The first day of class was hard, it was quiet, too quiet, and even though no-one knew him here, they still stared. It was probably a mix of the shorn off hair cut, he had done himself with the kitchen scissors, his chunky black glasses, and the constant scowl on his face. He already disliked the school, and if not for the fact it was one of the only that offered him what he wanted, course wise, he would have already left. The lack of uniform didn't help either, and he picked at the old maroon jumper he had stolen from his father's pile of clothes. It had probably started with his introduction to the class.

"Hello everyone. This is our new scholarship student, Fujioka Haruhi. Please be nice to...her?" The last word had been uttered with a tone of confusion, causing the boy (He was a boy goddamn, and he would look like one too!) to scowl at their teacher. The room was large, but in all honesty, had a relatively small class - twin redheads in the back of the room where the only interesting ones though. Everyone else was dull as always. "Fujioka, introduce yourself?" Rather than doing as asked, he muttered a low, well, as low as his voice would go at this moment, 'no' and sat at one empty desk at the back. How dare the stupid lady call her a girl? But as much as he would try to deny it, he still had a far to feminine voice, and big eyes, and the beginnings, though thankfully nothing more than that, of womanly curves trying to take over his body. It felt wrong.

It felt strange, to be rude, rebellious and mean. But if he wanted to keep his secret just that - a secret, he would have to make sure no-one got too close for him to slip up. To make a mistake. A huge mistake it would be, and he would be reduced to nothing. For now, it was right to be angry and grouchy at the world. Anyway, it wasn't as if the world had ever been nice to him.

The twins continued to stare at him, as his pen scratched on paper, and it was beginning to grow on his nerves, slowly, than faster. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? It wasn't as if they were scholarship students, just look at their perfect hair, books, uniform. One slender hand tightened around the pen, until it almost cracked under his grip, but it wasn't until one of them (How would he even know their names?) prodded him in the side, he reacted more so. The side was far too close to comfort.

"What?" Biting the word out, he turned to glare at them, eyes narrowing further as they both had the nerve to laugh. Idiots. They'd probably never had to work for anything in their perfect pampered life. He still worked four jobs a day and more at weekends, if he was lucky. Damn rich people. God he hated it here, he hated it at home, and people - like the twins - kept giving him strange looks. Okay, so it was probably justified, he was the only one without a uniform at the school, but still, they could be a bit more considerate. They wouldn't. He knew people, and how they would talk and whisper, but, if he had luck on his side for once, just for once, they might not hate him like they had before. The twins were still whispering beside him, he could hear them, and see them from the corner of his eye, an advantage of now shorter hair.

The first day had been the hardest, with all the stares and whispers and pointing, jabbing fingers, because, as always, it was obvious that he was the polar opposite to everyone else here. Try as he might, he couldn't find the silence he had often hidden in, at the strange, loud academy, where gaggles of giggling girls, lay around every corner - and the boys were just as bad. Still, he got through it, though, he would admit with tense hand, and a clenched jaw. The worst thing were the questions. Oh god the questions still followed him.

"Are you a girl or a boy?"

"Why don't you have a uniform?"

"If you're a boy why did the teacher call you a girl?"

"Are you really a boy?"

So it went on. It took weeks, but after one such snap of "Yes, for gods sake, I'm a boy!" And a punch in the face to an older student, who couldn't get this through his thick head, it slowly died down. At his old school, even as a quiet, overly tired girl, he had been liked by many people, both boys and girls, who wanted attention, and one of her rare smiles, her giggles, everything that was hers. So, perhaps it was natural to feel lonely, even surrounded by masses of people, and there were masses. Who knew there were so many rich people in this world.

Some days, it was worse than others. He'd stand in the mirror, and try to get ready for school that day, and cry at his hips, which were far too wide for any man, even now, at his chest, that though small, was still beginning to swell, though luckily, slower than they had been before. He thanked his mother for that. There were his lips, too red, round and pouty, his eyes, too big, almond shaped and feminine. These were the days he wanted to scream. For no he felt trapped within his own skin, with the weight of the world baring down atop his shoulders (Too small and skinny and girly) and the pit of agony that burnt holes through his stomach. He wanted to scream and cry, for there were still days when he'd go to the shops, for milk and eggs, and noodles, and get called 'Miss' and each month, he'd be reminded further still, that this body was so achingly wrong, when blood stained his underwear.

He'd taken to scratching, and hair pulling, because they seemed to calm his mind, as it whirred about how he, his body, was wrong, wrong, wrong. He tried buying clothes from the mens section, loose hanging jeans, but they were too wide for his legs, and skinny little ankles, yet too tight around his hips, and dug into the bone there. Shirts that seemed to change his figure, yet if he wanted the sleeves the right length, then his chest would push at the top. He tried wearing a sports bra, but it barely helped. He could still see her and he hated it. Hated her. Because she was perfect, a perfect, pretty girl, with petal pink lips and anyone would love her. But she wasn't him.

Why couldn't he had been normal? Been born in the right body, that he didn't have to cry at night, and his father was sane enough to talk to. Sometimes he wished his mother was still alive, and he cried.