In the first three parts, Barb capitalizes on her son Kyle’s desire for a moped (a motor scooter) to propose a deal: If he wears girls’ clothes for a month, then he can get one. He makes the deal on the understanding that he can choose the clothes. He figures he will be able to find a masculine look, just as long as he wears sweatshirts bulky enough to hide the bras his mother adds to the deal. Kyle sees an easy win; his mother hopes that somehow the knowledge that he is wearing girls’ clothes will tame her boy. After a humiliating visit to the mall to acquire his new wardrobe, Kyle finds that his friendships are only cloth deep. His ‘buddies’ reject Kyle and his new look. He reluctantly socializes with the school’s pariah — with Steve, the ‘gay kid’. A mysterious dark-haired girl also enters Kyle’s life by rescuing Kyle from a foolhardy stunt. With Kyle wearing makeup to mask a black eye, Barb becomes ever more fearful that her son not only wants to cross-dress, but is gay as well. The story resumes with Kyle’s third day at school.

Anything for a Moped? —Part 4 by: Dawn De Winter
Chapter Five: What the Girlfriend Knew

Kyle’s third full day as a cross-dresser started off promisingly. He got up early enough to do a passable job with his makeup, and still have time left over to make a more careful selection of clothing. As he scrutinized the outerwear for telltale signs of femininity, he reluctantly concluded he couldn’t wear the jeans with the two-inch plaid hem: "Not today, anyway. Too risky," he thought.

Yet he lingered over the decision because he had to admit that he really liked the plaid. The jeans appealed to him even more when he discovered a half-inch of plaid trim on each of the back pockets. He hadn’t seen any of the plaid when he had made his purchase. Would he have bought the jeans had he seen it? Probably not at the time, yet he was happy to have his plaid jeans now. He decided he’d wear them on the weekend.

The cargo pants, he decided, had nothing to give away their origin in the girls’ department. And he put them on over the most non-descript panties in his dresser drawer. Kyle would have told you that he had been extra careful, that he was playing it extra safe.

Yet he had made two miscalculations: First, the cargo pants had been designed with a teenage girl’s body in mind, and so were narrowly cinched at the waist and wide in the hips. Made of sailcloth, a material that Kyle had found reassuringly masculine, they kept their shape, and billowed out at his hips. Thus, they definitely made Kyle look more feminine: He had, as it were, a full half-hour of an hourglass figure.

The cargo pants were bound to cause unease amongst his ‘friends,’ and while only one of them actually figured out that day that Kyle was wearing girls’ clothes, it was an easy, unspoken decision to exclude him yet again from their lunch table.

The decision would have been even easier, and the rejection even nastier, had any of them caught a glimpse of the waistband of his panties. Kyle had messed up again, even though — actually because — he had carefully chosen the most masculine-cut of his entire panty collection. "Now, I won’t have to worry so much about anyone seeing my underwear," Kyle thought, as he imagined himself challenging Brad to a rematch. "I could parade around the school in these briefs and no one would know where I got them."

Oh really? The manufacturer had worried that girls might consider the panties too masculine in cut to wear. To reassure them, it had threaded "Hanes Her Way" into the waistband. Kyle had spent so much time posing in front of the mirror, checking out their appearance at a distance, that he hadn’t remembered to check out the waistband. Or at least that is what he would always believe happened that day.

Thus dressed, Kyle had an uneventful morning at school. Once again, his ‘friends’ spurned him at lunch. Indeed, they had given his place at their table to Tristin, a Kyle wannabe. Once again, Kyle found himself eating alone.

He heard that voice again: "Can I join you?"

Kyle looked up. Sure enough, it was Steve again. With his reputation already shot, Kyle didn’t see any reason to tell the boy to get lost: "Sure, why not? There seems to be lots of room."

Once seated, Steve came right to the point: "I was wondering if you’d like to go to a college basketball game this Saturday night? I’ve got two courtside tickets for the Iowa State game. What do you say? You interested?"

Interested? Kyle would have bellowed out a ‘yes’ had anyone else been asking. But Steve? Kyle didn’t want to commit himself until he had all the facts: "How come you have basketball tickets?" he explored.

"My dad arranged them for me."

"Your dad? Whose your dad?"

"He’s a basketball player. He used to play for Iowa; so he’s still got some connections here."

"My god, your last name — it’s Lancer, right? You’re not, you couldn’t be, there’s no way you could be the son of ..."

"Yep, my dad’s Mike Lancer."
"I can’t believe it. Your dad plays guard for the Knicks, and you’re, well you’re …"

"Gay?"

