The Summer I Became, by Karin Bishop

Part 2

Chapter 4: The Months Pass

My life fell into a routine. Monday mornings I woke up depressed, took off my nightie and showered and dressed as Thomas. I went to school and worked hard to get the best grades possible, which was an agreement with Mom. Now that I had a reason to live and a future–as Hannah–it was actually easier to focus on getting through school. I ate alone, spent time in the library, and was ignored by almost everybody. My grades improved to the A- range, and Mom was pleased almost as much as I was. And at the end of every school day I’d walk home a bit faster than I’d walked to school.

I was a ‘latch-key kid’ and always had been with a working single mother. Once inside our apartment, I would go to my room and strip, tossing ‘Thomas’ in the hamper. I always took a quick shower and then would dress as Hannah would at the end of her school day. Maybe jeans and a cami, maybe sweatpants and a tee. I’d play with my hair–over time I did everything possible with it, but favored high ponytails–and some light makeup. Mom had found a nice starter set of makeup in a carrying case, along with a similar nail care kit. I read about makeup techniques and hair styles and tried them, but for no more than an hour at a time. Once I was comfortably female again, I did my homework and any chores that Mom had left notes about.

The other central routine in my life was my piano. I had worked up from ‘the little old lady down the street’ kind of piano teacher to a really little old lady, Madame Berdichev who was Russian and strictly formal, with one exception–she did not use the traditional ruler across the back of the hands!

I absolutely loved classical music, from Scarlatti to Satie, from Chopin to Shostakovich. All of the different eras, composition styles, technical demands–and some were insanely technically demanding!–and best of all for my mother, I needed no prompting or urging to practice. I did a solid hour a day, every day, and often played longer after my self-imposed hour. The feeling of strength and ability in my fingers was amazing and just made me want to practice even more.

The one curious thing was, well, I didn’t play like a boy. Madame Berdichev wasn’t happy with my approach to Rachmaninoff. She kept trying to make me play with greater, uh, masculinity. She’d clench a fist and say, “More force, Thomas! Be manly! Be strong! Rachmaninoff should be masculine!” And, of course, Thomas wasn’t masculine, because ‘Thomas’ was Hannah, who preferred Ravel to Rachmaninoff.

On weekends I could put on nail polish; we’d agreed that I’d use none during the school week. I loved seeing my pretty polished fingers on the piano keys when I practiced and wished it could always be like that. And of course I could put Thomas completely out of my mind for two days. Occasionally we went out, to a movie or shopping, but I’d always been a homebody and didn’t mind staying home. Mom said it proved that I didn’t want to dress like a girl just to wear girl clothes and go flaunt it in public; if I was content to wear sweats at home and still be a girl, I was a girl. And I just said, ‘duh!’

Holidays were special. For Thanksgiving, Mom made reservations for us at a nice hotel restaurant, figuring that nobody we knew would be there, and she was right. I wore a black skirt of hers and a white blouse with a white sweater, and the wonderful thing was that she surprised me with the black heels that I’d liked! And then at Christmas …oh, Christmas was so amazing. She said I needed a Christmas dress, and I got a purple velvet dress–would that be velvet velvet?–with white lace at the collar and cuffs, and black stockings–real stockings with a garter belt!–and my black heels and I felt all grown up as we went to see The Nutcracker and I was in absolute heaven! And at Easter I got to wear my white lace dress and we went to a church service a distance out of town where nobody knew us. The other girls all talked with me and we giggled about some of the cute boys there.

And my breasts blossomed …

I remember the morning when I showed Mom that my nipples looked like little marbles were under them. She smiled and hugged me and we celebrated and I got My First Bra–that was the name of it–and as the months passed, mounds started forming and I couldn’t have been happier. Mom and I had a little ritual with that first bra and from them on Hannah wore a bra but Thomas wore increasingly baggy shirts. By spring I used an Ace bandage to wrap my chest; we’d experimented with a sports bra and while it flattened sufficiently, it still left the outline of a bra. If the bandage was discovered, I could always claim my ribs were cracked or something. One of the real joys in my life was coming home and releasing my little breasts from the bandage, massaging them and then sighing with happiness as I chose a bra.

