Note to readers. This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.

 

 

I've been assigned a book to read over the summer. In previous years, I'd somehow managed to dodge the whole reading thing. Why bother with books when you can just watch a movie? I'd rather dig into stuff you couldn't find on TV — like the dusty old issues of *Popular Mechanics* and *Scientific American* I'd discovered in the attic.

This time, though, things were different. My English teacher, Mr. Braun, must've figured out I'd been skipping the required reading.

“Your personal summer reading plan, Matty,” he said — Matty's my name, short for Matthew, by the way — “is *Gone with the Wind*. And don't even think about watching the movie or skimming the Reader's Digest version. The film leaves out some key moments from the novel. Trust me, it's a good read.”

I picked up the book from the school library. The librarian assured me I'd love it. It was massive — practically the size of a Bible — but with a bright, colorful cover. Vivien Leigh was on it, wrapped in Clark Gable's arms. I didn't know who they were, but their names were printed on the back. It looked like some sappy girly romance to me.

I spent three days holed up in my room with that book. I didn't exactly fall in love with it. It wasn't bad, just… not my thing.

 

 

My parents weren't thrilled with me. They were fine with Emma, my sister, though. She had a ton of friends and didn't spend every day cooped up in her room like I did. To be honest, they weren't really friends — they were more like a squad. They did stuff together, like cheerleading, as if it were some kind of business.

“Matty, you don't have any friends,” Mom complained.

“What about Nathan?” I said.

“Nathan doesn't count,” Emma cut in. “He's my ex-boyfriend.”

“I didn't steal your boyfriend,” I shot back. “We're friends because of cars.”

“Yeah, but you only met him because of me,” she said.

“I met him because I had to babysit his little sister during your dates. You could've asked any of your precious squad, but no, you dumped it on me.”

I didn't have a big group of friends, and I didn't have a girlfriend either. Maybe that was a flaw. But I hadn't taken Emma's boyfriend. Nathan was my friend, not my boyfriend.

 

 

I was at home, plowing through *that* book. I'll admit, it was starting to grow on me — maybe it wasn't half bad.

Emma was off with her squad. They were all over the place — our house, then the backyard to practice, then some field for stunts, then someone else's place, then back here again. I was used to their constant back-and-forth. I knew them, and they knew me.

I headed to the kitchen for a drink. As I passed the living room, I spotted a kid on the couch — definitely too young to be a cheerleader.

“Hey,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I'm Matty. Who're you?”

“Ricky,” he replied, shaking my hand.

“Ricky, like Richard the Lionheart?”

The kid grinned ear to ear.

“So, what're you doing here?” I asked.

“Jill said you'd take care of me.”

Fantastic. Just what I needed.

“Who's Jill?”

“She's my sister…” His voice trailed off as it hit him — Jill had totally ditched him. His lip started to quiver.

“Hey, little man, easy!” I said, pulling him into a quick hug — mostly to head off a full-on crying meltdown.

 

 

Kids seemed to like me for some reason. I didn't get it. It's not that I hated them — I just preferred hanging out with people my own age. But somehow, the only company I ever got was kids. Like Ricky now, or Nathan's little sister, Sally.

Babysitting at their houses was easy enough. They had their toys, their favorite board games, their rooms — everything to keep them comfortable. Here, though? Ricky only had me, and I had no idea how to keep him busy.

“How'd you get here?” I asked.

“On Jill's bike,” he said.

“Isn't her bike a bit big for you?”

He pictured himself on it, giggled, then got serious. “I don't ride. There's a second seat for me.”

“I need that bike,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

We headed outside to track down Emma and her squad. The girls were doing cartwheels in the backyard.

“Which one's your sister?” I asked.

“That one,” Ricky nodded toward the group. Helpful. They were all girls.

“Jill!” I shouted.

“What?” A redhead with a ponytail spun around. I knew her face, but I'd heard the squad call her Liana, not Jill.

“I need your bike,” I said.

“Huh? Oh… okay, I guess. What for?”

“We're going to see fire trucks.”

“Be home by six,” she replied.

Six? I wasn't planning to spend the whole day with this kid.

“Please, Matty,” Emma chimed in. “We're running short on time.”

A whole day with a kid. Fine. I'd bring the book.

“I'm taking your camo backpack,” I told Emma. “For the book. To read. Please.”

