I was sick of this plaster thing on my arm, but it had to be there for another two or three weeks, showering was a total pain as I had to put a plastic cover over it to stop water going in at either end. The only consoling thought was that if Jane really upset me I could whack her on the head with it. I saw it in my mind’s eye and smirked then saw my mother standing there arms folded telling me violence was never justified. She was right I suppose and boys are much more likely to use physical force than girls. It wasn’t really me, nah, I’d have to sing her to death. As I towelled myself dry, I imagined I was a siren luring her on to the rocks with my enchanted voice. Ironic, God gave me a good singing voice and I imagine using it to destroy someone, very Christian.

As I dressed for school, dreading an encounter with Jane or with double maths, which was a certainty and just before lunch too, ugh, I remembered I had to go and see Mrs Appleby the music teacher at St Margaret’s. I wasn’t looking forward to it being happy with Mr King and Miss Daws as my coaching team, but Mrs Emonds the headmistress insisted I did or she’d make life difficult in time off to sing. I’d also agreed to sing something for assembly one morning—just what I needed, to stand out from the crowd.

Breakfast was a bit subdued and my mother picked up on it. I told her I hated double maths. I didn’t really, I could do it, it just made my brain ache, I preferred English or history, but not French—nes pas. Chemistry was boring. In the boy’s school we got to do things in the lab—I suppose they were hoping we’d blow ourselves up or gas each other, here we stand around and watch Mr Steadman demonstrate how to do things, then write it up as if we’d done it. How boring is that?

Physics is a bit better shining light through prisms and so on, though the equations are a pain, like flipping maths. Biology’s okay as long as we don’t have to cut anything up—I’d hate doing that. So far we just seem to look at slides or at things through microscopes—that’s okay if boring after a while. I thought biology was the science of life, but everything we see is dead—duh—hello...

Jane is in the year below me so we only meet in corridors or the school playground at break times. If I see her, I avoid her. Sometimes she sees me and makes some sarcastic jibe at me, which I try to ignore though at times it really is quite hard. Sometimes I almost want to run away and cry and once I was so angry, I nearly turned and slapped her one. Fortunately, a girl in my class happened along and distracted me.

Suzy was in a couple of my sets—art and design, and English; so it was always good to see her and we hung about together at weekends if Simon was playing soccer. St Margaret’s had a soccer team too, but I avoided sport like the plague, and my broken arm gave me a out for the time being. Suzy liked sports but after her experiences at her previous school, she avoided changing rooms to prevent any accusations being levelled at her if her sexuality was made known. That made me really cross, but I suppose a thousand teenagers with seething hormones, meant all sorts of things were possible and probably happening under my nose and my naïveté meant I was oblivious to it. As I had enough to worry about, it didn’t concern me.

Suzy told me she’d spotted at least half a dozen girls she knew were gay, I simply gawped. “How d’you know?” I gasped one day when we were having a drink in Debenham’s cafe.

“You develop a sort of gaydar about it. You just know. I’ll bet you do it with other trans girls.”

“Me? I’ve never seen another one—least not that I know of.”

“Oh c’mon, Charley, if all these documentaries are true or the stories in the Daily Wail, there’s one on every street corner.”

“I thought that was paedophiles,” I said testily.

“Oh, could be,” she smirked as I glared at her. Fortunately she ended the teasing there.

I survived double maths—I’m sure it’s the school’s way of making us feel as if we’re living longer, because time drags so much; mind you, Mrs Blyton—we call her, ‘the Blight,’ could make anything boring. She has weird hair and looks a bit like Einstein but that’s where the comparison ends. I’m sure he wasn’t boring, she could bore for England.

After I gobbled down my lunch, I had a packed lunch because Mum was out with a friend of hers from school—she went to a boarding school—so I took some sarnies and crisps with me, I went to see Mrs Appleby. We’d met briefly before in music. I had to sit things out with my arm in a sling, so apart from noting me as the new girl, nothing was said. Later in music theory, I kept a low profile though I could have answered all the questions she asked, but some girl in the front who was supposedly good on a piano and thus teacher’s pet, answered most of them.

I knocked and entered when told to do so, Mrs Appleby was sitting doing some marking and drinking coffee. “Yes, girl?” she said looking at me wondering what I wanted.

“Mrs Edmonds told me to come and see you, Miss.”

“I can’t take any more piano students.”

“No, Miss, I sing.”

“So, I suppose you want to join the choir?” This wasn’t quite how I thought it would go and my blushing showed it. “Come back on Thursday, we do choir practice then.”

“I—uh—wasn’t coming about the choir, Miss.”

“Well what are you here for, you want to be the next Taylor Swift, I suppose?”

“Ah—not quite—I’d rather be the new Renée Fleming.”

“Who?”

“She’s an American soprano, sings...”

