A Lady’s Agreement

It was the early summer of 1972 when I found myself slouched in the backseat of the family van, watching the landscape blur as we crossed through one interstitial highway after another. Though it was my parents who had a real commitment down on the southern end of the country, I was meant to tag along only partway—just a few states in. Not by my choice, and certainly not theirs. But at fifteen, I’d become a pain in the ass for both of them, even if no one said it outright.
Like most boys my age, I had adopted the kind of surly attitude common to teenagers of the era—and without a clue on how to manage it, my parents had decided to pass the problem onto my mother’s older sister, Amelia. Unlike my folks, Aunt Mela—as I’d called her since I was a toddler—had a way of making me feel like an equal, even when I was clearly not. Instead of yelling or laying down rules, she made deals. “Gentlemen’s agreements,” she called them. And every offer she made sounded just reasonable enough to consider. Sometimes they were as simple as agreeing to accompany her to watch one of her old black-and-white chick flicks in exchange for staying up late. Others required more effort from my side, like mowing the lawn every visit, and she’d pay me more generously than I deserved.
As we crossed the patchwork of farmland rolling past the town’s welcome sign, I already knew the local heat and humidity would keep me busier than usual. I hadn’t packed much—barely more than the clothes I had on—having overslept until the last minute. I already envisioned using part of my payment to build a look worthy of a rockstar in progress, and with no scolding from my mother to stop me. She and Dad were heading off to some training course—one of those corporate programs where a few handpicked employees competed for a higher position. I was sure they’d get it.
Unlike me, Dad knew how to treat people. He could make anyone feel like a friend within seconds—always greeting strangers with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. “Chuck,” he’d say, even though he signed all the contracts as Charles. Named after him, I always preferred “Charlie.” It had taken me a while to understand—and it stung when I finally did—but most of the anger and frustration my relatives chalked up to puberty had really been my way of dealing with the quiet truth that my presence had become intolerable to the people closest to me.
“There he is!” came the voice of the only one who seemed unaffected by any of it. Aunt Mela burst through her aluminum screen door with her arms wide open, making a beeline straight toward me. My cheeks were the first to pay the price, squeezed tight between her long, polished nails in that familiar, rough sort of affection I’d learned to tolerate. I brushed her hands off with a grunt. Mom tried to scold me with a sharp glare, but Mela just waved her off, excusing my reaction with a laugh. “That’s just how boys are,” she said.
What we didn’t know—yet—was that my arrival had overlapped with another. My cousin Charlotte—Lottie— was there, too. The realization hit a second later when two small hands clamped down over my eyes from behind.
“Guess who!” said a high-pitched, teasing voice I recognized instantly.
She had to bend slightly to match my height, which bruised my ego more than I wanted to admit. She wasn’t just two years younger than me—she was also a girl. And even though we shared a fair chunk of genes, they had clearly worked out in her favor. She wasn’t only tall, but her longer, slim-yet-toned limbs gave her an edge I couldn’t match with my 5'4" frame and complete lack of muscle mass.
“A damn moron, that’s who,” I muttered, prying her hands off my face.
If my words were meant to sting, they failed. She just giggled and skipped around to join our Aunt’s side, completely unaffected.
My parents offered once more to take me back, suggesting that two kids might be too much for one woman to handle. But Aunt Mela wasn’t having any of it. She brushed the idea away with the same kind-hearted firmness she used on everyone, and ushered them toward their van.
They didn’t wait to be told twice. Within moments, Dad had started the engine, and Mom was blowing a kiss from the passenger seat followed by a half-muted warning through the cracked window. I caught only fragments of it, something about “behavior” and “manners,” but it didn’t matter. I just smirked and waved them off, knowing full well this was already shaping up to be a far better start to the summer than I could’ve asked for.
We stepped inside, and I followed. Though it had been a while since I’d set foot on that red wine-colored carpet, nothing had changed. Aunt Mela was a woman of tradition, and that extended not just to her wardrobe but to every corner of her house. A woman of strict tradition, she communicated her values not only in the way she dressed but in the way she curated every inch of her living space. Faded, floral wallpaper lined the walls, aged and slightly peeling at the corners, overrun with portraits of every size. Some featured faces I barely recognized from younger years; others were complete strangers.
Two matching armchairs sat in the living room, both upholstered in the same red wine hue as the carpet, with elegant curved wood accents. One belonged to her. The other, long untouched, had been my late uncle’s. Between them sat a modest coffee table bearing a mostly-empty teacup rested, likely long cold.
There was no television, of course. The only source of entertainment beyond her endless collection of romance novels was a dusty old radio that mostly played static now. Tall windows allowed light to flood the room, though the beige curtains—threadbare and nearly see-through—muffled it into a dreamy haze that matched the frozen-in-time ambiance of the entire place.
She motioned us toward the only two available chairs while she disappeared to retrieve the first tray of cookies, which she promised would be ready by now. I accepted Lottie’s challenge to race there first and got called a “rotten egg” when I lost—as usual. Still, Lottie didn’t take a seat, saving it instead for our hostess. I had no such sense of propriety and flopped into the other chair without hesitation. With our size, we could’ve squeezed in together, but the way I sprawled across the cushion—stretching my leg over the armrest—left no room for anyone else.
When Aunt Mela returned with the tray, I lunged forward to shovel as many cookies into my mouth as possible. Meanwhile, the women nibbled politely—part out of manners, part so they could talk as they ate.
Lottie asked what her plans were for the week. Mela chuckled, saying that by now we ought to know her routine by heart. She was always up at dawn to make the most of the daylight. Her days began with a light breakfast and prep work for lunch, though now—with three mouths instead of one—she admitted she might need help.
Lottie volunteered immediately. I, meanwhile, stuffed a third handful of cookies into the folds of my lap and kept quiet.
The house, she explained, demanded constant upkeep. A long list of chores kept her busy, but with three people sharing the load, she finally had time to spread on personal projects. The garden, for example, was begging for attention.
I mumbled through crumbs that if she expected me to mow the jungle she called a yard, I’d need cash up front.
She waved me off, sipping the last of her tea. “I was thinking more along the lines of flowers,” she said. “Marguerites would be nice.”
I rolled my eyes and claimed that no amount of money could make me go near those things. Then I returned to my cookie pile.
“First things first,” she clapped sharply, cutting through my distraction. “This weekend, I promised to help with Sunday service at church,” she announced. “And I expect my two favorite nephews to be my helpers.”
I raised an eyebrow and asked if I was included in that count. When she confirmed it, I snorted. “Good luck. I have no plans of waking up before 2 p.m.—especially on a Sunday.”
“And I don’t even have a suit,” I added dramatically, trying to end the conversation before she could push back.
With that, I grabbed the last cookie from the tray and made my way up to the attic, retreating in true Charlie fashion.
Lottie rolled her eyes. Aunt Mela just sighed and shook her head. But beneath her expression, there was something else—a flicker of mischief, or strategy—that I didn’t catch as I trudged upstairs.
Her way of handling me had given me a false sense of where I stood in the household hierarchy. And it was becoming crystal clear I needed a harder push to knock me down a peg before my rudeness evolved into something even worse.
She met me upstairs and asked if I needed the money for anything in particular. I lied and said it was for some schoolbooks. But when she saw through that, I admitted it was really to buy the latest LP from a rock band I’d grown fond of over the past few months. Surprisingly, she’d heard of them—and even more shocking, she knew they were doing a live show in a couple of months. I had already given up hope of ever seeing them, but when she offered to take me, my eyes lit up with the kind of joy she hadn’t seen in me since my toddler years. That’s how she knew she had me.
You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and my aunt had always known how to navigate my soft heart beneath all the layers of stubbornness and rudeness. Unlike everyone else, she understood I wasn’t a bad kid—I was just going through some stuff. And sometimes, a kind hand was all it took to steer me back on course. We shook hands and called it a deal. She made her way back downstairs, not before warning me with a half-serious smirk to at least distribute the manure evenly across the entire yard. She and Lottie would take care of the rest—for which I nodded faster than I thought possible.
“And you are going to church. Period,” She added that with a wagging finger before leaving the floor.
Back in the living room, Lottie had her own ideas about how my behavior needed correcting.
More than anyone, she loathed the pretentious monster I’d become since puberty. We used to have good times—back when we were still friends. But once the gender gap became more noticeable, I decided I was too good to hang out with her—or even treat her with the basic decency owed to any human being.
She never let me see it, but the way I brushed off her girlish playfulness had hurt her deeply—more than once. And while she may have given up hope of getting back the friendly cousin I once was to her, she hadn’t surrendered the chance to get even. If Aunt Mela’s guidance couldn’t break me down, Lottie was prepared to take her own swing. She didn’t know how just yet—but she would.
Faithful to my word, I began my first official day of work, determined to fulfill my side of the deal. I wasn’t quite in sync with Aunt Mela’s sunrise-start standard, but by 11 a.m., I was already in the garage, struggling not only to wake myself up, but also to breathe life into the stubborn lawn mower.
Aunt Mela had claimed it only needed a good, hard pull to start. Ten of my best tries later, it finally roared to life. I poured what I guessed was enough gas for both yards, and before I knew it, I was already halfway through the job.
She was so satisfied with my commitment that she sent Lottie outside to deliver a well-earned glass of lemonade after a couple of hours of hard work. Needless to say, Lottie had spent more time not just preparing the lemonade but also making the breakfast I had devoured in a single bite—and cleaning up the mess I’d left behind.
I took the glass from the tray and gulped it down in a single breath, returning the empty glass without even glancing at the person who brought it.
Around midday, Aunt Mela peeked through the window looking for me, intending to tell me I could take care of the rest later, resisting the temptation to offer my reward at least until after lunch. But I surprised her by calling from behind that I was already taking my break anyway. Chuckling and shaking her head, she made her way to the front door, likely expecting to find her yard transformed into something presentable.
Instead of being greeted by the sight of a clean, neatly mowed lawn, she was met with a chaotic mess that might have been better off untouched.
In my eagerness to win the tickets to the show, I hadn’t cared enough to even attempt doing a decent job. Jagged rows of uneven cuts crisscrossed through her lawn in a chaotic pattern, like they’d been drawn by a drunk—although I was far too young to drink. I'd completely ignored her warnings about being gentle with the drier patches, and as a result, the mower had ripped up entire chunks of ground—leaving scattered patches of exposed dirt, manure, and the mangled remains of weeds behind.
The once-green yard now looked like a poorly blended smoothie of decay.
But it wasn’t just her lawn that had suffered—her fence had paid a heavy price too. So had the neighbor’s. Every white post around the perimeter had fresh gouges and long scratches where the mower had slammed into it, stripping paint as high as the machine could reach.
Her hand flew up to stifle her gasp as she traced the muddy footprints stamped across her welcome mat, leading straight into the house. They trailed through the hallway and into the kitchen, where she found me mid-sandwich, gulping it down, and tilting my glass toward Lottie for a refill
But worst of all wasn’t the yard itself—it was me.
