by Justme

---

 

Chapter 9: A leopard can't change its spots

Knock, knock.

"Don't come in, I'm not decent."

"Oh. I've got your foam tape. What do you want me to do with it?"

"Just leave it by the door; I'll get it in a little bit. Thanks."

I'm trying to sound cheerful, or at least normal, but I guess it's not working 'cause Mom says, "Are you OK, sweetie?" It's hard to sound happy when your nose is all stuffed up from crying.

I intend to say "Sure, fine" but for some reason it comes out "No, not really."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really." Do I? I dunno, but it seems safer not to say anything and try to work it out myself.

"Are you sure? You sound pretty upset about--whatever it is."

"No, not really."

"Not really upset, or not really sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Um, the second one I guess. Let me get something on." Hey, I tried, but she just wore me down.

"OK, sweetie. I'll be right here; just let me in when you're ready."

All right, let's see if I can do this without weirding myself out this time. Don't look in the mirror, don't look in the mirror, pull on the panties and the jeans quick so I don't have time to think about it, don't look in the freakin' mirror, where'd I throw that bra? Ah, there it is, don't look in the damn mirror crap crap crap I shoulda turned it around don't look don't look hook it in back, find the tissues and stuff 'em back in, pull the top on and OK I gotta look in the mirror now and hey, it's OK, it's me and I just look like me, like I'm supposed to look, and there's nothing to be scared of. I mean yeah, my face is a little scary, all puffy-eyed and blotchy, but at least I'm smiling.

"OK, you can come in now."

The door opens, and Mom looks at me with that look of pure love and concern that only moms can do. "What's the matter, sweetie? What happened?"

"Nothing, I just--it's that stupid mirror. I--" I'm getting myself upset again, tears are welling up in my eyes, and I have to pause to sniffle here. "I was going to change into something else and when I saw myself naked in the mirror--" I can't control it at all anymore; I just start sobbing. Mom holds me and I squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop the flow of tears, without much success. Between sobs I manage to say, "I hate my body."

"But you look fine, sweetie. There's nothing wrong with your body."

What?! I stop sobbing, pull back and look her straight in the eye. "Everything's wrong with it, Mom! It's the wrong sex. I'm supposed to be a girl but I have the body of a boy." I guess I sound kind of angry, but it's frustrating that she still doesn't seem to be getting it.

And from the look in her eyes she still doesn't, though clearly she wants to. "I--oh, honey." She hugs me tight; she may not get what I'm upset about, but she at least seems to get that I'm really, really upset. "It's just that it never seemed to bother you before."

I have to think about this for a minute. "Well, it did, but--I dunno, I mean, I couldn't let it show, you know? I had to kind of hide it even from myself to keep from going nuts or giving myself away. Whenever I'd start to think about it I'd stop myself before I went too far. But it's always bothered me. A lot. I just never let myself think about how much."

I see the beginnings of comprehension on her face, just the bare beginnings mind you, but something else along with it--sorrow. The tears start trickling out of my eyes again, but I'm not sobbing anymore. Mom's eyes are glistening a little now, too. "Oh, Joey, Joey, Joey. How could I not have seen how unhappy you were? Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I was afraid."

"Afraid? Of what? You know we love you no matter what."

"Afraid you'd laugh at me, or treat me like a freak, or--I don't know what. I just didn't think you'd understand. I mean, why should you? I don't really understand. But at least I know how I feel and can sort of try to explain it." I have a thought that makes me laugh--a bitter laugh, not a happy one. "I'm having enough trouble putting it into words so you guys can understand now. Can you imagine me trying to get it across when I was five or six?"

Mom laughs too, a sympathetic, sad kind of laugh. "No, I guess not." She brushes a stray lock of hair out of my eyes with her fingers. "Five or six? That far back?"

"At least."

Her eyes widen a little. "Do you think--was it that time Livy made you wear one of her dresses? Is that when it started?"

I swear, I feel like I'm explaining this to a simple child. "No, Mom. She didn't make me wear a dress. She suggested it, but I was all for it. I already knew by then."

"Oh." She seems a little disappointed.

"I think I always knew."

"But you never said anything, even when you were little. Wouldn't you have said something?"

"It's just, you always made out like it wasn't all that important, like it didn't make that big of a difference one way or another whether someone was a boy or a girl. You pretty much treated us and dressed us the same, except when it came to getting all dressed up for some big occasion, which has always kind of bugged me but other than that it just didn't seem to be an issue."

"But I still treat you that way, don't I? Why is it an issue now?"

"I don't know, Mom. I just know it matters a lot more than I thought it did. It's not that I much care what anyone else expects of me, 'cause you know me better than that." Well, unless I'd be likely to get the crap beat out of me over it, anyway. "I don't really know how to explain it."

"Please keep trying. I want to understand." She's really bothered about this; I see worry on her face and hear a hint of desperation in her voice.

