In the first four 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 the moped. 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 son. After a humiliating visit to the mall, 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, Steve, the ‘gay kid’. But he is far more interested in Joannie, a ‘lesbian’ infatuated with Kyle since he first mooned her. They both plan on changing the way the other dresses. As chapter 5 ends, she has just introduced Kyle as Demi, her new girlfriend, to her grandmother Virginia . For some reason, Virginia faints.

Anything for a Moped? - Part 5 by: Dawn De Winter
Chapter Six: Yes, Virginia, There Are Such ‘Girls’

The two teens were hovering over Virginia as she recovered her senses. Her eyes flickering open, she registered the faces of two smiling teens. She quickly closed her eyes to avoid a second swoon.

As she lay there, her head cradled by Joannie’s hands, Virginia mentally chided herself, "What’s got into me? I’ve never acted like a delicate virgin before. Why suddenly do I have the vapors?"

The answer resonated through her mind: "Why now? Because of the lipstick! The mascara and eyeshade! The feminine hairdo! And most of all, because of the ample bosom!" Virginia had lived more than six decades but she’d never seen anything as shocking as … Joannie trying to look like a girl!!"

"No it’s not fair," Virginia decided, "to blame my swoon entirely on Joannie. That Demi gave me quite a jolt as well."

"Gran, are you all right? Oh, please, please, open your eyes," Joannie wailed. She was crying; Demi was sniffling.

Virginia would have preferred a few more moments to collect her thoughts, to deconstruct the reasons for her collapse, but her daughter was not going to give her the opportunity.

Joannie needed immediate reassurance. She was terrified that her little joke on Virginia and Kyle had backfired: "God’s punishing me for telling that fib," she was telling herself. "I should never have lied to Kyle about my Gran not approving of my dating boys. Not approve? Now there’s the falsehood of the century."

Meanwhile, Kyle was getting hysterical. He was well nigh positive that their masquerade had almost killed his girlfriend’s ancient grandmother. He was thinking: "It shocked her. The sight of a boy in lipstick and fake tits pretending to be a girl — it was too much for her. We should never have done it. There’s no way we could have fooled her. I, Kyle James, am too masculine ever to be mistaken for a girl. Jeez, I could dress up like Madonna, false tits and all, and everyone would still come over to me and say, ‘Hey, man, why are you dressed like a chick?’"

The worst of their silent, unspoken fears Virginia put to rest by rising, albeit unsteadily, to her feet. Teetering, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. "Would you be a dear and make us a pot of coffee, Joannie? I’m sure some caffeine will jolt me back to normalcy. I can’t imagine whatever came over me. It must be a touch of the twenty-four-hour flu."

Kyle wanted to beat a hasty retreat, but no, Virginia would have none of that — she wanted very much, she said, to meet Joannie’s new friend. "Come sit by me, dear," she said, patting the chair next to her, "and tell me all about yourself. I’m eager to know where you two met. It’s Demi, right?"

Kyle nodded in confusion.

"Demi," she repeated. "The name is perfect for you: a pretty name for a pretty girl. Do all the boys tell you that you look like Demi Moore?"

"Not exactly," Kyle mumbled.

"Well, they will. Give them time. Now, you must call me Gran, just as Joannie does. You will do that, won’t you Demi?"

"Yeh, why not," replied Kyle in his best rendition of the uncommunicative,teenage male. Joannie glared at him as she discretely rolled her right hand in front of her to signal that he should be more polite and less laconic.

He got the hint: "I’d like to thank you for letting me call you Gran. It makes me feel like one of the family."

"That’s the idea, Demi honey," Gran replied. "If you’re a girlfriend of Joannie’s, then you are indeed part of the family. You’re always welcome here. Do you understand, honey? Always welcome." She then gave him a peck on his cheek.

Joannie was beaming. The first encounter was proceeding splendidly. As she knew that Virginia would insist on getting Demi’s life story, Joannie started spinning a yarn: "I bet you’re wondering how we know each other. Well, we met at summer camp. Don’t you remember my talking about the girl in the next cabin who was already Monique’s good friend when I arrived at camp?"

Virginia had no such recollection; yet she nodded anyway.

Joannie resumed: "Even though you bunked in different cabins, you were Monique’s special friend, weren’t you Demi?"

Virginia’s eyebrows started rising.

Kyle had no idea what she was talking about. Summer camp? Monique? What was all that about? But he appreciated the need to explain the origins of Demi — even if the story struck him as half-ass — and so he obligingly mimicked, "That’s right. I was Monique’s special friend before you got to camp."

The eyebrows inched higher.

"You used to go hiking together, right?" Joannie led the witness. Weren’t you two always wandering off, looking for a trail less taken?"

At this point, Virginia’s eyebrows appeared to reach their apogee.

Kyle recognized the reference — it was from a poem by Robert Frost, one that they had studied two weeks earlier in English class; and so he proudly responded, "Yes, and that made all the difference."

No, Virginia’s eyebrows still had some lift.

"I’ll say," chortled Joannie. "You two were inseparable until I got to camp." She then turned to Virginia: "Gran, I’m afraid I hurt their friendship at first. But we were bosom pals, all three of us, weren’t we by the end of the summer? Demi, isn’t that so, weren’t we bosom pals by August?"

Virginia’s eyebrows could go no higher. They looked unnatural, like Humpty Dumpty with a high brow. Briefly, it looked like she was about to fall again, especially after she heard Kyle’s reply.

"Yeh, bosom pals. We did everything as a trio." He realized he was being too laconic. He was getting the ‘drag it out’ sign from Joannie, and so he added, "Gran, we often took that path less traveled by as a threesome." He’d heard that word, threesome, used by some of the older students at school, and liked the sound of it, even though he didn’t know its normal usage.

Virginia coughed, then looked away. Her eyebrows sagged. To divert the conversation, she interrupted: "And do you now attend Hoover High?"

This was an easy question, thought Kyle, and before Joannie could prompt him, he replied, "Yes, ma’am, we take almost all the same classes."

"So you must live in this district? Do you live nearby?"

Joannie knew that the answer should be, had to be ‘no,’ but Kyle, believing ‘honesty’ the best strategy in deception, decided to keep his story as true to life as possible, and so replied, "Why yes, I live just down the block. Alone, with my mom. She’s a legal secretary," he added.

