Angi gives me hug and holds me out at arm’s length. She says, “You look CUTE in that skirt! And I see that the girls are already corrupting you with your makeup!”

I blush in embarrassment. The girls, Francine included, insisted that I wear the skirt, which is REALLY short—AFTER I ‘tucked’. Then they made me put on mascara and lip gloss. In addition, I had to use this pencil thingy—eyeliner, they called. I call it a torture instrument!

I don’t really know what to say… So, I just shrug and say, “Well…I DID have help…”

Angi giggles and says, “Indeed! Your clothes are over there.” She points at two large rolling suitcases (pink, of course). Then she says, “OK, Mondays are meds days for you, young lady. It is a good thing that skirt is so short! Bend over and take your vitamins…”

She gives me two shots in the butt, then she checks my shoulder. She says, “Well, the shoulder is healing very well. I think that we will be able to get you into some therapy by next week.”

She gives me a serious look and says, “Look, I know this is all going fast, Paige, but those scores tell me you can handle it. Trust Francie; she is the perfect role model for you.”

I rub my butt and ask, “So this medicine will really help?”

Angi winks and says, “Absolutely! It is a super-strong experimental version that Allen authorized. You’ll notice the difference soon—there is no doubt. Although puberty can be a bitch! Oops! Sorry, I didn’t mean to say a bad word—I meant ‘bear’! Now, go on! Have fun, Hon!”

My head swims a bit and I can’t help asking, “You really think I will start puberty soon?”

She just giggles and says, “I guarantee it, Sweetie! In fact, it has already begun.”

I leave her office with a silly grin on my face, thinking, “Muscles, hair on my chest, a BEARD! Yes!”

I am so caught up in my own thoughts that I nearly run straight into Francine. She catches me in the nick of time and giggles, “Paige! Hold up there, girl! What’s the hurry?”

I smile stupidly and say, “Angi says I am in puberty!”

Francine actually laughs and says, “But of course you are, Sweetie.” She gestures towards Angi’s office and asks, “Didn’t you forget your suitcases?”

I roll my eyes and she goes back in with me and we grab them. On our way out, Angi says, “Oh! Paige, make sure you let me know if you have any reactions to your meds, OK?”

I nod and Francine and I roll the suitcases out. On our way over to the cabin, Francine says, “Oh, I remember those shots. Butt sore?”

I gingerly rub my butt and nod as I ask, “You had shots, too?”

She nods and says, “Sure—a Pink House staple; although mine were different. Anyways, after we drop these off, we are going to go see Jemma!”

I look at her and ask, “Jemma?”

Francine says, “Yes, Jemma. She is the cosmetologist for the drama department. She just LOVES Pinks—especially NEW ones!”

We drop off the suitcases in my room and Francine leads me out; there is no sign of my three roommates. There are buses arriving with the other campers and I assume they are over there.

We enter the creativity center and Francine leads me upstairs and into a well-lit room with several swivel chairs in front of mirrors—much like you would see in a hair salon. There is a very pretty older (probably in her forties) woman straightening things out.

She hears us coming in and says, “Come back later—I am not ready yet.” She turns around and says, “Oh! Hi, Francineca! I am ALWAYS ready for a PINK! Who do we have here?”

Francine says, “Jemma, this is Paige—a BRAND NEW Pink. She could really use your help before the crowds descend on us.”

Jemma smiles and says, “Welcome to Imagine Nation, Sweetie. Especially welcome to Pink House. Now, let me see…”

She sits me down in one of the chairs and walks around me. I am nervous, not really knowing what she is going to do. She plays with my hair and says, “Well, at least we have some length to play with.”

I hadn’t had my hair cut in a couple of months—it was a football team thing; we had agreed to not cut our hair until after the season was over. Mom had had a fit, but finally gave in. My hair is now long enough to barely cover my ears.

Jemma says, “OK, I think I know what needs to be done. Come back in a couple of hours, Francie and she will be ready for prime time.”

I wince and think, “A couple of HOURS?”

Francine nods and says, “I am sure she will be lovely, as always, when you are done with her!”

Francine leaves and Jemma says, “OK, Hon. We have quite a bit to do. I take it this is the first time you have been to a salon? We are going to fix this mess of hair you have, then I am going to redo the nails that I can tell the girls in the room did for you last night. OK?”

I nod and she gets to work. First, she washes my hair and, without ever stopping talking and asking questions, starts snipping at my hair. I am at a loss at times on how to answer her questions, but stick to my game plan of staying as close to the truth as possible while weaving in what I knew I had answered on that infernal exam that got me here.

