Girl Scout
by Elise Jeanmaire
Evie matched with Brad. His face was skinny, softly bearded, and kind. There was no brooding, flexing, signs of a fraught relationship with masculinity. Brad’s hair was perfectly coiffed, like a soft wave, poised to deliver a surfer back to the beach safely. In every photo, no matter what, his hair remained perfectly shaped. On top of a mountain, coiffed. Playing frisbee with his friends, coiffed. Attending a work conference, coiffed. At the barbershop, dazzlingly coiffed. What kind of miracle hair product was he using? Evie needed answers! The last picture she scanned was of Brad on a beach with his shirt off. His body was solid and hairless, which was nice because she wasn’t sure if she was ready to handle body hair. She wasn’t even sure she was ready for a man.
Shortly after her swipe, Hairless Brad sent a message: “What do you have against The Lord of the Rings?”
Good, he read something on her profile. Did he read that she was trans or only that she found Lord of the Rings boring?
It was not uncommon for messages to ask about her body, her surgeries, how pretty she was–even for a transgirl–because they wanted her to play the part of a novelty. Something less than human. A fetish. She never wanted her story arc to match the dirty sock conveniently in reach after orgasm. So, despite Brad’s apparent love for The Lord of the Rings, he was off to a good start.
Brad said, “I’m not going to get on your case because book-shaming is something I’m working on, so let’s start over…Hi Evie, how is your day going?”
Evie hated starting a conversation with a new connection. Both sides tried to sound charming, interested, and cute while somehow seeming authentic—a high-flying trapeze act with no safety net and a fear of heights.
Evie sighed and attempted to strike a balance: “So kind of you. My day is going well! I provided for my cat, ate a burrito for lunch, and threw away all the old coffee cups in my car. Wildly productive! You?” Was that boring? Too desperate? Not charming enough?
“I’m making soup!” he said.
“What kinda soup?”
“Chicken and rice soup. I cheated a little.”
“Cheating on your soup? My god! What does that even mean?”
“I get the broth from the restaurant down the street.”
“How will I ever trust you? I’m so disappointed! :)” Evie beamed into the blue light of her phone. “Annnnnd, how’s it taste so far?”
“Pretty great!”
Despite how riveting these conversations were (see example above), she was seasoned enough to know that successful online conversations would only resolve in one way: offline conversations.
It was on a Wednesday night. Evie was 43 minutes into a documentary about a tortured artist and 6 minutes into a bag of Triscuits.
“Would you like to get a drink this weekend?”
Evie’s heart dropped into her throat. She put down her mug of tea and brought the glow of her phone up to her face with two hands. Her immediate thought was YES! Hairless Sexy Brad asked her out! Then, anxiety stole her excitement. It was a triumph that she had had a conversation with a boy for two weeks without words like penis, vagina, boobs, nudes, kink, or surgery entering the conversation. Did he even look at her entire profile? Did he forget? He couldn’t have forgotten. The word transgirl was a sticky moniker, like queen, doctor, lieutenant, and maestro.
After five minutes of careful editing, she said, “I think I could do that.”
“Do you like coffee?”
“I love coffee!” Too enthusiastic.
“Ever get a Girl Scout Cookie latte from the coffee shop on Thayer Street?”
“Haha, no, I haven’t! I’m always there and wondered, who gets a Girl Scout Cookie latte?”
“Fair, it’s not the most popular. I almost feel bad for the poor Girl Scout Cookie Latte. It’s a misfit on the menu, and I love a misfit.”
“This feels very selfish!”
“Entirely.”
“What happens when I start getting one every week, and it’s no longer the misfit of the menu?”
“I’ll find another misfit. How’s Friday night around 6? If you hate me by 8, you’ll still have time to do something else.”
“Great plan. I’m in! :)”
Evie paused the movie and watched the steam rise from her cup of tea. She was new to all of this. What if he tried to touch her? Kiss her? Something more? By the time her thoughts quieted, her tea was cold. Undrinkable.
*
Evie stopped for foundation, moisturizer, and a 12oz bottle of lemonade that she could mix with some vodka. At the start of her transition, Evie would take a shot before entering a sports bar, a clothing store, a hardware store, or whatever environment implied a definitive line between genders. The places felt owned by one gender or another, but never someone in the middle. It has been three years since the start of her physical transition, and the hormones had done their work. Her body’s sharp corners had softened. The sirs turned to ma’ams. Men’s eyes lingered, not to size up, but to inquire: would I hit that? Evie knew taking a shot before a first date was not the best way to cope with new experiences, but it was her way. And her way got her this far.