"Yeh, queer. How could you be so different from your dad?"

"Well, I’m not," replied Steve. "I’m a lot like my dad, except I don’t play basketball as well."

"You mean?"

"Yeh, that’s why my parents divorced. But you won’t tell anyone, huh, Kyle? I’ve kept your secret. You’ll keep my dad’s, right?"

"Sure, sure. So you really have two tickets at courtside?" Kyle asked. When he saw Steve nod his head, Kyle in a very low voice said, "I’ll go, but on one condition." As he saw Steve waiting for him to declare it, Kyle softly finished: "That condition is that just you and me know about our going to the game together. You don’t tell anyone. Got it?"

"Well, I have to tell my mom because she has to drive us to Ames. Is it okay if she knows?"

"Obviously she has to know," grunted Kyle. "Boy, you can be pretty dumb."

"So we’re going to the game together? Let’s shake on that okay?"

Reluctantly, Kyle extended his hand. Once again, Steve clung to it. As Kyle anticipated that Steve would try to prolong the handshake, Kyle had attempted to sneak his hand in and out of Steve’s grasp before the gay boy had had a chance to close his hand. Instead, he found Steve not only faster, but also stronger.

As he surveyed his own imprisoned hand, Kyle realized for the first time that Steve had baseball mitts for hands. "Wow, maybe he really is Mike Lancer’s son," Kyle thought as he finally extracted himself from Steve’s squeezing embrace. The boy had once again embarrassed him.

Kyle was about to make a putdown, but was interrupted by someone asking if he could join them. The voice was familiar, but not one he’d heard lately. As Kyle looked up, he realized it was Tim Rush, his best friend until grade seven. That year their friendship had faded, as Kyle discovered heavy metal music and a new set of friends, who openly mocked Tim for listening to rockabilly.

Kyle gradually got too busy to see Tim, and their friendship had ended the day that Tom made the mistake of trying to join the black-shirt crowd for lunch. The target of a "friendly" food fight, Tim had thereafter given Kyle a wide berth.

Yet Tim had never forgotten the good times with Kyle, and seeing his erstwhile friend so isolated that he’d even eat with Steve Lancer, Tim impulsively decided to join them. He knew he was taking a risk with his own reputation, but what the heck? Tim could care less what people said about him. Even so, Tim at first spoke only to Kyle; Steve, he hoped, would get the hint and leave.

Kyle was delighted to see his old friend: "Can you sit down? You’re darn right. Tim, you’re always welcome at my table."

"That hasn’t always been true," Tim replied with an edge.

"Yeh, well, I can be a jerk at times," admitted Kyle. "But I know who my true friends are; and you’ll always be one of them." He extended his hand and they shook on it. And then, Kyle surprised himself by making an introduction, "Do you two know each other?"

When they both nodded warily, Kyle said the one thing most likely to put them at ease: "Did you know, Tim, that Steve’s dad plays for the Knicks?"

Steve beamed: This was the introduction that always worked best for him. Tim was happy too. They could talk basketball, a very safe topic in case anyone was eavesdropping. And the three of them talked a lot of basketball, so much that Tim suggested the three of them grab one of the school’s courts when Hoover let out for the day. "I’ve got a basketball in my locker. We’ll take on all challengers," he loftily promised.

There were to be three challengers: Jason, Derek and Brad. They were determined to humiliate "the pansies." While unsure whether they wanted Kyle back in the fold, they wanted him to know that he now played on a team of losers.

They were two-thirds right about his team: Tim didn’t have the basic skills, and Kyle, obsessed with his bra, had difficulty stretching. His shots generally came up short.

The game would, therefore, have given the black-shirts the easy victory they craved, had it not been for Steve. A natural athlete, he kept his side close enough in baskets to infuriate Derek, who made his displeasure known by pushing, shoving and charging.

As Jason and Brad followed his lead, the game became rough enough to draw a crowd. Most of the watching students delighted in the mayhem, but one spectator was getting increasingly anxious for Kyle’s safety. It was her nature to fret about Kyle.

Joannie Smith had been his guardian angel for more than a month, even though he scarcely knew her. To Kyle, she was "the dyke." This wasn’t a label that she would have rejected, even though she was quite smitten with Kyle. Indeed, he occupied half her fantasy life.

Kyle would have been absolutely mortified had he known how many times she had brought herself to climax by quickly alternating memories of Kyle, with images of girls taken from the movies or the teen magazines.

