A young Irish lad transplanted to rural Middle America upholds the dancing traditions of Ireland in an unusual manner after being taunted by his freind.

A Colleen In Clover
by Deela Eon

"Gee, that's a stupid idea, carrot top!!" scoffed Paul atop his farm's log fence with me. "None's gonna make a St. Patrick's Day parade in Four Clovers 'cause there ain't any Irish here--'cept you 'n your folks! There's just Poles n' Czechs 'round here!"

"Americans don't mind celebrating St. Pat's in stores!" I retorted sourly to my eighth-grade American schoolmate and neighbor.

"Sure, the sales are great! Look Jerry, it just ain't gonna happen! Why should we wear green when we grow enough of it?"

Being Dublin born I was naturally slighted by Paul's assertion, as soberingly truthful as it was.

I was just past 12 when my father, an agriculture specialist outside Londonderry, was reassigned by his company to South Dakota in America, to set up a branch office in the county seat of Mitchell. There, in a newspaper Dad spotted a farm foreclosure whose asking price 'was an offer I could not refuse', as he put it, and we new age Irish homesteaders moved twenty miles to, ironically enough, the tiny farming depot of Four Clovers. If Ireland was a land of rolling green heather then Four Clovers South Dakota was a flat infinity of gold when wheat and oats and other cereals were in flower.

The vastness of the land took my breath away while the excitement made me yawn. The only thing that broke the boredom were long fast school buses to the county school and holidays. I did exceedingly well at grammar school thanks to Ireland's higher standards as well as my demanding father and mother, and that proficiency extended to extracurricular activities like 4-H and Boy Scouts and charities.

While I was ever surprised by the nonchalance and unflappable candor of Americans, they somehow seemed just as intrigued by me, calling me chivalrous and charming no less, but they were most fascinated by my 'choirboy brogue', which strangely made me the giggling focus of many female classmates. This attention didn't go unnoticed by my budding pubescent instincts what my first wet dreams and soon finding myself simultaneously enthralled and sheepish of my tightening underwear in the company of tickled American lasses.

Were such arousals confined to them it would've been dandy for my composure, however, I soon experienced a spillover of sorts occurring whenever winning a school race or a Scouts' archery contest or any triumphed activity drew me a crowd of compliments and congratulations, when all my excitement and flattery stroked my vanity enough to 'set me off' as it were. It's said that for some people just making speeches or jogging or singing gospel gave them a 'rush,' so I suppose being the center of attention was mine.

Otherwise I adapted pretty well to America, with my nearest peer being Paul Pavlis who was two years older and forty pounds stockier and lived almost a mile away, and who showed me some fishing holes and caves and how to wrestle greased swine and other fun rural diversions. Because he didn't share my penchant for reading and dramas, we were drawn together mostly from the longing to relate to a peer once a while rather than true friendship. It seemed my reputation as a boring nerd was following me even here.

Here. A community named Four Clovers yet not one Irish eye smiling!

"I say, if you're going to have a holy day on the calendar, then you should celebrate it!" I staunchly told Paul.

"Sure, then go right ahead and dance in Four Clovers square and see who'd care!"

That really stiffened my backbone. "Well, perhaps I just might do that! Show the farmers around her that St. Pat's is more than just a fast sale day!"

"How ya gonna do that, carrot top?"

"Well--I'm a member of the Celtic folk dance club back home in Dublin and I think I can show you folks a taste or two of Ireland."

"Dancing? You mean that Irish tap dancing stuff you see on TV?"

"There're called step-dancing and slip jigs among some."

"Yea, that's pretty cool. We see films about that in school. It's cool. You know all that?"

"I've been dancing since I was four. I've won many awards."

"Let me see," he dubiously said.

"You really need something harder than dirt to dance on."

"Just show me a little, that's all."

I sighed and dropped from the fence and assumed the start stance then beat my toes into the dusty earth. My passion caught up with me to trample weaving shallow grooves in the dirt before throwing in a few high kicks that ended my breathless passion.

"Wow, that was neat!" Paul said. "How you able to stomp so machine gun fast like that?"

"Practice," I said, somewhat smugly of a sip of flattery for the day. "So, you think if I did a presentation here people would like it?"

"If you mean dance in Four Clovers square..." he shrugged his shoulders.

"What's that mean?"

"Well, you dance great and stuff, but I don't think too many people are gonna turn out to see a guy doing sissy dances."

I bridled, "Sissy dance?! Clans and soldiers have been dancing it a thousand years old! Older than your bloody country here!"

