I don’t have any genitals, which has made it very hard to make friends in school. Today, we are presenting our research papers in health class, and all the other boys get to walk up to the front of the classroom, pitch-ing massive tents. When it’s my turn, I’ve got nothing: just a pair of front-facing, assless chaps to keep my empty groin aerated in the winter.

Just then, my teacher gets a call from the carpentry instructor from the Mr. Harrow—I’m needed. My vacant nether region has the texture of sandpaper, making me a useful tool for flattening rough edges of wooden chairs. I wish I could say it tickles or hurts or something, but I feel nothing. I have saved the school hundreds of dollars that they would have spent on an industrial sander.

I wish lunch provided some respite, but it’s hell. Last week, the cafeteria served bratwursts for Oktoberfest, and I tried to fashion genitals out of the classic German delight. It deceived no one. The bratwurst looked absolutely nothing like a penis. It just kind of looked like a sausage.

Today’s different though. Brian, the boy with the tightest skinny jeans and real-life genitals, slips me a note: “Meet at the urinals.” This is a big deal. All of the boys have their most heartfelt conversations at the urinals.

I sneak a full water bottle with me into the bathroom to create the auditory illusion of urinating. At the urinals, Brian invites me to his Halloween party this weekend and swears me to secrecy; it’s for “cool people only.” He promises I’m not being invited “to entertain the guests as the freak with the sandpaper crotch.” He wants to be my honest-to-God friend.

I text him later: “What time’s the party at, or whatever?” He responds with a dick pic. This is how the boys in my grade communicate. Still unsure of what time the party’s at, I send him a picture of my groin, hoping that he will clarify. “It’s a sundial,” he writes, highlighting the shadow under his penis. The party is at 11 PM

I show up as a Ken Doll, which seems fitting given my disability, but all the other boys are also dressed as Ken Dolls. I’ve really screwed the pooch this time! The embarrassment tears begin bubbling up, but Brian runs to the door to calm me: “Don’t you get it? We’re dressed as Ken Dolls to celebrate your beautiful physical quirk."

We play Pin the Tail on the Donkey on my numb crotch late into the evening. It’s the greatest night of my life