“So, like, where’d you get your jeans?”

The boys have followed me, and we stop in front of a table stocked with pamphlets for Alcoholics Anonynous meetings and gay-friendly churches. I’m not a fan of teenagers — they make me anxious, edgy. They’re standing here, cornering me. The rain is a fine, cool mist, the September sky faded to gristly gray. Down the hill, a local politician takes the stage to cheers and applause.

“I think I got them in New York,” I say.

The boys stand with their arms over each other’s shoulders. The one who has done all the talking is gangly, with choppy hair and smudged black eyeliner. High-tops, a hoodie, and skinny jeans falling off his hips — we’re dressed the same, me and this kid. The other boy, the silent one, is pale and chubby, with dark, flattened hair and beautiful hazel eyes.

“Where’d you get yours?” I ask.

“Hot Topic. You been there?”

I know it’s a mall store where teenage girls shop, but I say, I don’t think so, no.

He rattles off a list of other stores he thinks I might like, places I’m too old to be shopping at. I may have been to a few of them.

“Sometimes I have to buy girl jeans to get them skinny enough,” he says. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, remembering the last time I was in New York shopping, and I told the clerk — a sexy, basketball player–tall man in tight, low-slung jeans — that I wanted a pair like his. "Honey, these are girl jeans," he said, which threw me into another moment of gender confusion — I hadn’t bought girl jeans in years.

“Yeah, I have that problem too,” I say.

“Honestly,” the boy says with such earnestness, “I just don’t have the hips for guys' jeans. My ass doesn’t look good.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, giving in and laughing — here I am, at 36, exchanging fashion concerns with a teenage boy. Relaxed, he leans over and gives his boyfriend a quick kiss on the lips. I’m in awe, really, of gay teens, and can’t imagine possessing that kind of courage when I was their age. I wonder if their parents know. Do they get bullied at school? Did they have to walk by those hateful Christians on the corner, holding signs that read Homosexuals Will Burn in Hell?

The boys look at me, their eyes glassy and still. Maybe they’re stoned.

“So,” the chubby one says. It’s the first time he’s spoken. He looks me over, crosses his arms like maybe he’s seen a parent do, or a cop.

“So,” he continues, “what’s your sexuality, anyway?”

It’s a simple question, maybe, but I don’t know how to answer because I don’t know if they are seeing me as male or female. I should have just kept walking. Even around these two gay kids I can’t be myself, not without explanation, not without all the self-analyzing and worry. I want them to let me go, but they don’t look away from me. Nothing distracts them — not the people walking around us with umbrellas, or the applause coming from the stage. Sprinkles of rain patter against the rubber toes of my Converse.

I don’t know why, but I think the word "queer" might confuse them. They’re just babies, I think.

“I guess,” I say, “well, I guess I’m bi.”

I’ve never described myself as bi before, and the word is not big enough to explain my desires, or my queer history — how I lived for years as a lesbian and now feel, maybe always felt, like a gay man. Calling myself bi feels coy, but their eyes light up.

“Me too, I’m bi! Us too! That’s so cool!” The talkative one has hand on his hip. “How many guys have you been with?”

“I, uh—”

“I’ve only been with one,” he interrupts. “Him. We’re boyfriends.”

They tell me more about themselves, talking fast, finishing each other’s sentences, and I’m relieved their focus has shifted away from me. The chatty one is Tommy, and his boyfriend is Matt. They are 14. They go to school in Raleigh. They’ve been dating for three weeks. They are in love.

“What’s your name?” Tommy asks me.

Do I hesitate, just for a moment? I’m still nervous saying my name aloud, worried people will ask, No, what’s your real name?

“Carter,” I say.

“Carter,” Tommy says. “Carter what?”

I tell him my last name.

“Carter Sickels,” he says thoughtfully. “That sounds good. That’s a good name.”

I’d been thinking about this name for years, held it close. Now I hear it the way it sounds to them — the same way, in the quietest of moments, I also hear it: a single, clear, enduring note. He is right; it sounds good. My name sounds like me.

They want to know more about me, my age (36, "no way!"), and where I live. They ask how old I was when I came out, and when I tell them 22, they can’t believe it — so old! It’s a good feeling, these two kids wanting to know me, paying attention, but I can’t let my guard down because I still don’t know if they think I’m a boy or girl, woman or man.

As the rain continues, people open umbrellas or move under tarps. Gray clouds sink lower in the sky. The three of us stay where we are, rain falling on our faces.

“Let’s see,” Tommy says. “What else can we ask you…”

“I know,” Matt says, and scratches his head like he’s trying to come up with a question, but he knows exactly what he wants to ask. He zeroes in on me with his stoned, pretty eyes.

“Well. What are you?”

Trying to smile the question away, I squeeze my hands into fists, certain they’re twitching. During these early days of my transition, every single interaction, no matter how minor, feels tense and potentially violent: Words can break me.

“What do you mean?” I ask. My voice comes out hoarse, scared.

Tommy, embarrassed, smacks Matt lightly on the arm, but Matt sees that he’s snagged me and he’s not letting go.

“I mean, like, what’s your sex?”

The boys look at me with curious faces. I have been asked "What are you?" before, but not like this — without judgment or malice or presumption. They are holding out their hands to me, giving me the chance to define myself, to claim what is mine. Asking not only "Who are you?" but "Who do you want to be?"

I push my fingers through my hair, wipe the rain out of my eyes, and look at these boys with their damp hair and wet cheeks and open faces. My mirrors.

“Well,” I say, “I’ve been going more by 'he.'”

They are quiet for just a beat, and I feel my heart pounding. Thousands are here at this festival, but right now, it’s just the three of us, standing in the rain.

“Yeah, 'he.' You should go with that,” Tommy says. “You’re definitely a 'he.'”