Pronoun

"She, Freddie," thirteen-year old Sam snapped. "I'm a she. As in girl."

"Barely," thirteen-year old Freddie scoffed.

Sam was usually the one who's comments left a sting. She was usually the one whose words left a burn. Whenever Freddie would pull the "you're-not-a-girl-you're-a-that" card, though, she'd feel knocked down a peg.

It was just a little pronoun. She. How hoard was it for him to realize that sure, she didn't obsess about lip-gloss and skirts like Carly, but that she was still a girl?

Eventually, as the two got older, it was harder and harder for Freddie to deny that Sam was, in fact, a girl. She still preferred converses over heels and watching MMA fights to romantic chick flicks, but when he looked at her, there was an air of feminity to her. And after they had their first kiss, well, he knew she was a girl.

When they began dating at seventeen, and Sam took on the role of his girlfriend, he was slightly surprised about how feminine she was capable of acting. Of course she was still Sam, so naturally she ate more than the average 300 pound man and could flip a truck driver, but she always looked beautiful on their dates, adorning a variety of dresses and even wearing a light layer of make-up. She wouldn't punch him when he held her hand, and he could swear that a blush would creep onto her face whenever he did. And even though she told him that she would punch the lights out of him if he told anyone, she giggled at all of his lame jokes.

Sam was definitely a she.

The prettiest, funniest, best she Freddie knew.