(From previous chapter) It surprised me how easily I slipped into the life as a teenaged girl; though I had yet to venture out in public in a skirt or dress — still choosing the androgynous look — I found boys looking at me, often smiling and sometimes sensed their eyes following me as a walked by. I was apparently a pretty girl in their eyes. What a great feeling! And a scary one, too!
3 - Discovered

It was bound to happen. Some of the girls at our school had discovered our blogsite; after all, the site had grown popular among teenage girls all over the English-speaking world. Soon, Cindy and I began overhearing chatter among the girls at school about how much they liked the “Ask Perry and Cindy” blog. It wasn’t too long before Cindy was approached by several girls, inquiring whether she was the “Cindy” in the blog. She felt it best not to lie and agreed it was her; then she was besieged with questions about who that cute girl, Perry, was. She remained loyal to me, and refused to answer.

It was Sylvia Perez who figured it out at first. She approached me at my locker one afternoon at the end of the school day.

“Can I talk to you, Perry?” she asked, acting strangely hesitant and a bit embarrassed.

“Sure,” I replied, surprised at the invitation.

“Not here, but let’s walk home together. I live in your direction,” she said.

I wondered what this was all about; certainly she was not walking with me because she wanted me to be her boyfriend. She was too pretty to want a loser like me as her date. We were a block away from school, when she said, “Perry, you must be that girl in the Perry and Cindy blog.”

“Me?” I replied quickly, ready to deny the whole idea.

“Who else? You and Cindy have always been friends and I’ve begun thinking that you look so much like the girl in that picture,” she said.

“Oh no,” I said, beginning to cry. (Wasn’t that just like a girl?)

“Oh Perry, oh my dear. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. Some of the girls are already talking about it.”

I tried to look at Sylvia and we stopped walking, right there on 15th Street. I burst out in tears. It would be horrible. I’d have to quit school.

Sylvia hugged me as I cried. I felt weak and helpless in her arms.

“No one wants you to be hurt, except maybe a couple of bullies,” Sylvia began, as my crying finally subdued.

“I’m so scared, Sylvia,” I said.

“I know, Perry, but my girlfriends and I were talking and we all like you and they wanted me to sound you out.”

Sylvia reached into her book bag, found some tissues and tenderly wiped my face clean. “You have a very pretty face, Perry. You don’t want to ruin it with tears.”

I smiled.

“And you’re even prettier when you smile.”

“What do you want of me, Sylvia?”

“Well, we’d like to invite you, and Cindy, too, if she’d like, to be part of our group. You know, hang around with us just like you’re one of us.”

I guess my smile broadened since Sylvia’s eyes lit up.

“You mean, like I’d be one of the girls?”

“Of course, from what I’ve seen, you’re as much a girl as any.”

*****
I continued to attend school as a boy. Gradually, it seemed that my feminine mannerisms grew and I did little to hide them. I also became part of a group of girls who chummed around together, eating at the same table at lunch time and finding lots to giggle about. There wasn’t anything special about the girls except perhaps that they all were pretty good students. Celeste Mallory was from one of the wealthiest families in town, but the rest came from pretty ordinary backgrounds. There was Melanie Scouter, who would become my closest friend (after Cindy, of course); she was tall and athletic and wore her hair short in a boyish style; Heather Szymkowski was chubby and round and sometimes wore short skirts that exposed fleshy thighs (it was not good fashion, I thought). Sylvia Perez, a truly fetching girl, was always smiling, it seemed, and was a joy to be around: Ellen Halverson had long, flowing natural blonde hair and a fully developed figure, a situation that caused her personal embarrassment (she was right in her thinking since I had heard boys often joking and making rude comments about her hefty chest).

The girls proved to be my protective screen, trying to make sure several of them accompanied me in the hallways to ward off any bullies. I couldn’t have been happier as we talked about makeup and hairdos, clothes and heels, and, of course, boys. There were occasional snide remarks and several times when I felt physically threatened. Usually one of my girlfriends would show up and somehow shame the boys into backing off, but there were frightening moments, nonetheless.

In truth, once it was learned we were the authors of the popular advice site, Cindy and I became sort of celebrities in the school. Most of the students expected me to be girlish and I was only too happy to oblige. The teasing and the comments often were hurtful, but thankfully my teachers were quick to pounce on anyone who threatened me. I think most of them liked me, since my grades were generally pretty good and I was respectful in class.

