So far Kyle has found it difficult to keep a deal he made with his mother: That if he wears girls’ clothes for a month that she would buy him a moped (a motor scooter). He’s not quite sure how it happened, but somehow he has become Demi, a full-time cross-dresser with a gay boyfriend and a lesbian lover. Everyone believes that Demi’s a transsexual, including her mother, who ‘knows’ that Demi has passed a gender test with a perfect score (for a transsexual) and is so keen on having breasts that she’s willing to go on TV to get implants. Only Kyle knows he’s taking sex hormones in a stupid attempt to masculinize himself, and only Kyle knows that he’d still rather be a boy. And yet, he is feminizing so rapidly that it’s unclear which he’ll get first — a moped or a training bra.

Anything for a Moped - Part 12 By: Dawn DeWinter
Chapter Sixteen: Wow, Was That a Moped?

"Your son wants to get breast implants on a nationally-syndicated television show notorious for tasteless sexploitation. What do you do?" That wasn’t a question that Barb could remember in Dr. Spock’s primer on childrearing. Nor could she recall the question being answered by an advice columnist like Dear Abby or Miss Manners.

Barb realized that there were mothers who’d sign the consent form for the Vera Smuttee show. She couldn’t quite comprehend their motives, but she had seen these she-wolves and their brood whenever she’d ‘accidentally’ tuned into the Jenny Jones or Jerry Springer shows. The mothers were fascinating to watch as they mugged for the television camera while their children fondled each other or soul-kissed the family dog. These shows had taught Barb that there were mothers who so craved notoriety that they’d definitely agree to their son’s exposing his new "jugs" on television, "so long as it was tastefully done."

Barb was not that kind of mother. She would never consent to her child’s humiliation. Kyle could count on her for protection. He apparently wanted to ‘star’ on trash television. Would Barb let him? Would Barb let her foolhardy teen become a sideshow freak? Thus posed, the question answered itself: Barb tore up the Smuttee form into a thousand pieces. "My child," Barb declaimed to the walls, the foundation, and the roof, "is not for sale — at any price!"

Yet Barb could not entirely ignore the document that Kyle had signed. It constituted further proof that she was raising a daughter, not a son, and that Demi was, like so many fourteen-year-old girls, over-anxious to get an adult bust. Barb resolved to open a special bank account for Demi, a ‘hope chest,’ into which would flow half the family’s savings until they could afford whatever surgery, hormones or prosthetics that Demi needed to become the girl of her dreams.

That savings account Barb opened the very next day. She was putting her money where her heart was. She even started searching the Internet for information on how to "help your son become your daughter in six short weeks." Barb read and read, and cried and cried, but mostly she chatted.

"Laura from Texas" looked for anyone with whom she could anonymously discuss ‘Josie’, her becoming daughter. ‘Laura’ got lots of conflicting advice, depending mainly, it seems, on whether her newfound friends believed that her son ‘Jonas’ truly wanted to become ‘Josie’. While some thought ‘Jonas’ should get an immediate sex change, others thought he’d give up wearing skirts the moment he had a moped to ride.

Barb chatted rather than acted. She didn’t quite know what to do, beyond giving Demi whatever moral support she could. Barb did, however, make a mental notation to make Christmas a memorable one. "I’ve got to buy something special for Demi’s first Christmas."

Feminine hormones were one possible present, but Barb decided that it was just too complicated, legally, to give them to a minor. A legal secretary, she knew the hassles and the risks. What she didn’t know, because Dr. Loupi had forgotten to tell her, or possibly assumed she already knew, was the fact that Demi had admitted to taking hormones.

These ‘male mones’ were having an insidious effect on Demi’s temperament. She was turning out to be more ill tempered than Kyle had ever been. Her friends and mother blamed the flare-ups on the stress of transition, as they had no idea that she was playing around with her body’s chemistry. Besides, Steve was the only one who knew that Demi had steroids in her possession, and given her rapid feminization, he assumed she had lost interest in taking them.

Certainly, he didn’t realize that Demi had reacted to her close call with the Greeks by increasing her dose, in hopes of making Kyle muscular enough to protect her. If you’d asked Demi why she was so cranky, she might have blamed her breast forms. Now that she was wearing them every day, they seemed to be making the fat tissue on her chest tender, even painful to the touch. Her nipples had become — because of friction, Demi assumed — especially sensitive, with the result that Demi became as convinced as Jo that there was nothing quite so erotic as one girl fondling the breasts of another.

And they did a lot of fondling. During the fourth week of the moped bet, Jo got to see Demi’s room — from dusk to dawn. Demi had finally admitted to having a girlfriend after her mother asked her point blank to "tell me something about your girlfriend, you know, the one you want to present to the entire nation on television."

When Demi hesitated, Barb said, "I saw from the consent forms that your girlfriend is named Joanne, and that she’s a neighbor of ours. Is that where you met Virginia Smith’s granddaughter — while you were playing on our street? Or is Joanna a classmate?"

"I didn’t know her name was Joanna. Mom, I call her Jo. I met her at school. We’ve got lots of classes together."

Barb then asked, "How long has … Jo been your girlfriend? How often do you see her?"

These were dangerous questions, since they could easily lead to another — "Are you telling me that you were lying to me about seeing Steve so that you could spend the night with a girl?" There was, Kyle thought, no answer to that question that would not lead to his grounding. And he had to worry about his mother blaming Jo for leading him astray. Mothers sometimes didn’t want to believe that their "little darlings" were responsible for their own deceits and conceits. Indulgent parents preferred to punish the "bad influence."

