"So, she likes boys." I can hear the shrug in Dad's voice.

"No, love. It's more than that. Do you remember-" Mom pauses and lowers her voice. I tiptoe down the corridor, staying out of sight.

"Do you remember," Mom continues. "As a child she was always a boy in every pretend game. It was always Aladdin, never Jasmine or any other princess. She's plain refused to wear dresses since she was five. And what about her birthday parties? Pirates, Jungle Book Jungle Book, where she had to be Mowgli. She never played with Barbies, never showed any interest in dolls."

"That isn't normal?" Dad sounds bewildered.

"No, it's not, for a girl."

"But her room's plastered with that boy, that kid from the alien show."

"I'm concerned. I don't think she's... straight," Mom says.

"It's the twenty-first century, Lissa. If we have a lesbian daughter, we just have to accept it," Dad says.

"You really think...." Mom's voice catches, and I roll my eyes. "It's not just that. Her behavior recently. The earring, her hair. Just look at what she did today."

"You want her to see someone?" Dad asks.

"I'd like to talk to her first. You get through to her better. I need you with me on this." Chairs brush against carpet, and I tiptoe back to my room before they catch me listening in.

Before I freak them out any further with displays of tomboyishness, I wiggle into a pastel T-shirt, sleeves intact, and pull on a pair of tracksuit pants.

A knock, followed by Mom's voice. "Resa, sweetheart. Can we talk to you?"

"Come on in." My mouth is dry.

Dad pulls out my desk chair, and Mom settles beside me, with only Riker between us. Mom nods at Dad to start, and he clears his throat.

"Want to tell us about what happened today?" he asks.

"Which part? The part where Jordan got expelled, where I caused a scene trying to smash the Virgin Mary, where I locked myself in Ms. Simmons's office, or the part where I chopped off my hair?"

"Treasa Rae, we are trying to help." Mom's already fl.u.s.tered. This is going to be a short conversation.

"Trying to help?" I glare at her. "Helping would be not hating my best friend. Helping would be not constantly trying to fix me."

"I just didn't want you to be embarra.s.sed." Mom shuts her mouth, and Dad sighs.

"I wasn't embarra.s.sed. You were. You can't handle having a daughter who doesn't wear sandals, let alone one with a buzz cut."

"Resa." Dad sounds exhausted. "Please, we're trying to understand."

"So am I!" I didn't mean to shout. Now that I have, I can't stop. I'm on my feet, hands in the air, and the words are pouring out of me like blistering-hot lava spewing from a volcano. "Do you know what it's like to live every day feeling trapped, feeling cheated by G.o.d and biology? n.o.body asked me if I wanted this body." I grab at my b.o.o.bs, wishing I could tear them right off. "Every day-" My voice cracks, and a new onslaught of tears threatens to wreck my complexion. "Every day, I wish I'd never been born, because then I wouldn't have to live this lie."

"And what lie is that?" Mom asks, her eyes wet.

"That I'm this!" I gesture to all of me. "When all I want is to be that." I point at a gigantic poster of Liam St. Clare, posed shirtless with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face.

"An alien?" Dad frowns.

"No, Dad," I say, and his expression changes to one of confusion as he looks to my mom for help. I take a deep breath and feel a weight lift off my shoulders as I say, "I want to be a boy."

Gabriel

TREASA SENDS SENDS me an SMS just before midnight, telling me Jordan got expelled. I'm not surprised, considering her art and the damage she did to Hannah's face. Treasa and I spend an hour chatting via SMS until I run out of airtime. Although she won't be at school tomorrow for choir, she promises to see me at Dirk's gig. I'm both disappointed and relieved. I want to see her. Treasa makes life seem brighter, but I need to tell her the truth about me, and I'm grateful her absence from school will give me another day to prepare my confession. me an SMS just before midnight, telling me Jordan got expelled. I'm not surprised, considering her art and the damage she did to Hannah's face. Treasa and I spend an hour chatting via SMS until I run out of airtime. Although she won't be at school tomorrow for choir, she promises to see me at Dirk's gig. I'm both disappointed and relieved. I want to see her. Treasa makes life seem brighter, but I need to tell her the truth about me, and I'm grateful her absence from school will give me another day to prepare my confession.

