6. Jessie

Iwas sad—big sad in a way that made my arms feel heavy and my chest hurt—and I didn't know why. The lady had been nice. She'd given me a sucker and I didn't think she meant to hurt my feelings.

Really, she... hadn't. Or, well, not any more than other people did when they got it wrong.

And it was okay to have to correct them. Only it made me so tired to have to do it all the time and I wished that even once, somebody would just see me like I was without me or my dads having to explain.

Sometimes, I wished I just wasn't different.

I mean, yeah, it'd be great to not have to think about it or correct people or have a whole extra step just to talk to somebody.

But also, the idea of it made me sad, because I liked me. I guessed, mostly, I just wanted other people to like me too—not to think first that I was this or that or another thing, and not to accidentally let me know that whatever I was, it wasn't right. I wasn't what they expected.

Every time it happened, I had to tell myself that I was okay just as I was, that my daddies loved me as Jessie Darling and that my friends did too and?—

And sometimes all that wasn't enough.

I dragged my feet down the trail, scuffing over dirt. There was quartz stuck in the ground in places, the sunlight twinkling off it. I thought about digging a piece up and sticking it in my backpack, but that felt like work, and already my daddies were walking ahead, talking in low voices like they didn't really want me to hear.

I wasn't sure I wanted to listen right then, but I couldn't help it, so I dragged my feet more and walked slower and slower until the wind stole their voices.

Then, I heard someone humming.

It was a sweet song, flitting around on the wind.

And then I looked up, toward the pretty voice, and there was a girl.

She was beautiful.

She had perfect golden curls and a fluffy, lacy dress. The way the wind danced through all those layers made me feel dreamy.

When I was really little, I'd had this idea that I was supposed to be beautiful too—a little blond girl in a lacy dress with cheeks that dimpled when I smiled and shiny Mary Janes. It was weird, because I didn't know any girls like that—lots of girls liked frogs like me, or hated dresses and bows, and some girls loved them. Nobody was ever exactly perfect, but I still had this idea of who I was and wasn't, and even when I was little, I'd known "girl" or "boy" hadn't fit me.

Still, sometimes it felt like I was supposed to want that. And here she was, and I thought for a second that I was dreaming about the person I was supposed to be, the one who never confused anybody.

If I were her, everything would be simpler.

"Hey, Jessie," the little girl said, her voice so soft and sweet. It carried on the wind as she stepped closer, and then she got to the edge of the path and reached out her hand to me. "Do you want to come and play?"