Choices, Chapter 1

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist.

Choices, Chapter 1, Part 1 -- Laird’s Choice

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 01 Laird’s choice
Chapter 02 A hairstylist’s choice
Chapter 03 Amber’s choice
Chapter 04 A preacher’s choice
Chapter 05 A teacher’s choice
Chapter 06 A psychologist’s choice
Chapter 07 A coach’s choice
Chapter 08 A lesbian’s choice
Chapter 09 A ballet school's choice
Chapter 10 Choice at McDonald's
Chapter 11 A choice of tea parties
Chapter 12 A Na’vi choice
Chapter 13 Kirk’s choice
Chapter 14 A Shakespearean choice
Chapter 15 Mandy’s choice
Chapter 16 Maggie’s choice
Chapter 17 Blair’s choice
Chapter 18 A wedding choice

The letter came from the most prestigious doctor in the Pacific Northwest. Yet she let it drop to the floor. Tears furrowed her makeup. Maggie looked old and crumpled, her life’s struggle ended at age thirty-nine.

Sagging into an armchair, her head lowered in defeat, her hands pressed against throbbing temples, Maggie couldn’t get the word out of her brain. It seized her mind like the devil’s mantra: infertile, infertile, infertile, infertile … INFERTILE! So there it was: she would never have a daughter. She couldn’t conceive and the government had already callously informed her that she was too old to adopt an American baby.

As for foreign orphans, Maggie had decided long ago that these should stay in their own village and culture; for the past eighteen years she had been a foster parent to a succession of Ethiopian girls. There had been Adina, Gabra Aisha, Yenee and Tenagne — the children of dirt farmers or herders. Try, try as she might, she had never connected with them emotionally; their stunted lives were simply too alien and their choices too constricted to require the insights or empathy of a “coupon clipper” living in the suburban Pacific Northwest. (She had divorced a Microsoft insider.)

Besides, and maybe this made her less than a perfect human being in the eyes of the intolerant folk who preached tolerance and diversity, she had always wanted a daughter that looked like herself — a flaxen-haired Scots-Irish American minx with emerald eyes and a flush in her ivory cheeks.

Life’s greatest irony, Maggie bitterly thought, was the recent arrival in her life of a near-perfect child, one who looked amazingly like the daughter in her dreams — a slight, faun-like creature with naturally fleshy, blood-rich lips; pale, wispy eyebrows; luxuriant eyelashes fluttering like butterflies around sparkling eyes of emerald green above a button nose. The child moved with an ethereal, feminine grace (even though it lacked even the most basic of athletic skills). It had the voice of an angel, a treble soloist in the school chorus.

Blair, age ten, would have been the ideal daughter for any mother if he weren’t a boy.

Maggie often wondered: Did Laird, her passionate, attentive lover these past seven months and Blair’s natural father, recognize the girl in a son who loved to gossip and to cook, whose taste in popular music ran the gamut in teen idols from David Archuleta to the Jonas Brothers, and who dressed with precious impeccability, his palate of colors composed of dramatic reds, yellows, greens, pinks and purples. Blair especially treasured a pink “1842” tee shirt from Abercrombie and Fitch that he’d seen Justin Bieber, his absolute fave, sporting in a candid photo. Any mention of the fifteen-year-old Bieber gave Blair the vapors.

How could the father not see the girl in the son who sat, feline-like, almost purring, for an hour while Maggie brushed, combed and teased his long, golden locks? How many ten-year-old boys fretted over “split ends”?

Once, emboldened by strong spirits and ardent lovemaking, Maggie, as she lay naked with Laird in the dark, finally dared to ask not only about Blair, but also about Blair’s brother Kirk. Aged thirteen, red-haired, freckled, wide-eared, big-boned, pug-nosed Kirk so differed from his younger brother, both emotionally and physically, that it was difficult to believe that they had the same parents. Kirk, family friends declared to be “all boy”; Blair, they’d rather not discuss. Kirk lived for sports and harsh, raucous music, his bedroom wall festooned with posters of female rockers and jocks.

Where Blair came across as sweet-natured, docile and malleable, Kirk struck almost everyone as aggressive, angry, and obdurate. Driven by inner demons or raging hormones, he wouldn’t take the time to comb his hair or to allow Maggie to untangle it. So Kirk had opted for a buzz cut on his twelfth birthday when he announced that he’d probably shave his head when he got to high school. “Just like Britney Spears and Ani DiFranco.”

It was Kirk, therefore, that Maggie asked about first as the two lovers spooned: “Laird honey, Kirk worries me. I don’t know why, but he’s a very angry kid. Today he got sent home from school for hitting a girl — Stephanie Hawkins — you know, she’s the daughter of Bill and Helen, who live on Oak Street. A black eye, he gave her a black eye. He actually punched her, can you believe it?”

Laird’s neck muscles visibly tightened. He replied slowly, each word carefully chosen: “From what I understand, Maggie, the girl deserved a good hiding. Kirk said she had been spreading lies about him, and that she couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret — despite a blood oath.”

“Gruesome, no?” Maggie responded:

While there weren’t any details, Principal Archer said that he didn’t blame Kirk for hitting the girl, given her foul mouth and depraved imagination. But still, the school has a zero tolerance policy for violence, which is why he had to suspend Kirk for a day and a half. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure Kirk doesn’t get to treat tomorrow like a holiday. But, Laird, we can’t ignore the violence. He actually hit a girl as hard as he could! What should we do about it?

“Hire her a boxing coach?”

When he felt Maggie stiffen, Laird hoarsely whispered: “Are you suggesting a child psychiatrist?” Wordlessly she caressed his shoulders. So Laird continued:

Well, maybe, but there is no need for haste. The boy’s only thirteen. He’s still a young kid who has yet to develop an appropriate reverence for the fairer sex. I’ll wager he still thinks girls are yucky because they’re afraid of spiders and toads. But he will soon enough become an admirer of femininity — or at least of a special girl’s feminine charms. I give him a year at most. In any case, I’ll have a frank talk with Kirk tomorrow.

After a pause, Laird sighed: “Now, I suspect you’ll want to talk about Blair.” As he spoke, Laird’s muscles relaxed. Oddly, he didn’t seem concerned that Maggie, taking her cue, would once again question Blair’s sexuality. It had been her favorite topic for more than a month.

While most fathers would have been outraged to have a woman challenge their son’s “masculinity,” Laird, no fool, was well aware that Blair’s teachers and principal judged him to be the male pupil most likely to end up as a ballet dancer, hair stylist or interior decorator. Schoolyard scuffles had made clear the like opinion of his male classmates, who, after displaying their own masculinity with a shove or a fist, had largely left him to find friends, as best he could, amongst the “other girls”.

“I know, Maggie, that you share the common belief that Blair is gay. I think you’re wrong — virtually every boy is a bit fey at ten. It’s tough to be hyper-masculine when you’re still prettier than most adult women. I wasn’t the world’s butchest preteen either, and I certainly didn’t end up gay. Now did I?” And with that he lowered one of Maggie’s hands to find his sex rampant.

“Nobody could be a better lover for a woman than you, honey; but we’re talking about Blair. And I think you’re entirely right. The boy’s not gay and never will be.” As she spoke, she squeezed but did not stroke Laird’s maleness; she wanted her lover’s rapt attention for what she was about to say next.

Laird interjected:

Now I am truly confused. All this time I’ve thought you considered Blair to be a sissy boy. In fact, I was afraid that you were leading up to a suggestion that we throw a house party for him so that he could invite his first boyfriend to a dance. I must say I’m relieved that you don’t want me to ask him at dinner if he’s hot after the body of that mop-haired boy singer that he likes so much.

Maggie giggled. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall if you ever had to have that heart-to-heart with your son. But don’t worry — Blair isn’t gay. I’ve concluded he’s something … very … different. You might not want to hear it, which is why I’ve only been hinting so far that he’s a very atypical boy, sexually that is.”

“But what, if not gay?”

“Laird, do you know what a transsexual is?”

His body stiffened, even as part of it shrank from her caress.

“Yes, I believe I know. Are you suggesting that Blair wants to be a girl? Or, worse, that he already sees himself to be a girl, a girl who’s — how does the cliché go? — trapped in a boy’s body?”

“Yes … and yes. I am positive that Blair would rather be a girl than a boy and I’m almost certain that he’ll confirm, if properly asked, that he is emotionally and mentally a girl, and he hates the genitals that God errantly gave him.”

Laird muttered inaudibly. Maggie hesitated, considering her options, and then plunged to the goal line, her left hand gripped firmly on the balls while her right feverishly worked to ensure that her lover man, when he finally answered, would be receiving advice from both of his heads. Just as he arched in pleasure, Maggie spiked in the end zone: “I know where to find the hormones and surgeon he’ll need. I even know where to find a geek who can hack into vital records to change the M to F. I can help you to give Blair the life she truly wants and needs. You’ve always known the truth about Blair; after all, you named her Blair Lindsay, not Kirk Alexander.”

“Maggie,” he sighed, “Don’t go reading too much into the names. It was my wife, bless her soul, who chose them for the boys. All four names are traditional for the males in her family. I was hoping that one of them could be named Laird Jr., but no such luck.”

Maggie kept pushing:

But you do have to admit that Blair could — look at his face, his physique, and most of all, his hair — easily attend school, a different one, as a girl. I could take Blair shopping for suitable makeup and clothes. Meanwhile, my geek could hack into Blair’s school records (it’s a piece of cake, he says) and after that there’ll be no question that Blair is a she — especially if we propel her rapidly through puberty with a maximum of estrogen and a minimum of testosterone. Let’s face it: Blair is probably already as light on male hormones as he is on his feet. Blair Lindsay could never be “all boy” like Kirk Angus, but with our help she can be “all girl” before she starts dating for keeps in her senior year of high school.

Maggie had made her pitch. Would she get permission to start raising a daughter ... her daughter? Laird was the only obstacle to Blair’s transformation, she figured, for no one else much cared what happened to the effeminate boy. His handful of “friends”, more acquaintances and all of them female, only saw him at school. Moreover, Kirk didn’t seem to like his brother; they rarely played together. Blair’s school and church would probably be happy to have one less “problem,” and his only living relatives lived far away in Scotland. As they came from his mother’s side, they had gradually lost touch with the two boys and their father since her excruciating death from breast cancer five years previously. It was doubtful they’d care if one of their “American cousins” changed genders, so long as “she” stayed away from the ancestral hearth.

As for Blair himself, Maggie didn’t believe he would put up much of a fight to preserve what little “masculinity” he had been allotted. She’d have to go slowly, always with his assent, one short, feminizing step at a time, but she was nevertheless confident that it would take less than a year or two to transform Blair into a girl in every way that counted, save for the final surgeon’s cut.

Easy-going, docile Blair was, she’d decided, infinitely malleable. He’d put on a dress or a diaper, leather harness or a clown suit — almost any costume that would charm and please the adults in his life, in the desperate hope that they, unlike his birth mother, never would desert him.

Blair was especially anxious to keep Maggie, his father’s first and so far only girlfriend since the funeral, inside the family fold. Blair loved her so fiercely, so openly, so absolutely that Maggie knew that the boy would do almost anything to keep her as a surrogate mother, even if it meant giving up an arm, a leg, or his gender. Dress like a girl for her? Why not? It beat the alternatives.

Maggie had no doubt Blair would dress up like Little Bo Peep if she asked sweetly and menacingly enough. True, he probably couldn’t be rushed into stockings and skirts, but she was pretty sure that Blair could be persuaded to pretend to be a girl for months or years — at least until his upper lip grew enough fuzz to demand a shave -- if he realized that she was far less likely to abandon a daughter than a son. A choice between happiness and loneliness — Was Blair prepared to skirt the difference?

Maybe he had already gotten an inkling of her bias, for Blair had been behaving more effeminately in recent weeks. Just two days ago Laird had asked him “to stop prancing around like Adam Lambert” (the flamboyant, sequined successor to the bejeweled Liberace). “You don’t always have to be on stage,” Laird had said. “Take off the party mask. We want to see the true you.”

Maggie agreed: She didn’t want Blair to act like a female; she wanted him to be a female. She wanted a real daughter, a daughter for life, and “realism” advised her that Blair’s inevitable teen rebellion would probably put him back into boys’ pants and, with much noisy recrimination, effectively out of her life … unless … unless Blair had already become a girl in mind and body, his original genitalia either gone or forgotten. Thus, Maggie wanted Blair to have an actual sex change, achieved as quickly and as irreversibly as Maggie could arrange, with due deference to nature’s rhythms and disdain for Man’s laws. She was even willing to risk jail to assure that Blair would become and remain her daughter for life. If Blair felt the need as a teenager to dismay her parents, let her bring home a foul-mouthed, lesbian lover for dinner.

“We want to see the true you” — Laird had actually said it to Blair. But did he mean it? As she and Laird lay together, nude bodies entwined, her hands, hips and lips erotically reminding her lover that his own happiness was now as much on the line as Blair’s, Laird mentally submitted. Yet he wanted her to know that he was still calling the shots, at least when it came to his own kids, and so, rolling over, he mounted her. As he repeatedly thrust ever deeper, he lay down his conditions:

First, don’t try to feminize Blair more rapidly than the boy can handle. If Blair complains even once to me, or if there is any hint that Blair feels that he is being ‘panty-trained’ as a form of punishment,” then the experiment ends immediately.

Second, Blair must never be paraded about as a girl in front of people — classmates, neighbors, postal carriers, whoever — who’ve known him as a boy. To ensure against humiliation, all outings as a girl have to be far from home, preferably in another state.

Third, no attempt should be made to alter the boy’s body or chemistry until he’s attained the age of consent. No hormones, no implants, no injections, and certainly no cutting. You’ll have to fake his curves so it will be easy for him to revert to his original gender.

Fourth, Kirk should be told about the “experiment” before it starts and be advised that he can demand an end to it if he “feels creeped out”.

Fifth, and last, Blair should feel as good being a girl as I do having sex with you. Hell, I’m about to become the father of a bouncing tween girl! It feels right!

With those words, Laird erupted inside Maggie. Her body fiercely gripped him as she murmured over and over in Laird’s ear:

Lover, you’ll never regret this decision. Blair will be a lot happier as a girl. He’ll fit in a lot better. And we’ll have the perfect family — a boy for you and a girl for me — and we’ll be the happiest people on earth. That feeling you now have, that feeling I guarantee you for a lifetime. You can have it all, Laird — great sex exactly as you like it, as well as a loving wife to help you raise contented, well-adjusted and drug free kids.

Kids, plural. That forced Laird to catch his breath. “How will Kirk react to his brother’s dressing and behaving like a girl?” the father openly wondered. “I don’t want Kirk to go bad — to become a tough guy to prove he’s not a sissy too.”

Maggie advised:

Don’t fret. I’ve already discussed Blair’s feminization with Kirk. He said that he isn’t surprised — that something has to change. Blair, it seems, has become a real burden for Kirk at school: ‘I’m always having to stand up for the little dude,’ he said; ‘I’ve actually had to pull guys off of him; and whenever I did that, they’d curse me and then tell everyone that I was a fag — just like my sissy brother. Blair and I would both be better off if Blair stopped pretending he was a boy. I’ll even help you get him into panties — you just know that he wants to wear pink satin and bows — if you promise me that you’ll get him out of my life by sending him to a school far from here.’

“So you see, Laird, Blair’s metamorphosis might be the best thing that will ever happen to Kirk and this family.”

Laird then rolled off his lover. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling fixture: “Are you telling me that Kirk actually offered to help turn his brother into a girl?”

“He said he’ll do whatever it takes to get Blair so comfortable with being a girl that ‘she’ll insist on changing schools’. Kirk says he’ll even lie if necessary — by telling Blair how everyone will like him better as a girl and that’s he real pretty in a dress. I actually think that Kirk would model girls’ underwear for Blair if it would entice Blair permanently out of his jockey briefs.”

Laird groaned disapproval. Maggie was exposing a facet of Kirk’s personality — the devious and manipulative side — that he had long noted, but never liked.

Maggie next whispered: “Kirk even said that he knows a boy his own age who’s ‘dumb enough’ to date and kiss Blair without figuring out his true sex. Kirk figures, and I tend to agree, that if Blair has his first romantic and sexual encounters ‘as a girl’ that he’ll never want to act like a boy again. Don’t worry …”

Laird interjected: “Sexual encounters? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Blair’s only ten. He’s much too young to want sex — with girls or boys, with or without panties and briefs.”

Maggie reminded him about the facts of life in the twenty-first century:

The boys are growing up faster than you think. I’m responsible for the laundry around here and I can assure you that there are more than enough telltale stains on the sheets, pillowcases, and underpants of both boys to prove that they’ve discovered the joy of solo sex. Even more telling are the ‘spotted’ magazines that I found under their mattresses — a Virginia’s Secret catalog under Kirk’s and a Tween Beat under Blair’s. Before you ask, Blair especially treasures the photos of a shirtless Justin Bieber and a leather-clad Miley Cyrus.

While Laird absorbed these revelations about his sons’ diverging sexuality, Maggie quickened her pitch:

I truly believe that Blair’s rapid feminization will reduce, if not entirely eliminate the tensions in this family, especially between your two children, and also between us. You know how sad it makes me not to have a daughter. And I’ve seen your muscles tighten and teeth clench whenever we’ve met a single father with a pretty daughter. You’re worried that I’ll leave you for them, that I’m capable of setting up house with another man just so that I can mother his daughter. Well, you can stop worrying about losing me. Blair is, or rather can be, all the daughter I’ve ever wanted or could ever want. Teaching Blair to become a complete woman will enable me to become the complete wife for you and mother for your children.

Laird replied slowly and evenly: “I didn’t realize that Kirk dislikes his brother so much that he’d do almost anything, even parade around in panties, to get rid of him. That’s a real bummer.” Maggie’s kisses gave him some consolation. Laird continued:

I’m afraid you’re right: Kirk for some reason despises “sissies,” and he will never accept, even less love, an effeminate, gay brother. Tragically, once you and I have passed away, my two children will end up kinless on this side of the Atlantic and thus alone in a heartless world. The boys will need each other, but are destined to grow ever farther apart — unless, as you say, Blair fundamentally changes. A sister, Kirk might grow to love, at least when the last vestiges of her maleness have been sloughed off like milk teeth.

He pressed on:

So you’re right, Maggie. You always seem to be right, my love. As the head of this family, the final choice is mine and I now make it. This well-being of this family does seem to depend on Blair’s spending the next few months or years as a girl. After that, he can decide which gender best suits him. If he’s wise, he’ll realize by then that the world is much kinder to a pretty girl than it is to an effeminate boy.

Laird then tapped the bedpost with his fist, wielding it like a judge’s gavel.

Maggie purred:

You’re right, Laird. Blair will never give up his skirts once he’s started wearing them. We’ll start his transformation with some jewelry tomorrow. I’ll take the children shopping at the Pacific Mall downtown. No one is likely to know us there. Kirk’s been asking me to buy him a gold stud for his left ear — to look cool, he says — and I am sure that he’ll regard a second pierced ear as a small price to pay for getting his brother launched towards sisterhood.

“And wear panties too — like Blair?” Laird slowly shook his head: it was impossible to picture his freckle-faced son in anything but boxers or y-fronts.

“Kirk in panties? Not very likely. But then he really does want to see the back of his sissy brother,” said Maggie. “Time will tell.”

Exhausted, yet contented, Maggie and Laird slept like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Continued in Part 2 (Chapter 2, A hairstylist's choice)

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. In Chapter 1, Maggie used her sexual wiles to "persuade" her husband Laird to let her transform Blair, his effeminate younger son, into the daughter she craves.

Part 2, Chapter 2 Pierre’s Choice

“Boys, let’s get you ‘with it’ and in the zone. Let’s get your ears pierced — like male rock stars.” Maggie and the boys had been ambling down the mall’s central promenade supposedly on their way to the Sears store, when she spotted a stand selling budget jewelry — of the sort that kids wore — and offering free ear piercing. “Kirk, you go first. Both ears, please,” she said to the sales girl; “these boys want to impress their classmates with their courage and coolness.”

