Powerball, by Karin Bishop

Part 3

Chapter 6

We stared at Mom’s computer.

The computer stared back.

Mom closed the browser, opened the browser, entered the link, entered the numbers and we stared again.

Unless we were totally missing something, Mom had just won the Powerball lottery …

On a whim, spurred on by the jerk of a convenience store clerk, Mom had bought a ticket and put down both of my ‘birthdays’, Jimmy’s and Jessica’s. Those six numbers turned out to be the five numbers plus Powerball number that meant she won. As in, won.

Mom was shaking. “Not possible …” she muttered over and over. “Fifty-nine numbers …not possible …”

According to the site’s explanation, the first five spots had a range from one to fifty-nine possibilities each, and a range up to thirty-nine for the Powerball number. Hitting all six …well, the computer said it was about one chance in one-hundred-thirty-one million; maybe higher in some situations.

“Not possible …” Mom muttered again.

I was all ready for bed; being a school night I’d immediately gotten undressed while Mom headed for her computer. I came out and found her muttering those words, over and over. I decided that I wasn’t going to go nuts. If she’d won, there was plenty of time for that. If she hadn’t, then any celebrating now would be a painful memory later.

So I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Anything’s possible, Mom. I’m standing here in a nightgown after thirteen years, so anything’s possible. I had a wonderful time with you tonight; great restaurant. I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Jessica,” she smiled, still dazed.

As I went to my room, I thought that even though she was dazed, she remembered my name!

And then things got supremely weird …

The next day Mom went to the Lottery Office or whatever they called it. She had to do that for the size of her jackpot, to register or something. I had a normal day–or as normal as it could be with Jenny giving me Special Looks. I finally called her on it as we walked home.

“Jen, you’ve got to stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what, Jessie? You said I could call you Jessie, right?”

I waved a hand. “Yes, of course, you can call me Jessie. Out here, I mean; not in school. But you gotta cool it with this whole …Cheshire Cat thing you were doing all day.”

“I’m sorry.” And I could tell she was. Her face was miserable. “I hope I didn’t give anything away.”

“Jenny, every day I hope I don’t give anything away. And I’m pretty good at it, I think, but you’re brand new at this and you kept looking at me …”

“I’m sorry, Jess, it’s just–ooh! I like that better!”

“Okay, I’m Jess and you’re Jen,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just not in school!”

“I know, and I’m sorry-I’m sorry-I’m sorry! But it was amazing!”

“What was?”

“How you are so obviously a girl! Trying to be a boy, of course, but it’s that familiarity thing we talked about. I bet if–right now–we walked through the mall, people would think we were two girls.”

“Don’t think so. And we’d run into somebody from school.”

“Geez, so literal! Okay, Oakbrook, then, or Meadowdale. You happy? Okay, we’re walking through Oakbrook and nobody …what?” She was looking at my face.

“Um …I went shopping with Mom at Meadowdale.”

There was a pause, and the lightbulb went on. “Omigod! What were you wearing?”

“Um … brown corduroy skirt and light green top, flats. Brown flats.”

“Omigod!” She was jumping up and down. “What kind of top?”

“Light green knit, three-quarter sleeves with a sweetheart neckline and some embroidery on the bodice.”

“You even talk like …” She stopped walking and leaned against a lamp post. She shook her head. “I don’t think I …until that moment …”

“You need to sit down or anything?” I looked around; nobody seemed to notice us. Typical.

She waved a hand. “No, no; it’s just that …this is one of those ‘hearts and minds’ things. Well, the other way around.”

“Oh, now you’re perfectly clear,” I teased.

“I mean that, in my mind, I understand you being Jessica. Yeah, it all makes sense, everything fits, it answers a lot of unasked questions and all that. So, intellectually, I guess, I got it. But just now, that instant, hearing you describe your top …did you know what you did with your hand?”

“I didn’t do anything with my hand.”

