I'm in my bedroom, in the safe haven of my bower, staring at the ceiling as I lie on my bed. Too exhausted to do anything else. It's barely 5pm and yet I feel drained. I think I might just stay here forever. After all, didn't Snow White lie sleeping and still for years on end?

Beth must have carried me here at some point. I have no memory of walking from her room to mine. I don't think my legs would have let me even if I wanted to.

Are you a girl? Beth's question, so absurd on the surface, has been bouncing around my brain and amplifying itself. Right now it's the only thought I can muster.

And I still don't know why I didn't say no. I mean, I'm not, am I?

I'd know if I was, right?

"I'm a girl." I say the words quietly, just to see how they feel on my tongue. They feel horrible. A lie. And I feel horrible, inside: horrible for telling the lie, and horrible that it feels so bad. My voice doesn't help. It might not be as deep as some of my peers but it's deep enough to make the sentence feel undeserved. I try again, putting on a forced falsetto that sounds like a pastiche of a feminine voice. "I'm Harry, and I'm a girl."

Better. But still bad. Still a lie. It still makes me feel like shit.

I glance at my bedroom door, to make sure Mum or Beth isn't watching. It's shut. Of course it is. Neither of them are snoops, and Mum won't even finish work for another hour yet. And then I try the falsetto again. "I'm a girl," I say, "and my name is Hannah."

And that sounds much better.

Still not true, of course, but it comes with a rush to... happiness? An almost foreign emotion that makes me want to sing.

I don't sing. My overbearing personal inhibition stops me. But I do giggle. What? I've never giggled. I've laughed, sure, but not a giggle. And yet I can't stop. I giggle away, amusing myself with my own giggle and the sudden unexplained high I'm feeling, until I'm out of breath.

My computer makes a noise. It takes me a moment to recognise it as the Facebook message ping. I don't think I've had a message on Facebook for years; maybe half a dozen ever.

And never unsolicited. I've been the one to initiate every online communication I've ever had. Just the novelty of someone else wanting to talk to me is enough to shake me from my reverie and get me diving across the room to my computer. Of course, I'm about as graceful as a blind-drunk gazelle, so I somehow manage to get my foot tangled up in my duvet and nearly trip face-first into the computer. I catch myself on the edge of my desk. That avoids some embarrassment, but I reckon I'll have a nasty bruise on my palm tomorrow.

Shaking my hand to get rid of the pain, I open up the tab that Facebook is open on. (One of them in any case; I have about forty tabs open, and I'm not entirely sure what half of them are any more!)

Jessie's messaged me. I didn't even know I was friends with her; I'm guessing I added her along with the rest of my cohort when I first set up my Facebook account back in Year Seven. We've certainly never interacted. The message waiting for me is the first in our conversation history. 'Heya,' it reads, paired with a smiling emoji, 'how are u feeling this evening?'

I quickly type out a response: 'Fine'. But I stop myself before I send it. What sort of answer is that? Aside from the fact that it isn't true, I have a cute girl initiating conversation with me, and a one-word answer would kill that conversation dead. Instead of sending it, I mash the backspace a couple of times, until there's nothing in the typing box but a flashing cursor.

What would a normal, functioning person say instead of 'fine'?

'Having a bit of a weird day, actually. Personal crises.' I hit Enter before I can second guess myself.

Of course, I do still second guess myself. Especially when the little picture of Jessie's face moves to mark the message as Read and no response is immediately forthcoming. Of course there isn't. I've probably frightened her off. We barely know one another, beyond the basics of being classmates. She didn't really care how I was; she was just being polite. And now I've gone and started unloading.

Well done, Harry. Jolly good job. You'll be back to the library tomorrow. Oh, and think of the jeers next English class when you're not sat next to Jessie any more. Think of the long walk of shame to your old isthmus at the far corner of the classroom.

Next time, get to know the girl a bit better before you start throwing around phrases like 'personal crises'.

Fool.

Jessie is typing...

My heart leaps at the words. Just when I thought I'd gone too personal, too soon, there she comes, the saviour at her keyboard to lift me from my catastrophising.

'U want to talk bout it hun?? Im here if u do 🥰'

For a moment I feel light as a feather. This is beyond my wildest dreams. She actually wants to listen? Jessie Porter cares about how I'm feeling? This time yesterday I was resigned to the fact that once we left school she'd forget I even existed, just another faceless gremlin in the corner of class who she spoke to once. And we're... is this friendship?

