Free Babe in Boyland by Jody Gehrman

really can’t see me naked because I’ve got two sports bras on and under that are small but nonetheless incriminating boobs ? “Mind if I change in the closet?”
    Tyler and Max both stare at me, surprised.
    “Why?” Tyler asks.
    “Because I have . . . birthmarks!” I improvise.
    “Birthmarks?” Max echoes.
    “Yeah, birthmarks. Really weird ones. Hideous deformities—I don’t want to talk about it.” I dart to the closet.
    “There’s not much room in there,” Tyler says doubtfully.
    “I’ll be fine.” I quickly shut myself into the cramped, dark space and, sweating profusely, change into Tyler’s uniform. I stumble over his shoes a couple times but manage to get undressed and then dressed again without serious injury. I hurry back into the room, tucking in the shirt.
    “You forgot the tie,” Max says primly.
    “Oh, yeah.” I reach for the tie on the hanger, then realize I’ve no idea how to tie one. “Either of you guys know how to . . . ?”
    “You never wore a tie before?” Tyler asks, incredulous.
    “I’m just not that good at, you know, tying it.”
    Max sighs dramatically and crosses the room in his underwear and tube socks. His pale, fluffy hair makes him resemble a human Q-tip. He takes the tie from me and loops it around my neck with nimble fingers, lips pursed in disapproval. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to a nearly naked male, and I have to say it’s not at all how I imagined it.
    “Didn’t you have a uniform at your old school?” Tyler asks.
    “Sure,” I say. “I just never got good at the tie, I guess.”
    “Did Mommy do it for you?” Max finishes his work by tightening the knot around my neck.
    “Jeez,” I protest. “Mind if I breathe?”
    “Come on!” Tyler hustles me toward the door. “We’ve got to go. If I miss points on this quiz my day will be ruined.”
    I mumble a quick thanks to Max and follow Tyler out.
    “See you at lunch!” Max calls just before the door slams.
    I hurry after Tyler, who is practically running now.
    “We’ll go through the courtyard,” he says. “That way I can give you a quick rundown of the social landscape before first period. Here’s your schedule.”
    I take the printout from him. “The social landscape?”
    “Yeah—you know. Who’s who, what’s what.”
    I scramble down the footpath after him, back toward the big, Gothic building the headmaster’s office is in. I can’t help gazing up at it again in wonder. It really is impressive, with its spires and towers and huge, beautiful windows.
    “This is where everyone hangs out,” Tyler says.
    I don’t really see anyone around and I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when we turn a corner and find ourselves at the edge of a beautiful cobblestone courtyard. At its center is a quaint stone fountain spewing plumes of froth. The space is filled with guys in uniform; some sit at picnic tables or benches, some stand around in tight circles, still others lounge at the edge of the fountain, their faces turned up to the sun.
    Tyler looks at me. “So here goes your five-minute tour of the social strata. Ready?”
    “Ready.”
    “Over there you’ve got your more-organic-than-thou types.” He nods at a group of skinny guys draped on the fire escape that snakes up the building. “Vegans, animal rights activists, stewards of the earth. They’re always on the administration about the meal options, and no matter what we’re discussing in class they’ll find a way to drag in the melting polar ice caps.”
    “Roger that,” I say. “Earth stewards, two o’clock.”
    “Here you’ve got your frustrated metal heads.” He nods at a table covered in sullen-looking guys with hair that hangs into their eyes. “In the real world they’d have mass hair and piercings, but Underwood precludes that particular form of personal expression, so they’re stuck with greasy bangs. After school they’re smoking in the woods, if you need them. They can get you any drug for a