Mr. Powers, however, was a bit confused by my new look. He was our English literature teacher and he was an anomaly in the school in that he always wore a suit, a bowtie and a handkerchief in his coat pocket. Most of the teachers seemed to be in a constant “dress-down” style, the women in slacks and sometimes even sweatpants, and the men wearing everything from wrinkled pants and jeans to shorts when the weather was warm. Mr. Powers made quite a sight, appearing frankly to look more like the butler in “Downton Abbey” than a high school teacher. Nonetheless, this strange-looking man won the attention and respect of his students, perhaps because of the way in which he could bring the old literary giants to life. He truly loved teaching, and that must have affected us all. He addressed us formally, as Mr. Jones or Miss Smith. On the second day of my new look, he looked at me, about to address me and paused:

“Ah, Mr. Periwinkle . . . or is it Miss Periwinkle?”

It was a humiliating moment and I paused, not sure how to answer. “I’m sorry, sir. Mister is OK.”

The students tittered and I heard someone say: “Obviously, that’s a miss.” And another, “How pathetic is that?”

“Quiet, class,” Mr. Powers said in his precise measured tone. “Let’s celebrate Mr. Periwinkle’s difference today. I find it quite refreshing to see an expression of independence in a young man.”

Surprisingly, the class quieted down; in spite of his fastidious, old-fashioned “schoolmaster” appearance, Mr. Powers was able to control even the unruly students. Mr. Powers was truly an exceptional teacher, in spite of his unusual manner of dressing, proof again that looks can be deceiving.

*****
Among the few boys who wrote to our blog with questions, one boy got my attention. He identified himself as “Jamie from Ft. Smith, Arkansas.”

He wrote in with a problem that I was familiar with: loneliness.

“I am not sure you girls can help me. Have you ever been lonely? It seems like I always am. I go to school but I don’t seem to have any friends. I sit alone in the cafeteria and no one talks to me. Ever.

“I’m 16 and I guess I think I must look strange or something. But mom says I look like a normal boy, and I probably do. I try to say HI to kids and they might say HI back and that’s about it. What can I do?” Jamie in Ft. Smith.

I felt compelled to answer him in my very next blog:

“Jamie in Ft. Smith: If it’s any consolation to you, I often feel lonely and alone. I suspect lots of boys and girls our age (I’m also 16) feel the same way, but your situation seems to be more serious than most.

“My offhand advice, without knowing you better, is to get involved in some clubs, either at school, your church (if you go to one) or some teen club, like the Boys and Girls Club in your city. (You have such a club in Ft. Smith. An internet search will tell you how to reach them.)

“Do you have any hobbies or do you have stuff you like to do, like painting or writing, or biking or whatever? Get involved.

“You seem like a shy boy, but you sound very nice to me. I believe you likely have much to offer in a friendship. The biggest thing is: Don’t feel sorry for yourself. That’ll just get you feeling ever more lonely. Let me hear from you and perhaps if you tell me more about yourself and your concerns, I might be able to help you lose this feeling of loneliness. Best of luck, Perry.”

I hadn’t expected it, but Jamie’s question roused great interest among our readers and dozens wrote in comments, most all of them sharing similar feelings of loneliness, often having to do with being excluded from various cliques in their schools. Many felt they were inadequate, often due to the fact that they felt they were ugly, fat or didn’t have nice clothes.

Again, virtually all of those who replied were girls; only two were boys and neither one confessed to feeling lonely; instead they urged Jamie to go out for football. (Incidentally, several girls replied to those two boys critically, saying they were “stupid” or “ignorant.” “You don’t have to play football to attract girls,” one wrote.)

In my next blog, I referred to the heavy responses we got from Jamie’s question, addressing him directly in my published response:

“You’ll see, Jamie, that you’re not alone. The feeling among so many of us in these teen years is that we need to be ‘one of the crowd’ and that you can’t be an independent spirit.

“Many famous people have been loners in their earlier days; rather than feel sorry for themselves, however, they made good use of their time by using their brains and abilities to learn new things, refine their skills and to be creative. Of course, we need friends we can share our life with, but I believe such friendships will develop as we learn more about ourselves.

“Again, I invite you to tell me more about yourself. If you wish, mark your message ‘personal’ and I won’t publish your remarks. Again, best to you, Perry.”

*****
More than a week went by before I heard from Jamie. It came as a short email that he headed “PERSONAL”

“Hi, Perry, I really need to hear from you. Even with all the kind words you wrote and all those who replied, I still feel so alone. I must admit that I sometimes even cry at night. Something must be wrong with me. I’m a boy and I shouldn’t cry.

“My dad got a new job and we only moved to Ft. Smith at the start of the school year. I used to live in Chicago and my folks aren’t rich but we live a nice life. In Chicago I was sent to a private academy. How I hated it! Everyone was a snob. I thought it’d better in my new place and I’m in the public high school, but I’m not like anyone here, it seems. Dad and mom say to ‘give it time.’ No one has bullied me or teased me; they’ve all been nice, I guess, but I just don’t fit in.

“Thank you for reading this. You don’t have to waste your time on me. Your friend, Jamie.”

