I remember when I was younger having one kid in my css who always stood out more than anyone else. We called him “Mr. Knows How Girls Think”.

  He looked like any other one of us, sure; short bck hair, baggy clothes, and a big goofy smile. He didn’t seem like anything special at first gnce, or even after a few, and when we met on the first day of 1st grade I was none the wiser as I approached him.

  It didn’t take long for him to get quite popur with the kids; at the time, all that we cared about were making fart jokes and saving up enough money to buy ice cream, or, of course, terrorising the girls. It’s almost amusing thinking of all the things we used to say, act like the other gender was a pgue or chase them around just for the fun of it.

  But he was always different when it came to it.

  He’d run around with all of us when the gym teacher announced Boys vs Girls or pying tag, always being the best at running up and scaring them, but one skill he had was nothing like we ever thought of.

  Hide and seek wasn’t a very common game in my old school, it being a run-down pce being used for the st year before closing down to be sold, but whenever us kids had the chance to sneak off into the building site at the back of it we’d force one of us to seek and all scatter to hide. It was fun, trying to hold back our giggles as we watched the confused seeker shout out for us.

  But he wasn’t like it.

  “I’ll seek, don’t worry,” He told us one time with a pyful grin, “I’ll find them- I know how girls think.”

  That was the shortest game of hide and seek we’ve ever pyed, but also by far the funnest one. It was almost unnatural how he always managed to guess where every kid went correctly- almost as if he could see right into their brains and think just like they did.

  Ever since then, he was always picked to seek when pying, even if the girls protested and called it unfair.

  Not long after we started calling him “Mr. Knows How Girls Think”, at first as a tease but ter as a way to differentiate him.

  However, something slightly confusing to younger me happened.

  Instead of him getting all excited at having a new title, which was big for a 6 year old, he immediately started protesting it in a panic. Like he saw it as mocking.

  Of course, that only made the teasing worse, and I’m not so proud to say that younger me had his fair share of calling him that nickname or comparing him to a girl, being able to think like one so accurately.

  It reached a point where one day he started to cry when me and two other boys started ughing at him, but it wasn’t a normal cry.

  Most younger kids would start bawling at any little thing that upsets them, unable to hold it back due to the short life experience.

  But he wasn’t like that.

  He was crying, yes, but he wasn’t sobbing. It sounded so terrible; broken, held back cries and airless sniffled filling the air, his voice growing weak as he begged us to stop and leave him alone. It reached a point where a teacher heard the crying and took him away to call his parents.

  It was about a week ter when he returned to school, and the st time he looked anyone there in the eye.

  He was wearing a white shirt and a pink skirt, which he kept adjusting uncomfortably. It didn’t take long for the bullying to come back, of course, and it was only made a lot worse by the new sight of him dressed like a girl.

  The kids would push, taunt, ugh and look down at him any opportunity they had. They would call him a girl, say he was beneath them, and call everything he did an act.

  It wasn’t until the st day of kindergarten that I found out why everything had been happening to him.

  The day was beautiful, ughter and chatter filling the halls of the building as I grabbed my mother’s hand, leading her forward to the office of my teacher. The meetings would take a few parents at once with their children to talk collectively, then the kids would leave and go py with the rest that came before them.

  It was a silly way to do this, sure, but we all got a lilipop at the end so no one was compining.

  Well, no one except Mr. Knows-How.

  Ever since the “Incident”, as I and the other kids called it at the time, he’s been keeping to himself and not talking to any of us. Well, he had one friend, but she would talk behind his back and ugh at him. Now, I’m pretty sure he knew about it, but chose to stay with her because he had no one else.

  However, one thing notable was the absence of his parents from any school meeting. That day was the first time they showed up, Mr. Girls in toe, and to my surprise they were set to go in the office with my parents and a few others.

  While every other kid was talking to their parents, excitedly telling them about how happy they were or munching on their lollipops, he just sat there.

  Quietly. Away from his parents, who were on their phones.

  When the bell rang and the families were to enter, my parents greeted his, and they exchanged pleasant hellos.

  “It’s a shame our kids aren’t friends, you are so lovely,” His mother told mine, “Maybe if she just gets out of her lone wolf mindset she would be as happy as your son.”

  That struck both of us by surprise.

  “She?” I questioned, speaking up from where I stood by my mother’s feet.

  His mother nodded in confirmation, before they stepped into the room and we followed after.

  Then I saw him. He was crying.

  Crying silent tears, biting his lip to not make a sound and alert anyone. His hair has grown a bit, and he fidgeted with it, almost as if he tried to tear it off.

  It looked like something straight out of a horror film. My heart broke for him, but I couldn’t do anything.

  Throughout the meeting, the parents continued to talk about him as if he were a girl and say very demeaning things about him.

  “If only she was more social,” “If she just stopped being so stubborn,” and finally “When she stops thinking she can be a boy.”

  When the kids were sent out, everyone happily ran with their candy to the pyground, excited to see their friends.

  But I didn’t.

  I stayed with him, and finally asked him what I’ve been waiting for.

  I told him I had a question, and dragged him to a quiet corner of the garden where no one would see us. I still had a reputation to maintain, as much as I regret it now.

  Finally, I asked “You’re not actually a boy, are you?”

  I could see the pain in his eyes, hesitating before slowly shaking his head. “No,” he muttered, “But I wish I were.”

  My young mind couldn’t even begin to fathom what that meant.

  He… she… whatever they were, changed their gender? But that’s not possible.

  Right?

  I have no excuse for what I did next, but that’s the only way I knew how to act as a reckless kid who just found out someone is suffering.

  I called him a freak and ran off to tell everyone.

  Now, 20 years ter, as a trans woman myself, I wish I hadn’t done that. I wish I would’ve stayed there with him, comforted him, told him that it didn’t matter what his parents said, and I wish I could’ve stood up to them.

  But I didn’t. And that’s not an excuse.

  Since I came out, I’ve been trying to find him. Going through old picture books, contact lists, and calling school districts, but I’ve still yet to reach him.

  I just hope I’ll find him before it’s too te.