My birthday came and I was suddenly a teenager–and determined to be a teenaged girl! It fell on a Friday so Mom took me out of school and when I got home I got an early birthday present–she’d gotten me out of Boys’ PE! She’d used letters from my doctors of course, and not only did I not have to spend another minute in the hell of PE, I’d have Study Hall and could finish the school year with my best grades ever!

Early the next morning I opened my presents–all for a girl!–and was in humble tears as we set off on a three-day field trip. We drove to a national park and since it was already heating up I got to hike with really short-shorts, and wear my swimsuit in the lake and we made the joint decision to hell with worrying about tan lines! For the first time, I could let the tops of my small breasts be seen and it was so right and natural and normal and for the first time I began wondering if boys noticed how I looked. Mom and I put Thomas out of mind and we had a lovely, tiring time together, living our lives as we should be, mother and daughter.

But it wasn’t all perfect. Increasingly, Hannah bled over into Thomas at school, and I’d find kids looking at me strangely because I’d answered something in class like a girl, with girlish gestures. I’d feel my hips swaying as I walked and make a conscious effort to ‘butch it up’. But inevitably the name-calling started in earnest, from whispers to murmurs of ‘fag!’ and ‘pansy’ and other things. Of course, I’d always heard those things, but now they increased. Everything escalated. Somebody started shoving notes in my locker asking me to give them a blow job, and there were threats about me ‘taking it in the rear’. Sometimes I wanted to cry from the meanness, but mostly I just tossed the notes, gritted my teeth and put it out of my mind.

Then I got beat up …Well, technically, beat down, by three boys who jumped me after school in April. They knocked my backpack off my shoulder, shoved me to the ground and hit me several times and one even began tugging my pants down around my butt. Thank God they did it in sight of an old lady watering her lawn. She didn’t freak out; she calmly put her nozzle on needle spray and hosed the boys down. I got splashed in the process but didn’t mind it–it hid my tears. The boys ran off, and the old lady was comforting me as she would comfort a girl, and then her face did a funny twisty kind of thing and she stood up and away from me. I realized she either knew I was a boy, or wasn’t sure, but it was enough to make her stop comforting and wave me off. I told Mom about it after getting her promise that she wouldn’t retaliate.

That night I lay in bed trembling at how vulnerable I’d felt, and realized it was the way all girls felt. I was learning that females had tremendous power over males, but always had the fear that the males would resort to physical violence. I’d read about it in a magazine; Mom had subscribed me to Seventeen and some other teen girl magazines. She signed me up as Hannah, while Thomas continued to receive his music magazines.

“The Post Office doesn’t care and our mail boxes are all separate and locked, so why shouldn’t Hannah establish her presence? Besides, you need to learn what’s in these magazines.”

She was right; I was learning so much and so looking forward to school letting out so I could shove Thomas in the hamper once and for all and do my nails and start my summer as Hannah.

And then school let out and Mom picked me up and we didn’t go home …

Chapter 5: Waiting No Longer

Mom and I had been sitting in Dr. Fletcher’s waiting room for quite awhile, and the receptionist took several calls from the doctor and relayed the information to us that she was on her way. Finally she bustled in, full of apologies, and Mom said we understood and just hoped she was alright. Apparently she was but her car wasn’t; it was towed and she’d taken a taxi to see us. She unlocked her office and we entered and sat.

Dr. Fletcher took a moment moving things around on her desk and setting a thick file–mine–on the center of her desk. Her intercom buzzed and the receptionist announced that Dr. Carroll would be there immediately. Mom asked her a bit more about the accident and then Dr. Carroll entered; Dr. Fletcher did a quick, ‘I’m fine, car’s totaled, thanks for asking’ and then he sat, carefully extended his long legs, laced his fingers together and chuckled.

