The mothers of Kristie and Diana arrived together, and I found myself giving the most craven, self-abasing apologies I could muster. I was sure that both women would have been quite happy to claw me to bits and roast me over a barbecue, but the principal wisely kept me out of striking distance.

The girls returned to class, their mothers returned home, and I wondered whether their fathers owned any firearms. They certainly knew where I lived.

---

 

12. Not Exactly
 

While I was on my way to school on Friday, Lou came running up to me. "Hang on, Chapters. I got something for you, and I want to give it to you before we get to school." He fished in his backpack and pulled out a thin, square box wrapped in white paper. For some reason, he didn't look too happy about it.

"It's actually from my Mom," he said. "She says it's for this weekend, and not to open it until you get home."

"Okay," I said. "What is it?"

He huffed impatiently and said (with heavy sarcasm), "I guess she wrapped it up so you could SEE what it was."

"Sorry!" I said. "Did I touch a nerve?"

"Yes, asshole, you did," he said. "It's bad enough you're blowing off my party to be with some ten-year-old, but beyond that, you're dressing up as a ten-year-old girl to do it."

I looked around us in alarm. No on seemed to have heard. Lou looked even more irritated.

"Do you think I'd say something like that if anybody could hear?" he said. "You're my friend. Doesn't mean I have to like everything you do, but I'm not going to mess up your life. You have to do that all by yourself."

"Okay," I said uncertainly. "I'm sorry! And thanks."

"Yeah," he replied, softening and smiling a little. "Don't worry about it. Have fun this weekend. You idiot. And DON'T tell me about it."

We both laughed and went off to class.

In math, I sat by the window so I could look outside. I really wished my mother had agreed to take me out early today. I wanted to get on the road, see the hotel. I'd been to Boston before, but didn't remember a whole lot. It was going to be a great weekend, I was sure.

Just then, I heard some scuffling, and looked up to see Kristie and Diana jammed against each other in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. They looked daggers at each other, and then, as if at a signal, the two broke free and scurried across the front of the classroom. All of which was weird enough, but it soon became alarming when I realized that they were heading directly toward me!

Kristie zoomed down the second row, the row on my right. Diana had cut into the third row. She was moving slightly faster. Both girls arrived at about the same time, and just before Kristie could turn and drop her cute little butt into the seat next to mine, Diana yanked it aside and twisted into it first.

Kristie gave a scornful hmmph! at Diana, and sat down in front of me. She immediately turned around and asked, "What is this I hear about you skipping the big party? Are you really going somewhere else? With your ten-year-old girlfriend?"

"Where did you hear that?" I demanded. "And by the way, she is *not* my girlfriend! She's just a friend. That's all!"

"Told you!" Diana crowed, and stuck out her tongue at Kristie.

"So what?" Kristie shot back. "You're not his girlfriend either!"

Diana flushed scarlet, and her eyes shot fire. She leaned forward, opened her hand and gave Kristie a loud slap in the face.

Kristie was astonished, then angry. She gave a quick push with her feet to turn her desk sideways, and gave Diana's slap right back to her.

My jaw fell open. Where did all this aggression come from? I thought Kristie and Diana were best friends!

The math teacher hadn't arrived yet — not that either of the girls would have noticed. There was a low buzz of interest around the room.

Diana inched her desk closer, and grabbed a handful of Kristie's hair. She gave it a twisting tug. It hurt just to look at it.

There were a few exclamations from the class. Pretty soon the noise would bring a teacher, if not our teacher, into the room.

Kristie gave a little yelp. As Diana pulled Kristie's head down to Kristie's left, Kristie reached up to do the same.

Neither would let go, and they rose to their feet, whining and yelping and growling.

"Let go of each other!" I told them. They didn't seem to hear, and as they struggled, they began leaning over my desk.

"Hey, stop!" I told them, and put up my hands.

Unfortunately, each hand landed on a breast. Without meaning to — I swear! — without meaning to at all, I grabbed a breast on each girl and gave it a squeeze.

Without letting go of each other, the two glared down at me. With their free hands they started swatting and slapping my head and arms.

"Hey! Hey!" I yelled, "I was only trying to help!"

To make a long story short, the three of us ended up in the principal's office. All three mothers were called, and we were rather closely questioned.

As you can probably imagine, no one wanted to say what had really started the fight, but the girls had no problem explaining what *I* had done.

The principal, looking for the simplest explanation, figured that the girls were minding their own business when I suddenly reached out and fondled them. The girls, in his mind, simply reacted out of offended modesty.

"No, that isn't how it was!" I protested. "They came to me, and Kristie said–"

The principal gave a dismissive hand wave. "It's a bit late to cook up a story, Mr. Samson," he said. "I think you'd better work on your most sincere and abject apologies before these girls' mothers arrive."

The girls were embarrassed and still angry. I had no idea whether they were angry with me or each other or both.

At the same time, I had the tactile memory on my hands. It was an amazing memory, of the softness and the form, and the two of them...