Blair looked like someone had just pulled down his pants in public. Yet his hands flew upward, as he instinctively protected his ears.

As for brother Kirk, while he had told Maggie that he’d prefer to have only one ear, the left, pierced, so that there would be no questions at school about his virility, he appreciated that the family’s grand plan for Blair depended on Kirk’s establishing that the youngster could give in to his feminine urges without fear of mockery — within the household at least. Indeed, it had taken only few minutes whispering together in the kitchen for Maggie to persuade Kirk to flirt with the feminine during their Mall visit.

As the piercing gun punched a gold stud into his ear, Kirk winced. Blair winced in empathy, then said: “It looks like it hurts. I don’t …”

Maggie cut him off: “Don’t be a baby. It’s only a pin prick. See — Kirk is already admiring himself in the mirror. He’s not in pain.” She then pushed Blair toward the gun-slinging girl at the counter. “This one next. He doesn’t want to look exactly like his brother, so let’s … hmm … start him off with this.” She pointed to a heart-shaped zirconium crystal with a post made from white gold.

“I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate …” — The salesgirl didn’t get to complete her thought because Kirk had interrupted: “Blair, it’s perfect for you. A diamond stud is the sort of thing that James Bond would wear. You’ll look like an international man of mystery.” When Blair still hesitated, Kirk turned to Maggie: “You said I could have more than one set of studs; well, I want both of us guys to have a crystal pair — and also one of those and this one here.” He was pointing to a hoop and a heart-shaped amethyst earring.

If his macho brother was willing to wear a jewel on his ear, then Blair decided that he could too. But which one? Kirk bullied him into starting with the amethyst, which meant that he’d have little choice but to wear it for several weeks while his ear healed. Blair had to admit that he fancied the way the amethyst glittered under the fluorescent light. The two boys both got hoop earrings, but where Kirk’s were small in diameter, and scarcely large enough to hang below his earlobe, Blair’s would hang down almost to his shoulders, giving him a girlish look. He whined about the difference in size, but noticeably brightened when Maggie told him that the hoops made him look like a pirate.

Blair burbled: “Yes, pirate is in my blood. I’ll look just like Captain Jack Sparrow. Mommy, let’s look for more pirate gear, okay?

“Sure, honey, but first you both need a haircut.”

Kirk was pleased at the news — he liked his hair to be as closely shaved to his head as permissible — but Blair, as usual, fretted that his parents were plotting to clip his magnificent flowing locks. “Stop whining, Blair, you’ll still look like a rock star when the stylist is through with you. We’ll cut almost nothing off, but I do want a more versatile cut, one that gives us more options for ‘your look’. You love me to brush your hair, right?” Blair eagerly nodded. “Well, it will be more fun for both of us if, for example, your hair still looked good with bangs, or curled, or tied into the sort of ponytail that pirates have.”

As there wasn’t a barber shop in the Mall, the boys had little objection to their first visit to a unisex hair salon. Kirk’s buzz cut took only a few minutes, after which he browsed through the salon’s hoard of teen magazines (Maggie noticed several tell-tale pauses at lingerie photos), as Pierre, the salon’s owner, followed Maggie’s instructions to feminize Blair’s hairstyle.

A kind, decent man, Pierre had at first refused to make Blair look feminine. He suspected that the boy was being punished by being made to look like a “sissy”. While such a thing was inconceivable in his native France where males grew quickly into giant, insensitive brutes, he had read that “the British” (of whom Maggie Maguire might easily be one) liked to petticoat “bad little boys” as an occasional relief from beating them with a cane.

While a delicate boy like Blair might well prefer having his head curled to having his bottom thrashed, Pierre wanted to have nothing to do with the jeux interdits, the forbidden games that “the Anglo-Saxons” played on their children. “These games learn the infants,” Pierre believed, “to be the Marquis de Sade when they make the so-called English love, while we, the French, we utilize the tongue both to make l’amour and to speak the most beautiful language in the world. Enfin, the Anglo-Saxons are tongue-tied, so to speak, because they have the habit to tie their lover in some ropes before they make the sexy spanking.”

Fortunately for Maggie, while she didn’t speak la belle langue, she had an Irish gift of the gab (having once been held by her big toes as she was suspended headfirst from a castle turret to kiss the Blarney Stone) and so she decided to use four tried-and-true Scots-Irish methods to win Pierre’s cooperation. Each of them had proven remarkably successful during the millennia during which the world’s Celts had fought for their place in the Rain.

First, however, Maggie’s suggested that Pierre join her in a rear closet in order to move beyond the children’s hearing and gaze. Once ensconced, Maggie started with an Irish poem (presented in a singsong manner) for she agreed with Seamus Heaney who wrote, “I can't think of a case where poems changed the world, but what they do is they change people's understanding of what's going on in the world.” In other words, Maggie sought to change Pierre’s mind by speaking intelligently to his emotions — for such was the Celtic way. Modifying its words ever so slightly, Maggie recited an Irish poem originally about a dear mother:

God made a wonderful daughter,
A daughter who looks like a boy
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And He molded her heart of pure joy;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks the fair roses you see;
God made a male-looking daughter,
And He gave that dear daughter to me.

“You may think my daughter the devil’s work because she was born with a boy’s genitals,” Maggie next said, “but you must not forget the words of the hymn by Cecil Alexander; they might easily have been written about a boy such as Blair”:

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful:
The Lord God made them all.

Pierre, stunned by the Celtic logic of Maggie’s poem and hymn, had to admit that he did have an obligation to do his utmost to help Blair look like a girl — provided, that is, that Blair actually was Maggie’s daughter-born and not a normal boy suborned. Maggie made one last resort to Irish poetry; its third line urged Pierre to take a chance on Blair’s actually being a transsexual as she claimed. However, she should have looked ahead to the fourth line. Even as she uttered it, Maggie wondered how a Frenchman might react to it:

May the light always find you on a dreary day.
When you need to be home, may you find your way.
May you always have courage to take a chance
And never find frogs in your underpants.

Pierre, in fact, deemed the allusion to “frogs” gratuitously insulting to a son of French Republic because he didn’t believe that the poem was meant to be taken literally. After all, how could real frogs might end up in anyone’s underpants? It wasn’t at all logical. “Can it be,” he asked Maggie,

That the poem is allegorical, and that it counsels the Irish woman not to have sex with the Frenchmen? But why is this counsel given, may I ask? Is it because a troubled child like Blair is always the sad result? Is the poem wanting to say that cognac and whiskey they cannot mix, even though they each pretend themselves to be the eau de vie, the water of life? In any case, I am desolated to tell to you, Madame Maguire, that your Celtic logic eludes me. Pfui, I deliver the Scottish verdict on your case: It is ‘not proven’. I am not convinced by these poems that I must consider Blair to be a young girl when I go to cut his hairs.

The poems having escaped the Frenchman’s logic, Maggie, still huddled with Pierre in the closet, extracted the second stratagem from her Celtic bag of tricks: This time she related a Scottish folktale. It concerned the Silkies, shape-shfiting sea fairies who usually took the form of a bright-eyed seal. They often came, however, onto dry land as beautiful damsels to dance to the light of the full moon. To keep a Silkie for a wife, Scottish men had to steal their sealskin, but the Silkie, always longing for the sea, would look far and wide for her skin in order to return to the sea as a seal again.

Pierre, his psychic vision occluded by Gallic rationalism, at first didn’t grasp the point of the tale: namely, that Blair was a shape-shifting fairy whose long-time pelt — or hair — had to be removed so that he might be a girl for the rest of his life. “Certainly,” Maggie admonished Pierre, “we don’t want Blair to remain a seal, now do we?”

Yet Pierre, hobbled by his Cartesian rationalism, still had trouble grasping what is, to a mystical Celt, the most obvious of points — that Blair, his hair the luxuriant color of the mythical Golden Seal (star of the namesake 1983 movie) was without doubt a Silkie, for did not the child insist that his pelt be stroked and brushed by Maggie for hours at a time? And did not Blair have a supernatural ability to swim underwater for long periods of time? And did he not wear fairy earrings? And then the clincher — “And is it not highly significant,” Maggie said, “that tomorrow will see a full moon. That’s when the Silkie is transformed into a human female. So don’t you see, it’s your duty to help Blair shed his male pelt and thus to look like the girl he is deep down. Isn’t that obvious to you?”

Alas, nothing was obvious to Pierre. He simply could not grasp the mystical, Maggie concluded with deep sympathy for his woeful condition. “No wonder,” Maggie thought, “that he does a job where everything is so matter-of-fact and clear cut. After all, hairstyling is more like accounting or bookkeeping than like a true art, such as computer-aided animation.”

Unable to reach the French man’s soul, Maggie had to resort to the third Celtic artifice, this time targeting his hyper-rational Gallic mind. She pulled a pint of “Tá¡ sé Cailá­n”, an Irish whiskey, out of her purse and poured him several ounces of the wet nectar. With the Irish now in him, Pierre was better able to see the mystical necessity of Blair’s having “his hairs” shaped to reflect the child’s “cailá­n” soul (the whiskey’s name roughly translating as “He is a girl”). And yet Pierre still had doubts whether Blair was indeed a Silkie. The child did not, for example, have a Silkie’s tell-tale webbed fingers. (The sneakers made it impossible to check for webbed feet.)

While Maggie knew from experience that the third element in the Celtic bag of tricks almost always worked — that the whiskey would eventually dissolve Pierre’s reservations about feminizing Blair’s haircut — she dared not refill the stylist’s highball glass, for fear that he would, if he became as inebriated as an Irish playwright, leave Blair looking like a shorn lamb.

Maggie, accordingly, resorted to her last and most effective stratagem in her bag of Celtic tricks. It had worked for the Irish princess Isolde (or Iseult) with the Cornish knight Tristan and for many a Scottish or Irish lass who had wielded it since those legendary times. After all, how could a heterosexual Frenchman, as Maggie had known Pierre to be since their first exchanged glance, turn down an opportunity to experience a langue (a word meaning both tongue and language in his stunted lexicon) even more wondrous than his?

Easily persuaded that he was the seducer, Pierre was soon having passionate, adulterous sex (it certainly was not love) with Maggie, who closed her eyes and thought of … removing Blair’s sealskin. After two steamy minutes, the two of them emerged from the closet, both attempting to be the soul of discretion, and largely succeeding, save for the contented smile on Pierre’s face and smudges of red lipstick around his zipper. An expert at lovemaking, Pierre had even found twenty seconds, a second glass of whiskey in hand, to make it clear to Maggie that he now saw the world her way, the Celtic way: “Yes, there must be are lucky stars above Blair, and the wings of the butterfly have kissed the sun, for I now see clearly enough that Blair is most definitely a silken transsexual. Maggie, you must bring your daughter to this salon more often.”

As Maggie and Pierre emerged from the closet, both children asked what had detained them. At first at a loss for words, Maggie eventually explained that she and Pierre had been leafing through his catalogues to pick the ideal haircut for Blair. Though the younger child definitely “bought” the story, Maggie was less certain of Kirk, who signaled that her makeup needed attention. Just before she headed off to find a lady’s powder room, Pierre whispered in her ear (with a flicker of tongue),

Do not inquiet yourself, Maggie, I will do precisely as you have asked: I will give Blair the beautiful girls’ hairstyle, but one that, quand máªme, can be combed each morning before school to give him the appearance of the little boy until you and your daughter have decided that she is ready to go to a new school as a young girl. Maggie, you have reason when you say that the little Blair must have a haircut that permits him to live as both the boy and the girl for many weeks. I will cherish each time that Blair comes to the salon with you to make his style ever more beautiful.

Since Pierre’s was a full-service salon, while its owner worked on Blair’s hair, his assistant Suzanne manicured the boy’s nails, which she declared to be in remarkably fine condition for a preteen. When Blair complained that Kirk’s nails weren’t getting similar attention, Suzanne, at Maggie’s request, asked to see Kirk’s; however, she declared, “It’s pointless to work on Kirk’s nails as long as he gnaws them down to the cuticle. Please regard this, Madame, the skin is torn and bleeding around several of his nails. The boy is a nervous wreck, it appears.”

The two women agreed on some foul-tasting, clear nail varnish to deter Kirk’s nibbles. Although Kirk objected, he had his nails painted ahead of Blair’s. Sullenly Kirk agreed that, as no one could guess from their color that he was “doing his nails”, he would continue varnishing them until he’d mastered his bad habit.

After this concession, Blair easily bought Maggie’s assurances that most teen boys used polish to protect their nails from painful breakage and hungry teeth. When Maggie reminded Blair of the emo boys he’d seen with jet black or brightly colored nails, he finally agreed it “was no big deal” for him to wear a subtle shade of pink to make his nails look healthier. Maggie promised him that no one would suspect that he was using nail polish. This promise was kept.

Pierre was proud of his accomplishment: “Enfin! The hairs they are well coiffed! Is not Blair’s new hairstyle truly remarkable, if not incroyable? Am I not the veritable master of the haircutting?” In fact, Pierre had done little to warrant his self-congratulation, for almost any hairstylist could have given Blair the chin-length bob and bangs (straight down to his eyebrows) that the boy now sported. Pierre had merely copied a style that Dakota Fanning had worn at age eleven.

Handed a mirror so that he could “admire” his new hair-do, Bair yelped in panic: “I look like a girl! No, it’s worse than that, much worse than that. I still look like a boy, but I also look like I’m trying to look like a girl! How can I show my face in public? Mommy, please ask the man to make my hair look the way it was!” He started to cry.

Pierre looked shocked. Had he chosen the wrong hairstyle? No, certainly not! The bangs and bob were perfect for a boy, as they softened his features. They made him look totally mignon … trá¨s cute indeed. Even so, Blair had a right to be upset, for the boy and his mother apparently expected too much from a simple change in hairstyle. It would take more than a hair bob to eliminate all doubt about Blair’s gender. So Pierre turned to Suzanne for help: “Finish the job, my little cabbage, turn this one into Cinderella with your artistry.”

Meanwhile Maggie was reassuring Blair: “Don’t worry, sweetie, that’s just one of the looks you can have with this haircut. In a few moments, Pierre will show how you to comb your hair so that you look just like your hero, Justin Bieber. He has bangs too. Isn’t that right, sweetie? Now, let Suzanne — she’s the one who did your nails — touch up your face. When she’s done, I assure you that you won’t look like a boy trying to pass himself off as a girl.”

Blair stopped sniveling long enough for Suzanne to shape his eyebrows and to apply concealer, blush, eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow (purple to compliment his green eyes and amethyst earrings), and a clear lip gloss (so that the dark red lips bestowed by Nature shone more brightly). Suzanne went easy on the applications, for Blair was still a preteen, and girls of that age shouldn’t try to look too mature. Each step of the way Suzanne gave Blair a quick primer on the use and application of makeup, while assuring him that his mother would be able to help him to perfect his skills.

Blair wasn’t stupid. He knew that the makeup would make him look even more like a girl, but he had become curious whether Pierre and Suzanne could totally hide his boyishness. As he wasn’t going to leave the salon with his hair bobbed, it didn’t much matter if there was some makeup to remove as well. Besides, both Kirk and Maggie were watching his transformation closely, and both were telling him, over and over again, that he had never looked more handsome (Maggie) or beautiful (Kirk). Kirk, boldly lying, said he wanted a makeover like Blair’s himself — only next time.

It was the moment of truth: mirror in hand, Blair saw that no one would now suspect from his head and shoulders that he was a boy. But what was he to say when Maggie squeezed his hand, saying, “I told you, sweetie, that Pierre and Suzanne could make you look like the prettiest girl in the entire Pacific Northwest; of course, they had a lot to work with because you’ve always been too beautiful to be a boy.”

“You like the way I look? You actually want me to look like a girl?”

Maggie hugged him close to her while she whispered in his ear, “Blair, sweetie, just for today. Can you do it for me, sweetie? Just for today. You know how much it means to me — and to Kirk and your dad. You’re so beautiful; you’re so much like the daughter I’ve always dreamt about. You can’t deny me this one chance to see what you’d look like a girl. Please, sweetie, just this once, for me.”

Blair looked over toward Kirk — “But what about him? Won’t he tease me? What’s to stop him from telling everyone we meet that his brother is a sissy dressed like a girl?”

“Because he’s promised me that he won’t. In fact, Kirk, appreciating how much I want you to be my little girl until tomorrow morning, has told me that he is willing to run interference for you.”

“Interference for me? What does he mean by that?”

Maggie replied:

It means, sweetie, that Kirk is willing to walk with us right into a girls’ clothing store, looking very much like the boy he is, to ask to try on “some threads”. The sales staff will be in such a tizzy over a boy’s request to use the change room that they’ll scarcely notice you and me as we find suitable girls’ clothes for you to wear while you’re doing me this little favor. Afterwards, with you wearing some of your new clothes — perhaps a halter top and low-slung jeans, the three of us — me Maggie, her son and her daughter — will go to Applebee’s restaurant and then to a movie. We’ll let you pick the flick. If you don’t fill yourself up with movie popcorn, we can finish our visit to the Mall with ice cream sundaes. If you like, we’ll bring home a pizza for the family dinner. How’s that menu strike you?

Blair had to admit that it sounded pretty good. He did ask, however, whether he could have jujubes as well.

Maggie’s voice quavered:

Of course, Blair, anything you want. The idea is for you to have such an excellent day being my daughter that you may even ask to do it again. I promise you that no one will be staring oddly or quizzically at you. No one will be sniggering about your “sissy” walk. Instead, they’ll all be smiling at you because you’ll be the prettiest girl in the Mall. What do you say? Will you make me the happiest mom in the entire world by being my little girl today?

Maggie then began to cry, her shoulders quaking with true, unaffected emotion.

“But what will dad say?” It was the best defense left to Blair. Surely his dad wouldn’t approve of his going around looking like a girl? Guys should stick together on something as fundamental as a boy’s gender, even if Kirk didn’t seem to care.

“Darling Blair, your dad already knows that I’m asking you to be our daughter for a day. He knows how much it means to me. He thinks it’s a great idea. He really does. He’s the one who suggested we celebrate with pizza and cokes tonight.”

Blair groaned. “Just one day?” he asked. Maggie nodded. “And Kirk will draw all the attention away from me at the store?” Kirk nodded. “Okay,” said Blair, “I guess I can do it for you, mommy. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you ever be so sad that you want to leave us.”

Blair and Maggie wept in each other’s arms. As Blair smothered Maggie’s cheek with kisses, Pierre reflected: “In the end we made the right decision for the boy; and the style itself is superb.” He turned to Suzanne: “The makeup is divine, ma chérie, simply divine. If it pleases you, now take the photos of Blair for his dossier with us.”

Blair scowled for the first photo, but he was smiles a-plenty after being tickled in the ribs by Kirk. As Suzanne moved around him with the camera, calling for an arched eyebrow, or fluttering eyelashes, or moistened lips, Blair in all his innocence eventually gave Maggie exactly what she wanted — a portrait suitable for framing of her beautiful daughter, already a bit of a vamp at age ten. Thanks to the digital age, Blair’s first portrait as a girl, mounted in an 8 by 11 inch silver frame, was occupying the center of the fireplace mantel in the family’s finished basement before lights out that evening.

After sending Blair’s photos to the Mall’s camera store and arranging for them to be printed and put in a small album and for Maggie’s favorite to be framed, Pierre turned to his assistant: “Suzanne, it if pleases you, write down the makeup selections you made and ensure that they are found in the starter kit that Madame has requested.”

As Pierre brandished the kit, Blair noticed that it contained a dozen different shades of eye shadow, nail polish and lipstick, as well as enough eyeliner for a face on Mount Rushmore. There was definitely far more makeup, he decided, than he could possibly use in a single day. “What gives?”

When he complained, Maggie explained that there many uses for makeup that didn’t require Blair to look like a girl. “You could use it, for example, to look like Captain Jack Sparrow. He wears eyeliner, doesn’t he?” Seeing that Blair still looked doubtful, that he needed further assurance that she wasn’t plotting to make him into a girl permanently, Maggie gestured to Suzanne: “Both of the boys will need a starter kit so that one can make himself up as a pirate captain, while the other dolls up as his lady captive.”

