“Alright, let's do this.”
The boys check the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, and off we go, my fitted blazer buttoned beneath my breasts, the little blue ribbon tied into a bow at the throat of my fitted white button-down. The skirt is plaid, a mix of champagne, honey yellow, and navy blue that swishes around my legs as I walk. My knee-high socks are held up with garters (totally stole them from Monica when I was in Santa Cruz), and I've donned the same, plain shiny brown loafers I wore as a boy.
I'm pretty sure gender is just a ridiculous social construct, but also … the world sometimes subscribes to social constructs, and I'm standing knee-deep in the middle of it.
All of a sudden, I'm finding it hard to breathe.
I stop on the path, the boys pausing around me, a glorious mix of champagne blazers and navy ties, and I close my eyes for a minute, listening to the wind in the trees, the hoots of those stupid short-eared owls. Just breathe, we'll get through this, I tell myself, opening my eyes again to find five concerned sets of eyes looking back at me.
“It's not too late to change your mind,” Church says, crossing one arm over his chest and resting his chin in the palm of the other hand. “If you want to go back and change, nobody here will think less of you.”
“No, I'm doing this,” I state, lifting my chin and choosing to ignore the trembling in my hands. With another deep breath, I continue down the path, passing a few random students here and there who look up in shock. Pretty sure some of them are recording me with their phones, taking pictures and video, but I don't care.
Instead, I head right up to the double doors of the main building and throw them open with an unnecessary amount of force and dramatics. The twins catch them and hold them wide, leaving me silhouetted against the gray light from outside, my skirt billowing in the breeze, my chin held high.
Bet I look like a total badass, huh? I could be Regina George in Mean Girls or something, ruling this entire school and looking fab while doing it.
“What the hell?” Mark asks, blinking at me as I move into the hall and pause, a good three dozen boys standing in the foyer, staring back at me. I scan the room, meeting as many pairs of eyes as I can.
Without a word, I strut forward and head straight for my locker, the presence of the Student Council deflecting any commentary or questions. At least for now. We manage to make it through an awkward breakfast in the cafeteria with everyone staring at me before my dad finally shows up, his face that funny purple-red color, eye twitching.
“Charlotte Carson,” he warns as I push my breakfast tray forward and stand up, lifting my chin in defiance. Without a word, I leave the Student Council boys and exit the cafeteria to stand in the hallway with Archie. “Do you want to explain to me what this little stunt is about?”
“Stunt?” I ask, unintentionally taking on the snark tone without meaning to. It's just force of habit with Dad at this point. That, and I feel like he always comes at me on the offensive, making it ridiculously easy for me to fall into an aggressive defense. Why couldn't he just put his hand on my shoulder, smile softly, and say, 'is there a reason you decided to change the game plan without telling me, honey?' Hah. Like that could ever happen. “This isn't a stunt. This is what you and the school board wanted all along, isn't it? I'm taking control of my own fate at this academy.”
“Is this a cry for attention?” Dad asks, reaching up to adjust his round glasses. “Do you need something more from me?” He sounds almost desperate as he leans in, teeth gritted. “Because I've only ever done what I thought was right by you.”
“Really? Like not telling me Spencer was alive. By refusing to believe me when I told you I saw Jason Lambert dead in the woods. That I saw a group of people wearing fox masks.”
Dad's hand lashes out and he grabs me by the upper arm, dragging me down the hallway as I struggle against his grip. The cafeteria door opens a second later, and there are the boys, with Ranger in the lead. He looks about two seconds from tearing my dad's hand off my arm, but I wave him away and follow Archie outside.
Dad doesn't stop walking until we're standing at the edge of the woods, the shadows around us like a curtain of privacy. This time, when Dad looks me dead in the face, I see a hint of father and a whole lot less headmaster in his gaze.