Of course, after that message, I felt I must “waste my time” on him. It took about a half dozen more email exchanges to learn much more about Jamie. In one of his later emails, he sent me several “selfies” of himself. I was surprised that he was a remarkably good-looking boy; he had light-brown wispy hair with a cute cowlick that he apparently had trouble taming. He was light-complexioned, probably due to his heritage (He told me once he was mostly Norwegian). His most arresting features were his shy smile and bright blue eyes; he was somewhat myopic and wore rimless glasses that gave him a slightly studious appearance. He was slender, obviously sinewy, apparently due to the fact that he liked to run.

“You’re very good-looking,” I responded to him one night.

“No, I’m not,” he wrote back immediately. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

We then began a quick exchange of short emails that night.

Me: “I’m being honest with you. In fact, if you were in my school and if you asked me to the prom, I’d be happy to accept. I’d be surprised if any girl would refuse, unless of course they already had a boyfriend.”

Jamie: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Me: “That’s my business.”

Jamie: “Then you’re just saying this to make me feel good. You wouldn’t go with me after all.”

Me: “OK. To answer you. I don’t have have a boyfriend right now.” (I could have said I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend in my life; I’d never been on a date. Cindy and I were just friends, not in a relationship.)

Jamie: “Will you go with the Harvest Dance with me next Saturday?”

Me: “I’d love to, but Jamie, you’re more than 600 miles away from me.”

Jamie: “See that’s just an excuse. What if I get dad to buy your plane ticket down here? Would you come then?”

Me: “Giggle, giggle.”

Jamie: “I’m serious. Dad works for the airlines and could work something out to get you here. Where are you located?”

Me: “You’re awful pushy. I can’t imagine why you’re having trouble making friends down there.”

Jamie: “I don’t know. It just seems I can talk to you. I’m afraid to ask a girl on a date. She’ll just laugh at me. I’m not good enough.”

Me: “I like you very much, Jamie, and I believe any girl you ask out would be flattered.”

(I meant that: he was cute. I wanted to hug him and try to smooth down the cowlick at the top of his head.)

Jamie: “Please come to the Harvest Dance. I’ll ask dad tonight and see if he agrees.”

Me: “Jamie, that’s unrealistic. I’m sure my mother would only say no. She’d tell me we don’t know each other well enough.”

Jamie: “I suppose you’re right.”

Me: “Now, is there some girl in your town you might like to go to the Harvest Dance with?”

Jamie: “I can’t think of . . . yes, I think I might ask Mary Ann Higgins. She’s in my English class and we sit next to each other. She talks to me.”

Me: “Good. Ask her, promise me you will.”

Jamie: “I’ll try. But I’d rather have you come with me. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

Me: “Don’t be fooled by a picture, Jamie.”

Jamie: “I bet you’re even prettier in person.”

Me: “Time for bed here. I’ve enjoyed this. Bye bye, now please ask Mary Ann tomorrow. OK?”

Jamie: “No promises.”

He signed off with the kissing emoji.

*****
I lay in my bed that night, dreaming of dancing with Jamie; how sweet it would be! He said I was the “prettiest girl” and that so excited me. He really meant it, I was certain. And he was cute; he even had a few freckles on his nose and cheeks. I wanted to cuddle him so badly.

“You talk like you have a crush on that Jamie,” Cindy said the next day when I told her of my exchange with the boy.

I guess I blushed, since Cindy nodded knowingly. She read me like a book, I knew.

“He needs help, Cindy,” I said, trying to blunt her suppositions.

Cindy ignored my obviously phony protests, merely commenting: “He is kinda cute.” I couldn’t agree more.

*****
I was pleased to learn that Jamie (whose full name, he told me, was James G. Jansson) asked Mary Ann Higgins to the Harvest Dance and that she accepted. In the days before the dance, Jamie and I agreed to begin using the phone for our talks and I fell in love with his voice. His voice was surprisingly deep and masculine, but he spoke in a hesitant, unsure way, sometimes stuttering, which soon seemed to go away as our conversations became more frequent, and sometimes a bit intimate, I’m afraid to say.

“We had fun at the dance and Mary Ann’s a nice girl, but I still like you more,” Jamie said in a phone call we had on the Sunday following the dance.

“Jamie, enough of that. Follow up with Mary Ann. She likes you.”

“When I graduate high school, I’m going to college where you are going, Perry, and we can be boyfriend-girlfriend then.”

I must admit that felt my panties grow moist at his expectations. (Yes, I wore panties on days when I wasn’t having gym in school.)

“That’s a long way off,” I said.

“I still wanna marry you someday, Perry,” he said.

“Now come on, Jamie. We’re just kids. This is just puppy love.”