Joannie couldn’t fathom why he was offering all this unnecessary information, but Kyle, just wanting to be friendly, couldn’t see the harm in telling his story — that is, until Virginia, with a quizzical look on her face, interjected, "Why, you must be Barb James’s child. I’d heard she had a teenager. But a daughter? I was sure it was a son."

"Now, how did I get that strange notion?" Virginia wondered to herself. Then, taking a look at Demi’s clothes, she knew the answer: There were lots of people who thought that Virginia had a son because of Joannie’s masculine garb and ways. "It must be the same for Barb," she thought. "Demi’s a tomboy too. Look at the way she crosses her legs. You can tell she’s never worn skirts in her life. And her clothes are only marginally more feminine than Joannie’s. Some jerk must have seen Demi at Barb’s and never bothered to ask her name, never mind to ascertain her true gender. Poor Barb, she has to put up with same tomfoolery as I do!"

As these thoughts whizzed through Virginia’s mind. Kyle, unusually, was at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to reply. A lie seemed his best recourse, yet he knew that he now depended on the two women never meeting on the street. Looking away, unable to face the grandmother, he fibbed: "Yes, I’m Barb’s daughter. But there’s no son. I’d be the first to know if there was one." Then, mirthlessly, he giggled.

Staring at him, Barb silently commiserated, "I fear, dear girl, that you’d be the last to know." As Kyle anxiously shuffled his feet awaiting a reply, her thoughts dwelt on Demi’s unfortunate masculinity: "Poor Demi, your mother must have been the first to know that you somehow got a ‘Y’ chromosome tacked on somewhere. She must have known in the maternity hospital. I guess that’s why she called you Demi. She knew from the start that you’d be only half the girl of a mother’s dreams."

As Kyle’s face nervously twitched, Barb continued to be lost in thought. Scrutinizing ‘Demi’ with care, she inwardly sighed: "I do wish that what I’d said about your being pretty was true, but you poor soul, you’re as homely as any boy. I guess you were fated to be one of those sorts of girls. It was in your genes."

The prolonged silence became unbearable to Kyle. Convinced that Virginia had seen through his thin disguise, and believing in his heart of hearts that no amount of artifice could ever disguise his true gender, he whined: "Please don’t tell my mother that …"

"Tell your mother what, dear?" Virginia interrupted.

Joannie brusquely intervened: "That we’re seeing each other. That’s what you can’t tell Demi’s mother. Her mother must not know that Demi comes over here. That would ruin everything."

Kyle was speechless with confusion: As he had no idea where Joannie was going with this story, he leaned back against a chair, waiting for his cue to affirm whatever whopper she was about to tell.

As for Virginia, she interpreted Joannie’s comment as a slight on her household: "What are you suggesting, Joannie? Are you saying that Barb James doesn’t approve of us? Has Demi been told not to consort with you? Are you not good enough to be a friend of Barb’s daughter?"

"Gran, Mrs. James doesn’t want Demi to have any girlfriends. I’m not the problem. All girls are the problem, so far as Mrs. James is concerned. She actually prefers Demi to hang out with boys. They’re always welcome in the James household. But girls? No way! I don’t have to spell things out for you, do I, Gran, as to why Mrs. James dislikes every girl that Demi brings home."

Joannie then turned to Kyle for corroboration: "Isn’t it true, Demi, that your mother won’t allow you to bring girls to your room. And if you tried to have an overnight with a girlfriend, wouldn’t she go ballistic?"

Kyle wasn’t sure how his mother would react if he tried to bring a girl to his room, for he’d never tried. But, as he thought about it, he was sure there would be lots of grief if he told his mother that he was going to spend the night with Joannie for his mom would probably worry about his getting Joannie pregnant.

And so, he decided he wasn’t being unfair to his mother in agreeing: "Yeh, she’d go apeshit if she thought I was planning to bed one of my girlfriends."

Joannie glared at him. She thought his language far too ‘crude.’ "It will become," she told herself, "more refined, more suitable to a teen named Demi, if I have anything to do about it." The phrase more ‘ladylike’ came to mind, but she immediately dismissed it, for she knew she’d never be able to make a ‘lady’ out of Kyle. Maybe a teen Miss, but never a lady.

To Virginia, Joannie recapped: "Demi is an unusual girl. Her mother knows it, and so her mother doesn’t approve of any of her female friends. I’ll be very upset with you if you destroy my friendship with Demi by telling her mother that she’s dating me."

"There," Joannie thought, "that should ensure no contact between the families! TOUCHDOWN for Joannie after picking up the ball fumbled by Demi and then stickhandling my way past the outstretched arm of the shortstop to slam dunk one for the gipper."

Virginia’s mind fixated on the one word — dating. "Joannie, are you two girls dating?"

"Don’t be silly, Gran, we’re too young to date. You’ll be the first to know when we’re old enough to start doing it. Isn’t that right, Demi, we’re not really dating, are we? At least not yet."

Kyle nodded, as he knew he must. However, he had finally grasped that Joannie wanted her grandmother to think they were lesbians. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how that would help. Wouldn’t Gran be just as leery of her granddaughter dating girls as dating boys?

Yet then, having posed the question in his mind, Kyle believed he’d found the answer there too: "Ah, I get it. Joannie’s giving me cover. She knows I look much too masculine ever to be mistaken for a normal girl. No way that could happen," he proudly declared to his super Ego. "But if her gran thinks I’m a lesbian — a real butch one — she might, she just might believe I’m a girl after all."

He then beamed at Joannie. She’s really clever, he decided. Infatuation wormed its way a little bit deeper into his marrow. And then, to help her out, he broke into the conversation that Joannie had initiated to kill further discussion of their sexual orientation: "Yes," he announced. "I’m too young to be dating. But when I get old enough, I intend to date only girls."

"That’s nice, dear" is all Virginia could think to say. Or dared to say.

Even if Kyle didn’t know when to leave well enough alone, Joannie did; and so she quickly changed the subject by asking if her friend could come over for dinner the following evening.

Or had she in fact changed the subject at all? Not in Virginia’s mind. In fact, she perceived a direct connection between the discussion of girls’ dating each other and Joannie’s suggestion that her girlfriend be invited to dinner. "It’s their first date," Virginia believed; "and I’m being asked to cook for them."

She thought of her options. She couldn’t really see but one, if she wanted to remain emotionally close to her granddaughter: "Yes, do come over for dinner tomorrow night," she told them. "We’ll make it a special occasion. I’ll cook up something really nice for the two of you."

