Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"

"Yeah," I admitted glumly.

Tuesday night at dinner Dad announced that our internet connection was up. I was halfway out of my seat before Mom stopped me. "First, finish your dinner," she commanded.

"Sorry, I wanted to catch up on email."

"Remember the rule," Dad said. "The computer goes off at eleven."

"Which is only eight o'clock in California," I whined.

"You'll have to make do," he said, smiling. "And don't forget about your homework."

"Oh!" I said. "Changing subject: can Suze come for a sleepover in two weeks? Friday, the 22nd?"

Dad stopped his fork in midair. Mom got a strange look, and — after a long pause and a quick look at Dad — she said, "That's just before Christmas. Won't her family miss her?"

"Her family's Chinese. They don't celebrate Christmas. They've never even had a Christmas tree. Please? It's just one night, and then on Saturday morning she'll go home. Can she come? She never gets out of her house, and that's the earliest we can do it."

Dad and Mom looked at each other, and Dad cleared his throat. "Where would she sleep?"

"In my bed, with me... oh!" Now I saw the problem.

Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"

"Yeah," I admitted glumly. "I didn't even think about that part... but if I wear something that kind of hides everything–" I guestured vaguely.

Dad interrupted by putting up his hands. "Could we not discuss lingerie at the dinner table, please?" His face was red.

Lingerie? I echoed silently.

He went on, "Also, there's the fact that you are a boy, at least where it counts. How do we know nothing's going to happen between you and Susan? How am I to know that's not what you have in mind in the first place?

"Even if it's *not* what you have in mind, you seem to have a talent for letting things happen... in a big way! Can you imagine what sort of disaster we'd have on our hands? How could we possibly explain to her parents?"

"It won't happen," I said, my face burning. "Nothing will happen. She's a girl." That statement seemed to explain everything, at least to me, but Dad's expression hadn't changed. So I went on, to try and make him get it: "So... I'm... She... It's not... I'm not... I don't... I'm..."

Why was I getting so tongue-tied? It was really pretty simple. I stopped for a moment, took a long breath and let it out. "I like boys, Dad. I don't like girls that way. I just like boys."

It was like (conversationally) dropping a stone into a well. I just let what I said go, and sat there waiting, listening, for a sound to come back... or at least for Dad's *face* to say something I could understand.

Mom was waiting, too, to give Dad a chance to respond. She, at least, was smiling, and at last she spoke.

"Boys, mmm?" she buzzed. "And boys like you, too, don't they?"

I raised my eyebrows. Could the tide be turning?

Dad was blushing, and started busily re-arranging his plate and fork and knife. Mom and I sat in silence until he stopped and looked up.

After he took a few tentative breaths, he quietly asked me, "Have you ever fantasized about Susan? Wondered what she looked like naked? Anything like that?"

"No!" I said, laughing.

It never occurred to me until he asked, but it was true: "I don't think I've ever thought about any girl that way."

My parents looked at me and then at each other. Then Mom shrugged and said, "They could each sleep in their own sleeping bag..."

My face lit up.

Dad considered, chewing. "That might work," he said. "But one condition: you have to tell her that 'skin condition' story that we used for your gym class."

"Oh, Dad!" I groaned.

"It will cover a multitude of sins," he explained.

"Yeah, but it's gross!" I protested.

Mom gave me a look that said, Let it slide for now — I'll talk to your father later. I was surprised, but gave her a secret smile in reply.

Then Mom said, taking Dad's hard-line tone, "You have to get changed in the bathroom or in that little changing room."

"Yes, no changing together, or showering together, or sleeping together, or anything like that."

"And you have to leave your bedroom door open."

I was about to wail a loud what!? but they dropped a heavy ultimatum on it:

Mom said, "It's that or no sleepover."

Dad said, "Take it or leave it."

I took it. I took it and tried to not resent it. At least Susan was coming. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

The next ten minutes of the meal passed in silence, except for the sounds of eating. I know it was ten minutes, because I was watching the clock.

