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For once, I don’t rely on my phone alarm to wake me up for school. I didn’t sleep a wink, just stared upwards for hours and hours, watching every potential scenario play out on the popcorn ceiling. Starting a new school at fourteen…it’s pretty much a death sentence no matter who you are. Everyone else already belongs to a friendship group and the only way to break in or make any sort of impression at all is by being outgoing. Likeable. Social. Three things I’m not. Being the new kid is a bowl of shit stew to begin with, but it’s made all the worse by the fact that I’m transgender. Obviously, I don’t think being trans is bad, but strangers think all kinds of horrifying things. I can hear the whispers now. Did you hear about the new kid? The new kid is trans! Don’t let the trans kid touch you! And on and on and on.
To summarize: this very well may be the worst day of my entire life.
“Charlie? Are you ready to go?” My mum hollers from downstairs.
“It’s only 7:30!” I shout back. Is it just me who thinks it’s a waste of time to be early for everything? There’s only so many hours in a day, why are we surrendering valuable time like this? If arriving at a location at the designated time yields the same exact result as waiting around for however many minutes, why even bother?
“I need to talk to your new headmaster!”
Dear God. At this point, she is just trying to humiliate me. “Can’t you just phone him?”
“Charles. There is a proper way to do things.” Her voice is a sealed envelope, stamped with a seal of finality. Talking back won’t get me anywhere.
The school is grey, in the same way my old one was. Everything seems as though its colour, its livelihood, its very soul has been drained from it. I walk behind my mother into the administration office, where we are greeted by an unsightly receptionist. She looks tired; the half-dead and blinking fluorescent lights aren’t doing her any favours. “Hi, welcome in.” She offers an unconvincing grin.
“Hello, my son is starting today and we would like to speak to the headmaster if we can.” My mum is being as cordial as ever. I wonder what the two of them would do if I darted out of here and resigned myself to a pitiful home-school course.
I zone out during the conversation with the big boss. I stare out the window just behind his head and imagine myself sitting on that field, ripping up the grass with my fingers
and sprinkling it like confetti. Jesus, my fantasies are dull. I guess this place has already sapped away my creativity.
“I promise, we all’re committed to making Charlie’s transition as smooth and painless as possible.”
I laugh internally. Intriguing choice of words, sir.
I’m handed a map, pointed towards the general direction of my form room, and receive a pat on the back. I’m on my own, now. As I trek through the corridors, I become more and more aware of my body. How small I am, especially compared to these gargantuan sixth formers. How my joints protrude in a way that makes me feel like a newborn giraffe. How when I look down, there’s this plateau on my chest, a curve that I’m told only I notice, but surely if I can spot it, so can others, right? I notice my own breathing, which has grown rapid and slightly high-pitched. Haven’t even made it to form yet and I’ve started hyperventilating. Yeah, this day is off to a swell start.
Room B25. This is the place. I push the door all the way open, revealing a bustling classroom, clusters of boys of all ages throwing paper airplanes, balancing pencils on their upper lips, generally being obnoxious. I stifle a yawn and charge straight towards the teacher’s desk. On the chalkboard, written in penmanship I can only describe as professorial, is the phrase ‘Hamlet 5’.
“Well, if it isn’t Charlie Spring! Have you come to join the ranks of Hamlet House?” Mr. Lange is far too cheerful for this early in the morning, but I dare not comment on it.
“Apparently so,” I reply with a slight shrug.
“Truham has launched a new way of structuring form groups. It began just today actually, so you don’t have to worry about catching up or anything. In this room, there’s students of all ages! It’s our way of trying to make this school feel more like a community.” Mr. Lange talks with his hands through his entire speech, obviously ecstatic about this new campaign. I, for one, couldn’t care less. I just need to make it through this day. If I can make it through this day, hopefully I can make it through the year. If I can make it through the year…you get the point.
The man clears his throat, seemingly embarrassed by my silence. “Let’s see where I put you on the seating plan… Ah, yes! You’re over there– next to Nicholas Nelson. He’s in Year 11, so only a year older than you! One of the rugby boys, too. I’m sure you’ll get along swimmingly.” Is he serious? I can’t help but scoff at that optimistic crap.“Or you’ll just sit in silence for the rest of the year. It makes no difference to me whatsoever.” With that, Mr. Lange sits down in his rolly chair, which makes this airy sound like the stuffing has shifted around in the cushions.
I want to scream. I want to roll my eyes. I want to stomp my feet and cry and pull my hair out and demand that I get a seat that is not next to one of the rugby boys. I settle for the second option.
But when I turn around, I don’t feel so angry anymore. All of it drains from my bloodstream and turns into little love hearts floating around my face. Because the boy sitting next to my empty chair might be the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.
I sit down. My cheeks feel hot. Am I smiling? Would it be weird if I am?
“Hi,” says Nicholas Nelson, a smirk tilting the corners of his lips.
“Hi,” I say back. My heart goes still beneath my ribs, presumably skipping a beat, and a quiet voice in the back corner of my mind tells me that I will never, ever be the same.