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"You know how Mom always says that I can be anything when I grow up?” you whispered. "That's a lie.” 
I came up on one elbow. " Why?”
“I couldn't be a boy, " you said.
I smirked."Ask Mom about that sometime."
“And I couldn't be Miss America.”
“How come?"
“You can’t wear leg braces in a pageant,” you said.
I thought about those pageants, girls too beautiful to be real, tall and thin and plastic-perfect. And then I thought of you, short and stubby and twisted, like a root growing wrong from the trunk of a tree, with a banner draped across your chest.
MISS UNDERSTOOD.
MISS INFORMED.
MISS TAKE.
That made my stomach hurt.