“I can tell by your expression, Hannah, that you didn’t expect to see us today.”

“No, sir. I just thought I’d be going home, same as usual.”

“Well, if I understand correctly, school has let out …” We nodded, and he went on, “ …and so we come to two watersheds. The end of your school year, the start of summer, getting you ready for school in Fall …”

I frowned. “Isn’t that three watersheds?”

He laughed again. “I was unclear in my phrasing. Those three were all the same watershed, basically.”

“Oh, I get it,” I blushed a little. I didn’t want to sound too young. “So the first watershed is ‘School’, I guess. And the second watershed?”

“Maybe not a watershed,” Dr. Carroll said, chuckling. “Changing my metaphor; it’s my prerogative. We come to a fork in the road, so to speak. Dr. Fletcher and I have had many and lengthy discussions about you, and also involved your mother in some of them. Dr. Fletcher?” He turned to her with a smile

I glanced at Mom, who looked a little guilty as she nodded. “Just hear her out, honey.”

Dr. Fletcher was smiling, too. “Yours is a very rare case, and a wonderful learning opportunity for our clinic. We only have one other patient as young as you, but even among the older patients, nobody is as fully assimilated as a female as you.”

“Thank you. I’m just …I’m just me,” I shrugged.

“We understand that, Hannah. So we–Dr. Carroll and I, your mother, and the Board of this clinic–have proposed a change of direction for you.”

I seized up. “Oh, no! You’re not going to make me be a boy, are you?”

She laughed and held up her hands. “No, no; please don’t be worried. You see, things are complicated by you being so young, but you’ve adapted so naturally and so normally …”

“I thought we weren’t using words like ‘normal’?” I asked slyly.

She chuckled. “Got me there! I will use it advisedly in the following sentence: You are developing as a pubertal girl in the ‘normal’ category. Granted, you haven’t had–and won’t have–menses, but your breast development, though it may seem small to you, is on par with your physical frame.”

Mom said softly, “I’m not a from a big-breasted family.”

That almost made me blush, but Mom and I had grown so close we regularly talked about breasts, and she had seen mine just last night.

“So …what’s the watershed, or the fork, or the change of direction?” I asked. I suppressed a chuckle at their metaphor mixture.

“Before I go into it, we need to ask you a single question, and I’m going to videotape it.”

To my amazement she went to a corner of the room, to a small camera on a tripod that I hadn’t noticed. She turned it on, framed it, and then reentered the frame, sitting at her desk.

“Now then, we’re recording at 2:47 Wednesday June 6th. Present are myself, Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Carroll, Mrs. Sorensen and the patient Thomas Sorensen, also known as Hannah Sorensen.”

“Sounds official,” I whispered to Mom.

“It is,” she whispered back with a smile. “Shh!”

Dr. Fletcher turned to me. “Now then, do you wish to be Thomas, a boy, or Hannah, a girl?”

I cleared my throat. “That’s a difficult question to answer.”

Both doctors were surprised. “It is? How?” Dr. Fletcher said.

Dr. Carroll said, “We thought we knew what your answer would be.”

I smiled. “It’s difficult to answer because I think it’s worded wrong. Or awkwardly, maybe. I think you meant to ask me, ‘Do I want to spend the rest of my life as Thomas, a boy, or Hannah, a girl?’” Both doctors nodded. I grinned. “Then the answer would be, “I want to spend the rest of my life as Hannah, a girl, because I am Hannah, a girl.’ See? Your question, ‘do I wish to be’ could only be answered that I wish to be Hannah because I am Hannah. Does that make sense?”

The doctors looked at each other, smiled, nodded, and then laughed. Dr. Carroll said, “She really got you on that, doctor; got to watch your syntax with this one!”