Suzanne smirked. She knew which role would go to which boy. Kirk, less certain, pouted for the first time that evening. Blair, seeing his brother’s discomfort, beamed with Schadenfreude. Maggie, however, made sure that Kirk would stick with the game plan for a day or two, which required him to pretend that it was no big deal for a boy to use feminine beauty products.

As Maggie handed Kirk his makeup kit, she loudly said for Blair’s benefit: “This is yours, Kirk dear. I am sure that you’ll have many occasions to use it.” However, she added in a whisper, “that is, occasions to use it on your new sister.” She and Kirk exchanged winks.

Blair bleated: “Mom, you said my hair wouldn’t look girly when I go to school. Can you have him show me how to make it look right? Please.” Blair was pointing his finger at Pierre.

Pierre came to Blair’s chair: “So you want encore to have the air of a boy? Well, ma petite, that is a thing accomplished easily.” Pierre then used his hand to muss Blair’s bob, after which the stylist brushed the sides and back of Blair’s head against the grain. Pierre then said: “Enfin, you then comb the bangs up like the spikes many boys like so much in this time and lock the spikes into place with hairspray.”

Maggie had to admit the effect worked: Even if an earthquake hit, no girl would leave the house with her hair looking that disheveled. Blair looked like he’d been startled awake by a poltergeist after hours of tossing and turning, his hair matted and tangled by night chills and fever. Blair, shocked into silence by the apparition in his mirror, nodded numbly when Maggie asked whether Pierre brush his bob and bangs back into place. It took the stylist almost a quarter hour to undo the damage, but he loftily reassured Maggie that she would be able, with enough practice, to help Blair transform the gender of his hairstyle in “thirty or forty minutes.”

It was time to bid the stylist a temporary adieu. Pierre insisted on a kiss from “both the young girls,” causing Blair to giggle.

Kirk left the salon much as he had entered it: True, he now owned a makeup starter kit but it was hidden away in a white plastic bag. Although no one but an eagle-eyed manicurist was likely to notice his lacquered fingernails, he endeavored to hide them by sticking the fingers of his left hand stuck deep into a jeans pocket, and the fingers of his right hand into the plastic folds of the bag he was carrying. Each time they walked around a mirrored window, he’d turn his head from side to side so that his golden studs could catch the light. “I look awesome,” Kirk decided.

Blair, by contrast, tried not to see his reflection in the store windows. He was worried and upset — worried that he still didn’t look enough like a girl to fool everyone (what if someone openly mocked him?) and upset with his hairstyle options. His long, flowing hair had always been his special pride, the one thing that other boys envied. Now he faced a choice between either looking like a boy who had no pride in his appearance, his head resembling a Chia pet … or else looking like a “little girl”, and a precious one at that.

The choice made him angry — angry enough to confront Maggie in the corridor a few feet beyond Pierre’s door: “I don’t like my haircut. I hate it. Mommy, I won’t go to school looking like a girl or a mangy dog. I won’t, I won’t. You can’t make me. I’ll run away and join a circus.”

Surprisingly there were no tears, though Blair shook with emotion. He was too angry to cry.

Maggie kneeled to hug him, “There, there, sweetie, calm yourself. Take a deep breath. You know how much I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” She looked over to Kirk: “Kirk, tell your brother what you really think of Blair’s new haircut.” (“Be positive” her lips silently uttered.)

Kirk did his duty: “Blair, you look a lot better with your hair spiked and messed up than you did before you went to the hair salon. I’ve been telling you, bro, that your long hair made you look like a fag … [Kirk caught Maggie’s disapproving eye] … er, made you look like a sissy. You’ll get hassled a lot less at school if you wear your hair a little wild. The teachers might not like it, but the guys will ease up on you.”

Blair looked doubtful, but his body relaxed a mite.

“What about Blair’s bob?” Maggie prompted.

Kirk went back into service:

A bob, is that what it’s called? Blair, your hair looks awesome right now. Never better. The bangs are really cute and the bob gives you a fuller face. You look less skinny with your hair swept around your face that way. Of course, you shouldn’t wear your hair that way to school, not for a while anyway, because there are a lot of ignorant guys at our school. All they do is play sports and computer games. They’ve never even googled their own names, and they don’t read historical novels and comic books like you do; so they don’t know that knights in the days of dungeons and dragons had haircuts that looked just like your bob. Bob — that’s a guy’s name, right? It’s a dude’s name, nothing sissy about it. Well, from now on your bobbed hair will make you look like a knight of the Round Table. I dub thee Sir Bob.

Blair asked: “Is it true? Does my hair make me look like a medieval knight or page boy?”

Kirk nodded. This was the worst moment for Blair yet, for his brother seemed to be affirming that Blair now looked like a boy wearing girls’ makeup. Instinctively, Blair buried his face under Maggie’s right arm so that no one could see his blush, the cosmetic he has wearing and his reaction to it. He didn’t want anyone to be able to identify him later.

Maggie was reassuring:

Blair, sweetie, don’t fret. Kirk’s right when he says that men and boys used to wear a bob and with the right kind of makeup, I do think yours would make the ideal look for a medieval knight, but times have changed and boys don’t wear bobs and bangs anymore. Only girls do. So I solemnly swear — on a stack of Bibles, if you like — that with that hair-do you don’t look like a boy in the slightest. No one is going to guess your secret or embarrass you while we’re at the Mall.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Pinky swear.” As their pinkies intertwined, she kissed and caressed the back of his hand. Blair’s face shone beatifically; he had never loved his mommy more. She would never do him wrong. Blair hugged Maggie as hard as his little muscles could manage, as though his very existence depended on her loving him too.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. So far Maggie has convinced her husband to let her transform his younger son Blair into a girl, and Pierre, her hairstylist, to give Blair the works. Brother Kirk may be getting hit by the fallout from Operation TG.

Choices, Chapter 3 (Part 3)

While still within spitting distance of Pierre’s salon, Blair whispered in Maggie’s ear, “Mommy, I don’t think my sneakers are right for a girl. I don’t know any girls who wear black Nikes.” He pointed to a shoe store: “Can we go there?”

After he had tried on his sixth pair of shoes, the salesgirl commented, “A typical tween, she simply can’t decide, can she? Madame, if you don’t make the choice for her, you’ll never get out of here. And I do have other girls to serve.”

So Maggie selected two styles that she deemed undeniably feminine, but reasonably inoffensive to the boy who’d have to wear them: first, pink Ked sneakers with white laces; second, brown suede Mary Janes, with pink stitching and a pink appliqué heart and daisy on the left front.

When Blair complained about her selections, Maggie agreed to buy a third pair of shoes — this time of his choosing — if he promised to wear them to school the following Monday. “I’m sure you can find a pair of girls’ sneakers,” she said, “that any boy could wear. Sweetie, we do live in a unisex world.”

It took a while — too long a while from the clerk’s perspective — but Blair eventually selected another pair of Keds, this time “hopscotch” sneakers, with white stitching and a thick pink line separating their (suitably masculine) black canvas top and white rubber soles. Each side had a profusion of small hearts, stitched in yellow, blue, pink and lavender. Two metal charms dangling from silvery lacets — a lavender-trimmed peace sign and two intertwined hearts, one blue, the other pink.

They were an amazing choice for a boy. Maggie had to ask, “Why these, Blair? Do you really think they’re appropriate for school?”

“They’ll look great, and sound great, especially when I’m playing hopscotch with Caitlin and Alison. Don’t worry — I’ll put the charms in my pocket when I’m at school. See, they come off like keys on my key ring.”

While not entirely reassured, Maggie intuitively grasped Blair’s objective when he explained what he liked best about his new shoes: the five multi-colored canvas straps between the lacets. Arrayed in descending order from scarlet and fuchsia to lavender, the straps resembled a gay-liberation banner. The shoes might get him beat up at school, but not “for dressing like a girl”. Still, with the charms attached and jangling, she agreed with Blair that they definitely looked (and sounded) “girly” enough for him to wear until they got home.

Meanwhile, Kirk had plenty of time to grow restive over the attention being paid to Blair’s feet, and Maggie, taking pity on him, agreed at last to buy him a pair of sneakers. However, in an attempt to dissuade him from making a fuss at every shop stop, she decreed that he’d have to find a pair of girls’ sneakers that didn’t “embarrass him too much.” As before, she pointed out that many of the girls’ shoes on display were downright drab compared to the turquoise sneakers favored by his friend Glenn (the only friend of Kirk’s to come by the house since Christmas). Kirk soon opted for black Puma trainers — with red laces and red vinyl trim around a large swoosh. As nothing about them screamed out “for girls only,” he’d be able to wear them to school, while having to deal with the knowledge that he was playing footsy with his gender.

As they were leaving the store, Maggie couldn’t restrain herself — impulsively she bought a pair of girls’ ballet shoes for Blair in flamingo pink and honeysuckle trim. He fussed about the purchase until she explained that she didn’t expect him to wear them outside the home. “They’re slippers, sweetie. You can wear them to keep your white socks clean or you can wear them when you’re dancing around the house. Blair, sweetie, will you wear them a slippers when we get home?”

“Yes, mommy.” He squeezed her hand. “Blair, since they’re expensive, I’d also like you to wear them as your slippers until you grow out of them. Is that okay with you?” Then, taking his little hands in hers, she looked deep into Blair’s eyes. As their eyes locked together, he saw the deep yearning in hers. He couldn’t disappoint her: “Yes, mommy, I’ll wear my pink slippers from now on.” He snuggled in her arms as she rewarded him with kisses.

Blair still wasn’t yet ready for the big shop at J. C. Penney’s department store (but is anyone?). Nervous even now about being “outed”, he wanted to look “so girly” that everyone would be “fooled” when they finally went shopping for girls’ underwear.

His concern Maggie found understandable, yet amusing since it was relatively easy for most ten-year-old boys to pass a girl if suitably attired; as for Blair, who looked effeminate in a hockey helmet and uniform, with makeup and bobbed hair, he could probably wear little more than a jockstrap and still be taken for female. However, to humor Blair, she took the children to a shopping island selling trinkets for tween girls.

Blair and she agreed that the following purchases would definitely make him look “feminine” enough to fool Penney’s sales staff: first, heart-shaped, mirrored sunglasses with lavender, green and blue frames; second, a purple hair band (to compliment his eye shade and amethyst studs); third, a silver and amethyst butterfly pendant; and finally, a “High School Musical” backpack, featuring photos of six actors, surrounded by their names, stars and hearts in pink or blue. In his new ensemble, Blair definitely looked like a pampered tween girl.

As before, Kirk demanded to be let in on the shopping trip. Once again, he was given no choice but to find something suitably masculine at a store for young girls. He quickly selected a lime green and black backpack and an eighteen-inch silver chain with a round silver medal, on which was engraved a buxom and muscular female soccer player about to kick a ball.

“Are you sure you want to have a picture of a girl hanging around your neck?” asked Maggie, who added, I’ve seen more masculine pendants in my time.”

“Well, there wasn’t much choice here for a real boy, was there? Besides, I’m going to tell the guys that the medal is my version of a crucifix or Jewish star — that I’m carrying about my symbol of faith, the ultimate female, my idea of paradise. Do you see those leg muscles? Whenever I get bored in class, I’ll study the girl on my new pendant. I’m definitely going to wear it to school. I bet it grosses out my English teacher ‘cause she’s got a dirty mind.”

Trooping through the mall, her two sons festooned in girls’ wear, Maggie couldn’t help but notice the wide range in choices for girls. They could either look like a princess or like a prince; it was their choice to make. Or was it? Mentally, she transposed the haircuts, earrings, shoes and backpacks. Would Kirk look as feminine as Blair if Kirk wore makeup and a bob and wore pink? “No,” she decided, “No matter how much she dressed him up, Kirk would at best look like a boy in drag.”

Reversing the thought experiment, she also concluded that it wouldn’t take much more than ear studs and a soccer-girl pendant to make Blair look 100% female. There hadn’t been any real need to buy him so many “girly” things, but heck, it was great fun to treat her daughter. Thanks to her divorce settlement, it was kids’ stuff for her to buy presents for her children at this downscale Mall.

Kirk interrupted her thoughts: “Is that right, Maggie? You really think that I’d look like a boy no matter what I wore?”

“Oops, sorry, I must have been thinking out loud. Do you think your new sister also heard me?”

“Blair? No he’s walking around in a daze as usual. You know him: He’s always staring off into space. It’s a miracle that he never bumps into people or bangs his head on a post.”

She whispered to Kirk: “Well, be kind and don’t tell him what I said about him. It’s true, Kirk, you’re the lucky one — you’re a boy through and through. God didn’t get your body wrong, like he did with Blair.”

Kirk frowned. “Yeah, I’d look like a dude even if I wore a dress — just like Brad Pitt did.”

“Like Brad Pitt, the actor? When did you ever see him in a dress?”

“On the Internet. Blair found it. He showed me the picture just to spite me. I was supposed to be upset to see one of my faves dressed like a sissy; but Brad Pitt didn’t look like a sissy, no way, Maggie, no way. He is a tough-looking dude even wearing a frigging silver dress! So you really think that I look as totally male as Brad Pitt?”

The question seemed to ask for an affirmative answer. And yet why was Kirk’s face fill with tension as he awaited the reply?

Maggie replied: “Of course, honey. But there’s no time now for idle chatter, for here we are at Penney’s.”

She turned now to Blair: “Are you ready, Blair, for a whirlwind of shopping? We’re running late if we’re still going to see a movie before going home. So let me do most of the choosing. That way things will go a lot faster. But don’t wander around; I’ll need to send you frequently to the fitting room.”

“Frequently?” Blair blanched at the word. It was yet more evidence that Maggie expected him to dress like a girl for more than a single day. “It’s all right,” he said to himself. “I can do it. Just like an actor who wears just about anything to get a laugh or smile, I’ll dress at home like a silly girl, if that what it takes to keep mommy happy.”

Blair had no objection to his mother doing most of the shopping, but there were some items Blair definitely wanted her to buy; they included a ruffled blouse and tights. Was it possible, Maggie wondered, that Blair was already settling into his new life as her daughter?

Given how Kirk was now behaving, she silently wished that she had two daughters instead of a thirteen-year-old son determined to over-compensate that he was, gasp, being required to enter the innermost sanctum of the opposite sex: the girl’s department at J. C. Penney’s.

“Maggie!” Kirk called out, “Watch me! I’m going to make a commando raid. The salesgirls won’t know what hit ‘em. They’ll be paying so much attention to me that you and Blair won’t even be noticed as you stock up on girly clothes. Did you hear that, Blair? I’m going to run interference for you! Nobody’s going to have any time to wonder if you’re a sissy boy.”

Kirk, looking at Blair and finding a grateful smile, next nimbly evaded Maggie’s desperation tackle to run towards the two salesgirls in order to block their lunge toward the lone adult, the only one of the three whom they considered capable of reaching pay dirt. Scowl as they might, Kirk would not let them by: “I’m here to buy a dress, a dress with frilly lace — the frilliest, sissiest you sell,” he bellowed. “Isn’t that right, ma? Aren’t I here to buy my first dress?” With Maggie still lagging fifteen feet behind, his voice crackled through the entire girls’ department.

Blair giggled. Otherwise, silence. It was difficult to say who looked the most perturbed — Maggie, because her boy doll was running amok, or the salesgirls, because they had never seen a boy publicly announce that he crossdressed. Oh sure, they knew that not all the clothes (especially the panties) that they sold actually ended up on sisters, girlfriends and daughters, but they expected furtive skulking and discrete fibs — not brazen, almost macho indifference to the world’s good opinion.

Maggie, with Blair skipping to catch up, finally reached the sales station, breathless from exertion and mental shock. Kirk fairly shouted in her blood-filled face: “Don’t worry, ma. I won’t need your help. These girls will help me find a dress, stockings and …” (he winked slyly at Judith, the fiercely blushing blond clerk) “… satin bra and panties with ribbons and bows for ‘Gender Reversal Day’ at school. I intend to win this year, you all; so give me something really girly to wear. Ma, I know you don’t need their help to find some rags for Sis.” He bowed to the two salesgirls, both of them now giggling, “Ladies, my name is Kirk and I am at your disposal. Do your worst.”

And “worst” the senior clerk, Amber, a brunette, decided he’d get. The brat might think it a great lark to noisily shop for bras and panties with none of his mates around, but she resolved that he would, with her “help”, end up looking like someone who enjoyed Gender Reversal Day a ‘bit too much’ to be trusted in the boys’ shower.

Amber, her voice dripping with sarcasm, now said: “Judy, you heard the little … gen…tle…man. He’s here to show off what he’s really made him. Madam, your son insists that both of us serve him first. I trust you and your daughter won’t mind a small wait. You’ll find some exceptional bargains in white dresses in the “Easter Parade” section to your right.”

Maggie, at a loss for words, took Blair in hand to check out the Easter specials. Blair blew a kiss in his brother’s general direction, for this was the first time in memory that he could recall Kirk actually helping him out. Thanks to big brother, there would be no telltale witnesses while Maggie explained the basic what, why and when of girls’ wear to a ‘daughter’ who looked too old for lessons from the nursery. Blair believed it almost as bad “to be treated like a retard as like a transvestye”. He didn’t want to stand out in any way. Today he would be Zorro, an action hero whom no once noticed because he only dressed and acted tough when it was time to carve a “Z” onto (Blair giggled) … onto the villain’s ass. Blair resolved to find a black blouse and slacks — just like Zorro wore in sword fights.

“Well, Queerk, we’ll start with foundation garments,” said Amber. “Without them, you’ll look like a scrawny nine-year-old kid, no matter what else you wear.”

“I’m thirteen. I’m not a kid. I’ll show you who’s scrawny.” Kirk flexed his biceps.

Amber said, “Oh, I’m so impressed. With macho muscles like those to hide, you’ll need a dress with puff sleeves. Judith, please take his vital measurements. Then go over to the Women’s Department to find an appropriate extra-firm, high-waist brief with a padded seat and hips. Queerk will also require a padded bra — definitely a “B” cup for a big boy like him. He’ll want a maximum of lace trim.”

“As much pink lace as possible!” Kirk shouted to Judith as she scurried off. “I can handle it.”

“My, my, aren’t we the rowdy lad. Let’s see if choosing a dress can soothe you. You really should have picked a more grown-up department in which to shop, but there is one dress that I believe perfect for a big … show-off like you.”

“Make sure it’s got lots of ribbons and bows. That’s the only way that a he-man like me can win Gender Reversal Day.” Kirk snapped his fingers: “Let’s get down … to it.”

“That’s it, buddy. Let’s see how you can handle bare shoulders,” Amber thought. She’d have to find it in the Junior Girls’ department, but couldn’t leave her station until Judith returned with the shapewear. “Well,” she said to herself. “I know just the way to call the brat’s bluff.”

Out loud, Amber said. “Queerk, the perfect dress is in another Department, but I can’t go for it until my assistant returns. So let’s find panties for you — the sissier the better, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Kirk ostentatiously scratched his crotch.

Determined not to let the boy off with a single set, Amber picked a seven-pack of satiny “Days of the Week”, high-cut panties (in suitably “feminine” pastels) with ribbons at the waist and leg openings. “Be sure to wear the appropriate day of the week,” she advised Kirk, “Or you’ll likely to look like the biggest fool on Gender Reversal Day when some idiot flips up your dress. And you’ll also need this Hanes five-pack; I’m sure your mother won’t object to paying a buck a panty for you, and the trim is sufficiently feminine to soothe your inner girl.”

Kirk, having quickly acquired eleven more panties than a boy could possibly need for one dress-up day, loudly objected: “What are you up to? I NEED ONLY ONE PAIR OF GIRL’S PANTIES!”

Amber grabbed both of his collars, tightening them on his neck: “Keep your voice down, Queerk; you’re not at home. You’re in the girls department and so, damn it, you’re going to speak softly … like a good little girl. Got it!” She poked him sharply several times in the ribs. “And, little man, you’ll buy what I choose. Did you really think that there wasn’t going to be a price to be paid for acting like a boor?”

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say. Stop poking me … please.”

“That’s more like it. Now I see that Judith has returned with your shapewear. Use that changing room to put it on, while I’m finding the perfect dress for you in Junior Miss.” Amber bustled off, while Judith pushed Kirk into a change room with a busted lock.

