by Cat Clarke
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Copyright © 2017 by Cat Clarke
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design and illustrations by Kristin Logsdon
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
This book is dedicated to everyone who tries to make the world a better place.
Chapter 1
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You look ridiculous!”
Little brothers can always be counted on to reach peak levels of annoying at exactly the wrong moment. It must be part of their job description, and Enzo was really, really good at his job.
“Shut up,” I snarled as I stomped into the kitchen and pulled out my chair so hard that it banged against the stove.
“Enzo! Apologize to Liv right now!” Mom glared at him until he muttered a halfhearted “sorry.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to cook something? There’s still time for me to rustle up something special for your big day.” Mamma put her hands on my shoulders and leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m not hungry.” I knew that I had to eat—just a few bites to keep the moms happy—so I grabbed the tub of granola on the table and sprinkled enough to cover the bottom of my bowl.
Enzo wasn’t even trying to keep a straight face. He was really enjoying this. I closed my eyes, but I could still hear him sniggering, just quietly enough to avoid being chewed out by the moms. I opened my eyes again and took a deep breath. I managed to pour milk into my cereal bowl instead of throwing the carton directly at Enzo’s stupid face.
That was progress, right there. Except no one would ever know how hard I was working to keep my temper under control, because the whole point of keeping your temper under control is not doing things like throwing a milk carton in someone’s face even though they clearly deserve it. Keeping your temper under control also means not punching people. That’s the number one rule, apparently.
“Liiiv…” Mom said, stretching my name out to its breaking point, “Gram asked for a photo.”
No. Way.
“It would mean a lot to her… I know you’d rather not, but the first day of middle school is a big deal, you know? Anyway, it’s up to you.”
Garibaldi chose that moment to put his big, slobbery head on my lap. It seemed as if he were trying to offer me moral support in my time of need. The more likely explanation is that he was just looking for a spot to wipe the excess drool from his mouth, but it made me feel a little better. At least he would never laugh at me, because (a) he’s a dog and dogs can’t laugh, and (b) if they could laugh, then all of the other dogs in the dog park would probably laugh at Gari for only having three legs, so he would totally understand how I felt.
I knew I could refuse to have my photo taken. The moms had always been cool about things like that, but Gram would be disappointed. She wouldn’t understand.
“OK, let’s get this over with.” I got up and stood in the doorway while Mom snapped away on her phone. I couldn’t bring myself to smile, and Mom knew better than to ask me to try.
“Done!” Mom came over and gave me a big hug. She whispered in my ear, “Thanks, sweetheart. I really appreciate it.”
I shrugged and sat down again. I felt sick, and I must have looked sick because Mamma asked how I was feeling.
“Well…actually, I don’t feel so good. Maybe…maybe I should stay home today.”
Mom looked up from sorting through the photos on her phone. “Nice try, buster. There’s no way you’re missing your first day.”
I knew when to give up. Mom has this weird sixth sense for when I’m faking being ill. It’s as if she has laser eyes that can look right through my skin and actually see whether any viruses are festering away inside of me. Mamma’s usually more sympathetic, but the two of them always back each other up. It’s annoying.
I managed to choke down a couple of spoonfuls of soggy granola and half a glass of orange juice, just to keep the moms happy. Before I knew what was happening, breakfast was over. The clock was tick-tick-ticking way too fast and it was time to go.
Mamma made me double-check my bag to make sure I had everything on the list. The new bag was just about the only good thing about this whole “going to middle school” business. The black-and-gray bag was leather, and it smelled really good when I stuck my head inside it. It reminded me of the first time we went for a ride in Gram’s new car.
I had no doubt about the worst thing.
It was the thing I’d been worrying about all summer.
The thing that Enzo found so hilarious.
The thing that had made me throw a shoe at the mirror on the back of my bedroom door that morning.
The skirt.
I can’t even begin to describe how wrong and awful it felt to put it on and pull up the little zipper at the side. A stupid, horrible, scratchy black skirt that came right down to my knees.
I’d stared at myself in the mirror, but my reflection was all bl
urry from the tears in my eyes. They were angry tears. I wasn’t sad; I was furious. It was so unfair. It suddenly hit me that I had to wear this stupid thing five days a week for the next three years.
