Margaret was reading that dreadful book with no illustrations. Everyone seemed to want me to grow up. No picture books, more lady-like clothing (so much more confining), more young lady training activities (needlework, painting, playing the piano, and the worst, dancing). I just wanted to play with my friends and my dolls. And yet, I knew I was changing. I was getting hair on my private parts and my breasts were budding. I didn’t really like to think about it—it seemed scary and hideous—transforming into something else, someone else. I just wanted to be me, Alice, just plain Alice, the girl I used to be, the girl I understood myself to be.
I started to doze, and then I saw it—the white rabbit running by in a waistcoat, checking his pocket watch, and complaining about being late. I didn’t
