I got home around four-thirty that day, bristling with grass-blades and smelling of pine needles, most of which came off at front door. Disposing of the evidence had become a daily routine over the past four weeks: I couldn't give Mom an excuse to cut Chrissie out of my life. No matter how tanked she got, Mom had eyes like a hawk and was always aware of the hours I was keeping. She'd also begun to notice whom I was keeping them with, and I wasn't all that certain she approved.

As I'd expected, Mom was still camped out on the sofa, watching The Price is Right with the remote in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She didn't appear to have budged since I left that morning, but I knew that couldn't be right; there was a bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee table that hadn't been there before. Next to that was a half eaten bag of Doritos, original cheese flavor. Last night it had been Johnny Walker and pineapple pizza. Don't ask me how she could afford all the whiskey, she'd been out of work a good two months. Heck, I didn't know how she could afford the rent, the way things had been lately.

Hearing my step on the floor boards, Mom shifted around on the sofa, a ponderous, grey woman overflowing slightly at the hips. The first lines of age had taken root in her face around the time I'd been born, so I'd never known her as a young woman. The last few traces of beauty had disappeared along with my father, and the gaze she turned on me now was heavy with exhaustion.

"You been spending a lot of time with that little girlfriend of yours," she commented in a gravel voice, "what's the deal, Billy-boy? Her mom a better cook than me?"

Eve most certainly was a better cook than Mom, but I thought it prudent not to mention that to her.

"No, Mom. I just like playing with Chrissie."

"Yeah, right," she drawled, "the golden child and her gilt-edged momma. You been inside next door yet?" She knew I had, but she interrogated me on the subject at least once every afternoon.

"Yeah, a couple of times," I nodded.

"Rich, aren't they?" she asked.

I shrugged. Maybe they were, who knows? I was a kid, I didn't notice that sort of thing.

"Lots of fancy furniture?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Pictures on the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Silverwear on the tables?"

"...yeah." I had to think about that one.

"Like it better over there?"

"No," I replied immediately. Mom fixed me with a level, measuring stare, silently estimating the truth of my answer. I couldn't understand my mother's growing hostility towards Eva Reinhart. They'd spoken maybe twice since she moved in, and Eve had never been anything but polite and friendly on both occasions. I'd learnt very quickly never to praise Chrissie's mother under any circumstances, it was like waving a red flag at a bull.

The resentment slowly drained from Mom's eyes, replaced by a sort of dull apathy. Apparently, she'd decided I wasn't lying to keep the peace (or maybe she'd decided I was, Mom's expressions were impossible to decipher these days) Turning back to the TV, she waved me off with a careless gesture.

"Left-overs in the fridge," she said, bringing the cigarette to her lips, "I didn't feel like cooking tonight."

Dinner was a slice of cold pizza with some three day-old ravioli and diced ham. As I dished it onto a plate, Mom told me to come and eat it in the living room; she didn't want me tossing it out the window while her back was turned. She knew I wouldn't have done that, but evidently she wasn't done with me yet. Odd thing was, she didn't say a word as I scraped down the sad remains of three slaughtered meals. Barely looked in my direction, as a matter of fact. Guess she just enjoyed hearing me choke on every succulent mouthful.

The evening progressed in this manner until about seven-thirty, when I asked her if I could stay up and watch TV another hour. The only answer I got was a blue-grey stream of Marlboro. I recognized the signal instantly: silence was lethal in the Campbell household, as I'd discovered all too often in recent weeks. Standing up as quietly as possible, I headed out to the hallway without a sideways glance. I made it as far as the door before she called me back.

"Hey."

A cold finger traveled the length of my spine. Her voice sound strained, terse. Not quite venomous, but I already knew she was angry. The fact I'd done nothing to antagonize her made no difference. Like I said, it was impossible to predict her moods. I walked back through the living room and halted before the sofa, hoping she just wanted to kiss me goodnight.

She didn't.

Reaching out a hand, she touched my hair, flicking it back from my face several times. It wasn't a caress; there was something dismissive – almost contemptuous – in the gesture. Eyes slitted in cold detachment, she studied me with a vaguely troubled expression, as if seeing some alien child she didn't quite recognize. An unwanted and rather unpleasant child, perhaps.

"I'm taking you to the barber's tomorrow," she croaked, turning back to the TV, "you're starting to look like a girl."

I lay on the bed in my pajamas, watching the curtains exhaling the cool evening air. Despite the breeze, it was too warm to sleep under the covers; almost too warm to be wearing PJs. Our house wasn't as big as the Old Stewart Place; the rooms were yellow, peeling sweat-boxes straight out of an Alabama work-farm. Well, I suppose that's an exaggeration of titanic proportions, but that's how I remember it to this day. There were huge damp patches on the ceiling and the walls were yellow and warping from the annual humidity. The climate was turning sultry as the great summer heat descended; in a few weeks, a good night's sleep would be close to impossible, even with the window open.