Why was I even saying “please”? I was doing *her* a favor, not the other way around. Her camo backpack was the only small one she owned that wasn't obnoxiously girly — just big enough for a book and a wallet. My school bag would've worked, but it was huge and clunky.

Guess what color Jill's bike was? Not pink — worse. Pink with glitter. Something was seriously off with girls' taste. Why not gray? All my clothes were gray or faded denim — easy to wash in one load without worrying about colors blending. At least the bike was a guy's frame, even if the paint job was ridiculous. The kid's seat wasn't in the back — it was up front, like a regular seat, so Ricky sat between my arms as I pedaled.

When I was Ricky's age, my dad used to take me to the fire station. I loved it. We went a few times — watching the trucks roll in, get washed, hoses unrolled, and coiled back up. The whole routine was weirdly hypnotic.

The place hadn't changed much. Only the trucks were newer.

“Can me and the kid watch you work?” I asked one of the firefighters, then tacked on, “Please… sir,” remembering my manners.

“Sure thing, miss,” he said.

Damn it. Not again. They thought I was a girl — probably because of this glittery monstrosity of a bike. Good thing Emma wasn't around. She'd have called me Matilda just to mess with me. I hated that name. Who'd even name their kid Matilda?

We watched the crew do their thing. I figured I'd read the book, so I pulled it out of the backpack and cracked it open — right as two fire trucks rolled into the yard, caked in mud up to six feet high. We ended up watching the guys hose them down and clean the insides instead.

Believe it or not, we spent four hours just staring at people working. Ricky was thrilled. Me? I didn't read a single word. I just lugged that book around like a prop to prove I had it.

 

 

The next day was Tuesday. Like always, I waited for Emma and her friends to clear out before heading downstairs to the kitchen.

Guess who was there? Ricky.

“Hey, man,” I said. “What're you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he replied.

“The girls don't practice on Tuesdays. So why are you here?”

“They went to the mall,” Ricky said. “I asked to stay with you instead.”

Why did I ever learn to be polite when I should've mastered swearing first?

“I see,” I said, keeping my cool. “But I've got a couple of things to do first, okay?”

Ricky nodded.

“Today's my wash day,” I explained. “Gotta load all my dirty clothes into the washer.”

“Okay,” he said. Then, “Can I watch you work? Please?”

What?!

“It's kind of personal, you know? Like underwear and stuff.”

“Oh… okay. I'll wait here then.”

“Just a couple minutes,” I promised, bolting back to my room.

Tuesday was laundry day. I didn't have much — mostly gray stuff that all washed the same — so it was one full load for four hours. Bedsheets were Mom's problem; she used the other washer for those.

Sixteen minutes later, I was back with Ricky.

“Next up,” I said, “is my aunt's place. She's away, so I've got to water her plants and feed her cats.”

We stepped outside, and I noticed my bike was missing. Jill's sparkly pink disaster was there instead. I seriously considered repainting it. Maybe no one would notice.

 

 

Aunt Nora lived near the port. She ran a ballet and dance studio, and her apartment was on the second floor above it. The studio was closed — Aunt Nora and her assistant Sylvia were off on vacation.

So, the cats.

First, Jacobina. They thought she was a boy at first, and named her Jacob, but then the vet said she was a girl. Hence, Jacobina. She's a massive black longhair, practically a Maine Coon, and super friendly.

Then there's Simba, a Siamese tom. He's shy, not big on strangers, and only tolerates Aunt Nora and me. That's why I'm the only one who can look after them.

I handled the dirty work — cleaning litter boxes and filling the automatic feeders and water fountains. Ricky was busy with Jacobina, petting her and playing. Simba perched in the doorway, keeping one eye on me and the other on Ricky and Jacobina.

Once that was done, we headed downstairs to the studio — a big room with a mirrored wall. Not just a mirror — the *whole* wall was reflective, making the space look twice as large. A barre ran along it. I showed Ricky what it was for, doing some basic warm-up moves — shifting from first to sixth position, then a side stretch and a front stretch.

Ricky just said, “Oh!”

 

 

I was about to head home when my phone buzzed. It was Nathan.

“Yo, I've got a Gremlin. '73. Green. Runs,” he said. “You in?”

“I've got a kid with me — Ricky. That cool?”

“Yeah, Sally's here too.”

So, we went to Nathan's place instead of home to babysit my laundry. That could wait.

The Gremlin wasn't too beat up — light dirt, minimal rust, bucket seats, manual transmission.