“Oh, Jess, you gotta be more careful!” she chuckled. “You told me about the top but your free hand described it. You waved it at your neckline and then across your chest when you said, ‘embroidery on the bodice’.” She demonstrated by moving her hand gracefully and femininely across herself. “And the words you used, so casually!”

“I’ve been studying girls’ clothing for years. Catalogs, magazines, listening to girls. Because I always dreamed I’d be able to wear them, but never expected to be able to.”

“Yeah, I get it, but that hand gesture, and your description …it suddenly slammed into me, into my heart, that you are a girl. I mean, at your core. You are female! I have absolutely no doubt about it!”

“A bit louder, please; I think the next county didn’t catch that last part.”

“Oh, you!” she giggled. “Sorry. I’m just so excited. You really are my best girlfriend!”

“Hope so!” I blurted.

And without thinking of it, we both rose up on tiptoes and squealed and hugged. The reality of where we were snapped into place a second later and we hastily broke the hug and looked around. The elementary school had let out and there were some little kids around, but nobody was looking at us strangely.

“Come on!” Jenny said and grabbed my hand, tugging me behind her.

I was hoping that somebody watching would think it was a girl dragging her boyfriend, all the time I was exulting that it was one girlfriend dragging another. We made it to her house and she slammed the door behind us and leaned on it.

“This is monumental!” she said loudly.

“What is, honey?” her mother said, coming around the corner.

I think I shrieked almost as loudly as Jenny did.

“God, Mom, you scared the crap out of me!” Jenny blurted. “Sorry! I mean, the stuffing!”

Mom gave her A Look and then chuckled. “Seeing you jump like that was almost worth that little obscenity. Hello, Jimmy. How’s your mother?”

“She’s very well, Mrs. Breuer; thank you,” I said dutifully, suddenly nervous.

“That’s nice,” she said. “Tell her hello for me. We haven’t gotten together in far too long. And now, young lady,” she said, startling me at first but turning to Jenny. “What is so monumental?”

“Uh …” Jenny said, panicking.

I jumped in with the first thing I thought of. “I think my mom might have won in the lottery.”

Jenny gave me a look.

“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Breuer said. “Any idea how much? One of the gals at work won $5,000 a few years ago–can you believe it? Five thousand dollars!”

“I don’t know how much, or what, or anything. They just pulled the numbers last night, I guess. She was going to try to go to their office.”

“That’s a good sign; Millie had to do that when she won. I think it’s when they win over a certain level. Like if you won a hundred dollars, you’d go to the place you bought the ticket. But if it’s more you have to go to the office. So that’s a very good sign,” she nodded.

“Yes, ma’am. Hope so, for Mom. Well, she didn’t much like the clerk when she bought the ticket.”

Mrs. Breuer smiled knowingly. “That’s probably why she’s going to the office; no point going back to him if he was a jerk. It probably makes more sense to go to the office anyway, even if she just won a hundred bucks. Tell you the truth, that’s what I’d do if I played the lottery. Your mother never struck me as the type, though.”

“No, ma’am, you’re right. She isn’t. I was with her and the guy was kind of a jerk–we were just getting something to drink–and I think she bought the ticket just to spite him, sort of.”

“And she won something? Good for her!” she chuckled. “So what are you two up to?”

Jenny said, “Jes …Just telling me about the lottery. Jimmy was. Um …”

I’d never seen her so scrambled. “Gee, Jenny; you’re still freaked out from when your mom scared you!”

“Yeah,” she said to her mother, but gave me a grateful look for covering her.

Her mother chuckled. “It was a good scare, wasn’t it? Although I wasn’t trying to …Well, you kids chat. I don’t have to tell you no boys in your room, do I, Jennifer?”

“No, Mother,” Jenny said dutifully. She snuck a glance at me. “No boys in my room.”

Her mother gave her a double-take, then as she walked off she muttered, “Oh, you,” and for the first time I realized where Jenny got her phrase.

We were alone in her living room.