The mothers of Kristie and Diana arrived together, and I found myself giving the most craven, self-abasing apologies I could muster. I was sure that both women would have been quite happy to claw me to bits and roast me over a barbecue, but the principal wisely kept me out of striking distance.

The girls returned to class, their mothers returned home, and I wondered whether their fathers owned any firearms. They certainly knew where I lived.

When my mother finally arrived, the principal explained my great sins to her and suspended me for the rest of the day.

And so, at great cost, my wish to get out of school early was granted.

In the car on the way home I explained what happened, and was surprised to find that my mother believed me. She actually laughed.

"You know the strange thing is, that something very similar happened to your Uncle Mickey when we were all in high school." She laughed at the memory of it.

"You mean that he touched some–"

"No, no," she interrupted. "Not *that* part! That's pure Victor, apparently. No, two girls fought over him and he got the blame."

"Oh," I said, more than a little surprised.

---

It was only eleven-thirty when we arrived home.

Mom said, "Let's have lunch. Then you can go shower and change, and as soon as you're ready we can leave."

"Great!" I said. I sat at the kitchen table, and opened my backpack.

"Do you have any homework this weekend?"

"No," I laughed. "I wasn't there long enough to get any." I was looking for my lunch. Instead, I found the white-wrapped package Lou had given me. With all the commotion, I'd forgotten it. I took the lunch and the package and set them on the kitchen table.

Mom poured me some orange juice. "What's that?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "It's something from Mrs. Mossert. Something for this weekend."

Mom looked askance at it. I shrugged.

"Go wash your hands," she said. "Then you can eat."

"Oh!" I said, suddenly realizing. "I didn't pack yet!"

"I took care of it," Mom said. "Everything's in the car already."

"Thanks," I said, and ran from the room. I had a terrible suspicion about what clothes she might have packed. So I ran upstairs, into my room, and pulled open the closet.

Thank God! There were all the girl clothes, the ones we'd bought at the thrift shop, all hanging neatly, including the one I'd worn to the museum. She hadn't packed any of them.

"Whew!" I said out loud. I shut the closet, washed my hands, and went back downstairs.

Mom was sitting at the table, shaking the white box gently.

"Open it," she told me.

I did. Under the white tissue was a square box. It was rather nice for a cardboard box. Inside the box — "Oh my God!" — was a pearl necklace.

"It's not real pearl," Mom said, "It's just costume jewelry, but still... did you tell Mrs. Mossert about dressing like a girl?"

"Oh," I said. "Not exactly."

My mother's arm dropped heavily to the kitchen table. "Victor, please don't tell me that you dressed up for her to see?"

"Ah," I sighed, "Not exactly."

I told her of our weekend in Boston: how we'd been in the restaurant with the Jamesons.

"She was walking by, she didn't see you, and you called out to her?"

"Yes," I said. "I kind of forgot who I was."

She sighed heavily. "Victor, exactly how many people know about your dressing up?"

I licked my lips anxiously. "Let's see: you, Dad, me, Mrs. Jameson, Miranda, Diana, Lou, Lou's mother... I guess that's everybody."

"What about the little girl who lives in back of us?"

"Oh, yeah... her. She thinks that Juliette is somebody else who doesn't live here."

Mom looked at the pearl necklace. "This would go well with the princess costume," she said, twisting her mouth.

Then she scooped up the necklace. "Eat your lunch," she said. "I have to do a few things. Then take your shower."

She got up and walked out of the room.

---

I had a hard time eating. I didn't have an appetite, and it was hard to swallow. I knew it was simply nerves, or fear.

I was in the grip of a feeling I'd never felt before in my entire life: I couldn't wait until Halloween is over!

There wasn't any point in struggling with my food. I decided to pack it up and bring it with me so I could eat when I was less agitated.

Mom was in the living room with a small suitcase open. I could see it was full of my clothes — boy clothes. She took out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and sweater, and handed them to me.

"Put these on when you get out of the shower," she said. She didn't look at me as she talked.

I wanted to ask whether I was in trouble, but I didn't dare.

Soon we were off. Mom didn't talk, so I didn't, either. I noticed we weren't heading for the turnpike, though.

We were heading for Newton Village. My mouth went dry. I had a feeling I knew where we were going, but for sure I wasn't going to ask.

When at last we pulled into the parking lot next to the thrift store, I couldn't stand it any more and said, "Mom, what are we doing here?"

She turned to me and said, in a very serious voice, "Victor, I had a surprise for you, but I'm going to tell you now. Macy Jameson very kindly offered to let you stay all weekend at her house with Miranda. We both thought it would be fun for you, but it would also be a nice thing for your father and me.

"The two of us haven't been away alone together since you were eight years old, and we're long overdue. Macy and Miranda are coming to pick you up after breakfast tomorrow, and your father and I were going to pick you up on Monday night after trick-or-treating."