I take a deep breath and let it out, and after just sitting calmly and quietly for a while and letting thoughts and feelings wash over me, gradually some of them sort of seem to fit together and then suddenly it's like instead of random blobs of shape and color I see a picture and I think I see a way to say it so she'll get it.

"It's just that I'm finally getting old enough to where it really does matter. My body doesn't look like it's supposed to or work like it's supposed to. The differences weren't so much before, especially with clothes on but they're getting more and more important. Every day that goes by I look and feel less and less like me. And it's only going to keep getting worse and worse." And now I'm crying again. "I guess I need people to see me as a girl now 'cause it reassures me that I'm still me."

Mom just holds me. After what seems like ages, she asks, in a calm, gentle voice, "Why do you think--I mean, how do you know you're a girl?"

"I don't know, Mom. I just know."

"I'm sorry, Joey. I'm not trying to be difficult. It's just hard to see my baby hurting so much and not know how to make it better."

"I know. I wish I could explain it better. Now do you see why I never said anything before?"

"Mm-hm. And I have to admit it's a little hard to accept when you've always looked like a perfectly normal boy. Without those clothes on, anyway."

"I know that. It's what makes it so frustrating. Anyone can look at me naked and tell you I'm a boy, but only I know I'm not. My body's wrong."

"But if your mind disagrees with your body, isn't it easier to change your mind?"

"You'd think so, but no. Believe me, I've tried. No matter how hard I try though, I can't convince myself because deep down inside I know I'm a girl."

"Do you think a therapist could help you?"

The thought makes me cringe inside. "No."

"But--"

Apparently I need to be firmer. "No!" I have an idea. "Look, if you and someone else had your brains transplanted into each other's bodies, which one would be you? The one with your brain, or the one with your body?" It's from a book I read a while ago, by Heinlein, and I know Mom read it too 'cause I snagged it off her bedside table. Heinlein's one of our favorite authors.

"Well, the brain, of course. I'd still know I was me, even in a different body."

"See? My mind isn't broken. My mind is me, and my mind knows I'm a girl, and I don't want anyone messing around trying to 'fix' it 'cause that's me."

Mom sighs. "I guess I can understand how you feel. It's just that it seems as if it would be so much simpler if you could change your mind to match your body."

"Yeah, I know. But like I said, I've already tried, and if I can't change my own mind about it I don't want someone else trying. I mean, if they somehow succeeded I wouldn't be me anymore."

Another sigh. "No, I suppose not." And a squeeze. "And after all, it's you we love. Oh, what are we going to do with you, Joey?"

My turn to sigh now. "I don't know. I just know I can't go back to pretending I'm a normal boy."

"I hate to sound harsh, but is it really any easier pretending to be a normal girl?"

It hurts being reminded that I'm neither one nor the other, but she has a point. I think about it. I'm a little surprised at how clear the answer is. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Way easier."

"Well." She seems surprised at how quickly and certainly I answered. I kind of am too. But I am certain.

"I mean, it doesn't even feel like pretending, you know? Just, like, I've still got this secret I can't let anyone find out about. Same as always. But at least this way I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not."

"Hm." She considers for a minute. "I guess that settles it, then. From now on you're a girl."

Wow. I already was one, Mom, but it's nice to see you're finally coming around.

She lets out yet another sigh, this one verging on a groan. "I worry about you, and I have to admit I'm terrified of what's going to come of this, but the most important thing is that you're happy and that you can be who you need to be."

"I'm afraid too, a little," I admit. "But I am happy--happier than I've ever been." She looks skeptically at my tear-stained face. I can't help laughing. "Well, I am." She just hugs me and sighs again.

----------

OK, the mirror is up and I don't think it can come back down without completely destroying the closet door. Now, do I dare risk changing in front of this thing to try different outfits on? I think at least at first to be safe I'd better do the changing with my back to the mirror, and only turn around to look when I'm fully dressed.

Now, what should I try on first?

----------

I've decided I'm a lot like Linda. At least, we seem to have a pretty similar sense of personal style. I feel totally comfortable and at home in just about every outfit I've tried on. Well, except for that one dress--I guess it's supposed to be what they call a 'peasant dress' only it looks more to me like a pioneer-girl costume. Heck, if I put that on and wore my hair in pigtails I'd look just like Laura from Little House on the Prairie. Just as well I don't have any shoes to wear with it. Then again Laura usually went barefoot, didn't she?

----------

I really like this outfit. To heck with worrying about looking like I'm trying too hard--I'm gonna keep it on. It's a denim mini-dress that's kind of a little like overalls only with a skirt instead of pants at the bottom, and under it I've got on a bright robin's-egg-blue t-shirt with a much bigger neck opening than I'm used to which somehow makes it look pretty girly. Anyway my white "tennies" seem like they go OK with it--not great, but OK. The soles even kind of match the shirt.

Hm, I wonder how it'd look with my hair in a French braid?

----------

Much better. I don't know, somehow it felt like wearing a dress, the rest of me needed to be a little girlier too. Now for some Lip Smacker as a finishing touch.

