"You certainly owe me and your mother an apology," he said. "If you wanted to do this, you should have called and told us before you did it."

"Would you have said yes?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I wouldn't."
 

21. Laying Down The Law

"My parents!? Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Calm down, Marcie. They already know."

"They know?" I squeaked in a frightened whisper.

"Yes, I told them on Saturday, while you were out with Alice."

I gulped.

"And I sent them those pictures of you."

I didn't know what to say or do. I looked around, lost. I opened and closed my mouth but didn't say a word.

Aunt Jane spoke softly. "Look, hon. How long do you think I could go without telling them? If I hadn't, they could have called the school for any number of reasons, and your secret would be over. Plus, they have some liability for what you do... if there were any problems or trouble, they would get called on the carpet."

"How could they get in trouble if they didn't know?"

"It doesn't matter if they know. They're your parents; society expects them to know. If something happened and they didn't know, it would make them look like bad parents. It would be much worse for them.

"Your parents and I have been talking about this several times a day for the past week — well, since Saturday anyway."

"And what do they say? Are they going to make me stop?"

"No, I don't think so. Yesterday your father kind of worked things out. Your mother is a little... well, she's having a harder time. You'll see."

I was so nervous, I was shaking.

"Calm down," she repeated. "They're your parents. You're their only child, their baby. They're not going to kill you." She glanced over my shoulder. "Speak of the devil! Here they are!"

She stood up and kept hold of one of my hands. I think she was afraid I might cut and run. The waiter came over at the same time as my parents, so he was kind of in the way as Jane gave each of my parents a hug and a kiss. Then Jane stepped aside to present me.

"Holy–" my father said, trying to hide his shock. He blinked a few times, then recovered, saying "Come give your father a hug, Mar–cie."

I gave him a frightened little squeeze. He gave me a smile that was meant to be reassuring, than stepped aside so my mother could see me. The waiter was standing next to her, in the perfect spot to witness my mother's jaw drop and her face go white. I'm sure he had an equally good view of the anxiety on my face.

Dad frowned as the waiter gaped, glancing back and forth between the Mom and me. He cleared his throat, but the waiter didn't take the hint. So Dad said, "We haven't seen each other for a long time. Could you give us ten minutes?" The waiter didn't seem to hear — he stood stock-still with his mouth open. "How about five minutes?" my father asked. No response. "A little privacy?"

My mother held out her hand to me, but suddenly her eyes closed and her knees buckled. My father must have seen it coming, because he caught her, held her up, and gently lowered her into a chair at our table. He sat down next to her and talked in a quiet voice as he held her hand. My aunt sat on my mother's right and took her pulse.

"Is she okay?" I asked.

"She fainted," my dad replied. "She'll be fine in a few moments." He drew a breath and looked around, only to see the waiter at his elbow. "Are you still here?" he asked. "Okay, how about this? Bring two light beers and a cosmo for the adults, and a diet coke for the young lady."

The waiter continued to gape stupidly, so my dad said, "Now!" in an icy, low voice. At that, the waiter finally snapped out of it and left.

"Thought I'd never get rid of him," he growled. I began to sit down, but my father barked, "Don't sit opposite your mother. We don't want her fainting all night long. Stand by me until she comes to, and then you can sit here, between me and her. Okay?"

"What happened?" my mother asked in a weak, breathy voice.

"You fainted," Dad told her. "Are you alright now?"

She nodded, so Dad stood. He took me by the shoulders and pressed me into the chair next to Mom, and then sat himself on the other side of me. My mother smiled and took my hand.

"Sorry," she said. "But even after seeing the photos, it's still quite a shock." She carressed my hand and studied my face. "Maybe it would be easier if you looked like someone from my side of the family. Art, who does your daughter look like?"

"Uh," he said, looking at me with a frown, "I don't know — one of my cousins, I guess."

"Marcie looks like a Graylen," Jane put in. "In fact, we have a cousin Marcie who is supposed to be very similar to this young lady here."

"'Supposed to be'?" my father echoed.

My aunt prompted me to tell the story of how it all began. I didn't do a very good job of it at first, partly because I got a bit mixed up between the edited version that we'd invented and what really happened. Plus, I didn't want to mention Jerry. On top of all that, it was my parents I was talking to — I was pretty nervous about how it would all turn out.