Dr. Fletcher nodded and said to me, “Then it is our understanding that you wish to spend the rest of your life as a girl?”

I nodded. “Yes, as a female, absolutely,” I said firmly.

“Never going back to being a boy?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.”

Into the camera, Dr. Fletcher said, “Note that the patient Hannah Sorensen has made her wishes known, without duress and with full understanding of the concepts.” She looked at Dr. Carroll. “Anything else?”

He shook his head and then grinned. “Nope. So let’s get the show on the road!”

As she turned off and stowed the camera, Dr. Fletcher said, “Sorry about the formality. There are legal reasons for it, of course, but also because of the unique case you present. We can learn so much from you. Well, as Dr. Carroll said, show on the road and all that. What we propose to you, now that we’ve got the legal stuff out of the way, is first to begin a regimen of female hormones. Then we–”

“Wait a second, Doctor,” I said, “I’m confused. I thought I was on female hormones. My breasts are starting to bud,” I looked at Mom, who nodded in confirmation, “and my skin’s smooth and soft and I’m getting curvy.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that, Hannah,” Dr. Carroll said, “and that’s part of what makes you so special. I can see where you got the wrong idea about the hormones; simple cause and effect.”

Dr. Fletcher said, “You thought the cause–the shot you had and the pills you’ve been taking–had the effect of feminizing you.” She grinned. “But you have had no female hormones, at least from us. You haven’t by any chance been taking any other pills or supplements of any kind?”

I frowned and looked at Mom. “Nothing. I mean, none that I know of.”

Mom said, “None that I know of, either, doctor. Just your daily prescription and One-A-Day plus Iron, but you cleared those. Oh, and some aspirin for a headache she had a couple of months ago.”

“Yes, we noted that information in her file,” Dr. Fletcher said. “Hannah, we can safely say that you’ve had no female hormones added to your system.”

“So why am I developing breasts? I mean, I love them, and can’t wait for them to get bigger, but …how?”

She smiled warmly. “You’re doing it all on your own. It’s your own body that’s feminizing you. The shots and pills were not hormones, not an additive. They were androgen blockers, to inhibit androgen and testosterone production by your body. In a way, they were subtractive.”

I looked from one to the other. “You mean, you removed the male hormones and my body went to work with female hormones? I mean, that my body made for me?”

“Exactly. As we said, you are special,” Dr. Fletcher chuckled. “Oh, you’re not making medical history, there are reports of this occurring, but you’re the youngest that I’m aware of, certainly with such good results.”

Dr. Carroll said, “Actually, there is a bit of medical history being written insofar as your youth, and it’s causing us to revise our original estimates of hormonal activity, sexual orientation–”

“Identity, doctor,” Dr. Fletcher smiled as she butted in.

“Sexual orientation and sexual identity,” Dr. Carroll said. “I was getting to it!”

From their demeanor this was a long-standing routine between them. Dr. Carroll steepled his fingers. “Now that you’ve stated your desire for the lawyers, Hannah, we can begin administering female hormones. I should let you know that we’re somewhat divided about it. On the one hand we’d like to see just how far your body’s hormonal activity takes you, along the way to normal female pubertal development.”

Dr. Fletcher took it from there. “But as much as we’d like that, you aren’t a guinea pig. You are a patient and we must see to your emotional and physical health first. So we have decided to place you on a hormonal regimen.”

Dr. Carroll nodded. “A regimen of estrogen and progesterone corresponding to the levels of typical female pubertal development. In other words, to catch up to the girls in your class.”

I was excited and amazed. “Doctors, I …thank you. Oh, God, thank you!” Then a thought hit me. “But …it’ll be even more difficult for me in school next year. Up until now I’ve been kind of under the radar. Nobody noticed me; I was just an invisible boy.”

“Not so invisible, honey,” Mom said. “Remember the boys who beat you. There will be more.” Looking to the doctors she said, “Hate and ignorance and fear don’t stop as children get older.”

