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It is the break between second and third periods. I am swinging around the monkey bars, working on a straddle cut regrasp. My legs start at 12 o’clock and circle wide away from each other to meet at 6:30. An eighth grader with more muscle and swag than God normally allows at this stage of puberty leads his posse toward me.

“How you so flexible?” he says.

“Gymnastics,” I say.

“Fag.”

They laugh, satisfied with their higher station even as I hang six feet above them. I carry on. I have only a few more tries at this before the bell rings. And at age 12, with physical abilities that exceed theirs, I am immune to the epithet. 

They are not my first time…

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