Jenny turned to me and whispered, “And no boys in the living room, either!”

I raised a finger in the air and assumed a lofty air. I cleared my throat theatrically. “Ahem. Oh, you,” I pronounced with precise diction.

Jenny snorted. “Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes. Then she smiled sweetly. “Hey, girlfriend.”

I smiled back. “Hey, yourself.”

Chapter 7

By the time Mom got home I was stirring the green beans to go with a chicken-and-rice thing I’d made. Leftovers, but that’s how we roll, I thought to myself. I wondered if Mom really had won like we’d thought; I was so worried that if she hadn’t, she’d come home all depressed. It didn’t matter; the main thing was that we were closer than we’d ever been.

“That smells lovely,” Mom’s voice came out of nowhere, and I wondered what it was with mothers sneaking up on their kids today.

I didn’t jump–much–but stirred and said, “When do you want dinner? I can do ten minutes to whenever.”

“Ten minutes is fine. Let me get out of these shoes.”

“Oh, those are cute,” I said, checking out her heels. “I loved ‘em when I tried them, but they’re too big. Sorry they hurt.”

Mom chuckled. “It’s a little depressing that my shoes are too big for my daughter.”

“Hey, I’m growing!”

“Well, we’ll see,” she grinned. “But they are cute, aren’t they?”

We could never have had this conversation before she learned about Jessica, although I would still have been checking out her heels!

I had the dinner ready and she came back out in flats, telling me, “I left ‘em in your bedroom. Sprayed ‘em first. If you can fit into them, they’re yours. But this looks wonderful, Jessie!”

“Thanks, Mom,” I grinned. “How was your day?”

“You first,” she said, as she dished up a plateful.

“I told you that I told Jenny. About me, I mean. And, today, kind of about you and the lottery.”

That drew a raised eyebrow.

I quickly waved my hands. “Mom, I had to! I don’t mean I bragged or anything. Jenny and I were walking home, and, um …it kind of dawned on her that I really am Jessica. She said that yesterday when I told her, her head got it. Intellectually. But today, just talking on the way home, she suddenly fully got it. She said her heart suddenly knew without doubt that I’m a girl. She also said I had better watch my gestures at school.”

“You are graceful. Always were. And now the other kids will be checking you out more closely,” Mom nodded. “As they become interested in the opposite sex.”

“That’s what Jen was saying; that one wrong hand movement and the whole Jimmy-thing will collapse and they’ll know that I’m …” I frowned. “Well, at school, they won’t know that I’m a girl, per se; they’ll probably just scream ‘fag!’ at me as they trash me. Usually they just laugh.”

“Oh, sweetheart!” Mom said sympathetically. “Your daily life …I can’t imagine it.”

“Well, Jenny was still rocked by the head-and-heart thing, totally understanding that I’m a girl, and we walked in her house–thinking it was empty like usual–and she shouted, ‘This is monumental!’ meaning about me being a girl, and her mom came around the corner and asked what was monumental?”

“Ah,” Mom smiled. “So you improvised and brought up the lottery.”

“Yes. First thing that popped into my mind. Jenny was so grateful that I covered up for her! I didn’t say how much or anything, just that you won, making it seem like …a hundred bucks or something. And her mom told us about a woman at work that won five thousand and had to go to the Lottery Office, too. And she also said it’s been too long since the two of you chatted.”

Mom’s face was funny. Slowly, she said, “I’d better call her tonight, before …” She frowned.

“Before what, Mom? You haven’t told me if you went to the Lottery Office or anything. I’m sorry I brought it up at the Breuers, but it was the only way I thought I could cover Jenny yelling ‘monumental’, you know?”

Mom chuckled. “That’s alright, honey. I understand perfectly.” She took another bite. “You got this rice just right. Any time I made it, I could never guarantee how it would turn out.”

I just looked at her.

She put her fork on her plate. “Okay, I’m stalling.” She took a sip of ice tea and sighed. “Alright. Yes, I made it to the office. Yes, apparently I’m a winner–no, I’m not telling you how much, but I will tell you why.”