Dr. Fletcher nodded. “If anything, it intensifies. Your mother is right–actually, you both are–and that leads us to the second proposition to you. Dr. Carroll can perform a procedure–a safe, non-surgical procedure performed here in the office–that can give you the appearance of a typical–I don’t want to say ‘normal’, but you know what I mean–a typical thirteen-year-old girl. Anybody that looked at you naked would only see what genitalia any thirteen-year-old girl has.”

“Being female, the term should be ‘nude’, not ‘naked’,” Dr. Carroll chuckled to Dr. Fletcher, but to me he said, “You will be able to swim, shower with the other girls–”

“Slumber parties, try on clothes together, wear a bikini,” Dr. Fletcher grinned, girl-to-girl. “Basically, unless somebody got six inches underneath you and poked around, nobody will suspect you’re anything but a biological female.”

Dr. Carroll held up a finger. “There is a downside; we will have to check on things down there routinely and may re-do it.”

“Re-do it?” I asked. “You mean, if it doesn’t work or something?” I was worried now.

Dr. Carroll said, “Oh, we wouldn’t let you out of the building if it …didn’t work.” Both doctors chuckled. “What I meant is that the area would need to periodically be …released, examined, cleaned, and the procedure repeated. It’s not a down downside, more of a periodic bother. Think of it as …routine maintenance.”

“Strictly routine,” Dr. Fletcher nodded and then smiled. “But I think the psychological benefits are more than worth the bother.”

I looked at both doctors, at Mom, and back to the doctors. “Are you kidding? Can we do it?” To Mom, I said, “Please, can I do it, Mom?”

She nodded. “We’ve discussed it already, Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Carroll and I. Yes, you have my permission, and if you want to–if I understood correctly–the time is now.” She raised an eyebrow at the doctors.

“Now? Now now?” I gasped.

“Now,” Dr. Carroll said warmly. “To begin, I have a mild sedative that will reduce any anxiety during the procedure. You’ll be a bit woozy, but your mother has been briefed. Okay?” He had a little paper cup with two pills and a cup of water in the other hand.

I took the pills and the offered water and swallowed.

“You and your mother can go into the suite next door, remove your clothes, put on a paper gown, and climb up into the stirrup chair. I mean, you do all that, Hannah; gotta watch my syntax with you!” he chuckled. “Dr. Fletcher and I will join you in five minutes.”

In a daze–of happiness and not from the sedative–Mom and I went and did as he said. Stripped, gowned, and stirruped–if there is such a word–I was trembling with excitement. The doctors came in and gloved up and suddenly my brain was all soft and mushy.

“Good pills,” I managed to say.

“Thought you’d need them,” Dr. Carroll said. “Now, Hannah, we’re going to strap your knees wide, so widen them as much as you can but don’t force them, okay? When you’re about as far as you can go we’ve got padded straps so you don’t have to use your muscles.”

“Got no mussa …muscles,” I giggled.

“Hmm,” Dr. Carroll commented.

I spread my knees as directed and one at a time felt the straps wrapped and then was told I could relax. If women thought they were exposed in a stirrup chair, I thought, wait until their knees are strapped open!

Dr. Carroll’s voice cut though my mental fog. “Alright, Hannah, you’re going to feel a cold spray but just for a little bit; it’s an anesthetic. After that you should mostly just feel pressure and movement but no pain, alright? I’m starting to spray …”

“Tuh–twitched; sorry,” I mumbled.

“Not at all,” he said calmly. “Perfectly understandable. Okay, now then …”

It felt very strange to have him doing whatever he was doing, and at the same time being cut off from it all by the pills that made me mushy. I realized that my penis was being catheterized; I’d read about that and only dumbly put two and two together when it felt like the whole thing was being pushed inside me. I knew that it wasn’t and wished that it was. Then more tugging and pushing and a click-click sound and I realized it was a surgical glue gun. That made me think of those hobby glue guns and I got the giggles; Dr. Carroll had to wait a moment while I apologized and settled down before he resumed.

