"Project!" Miss Fullerton- my ballet teacher- shouts in a clipped voice as I balance en pointe, reaching forward with elegant, flowing arms. My face is a picture of perfection- immaculately made up, wide, expressive eyes that make it clear to everyone watching that I am not just a ballerina, I am- or at least aspire to be- a PRIMA ballerina, the ultimate expression of feminine beauty. My waist is slim, my legs- encased in soft pink tights- are long and slender, my breasts small but perfectly formed (and outlined perfectly by my spaghetti-strapped leotard), my long blonde hair scraped back into a perfect bun. Every girl in this class is looking at me with a mixture of envy and admiration.

...And it's all I can do not to scream, not to fall to the floor and bang my head into it until I either fall unconscious or dig a hole big enough to crawl in and die.

I HATE ballet. I hate the stupid costumes, I hate balancing on the tips of my toes, leaving me in pain for hours afterwards, I hate sweating in tight lycra, I hate being stared at by everyone as I struggle to remember a complicated routine. And yet... I'm not allowed the luxury of hating ballet, as I'm reminded when I finish my routine and I walk over to my mother, who is looking at me with her almost patented look of 'stern pride'.

"Kayleigh-Ann," mum says in her rhythmic Welsh accent, "you NEED to work harder at your ballet! If your teacher is telling you that you aren't projecting enough, then you need to project more from the start of your routine!"

"I know," I sigh.

"Well it doesn't look like it out there!" Mum says.

"I'll try harder next time," I say, interrupting my mother in my haste to end the conversation.

"I wish I believed that," mum sneers as we head out to her large, posh car. The second I arrive home I head immediately up to my bedroom, not even stopping to say hi to my dad. I strip out of my ballet gear and pull on a comfortable, loose t-shirt and a pair of short denim shorts, before collapsing on my bed, my fingers still twitching from the stress of the dance lesson. When I hear my mum and dad start to argue in the kitchen- the room immediately beneath my bedroom- my twitches become fully-fledged spasms. I reach for my nearest stuffed animal and bite down hard on its leg, before burying my face in my pillow and letting out a long, agony-filled scream as the arguments only get louder and louder.

My name is Kayleigh-Ann Walker, and every single bit of my life sucks.

I was born on 30th December 1999, meaning I was a disappointment to my parents from the second I was born. I was conceived at the start of April 1999 for a very special purpose- to be the first baby in the UK to be born in the year 2000. And, as my mother will frequently remind me- and anyone else nearby- I couldn't even get THAT right. My whole life was planned for me from the very start. If I was a boy, I'd have been the next David Beckham. As I'm a girl, I'm going to be the next Victoria Beckham... Whether I like it or not. At the age of 5 my parents moved from Cardiff- my hometown- to London to enroll me in the best performing arts schools money could buy. From a very young age I learned dance- not just ballet, but tap, jazz, disco, freestyle and many more types- I learned singing, acting, modelling... I still attend a 'regular' school, I still learn Maths, English, Science and ICT (which I love)... But it's been made very clear to me that I'll never use any of my 'regular' qualifications in my future career, only my performance-related ones.

I've acted in several school plays, performed in several ballet recitals, entered gymnastics tournaments and freestyle dance competitions (which I rarely win, unless you count your mother bollocking you as a prize), sang in the school choir, I'm even a cheerleader... And every time I'm out in front of a crowd I literally feel like I'm about to die, like a giant hand is going to reach down from the sky and squeeze me until I suffocate. For all my life, I knew I was abnormal to feel this way, and for all my life I thought it was because, as my mum insisted, I 'wasn't trying hard enough' or was 'deliberately trying to sabotage my chances'.

Then, two years ago, something happened that opened my eyes to the reality of my situation. A reality TV show started called 'The Angels', about a group of six women in their early twenties who were models, dancers and occasional actresses- everything I'm 'supposed to be'. What was most interesting about the girls- at least to the general public- was that one of them, a girl named Jamie-Lee, used to be a boy named James.

What was even more interesting to me, though, was that one of their associates/boyfriends was a boy named Stuart... Who used to be a girl named Claire.

I've actually met Stuart on a few occasions as he used to be the boyfriend of my dance teacher (who is herself one of these 'Angels'), and each time I see him it amazes me that this regular-looking, albeit fairly short (5' 7", the same height as me) man used to be in the same position I am right now. Living life as a girl, attending dance classes, wearing skirts and make-up... And wishing the whole time that they were a boy. I'd been aware of transgendered people from an early age, but almost always it was just a case of people born male who wished to be female... It had never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, a girl might wish that they were a boy- and that thought was a revelation to me.

After I finish screaming, I dry my eyes and slowly stand up, walking over to my full-length mirror. Staring back at me is a cute, possibly even beautiful fifteen year old girl. I reach into the make-up drawer of my dresser and bring out my make-up removal kit, methodically cleansing my face of the gunk that has covered it ever since I woke up this morning. I untie my ballerina's bun and let my hair hang free, before scraping it back once again into a severe ponytail. I kneel down in front of my mirror, hiding my legs underneath me, and I lift my t-shirt to expose my breasts, before reaching into the back of one of my drawers for an elastic bandage that I wrap around my chest, flattening my breasts so that they're virtually invisible underneath my t-shirt. For the final touch, I clamp a red baseball cap to my head, bearing the crest of Arsenal Football Club- my favourite sports team.

"My name is not Kayleigh-Ann," I whisper to myself, lowering my head and closing my eyes. "I am NOT a girl. My name is not Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl. My name is not Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl..." I repeat my mantra over and over again, hoping, praying that when I open my eyes, I'll see a boy staring back at me, but I do eventually look at myself in the mirror, all I see is the same girl I've been for the last fifteen years. I weep with frustration and anger, before my misery is broken by a shout from downstairs.

"Kayleigh-Ann!" Mum yells. "Come down here!" I take a deep breath before untying my elastic bandage and removing my baseball cap, returning both items to the back of my drawer. I skip downstairs with all the enthusiasm I can muster- which isn't a lot, given that I know what's coming.

"What's up?" I ask.

