Will they listen?

I was blond, as she is. My mother molded me into her girl's image: hair, eyes, and smile. I was a photograph of her daughter and lived my life in her pages. For months, I grew up in her mind, even if my experiences in her novel were limited to a week, which is not much for such an interesting character as I was. I was no regular thirteen-year-old girl living a happy, boring life, nor a conflicted teenager, and still, kids worldwide would see themselves in me. That was the plan.

My life was not happy at first. I had argued with my father and missed my mother, who was away. I spoke a lot the first time my mother wrote that chapter, but after a few reviews, she decided my silence was more powerful than my words. I wouldn't say I liked it, but I had no way to complain, so instead of replying in a sassy way, I rolled my eyes, as the real me does, until that was not good either. She does not seem to be satisfied with the things I do. She does not seem happy, as she sometimes tells her friends.

Sometimes, Mother cries when she's writing about her life, and then, when she's back to my lines, I feel I should cheer her up, but she does not make it easy. I am her daughter, but not the real one. I am not the loud kid who sometimes interrupts her. I think she gave me her body but hid a grown-up inside of it instead. I don't speak like kids speak these days; I say what their parents seem to hear. That's how I grew up these months, conflicted between what I was supposed to be, what the real me is, and what my mother can teach me. I guess I am as troubled as she is, which makes sense because, without her, I would not be here complaining.

The first months were frenetic. She wrote so much it seemed difficult to absorb it all. At night, I would travel through my lines and prepare for the next day, convinced that something extraordinary would finally happen. I was ready to be a pirate or a princess running away from a castle, but instead, she gave me school days and arguments with my brothers. I dreamt every day of becoming something else, but nothing adventurous came my way. School, family, home... I was tired of it, and I was bored, and then she was bored as well, and my days disappeared from the pages to start all over again. Life is not easy when your existence depends on the mood of others, and Mother is a moody person.

In the last months, something changed, and I saw a different pair of eyes looking at me. That woman who looks at me is not Mother, but she's been poking at me for weeks now, testing me. I don't like it, but apparently, that's what she made me for. I'm supposed to show myself to others, make them think, and enjoy themselves. I don't like it. Mother likes her privacy and calm spot, but I cannot have any of it. I'm out in the open for everyone to see and judge. Is this her way to show herself to the world? Through me? The real me, who does not comb her hair as often as she should, tidy up her room, or take care of the plants, does not like it either. Mother does not let her see me. Mother says I am part of a story for grown-ups, but the girl is sad about it. I would be, too, if Mother did not let me grow ... mother does not let me grow.

The other woman spoke today with Mother. I listened to their conversation because I was in front of them, hanging on one of my chapters, when they discussed how people would like me.

"She's nice, a girl," said the other, far away from us, in a metallic voice.

"And everyone will like her?" asked Mother, playing with the keyboard, moving the text up and down and making me nauseous. Like me? I thought. Why wouldn't they like me?

"It's a quiet story," replied the voice," for women."

Mother stopped playing, and I almost fell from my lines.

"Not for women only!" she said, angry. "This story is universal," she continued.

I grabbed the nearest final point and felt something I'd never felt before: fear.

The two women stopped talking, and Mother closed the laptop. Everything was dark for a couple of days, and then, suddenly, there was music and light.

I saw her eyes and sensed her fingers on the keyboard, tickling my skin, but I couldn't laugh because I felt the change about to happen. Would I be erased once more, together with my brothers? Would I finally stand up and scream how awesome I was? Would I discover the cure for sadness and boredom and win the Novel Price for the discovery of true happiness?

CRL+F, she typed. She looked for me, and she found me.

"Replace," she wrote, and I trembled.

It happened last week. Mother said it would be for the best. The change was necessary for everyone to see me. I did not understand it, but I could not reply. Just see. She typed and typed. She looked for everything that made me like her and erased it. I am still here, although I'm not blonde anymore. My hair is dark, and my eyes are green now. I don't walk afraid of showing my body, hiding behind my books. Still, I'm so scared of how others see me... Will they listen to my story now that I look like this? Do I look better? Does it matter? I don't read much anymore or play with my little brother. The things that were mine do not belong to me anymore. My voice is different. I don't look the same; I wear another body, a tall and sweaty one. Is this what people want? Who the world wants to listen to?

I'm a boy.