Pigtails Are For Girls — Part 01
Chapters 1-3
 
By Katherine Day
 
Jarod finds it so natural to be a girl, to enjoy dolls, to sew and read.
How will this gentle boy survive as he enters the big new world of middle school?

(Copyright 2008)

Prologue

There was gentleness about Jarod that was obvious to anyone who cared to notice; but, of course, few ever noticed Jarod, and that was how he liked it. He moved always with a soft step, almost a lilt. At Franklin D. Roosevelt High School Jarod rarely raised his hand in class, and when he was called upon he always seemed to have the correct answer. As much as he tried to retire into the background and not to display his easy ability to be “smart” in class, teachers learned to call upon him, since he always knew the answers. That meant he would face the derision of many of his bored or sinister-appearing classmates in the high school he attended in a middle-sized, decaying former factory town.

Jarod had reached his junior year in high school and age 16 having made only few close friends. Perhaps his closest and most enduring friend was Wanda, a truly lovely, athletic straw-haired blonde who lived next door and was a year older. Wanda and her family had moved into the neighborhood during the summer when Jarod turned 11 and was about to enter the 6th Grade. Their friendship began as one of convenience, since Wanda was new to the neighborhood and needed a playmate and Jarod had found no lasting friends through the first 11 years of his life.

Jarod was not the shortest boy of his age, but he was slender, and often called “skinny.” His once blonde hair had turned darker, bordering on brown and he wore it long, flowing to his narrow shoulders. Sometimes on warm days, he tied his hair in two pigtails, letting the two loose flowing strands to run down the sides of his head.

His mother would caution him: “Jarod, pigtails are for girls.” To which the boy would respond: “Ah mom, boys wear their hair every which way now.”

His only outdoor recreational activity that summer had been to ride his bike, a sturdy mountain-bike style that his mother bought at a bargain price at the local discount superstore. He loved to ride his bike the two miles to the lakefront, and bike the roadways, watching the swimmers and beach lovers. He took these lonely bike hikes whenever he could, but always after warnings from his mother to “be careful,” and to “watch out for ruffians,” as she called them. The “ruffians” were indeed a problem, since Jarod’s shortest bike route took him down Brinston Road, a neighborhood known for gangs and other troublemakers. Jarod was hardly a sturdy enough boy to handle such challenges. So he took rode through the Highlands neighborhood, where lawyers and doctors tended to live, and he could marvel at the wide lots, curving driveways and lovely large homes, all about 50 years old.

On warm days, he wore a pair of tight-fitting, sweat shorts that ended just above the knee, and either a tee shirt or tank top, which exposed his slender shoulders and skinny, soft arms. Soon Wanda would join him on these rides.

His mother had been the first neighbor to welcome the new family, taking over a batch of peanut butter cookies she had baked to introduce herself to Wanda’s mother. She learned the family name was Highsmith.

“Thank you, and please call me Helen,” volunteered the new neighbor as she accepted the cookies. “And what may I call you?”

“I’m Nancy Pinkerton,” his mother, told her.

“May I give you a cup of coffee?”

Jarod’s mother accepted and the two women began an easy and friendly conversation. Immediately it was obvious the two women were going to be warm friends.

“We have a daughter,” Helen said. “Her name’s Wanda. She’s going into 7th grade next semester. I see you have a daughter, too. How old is she?”

“A daughter?” his mother asked, hesitating. “No, I have a son, Jarod. He’s 11 and going into 6th grade.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Highsmith, who reddened in embarrassment. “I thought … ah …”

Jarod’s mother quickly interrupted, seeking to halt her new neighbor’s embarrassment over mistaking Jarod for a girl. She knew he was looking more and more girlish, it seemed.

“No, Helen. That’s my Jarod. I’m afraid he needs a haircut and for some reason he likes to tie his hair in pigtails.”

“Nancy, I’m sorry for the mistake. I . . . ah . . . just thought there’d be a nice playmate for Wanda.”

“No worry, Helen. Jarod sometimes is thought to be a girl; he’s a bit thin for a boy, I guess. But I would like that very much if Wanda would like to meet him. He needs some friends.”

“I saw some rough looking kids across the street,” Helen said.

“Yeah, Jarod rarely plays with them, but there are some younger girls living next door to us in the other side-by-side.”

“Oh nice,” Helen said.

