"I'm sorry I missed it," he went on, "but I figured it was just going to be a kids' party, you know? I should have thought... I should have known that Tatum here would carry destruction in her wake."

"My name is Juliette," I corrected. Not that it mattered, because Robert's father just went on talking.

---

 

17. Boy Legs
 

The next morning was Sunday, and Mrs. Jameson was still closed in her room with a headache.

Mr. Jameson had to cancel his golf game to stay with us. He offered to cook us a full breakfast — which was very nice of him — but we decided to grab a quick bowl of cereal each, and took some toast and juice back to Miranda's room.

"I am SO excited!" she declared. "This is the first Sunday in FOREVER that *I* get to decide what I'm wearing to church!"

Her happiness was infectious, and I smiled, even though I was afraid that we'd spend a long time looking at dresses.

Luckily, it didn't turn out that way. Her eye fell on a bright yellow dress, which she pulled from the closet, exclaiming, "Oooh!"

"I *love* this dress," she crowed, "but my mother hates it. She never lets me wear it! Well, today... I'm wearing it!" She held it against herself and looked in the mirror. "So, do you like it?"

"I guess," I said. "It's an awfully bright yellow, though, isn't it?"

Miranda wasn't fazed by my lack of enthusiasm. "It's not yellow. It's pumpkin colored."

"Aside from that, it's a nice dress."

"Well, I'm going to wear it! You go get ready and and then we'll head downstairs."

My outfit was a chocolate-brown boatneck dress. The hem ended in the middle of my thigh, the sleeves ended just above my elbows, and the waist was way up under my breasts, if I had any breasts. It was idiotic.

I was still studying myself in the mirror when Miranda came knocking at my door.

"Aren't we the vain one?" she teased.

"I feel so dorky in this getup," I told her. "I'm all knees and boy-legs. Can you take a picture of me for my mother, and let me wear something of yours instead?"

She laughed with childish abandon, as if I'd said the most outrageously funny thing.

"You look nice!" she countered, "Really nice! You ought to wear it!" Then she added, "I'm sure Robert will love it."

"That clown!" I muttered. "Maybe we could bring Carl to the church and set him on Robert."

"You're forgetting that Carl has the hots for you, too."

I sighed. Miranda wasn't going to save me from my dorky dress, so I gave up on my bony boy-knees, and took a better look at her outfit. "That actually is a nice dress!" I declared. "I don't know why your mother doesn't like it."

"I know!" Miranda agreed.

"It has, uh, nice draping."

"Draping?"

"It hangs well on you."

Miranda's eyes twinkled. "Thank you, Juliette. It's nice to have a friend who's such a fashionista."

I blushed. "You know I'm not, and anyway..."

"I know, I know," she said, rolling her eyes. "After tomorrow it all goes away."

"Well, yeah."
 

We went downstairs to find Mr. Jameson on the couch in front of the TV, flipping channels, pausing on various sports shows.

"Dad," Miranda asked, "is that what you're wearing to church?"

"Church?" he echoed, in a startled tone. "I kind of figured with your mother down, that we'd kind of skip it today–" Miranda's mouth began to open in protest, so he quickly changed gears "–but then I realized, What!? Not go to church!? So, ah..." he glanced at his watch. "We can leave in fifteen minutes. I just have to go cut myself shaving and gargle a bit."

"Are you going to change clothes?" Miranda demanded.

He looked down at himself. "No, I don't think I will," he replied. "For once, I'll go casual. You two look *very* nice, by the way. If you're embarrassed by the way I look, you can sit up front together, and I'll sit in the back, in the shadows."

Miranda laughed. "No, Daddy, we'll sit with you."

He smiled. "Okay. I'll go try to look and smell a little less barbaric."

---

The church ceremony, or whatever you call it, passed without incident. There weren't any dogs, or miniature would-be bikers, or anyone else that I didn't want to see.

At least, until we got outside.

The good news was that Robert hadn't come to church. The bad news was that his father had come, and on top of that, Robert's father was good friends with Miranda's father.

The two men started yukking it up on the church steps. The minister pretty quickly asked them to move down to the lawn.

"Where's your better half?" Mr. Jameson asked Mr. Murdoch.

"She's at home, cleaning. She made Robert stay and help."

"Why aren't *you* home helping?" Mr. Jameson teased.

"Yeah, right! Why do think I'm here? This way at least I get some points for watching the little one."

The little one was Robert's little brother, who was running around the lawn with arms outstretched, pretending he was a plane.

"Anyway," Mr. Murdoch went on, "She's going to be cleaning all day. It was a hell of a party yesterday. The kids trashed the place!"

Mr. Jameson turned to Miranda and me and asked, "You did?" in a tone of awe and approval.

"No," I said, "It was this dog..."

"Yeah," Mr. Murdoch scoffed. "Tatum here caught a wild dog in an alley somewhere, dragged it to my house, and let it loose. The thing was a beast! It tore up the place! It almost chased the McCleary boy up a tree."

The two men laughed loudly. Miranda and I glanced at each other, but kept silent.

