Boy

ONE

Daniel wakes up early this morning. He walks to his dresser, opens up a drawer and frowns in distaste at what he sees; skirts and floral shirts. He wishes there was something else to wear, but every time he went to pick out boy clothes while shopping, his parents wouldn't allow it. That's why Daniel cut his hair last week.

He looks into the mirror sitting comfortably in top of his wooden dresser. Of course, they weren't happy about his new hair, but he didn't care about what they thought. He still doesn't. They threatened to shave it all off, but Daniel is still okay with that because at least his locks won't be long. Short is more manageable. Daniel likes short hair. Long hair was too messy, too much of a struggle. And on top of that, what Daniel hates the most about long hair; it makes him look like a girl.

Daniel is not a girl.

Okay, maybe biologically he is, maybe according to his parents and according to all of his doctors and labelled on his birth certificate he is a girl, but Daniel has always believed that he is a boy. He joined the soccer team when he was six, he never shaves his legs, he never shaves anywhere - he wears axe as deodorant, uses male cologne. Daniel Johnson is a boy. He is a boy trapped inside a girl's body, and he hates it.

He squints now in the mirror, trying to very carefully look at himself. He trimmed his long eyelashes yesterday - now they're boyish, too. Good. He runs a hand through his short hair - it took real effort to go to the barber's shop by himself and request a male haircut. But he's happy with it. Hell, he loves it.

He pulls out a skirt and a blue shirt, laying them neatly on his dresser. Daniel looks at it and sighs in distaste. He's almost tempted to go and take his father's clothes - but the last time he did that he got in trouble. Big trouble. So for now, he slides off his pajama pants and replaces it with the skirt, then taking something out of his top drawer. His parents don't know he has it; he wraps the strange, peach colored article around his chest, squinting as it does its job and tightens around him. It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurting, because when he slides on the blue shirt over top of it he can't even tell he has breasts. His parents will just think he's wearing a particularly tight shirt. They're still oblivious.

He gives himself a last look in the mirror and walks away, out into the cold basement hall. His footsteps are heard as he makes his way up the stairs, and he collapses into the upstairs kitchen, where a scent he can't quite put into words hits his nostrils. He inhales it, thinking - and then he remembers. Pancakes. Sure enough, when he bothers to look, his mother is sitting at the table eating one doused in syrup. Her face is buried in a book.

"Good morning," Daniel murmurs before grabbing a pancake from a plate full of them and shoving it in his mouth, chewing. He makes sure to chew it as obscenely as possible. His mother grimaces.

"'Morning, Danielle." He doesn't know if she said it just to get to him, but he suddenly chokes a little on his pancake and swallows it down after a moment. Daniel turns to her, looking aggravated now.

"My name's Daniel," he corrects her.

She narrows her eyes at him. An argument almost breaks out, almost, until the woman's husband (and unfortunately Daniel's father) walks into the room. Her voice is shrill, "Honey, would you mind telling our daughter that she is not a boy?"

The man groans and rubs his face, turning to Daniel, who is glaring at the both of them - if looks could kill. He starts to talk. "Danielle, we've been over this. You have a vagina. You're a girl."

"No, I'm not," Daniel indignantly replies.

"Yes, you are." He gets all close now, all up in Daniel's face. If he wasn't his father, Daniel would punch him. He almost considers doing so.