“The little girls’ mother, Amy, keeps an eye on Jarod for me while I’m at work and he often keeps the little girls occupied. That helps their mother out a bit, too.”

It appeared obvious that the two women would have a budding friendship. It was natural, too, since they both seemed to have similar backgrounds. Wanda’s parents were both professors at the local liberal arts college, while Jarod’s mother taught English at the local community college.

Chapter One: Jarod Finds Three Playmates

Jarod never knew his father, his mother having given birth to Jarod three months after his father had fled the scene, apparently fearful of facing the responsibility of raising a child.

“Your father was a musician,” his mother told him on his 14th birthday, finally informing Jarod of the full story of his conception and explaining how her teenage fascination with the long-haired scruffy lead guitar player led her into a starry-eyed, but misguided adventure. “I have no idea where he is now. He never contacted me after he left.”

His mother’s resourcefulness had been remarkable, Jarod later realized. She had been “kicked out” of her parent’s home at 17, when she became pregnant, finding refuge in the home of the understanding parents of a girl friend. She completed her last semester of high school as her stomach ballooned, graduated with a good grade point average and gave birth two weeks later on June 23rd, Jarod’s birthday, and coincidentally the day she turned 18.

Though desiring to be an artist, she realized she had to work, finding an office job, juggling child care duties and even eventually entering college. By the time she was 25 she had graduated from the state university branch in the city with a degree in English. After several years as a personnel assistant for a large company, she returned to college, taking several years to gain her masters’ degree; that eventually opened opportunities to teach and for the last ten years she had been teaching English to adults at the community college, many of whom were hoping to get their G.E.D.

“I wanted to take art,” she told Jarod during the summer he turned 14. “But I knew I had to raise you, and get a good income, something artists don’t have.”

“Mommy, you should have done that, you’re so artistic,” Jarod said.

Indeed, their side-by-side duplex had samples of his mother’s work hung on the wall, including a startlingly realistic charcoal drawing of the city’s skyline and a watercolor of St. Gabriel’s Basilica.

“And Jarod, honey, you are so artistic, even more so than mommy,” she told him.

“Not really mommy, I can’t draw or paint.”

“Oh but look at the nice stories and poems you write; that’s being artistic.”

She hugged him, drawing his slender body tightly against hers, patting his head gently.

He loved his mother’s scents; her clothes smelled slightly of lilacs, due to the mild cologne she wore and the soaps she used in the bathroom. She was a fairly tall woman, given to a modest fleshiness that was distributed evenly and not unattractively on her person. “I have to lose some weight,” Jarod would often hear her complain, but he loved his mother as she was.

He loved to cuddle next to her on the living room as they watched a movie or read a book together, to feel comfort and safety in her soft flesh. Her round face was lightly freckled and her light brown hair was shoulder length and straight with a small bob at the end. In spite of her tendency to put on weight, his mother had always been strong for a woman, and one summer had even worked construction.

The two shared something else, a compulsion for neatness and order. Their side-by-side duplex was always clean and sparkling, and they found joy in cleaning and vacuuming and dusting at least once a week.

Even as a toddler, Jarod had shown a desire to put things in order, to keep his few toy cars in a neat line, or stored properly in the toy garage. He was not a typical boy, and usually was content to sit still, rather than run about as he grew up. At a garage sale, one warm weekend when he was four, Jarod had pestered his mother into buying a Barbie doll that some family was selling; the Barbie was a bit bedraggled, hair badly mussed, and the accompanying wardrobe was incomplete. Since the family had put a price tag of $3 on it, his mother agreed to buy it.

Barbie became “princess” in Jarod’s life and in Jarod’s young voice she was called, “Printhess.” With his mother’s help the two restored Princess to close to her original beauty, and found some more clothes for her at another rummage sale. And Princess became Jarod’s playmate for years to come.

“Why don’t you play with your cars?” his mother asked him many times.

“Because Printhess would be lonely then, and she doesn’t like to play cars,” he would explain.

One day, he asked his mother: “Can you fix Printhess hair?”

“Sure honey. How would you like it done?”

“Like this, mommy,” he said producing a drawing with a little girl with pigtails.

“You mean with pigtails?”

“Yes. Yes. Give Printhess pigs.”

“No honey, pigtails.”

In a few minutes, she had tied the doll’s hair into two short pigtails that protruded out from the back of the doll’s head.