"What a hoot!" Mr. Murdoch continued. "I thought I'd have to wait till they were teenagers before the wild parties started, but, my God! You should have seen it! It looked like a tornado cut through in a monster truck!"

"It wasn't that bad," I protested, but they didn't listen.

"I'm sorry I missed it," he went on, "but I figured it was just going to be a kids' party, you know? I should have thought... I should have known that Tatum here would carry destruction in her wake."

"Who's Tatum?" Mr. Jameson asked.

"This one here," Mr. Murdoch said, pointing at me.

"My name is Juliette," I corrected. Not that it mattered, because Robert's father just went on talking.

"... which is funny, because she's like that girl in the Bad News Bears, you know, the one who swears?" The two men chuckled as they recalled the movie, and repeated some of the lines in a low voice to each other, which kept them snorting and hooting for a bit. The minister glanced at them several times, but he was busy talking to some people, and couldn't come down.

Miranda whispered to me, "If my Mom or Mrs. Murdoch was here, they wouldn't carry on like this. Pretty soon the minister or somebody will say something." Then she put her arm through mine and the two of us stood side by side waiting for the two fathers to either finish or be scolded.

Mr. Jameson, wiping some tears of laughter from his eyes, turned to me. "You don't swear, do you, Juliette?"

"No," I replied firmly.

"Oh, come on, sure you do," Mr. Murdoch said. "What was it you said to Robert there in the pizzeria?" He nudged Mr. Jameson with his elbow. "Wait till you hear this. Come on, Tatum, you can say it. Just not too loud."

I looked toward the minister, and caught his eye. A moment of understanding passed between us, and he excused himself for a moment from the couple he was speaking to, and hurried over to our little group.

"Now, boys," the minister said in a businesslike tone, "You're getting a bit carried away. I'm glad that you feel at home enough here to—"

"Sorry, rev'end," Mr. Murdoch interrupted. "Say no more. We get the picture. You know me: no brakes. Getting carried away is my way of life."

"I know," the minister said, with a friendly smile. "Now, excuse me, I have to get back..." and he quickly returned to the young couple on the stairs.

"I guess I'd better shove off now," Mr. Murdoch said, rubbing his chin, "though I don't know where I'll go..."

Horrified, I realized that Robert's father was hinting to Miranda's father that he wanted to be invited over. Mr. Jameson understood that, too.

"Sorry," he told his friend. "I'd ask you over, but Macy's got one of her migraines. If she—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Mr. Murdoch said quickly. "I guess I can hang out in a diner someplace. If I could just dump the little one, I could go watch the game in a bar someplace."

"Which game?" Mr. Jameson asked.

"Doesn't matter," the other replied. He scooped up Robert's little brother and left. What a relief!

---

Mr. Jameson took Miranda and me to brunch at a restaurant where we sat in deep chairs by the window and watched the people walking by.

"This is like watching TV," I said.

"Except that sometimes they look back at you," Mr. Jameson laughed, "and sometimes they even say things to you!"

However, Mr. Jameson wasn't watching the people out the window at all. His eyes were glued to a television in the bar area, where a football game was playing.

I ate some of my eggs and hashbrowns, and looked down at my bare legs sticking out from under my skirt. Sitting down, they looked more like girl's legs. Standing up, they looked like boy's legs.

"What are you looking at?" Miranda asked. "Did you drop some food on your dress?"

"No," I replied. "I'm just thinking about whether I have boy legs or girl legs."

She barely suppressed a smile. "I guess it depends on who you are at the moment. Right now, you're a girl, so you have girl legs."

"I'm serious," I told her. "I think I look dorky when I stand up, because then I have boy legs. But when I sit down it looks like I have girl legs."

She looked at my legs, and I could tell by the way her mouth was working that she was trying to not laugh or smirk.

"Well?" I demanded.

"Well, what?" she responded. "Your legs are fine. Don't overthink it. You look fine in that dress. You don't look dorky. You're just not used to seeing yourself wearing dresses."

"Okay," I said.

"Honestly!" she chided, shaking her head.

"Hey, sorry! I just don't want to look stupid."

"Oh," she said. "Well that's not looking stupid. *This* is looking stupid." She crossed her eyes, sucked in her cheeks, and pulled her mouth into big open pucker. Then she dropped her jaw and assumed a vacant look. "I'm stupid, I'm stupid. I'm so stupid that I have boy-legs. And girl legs. When I sit down, I'm a girl, but when I stand up, I'm a boy." Then she burst into giggles, and I had to laugh as well.

"Okay," I said. "Now I know never to ask *you* how I look!" — which set us off laughing again.

I looked at Mr. Jameson, who was hypnotized by the football game.

"Miranda?" I said in a low voice. "Does your father know who I really am?"

"I think he expects *you* to know that," she replied, grinning.

"Why are you such a tease this morning?"

"I dunno. Why are you so insecure? That dress looks fine. Just forget about it."

"Okay," I said, whispering again, "but does your father know about Juliette? — I mean, Victor?"

"I don't know," she said, a little crossly, "You realize that *I* supposedly don't know about Victor. But no — I don't think he knows. It doesn't seem like he knows."

"Okay," I said.

