My friend Squinny says my scar gives me character. I show her my Swiss Army Knife and ask her if she wants a scar and she says no way no thanks are you crazy? Squinny has a future in drag racing. I don’t mean the kind of racing done with cars or motorcycles. I mean the kind of racing done with too much lipstick and glitter gloss. I let her wear my training bra to school underneath her uniform. We exchange underwear in the men’s room. She fills the bra with socks. The other kids call her Bob but Squinny doesn’t think Bob fits her figure or her future career in Spandex. I tell her the name Bob gives her character but she says it gives her the wrong kind of character, like the character of a trucker or a retired lawyer. I really think a scar will give her character. When she gets her sex change she’ll have a scar in the you know what. She says no one will notice except maybe her future husband and that’s only if she gets married. She is undecided. She wants kids but can’t stand the smell. She loves men but she’s not a homosexual. I won’t get married till I’m a woman, she says. Fine, I say, be that way. I’m only a child but I know she will go through with it one day, i.e. the sex change. Squinny is my best friend. She looks like Charles Jensen but way younger (not that Charles is old) and she doesn’t have face hair (like Charles), at least not yet. Squinny can’t sing even though she tries “Oh My Darling Clementine”. Squinny is a jerk sometimes, never shares. Has temper tantrums. Loose stool. She just doesn’t eat right. She’s a character, the kind you find in fa la la land or Las Vegas, not Disney World. Squinny will change the world one day, I know it. She will. One night she’ll dangle above the Grammy stage like Lady Gaga or Bruno in her finest wig and sparkley underwear. She will point me out in the crowd and say this one is for you. And, if she doesn’t, for some reason beyond her control (everything is beyond Squinny’s control), I will commit this story to history. In her honor.