My hand hovers over my keyboard. Just one press, one twitch of a muscle--that's all it takes.

It's Saturday morning, the first day of the rest of my life, and I haven't dared to check Facebook yet. All Friday I spent in my own head, equal parts daydreaming about the future I've finally grabbed and fearing what the fallout might be. Mum helped, a bit. Not that she's 100% happy with the whole me being a girl thing, she'd probably much prefer to keep her son, but she's seen which way the wind is blowing and while a second daughter wasn't in her plans it's clear that a second daughter in her life is preferable to a second daughter who's not in her life. Cause those are the choices. Either way I'm Hannah. Mum's choice is whether she gets to know Hannah or not.

The plan is to go shopping tomorrow, her and me, to get my uniform and enough essentials to last me for the time being. I'll need my dress today, for my day with Jessie, so yesterday's great hurrah was actually almost anticlimactic. I threw off my horrible uniform as soon as I walked through the door, and put on the same clothes I would have worn after school when I was Harry. Only, with a bra underneath to give my chest some sort of shape, and a smidgen of colour on my lips--courtesy of Beth's gift of lipstick. That was enough, apparently. Even though almost everything I was wearing was boy clothes (in the sense that they had been bought from the boy's section), I felt like a girl. Which meant the clothes were girl clothes. Or rather, the clothes were clothes, and the person wearing them was a girl.

Mum must have seen my nerves. We spent the entire evening playing board games, which we haven't done for years. You can get a lot of data from seven solid hours' playing. For example, we discovered that Mum is shite at Scrabble. I consistently beat her by a few hundred points. On the other hand, I don't have the head for chess. Like, at all. I'm not going to say how badly I lost. It's embarrassing.

All the while part of my mind was on my computer, upstairs. On Facebook.

There's still a contradiction in my head. On the one hand, I'm scared to see the inevitable flurry of messages from my peers. I know there's kind words waiting for me from Jessie and Olivia and the girls, because that's just the sort of people they are. But what if the hate outnumbers the love? There are about two hundred people in my year, most of whom I'm 'friends' with on Facebook out of social obligation, and almost all of them are unknowns to me. My only yardstick is Olivia. Knowing she's trans, I view people who are friendly with her with a lens of presumed support. They should be allies. But I don't know how widely Olivia's transition is known. Shit, I was her best friend in primary school and even I didn't know until I was four years into secondary school and in an egg so worn down that the shell was translucent. There could be closet bigots among her friends. People who view Olivia as a cis girl, and who haven't happened to espouse their bigotry in her hearing. I can't be sure of anyone I don't already know well myself. And, of course, I can't even be sure of everyone I know. I'm dreading hearing from Tom, for instance. What if he hates me?

And yet, scary as the prospect of being inundated with hate is, the opposite also scares me. What if I open Facebook and there's... just nothing?

What if nobody cares?

Transitioning is the big thing in my life at the moment. As, of course, it's bound to be. I'm literally crossing the divide from one gender to the other (well, I've always been a girl, but for metaphor's sake...) Honestly, name me one person in the world for whom transitioning wouldn't be a big deal. But everyone else has their own shit going on. Jessie, for instance, is doing a play. She cares because we're friends, because she's my girlfriend, but what if we weren't? If I was still just another face she occasionally saw in the corridors, would she care? What about Emma? If we weren't friends, would she be interested in my burgeoning girlhood over her...

Yeah, that's the other part. I feel guilty. I've been transitioning, focused on it, drawing support from my friends, but in doing so I've learned nothing about their lives. I didn't find out about Jessie's play until after we were dating. I still, after a month of friendship, have no idea what Emma and Kiah and Olivia have going on.

What sort of friend am I?

I don't deserve them.

I resolve to spend next week finding out about my friends, and the things that matter to them, and not just use them to vent about the things that are scary to me. But that's something for Monday morning Hannah to worry about. In the here and now there's the Facebook problem. I'm terrified to load the page and open the floodgates. But Jessie said she'd tell me via Messenger what time is good for me to swing by today. I need to open Facebook to see what the plans are.

Screwing my eyes shut, I press 'enter'.

The website resolves and I see the familiar blue-and-white interface. And in the corner, an unfamiliar flash of red.

I've never been the sort of girl who has hundreds of notifications. Even lately, I've seldom had more than two unread messages on Messenger, probably from Jessie and the Girls' group chat, and I'm so terminally online when at home that I normally read them the moment they come through. So I'm altogether not prepared for the number in the corner.

Thirty-seven.

"Eep." Okay, I'm terrified. I click on the icon and start to read through them.

