Doomed

Note to readers. Don't read if you don't like poor grammar, this is rough.
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?

Edited by Rosemary.

 

 

Puberty started when I was twelve. Not too early and not too late.

My older bro’s puberty started with a growth spurt and hair in all proper places, including his face. He started to shave when he was sixteen.

My puberty started with erection and acne. The first part was kinda pleasant, though sometimes unpredictable. Embarrassing sometimes. Like popping out of the blue in front of a girl. Not big but visible. If they noticed, and they usually did, it was, “Pervert!”

I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it. Otherwise, that part was ok.

My acne wasn’t good. It was terrible, looked bad, and hurt.

“Wash your face thoroughly,” Mom offered.

As if I wasn’t. I washed it every time I got to the sink – even at school during lunch period. Know what? Washing didn’t help.

“It’s a healthy thing,” the doc said during the yearly visit. “It's a puberty thing. Acne will go after puberty and will be over with you.”

Girls have acne too. Carla, who’s with me in the school marching band, had it as terribly as me. She played piccolo while I had C flute. So Carla had acne but then after Halloween she didn’t.

“How? How did you do it?” I wondered.

“Doctor gave me pills. I take one a day. Pimples were gone in one week,” Carla explained.

“My doctor said it’s natural and there is no cure,” I whined.

“My doc said the same,” Carla retorted.

“But… You said your doc gave the pills…”

“That’s another doc. My bro’s girl gave me his card,” she explained. “But he isn’t free. I paid fifty for the visit and sixty for the pills. Three years supply.”

I calculated in my mind – sixty dollars for three years. One pill a day.

“It’s almost five cents per pill. Almost free,” I stated.

“They are expired in a bulk pack,” Carla said.

“Expired!?”

“Yeah… So what? Big pharma wants you to throw away good things and pay a fortune for new.”

“But… Isn’t it dangerous?”

“I’m still alive,” Carla stated the obvious.

I got the doc’s card. His office was on Dorchester Avenue. In South Boston, one could get anything if they knew where to look for it and were ready to pay.

The sign on the door “DR R.E. Gonzalez MD” was the only proof it was the doctor’s office. Inside the office looked rather like a warehouse. Dirty shelves loaded with dusty boxes of various sizes.

I got two bottles. Because I’m a boy. Boys are not girls and they have to be treated differently. I had to take two pills a day. One from each bottle. The pills were minuscule so the bottles weren’t big. I paid almost two hundred. No new smartphone then. Maybe Santa will be kind and will bring me a new one under the tree.

One pill in the morning and another before bed. Acne was gone in two weeks. Since then my face was clean as if acne didn’t exist at all. Expired or not, the pills worked!

 

 

Our family lived in Boston in a cramped apartment. I shared my bedroom with my elder bro. He said that he was sharing the room. Anyway, we lived in one room and it wasn’t great fun to be a pawn of a bossy brother.

He graduated eventually and was about to leave for college. I would have the room all for myself. It wasn’t destined to happen.

Rents announced they were moving to Alaska. My rents, both Mom and Dad, were scientists. As my Aunt Margaret said, one scientist in the family is a problem, and two scientists – are a disaster. We were about to move to Kotzebue, Alaska. They said there would be an excellent place for their geology investigations. They both were on cloud nine telling me this great news.

They showed me pictures of our new house. It was a house, not an apartment. A real American two-story house with a garage. I would attend a local school and my school records were transferred already.

We packed all our things and sent them to the moving company. We had only essentials with us for the plane trip to my dad’s brother, Uncle Paul. We would stay at his place for two days and then move to Alaska.

Uncle Paul was a scientist and he moved to the middle of nowhere a couple of years ago when he was offered a lab. So now he, Aunt Margaret, and my cousins, Kinga and Jake, lived in Waterloo, Iowa.

When we were already at Uncle Paul’s place Dad’s mobile rang. The delivery company had called. They said there was no house at the address they were given. Several calls later dad got to know that our new house was only in the plans. He managed to arrange some storage place for our things. He and my mom left for Alaska the next day.