And then to herself — "But I’ll make up some excuse so that you too can eat it alone." Once again, Virginia’s thoughts wandered: "I don’t think I want to spend the evening watching too girls flirt with each other. I didn’t approve of their doing it at Sakakawea College, and I just know that it will make my flesh crawl if I have to see it now. But what choice do I have? It’s Joannie we’re talking about. Whatever she wants, my little darling gets. I’ll make sure that her first date with Demi is a memorable one, but I’m going to spend the evening in the kitchen — somehow."

Meanwhile, Kyle was appalled and thrilled by the offer of dinner -- appalled, because he’d presumably have to masquerade as Demi a second time; and thrilled, because he’d be having a second date with Joannie. "She really does like me," he said, "I’ve got a girlfriend. I’ve got a girlfriend," he quietly sang, as his mind joyfully inverted the schoolyard taunt.

If there was any doubt in his mind about his status with Joannie, she erased it with a kiss at the door, away from Virginia’s prying eyes. It was the first time anyone other than his mother — and she didn’t count — had kissed him on the lips. Anyone! He didn’t even have memories of foul-smelling great aunts to sully this moment. The kiss was purest ambrosia. So unexpected, so freely given, it would be his rosebud — a memory to take with him to that last, bittersweet moment when life’s cares slipped from his grasp. He’d always recollect the warmth and moisture of her lips that day. Most of all, he’d remember her tongue. He’d never understood until then that the tongue could give soul to a kiss.

It was a magic moment. He almost ruined it, however, by complaining about her calling him a ‘lesbian’: "My mom thinks I’m gay, and now your gran thinks I’m a lesbian. Why did you go and imply I liked girls?"

"Well, you do, don’t you, Kyle? Your mother’s not right about your being gay, is she?"

Every time Joannie mentioned his name, she whispered. She decided right then and there that she’d train him to use the name Demi when there was even the slightest chance of her Gran overhearing them.

Kyle was taking no guff about being gay. He scoffed: "How can you even ask me that question after we kissed? I’m sure that my kiss, my ardor, left you in no doubt, none I am sure, about whether Kyle James likes girls and whether he likes one particular girl a lot."

"You’re right, my sweet," she purred as she stroked his cheek. "You do seem to like me." Then she giggled as she explained that she her grandmother was less likely to contact his mother if she thought that Barb was homophobic and opposed to her daughter’s dating another girl. "And besides," she added, "if she thinks you’re a lesbian, then my grandmother will understand why you talk, walk and sit like a boy. She’ll think you’re trying to act like a boy. Get it?"

He thought he did. Yet Kyle never considered that Joannie might have some deeper, ulterior motive for wanting him to enter her family’s life as her lesbian friend. And if anyone had warned him that Joannie might be intending to make him her lesbian lover one day, Kyle wouldn’t have bothered to scoff. He simply wouldn’t have known what the person was talking about.

Not once in his own mind had he ever been anything less than 100% male. He had not been a tiny bit female even for an instant. True, he recognized that he had just crossed an important threshold: For the first time, he had both posed and been accepted as a female. Until now, he had endured a few taunts for being a sissy boy, but no one had thought him an actual female.

Gran was the first person on the planet — nay, in the entire frigging universe -- to think he was a girl. It was an odd feeling to realize that there was now one person who’d be surprised to learn he was a guy. But it didn’t tarnish his masculine self-image, or didn’t tarnish it much, or more than he could handle, at least at the time, to have one blind woman think he was a bull dyke. "It’s funny," he mused, "but even when I dress up like a girl I look like a girl trying to look like a boy. Now, there’s macho for you!"

"A dollar for your thoughts, Kyle," intruded Joannie’s voice.

His response was unfortunate. Certainly, Joannie never entirely forgave him for it. His response was to lay a trap for her. Kyle thought he saw an opportunity to tweak their ‘deal’ to accelerate her feminization. To ensnare her, he said that he was just wondering whether she wanted him to return tomorrow as ‘Demi.’

"Well, duh," she replied. "You have to be Demi or there’s no way you can come for dinner. Gran won’t permit me to have boyfriends, and if you suddenly became a boy, she’d throw you out of the house. She’d certainly not feed you. You have to come back as Demi. You can change on your way home from school."

"And our deal means," Kyle rejoindered, "that you’ll have to dress like Demi too. You’ll have to wear full makeup and a bra. Right?"

Again, that seemed like a no-brainer, and Joannie briskly nodded with a touch of exasperation. However, the questions then became more difficult, and Joannie more wary.

"Do you want me to wear my most feminine-looking jeans?" Kyle asked.

"Which are those?" she wondered.

"They’ve got a wide plaid hem. I wouldn’t dare wear them to school. But I’ll wear them to your house, if you like. And my mom bought me some pink cotton panties. I’ll wear them too, if you want me to."

"Sure, I’d love that, Kyle. I want to see you in both the jeans and the pink panties. Well, you only need to show me the waistband of the panties. But definitely wear them, and the jeans too. They’ll be cool."

Kyle started to spring the trap: "According to our deal, if I dress in something as feminine as pink panties and jeans with a sissy trim, then you have to do it too. We dress alike — you agreed."

"I’ve had a growth spurt, Kyle. I literally don’t have any girls’ clothes that still fit me. So I can’t wear the same things as you. I’ve only got boys’ clothes to wear."

"Not good enough. If you want to see me in girls’ clothes, then you have to wear them too. Neither of us wears panties or both of us do." He then he sprang the trap: "And I don’t just mean when I’m pretending to be Demi. I wear girls’ clothes to school, and so you must too. That’s our deal."

"Who said anything about school? You’re wearing a bra to school because of your deal with your mother. It’s got nothing to do with me. I won’t wear sissy clothes to school," insisted Joannie.

"I’m fed up with the deal I made with my mother. I’m not willing to wear a bra for one more day just to get a moped. I’d only wear it because you wanted me to. And if I wear a bra, then you have to wear one too."

Kyle wasn’t being entirely honest when he said he was ready to forfeit his deal with his mother. Indeed, he wasn’t even being half honest. He was, in fact, still willing to do almost anything for a moped. There were lots more embarrassing things he’d do to win his dream steed than wear girls’ jeans with a masculine cut for a month. But Joannie couldn’t know he was fibbing.

Besides, he was being truthful, more or less, when he said that he was willing to wear a bra to school simply to please her. Mind you, it would have been the more-and-more truth had he said that he’d wear whatever it took to get Joannie herself to strike a more feminine pose at Hoover High.