"What took you so long to get down here?" Mum asks with an angry frown.

"Umm," I stutter. "I- I don't know..."

"I hate it when you lie to me," mum sighs, tearing my insides apart yet again.

"I- I'm sorry," I say, desperately trying not to let my mother's obvious guilt trip get the better of me. She couldn't have called me down just to complain about how long it takes me to heed her call, surely? That doesn't make ANY sense at all...

"Explain to your father why you aren't trying hard enough at ballet, Kayleigh-Ann," mum orders, staring smugly at me as I turn to face my dad.

"Well, umm," I stutter. "It- it's really hard..."

"You've been dancing for twelve years," mum spits as dad remains sat in his chair, his facial expression barely changing. "It's not THAT hard, you're just not trying enough! Or do you like wasting your father's money, which he works hard all day to earn?"

"I- I'll try harder," I mumble for the second time in as many hours.

"You'd better," mum spits, before turning her attention back to the television.

"Ca- can I go?" I ask, wincing as mum angrily nods in my direction whilst dad barely even twitches as I- his only child- slink back to my bedroom, where I once again bite down on a stuffed toy and scream into my pillow until the pain starts to subside.

Virtually every day over the last fifteen years has featured an 'encounter' of this kind. The words are always different, but the way it goes is always the same- my mum sneers at me for 'not trying hard enough', my dad barely acknowledges my existence, I slink back upstairs wishing that I was dead.

I eventually crawl under my bed sheets just after 9:30pm having not gone back downstairs at any point since my 'telling off', but my chances of getting a good night's sleep are thwarted when my bedroom doors open and dad walks in uninvited, switching on my nightlight and sitting down on the edge of my bed.

"Your mum is right, you know," dad says, making me scream internally as I roll over to face him.

"Can- can I please get some sleep?" I plead. "It's the first day of school tomorrow..."

"You should pay more attention to what your mum tells you," dad continues, having apparently ignored my plea. "We only have your best interests at heart." Bullshit, I think to myself.

"I know," I lie as dad forces a weary smile onto his face.

"Craig!" Mum yells from the adjacent bedroom.

"Um, coming!" Dad yells back. "Goodnight, Kayleigh-Ann." Almost in an instant, dad flicks off my nightlight and closes the door, once again leaving me in darkness.

"Goodnight, you useless, wimpy twat," I whisper as muffled sounds of my parents arguing filter through my bedroom wall like an obscene lullaby as I try to get to sleep. "I'm more of a man than you'll ever be..."

It's not like I hate my dad- or my mum, for that matter- I really, truly do want to love them... But it's clear that they don't love me for who I am, merely who they want me to be.

My mum is 41 years old, and for every single day of those 43 years, she's been obsessed with fame. She's always wanted to be a celebrity, to be a rich and famous actress, or dancer, or model... And every time she's tried to make a name for herself, she's failed, being told that 'her face didn't fit', 'she didn't have the talent' or, most commonly, 'her attitude wasn't right for the business'. (Shocking, eh?). My mum took every rejection she got personally, as though the entire world was conspiring to destroy her dream, so when I was born, she was determined that I would be everything she wasn't. I WOULD be rich and famous, I WOULD be an actress, a model or a dancer and I WOULD be admired the world over for my beauty and femininity... Whether I liked it or not, and as you can probably already tell, I don't like it, not one bit.

And yet, every time I try to tell my mum this, I'm ignored, or sneered at, or told how ungrateful I am for turning down all these amazing opportunities. And then, inevitably, my mother will complain- sometimes in public- that she feels yet another bout of depression coming on, and will end up bedridden for a week whilst I'm left to feel three inches tall. I can't even tell her that I'M depressed as it'll just cause her to have yet another bout of her depression, as though she was the only person in the world who ever felt miserable and I had no right to feel anything other than happiness and gratitude for the 'upbringing' she was giving me. If I were to try to tell her about 'the boy inside'... She'd probably guilt trip me to death.

And that's not an exaggeration, as on more than one occasion, I have seriously thought about throwing myself down the stairs in my home, but I've never worked up the courage to do so.

I've often thought about going to see my GP about my depression- and, more importantly, my desire to be a boy- but I know I can't as the news would inevitably get back to my mother, and the guilt trip that would ensue would almost certainly finish me off. I need to do SOMETHING, though, and soon...

My alarm wakes me up at 7am, bringing with it mixed feelings about the day ahead. Over the last six weeks I've spent virtually every waking moment in the company of my parents, but today I finally get a respite from it all- today is the first day of the new school year, more specifically, my final year of secondary school. Whilst the prospect of six hours away from my parents is very appealing, it comes at a cost.

I sigh as I open my drawer, staring at the skimpy, lace-trimmed undergarments within. I try not to think about what I'm doing as I clip my bra behind my back and step into my tight, light pink panties, but every time I bend down I feel the straps of my bra biting into my shoulders as if to say 'your name IS Kayleigh-Ann. You ARE a girl, and there's nothing you can do about it'. I grimace as I apply a light layer of make-up to my face. It's just foundation and a little mascara, virtually invisible but I know if I don't put it on, my mother will inevitably notice and yell at me for not 'keeping up appearances'. Next up are my tights, clingy and almost black, they highlight my slender legs beautifully- and drive home even harder the fact that they are girl's legs. Then comes my blouse, my tie, my blazer and finally my short, dark blue skirt.

After I brush out my hair, I stare at myself in the mirror and almost start crying.

"My name is not Kayleigh-Ann," I whisper to myself. "I am NOT a girl. My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl..." And yet, every time I whisper the words, my face tingles from the make-up I've smeared all over it, my shoulders ache under the constant bite of the bra straps and my legs itch from the nasty, clingy tights. Even when standing still, my skirt flutters around my thighs, reminding me that there is no escape from my own personal hell. I am everything my mother wants me to be... And nothing that I myself want to be.

After eating breakfast, dad drives me to school where I breathe a light sigh of relief to finally be able to live on some of my own terms. Sure, I'm still dressed as a girl, which brings with it the 'attention' of virtually every boy in years ten and eleven, but it's easier to forget about your problems when you're not under the constant threat of your mother summoning you to her.

