She is the girl at the party that looks around, hoping to see a face like hers. Untouched by the makeup all the other girls seem to be obsessed with these days. You won’t see her dropping her phone intentionally, attempting to catch the eyes of the Neanderthals trying to sneak a peek up her skirt. She doesn’t own a skirt. Her hair, cut shorter to emulate the flipped- out -skater -boy look that the popular girls at school seem to love, frames undeniably feminine eyes. The dirty converse she sports are not so much a trade mark, rather, they are proof that shoes can last through Friday night football with the guys, field hockey after school, chasing after Buster who is chasing a rabbit, and adventuring with her little brother on the weekends, without falling apart. She is the girl that taints the girl’s locker room with the stench of ‘gay’, forcing the other girls to be cautious while changing. Halfway through the year, she begins changing in the bathroom because she can sense their discomfort. They whisper about her, the D***, as she passes by in the hallway disregarding the fact that she has ears. When the teacher announces a partner project, she looks down. She knows that she will be tacked on as the third wheel to a pre-existing pair, despite their silent protest of pleading eye-contact with the teacher. It’s okay, though. Because they will volunteer to do the project themselves, avoiding having to have her over to their homes, or worse, in their bedrooms. D*** is the girl who, inevitably, will be just a little bit different. Yes, she spots the other girls who are like her. She sees them, primping and slathering on face paint just like the others, but stunning her with fleeting glances in the bathroom as she washes her hands. She knows their secret. But she keeps quiet; she realizes the path she chooses is one of sacrifice. Therefore, D*** stands alone.