What, did she think Kyle a girl? No, quite the contrary. It was macho Kyle, the foolhardy boy on the skateboard, the BMX bike, and the power skis that she found orgasmic.

Joannie Smith is a bundle of contradictions. Yet we have to try to understand her, for she is to play a crucial role in Kyle’s life. To comprehend Kyle’s destiny, it is as important to know why Joannie Smith considered herself a lesbian, as it was to learn that Kyle spent his childhood pretending to be assorted super heroines, or that his mother used a moped as bait to lure him back into girls’ clothes for a month.

Joannie has thought of herself as a lesbian ever since summer camp. There she lost her virginity to another girl in her cabin, to Monique, an exchange student from France. They had hit it off from their first meeting, when Joannie found delightful Monique’s pronunciation of her name. Thanks to Monique, the entire camp ended up calling her "Johnny," a nickname she grew to cherish.

Sexual exploration began a week later. Both novices, they were been chary of nudity. Only once was there direct, genital contact, and only twice did Monique’s hands cup Joannie’s exposed breast.

Yet there was considerable sex play, as each girl learned what the other felt like under a layer of cotton, nylon, Lycra and satin. Monique wanted ‘Johnny’ to play the ‘butch’ role, and even bought her two pairs of boys’ white jockey briefs to wear. Monique purchased a new wardrobe for herself of white lace, pink satin and red velvet.

As Joannie got to know Monique’s body through its thin coat of nylon, silk and lace, Joannie came to love fine, feminine lingerie as much as Monique did. Indeed, by summer’s end she had developed a fetish: Joannie would for the rest of her life want her lovers to wear white satin and red lace.

Their parting was sorrowful as Monique returned to France. Even more tragic was the "Cher Johnny" letter that arrived less than three weeks later. In it, Monique explained that their summertime romance had emboldened her to seduce her best friend Bernadette. The two girls were now madly in love, and making love at every opportunity.

Monique ended with, "The stars are against us, Johnny. You and I — it is not possible. There is too grand a sea between us. I forget you never, mon cheri, you will always be my americain. But now, I am crazy for mon Berni."

Joannie started the school year at Hoover determined to find another "Monique." In her inexperience, Joannie believed that the right sort of girl would be attracted to a "butch" lesbian, and so she dressed in as masculine a way as possible.

To the consternation of Virginia, her grandmother and guardian, Joannie was buying her clothes in the boys’ department from the summer onward, and on most days wore not a single item of feminine clothing. Indeed, she wore boys’ boxer shorts when nature permitted. She had a single earring, a dangling crucifix that the salesgirl advised her was in vogue amongst the tougher sort of Catholic boys. As her breasts ruined the illusion she sought, Joannie bound them tightly with an athletic bandage.

She would have shaved her head, but yielded to her grandmother’s entreaties not to throw away the one thing — her raven black hair —- that most reminded Virginia of her daughter, and Joannie’s mother, dead for two years from breast cancer. And so, Joannie wore her hair in an unkempt ponytail, a rubber band its clasp.

Thus cross-dressed, Joannie kept her eyes out for girls who wore dresses or skirts to school. When she found one, she spent almost as much time trying to look up the girl’s thighs as did her male classmates.
Joannie had no doubt in her own mind that she was a lesbian. The taped breasts and boxer shorts affirmed this identity, as did her reaction to girls’ lingerie advertisements — which was similar to Kyle’s.

Yet her "lesbianism" was based on a single sexual relationship, and while that made her more experienced than Kyle, Joannie couldn’t deny that there was definite evidence that she was, at the very least, bisexual.
Kyle was the evidence. Joannie hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him since she had first caught sight of him in late August. Unknown to his mother, he had borrowed a BMX bike and had been racing it around a makeshift track of ramps and culverts.

Blushingly, Joannie remembered the first moment she had noticed him: He had been standing on his pedals, as he labored up a particularly steep incline on his way to "suicide ridge," and for some reason — possibly gravity — his jeans, halfway down his thighs at the best of times, had plummeted earthward. Joannie had witnessed almost a full moon before Kyle had been able to adjust himself.

His orbs had fascinated her, even though his narrow hips and flat buttocks yelled out "boy" to the self-announced lesbian. She had kept her eye on him during the next two heats, being rewarded with two half-moons and two sightings of a washboard stomach. As she followed Kyle’s rolling striptease, Joannie became aware for the first time of the beauty — in its own way — of the male physique.