“Three on the tree?” I asked.

“Nah, it's got overdrive,” Nathan said. “He's from Canada.”

“Who's from Canada?” Ricky piped up.

“The Gremlin,” Nathan replied.

Sally was sulking inside, ignored while Ricky hung out with Nathan, me, and the car.

As Nathan said, the Gremlin was runnable. The oil was there — black and sludgy, but there. The battery was dead, though, and not a drop of gas. No big deal when you've got a real garage like Nathan's, not just a carport like my parents.

We added gas, swapped the battery, and cranked the engine. It didn't start right away — or on the second try. Thirty minutes later, it finally roared to life.

Sally stayed inside, pouting over being left out. Ricky climbed into the driver's seat, twisting the wheel left, right, left, right — like a kid playing pretend. Nathan was on the left side of the hood, tinkering with the throttle. I stood on the right, peering into the engine bay.

“This tube's swelling,” I said, pointing at a hose near the bottom. It bulged more with every right turn of the wheel.

“Something's gonna — ” I didn't finish. The tube burst with a loud *BANG!*, splattering me from neck to toe in hot, stinking fluid.

It must've looked ridiculous — Nathan snickered, and Ricky started bawling.

Then the burning hit. I screamed, the acrid stuff searing my skin. Nathan grabbed the hose and blasted me with ice-cold water.

Out of nowhere, Nathan's mom stormed over. “Nathaniel Benjamin Devereux, what are you doing to that poor girl? Stop it *now*!”

Nathan cut the water. I stopped screaming, though my skin still stung — just not as bad.

“What's going on?” she demanded.

“Power steering blew,” Nathan said. “I think.”

“He's right, ma'am,” I added.

She turned to me, wide-eyed. “Oh my God…” Then, softer, “You need a shower, *now*. Come with me.”

I followed her inside to the bathroom — I knew where it was from babysitting Sally. “Leave your clothes on the floor, dear,” she said. “I'll handle them later.” Then she left.

My clothes were toast. The power-steering fluid had eaten through them; they shredded when I peeled them off. Maybe Nathan had something I could borrow. Later. For now, I jumped in the shower, shampooing my hair and scrubbing myself three times to kill the stench.

Finally, decent, I slid the curtain back and stepped out. My rags were gone. On the laundry hamper sat a fluffy white towel and a stack of clothes: white panties, a matching sports bra, a powder-blue dress — not too long, not too short — white ankle socks, and white sneakers.

Now what?

Did I run out naked, yelling I was a boy? Or just take what I was given? Then I remembered Nathan's mom calling me “girl” and Nathan not correcting her. Did they think I was a girl? Was I supposed to whine like some teenager or just roll with it?

I slipped on the panties, tucking everything down and back — no bulge allowed. The bra was clasp-free, more like a vest. Pointless for me, but if I was going with it, I had to wear it. It had padding — probably for protection — but now I had fake boobs.

The dress was mid-thigh, buttoned to the waist, short-sleeved. Cute — if I were a girl. The socks had ruffled hems; the sneakers had pink hearts on the sides but could pass as unisex.

Dressed, I stepped into the kitchen. Nathan and his mom were there with Ricky and Sally. I braced for the kids to laugh, but they just stared.

“I didn't expect that dress to look so good on you,” Nathan's mom said.

“Thanks, ma'am. I'll return it once I change,” I replied.

“Oh, no, no — it's a gift! I've wanted to give you something for ages,” she insisted.

Nathan said nothing, just eyed me up and down. I blushed.

“Your phone rang while you were in there,” his mom said. “Emma called. Jill took your bike — hers now, I guess — and you'll get it back after you drop Ricky off.”

I didn't even know where Ricky lived.

“Emma said Water Street 9,” she added. “Know it, sweetie?”

Yeah — three blocks from Nathan's, on my route to school.

It was past seven. Sunset at eight — not much time. I hopped on the bike — Jill's glittery nightmare. Pretty sure I flashed everyone; a guy's bike and a short dress don't mix. Nathan and his mom didn't comment. Sally flashed her underwear all the time — she's a kid, so no one cares.

We reached Ricky's place just after sunset. Maybe the dark would hide the dress. I knocked, and Jill — aka Liana — answered.

“Oh! Pretty dress!” she said.

I pedaled home, sneaking in through the back door where the bikes stayed. I crashed right into Emma.

“Oh!” she gasped.

“No Matilda cracks!” I hissed.