Soon, to his mother’s despair, she found herself buying another Barbie at another garage sale and a few weeks later still another Barbie. Suddenly, she was feeling concern, watching her son develop into his own little imaginary world, populated by himself (he called himself “Jane”) and the three dolls which he named”Printhess,” “Tammy” and “Debbie.”

They played as three girl friends, going shopping, skipping rope and dressing and undressing themselves. His mother could hear the boy talking, creating three different voices, all thin and high-pitched. She was astounded as she listened, since he seemed to be creating different stories each time he played with the dolls.

“I’m the mommy,” he explained one day to his mother as he sat on the couch, flanked by the two dolls, acting as if he was reading to them.

In truth, though he was only five at the time, he was holding his favorite child’s book, “The Three Bears and Goldilocks,” turning the pages and repeating the story almost word for word as he had heard it dozens of times from his own mother. It was as if he could read and, of course, he couldn’t. He was telling the story completely from memory.

Jarod’s closeness to his mother grew through his childhood years, and he soon became interested as he watched his mother at the sewing machine. His mother’s time at the sewing machine had become her time to relieve stress after her work at the community college. She favored making one-piece dresses, having become a whiz at the sewing machine, thus saving money in the early years of Jarod’s life.

On a whim one day when Jarod was seven, she called him over to the sewing machine.

“What would you like me to sew for you, Jarod?”

“What, mommy? You want to sew me?” the boy said, puzzling over her question.

“No honey, I want to make you some clothes, like a shirt or pants. What would you like?”

Jarod seemed puzzled for a moment, finally he answered: “I want a dress, just like Printhess has on.”

He held up his favored Barbie doll, who was in a light blue baby doll dress, complete with puffed sleeves and of mid thigh length.

“Only make it pink, mommy,” he said.

“You want a dress, Jarod?”

“No, mommy. Jane wants a dress. It’s for her,” the boy said, indicating it was for his feminine alter ego.

“But, boys like you don’t wear dresses, honey,” she said, taking Jarod now, setting him on her lap, hugging him.

“But it’s for Jane,” he persisted.

His mother relented. How could she refuse? He was so earnest about dressing the part of Jane, with the two Barbie dolls. She found a dress pattern, took Jarod’s measurements and soon was busy making the dress. She began the project with great enthusiasm, knowing how cute Jarod would look in a dress and how much he wanted it; soon, however, she realized that encouraging his desires to dress like a girl could become a habit and lead to problems as he grew older.

“Mommy,” he pestered her in the days while she was making the dress, “When is Jane’s dress ready? Jane wants her dress.”

“Honey, be patient.”

“Amy and Debbie want Jane to have a dress,” he said simply, matter of factly.

His mother told herself this was “all play,” but still did some research on the internet about boys who like to play with dolls. There was a chance, she was finding, that Jarod may indeed be transgendered, but there was also a good chance he was just “playing,” and finding joy mainly because he lived alone with his mother and had no male role model. He’ll grow out of it, she reasoned, though not with conviction.

She began the project in late April, just as she was busiest at the college, grading papers for finals and writing proposals for her next semester teaching schedules. She stayed up late on a Friday night, finishing the dress, planning to surprise Jarod with it the next day.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” squealed Jarod the next morning as he saw his mother bring the dress out. “Is that for Jane?”

“Yes, honey, that’s Jane’s dress.”

He was elated, and ran to his room to get his two Barbie dolls. Bringing them back, holding them gently in each arm, he said, “Look Printhess. Look Tammy. Look Debbie. Here’s Jane’s new dress, almost like yours Printhess.”

She told him that before he could wear such a nice dress, he had to have a bath. She fixed him a nice bubble bath, the kind he liked so much and had wanted to share with his two dolls, but his mother soon talked him out of that idea.

“Mommy, I need real clothes for Jane,” he told her, as she started to help him back into his underwear after the shower.

“You have the dress darling,” she said, not sure what he wanted.

“No, mommy, not these,” he said, pushing away the boy’s briefs she was trying to putt on him. “Real clothes, like Printhess has.”

He picked up the doll, pulling her dress up and pointed to her panties. “Like these, mommy.”

“No these will be ok for now, Jarod. Put these on,” she insisted.

“No. Jane can’t wear those.”

Suddenly, she had a full-fledged tantrum on her hands; Jarod rarely fussed, but for some reason he had found it important that he dress fully as a girl would, even if he was only playing with dolls.

