Try these on, I say.
I won't wear these to school, she says.
The past week she has been tucking her long blond hair up under a cap and going to school as the new boy. She wears hand-me-downs from her cousins and pants from her brother's drawer. She calls herself Robert.
I know, I say. I didn't get them for you to wear to school.
She expected a fight. I'm not fighting. I unzip the brown leather boot and hold it out to her. She pulls the boot on and looks at me. I am not wearing these to school.
I got them for running with your bow and arrow, I say. Boots on, she leaves the room.
Hours later she is running through the living room, bow slung across her chest, long hair behind her, pink pants tucked into her brown leather boots. She is singing at the top of her lungs. I don't know what she is calling herself now.