Kirk was “shocked and appalled” by the way he looked in an extra-firm girdle (that’s what it looked like to him) and a B-cup bra, both of them padded to define him as a young teen girl. There was no way he was going to let anyone see him like this — but Judith, on orders from Amber, had decided otherwise. She charged into the room, grabbed the boy, and pulled him out into an antechamber filled with mirrors. When Amber returned with a dress, the two girls insisted that he put it on in front of them. Meanwhile they teased him mercilessly about his “girlish curves”.

Kirk wasn’t going to let them beat him: “I’ll show them. Try to humiliate me? I’ll embarrass the hell out of them!” With that resolve, Kirk scampered to the middle of the Girl’s Department to announce with dress still in hand, “Come one, come all, watch a boy put on a dress!” Somewhere close he could hear Maggie groan. However, it was too late not to go for broke, and Kirk, loudly humming “Let Me Entertain You”, pretended to be a stripper as he first put on, then took off a Baby Doll mesh dress in yellow-green matte chiffon, with a gathered bust, beaded empire waist, tie back and spaghetti straps.

Maggie intervened:”That will be quite enough from you, Kirk Alexander. The show is over. I’m sorry, ladies, but my son is going to behave himself from now on. Kirk, get back into your own clothes … right now!” Maggie then told Amber, “It has been very wrong for him to waste your time; and so wrap up whatever he’s selected. I’ll pay for it. I really don’t know what got into him. He’s never acted like such a jerk in public before.”

Amber figured she knew what got into Kirk (was not the lad enjoying the rampage a wee too much?) and to ensure that Kirk got maximum hell when he got home, she added a pink Maidenform A-cup bra (“with a pinned note saying it was “for everyday use”) a five-pack of Maidenform rainbow bikinis (giving him seventeen pairs of panties, a total likely to alarm any mother), a pair of stockings, two pairs of pantyhose, two halter tops, a three-pack of girls’ tanks, patent leather Mary Jane shoes, black polyester-spandex gaucho pants with a shirred waist, a jean skirt with rhinestone detailing and pink leggings and a nine-pack of Bobbie socks (the colors including lavender, pink and fuchsia), a two-pack of polyester nightgowns (one short-sleeve, one tank style) and, finally, a floral two-piece bathing suit.

When Kirk returned from the changing room, he loudly announced that none of the clothes were good enough for “a boy of my sensitivity”. “I will have to buy my girls’ clothes in a better establishment — like Wal-Mart. Here, lady, take back these rags,” he loftily and loudly said as he roughly pushed his C-cup bra, girdle and Baby Doll dress in the general direction of Amber. Take them she did, so that she could pack them away in the two, large shopping bags already dedicated to his new wardrobe.

“My, my, your daughter looks absolutely adorable,” said Judith to Maggie as she arrived at the cash registers to find Blair already adorned in his new purchases from Penney’s. (“Feminine yes, adorable no,” thought Maggie; “I’m not sure that any girl could look adorable garbed in that much polyester. Maybe Kirk’s right and we should have gone to Wal-Mart.)

As Blair had insisted on looking as “girly” as possible (so that no one could guess his true sex while they were at the Mall) he was now wearing a peach-colored “Hello Kitty” screen tee shirt; a classic, tan-colored, pleated skirt (with a confusing, for him, side zipper); peach-colored knee highs (to hide his boyish bruises and scrapes), as well as his hopscotch sneakers, amethyst pendant and earrings, and underneath it all, a white training bra and pink cotton panties with small multi-colored hearts and a green bow.

Overall, the clothes being totaled at the cash register were an eclectic mix of the classically feminine in bright colors, so that no one would question Blair’s femininity while wearing them, and of the drab unisex, since Maggie picked out for him because she wanted to send him to school dressed entirely in girls’ wear, without anyone’s being the wiser. She hoped to get Blair in the habit of always dressing “like a girl,” without getting him sent home with a black eye or principal’s note. Ideally, Blair would still be able “to pass as a boy” until the end of the Spring term, even as he got used to the idea that he would, as Maggie’s daughter, never again wear clothes that had actually been marketed to boys.

Oddly, as Maggie saw it, Blair had insisted on some purchases of his own: These included black gaucho pants (like Kirk’s); a polyester black top with a sequined neckline; a white, belted ruffle shirt with a poplin top and empire waist; and a wide, black patent-leather belt with a large buckle. These items didn’t match anything else in Blair’s wardrobe and were, she felt, much too mature-looking for a ten-year-old girl. She couldn’t fathom why Blair desired them.

Blair ran over to hug Kirk: “You were wonderful. Mum and me were able to shop all by our lonesomes. She kept sending me to the change room to try on clothes, and the sales clerks never noticed me once. I was afraid they’d want to see me in my undies. And then, they see ‘it’. Thanks, Kirk, I owe you one.”

“And I will collect,” Kirk said, the words muffled by clenched teeth.

Amber did her best to hide Kirk’s “purchases” underneath Blair’s. Meanwhile, Judith rang up the bill. The total didn’t surprise Maggie, who normally shopped at more expensive stores; so she had no idea that Kirk had unintentionally cost her as much as Blair. She in fact believed Kirk was leaving the store purchase-free. Indeed, she was relieved that this time he wasn’t demanding, as he had before, a tat for each of Blair’s new tits because, upset with Kirk’s antics, already she had resolved to buy nothing for him at Penney’s.

Maggie distractedly signed the credit card bill: “I can’t believe I bought so many clothes for Blair. Four shopping bags full!” She turned to her two kids: “You’ll each have to carry a shopping bag, and I want no complaints from you, Kirk. You are skating on thin ice.”

As they left Penney’s, Kirk, a middle finger stuck out, bellowed to Amber and Judith, “Guys rule! Yo, babes, I hoped you enjoyed looking at me in my underwear. That’s as close as you’re ever going to get to paradise.”

Amber called out: “Queerk, you belong here. Admit it, you little fairy, you love the way you look in a bra. You’ll come crawling back when you’re mommy’s back is turned to beg us to put you into a black lace nightie. You’re pathetic!”

“Amber, get a grip.” Judith was attempting to calm her supervisor, who was beginning to hyperventilate; “The little coward has already run out of the department. He didn’t hear more, you know, than a few words of what you shouted. You’ve got to quiet down, you know, and take it easier. You don’t want management to learn, you know, that you lost your cool with a customer, even a little brat like him. That a-hole is not worth your job, right?”

When Amber finally caught her breath enough to nod, Judith asked, “Do you think Queerk will actually wear any of those clothes he ‘bought’ (her fingers signing the apostrophes) with our help? The panties, maybe? Or is his mother going to come back tomorrow, you know, like spitting fire, to demand a refund?”

“His mother return Queerk’s clothes? I don’t think so. The money doesn’t seem to matter to her. I suspect she’ll give his clothes to his sister, to grow into, or simply pass them on to a charity. She didn’t seem very impressed by Penney’s quality. I wonder why Ms. Moneybags took her daughter shopping here. Slumming?”

Judith shrugged. Not knowing that Blair’s dress-up day was an experiment, its costs therefore to be contained, she couldn’t hazard a guess. Instead she asked, “But, Amber, you inferred to Queerk that he was set to be a tranny even if he didn’t yet realize it himself — you know, that he’d be back soon enough looking for lingerie. Don’t you truly believe that? I do. I can see through him. He struts, you know, like a rooster so no one will see that he’s a hen.”

“Queerk a budding tranny?” Amber reflected: “No, I don’t think so. Wouldn’t he have been more interested in the clothes if he were? And more eager to pose in front of a mirror? Judith, I kept my eyes on him and I didn’t see any sign of sexual excitement or gratification. I don’t think he likes either girls or their clothes. Maybe he’s gay. That may explain his hostility and anger. And yet, and yet … there was one moment when Queerk let down his guard. I caught his eyes when he didn’t think anyone was looking. It seemed like I was looking deep into his soul. There I saw so much pain that I almost felt sorry for him.”

“Almost?”

“Well, not enough that I don’t want to kick his butt around the block a few times. I’d like to give Queerk the spanking he so richly deserves. Maybe that would smarten him up.”

Judith chuckled: “Amber, you know you’re hopeless. You always want to mother every boy you meet. I think Queerk’s mother is fortunate, you know, to have only one son. You just know that she couldn’t handle two boys like Queerk. His sister is the exact opposite, you know; she’s a genuine sweetheart. I’d love to have a daughter like her one day.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Amber. “The sister didn’t strike me as truly genuine either. I felt like she was doing a lot of play-acting. Anyway, she’s much too eager to please. You can’t trust a child like that.”

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. In the last chapter, Kirk openly and noisily shopped as a boy for clothes in the girls' department in order to distract the clerks from Blair's more furtive shopping expedition.

Chapter 4, Part 4 --- A Preacher’s Choice

“We’re home! Come and see your beautiful daughter!” Maggie pushed Blair across the family threshold. Alas, his feet already wet from the rain, Blair slipped on the entryway tile right into and over his own shopping bags. In consequence, he went sprawling: With his feet up in the air and his skirt bunched up at the waist, Blair presented his father with a full view of his panties.

“Good lord,” Laird sighed to himself, “she’s already gotten Blair into a skirt and pink floral undies. It’s hard to believe he’s a boy. There’s not even a telltale bump in his, gulp, panties.” (Blair had followed Maggie’s advice to put his “little thingee” between his legs.) “Maggie’s right. From the look of him now Blair definitely wants to be a girl. Sweet Lord, help me to get through this. Help me be a loving father for Blair.”

Laird extended a hand to Blair to pull him up.

Then Laird tightly hugged his youngest son, daughter, son, daughter as though for the first time ever. “Blair, you look … beautiful. You’re as pretty as any girl your age. The new hairstyle looks good on you. What do you call it?”

“It’s a bob. Do you really think it looks good? Do you still love me? asked Blair. As his father’s fingers playing with Blair’s new hair-do, Blair tightened his own grip around his father’s hips.

“Still love you? Honey, I’ll always love you — forever and a day. And I’m very, very proud of you. It takes a lot of courage, doesn’t it, Maggie, for a boy Blair’s age to decide that he wants to be a girl from now on?”

Blair squeaked: “From now on? Mommy, you said it was for one day only. You promised that I wouldn’t have to go to school looking like a girl!” Blair, pulling away from his father’s arms, confronted Maggie, his arms folded in a “show me” freeze.

Maggie was, as always, reassuring: “Blair, sweetie, no one is going to force you to go to school looking like a girl. That’s why, remember, we bought so many unisex clothes that could be worn by either sex. You and I will be the only ones, I swear, to know that you’re dressed in girls’ clothes. Your new jeans could be boys’ jeans, right?”

Blair nodded. Maggie finished off: “We’ll start you in a new school next September, but until then, we don’t want you to get into fights. So, no skirts, dresses or halter tops at school. Agreed?” She struck a pose as the soul of compromise and discretion.

Blair grasped at the concession: “Mommy, don’t worry. I promise not to wear anything that makes me look like a girl to school. Daddy, let me show me what Mommy bought for me.”

Blair scampered into the living room with two of the shopping bags, where he started laying out his haul on the sofa.

Meanwhile, Kirk, last through the doorway, finally caught his father’s eye. “Kirk, what’s that on your ears?” Laird demanded. “Earrings, what gives? Am I going to end up with two daughters?” Angry, Laird jabbed Kirk’s right shoulder hard enough to push the boy backward.

“Dad, I’m not wearing earrings. They’re studs. All the cool dudes wear them. You don’t want me to be a dweeb, do you?”

“Well, no.” Laird seized Kirk’s right hand: “But do the cool dudes polish their nails too?”

“Yeah, a lot of them do. And some of them wear eyeliner, but that’s not for me. The only reason I’m wearing clear, you know, clear polish is to stop me from biting my nails.”

“Kirk, the solution is far worse than the problem. Most boys your age bite their nails. You’ll grow out of it. In the meantime, no nail polish or eyeliner, got it?”

Then Laird, seeing Kirk tear up, embraced his son, “There, there. I’m not mad at you. I just need one of my boys to look like the genuine article. You understand that, don’t you? I love you just as you are — all boy, through and through. Please God, don’t ever change.” He kissed Kirk on the forehead: “Great haircut, son. The military look really suits you.”

Kirk cheered up quickly: “You won’t ever see me again in polish. And eyeliner? Never! However, can I keep the studs? Even Steve Cowell — you know him, he’s our quarterback — even he wears ‘em.” Laird nodded assent. What else could he do? He realized that studs were popular with pro athletes, including even a super dude like Dennis Rodman, the former basketball star.

Maggie stayed silent until Kirk had gone to the kitchen for a glass of milk (or more likely, a swig from the carton); and then she turned on her man: “Laird, you surprise me. I didn’t think it mattered to you what the boys wore. You’ve always said that you wanted them to do their ‘own thing’, even if it meant, in Blair’s case, wearing a skirt.”

“Well, that was before I actually saw Blair in a skirt and pink panties! I’m sorry, Maggie, theory’s one thing, reality quite another. When I agreed to let you Blair vent his “feminine side,” I had no idea that it would take you less than a day to get him completely dolled up. Forgive me for being thick-headed, but I actually believed that there was part of Blair that wanted to be a boy. A sissy boy definitely, maybe even a gay boy, but a boy nonetheless. Yet obviously I was wrong. You’ve won a daughter, Maggie, and I have lost a son. I suppose Blair’s already wearing a bra.” When Maggie nodded, Laird’s face did its utmost to express his dismay, but failed by a grimace and a half.

Laird pleaded for a deal:

Maggie, if you leave Kirk alone, I’ll let you have a free hand with Blair. You and he, or should I say ‘she’, will determine how quickly or slowly he changes sex. You’ve got enough money of your own to pay for a private girls’ school, hormones, even surgery eventually. So you handle it. I won’t interfere; I even promise to tell Blair each day how pretty she is. You see — I can even change pronouns, when I have to. Just advise me what’s best for Blair and you’ve got my full cooperation. However, never — and I do mean never -- again try to turn Kirk into a sissy. I promise to help Kirk to accept his new sister, but you in turn must pledge to help Kirk to grow into a manly man, Blair’s total opposite. Agreed?

They embraced in forgiveness and accord, their deal sealed.

Fortunately or unfortunately, it’s difficult to know which word applied, for Blair was surely, after all, much too young know which was the best sex for him, Blair hadn’t heard his parents’ negotiations because he was avidly sorting through his purchases in the living room. Suddenly he wailed, “What gives? I’ve got the wrong clothes! This green dress isn’t mine. I could neverwear this green dress, ‘cause it’s too big. And it clashes with my eyes!”

In the kitchen a “manly” boy gasped — somehow his green dress had come home to haunt him. Did a bra and extra-firm panties accompany it? Spluttering milk onto his tee shirt, Kirk raced toward the living room in a desperate attempt to head off his parents. However, they reached Blair and the tell-tale green dress first.

“You’re right, sweetie. We didn’t buy this dress,” Maggie was saying. As she said it, Blair, unable to stop in time, crashed into the coffee table. He first yelped with pain, and then started blubbering. Maybe tears would distract them from the dress.

Laird was distressed for his older son: “I told you, Maggie, that it’s foolhardy to mess with Kirk’s gender identity and self-confidence. Now, you’ve got him crying, crying like a little girl.”

“I remember this dress,” Maggie announced to them all. “Kirk, put a cork in it. I’m not impressed by phony tears, especially coming from you. This is your dress, isn’t it? I saw you wearing it at Penney’s. Laird, honey, I swear to you that I never asked Kirk to put on this dress or any other dress. It was his idea to do it, and I was so upset with his boorish behavior at Penney’s that I made him go without ice cream and popcorn. I wouldn’t even let Blair share his extra-sprinkles double-scoop cone.”

“Kirk, in a dress?” Laird moaned. Then more angrily he spoke directly to Kirk: “What got into you? Do you want to be a girl too? Tell me now, and we’ll let you wear your dress to school tomorrow. Better yet, we will insist on your wearing it. After all, you’re better with your fists than poor Blair, and if you’re looking like an even bigger sissy than Blair, the kids are more likely to leave him alone.”

“Dad,” Kirk wailed, “I don’t want to dress like a girl. Never, never. You can’t make me. I’ll run away from home if you try to dress me like Blair.”

Kirk then explained that he’d worn the dress to distract the sales clerks while Blair did his shopping: “Blair was scared shi …., was really scared that the salesgirls would catch him in his undies, with his pecker somehow showing. Not that he has much to show! Even so, he was terrified. So I did what any big brother would do — I made myself as obnoxious as possible so that Blair could flit about under the radar.”

When Maggie confirmed Kirk’s story, Laird supposed that one of the clerks must have stuffed the dress into a shopping bag to “get even” with an obstreperous youth. He began to have serious doubts, however, about his theory as Blair, with ever-increasing concern and confusion, pronounced almost half of the clothes to be someone else’s: “They’re not mine. I’ve got better taste than that!”

While Kirk admitted to having tried on the bra and shapewear (Laird could scarcely think of anything worse for his elder son to have done in public), the boy noisily denied having ever seen the rest of the clothes that Blair had discovered and rejected. Yet Laird wasn’t buying Kirk’s protestations: “Son, we need you to tell the truth. If you tricked Maggie into buying girls’ clothes for you — if you actually want to wear them — well I guess it’s just as easy to raise two girls as one.”

Laird sighed like Sisyphus. Was he really going to have to roll this burden up hill more than? Unable to look Kirk in the eye, he smiled benevolently at Blair, who turned away in confusion.

Blair simply couldn’t believe that his big brother wanted to dress like a girl, even in play. Blair’s day had already had more upsets than a child can bear — at least without a hot dog and a hug. First, he had learned that that his ‘mother’ wanted him to act and to dress like a girl. Second, he had discovered that he didn’t mind — maybe even enjoyed — masquerading as a girl in public, so long as no one saw through his disguise. Blair also had no problem with being a girl around the house if it kept his mom happy. He even thought it a bit of a giggle to wear girls’ clothes to school, provided that no one there suspected. And why would they if he had the same sloppy appearance as most of the boys in the school?

His mom had her harmless whims, which Blair felt obliged to serve in order to lift her sagging spirits. And he did think it “harmless” to pretend to be Maggie’s daughter, for Blair believed he was in no more danger of turning into a “real” girl through acting and dressing like one than Corey Haim had in the TG movie, Anything for Love. It was all make-believe, wasn’t it? In the movies the crossdressed dude always revealed his true self in the final reel, didn’t he? Blair was sure that everything would work out right for Maggie and him in the end, for he was certain that he would always be able to distinguish the player from the play, and the actor from the role. Blair was old enough to know that they weren’t the same: After all, it was stupid to think that Robert Downey Jr. took drugs just because he played Sherlock Holmes, a coke fiend, or that Charlie Sheen was a “bad boy” just because he pretended to be one in the sitcom Two and a Half Men.

However, the third piece of news — that his big brother might want to dress and to act like a girl — menaced Blair’s sense of security. It was no big deal for Blair to flirt with a skirt, for he couldn’t remember a time when someone wasn’t calling him a sissy. He had been told so often that he looked, walked and quacked like a queer duck, that the sudden realization that he could actually pass for a female was for Blair, as they say, like water off a duck’s back. It wasn’t something to fret over.

Yet Kirk was somehow different. Blair had always considered his brother to be pure drake, more eagle than duck, as macho as a bird could get. If Kirk could be a transvesty, it meant that nothing was what it seemed. It meant that Blair was living in a world full of smoke and mirrors, where everyone was stumbling about, perpetually lost, even Kirk.

It was important to Blair’s security that Kirk remain what he had always appeared to be — an average heterosexual kid, with nothing much in the way of looks, talent or skills to suggest that he was anything out of the ordinary. Kirk was solid; he was the adamantine rock upon which Blair, motherless for most of the life that he could remember, had built his sense of place, self and safety. Kirk was not supposed to crumble like talc. Blair therefore begged Kirk to clarify that none of the “dainties” in the shopping bags were things that Kirk actually wanted to wear.