But all’s fair when it comes to fighting the first wars of adolescent love, and Kyle was willing to traduce his girlfriend into — in her mind — sissy wear like a bra and panties. He was determined to get his girlfriend into a dress, even if he had to lie to her. Hence he made an empty threat: "The only way I’m wearing girls’ clothes to school tomorrow is if you do."

"That’s not fair, Kyle. You were already wearing girls’ clothes to school before you met me, and you don’t need me as an excuse to continue wearing them."

"Oh yes I do. Joannie, if you don’t wear girls’ clothes tomorrow, then I won’t do it either. In fact, I’ll never put on anything feminine again. Never! The moped isn’t worth everyone thinking I’m a sissy."

It was another lie. Since the damage was already done, the only way he could retrieve his reputation at school, Kyle realized, was to roar into its parking lot one day on his moped. Then, his bet won, he could explain why he’d been dressing so weirdly. He couldn’t give up his bra and panties before the end of the month, regardless of what Joannie now said.

But she couldn’t know that. Or at least, she appeared not to realize how few were his options. One can’t say for certain what she did or did not know, girls being inscrutable to Kyle. What is known is this — Joannie capitulated rather than call his bluff. She said she’d show up at Hoover High the next day in, shudder, girls’ clothes. She’d get them somehow.

She made it clear that she was acting under duress: "You’re being quite unfair, Kyle James. You’re changing our deal. Thanks to you, I’m going to have boys ogling my tits all day. I’m surprised that you don’t want me to keep them wrapped away, like in sandy Arabia. I’ll feel like a freak dressed in girls’ clothes. I just know that everyone is going to be talking about me all day."

"And they don’t already talk about me?" Kyle asked sardonically.

"Why would they talk about you, Kyle? Only a couple of us know you’re wearing girls’ clothes and we’ve kept our tongue — so far," she teased. "You’ll have to wear something a lot more feminine to school than you’ve done so far for them to talk about you the way they’re going to talk about me when I show up in a bra and panties. So there."

As she finished, she realized that simple justice required that Kyle experience at least once the sort of day at school that he was insisting she endure tomorrow. So much did she loathe the idea of going to school in any sort of ‘girls clothes’ she figured that Kyle would have to wear pink sneakers, embroidered jeans (with a flower motif — what else), a super tight pink tank top, and beneath it his breast forms, attached for maximum bounce, before he’d have as miserable a day of teasing as she expected to happen tomorrow. After all, he was forcing her to wear ‘breasts’ to school; he should have to wear them too — and soon.

In the meantime, she derived some pleasure in knowing that Kyle had no option but to wear the makeup, the lipstick and his breast forms down the back alley between their two homes. It was already dark, and no one was likely to notice that Kyle was going out in public as a girl, but it gave her some solace to think that he’d be keeping low like a mare in a field of stallions.

To give him something extra to think about the following day, Joannie said she’d be wearing pink panties and plaid-hemmed jeans the entire day, and she expected him to do so too.

Feeling guilty about the trap he’d set, Kyle easily fell into this one: Yes, he’d wear the pink panties and plaid jeans to school. It didn’t seem like a major concession at the time, for he’d already promised to wear them to dinner at Joannie’s.

It wasn’t until later, as he lay in bed thinking, that he appreciated the extent to which he had given Joannie the whip hand. He was supposed to be in charge. He was the deal master, the boy who never lost a bet — well, almost never, if one discounted all those times that the bet had been called off on account of a wound or injury. Joannie was supposed to emulate him; and yet he had at the last minute agreed to copycat her. Who was now the dominated and who the dominatrix?

Kyle had neither the time nor the wits to ask or answer this question, for he was as jumpy as a cat in heat as he prowled the back alley. He was terrified of being found there, at least part of the terror arising from uncertainty as to which would be the more dreadful — to be recognized as Kyle James in lipstick, mascara and boobs; or to be mistaken for a girl, a stranger in the neighborhood.

Upon further reflection, he concluded that he’d be immediately recognized as the James boy for he didn’t believe that anyone with normal vision would think he was female — even in the alley’s dim light.

If Joannie’s grandmother was fooled by his masquerade, then it just proved how blind and senile she was. After all, she’d fainted. "Gosh," he thought, "I wonder how many times a day she poops out like that? I hope I never grow that old — so ancient that I couldn’t tell the difference between a boy and a girl."

Safely into his own home, Kyle rushed upstairs to his room. The slammed door alterting Barb to his arrival, she called out, "Are you finally home? Where have you been? What kept you?" As he didn’t answer, she went up to find him.

Meanwhile, Kyle had taken out his breast forms and had stowed them under his pillow. (His mother insisted that he make his own bed, which meant, naturally, that it never got made.) He then raced into the main bathroom to find a mirror to help him to remove his lipstick, mascara and eyeshade. However, the sight of himself in the mirror caused him to pause. Why the hesitation? Did he suddenly realize that the makeup did make him resemble a pretty girl? Was he mesmerized by his new, feminine image?

Hardly. In Kyle’s eyes, he looked as masculine as ever. The makeup, he thought, simply gave him the appearance of a stage actor. He knew that actors wore a lot of makeup. He’d even heard that Presidents dabbed on a bit of lipstick and rouge before they went on camera.

So it would take a lot more than makeup to convince Kyle that there was anything feminine looking about him. Indeed, had you asked him, he would have answered, "Yes, everyone would know I was a boy even if I was wearing a dress. After all," he’d add, "Alexander the Great wore a skirt and no one thought he looked like a lady."

And so, it was not some blinding insight into his own creeping feminization that caused Kyle to pause and then to purse his lips in front of the mirror. He was remembering the kiss! His first kiss! If he washed his lips, he’d be removing the moisture deposited there by her lips. She’d kissed his lipstick. It now contained her essence. To remove the lipstick would betray his passion for her.

Like a teenage girl who refused to wash a rock star’s autograph from her wrist or palm, Kyle resisted eradicating the physical evidence of his first infatuation. So instead of removing the lipstick, he leant forward and kissed the mirror. It was the next best thing to kissing Joannie! When he saw his lip imprint on the mirror, he started to get aroused, and he was trying to French kiss the mirror as his mother gave a warning cough at the open bathroom door.

Kyle whirled around to face her. As he did, Barb realized that he’d done something with his hair to make it look more feminine. There could be not doubt about it — her son was trying to look like a girl. And generally he had succeeded, although he definitely needed some lessons on how to make up his face.

