The world of Transgender Fiction is a truly wild and wonderous beast in the world of literature. In one overarching genre, you can run the gamut from magical tales of gender-bending tomfoolery to an unending tide of teen dramas. It has as many spinny skirts, cute boys, and cheer contests as you can handle without vomiting pink glitter. While it has delighted the spirits and the underpants of many readers, I’m sorry to have to tell you that this fiction is… well, fiction. The sad reality is that our experience is often nowhere near as exciting or adorable as it is on the pages of a book. For transgender people, life is often pretty tragic and sometimes quite a violent experience. Our lives are full of doubt, fear, and shame. More often than not, it is quite simply depressing and lonely. On rare occasions, however, it can be stranger than fiction. Often, it’s hindsight that allows us to see how truly strange life has been. Without realizing it, you might be living out the same tropes that you found on the pages of those very books. Did I get recruited to the cheer squad? Did the captain of the football team take me to the homecoming dance in my pretty dress? Sadly, not, but I promise you won’t be disappointed either way. I write this now, twenty years later, as a very different person. I cannot believe the people I’ve known and the places I’ve been. I’m the person I was always meant to be; living proof that there can be a happy ever after. I didn’t believe it was possible at the time, but desperate times led to desperate measures. Was it funny then? Not. Is it funny in hindsight? One hundred percent thigh slapper. Welcome to my rather unconventional story, one that is far more true than it is fiction. That might be difficult for you to believe, but I’m sure you’ll probably read it anyway. As with cake, untangling headphones, and defusing bombs, the best place to start a story is at the beginning. Let’s pretend this is an Alcoholics Anonymous group meeting, and I will start by introducing myself: Hi, my name is Alexander, and I’m a girl. Are you seeing something wrong here? Good, because I wholeheartedly agree with you. That minor inconsistency is why we’re here in the first place. If we hold to stories of this nature, I should tell you that my real name, the name that I gave my true self, is Holly; Holly Juliet Winters. You know the routine; I’ve always felt as though I should have been born a girl. As a little kid, I tended to display more feminine tendencies, and I played with dolls with my sister; all the usual stuff. Let’s not pretend that you don’t know how this all works., It saves us a great deal of time and prevents me from having to tell you my tragic back story of the girly boy trapped in terrible misery and angst. Far too many of these stories spend half the book moping and crying while the protagonist works out what we all knew from the moment we opened the cover. Some people indeed have a moment of discovery. For others like me, it’s something we’ve always known; a cosmic certainty that we’re positive nobody else sees and nobody else wants. No matter what, though, we feel the urge to correct that imbalance. That first group? They’re the egg. Me? You can call me the chicken. Cluck cluck motherfucker. Without further ado, let us begin. Who am I? Who is Alex Winters? I’m a sixteen-year-old student starting my Junior year of high school today, and for most children, that’s an exciting time in their young lives. Returning to school means a time to see friends, get your learner’s permit, and enter your cool years of high school. You see, for me, that’s a little different. My school is a private institution, and while that sounds very fancy and wonderful at face value, it presents certain challenges if you’re transgender like me. Why, you ask? We’re divided by gender into two schools on one campus, boys on one side, and girls on the other; great. To explain how I found myself in the situation that predicates the entire plot of this story, I need to take a brief detour into the darker side of our transgender world. Like many people in my position, I suffered greatly from my feelings. I hit a really bad patch of darkness during the Christmas holidays last year as puberty was starting to raise its ugly head. I was watching my brother and school friends turning into men, and I knew it was coming for me too. It was too much, and I had to hit the eject button. It became bad enough that I reached a major fork in the road of my life where the decision was set before me: self-forever-sleep, or transition. Not as exciting or funny as cake or death, but you get the picture. I realize this isn’t what you all want to read about, but it was, however, the major motivating factor behind my starting my transition the way I did. Was I stupid? Absolutely. I have been taking female hormones that I bought from an online source for about six months now. It’s a combination of estrogen and a blocker to overcome my body’s best-laid plans and to shunt me in the right direction. I know how stupid self-medication can be, you don’t have to lecture me. I had reached the end of my rope and didn’t want to turn into some hulking, hairy monster like my brother. I did my research, I was exhausted, and I ensured I was as safe as possible, short of being prescribed and monitored by a doctor. Those kinds of things are somewhat impossible as a minor without parental consent. I’ll preface this by reminding you that this is the early 