The daily life of a closeted trans youth.
|He pulls the hood down over her face and he shifts in his chair. He tugs at the clothing which sits uncomfortably against her breasts. Her name is called and he doesn’t answer. Her name is called and she answers, “She isn’t here. She never was,” just loud enough for him to hear. A clump of hair falls from her ponytail into his face. Her eyes close as he wills it away. Her eyes open and he pushes her hair back out of the way. Her name is called and he is forced to answer, “Here.” She was never here. He was always. Her pants push uncomfortably against his crotch and he knows that something else should be there that isn’t. A tear falls from her eyes and he wipes it away smearing her eyeliner. “Excuse me, Miss, can I go to the bathroom?” She stands up, and he walks into the hallway towards the restrooms. He turns, she turns, he turns, she turns. He stops dead at the doorway. This is the women’s room. He turns. She stops dead at the doorway. This is the men’s room. He looks down at her chest. He looks down at her tight jeans which reveal no bulge where he should have one. He reluctantly turns to the women’s room and walks in. He avoids looking at her in the mirror. If she is seen, she will be real. He is real. She isn’t. He pulls down her pants and wonders where his boxers are. He wonders why things are missing. He sits. She pees. She wipes. He pulls up her underwear, her pants, moves her hair out of his face again. He washes her hands and see’s her in the mirror… She isn’t real. He is real. She isn’t real. She isn’t real. She isn’t real. He is. And he walks out of the bathroom. He walks back into his class. And he tells the teacher, “She isn’t here. I am.”|