“It looked like you hit all six, didn’t it?”

Mom nodded. “That was verified. But any jackpot they mention is subject to all sorts of things. First of all, how many others hit the same numbers as I did–as we did.”

“You did, Mom; it was your inspiration.”

“Ah, but it was your numbers that won, so we’re even!” she chuckled, and then got serious, steepling her fingers. “There are two main options, lump sum or term, also called annuities. Like life insurance. The lump sum is just that, a lump sum, but it’s much less than the big jackpot number, and then taxes take a third out of that. So like if you ‘won’ a hundred thousand dollars,” she used air quotes, “you’d actually get about thirty thousand or so, maybe.”

“What?” I was aghast. I shook my head. “No; wait a minute–you said the taxes take a third out, you should have seventy thousand dollars.”

Mom shook her head. “You skipped over the bit about the lump sum being much less. So they announce you won a hundred thousand, and if you take the lump sum option you start with considerably less. The one-third to taxes thing still applies, so that’s how it all gets whittled down.

“Does the public know about this?”

She chuckled. “Yes, but their eyes are focused on the big number. Or maybe it’s like Jenny said; their head knows about the roughly two-thirds loss, but their heart screams ‘a hundred grand!’”

We both laughed at that.

Mom said, “If you take the annuity option, you get a chunk every year for anywhere from twenty to forty years. And they–”

“Forty years? Isn’t that a scam?”

“No; it’s realistic, and most people take that option. First, because the lotteries typically don’t have enough cash on hand to give everybody a lump sum, so it’s more attractive for people to spread it out because they’re guaranteed to get a much larger chunk of the jackpot–not the two-thirds loss–but nearly all of it. And the tax impact is significantly lessened.”

“Mom, I don’t really know a lot about taxes.”

“Okay, let’s put it this way. Would you rather have eighty cents or seventy cents?”

“Eighty, of course.”

“That’s the difference between a twenty-percent and thirty-percent tax bracket; it’s how much the taxes take out of each dollar. But a dollar is not always a dollar …” She left it hanging and wiggled her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. “I give up. So a dollar is not always a dollar …what? When? How?”

“When there’s a lot of them. Then the tax bite is bigger. The less you have, the lower tax bracket. Anyway, most winners seem to go term, spreading it out over years, getting a nice twenty-five, maybe fifty thousand dollars a year they don’t have to work for. Invest it and it grows.” She shrugged. “There are also companies that will buy your lottery annuity and cash you out right away, and they’ll get the annuities.”

“What if they dry up, or the lottery goes belly up or something?”

“Very astute question, young lady,” she grinned. “Very sharp. The annuities are supposedly backed by government bonds and supposedly can’t go ‘belly up’. It’s always a possibility, but from what I learned, the majority of winners choose the annuity option.” She shrugged again. “And there are scams, too. Gotta be watchful.”

“So do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Yes. I’m going to spend a nice night with my daughter and sleep on it. Then tomorrow I’m calling a financial planner I know and run it by him.”

And that’s what she did. I put the whole lottery thing behind me; I was focused on surviving at school and then it was the weekend. Jessica 24/7!

Jenny came over and we had a fantastic, giggly time going through my clothes. Best of all, though, was answering the door when she arrived. I was wearing a cute yellow cami and denim skirt and flats, all my jewelry, and Mom had done her magic with my hair and spritzed me with cologne.

I think they could hear Jenny in the next county!

She squealed, I squealed, we hopped and hugged and she was almost overcome with giddiness. Mom walked into the room and Jenny just walked over and, without a word, hugged Mom.

Jenny looked up and said, “Thank you for my best girlfriend Jessica!”

Then we went to my room and it was Fashion Show Time. That was most of Saturday and into the evening; Jenny stayed for dinner after calling home and we watched an older Meg Ryan flick, French Kiss, and sighed with happiness at the romance. Then Mom and I drove her home but didn't come in. We’d talked about when I should let her mother know and we decided we’d try for the next day.

