Lily and Dunkin

I wake forty-five minutes before my alarm is set to go off.

It gives me enough time to lie in bed and allow my stomach to twist and roil. The other kids at Gator Lake starting eighth grade don’t have to deal with this. They worry about normal things like zits, what they’ll wear and who likes them.

My bedroom door creaks open. Sarah’s head appears. Her warm smile makes everything feel better. “Wanted to wish you good luck today.”

“Come in,” I say, sitting up in bed and patting the space beside me.

Sarah’s wearing a long skirt, brown boots and this sheer top with a tank under it.

“I wish I looked like you.” I can’t believe I say what I’m thinking, but it’s true. Sarah is beautiful, and it seems so easy for her. A part of me has envied Sarah for as long as I can remember, but I’ve never actually said it out loud.

She locks eyes with me. “You’re great just the way you are.” Then she lifts my chin, so I have to hold my head up high. “What are you wearing today?” She eyes the skirt and blouse I borrowed from Dare that are hanging on my closet door.

I take a deep breath. “If I wear boy clothes, I think Dare will kill me.”

“She’s a good friend,” Sarah says.

“Yeah, but if I wear girl clothes, I think Dad will kill me.”

“Well, who’s scarier, Dad or Dare?”

“Dare,” we both say at the same time, and crack up.

I love my sister.

Sarah touches my arm. “Maybe it would be a good idea to wait on the girl clothes, you know.” She looks right in my eyes. “Middle school can be kind of…hard. Kids aren’t very accepting…of themselves, much less anyone else.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, thinking of the Neanderthals I’ll have to face today.

“Maybe wait a little,” Sarah says quietly. “Be you at home, but…”

“You’re starting to sound like Dad.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, but I’m sad that my own sister doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be who I truly am right now.

“Hey,” Sarah says. “The Knit Wits will be meeting here after school.”

“What are you guys working on today?”

Sarah pulls two tiny pieces of yarn from her pocket—one is light blue, the other soft pink. “We’re knitting cute little hats for the preemie babies at Beckford Palms Hospital.”

“That’s cool,” I say. But all I can think about is how the whole boy/girl color code is determined right from birth. The moment a baby comes into the world, someone decides whether the baby gets a pink hat or a blue hat, based on the baby’s body. Not brain. Why can’t they put a neutral color hat on the baby and wait to see what happens?

With a silly British accent, Sarah says, “Must be off. Bad form to be late the first day and all. Cheerio, matey!” She wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight enough to give me the strength I need to get through the next few hours.

“Thanks, Sar. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says, and touches the tip of my nose. She glances at the girl clothes. “No matter what.”

—

I’m halfway through my Pop-Tart (I shared a bit of the edge with Meatball) when Dad joins me in the kitchen, the newspaper folded under his armpit. He smells of the strong peppermint soap Mom buys.

“Hey, Tim. Ready for your first big day as an eighth grader?”

I can tell Dad’s happy I’m dressed in boy clothes.

“I guess,” I say, but I have zero enthusiasm in my voice. Dad should notice this, but doesn’t seem to.

He pours water into the coffeemaker. “Want some?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I say. “Well, I’d better get this over with.”

Mom bounds down the stairs, yoga mat carrier slung over her shoulder. “You ready, sweetheart?” She grabs my cheeks with her warm palms and looks into my eyes.

That’s when hot tears leak out.

Angrily, I swipe them away with the back of my hand. I nod toward Dad, even though he didn’t really do anything except make coffee.

“I know,” Mom says, and holds me.

But I don’t know if she does. How could she? She was born into the right body. Nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand people are born into the right body. Lucky them.

“Be patient with him,” Mom whispers. “It’ll happen.”

Maybe she does understand.

I take a deep breath, inhaling what little courage I can for the beginning of eighth grade.

Through the window beside the door, I watch Dare walk up the path to our house, smiling her awesome, deep-dimpled smile.

When she sees what I’m wearing, that smile won’t last.

I look at Dad bent over the newspaper, then at Dare approaching our door, and I feel like no matter what I do, I can’t win.