She had thought a lot about what to wear. She decided on a white mock-neck long-sleeve because Adam’s apple, a black tank-top dress, and black tights because New England. She also wore Converse All-Stars because she was only an inch shorter and knew how destructive a tall female body could be to an insecure man.
Evie messaged Brad and told him she’d be ten minutes late, even though she was on time, sitting in the parking lot of a Benny’s Auto Store, trying desperately to overcome nerves, only to realize they were compounding. Evie looked in the mirror, fixing flyaways from her shoulder-length brown hair. Her insecurities still took jabs: Is it too much make-up for a first date? Not enough? Was a dress a bad idea? Are Converse All-Stars out of style? Would she be good enough? Is she a girl? Is she Brad’s idea of a girl? She took the shot and chased it with lemonade.
Finally, Evie parked her car a few streets from the cafe and walked. It was fall, but the New England humidity still hung in the air, like walking through a wet spiderweb and not being able to shake it free. She looked at her feet, willing them to take steps. She reminded herself that she had experienced much worse than some app-initiated first date with a seemingly hairless boy. This would have been a good time to text a friend and tell them where she was. She didn’t, though.
Evie reached for the door of the cafe and walked in.
“Hello!” said a voice.
“Oh hey,” Evie almost fainted from nerves. “Brad?”
“Yes! Evie?” he asked.
“Yeah!”
Evie felt nervous having Brad’s eyes on her, so she looked down and smoothed the bottom of her skirt. Did they fit together? Brad had kind eyes under heavy brows. His hair was less coiffed than in his pictures, but she wouldn’t hold it against him. He wore a dark, forest green shirt that peeked out beneath a brown corduroy working jacket. He was full of textures, and Evie couldn’t stop thinking he looked like a well-made bed in some mountain town resort. She wanted to sleep in that bed. Did he want to sleep in that bed, too?
“Great shoes!” he said, pointing at his Converse All-Stars.
“Oh yeah!” Evie smiled and stuck out her leg. “Look at us, matching chucks!”
“They look much better on you,” Brad said as Evie tried not to roll her eyes. She never allowed herself to embrace flattery. She didn’t think it was a feeling transwomen had access to without trading for it.
Evie always liked this cafe. The corners of the wooden counters were rounded from the bustle, not by design. The cafe’s menu was written on a large chalkboard that sat peacefully against an old brick wall. The little place swelled and contracted with the city’s energy. There was a group of students huddled around their phones. A few friends leaned in toward each other, having a lively conversation but trying to be quiet about it. At the table nearest the counter, a man typed away at a novel titled The Witches of the Western Front. The workers were still running around, recovering from a recent rush.
Brad leaned over to Evie, like he was about to whisper in her ear, and said, “This is my treat, but you’re getting the Girl Scout Cookie latte.”
“Oh, am I?” Evie said playfully. “Fine, but just so you know, this was my decision, not yours. It’s research. I need to tell people I tried it before I hate it.”
“Oh, you won’t hate it,” he said before facing the counter. Brad raised his hand, putting his ring and pinky finger up. “Two, please.” Evie hated when people counted on their fingers starting the pinky, but when Brad did it, it was deadly cute. She was mad at herself for falling so easily.
Brad and Evie grabbed their lattes and sat down.
Evie took a sip and sulked her shoulders in defeat, “Fuck you.”
“Right?” Brad grinned joyously.
*
Brad and Evie talked for a few hours. They talked about everything, from Disney adults to mid-nineties super soakers to their love for documentaries.
“Have you seen the one about that guy that climbs that mountain without ropes?” Brad asked.
“I love that one! How about the one about the guy who climbed 14 of the largest peaks?” Evie snapped back.
“You mean the documentary titled Fourteen Peaks?” Brad’s laugh was like a soft boil.
“Haha, yes! Fourteen Peaks!” Evie laughed so hard that she self-consciously covered her mouth.
“I mean, I’m sure there are other documentaries besides rock climbing, but what a genre!”
By now, the cafe was empty. Even Novel Guy had left.