So focused on finishing quickly so I could run back and try to tune into that busted little radio and memorize the band’s latest album, I had completely forgotten that the second half of the deal required me to attend the church event in the only set of clothes I had packed for the trip.
Both her hands rose to her mouth, but they couldn’t cover the full reach of her horrified gasp as her eyes traveled upward.
Already freed from the mud cap, my toes wiggled freely around the tattered, shredded ends of my denim jeans. The fabric had only somewhat regained its shape, held together in a chaotic patchwork of dark blotches of manure, spilled gasoline, wet grass, and a few other substances my aunt couldn’t even identify—and wasn’t convinced had been there before I started.
The greenish-brown trail climbed up my legs like a mossy tide, rising all the way to my thighs in streaks that looked like they were trying to reach my waist.
If my faded, once-black rock band T-shirt hadn’t already violated every known church dress code, it now crossed into “biohazard.” Large sweat patches had formed under the arms and around the collar, soaked through in grimy rings she swore she could smell from across the kitchen.
She stood frozen. Speechless. Eyes locked on me as I gulped down the last of my food.
But instead of reacting with embarrassment—or even regret—when I finally noticed her standing there, I stood up to meet her gaze and calmly held out my palm, fully expecting my reward.
What I got instead was a sharp slap across my hand. Before I could fully form a complaint, her fingers had clamped onto my ear, yanking me upright and dragging me down the hall to the nearest bathroom.
Lottie, equally surprised, followed behind, keeping her head down in an attempt to hide her enjoyment as I yelped and stumbled through weak protests, though an occasional giggle escaped her lips.
I was pushed into the shower before I could even remove my clothes, still hoping to clean them before the stains settled permanently into the fabric. Before I could make sense of what was happening, I was hit with a barrage of scoldings I didn’t even know my aunt had in her arsenal. The sudden shift in mood left me speechless. For once, none of my usual grunts or sarcastic quips came to the surface. Every time I tried to escape the blast of cold water, she pushed me back under, sentencing me to stay there until she had regained her composure—which didn’t happen anytime soon.
It wasn’t that she was particularly strong. It was the sheer symbolic force of her authority that kept me from defying her. And Lottie clearly noticed it. She arched a brow behind my aunt’s back but wisely said nothing in the moment.
Once Aunt Mela’s breath wore out—along with the stream of occasional, inappropriate words I wasn’t allowed to repeat—I shyly tried to ease us back into our usual negotiation dynamic. I offered to hand-wash the clothes myself after every round of work, promising they would be spotless come service day. I had no desire to pile more tasks onto my already packed agenda, but I figured meeting her halfway with a show of hard work might calm her down.
And it worked. After pressing me with a sharp “Are you serious?” and receiving a trembling nod in return, Aunt Mela finally relented. She accepted my apology, turned off the tap, and shook my soaked hand in agreement. She never apologized for her own outburst—and I wasn’t about to demand one after the way she’d just scared the hell out of me. So we nodded, a quiet truce settled, and I followed her out of the bathroom, catching the amused smirk Lottie threw at me from time to time.
Lottie asked me to help cut the sandwich bites, and with no strength left to object, I obeyed, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the floor as I took my place beside her at the counter. I grunted and accepted the butter knife she handed me without a word. Like I said, with no change of clothes, I spent the rest of the day suffering the discomfort of going around soaked—but at least the afternoon had returned to some sense of normalcy.
Aunt Mela, perhaps in a small act of reconciliation, let me put on some of the band’s songs on the radio. I went off on one of my endless rambles about the supposedly deep meaning behind the lyrics. She listened, but her mind was elsewhere. This had been the first time she let her emotions take her that far, and as much as she regretted it after seeing the fear in my eyes, a part of her also took note of the results.
The restored state of the house—thanks to Lottie and my forcibly motivated self—left an impression. For the first time, she began to wonder if losing her cool once in a while might actually produce results. It wasn’t a fully formed thought that afternoon… but something had sparked. And after that day, there would be no unthinking it.
Through the slow approach of Sunday, we gradually returned to a sort of uneasy normal, guided by my half-hearted promises, as much as my re-acclimation to my usual carelessness allowed to, which tragically, wasn’t much. My complete unfamiliarity with anything remotely close to hand washing—and the poor quality of my efforts—stood no chance against the renewed bulge of stains I accumulated on my clothes each day. The ones from that first day never fully came out, only buried deeper beneath newer layers, if anything smudged by the hours I let them soak in soapy water, while claiming to have “better things to do”—which mostly meant lounging in the living room in just my underwear, listening to music.
Despite how much she claimed to despise the sight, Lottie was mildly surprised by how little physical difference there was between us. Aside from the obvious height gap, our thin limbs and near-total lack of body hair gave us a vaguely similar outline, though she had been waxing for months. I, on the other hand, didn’t have to—and still dreamed of growing a beard before I hit sixteen, even if I knew deep down it was a lost cause. There wasn’t much to say in terms of muscle development either. Although, at least from my side, it hadn’t been for lack of trying—but I had long given up the fantasy after several bouts of push-ups that left my sad torso aching for days.
Of course, there were still some clear differences, like the two rounded protuberances hanging from her chest—but she knew, full well, that unlike masculinity, those were easily simulated. I barked a molested “what?” when I caught her giving me a knowing smirk—but she just walked off, leaving the thought to stew in my head.
Growing tired of dealing with the laundry herself, Aunt Mela came up with a solution I—predictably—did not welcome. Since I seemed completely incapable of properly caring for my own clothing, she’d provide me with hers to wear instead, just to keep mine untouched until the big day. Naturally, I refused outright at the suggestion of wearing any of her clothes, claiming it would be utterly humiliating to wear women’s clothing—let alone be seen in them.
Taking a deep sigh and trying to brush off my gender-based dramatics, she offered a compromise. From then on, I’d be required to put on whatever was in my closet each morning. If my own clothes were clean and in wearable condition, I could wear them. But if not—which, let's face it, was the more likely scenario—I’d have to wear the most gender-neutral getup she promised to find in her wardrobe.
Had I noticed the metaphorical light bulb flicker over Lottie’s head during our handshake, I would’ve pulled my hand away in that very instant. But short-sighted as ever, I agreed without protest.
With the plan mostly in motion, Lottie became so confident in her predicted outcome that she offered to teach me how to use the iron, so I could properly maintain my clothes and avoid this fate altogether. Of course, I leapt at the offer—only to abandon the effort after several failed tries, finally declaring the whole thing unnecessary as I sucked on a burned thumb. She shrugged, wetted her own thumb to make sure the iron had cooled, and put it away.
As envisioned, by Saturday I ended up in a pair of Aunt Mela’s old slacks and one of her tops. I had to tighten the belt to its last hole so the pants wouldn’t slide off my slimmer waist, and put on the top backwards so the floral pattern wouldn’t show. She offered to add a kerchief, which I refused outright, then left the house before Lottie could laugh at me. Not that she seemed interested in doing so—she just sat sipping her tea, one brow arched as she eyed me in our Aunt’s things.
That night, Aunt Mela and I had another argument after seeing the condition in which I returned her clothes. I blamed it on the delicate material of women’s clothing, claiming they weren’t meant for hard labor. This, of course, earned me a 40-minute lecture about what exactly I thought all the housework she and Lottie did every day counted as. Knowing better this time, I zipped my lips and retreated to my room.
With a frustrated grunt, she threw up her hands and stomped off to her own room. Only Lottie remained—“hmm”-ing quietly as she held up the mud-stained slacks. A smile slowly spread across her lips.
The morning sun blazed through those hateful chunky windows I’d grown to resent. I rolled around in the sheets before I realized I had no excuse to stay in bed today. I had built my own plans for today, although surely not as thoughtful nor functional as Aunt Mela’s and, of course, Lottie’s. I figured I might use some scissors to make some adjustments to my aunt’s things in order to make them look at least like a big, loose pair of shorts. And if she didn’t like it—well, then I’d skip the event. Problem solved. That’s how I figured things would turn out. I opened the closet doors with the confident attitude only a teenager’s ego could summon, self-assured that there was not the slightest possibility anyone could outsmart me.
I was wrong. Deeply wrong.
There was no chance I could cut the legs off what Aunt Mela had set out for me that day—because it had no legs.
It was a dress. A blue-and-white gingham pinafore-style jumper, meant to be paired—at least I assumed—with the crisp white blouse hanging beneath it. The blouse’s puffy short sleeves and high-neck collar offered more coverage than the dress itself… from the waist up. But below the flared skirt, the hemline left the knees and everything downward more exposed than even my hastily-cut “shorts” would’ve dared.
A shocked “Gah!” escaped my lips, loud enough to bring the others to my room. Aunt Mela was first to enter, looking around to find the source of the yell, while Lottie leaned casually against the doorframe, clearly savoring every flicker of panic on my face.
Aunt Mela caught sight of what I had just discovered and frowned, puzzled, wondering what had happened to the pant suit she’d prepared for the event. my aunt had spent the night envisioning how to respond to any of my most likable protest against wearing such thing, but she hadn’t prepared to the chance that there may be another set of clothes on the closet nor her and definitely not me, prepared
It only took a few seconds of looking between my stricken expression and Lottie’s smug grin for her to put the pieces together. The little prank was clear. Lottie had swapped the outfit—deciding, it seemed, to play a joke at the expense of her chauvinistic cousin.
And she couldn’t really blame her.
The truth was, I’d developed an attitude she’d come to loathe—one she recognized all too well. She had hoped I’d grow out of it with time, moved by the same soft heart that made her tolerate more than she should. But deep down, she knew better. No grown man she had ever known had truly let go of those notions. Not even her late husband, may he rest in peace. For all his charm, he had also believed women existed to serve, to clean, to smile politely, and stay out of the way.
It was never the obvious slights that stung the most—it was the countless, constant little ones that passed unnoticed by most men but burned vividly in the awareness of every woman. And she herself had once made the mistake of falling into that same mindset. Years of silent doctrine had conditioned her into a version of submission she hadn’t even realized she was perpetuating—one that dulled her edge and chipped away at her instincts, even as it fractured another thread in the long fabric of generational imbalance.
Mela prided herself on being a traditional woman, but this had always been one tradition she struggled to stomach. And one she refused—outright refused—to pass down. She might not have children of her own, but in the absence of involved parents and given the unexpected responsibility that had landed squarely in her lap, she took it upon herself to teach us the way the world should work.
She’d hoped that living in a household run mostly by women would help me understand our respective roles, would help me see and appreciate the labor and balance it all required. But the last few days had shown her otherwise.
The sweet boy she used to spend summer afternoons with was long gone, used as raw material to build the mold of another self-important male that was reaching its fullness faster than she had envisioned. It may be late, but maybe not too late.
Between Lottie’s mischief and my own obliviousness, Mela had been handed an opportunity. A chance. And if I was going to claim that housework was a task only a woman could "endure," well… she would take me at my word.
She turned to me with her hands on her hips and said plainly, “Well, what are you waiting for? Get dressed.”