Barb sighed to herself: "It’s true. He wants to be a girl. The moped was only an excuse." She wasn’t sure what to make of the revelation: Should she greet it with despair or with delight? As always, she was ambivalent when it came to Kyle’s gender. "If only," she thought, "he could be all girl one day, and all boy the next." She feared his becoming neither one nor the other.

Kyle spoke first: "Oh mom, I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. How long have you been standing there?" When Barb didn’t answer, he continued, "You’ll never believe what a day I had. I met a girl."

Then he remembered he was supposed to have a girlfriend already. It seemed simpler to change the intro to his story rather than to try to explain how and why he’d come to have two girlfriends at once; and so, he resumed, "Or rather, I got a lot closer to the girl that I was telling you about — you know, with my girlfriend." Then, as he saw his mother staring at the red lipstick and spittle on the mirror, he added, "I kissed the mirror because I was reliving our kiss. She kissed me."

Barb groaned inside: "She? That’s not very likely, is it Kyle? Would a girl want her boyfriend to wear lipstick and dress up like another girl? I doubt it. Who was the boy, Kyle? Oh Ky…y…y…y…yle!" her mind keened.

His mother was silent, her look distracted. And so, Kyle continued to do the talking: "She’s invited me over for dinner, with her grandmother, tomorrow night. Is it all right if I go? Please say yes. I’ll do my homework right after school. I’ll get it done. I promise."

Naturally, she said yes. And then, speaking of dinner, she announced that theirs was on the table. "Do you want me, dear, to put it into a warming oven while you get ready for dinner?"

Kyle asked himself: "Do I want to take off the lipstick? No way! Let the memory linger just a little bit longer! What about the rest of the stuff? Jeez, it can wait. Mom has already seen me wearing it. I’m starving. I’ll take it off after dinner." So he said, "I’m ready now. Let’s eat!"

At dinner, Barb could scarcely take her eyes off Kyle’s face and hair. At first their femininized aspect unnerved her, but as the shock wore off, she realized that she was having a lot of fun eating with her ‘daughter.’ Barb didn’t want this moment to end too soon, and so when Kyle had polished off the petite portion of pumpkin pie she’d cut for him, she suggested that he might like some lessons in applying and removing his makeup.

Kyle was at first offended that she thought for one moment that he, or any all-American boy, wanted to spend his evening learning how do apply lipstick and eyeshade. But he got no further than, "Aww Mom, how could you?" before he had second thoughts. These were about Joannie. She didn’t know anything about makeup, as her face had made abundantly apparent this evening.

Even with his help, she’d done a poor job with her makeup and mascara. And her hand on the eyebrow pencil had been much shakier than his. Who was Joannie to learn from him, if not from him? Certainly not from her grandmother! Joannie’s gran would probably teach her stuff that went out with Queen Victoria. What about his mother? Did she know the contemporary styles? "Yeh," he thought, "she usually looks pretty cool. I’m sure that Joannie could learn a lot from her."

Whatever his mother taught him, he could teach Joannie! This decided, he finished his sentence, "Aww Mom, how could you have known that I do want to learn more about makeup."

"And why is that, honey?"

"Like I told you — so that I can go to a dance or" — and he added this to tease her — "a rave dressed like one of the Kiss band. Guys in makeup meet a lot of girls at raves. Makeup means the guy’s cool, not a geek."

Barb might have bought this line, had it made any sense at all. But he’d been telling her all through dinner about his new girlfriend, and now he said he needed makeup to go prowling for her replacement. Furthermore, she didn’t think the guys who wore makeup to raves asked their mothers to make their look as feminine as possible — that is, not unless they were sissy boys at heart.

As they worked together on Kyle’s face, there were three difficult moments. The first came when Barb had him remove his existing facial powder. He had resisted her, and she soon saw why, as a multi-hued bruise came into view. Barb was furious. First she accused him of wearing makeup merely to conceal the black eye from her. "That’s dishonest, Kyle James. I raised you to be honest. Your mother shouldn’t be the last to know that you’ve got a black eye."

With the moped possibly at stake, Kyle feverishly lied. "I’ve been telling you the truth about the makeup. Lots of boys wear it these days, and I wanted try it out. Why not? Anything goes these days. Unisex reigns. Anyway, I got the shiner a day after I started wearing the makeup. So there."

Barb suspected it was a lie, but she could not refute it. Hence she altered her line of attack: "How did you get that shiner, Kyle? You had better not have been fighting or, I’ll …."

She didn’t complete the threat, but Kyle assumed the sentence rhymed with dead, as in moped. The scooter required another artful dodge: "I haven’t been fighting. My girlfriend accidentally gave me the black eye. It was an accident, I swear."

Barb understandably wanted to know how his girlfriend happened to hit him in the face: "She poked you one? Are you sure she’s really your girlfriend?"

"Of course she is. She was using a broom to sweep up, and I guess she was getting too vigorous with it, because she caught my face on the back swing. The black eye was worth getting because she kissed my cheek to make it feel better."

Barb was about to ask Kyle how he could have two first kisses from the same girl, but then recognizing that adolescents make fine distinctions between degrees of amorous activity, she decided not to chance learning more than she wanted to know about Kyle’s love life.

Barb instead challenged him on the girlfriend: "Kyle, honey, you keep talking about your ‘girlfriend.’ Doesn’t she have a name? What’s her name?" Barb suspected it was Ken or Steve.

"Her name?" Kyle hesitated. He’d already revealed too much to Joannie’s grandmother. And while the ‘lesbian’ ruse might kill the curiosity of Joannie’s gran, what was there to stop his mother from seeking her out if she knew that Kyle was dating a girl who lived on his very own street? If the two women made contact, then Virginia would learn that Demi was a he. And then, according to Joannie, his short-lived dating career would be kaput. He’d also probably be grounded and lose all hope of ever owning a moped if his mother learned that he’d been deceiving Joannie’s half-dead grandmother.

And yet he had an immediate problem to solve: His mother didn’t seem to believe that he actually had a girlfriend. She’d be even more sceptical if he failed to come up with a name for her. There had to be a girlfriend, but it was too soon and too risky for her name to be Joannie Smith. And so, he fibbed a little: "Her name? My girlfriend’s name is Demi. It’s Italian or something Mediterranean. I think it’s short for Demetria. I guess her mother called her that."

"Why yes, Kyle, I do imagine that it was her mother who named Demi."