“Where do you think the Novel Guy went?” Brad asked.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re running him through the dishwasher so they can put him out with the clean mugs tomorrow.”
Brad laughed so hard that he had to clear his throat into a closed fist.
The barista began sweeping around their table, and the two got the hint.
Evie and Brad walked outside, the weather spitting at them.
“Hey, would you like to grab a nightcap?” Evie asked.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Brad said.
“I don’t believe in those sorts of things,” Evie hoped to get a response about gender from Brad. Nothing.
Evie and Brad walked a few blocks to the bar, the buoyancy of their conversation bringing life to the empty corridors of a quiet city. The bar was full of the usual eclectic people. Evie has always loved this bar because it is a weird amalgamation of the town. The patrons were line cooks fresh off their shifts, highway workers in fluorescent vests, friends meeting up for the first time in years, well-dressed couples searching for something more grounded after a fancy meal, drunk college kids debating light beers, and, to Evie’s surprise, a handful of queers taking advantage of the cheap drinks and heavy pours. She felt safe.
Brad started with a beer and coasted up to gin and tonics. Evie drank tequila sodas.
After three rounds, the bar was beginning to slow down. All that was left were sleepy drunks and the wet rings of spent pint glasses highlighted across the tables.
When they left, Brad grabbed Evie’s hand. Evie held it loose enough so her hands wouldn’t sweat. Her body felt small and hushed, his.
When they got to her car, Evie rolled herself against the passenger side door and pulled Brad in for a kiss. It was the first time Evie had kissed a boy, and she was instantly disgusted by the stubble on Brad’s face. It reminded her of the stubble she once had, sending a shiver down her spine. Evie pulled back.
“Is everything okay?” Brad asked.
Evie shook it off, “Yes, all good. Sorry, I thought I heard something.”
“Would you like to come over?” he asked gently.
Evie tried to pretend like she was giving it thought. She bit her bottom lip, and her eyes peered over Brad’s shoulder. She took a moment, knowing she owned it. “Yes.”
The soft sound of kissing against a cold car in the middle of a New England autumn filled the air as Evie’s mind raced with what could happen next.
*
Brad’s home was in the middle of renovation: exposed wiring, unpainted walls, and tools huddled in the corner of each room. It slightly resembled the final scene of a 90’s action movie, but in between those chaotic spaces, there was a charm. Brad had art, pictures of friends, and album covers. When Brad escaped to the kitchen to grab drinks, he told Evie to make herself home, and she did, browsing a bookshelf made from beautifully stained wood and cinder blocks. The books looked loved, their spines broken, their covers chipped, and their pages fluffed with dogears.
“I’m sorry about the mess; I didn’t expect us to land here,” Brad said from the kitchen. “I’m in the middle of refinishing the office, so things are a little hectic.”
“Just the office?”
“Well, the kitchen, a few parts of the living room, and one of the bedrooms.”
Evie stood up from the bookshelf and nervously smoothed her skirt again. “I don’t mind at all.”
Brad approached with two glasses of water, “Here, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep drinking, but I figured there’s no harm in water.”
“Hydration, baby!”
The two took sips of water while a short pause opened like a chasm in the middle of the room.
“I like your—”
“We can, maybe—”
Sorry, they said in unison, laughing.
“Would you like to watch a movie?” Brad asked.
“Sure,” she took a sip of her water.
Brad switched on the TV, and the room went blue–Brad included. They were foolish to think a movie would be worthy of their full attention, but it seemed a requirement nonetheless.
“Dumb and Dumber?” Brad asked.
“I could watch that any day of the week,” Evie said.
“Same.”
The two began to debate their favorite moments from the movie. They laughed and joked when the Big Blue Bug appeared on screen.
“Our city has such weird landmarks!” Brad said.
“Beautiful and weird.”
Brad took Evie’s hand, and she vibrated. Evie wasn’t watching the movie anymore, her concentration devoured by nervous anticipation. Brad leaned in. The Mortal Kombat announcer in Evie’s head punctuated the moment with “Round Two! Kiss!” This was a common side-effect of her brain when plummeting toward a new and scary experience; it did whatever possible to grasp absurdity in hopes of lowering the threat level.
Evie raised her hands onto Brad’s face, slowly moving them around the back of his head. She could feel the product in his hair and grinned through the kiss, satisfied that she had solved the case. Pomade!
