Olly

“Olivia?” the teacher inquired. “Oliver,” I corrected him. “Damn! Another one,” the teacher muttered.

 

 

Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?

 

 

My parents got a green card and they got to America when I was four. So I had no say there.

I didn't know who had put my parents wise to move to Maine. I would rather name it Raine instead of Maine. Just kidding… But seriously, only two days a week not overcast. Anyway, my story isn't about the weather.

We moved to Orono from Cracow when I was four. Said it already. Sorry… Rents worked in Orono. But we lived in Old Town. It's the town's name – Old Town. Unbelievable…

We had half of the house. Americans have some special name for the house of two families but I'm constantly forgetting it. Another half was occupied by a retired couple. Mel and Don Forest.

My parents worked at the University of Maine. When they were at work and I wasn't at school Mel and Don were looking after me. At home, we talked Polish. With Mel and Don, I tried to speak English. Mel's father was Polish and Mel still knew Polish a little. It was a great help.

So they were looking after me. Mostly it was Mel, short for Melanie. It was like with granny. We were in the kitchen and the backyard garden. We were grocery shopping at Hannaford or I was waiting for her in the beauty salon.

Don was busy with a certain old car in the garage. They had a car for everyday business. But Don was working on a special one. It had a name like a human – Marlin. It wasn't finished yet and I didn't know how it would look.

Once in a while all three of us, that's Mel, Don, and I were visiting their friends in High Pine retirement home. The retirement home was like a dorm but they had nurses there. And the doctor was coming to visit them.

Their friends were like really old. Older than Mel or Don. Some of them called me a young lady. Mel and Don didn't complain. They said I looked like one. My blonde hair was covering my ears. And my name's Olly short of Oliver. Not short of Olivia like some suggested.

Mel and Don talked a lot with their friends. But it wasn't the only activity. They were partying more than often. Yes, you heard me right. Partying. Like pop music and dancing. They, ranging from the late sixties to early nineties, drink soda and dance.

And karaoke sometimes. Sinatra and Dean Martin. Or some rock groups. Mel and I were listeners cause our voices didn't suit the songs. But then there was a song Chirpy-chirpy and it was sung in something squeaky though pleasant voice and Mel volunteered to sing and it was great.

“I can do it, but I don't know words,” I said to Mel.

“No prob,” she said, “the internet has everything you need.”

I was almost sixteen and still sounded like a kid. Still waiting for puberty to come in this one region. All other parts were already of adult persons. Maybe not so manly as I would like it. But I had hair where it was mandatory. I was much taller than I was as a child, five and four. Not the tallest in the class. But there were few below me.

“I still sound like a kid, so let's have some fun until my voice has not changed,” I said when we got home.

“It will not,” Don said.

“What will not?” I didn't understand his suggestion.

“Your voice will not change,” Don explained. “It's already changed.”

“But I sound like a kid,” I complained.

“Last year your voice was rasping for six months. You got four inches meanwhile. And then I noticed your hairy armpits,” Don said. “I'm sure puberty is over with you.”

“But I sound like a kid,” I repeated.

“Your voice is mature, no doubt here,” Don said.

“So will you sing?” Mel asked.

I had to keep my word. The main thing my parents had taught me. No matter under what circumstances my word was given.

“Yes, I will…”

It wasn't much to learn. One band and only a few songs that fitted the mood. I did it. And did it well.

 

 

The same day, when mom and dad were at home at last. I started, “I have a problem. I think it's medical. And it's serious. Very.”

“How serious?” mom asked worriedly.

“My voice didn't change. I sound like a girl.”

“And?”

“What and? Isn't it enough? I want a man's voice,” their insensibility was annoying.

“You have man's voice. It's called countertenor,” mom said.

“Are you bullied at school?” dad asked. “For how your voice sounds?”

“Nah…”

“I don't see a problem here,” dad concluded.

“Me too,” mom added.

 

 

I was a sophomore at Old Town High school. I was a loner because I still had a terrible accent. When I was younger other kids were teasing me a lot but then they got tired. Or my English improved a little. Anyway, I still was a loner.

The boys were busy in various ball teams. Though I had to say it wasn't a ball. Egg rather. Not a ball definitely.

Girls were doing something very different. But I didn't know what. Because I had no friends among girls. Truth to say I had no friends at all.