I start typing right away. Yes I want to talk about it. Yes I want you to listen. Please help me with my burdens...

Ah. But what are my burdens? I hate my body, and I feel physically ill when I have to describe myself as a boy. I'm confused, because I am clearly a boy, yet I kind of want to be a girl instead. But not in the way that Olivia found herself. In a way where I wish I was like Olivia, because that would mean I'd get to be a girl. I'm several steps removed from the real thing. Like the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, but for gender.

And if I tell Jessie all this, she'll think I'm mad. She'll think I'm making fun of Olivia. And then she'll definitely cut contact, and probably tell the whole school I'm a cruel dickhead too. Climbing the social ladder? No, it would be a social dead cat bounce before the flatline. So instead I plump for 'Maybe another time? Need to figure things out myself before I unload'.

Jessie is typing.

'ok hun. here any time u want to chat. see u at school tmrw??'

Now that I can answer without doubling back on myself and deleting the first thing I type. 'Ywes'.

Dammit.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. 'Yes'.

Next time, Harry, try not to fuck up spelling a three letter bloody word.

*

Jessie's waiting for me at the school gates when I arrive the next morning. She greets me with a smile and we start talking about unimportant things. Apparently her favourite band's new album came out yesterday; she gushes excitedly about the songs, and as she's telling me all about how, lyrically, the album deals with the lead singer's personal journey—and how I should totally check them out, they're probably right up my street—my eyes start to wander. I'm watching the way Jessie's hips sway in her skirt. How is it fair? Why do my hips not sway like that? Why can't I wear a skirt to school without everyone laughing at me?

As she catches sight of me, Jessie trails off, her excitable chatter cut short. I feel guilty. She probably thinks I'm just another creepy man staring at her arse. How can I explain to her that I wasn't checking her out, I was just daydreaming about wearing a uniform like hers? She'd probably find that even weirder.

But then, she doesn't think Olivia's weird.

If she thought I was like Olivia—that I was a girl in the body of a boy—then perhaps she wouldn't feel as though I'm a perv. She wouldn't have to know the truth of it. One more year and I'm out of school. By the time Jessie realised I wasn't really a girl in the body of a boy, just a boy who wishes he was a girl, this place would be a distant memory. And maybe I can get her to call me 'Hannah'. For some reason I really want to hear someone call me 'Hannah'.

"Uh, Jessie, you know yesterday you asked if I was alright?"

She nods. "You wanted to figure things out."

"Do you think we could talk? At lunch? Just the two of us."

"Don't we have English again this afternoon? We'd have longer to talk then."

I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is confess my innermost thoughts within earshot of a good quarter of the year. "I don't really want anybody else to overhear me," I tell her. "It's a... private thing."

Jessie thinks for a second. "Sure. Why not?"

"Brill. See you at lunch."

*

By lunch, of course, I've worked myself up into a nervous frenzy. Even Tom can tell that something's on my mind; he only mentions the latest girl he's set his mind on 'conquesting' (a phrase which always made me slightly sick, and today turns me so green I nearly show him my half-digested breakfast in response) once during form. We sit through an hour of Biology just before lunch, and he doesn't mention her at all. Or maybe he does. Truth by told, I'm so distracted by then that I barely even hear the teacher's lesson.

I'm busy chasing a load of different thoughts around my head, and as I chase them so more seem to emerge from hiding. Yesterday's turmoil is still there. Why do I hate my body? Why couldn't I just say "I'm a boy" to Beth? Why did I really want to tell her I'm a girl instead? And as I try to make sense of those, so other thoughts swirl through my. Mainly about Jessie. See, logically speaking I know she should be cool with me telling her I'm a girl like Olivia, even though I'm not. After all, she knows about Olivia's past and that hasn't stopped them being friends. But then it occurs to me that if Jessie thinks I'm a girl, then that probably means my crush on her is destined to be forever futile. And that should be enough to make me pause. Jessie's probably the prettiest girl in school, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't occasionally wanted to marry her one day. But the more I think about it, the more I realise that, nice as it would be to date Jessie, the idea of us being girl friends instead is somehow more thrilling. It's intoxicating.