Sunday was nice and lazy, other than getting my sheets into the laundry. Jenny and my mom had been conniving so in the afternoon Jenny and her mom came over.

It was anticlimactic, actually. Her mother seemed startled at first, and then frowned and nodded.

“It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

We all agreed that it did. I was dressed much as the day before–a teal cami with spaghetti straps this time–and coordinated with Jenny so she wore pretty much the same thing. We were two best girlfriends, dressed alike, to reinforce the point. Her mother took it in stride.

Jenny said, “So Jess can come into my room? No boys allowed, you said.”

“That’s right, I did,” her mother said; then she looked at Mom. “Elizabeth?”

“Up to you, Katherine. We’ll respect your decision,” Mom said, giving me A Look.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said to reinforce the point.

Mrs. Breuer said, “Who am I to keep best girlfriends from each other?” She laughed. “Of course you girls can be in each other’s rooms.”

“Great, Mom, thanks!” Jenny bounced. “And you’ve got to see this cute sundress Jess just got! I’ve got to get one just like it!”

My mother sighed and chuckled at Mrs. Breuer. “God, are we in for trouble now!”

Chapter 8

After the wonderful weekend and acceptance by Mrs. Breuer and Jenny, it was even harder to force myself into Jimmy-mode on Monday. It was sad and maddening–I was actually a little bit pissed. Maybe that accounted for the further reduction in my daily torture. I talked about it with Jenny on the way home.

“Do you suppose that all it would take is to be angry all the time?”

“Heck of a way to go through life, Jess,” Jenny said.

“You’ve got to watch that,” I warned. “I didn’t say anything before; it’s okay once we’re in each others’ houses, but out here somebody might overhear.”

“I’m looking out for other people,” she said.

“They might be just around the corner.”

“I’d know.”

“Like with your mom? Or that cat?” I teased.

She blushed. “That was different!”

We’d been walking to the mall once and turned a corner and a cat was just sitting there–didn’t leap out or anything–but had scared Jenny so badly she shrieked and was shaking for some time after.

“Just …be cool,” I reassured her. “Or come up with a cover story now so we don’t look stupid trying to explain it later.”

“Already got one. Everybody knows we hang out; we can say that we were suspected of shoplifting at the mall–we didn’t do it, of course–and the mall cop asked your name and you were freaked and you said, ‘Just …Jimmy’ but the cop said, ‘Well, Jess-Jimmy’ and it was all cleared up and they let us go, but I tease you by calling you ‘Jess-Jimmy’.” She smiled complacently at me.

I stared at her. “You cooked all that up already?” She nodded. I frowned. “Why the shoplifting thing? That makes us sound …I don’t know …it’s embarrassing.”

She nodded again. “The best cover story for something like that should have something embarrassing in it. That way people are more likely to think the whole story is true, because who would make up something embarrassing?”

“Truly, you worry me,” I grinned.

“Just protecting my best girlfriend,” she grinned back.

“Okay, see? You might have a story for saying ‘Jess’ but how would you explain saying ‘girlfriend’?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Always gonna be something with you, isn’t it?”

“Just trying to be safe.” I grinned and leaned close to say, “Jess trying to be safe!”

She bumped my shoulder in acknowledgement but went on with her point.

“Yeah, I get that, Jess. But what you were saying about being angry …maybe that’s why they didn't bother you today.”

“I never said they didn’t bother me; my backpack still got unzipped and stuff pulled out. But that was the only thing that happened, and it was from behind.”

We discussed the cowardice and likely identities of my torturers all the way to her house and into her bedroom. Armed with her mother’s approval of me, Jenny began pulling things out of her closet. She held a blue dress and turned to me.

“Okay. First rule is absolute: Girlfriends share clothes. Right?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I think this dress would be killer on you, like for a date or something. I’ll let you wear it if you let me wear your yellow sundress sometime.”