Perfect!

Well, except for the scars on my knees--too many wipe-outs in gravel on my bike. My elbows too. Hopefully it's not too noticeable from a distance. Anyway, not too big a deal--I am known to be a bit of a tomboy, after all.

----------

"Wow, you look cute!" I blush. I'm still getting used to the idea of Livy not being mean to me, let alone giving me compliments. "Hey, did you do that to your hair yourself?" I smile and nod. "Nice. Could you show me how?"

"Sure, but with your hand like that you'd better let me do it for you."

----------

I have to admit, I'm a bit jealous. With her longer, raven-black hair her French braid looks even more elegant than mine. "You know, it really doesn't take much to turn you into a total fox."

Now it's Liv's turn to blush. I guess she's as unaccustomed to getting compliments from me as I am from her. "Thanks. But, I dunno, I'm just not really that into boys and the attention makes me kind of uncomfortable."

"Really? 'Cause, I mean, I'm not into boys at all but I've still been kind of enjoying all the attention I've been getting from Rich. Only don't tell Felicia--she'd freak."

She's giggling. "No shit she would. You've got a thing for Rich? Isn't he a little old for you?" All right, cut it with the giggling already, will you?

"I don't have a thing for him, and yeah, he's way too old for me--I mean, it was kinda creepy the way he kept checking me out at dinner last night. I'm thirteen, for cripe's sake. He's a sophomore in high school. It's just, I seem to have this strange power over him, and it's kind of fun."

Liv looks all serious. "Yeah, well, be careful, sister of mine. It's fun now but you're still kind of new at this and let me tell you, you're playing with fire."

"Oh, come on. What could happen?" Before the words are all the way out I want to take them back. How about being exposed as a freak and suffering public humiliation? I really should think before I speak.

"How about rape?" Oh god. That hadn't even occurred to me. "I mean, that's the extreme worst case, but you know, not every guy is a gentleman and some of them would get pissed off enough about being cock-teased"--whoa, she's never talked like that around me before--"to hit a girl. That's not even to mention what can happen to your reputation. Oh, don't look at me like that"--what, you mean with utter disdain for what other people think of me?--"you have no fucking idea how miserable other girls can make your life just by saying things about you behind your back when you can't defend yourself." Whoa, her eyes are starting to tear up. She must have first-hand experience with this. I lean over and give her a hug.

"I, uh, I guess I have a lot to learn about being a girl. I'm lucky I have a big sister to teach me and keep me safe." Good, she's smiling and it looks like we've headed off the deluge.

"You're probably all right with Rich. Anyway it'd be nice to see him get some payback for how he's been treating Felicia. Just promise you'll be careful and wait 'til you've got a little more experience before you try any of those games with anyone else, OK?"

"OK, I promise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Stick a finger in my eye."

She nods in solemn approval of my oath, looks me over, breaks out in a big grin and squeezes me so hard I can't breathe. "I can't help it, you just look so cute!" Oh, barf. "C'mon, Mom should see you in this. She'll just die. She's always trying to get me to wear a dress."

"Why don't you?"

"I dunno, it's just not me, I guess. People treat you differently when you're in a dress, like you're fragile or something. And you have to be careful about everything you do so your panties don't show, and sit with your knees together, and it's all just a big pain."

"Oh. Well, yeah, I can see how it wouldn't be what you'd want to be wearing all the time, but once in a while it's nice to look nice and have people tell you that, you know?" I don't actually have any prior dress-wearing experience--well, except for that one time--but I do have some recent experience with being told I look pretty and it is nice. And I bet dressed like this I'd get even more of that.

"I guess so. I guess I avoid 'em 'cause they bring on the wrong kind of attention from guys, too."

"Yeah--well, hey, there aren't any guys around here, so how 'bout you put on a dress too and we really give Mom a heart attack? Anyway with your hair like that the rest of you looks kind of underdressed."

"I don't even have a dress except for that one Grandmother sent me for last Easter, and I'm not wearing that around the house." Yeah, I guess that would be rather silly.

"Well, maybe one of mine would fit you. Come on." She's looking at me rebelliously, with her arms crossed, and not moving. I grab her by the elbow and pull. "Come on. It won't hurt a bit, I promise."

----------

"Here, try these on." I hand her a kind of muted orangey-colored peasant blouse with poofy sleeves that don't go all the way to the wrist, with wide gold braid around the sleeves just above the elbow and around the midriff--now that I look at it the color isn't right for me at all, in fact it makes me look kind of ill, but Liv's olive complexion stands up to it well--and an off-white wrap-around skirt with gold braid around the edges. It kind of looks like something Dorothy Lamour might have worn in that Bob Hope-Bing Crosby movie Road To Rio or something. Anyway I think it's kind of cool.

She takes them like they're snakes or something, looks at me like do I have to, I look back like yes you have to, she shrugs, sets them on the bed and starts stripping.