2000s. Back then, there weren’t a massive number of trans teens running around with cans of energy drinks and spinny skirts with TikTok accounts. At the time, the average age of someone transitioning was closer to forty. Why is this important? Well, all the anecdotal evidence I’d been given about the effectiveness and speed with which hormone therapy worked was tied to that. Now dial it back twenty-five years and into puberty; HRT goes like a raccoon out of a T-shirt cannon. (Don't ask, he was wearing a crash helmet.) The effects had been relatively easy to hide for the first few months, as nothing major happened to me physically. What did occur was possible to be hidden with relative ease. That was rather useful,l, as I haven’t even told my parents yet. Honestly, that is one of the major challenges I’ve yet to face: “Hey Mom, hey Dad, I’m not your son, I’m your daughter despite being born a boy and being called Alex.” Doesn’t sound too logical, does it? At first, the only changes I experienced were emotional ones. My sense of smell changed, and I became far more weepy and sensitive. I was so up and down that it did get me some weird looks. Then again, when you’re not very popular, people don’t tend to notice the quiet, moody kid in the corner. I did start to get some development in my chest and hips, but it was possible to hide with careful choices of clothing. The problem is that things somewhat accelerated over the summer. I lost a lot of weight in some areas, and I gained it in some others. Where do you ask? Let’s be honest, you know exactly where; my chest, my butt, and my thighs. I generally have what one would casually describe as a girl’s figure by now, and that has become far harder for me to disguise. I know what you’re thinking; typical trans story; the protagonist looks like a girl but nobody else seems to notice or seems to care about the effeminate kid, well that’s a darn lie. My sister and my mom both noticed, and a few of my friends that I saw over the summer noticed too. Most told me that I was looking too girly and that I should probably cut my hair. It’s funny how they mentally gloss over the other bits and seem to think it's ONLY my hair that makes me girly. In all honesty, I could probably shave my head and still look very feminine. Not that I’d ever consider doing that, of course! Now a five-foot-five-inch tall boy with long blonde hair is relatively uncommon, especially when he has a butt the size of New Jersey. Strangers tend to read me as a girl at first meeting, although admittedly, a somewhat skinny and flat-chested one. I love it, but it takes all the strength I possess to say ‘hell no! I’m not girly, a routine expected of a teen boy when I’m around other people. Well, what would they think if I didn’t? That I like it? Of course, I did. I can’t let the normals in on that, though, can I? So now we’re all caught up on how we got here, we can return to the story proper: the first day of the fall semester of my Junior year of high school. This wouldn’t be much of an issue if I didn’tknoww look like I belonged in the girls’ division of our school rather than the boys. Getting dressed this morning has been interesting; I’d call it affirming if I weren’t still very much in hiding. I had avoided trying on my suit for most of the summer as I knew full well how much of a pain it would be. Allow me to explain my school’s dress code for students so that this makes sense: For most of your time at school, between the grades of six and ten, one wears the uniform. This consists of black trousers, a white shirt with the school tie, and a red sweater with the school crest. Once you become a Junior, that changes to a business suit in your choice of grey or black, a shirt, and a school tie. It’s intended to set us up for a lifetime wearing professional attire while we become business moguls. The reality is we look like a young Republican convention with only mildly less bigotry. With a tear in her proud eye, my mother dragged me along to the men’s department of our local posh department store to buy me my first big boy suit. Yes, as you can imagine,e my mom got asked why on earth her daughter wanted to wear a man’s suit. That made her extremely embarrassed and nearly led to an emergency trip to the hair salon until I distracted her. The fact that they cannot see what is happening to me is both a relief and a concern. It reminds me that people have a fixed image in their minds of the ones they love; their ideal version. The fact that somehow mine still reads boy is a reminder that it’s not time for me to come out yet. Maybe they just don’t want to see it? Denial seems to be a fairly big river in Africa when people want it to be. We bought a suit eventually, and I won’t bore you with the details of shopping for menswear; it fits weirdly, thanks to my unusual body, and I know I won’t finish the year in this thing. Quite honestly, I doubt I’ll be able to look like a boy at all by Christmas. Part of me is excited about that, and part of me is terrified because it puts real pressure on me to tell people. The scary part is that it makes it real, and real is hard. So the suit, it’s a dark charcoal pinstripe; boring, I know. I found a collection of shirts I could live with, consisting mostly of blacks with the occasional dark blue or red. They are simply men’s dress shirts, and there is no way I can describe them to you that might make them interesting. They come in one style, one shape, and are still