I don't even have any 'real' friends at school, but I'm far from unpopular. I'm on the cheerleading squad- at my mum's insistence, obviously- so I mainly hang out with them at break and at lunch, even though their talk of make-up, clothes and boys almost drives me insane. Every time they direct the group's attention toward the nearest group of boys, I find myself fantasising about them- not being the girlfriend of one of them, but being, well, just one of them. Swapping videogames, talking about sport and TV... Instead of swapping lipsticks and talking about dance and boys.

Fortunately, my actual classes go as smoothly as I'd hoped- my first lessons were Maths, History and ICT, all lessons I'm predicted at least a C in for my GCSEs. I'm not very academically gifted, but my teachers like me and I work hard in class- extra hard, in fact, as I've struggled my whole life with a mild case of dyslexia. When that was diagnosed eight years ago, it of course triggered an 'episode' from my mother, and just redoubled her efforts to turn me into a performer, because obviously- in her words- with a learning disability (no matter how mild), I'm never going to make it as anything else.

Despite the fact that I've had my uniform on for almost eight hours, I actually have a smile on my face as I leave the school gates, but that smile soon fades as I spot my mum waiting for me in her car.

"Did you enjoy your day, Kayleigh-Ann?" Mum asks as I sit down in the car, wincing as I smooth my skirt over my legs.

"Yeah, it was good," I say, internally sighing as I anticipate my mother's next question. "I got my timetable for the year as well."

"And?" Mum asks expectantly. "When are your rehearsals?"

"...Thursdays," I say, frowning as mum smiles smugly.

"Good, no point in wasting any time," mum beams. "Has Mr. Easton told you what you'll be doing yet?"

"Years 10 and 11 are doing Pygmalion," I say. "Years 7 to 9 are doing Romeo and Juliet."

"Such a shame it couldn't have been the other way around," mum sighs. "Then we might finally find you a boyfriend!" I force out a smile, but internally I wince once again as mum mentions yet another one of her obsessions- my non-existent love life.

Despite the fact that I'm still only fifteen, mum seems determined to match with any and every single attractive boy on the planet. She's even gone so far as to write fan mail to Brooklyn Beckham in my name, but no matter what she tries- or how many 'episodes' she submits to, I remain very, very single.

When I hear my school friends complain about their parents confiscating their phones for spending too much time talking to their boyfriends, it's all I can do not to laugh and scream. Most parents- most ordinary parents, most GOOD parents- would be extremely wary if their fifteen year old daughter came home and announced that she had a boyfriend, especially an older boyfriend. My parents, on the other hand, would be over the moon. Well, my mother would, anyway. Knowing my dad, he'd barely notice anything I did...

After I arrive home, I quickly head upstairs to change out of my uniform into another pair of short shorts and a t-shirt before heading downstairs to eat my very lean, very health-conscious dinner. As with most things, mum strictly controls my diet- obviously she doesn't want me being dangerously underweight, but she also wants me to stay at a very strict weight (8 1/2 stone), so literally every calorie I consume is counted.

Once I've had an opportunity to digest my dinner, I'm once again led out to mum's car for the next part of my evening- and yet another thing I've been dreading all week.

During the last couple of years, when I returned home from school, I'd usually shut myself in my bedroom, desperately trying to pretend that I wasn't a girl and that my parents weren't arguing all the time. Over the summer, though, things changed. My mother suddenly announced one day that she was concerned by my lack of school friends, so she'd gone out and found me some. I will confess that at first I was excited, thinking that finally I'd make true friends, true confidantes to whom I could open up- maybe even a proper BFF. Then I met the four girls mum had selected, and once again, my hopes were dashed.

"Have fun with your 'Angels', Kayleigh-Ann!" Mum says with a smug smile as she drops me outside the modest middle-class house where I'll be spending the next few hours. I sigh heavily as I ring the doorbell and am greeted by the face of my 'best friend'.

"Hi Kayleigh-Ann," Abbey-Gayle says in her soft Jamaican accent. "Nice shorts! Come on in, the other girls are already here." I force a smile on my face as I follow the tall, dark-skinned girl into her living room, where the other three girls are waiting for me.

"Hey girlies!" I squeak with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

"Hi Kayleigh-Ann," Brooke- probably the most level-headed of the four girls- says, making room for me next to her on the sofa. Like the other girls, Brooke is an aspiring model, and already has professional representation despite only being sixteen. She's also a dancer, has ambitions of becoming an actress, was captain of her school's cheerleading squad... Everything my parents ever wanted in a daughter, as I'm reminded every time I see her (admittedly very pretty) face.

"Oh my god," Georgie- probably the least level-headed of the four girls- spits. "Like, are you wearing those shorts AGAIN!? Like, OMG!?"

"They're a different pair than last week," I protest as the (very unnaturally) blonde girl stares at me with blank eyes. Georgie is a semi-professional model, like Brooke, and also like Brooke, she studies at college. Unlike English literature student Brooke, however, she's studying beauty therapy... And never wastes any time in letting us know.

I've heard the stereotypes about hairdressers, of course, but every time I've had my hair and make-up professionally done (always at my mother's insistence, of course), the stylists have always been very professional, very dignified. Georgie... Is none of those things. Show her anything that requires her to concentrate for more than ten seconds and she'll immediately write it off as 'boring' or 'nerdy'. She delights in being as ignorant as humanly possible, and every second I have to hear her phoney Anglo-American accent is like someone is caving in my skull with a sledgehammer.

"Oh, leave her alone," Ella- the last of the group- says defensively, making me genuinely smile- a rarity at one of these 'get-togethers'. Out of all of the girls, Ella is probably the one I'd most like to be friends with- if only because we're both very much outsiders.

Unlike Georgie and Brooke, Ella is a full-time model, and her slender 5' 10" frame means that she's rarely out of work even though she only turned seventeen last month. Like me- or rather, my parents on my behalf- she moved to London to take advantage of the opportunities available in the capital, but unlike me, she moved from a lot further away- over ten thousand miles further, to be precise. As much as she tries to hide it, her Australian origins are very obvious every time she speaks, as is the fact that she misses her home down under.