Sigh. Man, I wish I'd start developing like she has. But that's not gonna happen, and it's not fair and I really need to not think about that or I'll just get all depressed. I'm just a late bloomer, and I'm gonna keep telling myself that as long as I can. I should just try to focus on the fun I'm having right now.

Who'd have ever thought I of all people would be able to talk Livy into wearing a skirt?

----------

"You look awesome." She really does. Her hair and skin tone were just made for that Mediterranean style. You'd think she stepped out of a village in Italy or Spain. Or maybe Monaco.

"The top is pretty cool. Could I borrow it sometimes to wear with jeans?"

"Oh, you might as well keep it. I love it too, but it's totally the wrong color for me."

"Really? Thanks!" She turns around and checks herself out in my mirror from all angles. "That mirror is a great idea. I should get one for my room."

"Yeah, I got the idea from Linda."

She's checking out her behind in the mirror now. "On second thought, maybe not. I didn't realize my butt was so huge."

"No, you have a perfect butt. I wish I had a butt like yours."

"Really?"

"Yeah." I'm trying not to sound too sad about it, but I guess not very successfully 'cause she's looking right at me and it feels like she knows what I'm thinking.

She changes the subject. "I think I need to wear sandals with this or something. You wanna borrow these Keds? Your sneaks are fine with jeans but they're a little, I dunno, clunky for a dress. Even a denim jumper." Huh? Oh, I guess that's what this kind of dress is called.

"Oh. OK, thanks." Ugh. Mom just shelled out for new shoes for me--where am I gonna come up with funds for shoe shopping?

----------

My door's open so we can hear Mom yelling from the kitchen. "Joey-y-y!" Aw, crap, what've I done now?

"What, Mom?" I know what she's about to say, but I can't help it; she started it.

"Come here, please; don't make me yell at you across the whole house!"

Exactly as predicted. I roll my eyes at Livy and run to the kitchen. "What?"

"I'm out of--" She turns from the open cupboard and sees me. Her eyes get wide. "Oh. ...My, don't you look adorable. Uh, what was I... oh, right. I didn't realize I was out of lasagna noodles and I don't have time to run back to the store for them--can you go on your bike and pick some up for me?"

"Uh, sure. Just give me some money for it, I'm all out.... Why are you staring at me like that?" As if I didn't know.

"What? Oh, sorry. I just can't get over how perfectly sweet you look in that jumper." I smile; I'm not sure sweet is exactly what I was going for, but it's a compliment and I'm going to enjoy it anyway. "Why can't I ever get your sister to wear a dress or a skirt?"

"I dunno. I didn't have any trouble getting her to." As if on cue, Livy wanders into the kitchen behind me to see what's up. Mom's jaw drops and she looks at me accusingly, as if I must have used black magic, or at least blackmail, to accomplish this nefarious deed. I just smile innocently: Mission accomplished.

----------

OK, Liv's right--the jumper may be 'cute' and 'adorable' and 'sweet' but one thing it sure as heck ain't is 'practical.' No way I can ride my bike in this thing--there's no way to straddle the crossbar without hiking it way up and risking flashing my panties to the world. I guess that's why girls' bikes have the lowered crossbar, though I have first-hand experience as to why that would make more sense anatomically for guys. I often daydream about how my life might have been different if I'd been seriously hurt that time. Anyway I suppose I could borrow Liv's bike, cheap piece of crap though it is, but I'd still be worried the whole time about everyone getting a peek at my underwear. You can't keep your knees together while riding a bike.

Guess I'll have to change first.

----------

All right, let's try this again. This time I'm in denim cutoffs--they're cut off quite a bit shorter than I'm used to, but at least they keep everything covered that needs covering.

Jeez. Being 'tucked' is normally slightly uncomfortable, but you kind of get used to it and don't notice after a while; on a hard bike seat it's verging on painful. Well, I spend most of my time standing on the pedals anyway, so hopefully I'll survive the short trip to Kroger's and back. It's only about two miles each way.

As I'm putting on the backpack I'm bringing to carry the lasagna noodles, I realize I can stick my purse in it and not have it flopping around in front of me the whole way. It's actually more comfortable than having a wallet in my back pocket.

----------

Gasp. The last mile was a slight uphill grade and I haven't been riding my bike much since we moved so I'm kind of out of shape and winded. And sweaty. Especially my back.

I can't wait 'til they finish construction on the new bike paths they're putting in. Then I won't have to choose between ruining my bike on bumpy sidewalks or risking my neck in traffic. If my reflexes weren't so fast, I'd probably have been hit by that car making a right on red without looking.

I lock my bike to the rack out front and go into the nice, cool air-conditioned store. Ah-h-h-h.

Hey, that's our neighbor just on her way out. "Hi, Mrs. Bruegemann!" I smile and wave at her without thinking. Oh-h-h, crap. That may not have been the brightest move I've ever made. What do I do now?

