She was wearing purple track pants and a white t-shirt that was so tight and soaked with sweat that it was basically invisible. She had a purple sport...bra on underneath her shirt, and her purple track jacket sat in the corner near her duffle bag. “What do you skinny bitches want?” she said.I felt like I should have something to say. “Shut up, Becky!” I yelled.It wasn’t a great comeback, but seeing her in purple pants and a white shirt reminded me a little too much of my dream, where she was the. What was also different about me was that even from an earlyage, I knew that I really wasn't a boy. I knew that from a very earlyage, living in an apartment in a large North Jersey City, with only twoother girls to play with. Hopscotch, jumprope, jacks, dolls, tea parties,whatever. My mom even let me wear her bright red lipstick on occasion(this was the 50s, that's pretty much the only color women wore backthen). And of course, my life continued on that course, through middleschool and the. More

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