"It's a cute look," Abbey-Gayle says, trying to 'moderate' the situation. "We oughta know, we've seen it often enough!" I try to smile as Abbey-Gayle, Brooke and Georgie giggle at my expense, before the topic of conversation changes to something that ISN'T my shorts.

As can be easily inferred, Abbey-Gayle is the unofficial 'leader' of our group. She's seventeen, a few months older than Ella, and, like the Australian girl, is also a professional model. Unlike Ella, she's signed to an agency who isn't just one of the country's top agencies, but is also the one behind the modelling clique known as 'The Angels'... And is desperate to turn the five of us into the next 'official Angel group'. A desperation that is, of course, shared by my mother.

The first day I hung out with the four girls, I returned home unconvinced that I'd be 'compatible' with the four girls and vice versa. When I explained this to my mum, however, it was explained to me in no uncertain terms that I WOULD be friends with the four girls, and that I WOULD make more of an effort to fit in with them. Rather than try to find friends with whom I'd fit in well, I was expected to fundamentally change who I was in order to fit in better with the other girls, whether I liked it or not.

"How was school, Kayleigh-Ann?" Ella asks, snapping me back to reality and thankfully steering the conversation away from my shorts.

"Ugh," Georgie spits before I have the chance to reply. "I am SO glad I don't have to go there anymore, I mean, like, hello? I'll wear my skirt shorter if I want to? Stupid teachers..."

"My school uniform was a hundred times worse," Brooke complains, apparently not noticing that Ella directed the question toward me rather than her. "We had to wear tights with skirts all year round, even in July. It just sucked, and all the teachers were arseholes too..."

"OMG, tell me about it," Georgie dramatically sighs. "I mean, hello? So what if I don't pass maths? Like, why would I need to work out the area of a rectangle anyway?" If you've moved into a house and need to know how much carpet to buy, I think to myself. Or how much paint for a wall... I look over at Ella, who shoots me a sympathetic look as Brooke and Georgie continue dominating the conversation. The two of them, along with Abbey-Gayle, were close friends long before the Australian girl or I came along. The only difference is that unlike me, Ella actually does want to be here...

I spend the next two hours slowly losing the will to live as Brooke, Georgie and Abbey-Gayle discuss fashion, make-up and their boyfriends. Ella and I occasionally manage to get a word in, but never for more than a second before the three other girls once again dominate the conversation. By the time I leave the house, it's all I can do not to scream until my throat is raw, but I can't even hint at being unhappy as mum arrives to drive myself and Ella back to our respective homes.

"Did you have fun, girls?" Mum asks.

"It was AWESOME," I say, desperately trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible to avoid mum telling me off in front of my friend.

"Good, I hope you're making more of an effort to fit in than you were before!" Mum says, making me grimace.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Walker," Ella says before I get the chance to respond. "Kayleigh-Ann here's the life of the party!" The Australian girl smiles sympathetically at me as I mouth her a silent 'thank you'.

"Well good," mum says. "I can't wait for the five of you to be signed to Joshua Benedict, then you can all start to be 'real' celebrities..." Ella and I chuckle, and before too long, we pull up outside the Australian girl's (English) grandmother's house, where I bid farewell to her with a quick, feminine hug.

"Can't stand that girl," mum spits as we drive away, momentarily shocking me.

"I kinda like her," I retort. "She's nice, she's friendly..."

"She's a phoney, Kayleigh-Ann," my mum says in a tone that makes it clear that she doesn't want to be argued with. "I mean just look at her, pretending to be shy and coy..."

"She only moved to England four months ago," I say. "She's probably still having difficulty fitting in..."

"No one who looks like that has any difficulty fitting in anywhere," mum says, anger creeping into her voice. "No, she's obviously waiting for her opportunity, her 'big break', then she won't think twice about abandoning the rest of you. You'd be much better off being best friends with Abbey-Gayle."

"Okay," I say, clenching my left hand into a fist out of sight of my mother.

When we arrive home I immediately head up to my bedroom, where I grab my favourite stuffed giraffe and bite down hard on its leg, before burying my face in my pillow and screaming until my stress starts to fade. I have tears in my eyes as I finish my homework, causing my mascara- which I hadn't wanted to wear anyway- to run, staining my cheeks and adding to my anxieties.

"My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann," I whisper to myself as I remove my make-up. "I am NOT a girl. My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl..." I keep whispering my 'mantra' as I prepare myself for bed, eventually falling asleep with my face buried in my pillow as I try not to scream at the downward spiral my life seems to be taking.

I wake up the following morning and shiver with anger as I pull on my school uniform, as I know it won't be the worst thing I wear today- far from it, in fact.

During the second period at school, I inwardly sigh as I line up alongside twenty other girls and methodically strip off my shoes, my skirt, my tights and my blouse, before stretching a blue, spangly long-sleeved leotard over my body. Whether I like it or not- something I seem to be saying a lot nowadays- I'm a member of the school's gymnastics team, which means that for two hours each week, I have to prance around the school gymnasium covered in only a thin layer of lycra whilst my teachers and classmates watch and critique the movement of every last muscle in my body- all of which are visible under my skin-tight garment.

For once, it's actually a relief to put on my school uniform, even though it's little relief as during the lunch period, I head straight back to the changing room and strip it off again, this time changing into the tiny blue crop top and ruffled skirt of the school's cheerleading squad. This time, I'm not only observed by my teachers and my teammates, but by anyone in the school who wants to come and watch us practice. My bones start to chill and my stomach churns as I look across the field at the assembled crowd and spot that at least a third of them are boys from either years 10 or 11- boys who will no doubt fantasise about me in my uniform later tonight.

Once again, it's a relief when cheerleading practice ends and I can pull on my regular school skirt- even if it only a fraction longer than my cheerleading skirt. As I head to my final lesson- French- I can't help but once again stare at the boys and shudder at the knowledge that one or more of them may 'fantasise' about me later tonight.