And just as Monique had embodied the feminine mystique for Joannie, Kyle had become the quintessential male. Even so, he might easily have forfeited that title the next time Joannie went to a high school swim meet, for Kyle was a rather scrawny specimen of ‘Man.’ Fortunately for Kyle, his BMX race ended the way his daredevil stunts usually did — in disaster.

Racing along a raised wooden plank, Kyle suddenly lost his balance. He would probably have broken his arm for a third time had not a spotter taken the brunt of the fall. Kyle bounced off him towards the audience, finishing sprawled, his clothes in inviting disarray, in front of Joannie. Stunned, speechless, he did not move.

Joannie, frantic that the boy had been badly hurt, knelt to help him. Her hands had minds of their own: One felt his brow, as though testing for a fever, the other rested on his exposed lower abdomen. What it was checking for, no one knew. For the first time, Joannie looked as intensely at Kyle’s face as she had at his body. And she liked what she saw.

Indeed she loved what she saw: the boyish good looks, the wild eyes, and the pained vulnerability. He was, in her eyes, man and child, hero and victim. He had excited her lust; now he also had aroused her maternal instincts. This was the boy she wanted for sex. This was the boy she wanted to mother. This was the boy she wanted.

As he came around, Kyle groggily noticed a ‘boy’ — certainly, he was dressed like a boy — hovering over him. In a high-pitched voice, the ‘boy’ asked: "Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you? That would be awful."

"I’m fine," Kyle finally answered, as his eyes began to focus on the ‘boy’ who was crowding him. "I’d even get up," he muttered, "if you gave me some breathing room." And then, that strange boy had kissed Kyle — on the cheek! Before Kyle could rank him out, the ‘boy’ had disappeared into the crowd.

With a grunt, Kyle rubbed some dirt on his cheek to cleanse it. He never told anyone about the kiss — it was an embarrassment. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as falling off a ramp and bending the front wheel of a friend’s BMX, but it was pretty bad.

The ‘boy’ hadn’t heard Kyle snarl, mainly to himself, but also to anyone with a two-foot perimeter: "What a day. First I fall off the ramp. Then some queer sneaks a kiss."

And now that ‘boy’ was watching Kyle’s every move in a basketball game, just as she had his stunt on Suicide Hill. It didn’t look like he’d need rescuing again, but one never knew with Kyle.

The brawl started when Derek viciously tripped Steve, sending him sprawling painfully onto the concrete. Kyle, seeing Jason smile approvingly, pushed his former ‘best friend’ into a chain link fence. Before he had even risen to his full height, Jason was tackling Kyle’s midriff. His momentum toppled them both, and they grappled for advantage as they thrashed about on the ground.

Friends, foes and spectators agreed to let the two boys fight to a decisive outcome. Even so, both Steve and Joannie tensed for possible intervention.

At first, Kyle was winning. But he began to lose concentration and his advantage when Jason shoved a hand in his face, smearing his makeup. Even then, they were fighting to a draw — that is, until Jason found the bra strap. His tugging, accidental at first, became increasingly vigorous and deliberate, as Jason, realizing what he had in hand, strove to strip Kyle of his image.

At first, Jason hoped to rip the bra off Kyle, but its resilience led to a second strategy of slipping the bra straps off Kyle’s shoulders, and then an inch or two down each arm. He hoped in this way to immobilize Kyle’s arms, in order to drag the bra into full view somewhere around the sissy’s navel.

Kyle fought ever more desperately, yet ineffectually, as he devoted all his efforts to bra defense rather than to boy defeat. As Kyle focused on his upper body, he left undefended his private parts. Normally, these would have been safe when wrestling with a buddy; but Jason, enraged by finding Kyle wearing makeup and a bra, suddenly, viciously, kneed Kyle in the groin.

As Kyle jackknifed in pain, Jason lost hold of the bra. Abandoning his trophy hunt, he used Kyle’s pant seat to wipe off the makeup on his hand. He then scrambled to his feet, taking care to give Kyle a kick in the buttocks as he did. With that, Kyle’s cargo pants slipped sufficiently to uncover the "Hanes Her Way" waistband.

Fortunately, only three students were close enough to read the script: Jason, naturally, and Steve and Joannie, who had both come rushing to Kyle’s aid, now that he was down and helpless.

Briefly, Jason contemplated denouncing Kyle to all who’d listen. But, as he watched Kyle, still writhing in pain, gasp for his breath, his anger abated. As he calmed, Jason began to reflect on the implications for his own reputation at Hoover to have a ‘best friend’ — even an ex-friend — publicly exposed as a cross-dressing sissy.