"Listen," she said. "Can you do me a favor and just be Juliette? It's kind of weird for me when you keep talking about Victor and boy legs and stuff."

I didn't realized I'd been irritating her. In some ways, I felt like I was looking toward the finish line, when I could quit dressing like a girl. Soon I'd be Victor all the time, even with Miranda, and I was looking forward to it. It never occurred to me that Miranda might not feel the same way.

"Okay," I agreed. "No more what's-his-name. Just Juliette."

"Good," she said, and smiled.
 

When we got back home, Mr. Jameson pulled a little notebook off a shelf in the kitchen and started making phone calls. In a few moments, it was clear that he was looking for a babysitter. Someone who could follow us around the Halloween parties in the park this afternoon.

"A babysitter for us?" I asked Miranda.

"We don't need a babysitter," Miranda told her father. "Juliette and I will be fine by ourselves."

"I'll feel better if someone's there with you," he said. "If I can't find someone, I'll go with you, but in any case I don't want you wandering around alone. Especially if you're going to be dressed as... what is it you're going to be dressed as?"

"We're both going to be fairies," I replied.
 

Our costumes were virtually identical, except for the colors. Mine was Tinkerbell: soft shades of green. Miranda's costume was of soft pinks. They resembled something a ballerina would wear, except that the hem had a jagged edge. Our wings were white, and our wands matched our outfits. So did our shoes, which were slip-on sneakers: mine green, hers pink.

And, since it was a little cool out, we each wore tights and a long-sleeved body. That last item was the strangest to me: a long-sleeved, tight-fitting shirt that fastened between my legs. I had a bit of time getting the snaps to close, but finally I figured it out. Of course, once I was all dressed, I had to pee, which meant undoing three layers of clothes and being careful with the wispy, light skirt.

Mr. Jameson managed to find a teenage girl named Courtney. When we met her, I almost said, "Nice costume!" before I realized that she probably dressed that way every day. ("I know, I thought that, too!" Miranda said, when we discussed it later.) Courtney had the whole Goth look: her hair was black with a violet streak. She wore a black stretchy miniskirt, torn black tights, and high, laced boots with huge heels. She had a long-sleeved beige cotton top, with a black lingerie camisole over it, and — in spite of wearing two tops — managed to make her belly button show. Her fingernail polish and lipstick were dark red, and her eye makeup was several shades of gray and silver.

AND YET, she was very nice! If you just looked at her, she was scary, but if you talked to her, she was sweet.

I'm pretty sure Mr. Jameson assumed she was wearing a costume, so he wasn't fazed by her. I did see him give her the once-over, and she was kind of cute, in a waif-like way. She was super thin and had small breasts... but on her, it looked good! *I* (I mean, I-Victor) wouldn't mind going out with her. It turned out that she was my age (14), which was kind of ironic.

But anyway... even though she was my real age, and only four years older than Miranda, she talked to us as if were five years old, and insisted on holding our hands whenever we crossed the street.

When were about to cross our third intersection, I held my hand back and I told her, "We do know how to cross a street by ourselves, you know!"

She said, "Maybe you do, sweetie, but your daddy hired me to take care of you two. If *he* thought you could go by yourself, he would have let you go by yourself, right?"

"Yeah, but–"

"So be a good little girl and hold my hand while we cross the street. If you don't, we'll have to turn around and tell Daddy that you were a bad little girl." She crouched down so her face was even with mine. "You're not going to be a bad little girl are, you, sweetie? Look how cute you are, in that cute little costume! You look like a good little girl. Are you a good little girl?"

Behind Courtney, Miranda was silently laughing. While Courtney talked to me, Miranda moved her mouth to the words and made faces like a mother makes to her baby. I would have rolled my eyes at her, but Courtney's eyes were locked on mine.

"Yes," I agreed. It was the only way to go on.

"Yes, what?" Courtney asked.

"Yes, I'm a good little girl."

"Good! Now come give me a big hug — and you, too, Miranda! — and then we'll all hold hands and cross the busy street!"
 

Aside from all her syrup and baby talk, Courtney was actually a good babysitter. She never let us out of her sight, she didn't talk on her cell phone, and she brought us from one park to the next and then to the mall.

Everyone wanted to take our picture, and at both parks they gathered all the girls in fairy costumes and took a group shot. Some of the parents wore costumes, and one mother dressed as Tinkerbell, but her curves made the costume look a lot different from mine. And *she* definitely didn't have boy-legs.

It was fun, but all the walking was exhausting, so we didn't stay all the way to the end. Still, we gathered an enormous quantity of candy. It was a bit heavy by the time we headed for home. Courtney helped us carry it, and we let her take all the ones with peanut butter in them.

Miranda told me that we could separate out the ones we really liked, and donate the rest to children in hospitals. Her mother would take care of bringing it.

---

When we got home, Mrs. Jameson was in the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe. Her face was alarmingly pale, but she said she was fine.

She paid Courtney, who left. She asked us what we thought of Courtney as a babysitter, and she poured us each a glass of milk.

"I'll make dinner in a moment," she said, "but first, Juliette, you need to call your mother. Your grandfather is sick. He's in the hospital."

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

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