My neck turned stiffly toward her, searching for any sign that this might be a joke. But all I found was her lifted chin, arched eyebrows, and a look of unshakable seriousness.
“What?… I… no… this… I can’t… this is stupid… I won’t…” I sputtered, each word more pathetic than the last.
She stepped closer, and I instinctively shrank back.
“You and I had a deal, young man!” she barked, her tone sharp enough to slice air. With a single wave of her finger—one my eyes followed against my will—she pointed toward the outfit laid out for me. “Now pay your part and get ready for church. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
Lottie, as surprised as I was by our aunt’s total compliance with her plan, could barely suppress the smirk growing across her face—one that threatened to rival the Cheshire Cat’s grin the moment she realized she’d just heard Mela use the same commanding tone that had nearly made me wet my pants the day before.
“B-but… I… can’t—” I tried to stall, motioning weakly toward the pile of wrinkled male clothes tossed on the floor. “My… my clothes…”
“You can’t wear jeans to church anyway,” Lottie interjected, her smirk as cutting as ever.
I waited for Aunt Mela to chastise her for the comment, but instead, she rewarded her niece with a firm pat on the shoulder and a twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.
“Help your cousin out, will you?” she said, already halfway through the doorway. “I’ve got a feeling she—” she made sure to stress the pronoun with a pointed glance in my direction “—might struggle with the buttons in the back.”
She didn’t look back as she left, but her voice drifted down the hallway with a satisfied lilt.
In her wake, the room filled with the sound of my breath catching in my throat—and Lottie’s quiet, knowing laughter.
I could only imagine the satisfaction my mean-spirited cousin must have been savoring at that moment. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t need to. She simply leaned against the doorframe, waiting patiently for me to fall in line. Unlike me, she had all the time in the world. I, on the other hand, had only seconds to scramble for a way out of this humiliation.
As much as the two of them seemed to revel in degrading me, I refused to believe they’d push it as far as making me march out in public like this. So I figured the best move, for now, was to play along… at least until they decided it was enough.
With no pajamas to my name, I had slept in just my white tights, which I’d hoped would remain safely hidden beneath the skirt. But of course, Lottie had other ideas. According to her, you couldn’t just step into a dress. You needed the proper underwear underneath to let it flare the way it was meant to.
She added, with more than a hint of glee, that I’d come to understand these things over time.
Of course, I wouldn’t. I had no intention of ever stepping into a damn dress again.
Still, left with no real choice at that moment, I followed her to her room. From a drawer, she pulled out a perfectly folded, pristine pair of white nylon panties. I stiffened at the sight. Lottie, unfazed, simply followed my retreat with the extended underwear in hand, cornering me until my back met the wall. With nowhere else to go, I finally reached out and took them.
To her credit—however small—she turned around as I peeled off my own, slid them down my legs, and stepped into hers. The pair had a floral lace appliqué running along one side that clung lightly as I slid my legs through. Wanting to avoid her judgmental gaze, I instinctively tucked my manhood between my legs before letting her know she could turn around.
But no—Lottie chirped as she spun back, already holding up the matching bra, I now required her assistance to fasten. I sighed as I slipped the straps over my shoulders and turned so she could hook it in the back.
“Two of these go on your legs,” she said, handing me a bundle of stockings. I stared at them, confused—until I caught her gaze shift pointedly toward my empty cups. The message was clear.
After several fumbling attempts—which I was fairly certain she enjoyed watching—Lottie finally stepped in to help, sliding the nylons up my legs with a kind of precision and delicacy I couldn’t have managed if my life depended on it.
The next item she brought out looked like some kind of skirt, but thicker—fluffier.
“It’s a petticoat,” she explained, already stepping around me to hike it up to my waist. “You have to have one for the dress to sit right. It’s what gives the skirt its shape.”
A quick spritz of sickly-sweet perfume later, she declared I was ready to step into my dress.
On our way back to my room, Aunt Mela peeked through the crack of her door just long enough to catch a glimpse of my current state—and let out a giggle I, of course, caught.
At the very least, I had to admit the underwear felt… soft. Smoother than anything I owned. It was a strange kind of comfort I didn’t want to acknowledge—let alone get used to.
With time running short, I was told to put on the blouse while Lottie went to fetch some matching shoes. I obeyed, although I was completely unable to deal with the buttons myself—being on the "wrong" side. She grunted at my incompetence and did them up herself before kneeling with the dress in hand, ready for me to step into it.
This had already gone too far, but figuring it was close to being over, I stepped in and squirmed as the silk fabric slid up over my legs, my stomach, and finally settled against the padded swell of my chest. I would’ve had trouble with the dress buttons too, no doubt, but thanks to my ever-eager cousin, it was already settled snugly on me within seconds.
Despite my mom’s protests, I had stopped cutting my hair months ago with the full intention of recreating the style of my rock idols. Halfway to that goal, it had only worked in my cousin’s favor. She worked her magic with the little time left, styling my hair into a high ponytail, secured with a ribbon that matched the same light blue as the dress.
“We aren’t allowed to wear makeup yet,” Lottie explained, noting the absence of any on her own face. “But given your situation, I’m sure Aunt Mela won’t say anything about a little powder and a hint of lipstick.”
“Girls, it’s time!” Aunt Mela called out before Lottie had a chance to put the shoes on me.
Eager to focus on her own appearance now, Lottie dashed out of the room, tossing the last vacant shoe in my direction. It landed on the floor with a soft thud.
This was it—the big, out-loud laugh I knew I’d have to suffer through before I could rid myself of these disgusting things. At least, with no time left, I was sure Aunt Mela would finally let me stay home after all. And, all things considered, that alone would be worth it.
I walked unevenly to where the lone Mary Jane shoe had landed and, without much hesitation, slid my nyloned foot into it.
As I straightened up, the full-length mirror—planted in my room against my will—caught the complete reflection of my transformation for the very first time.
The person staring back at me was… unrecognizable.
There, in the glass, stood a girl. Not a parody, not a cheap joke, but a fully-formed, painfully believable young lady who could’ve walked straight out of a Sunday school catalog. The pale blue gingham jumper hugged her waist beneath a sky-blue sash that had been neatly tied into a bow at my back, the tails draping behind me like some parody of innocent charm.
The puffed white sleeves of the blouse stuck out under the sleeveless jumper with pristine roundness, while the high collar framed my neck so tightly I was afraid to swallow.
The bra underneath—Lottie’s, but now disturbingly mine—lifted and shaped the modest silicone pads into a soft swell beneath the fabric, giving me the unmistakable silhouette of a young girl just coming into her own.
The skirt flared outward in a perfect bell, resting a few inches above the knee, thanks in no small part to the white petticoat billowing beneath. Every inch of exposed leg gleamed with the semi-sheen of nude stockings, hugging thighs and calves I barely recognized as mine. At the end of each leg, one foot—barely trembling—sat nestled into a single black patent Mary Jane, buckled neatly at the ankle.
The other shoe lay on its side, waiting.
My hair—shaggier than I ever meant for it to be—had been swept up and pulled into a high ponytail. The light blue ribbon securing it matched the jumper perfectly. Somehow, the effect made my face look rounder, softer. More… delicate.
Lottie’s touch hadn’t ended there. A faint dusting of powder flattened the last traces of sweat on my brow, and a subtle line of gloss painted my lips in a pink that made my skin look too smooth. Too clean. Too… cute.
I felt sick.
But it was more than that.
It was the quiet horror of realizing that if I didn’t know any better, I might not have recognized the boy who was supposed to be trapped beneath it all.
I might have believed this girl—this overly-polished, primped, dainty girl—was me.
And maybe that was the point.
My throat dried, and I turned away from the mirror, heart hammering with a quiet desperation I didn’t yet have the words for. But deep down, I knew I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. And even though I told myself this was just for now, just until they got their laughs out and let me be myself again…
I stepped out to meet my aunt, but instead of laughter, the first sound out of her mouth was a touched, “Owww,” the moment she laid eyes on me. Seconds later, Lottie appeared at my side, striking a pose just in time for Aunt Mela to coo about having the most beautiful nieces in the world and how she couldn’t wait to show us off at church.
That did it. It triggered something in me—because even after all my compliance in this nonsense, they still planned to take it further if they could. It was like they were testing how far I’d let them push me before I broke. They didn’t even offer me the dignity of acknowledging my obvious discomfort. Instead, they busied themselves with their final preparations before heading for the front door.
“Aunt—Aunt Mela, please!” I caught her arm before she stepped outside, practically begging. “Please, please, please, look at me. I—I can’t go out like this. Don’t make me, please don’t.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said softly, brushing my hand away. “But this is for your own good.”
She walked out without another word.
Lottie linked her arm through mine and, despite my resistance, began walking me toward the car.
The old Ford sputtered to life as my aunt pulled it out of the driveway. She caught our eyes in the rearview mirror, flashing a knowing smirk just before shifting into gear. Then, with the rhythm of some Swedish band pouring from the radio, she started the drive.
But with all due respect to those ABBA ladies, I couldn’t hear anything except the thunder of my anxious heart pounding beneath my padded chest—so loud it felt like it might blow my head apart. And honestly, that might have been more desirable than facing what was waiting for me when we got there.
Still, with each mile we passed, it became clearer: Aunt Mela meant every bit of this. She took each turn humming along at “Chiquitita,” tapping the wheel in rhythm while Lottie bumped against me with every beat. I was the only one cracking in this bizarre performance we were all fully aware of, even if no one dared to say it aloud.
Because no matter how playfully they addressed me, how deliberately they teased and poked at my presentation, I wasn’t a girl—and they knew it. I knew it. But if I wanted to survive this, I had to abandon that truth—if only temporarily.
The peace between us held because they knew they had me trapped.
And, painfully, I knew it too.
We pulled into the church lot before I was anywhere near ready. Lottie was the first to leap out, waving me to follow. I caught Aunt Mela’s expectant look from the driver’s seat and, with my stomach twisting into tight knots, followed.
As expected, the place was packed. At least a hundred people spilled across the front garden, waiting for the temple doors to open, with more still arriving. I clung tightly to Aunt Mela’s lead, weaving through clumps of women gossiping in high-pitched bursts, men chuckled over their bloated stomachs, and children tugged at their collars, whining about the tightness of their ties.
And yet, they all looked like they had it easy compared to me. I shuffled past their tantrums, trying not to smear my hem on the dusty path,avoiding any glance that lingered a little too long. Lottie had been right—the petticoat thing flared the skirt out far enough to keep it from brushing my exposed legs, but it did little to make me feel covered.
On past visits, I’d never made an effort to build connections with the locals—something that now worked in my favor. It spared me from recognition now that I had no choice but to go along with the introductions Aunt Mela insisted on.
Her friends, mostly women in their sixties and seventies, each took their turn firing off comments about how "pretty" a girl I made, adding fuel to the blush already burning across my face.