Sleep eludes me. I lie awake listening to the insect chorus pouring through my open window over the distant grumble of thunder. Night slips toward morning, and I must've at least dozed off. My alarm clock blares at 6:30 a.m.

Half-asleep, I help myself to orange juice from the fridge. There's a glaring blank s.p.a.ce between the fridge magnets. The invitation is gone. Perhaps my father took it. It's stupid, but I can't help the swell of hope filling my chest. It doesn't last long. I peel a banana and deposit the skin in the bin, dropping it on top of the paper already smeared with the remnants of coffee grounds and yogurt. It's the invitation.

Thanks, Dad-I get the message loud and f.u.c.king clear.

My father walks into the kitchen and picks up his car keys. "Let's go. Got an early meeting." He taps his watch. I could nod and grab my blazer and follow him to the car and say nothing, just waiting for that moment on the corner when I'll pop open the lock and hurl myself out onto the road. Instead, I reach into the bin and remove the crumpled invitation, scrunching it into a ball.

It's not much of a weapon; I lob it at him anyway, wishing it was an axe or a whirring chainsaw-something that would hurt him as much as seeing that piece of paper in the rubbish hurts me.

"Ag, bliksem," my father swears as the paper makes contact with his pristine suit, splattering him in yogurt and coffee. "What the h.e.l.l?" He's got a face like thunder, the vein at his temple throbbing as his forehead puckers in a scowl. The kitchen table is all that stands between me and a throttling.

"You could've just said no thanks." There's a crack in my voice, a fault line I'm pretty sure runs all the way through me, and it's about to split me open.

"Gabriel." He steps around the kitchen table, and I bolt for the back door. I evade his reaching fingers and slam the door in his face. I'm not afraid of my father hitting me-that I can handle-I'm afraid that this time I'll hit back. I run down the driveway and onto the street. My father bellows from the front door. All that matters is the distance I put between us with every step.

DIRK'S BAND BAND is onstage, their final rehearsal before the gig tomorrow night. Dirk slaps his ba.s.s, barely audible over the frenetic drums and agro-punk lyrics being screamed by a guy in Doc Martens and a s.e.x Pistols T-shirt. For some reason, they let Dirk write the lyrics, even though he can't sing to save his skin. I don't know the other band members well. They're older, mostly from the technikon, with the exception of Nandi, who provides backup vocals and plays rhythm guitar. Seeing her all gothed out with her white eye makeup is surreal. She looks like a ghost in negative. Thank G.o.d Karla isn't here. I don't want to talk to her or share my bottle of Klippies. is onstage, their final rehearsal before the gig tomorrow night. Dirk slaps his ba.s.s, barely audible over the frenetic drums and agro-punk lyrics being screamed by a guy in Doc Martens and a s.e.x Pistols T-shirt. For some reason, they let Dirk write the lyrics, even though he can't sing to save his skin. I don't know the other band members well. They're older, mostly from the technikon, with the exception of Nandi, who provides backup vocals and plays rhythm guitar. Seeing her all gothed out with her white eye makeup is surreal. She looks like a ghost in negative. Thank G.o.d Karla isn't here. I don't want to talk to her or share my bottle of Klippies.

The song comes to an ear-lambasting end, and so does the brandy. I am absolutely hammered. If-I-stand-up-I'll-puke hammered.

"Hey, man. You all right?" Dirk sits beside me on a graffiti-splashed picnic bench near the window. I take a deep breath through my mouth to ease the tides of queasiness, and the afternoon sun lances my eyes. The kids swishing up and down the ramps on their skateboards make me want to hurl all over again.

"He looks wasted." Nandi pries the empty bottle from my rigid fingers. "Best thing is to vomit. You'll feel better."

"I just need to sit." Talking takes Herculean effort, and my words slip sideways in my mouth.

"Come on, bru. Let's go." Dirk gets his arm under my shoulder and hauls me upright.

"Going to be sick."

"Just swallow for now." Dirk drags my drunk b.u.t.t to the bathrooms. The miasma of stale urine and beer is too much, and I hurl. At least I manage to get most of it into the toilet and not on our shoes. I vomit until I'm pretty sure the only thing left to cough up is a kidney. Dirk says nothing as he hands me wad after wad of paper towel.