Still, it was early days so far, and the mercury was yet to climb past eighty most days. I moved my legs around on the bedcover, looking for a cool spot to put my feet. It was a wasted effort needless to say, I'd already used up most of the available positions over the past twenty minutes. In all honesty, however, it wasn't the heat that was keeping me awake. Slipping my hands behind my head, I stared into the streetlit darkness, recalling my mother's parting shot.

You're starting to look like a girl.

She wasn't the first person to say that. It was a popular taunt around the school yard, usually accompanied by such time honored favorites as I Know What I am But What Are You and the classic playground retort I'm Rubber You're Glue. All the same, I seemed to get that particular insult more often than anyone else in the fourth grade, especially since Josh Hogan and his goons had elected me last year's scapegoat, alienating me from my small number of friends and making me a target for every meathead with an ego problem (Josh Hogan had been the sixth grade's resident demon for two years running, the sort of kid you change continents to avoid.).

Strangely enough, Mom's sneering comment hadn't bothered me all that much. Quite the opposite: vindictive though her tone had been, I'd felt a brief flare of surprised pleasure – almost exaltation – at her words. The implications made my head swim with feelings I couldn't put a name to. Emotions; strange, exotic, arousing, began to cascade through my mind faster than I could process them.

Was she right? Did I look like a girl?

Did I look like Chrissie?

Sliding off the bed, I turned on my old Elmo nite-lite and padded across the floor, avoiding the loose boards with a practiced tread. There was a small dressing table on the other side of the room, a yard-sale knock down equipped with a three-quarter mirror. At nine years old, I must have seen my reflection at least a zillion times, but tonight, I was looking for something different. Someone different, perhaps. Stepping closer to the mirror, I scrutinized my face through narrowed eyelids.

My hair was straight and thick and chestnut brown: longer than most boys' my age, hanging down past my shoulders. The sun had bleached it a shade lighter over the past month or so, lending it some striking blond highlights. A little wild at the moment, but I doubted I'd be getting it cut tomorrow. Mom's hangover would keep her in bed until midday and she probably wouldn't leave the living room after that.

The hair framed a pudgy, heart-shaped face with dark blue eyes and small, rose-petal lips. Like Chrissie, I'd never completely lost my baby fat. My features were soft and round slightly infantile. A spray of freckles across my nose completed the image of childish innocence; people often mistook me for a six year old (another reason why I had trouble finding friends my own age). A six year old of either sex.

You're starting to look like a girl.

Backing up three steps, I took off my clothes and stood before the mirror, running my gaze up and down my naked body. I was more than a little surprised by what I saw. While I wasn't precisely a girl, I seemed to have the same supple limbs and rounded proportions. I even had a girl's protruding belly and dimpled bottom-cheeks. Strange I'd never noticed it before. There was only one part of my body that wasn't female, and that was a very small part indeed. If it weren't for that ...

Kneeling down before the dresser, I opened the top drawer and started sorting through the piles of shorts and socks and t-shirts, pulling out several items and taking them over to the bed. Again, I avoided stepping on the loose floorboards. Mom had probably passed out by now, but I couldn't afford to take any risks. I had to keep this a secret from her, a secret from everybody, for that matter. I couldn't have said why, I hardly even knew what I was doing at that point. Somehow, I understood that there couldn't be any witnesses to this particular game.

I pulled on a pair of cotton underpants; white hipster briefs with a tight elastic waist band. They weren't exactly the same as what Chrissie had been wearing today, but they were close enough for what I had in mind. Turning back towards the mirror, I froze in mid-breath. With my hair spilling over my shoulders and my panties drawn up to my belly button, I was no longer a boy. Raising a hand to my throat, I regarded my image in round-lipped silence. My mother had been right.

I looked just like a girl.

Sitting down on the bed, I reached for the next article of clothing. Chrissie normally wore frilly pink ankle socks (the ones with the strip of lace running around the top; I'd always found them unbelievably sweet). They were an essential part of her wardrobe, as pretty in their own way as her little satin panties. I didn't own anything even half as cute, but a pair of white nylon school socks would serve the same purpose. I slipped them on one foot at a time, watching myself closely in the mirror. It was easy to picture Chrissie doing precisely the same thing every morning before she went out.

I stood up in my socks and panties, posing in the mirror. My pulse began to quicken; a rare, fine color invaded my cheeks. I ran my fingertips slowly down my torso, raising hum of goose flesh over my bare tummy. Fluttering my eyelids in gasping response, I reached down for the last piece of my costume. It was time to finish the illusion.

