"You know this is the girls' bathroom, right?" Distrust and correction was in her voice, an icy tension between us. This wasn't a conversation, it was an accusation
"Yes," I said, my hand on the doorknob.
She stared me down, brow furrowed, like she knew something I didn't. She disappeared down the hall, the tense air snapping away like a rubber band. I replayed the event in my head. I wasn't really mad, mostly surprised she would think a fourth grader would walk into the wrong bathroom.
Picture a normal girl. I probably don't look like that. My hair is never brushed, with bangs all over. I wear plain, loose athletic shorts. I wouldn't say I have a "style;" I just want comfortable things that work for sports. I can barely describe myself because I don't know the words to describe hairstyles and clothes.
I know three boys named Elliot but no girls and you can't change the spelling to make it a boy's or girl's name. People question me -- even challenge my answers -- countless times; at the pool, at career day. Soccer referees make the mistake, even though boys can't play in a girl's league. People act like I am a wrong puzzle piece, like it is my fault that I don't fit their expectations.