Being chosen for a pivotal role is an honor in any production, even one so humble as Chamberlain Academy's school concert. I should have felt flattered; should, in fact, have felt ecstatic. Oddly enough, the only thing I felt was confusion. Confusion bordering on anxiety. And that was the strangest part, at least at first.

I've been treading the floorboards since my sixth birthday. I've appeared in children's pantomimes, dance recitals, and mannequin parades without number. Stage fright never entered into the equation, I was a decorated veteran of the stage. No, something else was fueling my apprehension. They'd given me no choice in the matter. I'd been conscripted, press-ganged into service. And where was the honor in that?

I reasoned initially that Ms Ramsey had chosen me for my background in dance and movement, which theoretically gave me an advantage over all the other boys in the dance club. But the end of the day, it was only a slight advantage. And that's why her choice seemed so baffling. There were at least three other boys who could have taken the part. Syd Chambers had studied classical ballet. Scott Bowers was the district ballroom champion, and Johnny Slash had won medals at the state finals. All three were eminently suited for the role.

Of course, Ms Ramsey wouldn't have chosen any of them; in point of fact, they'd never even been in the running. At the end of the day, they just didn't look right. It had to be me, because nobody else could possibly fulfill the requirements. The reason should have been obvious, blatantly obvious in fact, but I didn't care to admit it to myself at the time. Couldn't admit it to myself, might be more accurate. As it was, I was utterly mortified when I heard I'd be playing a girl's part in the school production.

They were presenting an Olde Tyme Music Hall at the end of August, a musical extravaganza which seemed to incorporate half the school. The show featured a Moulin Rouge number harkening back to the nightclubs and cabarets of nineteenth century Paris, slated to be the highlight of the production. Chamberlain Academy was renowned for its theater department, and no expense had been spared in terms of costume, lighting and set design. Ms Ramsey had promised the local press a riveting performance of spectacular proportions, and nothing would prevent her from keeping her word. Only problem was: Chamberlain Academy was an all-boy's school.

And I was the only one capable of dancing the French Cancan.

"The cancan? Ms Ramsey…I'm a boy."

I felt my cheeks tingling with embarrassment. My voice quavered with dismay; she couldn't be serious, couldn't expect him to humiliate myself in front of the entire school. My head spun with a feverish blend of shame and excitement. I knew Ms Ramsey extremely well, she'd been teaching me since the fourth grade. She would force me to go through with this, overriding my protests without a second thought. I could be certain of that much at least.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," she replied, smiling to herself, "all the same, I'm afraid there's really no alternative."

I was standing by her desk in the staffroom, patiently attempting to negotiate a role of lesser importance, one which didn't involve wearing a dress and about ten pounds of petticoats. Ms Ramsey was sitting in her computer chair, absently drinking a coffee. Nestles' cafe au lait; all of France in a cup.

"Anyway," she continued offhand, "I've already spoken to your Mother, and she's given her OK. Seemed rather pleased by the idea, as a matter of fact."

Yes, I could well imagine my Momma laughing down the phone at that one. She'd always had a rather sadistic sense of humor where her son was concerned. Worse still, she and Ms R were as thick as thieves, having worked together on half a dozen local productions. I decided to press on despite the hopelessness of the situation. There was too much at stake to give in without a fight.

"I can't do it, Mrs Ramsey. It's a girl's dance. Everyone will laugh at me."

"No, I doubt that very much," she answered, calmly sipping from her Starbucks mug, "Mikki, it may have escaped your attention, but half the cast will be dolled up as women. Most of your friends are in the chorus, they'll all be wearing dresses in the Moulin Rouge sketch."

"This is different," I replied, knowing that I'd be doing the cancan en solo. The rest of the guys would just be standing in the background, playing bar maids and waiters. It wasn't as if they had to raise their skirts and show off their underwear to like half the town. We weren't discussing the Macarena here. This was the cancan, one of the most celebrated (and notorious) routines of the modern era. It would require weeks of training and rehearsal to master; weeks at the very least. Visions of frilly white panties and long black stockings filled my head.

"I guess you're right," Ms Ramsey agreed reasonably enough, "the cancan's a tricky and rather complex number. That's why I chose you. We need the best, and you're the one, Mikki. You should feel honored."

Honored, I thought ruefully. This was going to ruin my life. I could already hear the jeers and catcalls that would follow me for the rest of the year. There were names for boys who like to dress up in women's undies. The laughter would never stop, even if I was doing it under protest.

"Can't you bring in one of the girls from Saint Brigit's?" I asked, casting haplessly about for a loophole, an escape route from this nightmare. This was my proverbial last-ditch gambit. Saint Brigit's College was the Catholic girls' school down the road, they often collaborated with Chamberlain Academy on the annual drama festivals.

"Can't spare any," Ms R explained conversationally, "we need them all for the grand finale right after your solo. Sorry, but it seems like you're out of luck, Mikki. Good thing you have a fantastic pair of legs."

I felt a soft, crimson flush invading my features. Was she deliberately taunting me, taking pleasure in my evident discomfort? Adults could be incredibly cruel sometimes, especially when they had enough power to pull rank. She must have known how embarrassed I felt, must have known that this would make me the laughing stock of the entire school. I was already halfway there, thanks to my Mother's insistence that I study dance and movement. Flashing my panties in the cancan would only make things worse. A hundred times worse, a thousand times.

"Mrs Ramsey…I can't do this. I'm not a girl."

I glanced around the staff room, hearing muted chuckles from the other teachers. They were all enjoying this, enjoyed seeing me robbed of my fragile adolescent dignity, reduced to a pleading infant. And why not? I was a child after all, my feelings didn't matter in the least. I shifted listlessly from foot to foot, almost dancing with frustration. Ms Ramsey regarded my performance with considerable amusement.

"Well, it's good to see you're getting your practice in early," she remarked, setting the mug down on her desk, "though I think we'll have to work on your pat en l'air. Rehearsals begin tomorrow at three thirty, Mikki. See you then."

I opened my mouth to make one final decisive complaint, but paused mid-sentence as she hit me with a massive dose of Teacher's Eye. I dropped my gaze immediately, wilting like a frozen rose. The decision had been made and nothing would alter the verdict. At barely sixteen years of age, I had no defense against The Eye, and Ms R was a world-class exponent. It was over, I was beaten.

Same as always.

I turned towards the staff-room door, feeling used, manipulated, confused. It was so blatantly unjust – she was an adult, a teacher, someone who was supposed to inspire faith and trust. Now she was going to force me into a skirt, subject me to the scorn and derision of the whole community. Face downcast to the floor, I headed for the hallway, dragging my steps on the scuffed and faded floor tiles.

"Oh – Mikki?" Ms R called brightly, just as I reached the open doorway. I looked back over my shoulder, eyebrows raised in expectation, hoping against all logic that she'd changed her mind, that it was a joke, some astronomically improbable misunderstanding. That she'd let me off and spare me the humiliation of a lifetime.

Given the circumstances, I should have known better.

"Don't forget to wear your prettiest panties," she said, eyes sparkling with hidden mischief. And that was all it took. The entire room erupted in mirth, teachers rocked back in their chairs, cackling like a bunch of old maids over some ribald joke.

Their laughter followed me all the way down the corridor.

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