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Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of cameron is queer in this one
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Published:
2021-06-22
Words:
1,408
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
16
Kudos:
33
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231

what, you egg?

Summary:

Rosalind Penderwick has known that she is a girl for as long as she can remember. It's just the rest of the world that needs to catch up.

Or: The childhood of Rosalind Penderwick told in a series of vingettes and short stories as she navigates choosing her name, dealing with her mother's death, and being true to herself.

Notes:

I'd been planning to wait until I'd written more of this before I posted it, but I'm nothing if not impatient, and the word juice hasn't cooperating in the ole brain hat lately. To put it normally: Here is a chapter that will be followed up at some point with more chapters.

The title doesn't make as much sense as I'd like it too, but I'm proud of it so we're pretending it does. The intention was to reference both one of the funniest lines of Macbeth (which happens to be a murder scene but whatever), because Shakespeare (which Rosy and her mother both liked), and also a trans joke ('egg' is a term for a trans person who's either in denial or hasn't realized they're trans yet. I know it doesn't really apply here but we're pretending. It's fine).

Now that I've explained away the partially funny joke that the title is, and have made it even less funny, let's get on with the disclaimers:

1) I am not a trans girl, and am not pretending to know what it is like to be a trans girl. That being said, parts of this are based on my life as a trans person.

2) These are not my characters. They belong to Jeanne Birdsall.

And with that, enjoy! (And please leave me comments).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The notes were scratchy, drifting through the walkman on the grass. Pressing the headphones closer to her small ears, Leonarda--

“Nope.” She sat up abruptly, and the headphones fell onto the grass. “Nope, nope, nope.”

“Which one was that?” Her sister, Skye, with blond hair and long, lanky limbs, sat up next to her, grass stains smudged on her cheek like face paint.

“Leonarda.” 

“Oh. That’s one of the ones Jane picked, right?”

“Yeah.” She flopped back down to the grass and sighed. 

“I can tell her.” Skye hugged her knees to her chest. She was six, but tall for her age, almost as tall as her older sister.

“Thanks.” It wasn’t that Leonarda wasn’t a good name. It just wasn’t right. Jane would understand. 

Headphones in again, Fleetwood Mac drifted into the girl’s ears and she shut her eyes.

 

 

“Jane?” On hurried footsteps, the girl ran down the stairs. “Jane, what’s that smell?” No answer. She sped down the hall to the kitchen. 

Jane was sitting cross legged on the kitchen table with her nose buried in a book, apparently oblivious to the awful smell surrounding her. She looked up at the sound of feet. “What about Lucy Pevensie?” she said, her eyes shiny like they were still seeing the sparkling snow of Narnia, instead of her older sister standing at the kitchen door. 

“What? No, I don’t think I can name myself Lucy Pevensie. Jane, what happened to the pizza? And where’s Skye?”

“What about Susan Pevensie?”

“Jane!” Jane sighed and closed her book with small hands. Patiently, as though she was being asked a very silly question, she said, “Daddy is on the phone because Mommy called from the hospital.”

“Yes, I know that part. You and Skye were supposed to finish making the pizza and wait for Daddy to put it in the oven. Where’s Skye?”

“She’s washing the cheese off her soccer keets.” Jane smoothed her purple skirt over her lap and reached for her book again, but her sister stopped her. 

“Jane, why is the oven on at four-hundred degrees--oh my god!” She turned the oven off and yanked its door open. Smoke poured out, and the smoke alarm shrieked in protest. Behind her, Jane started to cry, partly out of her fear of the smoke alarm and partly, the girl suspected, from the shame of being caught doing something she weren’t supposed to. Before anything else could be done, Skye ran in from the bathroom. 

“I’m coming Jane! Oh god, please don’t cry! Uh, I can turn the thingy off! Whatever you do, just don’t get--oh.” Skye stopped in her tracks at the sight of her oldest sister. In her arms, Skye was carrying sopping wet soccer cleats and there was guilt written all over her face.

“Girls? What’s going on?” Their father entered the kitchen. 

It was one of their father’s greatest features, the sisters thought, that upon entering a putrid-smelling kitchen with the smoke alarm blaring, Jane crying on the table, Skye hugging mysteriously wet soccer cleats to her chest, and the oldest sister standing at a smoking oven, that he knew exactly what to do. In the next couple of minutes, Skye’s cleats were laid across a towel on a radiator and Jane brought to the living room and given some cheese sticks. The father pulled the burning mess out of the oven, with his eldest two daughters watching intently. 