Suddenly I realized that he’d already finished and was talking to Dr. Fletcher and Mom. I felt ignored on the table and said ‘What about me?’ but they said to rest quietly. Okay, I thought, ceiling tiles are good, too, and tried counting them but always lost count somewhere around twelve.

I must have closed my eyes because it was like I opened them and my brain worked once again. I was still in the chair but my knees were unstrapped and a blue gown was draped over them. Dr. Fletcher noticed I was awake.

“Back with us, are you, Hannah?” she chuckled.

“Yeah. Wow. I was …well, I guess I was stoned.”

“That you were,” Dr. Carroll grinned. “Any discomfort?”

“From getting stoned? No. The thing you did?” I moved slightly, experimentally. “Don’t think so.”

“Good. We’re going to help you to sit up and get off the chair–slowly!–and freeze immediately if there is any discomfort.”

We did that and I seemed fine. Nude below the waist, but fine. Then they had me do some mild calisthenics–bending at the waist, twisting to one side and the other–and everything felt okay. I mean, it felt weird, but there was no pain or tugging. It just felt …different.

“Can I look?” I asked.

“Sure. Sit in this chair,” Dr. Fletcher said, motioning to a regular chair in the room.

She handed me a mirror after I sat and angled the mirror and then gasped–I had a vagina!

“I have a vagina!” I cried. “I mean, it looks like I have a vagina! Oh–um …labial lips, I mean.”

“Correct,” Dr. Carroll said. “I’m glad you’re aware of the distinction.”

“It looks fantastic!” I cried.

Dr. Fletcher chuckled. “And you’ve seen many vaginas to compare?”

“No,” I blushed. “I mean, I’ve seen them on the internet.” I looked at them and snorted. “Oh, come on! Of course I looked at some porn sites. But not to get aroused. You know that, Dr. Fletcher; we talked about it long ago. I studied them. I … I looked at breasts and vaginas because I wanted them.”

I was looking at myself again, and I looked up and grinned. “And mine looks pretty darned good!”

“Yes, it does, if I may say so,” Dr. Carroll said with pride. “You have good skin and your scrotal sacs were perfect. Oh, they’re not really scrotal sacs anymore; they’re what look like your labial lips.”

“And they’re beautiful, Dr. Carroll,” I said. “So, um …what do I do?”

“What do you do?” Dr. Carroll said, with some confusion. “You get dressed and go home. Let us know right away if there’s any discomfort. See you in two weeks for blood and urine. Is that what you meant?”

“Well, yeah, but …I never asked. How long is …” I giggled. “I don’t know how to refer to this, so I’ll just ask, ‘how long is my vagina good for?’”

“Ah, I know what you mean. Well, unless you take up extreme horseback riding or competitive gymnastics, you should hold together until I use solvent to …uh, take things apart, so to speak. That’s barring any problems, infections, and so on. We’ll continue our regular checkups and periodically I might ‘take things apart’, as I said, to check and clean and put everything back properly, but that’s it. Oh, if you have a growth spurt there may be some discomfort, but your growth percentile thus far …” Dr. Carroll looked at Dr. Fletcher, who nodded. “You’re probably not going to grow too much more; maybe an inch or two over the next five years.”

“If that,” Dr. Fletcher said. “And you’ll be about the height that you would have been if you’d been born a girl. We’re miracle workers, but not miracle-miracle workers; we can only work with the genetic material you brought to us. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, doctor,” I said. “You told me that same thing when we talked about breast growth.” I grinned and turned to Mom. “My breast growth!”

“Yes, honey,” Mom said, and for the first time I noticed tears in her eyes, tears of happiness.

“So I guess I should get dressed …don’t want you to think this girl’s a floozy!” I joked.

