Friday I do some before school cardio in the gym, then play outfit roulette again. I’ve had fun with the outfits I’ve gotten that way so far, and it isn’t like I’m going to run out of old guy clothes to convert any time soon.

Today’s outfit turns out to be a retro-hippy-chick ensemble—a long, spinny skirt with a flower print, a bright yellow tank top (the straps are thin, but they’re of a piece with the shirt, so I don’t think it counts as a cami top), and a pair of tan sandal flats. In the mirror, the girl’s hair goes halfway down her back, and instead of a pink fringe, it has a thick pink streak on one side.

I approve.

The morning is uneventful, although I do find myself walking between classes instead of flickering from one to the next. It only makes sense. The whole point of staying this way is to mess with people, right? And to do that, I need to be seen. I even smile as I walk. It’s an important part of the act.

When I get to the lunch room, Cat walks up to me in his guy form.

“We have a meeting after school today, if you’d like to come,” he says.

“We?”

“A bunch of the trans, enby, and otherwise genderqueer kids.”

“Oh, thanks,” I reply. “I’m not trans, though.”

“Still he/him?”

“Yeah.”

“You can easily stake a claim on enby, if you want. Gender non-conforming kids are also welcome.”

Although I might be able to argue that I’m not non-binary, I don’t think I can argue that I’m currently gender conforming—not with a straight face, anyway.

“I’ve got plans this afternoon,” I lie, “but do you meet every Friday?”

He nods.

“Then maybe I’ll see you next week. Thanks for the invite!”

Wow, I sound almost disgustingly cheerful.

“No problem.” He pauses. “If you need to talk to someone, feel free to track me down.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until I’m halfway through my (delicious) chicken caesar salad that I think to wonder if he was flirting. I don’t think I'd be interested if he was, but if she approached me as a girl, that might be a different matter.

It felt nice that he’d invited me—well, invited her.

I have big plans for my weekend—rearranging my sock drawer. And my other drawers, of course.

Even though this is only going to be for a few more days, I like my things to be organized, and having clothes just sitting out bugs me. Plus, if Mom does look in my room, she’ll wonder what’s going on if I don’t have everything neat and orderly.

That’s all squared away, including the clothes that have gone through the laundry, by noon on Saturday. That leaves me at loose ends. 

Usually, I’d hang out in the apartment, reading or playing video games, maybe watching some TV. I don’t want to do that, though. I want to be out among people. That isn’t a feeling I’ve felt much in the past couple of years. I decide to indulge it.

I stare at my clothes for a bit before coming to a decision. I take off the jeans and t-shirt I’m wearing, and put on goth punk princess.

“I’m going out, Mom!” I yell from my room.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” she calls back.

“Why not?”

“Well, the way you look, that must be embarrassing.” 

I can hear her approaching my door.

“I think I’ll be okay,” I reply, trying to sound at least a little uncertain. “Bye!”

I flicker away as my door starts to open.

I don’t flicker far (that would defeat the point), just to the park down the block. There’s a spot behind some trees where my sudden appearance isn’t likely to be noticed. Sure enough, no one is nearby when the trees flicker into focus around me. I reach up and am pleased to feel that the double ponytails are back.

I don’t have a plan, other than to wander around aimlessly and avoid the apartment so I won’t feel Mom pointedly not looking at me all day. My phone buzzes.

“Be careful son” — it’s a message from Mom. I react with a thumbs-up on my phone, and a frown on my face. I wonder for a moment why that bothers me, then push it aside.

The park isn’t super crowded, but there are a lot of people around. I look at them as I walk. I’m not always the best with people, but I find them fascinating, especially in pairs or small groups. I try to figure out what they are to each other. Are they friends? A married couple? On their first date? I think I’ve gotten pretty good at it, based on how good I am at causing disruption and discomfort at school.

That’s why I spot Denise Hovey. She and I went to the same school from first grade through the first part of tenth. We’d been good friends until fifth grade, when we drifted apart. I guess that’s not unusual when boys and girls are friends. We haven’t even talked since I shipped off to The School, but I haven’t really talked to anyone from the neighborhood much since then.

I don’t recognize her immediately; she’s changed a lot in the year and a half since I last saw her. My attention is drawn by the way she’s standing as this older guy (at least in his late twenties, maybe older) leans over her. She looks very uncomfortable, if not quite scared.

I walk quickly toward them.

“Denise!” I call out, waving. “There you are!”

