Clover detests debate.

Her mother insists she take an intellectually stimulating course, and that's the only one she can switch to after the school year has already begun.

She hates school, too. Ever since she woke up as Prince for the first time, her life has been a roller coaster of emotions. Despite her best efforts, her mother and Doctor Horadi don't believe she is fully cured of whatever mental illness she has, and soon whispers begin to permeate from ear to ear. Schizophrenic, she hears people murmur behind her back. Split personalities. Psychopath. Crazy.

None of it's true.

Prince isn't a figment of her imagination, nor is he another being slumbering somewhere within the depths of her soul; he is another flesh and blood body, and they are the same.

Still, despite her inner demons, debate is the absolute worst for one very important, obnoxiously loud reason: Lisette.

Lisette is, without doubt, Clover’s polar opposite. She’s pretty, with pale blue eyes, long, thick hair the color of spun gold, skin like fresh cream, rounded cheeks, and a dazzling smile. Today she wears a short skirt that is definitely against dress code, and a lovely blue chiffon blouse. Clover loves it; it's part of the reason she's jealous, and she knows that jealousy is the breeding grounds for animosity.

Prince’s family can afford a top like that, but she learned long ago that society expects them to act accordingly. When she's Clover she must be a lady. When she's as Princeton, she must be a man. It drives her insane, because Clover is neither just a woman nor just a man.

Which is why, today, Lisette pisses her off with her comment.

“Men should stay men and women should stay women,” she presents eloquently. “Gender is assigned at birth, and there's no room to change.”

Clover’s right brow twitches, the words at the tip of her tongue. The teacher, Mr. Felt, clears his throat nervously. “Er, okay, would anyone like to refute Lisette’s argument? No? Extra credit points.”

Slowly, Clover raises her hand, and the eyes of her classmates seem to follow it. What is she doing? This is a bad idea, a horrible idea, she should just keep her head down, and yet... “I will,” Clover announces.

A murmur ripples through the room; she's well aware she hardly speaks. She wouldn’t be surprised if only half the people in this room have ever heard her voice. Mr. Felt, however, is ecstatic. “Miss Lee!” he cries. “Finally more than just I will get to hear your input! I've been saying it for months, if you speak half as well as you write your essays, then Lisette may well have her first challenge!”

Lisette is the star of the debate team at their high school. She participates in it after school hours for fun. It’s no secret that at last year’s district tournament she made her opponent cry. But Clover doesn't care about any of that, because she is trembling with rage, her mind moving at the speed of a sprinting cheetah, and in a split second she decides she doesn't have to be herself for this.

Prince can speak better than she can, after all.

She stands, and her dark eyes meet Lisette’s pale blue. She smirks, and motions for Clover to join her at the front of the room.

“What are you waiting for?” Mr. Felt asks after a pause. “Begin!”

Her mouth is dry. Hundreds of miles away, Princeton sits in his fifth grade class, silently multiplying and long dividing. His hand stills, he closes his eyes, and Clover opens hers.

“Gender,” she begins, “isn’t as simple as you make it seem.”

They stare.

“There are a few things I’d like for you to understand,” she continues, but the words die in her throat when she hears someone at the back of the classroom whisper “psycho,”

She’d forgotten. Here, no one sees her as Princeton Moss. Here, she is just Clover Lee, the quiet freak that spaces out. The fact that no one will ever know or understand who she is, that she is more than what she seems, tears her down. It hurts.

She really wishes she was just Prince.

Maybe Prince is what I need to get through this.

“If you’ll stop talking over me, I’ll educate you,” she snaps, and a cold wash of shock silences the room. Even Mr. Felt looks flabbergasted, although delighted. Lisette’s expression is blank. Clover inhales. “What Lisette said is true - we are assigned biological genders at birth. Most of us feel comfortable with that, and are therefore content to live our lives as we are born.”

There’s a chilled, stony reception to her words, and she channels Princeton as much as she can.

“But for others,” she intones, “that’s bullshit.”

Someone audibly gasps, and Lisette's jaw drops.

“Lisette,” she clips, “Your argument that men should act like men and women like women stems from one thing. Gender norms.”

Lisette scoffs and plays with a strand of her beautiful, shining hair. “It’s called a gender norm because it's normal,” she drawls.

“Normal to whom?” Clover fires back. “You look at pink and think it must be a color for girls, and you look and blue and assume it’s a color for boys. Did you know that pink only became associated with females after Hitler's pink triangle?”

“What-?”

“Before that the colors were switched,” Clover continues, warmth growing in the pit of her stomach. “Pink was masculine. Now it’s feminine. Do you know what that says about a society that so easily switched what was normal?”

“That’s not the same,” Lisette snaps, but Clover ignores her.

“It means gender roles are a man-made concept, Lisette, that the only reason men are expected to act like gentlemen and women are expected to act like ladies is because some assholes said so.” She turns to her classmates, who are still recovering from her outburst. “How many of you that are male have thought that if you were to put on a dress you would get the shit kicked out of you?”

“Clover,” Mr. Felt warns, despite the smile he’s trying to hide behind his mustache.

“Well?” she presses.

Slowly, the whole room of boys raise their hands.

“But why?” Clover asks. “Why does it matter? It’s a fucking dress. Girls wear them all the time. So, if this concept of having to do this or being forced to act like that is because someone decided that’s what made them comfortable, how do you identify, now? Are you still male on the inside? Or you female? Are you both? Neither?”

Lisette snorts. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It's not,” Clover hisses. “Answer me this, Lisette - if you woke up tomorrow in a man's body, but you still have your own mind, what gender are you?”

She falters, then bounces back. “Of course, I would be male,” she snaps.

“So you quietly accept the fact that you can never wear a skirt without getting beat up again?”

Lisette's lips open and close, open and close. She looks like a fish, struggling to breathe.

“Are you okay with people viewing you differently based on how you take your coffee because you’re a guy now? Are you totally fine with the knowledge that you have to exclusively date women otherwise it will mean you’re gay?”

The room is so quiet, for a moment, Prince hears his homeroom teacher announce that the math period is over, and the bell rings for recess.

Clover shakes her head. “Because I don’t think someone as opinionated as you would stand for that shit.”

For a long, terrible moment, Clover thinks her social life might be snuffed out completely; everyone is staring at her, no one is smiling, and maybe by using Prince to speak, she’s done nothing but prove Lisette’s point. Even though Clover is Prince, no one will ever see her as a man.

She blinks - a hand extends toward her, and Lisette offers her a smile. “I think you just kicked my ass,” she admits.

Maybe the room is spinning, or maybe the other students are clapping, but Clover can’t tell up from down as she takes Lisette’s hand in hers. It isn’t exactly a handshake, but she doesn’t want to let go just in case it could mean anything more.