Kyle chose the easy way out, another lie: "Jo’s been in my class since September, but it’s only in the last few days that we’ve started seeing each other as … (he hesitated on the wording) … as girlfriends. It was like lightning struck us, mom. One day we were just friends, and Steve was my one and only, and then zap! Jo and I became best girlfriends. We’re super tight."

"Are you saying that you’ve become sexually active with this girl?"

"No way, mom. I was waiting for your permission."

"I think it more likely that you were waiting for her permission. Do you think you and Jo will be having sex?"

"Mom! That’s a very personal question!"

"Well, you’re going to have to answer it, Demi, if you’re going to ask for the same sort of freedom in seeing Jo that you’ve had in dating Steve. It is, for example, one thing for me to agree to your having an overnight visit with Steve, but quite another with Jo. I don’t want you to ruin her life by getting her pregnant at fifteen."

"Mom, you don’t have to worry about my getting Jo pregnant, because she’s not looking for a boyfriend. She wants a girlfriend! Jo’s says she’s a lesbian. There’s lots more of them now than when you were a girl, and I think … that Demi’s one of them too." His face blushed at the confession.

"Demi, are you telling me that you’re a lesbian? I can’t fathom how a boy can be a lesbian."

"But mom, Demi’s not a boy. She’s a girl and if she and Jo have sex, they’ll do it like two girls. They will, I swear! Anyway, there’s no way that Jo will let me act like a boy. She wants me to be a girl."

"How much like a girl, Demi? She’d like you to have breasts, right? And possibly even a vagina? Am I right?"

"Yeh, she’d love me to have breasts," Demi said to her mom, while under her breath she added, "but Kyle will never ‘em."

"Ah, I see. So it was Jo that wanted the two of you to be on television?"

Demi was confused by the sudden shift in focus. One moment they were talking about her feminization, the next moment they were talking about the Vera Smuttee show. She couldn’t see the connection. So Demi answered, "Yeh, Jo thought we should go on television as ‘the world’s most loving teens,’ but I can’t see how I can go on TV looking like this. I’m going to have to do something about these first." She then tugged on her breasts.

Demi was trying to say that she wasn’t willing to go on television until she was rid of her female breasts and clothes; but Barb misunderstood. She thought her daughter was saying she wouldn’t go on television without first getting breast implants. So she answered, "Demi, there’s no reason for hasty decisions. If you want to tell the world about yourself, we’ll find the suitable program on public television (without, Barb hoped, any viewers). But I don’t approve of your going on the Smuttee show. They’ll try to humiliate you, Demi. If you go on that show to proclaim your undying love for Joanna — for Jo — they’ll blindside you with six other girlfriends that she’s been dating on the sly. No, sweetheart, the Smuttee show is definitely out."

Demi’s face fell. She had been warming to the prospect of being on television as part of "Kyle and Jo, the greatest lovers since Romeo and Juliet."

Barb rushed to salve her disappointment: "Please don’t be unhappy, Demi. Your message came through loud and clear," she hoped; "and I promise you that we’ll have enough money a year from now for you to get your breast implants."

"Breast implants?? Mom, why would I want breast implants? Mom, you can’t be serious! Jeez, I hope you’re not getting Alzheimer’s. I’m Kyle. Remember? And as soon as I get that moped, well, you’ll probably never see Demi again. Adults, you’ve got to wonder about them." Demi then stomped off as boyishly as she could in her panty girdle, gaf, and three-inch heels.

Demi left Barb scratching her head: "Well, I’ll never be able to figure out that child of mine. They warned me about teenagers, but I had no idea they were talking about anything as schizoid as Demi! My child’s self-image seems as changeable as the weather."

Barb searched for a clue to Demi’s behavior: "Which is the real Demi — the one who wanted breasts so badly that she was willing to make a fool of herself on television to get them, or the one who mocks me whenever I suggest that Demi is here to stay? Which is it?"

A smile replaced the look of puzzlement on Barb’s face as she thought of the photo collection on her dresser. Two days ago she had removed the pictures of Kyle, and had replaced them with several photos of Demi, as well as two androgynous photos of Kyle as a toddler, and her favorite photo of all time — young Kyle as a buxom Joan of Ark. When Demi had seen the new record of her childhood, her only comment had been, "Jeez, I can’t believe I was ever that young."

At the time, Barb had thought: "Were you ever young, Demi? Were you always part of my family or were you born less than a month ago? I wish I knew."

Demi had seemed pleased with the new photographic record of her life. Or at least, she had not been displeased. Demi also seemed to be happy, or happy enough, with the new I.D. that Barb was generating for her — a membership in two video stores, in three music stores, the community recreation center, a bus pass, and the public library. Demi thought the library card "a hoot", for as she said, "Even the government thinks I’m a girl. Demi’s official."

And so, until Demi asked Barb to change the photographs, or until she retrieved Kyle’s clothes, wallet and I.D. from storage, Barb would not be deceived by Demi’s protestations of masculinity. What Kyle said did not seem as instructive as what Demi did.

To develop into a credible female, Demi needed female company. She should be hanging out, Barb realized, with girls her own age. Yet Demi seemed to have only two girlfriends. Or, at least, there were just two who dropped by the house after Barb threw it open to "Demi’s new friends."

