Her After All

The oak tree behind the Thomas house was older than anyone on the street, with thick, twisted arms that reached right into the sky. Most kids weren’t allowed to climb it. But Freda Thomas wasn’t most kids. At nine years old, she could scale the lowest branches faster than her brother Sam could finish a video game level. From up high, she felt the wind tug at her ponytail and the world shrink beneath her — houses like toy blocks, cars like tiny bugs, and the air thin and free. “Freda!” Her mom’s voice cut through the morning air. “Come down right now! You’ll fall and c***k your head open!” Freda laughed and started her careful descent, her scraped knees brushing bark. When she jumped to the ground, Sam was standing there, smirking. “You’re in trouble again,” he said. “So what?” she shrugged, brushing dirt off her hands. “You’re just jealous I can climb higher than you.” “Yeah, right. I just don’t feel like it.” “Uh-huh,” she said, not believing him for a second. Inside, the kitchen smelled like toast and coffee. Her dad sat at the table, reading the paper, his glasses sliding down his nose. Her mom was at the counter, hair tied up, still in her robe. “Morning, monkey,” her dad said, peeking over the paper. “Morning,” Freda said, sliding into her chair. Her mom looked her over. “You’ve got dirt all over your arms again, Freda. And your knees—goodness, child, you look like you’ve been wrestling in the mud.” Freda glanced down. “Tree stuff,” she mumbled. Her mom sighed but smiled a little. “You’re such a tomboy.” That word again. Tomboy. It followed her around like an invisible sticker she didn’t remember choosing. Her dad folded the paper. “Let her be, Claire. She’s just curious. I used to climb everything too when I was her age.” “Yes,” her mom said, pouring coffee, “but you were a boy. It’s different.” Freda’s spoon froze in her cereal bowl. She didn’t really know what “different” meant — not in a way she could explain. But she could feel it, like a wall she hadn’t noticed until now. After breakfast, Sam was sprawled on the couch, playing video games. Freda sat next to him, watching the screen flash. “Do you think I’d be good at that game?” she asked. Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But you’d have to pick a girl character.” “Why?” “Because you are a girl.” She didn’t say anything after that. That evening, when the house was quiet and the crickets hummed outside her window, Freda traced the shape of her scraped knee with her finger. She liked who she was — the dirt, the climbing, the wind — but she couldn’t stop thinking about what her mom said at breakfast. If Dad did the same things and it was fine for him… why wasn’t it fine for her? Freda whispered into the dark, “What if I was a boy? Would I still get in trouble for climbing trees then?” No one answered — just the wind brushing against her window, soft and secret, like it might know something she didn’t.