Wouldn’t students and teachers assume that Kyle had been wearing a bra and panties for weeks or months? And if they did, then what would they suspect of Jason, who had shared both a tent and a bedroom with a notorious ‘sissy’?

Suddenly, it hit Jason like a blow to the solar plexus: He had as much stake in preserving Kyle’s secret, as did the panty-loving sissy himself. Once they had been linked in friendship; they now were linked in fear — a mutual fear that the entire school would learn that Kyle had taken to wearing girls’ clothes.

"I know your dirty little secret now," Jason snarled. "And I’ll tell it to everyone if you don’t leave me and the gang alone. If I see you anywhere near a real boy, you’ll end up tied to a school desk in your underwear. You get my meaning, right?"

And then seeing Steve and Joannie waiting nearby, Jason added, "Keep to your own kind. But don’t you dare start wearing anything, Kyla," he muttered as he shook the shoulders of the still-dazed boy, "that’d allow anyone to guess what a disgusting pervert you are. Got it? If I see you in a frigging dress, I’ll kill you myself."

He stomped off, taking his friends with them. They could be seen begging him for news; but he said not a word.

As Kyle finally recovered from the shocks to his body and self-respect, the first face he saw was a disturbingly familiar one. No, not Steve, whose attentions at this point would just about complete the job of destroying Kyle’s reputation as a regular guy. Steve fortunately was hanging back. So whose face was this hovering so closely to his own? Whose breath did he feel on his cheek? Who was endeavoring to help him to his feet?

"Jeez, it’s the queer who kissed me at the BMX race" was Kyle’s first thought. But then, taking a second, better look, he realized it was a girl. She might be dressed like a boy, but no boy had lips as full and inviting as hers. And no boy — at least no teenage boy — had such a delicate little nose. And that chin! Kyle loved her chin. Indeed, the more he examined her face, the more attractions he discovered.

Yet who was she? "Oh no, it’s the dyke!" Kyle exclaimed, almost out loud. Indeed, he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from using that word. Instead, he asked, "Did you kiss me at the BMX race? And were you the one who pushed me at Suicide Hill?"

"Guilty as charged," Joannie quietly replied.

"But why? Why did you kiss me? Why did you help me? Why are you here now? Do you follow me around to see me mess up?"

Kyle needed a lift, Joannie decided, and so she chanced the truth: "I think you’re cute. That’s why you’ve seen me around. I like you, Kyle — a lot." She looked away hurriedly and abashedly.

Her timing was perfect. Kyle was beginning to wonder himself about his motives. Had he really been willing to do anything for a moped? Or was the moped merely an excuse for buying girls’ clothes? Was he, as everyone — the bathroom creep, the security guard, the department store clerks, his former best friend, and his own mother Barb — seemed to suspect, a gay transvestite?

Kyle needed some reassurance. He needed a girlfriend. And here was a girl at hand. And she seemed to adore him! Not only that, but she had a cute face. And then, when she suddenly brushed something off his bottom, Kyle absolutely knew that he wasn’t going to let this opportunity for intimacy pass: "Can I, can I walk you home," he bashfully asked.

"Do you know where I live?" she teased.

"It doesn’t matter," he said.

"Silly, don’t you know that we live on the same street?"

"We do?"

"Yes, I sometimes see you when you walk to school." Such sightings were not, of course, mere accident. Indeed, they were one good reason why the self-declared ‘lesbian’ had gotten hung up on a boy named Kyle.

At this point, Steve’s timing was less than perfect. He asked if he could walk Kyle home. All he got in response was a grunt. Steve hurriedly said he hoped Kyle wasn’t hurt, and that they’d see each other at school tomorrow. "Don’t forget our date on Saturday," he exclaimed before trotting off.

"Your date?" queried Joannie.

"What a stupid word to use. Sometimes, he’s as bright as Homer Simpson," mumbled Kyle. "We’re going to a basketball game with his mother. Some date, huh?" Anyway, I only date girls. Only cute ones, like you." He then inspected his sneakers.

They traded so many compliments on their way to Joannie’s house that she inevitably invited him in for milk and apple pie. As he chomped away, Kyle kept sneaking looks at her face. Finally, he asked, "Why do you wear your hair that way? You’ve got long black hair, right? Can I see it?"

As Joannie took off the elastic band, and as she shook her hair loose, Kyle became aware for their first time that her hair wasn’t just black. It was raven black. Joannie had hair like the girl in his dreams. "Wow, you’ve beautiful hair," he gurgled. "It reminds me of Pocahontas’s hair — you know, her hair in the Disney movie."