I had to stay at my uncle’s home for the week to ten days. I had only a toothbrush and a change of underwear. Well, I had my anti-acne pills. And my flute. All other stuff was in Alaska now.

What to wear? The only reasonable option was to buy something. But my rents didn’t leave me any money. As my aunt said, two scientists in the family – a disaster.

Since it was only a week or two I decided to borrow some of Kinga’s clothes. She was kind of a tomboy and we both were the same size.

I got army green shorts and a coordinated tee. Shorts were a little shorter than mine and the tee was tight and not so long as my usual tees. I checked myself in the mirror. The clothes were somewhat on the girlish side, but I didn’t look like a girl. My short hair helped a lot too.

 

 

There weren’t many things I could do at my uncle’s house. I stayed with my cousin Kinga who was the same age: fourteen. We were hanging around the house.

My other cousin Jake, was two years older, and he preferred to spend time with his buddies. I was familiar with such an attitude. It’s like with my bro who’s four years older than me, and didn’t like to spend his time with babies. Babies like me. His words.

Aunt Margaret, Kinga, and I were in the kitchen when Jake came home.

“Come with me to school tomorrow,” Jake said.

“Why?” Kinga asked.

“Our football team, dancing squad, and school band are going to Dubuque for Independence day.” Then he added, “any help for the parade will be appreciated.”

“I’m not assigned to your school,” Kinga complained.

“You will be,” Jake retorted, “West High is the nearest public High School to our home.”

“Jake’s right,” Aunt Margaret said, “you’ll attend West High this fall.”

 

 

I went with Kinga to keep her company. The field near the school was filled with kids of various ages.

“Football team and others are still here,” Jake explained, “for a farewell briefing. They leave tomorrow morning.”

After some uproar, all the kids separated into four groups. Three of them were those leaving the next day.

The fourth group was kids marching in the fourth of July parade. It was formed of kids in small packs gathered at one end of the field.

Kinga and I stayed with Jake and his friends.

“You said you have one baby sis,” one of the boys said, “but I see two.”

“Sylvie is my cousin,” Jake said. My name is Sylvester but usually, I’m called Sylvie in the family.

“Cool… I’m Bob,” the boy said.

He was ogling me as the bullies did back in Boston. I didn’t want the fight to start.

“I’m a boy,” I warned him.

“Sure,” Bob chuckled, “as you wish.”

“No… Really… Don’t you see my haircut,” I complained brushing a hand over my cropped hair.

“Who would guess otherwise?” another boy said with a serious face looking me up and down.

Other boys burst out laughing adding to my embarrassment. I felt stupid. There was nothing I could say to convince them I wasn’t a girl. Jake with Kinga didn’t say a word in my defense.

Three teachers approached us. I moved away from them. I was strolling along the edge of the bleachers.

“Sylvie! Come here!” Kinga shouted and waved her hand urging me to come nearer.

“Wazzup?”

“Mrs. Seda here,” Kinga indicated a teacher, “wants us both to carry a school banner.”

“I’m not from this school,” I said.

“It’s Independence day, not some school event,” the teacher said. “What school do you attend?”

“Kotzebue.”

“Oh…”

It was clear she didn’t know where it was.

“Alaska,” I said.

“I see…”

Kinga and I were put aside while the teacher explained to other students how they will be arranged. Meanwhile, the clouds covered the sun and it was getting chill.

“Has it to be summer?” I complained.

“You two, come here,” the teacher urged us nearer her after she was over with the other kids. “What’s your size?”

“Twelve,” Kinga replied.

“Very well,” the teacher murmured. “Here.”

She handed us two plastic bags.

“It's a gym uniform in your size. Put it on for the parade. And please, put a bra underneath.”

“Hey, I’m a dude,” I complained.

“What’s your name?” the teacher asked.

“Sylvie,” Kinga replied not waiting for me to say.

“Very well. Sylvie, you may stay without a bra,” the teacher said, indicating my chest. “After you make sure your nipples aren’t poking through your shirt.”

I looked down and there were two little tents over my nipples.

“It’s not fair,” I whined.

The teacher shrugged and then added, “If the day is chilly you may want to put danskins under your shorts.”