I walk right up to her and tug lightly on her sleeve.

“I thought we were meeting on the other side of the park?” I continue. “We’ve got to hurry, or we’ll be late!”

I ease myself between her and the creep, with a minimal “Excuse me.” 

She doesn’t need any more encouragement and falls in beside me.

I keep chattering as we walk away, sneaking a quick glance behind us. The creep doesn’t appear to be following. I lead us around the first corner we reach that puts us out of his line of sight.

“Shit,” I say. “I shouldn’t have used your real name. Sorry.”

“What? No! Thank you!” she replies. “That asshole followed me off the bus. I didn’t want to go home and let him see what building I live in. When I stopped for a second, he took that as his chance to ‘chat me up.’”

I nod. Marie told us about something similar happening to her once. Of course, her stalker ended up having to figure out how to get down from the top of a nearby building. He was lucky she didn’t break him, but that was after I’d been a good influence on her.

We make a couple more turns, and are out of the park proper when she stops in front of me.

“How did you know my name, anyway?”

She looks me up and down. I’m not sure what I want to say.

“Wait,” she says, “Frank?”

Well, I do look like I could be my own identical twin sister.

“Oh, sorry. Do you use a different name now?”

“Nah, still Frank.”

That seems to surprise her a little. 

I am completely unprepared for what I’m going to say to people outside of school. It’s been so long since I’ve been outside in the neighborhood that I didn’t even think about it. At The School, there isn’t really a downside to confusing people about my gender. That’s the whole point of staying like this for a few more days, after all.

Out here in the real world, though, it could definitely cause me trouble. That isn’t okay. I’m supposed to be the one who causes the trouble. 

It isn’t like letting people think I’m trans will be problem free, but it feels like the safer option.

“Frank can be a girl’s name,” I insist, and this is true; I looked it up online. It’s not like it is anything approaching common as a girl’s name, but if I were really a girl, I wouldn’t be the only one named Frank.

“Sorry, I was just surprised. So.” She looks me over. “I’m impressed.”

I feel my cheeks get hot.

“Are you doing anything for lunch?” she asks.

In fact, I am not.

We’re sitting across from each other at a sub shop a block from the park. I mostly listen, at first, as she catches me up with happenings at McGee since my sudden departure. I do occasionally throw in questions about specific people. I’ve finished my sandwich by the time she winds down.

“So,” she says, “your turn. Clearly your life has been eventful.”

She waves her hand up and down at my body.

“Obviously, this is the big one,” I say, “other than the whole getting marked thing, which you already knew about, I guess.”

“Heh, I’d imagine so. Did the other kids give you a hard time about being trans?”

There it is. If I’m going to correct her, now is the time. Once again, I debate with myself over the difference between lying and just not correcting someone, or even playing along. I lose.

“Nah. There are a few transphobes at school, but they know to keep it to themselves. They’d get smacked down hard, otherwise.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” I tell her about the one time I saw anyone being actively queerphobic at the school. That was another time I was a little sad to see someone back down from Emily. He totally deserved the smackdown she would have given him.

“That’s cool that you’ve got a safe space, what with your mom and all. How’s she taking it?”

“Not especially well.” Which is true, but I’m still feeling bad for misleading her.

“I’m surprised she let you at all.”

I shrug, but then think of something. I’m about to ask her how she knows about my Mom being transphobic, given that the whole Vance thing happened just last year, but she continues before I get a chance.

“So do they have some kind of super hormones at your school?”

“What?”

“I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure normal HRT won’t knock four inches off your height.”

“Oh. No, I did this to myself with my mark.”

“Really? I thought you could teleport.”

“I can, sort of, but it turns out that it’s more complicated than that.”

I’m getting really uncomfortable with this topic, and apparently Denise picks up on that.

“Okay, okay, tell me something else crazy that’s happened at your school.”

“Hmm, there was the killer robot attack.”

“Your school was attacked by killer robots—?!”

“Okay, I’m not actually sure they were killer robots. No one died.”

I don’t have as many details to share on that story, since I was sheltering in the sealed classrooms with all the other kids. Almost all the other kids. I was out there briefly, because I’m nosy and impatient and they can’t really stop me. Emily was out there practicing her robot disassembly technique. 

“Wild.” She pauses. “So, this Emily …”

“Yeah, she’s the worst. Why?”

“She starred in both stories you just told me. You sound sort of into her.”

“What? No!”

“Really? What makes her ‘the worst’?”