It's not like I dislike boys- quite the opposite, in fact, given that I myself fantasise about being one- but their obsession with sex isn't just off-putting, it's revolting. Ever since I've had the desire to be male, I've tried repeatedly to make friends with other boys, but any friendship I make never seems to get past the fact that they're a boy, and I'm a girl, and they want me to be their girlfriend. Every. Single. Boy. Every last one of them eventually obsesses over sex and tries to decide that we're boyfriend and girlfriend instead of just friends, and every friendship always ends at that point. My habit of 'friendzoning' boys has got me a reputation in school of being frigid, a prude- a reputation I'm more than happy to live up to.

Yet again, my mum drives me home at the end of the school day- grilling me over whether or not I've been made captain of the cheerleading squad, despite the captain not being picked for another few months- and yet again, my day ends with my teeth clamped around my stuffed giraffe's leg and my face buried in my pillow in a muffled, primal scream.

As I drift off to sleep, my thoughts, as always, turn to what it must be like to be a boy, to not have the pressure of parents always demanding you be something that you're not, or to not have the pressure of fitting in with a peer group you despise, or to not go through life being ogled by anything with a penis... Or to not endure the five days of sheer misery I have waiting for me later in the month.

Thankfully, for the final day of the school week, I keep my uniform on all day, though this doesn't prevent the stares of every boy in the school from locking onto my nylon-covered legs throughout the day.

Once I arrive home, it's a relief to finally be able to shed my uniform for a week, though the relief is short-lived as I once again pull on the pink tights and tight black leotard that makes up the uniform of my ballet class. As I stretch the clingy black garment over my torso, it actually feels like it's suffocating me, squeezing me like a giant python.

"Finally!" Mum snorts as I head downstairs dressed in just my ballet uniform. "One would almost think you hated ballet... Your friend Georgie called whilst you were upstairs. They're meeting up at her house after the lesson so you'll be going home with her parents."

"What?" I ask, earning a stern stare from my mother. "Umm, I'll need to go and get some clothes, then, I'll go upstairs and get a pair of shorts-"

"Already taken care of," mum says with a smug smile. "I've put a top and a black skirt in your dance bag, you've worn shorts often enough this week. Now come on, you don't want your teacher yelling at you because you're late, do you?" Wearily, I shake my head as I follow mum out to the car, sighing as I emerge from it a few minutes later in front of the very familiar dance studio. I head inside and am greeted by Brooke and Georgie- Abbey-Gayle being in a different class and Ella still being on the waiting list for this class- before heading into the lesson.

Unlike Tuesday's lesson, today I can breathe a tiny bit easier. Sure, my teacher is still highly critical of my form, but at least mum isn't around to pile on the pressure after the lesson is over. Unfortunately, Brooke and Georgie are on hand to pile on pressure of a different kind.

"OMG, I LOVE that skirt!" Georgie squeaks as I don the black skirt mum provided for me, pulling it on over my ballet uniform as, of course, I wasn't given any underwear in my dance bag, only the skirt and top.

"Yeah, it looks so good on you, Kayleigh-Ann!" Brooke says as she pulls on her own top and miniskirt. "I don't know why you don't wear skirts more often."

"Yeah, like, free the legs!" Georgie says. Obviously, neither of them know the real reason why I prefer shorts to skirts, nor will they ever know it in case it gets back to my mum. If I owned a pair of jeans, or even regular trousers, I'd wear them instead, but the only bottoms I own that aren't either skirts, leggings or pyjamas are my shorts- so they're what I wear the most often.

"I dunno," I sigh. I briefly pause to think of something else to say, but as usual, I'm beaten to the punch by Georgie's never-ending mouth.

"Like, shorts CAN be okay with tights some of the time, but you always wear them bare-legged!" The irritating blonde girl says.

"I dunno why you're not more confident," Brooke interjects. "Maybe it's because you're still only fifteen, I dunno." Or maybe it's because you never let me get a word in edgeways, I think to myself, smirking as I half expect Georgie to call Brooke a 'nerd' or a 'swot' for being able to count as high as fifteen.

"OMG!" Georgie suddenly squeaks. "We're getting rid of a load of clothes at my house! We can, like, give you a whole new wardrobe!" Of your cast-offs? I think as the three of us get into Georgie's mother's car.

"That is such a great idea!" Brooke says. "We could have, like, a fashion show, maybe tape it and send it to an agency!"

"Will your clothes even fit me?" I ask Georgie, who in addition to being four inches shorter than me, is also noticeably a dress size larger than me.

"They'll be fine," the blonde girl says dismissively before turning back to Brooke and discussing the 'fashion show' I'm apparently going to put on later tonight. Once again, I feel my hand once again ball into a fist as the two sixteen year old girls jabber on and on, barely acknowledging the fact that I'm even in the car with them as they decide what outfits to dress me in as though I were some kind of living, breathing Barbie doll.

Sure enough, the second we arrive at Georgie's house, I have several items of clothing thrust into my hands and am ordered upstairs into Georgie's bedroom to change into them, the two girls so desperate to use me as their 'doll' they don't even bother to wait for Abbey-Gayle and Ella to arrive before beginning the 'fashion show'. I spend the next ninety minutes 'modelling' the clothes for the girls, and each new outfit just makes my stress levels grow higher and higher. I'm handed dresses, skirts, crop tops, even a couple of fashionable leotards (which I immediately reject). At no point am I handed a single pair of trousers, or even so much as a pair of shorts- it's like the only thing this girl owns is skirts and dresses.

As I head to Georgie's bedroom to change into yet another dress, though, I have an unexpected encounter, an encounter that would ultimately change my entire life. I'm simply walking along the landing toward Georgie's bedroom when one of the other doors opens, and out of it steps a young man with dark brown hair and glasses with a thin brown rim. Stunned by the man's sudden appearance, I freeze in place as he stares at me wearing one of Georgie's short black dresses whilst clutching another one in my hands.

"Georgie!" The young man yells, startling me and nearly causing me to drop the dress I'm holding. "One of your weird friends is staring at me!"