“No it’s not and I think you love me, too, but you’re afraid to admit it.”

“We’ve still never met and once you knew all about me, you might change your mind.”

“No I won’t. You’re in my thoughts all the time.”

I hated to admit it, but Jamie was in my thoughts all the time as well. The prospect of being college lovers was exciting and the prospect of being his wife was absolutely overwhelming. The truth that I was still a male hovered over us like an all-encompassing doom; of course, Jamie was still very much in the dark about that. I can’t imagine his reaction when he’d learn I’m still physically a boy.

I kept my cool, and merely said, “I like you very much, Jamie, but let’s leave it at that for now.”

We gave each other noisy telephonic kisses and said good night.

*****

Mom began questioning why I always seemed to charge off to my bedroom every night shortly after nine o’clock, even on Sunday nights when we traditionally watched “Masterpiece Theater” together. We had followed the BBC’s soap-opera, Downton Abbey, with particular interest where I often found myself crying at the joys or sadness of the inhabitants of the estate of Lord Grantham.

“I thought you cared about Mary’s new relationship,” mom questioned me one cold February Sunday night, as I slipped out of the living room couch about ten minutes into the program. Mom, of course, was referring to the Granthams’ widowed daughter and her budding relationship with a race driver.

“That’s OK, mom, I’ll catch up with the program in its replays on Tuesday night. I got something to do,” I said, darting up to my room before I had to explain further.

Shutting the bedroom door, I turned on the small television set on my dresser to continue watching Downton Abbey. Watching the screen, I stripped down to my panties and put on my silky nightgown; it had an elaborate lace bodice, thin straps over the shoulders and a light feminine feel. Sadly, the room was chilly, and I found I needed to put on my flannel robe. I hated doing it; it ruined the effect, I thought. But that’s price of being in Wisconsin in February.

I reclined on my bed, watching the screen, growing excited and impatient. The phone buzzed. I picked it up hardly before the first buzz ended and said breathlessly, “Jamie.”

“Yes, who else? One of your many boyfriends?”

“You know there’s nobody else. You got your TV on?”

“Yes. It’s so much fun spending Sunday night with you, just like we’re married,” he said, speaking softly so as not to override the voices on the television set.

It had become our custom when Downton Abbey began this season to watch the show together; largely we’d not say much except for occasional comments about the action on the screen. It felt so intimate and for some reason those minutes on the phone enhanced my own sense of my girlhood. Jamie was my lover and I was his girl.

*****
Mom came into the room just as the program ended; I was still talking to Jamie, cooing to his warm, sweet words, when she rapped on the door, entering it without waiting for my reply.

“Gotta go, Jamie,” I said breathlessly.

“OK, your mom coming?”

“Uh huh,” I said, disconnecting the call.

“Who was that, dear?” mom asked.

“Oh, nobody.”

Mom laughed. “It’s never just nobody, dear.”

I just blushed.

“It was a boy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, sheepishly, ashamed to admit it.

“What did I tell you about taking up with boys? You’re not ready, Perry.”

Mother was right. She and I had agreed that as I began taking on a more feminine role it would not be safe for me to enter into any relationships with boys. While I looked and acted like any other teenage girl, I still had my male organs and once a boy found out they were dating a girl that was still a boy physically, I could be in danger of being beaten up or harassed. I had yet to go to a doctor to discuss my gender status, still having doubts if I was ready to transition into girlhood.

“I’m not taking up with him, mother. He lives 600 miles away and we’re just online friends.”

“You sounded pretty intimate in that call, Perry,” she said sternly.

“I like him lots, mom, and he’s sad. He needs me,” I pressed.

“Oh my God, you’re the mothering type,” she said.

I know I must have blushed. Mom sat down next to me on the bed and began gently playing with my hair.

“You know, Perry dear. You’re truly a sweet young lady. Now tell me about this boy.”

We returned to the kitchen and mother ordered me to sit at the table. She surprised me by reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two wine glasses and then withdrawing bottle of rose wine.

“You know I don’t encourage drinking at your age, but we can make allowances for special occasions. And this, dear Perry, will be our first mother-daughter talk and I feel it’s a special occasion.”

“Thank you, mother. I love you.”

I told her all about Jamie. She had known about Cindy and my blogsite and was not too happy with the project, since she felt I was misrepresenting myself as a girl. But since I showed her I never proclaimed myself to be a girl and that my readers just assumed it, she grudgingly permitted it to continue, as long as I didn’t expose myself publicly or get into any items involving sex or pornography.

It was nearly midnight when I finally went to bed that night. I was so happy; mom finally recognized me as a girl. Why else would she have called it our "first mother and daughter talk?" There would be more to come!

(Great thanks to Eric for his great editing, particularly in making certain the author tells a consistent story)