I was still introduced as “Charlie”—allegedly short for “Charlene.” One of the older women laughed at my “tomboy try” with the nickname, declaring that a sweet little thing like me couldn’t resemble a boy if she tried. Aunt Mela not only laughed along but agreed wholeheartedly, placing a warm hand on my shoulder as I shrugged awkwardly.
The bells rang, mercifully saving me from further cheek-pinching, signaling the first call to mass and the crowd began to file inside. I followed Mela and Lottie into the nave, finding a spot on one of the long wooden benches.
Aunt Mela had always hoped I would eventually develop the same appreciation for religion through the countless times she had dragged me along. Not that it had ever happened. But unlike any of those times, today I wasn’t slouching in my seat or yawning every two minutes. Today, I couldn’t afford to draw any attention to myself, so I did my utter best to blend in with the rest of the congregation.
It had never worked before. But unlike any of those other Sundays, I wasn’t slouching or yawning every five minutes. I couldn’t afford to draw attention, so I did my utter best to blend in with the rest of the congregation.
For the full hour, I committed to the role of the dutiful churchgoer. I kept my back straight, smoothed my skirt just as I’d seen Lottie do, and folded my hands neatly on my lap. I listened to every tired word of the pastor, read every passage he directed us to, and though I stayed silent during the hymns, Aunt Mela didn’t call me out for it.
She couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride—certain now she had made the right decision. During the moment of silence, she used the opportunity to confess—if only to herself—that this had been the first time she had truly broken the terms of our agreement. She hadn’t chosen the dress for me… but she’d done everything in her power to make sure I wore it.
Would an actual mother have resorted to the same peculiar method to discipline a difficult child? Certainly not. She had noticed more feminized teenage boys in attendance recently. This had been an extreme, exceptional case—a line she had been forced to cross.
Still, as she peeked through one eye to glance at me, she was sure I could fool anyone, herself included. Unlike the broad-shouldered teenage boys my age, my conveniently selected genetics had opened the way for me to step quite convincingly into the role of a dainty—and, she had to admit—adorable young lady.
But setting aside her own guilty delight, she reminded herself this was for my own good. She kept telling herself that. Though from time to time, she still had to retake that argument with her conscience.
After the mass, the congregation spilled back onto the lawn, now reconfigured for lunch. Folding tables appeared, lined with homemade casseroles, pies—there were always pies—and plenty of drinks for all to share. I was told to help a grown man find our car to retrieve the dish Mela and Lottie had prepared. I tried to insist I could carry it myself, but she waved me off with condescending sweetness.
On the way back, the man attempted small talk. He asked how long I was staying with Aunt Mela, what grade I was in. I dodged most of his questions with vague nods and subtle shakes of my head. He chuckled, clearly assuming I was just shy. He pulled the casserole from the trunk and accepted a slice in exchange. Then, assuming I had helped make it, he complimented the cooking and told me I had a promising future in the kitchen.
I wanted to scream. But I just nodded and smiled.
I prayed for the afternoon to end, but it dragged on for hours. People kept coming up to meet the “niece” Mela had apparently kept hidden. I served food like a good little hostess, from behind an apron Lottie had so kindly lent me, and even forced smiles through the endless compliments from older women about my hair, my clothes, or my manners.
Finally, after the last pie slice was served and my ponytail adjusted one last time, Aunt Mela clapped her hands together and declared it was time to head home.
I couldn’t wait to rip the clothes off me, but as soon as we crossed back through the threshold, Aunt Mela warned me I wouldn’t be allowed to change unless I had something else to change into. With my male clothes still dirty, I said I had no problem walking around in just my white tights if it meant putting an end to this nonsense. I ran to Lottie’s room to gather them but couldn’t find them anywhere.
"Looking for something?" Lottie asked from the doorway as I rifled through her drawers.
“Oh, those stinky old things?” she replied, playing dumb when I asked about my underwear. “They smelled so bad I thought something might be rotting in them. I got rid of them.”
She clarified this with a smirk I did not share—not the smirk, nor the calm.
Growling in frustration, I shoved past her to find Aunt Mela.
She saw no problem with me staying in the panties I’d already spent half the day wearing, since they'd be hidden under my jeans anyway. She knew full well I hadn’t made an effort to wash them in two days, and when I pointed that out, she merely shrugged and said I’d have to remain dressed as I was until they were in a decent state to be worn again.
I grunted at her too, turning and walking away in silent fury.
She didn’t say it out loud, but she loved the way my ponytail brushed against my back with every irritated step, and silently wondered how it might turn out with more time, proper brushing, maybe even some conditioning.
Unless I was willing to change into another dress, Lottie convinced me to put the apron back on to prevent any dirt from jumping off my jeans onto my clothes—which didn’t seem possible anyway, because no matter how hard I scrubbed, the grime simply wouldn’t come out of the fabric.
While we shared what remained of the casserole, they kept up a warm conversation, mostly focused on my “spotless” performance from earlier that day. I sipped my tea in silence, unwilling to offer my own verdict. After eating, and before I resumed my hopeless battle back pants, I washed the dishes I had used.
But unlike the casserole remnants, the stains on my clothes simply refused to come out. Somehow, I’d managed to concoct a mixture that looked like a greenish-dark brown against the light blue of my jeans, and a reddish rust-like smudge on my black shirt. Aunt Mela sighed and said we might have to send them for dry cleaning, which would take at least a few days.
I asked—desperately—what I was supposed to wear in the meantime, but I already knew the answer.
That night, I lay roped in by the bed sheets, tugging them high to prevent the nightgown I wore from slipping into view. Mela merely said I might as well get used to it, since it was what I’d be wearing for the next few nights—at least until my clothes returned. And even then, it would be up to me to keep them clean if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my visit in dresses.
I cried that I didn’t.
She only smiled softly and chirped, “We’ll see,” before turning out the light and retreating to her own room.
I was a one-man army in a stand against forced femininity, and after only the first battle, I had already lost significant ground—territory my adversaries wasted no time making use of. Without realizing it, I’d handed them everything they needed to put together a strategy that kept me out of male clothing for as long as they pleased.
From the moment I woke the next morning, I dragged myself to the closet, only to sigh at the sight of more of Lottie’s things set out for me. Though she owned plenty of pants, it was never those that I found waiting. Instead, it was always the most delicate, curated outfit she could have possibly spent time choosing just for me. With little choice, I walked downstairs for breakfast in whatever it was that day—a dress, a blouse-and-skirt combo, or if I was especially “lucky,” a pair of short shorts I didn’t welcome much better.
They, of course, quickly grew accustomed to my appearance and adjusted their treatment accordingly. I didn’t appreciate being called “she,” nor the degrading cooing about how “adorable” I looked, but I grew accustomed to silencing my discomfort and attending to the chores they kept tossing at me.
When my male clothes finally arrived—nearly three days later—I was more than ready to put them back on. But Aunt Mela convinced me to keep the dress on for just the rest of the day. I agreed, confident that it would be my last one in women’s clothing anyway.
But the next morning, my freshly laundered and ironed jeans and shirt were gone. Replaced, naturally, with a red summer dress and a pair of strappy sandals.
It took me hours to find my clothes tossed deep into the garage bin, crumpled and stained, buried under god knows what. When I finally dug them out, they were in worse shape than before—practically unwearable.
I tried to blame Lottie, but she swore innocence, holding her palms together and looking up at an imaginary halo above her head. With no evidence to prove otherwise, Aunt Mela simply dismissed the matter.
They had both so quickly accepted this “new” version of me that Aunt Mela started insisting I use her hair products during my showers, and she began brushing my hair herself at least twice a week. I protested, saying I didn’t want my hair looking girly when I finally went back to wearing pants, but she only smirked—clearly confident that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
It was a battle I couldn’t win.
No matter how early I woke, no matter if I stayed up the entire night, Lottie was always two steps ahead of me. All it took was one blink, and my jeans would vanish—replaced with whatever dainty little thing she’d selected instead.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the constant dry cleaning was draining the money I had worked hard to save. I tried to argue for a chance to earn more but Aunt Mela claimed she didn’t want me to risk damaging my “cute things” with hard labor. She had already hired someone else for that anyway—a thirteen-year-old boy who played junior League and was saving money for a new baseball glove.
While he delivered a more polished job than I ever cared to offer, I was assigned a new duty: serving him trays of fresh lemonade in thanks for his help. Unlike me with Lottie, though, he always gave me a warm, genuine smile when I approached. One that, strangely enough, didn’t fade when I shuffled back.
Not wanting to give any hint of my real identity, during his visits I forced myself into activities I imagined were more appropriate for the young lady I was pretending to be. Instead of headbanging to rock guitar solos, I spent my afternoons reading from the stack of romantic novels Aunt Mela kept on the shelf. Eventually, I even accepted her offer to teach me how to knit. The damn kid started feeling so welcome around us, I had no choice but to play along. And, of course, the others were absolutely delighted with my behavior around him.
It was one particular afternoon, after he accepted Aunt Mela’s invitation to stay for dinner, that he finally worked up the courage to make his move. Lottie had just served him a full plate of meatloaf when he complimented her on the cooking. I was actually the one who had prepared it, but I wasn’t about to claim the compliment—especially since he hadn’t even tasted it yet. He looked visibly nervous, chuckling awkwardly and dabbing at the sweat collecting on his forehead with a napkin, but he finally managed to ask if she had any plans for Friday.
Aside from plotting my continued torment, she didn’t. And when she let him know that, Gordon—that was his name—started mumbling something about a movie that would be in theaters that day, fiddling with the edge of the wrinkled tablecloth. Lottie squealed that she’d love to go and turned to beg Aunt to let her. But Mela was unsure; she didn’t want her niece venturing downtown alone.
That’s when Lottie chirped that I could come too.
Gordon jumped on the suggestion, claiming he’d invite a friend to make me company. Aunt Mela gave a thoughtful “hmm,” deliberately ignoring my desperate, pleading eyes, and after a few seconds of theatrical consideration, finally agreed—if Gordon would take full responsibility for watching over both of her "nieces" for one afternoon.
Of course, he agreed. And with little more to add, the dinner resumed. Gordon left that night with a slice of meatloaf packed in foil and the promise that we’d be waiting for him, ready to “have a good time together.”
As soon as his silhouette faded into the night, I launched into a hysterical protest about going out on a date with some guy. Aunt Mela brushed it off, saying I had nothing to worry about—especially now that my femininity had been polished to near perfection. I was just gearing up to argue that exact point when Lottie joined in, massaging my shoulders sweetly and promising she’d help me look “presentable” for my mysterious gallant.
I threw the dish I was washing back into the sink and yelled that there was no force in this world that could ever convince me to go on that date.
“Oh, is that so?” Lottie said, giving a mock-thoughtful hum and tapped her finger to her chin. “‘Cause I might have a pretty good idea where your pants are.”
“You do?!” I cried, wide-eyed.
Of course she did.
It had been two full days since I last saw my pants after they were sent to the cleaners, and with no sign of them returning—damaged or not—I’d nearly given up on ever getting them back soon.
