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The meter dash is where she shines most. The last two seasons, she finished second in the state open in the , with a time of Now in her third year competing for Cromwell High School, in Cromwell, Connecticut, she feels unfazed. Probably more than she ever has. But look, I qualified for nationals. Andraya is a year-old transgender girl. A Black transgender girl in a small town that is 90 percent Caucasian. A Black transgender girl in a world that is intent on policing and erasing girls like her.

She is perplexed by the lengths to which some people have gone to drill into her their underlying message: You're free to be yourself, just not here. Over there. Not with us. The noise has been loud since her freshman year, when an adult man, whom she had never met, posted a video about her on YouTube. He spoke furiously into the camera, calling for her competitors to boycott. The sky is dark. On this Friday night in late November, the Connecticut snow is deep enough to sink a boot. Fresh sole imprints lead up to the bright red door of the home Andraya shares with her mother, Ngozi Nnaji.

Inside, Andraya is upstairs, tinkering with the white Christmas lights that hang above her bed. She's wearing a bright yellow cold-shoulder crop top with black jeans ripped at her knees. Her nails are painted white with silver glitter on her ring fingers—she wants rhinestones next time.

Her smile is warm but cautious. She replies "yes" instead of "yeah," when answering questions.

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She tucks her braids behind her ears, nervously, every few minutes. She has a habit of doing this when talking to reporters: eager to say the right thing, afraid to say the wrong thing. Open and guarded all at once. Back in June, she and her family appeared on Good Morning America in front of a national audience to speak about a petition that circulated to prevent transgender girls like Andraya from running in the girls division in Connecticut.

Her voice was strong, firm. She encouraged other transgender girls to follow their hearts, to do what they want to do in life.

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What viewers couldn't see was the pressure Andraya felt when speaking out and when being singled out. It seized her. Squeezed her too tight. Tonight, she is noticeably relaxed. As she looks out her window, she fantasizes about living somewhere far from here, about competing in college out of state. Maybe sunny California! Maybe even Mexico! Her voice brims with excitement. She loves airports and traveling. She's taking AP Spanish.

She is restless; the monotony of Cromwell, where she has lived since first grade, gets to her. Cromwell is a small town with one high school, one middle school, one intermediate school and one elementary school. There is a diner; a mall 20 minutes away Andraya loves the mall ; low-hanging streetlights coated in snow; a Dunkin' Donuts every half-mile; and white, blue and cream New England brick houses, some of which have mailboxes out front for the Hartford Courant. Andraya feels protected and safe—happy, even, in her bubble.

She is genuinely supported, buoyed by love as much as she is burdened by hate. Andraya's father, Rahsaan, and Ngozi, who are divorced, have always accepted and loved their daughter. Andraya's three brothers and one sister and best friends and coaches and classmates have too. They see her as her: a determined teen she longed to do backflips, so she taught herself how within weeks and now flips across pavement who is also stubborn Ngozi used to have to sprinkle hot sauce, a favorite, onto Andraya's green peas because she refused to eat them , graceful she is polite to her staunchest critics and, above all else, highly motivated.

Ngozi and Rahsaan worry about what could happen when Andraya leaves Connecticut for college, if that's what she chooses. The bubble—the many layers of protection they labored to build around her—could burst. They won't be able to control who she talks to, as they do now. They won't be able to prevent physical harm, as they may think they can now.

Andraya is grateful that she feels comfortable, accepted and safe at school.

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So when the noise online roars too loudly, she can turn her Instagram to private. She can power off her phone.

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That gives her some feeling of control. Of distance. Only competitors and event staff are allowed there. Andraya comes upon two women. Parents from other schools, she presumes. They have their backs to her, so they do not know she is trailing closely behind. And then the two women turn around. They look at Andraya. She looks at them. It is as if months pass between blinks. Andraya feels something inside of her pounding. That's what it is. A fear no longer dormant inside her. Shock, too. She is shocked that these women—these grown women—are brash enough to say these things to her, a teenage girl.

Not over Instagram. Not over Twitter. To her face. What's to stop them from doing more?

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