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    A Rare and Beautiful Thing
    A Rare and Beautiful Thing
    A Rare and Beautiful Thing
    Ebook47 pages45 minutes

    A Rare and Beautiful Thing

    By Emery C. Walters

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    About this ebook

    Miranda isn’t sure if she is transgendered or a lesbian. When Cal, a gay boy her age comes to stay next door for the summer, they become close. Even though they are opposites, they are both outsiders, and their friendship blossoms over the summer. Could there be romance despite their differences?

    Then twins Ada and Van move into the neighborhood, and Miranda finds herself torn between them. She can’t decide who she’s more attracted to -- Ada, who may be lesbian, or Van, who is transgendered. Will she find love with one of them instead?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherQueerteen Press
    Release dateNov 1, 2015
    ISBN9781611527865
    A Rare and Beautiful Thing
    Author

    Emery C. Walters

    Emery C. Walters was born Carol Forde, a name he soon knew didn’t fit the boy he was inside. Transition was unknown back then, so he married and then bore and raised four children. When his youngest child, his gay son, left home, Emery told Carol that she had to step aside, and he fully transitioned from female to male in 2001.

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      Book preview

      A Rare and Beautiful Thing - Emery C. Walters

      Ghosts

      Chapter 1: Meeting Cal

      You never know what innocent little thing will start something rolling downhill so fast that your whole life changes. For me, it was asking my mom if I could tell her something about myself, something important. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known better. I know it didn’t start what happened to my neighbor’s family, but in ours, it wasn’t very pleasant after that either. It opened a rift in our family, between my mother and me that I never would’ve known could be there if I’d kept my mouth shut. But she was my mother, you know? I thought she’d be there for me. Her demeanor turned to ice as soon as I said the letters L-G-B-T and she asked me what they meant. The first thing she said, was, We will never talk of this again. I’m very disappointed in you.

      Mom went on to say it wasn’t because I was a lesbian or whatever the hell transgender meant; it was because of the tattoo. I knew this was a lie. I only have the one small tattoo of a butterfly, a Richmond Birdwing butterfly to be exact, on my left breast. I never should have mentioned the topic of my sexual orientation or identity. I wasn’t even sure myself yet what or who I was. That had been the idea though, to discuss it with my mother, get her input, reason things out. Isn’t that what parents are for, to be there for you? To help you figure things out? It sure didn’t seem like that to me, though, for as soon as I brought up the subject, my confusion and fears, she sat back.

      She set her coffee down carefully and went on, still calm, Miranda Rose, you’re a perfectly normal young woman with a growing interest in young men. You’re right on track. You should be out dating boys and going to movies, things like that, not spending your allowance mutilating your body with those ugly tattoos. What man will want you looking like that? How will you ever get a job? What will you tell your children? I don’t even want to be seen in public with you anymore. Here she stopped, sighed dramatically, and then her voice changed as it so often did, to a hiss. It’s such a shame. You’re such a beautiful young woman. Well, you were, she sniffed, delicately, as if she were a tender heroine in a Victorian novel. You were.

      Mom continued, so into her lecture that I was able to drift away, first mentally, then out of the room, and out of the house, but the derogatory remarks had cut deep. They hurt like the thorns on the rose bush outside our kitchen window and followed me like the scent of the roses on it. I shut the kitchen door as quietly as I could, but I could not shut the door on my feelings. Neither, apparently, could I escape the notice of my eleven year old next door neighbor, a boy who looked as sad as I felt.

      I needed to be by myself. I felt lost, but not mean. I couldn’t be mean to this little boy. I didn’t see how anyone could, he was so sweet. Curly, I said to him, sitting down on the porch swing and calling to him to come over and sit beside me. What’s wrong? He’d never looked sad before. He was a happy kid with freckles and brown hair that glowed red in the sunshine. He was into art and karate. He had confidence and could talk the ears off an adult. I have no idea how he got so mature. He had a half-brother, Cal, who was my age—we both had just turned seventeen—who lived with his ‘other parents’ but was here

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