At last, Mom, without raising her eyes from her plate, said, "You know, I was thinking... what you said about Susan's family never having had a tree... and I thought: What if we put the two sleeping bags on the rug in the living room, next to the Christmas tree? We can put some padding underneath them, of course..."

My mouth opened in a silent oh!

"... but it might be nice for both you, and you could leave the tree on all night."

"That would be perfect!" I enthused.

Dad, on the other hand, looked at Mom and kept on chewing. I still couldn't read his face.

Mom continued, "That way, you don't have to leave your bedroom door open — which would seem odd on a sleepover — because your father or I could see you from the top of the stairs, if we really needed to..." She said that last part in a way that suggested that there really was no need.

Dad nodded, swallowed, said, "That would work."

A big smile broke out on my face.

Then Mom rounded it off with this: "And since the girls would be so easy to, ah, supervise, I think we might spare Marcie the embarrassment of the skin-condition story."

Dad turned quite red and cleared his throat. "I guess so," he admitted. Then to me he said, "I'm sorry, kiddo. You understand, don't you, that the point wasn't to embarrass you, it was just that I — ah — the —"

He wasn't quite sure how to go on, so Mom put her hand on his arm and said, "It's okay, honey. She gets it."

I smiled and nodded and said, "Thanks!"

After dinner I tore upstairs and jumped on the computer. There were emails from everybody in Tierson! As I was reading and smiling and laughing, I became aware of a cute pony-tailed head looking over my shoulder. I turned to look, and it was Misty.

Who else could it be?

I still don't know why she doesn't scare me, or freak me out, or creep me out.

It's probably because she's just like any other girl from school.

Except that she's dead and can walk through walls... and can never change her outfit.

Aside from that, though, she's pretty normal.

"What 'cha doing?" she asked.

"Looking at my email," I replied.

"Email? What's email? Can I watch?"

Having her watch slowed me down, but I didn't mind. She had a bazillion questions. Thankfully, she didn't ask what the internet was, or how email worked. Once she got the idea that it was like ordinary mail (put in the address, hit SEND and away it went!), and that the "letters" were squeezed in and out through the "telephone" wire, her technical curiosity was satisfied.

"It's like a fax without paper," she concluded.

"I guess," I replied. Then, realizing that her idea let me off the hook, I said, "Yes, yes, you're right."

But then, once those technical details were out of the way, I had to tell her about life in Tierson, and who my friends were. One email that was new to me was an old one from Jerry (sent before we broke up): it had a link to the photo of the two of us at the mall: him in his Giants shirt, me in my Dodgers shirt, and his arm was around me.

And, by the way, my breasts are not as big as they look in the photo! Was it the shirt that made them look that way? Had I been photoshopped?

I made the mistake of asking Misty, who with casual, ruthless honesty confirmed that, yes, my breasts were much smaller in real life than they were in the picture (thank you very much!) and what in the world did "photoshopped" mean?

It turned out to be a shorter explanation than I expected. I said, "It's a program for manipulating pictures–" and she cut me off.

"Okay, okay, I get it," she said. "But... with this internet thing, can anybody see that picture? Or only people who have your email?"

"Anybody in the world," I sighed. "They can even buy a poster of it and hang it on their wall. See?"

I showed her how the online shopping cart works, and as I did a warning bell went off in my head. I hope I wasn't letting myself in for a world of trouble with this. I didn't want a ghost-girl going on a wild internet-shopping spree while I was at school or asleep.

"You didn't see my password, did you?" I asked her.

"Your what?" she asked.

"Never mind."

Misty went back to studying Jerry's picture, and nodded. "He looks nice."

"Yeah," I sighed. "He is nice."

She turned to me with a cute little smile and said, "Can I ask you something?"

Hoo boy! I thought. Here comes some embarrassingly intimate question about me and Jerry, like whether we ever–

Misty gave a silent laugh, then asked, "Can *I* get an email account?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way