Chapter 6: Starting the Summer Again

Mom got me home and we had a quiet–but very happy!–night together. The next day over breakfast she dropped a bombshell.

“Honey, I think it’s time we moved.”

“Moved?” I said, not too smart in the morning.

She nodded as she stirred her coffee. “I’m in line for another promotion and will have all new people to work with. Not a soul knows me or you,” she said, pointing her spoon at me. “So that’s why for me. For you …well, the doctors and I have been discussing it and feel that you should start school this fall as a girl–”

I almost spit out my yogurt. “Of course as a girl!” I protested.

She held up a hand, grinning. “Sorry; I phrased that wrong. But you did kind of cut my head off!”

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

She nodded and began again. “You should be a new girl in a new school in a new school district. Fortunately my office is centrally located; pretty much each of the larger districts could be considered close. So what I’m proposing is that we find an apartment in, well, maybe the Hoover District, farthest away from your current school. It’s like this district; four elementary schools filter into two junior highs each and into one high school. If you stayed here, you’d probably blend in with the group, but eventually somebody would remember Thomas and spread rumors.”

“God …” I thought of the consequences and shivered.

“Exactly. So we look in the Hoover District; they don’t even compete in the same Conference games as your current district.”

“Sounds good. And I …” I trailed off, realizing it was a sad thought. “And I don’t have any friends, really. Just some classmates that probably don’t even remember my name.”

“You’d be surprised what they’d remember; that’s why I think it’s important to get you out of there. And you’ll truly be the new girl, but since everyone in your class will be dumped into junior high, any shyness or awkwardness will go unnoticed. And besides,” she gave me a raised eyebrow and knowing glance, “I think that Hannah is going to have more friends than Thomas ever dreamed of!”

“God, I hope so!” I prayed fervently.

“And something else,” Mom said, pursing her lips. “This is not a deal-breaker, but just a thought I had …couple of thoughts, really. We’ll have to find a new piano teacher for you, of course.”

“Omigod; I hadn’t thought of that!” I said, open-mouthed, then giggled. “But it would be kind of fun to go to my lesson with Madame Berdichev with me wearing a dress!”

We both laughed at that, especially because the Russian-accented woman was so formal. We settled down and Mom continued her morning of surprises.

“Something else …” She paused as she sipped her coffee and put it back on the saucer. “I’m also thinking you might like to go to music camp again.”

“But I …” I frowned. “But I can’t go; Thomas went there twice!”

“I’m aware of that. Two options. One is that you go to your old camp but as Hannah and we’ll come up with a new last name just in case anybody begins to wonder.”

“But kids from all over go to that camp; there might be some kids from my new school in the Hoover District that will wonder why I have a different name.”

She shrugged. “You could always tell ‘em that I was in the middle of a divorce. So you’d be …” She grinned. “Hannah Fletcher! I just made that up, stealing your doctor’s name, of course.”

“It’s not bad, actually, and then in my new school I’m Hannah Sorensen, Daughter of Divorce!”

“Don’t be so melodramatic! But …yes,” she smiled.

“Okay, and the second option?”

“There’s a new camp being offered with more …well, different courses. Or curriculum, I guess. For one thing, they have jazz and improvisation classes in addition to the more formal classical studies.”

“Sounds great! But why do you sound hesitant?”

“Well, it’s a new camp so nobody knows how good it is, musically, or even what the living conditions are like. At least with your old camp, you’d already know the layout.”

“Good point,” I said, sucking the last of yogurt off my spoon. I rose to clear the dishes. “Can I read the materials on the new camp?”

She nodded and later I sat on the couch and studied the brochure on the camp. I sat with my legs tucked together next to me and no discomfort at all and sent yet another prayer of thanks to Dr. Carroll.

Mom and I talked it out over the next day and I decided to take the chance on the new camp. Just on the off chance that there might be somebody I knew from my old school and old music camp, we decided to stick with her suggestion and I was signed up as Hannah Fletcher, soon-to-be a Daughter of Divorce.