boring. You didn’t read this story to hear about men’s clothes, did you? No, you want to hear about the juicy transitioning parts like skirts, panties, boys, sex, and other sordid details. Hold your horses, guys, gals, and others. I’ll get to the good stuff in two shakes of a pom pom. School tie-tied, I don’t think that required further discussion. It’s a tie, there are many like it, and unfortunately, this one is mine. I collect my flowing feminine locks in a boy's low ponytail as normal and throw on my black zip-front hoodie. With my suit jacket over the top, I’m dressed and ready for battle. Why a hoodie, you ask? Well, two reasons: it's September, which is already starting to feel a little cold, and it bulks my torso up rather nicely. The major benefit is that it hides my swelling chest better than just a sh, meaning I don’t have to spend my day with hunched shoulders. While not uniform, they are generally ignored by staff unless garish or ratty, and mine is neither. This isn’t your usual trans story and no, I’m not intersexed as far as I’m aware. I didn’t suddenly wake up with double-D boobs after popping my first estrogen pill either. My breasts, and yes, that still feels strange to say, are big enough to be noticeable on my frame. Sure, if I was fat they would simply look like moobs, but I’m skinny so they look undeniably like boobs; the jacket stays on. ”Alex, get your butt down here, we’re going to be late!” my father yells upstairs. He gets cranky in the mornings when I keep him from the job he complains about. I ride to school with him each morning on his way into the office. I grab my book bag and bounce down the stairs to the kitchen. Ow! Damn it, I need to buy a sports bra or work out how to flatten these darned things out. Bouncing, I’ve realized, hurts a lot more since they turned up. “Did you brush your hair, dear?” calls my mom from her office. “Yep, Mom, it's all tidy as usual, and I look vaguely presentable.” ”By your standards or mine?” she asks, popping her head around the door frame. I roll my eyes petulantly while I bite into the slice of toast waiting for me and grab my mug. I need to control my morning bitchyness better. I have my learner's permit, but no car yet, so my dad lets me drive to school in the mornings before he takes the car to work. I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect, but it does mean one day I’ll have my independence. Experience is experience, and a Mercedes is a Mercedes. We arrive at school after about thirty minutes, and I’m deposited in the parking lot as Dad heads off to work. I used to enjoy getting into school early when it was quiet, but today it just means more time to think. All of this seems so very real now. I know I’ve waxed lyrical about this already, but the truth is that I’m quite scared of the reaction I might receive. People who see you every day don’t notice change quite as much because it’s a gradual process, whereas people who haven’t seen you in months will spot things right away. What do I do? How the hell do I get out of Gym class? I have no idea, but we’re going to find out. Ugh, one disaster at a time. My fingers tentatively press the keys on the electronic pad controlling the pedestrian gate to school. It’s early and out of hours, but students have the code to get in if they need it. I get to school an hour early thanks to my father’s schedule, so I always let myself in. Usually, this would be something I’d enjoy as it gives me time to unwind, wake up, and get homework done, but today it feels like a stay of execution, and the Governor is feeling particularly bipolar. A part of me wants this to be over straight away, and another part doesn’t want it to happen at all. I slowly sip my coffee as I walk into the building; the warmth is reassuring, and the caffeine is necessary for my sanity. The corridors are quiet as I make my way inside and toward my new home base, the common room. Juniors and Seniors, as befits their lofty status, are permitted an exclusive common room on the ground floor to call our own. I arrive at the doors and tentatively stick my head inside. It's empty at this hour and silent. Normally, I'd be excited to finally get to enter the den of the cool kids, but my apprehension is tempering my enjoyment. Right now it feels like a tomb… My tomb. Picking myself a spot away from the main entrance, I slump down on one of the sofas to wait. I’m far too nervous to go to the library or use the computers like I normally might before school. I feel like I need to see this one coming. Unconsciously, I sit with one leg tucked under me as I feel most comfortable. Today, though, it seems far too girly, so I straighten myself out and sit properly for a boy; Legs apart and slouching. I chuckle to myself. I’m going to all this effort for absolutely nothing, because nobody is here to call me up on my lack of ‘manliness’. Sadly, I know I need to do it even when I’m alone, or I’ll slip when it does matter. Hiding yourself like this is exhausting. G, I have to remain focused, or I’ll let people see the truth. I’d prefer to tuck my legs up and sit comfortably, as it feels more natural; I never liked sitting with my legs apart because it always seemed crude. When not crude, it was unwise; an open target location for the bullies. As much as being kicked there hurt, I sometimes wondered rather darkly what might happen if they did it one too many times and ruined those hateful things. The door across the room creaks, and