“What are those danskins?” I asked Kinga after we left.

“Pantyhose,” she said with a smirk and giggled.

 

 

“How was it?” Aunt Margaret asked when we got home.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Kinga.

“Terrible,” I whined.

“Oh?” wondered my aunt. “Details, please.”

“Sylvie and I will carry the school banner. And we got gym uniforms for the parade,” Kinga gushed.

“That’s great!” Aunt Margaret complimented.

“Everyone thinks I’m a girl,” I complained.

“Once for a change,” Aunt offered. Four years ago my uncle’s family moved to Waterloo. When our two families lived in Boston, Kinga and I were inseparable, and she was mistaken for a boy. Nobody complained. She was a tomboy and acted like any other boy and she looked like my carbon copy. Now we still looked alike, Kinga was still a tomboy, but she was definitely a girl and I, at her side, was mistaken for a girl – even with my hair cropped short.

“Those boobs don’t help,” I slapped angrily at my erected and unwelcome nipples. They were sensitive. I’d even say they were over-sensitive and slapping made me wince.

“They are called breasts. Don’t use derogatory language,” Aunt complained.

“No matter what they are called. They don’t belong here!”

“Sometimes it happens,” my aunt said. “Your nipples are really prominent in the cold.”

“But I have to live with them!”

“Be a girl. Not a big deal,” Kinga blurted. “A week is left. Then you’ll go to Alaska.”

Aunt looked at me, “just a week,” she said.

I shrugged.

 

 

“It’s that stupid tight tee,” I complained the next morning getting ready for the parade. “They are invisible under MY shirt.”

“They are visible indeed,” my aunt said.

“What?”

“I said they are visible under your tee.”

“My bras are almost invisible,” Kinga tried to console me.

“Almost…”

The gym uniform was black shorts and a maroon tee with white “Waterloo West” and “Wahawks” on it. Both tight and skimpy, and yes, my nipples were poking through the shirt and something else through the shorts.

“Not good,” Kinga commented.

How could it be otherwise? I was a boy.

Kinga handed me some elastic thing with three stripes in one, “Put this on instead of your briefs.”

“Turn around, please?” I asked.

She turned and I turned around to face the wall. I fought with that mysterious garment and at last had it in place. It was skimpy but somehow covered my bits when my penis was tucked down and back. I pulled shorts on and the bulge was gone and no underwear lines were visible.

The next thing was the bra. It wasn’t like you see in the movies with cups with straps. It was an elastic band. It felt like a bandage. The nipples were invisible with the tee on. But my chest looked as if I had breasts.

“Isn’t it padded?” I wondered.

“It’s not a padding, it’s protection,” Kinga replied.

The morning was cloudy. What day it will be we didn’t know. Aunt Margaret ordered us to put pantyhose under our shorts.

We were ready to leave.

“You two,” Aunt Margaret stopped us. “Shave your legs. I’ll let you not go outside with that fur all over your legs.”

“We’ll be late,” Kinga whined.

“No back talking and hurry up!” aunt ordered.

I hadn’t shaved before. It was the very first time for me. I couldn’t say there was some hair on my legs. I didn’t see it, but Aunt Margaret did.

We were almost late. We went upstairs to the bathroom and some twenty minutes later we were done.

“Don’t you see the difference?” my aunt asked when we came to the kitchen again.

I didn’t but I said nothing. I felt the difference. The sensation of pantyhose over shaved legs was kinda weird. Neither good nor bad. Weird.

We went to Morris Park. It was the starting point. We formed a column and waited for our turn to start marching down East Ridgeway Avenue. It was nine-thirty in the morning already. Someone had said the parade will start at eleven.

The clouds had cleared and the sun was shining. Pantyhose-clad legs shone in the sun. I was getting hot with the hose and bra on. I wasn’t used to wearing so many layers in the summer.

Kids left their positions and gathered in small groups. The boys were all in tracksuits. The girls were in shorts and tees. Everything was in school colors and with school signs.

The parade itself wasn’t a bad thing. I knew how to march. Like in marching band. I showed others how to swing and turn in tact. It was much more fun than just marching. Even Mrs. Seda, the teacher, complimented us.

