It isn’t easy to be the smallest person in your class, even if there isn’t any official grounds for competition.
You enter the room, and you have to be careful everywhere you go, as mammoth elbows and shoulders and breasts careen towards you from every direction, and you fight to keep your balance and appendages from leaving you wildly inappropriately positioned.
It isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you, but it might sometimes feel like it.
Atshepsut was a small person. His arms weren’t long enough to reach over his fellow students for the salt shaker, his legs didn’t have the length for his feet to touch the floor. His hair, skin, and beard were all white, or at least very light in color — he looked and felt like an old man, if one had somehow managed to avoid any sort of sun exposure or skin oxidation.
But he could handle it. He was quick on his feet, most of the time, and fairly dexterous — it was his name he couldn’t abide. “Atshepsut”. Seriously? His classmate, Erin, had dubbed him “Upset-foot”, and there was no avoiding it.
He always wore socks. Nobody had even seen his feet.