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At nine years old, the boy studied his reflection and struggled to understand how he could be seen so different to so many.
His grandmother called him her angel as she cupped his dainty chin. Grandad would fondly ruffle his dandelion puff of hair and say you're getting big, sprout. Even though he didn't grow much. Garry stayed short for quite some time.
The kids on the playground called him a wimp. They demanded he give up this place on the swingset and pushed him off when he refused. Garry ran home, scraped and teary-eyed.
His mother called him a crybaby. Big boys didn't sit and sob in the dirt. They punched back.
*****
At twelve years old, Garry stood before the bathroom mirror, pulling at his long wavy hair while trying to assert, yes, I am a boy.
The things people said often seemed silly to him. Why can't boys wear pink, or bracelets? What made the items from that half of the children's department off limits to him? He liked the pale violet coloring and soft texture of this shirt. He liked the musical jingle of the little silvery chain around his wrist. Mother ordered him to put them back.
She said the same things the bullies said. It made him look like a girl.
She eyes his favorite toys with contempt too (long before Garry knew what contempt meant, he could recognize it in his mother's face). “Boys don't play with dolls,” she said flatly when he showed her his list for Santa.
Garry steeled himself. He held a lock of hair straight out and picked up a pair of scissors. Snip. Snip. Snip. In twenty minutes he was done.
He hated it. He hoped at least mother wouldn't.
*****
At fifteen years old, Garry smoothed his favorite shirt and grabbed a fitted jacket hanging off his mirror. He gave up on the short haircuts and jerseys he despised so much. He figured that his outer trappings didn't change his mother's attitude towards him much, and he aspired to at least be happy with something.
The boy found solace in books, in watercolors, in pottery wheels. He spent his weekly allowances on marker sets and colored pencils. For the first time he joined in extracurricular activities, the art club. He found a friend in a charming girl named Elizabeth.
The old playground bullies continued to bodycheck him down the halls. His mother maintained the cool aura of disappointment at the dinner table. But at the end of the day Garry could retreat to his room and call Liz and draw cute designs at her request.
For the first time in some years, Garry felt wanted.
*****
At seventeen years old, Garry shattered a mirror with his fist. The glass didn't cut deep fortunately, so his mother heaved a long-suffering sigh as they wrapped it up in the bathroom. “Honestly, do you want to go back to the hospital?”
Liz had a new boyfriend. “We met at the soccer game,” she said over lunch. “He goes to Greenwood, but some days I go visit him after school.” When the bell rang, she picked up her tray. “Call me tonight!”
Liz wanted the two of them (“my two closest friends!” she said with a smile) to meet up. He sensed the same disdain from Derek that he did from his mother, but he shrugged it off. After a month, the senior student grabbed Garry and pulled him aside. “I don't wanna see you with Liz so much.”
“But she's my friend...”
Derek glared, and repeated himself. Liz returned from the bathroom. Her boyfriend smiled, let her slide back into the booth with him. A waitress came over to take their orders. Garry pretended that everything was okay too.
“I WARNED YOU! I FUCKING WARNED YOU!” Derek had jeered as Garry held a hand to his face, screaming. His eye burned like fire.
Oh god oh god oh god make it stop please make it stop
The doctors said he was lucky he didn't lose the eye entirely. Garry stared blankly. He wasn't sure if having a blank eye socket would have been worse. Numbly he traced the puckered scars across his eyebrow, the top of his cheek, stretching to the side of his face. His left eye stared sightlessly.
When his hand stopped bleeding, Garry took a comb and moved his lavender fringe around. It flopped into position with little effort. There. The boy turned from side to side, checking how it looked from all angles. No one has to see.