"Hey, easy, easy! I'm only telling you what guys think whenever we see them Irish siss--er, guys on TV dancing like that. Now it's a lot different when Irish girls do it."

"What difference does that make? It's the same dance!" I retorted and he slyly chuckled.

"Because when girls dance it's just--just cuter that's all. The nice way they look and the way their skirts fly up whenever they kick high with their nice long legs. I bet if they danced in Four Clovers you'd get lots of guys and people coming out to see them!"

"But not for guys, right?" I sourly said to his shrug, feeling worst because I sensed much of what he said was true. "It's not fair."

"Well, maybe you should've been born a 'Irish lassie,' carrot top!" he wistfully japed to my smirk.

Nevertheless I took my proposal to mom.

"That's very civic of you, Jerry. It'd be nice to put on a little show in the spirit of the day, but don't expect a crowd like your folk dance exhibitions do back home."

"Why?"

"Well, this is America, and traditional folk dancing's not exactly tops in their faves. You have to be a very special young man to draw a crowd for what's an eclectic dance to them."

You're saying what Paul said is right about the girls?"

"To a point. Unfortunately, in America it's almost acceptable to be titillated by very young girls, like child starlets acting grownup and that sad JonBenet mess. Tis a sick appeal but it's there."

"Still, son--" father added gamely "--I'll back you up two hundred percent if you'd really like to cast a piece of the green in this county."

"Thanks, father," I wearily sighed, going to bed utterly crestfallen. Admittedly not all of my passion was civic-minded though it didn't make my desire any less sincere, still there was a lot of incentive in that public players receive lots of delicious 'stroking' from their flattering audience...

Then it hit me.

Or rather Paul's wild quip.

***

At breakfast I dropped mother my idea. She was amused and enchanted. Father blurted in his coffee. "You want to what??"

"It'd fetch me a bigger crowd to dance to and learn about the real Ireland and St. Patrick's Day, father. It's not like I've never folk danced in public before, right?"

"But prancing as a--a lassie??"

"It's not like I'm trying to be one -- just pass for one in my kilt!"

"What difference does that make?"

"Dad, most Americans don't know Irish wear kilts too besides for the the Scots! That's why it'll work! They already think it's sissy for a guy to wear kilts and that no guy here would dare wear one, so they'll just assume that I'm a girl in a fancy dress!"

Father scratched his cheek, obviously unenthused. "And you just -- thought this idea up!"

"Oh come now, Duncan!" Mom chafed, "It's not like he's putting on a dress!"

"Tis the idea of it! Passing for a lass! Doesn't the lad have any self-esteem?"

"Dad, it's not like I really want to, but if it gets me and St. Pat's more attention out here why not? You always say the world would be better place if everyone knew about another's cultures."

"Well, at least it's a pragmatic reason," mom wryly jabbed father in a funny way and snickered back.

"Jerry--" father began semi-enthused, "Tis a noble thing you're wanting to do, son, but don't you think that that's wee bit--dishonest? Lying on behalf of a saint?"

"It's not lying, father, it's -- spreading the word!"

"Perhaps...but if folks around here find out who you really are, you'll never live down the teases and jokes from the locals."

"Father, the locals hardly see me except when you drive to town for Mr. Harder's supplies. All my school friends and scouts are in Mitchell. The only ones around here who really knows me up close is Paul's family and I'll be on the lookout for them! So who's going to tell them I'm a guy?"

Father nearly twitched his mustache off at that. "Jerry, don't you feel a wee funny about pretending to be a lass?"

"What pretend? I don't have to do anything to let people think so!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, quizzically asked and I bit my lip at my mindless blurt because in explaining it I'd be swallowing denial and a battered male ego with no little bitter sauce.

"Dad...I know I don't look like Brad Pitt. I've been overhearing people -- even family -- saying I look like Velvet Brown with a crew cut ever since second grade -- and it was rough even back then!!"

Mother ruefully nodded even as Dad blushed at my sober alluding to the star of the old 'National Velvet' film. "True, kids can be so cruel."

"Forget the kids! You know how many times stupid substitute teachers since first grade kept shoving me on the bathroom line with the girls? Point is, I don't have to anything but show up in my kilt and dance and just let people think what I am while I'm entertaining them!"

Father grumbled, dubious as he was deeply concerned of my "manly reputation. "Still can't see why you can't simply do it as a boy!"

"Me too, dad, but Paul said it himself; watching girls dance brings more guys out than guys! Besides if I could coax more guys out to see a girl dance the first time, the word will get around and more people will come see next year when I won't have to pass as a girl."

"Perfect business sense, Duncan." Mom remarked.