There was silence in the room.

“Hello? Jessica?” Jenny teased.

“You said ‘date’. I, um …” I frowned, blushed, swallowed–everything all at once. “I haven’t thought that far.”

She hung the dress up and flopped on the bed. “Gonna happen. Absolutely gonna happen.”

“What?”

“Dates. Or at least getting asked out. Definitely gonna get hit on.”

“I don’t know …” I began aimlessly.

She sat up on an elbow. “Jessica Brewer, you are a really pretty girl. I’m amazed that you can wear that sundress and look in the mirror and not know that!”

“Mad crushing on the sundress, are we?”

“Don’t try to divert me! Yes, I love the dress, but forget that; this is really important.” Her voice and face were serious. “Do you think you’re pretty?” She waved a hand. “I don’t mean right now, dressed like Jimmy. I mean like yesterday.”

“I …guess …”

“Okay, we’ve got to determine something. Is that false modesty–you know you’re pretty but you think it’s bragging so you don’t say so–or do you truly not know you’re pretty?”

“I don’t think it’s false modesty. I’ve just …” I sighed. “Jen, it’s all so mind-blowing that I can stand in front of a mirror wearing that sundress! It’s all so new and so wonderful and my whole life I’ve wanted it and now to finally get to do it, to be me …” I shrugged hugely. “I haven’t had time to think about being pretty.”

“Haven’t had …” She looked like she didn’t believe me and then her face went thoughtful. “I just realized something. Two things, actually. The first is, yes, I believe you; it’s not false modesty. It’s all so overwhelming and fantastic that the newness hasn’t worn off and you haven’t really taken stock of yourself. The other thing I realized is …well, something I was thinking about awhile ago.”

She flopped back down on the bed and was silent.

After a time, I said, “Well?”

“Hush. Trying to phrase it right; I’ve never put it into words before.” She sat back up. “Okay. Among the zillion differences between boys and girls, one that people don’t always talk about–or are even aware of–is the mirror.”

“Boys use mirrors.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I think it’s different. I mean, what they see in the mirror–and no jokes, please! I read this article on how scientists have gadgets that …sort of like the thing at the eye doctor’s, you know? Anyway, you look through it and they show you pictures and the gadget looks at your eyeballs and they can track your eye movements.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“All sorts. Photographs, I guess, maybe paintings. Random things. Like …ten seconds each, maybe. Mount Rushmore. A kitten. The moon landing. Brad Pitt. Scrambled eggs. A rainbow. That sort of random things.”

“And you try to tie them together?”

“No; each is just there by itself. Random, like I said. So the gadget tracks what you look at.”

“Still don’t get it. They know I’m looking at Mount Rushmore, Brad Pitt, whatever, because they put the pictures in order.”

“I’m not saying it right. The gadget tracks where you look at each picture, what things draw your eye first, and in priority. So like one …patient? No, subject, I guess; a better word. Test subject. Anyway, one subject looks at the picture of a plate of scrambled eggs, okay? And first they look at the eggs, then the ketchup, then the knife, then the plate. Another looks at the eggs, the plate, the fork, the ketchup …whatever. Different order of each thing in the picture.”

“Interesting. Bizarre, but interesting.”

“Here’s the thing, Jess. They’ve done this enough times with enough subjects and enough pictures that the scientists have discovered broad guidelines about the subjects. Just by seeing a list of what the subject looked at and in what order, they can tell you how old the subject is, and what gender.”

“Wow!” I was impressed, but still unsure where she was heading.

“This is the point–I’m absolutely sure they could hook you up to that gadget and you’d scan the photos just like me, or Mom, or your Mom, or any other girl. Because you’re a girl.”

I felt that warmth of her acceptance. “Thank you, Jenny. That means a lot to me.”