I saw Aunt Margaret and Uncle Paul in the crowd. Aunt Margaret was taking pictures of us with her smartphone.

After the parade, we got home and Jake disappeared instantly to meet his buddies. Kinga and I were about to change into something more comfortable.

“Put something dressy on,” aunt offered.

“Why?” Kinga asked.

“It’s a holiday,” her mom explained. “We’re going out to the Olive Garden restaurant for dinner.”

“Shorts will not work?”

“Not this time, honey.”

“Jeans?”

“Neither.”

“What then?”

“You may coordinate some neat skirts with blouses,” aunt explained.

“Worse than going to church…” Kinga whined.

“I’ll put chinos with a shirt I had on when I came here,” I offered.

“You will NOT,” Aunt Margaret turned to me.

“Why not?” I wondered, “those are the only things I have.”

“Everyone thinks you are a girl. You were marching like a girl. Our neighbors complimented my pretty daughter and niece. Not nephew. Niece. Pretty.”

“You promised,” Kinga added.

“I did?”

“You did,” Aunt Margaret confirmed.

 

 

I was trapped. I was sure I agreed to only march with Kinga as a girl at the parade. Both Kinga and Aunt Margaret thought otherwise.

I was changing with Kinga in the same room. There it downed to me that a girl was undressing in front of me and there was no erection. That didn’t bother me. It was just strange. Maybe this stage of puberty was over and the next step like a hairy face or growth spurt was coming. I didn’t know.

I had a denim skirt and a flannel-looking blue plaid shirt. Kinga was in a shirt dress that was like a regular shirt but longer and was tied with a ribbon of the same material. She looked good. I looked like a boy in a skirt. I had white trainers while Kinga’s sneakers were pale blue and coordinated with her dress. To be a boy wasn’t so complicated cause there were not so many choices. What else?... We had bras. Her bra was white, my bra was black and lacy. Kinga said its edge was visible under my shirt and it looked sexy and provocative. Exactly what I needed. Sexy and provocative.

The next step was Aunt Margaret’s approval.

“Put pantyhose on,” she said to me.

“Why?”

“Your legs are white. Like painted white.”

How could it be otherwise? I didn’t remember the last time I sunbathed.

Kinga gave me pantyhose and it was different than the one we had for the parade. That one was shiny, while this one was matt. To say the truth, I liked it. It kept my bits securely in place.

“That’s better,” Aunt Margaret gave the nod.

She ushered us both to the master bedroom.

“You need some accents,” she said rummaging through her jewelry.

“There they are,” she handed something to Kinga and another something to me.

“What’s this?” I wondered.

“Earrings,” Kinga replied.

“They are not rings,” I didn’t agree.

“It’s their name ‘earring’ and they can be any form really,” Aunt Margaret explained.

I didn’t know what to do with them and was staring at Kinga. She looked at me and sighed. Aunt clipped those on Kinga’s ears. I tried to do the same but was doing something wrong.

“Let me help you,” Aunt Margaret offered and clipped those things on the lobes of my ears.

“It hurts,” I complained.

“It will go,” my aunt said.

“Have we finished yet?” Kinga asked.

“Just one thing left,” the aunt said.

She took something that looked like a pencil but most probably wasn’t. She aimed that thing at Kinga’s eye. Kinga flinched back.

“NO!” she shouted.

“It’s just an eyeliner,” aunt explained.

“You were about to poke my eye,” Kinga whined.

“Not poke but draw a line around your eye,” the aunt said.

“Why?”

“For you to be pretty.”

“I’m pretty enough for my liking. I didn’t agree to be girly. That was Sylvie. Paint her,” Kinga snapped.

“As you wish,” the aunt said turning to me.

I was trapped. I didn’t remember I promised to be girly. I agreed to pretend to be one.

“Close your eyes,” Aunt ordered. I felt her touching my eyes with something sharp.

“Eyeliner – check…” Aunt murmured.

She took the fancy-looking bottle and spritzed it on my wrists and neck.

“You are ready!” she exclaimed and stepped back to have a full view.

