Some boys collected cards, while others collected books or interesting rocks. But Indigo didn't collect any such things. He collected secrets.

At this point, he had several. Most of them were insignificant secrets that wouldn't appall anyone if they somehow found out about them, but he kept them quiet anyhow, if only for the sake of having them. In a sense, it was similar to the way a boy might keep common, unremarkable cards in the midst of a few valuable ones--for a valuable card by itself can't construct a collection. The collection couldn't exist without a multitude of useless cards to accompany a few rare ones.

It was the same with secrets. Most of them were trivial, paling in comparison to his most monumental secret of all, the secret that kept all the others in their places. It was also his most dangerous secret, the one that could be uncovered easier than any of the others. The secret could be discovered at any instant, and if it was, Indigo knew that it would have tremendous consequences.

It originated with a little girl named Charlotte.

Several years ago, Charlotte attended a prestigious--albeit crowded--private elementary school in the wealthiest part of the city. Her classmates were generally healthily groomed save for one scrawny lad who always had snot dripping from his nose. Every day he wore the same grungy jacket with a shapeless, tattered cap to match. Most of the children--including Charlotte--lived in clean, spacious homes inhabited by responsible mothers who always kept them tidy. Consequently, the children weren't accustomed to untidiness, so the odd boy had no friends. Charlotte assumed that he didn't mind, though, since he rarely displayed emotions.

Charlotte soon discovered that her assumption was incorrect.

One day, Charlotte was sitting on her favorite swing when she saw a handsome young lad corner the snot-nosed boy, probably to tease him or ask him questions about his peculiar appearance. Charlotte didn't intervene; she didn't understand Snot-Face either, so she saw no harm in asking, "Why do you wear such a ratty coat, anyway?" or even spitting on the ground at his feet every so often. In fact, she had done so herself when she was having a rough day.

What finally demanded her attention was a shrill scream that pierced the air.

Charlotte looked up to see the handsome boy kneeling on the pavement, clutching his eye and howling in pain. Snot-Face stood absolutely still, and it was the first time Charlotte ever saw his eyes wide with emotion.

The handsome boy shifted his hand, and Charlotte suddenly saw a flash of red running down his cheek. She gasped and covered her eyes, but the image had already been branded into her memory. The boy continued to scream. Charlotte kept her hands tightly over eyes as she heard the teacher's footsteps rushing past and heard her shout, "What happened, dear?!" only to get incoherent blubbering in reply. Then, Charlotte heard the unmistakable noise of a ruler smacking flesh, and the other boy--Snot-Face--began to cry. A second teacher ran past Charlotte, rambling about something that she didn't understand, and finally the miserable crying started to fade and it ended abruptly when they all retreated into the building.

Later, Charlotte learned that Snot-Face's real name was Thomas, and he had been hiding a syringe in his jacket. He didn't actively seek violence, but he had been teased so much that he finally snapped and stabbed someone in the eye. Charlotte shuddered because it could have been her just as easily if she had decided to spit at his feet that day.

"And that's why you shouldn't keep secrets from us, children," the teacher said to the class. "Secrets are dangerous. Remember that."

Charlotte never saw either of the boys again, but the horrific scene she witnessed continued to haunt her. Each time the memory resurfaced in her mind, the flash of blood was brighter than before and the painful howls echoed as loudly as they had in real life--and Charlotte felt the urge to puke.

She continued to sit on her favorite swing in spite of that. One day, the flat, wooden seat was soaked with water from a rainstorm the night before, but Charlotte didn't mind. She sat down regardless and ignored the cold water seeping into her clothes. Her classmates laughed and frolicked around her, searching for worms swimming in puddles, but she had no interest in joining them. Instead, she gazed at the building (which blocked the sun at that time of morning).

That was when the realization hit her.

The teachers said that secrets were bad because they had no control over them. They feared them because they were powerless against them. Even an odd, scrawny little boy could hold power over authority just by having a secret. But where did secrets come from?




"Charlotte!"

The teacher gripped Charlotte's arm, and Charlotte turned to see her pretty, painted face on the same level as hers. The teacher's tone of voice contrasted with her sanguine cheeks and shiny blue eyes.

"Why are you wearing slacks? You know that you're supposed to wear a dress to school. It's part of the uniform."

Charlotte pouted, but said nothing.

The teacher sighed. "Come with me, dear, and I'll give you a dress to change into." She pulled Charlotte by the arm toward the building and added as an afterthought, "How did you get hold of those, anyhow?"