How on earth was I going to manage that?
=
Bankridge Middle School had a strict uniform policy, unlike nearly every other school I could have attended. Everyone had to wear a white shirt, a tie, and a black V-neck sweater. I was fine with that. I actually kind of liked the idea of a tie (black-and-red striped). And the shoes were fine too—Mom had found these awesome black brogues online. But then whoever wrote the uniform policy decided (whyyy?) that girls had to wear skirts, while boys were allowed to wear pants.
Sexist. Dumb. Unfair. Even the moms agreed with me. Mom said she hadn’t worn a skirt since her cousin’s wedding back in the nineties.
I thought about trying to convince them to let me go to another school, but Bankridge Middle School is the best school in the district. The moms are really big on education and how important it is and blah blah blah. Plus, Maisie was going to Bankridge, and there was no way I wanted to face the trauma of middle school without my best friend by my side.
So I was stuck with it.
“Girls must wear a black, pleated, knee-length skirt.”
I bet I read those words a hundred times during summer vacation. I stared at the computer screen, willing them to morph into something sensible.
The problem wasn’t the last word in that sentence. Skirt wasn’t really the issue, not for me. The issue was the first word. Girls.
Here’s the thing:
I may seem like a girl, but on the inside, I’m a boy.
Chapter 2
I realized there was something different about me when I was around seven or eight years old. I didn’t just wake up one morning and think, “I’m a boy!” It sort of crept up on me and tapped me on the shoulder a few times before I started to pay attention. I began to think that the word “girl” didn’t quite fit me. It was like a shoe that was too small—it pinched me.
It wasn’t something I thought much about at first. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was a boy or a girl. The moms treated Enzo and me exactly the same, except I was always allowed to go to bed later because I’m older. I was able to wear whatever I wanted at home and at school. Still, I knew it was something I should maybe talk to the moms about, but the words dried up in my mouth every time I tried. It’s not really something you can just blurt out at the dinner table. “Please can you pass the ketchup? Oh, and by the way, I think I’m a boy, not a girl.”
At first, I was just antsy when people used the word “girl” or “daughter” or “sister,” or when they insisted on calling me Olivia even though I told them to call me Liv. Liv wasn’t perfect, but it was a whole lot better than Olivia. Then I began to feel angry and upset for no reason. Except it wasn’t for no reason. Most people would get angry if people insisted on calling them something they’re not.
And then there was The Incident, which actually had nothing to do with me being a boy, but suddenly everyone was talking about my “anger issues” and watching me like a hawk all the time. So when it was time to go shopping for my school uniform, I didn’t throw a tantrum. I just told Mom I would rather stay home, and she actually let me do that. She took my measurements and went by herself. It’s a good thing too because I’d probably have Hulk-smashed the entire store.
=
The one thing I was excited about was my back-to-school haircut. It had become a ritual for the last day of summer vacation. The best part of the ritual was always the lunch afterward—I’d opted for noodles this year, after careful consideration—but the actual haircut itself was usually fun too.
Blake has cut my hair for as long as I can remember. She has a blue Mohawk and wears crazy makeup that makes her look like she’s in a sci-fi movie. She’s super into comics too and even has tattoos of some of her favorite characters. I was dying to tell her about this new comic I’d been reading over the summer, so I wasn’t exactly thrilled to turn up at the salon and find out that Blake was away on some last-minute yoga retreat.
Kitty was going to cut my hair instead. I’d never met her before. I try not to judge people by their appearance (for obvious reasons), but one look at Kitty told me we might not get along. I was ready to be proved wrong, and I asked her if she liked comics, just to check. She said no. I told myself it was going to be OK though. She had a nice, friendly smile and she offered me a cup of mint tea, just like Blake always does.
But then she sat me down in front of the mirror, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Right, what are we going to do with this?”
I didn’t like the way she said “this.” She didn’t quite wrinkle her nose, but I could tell it was an effort for her not to.
I hadn’t had a haircut since May, so my hair was a little bit too long, even for my liking. I asked for my usual cut. Super short at the back and sides and a bit longer on top. “Hmmm,” she replied as she started tugging at the straggly bits of hair near my ears. “Have you thought about growing it out? I could tidy it up a bit for you in the meantime and before you know it, it’ll be down to your shoulders.”