“Not yet…” Aunt started to rummage through her jewelry again and handed me a bunch of shiny hoops.

“What’s this?”

“Bracelets,” Kinga said.

“They will fall off,” I said.

Aunt Margaret just squeezed three over my left palm and another four over my right one. The result was dangling with my every move. But they didn’t fall off.

“See?” aunt rather stated.

“I thought you were more tomboy than me,” Kinga mused.

“You framed me,” I retorted. “And I am the boy.”

“Look at yourself,” Kinga said.

 

 

The rest of the day was ok. Uncle Paul was looking funny at me. I thought I looked like a boy in a skirt. He said I was prettier than Kinga.

The food was better than anything I’d eaten before. My mother wasn’t good in the kitchen. I was experimenting with food but usually, the result wasn’t very tasty.

Then there was a line dance contest. A man was playing banjo and the lady was showing the steps and everyone had followed her steps. In the beginning, the crowd was big with those who didn’t follow the steps falling out. After a few dances, there were only two of us left – Aunt Margaret and me. We got badges and were photographed for the local paper.

After the restaurant, we went to the Amphitheatre to watch the fireworks.

 

 

Kinga was a loner at school, the same as I was. There were no kids of our age in the neighborhood, so we were spending time at home. I was reading “The Grapes of Wrath” while Kinga was reading “Little Women”.

About an hour every day, I spent practicing the flute while Kinga practiced gymnastics. Like stretches, jumps, and tumbles. When I was done with the flute, we were jumping and tumbling together.

While reading our books we usually sunbathed in the backyard. Kinga was in a bikini and I was in bikini bottoms. Then one day a neighbor complained about a topless girl prancing in our backyard. I wasn’t prancing. There were two options – to put a bikini top on and have tan lines or put a tee on and remain white.

Aunt Margaret said there was a tanning crème and I opted for a bikini top and tan lines. That couldn’t be much of tanning. I planned to leave for Alaska next week. Dad called and said they had our things in storage and both were undertaking a voyage to the mountains. I had to stay in Waterloo till the start of the school year. Great! Shit!

 

 

Six weeks were left before the start of the school year. I’d finished my Steinbeck book and didn't know what else to read. The books that were on Kinga’s list I had read a year before. Practicing flute and tumbling with Kinga were the only things I had to do. Boredom!

I started to experiment in the kitchen like I did at home in Boston. Here I had Aunt Margaret to help me. Or rather, I was helping her.

Kinga was too much of a tomboy to be engaged in the kitchen business. Or any other domestic chore, like dusting, cleaning, vacuuming, and laundry as those were exclusively Aunt Margaret’s duty. But she was working in the hospital and sometimes overtime. When Aunt Margaret was late from work, Jake or Uncle Paul ordered pizza. While Kinga and I were like helpless babies incapable of making dinner. Or laundry. Or clean the house.

We were dying of boredom rather than doing something useful. I didn’t force Kinga to do something. I started it alone, but she sighed loudly and joined me, complaining that I was more girl than she. But it wasn’t a girl thing I guessed.

The summer was nearing the end and I was getting ready to leave and meet the polar bears. Mom called. Mom and dad moved into our new house and it was okay, but there was a problem. The school. There was no high school in Kotzebue. Only elementary and junior high up to eighth grade.

“We can send you to boarding school in Anchorage or you may stay with Uncle Paul and Aunt Margaret. If they agree to keep you,” mom said.

I passed the phone to Aunt Margaret.

They talked for another half an hour and I didn’t understand what it was about. Because I heard only one side of the conversation.

“You stay with us,” Aunt Margaret announced after she disconnected. “Your mom will make the needed documents and send them to me to be your guardian. So I could take you to the doc and school.”

“The school will start soon,” I said, “do we have time for documents to come.”

“You’re right,” aunt agreed, “We’ll go tomorrow and see.”

The next day in the school office. Aunt Margaret started to explain about my parents in Kotzebue and no high school there. And two mad scientists in the family. And the kid left here in Waterloo for summer. And her other kids are already in this school. And…

Aunt’s phone rang.