Charlotte didn't answer.

The teacher clicked her tongue. "Oh, well. Just get changed as quickly as possible." And she took Charlotte to the same room where the stolen slacks came from, handed her an extra skirt from the closet, and waited as Charlotte changed.

A couple of weeks later, the teacher said, "Now, children, I'd like you to separate into teams by gender. Hurry, please!"

Charlotte rushed over to the group of boys.

"Charlotte!"

Charlotte couldn't force herself to look at the teacher as she felt her face begin to burn, so the teacher marched over to Charlotte and yanked her from the group by the arm as if the boys' team would contaminate her.

"This is incredulous," the teacher mumbled. "I wouldn't expect your mother to raise you this way." Charlotte's classmates pointed and giggled at the stupid little girl who couldn't discern her own gender.

The first smack hardly stung at all. It caught Charlotte by surprise--a strike to the cheek as she tried to avoid the gazes of the jeering children. She stared at the teacher, too shocked to cry.

"Are you trying to be a little boy, Charlotte?" the teacher mocked. Her pretty face was pinched as if she had tasted a bitter lemon. When Charlotte didn't reply, she continued, "If so, then I suppose it would only be rational for you to receive the same punishment as boys do when they act naughty."

With that, she raised her ruler high above her shoulder as a butcher would with his knife while chopping meat--Charlotte felt paralyzed by fear--and brought it down hard on Charlotte's head. Charlotte began to cry at last, and her classmates laughed at her misfortune.

Several years passed. Charlotte cut her pigtails off--she had been wearing them nearly every day throughout elementary school and yearned for a change--and her mother scolded her for it. That summer, Charlotte and her family moved to the other side of the city, where Charlotte would begin the next school year at a new junior high.

She arrived early on the first day in order to become familiar with the layout of the building. The lobby was packed with students who were happily chatting and consuming refreshments. Charlotte stood on the outskirts of the commotion, smiling weakly and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She hoped that someone would approach her and offer to give her a tour, but everyone was too busy searching for friends that they recognized from the prior year.

A group of people shifted to another part of the room, allowing Charlotte to see a closet full of extra uniforms for both males and females.

No one noticed when she sneaked into the closet--which was large enough to hold dozens of outfits--and stole one of the male uniforms. Everyone was too busy chatting idly, updating the stories of their lives since the last school year to anyone who was willing to listen. For all they knew, Charlotte had volunteered to deliver a uniform to a forgetful lad down the hall, and that's why she left the lobby holding a male uniform.

Of course, if anyone had been watching, they may have found it odd that she entered the women's washroom with it. Charlotte prepared herself to answer a bombardment of awkward questions if anyone else was there, but luck seemed to be with her so far. The washroom was empty, and it remained that way until Charlotte locked herself in a stall and had halfway pulled on her new pair of handsome, black pants.

"...in August."

"You kept yourself busy, didn't you?"

A shower of giggles echoed off the walls of the washroom.

Charlotte's eyes widened and a chill ran down her spine. Those girls would undoubtably notice a pair of legs clad in black pants and worn-out dress shoes. And then they'd start shrieking like wounded cats, announcing to the entire school, "Oh, sweet geometry! There's a boy in the women's washroom!" before they'd ever suspect a cross-dressing female.

"Ew, it stinks in here," one of them said. Charlotte saw the girl's legs, brushed by the hem of her skirt, approaching the stalls. Her friend giggled and Charlotte climbed onto the toilet before they'd notice her male-looking legs.

As luck would have it, the girl chose Charlotte's stall--the largest one in the corner, perfect for changing clothes in. The girl even gave her friend an explanation: "I like the big stalls the best. The small ones make me feel claustrophobic." She punctuated her sentence with another giggle and tried to push the door open. When it refused to budge, she emitted a quiet, "Huh?" and jiggled the handle. Charlotte saw a glimpse of her blonde hair through the crack in the door. She hoped that the girl wouldn't happen to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a nervous boy quietly crouching on the toilet.

"What the heck?" said the girl. "It's locked."

"Is someone in there?" asked her friend.

Charlotte's face began to burn when she saw a wisp of blonde hair brush the tiled floor. She sat so still that she even held her breath.

"Eeew!"

