Your name is DOVE STRIDER and you are ELEVEN. You live with your TWO OLDER BROTHERS and you feel like SOMETHING IS OFF. You are AT SCHOOL on the FIRST DAY. Your teacher has told you to split up and go to sit in table groups rather than sitting on the floor where you are now (even though you are in sixth grade). You stand up and make your way to the closest table, occupied by three boys, but you are stopped by them.
"You can't sit with us," one of them scowls at you. You blink, confused.
"Why not?" You challenge them boldly. They all scoff.
"Cause you're a girl!" The same one places his books in the seat you were going to take. "Only boys can sit here." You stare at them. Only boys? What did they mean? Was there actually a difference that mattered that much? You scowl at them but turn and sit at an all-girls table.
When the end of the day comes you are still hearing the conversation repeated in your head. It happened three times that day. You couldn't sit with the boys in your science class, you couldn't play any of the sports with the boys in the free period after lunch, and you couldn't even choose 'video games' as your English topic because your teacher wanted you to pick something less 'boyish' like drawing or dancing. You feel put-off and confused as you walk through the door to your apartment. You walk right to the bathroom and you stare at yourself in the mirror. While you spent your day wondering what made you so different from the boys in your class, it's painfully obvious now. You've never even noticed it before. Your chest isn't flat and your hips are too wide to be a boy. Your eyes are too wide and your eyelashes are too long and curled. You frown, troubled by this. All the girls ever wanted to do growing up was dolls or house. You've always hung out with boys. You've grown up with boys. You've always dreaded hanging out with girls but you never felt like this before. You've never felt to dejected and… wrong. Something here feels wrong. The curves that set you apart from doing what you'd like feel wrong and your eyes make you frown even more deeply. You shrug off the feeling and turn to go back to your bedroom. Bro's just gotten home and he ruffles your hair.
"Hey sis," he greets you. "How was your first day?" Even the 'sis' in his sentence irks you.
"Fine," you murmur.
"Are you sure you don't want to go clothes shopping?" He asks for the five millionth time this week. "Seems like all your shirts are getting tattered. Don't you want something a little more, I dunno, girly?" You frown, shaking your head sternly. You grab your backpack and retreat to your room, closing the door behind you.
The next time it happens is also at school. Your whole first week has been miserable. You can't sit with the boys because you're a girl, but the girls won't take you either. You're left lonely and confused. There's been one lingering thought this whole week, a repeating mantra of I wish I was a boy that won't stop. It's still chanting when you're being stared down in P.E because you want to play on the competitive teams and not the recreational.
"You can't play football! You're a girl! All girls can do is paint nails and play dolls! That's all they're good for. Go play rec with the other girls." He's staring you down and everyone else on his team is nodding and snickering. You're taken aback. You turn to look at the other girls, they're staring at you distastefully.
"We don't want her!" One protests. "She's not even like, a real girl." Your mouth is gaping open at the sheer bluntness they're all using. You snap your jaw shut, shoot them all a fierce glare and turn on your heel, walking out of the building. You're fuming, you're upset. You're sick of being a girl. You're in tears, just like a girl. You slam every door you can until you reach the bathroom once more. You hate what you look like, you hate the curves. You bang open the cabinet doors and toss things aside until you pull out wraps that you used as headbands. The kind-of transparent materiel came in four colors and was wrapped like ACE bandages and you just tore off a bit and used it as a headband. This time you tore off a lot, wrapping it around your chest until it was flat. You grab the scissors from the cabinet and don't even hesitate to cut off your locks in long snips. You let what's left shaggily fall around your neck. You fall to the ground, still crying. You forget about the scissors in your hand until you gasp in pain and cradle your slowly bleeding wrist to your chest. You watch it drip down, entranced. You pick the scissors back up with a shaking hand and make another shaky line on your arm. You continue until it looks like a barcode of red, when you snap out of it and drop the scissors in shock, kicking them away and hurriedly bandaging the wound, breathing hard. You pull on a shirt and sneak to your room, pulling on the baggiest sweater and sweatpants you can find. Glancing in the mirror you are more satisfied than you have ever been. It's completely hard to breathe but you think it's worth it. With a hopeful thought you think maybe if you look more like a boy they won't be so keen on kicking you out to go to the girls. You are probably wrong.
You ensure that your arm is covered and you storm into the living room next, where Bro is on the couch. Surely he's different.
"Bro," you say in a demanding voice. "Will you let me use your turntables?" He doesn't even turn around.
"I dunno, Dove. Turntables aren't really something I've ever heard of a girl enjoying." You blink, astonished and even more upset. The world isn't fair to girls. He finally turns around and blink in surprise.
"Did Dirk take you get that done?" He asks. You shake your head angrily.
"I did it." Your voice is flat and you turn around and walk back upstairs, more upset than you've ever been.