I jump. Looking around, I realize it’s just one of the cleaners. ”Sorry dear, didn’t mean to make you jump,” she smiles kindly as she goes about her business. The one thing I can’t work out here is whether she means dear in the way women talk to young boys or the way women talk to girls. Why can’t she at least use a gendered phrase so I’d know whether to run home and fake sickness or stay and face the day ahead? The door goes again and I look around; It is one of the other Juniors, Steve. He’s alright, I suppose; he’s on the soccer team, but not a snobby prick like the rest of them can be at times. He’s probably secretly gay because he dresses far too well, and I swear he wears makeup sometimes. I listen to myself stereotyping so wildly and shake my head at the blatant hypocrisy of my judgment. “Hey, Alex! Damn, you’re early already this year! Good summer?” he asks, dropping down on a sofa across from me. “Not so bad, kinda quiet.” I reply neutrally, “yourself?” “Yeah, it was awesome, soccer camp was cool, and our Italy tour was amazing.” He pauses and looks at me critically for a moment, his brow furrowed. “You look kinda different, did you change something?” Shit, this is working out great. “Aahhh,” I stammer intelligently, “I lost some weight, I was pretty sick for ages over summer vacation,” I offer, hoping he takes the bait. “Shit man, you’re fucking skinny, but you just look different. Like you put on weight and lost it… kinda.” He gestured strangely before trailing off. “Sorry dude, didn’t mean to have a go.” “Ah, don’t worry about it. I know I look a bit weedy,” I shrug. “Guess I won't be making the Football team this year for JV.” Steve chuckles and rips open a candy bar before shoving it into his mouth. “Like you’d ever try out.” I smile and shrug, “You might have me there.” Steve looks over my shoulder at someone coming in through the doors. Twisting around to see who’s arrived, I see Gary Byrne and his sisters Megan and Kara. Yes, I know I told you it’s a single-sex school, and that’s true. The only difference is that the nurse’s office is in the Girls' Division, and the girls will often come over before school because our common room has a snack bar and theirs doesn’t. Yes, girls want to stuff their faces too, weird concept that. Megan and Kara are Gary’s sisters and his general duty entourage, so they’re a fairly common sight around the place. As usual, around other girls, I get rather quiet and shy. I’m jealous of them and feel inferior to them; I sort of feel I have more to prove to other women. I feel more pressure to prove that I belong with them than I do to prove I’m not a guy. Life is complicated. This year, I’m hyper-aware that they’re more likely to spot my changes than boys are. “Hey, you two,” beams Megan, the fiery redhead sister. She’s the epitome of the family’s Irish past: Freckles, bouncy, and hair like a burning potato field. Kara is more ginger than red. She has a more subtle and cute bookish look. She’s a nice girl; we get on rather well. Gary is the odd one out; jet black hair, fair skin, and glasses. The girls often kid him that he’s adopted, despite their father’s very similar hair. “Hey guys,” I mumble a greeting past my coffee mu,g, PRAYING that they don’t make some blunt comment about my appearance the way Megan has an extreme tendency to. Steve begins chattering to Kara about a book, and Gary slumps on the sofa and throws his feet on the coffee table. “Just like we’re back home again,” chuckles Megan, shoving his feet off the table. ”Hey, I’m just getting used to our new palace,” he laughs, flicking the TV remote in the general direction of the TV on the wall. Some random news show comes on, distracting most people's attention momentarily, the way any newly turned-on TV does. “You look different, Alex. Did you get your hair cut?” “No, oh he didn’t,” Kara answered assuredly, shaking her head, her ginger straight hair wagging around in front of her eyes. “He lost weight, though. You have GOT to give me the name of the diet you used. You’re skinnier than me!” She pouted, trying to look hurt. “He had some exotic disease or something,” chimed in Steve. “You look different, but I can't place it,” Megan replied slowly, squinting her eyes at me. I felt VERY uncomfortable as they all scrutinized me in ways I didn’t need. “He looks kinda like a girl with that hair.” Gary laughs. I cringe, these are NOT the words I wanted to hear already! Part of me knew it was only a matter of time, though. “I think he’d look like a girl even if he was bald,” smirks Megan, holding up her fingers to frame off my face like a photographer. “Get lost, all of you.” I huff, crossing my arms to square my shoulders. “Get a new joke.” “Just kiddin',g Alex, Megan grins. “Come on, you might want a haircut, but tho, ugh, eventually.” Quick, Fury Girl! Deploy a smoke bomb! “I just like it, ok?” I bluster, “And so what if I look a bit girly, I’d take that any day than be your adopted ratboy brother.” “Hey go die in a fire dweeb!” Gary growls, launching the TV remote in my direction. Thankfully, it’s the distraction I need to change the topic. I enjoy settling back into the background and allowing the conversation to take its own life. Every conversation where I’m not heavily involved is a safe conversation. It’s a shame, me. In an ideal world, I’d love to be more open with Meg, Kara, and Ga;y, they’re good people. Conversation thankfully changes track, and I’m no longer the center of attention. As