“Here’s the deal,” she announced, clicking her tongue with a wicked grin. “You agree to accompany me and Gordon—and whoever we pair you with—on this date, and you get your boy clothes back.”
This was my shot. As unbearable as it sounded to endure a full-blown date pretending to be a girl, it seemed like a small price to pay for the chance to finally be myself again.
I looked to Aunt Mela for backup, but she simply shrugged, removing herself from the arrangement entirely. “It’s up to you,” she said, washing her hands of it.
And so, after a few seconds, I nodded in compliance. Lottie insisted we seal the deal properly—hooking our pinkies as she cried, “Pinky promise!”
Surprisingly, I was holding up better than expected at the thought of stepping out in public dressed like a girl again. For me, it mostly felt like I was playing nanny to a pack of seventh graders for a few hours. Besides, my look had, admittedly, been perfected into a near-flawless mimicry. I was confident no one would question my cover.
If anyone was cracking under pressure, it was my cousin—drowning in the rising dread of a long-awaited summer romance scribbled into every page of her almanac, until it finally landed on the one marked with a red heart pierced by an arrow.
Gordon made only brief appearances in those days, mostly to drop off sacks of manure before driving off in the team’s truck to another practice. That was enough to make Lottie swoon. She didn’t even bother to come out and greet him—just peeked out the window and flopped on the couch, hugging a cushion and releasing soft, dreamy coos that both Aunt Mela and I could hear loud and clear.
While I tried to focus on perfecting my crisscross knitting—more out of needing a distraction than any love for the craft—Lottie paced back and forth across the living room, muttering, mostly to herself, rehearsing what I should say to sound like a “real girl,” but not too girly. She debated whether my knowledge of “boy stuff” might help me connect with whoever I was paired with, though she warned me not to lean into it too hard, or I might blow my cover.
Meanwhile, I tried to focus on perfecting my crisscross knitting—more out of a need for distraction than any real affection for the craft—Lottie paced back and forth across the living room, muttering mostly to herself, rehearsing what I should say to sound like a “real girl,” but not too girly. She debated whether my knowledge of “boy stuff” might help me connect with whoever I was paired with, though she warned me not to lean into it too hard, or I might blow my cover.
I sighed heavily, undoing the knotted mess I’d made in the yarn and starting all over again.
When Gordon eventually called to confirm the time for the movie, Lottie’s hands were trembling so badly she couldn’t even pick up the receiver. Aunt Mela’s took it instead. She nodded at it, jotted down the details, and added with a cheerful lilt, “Yes, the girls are both very excited for the date.”
I let out a sharp cry the night before Friday when Aunt Mela secured the last of the curlers onto my scalp—yet another one of Lottie’s charming demands regarding my appearance. Mela apologized, slipping a transparent bonnet over the set. During the application, I had to keep my fingers stretched out just right so the polish could dry before she applied another coat. I grimaced at the sensation of the mask she’d put on my face, supposedly to make my skin look soft and radiant for the next day.
“I swear, if I’d known it would take all this trouble, I would’ve told Lottie to go suck an egg,” I grumbled.
Mela chuckled softly. “Oh, come now. You have to understand—this is a big night in any young girl’s life. And since you’re playing the part, you might as well share a little of the excitement.”
“I’m only doing this for my pants, and you know it!” I snapped, trying to sound resolute.
“Is that so?” Aunt Mela tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “For such a tough guy, you’re certainly making great strides in the other direction.”
I tried to come up with a response, but the words wouldn’t form. She patted my back lightly and told me to go to bed, reminding me I’d need my beauty sleep for the big night.
I obeyed—shuffling up the stairs in an awkward, tip-toe gait with my freshly polished toes stretched wide apart.
The next morning, I shuffled down the same staircase into my cousin’s room, which now looked like her closet had exploded across every surface. Lottie had spent most of the morning curating the perfect look—not once, but twice. One for her, and one for me. Each carefully crafted to strike just the right balance of coquettish charm, veiled in a thin layer of modesty.
She even tried to talk me into going to the mall to “find my style,” but with only a few dollars left to my name, I flat-out refused. So she made do with what she had—and did a pretty good job, all things considered.
By 5 PM, I joined Lottie on the front porch, even though Gordon wouldn’t be arriving for at least another hour. I looked down at her sneakers and spotted her ankles trembling—I could only assume the rest of her legs were doing the same beneath her long, floral-print skirt. Her fingers fidgeted nervously at the single button fastened at the top of her cardigan dress, worn over the silk blouse she reserved for special occasions.
I sighed—long and deep—then resigned myself to the seat beside her. The summer air was warm, filled with the scent of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle. And for the first time all week, we were quiet. Just waiting.
From the legs up, I hadn’t been granted nearly as much coverage. The blue sky was already giving way to the orange glow of sunset, which spilled across the ruffled light cream fabric of my summery sundress. Several inches above my knees stretched the A-line silhouette of my skirt, fluttering gently in the early evening breeze.
Its floral pink pattern curled along the tight bodice, just above the thin strap of the handbag I’d been tasked with carrying—stocked with everything we might need for touch-ups later. Aunt Mela had granted us permission to wear heavier makeup just for the occasion, so my eyelids now shimmered with a sweep of purplish-blue shadow, edged by a dark liner that circled all the way around. From time to time, I caught the taste of my own cherry-flavored lipstick—picked specifically to match the glossy red polish on both my fingernails and toenails, now snug inside a pair of strappy sandals.
I had been equipped with my own cardigan, but a last-minute stitch on the sleeve—and Lottie’s insistence that everything go flawlessly—had removed it from the lineup, leaving my bare shoulders and upper back fully exposed.
The ends of my freshly curled hair brushed against the dress’s thin straps, tucked behind my ears and held in place by a headband made from the same fabric as the dress. A textured flower, sewn on one side, tilted gently in the breeze.
My long, curled lashes fluttered with every blink as headlights appeared down the road and turned the corner.
From the back seat of the car emerged Gordon, fiddling with his birdie-patterned tie with one hand while the other held the car door open. A second boy stepped out and, with far less hesitation, snuck a comb from his friend’s coat pocket and used the car’s reflection to perfect his greaser-style hair.
Our aunt stepped out to meet Gordon’s mother halfway down the driveway. The lady wore a wide smile as she pushed her son’s hesitant pace forward and nudged his shoulder to acknowledge us. Gordon offered a nervous chuckle and told us we looked very pretty tonight. Then he gestured toward his friend.
“This is Michael,” he said. “But he goes by Mickey.”
Mickey stepped forward and, lacking any of his friend’s shyness, took my hand and planted a kiss on the back of it. I pulled away instinctively, startled—but Aunt Mela shot me a look. I forced a small smile and muttered a shy, “Charmed,” as the heat rose rapidly to my cheeks.
Gordon’s mom made a passing comment about the state of the garden, and Aunt Mela took the opportunity to praise her son’s hard work. They both agreed it was a wonderful way for young men to learn the value of money these days—as Aunt Mela’s eyes settled squarely, and not without meaning, on me.
Aunt Mela waved us off as the woman assured her, from the driver’s seat, that she would get us back safely. She kept glancing away from the road to steal peeks at us in the rearview mirror. Most of her questions were directed at Lottie, and those that weren’t were still answered by her, chirping with a delight I hadn’t seen firsthand before.
At one point, the woman turned to me directly and asked if I minded going out with an older guy, since Mickey was actually a year older than Gordon. But Lottie quickly chirped in that it was fine, because I was only a few months younger than her, too. So not only had I been reduced to being a girl, but apparently the youngest one in the group.
With only minutes left before the feature began, the car pulled up in front of the theater entrance. Gordon’s mother unlocked the doors and told us she’d be back to pick us up right after the movie ended.
“The Portrait of Love” glowed in bright letters across the marquee. The boys had sacrificed their own preferences to pick a film they assumed we girls would find more appealing. Mickey took the lead, stepping ahead to order the tickets. He handed two to Gordon, then gently took me by the wrist and led me toward the entrance.
My own date, it seemed, was determined to compensate for the confidence his friend lacked. He made exaggerated gestures to show off his chivalry. I had no choice but to play along. Blushing, I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and followed his lead inside.
He ordered medium-sized popcorn with extra butter for both of us and two small iced teas. I would’ve much preferred a soda, but since I hadn’t been asked, I simply accepted the drink and took a long sip through the straw.
As expected, the plot centered on a young Victorian girl whose life truly began only after meeting the man of her dreams—whom she gave up her promising art career for. It might have been tolerable, if not for Mickey’s constant little “moves.” Every so often he leaned in close to whisper a comment, held out a popcorn kernel in front of my lips until I opened my mouth to accept it, or tried the classic yawn-and-stretch move just to slip his arm around my shoulders.
I didn’t catch much of what was happening with Lottie, but judging by her high-pitched giggles—quickly followed by hushes—I assumed she was letting Gordon get away with plenty.
The movie ended the way these films always did—with the heroine giving up her dreams, now content to be a reflection of her man. The screen faded to black, and the lights rose.
On our way out, I paused by a poster, trying to use its reflective glass to check my makeup. Mickey, however, mistook my intent and assumed I was interested in the film it advertised—another chick flick, unsurprisingly.
“We could see that one next time,” he said casually. “Wouldn’t mind another date with you.”
As if I’d willingly sit through another night like this—at least not with him, or any boy, for that matter. But with no polite way to object, I simply nodded and let him guide me out.
The night had turned unexpectedly windy, and that gave Mickey just the opportunity he needed to remove his coat and offer it to me.
Unaccustomed to the direct touch of the southern breeze against my upper back, I relented and took it, slipping it on. Humiliatingly enough, it fit me loosely; the sleeves barely allowed my painted fingertips to poke through, and the hem hung just a few inches below my dress. I clutched the flaps tightly together to cover my chest, silently counting the seconds until I’d be returned to the safety of my aunt’s house—where at least my forced girlishness wasn’t expected to pretend it wasn’t forced.
Mickey used the same time to continue talking about himself. He was so immersed in his self-assuring chatter that he hardly noticed—or cared—how little I contributed to the conversation.
He only quieted when the car finally screeched to a stop at the curb.
Gordon and Lottie had clearly hit it off—they spent the entire ride chatting and laughing about how much they’d enjoyed the night. Gordon’s mom, without even needing to ask them, tilted the rearview mirror to catch my eyes and gently inquired about my own experience with Mickey.
Before I could figure out how to respond, Mickey slung his arm across my shoulders and said, “It was great. She’s fun.” I just nodded and sank deeper inside his jacket.
The boys walked us to the front door. While Gordon and Lottie shared a quick, mutual peck—sweet and shy—I forced myself to lean in and plant one on Mickey’s cheek. He seemed pleased enough, nudging my chin and calling me a sweet girl before sweeping his jacket back over his own shoulders. He gave Gordon a playful shove as they jogged back toward the car.
We stepped inside to find Aunt Mela waiting in the foyer, arms folded, her wide smirk firmly in place and not budging an inch.
She didn’t bother asking how it went.
Instead, she simply said, “There’s a jar of cold cream on the bathroom counter. Use it to wipe off your makeup before bed.”