One of the girls struck Barb as the ideal tutor for Demi in the feminine arts. Vicky was, Barb decided, the quintessential teenage girl. After all, who could be more feminine than a cheerleader? But Vicky was boy crazy. She was, Barb observed, far more interested in chasing Steve than in educating Demi.

Indeed, the only thing that Vicky seemed to be teaching Demi was jealousy. One time when all three teens were visiting the James house after school, Barb noted once again the discrepancy between her daughter’s words and actions: Demi said she was a ‘lesbian,’ but she didn’t act like one around Steve. Demi had staked out clear possession of her ‘boyfriend’; indeed, she had allowed him so many liberties in front of Vicky that Barb later chewed Demi out for "not acting like a lady."

Demi was definitely competing with Vicky for Steve’s affection. On Thursday, Demi had come home ranting about Vicky’s asking Steve to a kung fu movie. The following evening Demi had lured Steve into her bedroom for the first time. Barb erroneously concluded they were having intercourse, but they were in fact merely petting. Both teens had stripped down to their underwear, and for the first time Demi allowed a boy to touch her "there." But, fearful of Kyle’s turning into a homosexual, she hadn’t let Steve into her black-lace panties. As a result, both teens had a lesson in fetishism.

Barb’s child was getting hooked on lingerie. The laundry basket told the tale: Demi had stopped wearing her unisex panties. Indeed, she clearly preferred the daintiest, most feminine underwear in her drawer, and was even willing to hand wash her satiny favorites (both with a high French cut) so that she could wear them more often.

Though smitten with panties, Demi no longer insisted on Jo’s always wearing them. Barb on a couple of occasions noticed the waistband of men’s boxer shorts riding high above Jo’s belt. And while Jo did seem to be wearing girls’ clothes to school (it was impossible to be certain, as Kyle had once maintained), she arrived for her first sleepover at the Jameses indisputably dressed in male clothes. Though Barb found it disconcerting that her ‘son’ looked much more feminine than ‘his girlfriend," she did find it reassuring that Jo seemed to be uninterested in having "sexual intercourse with a mere boy." Indeed, Jo affirmed to Barb that she was a lesbian and interested in "Demi only because she’s the sexiest girl I’ve ever met."

Since Jo was clearly the most important girl in Demi’s life, Barb thought it unfortunate that the girl was not herself more feminine. Not only did she have an affinity for male clothing, but she also had little clothes sense, and needed more help with her makeup than did Demi. It was ironic, Barb also thought, that Jo was so intent on teaching Demi to walk in a more ladylike fashion, when Jo herself marched around like Puss n’ Boots, the cat with the seven-league stride.

Fortunately, as Barb saw it, Jo was not encouraging Demi to dress like a lesbian ‘butch.’ For Demi to pass as a woman, she’d have to use a lot of artifice, for Kyle was not one of those boys you read about — you know, the ones who look more beautiful than their girlfriends the moment they put on a dress. No, Demi would have to work at looking feminine, and "God forbid," Barb thought, "that she try to pass as a female while wearing boys’ clothes."

Worried that there was some risk of Demi’s trying to ape Jo’s butch look, Barb found ways to lure Demi into skirts. If Demi wanted a special meal, an R-rated video, or an overnight with Jo, then Demi learned to ask for the treat while wearing a skirt. Since Jo loved to see Demi in skirts, Demi wore them for at least a few hours on seven of the last ten days of her moped bet. Jo made sure that Demi associated skirts with sex, which is why Steve was rather foolish when he refused to go to a movie with Demi if she wore a skirt.

Even as Demi became more comfortable in skirts, she adamantly refused to wear one to school. As she explained to Jo, "The only girl in the entire ninth grade who wears a skirt to school is Liana Mumford, and she’s the biggest nerd at Hoover. Jeez, she’d told everyone she wants to become a librarian — at a Catholic convent, no less! I think that proves she’s a total duffus, when you consider that her dad is the pastor at Gopher Flats Baptist church." Jo reluctantly agreed: If Demi wore a skirt to school, she’d become un-cool, a social outcast.

But Jo couldn’t understand why Demi was so dead set against wearing a dress outside of school. Nor could Barb, who discovered that there wasn’t enough junk food in the entire world to get Demi into a dress. That was a gender line that Demi refused to cross. Yes, she knew that she had orders to wear a dress in Chicago. That she might, just might, be willing to do, because Chicago wasn’t her hometown. But wear a dress in Des Moines? You had to be kidding!

Why skirts and not dresses? Because guys, real heroes, had worn skirts or kilts. When Kyle was wearing a skirt, he didn’t look all that different, he felt, from the warriors of ancient Rome, Egypt and Greece. A plain skirt even looked like an Irish kilt. Guys wore skirts. It was a proven fact.

But dresses? Only girls wore dresses. Kyle feared that if he put one on, especially if he wore one on the streets of Des Moines, that the boy in him would disappear forever. Only Demi would be left. To make sure that he always had an escape hatch from his life as Demi, Kyle stayed out of dresses. Indeed, the two dresses his mother had bought for Demi he banished to a hall closet.

So there were limits to Kyle’s willingness to explore his feminine side. And as far as he was concerned, there were some definite drawbacks to being a girl — or at least to being a demi-girl. For one thing, both Demi and Vicky were getting mauled by the ninth grade boys, who were determined, each and every one of them, to determine whether the breasts of the two ‘girls’ were ‘real’. It was a bit much, thought Demi, to have some boy ‘accidentally bump into you" virtually every time you walked down a school corridor.