the clock approaches nine, the room fills up with the rest of the students, and the sisters head off to get ready for their homerooms. For a very brief while, I’m invisible, and I can just exist in the sea of students. Everyone’s far too busy catching up with friends to bother with me this morning. Before long, it’s time to head off to homeroom and begin the day. One hurdle is down, and a few more to go. I’m hoping that if I can survive the day and let people get used to,, they won’t notice how I look quite as easily. The plan is solid, but I’m feeling pretty uncertain about its efficacy. We pile into the Geography hovel that is our homeroom. It’s full of maps and rocks and all sorts of natural curios to fiddle with in the name of academia. We’ve been in this same classroom with the same seating assignments since we were freshmen. This year, the room is starting to feel a lot smaller, though. Most of my classmates have grown significantly over the summer. They are wider, taller, and generally bigger in nearly all directions while my skinny butt stated the same (relatively speaking). All around me are muscles, facial hair, and dear lord, the smell of guys. So here’s one thing that the typical trans story never seems to mention: boys smell! It’s not necessarily bad, I’ll give you that, but when they’re in a group, it’s a general tangy musk that seems to invade your nostrils. Add to that their proclivity for drowning in body spray and cologne, and it’s almost a choking hazard! Mister Carstairs calls us all to order and runs through roll call with his usual detached boredom. He’s known us for two years, and he’s not particularly paying much attention. “Winters,” “H, ere sir,” I call nervously. Carstairs raises an eyebrow and looks back at me through the mass of bodies. “Winters, try to hit a growth spurt this year, please.” A wave of sniggers runs through the room at my expense, I feel my cheeks red, but I brazen it out, there’s a law even in the jungle, and a reply is expected. “Abso, sir, as soon as you grow some hair.” Carstairs frowns, but the rest of the class laughs openly at my quip. Honestly, if we had a Christmas play, we could cast him as Baldylocks and the Three Hairs. “Touch,é Mister Winters,” Carstairs replies dryly. “At least speak up, I can barely hear you.” “I’ll try, sir.” You’d think someone in my position would keep their head down and try to maintain a low profile. What you don’t understand about schools like this is that that approach can often get you noticed more. A certain level of tet-a-tet is expected, and non-participation in the good old boys’ culture will get you in some serious trouble. I might not be a boy, but I have had to learn to coexist with them. Homeroom wraps up, and we’re dispatched to our first class. For me, that’s Physics. I’ve always loved the sciences. To me, there is nothing clearer than the atoms that make up our world. Whether it’s the cells of the body, a formula for a chemical compound, or the reaction of excited molecules, I find peace in the order it creates. Sounds lovely and fluffy too, doesn’t it? Makes this entire work seem somehow loftier and more meaningful. Truth be told, I’m rather good at the m, so I consequently enjoy them. Studying is a really easy single-player game when you’re limited on friends and generally don’t want to hang around and socialize as a boy. The way I see it is that the harder I work now, the more money I’ll make later. Capitalist of me, I’d agree; however, the world runs on money. Being transgender, you need a fair bit of it. Whether that is surgery or simply being able to afford to live somewhere you won’t be abused, it’s really important. That and I plan to become an incurable clothes horse most stereotypically. I want to be a doctor if I can make it to a good college. Mom’s a surgeon, did I mention that? My mother, the woman who birthed and raised me, is a Cardiothoracic Surgeon at Mercy General in our city. It’s why I have enough medical knowledge and drive to pursue self-medication at my age, it kinda rubs off on you in that environment. Mom’s a badass, and if I can be half the woman she is one day, I’ll be truly happy. I want to say that I want to go into medicine so that I can give back and help others like me, to save other young trans people in horrible situations, but the truth ally think I can pull off the Meredith Grey vibe. Am I joking? Who knows. But I will say I want to end up in a career that sees me making a difference. Not that all software developers in their programming socks don’t contribute… but god damn, y’all are a stereotype. The school’s corridors are packed with students of all ages. It feels strange to be out of the familiar uniform, but I’m rather glad to be free of it. I’m pretty certain I’d struggle to pull the look off these days. The crush is significant, and boys are anything but gentle when they’re in a hurry. The corridors often feel like sharing a log flume with most of the logs and three Grizzly Bears. I clutch my books to my chest and reduce my size; my standard defensive tactic when the waters get choppy. I’m getting eloquent, aren’t I? Must be that academic influence. I feel a body move in alongside me as I walk, a look confirms it’s one of my few friends. Andy is my best friend here at schoYou’veu’ve not been introduced to him yet because it wasn’t relevant to the story. It now is, so surprise, meet Andy. Be warned, this isn’t a prelude to him becoming a mystery romantic interest