She looks puzzled, then I think I see a flicker of recognition, but she says, "Do I--do I know you?"

Nothing to do but brazen it out, I guess. "It's me, your neighbor. Joey?" I always hate when Mom and Dad introduce me by that name, but now I'm grateful they did it with the Bruegemanns 'cause it gives me an opening I can use.

"Joey Llewellyn?" I nod. She looks sort of sheepish, and speaks in a confidential tone of voice. "I'm sorry, it's just--no offense, but for some reason I thought you were a boy."

I smile, and give a rueful laugh. "That's 'cause that's what I wanted you to think. No offense taken."

She looks like she almost gets why I'd do that, but not quite. "Well, you had me fooled."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it as a trick or to be mean, I just--I don't know, I guess I was trying to be something I'm not. But I'm not doing that anymore. I've decided I'm just going to be me from now on. I'll save my acting for the stage."

"Very wise choice. To tell you the truth, you do seem a lot more comfortable with yourself now that you've given up the pretense."

"Yeah, I guess I am." I smile. Nice to know it's not just me, other people can see it too. Mom and Dad are too wrapped up in their image of the old me, and Livy is just--Livy, you know? You can't use her reactions as a gauge for normal people.

"You really are quite the little actress though, aren't you?" She arches one eyebrow as she says this but I can tell she's just teasing, not really trying to give me a hard time about the boy thing. "So you perform on stage too, do you?"

"Well, I just started rehearsals for my first play this weekend. I'm playing Louisa in The Sound of Music."

Her face lights up. "Oh, wonderful. I love that play." You and everyone else, it seems. "We'll have to come see you in it."

"Dad's in it, too. He's playing the Captain."

"Is he? Well, we certainly can't miss it then. Make sure you let us know how to get tickets!"

"I will. Hey, do you need me to help you load those bags into your car?"

"Thanks, but I can manage. I do need to run before the ice cream melts, though. See you at home!"

"'Kay, bye, Mrs. Bruegemann!"

Well, that went a lot easier than it could have.

Now, where do they keep the pasta in this joint again?

----------

Ugh. Apparently it's uphill both ways--at least, the last half of the ride is. Plus I think it got hotter and more humid while I was in the store. I pull into the driveway and hop off my bike, sweat soaking my back and trickling down my neck and soaking the tissues stuffed into my bra. I laugh to myself as I realize I'm going to need to change my boobs along with my bra and shirt.

Mrs. Bruegemann apparently had enough time to unload her groceries before I got back and is now out watering her roses. She sees me, smiles and waves me over.

I smile back. "I'd ask you to spray me with that hose, but I don't wanna ruin Mom's pasta."

"All right, I'll be good then." She grins. "I've been meaning to ask you a favor. And for some strange reason"--she pastes a look of exaggerated confusion on her face--"it slipped my mind when I saw you in the store."

"Um, OK, what is it?"

"We need a sitter for the boys tomorrow night, and since Livy's not available I wanted to see if you'd be willing to fill in for her."

What, Livy's got a hot date she didn't tell me about? Oh, right, her hand--she needs to coddle it until it heals. "Um, sure, I guess. I've never really sat before but how hard can it be?" She looks like she wants to laugh out loud. Hey, be nice! "Anyway if there's an emergency I know first aid." Grandfather Sorensen's influence again. She looks impressed by that for some reason; maybe Livy never mentioned she knows it too.

"Oh, that's wonderful. Thanks." She smiles, then looks a little sad for a moment.

"What's up?"

"What? Oh, nothing, really. The boys were just excited about the prospect of having a boy sitter for a change." She looks apologetic.

I smile. "I understand. Don't worry, I won't let 'em down. You can tell 'em I may not really be a boy but I sure as heck know how to act like one."

She smiles back. "Yes, you certainly do. All right then, just pop over at six o'clock tomorrow night. We'll pay you the same rate we usually pay your sister."

"Cool. OK, I gotta go inside now before I melt. See ya later!" She waves and smiles as I turn and run for the door and air conditioning.

Hm, I didn't think to ask how much they pay Livy. I'll have to ask her.

----------

"What did Ellen want?"

"Who?"

"The neighbor?"

"Oh, right." Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to spy on people, Mom? "She just wanted to know if I'd fill in for Livy babysitting tomorrow night. I said sure."

"She didn't want to know why you were dressed like that?"

"What, in shorts?"

"As a girl, silly. Don't tell me she didn't notice anything different about you."

"Oh, I ran into her at Kroger's and we got that all straightened out."

"How, may I ask?"

"I just basically apologized for pretending to be something I'm not, told her I was through with that and was just going to be myself from now on. She was pretty cool about it."

"Oh. So you're going to change back now?"

Huh? Non-sequitur much? Typical Mom. Even she looks confused. And, oddly, concerned. "Well, yeah, I got all sweaty and dirty on the ride. So I thought I'd have a quick shower and put the jumper or maybe the jeans back on. So's not to make more laundry." She hates when I get clothes dirty and make extra laundry. One of these days she's going to start making me do my own.

