His name reminded you of lavender flowers and black nails. He wore a black skirt. Mine was yellow. I did not question him. I could feel small stares. Hushed tones in the office, as he was sent home. The next day he came in with mascara. I still did not question it.
On the cool green grass we played, and he pushed his hair back with a clip. His laugh was soft as a quiet thunderstorm. He was beautiful. Even when I saw him again, with a bruise on his face. It matched the color of his tights. I watched him kiss a boy behind the school. Hushed tones, again. He left, for a while. He was only a ghost in the hallways, a memory near his house. I could almost still smell his perfume. When he returned, he smelled of sweat, and his pants were too big, too black. I could feel the tears inside him. I could only find his smile in his skirts and mascara and self pierced ears. Red tones from my mother told me to stay away.
That boys should be boys.
That they were not pink, or purple, or yellow, or any color painted pretty.
He got new pants, and a new jacket. They were boy colors. Since when were colors assigned a gender? And certain clothes fit certain anatomy? Boys will be boys, and girls will be girls. Girls will be girls, and boys will be boys. Grey society. Just so much grey. On the cool green grass, I handed him my pink polka-dotted dress. He smiled