Father smirked back, "Maureen--"

"Well, I think his logic's true and his heart pure, Duncan. You've a strapping son there, and I deeply doubt that doing the Lord's work promoting a saint is going to corrupt his virility any."

"Tis like what Shakespeare said, father; 'the play's the thing, not the players.'"

Father grumbled if a cause lost. "Oh, what's the use? Just hope the neighbors don't catch any of this or the bowling club will be laughing me out of town! Oh, go do it -- but if you're caught, I knew nothing!"

"Thanks dad!" I gave him a quick hug and he sighed to mom.

"Saints be praised! No one's going to tell who he really is, Maureen, right?"

"Of course, with a wig he'll be even more convincing!" mom quipped and Father grumbled.

"Oh, I think I can fix him up some," she slyly smiled " -- and I think I've finally a project to keep that nagging local quilting bee off my back!"

"What do you mean?" Father and I quizzically chorused.

"Why your dance costume, of course!"

"But I already have a kilt!"

"I'm talking about 'her' costume, dear."

"'Her'?? Who her??" I asked with sudden foreboding. "But I told you how I'm going to--"

"Really, Jerry O'Rourke! You didn't expect to just go prancing out front a street of people in a boy's costume with your hair clipped like a boy when you're supposed to be convincing them you're a lass??"

The pit of my stomach fell at her sly devious grin and I turned to Dad for help and only got an almost smug smile expecting me to drop my intentions like a hot potato, which in a weird way would've been even more unmanly doing.

"What -- do you plan on doing, Mom?"

"Preserving your manly reputation -- and your father's honor -- from any sissy taint by giving your audience what they expect to see."

"Huh??"

"Now, have you also conjured up a colleen's name for your pretty posing?"

"Name??"

"Yes, like Kerry or Erin or Aislynn or Bonnie--"

"But those are girls' names!"

"Of course -- to match your 'act,' right? Unless you plan on announcing yours to all those farm folk!"

"Oh, yea. That's right..." I muttered with great misgivings and noticing dad looking at me with a tacit hope that I'd back out tempered by my commitment to follow through with a open promise

A man's word was supposed to be stronger than any muscle or steel.

"Huh, I -- I guess Aislynn's a nice name," I conceded without really being picky. Mother beamed.

"A pretty pick to be sure! Let's say, Aislynn Derry, shall we?"

"And remember--" father put in like it was critical; "If anyone asks where 'Aislynn' came from, just say that she's your Dublin cousin come visiting us a day to honor our county with her dance. No mingling with folks or even shaking hands! In and out, understand?"

I nodded, puzzled by father's apprehensions. I mean all I'd have to was show up, dance a few folk routines and say something historical about St. Pat's and leave, but somewhat things seemed a lot more complicated to him.

The local quilting bee dropped that weekend and this time Mom had a sly semi-civic project to titillate them with besides another Girl Scout cookie drive, and after studying Celtic albums and books they got to work on my -- "Aislynn's" -- costume with admirable devotion, even if they weren't Irish. A day after mom announced it to the two-page local newspaper, we bought the next day's issue where on the front page was a banner "Celebrate St. Patrick's Day with the Emerald Isle's own Aislynn Derry as she performs traditional Irish dance in Four Clovers Square."

I nearly fell off my chair.

"They want to know more about Aislynn's exhibition, Mom said after a phone call from the paper.

"Exhibition? It's just a bloodly jig!" father exclaimed with funny tenseness.

"Well, it seems that Jerry's got some coattails jumping on; three home schooling groups want to sing Irish ballads and the local feed company wants to sponsor a barbershop quartet."

Father gulped. "Quartet?? Ballads? Look, are you sure you want to do this, lad??" he asked again, badly trying not to sound discouraging.

"It's not that I want to, father, I have to. I want to show everyone that there's a reason for St. Pat's. Besides, I made a bet with Paul."

"A bet's only worthy a sweepstakes, son!"

***

St. Patrick's Day arrived and my parents drove my nervousness to nearby Four Clovers, which was hardly more than a slightly more modern version of a one-street wild west town in those cowboy movies.

Only nervousness muting my petrified male ego's chagrin being snugly enveloped in it, I sat our car's rear seat wearing white gloves folded upon the pleated skirt of a snug heather-green velvet dress with elaborate embroidery and shawls and waist tassels. Mom's proud quilting bee had outdone itself fashioning me an authentic folk dance costume worthy any at my dance club home. The patterns came straight from Celtic lore and scrolls and the ruffled lace on the collar, cuffs and hem flounce were real, well, Irish lace of course. Its fluted skirt was actually a culotte to -- supposedly -- make me and my qualms feel like I was wearing a boy's flared shorts more than a skirt, but from the outside you sure couldn't tell the difference from a skirt!