All three — Blair, Laird and Maggie — had in the end little choice but to accept the “clerks’ revenge” story being peddled by Kirk. Maggie, showing everyone the cash register receipt, admitted that she had somehow bought the extra clothes unwittingly. Kirk had never asked for them. So how had they gotten into the bags? “I guess the sales clerks were, as Kirk says, out to punish him for disturbing the tranquility of their empty department; they must have snuck the clothes into the bags to get us wondering about Kirk’s manliness.

And it did get Laird wondering about Kirk’s virility. While Blair’s childish concerns were easily soothed, Laird realized that if son were a sissy, then both might be. Weren’t limp wrists, lisps and a passion for pink hereditary? Weren’t there entire families in which everyone sought to change gender? What if his XY chromosome was just potent enough to inseminate his deceased wife with boys, but not strong enough to ensure that her XX chromosome didn’t eventually prevail, making them girls at puberty?

Laird also appreciated that Blair and Kirk were the product of nurture as much as nature. Naturally it bothered him — Was he not a man and a father? If pricked from behind, did he not bleed? — that Maggie was determined to turn one of his sons into her daughter. Could he trust her to leave the other alone?

He definitely found it disconcerting when Maggie declared herself to be too busy to return Kirk’s share of the girls’ wear:

Laird honey, the clothes didn’t cost enough to bother to go to the bother to take them back. Blair will eventually grow into them. In the meantime, as punishment for his bad behavior, Kirk can stow them away in his bedroom. The sight of a blue dress hanging in his closet for the next one or two years should remind Kirk to behave like a gentleman the next time he accompanies Blair and me shopping.

“But mom, the bitches …” Kirk began before Maggie warned him, “Kirk, wash your mouth!”

Kirk resumed: “Those bit…ter salesgirls added twelve — twelve, you counted ‘em — pairs of panties. I don’t have that many underpants. Where am I going to put all those panties?”

Maggie replied:

Well, Kirk, I’m sure you’ll find some place in your room to hide your dainties. The best place for the panties, girdle and bras might be in the back of your underwear drawer, behind your undies. You can make room for them by throwing out any of your undies with holes in them. As for the socks, the white ones go to the front of the drawer, the pink and lavender ones, to the back. That should work unless you dress in the dark.

Laird scowled: “Kirk, understand, you’re just storing the girls’ clothes for Blair. Hand them over to Blair when he, she’s old enough to wear them. Under no circumstances, are you to wear any of them yourself — even as a joke, no matter who might ask you too. You’re a boy and I insist that you dress like a boy.”

Kirk, his head hung low, sort of nodded.

“What about me, daddy?” Blair asked. “I’m a boy too. Don’t you want me to dress like a boy?”

“Blair, honey, you’re different from Kirk,” replied Laird:

You’ve always been more delicate, more sensitive, more like your dear departed mother. You do so remind me of her. Kirk should stick to boys’ clothes because he’d make a really ugly girl. You, in contrast, look absolutely adorable as a girl. You’re exceptionally pretty, far too pretty to be a boy. Maggie’s right: You were born to be a girl, just as Kirk was born to be a boy.

Since Blair still looked doubtful, Maggie jumped in:

Blair, sweetie, boys have always treated you badly because you looked and acted like “a sissy” in their eyes. As a girl, you’ll be treated much, much better. Instead of trying to diss you, they will be trying to kiss you. Even that Justin Bibber kid will want to kiss you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Blair’s face went beet-red. “Yes,” Maggie thought, “you’d love to mess around with a mop-haired, pimple-free, teenaged boy. I’ll have to watch my daughter closely once she’s sufficiently altered for her to permit boys to reach home base.”

The rest of the evening had the appearance of tranquility, with Blair, who changed into a pale blue nightie after dinner, snuggling under Maggie’s arm, and Kirk, in denim shirt, Levi jeans, and black Converse sneakers, sitting by himself on the far side of the room. The kids had insisted on watching Mrs. Doubtfire.

The last thing Laird wanted to watch was a movie about a father who dressed as a “mature” woman to stay close to his children, but he appreciated that both Blair and Kirk had just gone through a lot that day. So the kids got their way, and Laird squirmed as his son and “daughter” laughed uproariously at the thought that their dad might end up in skirts. He looked over toward Maggie: “She’s not heard a word of the film,” he thought. “Blair has her rapt attention.”

Laird suddenly realized that he was jealous of the attention Maggie was giving to Blair: “The sooner that kid ends the suspense and admits that he’s a girl and has always been a girl, the sooner we can pump him full of estrogen, cut off his willy, and pack him off to a girls’ boarding school. Then and only then can Maggie and me get back to full-time loving.”

There’s no telling what Laird would have thought had he realized that there was no way legally to “cut off Blair’s willy” for another six years, even in Denmark and Zimbabwe. Laird expected Blair’s total transformation to take less than a year, for he was a firm believer in Maggie’s ability to get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. She wouldn’t let American law or physicians’ ethics get in any plans she had for Blair.

That night, after they had gone to bed, both kids were awakened by a loud argument emanating from the bedroom shared by Maggie and Laird. It was frightening: Never had their “parents” been so angry with each other. After forty anxious minutes of eavesdropping and sleeplessness, Blair finally divined that they weren’t fighting about him. Indeed, he heard his daddy yell, “You know that Blair’s not the issue. We both agree that he’ll be happier as a girl, but Kirk’s an entirely different matter.”

Now convinced that he only had to dress like a girl to keep his parents happy and their “marriage” intact, Blair drifted off to the land of the sleep fairy. Kirk, however, was still tossing and turning a full hour after the argument stopped. He had been forcefully reminded that his father wouldn’t permit the slightest deviation by Kirk from gender “normalcy”.

“My life’s a straightjacket,” Kirk muttered, “while Blair’s is Joseph’s multi-colored coat. One minute he’s a boy, the next, a little girl. He’ll probably be a boy again tomorrow. Life’s not fair.” All too true, and Kirk was unable to fall asleep until he’d yanked his new studs from his ears. Two drops of blood stained his pillow case.

Maggie made sure that Blair dressed as a girl the following morning. It was Sunday and, to get him into an actual dress, she insisted that the whole family go to church for the first time in their irreligious lives.

Maggie had to accept Blair’s word that he was wearing his fanciest satin panties, since neither child was willing to let a “woman” see them in their underwear. Maggie tried to explain to Blair that it was common for “we females” to see each other undressed, even naked. “It’s different for us girls,” she explained. “If you really want to be my daughter, you’ll let me give you a bubble bath, dry you off, and then dress you, starting with your bra and panties.”

Blair did agree to stand bare-chested, wearing nothing but a towel around his midriff, while Maggie affixed his training bra, but only because he couldn’t figure out how to close the clasps by himself. But there was no way that he was going to drop the towel in front of his mommy. Maggie had come into his life at an age, ten years and counting, that he had already become shy about his body. She had never seen his boy parts, and that wasn’t about to change now, no matter what she said “us girls” did together. They all sounded like lesbians.

It was embarrassing enough for Blair to have to tell Maggie that, yes, he had taped his balls into his body and his dick between his legs, so that, as Maggie had explained, nothing could possibly show if he ever forgot to sit demurely like a girl. (She also intended the tape remind him that if needed to pee when they were away from home, that he must do it while seated in a stall in the girl’s toilet. He was never to chance standing.

Although Blair didn’t think he could ever find the nerve to enter a women’s washroom, sitting down to pee had in recent months become second nature. Even Kirk claimed to have been sitting down to pee for the past three months — ever since Maggie had berated the two boys for missing the bowl “most of the time”. Blair, an obedient child, hadn’t once stood to urinate since the harangue. He even squatted when he peed outdoors. Kirk, by contrast, always used an available urinal, and at home he left the toilet seat up more often than not. Blair had gotten into the habit of closing toilet seats to cover for his brother.

This Sunday morning Blair had largely dressed himself, although he’d turned to Maggie for help with his bra, dress zipper, makeup and hair. He looked spectacular in his white tights and “Cinderella” taffeta dress in soft peach polyester with pearl accents. His white “Rachel” sandals (with embroidered flowers and beads) would have been the perfect finish to his “look,” had Blair been able to cope with their two-inch heels. He tottered about like a drunk.

Kirk stopped laughing long enough to suggest that Maggie teach Blair “how to walk like a girl”.

“No can do,” Maggie replied, “We don’t have time for lessons. We’ll be late for church. After all, we’re not even sure where to find it. No, we have to leave right now. Kirk, hang close to your sister and make sure that she doesn’t fall flat on her face.”

It wasn’t surprising that Maggie and the family had only a vague idea where the church might be located, for neither she nor Laird had ever paid the slightest attention to organized religion. Laird was so ignorant of Christianity that he surmised that Jesus of Nazareth must have been, given his name, a Mexican Indian.

Why then did Maggie insist on a church? Because she wanted an excuse to dress Blair up in his Sunday best. In America in the early twenty-first century there weren’t many opportunities for a young girl to wear her finery.

In the single, yet empty, church in their post-Christian suburb there was little or no chance of meeting a friend or neighbor who knew Blair as a boy. However, Maggie refused to attend it because she had no intention of letting her son Kirk come anywhere near a Catholic priest; thus the family drove to Paradise, a nearby college town to find an alternative to Our Lady of the Lustrous Child.

Despite a population of 92,000 souls, Paradise’s sole “religious institution” (the non-committal designation on the Fraternal Sorority of Sea Otters’ sign listing the town’s facilities) also had difficulty filling the pews, and to attract a critical mass of paying customers, St. Wicca of the Sacred Crescent, Cross, Mushroom and Menorah had not only dispensed with pews in favor of prayer rugs but also offered a religious mish-mash that it hoped would exclude nobody. (Even atheists could buy a certificate, suitable for framing, signed by St. Wicca’s Board of Directors affirming that “…. [the atheist’s name goes here] is too intelligent and rational to believe in God.”)

After hanging their soggy rainwear on wall pegs just inside the entryway, Laird’s family nervously entered the place of worship. Although St. Wicca sold postcards of a haloed President Barack Obama for five dollars each in its outer lobby, the walls inside its main hall were as unadorned and devoid of religious symbolism as a US government office. Indeed, the only hint that St. Wicca was a place of devotion was the twelve-foot-tall statue of गणेश (or "Ganesh", for the handful of readers whose Sanskrit is rusty), the elephant-headed deity revered by Hindus as “The Remover of Obstacles” (as a prominent plaque explained).

Although Maggie wasn’t sure which book of the Bible related the story of Ganesha, she considered “The Remover of Obstacles” to be an auspicious omen for Blair because Ganesha, originally as human in form as an American boy, had had his head cut off by omnipotent Shiva. Shiva (pronounced Shee-vah, according to the plaque — could one get more female than that?) had then replaced the original with an elephant’s head. Thus transformed, Ganesha had become a true immortal — like Lillian Gish, Katherine Hepburn, Meryl Streep or Paris Hilton. If only Blair could be so fortunate! And it was only his littlest head that Maggie hoped to have cut off.

On entering the church, the entire family had been immediately drawn, as intended by St. Wicca’s preacher-facilitator, Dr. Bryce Frederick Mercury-Wilde, to the statue of Ganesha. Mercury-Wilde had also arranged their second stop: in full, enticing view to whoever stood directly in front of Ganesha, it was a wall plaque containing “The Ten Commandments.” As none of the family had been able to read the original Hebrew when they had seen Charlton Heston bring the Ten Commandments down from a desert mount, they were naturally curious to see if any of the (translated) Commandments applied to them. (Kirk, having heard some schoolyard jokes, wondered, for example, what exactly it meant about “not coveting your neighbor’s ass.” Did it apply only to neighbors of the same sex?)

Somewhat disappointingly, there was nothing Mosaic about the so-called Commandments; they were instead a list of “Rules for proper comportment within the religious edifice”, as follows:

1) No running, skipping or frolicking
2) No spitting, belching or tooting your own horn
3) No smoking (except Holy Weed)
4) No drinking (except Fair Trade coffee)
5) No eating (except organically-grown, local fruits & veggies)
6) No use of electronics (phones, games, iPods, stoves, etc.)
7) No displays of emotion or religious fanaticism
8) No sandals, swimsuits, bare feet or visible nipples
9) No snoring or frequent yawning
10) Absolutely no cross-dressing!

Maggie was appalled at Number 10. The elephant god seemed bent on trampling her most cherished desires. “I am beginning to think,” she announced to the family, “that this is not the right church for us. Perhaps we should leave now, before the service gets underway.”

Blair, giggling too hard to have read past Number 2, protested: “But mommy, I went to a lot of trouble to dress up for this place. It seems like a fun church. Can’t we stay for a while?” Kirk, having read Number 10, but seeing an opportunity to please his “sister” while teasing their mother, backed up Blair: “Yeah, Maggie, Blair should have a chance to show off her new threads.” (To Maggie, he whispered: “Don’t worry, Blair’s looks too much like a real babe to get busted.”)

So, despite Laird’s misgivings, the family seated themselves on four prayer rugs, each with its own colorful Zen Buddhist motif, in the middle third of the “religious edifice,” mingling there with the other twenty or so worshippers present. One of them was a bearded man wearing a crucifix, keffiyeh and kippah (a Palestinian shawl and Jewish skullcap respectively). Immediately he clambered to his feet and hustled over to them: “Salmus, newcomers! May peace be with and upon you; but you can’t all sit together. Here we keep the sexes strictly separated for propriety’s sake. Look around and see that it is so.” And so, it was: Blair and Maggie were the only “females” on the left side of the hall.

Maggie, a true-pink feminist through and through, would normally have objected and stood — well, actually squatted — her ground, but she couldn’t risk bringing undue attention to Blair. So, muttering all the while about Abigail Adams, Susan B. Anthony and Sara Palin (Maggie blaming the ex-governor for the church’s sexist rule), she shepherded her “daughter” to the women’s fold. Once there, a college girl offered them skullcaps to wear, its being unacceptable for a female to worship at St. Wicca’s with her hair uncovered. (Maggie noted only one female without a kippah: a teen girl with a shaved head and nose piercings.)

Finally the service began as Dr. Mercury-Wilde emerged from behind the elephant god. He was dressed in a colorful, embroidered kaftan in violet and velvet. At first, Laird’s family couldn’t understand a word he said. (Laird later learned from the officious, bearded man that the good doctor, believed that Catholicism and Islam were, or had been, wise to use Latin and Classical Arabic, “dead” languages learned by rote “because these conveyed the absolute inscrutability of God.” Likewise, he used Old Church Slavonic for the liturgy. He had originally tried Akkadian, the language of ancient Babylon, after deciding that it was “truly as dead as a Norwegian parrot”, but he tended to slur his Akkadian, causing the congregation’s Marxists to fret that he was trying to put something over on them in Hebrew. In memory of the original, failed experiment, many congregants still greeted each other with Salmus, the Akkadian for ‘peace’).

The only thing that kept the family awake (although Laird once violated Rule 9 loudly enough to attract a stern look from Dr. Mercury-Wilde) was the two-boy choir, who manfully attempted the mixture of medieval plainsong, Wiccan chant and Tantric mantra required by the liturgy. Maggie couldn’t quite decode the language being used; it might even have been English, but no one had taught the boys not to mumble.

After the ritual sharing of a marijuana bong (Laird wasn’t pleased to see that Kirk handled it with familiarity), it was time for the sermon by Dr. Mercury-Wilde. Although none of the family stayed awake through it all, later in the car, with each one contributing a piece of the puzzle, they concluded it had been a discussion of “how to address God”. That was a very difficult thing to do, said the preacher, because no one knew what God was like or whether “he” even existed.

Dr. Mercury-Wilde immediately apologized to the congregation for the use of the word “he” because it was next-to-impossible for God to be anything like a human, and God was definitely not an elderly male with a flowing white beard. If not human, then what? Well, God wasn’t an animal, thing, spirit, sprite, animus, angel, force, light, essence, entity, first mover, big banger, clockmaker, space alien, Egyptian potentate, sun or star, black hole or nebula, planet or comet, Nature or Earth mother. What then was God? The preacher admitted that he hadn’t the faintest idea; “I only know what God is not. Does God even exist? You’ve got me — that’s a question above my pay grade. But I do know this: It’s impossible to find the words to address God. Don’t even try.”

Dr. Mercury-Wilde then uttered some imprecations in an unknown language, ending with, “Klaatu barata nikto,” his standard way of saying “Amen”. The two-boy choir repeatedly chanted a Zoroastrian prayer, “Righteousness is the best. It is happiness,” as their preacher sashayed to the lone exit, which he intended to block long enough to thank his flock as each of its “lambs” stumbled out of the darkened hall toward the gloom of the noonday rain.

When Laird’s family, having despaired of finding an alternate route out, finally reached him, Dr. Mercury-Wilde warmly embraced each of them in turn, giving each what he called “the kiss of peace” firmly and moistly on their lips. He lingered longest with Laird, who later swore that he had been ‘Soul-kissed’. Whatever actually happened, Laird was rendered speechless, spluttering and spitting. That left Maggie to speak for the family.

After welcoming them to the St. Wicca community and inquiring about the family’s home coordinates, Dr. Mercury-Wilde asked whether “one of the children” might wish to join the church choir. “They’re both of the right age, after all, and as you have seen, the choir could use some extra bodies.”

As Maggie had “read his beads” even before she had caught a glimpse of Mercury-Wilde’s hand flickering across her husband’s buttocks, she got downright mean: “Are you sure you’re interested in both of my children? Judging from what I’ve witnessed so far, it is my thirteen-year-old son who alone would interest you.”

“Madam!” the preacher said in injured rage. “Are you a homophobe? Yes, you’ve guessed correctly: I am indeed a gay man. But I am not a pedophile and it’s outrageous, simply outrageous, for you to suggest that I am sexually attracted to young boys simply because I am looking for another adult male with whom to share my life. Your brats don’t attract me; however, Laird does. He’s definitely my type.”

The good doctor leered at Laird, who turned away in confusion. “If you hadn’t such a narrow, bigoted view of the world,” Mercury-Wilde continued, “I was going to pay the two of you the high compliment of, first, asking whether you had an open marriage, and second, if I heard a mature answer, then whether Laird was willing to come with me this afternoon to meet my lover Bruno. Laird, you’re an obvious bisexual; don’t limit your affections to a blatant homophobe. I’m a loving man with slow hands, and Bruno is hung like a Kazakh stallion.”

It took both Kirk and Blair to hold Laird back, to stop him from slugging the preacher.

Taken aback, Maggie stammered, “I … I’m n…n…not a b….b…bigot. You’ve only g…g…got young b…b…boys in the choir. I figured you wanted another one — to chant, I mean. I meant no more than that.”

“Madam, why do you mention boys, given that you have only girls to offer the choir?”

“What the f…k!” Kirk and Laird immediately hurled themselves at Mercury-Wilde, Kirk kicking frantically, and Laird punching away. “I’d strangle you, you sick bastard,” Laird yelled, “but it would give you too much of a thrill to feel a real man’s hands around your throat.” Laird then joined Kirk in kicking Dr. Mercury-Wilde, who had fallen to the floor.

With each kick, Kirk shouted, “Can’t you see that I’m a boy, you sick fuck? Does that feel like a girl’s kick?”

In self-protection, hapless Mercury-Wilde assumed a fey version of the fetal position. His ears could still hear, however, and it gradually dawned on him, as Blair and Maggie begged with their “menfolk” to stop hurting him, that maybe he’d been mistaken about the gender of Laird’s two children. It was so difficult these days, he moaned, to tell the sexes apart. Yet he knew he had to apologize.

“I beg your forgiveness,” the preacher sobbed. “I truly beg forgiveness from you all, but especially from you, dear, dear Kirk. You’re obviously a boy. It’s now obvious.”

“Then why did you say I look like an effing girl? Does a girl wear a tie and blazer? (Earlier he had protested at having to wearing them, preferring his standard jeans and a tee; but it now suited him to take shelter in their mystical masculinity.)

“Why? Why did I get things so wrong? Because … of the … damn … Ouija board,” Mercury-Wilde gasped.

“What the …!” All four of Laird’s family simultaneously uttered a profanity, each starting with a different letter.