Demi also wasn’t thrilled with her rations at home — especially on those evenings when she wore jeans. From Kyle’s perspective, his mother had put Demi on a "starvation diet." When Demi complained about the vast empty spaces on her dinner plate, her mother explained that she didn’t want Demi to grow out of her clothes. "Don’t have a growth spurt," Barb would say, "until you’ve definitely decided whether the next batch of clothes are for a girl or for a boy. I can’t afford to keep buying you duplicate wardrobes."

The first time that Barb asked Demi to ‘stop growing for a while," Kyle thought to himself, "Mom, you’re out of luck. I’m soon going to be putting on so much muscle that I’ll be needing a shirt two sizes larger. Arnold Schwarznegger, look out for Kyle James, ‘cause here I come!"

Demi also didn’t like the way that Coach Bryant treated Vicky and her. He clearly despised the transgendered, and did his best to humiliate both girls in every class they took with him. While Demi stood up to the coach, openly daring him to expel her from class, Vicky was crumbling before his assault. She was reduced to tears when he asked her to comment on each element of his lecture on ‘sexual deviance.’ Demi, on the other hand, temporarily silenced the coach by replying, "What would I know about sexual deviance? You should ask the dirty old men who hang out at the mall to pick up kids what it is."

But Demi’s day was ruined if Vicky cried — even though the two girls were competing for Steve’s affection. Demi thought it ‘unconstitutional’ that the coach had persuaded Miss Cranston to demote Vicky from head cheerleader on the grounds that this honor was liable to get Vicky interviewed by the local press — to the embarrassment of both Vicky and Hoover High.

Most of all, Demi couldn’t accept what the coach had done to Brad. The day after word got out that the quarterback had been dating a cross-dressing boy, the coach had informed Brad that he wasn’t, despite the team’s perfect record, playing well enough to remain in the starting line-up.

"In fact," said Coach Bryant, "I don’t think you’ll be able to get off the bench for the rest of the season, seeing as how I’ve got two quarterbacks and a halfback who throw better than youse. I’ll understand if youse decides that it’s not worth your while to sit on the bench, and leave the team. Your type of boy isn’t really cut out for a man’s sport like football." And yet Brad had been a star, the coach’s pet, until news got out that Vicky was a boy.

Brad made Demi’s flesh creep. Not only was he profoundly depressed by his benching, but he acted very strangely once he and Vicky had joined Demi’s table in the cafeteria for their lunches. Vicky was easy to figure — she sat as close to Steve as possible. But Brad was impossible to decipher. It was almost as though he deliberately sat as far away as possible from Steve. Yet he spent his entire lunchtime gazing at Steve. And to Demi’s dismay, Steve often stared back, his eyes searching for Brad over Vicky’s shoulder.

After three days, Demi understood: While there was some danger of Vicky’s luring Steve into a one-night stand, it was Brad, the ruggedly handsome, muscular quarterback, who was Demi’s ultimate rival for Steve’s affection. Steve liked boys, which was problematic for Demi, who was looking and acting more girlish with each passing day.

For example, Steve didn’t like her newest pair of jeans. Ultra-soft, brushed blue denim, they sported shooting stars on each leg. They were also the tightest jeans that either Kyle or Demi had ever worn. Indeed, Demi had bought them because she loved the snug fit at the crotch — a fit that made her appear ultra-feminine thanks to her gaff. When Steve chided her for looking like a neutered tomcat, Demi replied, "As long as I’m dressing like a girl, I want to look hot. Do you want people to say that you’re dating a dog?" Steve had been stumped for an answer.

Maybe it was Steve’s wandering eye. Maybe it was Jo’s reversion to boy’s jeans and boxer shorts. Maybe it was the whining from Vicky and Brad. Maybe it was the crap she was getting from Coach Bryant. Maybe it was the sexual harassment from other students. Maybe it was the anger in the vice-principal’s eyes. Maybe it was the protection money she had to pay to the gangs. Maybe it was foreboding about the reaction of the Greeks to the revelation, when it came, that they had danced with a cross-dressing boy. Maybe it was the session with Dr. Loupi on Wednesday at which Demi had to discover in every incident of her childhood the origins of her transsexuality. Or maybe it was the steroids. Whatever it was, as the fourth week of the moped bet drew to a close, Demi was alternating between surliness and depression.

Barb didn’t know all the maybes. She focused on the biggest maybe of all — maybe Kyle didn’t want to be Demi. Barb decided to find out, sooner rather than later. She therefore forgave the week’s penalty that she had tacked on for Demi’s ‘dressing like a boy’ at the dance. Kyle was going to get his moped exactly one month to the day that he’d foolishly said that girls dressed so much like boys these days that he could wear girls’ clothes to school without anyone’s being the wiser.

Since then, Demi had taken over Kyle’s life so completely that he no longer paused when he signed her name, even though it appalled him that Demi used circles to dot her i’s. Since Demi was always around, and Kyle almost always absent, it was Demi who was muttering about ‘mothers’ after being told she had to ‘immediately,’ as in ‘right now,’ collect the kitchen waste and throw it into their compost heap in their backyard.

It was Demi, therefore, who stumbled upon the most beautiful machine ever invented. Leaning against the house beside the back door she espied an object that justified every lie, every hassle, and every humiliation since the third week in September — a MOPED!!!