Barb might have said more. She was tempted to add, "Unless it was you who named Demi," for Barb was now very suspicious. She’d detected the hesitation. Kyle had taken so much time to reply that he seemed to be inventing a name. Why Demi? It must be the movie star. Maybe, it was a case of free association: First, Kyle thought of a boy named Bruce, then of Bruce Willis, and finally of his wife Demi Moore.

Just as Barb was about to ask Kyle whether he knew a boy named Bruce, the phone rang. She took the call in the kitchen. It was Elvira Lancer, bubbling over with ‘good tidings.’

"Oh, Barb, I’m absolutely thrilled with the news. Steve is so happy. Indeed, he’s been dancing around the house with joy."

"Er, what news is that?" Barb asked with dread.

"Well, I would have thought that Kyle would have told you by now. You know, the news about their date. I think they agreed on it today, when they saw each other after school. Surely, Kyle asked you for permission to go out on a boy-boy date with Steve? He does have it, I hope? Steve would be crushed, absolutely crushed, if you don’t give your permission. This is, after all, the first time he has dated anyone. And Kyle was, Steve tells me, really keen himself about the date."

Barb was in shock: It had been Steve that Kyle had been seeing after school! It had been Steve, a boy as she had feared, who had persuaded Kyle to wear lipstick and mascara. Steve was Kyle’s girlfriend! But who was kidding whom? Steve wasn’t the girlfriend, Kyle was. After all, he was the one in girl’s clothes and makeup.

The knowledge hit her in the stomach: Kyle was Demi!! Barb was sure of that now: Her son had already chosen his drag name. What choice did she have, under the circumstances, but to accede to his dating another boy, one probably more of a male these days than he?

Inwardly groaning, Barb cheerily said, "Of course, Kyle has my permission to … er … date Steve."

"Now don’t you worry about their getting into any sort of trouble, as if two boys really could, Barb, for I’ll be chaperoning them."

"What a silly cow you are," Barb thought. "Is chaperoning what you call cooking a meal for them?"

That’s what she thought, but what she said was — "Well, they’re fourteen years old. I don’t suppose they need too much supervision."

"Fine, fine. Now, there’s something else I should say in all fairness to Steve. My boy naturally thinks that Kyle is very brave to be wearing girls’ clothes to school. Indeed, he thinks it remarkable that any boy would have the courage to wear a bra and panties to Hoover High. And it’s okay with him if Kyle wants to dress more femininely for their date. However, Barb, I don’t want my son to get into a fistfight by having to defend Kyle from the sort of verbal abuse that inept transvestites inspire."

Barb tried to interrupt, but Elvira persisted: "Please hear me out. I just wanted to say that Kyle may wear full makeup, a linen blouse, a pleated skirt and pumps so far as Steve and I are concerned. Indeed, I think we’re both curious to see what sort of butterfly Kyla will be once she emerges from her boyish cocoon. But Kyle has to choose — either to dress and act like a boy, as best he can, or else to go on the date as Kyla, the girl he apparently wants to be. I don’t want there to be trouble. He must be one thing or the other. Definitely a he, or definitely a she."

Barb wondered how there could be ‘trouble’ at a private dinner at the Lancer’s home if Kyle showed up looking like a boy in drag. She supposed there were other children invited. "I guess they would prefer Kyle to be one thing, or the other — to be either a boy or a transsexual. There’s not much tolerance these days for midway states. Children especially want there to be absolutes. If they see that Kyle is becoming a female, they’ll want him to go all the way."

A vision of Kyle’s head on a nude woman’s body then flashed through Barb’s mind. Oddly, it wasn’t until she got to the vagina that the daydream disturbed her. Until then, she was secretly pleased that her son was so curvaceous.

Barb reassured Elvira Lancer that Kyle would be unmistakably male on his date with Steve. "I don’t know where you get the idea, Elvira, that my boy wants to wear a dress. He’s always been a very masculine boy, and I’m surprised, frankly, that he agreed to a date with another boy. He does, after all, have a girlfriend."

"Oh really? Steve hasn’t said anything about there being competition. She must keep herself pretty scarce. Anyway, let’s be realistic, Barb: The so-called girlfriends of boys like Steve and Kyle are actually what they call ‘fag flies’ — or some such expression. There are girls who hang around gay boys because they know they won’t get pawed. Sissy boys like Kyle end up with lots of close female friends, with whom they talk about menus, fashion and male movie stars, but they don’t have a girlfriend in the romantic sense of the word. I reckon that Kyle was telling you, Barb, that he has found a new friend who happens to be female."

"If that much," moaned Barb to herself. Her thoughts ran wild: "For all I know Kyle is his own girlfriend, a split personality named Demi."

She brought the phone conversation to a rapid close by promising Mrs. Lancer that she’d ensure that no one would be confused by Kyle’s gender during his date with Steve. As she hung up, Barb realized she’d have to go shopping tomorrow for Kyle so that he’d have the option of going to his date as Demi, if that was his earnest desire.

Barb was none too pleased with Kyle. He shouldn’t have lied to her about the girlfriend, about Demi, and about his date with Steve. "He also probably lied about the black eye. I suppose that Steve gave it to him in an overly enthusiastic embrace. Or more likely, one of the other boys thought it macho to strike a queer."

Barb heard more ‘lies’ when she told Kyle that it had been Mrs. Lancer on the phone, and that the dear lady had told her about Kyle’s ‘date’ with Steve. "Why didn’t you tell me your date was with Steve? I would have understood, Kyle. I’m your mother. You can and should tell me the truth about your personal life."

Kyle seethed to himself: "She’s doing it again — hinting that I’m queer. Where does she get that rot? Jeez, mothers are strange. It must have something to do with their men-o-pause." Or that’s what Kyle thought.

To Barb he made it clear, he hoped, that there was nothing ‘between’ Steve and him: "For the last time, mom, I’m not going out on a date with Steve. I’m not queer, er gay, and the only reason we’re going to see each other is I don’t get an opportunity like this every day — well, in fact, never before."

Kyle of course assumed that his mother had been told about the offer of free basketball tickets. He had no idea that she interpreted his ‘opportunity’ as a romantic evening with a gay boy. As Barb watched Kyle gesticulate, her anger abated, for she now knew that most of Kyle’s lies were to himself. The boy wasn’t able to admit to himself that he was as gay as Quentin Crisp. "And it’s my fault," Barb thought, "that he’s gay. Why didn’t I smack his hand the first time he played as Pocahontas?"