I’d been so caught up in the experience, I completely forgot to ask Lottie to hold up her part of the deal. But she had. The next morning, I found my pants folded neatly on top of my sheets.
I couldn’t have been happier.
I slipped off the damn nightgown and, though I kept the panties on, I let them disappear into the darkness beneath my jeans and zipped them up. I was so happy to feel the loose denim against my legs again that I held the pose in front of the mirror, half expecting to see my radiance shining back at me.
Instead, I met the reflection of someone still halfway between two worlds.
Though shirtless, my torso bore the faint red marks along my shoulders and ribs—evidence of the bra I’d been forced to wear day after day. My hair still held each curl perfectly in place. But it didn’t matter. I was back in pants. And this time, no one—no one—was ever going to pull them off me again.
I rushed downstairs to join the others for breakfast, trying to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. That lasted right up until I sat across the counter and heard Lottie sing, “Weeeello good morning, sweet giiiirl,” directly at me in a tone drenched with teasing sugar.
Aunt Mela cut her off with a sharp hush as she placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. Oddly, it was the first time she’d ever reined in the teasing. But somehow… that didn’t make me feel any better.
We ate cereal together while Aunt Mela made herself a packet of instant oatmeal and kept the small talk flowing pleasantly.
Then the phone rang.
Lottie jumped up to grab it, squealing Gordon’s name into the receiver.
By the time she ended the call, Aunt Mela and I were already elbow-deep in suds, tackling the morning dishes. Lottie plopped into a stool at the counter beside Mela and launched into a stream of excited plans—she and her apparently now-official boyfriend had for upcoming outings.
Aunt Mela did her best to keep up as Lottie’s ideas poured out faster and louder, going so far as to mention a possible beach trip.
Aunt Mela raised an eyebrow at that, doubting aloud whether I even had a swimsuit.
That’s when I interjected, letting out a low “Uuuh…” and trying to ask why I was being included in all of that again.
But Lottie cut me off before I could finish.
“You have to come,” she insisted. “We can’t let Mickey be the third wheel!”
As far as I was concerned, Mickey could be third, fourth, or no wheel at all. That pretentious kid could go straight to—
Before I could even finish, Lottie had leapt off her stool and closed the gap between us in two quick steps. With a hard tug at the waistband of my jeans, she declared that I’d be a doting girlfriend to Mickey if I wanted to keep my precious pants.
I swallowed hard, instinctively shrinking back, my fingers still slick with soapy water. My eyes darted toward Aunt Mela, silently pleading for some sort of intervention—but she stayed focused on the dishes, as if she hadn’t heard a word.
Desperate for acknowledgment, any flicker of support, that’s when I noticed the dish rag in her hand.
It was a piece of my shirt.
I recognized it instantly by the faded “-HELL” part of a graphic print that used to read “SHELTER TEST CREW.” The other half of my former wardrobe, I now realized, must’ve been tossed or repurposed too. Into scraps. Into rags. Into nothingness.
I was trapped. Between the kitchen wall and the hypothetical point of my cousin’s overly playful—but undeniably sharp—ultimatum. I couldn’t even manage a real nod. Just a subtle shift of my eyes that Lottie immediately took as approval.
She squealed, spun on her heel, and dashed back upstairs, arms flailing joyfully over her head as if she’d just won a prize on a game show.
Only once she was gone did Aunt Mela glance over at me with the faintest smirk. “Add baking soda to the rinse,” she said, nodding toward the sink. “Helps with the tougher stains.”
That moment set the tone for the weeks that followed.
Even though Gordon had long since finished with the garden, we saw him twice as often. Between his regular drop-ins and the carefully arranged outings, our lives suddenly revolved around being seen. Lottie and I got dressed up twice a week, donning our best looks for our respective boyfriends.
On each of those outings, Mickey showed off his version of gallantry—and I couldn’t help but let him.
At the bowling alley, he stepped behind me, sliding his fingers through mine to show me the proper way to hold the ball and aim for the pins, even though most of them stayed firmly in place.
At dinners, he pulled out my chair for me and ordered me a light salad, while his own cheeks bulged with mouthfuls of a loaded hamburger. I got a taste of the barbecue sauce anyway—when I gave him a quick kiss to thank him for covering the bill. Not that I could have covered it myself, with the $1.43 left from my last payment.
Even when I wasn’t tied up in my girlfriend duties, Aunt Mela found ways to keep me out of pants for long stretches. Desperate to earn a little more cash, I took the only job Gordon had left.
Three days a week, I stepped into the front yard in a wide-brimmed sun hat and an overall embroidered with tiny marguerites on the front pocket to plant a neat line of them in the garden bed beneath the windows.
I used every chance I could to slip back into pants—though it was only for the few minutes I had to get ready before the guys came to pick us up.
Weekends were reserved for socialite events—mostly brunches and club gatherings—where I got the chance to show off how well my manners had been polished, serving tea and cookies to my aunt and her friends. Since I was required to uphold proper etiquette, I had to acquire my own appropriate attire once Lottie’s hand-me-downs ran out.
The women picked out the laciest, most feminine things they could find in each store. I was even encouraged to choose some of my own, though I had little chance or freedom to distance my choices from the only style the stores offered. Soon, they had mastered my girl sizes. I wore size 12 panties, actual foam cup inserts, and was now being slipped into 32B bras—“training” them to size up over time. My slips and half slips were size 30, and we had to scour several stores until we finally found a girdle in my size. Though, judging by how suffocatingly tight it felt, I was sure they’d picked one size too small.
Aunt Mela had no hesitation asking store personnel for help with “my things,” so a young attendant followed our lead, arms full of size 8 dresses, skirts, and several boxes of shoes.
Needless to say, all of it drained the last of my earnings and even left me in the red. Aunt Mela had to help me out with the rest, which, of course, she did with absolutely no hesitation.
By then, I had completely forgotten about the concert. I just wanted this whole charade to be over, and it would be soon. As long as it had dragged on, the company course was almost finished, and in less than a month, my parents would be back to get me. I couldn’t wait to leave—leave all my new dainty things behind along with my fabricated relationship with Mickey and pretend this entire chapter of my life had never happened.
But there was one last item on the agenda. The baseball season was ending with the summer, and the boys had made us promise we’d attend their final game. So far, I’d managed to excuse myself from those thanks to my obligations with Aunt Mela’s colleagues. As much as I hated their cooing and cries over my supposed adorableness, it was still better than dealing with the octopus Mickey had gradually turned into.
I knew what he wanted—because I had wanted it once too. After so many dates and supposedly clicking so well, he expected to seal the deal with a real kiss. On the lips. The kind Gordon and Lottie had surely exchanged far sooner than we ever had.
So far, I’d resisted under the excuse of shyness, but the pressure had become nearly unbearable. Knowing I’d have to give in soon, I held on to the hope that returning to my hometown would stall our budding romance just long enough to fade away.
Sadly, that wouldn't be the case.
On game day, I found myself lined up alongside the other girls, waiting for the sportscaster to announce us. The stands were packed so tightly that food vendors struggled to push through the bouncing legs. Even behind the chain-link fences, you could see heads craning forward, all growing restless as a buzzing loudspeaker played an ad about some soap.
I knew the brand myself—and had to admit, I preferred it over others. They left my skin feeling soft afterward. How far I’d drifted from my old self, now standing here with an actual, informed opinion about soap.
“...your wife will give you the finest kiss to buy it,” It finished the jingle in a sing-song tone, just as we were given the sign to start marching.
The other girls motioned for me to take the lead, and I did—thanks to my cousin’s tireless efforts to convince the rest to let me have the front spot just this once. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in sight. Only a vast, uninterrupted blue sky stretched above us, a grand stage for the glaring sun as I emerged into the light.
Given the occasion, I had been granted one-time permission to wear high heels—only two inches high but definitely not made for navigating a grass field. Still, I did my best not to wobble in them, even as I felt the blades of grass brushing against my ankles.
No other part of me felt that contact, as my skirt stopped well above the tallest blades. And now I finally understood the reason behind the girdle’s ruthless tightness—there was simply no other way I’d have fit into the silk fuchsia sleeveless dress I was wearing.
Wrapped around my swaying hips was a bright pink ribbon that ended in an oversized bow tied at the small of my back. Resting over my faux bosom hung the necklace Mickey had given me on our third date. As I approached the opposing team’s captain, I saw how shamelessly his eyes narrowed, scanning the small “M” pendant glinting between my collarbones.
The roar of the crowd drowned out even the slight clink of my earrings—clip-ons, of course. I still wasn’t fully comfortable wearing them.
I was now certain I’d give up my argument with Mom about getting a real piercing, though I never had any intention of ever putting on those small, gold-plated hoops Mela talked me into wearing to “complete the look.”
The “Raccoons’” captain was a sixteen-year-old clinging to the league’s age limit just long enough to make it through trials for the Little League open. I handed him my bouquet and, even with the extra height my shoes gave me, had to stand on tiptoes to reach his cheek for a ceremonial kiss. I nearly lost my balance and reflexively planted my hand over the two o’s on his uniform skirt to steady myself—something he completely misread. He turned toward me with a playful grin before I managed to pull my hand away.
Lottie and the other girls followed suit—minus the near-fall—and once our task was done, we retreated to our seats to watch the game begin.
I’d never been much of a baseball fan myself, which—unintentionally—matched the persona I was performing. So I stayed mostly silent as the ball zipped from one end of the field to the other and boys ran across the bases. When one guy slid into third to steal a base, the girls around me shrieked in disgust at the cloud of dust he kicked up. It barely touched our clothes, but still, they all stood to brush themselves off. Lottie even fussed with my dress, shaking it gently without being asked.
At halftime, the “Red Hollow Hounds” were losing by half the score. Half the team was benched—Gordon among them—though he didn’t seem to mind, happily joining us on the sidelines. I tore my gaze away from the sight of him making out with Lottie just in time to see my own boyfriend getting ready to bat.
Although visibly tired, Mickey didn’t reach for water. Instead, he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and—catching my eye—pointed straight at me with a wink. I gave a small, shy wave, which he seemed to treasure.
On his first swing, the runner managed to reach first base. By the second, they secured a full run. But the crowd absolutely erupted when, on the third, the ball soared beyond the stadium’s far fence.
“Hooooome rrruuuuun!” screamed the announcer into his mic, nearly dragging the poor thing off the table in excitement as he exchanged a high five with the man beside him.
Our team had won—by default, thanks to Mickey’s spectacular play. The field quickly filled with teammates and fans lifting him into the air in celebration. I followed the crowd, trailing behind as he paraded through them, trophy held aloft in one hand. But then, amid the hysteria, Mickey’s head turned, scanning his surroundings until his eyes found me. The other guys, noticing his signal, set him down. He shaked his shoulders and adjusted his cap and, as soon as his feet hit the ground, made a direct beeline toward me.