Jarod refused to put on the dress, even though he loved it, until he had panties and a cami or slip to wear under it. Finally, his mother relented, driving down to a nearby Target store with him to buy several pairs of little girls panties. Jarod insisted on picking them out, and he found cotton panties with pretty bunnies on them.

“You’re adorable,” his mother said out loud, but to herself, when she finally had Jarod dressed. He wanted his hair brushed, fixed and made into pigtails.

“You mean pigtails like we fixed for Printhess?”

“Yes mommy. Pigtails.”

“But, honey, pigtails are for girls.”

“I know, but Jane wants pigtails and she’s a girl, mommy.”

Nancy knew she could no longer argue with her son’s logic, since he seemed to accept the idea that he was “Jane” sometimes.

“Well, you have long enough hair. Let’s see what I can do with it.”

She was able to twist the strands of his hair to create two pigtails, sticking out either side of his head and drooping down slightly in a curl. When she was done, she had him stand back so she could look at him.

“There you are, my sweet. I must say you look so cute, now.”

And he did look exactly like a pretty little girl.

“Mommy, Jane loves you,” he said, jumping up and down eagerly, running to kiss her.

Soon, he was on the floor playing at the makeshift house he had created out of cardboard boxes for Printhess, Tammy and Debbie. His mother was astonished at the sight; all she could see was a pretty little girl, a very dainty, slim little girl, all pink and white and feminine. Could this be her son? What had she done?

*****

A year later, during the summer when he turned eight, Jarod began to sew, using his mother’s machine. His mother gave him scraps to sew with, and he struggled to make a dress for Printhess, a project that his mother had to finish. He knew it was not typical for a boy to sew, but he found he liked it. He had gained an interest in sewing while watching his mother late at night work intensely on the machine, smiling and whistling to herself as she worked. The machine was in her bedroom and Jarod would lie on her bed, which carried his mother’s sweet lilac smell, and read, or draw, or color in his books.

He hated summers, when there was no school. Until Wanda moved next door, he made no close friends. The Modjeska twins, Michael and Milton, lived across the street and were his age, but they were rough, and always wanted to tease Jarod, calling him a sissy because he didn’t want to wrestle or play “soldier” with them.

Michael Modjeska always was quick to punch Jarod in the arm, quick, sharp punches. Even though the twins were six months younger, they were both bigger and stronger, and they found ways to harass Jarod every time they were together. Jarod was poor at baseball or soccer, so he steered clear of the makeup neighborhood games.

During the summer when he turned 10, he asked his mother if he could make a dress.

“I’ve watched you, mommy, and I can do it. I know I can. I can do it,” he pleaded.

“Oh Jarod, you don’t want to do that,” she said.

“Yes, mommy, please. I do. I do.” His voice was thin and high registered, and he was often mistaken for a girl when he answered the phone, not an unusual happening for boys before their voices change.

Nancy Pinkerton looked at her son; she loved him so much. He had become her close companion, and except for Karen, a co-worker with whom she’d become close, her only companion. Despite receiving many bids for dates, Nancy had not become serious with any other men, pleading that she had to remain close to her son.

“You’re such a beautiful son,” she replied. “And you help mommy so much. If you want to sew, I can’t see why you can’t.”

The two of them went to the fabrics store and found a scrap of a floral pattern in pinks and purples on the $1 sale table. “There, Jarod,” his mother said, “you can practice on that.”

“Mommy, that would make a nice skirt for you,” he said, his excitement flowing.

“Oh I don’t know if there’s enough cloth there,” she said.

“But mommy, it’s so pretty.”

“Ok,” she agreed. “But you’ll have to make it for a girl, since there’s not enough cloth for my size, which is an ‘8.’”

“Thank you, mommy, after it’s done we can give it to Goodwill or something. I just think it would make a pretty skirt.”

Chapter Two: Frolicking at Amy’s

It took Jarod nearly two weeks to work on the skirt; even though he was only ten she felt comfortable leaving him alone at home. Mrs. Tankersley in the adjoining side-by-side unit was a stay at home mother, having a two and a four year old, and agreed to look in on Jarod during the day; he would be around to assist with her children, both girls. Thus, the first month of Jarod’s summer was filled that year with playing dolls and simple games and occupying the attention of the Tankersley girls, Emily and Angela. He found great fun in showing the younger girls how to make the dolls look pretty; he also taught them how to draw pictures with crayons, without using a coloring book. Then, he’d retreat back to his own unit where he spent perhaps several hours a day working on the skirt, and other sewing projects. Sometimes, he would curl up and read.