'Holy shit I never would have guessed' says the first message, from Ella Runnymede, a girl from my science class who I barely know. 'Makes sense why your so quiet, if you ever want to talk then you can'. So, one down and gone well--that emboldens me as I work through the others. I don't reply to Ella straight away; I'd rather curate a list of people I want to actually continue to communicate with and give them the time they deserve in formulating my reply, rather than just spamming 'thank you' blindly. Thankfully, Ella's positive response seems to be a portent of things to come. The next eight or nine messages are all much in the same vein, all people--girls, in fact; I've yet to see any of the boys in my inbox--wishing me luck in my transition and extending offers of support. If even half of them pan out into even periodic acquaintances, I'll be way higher up the social tree after one week as Hannah than I ever managed in fifteen years as Harry.

The next message wipes any burgeoning smile off my face. 'My godd ur such a pussy r u that scared of me that ull cut off ur dick and where a skirt just so i dont bete the shit out of u in rugby'. James Caton, rugby extraordinaire, showcasing exactly why he's in bottom-set English. And also why everybody thinks he's a prick. Surprisingly I'm not upset per se. I kind of expected transphobic comments from a few people, and James Caton is right at the very bottom of my list of "people whose opinions actually matter to me". I screenshot the message--I have a feeling the school admin will be very interested to see what their rugby star is saying--and block him. By the time I've finished reading Charlotte Kennedy's long message, I've just about forgotten James Caton exists.

'Dear Hannah,' she writes, 'I know we've never really spoken much but I think it's admirable that you have the courage to tell the world who you are. I guess maybe I assumed? When I saw you were dating Jessie Porter I got a bit suspicious, because Jessie's gay as anything, so I looked up signs of gender dysphoria and you seemed like a textbook case--but I never said anything, because what the hell could I say? If I was wrong I'd have looked a fool and embarrassed you. Glad to see I was right. I'm looking forward to seeing you happier in yourself. Pardon me if I'm being forward but I would love to get to know you properly. Welcome to the best gender. You have my support no matter what you do.'

Followed hastily by: 'I mean get to know you as in as friends. I don't have many friends, but you and Jessie have both always seemed sweet and I'm kind of jealous of how easy she makes friends. You too. I know you're with her, and I'm straight anyway so I wouldn't have any interest in you. Not that you're not going to be beautiful outside, a catch--just, you're not a man, you know? And I'm rambling so you probably think I'm insane. Sorry. I'll shut up now. You don't have to message me if you don't want to.'

I laugh at that, at Charlotte's panic more than anything--I know very well how it feels to put your foot in your mouth and then seem to make things worse with every word you say. She joins Ella Runnymede and a few others in the to message back later pile.

Then I hit on one innocuous line: Jessie's gay as anything. I feel immediately guilty, which is stupid because Charlotte herself goes on to say that knowing Jessie is gay was what prompted her to wonder if I was trans. But I think of how closely Jessie's guarded her sexuality, how afraid she's been of people finding out. I wonder how Charlotte figured it out. Is it common knowledge?

Jessie should be aware of it. I decide that I have to talk to her about it when we meet up later.

As expected, I find a message from Jessie in the thick of all the others. 'Went well today I think. Proud of you hun. Come to mine for 11 tomorrow? Can't wait to see you.' It's quarter past ten now, and I'm still so incredibly slow when it comes to doing my make-up--though my skills are improving a touch. If I'm going to make it to Jessie's at any time other than late, I'll have to hit the bathroom pretty much right away. I decide to check one more message before I start getting ready.

It's from Tom.

I open it and look away before I can bring myself to read it. I'm not sure I realised before now just how much I value Tom's opinion of me. I can brush off the likes of James Caton or Eddie or Joel, or that hateful fucking receptionist at Doctor Anderson's office, because really I don't need them in my life. I don't need their approval. They can fuck off altogether for all I care. But Tom... I want Tom to still like me. I want to still be friends. I really don't want him to throw a few slurs my way. That might just break me.

The Girls are great. I love them all, Jessie more than any human being on the planet except maybe Beth. And based on the outpouring of support I've had, I wouldn't be hurting for potential new friends even without the Girls. But our friendship is new. The roots haven't taken yet. Me and Tom go back years; I remember us being two scrawny Year 7 boys clinging to one another because neither of us was socially developed enough to make friends with anyone else. I was too awkward to talk to girls. Tom was too confident to befriend girls. Both of us were always misfits compared to the boys. Those years don't stop having meaning just because I'm one of the girls now.

At last I turn to look at the message.

'What the fuck, Harry?'

And my heart just dies.