“Who's Matilda?” Dad called from the kitchen. Then he saw me.

Moment of truth, I thought.

“Finally ditching that awful tomboy phase,” he said.

“Dad,” I started, “it's me — your son.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Come with me.”

We walked to the big mirror in the foyer.

“What do you see next to this old man?” he asked.

“You're not old,” I said.

“Fine, as you say. And the girl?”

“Just a girl,” I sighed. I *did* look like one, but…

“I won't stand in the way of your happiness,” he said. “You're a girl now, and I'll accept you as one. Want to be a boy? We'll help you.”

“I don't need help — I *am* a boy!” I snapped.

“I wouldn't be so sure,” he replied, calm as ever.

This was nuts.

“But — ” I started, ready to argue I'd been a boy my whole life. Then it hit me: I could just change into my own clothes — boy clothes — and everything would snap back to normal.

I bolted to the basement laundry room. Empty. No washer. No baskets.

“Where… where is it?”

“It broke,” Dad said from behind me. “Everything inside got shredded.”

“Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirmed. “All you've got is what you're wearing.”

“Maybe Emma can lend me something…” I mumbled.

“Up to you to ask her,” he said.

Then mom was at last home and she mumbled I was beautiful. Then she added it was a good sign my boyfriend's mom was giving me a gorgeous dress as a present and then she went to bed after a twenty-four-hour shift in the trauma ward.

 

 

I borrowed a nightdress from Emma to sleep in. She didn't own pajamas — just nightdresses. I lucked out with a cotton one; the rest were sheer nylon or so short they barely covered my butt. Whatever.

I hand-washed my panties and bra, hanging them to dry on the shower curtain rod. No big deal — Emma did it all the time.

In the morning, I shuffled downstairs to the kitchen in the nightdress — Emma's nightdress. Dad and Emma were there. Dad sipped his coffee, skipping breakfast as usual.

“Gotta run, ladies,” he said, kissing my forehead — something he'd never done before — then Emma's, and left.

Mom wandered in, yawning. “Morning, girls.”

After her first coffee, she eyed me up and down. “Light blue's your color, honey. Mid-thigh looks great on you.”

Emma glanced at the hem, checking Mom's claim.

“Oh boy, you shaved!” she gasped.

“My hair got torched by that power-steering goo,” I said.

“Tell me what happened yesterday, dear,” Mom yawned. “Your dad's version was a mess — typical man.”

I filled her in — yesterday, the day before, the whole deal.

“Damn work!” Mom exclaimed. “I've missed so much of my girls growing up.”

 

 

I had nothing to wear. Literally. I suggested Walmart for basics, but Mom shot it down.

So, we hit the mall — just me and her. Emma wanted to tag along, but Mom said she'd be a distraction, and anyway, she went with her friends all the time.

Mother and daughter outing. I wore Mom's leggings and a gray hoodie with pink lining — the only options left. Emma's stuff was too skimpy.

We started in the boys' section. Disaster. The sales assistant insisted the girls' department had better “tomboy” stuff — cut for girls like me who wanted a boyish look. Boys' clothes wouldn't fit right, she said, and Mom should know that. Dragging me here might confuse me, and make me hate being a girl.

We retreated to the food court. Mom needed coffee to recover.

“At least we tried,” she said.

“Yeah…” I mumbled, figuring she needed a nod of support.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I'd love having two girls. You could share clothes, save money — like you're already sharing a boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I groaned.

“Does Nathan know that?”

“Dunno… For some reason, he thinks I'm a girl.”

“Some reason…” Mom echoed, then spun to the waitress. “Miss, could she pass as a boy?”

The waitress squinted at me and tilted her head. “No way, ma'am. You'd need a different candidate.”

“What am I doing wrong?” I sighed.

“Maybe it's Nora's dance classes,” Mom offered.

“Huh?”

“You stand in third position half the time — usually on your toes.”

“I'm sitting now, and she still said I'm a girl,” I grumbled.

“Dunno,” Mom shrugged. “It's your attitude, your moves, something. I'm a trauma surgeon, not a girliness expert.”

She sipped her coffee; I ate my ice cream. Ready to go?

“How'd you like your dress?” she asked out of nowhere.

“I'm a boy,” I said. “I don't like or dislike it.”

“You wore it yesterday. How was it?”

“It's short and straight. I flashed everyone. A skirt would've been better — denim, with pockets.”