It was Emily, the four-year-old, who came up with the idea that when they played dolls that Jarod should be their aunt. “Be Aunty Jane,” she said to Jarod.

“No, honey,” her mother objected having overheard the suggestion. “He’s Jarod. He’s a boy and can’t be an aunty.”

“Aunty Jane, mommy. She’s Aunty Jane,” the child protested.

It was obvious the child cared nothing about gender, having no idea that it was strange to have a boy play with the dolls.

“Oh, Mrs. Tankersley, that’s OK. It’s just play.” Jarod responded, not wanting to upset the child.

“Are you sure it’s OK, Jarod?”

“Who’s to know, except us?” he responded.

So, Jarod became known as “Aunty Jane” by the girls next door. He found he liked the idea and even toyed with dressing up someday in his mother’s clothes and come to play as their “Aunty Jane.”

“Is he a bother to you, Amy?” his mother asked after the first week of summer

“Oh no, Nancy, he plays so nice with the girls,” Mrs. Tankersley, whose name was Amy, told his mother.

As she chatted with Amy, she watched Jarod with the girls. They were all three deep in concentration on playing with the dollhouse, arguing quietly about what one of the dolls should wear.

With his longish, light brown hair which now hung to his shoulders, she realized he looked so much like a girl. His slender legs, unmuscled and smooth, were tucked under him in a girlish manner, and his truly pretty hands were dressing one of the dolls, most daintily.

Later at home, Jarod went immediately to the sewing machine, finishing the hemming on his skirt by the time supper was ready.

“Mommy, mommy, I finished it,” he said running into the kitchen with the garment.

He held it before himself, as if to model it.

“What do you think? Isn’t pretty, mommy? Isn’t it?”

His mother put down the pot she was holding in amazement.

“Darling, it’s lovely,” she smiled.

“But supper’s ready now and we can look at it closer after we eat. Now take it back to the bedroom and then we can talk about it later.”

“But mommy, isn’t it pretty, mommy?”

“Yes, honey, now take it back and wash your hands and come to the table.”

His enthusiasm so pleased her, and for the second time in a couple of hours she realized how much he looked like a girl. Jarod hurried through his supper, and his mother knew he was eager to get back to the skirt.

“Don’t you want any ice cream?” she asked, as he began to get up from his chair and excuse himself from the table.

“No, mommy. I just wanna show you the skirt now.”

His mother smiled, and decided to skip dessert herself; her own son’s enthusiasm was enough “dessert” for her, she decided.

“Mommy, stay there. I want to surprise you,” he said, as he left the room and bounded up the stairs.

He was gone for more than 15 minutes and when he finally appeared in the kitchen, Nancy Pinkerton was shocked. Standing before her was perhaps the cutest 10-year-old girl she had ever seen. Jarod wore the pink skirt; it went to mid-thigh, flaring out in folds of pink cloth from a belted midsection. For a top, he wore a light blue girl’s tank top that his mother had found for him at a rummage sale and purchased for 50 cents at his urging. He wore black Mary Jane shoes with short white anklets and with his slender, soft white arms exposed Jarod looked so cute, his mother thought.

“Mommy, meet Jane,” he said.

He stood there with his hairbrush in his hand and two ribbons; his hair was flowing awkwardly.

“Jane is so pretty,” she said, not wanting to use his boy’s name, trying to keep his boy identity separate from his role-playing as a girl.

“Can you help me with my hair, mommy? I want pigtails.”

“You sure you want pigtails?”

“Yes, you said pigtails are for girls, and Jane is a girl.”

Nancy Pinkerton smiled, and took the hairbrush from him, drawing him over to the kitchen chair, sitting him down, and beginning to brush his hair. She now was feeling warm and close to this child, this son of hers who was quickly becoming a girl right before her eyes.

“There, Jane, look at yourself,” she said when she was finished, steering him to the mirror in the hallway.

“I’m Jane,” he said, a bemused look on his face. He said nothing more, merely looking at himself.

“You know what, Jane,” she said. “You need some makeup on your face.”

“Oh mommy, yes, I do.

She led him into her bedroom, sitting him on her bed. She got her lipstick, eye shadow and liner and mascara, and began to apply all of it, using her artistic talents in a most precise way. She was shocked to realize she was enjoying making Jane a very pretty young girl.

