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 radiating throughout the building. Hushed tones in the office, as he was sent home. The next day he came in with mascara. I still did not question it. I asked him where he got it; he said his older sister.
We played on the cool green grass, and he pushed his hair back with a sparkly blue clip. His laugh was soft, soft as a quiet thunderstorm. He was beautiful with his dirty blond hair and dirty nails. 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 a few years later. Hushed tones through the office again, middle aged women shaking their head at him. He left, for a while. To me, he was only a ghost in the hallways, a memory near his house. I could almost still smell his perfume when I walked by. 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.
She said, “That boys should be boys.”
That they were not pink, or purple, or yellow, or any color painted pretty.
He got new pants, a new jacket, and a bruise on the chest. They were all boy colors. Since when were colors assigned a gender? And certain clothes fit certain anatomy? Boys will be boys, and girls will be girls. Grey society fit into little boxes. Just so much grey, just so much order. Standing in the grass, I handed him my pink polka-dotted dress. He smiled.