It took over two hours prepping me in the morning, starting after a deep bath when Mom faced me in my bathrobe with a package of super sheer beige pantyhose. As a dancer I was no stranger to tights but not pantyhose, which was a whole other animal not intended for a stage.

"What do I need those for?" I warily asked Mom, who smiled.

"To better shape and sleek out your legs, of course. These are super- sheer so it'll hardly seem like you're wearing pantyhose but just natural sleek girl legs. You eye them at school enough to know what I'm talking about!"

I blushed and grumbled. "Yea, but I didn't expect wearing any!"

She simply sniggered and had me pull on the hosiery in the bathroom, though I confess it felt a lot different from wearing colored woolen tights, seeing how your legs suddenly looked and felt satiny slick and blemishlessly sleek. But my fascination was cut short by another shock --

"Panties??" I gushed at mom, nearly about to throw in the towel at the sight of the ruffled mint-green undies. "No way!!"

"You'll be kicking your heels high before an audience, half of whom are rude and lewd enough to peer up your slips and ruffles to catch a peek at your undies, Jerry. Do you want them wondering what boys' briefs are doing flashing up there??"

I muttered and fumed but admitted she was right, though my chagrin was mollified a little in the bathroom by the eerily pleasing way the satin garment slipped up my legs and hugged my waist, though that felt strange and awesome, it was upstaged by my bodice's padded modest mounds --

"To accent Aislynn's blossoming, dear!" Mom asserted with glee, and despite my balking male ego my cultivated fine art sense appreciated the craftsmanship the local seamstresses created in the costume's graceful lines and lacework and by itself it was easily worth several thousand pounds back home as a genuine traditional folk dance garment. Anyway, accenting a girls' figure wasn't all bad if it'd help conceal the truth within. Faking small boobs was a little embarrassing, but then so were skirts and pantyhose. In addition I wore the standard frilly white anklets and patent leather dance slippers from a bee member's trunk that were worked with new treaded patterns and taps and satiny ankle ribbons.

Holding a trouper's stiff upper lip, I was really starting to regret my decision when mother brought in her Avon and Maybelline arsenal and began attacking my face with creams and dusting powders.

I balked; "Mom -- do I really need all this??"

"Just think of it as a mask to muddle the boy's face underneath -- unless you'd rather try to fake a girl's face on your own..."

I smirked and grudgingly declined to her "recommendation" and endured tiny brushes licking my eyelashes and dark thick pencils tracing my eyebrows and coral sticks running my lips with a waxy slick coating. When mom finally produced and draped a fluffy mane of lush raven curls over my short fair locks, father looked like he was going to spit with dismay.

"Be hanged if he doesn't look that girl!!" he effused with equal parts awe and dismay, and knowing the 'girl' he meant only further piqued me to shun any mirrors to preserve my whittled male self-esteem, even though curiosity was nagging me like Lot's wife. Father quickly recomposed and looked a little nonplused as though trying to figure out whether to compliment or sympathize before giving me a somehow uncomfortable meager smile and a pat on the shoulder.

"Don't fret, son. Be over in an hour." he said as though to a warrior son about to endure some lethal ritual gauntlet.

"Actually I'm a little excited, father!" I blurted, not meaning for my less than altruistic hopes to slip out.

We were astonished by what met us on Main Street.

There were dozens of people mingling around, almost all wearing various greens and some kids running around in leprechaun Halloween costumes and even a volunteer fire truck draped with sheets tucked as bunting and flourishes just like for a pageant queen's float. It even had 'Aislynn Derry' painted on one of the sheets.

I was aghast. "All for me??"

"That's America!" chimed mother.

With great skittish I slided out our car to be greeted by mayor Bradley who was also Sheriff and Postmaster and Dog Catcher and who helped me up on the fire truck for a short parade of the tiny town to wave back to several scores of beaming people flaunting outlandish four leaf clovers and green socks and even a green-dyed dog. The attention and welcome and genuine regard literally swept away my consternation and self-consciousness of being spotted as a guy in disguise. I mean if they couldn't tell on first and second sight by now...

"I didn't know you celebrated St. Pat's like this!" I said in awe.

"We don't, little lady! First time!" Mayor Bradley exclaimed; "It's kinda like that 'Stone Soup' story, you know? When they heard that a real Irish lass from Ireland was coming to dance in the square, everyone in hooting distance decided to come to throw in their own potpourri! Hey, it beats watching wheat grow!"