The preacher, now risen to his knees, explained: “You all heard the sermon. You heard me say that I don’t know how to address God. Well that’s true, tragically true. I don’t know how to talk to God. What sort of preacher is that — someone who can’t talk to God?”

Not much of one, Laird’s family concurred.

“But I have found a way to interact with God. God’s in the Ouija board. Last night I was sort of depressed about the size of the congregation and choir. So I asked the Board if either was going to grow. The planchette started moving ‘round the board like a soul possessed, spelling out words so frantically that Bruno scarcely had time to write them down. What do you think they said?”

“Well what? Laird’s family chimed in unison.

“First, that I had a chance to enroll a new family in the congregation — for the first time in months! Well, that was truly encouraging! I would have gotten down on my knees to thank God if I thought there was anybody listening. But I panicked, truly panicked today, because the Ouija lied to me about your children. True, it did say that I would know I had the right family because it had two children. It even got their ages right. Ten and thirteen, right? But the Ouija hopelessly faked me out when it indicated -- quite specifically, there being no equivocation — that the two children were of the same sex. Which sex it didn’t say; I wish it had been clearer about their both being boys or both, girls.”

His abusers had grown silent. None of them liked where this story was headed.

“I saw you worshipping Ganesha. As usual, I had secreted myself behind his statue in order to get a first look at my audience. Then, as I intended, you went over to read The Ten Commandments. I saw your back and neck muscles tense, Laird, when you reached Rule 10. Even your firm buttocks clenched — delightfully I might add. As for Maggie, she almost jumped out of her skin. I could tell that Rule 10 had triggered a discussion about leaving. I can’t tell you how joyous, and unsettled, I was when you all decided to stay for the service.’

‘Unsettled? What do you mean by that?” Maggie, now quite subdued, quietly asked.

‘Unsettled because everything — the Ouija board’s prediction, the family’s reaction to Rule 10 — just about everything told me that one of your children, Maggie, is crossdressing.”

Laird intervened: “Are you, a man of God, actually saying that you would actually enforce that ignorant rule?”

“Against a mere child? Never! Rule 10 is only intended to chase away the drag queens from “Cleopatra’s Clones”. You may have noticed its neon lights; it’s a gay bar only half a block away. I used to go there myself — that’s where I met my fashionista Bruno — until its drag queens, who all want the entire world to know that they’re guys, started standing around the back third of this hall, loudly gossiping and bickering. They were driving away all the paying customers,” the preacher wailed.

“So, despite what the sign says, you’d have no problem with a crossdresser in your children’s choir?” Maggie looked significantly, but furtively, at Blair.

“None at all. I was trying to find a way to tell you so, but then — it’s all my fault — I became distracted by Laird. I do apologize, Laird, for coming on to you so strongly. I’m usually more subtle than that. Normally I would have invited you first to join our Board of Directors; it generally meets for late suppers at my place. There is always more wine than food when we supp. After a while, in vino veritas, as the good book says.”

“It wouldn’t have worked, buddy. I don’t drink alcohol. But I wouldn’t have punched you out if you had moved more carefully. I’ve got nothing against gays, unless they get unduly aggressive. Why in hell did you grope me at the entry to a church? Why did you insult my boy Kirk?”

The questions triggered another bout of weeping: “I’m a woeful sinner. A stupid sinner,” Mercury-Wilde sobbed.

Only after Blair, taking pity, helped him to his feet could the preacher finish his tale:

When the four of you finally got to the door, I knew — absolutely knew -- that one of your children is a crossdresser. But God help me, I couldn’t tell whether it was Kirk or Blair. Both seemed so natural. So I basically spun the roulette wheel in my foolish, wicked brain and it came up ‘Kirk’. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Kirk; and please don’t kick me again. But there does seem to be slightly more of the feminine in you than of the masculine in Blair. Now, I know you don’t want to hear that, Kirk, but a boy your age must have learned by now that half of you comes from your mother and that part of every male is, therefore, intrinsically feminine. If that weren’t the case, men would be heartless beasts, incapable of enjoying music, the arts, or the beauty of women. To detect the feminine in you, lad, was no insult. But I do humbly apologize, with all my being, for concluding that you’re a girl pretending to be a boy. It just couldn’t be, and still can’t be, the other case — that sweet, darling Blair is actually a boy. The Ouija board must have lied to me! But why?

The preacher averted his face, protected his crotch with both hands, and tried to use the door jam to shield his shins. He expected Kirk to lash out at him again. Instead, Kirk, an odd, indecipherable look on his face, actually relaxed for the first time since the preacher had begun to speak as crazily as a Mad Hatter. Even more surprisingly, Kirk now thanked the preacher for an eye-opening church service. Kirk even seemed sincere.

What more was there to say? It seemed unnecessarily risky to tell the truth about Blair to such an unbalanced individual as Dr. Mercury-Wilde, and so the family, without further ado, took polite leave of his despondency.

After they had gotten into the car, Maggie turned to Blair: “See, I told you, sweetie. You’re definitely not a boy. You never really were. As the preacher said, there’s nothing masculine about you. What does my pretty daughter have to say about that?”

Blair beamed: “Say? Only this — that I’m as good an actor as Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams. Now will you believe that one day I’ll be able to buy a house for you in Hollywood?”

Maggie was speechless until they reached the pancake house they had chosen for brunch. And even there she seemed distracted, lost in her doubts.

As the family drove to the restaurant in the drizzle, there was no need to discuss the obvious: They would never return to St. Wicca of the Sacred Crescent, Cross, Mushroom and Menorah. Despite the lingering buzz from the bong, they had learnt that formal religion was not their cup of tea.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. So far we have learned that Blair likes dressing up as a girl and that Kirk doesn't like having a New Age preacher mistake him for one.

A Teacher’s Choice

“Mommy, can I change into my play clothes?”

“Of course, we don’t want you to get your dress dirty. Both you and Kirk should change into your everyday clothes. Blair, sweetie, do you want me to help you find something suitable from the clothes you bought at Penney’s?”

“No, it’s okay; I don’t need your help. I know what I want to wear,” Blair called out as he scrambled upstairs.

“Don’t forget,” she called after him, “I don’t want my daughter to wear boys’ clothes. No boy’s clothes on a Sunday!”

“No worries, mommy, you’re going to love the way I’ll look. Kirk, beat you to the upstairs bathroom!”

Kirk shouted: “No way that’ll happen. Blair, sissy girls like you put more energy into flapping your wrists than you do into moving your legs.”

And sure enough, Kirk reached the upstairs bathroom (albeit thanks to a last-second body block). Blair didn’t have to wait long, however, for Kirk literally raced into and out of the little room, leaving behind a tell-tale puddle as evidence that he was, once again, disobeying house rules. He had not sat to pee. As usual, Blair tidied up after his brother.

After a whirlwind tour through his clothes closet, Blair soon appeared at the top of the first-floor landing dressed in black from toe to head: black Mary Janes; black socks, panties and bra; black gaucho pants; a black top with a sequined neckline; black lipstick, eye shadow and mascara; and a black silk neckerchief around his forehead. Although every individual item came from the girls’ or women’s department (he had filched the neckerchief and lingerie from Maggie’s dresser), he looked more Goth than female. Indeed, though entirely dressed in women’s wear, Blair looked disconcertingly male to Maggie because of the plastic, medieval broadsword he was furiously waving around his head. After proclaiming loudly that he was “Zorro,” Blair slid down the banister in a most unladylike way, bottom first.

“So that’s why Blair insisted on buying the gaucho pants!” Maggie realized. “It was to dress up like Zorro.”

Maggie spent a miserable afternoon watching the two children play “Zorro”, the self-proclaimed “Fox” whose swordplay foiled the would-be tyrants of Old California while rescuing damsels in distress. It was bad enough to have to watch her “daughter” dashing about boisterously like a little boy on a sugar high, but worse was Blair’s adamant refusal to play any other character: He was Zorro and only Zorro. Which meant, horrors, that Kirk played all the other roles — whether the commandante, a friar, a dimwitted soldier, a damsel in distress, even the governor’s elegant wife. True, Kirk didn’t wear a dress for any of his roles, but that was small consolation for his parents.

Laird could barely contain himself: “Maggie, what the hell? If Blair is to become our daughter, then why is Kirk the one speaking in falsetto and running around the house wearing a bra around his face like an Easter bonnet?”

Maggie, lacking an answer, corralled Kirk: “What do you think you’re doing, young man? Don’t you realize that you’re upsetting your father? He doesn’t want two daughters. Why don’t you go outside to play? Maybe there are some kids at the sandlot.”

“Are you kidding? Maggie, it’s pouring rain. My friends will all be inside. Why can’t I play with my … sister?”

Kirk had hesitated before he said “sister”, but he had of course come up with the perfect word to bring a smile to Maggie’s face. “Yes, you can play with Blair,” Maggie said. “Just don’t let her get so wrapped up in her role as Zorro that she forgets she’s a girl. You haven’t changed your mind, have you? You do still want Blair to go away as soon as possible to a girls’ boarding school, don’t you?”

“More than ever. I never let Blair forget she’s a girl. I even told her that I wouldn’t let her play Zorro unless she agreed that Zorro is actually a woman in disguise.”

“And Blair agreed to that?” When Kirk nodded with a wink and a smile, Maggie said: “Okay, have fun with Senorita Zorro, but do take that bra off your head. It does not amuse your father.”

Kirk, dispensing with the brassiere, thereafter wore a skirt over his jeans whenever he played a female role in the game of Zorro, which seemed to Laird to be most of the time. Senorita Zorro seemed so be so intent on rescuing damsels in distress that a neutral observer might have suspected her of lesbianism. The skirt bothered Laird even more than the bra because he recognized it as one of Kirk’s “punishment purchases”. Why had the boy dug it out? It was supposed to be lost in the back of his closet.

For dinner, Blair put on a dress — enthusiastically, and at his own suggestion, much to Maggie’s relief. He looked so pretty in it that even Laird showered his “daughter” with compliments. After dinner, Blair sat through a manicure and one hundred brush strokes; as Maggie toiled, Blair not only quizzed her (like a method actor doing research) about how to think, act, dress, and move like a girl, but he also requested a subscription to Discovery Girls Magazine.

By the time that she tucked Blair in for the night, Maggie was in Seventh Heaven — not only had Blair asked to wear a nightie, but “she” also had also asked to wear Kirk’s most satiny “punishment panties” underneath. “I love the way they feel on my skin,” Blair purred after modestly asking mommy to turn her back until Blair had veiled the “undies” with the nightie. It was only day two of the experiment, but already Blair had sleepily said, “It’s fun being a girl. Mommy, is it all right if we keep playing this game?”

“Sweetie, there is no reason why we can’t play the game for the rest of your life.”

Blair was smiling as “she” fell asleep.

The next morning, a school day, Blair, still dressed in his girl’s nightie, warmed Maggie’s heart by declaring, without prompting, that he wanted to go to school that day in “girls’ clothes”. When Maggie started to say that he’d have to wear the most unisex and nondescript items in his new wardrobe, Blair interrupted:

Mommy, what do you think I am? Stupid? I’d rather die than have the kids at school realize that I’m dressing like a girl. There’s no way that I’m going to wear anything that makes me look like a girl; but we bought lots of clothes at Penney’s that a boy can wear without looking like a sissy; most of my cotton panties, for instance, don’t look much different from boys’ undies. Boys can wear pale blue and yellow.

Maggie wasn’t convinced that Blair, of all kids, could pass as a boy while dressed entirely in girls’ clothes. However, after thoroughly messing up his hair, she sent him upstairs to get dressed for school. He came back dressed entirely in his Saturday purchases, and while Maggie inspected his “new look,” he deliberately scratched the crotch of his jeans, while slouching like a slob. Afraid that Blair might start spitting on the floor if she delayed his departure much longer, Maggie quickly noted that Blair was wearing his hopscotch sneakers (minus their charms and half their straps undone); low-cut, white socks (with blue trim); Levi straight-leg jeans (with five-pocket styling and reinforcing studs); a blue Nike tee shirt with a “I ♥ my team” graphic; and a gray hoodie with smocked cuffs and hem. For the first time in his life, Blair had tucked only part of the tee shirt into his jeans. By his normal, fastidious standards, Blair looked sloppy enough to be a boy. He’d even dabbed some dirt behind his ears to divert attention from his amethyst ear studs.

Maggie gulped: “Blair isn’t wearing a stitch of male clothing; yet the kid has never looked more masculine.” Even so, she wanted confirmation that Blair could “pass as a boy” in his new duds before she’d allow “her” to set off for school. So she asked, “Kirk, does your sister look enough like a boy to risk going to school.”

“Huh, huh. I guess so. At least, Blair doesn’t look as much like a sissy like ‘she’ usually does.”

Blair’s face beamed, as he declared: “I’ve done it! I’ve got the perfect costume to fool the entire school. One day I’ll tell them I psyched them out by acting like a boy while dressing like a girl. Won’t that be fun? I’m going to be a famous actor. Don’t you think I’m already quite a Tootsie?”

“Huh, huh. Children, be sure to grab an umbrella; it’s raining outside. Oh Kirk, it’s vital that you help Blair come across as a boy today. So spend more time with her than you usually do.”

“Ah, Maggie, do I have to?” Kirk whined.

“Yes, you heard me. If you want Blair to feel comfortable as a girl, comfortable enough to attend a girls’ school in September, then you will, young man, need to cooperate now. With our help and Blair’s clothes sense there is no reason why Blair need ever dress in male attire again. So do help the family, Kirk, by running interference for your sister as she starts her touchdown run.”

“Gotcha,” Kirk shouted, as he and Blair scampered out into the heavy rain, their hoodies up, their umbrellas left behind. Normally, Blair carried a royal blue umbrella to school, but it did not fit into hi “tomboy look”. Real boys got wet.

The school day went tolerably well by the kids’ usual standards. The rain let up sufficiently for them to eat outside with hoodies up and for Kirk to kick around a soccer ball. For the first time in memory, Blair actually asked to join their impromptu, pick-up game after lunch. Kirk used some choice expletives to evaluate Blair’s performance: “!!@#%@$!&%!!, Blair, you’re an utter spazz! I’ve never seen anyone as hopeless at frigging soccer as you. You play worse than a frigging girl. Give it up — go back to your frigging books before you frigging humiliate your entire frigging family.”

Thus, while word spread about Blair’s extraordinary ineptness at sports, no one thought he played “like a girl”. That’s because he played much worse than a girl, so much worse that Blair remained what he’d always been — a sissy to some, a “spazz” to the rest. While his amethyst studs and hopscotch sneakers drew some sniggers, only two kids called him a queer or fag, which made it a fairly normal day for a “boy” as precious and pretty as Blair.

Thus, Blair might have counted the day a success had it not been for his teacher, Miss Lucretia Umbridge, a terror in starched pink. It was common knowledge amongst the schoolchildren that the only fun that Miss Umbridge (heaven help anyone, who called her Ms.) had in life came from making life miserable for them. It wasn’t just that she was overly strict, but she also deliberately humiliated the fat kids, the skinny kids, the slow-witted kids, the awkward kids, the shy kids, the tall girls and the short boys in front of the entire class. She seemed to have a special animus towards boys who exhibited any animal spirits, and any boy who failed to do his homework risked being hit with her ruler in defiance of Board regulations and school policy.

She also openly played favorites, a vice which had been a mixed blessing for Blair. True, she had rescued him from bullying on several occasions, but he would have been bullied less had he not been widely regarded as “her special pet.” While there may have been one or two girls that Ms. Umbridge liked better, Blair deserved his dubious reputation as “the boy who makes Umbridge cream her panties” because the teacher frequently lauded him as a student to emulate. Her standard rap went something like this:

Rufus [or Jack or Bill — all the boys had heard it], if you’re going to get ahead in life, if you’re ever going to find a girlfriend, you should dress more like Blair. Look at how neat and natty he looks. He’s immaculate. He didn’t throw on the first clothes that he found lying on his closet floor; he’s actually colored-coordinated. And he has combed, straightened and sprayed his hair. Despite its length, there’s not a hair out of place. Would it kill you, Peter [or Rufus, Bill etc.] to use a hairbrush?

Most of all, Miss Umbridge openly lauded Blair’s gentle manner, obedience and bookishness. It’s a wonder, then, that he survived the year at all. With a teacher like her in his corner it didn’t much matter what he wore — matter to his “fellow” students that is. However, what he wore seemed to matter a lot to Miss Umbridge. She was not at all pleased that Monday morning to see her pet poodle looking like a scruffy cur.

Blair’s unkempt hair, dirty ears and untucked tee shirt drew her immediate wrath. Even before the first bell rang, she ordered him to the boys’ washroom to make himself “presentable”. She was, therefore, downright splenetic when he returned with his hair still snarled like a bramble thicket. For the rest of the day Miss Umbridge figuratively bit off his head every time he raised his hand or looked her way. She even got downright abusive after he returned from lunchtime with grass stains on his knees and hands. She definitely did not approve of her favorite boy looking like an urchin.

At day’s end, Miss Umbridge required him to stay behind. She then tossed a barrage of questions his way:

Blair, why the sudden interest in sports? Don’t you know they’re not for boys like you? Look at your knees. It’s a wonder that you’ve not torn your jeans. And why are you dressed so queerly? Those clothes don’t suit you; they make you look like tomboy wearing hand-me-downs from her brother. Worst of all is your haircut! It’s truly tragic. You used to be my little Samson, with the most beautiful hair of anyone in the fifth grade. And now look at you — your hair looks like … like … tangled weeds. What do you have to say for yourself? Come now, speak up!

At a loss for words, Blair merely stammered. So Miss Umbridge cut him off:

I appreciate that there may be problems at home, but [she quickly said to avoid a response] I don’t want you bring them into my class. Now, now, don’t say another word. I want us to remain on a strictly professional, teacher-pupil relationship, which means I shouldn’t know your secrets or anything else that might bias my evaluation of your academic progress. If you need someone to talk to about, for example, a physically abusive father, a drunken mother or a lecherous uncle, then you should make an appointment with Mr. La Ronde, the school psychologist. He may be able to help you. However, no matter what the problem is, I promise you major grief if you don’t come to school tomorrow looking like the good little boy I’ve come to know and actually [it was hard for her to say] ... like. Blair, may I count on your strict obedience?

Blair stood glumly mute. So his teacher said:

Excellent. I knew that you would see the wisdom of dressing appropriately for school. You’re dismissed. I do hope that you will refrain from playing soccer before you go home. Grass stains do not become a boy like you. I simply don’t know what’s got into you; until now you’ve always been more fastidious in your appearance than all but one or two of the girls.”

When Blair reached home, sopping wet after a second attempt at soccer, the grass- stained knees at first alarmed Maggie, who feared that “some rough boys” had roughed up her daughter. But Maggie noticeably relaxed, indeed laughed, when Blair explained that he’d “tried to act like one of the boys” in order to divert attention from his “girls’ clothes”. (Later, after hearing from Kirk about Blair’s embarrassing inability to kick a soccer ball without falling down, Maggie decided to enroll Blair in a girls’ soccer league. It would, after all, be a way for her daughter to find her first girlfriends.)

“Off you go, then,” Maggie said to Blair; “Get out of those wet clothes immediately, then warm yourself up with a bath. Be sure to use bath oil. We girls do love it so.”

Afterwards, Blair, freshly bathed and smelling of strawberry, with his bob-and-bangs restored by Maggie, made a dramatic entrance at the top of the stairs now dressed as a “pirate”. Once again he slid down the banister in “girls’ clothes” from Penney’s: a white, belted ruffle shirt with a poplin top and empire waist; a wide, black patent-leather belt with a large buckle; red pantyhose; and shiny black, Mary Jane shoes. A red bandana, “Pirate” makeup (including a bold mascara moustache), hoop earrings (taped to the studs) and Zorro’s plastic sword completed Blair’s costume. With time out for dinner, Blair spent the evening — to Laird’s distress and Maggie’s dismay — playing pirate to a bevy of Kirk’s supporting characters, half of them ladies or whores, and one of them, the most disconcerting of all to the adults, a nelly cabin boy (a role that reduced both children to helpless giggles).

