If I Was Your Girl Read Online Free Page B

second and your baby doesn’t want to live anymore. You’re my child .”
    â€œI’m your daughter ,” I whispered. “Nothing to say about that, either.”
    A semi drove by on the highway outside, the dull whoosh of its passing loud in the silence. “Sorry for worrying you. It won’t happen again.” I moved past him toward my room, closing the door.
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    NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO
    The counselor’s office was a converted study in an old mansion in one of the Atlanta neighborhoods rebuilt soonest after the Civil War. It smelled like old wood, and the floors creaked with a century of traffic. An old CRT television sat on a rolling stand in the mouth of a fireplace large enough to swallow it whole. Embellished shelves meant for leather-bound books were lined with titles like, I’m OK, You’re OK and Coping with PTSD . A grandfather clock echoed persistently outside the door.
    The counselor tapped his pen against his notepad, maddeningly out of sync with the rhythm of the clock. I pulled my knees up to my chest and tried to disappear into the overstuffed leather chair.
    â€œHow are you, Andrew?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. I pulled mechanically at a loose thread in my jeans.
    â€œWhat would you like to talk about?”
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    â€œCould I ask you a question?”
    â€œIf you want.”
    He uncrossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap. He was using his body language to tell me I could trust him, because it was his job to seem trustworthy. When he spoke his tone was calm and even. “Will you tell me about the note you gave me when you were in the hospital?” I closed my eyes and shrugged. “Could you tell me what the note meant?”
    â€œI like puzzles,” I said after a moment. My knuckles blocked my mouth, muffling my words. He leaned closer to hear. “And math. I like things that fit together neatly. I don’t like it when things don’t make sense.” I put my hands on the back of my neck and pushed my head down, speaking into my lap. “So I don’t know what the note meant. It means I’m crazy, I guess, because it doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œWhat doesn’t make sense, Andrew?”
    â€œMy birth certificate says I’m a boy.” My chest felt tight. The room, despite its high ceilings, felt suddenly cramped. “I have a … I have boy parts. I have boy chromosomes. God doesn’t make mistakes. So I’m a boy. Scientifically, logically, spiritually, I’m a boy.”
    He steepled his fingers and leaned even farther forward. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. Something tells me you aren’t like other boys.”
    â€œI know I like boys,” I said. I stared up at the ceiling and jiggled my foot rapidly. “You don’t have to be a girl to like boys, though.”
    â€œIs there anything specific to being a boy that bothers you?”
    â€œClothes,” I said quickly. I had never said these things out loud. My ears were ringing. My skin felt too tight. “I’ve wanted to wear girl clothes for as long as I can remember.”
    â€œHave you ever done it?”
    â€œWhen I was in first grade, the girl next door let me. Her parents caught us and I wasn’t allowed to go back.”
    He made an ambiguous sound in his throat and I heard him jot something on his pad.
    â€œSo when you wrote ‘I should have been a girl,’ did you mean that you’re afraid to come out as gay, or embarrassed that you want to wear women’s clothes? Your mother said you’re Baptists; do you think the way you feel is wrong from a religious perspective?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t think God actually cares about that kind of thing, and I think I could deal with just being gay or whatever. It feels wrong that I’m a boy, though. When my hair gets long and people mistake