It might have been guilt, and an attempt to make amends. It might have been residual anger over his lies, and an attempt to punish. It might even have been an attempt to demonstrate — in as concrete and liberal a way as she could — that she’d love her son even if he did become a gay transvestite hooker. Whatever the motive, some demon possessed her as she spent the rest of the evening trying to make her son’s makeup and hairstyle look as feminine as possible.

With incessant repetition, Kyle became reasonably adept at making and unmaking his face. He was an avid student because, as he kept telling himself, "It’s for Joannie. If I can look feminine, then I can teach her to look feminine. When I finish with her, she’ll look super cute."

With each experiment, Kyle looked less and less like a boy in makeup, and more and more like a big-boned, fourteen-year-old girl. True, ‘she’ was no beauty; nevertheless, ‘she’ definitely looked female. Or at least would as soon as Kyle had the right hairstyle.

As she saw Kyle revel in the remaking of his face, Barb lost any illusions she had held about his quintessential masculinity. Her son, she decided, wanted to look as feminine as possible, apparently to impress — or seduce? — a boy named Steve.

So when it came to wielding the scissors, she was determined to make his hair look as girlish as she could, within the obvious constraint that he had to be able to comb his hair into a semblance of a boy’s haircut in order to go to school.

However, for whatever reason — anger, guilt, compassion — Barb’s idea of what constituted a ‘masculine-enough’ cut departed radically from the Iowa norm. Possibly boys were coiffed like him in San Francisco, West Hollywood, Times Square and Mayberry — but certainly not in Des Moines. His hair now looked like Demi Moore’s in the movie Ghost.

Kyle marveled at the way he looked. Once again, he thought of Joannie — of how feminine she’d look with this rad haircut. And for one brief moment he preened like a peahen while Barb captured his new look on film.

But he almost immediately sobered up: "Mom," he wailed, "I can’t go to school with my hair looking like this. I’ll be laughed out of school or end up fighting all the guys at once."

"Don’t fret, Kyle," a quick combing and it’s as masculine as ever." And with a few deft strokes she combed his hair into a more boyish look. "See, good as new," she said. But even as she spoke, his hair relapsed into girlishness. Kyle started to get hysterical as it became increasingly obvious that his hair no longer considered masculinity its natural condition of rest.

Finally, she calmed him down by using hairspray to force his locks to stand rigidly at attention. Any time they wilted, he looked like a girl. Until his hair grew out, Kyle was going to be wed to his newly acquired can of hairspray. Only Demi could thereafter let her hair run free. Though he thanked his mother for her help, Kyle did not retire for the night a happy boy.

That night four people lay awake fretting about Kyle’s future. Naturally they included his mother: She could not get his ‘homosexuality’ out of her mind. And the date with Steve obsessed her. The boys were only fourteen-years-old, and yet she was already contemplating their wedding ceremony.

Kyle, she now ‘knew’, would be the one wearing a wedding dress. Could it be white? Well, not if they had been having sex for years. I should say not." Barb, a traditionalist, thought only virgins should wear white. She concluded after great deliberation that she couldn’t decide on the color of Kyle’s dress.

But she was determined that whatever the color of his wedding gown that he’d be wearing it to a church ceremony. She’d start shopping around for a church, she decided, tolerant enough to marry two boys, and one of them dressed in lace.

Would he actually be, physiologically, a woman by the time he wed? Was Kyle a transsexual? Barb thought this one over, but couldn’t decide. "I’ll do some snooping in his room tomorrow," she told herself. Looking for what? "Well, for some sign that he wants to have breasts. So far he’s made no attempt to stuff his bra. If he were to start doing that, well then there’d be no question that Kyle was a transsexual."

She next wondered whether a gay boy named Kyle or a new woman named Demi would be better able to persuade the State to permit the adoption of the grandchildren that Barb so craved. She couldn’t come to a conclusion.

Her mind then returned to Kyle’s first date. It should be a memorable, she decided, even if it’s with a boy named Steve. She wanted her son to have wonderful memories, regardless of what sexuality he ultimately declared.

She didn’t think Kyle should wear his everyday, school clothes on his first date. He needed something special. And she didn’t have much time to find it for him. Certainly, there would be no opportunity for Kyle to do his own shopping before tomorrow evening.

Barb resolved to hustle over to Macy’s where she’d buy Kyle the most beautiful, most delicate lingerie available — just in case the boys took their street clothes off. She’d heard that gays normally had sex on their first date.

Men were carnal; they lived for sex, Barb believed. They didn’t have to worry about being too experienced, or bleeding too little, on their wedding night. And they didn’t have to fear pregnancy.

"But they do have to fear AIDS," Barb moaned. She decided to put some condoms in the shoulder bag she was going to present to Kyle on the morrow. He’d need a purse because the fashion tops, skirts and slacks she was going to buy him were unlikely to have pockets.

As she worked through Demi’s wardrobe options for ‘her’ first big date, Barb finally became fatigued enough to welcome sleep. That night she had only pleasant dreams — of love, weddings, marriage, and grandchildren. Only a snippet from one dream did she really remember: In it a small boy dressed as an Indian maiden was being cradled in the arms of his father Steve.

It probably took Virginia even longer to get to sleep that night. She tossed and turned for hours as she contemplated the implications of Demi. It had been the shock of seeing the two girls together that had caused her swoon. They had looked so much like a couple that she’d immediately lost hope that she had been wrong about her beloved granddaughter.

Demi’s appearance clarified, alas, that Joannie was indeed a lesbian. Virginia had feared for weeks that she was. Joannie had been, she’d recognized, much too enthusiastic about her summer with Monique. At first Virgnia had dismissed the endless chatter as an adolescent crush, but Joannie’s recent taste in clothing had alarmed her, especially when the girl started wearing boy’s underwear.

Demi was the last piece in the puzzle. Demi made the big picture impossible to ignore. What a sorry excuse Demi was for a female! Virginia didn’t think she had ever seen a more masculine-acting or —looking girl. It was almost as though the girl had been raised as a boy. Virginia had read of such things — of parents who didn’t like the hand that God had dealt them, and so tried to add a joker to the deck. It made sense in a sexist world that parents might try to raise a daughter as a son.

Or possibly, Demi had simply insisted on being treated as a boy. At any rate, it was difficult to imagine Demi’s ever having played with dolls. Or if she had, it was to have Ken preside over the marriage of Barbie and Theresa.