After a bit, she smears this nasty-smelling paste into my hair and puts little pieces of foil into it. She then puts me under a dryer and sets a timer…

I am really regretting not just staying in the hospital when she is done with my hair. She calls it a pixie cut. It is sort of spikey and asymmetrical with long bangs. It is also a light blond with pink highlights. It is VERY girly. I nearly spill the beans on the whole thing at that point, but know I am in too deep now.

I just stare at my hair with a dumbfounded look on my face. She mistakes it for a look of admiration and shock and says, “It’s OK, Hon. You’ll get used to it in a couple of days. I know that your first REAL hairstyle can be a shock. Now, let’s get to work on those nails.”

She uses remover to take off the polish on all of my nails, then does my toes first. The difference between her and the girls is that she removes my cuticles (or so she tells me), then uses some sort of UV light to ‘set’ the polish between coats.

After she is done with my toes (in hot pink), she starts on my fingers. She removes the cuticles and then starts gluing these extensions on them. I am shocked; they’re like a mile long. I start to protest, “I don’t think I want nails that long…”

She giggles and says, “Don’t worry, Sweetie. I’ll trim them back; this is just how they come.”

I nervously watch as she uses some sort of paste to blend in the extensions and sets that with the light. Then, to my relief, she does cut a lot of the length off, but they are still out beyond my fingertips.

She says, “This is still a little long for a girl your age, but I hear you aren’t going to be doing anything rough and tumble for a while, so it will help you get that girly-girl feeling that your score is screaming for.”

I have no idea what she is talking about, but am starting to curse that I got a perfect score on that exam—that seems to mean a lot around here. Based on what the others are saying, I could have probably gotten in here with a less-than-perfect one. I still don’t know what that means, though.

She polishes the nails with an instrument and when she is done, you can’t tell the extension from my real nail. Then, she puts a glittery pink polish on them and sets the coats with the light. When she is done, my hands look really girly. I reach up to move some of the hair out of my face and poke myself with my nails.

She giggles and says, “You’ll quickly get used to them. What do you think?”

I know I am supposed to be OK with all of this. I also know Francine seems to think that Jemma does awesome work, so I say, “I like it. I really do. I…just have to get used to it.”

She smiles and gives me a hug. She says, “There is just one more thing. Hang on.”

She goes and gets something, then comes and messes with my ears a minute. She stands back, does something else, then I hear more than feel a pop, pop, pop, pop; two on each side of my head. She messes with my ears again. I feel a cold wipe on them, then a little squeeze.

She turns the chair around so I can see in the mirror and I nearly faint. The haircut she had given leaves the bottom of my ears exposed—and there in all their glory are two really sparkly pink studs in each ear.

She says, “Don’t you just LOVE them. You look so ADORABLE, Sweetie! Welcome to Pink!”

I stutter, “Yes, they are…lovely. But, I am not sure my Mom…”

She says, “Oh, don’t you worry, Sweetie. It’s all in the contract for the camp—she has already given her permission!”

Stunned and at a loss for words, I timidly hug her back as she gives me a big hug.

Francine comes in a minute later and lets out a little scream, “Paige! You look ADORABLE! Don’t you just LOVE what Jemma can do? Look at you!”

Feeling like I have pushed myself down the rabbit hole, I know I have nowhere to go but forward at this point. I pull myself together and nod. I have to get through the next six weeks, then I can get on with my life. I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, “I never knew I could look like this. I DO look like a girl!”

Jemma says, “Of course you do, Sweetie!”

Francine says, “Not only that, you look like a PINK girl! Come on, Hon! We have to introduce you to the camp. Angi wants to see you, first, though.” She giggles.

We walk back to Angi’s office and she smile broadly when she sees me. She says, “Well, you do clean up nicely! Jemma does such wonderful work. How are you feeling? Still OK?”

I am not sure if she means in the clothes, the shots, or what. I just nod and say, “I feel great!” There is no way in hell I am going to let them know how I really feel at this point! I am still dreading trying to explain all of this to Mom when I get back home.

Angi says, “Wonderful! Then you better go have fun.”

Francine takes me back to the Pink House from there. When we enter it is mild chaos. Girls are running all over the place—anywhere from my age, or so, to maybe sixteen. Francine claps her hands and says, “Girls! I want you all to meet Paige. She’s the newbie this year, so take her under your wings and be kind to her. She is still a very fragile Pinklette!”

Before I know it I am surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls (to steal a phrase). The rest of the day is a waste as I am introduced to every girl in the house and answer a million and one questions about myself. By the end of the day, though, I pretty well have my life story straight. I did keep it simple and, again, as close to the real me as I can—but with what I suppose a girl would think or want sprinkled in.