There was a nice added benefit to our plans for the move; the clinic’s lawyers arranged for my old school district to turn over all records to us directly. Then we would in turn hand them over to the new school district. There was less chance of somebody who knew somebody making a connection between the boy Thomas leaving and the new Hannah arriving. Once they were entered in the new district database, they’d be considered as trustworthy–Hannah Sorensen had always been a girl because her records in the system said so. It was similar to how the government operated with their Witness Protection Program.

In the meantime, before camp started, we began the serious task of finding our new home. I’d dress nicely in a skirt and top or dress and we toured neighborhood after neighborhood. Mom wanted to stick to an apartment at first but didn’t rule out a house if we found the perfect one at the perfect price. It was fun watching the demeanor of the realtors showing us around, nice mother and daughter that we were, and I idly wondered how they’d have been treating us if I was an almost-teenage boy. Well, I didn’t want to find out.

We narrowed it down to five, then three, then two, then settled on a small, older apartment complex built around a central courtyard with a very nicely landscaped pool. Balconies overlooking the pool area were festooned with hanging baskets and flowerboxes and even heading into summer it was lush and tropical and peaceful. Older also meant bigger; the apartment had 300 square feet more than the more modern buildings, and at the same price. It was easy walking to the library and park, and the junior high was only three blocks away. The high school was farther, but there was a bus stop at the end of the block that was shared by the high school and the public transit system, and the mall was only two stops away. Mom even suggested that when I was old enough to get a job at the mall I could get a monthly bus pass. The thought made me smile.

“And what would I be doing at the mall?”

“Well, at first you’re going to be hanging at the mall with your girlfriends. Then you’ll meet your boyfriend there, walk around with him. Then you’ll get a job in one of the boutiques; I’d rather you didn’t go into fast food, working at the food court like so many of your classmates will. No, I see you in a nice leather goods store, or maybe a bikini boutique …I know! A job at the music store! That would be perfect!”

“While you’re planning the next five years of my life, what about the next five weeks?” I grinned.

“See how businesslike and practical you are?” she said proudly. “Okay. We’ve finalized our new home. We don’t have much, and some of what we have I don’t want to keep. So we–”

“Like what? Sorry to interrupt, but not keep what?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, where are we going to put your vanity?”

“What vanity?” I said, bewildered.

“The vanity that every girl has, and you’re going to get, silly!”

“Oh …that vanity,” I chuckled.

“I don’t know if we could get anything for your old bureau and desk. I told you before, you were very cheap to raise, and, well, your father wasn’t really too interested in buying quality furniture to last …”

She’d trailed off, and I knew it was in part because from what I’d heard, my father hadn’t been interested in anything to last. Not furniture, not his marriage, not any relation with his child. He’d walked out on us when I was three–too young for me to feel guilty about having anything to do with their breakup–and largely disappeared from our lives, other than monthly checks from different parts of the country and impersonal Christmas and birthday gifts. Fine with me …but there were times when I wondered if he knew–or cared–that he had a daughter, and what he’d do if he knew.

So …furniture. We went to a huge warehouse discount furniture place and found a lovely set in white, a typical girl’s set with posts for the bed and a vanity and a longer bureau. They threw in a matching hat rack and tilting full-length mirror in a stand. I couldn’t wait to set up my bedroom–but I had to, because of the music camp. The scheduling called for me to leave for the two weeks and Mom said she’d handle the move to our new apartment, having my new furniture delivered directly there and assembled. After I packed for camp, everything else that I owned was boxed up and ready for the movers, a college-student outfit used by many in the county offices. The boy clothes and anything that belong to Thomas was donated to Goodwill; only Hannah’s things would be delivered to our new apartment. I felt like I was deserting Mom during the move but she said it would work out quite nicely and I could focus on my piano.

End of Part 2