"OMG Ollie!" Georgie yells back, her voice unmuffled despite having to pass through several walls. "Stop being such a creep!"

"Sorry for being a 'creep'," Ollie says, making me giggle nervously. "I'm Ollie- well, Oliver."

"Kayleigh-Ann," I say, extending my hand, which Ollie shakes, making me giggle even more.

"Sorry about my sister," Ollie jokes as he heads into the house's spacious bathroom. "Worst day of my life was when she learned how to spell 'OMG'. The two weeks since have been absolute hell..." I giggle even more as Ollie disappears behind the bathroom door, though as I change into Georgie's latest 'offering', a thought suddenly occurs to me. If Ollie is Georgie's brother, it raises an interesting possibility- Georgie said that their house was getting rid of clothes- not she personally, but the whole household... Ollie's only a couple of inches taller than me and not a great deal wider... Maybe it won't just be Georgie who 'donates' clothes to my wardrobe tonight.

"Ugh, sorry about my brother, Kayleigh-Ann," Georgie spits as I return to the house's living room and 'model' Georgie's dress for the four girls. "Like, he is such a total NERD. I mean, OMG, all he does is spend all day in his room playing stupid videogames. I mean, he actually WANTS to be a computer person?"

"Can you believe he actually made a pass at me once?" Brooke snorts. "I mean, like I'd even look at him when I've got Andy..."

"Sad, deluded nerd," Abbey-Gayle snorts. "I mean, no offence Georgie, but how did you and he come from the same parents?" I bet Ollie asks himself the same thing on a daily basis...

The girls spend the next five minutes insulting Ollie, with even Ella getting in a few half-hearted digs at the boys expense, before I'm led into the kitchen, where the bags of clothes are laid out for me to choose from. As I predicted, at the opposite end of the kitchen table are two bags that look much more enticing than Georgie's endless supply of skirts and dresses- one of which contains a faded pair of denim jeans, the other contains a selection of t-shirts with various futuristic logos on them. The question is, how am I going to get them into my 'take home' bag without the other girls noticing? I look through Georgie's bags one more time, before something buried at the bottom of one of the bags catches my eye.

"Umm, I didn't try this on," I say, pulling the sleek blue garment out of the bag.

"Umm, Kayleigh-Ann?" Abbey-Gayle asks in a condescending voice. "That's a STRAPLESS dress. You, like, need boobs to wear it."

"I have boobs," I say, biting my tongue to keep myself from saying 'even though I wish I didn't.

"And you can't wear it over a leotard," Brooke says. "It'd just look stupid."

"...So give me some privacy and I'll take it off, then," I say, smirking as the other four girls leave me alone in the kitchen. Acting quickly, I strip off my leotard and quickly pull on the dress- which, predictably, doesn't fit properly- before grabbing the first pair of jeans and the first t-shirt I can find and stuffing them into my dance bag where they won't be seen.

"Okay," I say as I walk into the living room in the ill-fitting garment. "You may have had a point about this..."

"Whatever," Ella says dismissively. "You're only fifteen, you'll grow. And besides, it does still look kinda cute..."

"Aww, thanks!" I say, forcing a smile on my face as I pull my top back on and step out of the dress.

"Meh, you can have it anyway if you want, it's SO last season," Georgie shrugs.

"Kinda think my bag's already overflowing as it is!" I giggle. "But thank you so much for all the clothes!"

"Aww, you're, like, welcome!" Georgie giggles, jumping up and giving me a quick hug. "That's what friends are for, right?" Yeah... I think to myself. But perhaps not quite the way you intended...

With my 'fashion show' over, I get to relax for the next half an hour and pretend to listen as Georgie, Brooke and Abbey-Gayle talk about all the new clothes they'll be getting to replace the barely-worn clothes they're getting rid of. I get a lift home with Brooke's parents, and have a smile on my face as I walk through my front door, quickly heading upstairs to stash away my new clothes- especially the clothes I actually wanted to bring home with me, which I hide at the back of one of my drawers.

I just about manage to resist the urge to immediately change into the clothes, knowing that I'll have plenty of opportunities to do so soon enough, but for the first time in a very long time, my stuffed giraffe goes for an entire evening without one of its legs between my teeth.

Even as I hear mum and dad argue in the bedroom next to mine, I manage to relax and quickly get to sleep, knowing that when I wake up, the clothes will still be there, and maybe, just maybe, when I wear them and look in the mirror, I'll see the boy inside looking back at me.

I slowly wake up the following morning, taking my time as I shower before pulling on yet another pair of shorts and a loose top. Normally, on a Saturday, I'd be expected to hang out with Abbey-Gayle and the other girls, but with both Abbey-Gayle and Brooke away visiting family this weekend- and mum's reluctance to let me hang out with Ella- I have today completely free, and I know exactly how I want to spend it. Sadly, I have no choice over who I spend it with...

"Good morning, Kayleigh-Ann," mum says as I sit down at the breakfast table and stare dejectedly at my bran flakes.

"Morning," I say, desperately trying not to sigh.

"What do you have planned for today?" Mum asks.

"Nothing really," I reply. "Maybe get some homework done..." I pause, fully expecting mum to now tell me exactly what I'll be doing today.

"Well I hope you'll learn your lines as well," mum says, making me slyly nod my head. "You need to be the best Eliza Doolittle you can if you want that part, I'm not suffering through the shame of you being a background performer again!"

"...I will," I mumble as I pick at my breakfast.

"Normally I'd stay and help you rehearse," mum says. "But I have a hair and nail appointment today, I'll be out until just gone 4, and your dad won't be back from the game until gone 6, so you'll have to get your own lunch today." I perk up at this news- it's rare that I get the whole house to myself, especially at the weekend.

"Wh- what time will you be going?" I ask.

"About 11," mum says. "I've marked off what you'll be eating on your food chart, five minutes in the microwave should be enough."

"Okay," I say as a smile involuntarily creeps onto my face. Five whole hours with the house to myself? This is even better than I thought...