Mom's face looks like her brain is grinding its gears pretty badly right now. "Wait. You said--" Suddenly she gets an oh, duh, I'm an idiot expression on her face. "Oh, right. I get it now. Never mind."

OK, whatever you say, Mom. I just smile and back away slo-o-owly....

----------

Ah-h-h. Nothing like a nice cool shower on a hot, sticky day. Mom's too cheap to turn the air conditioning up so it's really only a little cooler inside than outside. A nice side benefit of the cold water is it makes the unwelcome thing between my legs shrivel up, and I try to imagine it's going to completely retract inside my body as I soap up and rinse off. It doesn't, quite, but it's nice to imagine it.

----------

If I blow-dry my hair I'll just undo all the good the cool shower did, but if I do my hair back up into a French braid while it's still wet it'll take forever to dry. In this humidity that doesn't sound like such a good idea. I guess I'll just leave it down until it dries.

----------

Let's see, jumper or jeans? Decisions, decisions.

The jumper is short and well-ventilated, which is appealing. I'd need to get another shirt dirty, though.

Oh, and Dad saw me in the jeans this morning--if I'm in the jumper when he gets home he probably is going to think I'm trying too hard.

On the other hand, we're having company for dinner so I should look nice.

On the third hand, I looked nice enough in the jeans for the Weisses last night. And I can always put my hair back up and put on a little make-up if I feel the need.

On the fourth hand, Livy's still in the skirt I got her to wear, so I might look underdressed next to her in the jeans.

Oh, hell, I'd feel underdressed in anything I have with her looking like that.

Jeans it is, then.

----------

At the rate I'm going through them I'm gonna need to invest in a carload of tissues, or find something else to stuff my bra with. One more thing to spend money on. I swear, the economy would go right down the toilet if girls didn't have to spend so much just to get through the day.

Which reminds me. "Hey, Liv!" All right, I'm shouting, but at least I'm walking towards her room as I do it.

"What?" She opens her door and sticks her face out, inches from mine.

"No need to shout, I'm right here." She is not amused.

----------

"An hour?"

"Yeah."

"Um, how late do they usually stay out?"

"I dunno, depends. Sometimes only 'til eight or nine, but once they didn't get back until like two a.m. Most often around ten or eleven, though."

I calculate the likely damage in my head. Ka-ching. "Jeez, they must be little monsters if they're that desperate to get away from 'em."

"No, actually compared to some kids I've sat they're pretty easy. They're not really interested in any of the usual games or activities I've tried to plan for them though--they just seem to want to watch TV until bedtime."

"Sounds easy enough."

"It is. I usually just pop up a big bowl of popcorn, turn on the tube and sit down to read a book for an hour or so, then pry their butts off the sofa and get 'em to bed, sweep up the spilled popcorn and go back to reading until the Bruegemanns get home."

"Cool. Easy money." Getting paid to read? It doesn't get any easier than that.

"Yeah, pretty much."

This may just be the answer to my cash flow problems. The only downside I can see is that Liv's gonna want this gig back when she's all healed up.

----------

Seeing myself in the mirror after seeing Livy looking like a total fox is making me feel somehow inadequate, so I at least need to put my hair back up, humidity be damned. It's almost dry now anyway.

----------

Better, but still...

"Mom?"

"Don't shout, sweetie! If you want to talk to me come here!"

Well, I shoulda known better.

----------

"But--why not?" I cannot believe this.

"I told you before, I don't approve of you trying to look older than you are."

"I'm not, I'm just trying to look--nicer. Anyway you seemed fine with it yesterday--it was just the boobs you were complaining about then." She winces a little when I say boobs.

"It was both, but the whole thing kind of threw me for a loop so I didn't pursue it."

"But Mo-o-om! It's just mascara and a little eyeshadow to bring out the blue in my eyes." Her eyes widen briefly when I say this but she recovers pretty quickly. "It's not like I want to look like a, a--prostitute or something." For some reason that seems like a nicer way to say it than hooker or whore. Why are Mom's eyes starting to cross like that?

"Well--things are different from when I was a girl. I suppose at your age it wouldn't hurt for you to wear just a little, like you had on yesterday."

See, I knew she'd see reason--

"But I still don't want you to borrow mine."

No!! The smile that was just starting to form turns into a look of utter disbelief. At least, that's the look I'm going for.

"It's not sanitary to use someone else's eye makeup. Linda shouldn't have let you use hers. You could give each other nasty eye infections. If you want to wear it you'll have to buy your own."

"But I don't have any money left!" I know it's a longshot, but I have to try. "Can I borrow some? I can pay you back tomorrow, after I babysit. Ple-e-ease?"

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch. If it was for something urgent I'd consider it, but it won't hurt you to wait a couple of days to get makeup you don't really need."

"Don't need? Mom, we're having company for dinner tonight, in case you forgot! You're the one who's always on my case to try to make a good impression."