“There,” she said, turning his face to the mirror. “What do you think?”

“Mommy, mommy,” he said excitedly. “You made Jane so pretty. Just like I wanted her to be.”

“Honey, do you like it?”

“Yes, mommy. I like it.”

“Now, Jane,” Nancy said slowly, carefully to her son. “This is just play, honey. We won’t tell anyone about this, OK? Not Mrs. Tankersley or the girls or anyone, OK?”

Jarod looked at his mother for a minute. “I won’t, mommy.”

“Boys don’t dress like girls, honey. We’re doing this just for play.”

“I know mommy.”

He was quiet for a minute. Tears began welling in his eyes, and he wiped them with his tiny hands.

“What’s wrong, honey?” his mother asked. “Isn’t this what you wanted to do?”

“Oh yes, mommy. Yes.”

He paused again for a moment, and Nancy Pinkerton joined her son as they both looked in the mirror, looking like a handsome young woman with her lovely daughter. She held him tightly, twisting his pigtails lovingly with her fingers.

The boy’s tears subsided, and soon a smile appeared on his face.

“Mommy, why can’t I be a girl?”

“Because you were born a boy.”

“I know, mommy. I like being a girl so much.”

She hugged him, enjoying this as a special moment, but beginning to worry about this lovely child’s future. Nancy Pinkerton couldn’t imagine him being forced to be out in the world of rough boys, but he was soon approaching an age where the reality of his gender would become a cruel truth to both of them.

Chapter Three: “Aunty Jane”

“Jane. Jane.” It was Mrs. Tankersley and Jarod realized she was calling to him.

“Yes, Mrs. Tankersley,” he said, looking up from the floor where he was assisting her two daughters in arranging furniture in their large doll house.

“Oh Jarod, I mean,” she responded, red-faced now at calling the boy the name her daughters had given him.

He smiled. “That’s OK. I like being Aunty Jane when I play here.”

“Honey, you’ve been so good for my girls; they love playing with you.”

“I love playing with them, ma’am. It’s fun. Besides, I get lonely at home.”

Mrs. Tankersley smiled at the boy. He was such an unusual child, so gentle and sweet to her girls, she felt. In a year or two, she was sure, Jarod would be a perfect baby-sitter and she would trust him fully. She mused that he was not at all like the boys she knew, particularly her two brothers who were such roughnecks and “meanies” when they were growing up.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime,” she said.

“Aunty Jane, Aunty Jane, come play. Fix the furniture.” It was a plea from Emily, the four-year-old.

He turned his attention again to the two girls, carefully examining a tiny couch, showing it to the girls, and with a dainty, light motion, placing it into a cubicle in the doll house. “There, how is that?” he said to the girls, in his high sweet voice.

Mrs. Tankersley thought to herself: He could be the cutest girl.

Her teen friends in high school had considered Amy Tankersley “cute”. All of 5 feet, 3 inches in height, she tended toward a modest chubbiness that foretold her Italian heritage; she was born the fourth of five children to Giacomo and Maria Spaniola. She still wore her full head of dark hair in the same style, a short bob with bangs, she did when she met Bob Tankersley in her junior year and his senior year at their high school. Her hair stylist had told her to change from the “old-fashioned” schoolgirl style, but Amy felt comfortable with it.

Bob, whose father owned half the city it seemed, wooed her with a passion; after her high school graduation they were married in a posh ceremony that nearly caused Giacomo and Maria to divorce, largely due to debts developed in the marriage. Giacomo ran a fruit distribution business and was modestly successful, but the cost of the wedding was astronomical.

Amy’s mother, Maria, had insisted on the large ceremony, if only to show that a middle-class family such as theirs could stage a wedding befitting the son of the wealthy Tankersley family.

Despite the Spaniola’s investment, the marriage itself turned sour quickly. Bob, who had been the typical “frat boy” continued to play, while working for his father, leaving Amy alone many nights. After the birth of Angela, Bob took off for good, divorcing Amy, but leaving her with enough child support so that she could be a stay-at-home mother. He moved from their Midwest hometown on one of the Great Lakes to head up a California office for his father’s business.

