"Your body," said her father, almost apologetically. "You know, the reason you work on your algebra while your friends have their swimming lessons."
"Oh." Faye suddenly realised what they were getting at. "That." She looked down at the shag carpet.
Years ago, her parents had sat her down for a similar talk. They had told her about how all babies have thorough medical checks these days, ever since the government worked out that prevention was cheaper than cure. When she'd had hers, the high definition MRI scan had apparently revealed that she was a perfectly healthy baby girl—despite her body giving her the appearance of a perfectly healthy baby boy.
It was an age old condition, her parents had told her. In a funny sort of way, they'd said, she was lucky to have been born when she was. As recently as a few decades earlier, people with her medical issue had to work it out for themselves after decades and sometimes even lifetimes of mental anguish. Nowadays it was something your doctor told your parents at birth.
"I know you don't exactly like your body," said her father.
"I look like a freak," muttered Faye.
"That's not true," said her mother sharply. "You look just as lovely as any of your friends."
Faye didn't say anything. It simply wasn't true. Karen and Sarah and Louise all had to start wearing training bras this year, and here she was with a flat chest and an unsightly bulge in her knickers. It was hideous. Her skin crawled just thinking about it.
"Those pills you're taking are just a temporary measure," her mother continued. "They're delaying your puberty, but you can't take them forever." Her mother's voice became unusually soft and quiet. "You're going to have to make a choice."
"What kind of choice?" asked Faye, her eyes still fixed on the floor. She could feel them welling up already.