Tears welled in Demi’s eyes. She had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life. She had expected the moped to look clunky, to resemble a three-speed bicycle. Most mopeds do. But Demi’s moped looked like a MOTORCYLE! Its gleaming chrome, its vibrant red, its black leather seat, its boss exhaust pipe — they all proclaimed, "Look at me! I’m totally awesome, and my owner is super cool!"

Demi felt like the luckiest kid in the entire country. She knew that only two states would even allow her to ride a moped at age fourteen. Never had she felt happier to be an Iowan. Des Moines was, in her opinion, ‘rad city’, the center of cool.

She mounted the moped. With her denim skirt spread, the black leather felt cold against her inner thighs. She turned the key to the ignition. The moped started vibrating against Demi’s privates, tucked into her gaff. Throbbing, throbbing, she felt the moped between her legs. Demi had an orgasmic rush, as she whooped with sheer delight. So violently did her body shake that she lost her balance, falling heavily off the moped, to land at the feet of her mother Barb, whose fast hands saved the bike from falling.

"I see that you like the moped," Barb dryly remarked.

Demi, sprawled on the ground, her paisley panties on full display, was at a loss for words. After all, what does a girl say to her mother when she has been caught in the act of humping a moped? What for that matter does a boy say to his mother when she finds him in soiled panties? As this was not a propitious moment for the re-emergence of Kyle, it was Demi who gushed, "Mom! You’re the greatest mother in the whole wide world! The moped is awesome! It’s so phat! The color is so new millennium! But how come …? I didn’t expect …. Weren’t there another seven days to go?"

As Demi got shakily to her feet, Barb started explaining that she didn’t think it fair to tack on the extra week, inasmuch as Kyle had worn the breast forms to the dance. "You went to the dance as Demi," Barb said; "no one mistook you for a boy. So why should I make you wait for your moped? I wanted to surprise you, and it looks very much like I did."

"Oh mom, I love you so much," Demi said with a strangled voice. Then, hugging her mother tightly, she began to bawl. "I’m so lucky to have you. You’re the bestest mother a …a girl could have."

"But are you a girl, Demi? My bet was with Kyle. Does he want you to win it? Who’ll be taking the moped out for a spin? Demi or Kyle? The bet is over. You won. If you like, you can change into your boys’ clothes right now. It’s your choice — denim or lace?"

A shadow came over Demi’s face. It wasn’t her choice, or Kyle’s, to wear girl’s clothes — not any more. Two gangs threatened Kyle’s annihilation if he didn’t dress and behave like a girl at all times. A third gang was likely to freak completely if they realized that Demi was a boy. His mother had given Kyle a sentence of one month in girls’ wear, but the Sharks were determined to keep him in satin and silk until school let out for the summer. They even hinted that Demi would make an excellent prom queen in three years’ time.

Kyle lacked freedom of choice. Until he could figure out a way to sweet talk the gangs into allowing him to return to Hoover High, Demi would have to take his place. Kyle felt profoundly trapped, not only by the gangs, but also by Demi.

It disturbed him that he was, generally speaking, having more fun as Demi than he had enjoyed as Kyle. Certainly Demi had more admirers and a better sex life. She also had more fun playing sports, for she wasn’t expected to sink every basket; and guys actually applauded Demi for being "a girl cool enough to skateboard," whereas they had always derided Kyle for wiping out. Being Demi wasn’t all that bad, Kyle decided, and in an ideal world he would have liked being her half the time.

But life is not ideal, and a high schooler cannot change his gender by the day. He cannot say, "It’s pouring rain and I’ll ruin my hair if I go to school as Demi. So today I’ll go as Kyle." Nor can he go to school as Demi simply to improve his chances of winning the tryouts for the Greco-Roman wrestling team. No, as unfair as it might seem, a high school student must choose one gender and generally stick to it.

If told he had a free choice between his male and female personas, Kyle was still inclined to select the boy. It would make life simpler.

But Kyle lacked that choice. Yet he could not admit to his mother that he dared not dress as a boy. Not only was such an admission likely to embroil him with the school administration and the police — and then later with the gangs in a dark alley — but what boy wants to confess to his own mother that’s he afraid to be a guy?

Kyle preferred to lie: "Mom, I know I don’t have to wear girls’ clothes anymore. I’ve got the moped. But I told myself a couple of weeks ago that you were right — you know, when you said that dressing like a girl for a while might make me more sensitive to girls’ needs and feelings. You know — more aware of the mushy stuff. You told me that I’d maybe make a better husband for some girl some day if I’d walked a mile in a girl’s moccasins. Well, I now realize you were right. But I’ve walked only half a mile so far. I want to finish the trip. So I think I’ll be Demi for a while longer. Is that OK with you?"

Barb’s face shone with a huge smile. His announcement seemed to please her. She gave her child a hug, and said, "Demi, you’re the best daughter any mother could have. Now, you run along. I’m not going to keep you here jawing with your mother. I just know you’re ‘totally’ keen on showing off your moped to Jo and Steve. You be extra careful because you don’t have your license yet. I’ve scheduled your test for a week Saturday, so you’ll have time to learn the rules of the road."

"Oh, mom, I learned those a year ago, when I first started dreaming mopeds. Gosh, I can’t believe it! I own a moped, a beautiful red one, the best one in Iowa." Demi started to cry again.

"Demi, you must be the only girl I know who’s head over heels in love with mopeds. Aren’t you the strange one?"