Even though Blair was attired in girls’ wear from the skin out, the game was not playing out as Maggie intended. “My daughter is acting like a tomboy,” she eventually decided,

"because I didn’t think to buy her any girls’ toys to play with. After all, she’s still a child, scarcely ten-years-old, who must give vent to her active imagination. Laird wouldn’t let me buy a G.I. Joe doll for Blair last Christmas, despite the child’s pleading, but the house rules have changed. Dolls, plural, my daughter shall now have. What sort of mother doesn’t give her daughter a Barbie doll? Its ample bosom should get Blair dreaming about growing her own."

She resolved to take both children shopping for toys after school tomorrow. Why include Kirk? So that he could, if necessary, talk his sister into loading up on female dolls. Moreover, if a doll as macho as G. I. Joe did have to come home to placate Blair, then it would be carried by Kirk for it would be Kirk’s doll, not Blair’s. Ironically, to feminize Blair Maggie was going to impose a doll, his first, on Kirk. Maggie did not want her daughter to have any male dolls of her own, so that she would, when playing dolls with Kirk, have to adopt a female role, as her dolls were rescued or ravished by Kirk’s soldier doll.

The dolls could not be bought until the morrow. In the meantime, Blair once again played the ideal daughter at bedtime, eager to lose herself in perfumed scents, satin underclothes, and a borrowed Baby Doll nightie.

The following morning, without saying a word to Kirk or his parents about Ms. Umbridge’s decree, Blair set off for school in the rain, his hair a riot of knots, his outfit once again composed of girls’ clothes selected for their dowdy, unisex look. At the last moment, he artfully smeared some dirt on his jeans to give the appearance of having been engaged in boyish pursuits.

Miss Lucretia Umbridge was not pleased. That day the entire class felt her wrath, but Blair naturally fared the worst, as repeatedly she informed the room that her erstwhile favorite now looked as “retarded” as his answers.

At lunchtime, Blair escaped the incessant pounding from his teacher and the rain by sitting under a bus shelter (its forty-minute service schedule guaranteeing him plenty of solitude), with a pulp biography of actress Julie Andrews. It was slow going for a ten-year-old but Blair was keen for the author’s insights into his “all-time, most favorite, most awesome musical”, The Sound of Music. The interlude soon ended, and Blair took a circuitous route back to class and to his inevitable, after-school detention.

The detention passed in silence. At its end, Miss Umbridge was still too angry for more than a few words. She passed a sealed letter to Blair, saying, “Take this home to your parents — unopened. Now be off with you.”

Naturally, Blair tore open the letter as soon as he had left the school ground; and equally naturally, he shredded it into small pieces, which he then tossed into a storm drain. There was no way, no how, that Blair was going to bring home a summons to his parents to meet with his teacher to discuss “his disobedience and self-neglect.” Blair figured that his teacher would stop worrying about the way he dressed, or the way his hair looked, if he defied her for a third time. After realizing that he could be stubborn too, Miss Umbridge would learn to mind her own business.

Blair was, therefore, in reasonably good spirits when Maggie took the two kids out for a quick meal at McDonald’s (is there any other type of meal there?) and then to Toys “R” Us to buy their first dolls. Laird stayed home, saying there was no way he was going to help buy Kirk a doll, even one armed to the teeth and wearing a military uniform: “Remember, Maggie, you’ve now got your ‘daughter’; can I be left with at least one normal, heterosexual son to raise? Is that too much to ask?”

When Kirk balked at buying even a so-called “action figure,”, Maggie sought to reassure him by pointing out that “lots of regular boys” played with G.I. Joe. Symbolically, he was no more than an oversized toy soldier. And didn’t future generals and ex-corporals who thought they were generals play with toy soldiers as young boys? “Kirk,” she said, “one day, as you’re receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor for bravery on the battlefield you’ll publicly thank me for once having bought you a G. I. Joe.”

Even so, Kirk had to be bribed with a hot fudge sundae (with an extra scoop) before he, a regular guy, would consent to be the official owner of a doll named G.I. Joe “Heavy Duty”. The doll came with considerable plastic firepower, but it was a doll nonetheless. Heavy Duty appeared to be an African-American doll, which Maggie considered a plus: Not only would the doll display her family’s liberal sentiments, but she also hoped that its race might make it more difficult for daughter Blair to regard the male doll as her avatar. As for Kirk, she thought there was little or no risk of his, at age thirteen, of bonding with any doll unless it was a life-sized female, big-mouthed and inflatable.

When informed that Heavy Duty was to be Kirk’s doll, Blair begged for dolls of his own. Naturally, Maggie insisted on Barbie, the long-legged, voluptuous blonde. Blair’s resistance to owning a Barbie, feeble from the start, collapsed entirely when Maggie proved willing to spend a small fortune on clothing, accessories, home settings, and friends for Barbie. In addition to the doll itself in a white wedding gown, Maggie sprang for a second Barbie (dressed as a fashionista in halter top and miniskirt) to be a twin sister (and spare in case of breakage) as well as a wide range of clothing (in style, but certainly not in color): a floor-length gown; a ballerina’s outfit; hot pants; “award show” dresses and glamour designs; gymnast outfit; special birthday clothes and strawberry-print leggings. Whether clothes or accessories (including a three-story dollhouse, a glam pool, Vespa moped, and Beach Party jeep), two colors — pink and hot pink — predominated.

Kirk, grossed out by the sea of pink, started to wander away. To keep him involved (since she wanted Kirk to “play dolls” with Blair until the latter acquired a “little friend” with whom to play), she told Kirk: “Why don’t you help me choose some dolls for Blair. Barbie Blair will need some girlfriends, don’t you think? Do you approve of these?” she asked, pointing to a Barbie “fairytopia” doll with pink hair, a brunette ballerina (refreshingly dressed in purple) and Sharpay from the High School Musical Club.

“I guess so,” moaned Kirk. “Blair looks pleased enough. But Maggie,” he whispered in her ear, “Don’t ya think you should buy some male dolls for Blair? You don’t want her to become a lesbian, do you? That’s what will happen if her dolls live in a world with no guys.”

“You may be right. We can’t have Wedding Barbie marrying Sharpay, can we? Let us find Barbie a suitable groom,” and soon enough they had added a Ken doll, dressed in a pink tuxedo, to Blair’s stock of toys. Still working on this theme, Maggie next said, “Hmm, we can’t have Ken permanently dressed for his wedding with Blair, oops Barbie” — a deliberate blooper that caused Blair’s entire body to flush. (“Did she read my thoughts?” Blair wondered; “how did she know that I find Ken dreamy?”)

“Here are a couple of outfits for Ken to change into after the wedding,” said Maggie as she first picked out a sleeveless tank top in Teal with a stylized mermaid and purple trim at the neck and waistline to compliment his purple board shorts; and for a second outfit, squeaky-clean white sneakers, black fedora, skin-tight jeans, and a turquoise tee with a Rorschach test on his right shoulder in lavender and dark blue.

Kirk vented his disgust: “I’m surprised Ken’s outfits don’t all come with pink satin undies. Do you think it’s possible for Ken to look gayer?”

“Honey,” Maggie replied, “it’s impossible for Ken not to look gay. He always does. Young girls like Blair find him less threatening that way.”

“Well, I think Blair should have at least one male doll of his … er, her own that might, just might be interested in the opposite sex.”

“If you insist, Kirk, you pick him out. But be quick about it. Your sister is evidently satisfied with her existing haul because she’s lost interest in shopping. Hold on, sweetie,” she said to Blair, now distracted by the squeal of children in another aisle, “we’ll go for ice cream as soon as Kirk selects a special doll for you. Then, every time you play with it, you’ll be reminded of your brother’s commitment to your transformation into the most beautiful girl in the entire world.”

“Beautiful?” This was a word that Kirk despised. It really “pissed him off” that “beauty” was so cavalierly and unfairly distributed by Nature, or God, or whatever. In a fair world,” Kirk believed, a sissy male like Blair” wouldn’t be more beautiful than most girls. While girls had to be beautiful to have a full life, Kirk would argue that good looks were wasted on a boy.

Did Kirk therefore regard homeliness to be a virtue in boys? Unfortunately not, for his own looks filled him with self-loathing. Understandably, Kirk resented Blair for hogging the family’s allotment of good looks. However, if Blair changed sex or were exposed as a freak, Kirk reckoned that he’d no longer have to hear people loudly whispering, “It’s extraordinary, truly extraordinary, that both boys have the same parents. One is so handsome as to be downright pretty; the other, well ….”

“I may be pig ugly,” Kirk thought to himself far more times than was healthy, “but at least I don’t flit around like a fairy.”

Since Kirk had promised to “play dolls” with Blair (a promise he intended to honor mainly in the breach), big brother picked two dolls from the “Barbie Collection” that he hoped might add some “bite” to their games: Twilight Edward and Twilight Bella, the sexy teen vampire and his sexy belle, both adorned in denim and gray.

Kirk chuckled to himself as the sale went down: “I can’t wait to see Blair’s reaction when Twilight Edward turns Wedding Barbie into a bloodsucking creature of the night.” Kirk had a broad smile all the way home.

So too did Blair. Although he considered himself a trifle old to play with Barbie dolls, he was grateful for all the attention and money being showered on him. At the store’s cash register, he impulsively hugged Maggie: “Mommy, you spent so much money. You must really love me. I ... [Blair choked up] … love you too. You know I’d give my life for you.”

“Isn’t your daughter sweet,” remarked the clerk, a plump teen girl. “Honey, you’re a very lucky girl. You obviously love pink” (the color of Blair’s entire outfit —sneakers, socks, underwear, skirt, halter top and hair ribbon) “and your mother has bought you a big chunk of Barbie’s world of pink. Has anyone told you, cutie pie, that you look just like Barbie? Are you ever lucky to have naturally blonde hair.”

Blair blushed (while secretly pleased that he’d fooled a teenager about his real gender), Maggie beamed, and Kirk scowled.

That evening after dinner Blair and Kirk (after a brief scolding to “get with the program”) played dolls for the first time ever, or at least since they were toddlers. Kirk immediately disappointed her expectations (while bolstering Laird’s) by refusing at first to play with any doll other than G. I. Joe. Blair, on the other hand, warmed Maggie’s heart by systematically trying out every dressing combination on the female dolls. Ken and Twilight Edward ended up, however, hanging out together in the nude as Blair, having stripped them of their clothes, made no attempt to find replacements.

Finally Kirk, bored with exploring Joe’s weaponry, suggested after prudishly covering Twilight Edward’s nakedness that they pretend that the dolls were trapped in a vampire’s castle. “It will be cool,” Kirk explained, “for Edward to bite their necks.”

“The necks of Ken and G. I. Joe too?” Blair asked a bit breathlessly.

“No way! That’s far too gay. Edward is way straight — he only bites the necks of babes.”

“What if Edward didn’t know Ken and G.I. Joe were boys? If they were dressed like girls, then he’d bite them too, isn’t that so?”

“Blair, you’re effing amazing. Even dressed as mommy’s darling daughter, you still think like a sissy queer. Okay, put a skirt on Ken if you gotta; I’d rather you dressed him like a sissy than leave him naked. It’s not proper to have a dude doll be starkers in front of girl dolls.”

Twilight Edward spent the last forty minutes before bedtime noisily chomping on the necks of the other dolls. Some resisted, kicking and screaming, while others merely feigned resistance. At Blair’s insistence, transvestite Ken was the most supine of all the dolls in his response; he clearly welcomed Edward’s bite.

As their play became ever more mired in Hollywood violence (the last straw was Twilight Bella’s judo kick to Edward’s groin that sent him halfway across the room), Maggie, who had been watching their play in mounting confusion and concern, finally couldn’t take any more mayhem. So she found some chores to do in the kitchen. When she returned, all the dolls were asleep in makeshift coffins, which the two kids had fashioned from sheets of stationery.

As the kids started putting the dolls away in Barbie’s three-story townhouse (at her insistence), she noticed that even G. I. Joe was now dressed in drag. Oddly, this would be the last time that Maggie would see G. I. Joe until the momentous day when Maggie insisted that Blair make an irreversible commitment to lifelong femininity. On that day the action figure reappeared, still wearing a dress.

After the disappointingly boyish exploration of vampirism, Maggie found some relief when Blair, given a choice of dolls, took Wedding Barbie to bed. Did Blair do it merely to please “her” mother or because, as Maggie hoped, that Blair was genuinely eager to embrace femininity? Or was it a combination of both motives? Maggie wasn’t sure, but it was definitely better to have Blair acting like a girl than acting like a vampire.

The next day saw Blair set out for school this time umbrella in hand (because Maggie insisted) and dressed for the third straight day in unisex clothes from the girls’ department of Penney’s. Maggie marveled at her daughter’s ingenuity, yet wondered how long it would take for someone at school to wise up to Blair’s change of gender.

It actually didn’t take more than half an hour. Miss Lucretia Umbridge, peeved that Blair’s parents hadn’t responded to her summons, and furious that her one-time pet had again flaunted an unkempt mane, grabbed hold of Blair in the schoolyard and hauled him into the empty teachers’ lunchroom. Blair tried to run away from her hairbrush, but Miss Umbridge was too strong for the ten-year-old, and slowly, but ineluctably she wielded it to restore a semblance of order to his hair and to her life. Gradually, the bob and bangs reappeared.

Miss Umbridge spluttered: “What the …. You’ve got a girl’s haircut! No,” she brusquely cut him off, don’t even pretend it’s not. Hold still! I insist on looking at the label on your tee shirt. ‘Junior Miss’ — I can’t believe it! How could you do this to me?”

Then shoving Blair away, she said in a fevered pitch: “Show me your underwear! No, don’t start unbuckling your jeans. I don’t want a striptease. Just grab hold of your underpants and pull the waist band above your belt for me to see.”

And so, Blair gave himself a wedgie — for the first time at a teacher’s insistence. Unfortunately, he had chosen that morning to wear lace-trimmed, pastel blue panties to school.

The teacher gasped for breath. Briefly she contemplated fainting. Then, pulling herself together, Miss Umbridge announced in the most menacing voice she could manage:

"So that’s it — you’re a disgusting pervert! I don’t know whether you’re pretending to be a girl or are sick enough to believe you actually are one. It doesn’t matter which, ‘cause I don’t buy into that ‘born in the wrong body’ crap. You’re a virus, a sickness, a potentially fatal disease. You represent everything that’s wrong with modern society. I want you to leave this school before it becomes impossible for me to safeguard the health of the student body. Freaks like you are as dangerous to society as AIDS. Wait right here, missy. Do your parents know that you’re a sexual deviate?"

Blair, eyes downcast, said in a voice little louder than a whisper: “My mommy knows I’m dressing like a girl; she wants me to become one.”

“You’re lying. But if you’re telling the truth, then she’s an even bigger deviate than you. I’ll have her arrested for turning you into a pervert.”

Blair, solicitous for Maggie’s safety, immediately confessed to lying. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blamed my mother. I’m the only one who wants me to be a girl. And why can’t I be one if that’s what I want? It’s a free society, isn’t it? Who elected you God?”

“Watch your mouth, little miss. Just because you’re wearing panties doesn’t mean you can lip off to a teacher. You wait right here! Don’t move an inch. Not one inch! I’m going to call your mother to have her remove you from this school immediately! If I have my way — and I almost always do — you’ll never have an opportunity to pollute this school again.”

Rushing off, she left Blair sobbing and close to retching from anguish. He frantically looked around to see if there were bullies to flee. But mercifully the room was empty. While Blair found temporary consolation from the absence of witnesses to his humiliation and exposure, he was old enough, and perceptive enough, to realize that his world was about to change decidedly for the worse now that he was definitely no longer his teacher’s pet.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. Having discovered Blair’s crossdressing, Miss Umbridge, his dragon of a teacher, has summoned Maggie to a showdown at the school.

Choices Chapter 6
A psychologist’s choice

“Ms. Maguire, why have you permitted this boy to defile the body that God and Nature gave him? Why have you permitted him to come to school dressed like a girl? Is this your doing?” Miss Lucretia Umbridge demanded as she exposed Blair’s bra strap.

Maggie was speechless. As requested, she had left her volunteer work at a women’s shelter to rush to Blair’s school, where, with no more than a “Follow me” and a rude crook of a finger she’d been ordered by Blair’s teacher to join him in a classroom, temporarily emptied by a leaky roof. There had been no words of greeting, no small talk, before the inquisition began. It was only then that she realized that she hadn’t been summoned for the usual reason — a schoolyard brawl (which Blair occasionally had to fight, and inevitably lose, for being judged a “sissy”). When it was a question of bullying, Ms. Umbridge had always ridden (“on her broom”, joked the fifth grade) to Blair’s defense. But there was no mistaking that she had turned against both child and mother. Miss Umbridge’s ugly tone and menacing manner left no doubt of her intention do them harm.

Before Maggie could formulate either a strategy or an answer, Blair leapt to the rescue, quite literally, of “mommy”. Bounding out of the chair, where Ms. Umbridge had decreed he “stay put and shut up”, Blair did his best, given his frail frame, to block the teacher’s view of his mother. Thus interposed, he manfully assumed the entire blame for his crossdressing:

It’s unfair to blame my mother for the way I’m dressed or for my haircut. She had no idea till now that I’ve started wearing girls’ clothes to school. After all, I was able to fool even you, Miss Umbridge, for a couple of days. Anyhow, I’m the only one who’s ever wanted me to be a girl. No, I didn’t say that right. It’s not that I want to become a girl; it’s that I was one from the moment I was born. But I didn’t have the balls to take my girls’ clothes out of the closet until now. Yes, Ms. Umbridge, I am a transsexist, a girl born in a boy’s body. So it’s not fair to blame my mother for God’s fuck-up.

“Blair,” Maggie said sharply, “don’t you ever use the F-word! It’s especially out of place at a parent-teacher meeting. Apologize to your teacher for swearing.”

“Yes, mommy. Miss Umbridge, I’m sorry for the bad language, but I was severely aggravated when you seemed to blame my mom for something that she didn’t know anything about.”

“Well! I find it hard to believe that your mother didn’t have a say in your hairstyle. Am I to believe, Ms. Maguire, that you thought bobbed hair and bangs suitable for a boy?”

“She didn’t think so at first,” Blair interjected before Maggie could answer. “Isn’t that right mom? You were upset with my haircut until I told you that it was a pageboy, and that lots of the guys are getting their hair trimmed this way because of the movies and video games about the awesome knights of yore. All the ‘prentice knights used to cut their hair like mine — that’s what I told my mom. And she believed me, ‘cause I don’t lie.”

The last sentence genuinely shocked his teacher::

You don’t lie? That’s rich coming from a little pervert whose mind is so twisted that he can’t accept the truth about his own gender. You’re a boy, got it! I don’t buy any of that mumbo-jumbo about ‘boys born in a girl’s body’ being peddled by the Jerry Springer and Morey Povich shows. There is no such thing as transsexuals; they’re no more real than the Martian babies supposedly conceived by desperate housewives. Blair, it’s a genuine tragedy that you and your mother have not had the courage to face the truth about you.

“And what’s that?” Blair and Maggie asked almost simultaneously, he nervously, she icily.

That Blair is a fairy, a sissy queer, an effeminate gay, a limp-wristed homosexual. Oh please, don’t either of you insult my intelligence by denying the obvious. Blair can’t even stand straight. The only reason he’s deluded himself into thinking that he’s really a girl is that he can’t handle his sexual attraction to other boys.

Maggie finally got in a word: “Blair is much too young to be sexually attracted to anyone. He’s not even humping his pillow. How dare you tell me — right in front of the child — that he’s a homosexual?! Sure, Blair is more delicate than other boys, but that doesn’t mean he’s gay. You’re stereotyping, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Blair looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock. His mind was wandering, as he considered the phrase “humping his pillow”. What, he wondered, did it mean and how could his mother be certain that he wasn’t doing it? Was it like spanking the monkey? Some kids boasted about doing that, but he hadn’t dared to ask them how it was done. There was simply too great a risk of being told that he would have to sneak into a monkey’s cage to spank the bottom of an angry chimpanzee to prove he wasn’t “a fag”.