Probably too possessed by the high of victory, he grabbed me without hesitation and claimed my lips in a full kiss. I had no choice but to receive it. I didn’t even realize when his hand tilted my chin upward, locking me into place as his lips pressed eagerly against mine. My eyes widened as I caught the expectant, cooing expressions of onlookers, all touched by what they assumed was a romantic moment.
His arms wrapped around my back, and with one free hand, he pulled me in tighter by the waist. I clutched at his shoulders for balance—more out of necessity than affection—though from the outside it probably looked like I was swooning.
I most certainly was not. But I could do nothing about it. All I could do was stand there, frozen, counting the seconds until he finally pulled away.
What followed was an eruption of cheers and whoops from the crowd. Mickey hoisted the trophy back into the air and hugged me tightly, as if he had just sealed his triumph with a kiss—and I was part of the prize.
The celebration shifted to a soda fountain downtown. The clerk, who had listened to every moment of the game over the radio, treated the entire team to a round of free sodas.
I was halfway through mine when the commotion started near the entrance. Raised voices. Scuffling. From the crowd, emerging with rage in his eyes, came the raccoon team captain, pushing people aside as he stormed toward us, flanked by his minions.
He stomped right up to Mickey and started shouting. Claimed the game had been unfair. That Mickey had no right to that trophy. Mickey didn’t flinch. He stood calmly, facing him.
“I won, fair and square.” Mickey said firmly, folding his arms. “And you lost. Fair and square.”
“Oh yeah?” the captain snarled. His eyes slid to me.
“Then I guess I’ll just settle for this one.”
Before I could react, he was suddenly beside me. His hands were on me—gripping my waist, creeping up my chest. I yelped and tried to push him away, but his strength dwarfed mine.
Mickey tried to reach me, but was held back by the Raccoon’s crew, who laughed at the sight of me being manhandled. I felt the boy’s disgusting tongue slide up my neck, creeping dangerously close to my chin—then my mouth. But even worse was the hand that slipped between my thighs.
Mickey shouted in frustration, shaking helplessly against the arms holding him back.
And then the captain froze.
His hand had found something it wasn’t expecting.
He went rigid. Pulled back. Stared at me.
Eyes wide. Confused. Shaken.
That second of stunned silence was all Mickey needed. He broke free, charged, grabbed the guy by the jacket, and landed a hard, clean punch to his face.
The other boy collapsed to the floor, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth—but even as he knelt there, his eyes never left me.
After a long, tense pause, he stood up, jaw clenched. He glanced at his team, hesitating, then finally barked, “We’re leaving.”
They hesitated—but when he growled again, already walking away, they had no choice but to follow.
The moment they were gone, cheers erupted again. Our teammates roared for Mickey’s knockout punch nearly as loudly as they had for the win itself. Some joked that the guy must’ve nearly wet himself after getting a taste of my boyfriend’s straight-up fist.
Mickey came back to me, breath heavy, eyes scanning for any sign I was hurt.
I nodded, though I was still trembling.
He pulled me into a hug—tighter than before. This time, it wasn’t for show. This time, it was real. And I could feel he was shaking too.
For the first time that day, I let myself lean into him.
Later that night, I stood on Aunt Mela’s front porch, the hem of the team jacket brushing against my thighs. Mickey had given it to me—said it suited me better. He hugged me one last time, muttering.
“You’re an amazing girl, you know that?”
I could only nod, my heart a tangled mess. When he leaned in, I met him halfway. The kiss landed on his lips this time. Brief, uncertain—but definitely real.
I crossed the porch and opened the door, only to find Aunt Mela and Lottie both staring at me with twin expressions of cautious affection.
I grunted and stormed past them, up to my room.
I barely managed any sleep that night. I couldn’t. I just stared blankly at the ceiling, pretending to count the tiles, but the truth was I couldn’t count past four before the scene of Mickey and me kissing blipped through my mind all over again.
It had been a day to remember for everyone involved, no doubt—but for me, for entirely different reasons.
While the rest of the town celebrated the first local victory in seasons, I was left grappling with the fact that today had marked something far more personal: the moment of my first real kiss.
Fireworks had gone off—literally, when Mickey sent that ball soaring past the stadium lights, and metaphorically, in my head, when he planted his lips on mine.
There had been no way to pretend it wasn’t happening. I was fully aware of every detail, every motion, every shift in the air between us. The way his barely-there mustache brushed against my soft, powdered cheeks. The scent of his mint deodorant, laced with the faint sweetness of sweat, mingling with my perfume. The subtle, unconscious twirl of his fingers in the ends of my curls.
I relived every detail, over and over again, hugging a cushion to my chest and closing my eyes.
I couldn’t admit it to anyone, but I didn’t need to. Something had changed since that day.
Even though I had more boy clothes than ever at my disposal, I’d forgotten about them completely. I started showing up in the living room by default in my girl clothes, stepping forward to help chop vegetables for the stew without being asked.
My presence became essential at Sunday mass, and my participation in potluck dishes turned into a must-have—or so said the other attendants. ottie and I became silent allies in preserving our shared femininity. On group outings with the boys, we’d sneak away together to the ladies’ room, just to refresh our lipstick or re-curl a rogue lash.
My knitting projects shifted focus to a soft little baseball organizer, hand-stitched and lined with felt for my boyfriend. Not because it was his birthday or anything—just because I wanted to. He gladly took it, and now, the only two baseball caps he owned both hung from it on his bedroom door.
I started calling him “Mousey”, partly for his tiny mustache, partly for the Disney character he shared the name with. Eventually, that evolved to “Grimey Moo,” which I shamelessly overused in front of his friends just because I liked the embarrassed scowl it pulled from him. He never told me to stop. Just grunted and threw his arm around my shoulders.
It was as if that perpetually frustrated, withdrawn boy I had once been was only ever a cocoon, cracked open to release something softer, smaller, and far daintier underneath. Something—someone—that responded only to a girl’s name. And did so gladly.
In just a few weeks, I’d gone from sweet to amazing, and I honestly couldn’t imagine what I’d become by the end of it all.
But I wasn’t the only “newborn” in the family.
Two states below us, my third cousin Pete and his wife Kara had welcomed a healthy baby boy into the world. My parents called to share the news, telling my aunt that they expected to see us at the baby shower next week—instead of picking me up as planned at the end of the month.
But I couldn’t see them yet. Not my parents, and definitely not the rest of our extended family—most of whom had no clue how drastically my appearance had changed in the span of just a few months.
There was no way I could shake off my femininity enough for them to not at least raise an eyebrow at my suddenly softer skin. Nor with the shortened stride I now had, molded slowly and painfully by both my girdle and the persistent height of my heels. And definitely not with the thick curls I’d grown accustomed to pampering and prolonging.
Thankfully, the world didn’t stop for baby showers. In the western part of the state, Lottie’s mother-in-law’s older sister had decided to give love a fifth chance. She'd be celebrating her new union with a well-groomed gentleman in early August, and Lottie had been asked to serve as a junior bridesmaid.
I begged to be invited too, desperate for any excuse that would let me skip the baby shower. But all the formal invitations had been mailed out long ago. The only way I could attend was if I took Lottie’s place on the bridesmaid lineup.
I pleaded. I pouted. I threw dramatic sighs onto her bed and tugged at her arm like a whiny toddler. She resisted at first—she had been dying for a chance to dance with Gordon—but after my fiftieth whimper, she gave in. In exchange, I had to do all her chores and lend her my red wedge sandals she loved so much.
Aunt Mela returned the call, explaining the change of plans. My folks, of course, insisted on speaking to me directly to confirm. I took the receiver and pretended to be mildly annoyed but ultimately resigned to attend “this wedding thing.” Dad asked if something was wrong with the line, complaining about the sharpness in my voice—but he bought it.
So now, instead of enduring five rounds of baby bingo and forced small talk, I spent the following week preparing for my new role in the wedding.
Not that Pete or Kara would’ve missed me. I’d long been reduced to a quiet silhouette in the background—barely tolerated, offered the mandatory greetings before being brushed aside in favor of more likeable relatives.
Lottie was relentless about my training. She was determined that I represent her well for Gordon’s family. So in addition to my usual feminine routine, I was lectured on how to pose for photographs, how to hold the bride’s long veil if asked—and perhaps most dauntingly of all: how to dance.
I had never danced properly. Not as a boy. Not as a girl.
So, as my parents’ car cruised just miles away to the south, I was in my aunt’s living room swaying to the rhythm of dusty ballads on the radio. Lacking a partner, Mela had to take on the male role, leading me across the carpet. She would tilt my chin up when I tried to look at my feet and scold me gently.
“You’re supposed to look into his eyes, darling,” she scolded gently. “You’ll make someone feel rejected if you don’t.”
It took time—more than a few rests for her poor toes—but eventually, I managed to move with a grace and delicateness most girls spent years mastering.
Not that I was a girl.
I was a boy going to great lengths… for reasons I no longer fully understood.
Nevertheless, the big day finally arrived. The chapel’s tall doors swung open, welcoming a crowd that nearly filled the pews inside. On the bride’s side, a line of ladies in their late 30s and 40s marched into position. Yet one of them didn’t quite belong.
Tugging at the neckline of my strapless chiffon dress, I stood at the very end of the row. A bit of last-minute toilet paper gave the illusion of a modest bust, though nothing near the mature figures ahead of me.
In the days leading up to the event and envisioning my eventual return to pants, I’d taken only cold showers, sufferable but necessary to help my hair regain its natural shape. In consequence, I had styled it into a feathered bob I’d seen popular among girls my age
The deep tones of the organ pulled me from my self-absorption, shifting into a rich melody that announced the bride’s entrance. An elderly woman took slow, deliberate steps down the aisle, her long skirt carried by a few little girls no older than seven. When she finally reached the altar, the preacher signaled for the ceremony to begin.
It was the first wedding I had been asked to actively participate in. In the past, I would’ve been found in the last pew, fighting to stay awake and letting my head nod with boredom. But today, I stood up front. I might’ve been the youngest in the party, but I fulfilled my role just like the rest. And when the moment came to present the rings, I stepped forward and gently slid hers onto her wrinkled middle finger.
She and her brand-new husband sealed their vows with a tender peck, and the chapel erupted in cheers.
Hand in hand, the couple marched down the aisle, followed by the rest of us. Gordon joined my side, though he said nothing beyond a quiet nod as we clapped and watched them climb into their car. The tin cans tied to the back clattered noisily as the vehicle rolled away.
Soon after, the rest of us piled into our respective cars to follow. We all ended up at an upscale banquet hall, decorated elegantly for the occasion. Waiters bustled across the polished floors, making final adjustments to the rounded tables where guests were assigned. I was seated at a table alongside Gordon and his closest relatives. At first, I felt self-conscious about being placed so prominently. But Gordon’s mother reassured me with a warm smile, insisting that it was perfectly fine.
“After all,” she said, patting my hand, “you’re practically family by now.”
I blushed at the claim, of course, but since she seemed to mean it—and Gordon nodded in agreement—I simply let him push in my chair and returned her smile. It was a lovely party, and I did everything I’d learned to make Lottie proud. I couldn’t wait to tell her that her boyfriend’s family seemed pleased, at least.