Demi nodded tearfully. Barb then told her to get changed into some jeans, as these would give her legs some added protection when she rode her bike. "No skirts or dresses on the moped," Barb decreed. "And it’s not only the law, but your mother as well, who insists on your wearing a helmet at all times."

Demi didn’t intend to wear a helmet very often, if at all. If you wore a helmet, you couldn’t feel the wind go through your hair. But she drove off on the moped wearing one because her mother was watching her departure. And this time it was Barb who had the tears in her eyes. As Demi drove off on her moped for the first time, she reflected on her mother’s choice for the helmet: purple, with turquoise stripes, it was definitely more suitable for a girl than for a boy.

"How did she know," Demi wondered as her motorbike chugged away, "that I’d be dressing like a girl even after I won my moped? Has someone told her about the gangs?"

Demi didn’t know the answer, and after a while lost interest in the question, as the feel of a moped between her legs turned her mind to sex. That was the day that Jo also learned to love mopeds, for the effect they had on Demi’s sex drive. The following day Steve also got some mileage out of the moped with Demi, as he made some progress in his campaign of seduction. Still, there were many miles to go before Demi would actually agree to sleep with a boy.

Within days, Demi’s friends had ridden her moped — as a matter of fact, but not metaphorically as had her two closest friends. And rumors about her little red beauty were circulating at Hoover High. Even so, Demi refused to bring it to school for a show-and-tell. Partly, she was afraid the gangs might demand it in payment for their ‘protection.’ But mostly, it was Kyle’s judgment call: He simply refused to allow Demi to ride the moped to his school, at least until he, Kyle, had first shown it off to the admiring multitude.

His fantasy had always been to roar up to the school in his coolest dude outfit, looking as macho as possible. He was not yet willing to surrender that fantasy. Were Demi to have the final say, she would insist on a grand entrance — with her clothes and hair as red as a moped. "Wouldn’t that be a gas!" she thought. But Kyle was adamant: "I will not ride my moped to school for the first time looking like a girl! That’s final!"

Yet he did ride his moped to school dressed like a girl. Indeed, he was a girl in a dress on that fateful day. How could such a disaster come to pass? Jason was to blame. It was his fault, Demi, quickly realized.

It was Jason, Kyle’s best friend in his days as a black shirt, and now his worst enemy, who relayed the moped rumors to the Jets with his own suggestion that they give Demi a command performance: "Let the silly bitch know who’s boss," Jason had said.

"Tell her that she’s got two days to find herself a decent dress, and that on the third day you want her to show up wearing it while she’s straddling her moped. Why should that sissy be allowed to wear jeans? If Demi wants to make fools of everyone, she should at least have to wear dresses. And I say she should do it until the little faggot leaves Des Moines. What do you say?"

The Jets hadn’t liked Jason’s tone. They thought he was diss-ing them. So Jason got a broken rib. But Markko found his proposal ‘amusing.’ Markko liked to control people. So he told Demi that he expected her to start taking her moped to school, starting that Thursday. "And you should dress real proper for the occasion," he added. "We think definitely you should be wearing a dress. You comprende?"

Demi’s jaw sagged.

"And we recommends that you’ll keep wearing a dress to school until the Jets tell you to stop. I figure that might be right after your senior prom. Or maybe after you get married in a frou-frou wedding dress," he said, to guffaws from his entourage.

"Do the Sharks also want me to wear dresses?" Demi desperately asked, hoping that dissension in gangdom might give her a reprieve.

"Yeh, why not?" Markko had replied. "Sherm says you’re lucky we’re not insisting on mini-skirts. We’re reasonable people, Demi, and you can wear any dress you want, so long as it shows you and the moped off. You’ve got a nice ass. Make sure your dresses amply display it."

"Please don’t make me wear dresses," Demi wailed. "No one else wears them. They’re so totally eighties. They’re for disco queens. I’ll kill myself rather than wear one to school."

Markko was unimpressed: "Be sure to leave the moped to us in your will. That’s Jets and it’s spelled J..E...T…T…S. Got it?"

There wouldn’t be any moped to leave, not if Demi could help it. That afternoon she seriously contemplated driving the moped at top speed into the back of the ‘Jetmobile,’ Markko’s SUV. With any luck, she’d hit their gas tank and they’d all go up in flames.

"It would serve them all right," Demi thought. "I’d be the most famous girl in the whole country after I leave a suicide note saying I’d rather die than show up at high school dressed like a nerd."

Demi even fantasized about Jo and Steve’s talking about her spectacular death on the Vera Smuttee show. It was an appealing way to exit Des Moines. Or was it? Did Kyle really want to go out in a blaze of glory as a girl? No, it might be better to live as a boy.

Ironically, it was the one person who most wanted to see Demi in dresses that found a way for her to avoid wearing them to school, without having to kill herself or so ‘pissing off’ the gangs that she’d have to flee for her life.

If there was ever any doubt in anyone’s mind that she truly loved Demi, Jo laid it to rest when she came up with a plan calculated to keep Kyle out of dresses, and in girls’ jeans, for as long as he attended Hoover High. Of course, considering how hare-brained her plan was, that might not be for very much longer.

Demi liked the idea of simultaneously obeying and mocking the gangs. Sure, it was risky. The two fourteen-year-olds could be creamed for disrespecting their elders. Or the gangs might admire her for being ‘a stand-up guy.’ If she acted audaciously enough, they’d have to respect her. And if they respected her, she might not only avoid dresses, she might even have the option of becoming Kyle once again.