“Sorry,” she said and answered. “Yes… Yes… No… WHAT!... Coming…”

“I’m leaving. There was a great car crash and all surgeons are needed. This is Sylvie,” she introduced me and left.

The pregnant pause followed. I didn’t know what to say and if at all I had to say something.

Then the teacher entered the office. I knew her. It was Mrs. Seda. The same who arranged for Kinga and me to carry the school banner. After the mandatory ‘Hi’ she turned to me and looked me up and down.

“I know you,” she exclaimed. “You have won a line dance contest I guess. Or wasn’t that you?”

“It was me but I won together with my aunt.”

“Sylvie-boy. Right?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I confirmed.

“Boy?” the secretary wondered.

“She claims she’s a boy,” Mrs. Seda explained.

“We are the most LGBT-friendly school in the entire state,” the VP stated. “But we need a doctor’s confirmation about your transition. Are you transitioning, right?”

“Huh?... What? No… But…” I wasn’t. Transition into what? No, I wasn’t. Definitely.

“Thank goodness!” Mrs. Seda sighed. “I take you on the dance squad without tryouts.”

“I can’t. I play the C flute and I want to be in the school band,” I complained.

“Ms. Reed has already one flute too many as far as I know,” VP said.

“I don’t know how to dance…”

“Says the girl, the winner of the line dance contest,” chuckled Mrs. Seda.

It dawned on me that I was a girl in their eyes. But I wasn’t. Why wasn't my aunt here when I needed her the most?

 

 

I was a girl all summer because my aunt asked me to be. Because it was less complicated – because few people thought I was a girl. At the end of the summer all Jake’s friends, all our neighbors, and a lot of other people I didn’t know were sure I was a girl.

And now I was starting school as a girl. Just wonderful! Crap!

Well! I decided to go with the flow. I didn’t need to dress girly or anything. I’d do everything like Kinga did. She was a tomboy, wore no makeup, and preferred jeans and shorts.

Shit! It didn’t work. I was in the dance squad and she wasn’t. Instead, she was on the gymnastics team. I wanted to be there too but I was already assigned to the dance squad.

A dance squad is something like cheerleaders but with more dancing and less jumping. Everything else was the same. Uniform in maroon with white trimming. Tight long-sleeved tee and short pleated skirt with panties showing.

Wearing squad uniforms to school was mandatory every game day. Other days dancers were expected to look their best. Like with a little makeup, shaved legs, and armpits. And to wear something fashionable, preferably a skirt. Oh crap!

The only positive thing in that school was gender-neutral bathrooms for confused students. Like me. Confused, hah! I wasn’t. I was mistaken!

 

 

Kinga wasn’t any help. She dressed tomboyish and girly at the same time. I had to find my style or I would end up in skirts on an everyday basis. I adopted the army style. Olive green and camo pattern. Tees, tactic pants, boots, beret, dog tag, steel bracelets, makeup shades black and olive. I looked classy. People said so. Aunt Margaret said so. Jake said I was hot. He called me army chiquilla. His buddies called me the same. Anyway, I thought I wasn’t too girly.

Kinga met some new friends: Tracy, Elle, and Pat. They were always socializing after school at home, or Elle’s place, or in the mall. They talked about fashion, boys, music, boys, school, and boys. I had no fashion or music sense so I could talk only about school. The school theme was enough for me at school. I didn’t spend too much time with them as a result.

“No dating before you are sixteen,” Aunt Margaret insisted. Despite my army appearance, I didn’t look masculine enough for any girl to go on a date with me. The no dating policy was addressed to Kinga I guessed. She talked about boys, not I.

Aunt Margaret wasn’t the only mom declaring a no dates policy under sixteen. Only juniors and seniors were dating.

We met Jake with his fourth girlfriend in the mall. Kinga and I were raiding the mall for Christmas presents right after Halloween. We noticed them in the food court sharing one seat. She was sitting on his knees. The mall was crowded, so I guessed that was why.

Kinga and I were measuring new Jake’s trophy when there was ‘Ahem…’ behind us.

We turned around and there was a man in a suit with a tag that was like an id. Not a name tag like most salespersons had. On the tag, there were a lot of words in the fine print.