One of Gordon’s cousins complimented my nail polish, and one of his aunts asked where I’d had my hair done. When I told her I’d done it myself, she chirped and insisted I had to visit her house to do hers one of these days.
Unless "one of these days" came within the next two weeks, that most certainly wouldn’t happen—but I played along anyway, holding her hands and assuring her I couldn’t wait.
Later, I was dragged into joining the bouquet toss, even though I was definitely too young to be a bride—and I was a boy. Still, I went along with it. The bouquet was caught by some older woman, who squealed hysterically at the mere possibility.
The band had arrived late, but when they finally set up, I was immediately asked to dance by an elderly gentleman. Of course, I couldn’t refuse and let him lead me to the dance floor among the other couples. As Aunt Mela had envisioned, they played mostly smooth old jazz which gave me no trouble at all swaying to.
Soon, more men formed a line to take a turn with me. One of them even joked that I reminded him of one of his old girlfriends, which earned him a scolding nudge from his wife. He chuckled, assuring her he was only joking as he threw his arm around her and guided her back to their seats.
I spent the entire band performance drifting from one end of the salon to the other, dancing with whoever came next. When the band decided to offer a few crowd-pleasers as an apology for their late arrival, Gordon—who had so far missed his chance—finally stepped in. He slid in front of me, gently curling his left arm around my waist as I placed my right hand in his.
Though he was younger, he was the closest I’d come to dancing with someone my own age—and he certainly didn’t do badly.
Unlike his older relatives, his hold was softer, and he knew how to lead me without applying unnecessary force. As expected, I didn’t once pull my eyes from his through the entire song, even though his gaze held a smirk I couldn’t quite decipher.
As the rhythm began to slow and the final notes hung in the air, he pulled me a little closer.
“You sure cleaned up nice, huh?” he said.
I dropped my gaze, blushing at the odd compliment.
“I mean, not just for today—but since this whole thing started,” he clarified.
I looked back at him just in time to catch the shift in his expression. That innocent grin gave way to something else—cocky, almost knowing. I had never seen him look at me like that before.
Before he could continue, a photographer approached and told us it was our turn for the memorabilia photos. We accepted and followed him to the stand. We were positioned with Gordon standing behind me, his arms wrapped casually around my waist, and my hands gently folded over his. We held the pose, trying not to blink as the flashes came rapid and bright.
Gordon slowly leaned in—closer and closer—until his mouth was only centimeters from my ear.
“You know, your cousin’s got a big mouth,” he whispered. “You’d know that better than anyone.”
I tried to ignore him, brushing it off as champagne-fueled nonsense from the toast. But then he added, voice low and unmistakably clear:
“When she mentioned you were actually her dumbass boy cousin she and Mela had shoved into dresses, I didn’t buy it.”
Shocked, I tried to turn toward him, but the photographer scolded me to hold the pose. I froze, stiff in Gordon’s arms, as his voice dipped to something darker than any thirteen-year-old had a right to sound.
“But when the raccoons started spreading the word,” he said, “well, it didn’t take much to do the math.”
My breathing tightened. My chest rose and fell with barely restrained panic, the exaggerated curves of my padded silhouette moving in time with my distress. My smile, which had been genuine moments ago, now sat frozen on my face like a cracked mask.
“No worries,” Gordon added coolly. “Mickey doesn’t mind. What do you call him again? Your grubby boo?”
As the photographer gestured for the next couple to step in, my body finally responded. I moved as fast as I could, stumbling in my heels, nearly falling in my haste to get away. Behind me, Gordon burst into laughter. I didn’t slow down until I was far out of his sight.
I was found by one of the assistants, sobbing in the ladies’ room. When she tried to ask what was wrong, I mumbled something about weddings making me emotional. She cooed softly and took rolls of toilet paper to wipe the dark-stained teardrops from my cheeks. I could only play along as best I could, nodding weakly while she assured me that one day I’d find my own man and be the happiest girl in the world.
I forced a tight smile as she pinched my cheeks and said it wouldn’t take much.
More women joined in, touched by my state, pooling their efforts to help fix my appearance. I thanked them all and promised I’d be okay.
I made my way back to my seat, trying to ignore the stare Gordon threw at me from across the table. From that point on, my demeanor turned cold. When people tried to make small talk, I mostly nodded until they grew tired of trying to pull a conversation from me and moved along. I was told to pose with more family members, and though I complied, my smile never regained its authenticity.
Since the party was running late, Gordon’s mom offered to let me spend the night at their house. I could sleep in Gordon’s room, she said. I turned just in time to catch the smug smirk Gordon shot me behind her back and gently declined, saying my aunt would worry. She accepted my refusal but insisted she at least drive me home—and since she wouldn’t take no for an answer, I had to agree.
That meant I had to wait until the party finally ended, which took at least another two hours. Under different circumstances, I might have been thrilled to be allowed to stay out so late. But tonight, I silently begged to be taken home, just so I could rid myself of this ridiculous dress.
Gordon joined us for the ride, of course. He stepped ahead to open my door, and when we arrived at my aunt’s house, he sang out a mocking, “You’re welcome.” I didn’t reply—I just darted out of the car as fast as I could.
Aunt Mela asked how it went, but I could only break into tears and rush upstairs in my heels. Of course I tripped on the steps. She followed, trying to comfort me, patting my back and asking if everything was okay. All I could do was turn to her, sobbing, and cry, “It’s all your fault!” before pulling away again and bolting into my room, slamming the door behind me.
She called after me, gently, but I ignored her—crying hard into my pillow until the sounds of the house disappeared.
When I woke up the next morning, my cheeks were still flushed and my pillow soaked. I hadn’t even taken off the dress. And with no energy—or desire—to change into the others, I stayed in it and shuffled downstairs.
Neither Aunt Mela nor Lottie asked what had happened. They just kept their distance, treating me with cautious warmth. I sat on the counter in silence. And for a long time, no one said a word.
I stayed that way for most of the following days—shut in, drained, unwilling to leave the house. And without anyone pressing me to anymore, I didn’t have to. I spent my afternoons alone in the dark, playing the same songs I’d once learned to dance to. Aunt Mela never scolded me for sleeping late again. If anything, she encouraged it—I could hear her through the door, whispering to Lottie to give me space before she even dared knock.
From what little I gathered, Gordon and Lottie broke up. I didn’t hear the reasons, but I didn’t need to. It would’ve happened eventually anyway, since she was returning to her hometown.
The last I heard from her was a quiet, “I’m sorry,” spoken through the other side of my locked door, just before I heard the thud of her suitcase being carried down the stairs.
By the time I managed to gather enough energy to come out, she was already gone. Aunt Mela told me I’d gotten some phone calls. I didn’t need to ask who they were from. She said he hadn’t left a message anyway.
With just a week left before my parents were due to pick me up, I was more than ready to leave. Though a few traces remained, I had mostly returned to my old, boyish state. And with it, all of the sweetness, softness, and charm of the girl I’d been had was scrubbed away.
I stood on the porch in my faded jeans. On top, I wore a brand-new black t-shirt with a bold print of a rock band’s latest album cover. Aunt Mela had spent weeks trying to find that shirt, insisting I’d need it to “dress properly” for the concert. She handed me the full ticket money—and a little extra, just in case.
The attic had been restored to its original state, save for a few boxes stacked neatly by the wall. Each one was labeled Charlie in looping cursive and filled with the clothes I’d worn over the summer—and one jacket I hadn’t had the heart to pack.
I asked if it wouldn’t make more sense for Lottie to take them, but Aunt Mela just smiled and said I might want to keep them someday.
I was sure I wouldn’t.
But I let her have her little fantasy.
Soon enough, my parents’ sedan screeched up to the curb. Dad honked the horn impatiently while Mom leaned out the window yelling at me to hurry up. I gave Aunt Mela one last hug. She brushed an invisible crumb from my cheek and, eyes misty, assured me that she had done what she thought was best for me.
I nodded, barely holding it together, and climbed into the backseat.
The engine had just started when we heard the distinct whir of a bike coasting up behind us. I turned to look and saw Mickey pedaling fast, breathless, nearly tripping as he leapt off the bike to catch up.
I quickly asked Dad to wait and rolled the window down just as Mickey reached my side of the car.
“Hey…” he managed between gasps, gripping the window’s edge. His eyes searched mine, and I felt my breath catch. I couldn’t speak—just stared at him, visibly shaken, unable to summon any words.
“I just wanted to…” he began, pulling something from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I couldn’t let you go without giving you this.”
I extended my hand before he had even pulled it out completely. He placed a cassette tape in my palm. “I recorded myself,” he added with a sheepish smile.
Scrawled across a strip of masking tape was Charlie, written in his unmistakably messy handwriting. On the back were a list of songs—songs we’d laughed over, argued about, and grown quietly attached to without ever saying so.
The one from The Portrait of Love’s end credits. The cheesy tune we both groaned at when it played for the third time at the bowling alley.
One that I didn’t recognize by title but remembered from the restaurant where we’d had dinner.
Another that neither of us fully heard because we were too busy laughing when Mickey smacked the jukebox like The Fonz to make it play something random.
Another was the song the taxi driver played when Mickey took me home after the game.
And the last track... that one caught me off guard. It was the song I’d been singing out loud every time it came on the radio at Aunt Mela’s house. I was sure I’d never mentioned it aloud.
“Lottie told me you’d love it,” he said softly.
I gasped and turned squarely toward him. Overcome, I threw my arms around his neck through the car window and hugged him with all the strength I had—though it wasn’t much. Still, he returned the hug without hesitation.
When I leaned in to kiss him, he stopped me, chuckling.
“They’re watching,” he whispered, nodding toward the front seat.
I turned and caught sight of my dad’s unmistakably confused expression in the rearview mirror. I pulled back. We both laughed quietly, and I wiped the tears from my eyes.
I didn’t want to let go. Not yet.
But eventually, I had to.
Mickey stepped back, joining Aunt Mela on the curb, and they watched as the car pulled away, leaving behind only a faint trail of exhaust. Through the rear window, I kept my eyes on them, their silhouettes growing smaller until they vanished altogether.
We were already on the interstate when my parents decided to break the news. They had gotten the promotion after all—and with it, a significant pay raise. I grunted in response.
They insisted I should be happy. “Now we can afford a real vacation instead of dumping you at Amelia’s place,” Mom said cheerfully.
I freaked.
“You can’t be serious,” I cried. “You can’t do that to me!”
My protest was loud—and relentless. I argued until they relented, finally agreeing to take their vacation somewhere else next year, as long as I got to return to Aunt Mela’s.
Mom gave me a long, dramatic sigh and glanced into the mirror. “Ugh, I swear—I just can’t with this boy,” she muttered to Dad.
He only grunted, eyes fixed on the road.
In truth, I couldn’t possibly wait to go back.
To sway in Mickey’s arms again.
I was sweet, I was amazing—but above all, I was his.