It occurs to me that this is a part of me that she shouldn't necessarily know, having never actually been her friend or spoken to her in-depth before, but I do recall an incident a few years back at the junior high graduation party, back when my mother still had a tendency to call me James.

"Time to go now, James!" she shouted to me, still seated at her table across the room. Surrounding her were all her high school friends, huddled in a tight circle and hanging on to each others' words like time and age had never caused the clique to come apart.

Me, I was tucked away in the least populated corner on the room, sitting on a folding chair I had found -- one of those particularly uncomfortable metal ones with no cushion, and my slouching surely didn't make it any more comfortable. I had been wanting to leave for hours. Upon hearing my mother call, I began slowly to sit myself up in a proper position, readying myself to stand and join her.

"James!" she called again.

How many times did I have to tell her that I didn't like James anymore? I only had to tell my teachers once. My father, twice maybe. It had been three years, and she was still pretending that she didn't know.

Whenever she says it, it doesn't feel like she's speaking to me but to someone she's mistaken for me. This James, a complete stranger to me, but someone my mother must know quite intimately, and I almost feel guilty that she can't find him.

Hearing it said aloud in this moment, in front of all my peers more so, I felt a fire being birthed under my skin, and it occurred to me, that this feeling, this jaw-clenched, dry-mouth, hot-blood feeling, would not go away as long as I continued to allow her to call me James.

I guess I could have chosen a better moment to have such an epiphany. Or at the least, I certainly could have waited until we were home to make any statement about it. But, this was the moment that I chose, and there's nothing I can do now to change that. And so I decided, on pure impulse, not to get up and join her.

She called for me once more, and this time, I simply responded, "That's not my name," folding my arms over my chest and slouching back into my chair.

It could have been just that, but my mother had to turn it into public fight. She started throwing her jabs, and I continued throwing mine, gaining more attention from the crowd with each word.

"You will get up this instant! I am your mother."

"Not until you call me by my name."

"Jame-y is a child's name. We called you that when you were a child."

"Jaime is my name now," and other variations of the same sentence.

Everyone was there, everyone in my eighth-grade class and their mothers. It's silly of me to think that Saxa could have not remembered.

By the time my mother dragged me out of the gymnasium, kicking and screaming like a toddler without candy, the entire room was either gossiping or giggling, this being the most exciting thing to happen in the town since Joy died.

My mother threw me in the car and slammed the door behind her, vowing to never call me James again.

Saxa hits me in the face with another cloud of smoke, patiently waiting for her response.

"I just..." I think about lying. I don't know is a good enough answer. I just don't like James would be fine, too, I imagine.

"I needed to be my own person." It's too difficult to look her in the eyes as I say this, so I stare back out at the trees. Tiny flakes of green blow off their tops with a coming wind, like bits of confetti sprinkling over then dissolving into the forest. "James, he's my parents' son. Jaime, he's me."

Saxa takes another drag of the cigarette, then passes it to me. "Do you want to finish it?"

I nod and take it from her, gripping the filtered end between my thumb and forefinger. A little too confident, I take the first breath from it too strongly and find myself in a fit of coughing. Saxa, she places a warm hand on my shoulder, rubbing her thumb across it while I try to regain my breath. She delivers her magic through this touch. Entranced, I am, and unable to tell a lie as long as it stays.

"Why 'Jaime,' though?"

I speak through the last of my coughs. "Jaime was sort of a nickname I had when I was younger."

"Yeah, but, you could have chosen anything. Why not go for something completely different? A chance to create an entirely new you."

Her words make me smile. It's a nice thought, I think. Becoming someone entirely new. Still, I never wanted to be a new me. I've only ever wanted for the me I already am to be seen. With a clear voice, I respond "The happiest moments of my life were when people were calling me Jame-y."

Saxa releases her hand from my shoulder and retreats back to leaning on the window frame. She's smiling – good, – staring out at the trees. I wonder if she sees the same thing I did – the leaves that float around like confetti in the wind, mountains like streaks of earthy paint drug across the sky.

"Charlotte," she says after a while.

"Okay?"

"For the new me. Her name would be Charlotte."

I look down to see that my cigarette has burned itself out. With a flick of my fingers, I toss the extinguished butt out the window to join the rest. "I like Saxa."

Her chest visibly rises and falls as she takes her next breath. She looks at me and gifts me one more smile before lifting herself from the window sill, grabbing the pile of matches next to her and returning them to the box from which they came. She walks over to the desk – smooth, as if she's floating two inches above the ground, – places the box back inside, and closes the drawer, fastening the hanger back into its place as she does.

"I-I-I like Charlotte, too."

She's already begun walking away but still turns around to meet my gaze. "You don't have to."

That one sentence is why I love her. She's a perfect human being: beautiful, brave, calm, kind, tied up with a ribbon of confidence to form an elegant bouquet. She doesn't care if you like her. Her worth goes beyond your approval. I think she knows that in telling me that I don't have to like Charlotte, this will make me like her all the more.

I watch Saxa – err, Charlotte – as she floats away from me, ultimately arriving at and opening the closet door at the other side of the room. For a long second, she stands there, motionless in the doorway, staring into the darkness of the unlit chamber before her, hand still grasping the edge of the door's handle. I wonder if she's waiting for me to say something.

But what am I supposed to say in this moment? What would a normal person say?

"Why Charlotte?" I decide. It's essentially what she asked me earlier, so it seems like a safe choice.

She does not respond.

Her hand falls fromthe door -- initially directly down, to come to her side, but only shortly afterarriving, it's swept back upwards to meet her other hand at her chest. My headstill a little fuzzy from the cigarette, I can't tell if the room begins toshake or if I do.