Watching Jarod at play with her two young girls, Amy remembered her own schoolgirl years. She discovered makeup at about age 10, the same age that Jarod was now, and always wanted her mother to put her in dresses, rather than jeans or shorts. Oh, how she loved to pose before mirrors, and be feminine. At 10, Amy had the same slender, pretty body that Jarod had now, and she fondly recalled those idyllic childhood years, and the joy she had when her mother helped her become pretty.

Watching Jarod at play, his dainty mannerisms featuring his every move, Amy had the strangest desire: She wanted to dress him up as a pretty little girl. She still had some of her high school clothes hanging in storage, and he’s now about the same size she was then. The clothes would never fit her now, since she had grown from 110 pounds in high school to 160 now at the age of 24.

It was an evil thought, she told herself, but she wondered if Jarod might not like the idea. There was nothing boyish about him; she never saw him out playing with other boys in the neighborhood. He was slender, soft and pale.

Besides, she had known that Jarod had taken up sewing, and spent much time with his own mother. She would talk to Jarod’s mother, Nancy, about her idea someday, she thought.

*****
Later that day, Jarod and Amy took the girls to the tot lot to play, and Jarod, still dressed in his shorts and tank top, joined in frolicking with Emily and Angela, pushing them on the swings, chasing them playfully on the sandy surface of the lot and sliding down the slides. Emily wanted to walk the monkey bars hand-over-hand, but Jarod talked her out of it, afraid he’d embarrass himself; he knew his arms were too weak to cover more than one or two bars.

“You have three lovely daughters,” Amy heard a man say.

She looked up, puzzled at first as she looked at a moderately tall ponytailed man with a goatee.

“Three daughters? No, just the two younger girls,” she said. “The oldest is just a neighbor . . . ah . . . girl who sometimes helps with my girls.”

“That’s my girl there,” the man said, pointing to a blonde, pigtailed girl who was now making herself known to Jarod and the two girls. Jarod looked over to the man, pointing to the swing as if to ask: should her put her on a swing? The man nodded, and Jarod carefully placed the girl on a swing next to Emily. The two began swinging, and yelling “higher, higher, higher,” as Jarod pushed gently from behind.

“That’s my Jessica,” the man said.

Amy felt obliged to name her girls. “That’s Emily, the oldest, and Angela, who wants to keep up with Emily and it sometimes means a fight. But, with the help of Jar . . . ah . . . Jane … they seem to play pretty good together.”

“Your neighbor girl is really good with the kids, I can see that.”

Amy smiled, feeling convinced in her desire to think of Jarod as a girl. “Yes, she is,” Amy replied. “Her mother is alone, too, so we take turns watching out for each other. Jane’s no trouble for me to watch, and she’s such a help.”

Amy watched as the man left the park bench they were sharing and went to help his daughter onto another swing; Jarod was busy trying to keep Angela from straying. He was a relatively tall man, slender, but with an angular, sinewy legs showing beneath his shorts. He wore a red Wisconsin Badger tee shirt that seemed to highlight his light brown hair. She pictured him with yellow, straw-like hair when he was a boy.

The man also moved with gentleness, and handled his daughter with loving care.

“By the way, I’m Jim,” he said.

“Amy. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“You come here often?” Amy asked.

“I have Jessica in the mornings usually, until I have to go to work, and then take her to her mother’s. We’re separated, but we get along OK where Jessica is concerned. So, if the weather’s nice, we’ll be here many mornings.”

“Yes, we come here often. We live on Manford St., two blocks down.”

“Great, Amy. I live in the brown house, across the street from the park. I’ll look for you and if Jessica is with me, we will try to come out and maybe the girls can play together.”

Amy smiled, sensing a possible growing relationship between the two. Her friends had been urging her to “get out,” but so far no man had entered her life since the divorce. Maybe, just maybe, there was a possible candidate in Jim. If there was to be a next time in the park, Amy realized she’d have to fix herself up a bit. She felt she must have looked none too attractive in her mussed Bermuda shorts, dirty sneakers and grey tee-shirt to the handsome gentleman sitting next to her. She also knew she had let herself get a bit too chubby for her frame, and felt embarrassed, thinking the man thought her ugly.

“Come girls, it’s time to go,” she yelled after a while. Jim did the same, calling Jessica to come.

They all protested, including Jarod who found he was having great fun with the girls. But after a hesitation, they all approached the bench, and Amy said, pointing to Jim: “Girls, this is Jim.”

“Me, Angela,” said the youngest girl in her squeaky voice.