Leon's General store cleared their wide wooden porch as a stage for me and I walked up and announced myself then gave a brief history of St. Patrick's Day then to the Irish songs from mom's tape recorder, I did a rendition of step-dancing and slip jigs while the onlookers clapped along. Taking a cue from other exhibitions my troupe did, I invited kids to come front to emulate my slow high kicks and tap stepping and everyone had fun. I didn't even mind the somehow lewd way several older boys and some men were grinning whenever my skirt flounced high with my kicks and peering through. It was naughty of them, yet there was something deliciously flattering in their gawks and ogling as it rushed waves of delicious warmth through me and tingled deep my flouncy skirt...

O Lordy!...

Happily I was distracted from further excitement when knots of dancers morphed into a free for all country square dance Irish-style up and down the street to the hoots and claps of onlookers then a local radio station van raced up and the spiffy reporter began to interview me and I wished I rehearsed Aislynn's bogus history better. I was uneasy about making up stories to begin with, and as I struggled through a smile I spotted with a gasping jolt a face in the excited onlookers.

Oh no!

Paul!

Few locals knew my true face up close better than Paul, and suddenly I was terrified that my wig and makeup and outfit just wouldn't be near enough to fool him to not give me away. Perhaps more, I simply didn't want to be a boy caught dead looking like this before a junior macho American boy.

I turned my back towards Paul to complete my interview then managed to slip into the general store which was happily playing to an impromptu crowd, and after a bit of stealthy footwork found my way out the back and slipped for my family's car--

A head popped up behind the car just as I reached the door.

My heart jumped.

Paul!

"Hi!" he called.

"H--Hi," I answered, anxiously keeping my face pitched down, wondering just how to explain this breech of fledgling machohood.

"Yea, well, I just wanna say that you're one spiffy hoofer, Aislynn!"

"Uh, I -- uh??" I blinked aback.

Aislynn??

He was dead front of me and couldn't tell??

Maybe -- maybe if I didn't give him any time to notice anything familiar --

"Hoofer? Oh--er, yes, dancer. Er, thank you,." I replied in a soft voice as low was my head at my velvet suede toes as my beating dread heard him come around the car and I was nervous as hell.

"So you're Jerry's cousin, huh? Wow! Sure do look a little like him!"

"Er, like you your father too I'm sure."

"Except you're prettier."

I blushed. "I'm sure your mother is too."

"Aren't you staying around?"

"No, I--I have to pack for the airport. I--fly tonight."

"Shucks. I would've liked to've shown you around, you know? The new fishing hole, the salt marsh, even the Miller place that burnt down."

"I--I'm sure it's all very interesting. Er, sorry I'll miss it."

"Me too," he said, and eerily I felt eyes scanning me all over.

"Green eyes, black hair and skin light as fresh cream."

My male ego winced. "Pardon?"

"Well, most the kids 'round here look like they were born in wheat fields, you know, blonde 'n fair 'n all? You're a nice change for looking pretty. A real nice change!"

Swamping my male ego's instinctive snicker a giggle escaped me.

O Lordy! For a girl-less dork he sure flatters well!...

My tickled vanity coaxed me to recklessly look up and he smiled at me. "Yea, you're even prettier up close!"

I timidly smiled as a titillated swell of tingly warm rushed me again, swirling and congealing deep my skirt. "I--I thank you very much."

"You sure look a lot like Jerry, that's for sure! You could be more his twin sister than a cousin."

With a gasp I shied my face. "A--lot of people say that."

"I tease Jerry a lot, but he's a nice guy. His voice knocks me out, just like yours--'cept yours' a little higher and your legs way nicer."

I blushed over a stifled smirk. "Girls generally do."

"Hey, there lassie!!"

We spun as Mr. Harder tramped out of his general store towards us and my heart sank. Of all the stores from whom I carried out supplies for father, it had to be him! "Hello there, little lady -- er, lassie,

right?"

"Er, yes sir."

"I see you're one pretty popular missy today! We're gonna miss you when you fly home." He frowned with an amused smile. "Goodness, you sure do look like your cousin. Down to the freckles!"

"Er, he's got more, sir,"

"I wouldn't know about that. I've a photographic memory; couldn't run my store without one, you know? And your face -- declare, except for that hair and your--youthful figure, I could swear that you're--"

"Er, Mr. Harder--" Paul injected "--I just saw Jerry a minute ago on the hay cart ride."

"You did? I gotta go then! I've got some Cokes to shake some thirst! Well, nice meeting you pretty Miss!"