"Not that you’re likely to go back to boys’ clothes," said Jo anxiously. "But you’d be happier knowing that Demi is your own idea, and not someone else’s."

Was Demi his own idea? Kyle wasn’t so sure of that. But he was sure that Jo’s plan alone held out any hope that Demi wouldn’t turn into a dweeb in dresses.

Demi did, however, think that Jo’s plan entailed a lot of risk — a lot even for "the blindfolded skateboarder of Suicide Hill" to contemplate. Demi needed, therefore, considerable handholding, kissing, and reassuring.

"Don’t worry," Jo cooed. "The plan will work. The gangs won’t be able to say that you didn’t wear a dress to school, but you won’t lose any face when you do wear one. You’ll be standing taller than ever. In fact, I just know that everyone will be so impressed by your stunt that the gangs will lay off you forever afterwards. You’ll be mistress of your own fate once again."

"Jo, are you sure that we can get away with it? Won’t people know it’s me?"

"Not if you wear a mask, like we talked about. Demi, the Principal will suspect it’s you. But you’ll be in disguise. He won’t be able to prove anything. As for Cudmore, I promise to make sure that he doesn’t lay a hand on you."

"Did Tim and Steve agree to help with the school doors? It’s a lot to ask of them, and of you. We all risk expulsion, don’t we?"

"Demi, don’t worry. No one is going to be expelled from school. There will be so much confusion the brass will have no idea who was helping you out. Anyway, Tim will make sure that the back entrance to the south wing is open, and Steve will be waiting for you at the front exit. It will go like clockwork. Trust me."

"Are you sure that three o’clock is the best time?"

"You know it is, Demi. Coach Bryant is almost always hanging out in the south hallway at three o ‘clock inspecting the sophomore teams wandering in from the ball fields. He says he’s scouting for talent."

"Yeh, not that he’s found any that way. Are you sure the kids will be able to scatter in time?"

"Sure, that’s why the stunt is timed for 3 p.m., so that the only students in the corridor will be jocks. They’ll all get out of the way in time; they’ve got fast reflexes."

Demi sure hoped so. She wasn’t keen on learning what life was like for a cross-dressing teen in a maximum-security prison. But Jo was correct — only the coach would be stupid enough to stand his ground. And that was the idea — to get close enough to the coach to score the coup that would make Demi and her band legendary in their own time. Once she became famous, the gangs would have to treat Demi with respect. She would no longer be a sissy in either their eyes or those of the general student body. She would become "the Man," as in "you’re the Man!"

Ironically, the first step in proving her manhood to Hoover High entailed Demi’s wearing a dress to school for the first time, just as the gangs demanded. But it wasn’t just any old dress. It wasn’t the sort of dress that announced to Hoover High that Demi was a weakling, so easy to push around that she’d next be showing up at school in a baby bonnet, pacifier, and diapers at gang command. No, this dress would announce that Demi had spunk — that she had the courage of the country’s Founding Mothers.

Where could such a dress be found? In a costume store, that’s where. Jo had come across it as she was scouting for outfits for she and Demi to wear to the school’s Halloween dance. She had found the armor first, and remembering the stories that Kyle had told about his childhood, decided that one of them should go as "Joan of Ark."

"That should be me," Jo next decided. "We’ve got the same name. Besides, Demi’s got too sexy a body to hide behind armor. I want something that will show off her curves."

Jo’s decision to wear the armor became firm when she learned that the body armor and helmet were actually English, dating in style, though not antiquity, from the early seventeenth century. "I’ll go as two characters — one male, one female," Jo exulted. "When people ask, I’ll say I am Joan of Ark or I’ll say that I’m Captain John Smith, the explorer who fought the Ottoman Turks and founded Virginia. It all will depend on my whimsy. Either way I plan on looking as macho as possible." Jo twirled an imaginary moustache.

As Demi’s costume had to be complementary, Jo almost picked out a harem girl outfit for her to wear, but decided that a see-through outfit was too risqué for Hoover High. Vice-Principal Cudmore was not likely to allow any student, girl or boy, to attend a school dance wearing little more than a gaff. Instead, Jo went with a more modest North American ensemble. Jo’s decision made, she reserved the armor and Demi’s dress for use on Halloween night.

When it became clear that Demi would have to wear a dress to school or face ‘annihilation,’ Jo rushed back to the costume store to hire Demi’s dress for a few extra days. When Demi saw the outfit, she agreed that it was ideal for her first trip down a fashion runway in a dress. If she were fated to spend her last hour on this planet in a dress, let it be this one.

And what was Demi wearing as she stood just outside the door to Hoover’s south wing at 2:58 p.m.? Well, she had on her most conservative cotton underwear just in case the plan miscarried and she ended up in juvenile detention. Otherwise, she looked exactly like Pocahontas — or at least as Disney’s animators envisaged her. Not only was Demi outfitted in the tight-fitting doeskin dress, the blue beaded necklace, the leather moccasins, and the long black hair of the cartoon heroine, but she was also wearing a Pocahontas mask.

And she was sitting astride her noble steed. The moped gleamed like the setting sun, its engine rumbling — or roaring, as Demi imagined it did. The door opened. Tim gave the signal. The engine revved. Then Pocahontas and her mount charged up the wheelchair ramp into the school hallway. Down the corridor she went, whooping as she did, "Here I come, Coach Bryant! Everyone else, out of the way!"