“She’s so good at everything. She’s beautiful, smart. And she always shows up when there’s trouble.”

“Oh, so she’s got a big ego?”

“No, that’s just it. She doesn’t act like that stuff makes her better than anyone else.”

“I’m not hearing anything negative in there.”

“If you met her, you’d get it. Can we talk about something else?”

“Okay. I have a question, but I don’t want to offend you.”

“Is it about Emily?”

“No,”

“Then I’ll do my best not to be offended. Go ahead.”

“Why no makeup? That outfit is screaming for it.”

“I know!”

“Then why not?”

I explain about not wanting to antagonize Mom, and how I’m trying not to dip too much into my college fund.

“Then where did you get these clothes?”

That leads to me explaining about outfit roulette.

“Lucky girl,” she says.

I feel a pleasant warmth.

“Anyway, we have to fix the makeup situation, now!”

She practically drags me out of the sandwich shop to her building, half a block away.

“This is fun,” Denise says.

I’m sitting on a chair in her bedroom while she applies eye shadow to my closed eyes.

“Mm-hm.”

It really is.

“It’s like old times,” she says.

I tense up instantly.

“What?” she asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you used to come over and let me put makeup on you?”

Nothing like that ever happened. I’d remember it. I tell her as much.

“Seriously?”

I nod.

“Why did we stop playing together?”

“I don’t know, we just drifted apart?”

“You don’t remember your mom cussing out my mom? After you didn’t get it all off before going home that time?”

“Are you just making this up?” 

She has to be. I would remember that.

“Shit. You’re not kidding. Hold on.”

She puts the makeup brush down and walks over to her desk.

“Here.” She holds up her laptop so I can see the screen.

It shows a picture of her and another little girl smiling at the camera. The other little girl looks vaguely familiar.

There’s that thing they say happens when you’re about to die, where your whole life flashes before your eyes. This isn’t that, but I think I have a better understanding of what that would be like. 

Because the other little girl is the girl, only six years younger, and I remember us taking that picture. I remember feeling pretty. A rush of shame goes through me. I can see my mom’s face from last night at dinner—that mix of pity and disgust. I can hear her voice from this morning: ‘Well, the way you look, that must be embarrassing.’

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

“Are—” she starts.

“I have to go,” I say, and flicker straight back to my bedroom.

The rest of the weekend passes, somehow. I vaguely remember washing the makeup off my face before dinner on Saturday, so it isn’t a complete blank, but I can’t tell you anything else that happened.

There are a couple messages on my phone from Denise (we exchanged numbers during lunch), but I haven’t read them. I don’t think I have, anyway.

Somehow, it’s Monday morning, and I’m sitting in Mr. Berry’s office for our second appointment. I’m crashed in the recliner when he walks in. I’m pretty sure I told the admin I was coming back here, probably. I must have, because he doesn’t look surprised to see me.

“Good morning, Mr. Doyle.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You were poking at me, trying to see how I’d react to being called ‘Mr.’”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because it sucked.”

He nods and takes his seat.

“I won’t call you that anymore.”

“I didn’t say not to.”

He doesn’t quite manage to suppress a sigh.

“What would you like to talk about today, Frank?”

What I want to talk about is “What the hell is wrong with me?” I try to figure out how to tell him that, and don’t come up with anything.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Could you be more specific?”

“I’m not trans,” I say. It comes out a little harsher than I intended.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m only here because I have to talk to somebody. You can’t tell anyone what we talk about, right? Anything I tell you is confidential?”

“Unless I believe that you are going to harm yourself or someone else, yes.”

“What about something I show you?”

“Largely the same. Are you likely to show me evidence of a felony, or anything that showing it to me would be a felony?”

“No. I’m not going to expose myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then the same applies.”

I’m suddenly standing on the other side of the room. Me, not the girl. I flicker again, and the girl is back in the chair.

“Have you been able to do that all along?”

“Only since Thursday evening.”

“Now, you led off by saying that you’re not trans. Would you care to elaborate?”

I tell him everything. I get some of it wrong, and some of it out of order, but I tell him the best I can. 

“And what did you do for the rest of the weekend?”

I explained that I mostly don’t remember it.

“Several times, when you referred to your current body, you referred to ‘the girl.’ Can you tell me what you meant by that?”

That’s a hard one.

“Well, this isn’t me.” I gesture at myself. “This is the girl.”

“But you’ve told me that you’re still a boy.”