"Oh, you don't need makeup for tonight. You've got a naturally pretty face. Besides, your hair looks wonderful. And you've stopped dressing like a bum all the time, and you just showered so you even smell nice. Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into you that you suddenly think you need to wear makeup. No thirteen-year-old needs to wear makeup."

"But--rrrrrgh!" I don't have an answer for that. My shoulders slump and I stalk off to my room to sulk, muttering evil curses under my breath. I make sure to give the door an extra good slam.

Apparently Mom realizes it would be pointless to say her usual line about not slamming doors, 'cause she doesn't.

----------

Sigh. With my hair up like this, and a little Lip Smacker, you might call me cute or maybe even pretty, depending on how near-sighted you were and what you were comparing me to. I guess no amount of makeup would make me beautiful like Livy anyway. I guess if I try to compete with her on looks I'm just going to wind up getting really depressed. Still, it would be so much better if I could just--you know, make the most of what I've got. I don't know what Mom's deal is anyway with not letting me borrow hers. You'd think I had pus dripping out of my eyes or something.

Well, at least I've got my razor-sharp wit, and my devastating charm, and my superior sense of style. I practice my most winning smile in the mirror. Hmpf, yeah--cute. Cute as a frikkin' button.

Ugh. I never noticed before but those bottom teeth are kinda crooked. I sure hope Dad's new insurance covers braces....

----------

I'm helping Mom clean up and set the table for dinner 'cause I don't want to totally get on her bad side, but I'm giving her dirty looks and attitude and not speaking to her any more than absolutely necessary as I do it. I know I don't really need makeup; it's just insecurity about being compared to Livy. But that doesn't mean I can't resent her for not lending me the money. It's the principle of the thing.

I guess Livy must've overheard our argument earlier, or maybe it's just a matter of presenting a united front to the common enemy, but she's backing me up and refusing to intervene on Mom's behalf. In fact she's being downright frosty to her.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be fazing Mom in the least.

----------

Crap. Why didn't I think of this before? I bet Livy would have lent me the money to buy makeup. Argh! Too late now anyway. They'll be here any minute.

----------

Or not.

----------

Only a matter of time now before Mom starts grumbling about dinner getting cold.

----------

This is boring. Maybe I'll go get a book or something....

Hm, the evening light coming in through the living room window is casting some interesting shadows on Livy and Mom reading their magazines on the sofa. I think better than a book would be my camera.

----------

Click. Zip. The trick is always getting the shot before they're aware they're being photographed so they look natural and not posed. This camera used to be Dad's and has a built-in light meter and an automatic exposure setting so with practice it's possible to focus and shoot before anyone has time to notice anything. I got pretty good at that putting together my confiscated--and now worthless anyway--dossier on Livy.

Click. Zip. Sometimes the immediate reaction of becoming aware of the photographer makes a good shot, too. Sometimes it's just funny but sometimes you get lucky and really capture something about the subject you wouldn't otherwise get. Anyway film is cheap; you don't have to make prints of the bad ones.

"Sorry, the lighting was just--" why're they looking past me, out the window?

"They're here. Finally."

As I turn and look out the window Dad pulls into the driveway, and his guest pulls up just behind him and parks in the street. Silhouetted in the setting sun I watch as a tall, striking and impeccably dressed woman gets out and closes the door of one of the most beautiful pieces of machinery I've ever laid eyes on--a gleaming chrome and candy-apple red 1965 Corvette Stingray convertible with the top down. It must have made her cringe to drive that thing up our gravel road. Click. Zip. No good--the reflections on the window are gonna ruin it. I throw the front door open and stride out, camera glued to my face. Click. Zip. Click. Zip. She's pulled out her compact and is checking her makeup now. Oh, man, I wish I had the equipment and know-how for color photography. Dad says artistically it's a whole different ball game but I think I could pick it up. Anyway the stark contrasts of light and shadow will work well in black-and-white too.

"'Ello, I am Michelle." Ooh, she even speaks with a French accent. Not one I'm familiar with, but definitely French. "And you are...?"

"Enchantée, Mademoiselle. Je m'appele Joey." I don't see a ring so I assume it's Mademoiselle. She's stunningly beautiful, but not exactly what you'd call pretty, if you know what I mean--kinda like Katherine Hepburn or Lauren Bacall. Her voice is sort of low and sexy like Miz Bacall's, too. Mom says that's usually an indication of a heavy smoker, but I don't smell anything. She's a couple of inches taller than me even not counting the heels she's wearing, and with a slim build but not skeleton-thin like a model or anything.

"Charmante! Tell me, Joey, 'ow is it your français is so much better than your father's?"

"Just 'cause I grew up speaking it and he didn't. Anyway it's only my accent that's better." And maybe my slang; you learn things on the playground they don't teach you at Berlitz.

"Bien sûr." She looks a little puzzled. "Genevoise? Ou Parisienne?"