Still, they were a good audience.

They asked about my friends, so I mentioned Carla and Eden, and spoke of Nina as a girl that I'd babysat. I talked and talked, telling them about Ms. Tandy, the baby simulator, the hospital, and the Little Train. The three adults were pretty quiet, listening, sometimes asking questions.

"And all these things happened in the past week?" my mother asked. I nodded.

The waiter handed us dessert menus and left. I realized then that I'd monopolized the conversation. "So how are things in New Jersey?" I asked.

"Much quieter than they are out here," my father said drily. "My job is good, I like the people. I told you that. We haven't found a house yet, and that's a little discouraging. But you knew that, too. Why don't we stick to the subject? But first, let's have a look at the desserts. Why didn't that waiter bring a dessert cart?"

As if on cue, the waiter came, wheeling a cart full of amazing treats. He described each one, and it was very hard to choose. To be fair, after his initial cluelessness, the waiter turned out to be very quick and helpful. We each chose a different dessert, and passed them around the table for everyone to taste. Then my father said, "Okay, back to the subject at hand: is there anything else you need to tell us about what you're doing that we don't know?"

"Um, no?" I said. I didn't want to mention Jerry.

"You certainly owe me and your mother an apology," he said. "If you wanted to do this, you should have called and told us before you did it."

"Would you have said yes?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I wouldn't. I hope you can understand the position you've put me and your mother in here. Suppose one of the girls' parents found out that a boy was in her gym class, watching her get changed each day in the locker room? Do you think they could sue us and the school for letting it happen?"

"I don't know," I said in a small voice.

"I didn't either," my father said, "So I spoke to a lawyer about that and some other related issues."

"What did he say?"

"We'll come to that. The point is, you can't do this behind our backs."

"Sorry," I said. "You're not going to make stop, are you?"

My father and mother looked at each other for a few moments, then my mother asked, "You really want to do this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want to see what it's like to be a girl for a while."

"And what do you think so far?"

"I like it."

My father asked, "And what will you do when you start school in New Jersey? Cut your hair short, leave the skirts behind, go back to being a boy?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "I don't believe it. I don't think you can. Look at yourself. You clearly enjoy what you're doing. Your aunt's kept us pretty up-to-date on your activities. It's like you've turned into a different person."

"Are you going to tell the school?" I asked.

"By rights, we should," my father replied. "But... well, what the lawyer said was–" then he hesitated. "I think I'll keep that to myself for the moment."

He was silent, thinking about how much he wanted to tell me. Then, finally: "No, we won't tell your school — for now. But you have to keep your nose clean. Squeaky clean! If you get in the least bit of trouble, I'll jerk you out of that school so fast, it'll make your head spin, and you'll find yourself in New Jersey, where we can keep a close eye on you. I've even considered military high school. There's a good one not far from where I work. I'm going to send you the brochure, so you know where you could end up."

"What!?" I cried.

"And, if you're going to continue to do this, and if you don't want us to tell your school, there's a condition: you have to get counseling."

"Counseling?" I echoed. "There's nothing wrong with me!"

"I didn't use the word 'wrong'," he pointed out. "But answer me this: how many other boys in your school come to school in a dress?"

I looked down. "None."

"How many pretend to be a girl?"

I hung my head. "None."

"Do you have an afterschool club, where you can share your experiences?"

"No," I admitted.

"It would be useful for you to have a little help," he concluded. "And that is what a counselor will give you."

"I don't need help," I protested. "This is just an experiment."

"Hang on, Art," my mother said. "Let me try a different tack. Marcie, listen to me. You look very nice tonight, do you know that?"

"Thanks," I replied, smiling shyly.

"Did you choose that dress? Did you go out and buy it yourself?"

"No," I admitted.

"Did you find a stylist and tell her that you wanted that cute hair cut? Did you choose the hair color?"

"No."

"And your makeup — did you do that?"

"No."

"Someone helped you with all those things, didn't they?"

My father cut in. "Let me try a different tack. If you don't go to a counselor once a week, and follow his recommendations, you will not continue with your 'experiment'. That's final. I've already made an appointment for tomorrow morning at 10:30. Your mother and I will come and pick you up at school, and while we're there we'll stop in and say hello to your principal. What do you think about that?"

"It sounds fine?" I replied.

"That's my girl," he said dryly.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way