"No!" Mom's long fingers ball into tight fists. "Absolutely out of the question. This is the way G.o.d made you. Sure, you want to be a boy now, but one day you'll want to get married and have kids and lead a normal life."

"Normal? Mom, I'm never going to be normal."

"Oh, Treasa, this is just ridiculous. You're being influenced by your friends and...." She strides to my desk, shoves my papers aside, and picks up the Marilyn Manson CD. "I mean, just look at this." She points to Manson's as.e.xual crotch. "No wonder you're confused, with all this polluting your thoughts."

"Mom, I...."

"We'll get you help, my girl. But you're going to have to want to get better too. No more of this." She brandishes the CD. "No more aliens." She gestures to Liam St. Clare. "And no more friends with negative influences."

"You think the music I listen to and the TV shows I watch is what made me want to be a boy?"

Mom purses her lips.

"Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a boy. I even tried to dress like one. Remember the fight we had at Woolworths that one time?" The memory snaps into focus, even though I've hardly thought about that day in years. "I wanted the dungarees in the boy's department. You bought me a skirt, and I threw a tantrum. How old was I? Four, five?"

"Three." Mom's shoulders sag. "I wish I'd picked this up sooner, recognized the symptoms." She clutches the CD. Any more force, and the plastic will crack.

"Symptoms? So you do think I'm sick."

"And it's my fault." Mom nods. "If I'd paid more attention, if I'd just understood...."

"Then what, Mom? You would've taken me back for a refund?"

Mom looks at me, and her gaze is a laser burning through the layers of my skin, paring me down to the bone.

"I'll get in touch with Ms. Simmons and see if we can find a specialist for you to see." She heads out of my bedroom, still in possession of the empty CD case.

I let her go, because no matter who she makes me see or how much they try to convince me I'm sick in the head, there are three things I know for certain: I want to be a boy-I should've been a boy. G.o.d made a mistake.

I'm not going back to St. Bridget's, because I am never wearing a skirt ever again.

Gabriel-I will get to that gig tomorrow night, one way or another.

Gabriel

"DOES YOUR YOUR dad know you're here?" Dirk's mom asks. dad know you're here?" Dirk's mom asks.

"Ja, he knows." There's nowhere else I'd be.

"You can stay for as long as you need to." She hands me a couple of clean shirts and a towel. "You need anything else?"

"No, thank you." It would've been wiser to pack a bag before running out of the house, but the definition of a rash decision is to not consider the practical ramifications of what you're doing. Now I'm stuck wearing Dirk's underwear and T-shirts until I can face going home again. His mom offered to go around for me, but that would just make things worse because she'd start asking questions, and my father would get defensive. Better I sneak in late at night or go and buy new clothes.

It's only been two days, and I'm already having withdrawals from piano. I got to play yesterday at St. Bridget's, though it's hardly ideal since I can't be there every day. If for nothing else, I'll need to go home at some point just for the piano.

Marlize and Dirk join me in the kitchen for a breakfast of Rice Krispies and burnt toast. "Gig starts at eight, but we're going earlier to set up, hey, roadie?" Dirk nudges me with his elbow.

"You need help with equipment?" Dirk's dad asks between mouthfuls of coffee.

"Ja, if you can. We need to move a ton of stuff."

"This is at that punk place, right?" Marlize chips in.

"Tony's Skatepark."

"Why Tony?" She sips the dregs of her cereal straight from the bowl despite her Mom's admonishing gaze.

"Like Tony Hawk," Dirk says, as if it should be obvious. "Also, the guy who owns the place is Tony."

"I'll be home by five. That okay?" Dirk's dad says.

"Perfect. Now I've got the roadies, all I need is groupies." Dirk beams and rubs his hands together. A red-hot blade cleaves through my ribs and twists in my chest. What I wouldn't give to have my mom and dad at a piano recital. I cross my legs, grating the rough cotton of my baggies against the fresh burns on my thigh.

TREASA SMS SMSS me during the day, promising she'll be at the gig. I haven't spoken to her since Tuesday night. According to Lethi and Sibo, Treasa missed school because she hasn't been feeling well. I reckon it has more to do with Jordan's expulsion. me during the day, promising she'll be at the gig. I haven't spoken to her since Tuesday night. According to Lethi and Sibo, Treasa missed school because she hasn't been feeling well. I reckon it has more to do with Jordan's expulsion.

By 4:30 p.m, we're dressed and ready for the gig. Marlize painted our nails black and gelled my hair up into a mohawk. Dirk and I both got extra-dark eyeliner, despite my protests. The d.a.m.n stuff makes my eyes water. Dirk dons a black wifebeater, to which he's safety-pinned red anarchy-A badges. He gives me one of the band's silkscreened T-shirts to wear, which makes me feel significantly more like a groupie than a roadie.

Two hours later, The Gatvols are set up and have done their sound check. I'm almost halfway through a bottle of mampoer mampoer, courtesy of the drummer. Nandi drifts toward me, wrapped in white lace. She's wearing white contacts, making her ever more wraithlike. Her whole vampire-bride look doesn't really reflect the angsty punk rock of the band.

"Karla's coming," she says by way of greeting and hands me a cigarette.

"I expected as much." The moonshine's made my words more sibilant than usual.

"Is that St. Bridget's girl coming too?"

"Should be." I light up and inhale toxic fumes that go straight to my head, buzzing unpleasantly behind my eyes. Or maybe I'm just drunk.

"I like the T-shirt." Nandi teases a thread in her white fishnets, widening a deliberate tear.

"Token groupie."

She smiles and might've said more, when the shrill announcement of an SMS interrupts our conversation.

"Treasa's here." I kill the cigarette, leaving the stompie on the concrete floor already littered with them. Tony's Skatepark isn't exactly a five-star establishment. Nandi relieves me of the mampoer, and I head outside.

