didn’t feel like how cramps usually do. It was more like… a bubble popping. But sharper?”

Mom stepped closer, drying her hands. “That might’ve been the first kick.”

I stared at her. “Seriously?”

She smiled. “At nineteen weeks? Absolutely possible.”

My hand was still on my stomach, as if I could rewind it and feel it again.

Samantha looked fascinated. “Did it hurt?”

“Not really,” I said. “It just surprised me.”

Lily leaned around the corner. “Maybe the baby’s mad because you ate the last cookie.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

Still holding my stomach, I sat down slowly, just in case. It hadn’t been painful, not really. But it was real.

I sat back against the chair, one hand still resting on the spot where it happened. Nothing else moved. Just quiet.

But now I was waiting for it. Hoping for it. Wondering if it would happen again.

Samantha sat down across from me, watching my face. “You look kind of… stunned.”

“I am,” I said. “I mean… it’s weird. There’s a person in me. A tiny person. Who just… kicked me.”

“You say it like they’re already misbehaving,” she teased gently.

“Please,” I said. “With my DNA, that was guaranteed.”

Samantha smiled, but then her expression softened a little. She looked at me like she wanted to say something and wasn’t sure if she should.

“What?” I asked.

She hesitated, then said quietly, “I think that’s amazing. Like, really amazing.”

I nodded slowly. “It is.”

She looked down at the table. “I know I’ll never get to do that. Be pregnant, I mean.”

My heart ached a little at the way she said it—quiet, like it wasn’t supposed to hurt, but it still did.

I reached across the table and took her hand. “That doesn’t mean you’ll never be a mom.”

She looked up.

“There’s more than one way,” I said. “And you’d be good at it. You already are. You’re good with people. With me.”

She blinked fast, and then smiled. “Thanks.”

We sat there, hand in hand for a moment, in a kitchen that smelled like lemonade and dish soap and safety.

And somewhere inside me, the baby fluttered again.

Lighter this time.

Not a kick.

Just a reminder.