My sister enters the room while I, still drowsy, groan and roll over to the opposite side from where she comes in, letting the door allow daylight to spill in. She opens the curtains, and the cold light of a leaden sky floods the room.

"Get up, sweetheart."

I sit up, suddenly remembering that I'm in my niece's body.

"Fuck."

"What?"

"Turn off the light," I correct myself.

"The light?" she asks, laughing.

She looks at me and, dismissing any suspicion, kneels on the bed and kisses my forehead.

"Get ready for school, little one."

I want to come up with some excuse—pretend I'm sick or something—but, defeated, I just nod.

My sister leaves the room, and I start rummaging through everything until I find a towel. I head to the bathroom and begin to wash up. My mind is still reeling over my current state when, suddenly, a deep fear overtakes me, and a terrified scream escapes as I soap up my lower body and find nothing there. I look down, bewildered, and it finally sinks in—I really am in my little niece's body.

"Fuck," I say again, calmer this time.

My sister suddenly bursts through the bathroom door.

"Are you okay, sweetie? What are you doing? Why are you showering? We won't have time—you'll never get your hair dry."

"But you told me to..."

My sister stares at me. What kind of answer was that?

"Okay, just hurry up so we can leave quickly."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I mean... Yes, Mommy," I correct myself, covering up, embarrassed by this small frame.

Her eyes widen, her jaw slightly agape, and she turns around and leaves the bathroom.

"Fuck..." I whisper.

With absolute shame, I look at my body—as our mother used to call my sister's when we were kids—and touch my nonexistent breasts, which I now barely realize I have. Even though it's clear that my niece hasn't developed yet, I feel some sort of swelling there, and the nipples are oddly large compared to her flat chest. They hurt a little, like swollen glands from a mild infection.

"Fuck," I repeat, pressing my forehead against the cold shower wall.

I want to skip the whole personal hygiene routine, so I just put shampoo and conditioner in my hair, but I can't rinse it out properly. There's so much hair, and I can't manage to wash it clean. This is a new science, one I haven't mastered.

Just as I'm about to turn off the water, I remember that I need to be thorough with hygiene or risk infections. The mere thought of someone touching me—helping with some kind of ointment—or, even worse, feeling discomfort down there or having an awkward conversation with my sister, pushes me to try.

I sit exactly where the teacher tells me, and she starts the lesson.

What is happening? Why am I in Daniela's body? Who can I turn to for help?

My mind is drifting through these questions when something catches my attention. I turn to my side and see my seatmate's face, twisted in a mix of sadness and panic.

"Are you okay?"

She doesn't respond, as if she isn't even aware of my presence.

"Hey, girl, are you okay?" I whisper.

"..."

I look at her closely. The poor thing is frozen. My gaze lowers to her chest, noticing her heavy breathing. Then, something else catches my eye—a hand slides from behind her chair toward her lap.

Before I can react, I feel something similar happening to me. A hand moves under my skirt, creeping toward my thighs. Instinctively, I look at my seatmate, who meets my gaze with shared terror.

Then, I feel it—fingertips pressing where they shouldn't, rough, unwelcome. My breath catches, my stomach knots. My mind fights against the reality of the situation, but there's no mistaking it.

I freeze. This can't be happening. I'm just a little girl.

No—Daniela is just a little girl.

Is this what she goes through? Is this what happens to my niece? They do this to my niece at school?!

I glance at the girl next to me. Her eyes well up, her body tensing with discomfort. She flinches slightly, reacting to whatever is happening beneath her desk. My blood boils. A rage I can't control takes over me.

I grab the wrist of the person touching me, twisting it back with all my strength. There's a sickening crack, a scream cutting through the classroom noise. At the same time, I see the other hand retreating from my seatmate's skirt. Without hesitation, I snatch up a pencil and drive it into the pervert's hand.

Another scream. Chaos erupts.

The teacher turns around, startled. My seatmate silently begs me not to say anything, pleading with just her eyes.

So I tell the teacher, "They were fighting."

Both of them are sent to the nurse's office and then home—suspended.

"Thanks, Dani," my classmate murmurs.

"We should tell the teacher."

She shakes her head no. The teacher must have noticed that I was involved somehow because she calls my attention.

"Daniela, stay focused."

"I'm not distracted," I say dryly.

The entire class laughs.

"What?"

"I mean, I'm not distracted, teacher."

"Okay, then maybe you can tell us when the Plan of Ayala was issued."

"November 28, 1911."

"What did it consist of?" she asks, turning to me in surprise.

"The rejection of the president."

"Which president?"

"Madero, of course."

"Who rejected him?"

"The revolutionaries, teacher. But you want me to say Zapata and Montaño, who drafted the plan."

"Why would Zapata reject him if he was the initiator of the Revolution?"

"Because Madero, according to Zapata, betrayed the Revolution's agrarian foundation."

"According to Zapata?"

"No offense, teacher, but I wasn't there—I wasn't even born yet."

The teacher glares at me while the students laugh.

"You think you're funny, don't you, Daniela? I don't know what's going on with you, but go to the Principal's Office."

As I pass her, she whispers that she doesn't recognize me.

Once outside, I realize I have no idea where the damn Principal's Office is. An irritating itch reminds me of what happened, and I adjust my underwear. Front and back, while kids from the next classroom laugh at my lack of shame.

"Is this what my little niece goes through?" Damn it, she never told me.

In the distance, I see an exit. The exit. A group of women chatting away, questioning the security guard. The door is open, and the guard is distracted.

I slip out of the school effortlessly, disappearing behind the commotion.