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School is never easy for fat little girls. Sybil, at age eleven, manages better than most because passive-aggressive comments, giggles that are just a little too loud, and mocking glances slide off her like water off the back of a duck.
It’s not that she isn’t aware of it. Some part of her, molded by well-meaning female relatives who taught her how to appraise herself in the mirror, cringes back, but it is entirely overshadowed by the much louder portion of her brain that insists on telling anyone willing to listen about her Dragon Facts.
So far, Sybil has not found many willing participants to engage with her in a one-sided conversation. In fact, she has noticed an entirely new trend, different from the interchangeable girls who sneer at her; a distinct tendency of girls she’s recently spoken to attempting to hide from her, some even turning heel and running the other way down the corridor, something incredibly frowned upon in the Quirm College for Young Ladies. Young Ladies do not run; as far as Sybil understands, Young Ladies glide forward like they’re smuggling sacks of flour under their petticoats.
There is only one person who has been willing to sit and listen to her so far without later pretending she doesn’t know her. Both of them started the school at the same time, almost six months ago, and in that time, Sybil has started to count her as a friend - something she never really had before. Of course, growing up, she’s played with plenty of cousins and second cousins and family friends, but never before has she had someone willing and happy to spend time with her, just because she’s Sybil - not family, not an obligation, but someone who likes her.
It is for the sake of her friendship that Sybil leaves the dining hall early when she doesn’t see her friend anywhere, with toast and an apple wrapped up in her napkin. It is also for the sake of her friendship that, when she enters their dorm and finds her friend holding a knife, dressed in all black - and trousers! - that Sybil simply stops in her tracks, and stares.
“You didn’t eat anything, Havelock,” she says, finally, helplessly.
Havelock, a small and pale girl with straight, dark hair and pale blue eyes, pauses, holding her knife mid-air. Her expression is blank, but Sybil has learned to read her friend’s miniscule expression and recognises the look as that of a dog who’s been caught mid-wee on the carpet.
“Thank you, Sybil,” Havelock says politely. Then she drags the knife through her braid, cutting it off.
Sybil stares. She absent-mindedly puts down the food.
“I suppose I should explain,” Havelock says. Her hair falls just below her shoulders, uneven and messy.
“You could,” Sybil says, carefully. “I mean, it’d be nice.” She’s confused, but more than that, there is a sense of trepidation - the window, she notices, behind Havelock, is open.
“I’m going to leave this school,” Havelock says seriously. “I’ve already enrolled myself in the Assassin’s Guild in Ankh-Morpork.” She pauses, a mild frown on her face. Sybil recognises that hard-to-parse look too - Havelock is struggling how to word something.
“As a boy,” Havelock says, finally. “I’m enrolling myself as a boy.”
“I thought the Assassin’s Guild takes some girls, these days,” Sybil says. It’s not really what she wants to say - but she’s struggling, just like Havelock, to find the right words, and maybe this’ll push things forward.
“Yes. That’s not why I’m doing it,” Havelock says. She’s watching Sybil, intently, studying her reaction. They both fall silent, as Sybil thinks and Havelock waits.
“Oh, so you,” Sybil pauses.
“I want to be a boy,” says Havelock quietly. “Yes.”
It must not be more than a few seconds, but it feels longer than that, as they stand there. The first thought Sybil has is selfish: Now I won’t have a friend anymore.
The second thought comes soon after, with raised eyebrows: Now you have a friend who’s a boy .
Her third thought just pauses to add a heavy emphasis on the space between “boy” and “friend”, a bit bashfully.
“Sybil,” Havelock starts to say, and she interrupts him.
“You know, it’s theorized that like certain frogs and fish, swamp dragons are able to change sexes,” Sybil blurts out. “Male swamp dragons sometimes kill each other off during the mating season. Female swamp dragons are bigger, so a smaller female swamp dragon sometimes goes through a transition so that they can still procreate.”
“...Is that so,” Havelock says, staring at her.
“Not that - I’m saying you’re doing it to pro - procreate,” Sybil says, flushing. “But it’s nature, right? Although for you it might be a bit harder than for a swamp dragon. They just change their diet, you see.”
Havelock carefully puts down the knife, and visibly hesitates. For the past six months that Sybil has gotten to know him, she knows Havelock is quiet, and quite a lot more awkward than he gives off, at any given time. She closes the distance instead, taking Havelock’s hands in hers.
“My aunt is still in Genoa,” Havelock mumbles. “By the time she hears about this - well. Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”
Sybil translates in her head: There is nobody else here for me.
“I’ll write to you,” she says. She feels a fierce, protective surge of emotions, all of a sudden. Havelock’s cold fingers curl against her palms. “And you’d better write back, seeing as we can’t attend classes together anymore.”
“Of course,” Havelock says, staring at her, his eyes wide with startled obeisance.
“And,” Sybil pauses, eyeing him. “Let me clean up your hair.”
Havelock’s eyebrows raise. “Do you know how to cut hair, Sybil?”
“Yes,” Sybil lies. “Now sit down, so we can do this before the others come back.”
She fetches the scissors from her sewing kit, and Havelock sits, facing the window he was about to exit just moments before. The last light from the sunset colours the white bedding orange. Sybil gathers the strands of black hair in her palm, trying not to get them everywhere, and tucks them in her pocket as she snips away.
The end result is that Havelock’s hair is shorter, which is really the only positive Sybil can say about her handiwork. Even then, when Havelock turns, feeling the space under his ear where his hair used to sit, Sybil feels something strange and tender swell in her chest as she takes in his expression.
“How are you getting to Ankh-Morpork?” she asks.
“I’ll catch a carriage,” Havelock says, as if they aren’t eleven; but somehow, Sybil believes him.
“Okay,” Sybil nods. “Do you have anything to eat on the way?” She’s fussing with Havelock’s shirt now, dusting off stray bits of hair. It feels weird, sending off her only friend like this, but now that Sybil’s decided to support it, the question that her father asked her before she went off to school seems to roll out of her as easily as breathing.
“I’ll be fine,” Havelock says dismissively, his pale cheeks colouring, and Sybil huffs and fetches her goods from the dining hall, making a big show of placing them on top of Havelock’s bag.
“Well,” Havelock says, hoisting one leg over the windowsill. He gives Sybil his best impression of a stuffed frog, before that breaks and he says, sounding genuine, quiet: “Thank you.”
Sybil manages a smile back and offers another Papa Ramkin original: “Don’t forget to change your underwear every day.”
“I think it’ll be hard for me to forget,” Havelock says. He hoists his other leg over the windowsill, and then, with startling nimbleness, grabs the drainpipe and simply glides down into the bushes below. Sybil approaches the window, peering down as she watches her friend collect his bag and make his way towards the gate. The further he gets, the harder it is to spot him, now that the sun has finally gone down.
Sybil stays by the window for quite some time, thinking. It’s lonely having her one friend leave the school, but she can’t begrudge Havelock for doing it.
At last, she closes the window. There is no use moping about, she reasons. If Havelock can cut off his hair and go to a new school in Ankh-Morpork by himself, surely Sybil can make new friends right where she is.
Freshly determined, Sybil heads to her dormitory door. Someone, somewhere in the school, is about to find out a lot more about dragons.