The bell rings. School begins for the very last time in Angelwood High. I can't concentrate. “Homosapiens. Our origins were not so far away-” My teacher prattles on. I’m thinking too much again. (Like usual.) “— and we’ll be discussing the way the world began.” I remember this class. I remember the words that will leave Mr. Holden’s lips. “We were born like this.” “A female of the species is born with XX chromosomes—” “XY chromosomes denote a male of the species—” Why am I doing this again? I died last night. I died. I'm only shocked that I don’t feel the wound pounded in my brain. Where’s the pain that murdered me? Why is it that when I raise my fingers to my head I feel nothing? (But a phantom of pain whispers by my head. Stays; hisses; peels; breaks me, further and further down. Until my head is good as caved open.) (Pain isn’t here; and pain wants me to drown.) I wasn’t dreaming. I died. That’s the only explanation for how I know exactly how today will unfold. “Such markers are indicators of gender—” No. Not unfold. I don’t want to die again. (I won’t die again.) “— categories which all humans fall into.” Why am I back? To win again? I won’t complain. I’ll win Prom Queen a thousand times if I had to, and I’d do it gladly. To try again? I don’t want to die again. “Ethereality? Are you with us?” I snap to attention. Mr. Holden looks at me expectantly, though not with malice. He knows I'm an Estridge and I'm the kindest girl on earth— supposedly. I wouldn’t ignore his class. “Yes,” I say. “I’m here.” “Will you answer my question?” He asks. “What makes a female of the species?” Mr. Holden smiles, encouraging, as he awaits my answer. I think about this. I’ve done this before. Don’t I remember my answer? Nuturing. Emotional. Sweet. Empathetic. Beautiful. Mr. Holden nods. His smile widens. “Ethereality’s right,” he says, and turns to the class again. “The ability to nuture is crucial to femininity…” “The ability to be emotional is crucial to femininity…” “The ability to be sweet is crucial to femininity…” “The ability to be empathetic is crucial to femininity…” “The ability to be beautiful is crucial to femininity…” (And the elegy is you.) The bell rings. Everyone leaves Biology. In the corridors, they tell me how well I’ve done in class (as if); ask me about tonight, because Prom is all that’s on everyone’s minds and I am the star (blood-streaked.) I manage to return their hellos and smiles without feeling— too — faint. Finally the questioning abates and their bodies rush off to their next class. I need to go, too. I can’t miss English, they’ll wonder where I am. But my heart rams in my throat; my chest is sick with heave. I feel like hurling. (My death keeps coming back. My grace keeps cracking. My body keeps falling. Is it because my descent was always the prettiest of them all?) I breathe in the corridors. Who murdered me? All of Angelwood High adores me. I’ve made sure of the fact. It’s been true since the beginning of time. Or as close to the beginning of time as it could be. When I turned into a teen and shot up the ranks, with my saunter and my beauty and my smile. (When I stopped hanging with the wrong people. When I began to be beautiful and lived up to the best ideals.) ... (When I started to become perfect.) There are only a few possibilities. There are only a few that hate me.