“I’m Emily, and this is our friend, Jane,” Emily announced quickly.

Jim looked pleasantly at them, and introduced himself as “Jim,” adding, “And you’ve been playing with Jessica. She’s my daughter.”

“We know, we had fun,” Emily said.

“And nice meeting you, Jane,” Jim said addressing Jarod. “Mom here says you’re a great help with the girls.”

Jarod, know realizing he was “Jane” in everyone’s eyes, blushed. He said nothing.

“Well, you’re all such cute girls,” Jim said.

The two groups parted, after much hugging and girlish giggling among the three girls and Jarod.

Amy had not felt so happy in a long time; she had a perfectly sweet time in the park with the girls and Jarod and with their new friends, Jim and Jessica.

“Too bad, Jarod’s not really girl,” she told herself. “I’ll have to talk to Nancy about that.”

On the way home, Amy could hear Emily say to Jarod: “See, you’re Jane now.”

“OK,” was Jarod’s reply.

Emily continued talking, asking her mother. “Can’t Aunty Jane get a nice dress, too?”

“What, Emily?”

“Yes, mommy, a dress for Aunty Jane. She always dresses like us, and she should be an aunty.”

Jarod blushed, not sure what to say. It was true Jarod usually wore shorts and tank tops or tee-shirts, like his young playmates did.

Amy interrupted: “Oh Emily doesn’t wear dresses, honey. He’s a boy.”

“No, Mommy, he’s Aunty Jane,” she protested.

Amy realized nothing would change the young child’s thinking. Jarod had been playing the role of “Aunty Jane” for so long now that the girl probably couldn’t realize he was a boy.

“Jarod, I’m sorry about that.” Amy said to Jarod. “She seems to know you only as Aunty Jane.”

“That’s OK, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I kinda like being Aunty Jane for the girls.”

Suddenly, the two little girls begin running ahead, and Jarod was tailing after them making sure they didn’t dart in the the street. Amy watched as the three cavorted ahead, finally catching up to them as Jarod held the hands of both little girls, awaiting a break in the traffic. Once they had crossed the street, Amy asked Jarod, “The man at the park thought you were a girl. Do you mind that Emily called you Jane in front of that man?”

“Whatever.”

Jarod’s response was noncommittal, seeming to indicate he didn’t really care, but Amy still thought Jarod loved the idea of being Jane.

“Oh honey, you’re such a sweet boy,” she replied. “I’m glad you like playing with the girls.”

“Mrs. Tankersley,” he said politely. “It’s fun.”

He wanted to tell her that he was thinking of sewing a dress for himself, a dress that would be suited for “Aunty Jane.” Now that he was soon turning eleven years old and about to enter 6th Grade he was beginning to realize that his fascination with dolls and dresses was not typical for boys. Yet, he knew his only real joy was felt when he was dressed as a girl, sewing, playing with his dolls or enjoying times with Emily and Angela.

Interlude

In past summers, he had tried to play with the boys of the neighborhood, but usually ended up being bullied or made the butt of crude jokes about what a big “sissy” he was. He tried to play baseball or football with the other kids, but usually was the last to be chosen, with even Melody Frazier being picked before him. He hated baseball the most, always shaming himself when he came to bat, his weak arms rarely able to move the bat around fast enough to hit the ball. In baseball, the batter was always the focus of attention, all eyes on him as he struggled mightily to get a hit. More than once, he would hear a player on the opposing team tell their pitcher: “He swings like a girl. He can’t hit.” And, there became constant taunts of “Hey, girly, girly. Hey girly, girly.”

In one game, he came up with bases loaded, two outs and, true to form, he struck out, only to hear the others on his makeup team complain: “Who picked him for the team?” Another boy asked the captain: “Why didn’t you choose that girl first?” referring to a tiny girl who was the last chosen for the opposing team and who had two hits.

Of course, Jarod was stuck in right field, where the presumption was he’d do the least harm defensively. In truth, he had mastered the ability to judge and catch a fly ball, but his throws were too weak to be of help. “You throw like a girl,” he was told more often than not.

After the ballgame in which he struck out, he came home crying, saying to his mother: “I’m no good. Why can’t I be a girl?”

She comforted him as well as she could, but being a single mother and not having a male role model in the house, she felt helpless to strengthen his masculinity. Instead, she found Jarod growing more interested in his sewing and in writing stories and poetry. (To be continued)