"Er, thank you sir." I meekly said, my glove shaking his hand before he strode off. There was a heavy pregnant silence when I felt almost dazed with chagrin. It's a boy's worst nightmare being caught in girls' clothes by other guys you see a lot and know you, and though I'd a legitimate excuse I was sure I'd be suffering heaps of ribbing and teasing for centuries to come.

"I...thank you," I meekly said, waiting for the blow of my name.

"You're welcome," Paul said and again there was a taut quiet between us and I could feel my mildly mounded bodice pound.

"You know, it's too bad Jerry really doesn't have a twin sister like you," Paul continued, sounding like he was thinking on the way. "I mean, it'd be so cool, like you always being around here, you know?"

"Uh--"

"I don't mean here -- I mean out our farms back home. I kinda wish Jerry had a sister like you I could talk to. Someone pretty to sit next to and watch the sun go down and shooting stars and to talk with. I mean, Jerry's nice and all, but someone like you would be even neater."

Blushing again, I nibbled my lower lip.

Could I really STILL be fooling him??

"Don't you -- talk with your sister?" I asked and he shrugged.

"Sure, in a way, but she's mostly interested in giggling with her friends over boys and dresses and stuff, you know? Besides, it's not the same because you want a girl who you can call your friend, even past brothers or pals, you know?"

"Uh...I -- dunno."

"I mean, it'd be perfect if Jerry had a twin sister a lot like you, you know?" he said in an odd wistful way that captured my eyes like a soft vice. "I mean it'd be so neat, Aislynn, if he had a sister who's a clone of you-- who's just like you. It'd be so awesome different having three of us together having fun, talking..."

He gave a funny pause then gazed me even deeper, more wistfully, almost like a plea. "I like Jerry a lot, I mean he's a great guy and he's no kinda sissy, but I sometimes wish that he sleepwalked as a girl, you know?"

That startled me. "No! I -- I mean, you do??"

"Yea, whenever there's a full moon when everything's almost light as dawn, and when he sleepwalks he climbs out his window and goes to the Salvation Army clothes bin on the road to pick out cool girls' stuff to wear -- not jeans and sneakers like all do, but real nice frilly girly stuff, you know? Then comes back to the fence on the far road where we can talk about -- all kinds of stuff that I can't talk with Jerry about."

"What kind of stuff??" I suddenly deeply wanted to know but he only gave one of those shy sly smiles.

"Just -- stuff. Stuff I wish I could tell a swell dude friend like Jerry but only if he was a girl."

"But -- what difference does that make? Aren't we -- you two best friends?"

"Sure we are...but things are getting different now, and there're things you notice more than guys now, like cars and football and -- chicks..."

He seemed a little abashed slipping that out, as I was hearing it but I kept still. "You know, girls. They used to be stupid things to me, but now they're so awesome to look at, to listen to. One day, I'm gonna ask one to the movies, like Joyce Schaffer."

Joyce Schaffer?? I barely stifled my smirk at his adoration of our junior high's most precociously endowed giggly thirteen-year-old bunny, even though she had my tongue wagging out too.

"So why don't you?" I asked like a veiled dare, awed by this admission, this side of Paul.

"Naw...still -- too scared of girls I guess."

"You're talking with me, aren't you?" I quipped, taking myself aback at how I suddenly assumed the role of his concern. Then I was really feeling werid all over somehow, like I was enjoying fooling my best friend so right in his face and seeing him being to shy and humble yet bold and cocky. It was like peeking on another side of him kept from me.

"Yea, you're so much like Jerry it's easy. That's why I wish he'd a twin sister just like you to know fresh all over again. To treat -- like you can't treat another guy else it'd look too -- too --"

"Queer?" I put in, sounding innocent of its American meaning.

"Yea, kinda..." he said rather sheepishly then looked at me as though for the first time all over again then shook his head in awe. "Oh man, you're so pretty! You look exactly like that girl in National Velvet!"

"I do??" It was a stupid wondrous blurt that made my eyes mindlessly flicker forward to the rearview mirror and startled, I gasped because it was startlingly true, seeing a beautiful tween actress gawking back where my face should've been. Granted, over my life I grudgingly noticed a vague resemblance in our bathroom mirrors and storefront reflection, but Mom's magic had enhanced and pulled out that ghostly girl into startling clarity.

No wonder dad swore so awkwardly after seeing Mom's handiwork.

Geeze! This wasn't doing my male self-esteem worth a shit, seeing the knockout chick I made. No wonder men and boys were gawking me so.