The shriek pierced the air and echoed off the walls of the room, which significantly multiplied its volume. Charlotte released an exhale in spite of herself when the hair disappeared from the floor and the blonde girl's shiny black shoes rushed over to her friend.

"I found what's making the washroom stink so badly!" the friend exclaimed. The girls' feet hesitated at the entrance of a stall, probably so that the friend could point to an unflushed turd that had possibly been dyed black by a bowl full of stagnant urine.

The blonde girl shrieked and Charlotte rolled her eyes to the paneled ceiling. Such stupid, obnoxious girls they were. She couldn't relate to them. Perhaps that was why she felt like she had more in common with boys.

"Let's go," said the blonde. "I bet all the toilets are out of order." Her friend followed her out of the washroom, and by that time Charlotte's armpits were sweating profusely and her legs ached from sitting in such an awkward position. Despite her aching body, Charlotte didn't step off the toilet right away.

She was trapped. If someone spotted her, she'd either get in trouble as a girl for cross-dressing or as a boy for being in the women's washroom. She took a few steadying inhales in spite of the stench in the air, and, after listening for a moment for anyone else entering the bathroom, she slid her legs over the toilet and sat on it the regular way.

Her legs burned in protest. She sighed and gazed at the ceiling again before standing up to be greeted by biting pain in her knees. She quickly buttoned her new shirt, and as she did so, a hideous purple tie fell out of the sleeve and landed on the floor.

She picked it up and held it toward the fluorescent lights. Its threads shimmered and transformed into a shiny blue color, then back to purple depending on which direction the light shined on it. Swell. A shiny, purple tie. No wonder it accompanied an extra uniform collecting dust in a closet. But it was still better than having no tie at all, so Charlotte tied it around her neck and left the stall. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before she rushed out of the washroom. Her appearance was convincing save for her feminine face and height...and the two little lumps on her chest.

I need something to bind them with, she thought. Some bandages from a first-aid kit, perhaps.

"Hi!" a male voice called. Charlotte tightly hugged her arms to her chest and whipped around to see a tall boy with messy red hair walking toward her. "You a new student?" he asked.

Charlotte emitted a tiny cough to test her masculine voice. "Yes," she said in the quietest and raspiest voice she could muster.

The boy came closer. He was significantly taller than Charlotte, which made her feel apprehensive about her own height. She hoped that she wouldn't be the shortest "boy" in the school.

"Say, you sick or something?" questioned the boy. Charlotte nodded and smiled sheepishly at him. He held out his hand.

"Bernard Harvey," he said.

Charlotte swallowed and quickly shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you," she murmured. She hoped he didn't notice the sweatiness of her palm or how quickly she returned to crossing her arms.

"What's your name?" the boy asked. Charlotte had never wished so strongly for someone to act impolite, never felt so self-conscious of her chest; he was looking at it, she could tell, staring at the odd tie. Was it purple or blue at the moment--?

"Indigo," she blurted.

"Huh?"

"That's my name."

He flashed a goofy smile, and Charlotte felt relieved. She'd been fearing that boys smacked each other in greeting, or something like that.

"Welcome," he said, and he retired into the men's washroom.

Charlotte released a sigh of relief and tugged at the collar of her shirt to allow the entrance of cool air. As she did so, a whiff of body odor floated upward and out of her shirt, causing Charlotte to wrinkle her nose.

Oh, well. If anything, at least I'm beginning to smell like a boy.

She changed back into her female uniform at the end of the day before she went home. It was like that for the next few months; she was a boy named Indigo at school and a girl named Charlotte at home. Eventually, she told her mother about her alter-ego after putting it off in fear of being rejected, but her mother took the information surprisingly well. Being a business oriented person, she said, "Well, you'll have more opportunities as a male in this society anyway, but I do wish you had told me about this sooner." Her mother also started to call her Indigo in time, and even referred to her as a 'he'. And by the time Indigo entered high school, it was as if the little girl named Charlotte had never existed.

Indigo's body continued to develop, but it posed no problem. He simply bound his breasts and kept his hair short...and by now, he was so comfortable with his masculine voice that it had become natural to him. He seemed a bit short and immature to his peers, but no one suspected his true gender.

Indigo had a secret. Although it wasn't particularly useful and the consequences would be terrible if someone found out about it, it was still his most important secret--the secret that kept all the others in their places. From the stolen male uniforms in his closet, to the hideous tie under his bed, to the beads that Charlotte once used to tie her hair into pigtails--they all told the tale of the very same secret.