An image pops into my head. Me and Jessie, but we're a few years older, standing on the grounds of a church. She's wearing a frilly white dress with a lace veil. Bride to be. But rather than being sad that I'm not the man she's about to marry, I'm excited for her. My bestie deserves the best wedding day ever. And anyway, my hair is on point and my nails perfectly match my bridesmaid's dress, and none of that would be happening if I was about to be Jessie's husband.

The image is broken by Tom, shaking me hard. "Hey, man, the lesson's over. It's lunch time."

I wince at being called a man, then mutter something to Tom and start packing up my things. He doesn't wait for me. I'm glad of that, because if he had, I'd have had to make some excuse to get away from him and talk to Jessie. I sling my rucksack over my shoulder and make my way towards the table in the Quad where the girls sit. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, where the science block spills out into the reception area, Miss Jorgensen passes me. "Hello, Hannah," she says, giving me a sweet smile as she begins her ascent.

"Hi, Miss."

*

Jessie's stood by her usual table, lunch in her hand, munching on a bag of Quavers. The others are sat down; all of them wave when they see me approach, and Emma even says hi. I wave back.

"See you girls later," says Jessie.

Kiah gives a jeer of mock-irritation. "Boo. Can't you stay here?"

"Harry wants to talk," Jessie tells her. I mouth a 'sorry', but the girls have folded back into their conversation before Jessie and I have taken two steps away from the table. "So," she says. "Where are we going?"

"Is there a quiet corner? Somewhere nobody will disturb us?"

Jessie raises an eyebrow. "I know a place. When I was dating Sam Douglas, we used to go there to be alone."

"I don't think I knew you dated Sam Douglas," I tell her. I don't think I even know who Sam Douglas is. His name's not one I recognise.

A funny look crosses Jessie's face. "Yeah. Well. We didn't really advertise it."

"Where is this place?" I ask her.

This place turns out to be the huge willow tree on the back field. We're not technically allowed on the field at lunch apart from in the summertime, but there are no teachers patrolling the area, and the tree's large enough that we can tuck ourselves in behind it and be invisible to anyone looking over from the school proper. It's cold in the shade, and I know I'm going to have mud all over the arse of my trousers, but I make myself comfortable between the knots of a root, and Jessie sits down opposite me. For a while we sit and eat our lunches in silence.

Eventually Jessie clears her throat. "What was it you wanted to tell me, Harry?"

I open my mouth, and realise that my stewing nerves have managed to twist themselves into a hundred knots and tangles. I take a deep breath—and start talking, before my brain can get the better of me. "I, uh... well, I think I'm a... a girl... you know, in the body of a boy. Like Olivia."

Jessie's looking at me, and it suddenly occurs to me that we've only been friends for a day. Pretty soon to be just unloading about myself, isn't it?

"Sorry," I burble. "I'm putting a lot on you, I know—"

She cuts me off, lifting a hand for quiet. "You're a girl?"

I nod.

"So... you're trans?"

"I'm what?"

"Trans." Jessie frowns. "As in transgender. Your brain doesn't match your body, so you're a girl with a boy's body."

"Oh." I nod again. "Yes. That's me."

Jessie beams. "Cool! And what's your name?"

I frown. Confused. "Harry," I tell her.

But Jessie shakes her head. "No, silly. Your real name. Your girl name. The one that doesn't make you wince every time you say it."

"Oh, right," I laugh. "Uhh... can you call me 'Hannah'?"

"Of course I can, Hannah." She hugs me tightly. When she lets go, I'm sitting there, bemused. This has gone better than I expected it to. Too well, in fact.

"You don't have a problem with me then?" I ask.

Jessie looks confused. "No.... Why would I have a problem? I hope you don't take me for some filthy transphobe."

"I just thought... well, you'd find it weird. Me, manly as all hell, telling you I'm a girl."

"Hannah, you don't look manly at all. You never have. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad you're a girl, because you'd have been a terrible boy."

I beam; being called 'Hannah', being referred to as a girl, has me feeling over the moon. Can I keep up the pretence, I wonder? If I spend enough time pretending to be a girl, will I eventually phase through the wall to actually being a girl? I want to. I want this forever.

And suddenly I groan.

Miss Jorgensen called me Hannah.

Miss Jorgensen knows.

Alexandrina

This was going to be released tomorrow, but I accidentally pressed Publish before scheduling it, and what the hell? Why not have another chapter!