Sure enough, mum leaves the house just after 11, taking dad with her to drop him at the local football ground ahead of today's game. I waste no time as I head upstairs and strip off my clothes, removing my bra and replacing it with my trusty elasticated bandage. I wash off what little make-up I was wearing and scrape my hair back into a severe ponytail. I take a deep breath as I retrieve the jeans and the t-shirt from where I stashed them last night. As I step into the jeans- the first pair of long trousers I've worn in years- a rush of adrenaline flows through my body, as if my brains know that what I'm doing is so, so wrong, but my heart knows that it's so, so right. Once I've pulled on the t-shirt- and made sure that my small breasts are invisible underneath it- I clamp my beloved Arsenal hat to my head and close my eyes.

"My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann," I say confidently. "I am NOT a girl. My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann. I am NOT a girl..." I open my eyes and look in the mirror, and staring back at me is a plain- albeit cute- fifteen year old boy. I almost weep with joy as I examine my reflection. Obviously I can see the girl beneath the clothes and the hat, but if you were to show me a photo of what I'm seeing right now and tell me 'this person is a boy'... I'd believe it.

I stand up and start to walk out of my room, only to cringe as the jeans start to slide down my hips. Sure, I've seen some of the boys at school wear sagging jeans from time to time, but it's a 'trend' I'd rather avoid... Especially as it reveals my still feminine-shaped hips and waist. Thinking quickly, I head into my parents' bedroom, tiptoeing nervously across the floor even though they've gone and won't be back for a long time. I know for a fact that dad has several old leather belts that he's kept and never wears any more, it shouldn't be too hard to find them, even if I have to be careful- I've never dared steal any of my parents' clothes in the past for fear of what my mum would say if I was found out, but one belt surely can't make a difference...

I search carefully for over ten minutes, my movements so precise I feel like a soldier defusing a bomb, but I eventually locate the supply of belts. I pick out an old, barely-worn one from the back of the drawer and carefully replace the others before wrapping the belt through the loops on the jeans, tightening it just enough to keep the jeans around my waist as I walk downstairs and crash on the sofa.

For the first time in my life, everything feels just right. Everything feels the way it's supposed to be. I can forget about the pressures of school, the pressures of family, the pressures of keeping up appearances with my 'friends'. I can forget all about the pressures of simply being female, and just relax.

After an hour, my stomach starts to grumble- my Bran Flakes obviously weren't very filling, so I head over to the fridge and stare inside at the meal that's been left for me- a small pot of pasta with a very plain-looking tomato sauce. In addition to deciding what I wear, do, say, eat and even think, mum has also decided a few years ago that I was going to be a vegan just like her and dad. All of a sudden, meat, cheese, yogurt and milk chocolate completely disappeared from my diet- or so mum thinks.

As I eat my pasta (it'd be too obvious if I didn't eat it or threw it away, so I have to eat it whether I like it or not) I sigh at the bland, tasteless nature of the food, and a plan suddenly pops into my head. Mum and dad won't be back for ages, and the Kings Mall shopping centre is only a quarter of an hour away... But do I really dare go outside dressed as a boy?

If I were to leave the house and run into someone who sussed me as a boy, or worse yet, someone who knows me personally, it'd be a disaster. Mum and dad would inevitably find out, mum would probably hospitalise herself... And I don't know what I'd end up doing. On the other hand, it IS only a short walk away, and if I ate one chocolate bar, there's no way mum and dad would find out...

I weigh up the pros and cons in my mind for over fifteen minutes before realising that the more time I spend making the decision, the less time I'll have to actually carry out my 'plan'. I head upstairs and reach into my wardrobe for my grey winter coat- the only unisex coat or jacket that I own- and my most unisex pair of trainers. Once I'm fully dressed, I look in my mirror one more time, this time with my eyes wide open.

"My name is NOT Kayleigh-Ann," I- and the boy in the mirror- say confidently. "I am NOT a girl." I grin as I take a £10 note out of my purse and stuff it into my pocket. Mum gives me £15 per week pocket money that I'm supposed to spend on cosmetics and clothes- god only knows how she'd react if she found out that I was spending it on very non-vegan chocolate.

As it's Saturday, the streets are relatively packed, but no one pays the blindest bit of notice as I walk the short distance to the shopping mall. I'm just another feminine-looking teenaged boy- and in 2015, that's hardly anything out of the ordinary. If anything, it's my coat- too warm for early September- and my hat, bearing the logo of a rival football team, that gets the most disapproving stares.

Once I arrive at the vast shopping mall, I make a beeline for the larges Sainsbury's store where I spend minutes browsing their vast selection of chocolate. In the end I settle for a simple bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk, which I unwrap and eat the second I leave the shop, trying not to cry as the sweet confection touches my tongue. It only takes a minute to finish off the chocolate, but I let the last crumbs linger on my tongue for as long as they can before they finally dissolve, leaving me feeling empty- as much of a 'victory' as this was, as delicious as the chocolate was, I know that this is just a one off, never to be repeated... And I walk past the large Primark shop next to the Sainsbury's, I kick myself for not bringing more money to buy more, better-fitting clothes.

As I leave the mall and prepare to head home, however, I see something that makes my blood chill.

"No," I whisper. "No, not now..." I try to look away from the person whose gaze I briefly fixed, but it's to no avail as they immediately start walking toward me, a mixture of confusion and twisted delight on their face.

"Ka-Kayleigh-Ann?" Ollie loudly announces, attracting the attention of all the nearby shoppers, who are no doubt surprised to learn that the 'boy' they just walked past was called 'Kayleigh-Ann'.

"Shhh!" I urge the bespectacled young man. "No! No! Not Kayleigh-Ann!"

"Oh," Ollie says, taken aback by the firmness of my denial. "Umm, sorry, I thought you looked like someone I knew..."

"No- Ollie, wait," I say quietly, grabbing the young man's arm and leading him into the store. "Ollie... It IS me. I- I just didn't want you shouting it to everyone in the mall."

"Wh- why are you here, dressed like that?" The young man asks. "Are those my old jeans? And my t-shirt?"

"...Yes," I sigh. "I- I kinda swiped them last night, when your sister was giving me her clothes..."