“Hi here. I’m Anthony Spencer, the HR manager of this mall. You both look very alike: sisters probably. It’s exactly what we need for this season. Would you be interested in becoming Santa’s helpers? From four to eight on weekdays and whole days on weekends.”

“U-huh…” I said.

“Oh, yes!” Kinga said.

“Ok then. Let’s go to my office. I’ll give you contracts for you and your parents to sign.”

The contract was several sheets full of text in weird law-ish language. I never was good at reading and understanding instructions. I preferred when someone told me what to do. We took those contracts home. Aunt Margaret glanced them over and signed.

“Work at the mall can’t be an excuse from doing your homework,” she said. Then she warned, “Don’t spend hard-earned money on silly things.”

She didn’t say what those silly things are though. I didn’t plan to spend it at all. I lived at my aunt’s home and I wasn’t her kid. Someone had to pay for me. My parents only sent money if someone reminded them over and over again. I couldn’t live on charity. I planned to give my earnings to my aunt.

The next day after school we went directly to the mall with contracts.

Mr. Spencer gave each of us a big plastic bag with our costume and showed us to the employees’ locker room to change. We got lockers to keep our things. He said we were responsible to keep our costumes clean and tidy.

The outfit was elfish green with some white accents. It was much better than those worn by the Santa’s Helpers I’d seen in Boston. Those were green-red-white-black striped rags. Our outfits were green tights, green leotard, green cap, green coat, and green skirt, all with white fur trimming. And white boots on one-inch heels. The overall look was ok except for the skirt. The skirt was of some heavy material and it was kinda full circle and standing out like a tutu raising the coat's hem. It made the leotard bottom look like panties. Gross…

“May we be without skirts?” I asked.

“Without skirts? Undressed?” Mr. Spencer wondered.

“Not undressed, no. The coat without the skirt covers more than with it,” I said removing the skirt and twirling in front of him. “You may add Santa’s belt, only white, to tie over the coat.”

“Sounds good and looks good even without a belt. But… Hm-m…” he hesitated. “The costume was approved by the marketing department. Come with me.”

We followed him to the marketing department and found that the outfit was soft and comfortable, not restricting our movements. The boots were easy to walk on despite the heel.

We entered a big room with desks and computers and only one middle-aged woman. Mr. Spencer explained to her the problem with the skirt and what I proposed.

“I’m ok,” the woman said. “I guess Sandra’s boutique has white plastic Santa belts. Something else?”

We were sent to Sandra’s boutique where we got belts and started the first day as elves.

Being on the side of Santa and managing kids in the line was the easiest part. Usually, we were like mall guides showing where what was located. We were not regular staff so we had to take mom’s kids by the hand and lead them to the desired store. And then come back to Santa’s place.

Parents dumped their kids into the playroom before their main shopping. It was our territory too.

Four hours later we were exhausted. Four hours… I thought about the weekend with horror…

 

 

We got used to heels and to constant walking around with kids. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed the first few days, but it wasn’t easy either. Practice after school and before the mall, and homework after we got home when it was dark already. But the money was good.

Our last day was Christmas eve. We finished at five and Mr. Spencer took us home in his car still wearing our costumes. He said we could attend evening service in our outfits for more kids’ amusement. We politely omitted the fact we didn’t attend any church.

After we got out of his car there was another car that belonged neither to my uncle nor to my aunt. It couldn’t be Jake’s because it was almost new and had to cost a fortune.

We entered the house and found my parents together with Uncle Paul and Aunt Margaret in the living room.

In half a year mom had called only twice to say our new home wasn’t ready and the next time I had to stay in Waterloo. And then not a single call as I knew. I felt dumped and abandoned.

We stood there in silence.

“Oh…” dad said at last.

He took Kinga and held her at arm’s length, “Look at you, who could guess you’ll grow to be almost as beautiful as Kinga.”

“I’m Kinga,” Kinga whispered, “and she is Sylvie.”

I half expected my rents would make a scene and I could revert to the normalcy of being a boy. Instead, they were ok with me being a girl. I was doomed.

 

 

QModo, 2022