Brenda, Julia, and Georgette, are all amazed at Jemma’s work. When they finally get me back to our room, I am completely surprised that they have put away all of the clothes from my suitcases. I look through my drawers and find a bunch of underwear (panties and socks), similar to what I have on. There are also tights and several nightgowns. In the closet, I find a few pairs of jeans, but mostly skirts and dresses, along with several girly-looking tops. There are also five pairs of shoes…

The girls are all abuzz about my clothes and start wanting me to model everything. I try and resist, but they are insistent—it seems this is a girl thing and I am going to have to get used to it for the next six weeks.

After showing off like a hundred (not really) different combinations of ‘outfits’, I fall into bed—exhausted. Well, after I am forced to clean my piercings, thoroughly wash my face, and have ‘moisturized’ my whole body. As I am rubbing the lotion into my legs, I can’t help but check for any hair growth, but am disappointed not to find any.

o~O~o

The first week actually goes by pretty quickly. The houses mostly stick to themselves during the first week I am told to bond as a group—the second week is when there is more cross-camp interaction.

By the beginning of the second week, I am sort of in a routine of being Paige. I am more confident in my ‘story’. It doesn’t feel totally weird to be in girl’s clothes, but nowhere near natural either. I still do double-takes when I glimpse myself in the mirror, but it happening less and less. I am finally getting to where I can pick up things with these long nails, too.

I know all 19 girls in the Pink House—I make the twentieth person in the cabin. I am told there are four other ‘T’s in the house, but I honestly couldn’t even begin to guess who they are. I am getting a little better at following the chatter and even interjecting talk now and then. THAT part is still freaky to me…they say boys are noisy. HAH!

So, when Angi asks me how I am doing on my second Monday, I say, “I am more comfortable, now. Thanks for asking, Angi. I still am adjusting, though.”

She nods and says, “That is to be expected, Hon. You rocketed into being a girl! Still no regrets, right?”

I am FULL of regrets, but I shake my head and say with practiced emphatic enthusiasm, “Not on your life!”

She smiles and says, “OK, then. Bend over!”

She gives me my shots and asks, “No problems here, either, right?”

I slowly shake my head, but say, “Well…I don’t know. I seem to sort of always be a little sick to my stomach. Sometimes, especially in the mornings, I feel like I am going to throw up. And I think I may be having a reaction to something…my…my…my boobs are sort of sore.”

Angi has me lift my blouse and feels them. I flinch a bit and she smiles and says, “I told you puberty is a bear. It is nothing to worry about, Hon.” She goes to a cabinet and grabs a tube of something and a bra and hands them to me. She says, “Here this is a special soothing cream and a training bra—the cream will ease the discomfort and the soft material will keep your clothes from irritating your nipples. It will get better in a couple of weeks, I promise.”

I almost balk, but know that won’t go over well. It is not unusual for girls to wear bras. I do ask, though, “So, this is normal for…ME…”

She nods and says, “Yep! A normal part of a healthy puberty!” She giggles then she adds, “As for the nausea, does it get better during the day; after you eat?”

I nod and say, “Some, but it is always sort of always there. You know, like in the background.”

She says, “Well, at this point, I don’t think it is anything to worry about. Let me know if it gets any worse, OK?”

I nod and she insists that I rub in some of the cream on each side and then on helping me put on the bra. In spite of my misgivings, it DOES feel better and I tell her so, “Thanks, that does feel much better.”

She says, “Allen gave me some funds in case you need them. I will get you some more for your stay here.”

She then does a checkup on my concussion and tests out my shoulder. She smiles and says, “It looks like your concussion is healing nicely. I still don’t want you doing anything that will aggravate it, but I am going to loosen your restrictions some. I will let Francie know. Also, your shoulder is ready for some strengthening and therapy. Swimming will be good, as well as some other exercises to loosen it up.”

She looks at me and says, “I don’t normally get involved in participants’ activities for the summer, but in your case, I think I’ll have to make an exception—at least until I see how things are going. I’ll have Francie sign you up for the swim team for shoulder strength—no diving, for now; beginning cheerleading for range of motion—no pyramids; and ballet for balance. And you thought we didn’t do sports here!” She winks.

I groan internally—I thought my hell here couldn’t get any worse. She finishes typing into her tablet and says, “There, all sent to Francie. That’s all for today unless you need anything else?”

I decide to get out before she decides to add something else to my list, “No, thanks! I’ll see you next Monday!”

She says, “Yes, and we will have an extended exam and visit then. We need to have a talk every couple of weeks, so I can make sure everything is still OK with you, OK? For now, just go find Francie. She is waiting for you.”

I nod—already dreading it—and hurry out before she changes her mind.