as this progresses so get your horny minds out of the gutter. I will not be falling head over heels in love with my friends. What? He’s the real man after I go boy-crazy over jocks that don’t love me? Pull the other one! “Ready for Junior year, Rapunzel?” he grins, nudging me with his elbow. I roll my eyes at his delightfully appropriate choice of words. He’s called me this since we were Freshmen. I would worry that he spotted something, but it’s always been this way. Andy and I have an understanding; both of us have a lot to lose against the school bullies. I, problematically feminine and not a boy. Him? Incurable nerd with glasses thicker than the Hubble Telescope and a permanent limp thanks to his dad’s swimmers recruiting from the kiddie pool. The dregs of society, school, or otherwise, end up grouping like flotsam in a river. The few friends I have are from this social sewer. Although, as you’d expect, there are far cooler people there than most give credit for. The misfits that we are include the only two out gay boys in school, most of the nerds, and anyone who simply doesn’t fit with the expectations of the good old boys. Not athletically gifted? Big, broad, or chiseled? Any defects or flaws? Down you go. To them, we’re the scraps. To us? We’re the goddamn Ninja Turtles living down here with Master Splinter. What the ‘cool’ kids don’t realize is that in twenty years, this social group will contain inventors, scientists, doctors, and tech moguls. We are the ones who invent social media, start tech companies, and go on to big careers. Them? I hear Walmart is hiring greeters. Here is where you find people playing fantasy card games over lunch or nerding out in the computer lab. These are the artists and the creative people that I’d rather know if I’m being totally honest. Andy has never judged me for what I look like. None of them have. They care about who I am and how I treat them. Well, they care about who I present to them. I’m not sure they’d be ok with the real me. Modern Day Holly speaking here; Andy went on to found a dating and hookup app that now titillates half of the planet’s loins, I’m not kidding. This sweet bookish nerd became the digital playboy he never dreamt of. Still a great guy to have over for dinner. “Two more years and we can get out of here,” I sigh, narrowly dodging a knuckle-dragging linebacker who’s meandering through the crowd without a care in the world. “Two years and I’m at college and free.” Andy chuckles and shakes his head. “You make it sound terrible, dude.” I ponder the thought for a moment as we walk. “It’s not that it’s bad,” I admit slowly. “I just want to be somewhere with more… more.” “That makes so much sense,” Andy laughs. “More, sir! Please, sir, can I have some more?” “Shut up, you know what I mean, I just want to be somewhere that isn’t this place. I’m done with the traditions, the cult of jock and I’ll just about take anything that isn’t all boys anymore.” “I get it,” He nods as we file into the classroom. “Somewhere that isn’t ruled by the jocks would be nice. Where my limp doesn’t make me a loser.” “No, you manage that on your own, the limp is just a bonus,” I grin as we take our seats. Andy unpacked his textbooks and looked momentarily more serious. “I never took you for the girl crazy kin, did you know?” “I’m not, but it would be nice, uh, you know.” See, if this were the typical trans fiction adventure, Andy would be pointing out that hanging with me is like having a girl around. We would laugh about it, and I’d play it off and secretly fall in love with my best buddy who sees me as a girl when nobody else does. That i,s if thiwereas a typical adventure. Spoiler al: rt; it isn’t. The truth is that Andy doesn’t see me any differently, and I keep it that way. I value his friendship but I’m still not telling him a damn thing. Not a single one of these people can know the truth; if I let it out once, then the whole house of cards can come tumbling down. I can’t afford for that to happen. I’d love to go class to class and detail every moment of my day so far, but quite honestly, it's boring. The teachers don’t care what we look like as long as we follow the dress code and pay attention. For them, we’re here to learn, and learn we do. My appearance might raise an eyebrow in the teacher's lounge, but they daren’t mention a thing about it lest they get accused of something dodgy. Thank you, Teacher/Student scandal, I suppose. Physics is followed by History, English Literature, and Algebra before we break for lunch. This isn’t the kind of institution that eases students back in on the first day of term. Here we go, hard or go home. I suppose when our parents are paying thousands of dollars a year for us to attend, they expect us not to waste any time with such niceties as comfort. We spill from Algebra, and the entire school begins the ritual of lunch. See, unlike normal high schools where this is a typical counter service or bag lunch affair, we’re served at the table. It’s another cookie tradition that this school shares with the ancient past it draws inspiration from. Here, we have our assigned tables with an upperclassman as the head. The catering staff provides the dishes, and the head organizer distributes them to everyone, with the Juniors assisting. There’s so much man of the house, patriarchy taking care of your family shit to unpack in this that I don’t even have words. I make it down to the dining hall for my sitting and find my assigned