“I see…” she nodded. “Ready?”

We hit the girls' section. Mom aimed for tomboyish stuff — I got a couple of pieces — but she snuck in girlier things too: denim skirts, cropped tops, pantyhose. “For another image, if you want,” she said.

She called it a sprint. Five hours. She was wiped from her last 24-hour shift.

Back home, she napped. But it wasn't over. Emma, Jill (aka Liana), and Ruth — the girl I secretly adored — ambushed me. I had to model everything. I changed in front of them, glad I'd tucked my junk; no bulge showed. Emma tried on some of my stuff too. Jill and Ruth were bigger, sparing me the reverse show.

“You've got the basics,” Ruth declared.

 

 

Part of me wanted to go back to normal, but I was also… excited. Curious? I wanted to test this new look. So, the next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast in a tee and leggings.

Emma was there in her nighty. Dad sipped coffee while Mom messed with the stove.

“Oh…” Dad said, pausing. “I approve.”

“Of what?” Mom turned. “Scrambled eggs?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Take my spot,” Dad offered, standing and tossing his cup in the sink. “Gotta run, ladies. See you…”

He kissed me and Emma on the forehead, Mom on the cheek, and left.

“I'm almost late,” Mom said. “You girls behave.” She kissed our foreheads and bolted.

I sat, eating scrambled eggs and sipping orange juice. A crumb stuck to my lip — or so I thought. I brushed at it. Not a crumb — a painful pimple. Herpes. Toothpaste usually fixed it; it'd pass.

I washed dishes, then hit the bathroom to deal with it. In the mirror, it wasn't small anymore — swollen, then burst, now an ulcer.

Emma had left. Alone, I panicked as it grew. Mom? She's a trauma surgeon, not a pimple expert. Dad? He worked at a pharmacy.

I called him. He picked up fast.

“Something wrong, princess?” he asked. *Princess?* He'd never called me — or Emma — that.

“I've got a pimple on my lip. It's growing, turned into an ulcer, and I don't know if toothpaste will cut it or if it's worse than herpes…”

“Got it,” he said. “Probably herpes. Check the bathroom cabinet — behind the mirror — for acyclovir. If it's not there, come to me. Got bus money?”

“Yeah, I'll check first,” I said. “Acyclovir?”

“Yep. Call me either way.” He hung up.

Their bathroom was off their bedroom. No acyclovir. Damn. But their closet door — a full-length mirror — caught me. In leggings and a tee, I looked… girlier than some of Emma's squad.

The doorbell rang. Who now?

I raced downstairs and peeked through the peephole. Nathan. I opened the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring. I blushed. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I ran into Emma. She said you were home. I called — you didn't pick up. Got worried.”

“I was in Mom's bathroom, looking for medicine,” I said. “Didn't hear it.”

“You okay?”

“Just a pimple. Heading to Dad's by bus.”

“I've got the Bronco. Grab your purse — I'll drive.”

I didn't have a purse. Day two of accidental girlhood — Nathan didn't know. I dashed upstairs. No phone. I grabbed my wallet, keys, and Emma's camo backpack. The phone was on the kitchen table — six missed calls from Nathan.

 

 

We rode in silence. Neither of us talked much, ever. He'd tinker with cars; I'd watch, and learn. I saw myself as his friend, maybe an apprentice. He was seventeen, I was fifteen — he knew way more about engines.

Plus, the Bronco's loud. Small talk's pointless.

“You take a cab?” Dad asked when I walked into the pharmacy.

“No. Why?”

“You're too early for the bus.”

“Nathan drove me,” I said.

“Nathan — your boyfriend?”

“He's not! Just a friend,” I insisted.

“Kid, no 'just friend' drives you around for a pimple unless he's your boyfriend,” Dad said. “I'd like to meet him someday. Not now, but soon.”

He handed me a tiny tube — one inch long.

“What's this?”

“Acyclovir. Apply it straight from the tube — no fingers, no rubbing, no kissing.”

“DAAAD!”

“Just saying,” he chuckled. “You're too young for that anyway.”

 

 

Back in the Bronco, I asked, “Why'd you call earlier?”

“There's a Riviera,” Nathan said. “Wanna see?”

“Where?”

“Gallant's.”

Our usual shorthand. Gallant's was a scrapyard twenty miles north of Portland and Riviera had to be Buick Riviera.

“Take me home,” I said. “I'm out.”

I needed to fix this damn pimple first.

