I don’t know who decided it. I don’t know when or why it was decided either. All I know is that some of us are strange and some of us are normal. They say that they can’t know for sure until you’re a teenager, so everyone fears their 13th birthday.

There’s more than one way to be strange. For instance, don’t get tattoos; tattoos are usually wrong. Piercings are often wrong as well. Certain hairstyles are wrong. The clothes you chose to wear can be wrong. Your make-up can be wrong. The way you talk can be wrong. It’s open to anything.

Since you never know what can make you strange everyone is always really careful, especially once they hit 12 years old. 12 is the year that everyone changes. My best friend Phil cut all his hair off that year because he thought that long hair on boys is probably a sign of being strange; he wanted to stop the illness before it spread. One girl at my school stopped playing hockey because it was a sport for boys. She went on to do ballet instead.

When I turned 12 I didn’t really do much. I really felt like everyone else. My clothes were all the same, I acted the same, and I played the same sports... I was just a normal kid. There was no way I was going to come out strange. I just couldn’t have! Besides, my dad was really obsessed with making sure each and every one of his kids weren’t going to be strange. He was strange when he was a kid, and he said that the rehabilitation sucked ass. He’s determined to not let any one of us have to go through what he had to.

Being pronounced strange is probably the worst thing that could happen to you. At least, that’s what they told us. Being strange is what turns a dream into a nightmare. A perfect 13th birthday to the worst day of your life. I wonder if whoever started this purposely made the Strange Test on your 13th birthday or if the reason is because that’s when you’re actually considered an official teenager? Isn’t 13 an unlucky number? I just think it’ll really freak some superstitious people out that’s all.

Anyway, so when I turned 13 I was feeling pretty good; yeah, nervous like anyone else would be, but definitely better than some people. Besides, only about 1 in 30 people are strange, and since we have classes of 30 that means that only about 1 person in my class should be strange. There’s no way it can be me so there was really no need for me to worry about it at all. I can think up five other people in my class who were stranger than me.

So when I got my test results back I was shocked and horrified.

But the worst part was having to get escorted back home with an officer on each arm as I held the test results in my hands. I still remember the look on my mum’s face when she opened the door and she saw me there with the officers and the papers. She cried. That’s when my dad came running. He saw me and he started swearing. My brothers and sisters all came to see me too and their reactions were mixed. Some of them were crying like my mum, but the older siblings were keeping themselves composed; probably to try and make me feel better.

That afternoon was spent packing. You’re only allowed one suitcase. One suitcase to bring whatever you want. I brought pictures of my family and friends, some books, clothes, and that was pretty much it. There wasn’t much more that I really wanted. Besides, I was afraid to take some stuff to the compound with me. I heard that once you get there they search your bag and remove anything that’s considered strange; I later found out that that was true.

I didn’t get to eat dinner with my family. They take you away at 7pm, which I guess gives plenty of time for dinner, but we all wanted to spend it saying goodbye instead; after all, I may never come back.

After that you’re thrown into the back of a car – kind of like an ambulance – and you sit there and wait. You’re not allowed anything with you in the car except for a copy of your test results so you can see where everything went wrong.

Apparently I wasn’t masculine enough.

I didn’t have the proper amount of muscle, and the fact that I enjoyed singing and dancing didn’t help – apparently those were considered girl activities. Plus, my hair was too long. It only reached down to my shoulders, but it was still unacceptable. I should have cut my hair like Phil. I remember reading those results and wondering how I didn’t think of that before, and why nobody told me.

When I got to the compound I was taken to a section of the compound for newcomers. You stay there for about a month and get to meet all of the other newcomers so that you’ll have a few friends when you get released into the big building where things are apparently a lot harder.

And trust me, it is.

It’s been four years since then though, and now I’m not doing so bad. I’m still not cured, which is a major problem. If I’m not cured before my 18th birthday; I’m dead. A lot of friends that I’ve made have been released already which makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong.

Although, I try not to worry about that too much. If I worry about it it’ll be just my luck that I’ll never get cured and if I don’t get cured I’d rather spend my last year having fun rather than stressing. So there’s that.

And so, this is where it begins – my last year in the compound no matter what.