She took a deep breath. I noticed she wasn't asking me what I thought, so I kept quiet.

"I *had* packed two bags for you. One for tonight and breakfast tomorrow: boy clothes. The other was to take to the Jamesons' house: girl clothes.

"Here's the thing: I left your boy clothes at home. On purpose. You keep telling me that you don't like wearing girls clothes, and yet you keep doing things... you keep telling people... so that you can keep on doing it."

She paused. I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn't, but she stopped me with a gesture.

"Don't," she said. "Don't tell me that again. It's hard for me, knowing that you like to dress up like this, but what is even harder is that you think you can't talk to me about it."

"Mom?"

"Wait. I understand that Lou is your best friend. But his mother? And how in the world did you and Diana find out you had this common interest?" She shook her head. "I don't understand this whole... business. But I don't want to lose my only son. I've decided that you can be Juliette all weekend. All we need is an outfit for tonight, and maybe one for tomorrow morning, and you'll be set."

"Oh, Mom," I began, but she was already getting out of the car.

---

About a hour later we were on our way. I was wearing a twill skirt, a red and white striped cami, and a geranium-colored hoodie. We didn't get them at the thrift shop, but at a mall nearby. We also picked up a camouflage skirt and top and a matching green cardigan. Plus some new underwear, socks, and some beige sneakers with flowers on them.

Not only that, I was wearing a pink hairband, had some metal bangles on my left wrist, and a little heart necklace around my neck. The necklace was under the hoodie, but I knew it was there.

I felt that Mom had gone a little overboard... but it seemed like she was buying all this stuff to reassure herself (and me) in some weird way. Or to connect with me or something... me... not Victor-me, but Juliette-me.

"How do you feel, Juliette?" Mom asked.

"Fine, Mom," I replied. Honestly, I didn't feel bad at all. The clothes were so new and comfortable, and — unlike the time with the dorky half-cardigan, I knew I looked good.

Madison looked good, too. Mom had brought her along and insisted that I hold her in my hands or on my lap. I turned her over and almost started talking to her. Since I had nothing else to do, I changed her clothes.

That seemed to make Mom feel better somehow.

---

Having a doll was strange. A nice kind of strange. It was like having a pet, or a little friend. If Mom wasn't there, I honestly would have talked to Madison. Since we couldn't talk, I held her up so she could see out the window.

Don't tell me it's stupid. I know it is. But it made me feel better.

As Madison and I silently communed, looking at the trees along the Pike, a realization quietly hit me. It was just a guess, but it made so much sense!

"Hey, Mom," I said. "Those girls who were fighting over Uncle Mickey: that was you and Lou's Mom, wasn't it?"

Mom cleared her throat. After a pause she asked, "What? What ever gave you that idea?" in a tone that told me I'd gotten it right.

I kept looking out the window and said nothing. Mom didn't either, hoping I'd forgotten, I guess, or at least not wanting to tell me the story.

Good thinking, Madison, I silently said. I can ask Mrs. Mossert next time I see her!

---

It was about four in the afternoon when we pulled up in front of our hotel. A doorman in a long coat with brass buttons opened the door for me, and I stepped out, still holding Madison.

"Good afternoon, young lady," he said. "Welcome."

"Thanks," I said. "Welcome to you, too."

Some other men from the hotel loaded all our suitcases and hanging bags onto a little hand trolley, and we entered the hotel lobby. The doorman gave the revolving door a push before I stepped inside, so I didn't even have to do that!

This was one part of being a girl that I didn't mind at all: having people do things for me. To tell the truth, I didn't mind the clothes, either. What I was wearing felt so comfortable!

"I have a reservation," Mom said at the desk. "Carly Samson?"

While she checked in, I looked around the lobby. There were a few people sitting in armchairs, reading newspapers or just waiting.

One man, who was hidden behind a paper, caught my eye, because it looked like he wasn't much taller than me. All I could see of him was his legs and feet — the rest was behind the newspaper — but his feet didn't reach the ground.

As if sensing my interest, he dropped the paper and looked directly at me.

My jaw dropped, because his face looked very familiar, but at the same time I was sure I'd never met him.

He frowned in displeasure at my staring, and rattled his newspaper.

At that moment, Mom turned to me to say, "Come on, Juliette, we'll drop our things in our room. Then we'll go for a walk." As she spoke, her eyes followed my gaze to the man in the chair.

The flash of recognition was immediate and mutual.

"Carly?" the man said, with great surprise. He leapt to his feet, and dropped his paper on a nearby table. He ran across the room.

"I can't believe it!" Mom gasped, and bent to embrace him. He was only an inch or so taller than me — a handsome, dark-haired man with a well-kept goatee and a moustache.

"Oh, my goodness," Mom said, blushing like a schoolgirl and smiling with delight. "How are you, Mickey?"

"Never better," he declared, and turned his attention to me.

"So," he said, smiling with kind interest, "Are you a niece of mine I've somehow never heard about?"

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way