Then there were some common activities. Like drama, where I didn't fit in because of my English. The marching band and simply the band. The only difference one was more serious than another. And the marching band was bigger. I could play drums. Don said I was good at it. But this position was already taken. Both in marching band and band.

At last, there was a choir. But they had more than enough sopranos. I was said to be soprano though I complained I was countertenor. They needed Baritones. And Basses.

The school year was coming to the end when the faculty decided to convert the band into an all-girl band. The drummer position was open. But I didn't try cause I'm not a girl.

 

 

A week after Independence day was my birthday. I was sixteen now.

“Oh, it's SWEET sixteen!” Mel gushed.

“Why has it to be sweet?” I wondered.

“Dates are allowed when you are sixteen,” she explained.

Dates! What dates? I had no friends. No friends among my peers. Those who were my friends were at least sixty years older and thought I was a girl.

“You can drive a car at last,” Don said instead. “I'll help you to get a driver's license. Just get your daddy's assent.”

It was Don's way to call my rents – daddy and mommy. Mel was more inventive calling them dad and mom, or father and mother, sometimes just like Don daddy and mommy or momma. I never was sure what was the right way to call my parents. I adopted daddy and mommy because it was the only way both don and Mel used.

My parents were glad I was busy with Mel and Don. They were happy someone else will arrange my driver's license. I had it before the new school year. I had no car. But I could drive one.

The summer went by like the rest of the year. I was with my neighbors. We were visiting High Pines retirement home and there were funerals.

Old people don't get younger. Eventually, they pass away. I got used to those funerals of people I didn't know at all or knew only a little. Then Ozzy passed away. He wasn't just an old man I knew. It was like losing a friend. He was something weird but fun. He and Mel were neighbors when they were kids. Mel was Ozzy's Prom date despite her being three years younger.

I asked Don and he approved my idea to sing at Ozzy's funeral. It was Cat Steven's Morning Has Broken. Cat Steven was one of Ozzy's favorites. Though the song wasn't religious or something it fitted well the mood of the funeral. Even some men got tearful when I finished.

Otherwise, everything was the same. Backyard garden and kitchen, shopping, visiting friends, karaoke, and dance parties for those over seventy. I learned almost all pop songs from the seventies. And some rock. But the rock didn't fit my voice. Or vice versa.

 

 

The new school year started and nothing happened. I still didn't fit any team or club. I even didn't try to say the truth. My first days at school were complete laziness.

Then there was Labor day weekend – three days out. Everyone was celebrating. Those retired too.

There were parades in towns. In our town, our school marching band was in the parade. The same as every year. Some other people in small groups too. After the parade, everyone was celebrating. Picnics, BBQ, parties.

My parents were barbequing with their friends. I've been with them at such parties a couple of times. Do you know what they do? They talk business. Day off and they talk business! Thank you very much! Sure not for me.

Mel and Don convinced me to arrange a kind of performance at High Pines. Like I was Sally Carr. There was some resemblance but not much of it. First, she was a girl. Then, her hair was straight and my hair was wavy and not so long. Then, huh…, nothing. We sounded alike and I knew almost all her hits.

Mel dressed me like Sally. It wasn't for real, just a play. So I didn't complain much. Over knee boots and shiny pantyhose. Short shorts but Mel called them hot pants. They were so short that even a little part of my butt was showing. They were covering less than my briefs. So I had what was called a thong instead of the usual briefs. Then there was a vest with a place reserved for breasts. But I didn't have any. It looked like I had something here. On top, I had a loose shirt with buttons and long sleeves with ruffled cuffs. It was long enough to cover shorts. Hot pants. Then I was tied with a narrow belt over the shirt. It looked now like a super micro mini dress barely covering what I had underneath. But I had shorts here. So no worries.

The performance was great. Nobody laughed and nobody was pointing fingers at me. Mel and Don had probably warned them beforehand and they knew what to expect. Some of them even before the concert thought I was a girl.

I was applauded a lot. They made me sing every song twice. “Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep” I sang three times. Then they made me promise another performance for Thanksgiving. Three months to go. I'll learn new songs for sure.

 

 

The school started on Tuesday. It was all serious and real now. We got assignments and homework, and we got projects to do. And then there were tryouts. Like as sports, acting, or performing. The only area that suited me was performing. They didn't need drummers in the marching band.

Nothing this year too, I thought to myself.