"That shouldn’t surprise you," replied Joannie. "I am, after all, part Kiowa."

"So you’re my Indian maiden," marveled Kyle.

"I’m not ‘your’ anything yet, Kyle James, you’ll have to earn the right to call me yours."

"And how would I do that?" he asked, leadingly.

"Well, a boy has to make a girl feel good about herself. And he has to be there when she needs him."

"Done. That’s easy. I’ll do whatever it takes to be your boyfriend. But you’ve got to do something if you want to be my girlfriend."

"And what’s that? It had better not be what I think it is. You boys are all alike. All you think about noon and night is … well, you know."

"No, no. Not that. Well, maybe some day, when you’re ready," he winked. "What I need is for you to dress more like a girl." He scrutinized her closely enough to realize for the first time that she was dressed entirely as a boy: "Jeez, you’re even wearing boxer shorts. Why do you dress like a boy?"

"And why do you dress like a girl, Kyle?"

"I do not."

"Who do you think you’re kidding, Kyle? I saw Jason pulling on your bra. I saw your "Hanes for girls" label, and I brushed the makeup off your fanny so that no one else would see it there. And now that I look more closely, I know for certain, Kyle, that you’re not wearing a single item of boys’ clothing, unless it’s the shoes. So why are you dressed like a girl, Kyle?"

He explained the deal with his mother. While Joannie pretended not to believe him — to get his goat — she sadly concluded that he must be telling the truth. The facts fitted. Yet she’d rather believe that he was getting some sexual thrill out of wearing girls’ clothes. Why? Because, as she contemplated losing her virginity, so-to-speak, one day to Kyle, she already knew that the sex would be better, and the entire experience more erotically charged, if Kyle were dressed like Monique. He was already halfway there — he was already wearing girls’ clothes.

"If I can persuade him to dress just once like Monique — like a super-feminine girl, French girl — then I know that my first time with a boy is going to be one of the high points of my life," she decided.

Joannie was definitely not going to tell Kyle to limit his experiment in cross-dressing. Quite the opposite! She was going to urge him to extend and prolong it. Kyle could not look to his girlfriend to keep him out of skirts. Indeed, she was already mentally sizing him for them.

Kyle broke through her thoughts: "And why do you wear boys’ clothes? Did you also make a bet?"

"Nope. I just prefer to dress like a boy. It’s my constitutional right, after all, to wear whatever I please. You boys have it so unlucky, Kyle. Look what happens if you change your clothes the slightest way. They start beating you up, and they don’t even know your clothes are girls’ clothes, do they?"

"Well, Jason knows," Kyle moaned.

"But he didn’t know before the fight, did he? And he was already treating you like a leper. No, boys are slaves of fashion. We girls can wear whatever we like. And I like boy’s dungarees, tees and boxers. So there! You’ll have to accept me as you find me."

"You’d look a lot sexier if you dressed like a girl," Kyle responded; but then he let the subject drop — for the moment. But he was determined to get her to dress in a more feminine way. He wanted her to wear sexy French lingerie, high heels and a tight dress.

For a moment there was a mind meld — they were both arousing themselves sexually by visualizing the other in high heels and a tight dress. When they opened their eyes again, they both saw to their dismay that their new ‘friend’ was dressed like a tomboy. Each sighed. There was a lot of work to be done, and not a lot of time in which to do it.

Joannie had to worry about the one-month deadline. After he started riding his moped, Kyle might be more difficult to lure into satin or silk.

As for Kyle, he was almost desperate to get Joannie dressing as a girl, so that he could stifle the rumors of her lesbianism. To recover his damaged reputation he needed a real, highly visible girlfriend — one in makeup, a pointy bra, and skirts. She had to look as much like a sex kitten as possible. His reputation required there to be no doubt about her sexual interest in males.

Time being of the essence, Joannie decided they needed more privacy. She suggested, and Kyle readily agreed, that they should go up to her bedroom to listen to her personal CD collection, which seemed to have been chosen more for sexual orientation than for quality of voice. Since they were fourteen years old, they were still behaving innocently enough an hour later, when suddenly they heard a door opening below, and then, a shout: "Joannie, are you home? It’s me, it’s Gran."

"I’ll be down in a few minutes, Gran. I just want to finish listening to my Sinead O’Connor CD."