Like Paul. Now I understood his attention to me. Such hopeless attention wishing on a lie. I felt like a heel. I was also feeling something else growing wild in me, like blind feedback spellbound at Velvet gawking back in my mirror, with wet-shiny coral lips partly agape and wide violet eyes fringed by feathery lashes on a creamy perfect child-star face.

"Aislynn? Aislynn!" I heard familiar voices jolting me from my wild spell as Mom and Dad came up and into the car. "Time to go, dear --er, Aislynn. Oh, Hi Paul!"

"Hi, Mrs. O'Rourke. Just telling Aislynn how great she looks and dances. I really feel bad that she's leaving."

"You and me both," mother said with a funny sigh my way, and I hurriedly slid into the back seat, hoping something normally experienced in my bedroom over father's hidden Playboys didn't poke obvious as my clasped gloves perched my skirted lap's deep secret swell while Paul leaned into my car window.

"Aislynn, I really like Jerry, even though I tease him a lot. He's a great guy and my very best pal!"

I averted my eyes. "Thank you -- I mean, I--I'm glad."

"And he's got one neat pretty cousin I'm really gonna miss," he professed, the twinkle of his grinning regard further rousing a warm delicious swell deep my skirt stroking me silly while balling into a tight throbbing knot.

Oh Lordy!

Then I gasped as Paul impulsively lunged to peck my cheek with his lips! -- and like a pricked soap bubble, triggered something inside me and my lap that seized me like an electric silk vice tingling me all over--

O Gosh--!!

--Squeezing the knot deep my lap tight, tighter, breathlessly tight, hazing out th world and all sound and even thought then suddenly a sweet muffled pop' like a hundred wet wistful dreams over a dozen centerfolds bursting all at once in a deep long sigh, and I was suddenly a limp balloon, lazily falling down from the edge of space like a swirling whirling thistledown...

Ohhhhh...!

"Aislynn? Aislynn?..."

Mom??

Was that mom calling from my sweet foggy haze?

In a swimmy daze, I groped to break the surface of a daydream and my new long eyelashes fluttered open to the light to see mom frowning at me with puzzled concern back over the front seat while Paul peered down through the door window above me as though -- as though I was slumped over the back couch on my side!

With a sheepish smile I sat erect on the rear seat and mindlessly as it was cute, pushed away a lush raven curtain veiling one side of my face. "Uh, I -- I just -- slipped. Sorry."

"That's alright," Paul said with a wink and wave. "Bye, Aislynn!"

I sheepishly waved back, trying to ignore that somewhere snug and hidden I was very clammy damp.

But it also felt so -- strangely naughtily delightful!

"I think you made an impression on Paul!" Mom chuckled as my panting breath and bewilderment sheepishly groped erect and rather dizzily I waved back to Paul as father pulled off. "But really,Jerry, don't you think that swooning's a wee bit overacting??"

***

I startled Paul behind his quiet perch on the back road's old log fence in the balmy twilight as my slightly scuffed used brown penny loafers and powder lime ankle socks climbed up even as my muddled male ego's misgivings cruelly mocked my off-the-wall dare and longing.

Lo! Why am I really doing this? Am I just - crazy??

"O wow!..." Paul breathed aloud while gawking my sidle beside him as I prissily draped and spread my paisley green jumper's skirt over my lime tights' huddled knees then I faced him and brushed a stray raven tress from my cheek and forced a smile over my nervousness, knowing that if I read his flippant banter wrong that I'd never live this down.

"Hi," I breathed over an anxious shyness in the sweetest softest rip of junior high bunny voices, just like their gestures and moves too. I shoved from my mind that it was such a super-sissy thing to do, just like sneaking into musty Salvation Army bins to try on girls' shoes and dresses.

"Uh, hi!" he said with a funny curious shy smile not of humor but an almost wonder and intrigue that lifted my self-confidence.

"I'm Erin. Aislynn's twin -- but any name you give me's fine."

"Uh -- Erin'?? Oh, er -- er, uh, Erin's okay I guess," Paul nearly sputtered, as though unsure to try a surprise new bike or whether I was putting him on. Was I?

I swallowed and looked out the flat horizon. "It -- was such a pretty sunset that--I thought I'd slip out and see it with a friend -- a new friend, then maybe watch some shooting stars and -- maybe just talk about mysterious things you'll never tell my brother!" I teased to drown anxiety, praying I didn't sound more sissy than fem.

"Brother??" Paul quizzically blurted before my firm hinting stare finally sank in. "Brother? Oh -- him! Er, sure. I mean, there's some stuff that guys can't talk to guys about because it's stuff you only tell -- uh, girls, you know?"