“We thought it would just cook, Daddy,” Skye said, biting her fingernails. “We figured that we’ve seen you and Mommy do it so many times that we’d know what to do.”

“I know, honey. Just don’t use the oven again without me around.”

“Or Mommy, right?” Skye looked up at her father. 

“Of course,” their father said, his face unreadable. “I know my girls are all very smart, but the oven gets so hot and I don’t want any of you to get burned, or for, uh, this to happen.”

“Okay,” Skye nodded. Her older sister was still looking at the charred pizza on the stove, though. 

“I don’t understand why it smelled so bad,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The smell. We’ve burnt pizza before, when we’re cooking with Mommy, and I don’t think it’s ever smelled that bad.”

Their father frowned. “Good observation, my dear. Skye, what cheese did you use?”

Skye’s small fae scrunched up as she thought. “I don’t know,” she said. “Jane did the cheese.”

Her sister sighed and went through to the living room, where Jane was peeling her string cheese and draping it across her book. She didn’t look up when her sister walked in but said, in a sing-songy voice, “Hello, Susan Pevensie!”

“Not Susan Pevensie, and are you actually going to eat any of that?” 

“Maybe,” Jane said. She dropped a strand in her mouth. 

Her sister sighed. “Jane, Skye says you put the cheese on the pizza.”

“Uh huh. I did the cheese and Skye did the sauce.” Jane began dropping the rest of her cheese strings into her mouth.

“What kind of cheese did you use?”

“The tiny cheese.”

“The grated cheese in the blue bag that Daddy left on the table for you?”

Jane shook her head. “I don’t like the tiny cheese in the blue bag. I got the red bag out of the fridge.”

Her sister frowned. “We don’t have any more of the red bag. Daddy and I finished it yesterday when we made macaroni.”

“It was really far back.”

The girl bit the inside of her cheek. “Um, Jane, what did the cheese look like?”

Jane thought hard, then swallowed her cheese strips and proceeded to peel more. “Tiny,” she said. 

“Was it a funny color?” The girl tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. 

“It was speckly.” 

The girl sighed. “Jane, why did you use speckly cheese?”

Jane’s lower lip began to wobble. “I thought it would be like how big cheese with holes in it is better than big cheese without holes in it. Tiny cheese in the red bag is the best kind, but speckled tiny cheese in the red bag is even better!” Little tears were rolling down Jane’s cheeks and she started to chew on her hair. 

Her sister took her hand and led her into the kitchen to see their father peeling an apple into a long spiral. 

“Daddy I put the speckled cheese in the red bag onto the pizza and now everything smells icky!” Jane wailed, running for the comfort of her father. He picked her up and held her close to his chest, her small arms wrapped tight around his neck as she cried into his shoulder. 

“Daughter of mine, could you open the windows?” Mr. Penderwick laid his hand on the girls head, her messy curls poking up between his fingers. That’s what he’d taken to calling her -- “daughter of mine.” He’d smiled when she told him that she didn’t have a name yet, but she didn’t want to use her old one, and said that he was sure whatever she thought of would be perfect. He’d also lent her the book of baby names that he and her mother had used to name her and her sisters, years and years ago. The girl treasured it -- but only the first half, which she looked through whenever she felt brave enough. She never looked at the boy’s names, though, not wanting to see her old name -- her first name -- circled in black pen by her mother from all those years ago. And anyway, there were plenty of beautiful names in the girls section. The boy’s section didn’t need to matter.  

She opened the kitchen window and leaned as far out as she could, enjoying the cool breeze on her face, and a smell other than burnt, moldy cheese.

In the end, the Penderwicks did have pizza that night. Soon after disposing of the mess Skye and Jane had tried to make, Mr. Penderwick ordered from Antonio’s pizza, letting Skye do the talking the way she liked to. 

By the time the order came (one large cheese pizza and one medium pepper and mushroom pizza), the nights events were almost forgotten. The girl sat down at the kitchen table next to Jane and took the blue plate her father passed her with two pieces of cheese pizza on it. 

Despite everything, it was a happy evening on Gardam street.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed that! Please leave a comment!

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