The soccer sophomores scattered. The footballers fled. The coach cowered. He tried to make himself invisible, but Pocahontas saw him. She urged the moped forward into battle. As she reached the coach, he was swinging wildly, striving to knock her off her mount. But nothing could deter Pocahontas from driving home her attack.

The coach feared she wanted to run him over, but that was never her intent. As she closed for hand-to-head combat, her right fist left the moped’s handlebars just long enough to score the greatest coup in the school’s long history. As she left him trailing behind, howling with rage, shouting for revenge, Pocahontas waved her trophy for all to see — it was the coach’s ‘fright wig,’ his red toupee. Pocahontas had scalped the coach!

Would she make good her escape? Not if Mr. Cudmore could block it. He had suddenly appeared in the hallway, as though summoned from the nether world by the coach’s curses and imprecations. The Vice-Principal was going to stand his ground. Mr. Cudmore made it clear that the moped would not pass. Pocahontas had a choice: surrender or death, that letter being quite possibly the Vice-Principal’s if the moped did not relent in its onward rush.

Momentarily, Pocahontas contemplated surrender, but she regained her confidence in victory when she saw her faithful ally charge into the fray. It was ‘John Smith’ fully outfitted in armor and a huge moustache and waving a Jedi light sword. Cudmore retreated before its menacing glow, and Pocahontas and the moped charged through the gap.

Ahead they could see light — daylight in the great world of nature beyond the school, for Steve had thrown open the exit door, through which Pocahontas rode, down the ramp, and into school history. She left behind John Smith, who briefly looked cornered by the Vice Principal and two arriving hall monitors; but in the nick of time, a boy in a black shirt bowled them over like ninepins, and all made good their escape.

Demi’s ride had taken just three minutes, but its reverberations lasted years. She had worn a disguise, but the moped betrayed her identity. After all, it was the most beautiful bike in Des Moines. Many would recognize it, and some would talk. Consequently, the telephone at the James residence began to ring even before Demi reached home. Once there, she dared not answer it. So it rang, and rang, and rang — until Barb got home to find her ‘daughter’ sitting in a sweatshirt and jeans staring numbly at the weather channel.

Demi watched in terror as her mother’s face became tornado green. Then broke the storm: "Kyle James, this time you’ve gone and done it. You’re not to go to school tomorrow until twelve noon. Then you’re to go directly to the Principal’s office. I’m to come with you. They told me that I’d be wise to bring a lawyer, a criminal lawyer!"

"Kyle, I fear they’re going to arrest you! Your Principal advised me that your coach is going to ask the police to charge you with attempted murder! Oh Kyle, I did so hope that wearing girls’ clothes for a month would calm your reckless spirit. But this is the stupidest stunt you’ve ever pulled. Did you really try to run over the Vice-Principal? Oh Kyle!" she wailed.

Kyle shrugged. He said not a word. What could he say?

So Barb raged some more: "As it’s pointless for a boy as silly as you to be Demi any longer, I want you to go down into the basement and find some of your old clothes to wear tomorrow. And you’d better root out some clean boys’ underwear, for god knows who’s going to be seeing you in them if you get arrested. Oh, Kyle, I can’t believe how much you’ve messed up! Do you ever think things through?"

Barb wept. Kyle was determined not to. He was determined to be a man, and a man did not cry. He took action. So Kyle extracted an embroidered, perfumed handkerchief from the purse beside him, and vigorously began to remove his red lipstick. Soon the handkerchief appeared to be smeared with blood — with Demi’s blood.

"I guess Demi is dead," Kyle confirmed, his eyes empty and emotionless.

"I fear she really is dead," Barb replied. "I’ll miss my sweet daughter." Her body heaved with emotion.

Only a mother’s sobs and a son’s stoic silence could be heard as, suddenly, the telephone rang. Kyle answered it. He said ‘huh,huh’ more than a dozen times, and then hung up. For the first time since the tempest began he had tears in his eyes.

"Mom," he said, "that was Dr. Loupi, the school’s shrink. He says he can help me. Or rather he can help Demi. He says he can talk them into letting me stay in school. He can get the cops off my back. He can do that for Demi, he says. But Kyle? He’s a cooked goose."

"But Kyle, if there’s any chance you’ll be arrested by the police, you’ve got to go to school in boys’ clothes. You have no choice. You can’t go to the boys’ lock-up wearing a bra and panties. You just can’t. And you know why. I don’t have to spell it out for you."

"Mom, I trust Dr. Loupi. He says Demi’s got better odds than Kyle. I’ve got to play the odds, mom. That’s how I win at videogames."

"Demi, you’re gambling with your entire future! With your life! The clothes were supposed to change you! You were supposed to stop being so reckless!"

"Mom, whatever I’m wearing, I’ll always be me. I’m Kyle. I’m Demi. I’m a boy. I’m a girl. I’m not one fixed address. I am what I am. The only thing I really know for sure, mom, is that I’m not a loser. I’m a winner, and I will beat the coach and anyone else who tries to put me down. Tomorrow may be the worst day of my life, or maybe, just maybe the best. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. But I do know who’s going to live through it. Tomorrow has gotta be Demi’s day."

To be continued in Part 13 — It starts with Demi on the hot seat. Does it end with Kyle ‘chilling out’ in ‘juvie prison’?