“I know who she is.”

I blushed wishing I’d not bothered. “I go to the boy’s school for singing lessons.”

She looked astonished and gasped, “Why?”

“Mr King has coached me for some time and Miss Daws has accompanied me for several years.”

She put down her pen and swivelled around to look at me. “So, you’re a soprano, are you? What have you sung?”

“Lots of things, Schubert, Handel, Gershwin, most recently I did a duet with Sir Cliff Richard.” I threw the latter in because she was beginning to irritate me.

“Rich fantasy life, have we?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss.”

“You claim to know Ron King and to have sung with Cliff Richard, how old are you?”

“Fourteen next month.”

She laughed in my face, “Who set you up to see me, not Andrea Garfit, was it?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know who you mean, Miss.”

“So you still claim to be a soprano, eh?”

I nodded.

“Okay, sing something for me?”

“What now?”

“Yes.”

“But I haven’t warmed up or anything?”

“I’ll take that into account.”

I didn’t feel at all happy about this but I thought I’d better do what she asked. I started the Rutter, Pie Jesu, closing my eyes as I focused on the tune and the words. I hoped she’d stop me after the first verse but she didn’t so I had to sing the whole thing. I opened my eyes as I finished and she was sitting sobbing, tears running down her face.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stood there blushing and feeling bewildered. I know it wasn’t one of my better performances but I didn’t think it was that bad either; obviously it was.

“I have to go,” I said deciding discretion was the better part of valour. “I’m sorry it was a bit rough.”

She seemed to come out of her dream and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, “Rough?”

“Yes, I’m usually better after a warm up.”

“If that was rough, I’d love to hear you sing it properly. You have quite a talent, child.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Like it, I loved it. I’m sorry I didn’t let you warm up but we have one or two prima donnas here every year, most of whom don’t know a crotchet from a minim. What’s your name.”

“Charlotte Church, Miss.”

“Very funny, now what’s your name?”

“That is my name, but I sing under the name of Christine Monk.”

“I thought she had dark hair and was taller than you?”

“I—er—dyed my hair and was wearing heels.”

“At the Amnesty concert?”

“Yes, Miss, that was me.”

“You really did duet with Cliff Richard?”

“Yes, Miss.”

She shook her head, “And Ron King is coaching you?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Pity, I’d loved to have worked with someone who could really sing, instead I get stuck with a bunch of girls who have no idea.”

“Perhaps I could help you with your choir, I’m sure some of them could learn.”

“You’d better go or you’ll be late for your first lesson, thank you, Christine.”

“Yes, Miss.” I dashed off to sit and listen to Mr Steadman talking about chemistry which is even more boring than watching him doing it in the lab. I felt confused about what I was supposed to do about singing here. Okay, I had Mr King and Miss Daws for external stuff, but Mrs Edmonds said she wanted me to sing for assembly. If she says anything, at least I can say I saw Mrs Appleby. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her crying at my rendition of the Rutter, perhaps she’s not well or very stressed or something. I don’t think I’d want to teach for a living, and certainly not music.

After chemistry came French and then history. Finally something I enjoyed learning about. Mind you, I suspect Mrs Altman was there when William of Normandy invaded, she’s as grey as a Brillo pad and has longer whiskers than Father Christmas. The girls all laugh at her but she loves her subject and knows it really well. It’s just rather sad she can’t teach it, so I learn it from the text book and on the internet and other books. Perhaps I’ll become a historian when I’m not singing—nah, I’m going to wow them like Katherine Jenkins does.

I walked home trying to ensure I didn’t meet with Jane or Daisy—Bellis perennis, according to my wild flower book, daisy that is. I thought I’d escaped them both when the suddenly appeared at the end of my road—well the road our house was in. “Oh look, Daisy, it’s a boy in skirt.”

I was determined not to cry nor to aggravate the situation. “Jane, Daisy,” I said even though I’d heard her remark about me.

“We were just looking for you,” said Jane.

“Sorry, got to dash, I’ve got singing practice.”

“This won’t take a moment,” said Jane.

“I haven’t got time,” I walked past her, I was genuinely late.

“Pity, tomorrow everyone will know your name is really James and you’re a boy.”

I stopped and turned to face her. I clenched my hands into fists, I really wanted to hurt her.

“Why are you doing this, I thought you were my friend?”

“Of course, if you do as I want, I won’t tell a soul.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It gets things done.”

“What d’you want?”

“I want you to steal something for me.”

“Sorry, don’t do that.”

“Okay, James, honest but stupid.”

I felt tears fill my eyes and my hands were hurting where my nails were digging into the palms of my hands. I so wanted to hit her—no—to kill her, to watch her die. Instead I turned away, and walked silently to my house. Tomorrow my little world was going to fall apart, but I wasn’t going to steal for her or anyone.