It's getting dark; floodlights already illuminate the graffiti-smeared ramps as determined skaters cast crazy shadows with their moves. Marlize sits perched on a bench with her tween friends, their gaze riveted on a pair of boys in Ed Hardy T-shirts. I scan the parking lot but don't see Treasa. I double-check the message, not trusting my inebriated brain. She says she's here, waiting out front. Maybe she means around the other side.

"Hey, Gabriel." A figure waves to me as it emerges from the shadows beneath an itchy ball tree. It takes me a minute to recognize Treasa. She's shorn off her hair. It's soldier-boy short, the curls tight and clinging to her head. She's wearing baggy shorts, All Stars, and a sleeveless Nirvana T-shirt. The T-shirt is hardly flattering, somehow making her look flat-chested. She looks like a guy, in fact.... We're dressed almost exactly alike, down to the dark nail polish and racc.o.o.n-eye makeup. I blink, trying to clear my vision. The mampoer has addled my senses.

"It's me," she says as she steps closer into a reaching finger of floodlight. Nope, that's Treasa-not the alcohol making me hallucinate. My Celtic princess is gone, replaced by a boyish imitation brazenly wearing Treasa's smile. At least she hasn't plastered her face with foundation to conceal her freckles.

"Wow."

"I know, right?" A huge, Cheshire-cat grin spreads across her face as she pats her head.

"Why did you cut it?"

Her smile falters, and she kicks at a stone in the dust. "They expelled Jordan."

"I'm sorry."

"Not nearly as much as me."

I want to hug her. She looks so vulnerable, standing with her hands in her pockets. But I can't touch her, not until she knows the truth about who I am, which is the whole reason I downed the booze in the first place. No way I'll make it through that conversation without some Dutch courage.

"It wasn't your fault."

"So everyone keeps telling me," she says.

Guitars snarl as the band gets ready for their first set. The skaters abandon the ramps and stampede indoors.

"They starting already?" Treasa asks.

"In a bit." This is awkward. "Want to grab a c.o.ke or something?" My mouth is too dry; the words feel like sandpaper on my tongue.

She nods and follows me to the bar. It's not really a bar, considering they don't serve alcohol. Karla's standing right in front of the stage, whistling and whooping. Best to avoid her and everyone else.

"Can we go outside for now?" I pa.s.s Treasa her c.o.ke, the ice cubes tinkling. We settle at the top of one of the ramps, now deserted in favor of the music. My lips are numb from the alcohol. I'm definitely hammered.

"You ever skate?" she asks.

"Not so much skate as shred my knees and elbows." I'm more talkative when I've had a few.

"I've never tried. Always wanted to, but it was for boys only, according to my mom." There's a bitterness in her voice I don't understand. "I had roller skates, though."

"Like with four wheels?"

"Yeah, nothing as cool as rollerblades."

"You any good?" Images of Treasa in stripy socks at a roller derby like in the movies swim through my mind.

"Dismal." She sips her drink and pries away peeling paint from the concrete. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you."

"Me too." A vise tightens around my chest, and my guts twist into knots, making me want to heave. I should've stayed away from Treasa, far, far away so I wouldn't ever have to have this conversation and risk seeing her disappointment in me, her disdain, disgust, even. I never cared enough about Karla to worry what she thought about me, to even consider telling her the truth about my mom's death. Treasa is different. Treasa needs to know the truth if there's any chance of her ever liking me back as much as I like her. It's like; not love. Love is marriage and kids. This is kissing and fooling around and she's talking, but I've missed half the sentence.

"Sorry, what?" Maybe I shouldn't have drunk so much.

"I said-" She takes a deep breath. "This is so much harder than I thought." She turns to face me, and her blue eyes shimmer with tears. "I had a whole speech prepared."

"Well, you can take your time." I want to lie down. I just don't trust myself not to pa.s.s out.

"So you know how I told you I think I'm an alien."

I nod.

"I think I figured out why. It's because...." She hesitates and sets her gla.s.s down. Her hands are shaking. "I don't want you to hate me, but I need to tell you this."

"I won't hate you." There's nothing Treasa could've done that would be worse than what I have.

"I hate who I am," she says. "I hate this body, that I never got a say in any of it."

"There's nothing wrong with your body." I shuffle closer to her.

"Yes, there is. Something is very, very wrong."

Oh G.o.d, she's sick. Cancer, maybe even HIV from a blood transfusion or something. That's a sobering thought, slicing through the murk in my brain.

"How long?" I ask, working hard to keep my voice level.

"How long what?"

"How long have you got?"

She stares at me, blinking, before erupting into spine-wrenching laughter. "You think I'm dying? Oh, if only." Tears streak down her cheeks, leaving a dark trail of mascara in their wake.

"If only?"

"I'm not sick, Gabriel." She stops laughing and looks away. "I'm just in the wrong body."

"I don't understand." The cool air and cold c.o.ke is helping my body recover from the mampoer a.s.sault. I may actually be completely sober by the time I get to tell her my story. Will I still have the b.a.l.l.s to do it?

"It's called gender dysphoria." She stares up at the sky. A haze of orange obscures the stars, but the moon glows through the effluvium.

"And that means what?"

"It means I want to be a boy."

"So you can pee standing up?" I chuckle, and she takes my hand, staring at me. The sadness I glimpsed the first time I saw her is concentrated in the forget-me-not blue of her eyes.

"I should've been a boy."

"For real?" My thoughts are spinning like a gyroscope.

"Yes. My whole life, I've felt wrong, different, weird. Like there's this other me. Like I was never really myself. And it's taken me almost sixteen years to figure out why."

"And you reckon you want to be a boy?"