I didn't have a short red sunfrock, but I did have an outsized cotton t-shirt of the same color. I dropped it lightly over my head, allowing it to hang loosely down to the tops of my thighs. And somehow, as it molded itself against my girlish shape, it became a dress. Not like the one Chrissie had been wearing today: it didn't have a bow on the back or small yellow buttons running down the front, but it was a dress all the same. A high-waisted scarlet shift so sheer I could almost see the ghost of my underwear through it.

A child's imagination is a wonderful thing.

I'm standing on the lawn on a glorious summer morning when the cicadas call from tree to tree and the sky seems to go on forever. A light June mistral whispers through leaves and branches alike, lifting my skirt with teasing, invisible fingers. Squealing with surprise, I push down on the blossoming fabric and lift my face towards the wind. My veins are flooded with liquid joy, the kind of joy only a child can experience on a morning like this.

Far away, like a voice in a distant memory, I hear my Mother calling my name ...

I opened my eyes, staring up at the blistered yellow ceiling. My body was still humming with that strange tingly feeling. My entire nervous system lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve. It seemed to pulse and flow like a static charge. The images were still tumbling through my mind's eye: memories and fantasies and scenes that never happened and yet somehow felt completely real. Real enough to make my heart thunder like a steam locomotive, real enough to dilate my pupils and darken my complexion several shades.

I was lying on the bed with my t-shirt thrown up to my midriff, casually exposing my white cotton briefs. The room was still a little on the warm side, but I was covered with a thin film of sweat, cool and moist in the evening breeze. I barely noticed the humidity anyway. Something had happened to me, some change had occurred – and, once again, I hadn't seen it coming. For a few minutes I'd become someone else. No, that wasn't right. I hadn't become someone else.

I'd become my real self.

I got off the bed and walked over to the mirror, unconsciously adjusting my t-shirt to a more modest position. Even now, it looked more like a girl's shift than anything else. I leaned in to study my reflection once more, knowing that what I was thinking was impossible. Such things only happened in the realm of Long Ago and Ever After, and I hadn't put much stock in fairy tales since my seventh birthday. It was silly, really – crazy, in fact – but I honestly couldn't help myself. I had to see.

Needless to say, there was no change whatsoever. For a second I thought maybe my face was a little fuller than I recalled, but that was just my imagination. And while a child's imagination was a wonderful thing, it had its limitations. It could turn a t-shirt into a sundress, but it couldn't change a boy into a girl. Even at nine, I understood that wishful thinking didn't get you anywhere. Look at how my parent's marriage had turned out. Placing a hand on the top of the dresser, I bent forward in to study my features at extreme close up – and froze.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, slumping footsteps; the sound of a drunken woman hauling herself along the banister. It was Mom! She was awake. I stood bolt upright, staring at the door. Had I woken her up, cartwheeling across the floor like a lunatic? Was she coming up to investigate? Leaving my face in the mirror, I padded back to bed, pulling the t-shirt over my head. I couldn't let her catch me wearing it, she'd know I was playing around when I should have been asleep.

I flung the t-shirt aside and all but dived under the covers. I was frightened. Mom had a mean temper this time of night, but that wasn't the extent of my fears. Illogical though it was, I was sure she'd work out what I was doing. And if that happened, she might make (what I imagined was) the obvious connection; that this was all somehow tied in to the girl next door. She'd be absolutely furious, banning Chrissie from our home and forbidding me to see her.

And that simply could not happen.

The footsteps approached my bedroom door. Reaching over the side of the bed, I flicked off the nite-lite and snuggled down against the pillow, forcing my breathing to slow to a snail's pace. Then she's standing in the hallway right outside, I can almost feel her hesitating by the door, looking down at the knob. I lie in knife-edged silence, waiting for it to turn ...

Five seconds pass. Ten.

I heard her footsteps receding down the hall towards her bedroom. Returning my gaze to the ceiling, I remembered to breath, realizing for the first time that I was trembling under the sheets. It took me several minutes to relax completely; for some reason, I'd been close to all-out panic. I ran my fingers through my hair in a calming gesture, unable to explain my near-terror. Mom had a mouth that could gut a fish, but even in her worst moments, she'd never done anything to really hurt me.

A sort of midnight quiet began to descend over the house, broken only by the odd rustle and creak of settling foundations. I wanted to get out of bed and play the spinning game again, but eventually decided not to risk fate twice in the one evening. Pushing the covers to the bottom of the bed, I found one of the few remaining cold spots on the mattress and made myself comfortable.

I looked towards the darkened window, remembering how it had felt, twirling across the yard with my dress soaring over my tummy-button. I could recall everything: the glaring of the sun through the leaves, the roaring of the trees overhead. The scent of freshly trimmed grass, the rush of the wind through my outstretched fingers. The gentle waving of the dandelions as I drift off to the place where dreams are born…

Dozing lightly on the lawn, I hear my Mother calling from the veranda.

Her name is Eve.