Melissa

by Alex Gino

But these were some of George’s favorite memories, just sitting there, being with Mom, knowing she would never leave.

“Artists are never appreciated at lunchtime,

“Wash up,” Mom told him. “Dinner’s almost ready.” “Wash up? What makes you think I’m dirty?” “Because I’ve met you. You’re always dirty. Now go wash your hands. With soap!”

Parent-condoned sibling cruelty was a rare gift, and not to be wasted.

“It’s only English. I already speak English real goodly.”

George had been reading websites about transitioning since Scott had taught her how to clear the web browser history on Mom’s computer.

“That kid punched that other kid,” said a boy from Mr. Jackson’s class, pointing at Jeff. “And then that kid”—his finger turned to George—“went BLECCCCCH and hurled and it flew and landed all over that kid.” His finger pointed back at Jeff.

“I’m not any kind of gay.” At least, George didn’t think she was gay. She didn’t know who she liked, really, boys or girls.

Nothing—certainly not a buffet dinner—could help the fact that Mom didn’t see her.

The butterflies in her stomach had butterflies in their stomachs.

Scott snuck glances her way too, but where Mom’s eyes were filled with concern and confusion, Scott looked at George as if his sibling made sense to him for the first time. George had never been gladder to have an older brother.

“Well, you can’t control who your children are, but you can certainly support them, am I right?”

But the world isn’t always good to people who are different. I just don’t want you to make your road any harder than it has to be.

Trying to be a boy is really hard.”

George knew that seeing a therapist was the first step secret girls like her took when they wanted everyone to see who they were.