Brad moved his hands closer to her chest. “Is this okay?” He asked. Evie looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes.” Fuck yes, she thought. He moved his hands over her chest, grazing her nipples.
“Wow,” she whispered instinctually.
“You okay?” he pulled back.
“Oh yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to say that aloud.”
“Is it too much?”
“Yeah,” she said in a way that meant to keep going. Evie pulled him back in, and Brad obliged.
The pressure in her gaff began to swell and ache into a mound she could see through her skirt. It felt like someone was trying to blow up a balloon trapped beneath a hardcover book.
Evie straddled him with a fever of confidence she didn’t recognize. The position also allowed her dress to sway instead of adhering to the parts of her that could create chaos. She unbuttoned his shirt, trading each button with a kiss down his chest.
Brad arched back. She unbuttoned his pants and went down on him for a few moments. Then, Brad grabbed her frame from either side of her chest, lifted her, and laid her flat on the couch. Evie’s skirt moved up to her belly button, exposing a failed gaff. Her immediate thought was to shield her groin with her hands, but it was too late.
Evie’s eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped. She lay there helpless, exposed, unsure if she could defend herself.
Brad hovered over her, his shadow stealing the light. The textures he wore–the comfortable mountain bed–were now gone into the darkness. He straddled her, drawing his hands across her body, starting from the top and moving down slowly. Evie was rigid. When his hands landed on her hips, she yelped.
“Is this okay?” Brad said, pulling back to meet Evie’s eyes.
“You know about me, right?”
“I do.”
“What do you know?”
“I know you didn’t like Girl Scout Cookie lattes until tonight.”
“True,” she almost rolled her eyes, that of all things, he chose to make that comment. “But what else do you know?”
“I read your profile. None of that mattered when I began talking to you.”
“That none of what mattered? What do you remember from my profile?”
Brad smiled and said, “The mention of you being trans didn’t bother me at all.”
“Have you been with a trans girl?” Evie asked.
“No.”
“Have you been with a girl?”
“Yes.”
The marquee of concern strung across Evie’s face began to fade. Breathing resumed.
Brad kissed the top of her head, his hands still perched on her hips. Evie lifted her head to meet Brad’s gaze. Then, she kissed him hard enough to rekindle what had already been started.
And it did.
As Brad came, Evie held his wrists tight, like handles made of stone, but when it was over, he shook her hands away.
Brad got up and looked around for his clothes. Evie’s face basked in the TV’s blue glow. Jokes repeated on screen, but neither was laughing.
Once Brad was fully clothed, he grabbed the water glasses and said, “I’ll take these.” Then he retired to the kitchen. The only sound was the ding of hollow glass against the bottom of the sink. Ting! Ting!
Brad stayed in the kitchen longer than he should’ve.
Evie didn’t know what to do, so she played her only game piece: “I guess I should get going.” Would he stop her? Maybe ask to stay the night? Maybe just stay a few more minutes?
“Oh, okay,” his voice hollowed in the kitchen.
Evie felt the excitement of what they experienced bleed from the room.
“I can drive you.”
What was he still doing in the kitchen? “I’ll call an Uber.”
“Oh, okay.”
Evie put on the rest of her clothes, including a soiled pair of tights. She walked through the kitchen, meeting Brad’s eyes, which floated around the room like a guilty dog unwilling to look at the mess it made. She went in for a hug, and Brad returned it half-heartedly. She had enough experience with him to know he was stronger and more capable than that.
“I had a nice night.”
“I did, too,” he said plainly.
Maybe he’s just tired, Evie thought to herself. She walked outside, a breeze stole the humidity from the air. The world had changed so much.
*
Brad didn’t message back, and after a few days, Evie went back to the coffee shop with a goal: to get a Girl Scout Latte and send a picture of it to him with something charming but not too desperate, like You’ve got me hooked, or, I can’t stop drinking these things! But when she looked up at the menu, a long list of items carefully written in chalk, there was a blank space where the Girl Scout Latte was.
Elise Jeanmaire is a writer living in Providence, RI. She was awarded a fellowship at the GrubStreet Novel Generator and two scholarships at the Craigardan Writers’ Residency in 2023 and 2024. Her flash fiction was a finalist in the 2024 American Short Fiction Contest. Elise plays in a punk band and lives in the home of a former mobster with her wife, Kristen, and dog, Gus.
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