"Well, I hope you can tell me!" I lightly chaffed, impulsively brushing back a long raven tress rushing my cheek as though demurely emphasizing my 'Velvet Brown' likeness, even sensing a weird sly smugness in the feminine motion and recalling its effect upon me in the car's rearview mirror and projecting how it must affect him in turn. Just like it was faintly stirring now deep my skirt.

"Heck, I'll tell you stuff till the cows come home -- and the goats too!" he japed like a virgin bragging a suaveness never earned or tried, and at that moment almost giddy relief swept me because I knew I wouldn't be mocked or derided posing this way because reality was suspended where Jerry was just a third party and Erin was Paul's fancy come true. He wasn't quite sure exactly who or what 'Erin' was; a jesting role-play character, a female multiple personality, or even Jerry sleepwalking out a wild crossdressing fantasy, but he knew it was the start of a game he wistfully suggested in town and wildly hoped I'd bite.

But then I was still grappling with the reasons I did.

"Good. I'm so glad to hear that, Paul," I sweetly said, the feedback of his shy smile pumping my confidence and secret sir. "But you're never going to talk about 'carrot top' whenever we're together or ever, right?"

"Talk? Er, no, no, not if you don't want."

"I don't. I hope we could be different best friends just between us, Paul. Not anyone else. Not our brothers or other friends, only us, right?"

"Er, sure!" Paul said, and again I caught him sneaking glances at the rounded huddled knees peeking out the edge of my skirt and at the mild twin mounds padding out my bodice. I barely reined back a giddy giggle of victory at that because it meant he not only didn't see me as Jerry in drag but not even a boy, which was a weird alien comprehension that wafted me a warm fuzzy feeling of smug coy self-esteem.

"Oh -- and don't mention me to anyone else, especially 'him', alright? The friendship you have with him's still the same in every way, but just never ever mention me, alright?"

"Uh, sure."

"Because if you do or it ever slips out, it'll be like you prickled a soap bubble and made it pop and I can't come back any more with you."

He sat erect with concern. "Huh? Oh shit. I mean -- no, I won't say anything to nobody! No way! Promise!"

"Good. I really want to start off being new friends the right way, Paul. Like you said, it's better than sitting here watching corn grow, right?"

"Sure! You said it!" he gushed with a chuckle and I felt a breathless giddy rush when his eyes flickered at my knees again and with school locker room banter awareness I knew he wished to rest his palm there like junior jock brag doing. My balking male ego wasn't sure whether I should oblige my tickled flattery yet if ever, still his desire shot a delicious wonder through me of Paul regarding me so boldly.

His grinning eyes bounced off my bodice's mild mounds which heaved with my flattered breath. Yes, his straying eyes were definitely feeding my stir!

"I -- I know I don't look pretty as I did this afternoon, " I demurely apologized, again teasing back my raven locks and feeling not a little sly and impish in my mock vanity. "It's going to take a while for me to learn to be better like I was. Hope you don't mind?"

"Mind??" he sputtered like half a cackle of victory as though picturing me again as glamourised as Aislynn was earlier. "No, it's okay! I mean you're perfect! Awesome! Really, Erin. More than really," he asserted even as he quietly squirmed in a funny way which sent a thrilled giggle escaping me as tingles of flattery rushed my spine and balled into a delicious warm knot deep my skirt.

Just like I knew was happening deep his denim lap.

Giggle!

And maybe that was the driver of my bold being here. Sharing another's secret erotic feedback on a new level deeper than mere friendship. I wasn't exactly sure whether I was a kind of sensual vampire feeding off my best friend's flattery or whether I was stroking a deeper thrill of being someone completely different who could temporarily toss Jerry's life script to the wind. I only knew that things were way different between us now, that early evenings would never be the same anymore. Admitting you're very pretty all dolled up was big male ego hump to get over, but once on top i could see what other boys and men saw today and it was an awesome revelation in more ways than one. I sensed in my lady-looks more than just comely attraction, but a draw that was almost strong as magnetic force and if I learned to use it like a child learns to use a knife and fork, in a sneaky was I could make a boy sit up and beg...

Awesome!

Paul smiled at me in the waning twilight like Romeo conjuring up some tales to spin a newfound Juliet and that image tickled my sly flattered imagination wild, like maybe one starry twilight Paul might evolve into a commanding suave jock overwhelming my demureness and maybe reach to touch my hand or even brashly caress my knee or sneak his arm around my waist and draw me closer and maybe even startle and stun my stubborn male ego as his face eclipses the moon and stars lowering over mine.

But for now just talking close was titillating enough.

FIN
***