Joannie then turned to Kyle with a worried look on her face and a tremor in her voice: "She can’t find you here. She says I’m too young to be dating boys. She won’t let me date anyone until I’m sixteen. If she finds you on the second floor, never mind in my bedroom, she’ll throw you out of the house. And I’ll never be allowed to see you again. Never!"

"Is there a place for me to hide?" asked Kyle frantically. He was panic-stricken: He had no sooner found a girlfriend, than he was going to lose her.

"Shhh, not too loud. There’s no point in hiding. She’ll eventually find you, and then hate you even more. What to do? What to do?" Her brow furrowed, and then she announced: "There’s only one way out of this trap. There is only one way for us to continue seeing each other."

"What’s that? You name it. I’m ready for anything," responded Kyle. Through his mind flashed various outlandish schemes for escaping from the house through the second-story window. Sure, there was a sheer drop onto asphalt, but he figured he could fashion a parachute or kite of some sort from the bed sheets and float to safety.

Fortunately for Kyle’s life and limbs, Joannie had another plan in mind: "I could introduce you as my girlfriend. My grandmother’s really old, positively ancient, and she’s so near-sighted I bet we could pass you off as my girlfriend. Then she’d never suspect I had a boy in my room."

"I don’t like the plan," said Kyle, his arms defiantly crossed. "Why don’t you create a diversion and then I’ll make a run for it."

"And if she sees you? And she’s likely to. Then we’ll never be able to see each other again. You do want to see me again, don’t you, Kyle?" she asked as she gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.

Kyle couldn’t ever remember anyone looking at him that way. He crumbled. His objections were now the sort that a strong-minded girl could overrule: "I don’t look like a girl, even in these clothes. Your grandmother would never be fooled by me, no matter how blind she is."

"It’s true, Kyle, that you don’t look like a girl right now, but you could, if you really tried."

"What do you mean? Really tried? What do you have in mind?" Kyle warily asked.

"Well, first you’d have to fix your makeup. Then all it would take is some lipstick, some eyeshade and mascara, and before you know it, you’d look just like my girlfriend Demi."

"Demi? Who’s Demi? Do I know her?"

"Of course, you know her, silly. You’re Demi. That’s what we’ll call you when we introduce you to Gran."

"Why Demi? Why that name? Do you think I look like Demi Moore?"

"No, not really. Demi is the perfect name for you because you’re going to be half-boy, half-girl. You’ll look like a girl, but underneath you’ll still be a boy. Half and half. See?"

"I intend to remain all boy where it counts," replied Kyle. "I guess Demi’s a better name than most girl’s names. At least, it’s not a sissy name like Kyla or Chrissie," growled Kyle.

"You’re such a grouch," replied Joannie. "We’ve got to get to work. Do you have your own makeup? Good, you can apply some more, while I find some lipstick, mascara and whatever in my gran’s room."

"What? You don’t have any lipstick of your own?"

"Nope, not a tube. Haven’t you noticed, Kyle? I don’t wear any makeup. I never have; I never will."

By the time she had returned with a makeup kit from Virginia’s room, Kyle had decided on a deal, another deal. The first one was going to get him a moped; the second was going to get him a girlfriend he could show off to Hoover High.

What kind of deal? Well let’s hear Kyle pitch it: "I’m not going to put anything on my face that you won’t put on yours," he announced defiantly. "If you want me to wear lipstick, then you’ll have to wear it. That’s the deal."

"Let me get this," replied Joannie. "You’re proposing a deal that I have to dress as femininely as you do. Is that right?"

"Yep, that’s the deal. If you want me to paint my face, well you’re going to have to do a self-portrait too."

"That’s not fair, Kyle. You’re trying to force me to dress like a woman. It’s not fair. I have a right to look as much like a boy as possible."

"And so do I," trumped Kyle. "If you want me to pass myself as a girl, then you’re going to have to be passable too. What’s good for the gander is good for the goose."

After much hesitation, Joannie finally shook on the deal: Both would try to look more feminine. Ironically, Kyle had a headstart. First of all, he knew more than she did about applying makeup. He showed her how to do it; and she learned about lipstick, mascara and eyeshade by watching him bungle — several times — putting them on himself. When the two kids were done, they had a good laugh at each other’s expense.

Kyle agreed he looked more clown-like than feminine, and that he’d need extra work to look like a girl. And so, Joannie worked on his hair to give him bangs and, with the help of pink hair band, the semblance of a ponytail in back. At his insistence, she agreed to a turquoise band for her own hair.