“You!” the music teacher said sternly, pointing his finger at me.

“What me?” I asked meekly.

“I saw you at High Pines yesterday,” he said.

“It wasn't me,” I tried.

“You were with Forests…”

“Huh…”

“Olivia?”

“Oliver,” I corrected him.

“Damn! Another one,” he muttered. “Sing!”

“What?”

“Soley Soley.”

“Without music?”

“Acappella.”

Soley Soley is easy to sing when there is back and music. The first three lines go smoothly. Then the line “Until you come back” follows getting stronger and stronger till the last time when it sounds like a lament. Then again easy and smooth Soley Soley.

I finished and the class remained silent. And then applause erupted.

“I take you,” the music teacher said. “I need a leading vocal in the girls' band.”

“But I am a boy,” I complained.

“You need to talk with the counselor first,” he retorted. “Have you talked with her about you being a boy?”

“No… Why would I?” I wondered.

“Because that's the order. Talk with her first.”

“But I was born a boy…”

“Yes. I know the narrative. You were born a boy. But mother nature messed up a little. Just some alterations and you'll be what you really are. I know. But the order is to talk with the counselor first. Capisce?”

The last word sounded like some Polish word of similar meaning. I understood I needed to prove I was a boy.

 

 

Who else I would turn to with the newest aroused problem? Sure, to my parents.

“Mom dad, didn't I say I had a problem with my voice?” I started.

“You said you didn't like it,” mom said.

“I didn't say I didn't like it. I said my voice sounded like a girl's and now the music teacher thinks I'm a girl and I need to prove I'm not.”

“Just do it,” dad offered.

“I can't. I need to talk with the counselor first. Only her findings will prove I'm a boy. But she's very busy now. The earliest appointment I get is a week before Halloween,” I explained trying to sound reasonable.

“So your music teacher will think for two months you are a girl. I don't see a problem here,” mom said.

“The problem is he wants me to be a lead vocal in an all-girl band,” I said calmly. Still. Though I was boiling inside already.

“Do you sing?” dad wondered. “Nursery rhymes?”

“Pop and rock mostly. Mel taught me some opera parts,” I actually was proud of what I could sing.

“Opera?” dad chuckled. He thought I wasn't serious.

I was serious. I didn't know much. But I could sing some. Small parts of some popular arias. Only the first stanzas of them.

“Sing something to us,” mom asked.

“Acapella?” I asked.

Mom nodded yes. I sang them the first stanza of “O mio babbino caro”. I didn't know the second and the third stanzas so I stopped here. My rents didn't say anything.

“Are you sure you are not our daughter?” dad asked after a long pregnant pause.

“Is it only aria or do you really have a boyfriend?” mom asked. I didn't know she could understand Italian.

“MOMMY!” I shouted. And then I added more calmly, “it's only text. And I'm not a girl.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” mom retorted. “It's not only about your voice. It's about your choice of the aria of a young girl asking her father to let her meet her boyfriend.”

It was my choice. But it was based on the fact that the first stanza was performed in the lower register and sounded not too girly.

“Is there really somebody?” dad asked, “I would understand. You are old enough. I just want to know who it is. And I want to meet him.”

“Daddy…! There-is-nobody!”

“Oh, you poor thing! Your whole life's ahead. You'll find somebody,” mom comforted me.

“I-am-not-a-girl!” they were getting to my nerves. They were my parents. Who, if not them, would know the truth?

“Ok. As you wish. It's your life. We will support and love you whatever choice you make,” dad concluded.

 

 

My parents were no help. Maybe my neighbors, Mel and Don, could help. They know how things work in this country better than mom and dad. Mel could probably bring my music teacher to reason.

“My music teacher thinks I'm a girl because I sound like a girl,” I said the same evening.

“So… What a problem here?” Don asked.

“I'm not!”

“Huh… I see…” Don mused, “it's a phase.”

“What phase?” I wondered.

“He means,” Mel started to explain, “when you grow mature and you don't have a boyfriend you start thinking maybe you are the wrong girl or not even a girl at all.”

“But I am not a girl!”

“Don't make hasty decisions,” Mel said.

“Why don't you want to be a girl? Don't you like being a girl? Your whole life you have been the most precious girl we know. And so abrupt change now! Why?” Don wondered.

“You think I'm a girl?” I felt defeated.

“We know you are!” Mel and Don said in unison.