MAXIMUM POV:

According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, (something I'm learning about in General Sciences) in order for someone to learn – at school, for example –, said someone has necessities. They need safety, for example. They need a roof over their head and food every day. They need a sense of belonging, and sufficient quantities of self-esteem.

They need a safe shelter.

They need to be fed.

They need to be loved.

And they need to love themselves.

Once those requirements are met, they can truly absorb their studies and understand what's in front of them. They can be schooled properly.

Unfortunately, some educational facilities add to their own hierarchy. They make students fit within guidelines. They're enclosed and far-off.

The only school I've ever wanted to attend is one of those schools.

In order to attend West-Carr Academy, you must meet their requirements.

You must be a man.

A natural-born, biological, real male. A man.

FLASHBACK

A mass of my classmates received their acceptance letters at the end of junior high. My insane jealousy chewed through the pit of my stomach as they read the gold-leaf letters and traced embossed logos. They were all honored in high society, or they were achieved scholars. I was neither. I was a female accident with a drunk for a father. It was my dream to learn in an art school, though.

I'd read the requirements over and over again, in the pamphlets, on library computers, in vain hope that they would change eventually.

'West-Carr is a mainly male-oriented arts and literature academy… During enrollment, lottery, and dormitory selection, parental income, student grades, and social status is taken into consideration; however, West-Carr is not biased against personal lifestyle. See page 23 of the enrollment document for payment options and general requirements...'

They never changed; the requirements; I mean. Of course, the only things I was ever any good at were the arts and aspects of literature. But I would never get into the Academy.

I live in the very worst part of the city, probably illegally, in a whore's apartment. I've mentioned that my father is a drunk: a violent, broke, and intoxicated father, with no source of income. My life is as far as it can get from the Requirements, not to mention my lack of… male bits and a boy's overly crude sense of humor.

The only reason I ever come home at night is because I can't survive on the streets. I've got no allies and no hope on the desolate sidewalk. At least here I've got a couch to sleep on, even if said couch explodes with dirt and dust like a puffball fungi every time you touch it.

Ah, the couch. It's the cleanest thing in this house, despite its puffball-like qualities. No one's allowed to fuck on it, and no one's allowed to do drugs on it. And it's comfy as hell.

I burrow into it and try to steal back the last tendrils of night before school.

I'm rudely awoken at 6:00 AM, which is approximately an hour before I usually rise from the dead. I glance around at the dimly lit room, and narrow my eyes at the silhouette that stands in my only mother figure's doorway. There's a crinkling sound, then the noise of something being folded into one's pocket. I reach between the cushions of the couch, right by my side –

"You one of 'em?" asks a hoarse voice. Male.

I sit up, my eyes catch his –

"You a young one, girlie," he says, shaking his head. "You too young to be fuckin' up yo' life like dis. You gotta job? Need a bit?"

Disgust curls in my stomach. No, no – he thinks I'm one of them – I'll never be one of them; never waste my life as a prostitute in the dirtiest apartments of the city.

I shake my head furiously, biting down bile at the sight of this toothless man in front of me, half rotting, like a corpse. I don't want to see what lies behind his pants, which are unzipped and lay dangerously low on his hips. I don't want to think about the money he probably left my… 'mother', and perhaps a tip for the good fuck.

"No," I say, quietly. "No. No." Louder still: "No!"

I'm panicking now.

"Whoa, girlie," the man says, raising his hands above his head and backing away. "Ain't comin' here to get in no crazy house. Just want the women."

"I'm not a whore like the rest of them!" I cry.

"Didn't say you were! Didn't…fuckin'… say… nothin' – bitch!" And before I can properly clarify myself, he's gone, out of the door and gone.

And I know I need to leave this fucking apartment.

I grab the worn blade from its home in the couch and slide it, slowly, into my holster, which is hidden in the only convenient place on my body – right below my bra. I grab a shirt from my bag and warily slide it over my undershirt. I haven't taken off my jeans and don't plan on taking them off, so I stand up off the Plaid Puffball and take my bookbag out from under it.

And off to school I go.

I don't really know anyone at school. Honestly, I'm not interested in making any friends, so I haven't created any bonds. It's not like I need anyone: group projects are optional, and you can go off campus at lunchtime.

Yeah, yeah. I sound like a self-pitying emo kid.

But that's just how I roll.

I don't need anyone.

I know I'll get into West-Carr someday – I just need a miracle to happen.

Ha. A miracle.

Money. Class within my family - hell, I'll need a sex change while I'm at it.

That'll happen. Definitely.