They posed together in front of the mirror. No, they did not yet look female. Or at least, they didn’t look like a fourteen-year-old female, for their chests were as flat as the Iowa prairie.

"You’re never going to fool Gran if you don’t put something into your bra," said Joannie, brandishing a fistful of tissue paper. But Kyle refused to have his bra stuffed, for he insisted on ‘tit for tat.’ Or perhaps he said, ‘Tit for tit.’

Kyle finally summoned up his courage to ask the question that had been haunting him since he’d gotten his first good look at Joannie’s chest: "Er, Joannie, what is it about your breasts? Are the women in your family slow developers? You’ll catch up in time, right?"

"I’ve already more than caught up," Joannie answered. "You are so silly, Kyle. Didn’t you know that I strap down my breasts? I thought everyone knew that. I think breasts are gross. I wish I had a nice flat chest like yours."

"Breasts are great. That is, they look great on a girl. They don’t look so good on a boy — at least not on fat boys," fumbled Kyle. "You know our deal: If you want me to stuff my bra, then you have to stuff yours as well."

"Turn around, Kyle James. Don’t peek." She then took off her top so that she could unwrap her breasts. They sprang perkily forward. She didn’t bother with a bra. As a result, the outline of her nipples could be seen straining for release from her San Jose Sharks sweatshirt. When Kyle finally turned around, he had visual proof that Joannie was very much a female.

As it was now his turn to give such ‘proof,’ he began to fill his bra with tissue paper. Yet Joannie didn’t think his ‘breasts’ were realistic enough, and so she went hunting for some assistance. She returned with two breast forms that had belonged to her mother, who had endured two radical mastectomies before succumbing to breast cancer. They were exceptionally life-like, with magnificent aureoles. Kyle noticed that the breasts warmed up quickly when he held them, and that they were slightly different in shape — just as human breasts would be.

"They can be attached with adhesive," Joannie said. "You can even wear them in the shower. We won’t bother with the adhesive this time. Just put them in your bra, and let me see how you look."

Kyle got them upside down the first time. But, all too quickly, they were in place, and Kyle was fretting: "Gulp, I look like I have breasts. Jeez, they even jiggle when I move." Their weight disconcerted him. It was really like having women’s breasts. He looked at himself in the mirror. Did he look female? No, to his own eyes, he looked like a boy with a fatty-tissue problem.

He sought reassurance from Joannie: "Are you sure that I look feminine enough? I don’t know. It’s going to take a lot more than some lipstick and fake boobs to make me look female. I’m just too macho. I think it’s impossible to make me look like a girl."

"If you say so, Kyle. But remember that my grandmother is as blind as a baseball umpire. Even you can fool her."

He wasn’t so sure. He continued to frown at himself in the mirror. "That grandmother must be legally blind, certifiable," he thought, "for there’s no way that Kyle James could ever look like a girl — even if I wore a dress. A boy’s a boy, and a girl’s a girl, and never shall the two intertwine."

Joannie thought he looked feminine enough — well, feminine enough to fool a nearsighted woman who was used to seeing her own granddaughter dress in boys’ clothes. Compared to Joannie, Kyle was a picture of femininity. "Kyle thinks he could never be taken for a girl, but he’s wrong. He’s cute enough to be a girl. The lipstick really looks good on him, and those eyelashes are to die for." Mentally, she blew him a kiss.

"It’s time, Demi, to make our grand appearance. Do you think Virginia, my gran, is ready for us? Is the world ready for us?"

Kyle didn’t think so. But what the heck? If they didn’t fool Joannie’s grandmother, everyone would consider his outfit a big joke. No one would think he was seriously trying to cross-dress. At least, not with lipstick and makeup that made him look like Crusty the Clown! Besides, Kyle secretly wanted to be found out — it suited his male ego to think that he couldn’t pass as a girl no matter how much he tried.

They were giggling as they left Joannie’s bedroom, but they were sober enough as they entered the kitchen where Virginia was busily cooking dinner. Joannie announced, "Hi Gran, I want you to meet my new, best girlfriend, Demi. Demi, this is my grandmother."

Virginia studied the two ‘girls’ coming into her kitchen. She looked at Demi. She squinted at Joannie. Then, with a puzzled look, at Demi again. Then, for a second time, at Joannie. Virginia gasped. A measuring cup fell out of her hand. It shattered on the tiled floor. But Virginia did not see it, for her eyes had turned skyward. Then she swooned. Something, or someone, had caused her to faint!

To be continued in Chapter Six -- Yes, Virginia, There Are Such ‘Girls’