"Can I stay at your place tonight?" I ask between dry heaves.

"Of course." He pats me on the shoulder. "You want to talk about it?"

Shaking my head, I flush and haul myself to the basin to rinse my mouth. I splash water on my face and drag wet fingers through my hair.

"Want a Super C?" Dirk grins and holds out the roll of sweets to me.

"Thanks." I take three and start some serious sucking in an attempt to get rid of the sour taste on my tongue. "For everything."

"What are brothers for? I'll be out front when you're ready." Dirk knows me too well, knows I need a minute to put myself back together, only this time, I'm not sure I can.

Treasa

MOM LETS LETS me stay home the rest of the week. I desperately want to speak to Jordan, but I'm terrified to pick up the phone. It's my fault she got expelled. Sorry just isn't going to cut it. me stay home the rest of the week. I desperately want to speak to Jordan, but I'm terrified to pick up the phone. It's my fault she got expelled. Sorry just isn't going to cut it.

Sibo and Lethi call me Thursday afternoon while I'm curled up on my bed with Riker and Stephen Hawking.

"You have until the end of term to buy your ticket to the Charity Ball," Sibo says.

"Why so soon?" That's just a week away.

"The dance is right after we get back from holidays, Ree. You asked Gabriel yet?" Lethi says. Their voices sound distant. They must be on speakerphone.

"I don't know." All things considered, the dance seems trivial now. "I don't think I want to go anymore." If he'd said yes straight away, then I'd definitely be going and might even have let Mom persuade me to wear a dress. Not now, though.

"Because of Jordan?" Sibo asks.

"That and a million other things." I'm not sure the twins will understand if I start explaining that I want to be a boy and that the thought of donning a ball gown makes my skin crawl as if a thousand scarab beetles are burrowing through my flesh, and that I did ask Gabriel and he has yet to answer me one way or another.

"Just thought we'd let you know."

"Thanks." Although I don't think I'll be going, with or without Gabriel.

"Gabriel looked sad today," Lethi says, and my heart lurches.

"Why?"

"Like we'd go up and ask the dude."

"Fair enough. I'll call him." Will I? As if it's that easy.

"So are you two, like, actually dating?" There's a hint of excitement in Sibo's voice.

"I don't know what we are."

"Haw, Ree. It's not that complicated." Lethi sounds exasperated. It's more complicated than either of them can possibly fathom.

"I'll sort it out."

"Good idea," they say in unison.

We spend another ten minutes chatting about school, homework a.s.signments, and choir pieces for the concert. When we finally hang up, I feel drained. Mom knocks on my door, and I try not to heave a sigh. More talking, more explaining, more feeling like c.r.a.p.

"Resa, have you got a minute?" Mom has been walking on eggsh.e.l.ls around me since my gender confession. I don't think she knows what to do about me. I wish someone did, because I certainly don't.

I nod and shift Riker out of the way so Mom can sit beside me on the bed. She studies my carpet for several excruciating moments before turning to me. I clutch my pillow to my chest: a shield and a source of comfort.

"I've been doing some reading about gender dysphoria. There's no clear cure-"

"You make it sound like I have a disease."

Mom meets my gaze briefly. "It's a disorder. A psychological one, and I think you should see someone."

"So they can convince me I want to be a girl?"

Mom chews on her bottom lip. "I think it would help."

"How?"

"From what I've read, I understand that this can be very confusing, frustrating, and traumatic. If a psychologist could help you come to terms with who you are, then I think it's worth a try."

I bristle at Mom's words. "Who I am and who I want to be are two separate things."

"I know, sweetheart, but that's what a psychologist will help you with."

"So you think going to a head doctor is going to make me want to be a girl?"

"You are a girl," Mom says, and I retreat into my continental pillow, dragging my knees to my chest.

"I don't want to be."

"This is the way you were made, Treasa. You can't change it."

"Yes, I can."

Mom looks startled, and her expression runs the gamut from surprise to incredulity. "No," she says, emphatic.

"I've been doing some reading too." Oh, the joys of the World Wide Web. "Hormone therapy, gender rea.s.signment surgery. There's-"