Rose

I feel my stomach drop when the high school comes into view over the hill. I forgot how big it was.

I am not ready for this. I'm not ready to go back to being called a fag and having things thrown at me everywhere I go. I have no idea how Sam thought we might have an easier time this year. If middle school was bad, high school is bound to be worse. 

I am not ready for this.

Sam must see me shaking because he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "We'll be alright," he says. I highly doubt it, but appreciate the attempt to reassure me.

My brother has always been the strong one, the confident one, the one with all the words. I know that he struggles with dysphoria just as much as I do, but he always seems to hide it so well. Not only that, but he is somehow able to push down his own pain and insecurities to help me deal with mine. I have never been able to tell him this, but honestly....Sam is kind of my hero.

As we approach the huge double doors among a crowd of students filing in, I can already feel myself on the edge of a panic attack. I clutch Sam's necklace through my hoodie, and it helps me relax slightly for some reason. Maybe because that one hidden piece of female expression makes me feel in control.

Whatever the reason, I can already tell that this necklace is going to be my lifeline today.

As soon as we collect our schedules at the front table in the commons, we look to see how many classes we have together.

"Looks like we have Speech," Sam is muttering. "Biology, and....yes! We have algebra together. You can help me!"

I sigh, but with a smile. Sam may be the wordy one of us two, but he would've failed math for the past three years without me. "Do we have gym together?" I ask. I'm afraid to look.

"We....do not," he replies, and I almost cry. Freaking gym class. How the hell will I survive it alone? 

"Don't worry Rosie," he says, always so reassuring. "We'll both be suffering. Just not at the same time this year."

I reward his feeble attempt at joking with a small laugh.

"And hey, at least we have lunch together!" Sam points out. "So we can continue being those loser twins with no one to sit with but each other."

"And I wouldn't have it any other way," I say with a grin.

The bell rings, and kids start heading to their first classes. Mine is Advanced Art 1 while Sam has history, so it's time for us to separate. We hug before we do.

"Stay strong," he whispers our parting phrase into my ear.

"You too," I respond, and then he goes to his first class while I go to mine.

------------

Any anxiety I still have is erased as soon as I enter my first class, and the familiar smell of paint and clay fills my nostrils. The art room here is beautiful, and much bigger than the middle school one was. Abstract paint splatters cover the otherwise white walls and different sculptures and paintings done by past students line shelves around the room.

There's not a lot of people in this class, which I appreciate. There's maybe ten other students spread out at the four large tables in the spacious room, most of whom I recognize. This relaxes me, because I hate large crowds of new people.

I take a seat by Kelsey and Brianna, two of the only people from middle school who seemed to not hate me. The three of us bonded in sixth grade over an art project we were grouped together for, and we've been sorta-friends ever since. 

They're the only people I've ever seriously considered coming out to, but I've always been too scared that I would lose them. I think they've just assumed that I'm gay by this point (which is probably why they like me: I'm their token "gay best friend") but luckily they've never pushed the issue.

"Hey George," Kelsey greets me. "You excited about high school yet?"

"Not even slightly," I respond, trying not to cringe at the sound of my birth name. I feel like it gets harder to hear every day. "I like the art room, though."

"No kidding," Brianna agrees. "It makes the middle school one look like a kindergarten finger-painting station."

"Good morning everyone," announces the young, beautiful brunette woman at the front of the room. "And since it appears that you're all freshman, welcome to high school. I am Miss Vaughn, and I'm excited to work with you all this semester."

I find myself hardly able to process what she's saying, because I'm too busy noticing how similar she looks to me....or how I want to look one day, anyway. Her long, wavy hair is only a shade or two different from mine, and she has my same pale complexion and hazel eyes. But she's tall with curvy hips, smooth skin, and feminine features.

God, I want to be her.

"I thought we could start out the year with a free day," Miss Vaughn continues, passing out large, blank sheets of cream-colored paper. "I want you guys to sketch whatever comes to mind today- whatever you feel. This is also a chance for me to really get to know you, so don't hold back. Be creative."

I love the way she smiles at the ends of all her sentences, and how her voice reminds me of silk and honeysuckle. Not like mine, which cracks a lot, and will one day be much too deep for my comfort. I shudder at the thought.

Miss Vaughn turns on soft piano music and we all get to work.

"What was that about?" Brianna asks, raising her eyebrows at me.

"What?"

"Um, the way you were practically gawking at Miss Vaughn," she clarifies. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a crush on her. But that's obviously not the case-"

Kelsey smacks her in the shoulder. "Brianna," she hisses, before glancing at me apologetically. "Sorry, just....ignore her. You don't have to tell us anything you don't want to."

"It's alright," I sigh. I'm really not sure what to do about the whole situation of people thinking I'm gay, because I've never really thought of my sexuality much. Sam and I discussed it once when we were twelve, before deciding that it'd be best not to worry about it at this already-stressful time in our lives.

Although I must admit, it makes me really happy to know that Kelsey and Brianna would accept me if I was gay. It gives me at least the tiniest shred of hope for coming out as trans one day, though I would never admit this to Sam. Wouldn't want him getting too excited.

"I just think she looks really young to be a teacher, that's all," I lie smoothly, before turning my attention to my blank piece of paper.

I try not to look at Miss Vaughn for the rest of the period. It's kind of painful to know that I'll never be that beautiful. I just sketch quietly, every now and then responding to small talk with Kelsey and Brianna.

After awhile I become absorbed in my drawing. It was originally going to be a self portrait, but it's turned into something more dark with a cruel beauty. I don't really notice Miss Vaughn circling the room, commenting on everyone's work, until she is right behind me.

"Oh my goodness," I hear her say, and I know that she's talking about mine. "That is....amazing,"

I mutter a thank you, barely looking up from my imperfect sketch. After a lifetime of hearing people tell you how "magnificent" your drawings are and what a "brilliant artist" you'll make someday, you kind of become numb to the compliments. All you can ever see are the flaws.

"The petals don't have adequate depth and the stem needs work," I point out.

In response, she kneels down next to me. I can smell her vanilla perfume. "What's your name?" She asks, and her voice is so kind and soft that I want to tell her the truth. I can feel that every fiber of my being wants to say "Rose."

But I don't. "George," I murmur after a few seconds, even though it hurts so much to say.

"Well George," she responds in a whisper. "I want you to know that this is possibly the most beautiful drawing I have ever seen, and I don't want you to do a thing more to it."

I pause. Though the comment makes my heart swell with pride, I wonder if it's unethical to single out a student like that and basically tell them that their work is better than anyone else's. Before I can look at her to observe her expression, however, she has already walked away.

I put down my pencil, taking a moment to just observe my drawing as a whole: a single rose, crippled and broken, with cracked petals and blood dripping down the stem and off the page.

All I can see is pain. Pain, and the flame of suffering inside of me that will likely never go away. And I can't help but wonder what the hell Miss Vaughn sees in it that could even remotely resemble beautiful.