---

At home, Emma was still gone. I had two missions: cure the pimple and read *that* book. I wasn't even halfway through. Sigh.

The doorbell rang. Again? I peeked out — Aunt Nora. I opened the door.

“Oh! Look at you!” she exclaimed, skipping a hello.

“Hi,” I said. “What?”

“Finally leaning into your feminine side…” She scanned me — up, down, up — grinning wickedly, head tilted.

“Why feminine? I'm not — ”

“When's the last time you saw your dad in leggings?”

“Uh…”

“Exactly,” she laughed.

“What's up?” I asked, then winced — rude? — and added, “I thought you were in Europe.”

“Vacations aren't forever,” she giggled. “Adults get two weeks. I'm back — need my keys. Called Max; he said you were home.”

Max is Dad, her brother. I handed her the keys.

“Studio opens Monday,” she said. “You coming?”

“Sure.”

Besides old cars, I liked dancing — not ballet, just dancing. Line dancing, maybe. For posture. To feel taller. Something like that.

 

 

I had two weeks for myself. Emma and other girls were at the camp for cheerleaders. Ricky and Sally were at some camp for kids. I wasn't sure if they both were at the same camp or different ones. Nat was busy with Gremlin or with Bronco. Mom and Dad were at work.

I was at home usually in leggings and tee or hoodie if it was chill. Nobody said anything. I got used to it. It was comfortable, because why? Only riding the bike with my junk tucked down and back was like a punishment for having it. Sometimes I thought my junk was good only for taking a leak.

I did what all the other kids did at summer break. Reading, mowing lawns, dusting, washing… And reading again.

The day did come and I finished the book. Did I fall in love with it? No, I didn't. It was too big. And it had no characters that I liked. Especially Scarlett. Bitch.

Then I thought I had to come to some conclusion. It will not end this way. I kinda come to my teacher and say I've read the book. Where is the proof? Sure thing, there will be some essay. Or something like that.

I started making notes. And then it downed to me – the book wasn't about Scarlett O'Hara. Because the book's title was Gone with the Wind. That bitch wasn't gone. Melanie was gone. The woman I'd prefer to be like. If I were a girl. Where Scarlett was fighting and bitching Melany was giving and loving. Then Melanie got what she gave – love and respect. Yes, she died young, but Scarlett didn't exactly win in the end either.

Why not men? The teacher would ask probably that question. Because in this book men were the circumstances that helped the main character, Melanie, and her bitchy counterpart Scarlett to evolve.

 

 

August was coming to an end. Emma and her friends were back. As well as kids, Sally and Ricky, too. We were getting ready for school. This year would be Emma's and Nathan's senior year and mine sophomore.

I tugged on jeans and a button-up for school, feeling the weight of ‘boy mode' settle back in. The rents and Emma didn't say a word.

In Maine the week before Labor Day was the first week after summer break. And yes, I was right, my English teacher Mr. Braun asked for an essay based on the last read book. The task wasn't personal for me. For others too. But they had to read different books, everyone had their own assignment. The essay had to be how the book's title related to what we had read.

I had my notes and the essay wasn't a problem. I handed it to Mr. Braun the next day. Will know the result after Labor Day probably.

Then the long weekend came. Our school football team went to Concord for one day. Cheerleaders too. Adults were busy with something. I got Ricky and Sally to babysit. Because Nathan was gone too because he's a football player. It's how Emma got to know him. Y'know the cliché – cheerleaders and footballers.

With two kids in tow, I went to Payson Park. It's not far away on foot and has a great children's playground. So I was sitting on the bench and rereading my favorite places from that book. Kids were playing and I kept an eye on them. Somebody sat down on the bench on my left. It was Mr. Braun, my English teacher.

“I've read your essay, Matty,” he said after we exchanged our greetings. “And I want to praise you. Once a mischievous unkempt tomboy you have grown into a smart responsible young lady.”

WHAT?! What young lady? I always was in boy mode around school!

“Thank you, sir,” I said instead.

“There was only one girl years ago, who noticed the great character of Melanie in this novel. This girl is now a vice-principal in our school.”

“Huh…” what else could I say?

“By the way,” he asked, “Matty is short of Matilda?”

“No! It's short of Mathew!”

“Ha-ha, I like your sense of humor,” Mr. Braun patted my back and stood up to leave.

“Mathew? Ha-ha…” he left shaking his head.

 

 

The End?

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