table for the year. There’s always a mixture of years and ages at each table to avoid any major clique shenanigans and drama, and I suppose further that ‘protect the weak family members’ attitude, the school attempts to beat into us. I barely recognize any of the names I’m set to join, so I make my way back through the throng to find my spot. By the time I get there, there are maybe three of the eight spots on the long wooden benches filled. I grab one of the far ends, I like the ends; it’s only possible to get elbowed by one person at a time. Our table head is there, and I immediately recognize him as one of the Varsity football gods the school romanticizes so heavily: Brandon Michaels. “Come on down this end, Winters.” Brandon grins aloofly in his newfound power as table head. “We’re sitting in descending grade at table twelve this year.” “Does it matter?” I ask tersely, not moving from my nice remote spot. Brandon bristles and straightens his back aloofly. “Yes, it’s my decision and this is how we’re doing it, I can report you to a prefect if you want me to.” I am not one for violence, but there are many things I would do to him with a fork right now, and none of them enjoyable. Rolling my eyes so severely I’m pretty sure one nearly fell out I move my butt down to the far end of the bench nearest to him. “Happy?” Brandon smiles smugly and nods. By this time, more of our tables are arriving, and I’ve no further interest in making a scene to start our year. Brandon has laid down his claim to authority and I suspect it won’t be his last while he attempts to convince everyone he doesn’t have a micropenis (probable). The table fills, and the catering staff begin their rounds and hand out serving dishes to each of the tables. It seems they are at least making an effort for the first day, and it’s a rather delicious roast. I know it sounds improbable for a high school, and yes, I realize most of you were dragged up on pizza squares and mystery me, but when you're paying several thousand dollars a term, the least they can do is make the food edible, really edible. “Ok, Winters, you can be mommy, start passing these down to the guys.” Brandon sneezes, handing one of the dishes to me. I bite my tongue; nothing I say here will be useful. He’s an upperclassman and he’s my tablehead, we do as we’re told. While I don’t mind the odd femininity dig from someone like Andy, others like this hulking turd mean it as an insult. Let me clarify something. I have no problem being called female, feminine, or girly: I am. These are all facts, and honestly, they are ones I’m currently trying to minimize for the sake of my survival. What I do have a problem with is when people say it with malicious intent. When they mean it as though my being female or feminine makes me somehow lesser or worse than them. I’m no feminist gunslinger, but I do know my mother and sister are both amazing, strong, and proud women who hold our family together. I would give my left testicle to be counted alongside them… and the right one. See? I can make jokes even when I’m this depressed. I know that if I call attention to girly Alex, then people will look all the harder. Trying to dance this insane ballet is exhausting. I never truly felt like I belonged in this world of men, but now, with more estrogen flying around me than the grade seven girls, I feel utterly alone. It’s everything I can do to maintain my mask and preserve my truth. I told you bits of this would be depressing, promise I’ll talk about panties in the next few paragraphs, maybe. Lunch is as delicious as expected. By the time I’m able to get to my own, the piglets up and down the table are already nose-deep in the trough. I’m still not sure how they manage to grunt out conversations around overstuffed mouths, but it leaves me feeling mildly nauseous. “Am I going to have to swap you out with one of the Sophomores, Winters?” Brandoninterjectscts gesturing at me with his fork. I pause, a green bean halfway to my mouth. “What?” Brandon chuckles to himself in that self-important way assholes do that signifies that they’re totally finding thewn joke amazing and you should too. “You know, when you were at the far end of the table earlier, I thought you’d get bigger when you got closer.” I roll my eyes at the insanely original height joke and return to eating my food. I do not want to engage with him because it will only get worse. He’s on the varsity team, nd he’s my table head; it’s the way it works around here, he has the clout. This is how a lot of the abuse works at the school; it’s passive and it’s power-driven. It’s part of the culture designed to turn us into good, strong leaders who wield power with manly authority. Can you tell y am done with this shit? Lunch wraps up, and we ensure our plates are stacked neatly for the catering staff to collect. That falls to me and the other Junior to complete. I don’t know him much, but I think he’s one of the sportier types. As we’re leading the dining hall, that very junior slides up beside me and nudges me casually with his elbow and leans in. “Don’t feel bad about Michaels, His girl dumped him for one of the guys at St James’ Academy over the summer, so he’s extra pissy.” I’m mildly suspicious as to why this guy I don't even know feels the need to make me feel better for Brandon’s asshattery, but I smirk at his words regardless. “Not sure why a girl found him attractive in the first place.” The guy grins and nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, you get it. Kinda hard to find any positives in that meat sack. I’m Ric, by the way.” “Alex,” I offer with a shrug. “Cool, see you around, nd Alex.” The guy offers cheerily and jogs off to join his friends. I can’t help but feel like he was picking up something I was certainly not putting down. At my school, our Lunch takes place in two sittings.GS, Being on the first now means that I have the following half hour to myself before class resumes at one thirty. For many, it’s time to go outside and burn off energy or hang with friends. My preference, however, is the library. Our library is my favorite part of the school. It’s located on the upper floor and extends for half of the entire wing and reaches up high into the open ceiling. It’s all wood and leather and smells of ancient paper. This place feels like it’s been pulled directly from A very famous fantasy author with a penchant for turtles and disks’ idea of a potentially less-than-visible university. Obscure reference? I think you’ll find it’s an exceptional reference. Read a book. Preferably not one of those Hogwarts magical wizard ones written by that feckless hag. The library has been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Whether I was a lonely Freshman trying to hide from bullies or later, during my extensive research into what I was feeling, it provided me with a safe and comforting environment where I could feel in control. Before you criticise me for using school computers to search for transgender topics, fear not; Mar A Lago has tighter security. I settle into my favorite alcove toward the back of the library and pull out the novel I’m currently reading. Half an hour doesn’t seem like a lot of time, but when you can extract a moment of silence somewhere as noisy as a high school, it’s incredibly precious. Today, it seems is not that day. “Alex, I see you’re back for another year.” I smile and close my book. It’s one of the few members of staff I look forward to seeing each year; Mrs Inverbroo,,k the librarian. A jovial woman in her fifties, Mrs Inverbrook is the epitome of the librarian; she flits around in big flowing skirts, cardigans, and glasses on a string. Her hair is already grey, but it’s full and beautiful in a bun behind her head. Honestly, if I’d created a fictional character to play her, it would be her. “Sadly, eye,s I’m always glad to be here,” I reply, giving her a genuine smile. “Did you work through the summer here?” Mrs Inverbrook sits down primly on one of the chairs nearby and nods, “Every year, your summer is my inventory and audit period. The entire library gets deep cleaned and damaged books repaired or replaced; our work never stops.” Her expression softens, and she gives me a more motherly look. “Now tell me, are you still hiding in here this year? You know you can report any issues like this to me or the other staff.” I chuckle to myself and shake my head. “I enjoy it here, it’s quiet. I get to read and enjoy some peace. The benefit of being out of the path of the knuckle draggers is not bad either.” Mrs Inverbrook doesn’t entirely believe me, but she nods regardless. I do feel a moment of concern as I watch her eyes rove across me with more focus. “Are you doing okay, ok dear?” “I’m fine,” I smile cheerfully. “Was sick over the summer, really sick. I am rrecoveringthough, I just lost a lot of weight.” Mrs Inverbrook eyes me with undisguised suspicion for a moment, but I keep my expression as honestly neutral and pleasant as I can. Of all of the staff here, she’s the one who’s spent the most time with me over the years. If any of them were going to be smart enough to spot what was happening, it would be her, and that could be a problem. “If there’s ever any trouble or any… problems. You can talk to me.” She offers carefully. “About anything. You can confide in m Ale x, Alex.” This is the point in the adventure when our brave protagonist throws her lot in with the supportive teacher and gets the help she needs to seek professional help and come out to her parents, it’s the big key moment that turns the entire story and allows our perfectly feminine little miss to be her true self at school. Well, that isn’t happening here. I haven’t gotten as far as I have without being extremely paranoid. Nobody learns about this unless I can help it. I won’t be trusting any adults, especially ones with a duty to report and or cover thewn asses. That is a road to a baby getting locked up in some military school or an asylum. Think I’m overreacting? Put your very existence on the line and we’ll talk. I know she doesn’t believe me, and I can be reasonably sure she has suspicions, but without me coming out and saying it, she can’t make the connection for certain, so it will remain our unspoken secret. “Very well,” she nods, conceding the round. Remember, Alex, I’m not far away.” I can imagine you’re getting a pretty dismal view of me and my situation so far. Honestly, I can agree with you. In contradiction to what many of these stories suggest, the experience of being a transgender teenager isn’t particularly fun. Being onwho’ss stuck at a single-sex school and is trying to both actively transition and keep it secret? I’m genuinely surprised that I never lost my mind. I feel like a spy in my own life, trying to live, but trying to conceal. It sure does lead to some hilarious moments, though, with significant hindsight. At the time, I can assure you they were far from fun for the most part.