That first day back in school after Christmas holidays, well, ??winter holidays?? as the school called it now to be politically correct, was a mix of terror, horror, shame, and glee. Calls of ??What did you get? How was your Chr??holiday? Isn??t it freezing??? and worst of all, ??Wasn??t that New Year??s Eve party a blast??? echoed down the halls. Whit wasn??t happy to be back and didn??t want to answer any questions. Even in school, for instance, it was cold, well she was cold. What was wrong with her? Not enough sports? Not enough muscle? Not enough fat/bone/height/personality? She just hated the cold and hated being cold. Sometimes she just hated being herself, but at least she knew what that was all about.

It was all Dusty??s fault. She hated him, but she loved him, and there was nothing she could do about him, except in her dreams, and her art. The only good thing about today was, she??d gotten her period on Christmas day so that wasn??t going to happen again for another couple of weeks.

Today felt like the world was spinning, and she??d been thrown off and landed in the bushes, prickly ones, with snow on top of them and fleas in the frozen grass underneath. On the walk to school she??d felt like there were icicles hanging from her brown hair, but??look on the bright side, she thought??it made a nice color contrast with her red lips and blue

sort of

eyes.

So there was homeroom; she said herelike she meant it

not

. She listened to the other kids and their excited, happy voices. She hated them all. She especially hated Beauregard Turner, called Beau-Tox by one and all.

The bell rang and she moved like a zombie to English, which she loved, but hated. Well, she hated Ms. Wickers, aka Ms. Whiskers, a.k.a. Ms. Dub, who criticized her writing for all the wrong reasons, and never in a way that clarified to Whit how she could improve it. What was the point? She wanted to write and then use her art with it, like in a travel book, together, but writing was apparently not her strong point. She sat in a mist of her own emotions. When Ms. Wickers handed back their essays from before the holidays, she had a big red D at the top of hers, and her face flushed crimson.

Daffy Duck, well, his real name was Danny Duchesne, next to her, had a big green A on his. He glanced at Whit and saw her grade, and quietly folded his paper so she could no longer see it. The thing about Danny was, other than his extra ten pounds and glasses, he never called Whit Twit like so many of the other kids. Teachers loved him, all of them except for Coach Wickers, and presumably his mother did, but that??s where it ended for poor Danny, Whit thought. She glanced at his face; had he lost weight? He looked older. He had new glasses; they looked a lot less dorky. His curly brown hair looked nicer; had he had it cut shorter? Had it always been that shiny? It had red highlights. He smiled at her, not showing his teeth. It made him look girlish, fey, perky. She realized he was shy and probably embarrassed by his teeth, though she had no idea why he should be. Other than the few obvious physical traits, and that high intelligence thing, he was an okay kid. But what a waste, for him to be born a boy, and her, not.

She herself wasn??t exactly ugly, though sometimes she thought she might as well be. She hated how she looked, her dull brown hair cut short, her ordinary brown eyes behind glasses; she hated her breasts, medium-sized squashy things that insisted on being both there and perky. After three years of braces her teeth were nice and she opened her mouth when she smiled now, or would, if she ever smiled. That made her smile, and she glanced at Danny when she did, and he was looking at her.

Oh crap.

But at least, she thought later, after she looked away, he hadn??t been looking at her breasts.

No, he had not, said Dusty in her right ear. He is kinda cute though, you think?

Shut up, she told Dusty.

* * * *

Her next class was art. Unfortunately, she noticed Danny was now in that class, too, and he plunked himself down at her formerly all-to-herself table. ??May I join you??? he asked. ??Nobody else likes me.??

She wanted to ask, ??What makes you think I do??? but Dusty was smiling. Her face crinkled as she tried not to smile herself, but it didn??t work. Every now and then, Dusty was the boss. It used to be, well since puberty knocked her over and rolled her up in a cement blanket of fear and worry, that he was happy. Dusty was her alter-ego, her inner child, her imaginary playmate. The latter one is what her mother called him, but Whit knew that Dusty was the person she was supposed to have been. Maybe she??d been part of a set of twins and he had died and nobody had told her. Maybe she??d absorbed him in the womb. Maybe God got it wrong or Satan had hit her up while her mother carried her. Maybe her mom??s hormones had been messed up. Maybe she should have killed herself before she understood what was wrong with her.