Every day, hundreds of children all over the world watch Mulan cut off her hair, wrap herself in gauze, and set out to live as a man to defend her family’s honor. Few people ever get the chance to do something equally brave.

Most people agree that Garfield is like the Seattle School District equivalent of Gryffindor House. It’s kind of like a group of wizards renowned for their bravery, except we’re not wizards.

The point is, people at our school are pretty brave. And that includes us, the two authors of this brave article. And because we’re so effing brave, we decided to one-up Mulan and live as men — without defending the honor of any specific family. We wanted to look exactly like men without using surgery or masks. We wanted to make money and get women. We checked our calendars, chose a cold day in March, and started raiding our fathers’ closets and making plans.

Last year, two then-sophomore girls infiltrated the University of Washington dressed as boys. They thought their disguises were effective — until they walked out of the bookstore and ran into fellow sophomore and earring aficionado Galen Beery, who recognized them immediately.

“You two look like homeless girls on crack,” Beery reportedly said as he slowly backed away.

Hoping to avoid a similar experience, we gleaned caloric energy from several bagels and used it all to plan out every detail of our dangerous foray. Sifting through the piles of moth eaten T-shirts proved to be a tough task, so we asked the man of the house, Benjamin, for style tips.

“It’s not so much the clothing,” Benjamin said, ”but more the way that you wear it.”

We contemplated attempting the “Jaunty Irishman” look by flaunting our muscles in lacrosse kilts, but instead went for the less exotic approach — “Casual and Slightly Nerdy Northwesterner.”

Benjamin helped us identify the main components of our outfits. The final list for each of us included Red Zone deodorant, boys’ shoes, baggy pants, fashionable boxers (stuffed with a reasonable number of socks), a colored T-shirt on top of a white T-shirt, a phone, heeeella money, an appropriately filthy hooded sweatshirt, and a cozy hat. He also let us use a few precious squirts of his Ripped Ab Spray. We used Finnish knit hats as hairnets. Despite the fact that our heads were the size of Stewie Griffin’s, it’s safe to say that we made quite attractive men.

We also each wanted a leather wallet. The leather wallet seemed like it would give us that authentic edge, that essential stab of reality. Benjamin politely disagreed.

“I wouldn’t say it’s essential,” he said, in a quiet fury.

A few seconds later, he admitted that leather wallets might be okay. But we didn’t want to offend him anyway. So, we adorned ourselves in male attire — sans wallets — and he threw down some friendly masculine advice.

“You look like women,” he said. “Women hobos.”

His sugar-coated comment sounded a lot like Beery’s infamous proclamation. But we ignored it, choosing instead to practice our stances and struts in front of the mirror. This proved surprisingly difficult. Who knew that walking like a boy involved vigorous shoulder rotations?

That said, who knew that looking like a boy involved penciling in a heavy unibrow and a hint of a mustache?

Once we had attained the perfect level of scruffy nonchalance, we headed downstairs for a quick preview of the events that would follow.

Zya Guillen, a prominent member of the Garfield junior class and an exchange student from Mexico, sat innocently in the kitchen, eating a snack before lacrosse, completely oblivious to the ruckus that was soon to occur. Benjamin advanced into the room, shaking with every step.

“Hello,” he said slowly. “I’d like you to meet my two friends. They just came over. This is Eric.”

Celia, her chin to her chest, made her way through the door.

“Oh!” said Zya, unsure of the proper response. She had never been in a situation like this before.

“This is my other friend,” said Benjamin, as Amanda strutted in, holding her potbelly in her hands and munching on Cocoa Puffs. “His name is Fat Jimmy.”

We made a beeline towards Zya, stroking her face and asking her if she would care to go out with us sometime. She said yes to Celia. We don’t talk about it much.

Obviously, securing one date with one innocent junior wasn’t enough. We needed to snag a few grown women if we ever wanted to be taken seriously as men. We needed to find babes. We needed no less than the local versions of Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson. But first, we just needed to leave Amanda’s house.

Our first real stop was the Hop-In, that timeless icon of Montlake’s mid-city convenience. Hosting an endless supply of goldfish and orange juice, it’s the hotspot of central Seattle. We sauntered over to the fluorescent doorway. The passing lights of rushing cars made us seem edgy, maybe even a little dangerous. Girls love that kind of thing.

“Hey,” we grunted at the man behind the register, who smiled cheerily and gave us a normal greeting. Disappointed, we moved on to the women behind the fried chicken counter.

“HEY,” we grunted once again, “when does this store close?” The women (pretty much) blushed, and looked at us with (something like) admiration.

“It closes at…” the woman stumbled for words, and finally called to her coworker for help. “Do we close at twelve?” She asked. The other woman, who was taking her break at the time, jumped to attention at the sight of two such dashing men.

“I think it’s eleven!” She called. “Check on the door. It says it there.”

“Thanks,” we muttered, turning around slowly, confident that their eyes were glued to our retreating backs as we headed towards the door. As we stepped out into the rain, we saw a babe taking a run in a pair of spandex shorts.

“YOU LOOK GOOD!” we shouted. Sadly, we were ignored. “Hey! Hey, babe!” We motioned frantically, but to no avail. She had headphones on. That was the only reason.

Shortly after, we found our next item of prey. A woman with long, dark locks bicycled passed us as we shuffled up the hill.

“Hi,” we said with the perfect amount of honey in our deep voices. She smiled at us, but continued pedaling. “I like the way you move it!” was our next effort. She peddled faster. At this point, the chase had begun.

“WE’RE COMING FOR YOU!” we shouted, charging up the hill, exposing Benjamin’s boxers to the world. Unfortunately, she had feet like lightning bolts and her bike was soon lost in the haze. Hey, she probably had headphones on too. No big deal.