“Right. That’s what I’m saying.”

“But you just pointed at yourself and called yourself a girl.”

This is frustrating.

“You’re not getting it.”

“Alright, let’s approach this from a different angle. From what you said, you’re choosing to maintain your current appearance in order to make your fellow students uncomfortable. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then may I ask why you are maintaining that appearance now? Do you think it will make me uncomfortable?”

I don’t know how to answer that.

“No. But being me sucks.”

Or maybe I do.

The bell for first period rings.

“We’re going to have to stop for now,” Mr. Berry says. “I’d like to set another appointment with you for the middle of this week, if we can find an opening.”

“Sure, whatever.”

I walk out of his office door and make my way through the hallways to class.

Once I’m out among other students, I feel a little better.

Pre-calc holds my attention enough that I’m able to ignore my own issues. Marie is in the same class, but we don’t sit next to each other due to assigned seating. She catches up with me right after I walk out the door.

“See?” she asks.

“See what?”

“You didn’t notice even when it was you? Maybe you really are still a guy.”

“I am, and notice what?”

“You weren’t called on once.”

“There are twenty kids in class. It happens.”

“How often did it happen when you were a—when you still looked like a guy?”

I have no idea. Marie, on the other hand, has extensive notes. Assuming they’re accurate, she has a point. I point at the beginning of her chart.

“So you started this after the last time we talked about this?”

She had.

“So Mr. Hollister is sexist?”

“Look, sexism isn’t about one person, it’s about the system. But yes.”

She shows me similar charts for the rest of her classes as we walk to her next class.

“Okay, okay, I get it. What do you want me to do about it?”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it, I just wanted you to see that I wasn’t just making things up.”

I nod. “I never thought that, but I’m sorry I made you think I did.”

We reach her classroom.

“See you at lunch?” I ask.

“Maybe.” She ducks into the classroom.

The bell is going to ring any second, so I flicker to my own next class, history.

We’re doing a unit on the Invasion this week. It’s out of order, but the fortieth anniversary of VI Day is coming up. Ms. Tempkin tells us what it was like to live through the initial days. She was fifteen on the night when the Archmage broke through to our world, and living in Los Angeles. Her parents guessed right and headed north instead of heading east right away and made it across the Rockies before the whole western US was occupied.

I only pay half attention. I’m really more interested in pre-invasion history. I wonder what it would have been like to live when superpowers were just something people put in comic books, when nobody was marked. I don’t think I’d give up my mark (if that was even possible), but I think that, maybe, the world would be better off without them.

I need to talk to people. At lunch I sit with the goon squad, but don’t say much. I listen while Kyle and Len concoct a plan to humiliate some kid I don’t know, who apparently was bragging about how he’s a shoo-in for a spot with his local Rapid Incursion Response Team once he graduates.

Marie occasionally chimes in, but seems about as uninterested as I am. I catch her looking at me a couple of times. When the bell rings for lunch to end, I start to get up with Kyle and Len, but I feel a small tug, gently pushing me back down into my seat. 

I look at Marie and she nods. I sit back down. Kyle and Len are too absorbed in their scheme to notice I’m not with them.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I think I’m out.”

I'm not sure what she means, and wait for her to go on.

“Your head’s not in the game since this—” she waves her hand vaguely at me “—and I don’t especially enjoy the wonder twins’ company.”

“I’m just distracted. It’ll pass.”

“Maybe.” She hesitates. “You’re going to stay like this, aren’t you?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to change back. Probably soon.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why the fuck would you change back? You are so much happier like this.”

Before I can argue, she continues.

“No. Happier isn’t right. You were never happy before. Now you are.”

“That’s not true. What about the thing with Perry a few weeks ago? I was happy about that.”

“No you weren’t. Satisfied? Sure. Proud? Yeah. Those aren’t the same thing. When you walked into the cafeteria today, you were smiling, and I’m pretty sure you were humming. And don’t ignore that you were walking. Since when do you walk anywhere in this school that you don’t have to?”

“Are you trying to convince me to stay like this?”

“Oh hell no. I wish you’d change back. I like boy you better.”

“So you’re going to leave if I can’t change back.”

“I’m going to leave either way. I just wanted to let you know.”

She stands, and I watch her walk away.

My phone buzzes with a notification from the school app. It’s asking me to confirm an appointment with Mr. Berry for after lunch Tuesday, during what would normally be a study hall for me.

I click ‘confirm’ so hard I almost break my screen.