"Oui. Uh, I mean, a little of both." I guess without the constant reinforcement of ridicule from my Parisian peers a bit of Geneva is slipping back in. I'm a little embarrassed since I was just basically bragging about my accent but she seems satisfied with my answer. "If you don't mind my asking, what's yours? I don't recognize it."

"Bruges."

"Oh, OK. That's in Belgium, right?" She nods. Never been there myself. "Um, can I ask you a favor? Oh, you don't mind that I've been photographing you, do you?"

"No, of course not. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could get you to just sit up there," I'm indicating the front left fender of her car, "with your legs crossed, and hold up your compact and make like you're fixing your lipstick."

"What an unusual request. Why on Earth should you want me to do that?" She looks mildly suspicious but also amused.

"Um," I didn't think about what it might sound like to her and I'm blushing a little now, "'cause I think it will make an incredible shot in this light." Her expression turns to one of delight. "It'd be even better in color but..." I shrug apologetically.

She arches an eyebrow, still smiling. "Very well, but I shall require a copy of this photo in payment."

"Oui, naturellement. Et les autres aussi. Um, let me just get a towel or something for you to sit on so we don't scratch up that beautiful paint job."

"Oh, 'ere--we can use this." She takes off her headscarf. Well, I kinda wanted her wearing it for the shot, but this works too and saves time while the light is still perfect.

----------

By the time I help Michelle put her top up and we come in, Dad's looking highly amused; Mom, not so much, I guess because we've just delayed dinner another ten minutes.

"Étienne," that's French for Steve, "why didn't you tell me you 'ad such a charming daughter?"

No, I take that back about dinner getting cold; I'm getting the distinct vibe from Mom that she does not approve of Dad bringing Michelle home to dinner. I gotta admit, I'm kinda wondering what he was thinking myself. Mom tends to be the jealous type and Michelle's definitely got that whole je-ne-sais-quoi thing.

"And such a lovely young wife."

Mom smiles a tight-lipped smile--she's not going to be taken in by flattery.

"I can see she is without a doubt the girl's mother. They 'ave the same delicate Nordic features."

Well, maybe Mom isn't going to be taken in, but I sure am. I beam at Michelle.

"And this one," she's turned her attention to Livy, "takes after you. But, I think, rather more beautiful, non?" She gives Livy a wink.

Livy smiles uncertainly; she seems uncomfortable with the compliment and a bit self-conscious, probably because of her skirt--well, OK, my skirt, but she's wearing it. I feel kinda bad that I changed and she didn't.

"That's Livy," Dad makes the formal introduction, "and you've already met Joey. Sandy is their mother, and this," addressing us all, "is Michelle Dumont. She's a friend of Billy's." Billy is one of Dad's theatre friends. He's kind of outrageous, fruitier than Carmen Miranda's hat as Dad likes to say, and one of the funniest, nicest, warmest-hearted people you could ever want to meet. "She's graciously agreed to join us in our family meeting this evening"--what? He invited a total stranger to talk about this? I feel kinda sick all of a sudden. As he says this he's looking right at me, but for some reason she's looking at Livy with an understanding smile, which seems to just be making Livy even more uncomfortable--"and help us understand what you're going through, Joey."

As he says my name I'm still looking at Michelle so I see the brief flashes of expressions as they cross her face--surprise, chagrin, embarrassment--then before anyone else has a chance to notice anything, 'cause even Livy's not looking straight at her at the moment, she collects herself and smoothly turns her gaze from Livy to meet mine.

Oh.

Oh.

She's--no, no way. Not her.

She must be reading my mind, 'cause she smiles and gives an almost imperceptible nod I can tell is meant only for me.

"Are you..."--as sure as I am of my intuition, I can't bring myself to say it out loud, in case I'm wrong.

"Oui. Comme toi." She gives me the warmest smile I think I've ever seen.

"Like... me?" I look at Dad. I'm getting all choked up.

I can see Mom and Livy take a second to catch on, but when they do it's obvious by their looks of shocked incredulity. Livy beats Mom to it by half a second or so.

I turn back to Michelle, feeling a little dazed. "I've... never met anyone like--like me before." I didn't really know there were any. I mean yeah, I've heard of Christine Jorgensen but she had her operation like over twenty years ago and I haven't heard about anyone doing it since then. To have Dad do this for me is just too much. Tears well up in my eyes and I can't hold them back.

"Is it all right, Joey? I thought it would help..." He trails off and doesn't finish the sentence. He's looking kind of lost and unsure of himself. I can't remember ever seeing him before where he didn't look like he was in control at least of himself, if not the situation. I can't help but smile through my tears at his discomposure.

"No, you did good, Dad. Real good." I move over to him, wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze for all I'm worth. "Thank you." I look up at him, then rest my head on his chest and whisper, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," as I squeeze until it almost hurts. I can feel him squeezing back, though thankfully not quite so hard.

What did I ever do to deserve parents like these?

---

 
To Be Continued...