Tips for my next Rough Draft?

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    Hey, I shared this rough draft a while ago in Non-Fiction, but I think it belongs here instead since I’m changing up the story. I wanted to post it here because I’d really appreciate some critiques on it so I know what I should fix in my next draft. I’m aiming for this to be my first published book now. Originally had something else planned, but this is important to me to write so I decided it’ll be my first instead. Any advice at all is appreciated and in case anyone wonders, yes, this is still based on a true story.

    March 6th, 2006

    I can feel the sun warming up my resting body beneath the bedsheets as I do my favorite thing in the world- Sleep.

    “Christina? Christina, hun, wake up. It’s seven-thirty. You’ve got school today, kiddo.” My mom says as she pulls the covers off me and heads to my closet.

    ‘Kiddo?’ I’m fifteen years old. Sure, I’m not the average fifteen year old but I’m not a little kid.

    “Here Christina put these on. You’ll look pretty in this color.” Mom says as she sets a pink shirt and jeans on the foot of my bed.

    I don’t want to look pretty, mother! I’m not a girl, I’m a boy. At least that’s what I wish I could say, but there’s no way she’d understand. Even if she did, she wouldn’t accept it. I’ve felt like a boy trapped in a girl’s body for pretty much my whole life. My family is Baptist so the belief is if I get a sex change or take any hormones, I go straight to hell. Am I really the abomination the Bible makes me out to be?

    “Thanks, mom, I’ll be upstairs in a minute,” I tell mom as she leaves my room.

    It only takes me a minute to get dressed. My hair is another story. I know mom’s upstairs in the bathroom waiting for me so she can brush this big matted mess. I have trouble brushing my hair because of how curly it is. I wish I could just have a shaved head like my dad. When I get upstairs I head to the bathroom. Getting my hair brushed is so painful.

    Mom begins to brush me pulling roughly at my knots, “Christina, I don’t know why you hate your hair so much. When it’s brushed it’s beautiful.”

    There’s another word I hate. Beautiful. I don’t want to look beautiful, I want to look handsome.

    When my hair is finally brushed mom and I head to the kitchen. My seven-year-old sister, Raquel is there waiting for us.

    I feel like crawling into a hole when I realize Raquel has brushed her own hair and gotten herself dressed. Why do I have to be treated like such a kid but not her?

    Raquel and I sit at the dining room table and wait for mom to serve us pancakes. Our kitchen and dining room are both apple-themed so there are little apple stencils on the walls and we’ve got apple placemats and silverware.

    “Here you go, guys,” Mom says cheerfully as she gives Raquel and I our pancakes.

    “Ew!” Raquel yells as she realizes she’s gotten her hair in the syrup. She has so much hair. We both have dark brown hair like our mom but only mine is curly.


    After breakfast, mom drives Raquel and I to school. We both go to a school called Haritage that has grades K-twelve all in one building.

    Mom lets us out of the car and we wave goodbye to her. Raquel rushes up the stairs cheerfully. She loves school, is extremely popular, and everyone loves her.

    I walk up the stairs after her and let out a sigh. I’m in eighth grade but I’m nowhere near ready for high school. Still, I’m happy for school to be closer to being over.

    I walk into school down a long hallway and take a right. At the very end of that hallway is where my one and only classroom is. I’m in a special classroom called the S.B.H. room. That stands for Severe Behavioral Handicap. To all the other kids, it’s the “retard class”. My mom tells me I should be in a different class but I was the very first student with Asperger’s Syndrome to attend Haritage so this was the only room they could put me in.

    When I walk into the classroom the teacher’s aide waves to me. Her name is Miss May. She also serves as a counselor to the class. I talk to her quite a bit.

    “Christina, Christina! Come here.” My classmate Sarah calls for me. I get along well with her but the two of us are very different. I think she feels more comfortable around me because I’m the only other girl in the classroom.

    Sarah and I talk a bit before class starts. It wasn’t long before the first bell rang and class starts. Everyone in the class had a different schedule and I had a study hall first so I decide to get some math homework done I had left over. When I’m halfway through the fourth problem I feel a flick on my right arm. Sarah passed me a note.

    “I’m so bored… I wish it was summer already! I want to see my boyfriend lol.” The note said.

    I enjoy passing notes. It’s easier than talking face to face.

    “Summer >>>>> every other time of year. School’s the worst. Anime>>> boyfriends” I wrote back.

    We continued passing notes throughout the day. It was almost the end of the school day when Sarah sent me one last note.

    “I was just wondering, have you ever been with a girl?” The note said.

    I didn’t know what to say. Would she laugh if I told her I’m a transgender? Is it something to bring up at school?

    I decide to hold on to the note and the bell rings letting everyone know it’s the end of the school day. I rush out the door because I don’t want Sarah to ask me the same question in person. That would be even worse.

    I walk outside and get into my mom’s car as we wait for Raquel. She comes out and is waving to a small group of girls a little older than her. I roll my eyes as she gets in the car and we head home.

    When we finally arrive home I’m able to go down to my room in the basement. Back to what I consider my safe zone. My room’s a big mess with piles of clothes everywhere. The only area that’s neat and tidy is my computer desk. I log on to my computer and remember that I recently made a Myspace account. I’m not much of a social person but I made the account so Sarah and I could talk online. When I log into Myspace I realize I have a new friend request. I refresh the page to be sure it isn’t a mistake. It couldn’t be Sarah because she’s already on my list. Whoever this is, is a complete stranger.

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