"But why?" Ollie asks as we head to the mall's food court. "You- you are a girl, right? You know these are boy's clothes?"

"Yes, I know," I say. "And yes, I- I am a girl. I... I just wish I wasn't."

"So... So, um, what?" Ollie asks. "Are you, like, a reverse crossdresser or something?"

"...Sure, let's go with that," I say sarcastically as we both order glasses of full-fat Coca-Cola.

"There's no need to be like THAT," Ollie says, making me grimace.

"Sorry, sorry," I sigh. "It's just- ugh, this'll sound silly..."

"No, go on," Ollie says. "I promise I won't tell anyone, ESPECIALLY not Georgie..."

"...I really, really wish I was a boy," I say, looking for any response in Ollie's eyes. "...Nothing? This isn't exactly a normal thing for someone to say..."

"No, I get it," Ollie says. "You were born the wrong gender, like that Jamie-Lee woman my sister's always banging on about, or that singer in Out of Heaven. Only difference is that unlike them, you were born a girl, but want to be a boy."

"...And still nothing?" I ask.

"What else is there?" Ollie asks. "Sure, it's not 'ordinary', but whatever, right? It's your life, after all." Yeah, as if, I self-pityingly think to myself. "Do your parents know about this?"

"No, and it stays that way," I say firmly. "As far as they're concerned I'm still Kayleigh-Ann, future supermodel ad ultra-girly girl."

"Have you tried telling them?" Ollie asks.

"I can't even tell them I don't like tomatoes," I sigh. "Every time I 'deviate from the path', mum decides I've made her depressed and stays in bed for days at a time, whilst dad barely knows I exist most days."

"No offence," Ollie says, "but they sound like really, really shitty parents."

"They ARE," I say. "Can't wait until I'm eighteen, then I can move out... Hell, even when I'm sixteen I'll have some more freedom..."

"Wait, wait," Ollie says. "So- so you're only fifteen?"

"Yeah, I'm sixteen at the end of December," I say. "December 30th."

"Let me guess," Ollie says. "Your parents wanted a millennial baby?"

"And I thought boys are supposed to be the LESS perceptive gender," I reply, making Ollie snort with laughter. "Why does it matter if I was fifteen or sixteen, anyway?"

"It's- gah, you're going to laugh at me now..." Ollie sighs.

"No, go on," I say. "If I can trust you with this secret, surely you can trust me with yours, right?"

"I- yesterday, I- I was planning on asking you out," Ollie says, making me sigh and let out a small chuckle. "I knew it, you're laughing at me..."

"No, not at all," I say.

"My mum and dad's been on at me for ages to find a girlfriend," Ollie explains. "Georgie's constantly taking the piss, all her friends are obnoxious, retards or obnoxious retards..."

"Bit harsh," I say. "Ella's not too bad..."

"The Australian girl?" Ollie asks. "Yeah, she's okay. She's also an inch taller than me! Don't want to go around looking like Bernie Ecclestone..."

"Trust me, there's no danger of that," I say, making Ollie giggle. "But you should ask her, I know she's single, she's not like the other girls..."

"Yeah, but-" Ollie says, before stammering.

"...Go on," I urge the nervous young boy.

"You- you're cuter," Ollie says, making me smile and suppress a giggle.

"Even dressed like this?" I ask.

"...Okay, maybe not," Ollie says, making me laugh.

"My parents are constantly having a go at me too," I say. "Trying to find me a boyfriend, an older boyfriend..."

"Well, I'm seventeen," Ollie says. "Eighteen in March, that's older, right?"

"Are you really asking out another boy?" I ask Ollie, who giggles.

"No, not at all," the young man replies. "But... How about this: you don't get to, well, 'be a boy' that often, am I right?"

"This is literally the first opportunity I've ever had," I reply.

"And you like it, right?" Ollie probes further.

"You honestly have no idea," I reply.

"Okay then," Ollie says. "So how about this- we say we're boyfriend and girlfriend, and you can come over and we can pretend we're on dates, but in reality, you're being a boy and we hang out as male friends?"

"...That's just crazy enough to work," I say, a genuine smile creeping across my face.

"So that's settled, then!" Ollie says. "As far as everyone's concerned, as of right now, we're boyfriend and girlfriend."

"But as far as WE'RE concerned," I say, "we're just two mates who enjoy hanging out together?"

"Exactly!" Ollie says, making me chuckle happily. "One thing, though- I assume that, as a boy, you wouldn't want to be called 'Kayleigh-Ann'?"

"As a GIRL I don't like being called that," I sigh, making Ollie chuckle. "I've never really thought of it, though, never thought I'd have a male 'identity' that would need naming..."

"Well, it does now," Ollie says. "What's the masculine form of Kayleigh? Kay...len? Kaylen?"

"Absolutely not," I reply. "Too chavvy. Next!"

"Umm," Ollie says. "Kay... Leigh-Ann... E-Ann..."

"Wait," I say. "E-Ann?"

"...Yes?" Ollie asks. "It's still a bit girly, isn't it?"

"Not if you pronounce it 'Ian', it isn't," I say, making Ollie smile. "Don't really want to call myself 'Ian Walker' though. Look at the hat- I'm not naming myself after a Tottenham player."

"How attached are you to the surname 'Walker'?" Ollie asks.

"Completely UNattached," I reply.

"So keep 'Ian' and drop 'Walker'," Ollie shrugs. "What else could we call you instead of Walker?"

"...Freeman," I say after a second's thought. "Because that's exactly what I am now: a free man."

"Perfect," Ollie says with a wide grin, before reaching a hand over the table toward me. "Oliver Powell. Nice to meet you."

"Ian Freeman," I say, shaking Ollie's out-stretched hand. "Likewise!"

"I can tell that this is the start of a very, very special friendship," Ollie says.

"You don't know how right you are," I say, taking my first ever breath through 'Ian's mouth.

For the first ever time in my life, I actually have something to look forward to, a light at the end of a very, very long tunnel. Even though I've only lived as a boy for less than an hour, it's already long enough for me to know that I like it, and I want more, so much more...