I want to tell everyone. I would like them to know. But we all know what would happen if I did that. I would become a social pariah. I’d never be allowed to walk into the locker room without glares and suspicious glances, before the other girls quickly pull on their clothes. Or the snide remarks we all know they would make. No one would give me a hug again. No touching hands, or sharing hot chocolate, because that’s too intimate when they know the truth. Better not to tell anyone and let people who I barely know drink my Starbucks. Or be able to go to gym class like everyone else. To get a hug from my friend every morning like I already do. I don’t want to take that away from myself. And I can fake it all so well. Yes, that boy is so cute. And I do like tall boys. I actually like girls, but that’s not important. I can fake it so well. I have long hair and wear flowers and skirts. Girls who like girls are supposed to dress like boys and play softball, or otherwise be Katy Perry-like girls who are curious and got too drunk at a party and went into the bedroom with one too many partners or someone in a dress instead of pants. I’ll never be able to do that because I’ve already been labeled as straight thanks to my past boyfriend, who I was very unhappy with. I was with a boy, and I never told anyone the whole relationship was a mistake in a way they can’t even understand, so to them, I’m what they expect. Straight.