“Wait, I’m not finished! Got sidetracked with that gadget thing; my main point is mirrors. After I read the article–not immediately but like later that day–I was brushing my hair at the mirror. I got to wondering if they’d used the gadget to track subjects’ eyes looking at their own reflection. I bet–I absolutely bet–that boys and girls track differently. Looking at themselves in the mirror, I mean. I think that we’re able to–girls are able to–look more objectively at the whole person. Guys look at themselves and say, ‘Is my shirt tucked in? Are my pants zipped?’ Their eyes zero in on the shirt, or the pants. You know–details. Girls look at the whole girl and say, ‘That top really doesn’t go with that skirt’. Because we see the whole ensemble, right? Partly the way we’re brought up, maybe; but I think it’s mostly the way we’re wired.”

“At the risk of playing into stereotypes, yeah, I get it,” I said.

Jenny gave me a direct look. “So here’s the whole thing, tying it all up. I’ve seen you in your clothes–Jess clothes, of course–and you are coordinated and look really cute. But like you said, it’s all so new that you’re maybe a little worried about details, like, ‘Do those straps look good on my shoulders?’ and you haven’t fully gotten the whole girl. So you really haven’t taken in how pretty you are.”

“Kind of negates your argument that I’d scan photos like a girl,” I said ruefully.

“No, I still hold to that, because a lot of that is emotional. I mean, it’s your emotional makeup that tells your eyes to look at the kitten and go, ‘Aw!’ and stuff like that, and I’ve got no doubt you’d pass. I’m talking about the whole picture in the mirror, because you don’t have the history of matching skirts and tops or shoes or whatever. And, I think …” She frowned, thinking. “I think it’s partly acquired, the ability to stand outside yourself and see the girl in the mirror as another person.”

“You’re going to be a psychologist, aren’t you?” I teased.

She took it seriously. “Damned right I am.”

Chapter 9

The next two days were similar at school, with fewer incidents. I got a test back from Monday and did better than I ever had before. It made me wonder if my ‘okay’ grades could have been higher if I wasn’t so miserable all the time, and now that I was happier being Jessica, it might reflect in my schoolwork. I wondered if my grades would go even higher once I could live as Jessica full-time, even at school.

After school I did my homework, cooked for Mom and spent the evenings curled up on the couch next to Mom, my legs under me. Tuesday night, after a silly sitcom, she got to talking about her girlhood. She was just sharing stories but it was so warm and wonderful feeling that closeness, that I thought that if nothing else, being Jessica was making Mom happier, too.

Wednesday after school, Mom picked us up, dropped Jenny off at her house, and we went to the University Hospital. I gave blood and urine and had a cheek swab while Mom filled out papers, and then we met Dr. Isabelle Grover, who had graying blonde hair in a loose ponytail over her white lab coat. She had a bit of the Earth Mother/Eccentric Aunt vibe to her, except for her eyes. They were steel gray and very sharp; easily the most intelligent eyes I’d ever seen.

We talked and talked; Mom was given a thick questionnaire and went to the waiting room while Dr. Grover and I talked more personally. I told her everything, from undescended testicles to no wet dreams or masturbation and also told her that there was nothing that I was too embarrassed to say in front of Mom. She commended me and then handed me a questionnaire and Mom and I traded places.

Wow there were a lot of questions! Most of them were the sliding scale things, like ‘1=Not at all, 5=Very strongly’ although the choices varied. After enough questions, I realized there were things I’d already answered but they were phrased in a different way. Finally there was a section to just ‘write how I felt’. At first I thought, ‘There aren’t enough pages in the world to write it all’ but I settled for this:

‘My name is Jessica Brewer. I was christened James Brewer, but that was a mistake. I was diagnosed as a boy at birth, but that was a mistake, too. That diagnosis was based on only one thing–a penis. I don’t hate penises but I shouldn’t have one, because I’m female. Externally there is a penis. Internally, I am a girl and always have been.