“No!” I said a little too loudly. The woman in the next chair stared at me in the mirror. I stared right back at her.
Kitty tried again. “I just wondered if you might want to think about something a little softer…a little more…” You can just tell when someone’s about to say something really annoying, can’t you? “…feminine.”
I took a deep breath. “No, thank you. I’d like my usual cut please. With the clippers.” I love it when Blake uses the clippers. It reminds me of that time the moms took Enzo and me to a farm and we watched the farmer shear a sheep.
“The clippers? No no no, I only use them for…” Boys. Men. But her words trailed off into nothingness when she saw the look on my face.
I looked around for Mamma, but she was sitting in the reception area talking on her phone. She was frowning a lot and speaking really fast in Italian, which obviously made me want to know who she was talking to. Mamma hadn’t talked to her family in years.
I took another deep breath, just like Mom told me to do whenever I feel as if things are starting to get out of control. “Look, could you please just give me the haircut I asked for? Otherwise, I guess we’ll have to make an appointment to see Blake after she gets back from her trip.”
That seemed to do the trick. Kitty smiled too brightly and squeezed my shoulder. “OK, let me see what I can do.”
To be fair, Kitty did a decent job in the end, even if it wasn’t quite as short as I like it. She didn’t use the clippers, but I decided not to say anything.
I could tell that Kitty wasn’t too proud of her handiwork, but “the customer is always right.” That’s what the moms say about Monty’s, the deli they’ve owned since before I was born.
That trip to the hair salon left me with a funny feeling, and not the good sort of funny feeling. The kind of feeling that makes you wonder what’s wrong with you and what’s wrong with other people, and why does everyone seem to have an opinion about things that have nothing to do with them?
Worst of all, I didn’t even get my noodles. Mamma seemed upset after her phone call and asked if it would be OK for us to have lunch at Monty’s instead. She said she needed to speak to Mom. I didn’t ask her what was up because I knew she’d tell me when she was ready.
“You’re not too disappointed? About lunch?” Mamma asked as we waited in traffic.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’m not really in the mood for noodles anyway.”
That may have been a lie, but it felt like a good lie—the kind of lie that makes the other person happy.
There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?
Chapter 3
The next day, Mom drove me to my new school even though it’s only a ten-minute walk from our house.
“Chauffeur service—for one day only!” she said. I took the opportunity to ask about Mamma’s phone call yesterday, and Mom took the opportunity to shut me down completely. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” she said.
“Mamma really hates her family, doesn’t she?”
She smiled sadly. “She doesn’t hate them. It’s just…difficult, that’s all. Anyway, are you feeling better about today? It might be fun, you know. New classes, new people…”
All I could do was stare at the skirt and the horrible, itchy tights. I’d thought the tights would make it better—that if I squinted my eyes, then I could almost imagine I was wearing skinny jeans. I was wrong. “It looks fine, Liv.”
“It looks stupid.”
Mom smiled sympathetically. “Why don’t you give it a couple of weeks and see how you feel? I can always give the principal a call and set up a meeting if you’re still not comfortable by then.”
I just nodded, saying nothing. A couple of weeks would feel like a lifetime.
=
Maisie was waiting for me at the front gate, just as we’d planned. The uniform looked fine on her. It looked right. I caught her glancing down at my skirt, but she didn’t say anything. It was the first time she’d seen me wear one, and we’d been friends forever.
People always seemed a little surprised that Maisie and I were best friends. Teachers talked about how different we were, as if you had to be exactly the same as someone in order to be friends with them. The thing is, we weren’t that different. Not really. We liked the same cartoons, the same books, and (mostly) the same movies. We liked the same flavors of ice cream and the same pizza toppings. The most important thing was that we found the same things funny (YouTube videos of dogs looking guilty, sneezing pandas, and people pretending to be dinosaurs).
I hadn’t told Maisie my secret (or The Secret, as I’d started to think of it). There were lots of times when I nearly blurted out the words, especially recently. Over the summer, I’d spent a lot of time googling on the laptop (and then making sure to delete my search history, even though I was 99 percent sure the moms wouldn’t know how to check it anyway).