No, there could be no denying it: Demi was a dyke. She was, Virginia decided, a "butch" — just like her own granddaughter. The two girls seemed to be vying to see who could look and act the more masculine. At the moment Joannie seemed to be winning, for her friend was apparently having second thoughts about dressing like a boy.

Indeed, possibly they both were. After all, both girls had been wearing lipstick. Not unexpectedly, Joannie had done a pathetic job in applying her makeup, for she had never tried, so far as Virginia knew, to put it on before. First Joannie had been too young to be allowed to wear it, and then she been too macho to want to wear it. As for Demi, she seemed as much a novice as Joannie at trying to look feminine.

Two butches trying to look feminine — there was only one thing that could explain such a remarkable transformation. They must be trying to impress each other. They must be, dare she use the words, ‘in love.’ Certainly, it had to be a strong sentiment to get Joannie to unbind her breasts. "I had so many fights with the girl about her refusal to accept the outthrust of puberty, I’m absolutely amazed to see her flaunt her breasts. I wasn’t even sure she had them!"

Even more remarkably, Joannie had badgered her all evening to let her go shopping for girls’ clothes. Imagine that! The girl was even asking to play hooky to acquire them. Virginia, pleased to see Joannie making a stab at femininity, consented. They were scheduled to visit Macy’s the following morning. Why Macy’s? Because, said Joannie, that’s where Demi did her shopping.

Demi — it was all about Demi, the butch who had bewitched her granddaughter. Demi was, Virginia observed, unusually busty for a fourteen-year-old.

"She probably thinks her breasts a curse," reflected Virginia, "She probably wishes she was flat-chested like a boy. Well, at least she’s got the hips of a boy. That must be some consolation to the poor, mixed-up little girl."

Somewhere in Demi was the key to understanding Joannie: "If I can discover what makes Demi tick, then maybe I can finally figure out my granddaughter. They’re so alike those two. It’s going to be rough having a lesbian affair happening under my own roof. What am I going to do? Can I handle it?"

Certainly she hoped she could. In the meantime, she was going to do nothing to discourage their romance. It would probably be short-lived, and if it were, it might have a positive outcome: "If the two girls feminize each other enough," she hoped, "they both might attract some male attention. And then, they might find that their ‘lesbianism’ was a passing phase."

At least, she still had hopes for Joannie’s heterosexuality; but Demi seemed pre-destined, even by her name, to be half a boy all her life: "The poor soul," I must welcome her into my home. She does not need more rejection in her life."

Her strategy resolved, Virginia finally nodded off to asleep. Towards dawn she had a long complicated dream about the women’s tennis tour.

Joannie, by contrast, was thrilled by her day: She had finally met Kyle and discovered to her delight that he wasn’t only handsome, and daring, and sweet, but also malleable. She could hardly believe that he had agreed to wear the breast forms on their very first date. He had looked so sexy as a woman that it had been impossible not to kiss him. The remnants of their conjoined lipsticks she had kissed onto a hanky, and locked away in her chest of treasures. Before this night she probably could have predicted, but now knew for certain, that the more feminine Kyle looked, the more he turned her on.

"If I ever saw him in a dress, I’d probably tear off my jeans and boxer shorts and hurl my naked body at him. We’d make mad, passionate love in the middle of the living room floor with everyone watching." It then occurred to her that she’d also be probably be wearing a dress, for it was the likely price for getting Kyle to forsake trousers. "Oh well, it would be worth dressing like a Barbie doll to get Kyle into a slinky sequined dress and satin lingerie." She resolved that she’d make the necessary concessions to get Kyle properly attired for taking her ‘virginity.’

Despite these warm and arousing thoughts about Kyle, Joannie was not entirely pleased with his behavior that day. She hadn’t appreciated his tricking her into wearing girls’ clothes to school.

"He needs to treat me with more respect. With maximum respect," she determined.

To teach him to tread warily around her, she was going to replicate his girls’ wardrobe as best she could. He’d wonder, as he took some ribbing at school about their dressing like identical twins, whether it had been wise to force her to wear girls’ clothes to school. Eventually, he’d see the wisdom of keeping their matched dressing an after-school affair. But if not, she had plans to match him chip for chip, bra for bra, and even bid up the ante with a nylon stocking or two until he had folded his cards. From then on she could name the game.

She’d have her grandmother take her to Macy’s, where she knew Kyle had done his shopping, and the first thing she’d buy were jeans with a plaid hem. Joannie figured there might be a salesgirl who remembered Kyle’s shopping expedition, and who could help her pick out the right items. After all, how many boys went shopping in girls’ wear? And Kyle was too cute not to have been noticed, even had he hung back and let his mom do all the talking.

"Kyle is super cute. I bet all the salesgirls remember him … vividly … vivid …," Joannie murmured to herself as she faded off to sleep.

That night, her dreams started, as they had every night since her summertime romance, with Monique. As usual, Monique was wearing the world’s reddest lipstick and pinkest, softest bra and panties. They embraced. They kissed. They began to make love.

As they did, Monique gradually morphed into Kyle. No one in any of her dreams had ever looked sexier in women’s lingerie. No fantasy had ever been so erotic. Her orgasm so shook her body that Joannie awakened just long enough to know that Kyle had been her wet dream that night. As she drifted back to sleep, she was mewing, "I’ve got to get Kyle into satin and …."

Kyle meanwhile was having a restless night. He lay in bed for at least an hour replaying his last conversation with Joannie — the one in which he had agreed to wear the pink panties and plaid-trimmed jeans to school. The more he thought about it, the more he perceived that somehow Joannie had transposed the terms of their deal. He was supposed to determine how femininely they’d both be dressing, and yet she had been the one to decide that they would be wearing pink and plaid to school.

"I’ve got to tell her tomorrow that she got the deal all wrong. She copies me. I don’t copy her. She’d better get it right or else I’ll …." He wasn’t sure how the threat should end.

Yet his subconscious knew. That night, his dreams featured a superhero, a cross between Cat woman and Spiderman, who fought valiantly, yet hopelessly, against a super villain, who each time celebrated her triumph by stripping the superhero of his tights. Kyle would awake just as Spidercat covered his nakedness by putting on a pink denim skirt. At three o’clock in the morning, Kyle was pondering the big question: Can denim be pink? He never did come up with an answer.

To be continued in chapter 7 — ‘What Does Kyle Know About Dating?’