Ever since I was born–ever since my first conscious thought beyond eat/sleep/poop–every moment of my life I have known that I’m female. It was only when I became aware of other people that I realized there was more to the world than Me and Mommy. And for a short time, until they divorced, my father, too. I became aware that in the wider world, there were boys and there were girls. The way they acted, the way they talked, the things they liked and disliked …everything proved that I acted, talked, liked and disliked things as the girls did and not as the boys did.

Boys are alien to me. They’re another species–they’re the opposite sex. More accurately, they’re the opposite gender. I don’t understand the way they think, feel, act …

And I’ve tried, because I was told that I was a boy. But it was like taking somebody from Iowa and dumping them in Russia and saying, ‘Be a Russian’. How would they know what to do? It’s even a whole different language! And I don’t comprehend the language of boys.

However, I fully comprehend the language of girls. I understand, at my core, at the center of my soul, what they’re feeling and talking about. I understand and sympathize with their emotions. I’ve overheard enough girls having conversations to know that I think exactly like them–with personality differences, of course–and if I was standing there chatting with them, I would just be taken for another girl.

But I wouldn’t be taken for ‘just another girl’, because I was born with a penis and because my records say that I’m a boy. My classmates know me as a boy because of the ‘M’ next to my name and not because of the ‘F’ in my soul, so to speak. So my days are miserable; an outcast because I’m obviously not a boy, and because I’m obviously not a girl.

I realized that I have so little control over my life that at least I could have control over my name, and I named myself Jessica. Over the last few years I have saved my money and been able to buy a few pieces of girls’ clothing and would come home from school and wear Jessica’s clothes for a few hours. I had to put on Jimmy’s clothes before my mother got home. Notice that I wrote that in ‘third person’; I had to do that to avoid words like ‘as’. I don’t dress ‘as’ Jessica or dress ‘as’ a girl. I am a girl and I put on girl clothes, because what else would a girl wear? I don’t come home and ‘act as’ Jessica, because I AM Jessica, every hour of every day.

And I am NOT Jimmy. Jimmy is a mask. Jimmy is a costume I put on to go to school because of the ‘M’ after my name. I come home and remove the Jimmy costume, and underneath is the real person, Jessica. And so I just get dressed. It may happen to be a skirt and flats, but it’s not the point. The main point is that I don’t have to walk the stiff way Jimmy does, to blend in as a boy. I don’t have to worry about my gestures or how my voice sounds. I can just relax and be who I am.

I told my mother and I thank God that she understands that I am truly a girl. This isn’t a lark or a prank or something temporary or something I’ll grow out of. Fortunately my mother acknowledges the ‘Jimmy-mask’ and so I only have to put that on for school. At all other times–from the time I get home until I dress for school the next day, and from Friday at 3:00pm until Monday at 7:00am–I am dressed as and can be myself, a girl, my mother’s daughter. Thank goodness my mother likes the name, because I will be Jessica until the day I die.

Finally, I suppose I should put some legal disclaimer stuff here. I am not being forced to write or say these things. I have not been brainwashed, or drugged, or anything like that. My mother is not manipulating me in any way. I have read as much as I could find and have a pretty good idea about what being transgendered means, and I definitely am transgendered. I know it’s not a simple thing, an easy thing, a quick fix. It’s not a solution to something; it’s not like ‘oh, maybe I’ll have more friends if I’m a girl’. If anything, I’d probably have more friends because I was happier, if people knew me as the girl I am instead of the boy I’m supposed to be.

I know that there is the likelihood that I will be ridiculed, embarrassed, maybe even hurt. I am willing to put up with that. I know that there will be tremendous emotional and physical changes and hardships involved in the transition process. I’ve read about the tremendous pain and expense of sexual reassignment surgery, and I want it. I know that legally I have to wait until I’m eighteen, but I want the surgery. I want the body that I was cheated out of at birth. My first thirteen years have been filled with misery and evasion. I want to spend the rest of my life in the open, as the girl that I am and as the woman that I will be.

Sincerely, Jessica Brewer.’

End of Part 3