His teacher, bristling at Maggie’s challenge, became more graphic in her exposition: “There’s nothing wrong, Blair, for a sissy boy like you to fantasize about — let’s be blunt — being fuc … er … skewered by the hunkiest boy in the school, which, of course, would be Alex Shirazi. When I’ve done hall duty, I’ve caught you more than once staring at Alex’s crotch.”

“I wish you wouldn’t use such language,” Maggie said. “Blair is too refined to look at anyone’s crotch.”

“Blair,” the teacher resumed, “has long had an obvious crush on Alex, who is, from what I can see, the best-developed boy in the school. Of Iranian persuasion, he wears tight pants like the rest of his tribe. Inevitably, a boy with Blair’s proclivities seeks to ‘figure out’ Alex’s religion.”

“So, Blair,” Miss Umbridge asked, “why didn’t you simply approach Alex in the hallway, flash that winsome smile of yours, bat those long, luxuriant eyelashes, and try to seduce him? Even if the two of you had then started openly dating, prancing around hand-in-hand, making asses out of yourselves, you’d still have more of a future at Lewis A. Clark Charter School than you have now.”

“How is that?” Maggie queried.

“Because, Ms. Maguire, this school has a liberal-minded staff who do our utmost to protect gay students from bullying. You haven’t been told, there being no need before now for you to know, that I personally initiated the suspension and eventual expulsion of two boys who were picking on Blair. Of course, I knew from the first time that he lisped his name that Blair is as gay as a San Francisco hairdresser, but I thought him, nonetheless, a sweet, innocent child of innate nobility who needed and merited a woman’s concern and protection. But I definitely don’t feel that way now. Blair, you must go away for the good of the school. I will not permit you to expose Lewis A. Clark to your mental disease and moral corruption.”

“And where should Blair go?” asked Maggie tersely, coldly.

“Why not to Amsterdam or, better yet, Denmark? Either place will cut off his testicles and penis for free. Then your kid can have a body as freakish as his mind.”

“I don’t like your attitude one iota. A bigot like you has no place in a school.”

“A pervert like your son has no place in a public school. Take him home and never bring him back. If you contact the queer community, I imagine that one of them is suffering from the same mental illness as Blair; he-she-it may be able to recommend a tutor to home-school your child. Blair shouldn’t be allowed to infect other children by attending another school.”

Maggie was by now so angry that, paradoxically, she began to calm down. Slowly and deliberately, carefully enunciating every syllable, she said: “Your views are not only abhorrent, they are also irrelevant. You lack the authority to expel my child! You’re just a teacher.”

“You’re right. I do lack the authority to expel even a child as repugnant as Blair. Yet I do have considerable influence with the principal, and your deviate son will soon be thrown out on his panty-clad bottom.”

Maggie asked: “Are you saying that it’s exclusively the principal’s decision to make? That the principal will have to accept exclusive responsibility for discriminating against a transgendered boy with an excellent record for academics and attendance?”

“The principal doesn’t have to take full responsibility for the expulsion of a child by reason of mental defect, because he relies on the expertise of Mr. La Ronde, the school psychologist. If Mr. La Ronde decides that Blair threatens to spread the virus of gender dysphoria — yes, I know both the word and the disease — to the rest of the student body, then the principal will have no choice but to expel the pervert.”

Maggie, thoughtful, with her chin in her hands, replied: “And I suppose the opposite is also true — that the principal wouldn’t dare to expel a student whom Mr. La Ronde judges not to be a threat to the school?”

Miss Umbridge nodded. She also reluctantly admitted that Mr. La Ronde was still in the building.

“So why wait?” said Maggie. “Let’s get this over with. If the school psychologist endorses my child’s right to attend this school dressed discretely as a girl, then you will keep her crossdressing a secret from the other staff and students or risk disciplinary action. If, on the other hand, the psychologist shares your antipathy to my daughter and to her constitutional rights, then I can promise you a lawsuit that will bankrupt this school district and cost you your job.”

“You can’t threaten me. The union will stick by me. As for suing the school or the district, I don’t think you want your son’s sexual deviancy to become the subject of international gossip. Do you really want Blair to tell the media that he’s a she? How do you think Blair’s going to react to seeing doctored ”before and after” photos of himself … and herself … on the cover of every supermarket tabloid in the country? No, I don’t believe you are foolish enough to sue.”

“I wouldn’t bet your career on that belief. In any case, I’ve wasted enough time talking to a nobody with no real authority. I want you to take my daughter and me to see Mr. La Ronde … right now!”

“Your daughter? I can’t believe you’re calling him your daughter! Come on, Blair, you can’t yet be sick enough yet to see yourself as this madwoman’s daughter. Insist that she acknowledge you as her son.”

“I don’t want my mom to call me ‘son’, ‘cause I am her daughter. I’m a girl, aren’t I?” (Blair wished he had a photograph of Maggie’s smile at the moment to treasure for the rest of his life. She had never loved him more!)

“No, a girl you are not!” shouted the teacher. “You’re nothing more than a seriously messed-up gay boy, a sissy boy to be sure, but a boy nevertheless. You’ve got male genitals. That’s all that matters.”

“I won’t have them for long,” Blair countered. He was enjoying her discomfort. He wanted to get back at her for all the insults; so he decided to tell her something so shocking that it would ruin her day, and hopefully her week: “I want to find someone who’ll cut off my cock and balls while I am still in your class. Then, if you beg, I’ll let you see my vig — vigina. It will look brand new, not old and whorey like yours.”

Ms. Umbridge spluttered: “Ms. Maguire, if somehow Blair does evade a well-deserved expulsion, I can promise you that he-she-or-it will live to regret talking to me like that. Imagine, calling his teacher a whore!”

“I did not!”

“Blair, she continued, “If the psychologist and principal do permit you to continue your studies at Lewis A. Clark, you can consider yourself on after-school detention for the rest of your stay here. It’s hard for me to believe that I ever liked you. You’re a brat in addition to being a pervert.”

Tears of self-pity were welling up in the teacher’s eyes. At age fifty-nine, she was tired of being called names like “nobody” and “whore” simply for doing her duty. It had taken her less than three days to discover Blair’s masquerade. Why did the brat’s mother not understand that Blair’s mental disease had reached the stage where he could no longer cover it up like a melanoma on his lower back? “The two of them have insulted me simply because I’m realistic enough to realize that a boy can’t become a girl without having the other students hand him his gonads on a stainless-steel platter.”

With Miss Umbridge briskly setting the pace, it didn’t take them long to reach a door plaque declaring this to be the office of the “Guidance Counselor and Psychologist.” With only the pretense of a knock, the teacher charged into the office, followed closely by Maggie, determined not to miss a word “the old bat” had to say.

Staring at them was the ample rump of Mr. La Ronde, who was on his knees, his back to the door, trying to retrieve something under his desk. When Miss Umbridge noisily cleared her throat to announce their arrival, the psychologist gave such a start that he banged his head against the desk’s interior with sufficient force for the “crack” to be heard by Blair, lagging behind in the hallway.

Slowly and laboriously, La Ronde, a half-eaten donut in his left hand, extricated himself from the desk’s confines. After a quick dusting of the confection, he plaintively asked the ladies for a hand to help him back onto his feet. Seriously unfit, morbidly obese and permanently short-of-breath, the psychologist knew that Miss Umbridge, who had a habit of storming unannounced into his office, wasn’t going to wait while he crawled on his knees around the desk to his sturdy office chair, which he normally used, by pushing hard on the seat with both arms, to pull himself up to a sitting position. The two women helped him huffing and puffing to his feet. He noticed that the stranger was better-mannered and more helpful than his least favorite member of the teaching staff. At least she didn’t mutter insults about his weight problem.

As he wedged himself into his chair, La Ronde further noticed that the stranger had a smile almost as broad as the teacher’s scowl. So, violating protocol, he addressed the stranger first. By then Blair was lurking behind his mother, trying to be the invisible kid. The psychologist, concluding that Blair was the reason for the rude interruption of his working day, commenced with, “Madam, may I have your name and that of your … [after a hard look] …er… your son? Now don’t interrupt, Miss Umbridge! There will be time for you to have your say, but fairness requires me to hear first from … [he paused long enough to get their names] Ms. Maguire and her delightful son Blair.” (Blair was turning on the charm full-blast.)

“Darling!” Miss Umbridge spluttered. “Just wait ….”

He cut her off: “Please Miss Umbridge, we will be still here at nine o’clock this evening if you keep interrupting. There are procedures to follow. Now, Mrs. Maguire, what seems to be the problem?”

To intermittent “tsk, tsks” and “oh mys” from Mr. La Ronde, Maggie explained that Blair’s teacher, having discovered that her son was a transsexual, “a protected category in this State,” Maggie emphasized, was now bent on breaking the law by denying him a public education. “I’ve never met a greater bigot than that woman,” Maggie concluded.

“Now, now, one shouldn’t stoop to insults. I am certain that Miss Umbridge is not a bigot; she always has the best interests of the school and the child at heart. Am I not right, Lucretia?”

“That’s Miss Umbridge to you, Jean-Pierre! Now can I have my say?”

“Not just yet. I need additional information. You say, Ms. Maguire, that Blair, who is certainly pretty enough to be a girl, is a practicing transsexual. Except possibly for that haircut, he doesn’t seem to be dressing as a girl right now. When does he dress up?”

After Maggie explained, at some length, her arrangement with Blair, Mr. La Ronde gave a brief summary: “So you’re telling me that Blair only dresses as a girl when he’s either at home or somewhere, like St. Wicca’s, so far away that he is highly unlikely to meet anyone from his school or neighborhood. In other words, he has no desire to be exposed as either a transsexual or a transvestite. That’s a wise precaution for one so young to take. Maggie — may I call you that? — what then is the problem? Why have you all come to my office if the child is willing to hide his gender change while at school?”

“Because — can’t you see the evidence before your very eyes? — The boy is not trying to hide his gender change! You can see that. Tell the truth to the man, Blair. Tell him that everything you’re wearing the good Lord and the owners of the Penney Department Store intended to be worn only by females. Hence, you’re dressed as a girl, and you have no right to impose your mental sickness on your fellow ten-year-olds.”

“Is it true, Blair? Are you dressed entirely as a girl?”

Blair nodded: “Yes and no. Yes, these clothes are often worn by girls, but they’re unisex, so boys wear ‘em too.” He blushed at what he had to say next: “It makes me feel good to know that I’m dressing in girls’ clothes — it makes me feel like I’m being honest with myself and it pleases my mom big time — but I don’t want anyone to know at school. So I wear jeans and tops like those I’ve seen on other boys.”

“I see. But your teacher found out your secret. How do you explain that?”

“Because she grabbed me by the arms and wouldn’t let go. She held on so tight that I’ve got bruises — look at them [which everyone did.]! She did that so she could brush my hair to make me look girly.”

Visibly shocked, the psychologist asked, “Miss Umbridge, you were the one who combed his hair into a bob? You manhandled him too? Oh my, oh my, this is not good, not good at all.”

Maggie got the knife in first: “My son has been messing up his hair before coming to school. As you can see, he has delicate features, and the only way he could be sure of looking like a boy in unisex clothes was to look like a slob. And that’s what he looked like until this woman took it upon herself to fuss with his hair, something that she had no right to do.”

“May I at least have a chance to say my piece?” Miss Umbridge could wait no longer. “I merely exposed the bob; his mother probably created it. There is no denying that Blair has been coming to school in a girl’s hairstyle and clothes. Given his effeminacy, he won’t fool anyone for long. He should take his sickness elsewhere; I do not want him to infect my class.”

“I see,” said the psychologist, now perspiring profusely. “You maintain that this boy has a mental disease, your proof being that he wants to become a girl. But boys his age dream about growing up to be all sorts of things — fire fighters, police officers, football players, astronauts, and President. How, then, is it all that different for Blair to dream about becoming a woman? Is it up to us to crush a child’s aspirations?”

Miss Umbridge picked up two books and slammed them on the psychologist’s desk. Startled, he might have jumped out of his chair had he not been weighed down by inertia. Instead, he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, saying, “My, but it’s hot in here. Do you all find it as hot as I do?”

“No, I don’t find it hot, you pile of blubber!” yelled Miss Lucretia Umbridge, now thoroughly enraged. “But I can make it too hot for you to stay at this school if you dare to permit a child with a disease to infect the student body!”

She had La Rond quaking like a bowl of jelly. To calm her, he threw her a bone: “Miss Umbridge, you are, as usual, correct when you aver that one cannot, and must not permit a child with a disease to infect others. If a child does have a disease, then that child must quit the school until it is cured.”

Now it was Maggie’s time to object and to be shushed. “My dear Maggie, please let me finish my thought. Now, to come directly to the point: While I agree with you, Miss Umbridge, on the necessity of quarantining diseased students, I am not sure that I agree with you that this particular student has in fact a disease. Let me finish first, and then you may reply. I have a question to put to you, Ms. Umbridge, is transgenderism the disease that you fear and the reason that you insist that Blair be sent home until he be cured of it?”

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” she replied. “Yes, that’s it precisely: because he is transgendered, Blair is mentally ill and therefore must leave this school until there is a miracle — and it would take Jesus Christ himself to make it happen — until there is a miracle cure.”

“Yes, as you say, we have isolated the key question.” Everyone then waited while he again mopped his brow. “They do overheat this building. Now, as I was saying, the key question is whether Blair has a mental disease that requires him to be sent home. Just look at this sweet child [Blair was now grinning broadly like a Cheshire cat or American Idol’s Tim Urban]; does he look mentally ill? Not in my opinion.”

“For whatever that’s worth,” said Miss Umbridge.

La Rond pontificated:

You’re right as always. My opinion is no more valid than anyone else’s — even yours. My professional expertise is, however, quite another matter; and I will not allow a teacher to question it. So here is my decision, and all of you must pay heed to it, or there will be hell to pay with me, the principal and the school board: Since Blair is a transgender, he must leave the school if — and it’s a big if — transgenderism is in fact a disease. I am uncertain as to whether it is a disease or not as it is a fairly recent phenomenon, one that has arisen since I studied for my Masters at Western Washington Polytechnic during the Ford, Carter and Reagan presidencies. Therefore, I must consult higher authority before rendering a decision. In the meantime, since the child requires an education, Blair should stay in his present class until further notice — provided that he does not draw attention to himself as a girl. I see no reason why he can’t continue to dress in unisex clothes and I have no problem with his current haircut, so long as it’s suitably mussed.”

Miss Umbridge’s jaw dropped: “You’re going to consult higher authority? What kind of decision is that? And you’re telling me that I must in the meantime allow a pervert remain in my class?”

“Yes,” Mr. La Ronde replied. “Moreover, not only must that child remain in your class until I have ascertained whether he does have, professionally-speaking, a mental defect, but if I learn that you are harassing this dear, sweet child because of his transgenderism or in any way alerting his fellow students to his crossdressing, then I will do my utmost to have your teaching certificate revoked. Do I make my understood?”

“Understood. I understand that you are incapable of making a decision.”

“It doesn’t help our relations with the public, Ms. Umbridge, for you to behave like a petulant teenager. Or is it a grumpy old lady? In any case, you have been warned: Leave this child alone until I have rendered my decision or your career will soon be as vanished as your looks. Now, it’s time for my late afternoon snack, and I wish to be left alone to enjoy it. Maggie, it was a delight to meet you and Blair.” He then waved them goodbye.

As they left, Miss Umbridge muttered something about an “ignorant, lazy pig who’ll “never get around to making a decision.” She then turned to Maggie and Blair: “This is only the beginning, my pretties. While I may not be able to expose your crossdressing, Blair, there are other ways, many, many other ways for me to make your stay in my class so miserable that you’ll be soon begging your mother to take you home for good. Just you wait!”

She then turned sharply on her heels (like an SS officer, thought Maggie) and marched back to her classroom. Maggie took Blair to an ice cream parlor four blocks away to celebrate.

Aside from the school custodian, only one person now remained in the school: In a dimly-lit office, working the computer keyboard with the index finger of his right hand, while his left hand nourished him with sugary treats, Mr. La Ronde was keeping his promise to consult a higher authority. As he slowly read out loud what Wikipedia had to say about “transgenderism”, he became increasingly weary — it had, after all, been a fatiguing session with that “hag of a teacher” — and his eyelids were growing ever heavier until he fell fast asleep.

After a few hours spent snoring, snorting and dreaming of himself in the Land of Oz, La Ronde awoke sufficiently refreshed to realize with crystal clarity that he should take his time — indeed, lots and lots of time — to study the phenomenon of transgenderism because as said out loud , “Blair’s a sweet kid; let him be.”

La Ronde thus chose procrastination and deferral. True to his pattern, he then chose to reward himself for his non-decision with an extra-large, four-cheese pizza and three cans of Classic Coke.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. With the help of a rotund school psychologist, Blair still attends Lewis A. Clark School despite the fierce objections of his teacher to having a transsexual in the class.

A league’s choice

“Oh, Maggie,” Laird fretted. “Do you think it was wise to quarrel with Blair’s teacher? There are so many ways that she can get back at you by punishing him.”

“Her! Punish her. Didn’t we agree always to use female pronouns when speaking of our daughter? How else will Blair be able to adapt successfully to her new gender? She’s doing her level best to adapt by wearing girls’ clothes twenty-four hours a day. And that’s the reason why Blair got into trouble and why I had to tell off her teacher — that nosey parker grabbed hold of Blair, bruising her arms, in order to brush Blair’s hair into a bob against her will and then forced your daughter to show the label of her tee shirt. If you ask me, that teacher could be sued for assault!”

“No one’s going to sue anyone, Maggie; Blair doesn’t need the publicity. Besides, are you positive that a court would approve of Blair’s complete transformation while he … she’s still a child? So let’s leave well enough alone. From what you tell me, Blair won’t be hassled by the school so long as she keeps her gender sufficiently ambiguous for her classmates to view her as a boy. Have I got it right?”

“Yes, that seems to be the attitude of Mr. La Ronde, the school psychologist, and he’s the one who appears to have the final say, provided that Blair doesn’t make a public spectacle of herself.”

“Good, so far, but will this Ms. Umbridge leave our … daughter alone? You make her sound like quite the virago and bigot. We don’t want Blair coming home in tears every day. Even more important — will this woman condescend to keep Blair’s secret?”

“The psychologist and I, we told her in plain language that she could lose her job, even her teaching certificate, if she mistreats Blair. However, since I don’t trust that bitch to behave in a professional manner, I will be quizzing Blair each day after school about how she’s being treated. And if Umbridge gives me any reason to take umbrage, I’ll have her empty head as a wall trophy.”

“I fear it will be a lot harder to protect Blair from a hostile teacher than you think,” said Laird. “She can make life very difficult for our daughter without having to say a thing about crossdressing or transgenderism.”

“You mean try to fail Blair? She wouldn’t dare do that to a student with Blair’s scholastic record. Besides, I intend to look over and keep a copy of every one of our daughter’s assignments; and if that harpy doesn’t grade the work fairly, I’ll have more than enough evidence to prove to the school board that Umbridge is an unprincipled, unprofessional bigot.”

“I wasn’t thinking of an unfair evaluation. There are many other ways she can harm a child, especially a girl as delicate and sensitive as Blair. Oh well, time will tell. What is the object of our loving concern doing right now?”

“Blair’s in her room playing dolls with Kirk. I told Kirk in no uncertain terms to get with the program. After getting Kirk to say that he wanted Blair’s gender change to be as quick and painless as possible, I wrung a promise out of him both to play dolls with Blair and to play like they were two girls. That promise, by the way, will cost you another dollar a week for Kirk’s allowance.”

A storm cloud came over Laird’s face: “Reward Kirk for playing like a girl? Not on your life! This time you’ve gone too far, Maggie. I should have put my foot down yesterday but better a day late than never — I’m going right now to tell him that I’ll deduct a dollar from his allowance every time I see him playing dolls, with or without Blair.”

He reached the two kids before Maggie caught up. However, he didn’t say anything at first. He instead watched them at play, fearful yet hopeful about Kirk’s reaction to “dollies”.

“Hey daddy,” Blair’s high voice piped, “Watch my girls catch and bash Kirk’s two villains.”

More violence! Maggie had to ask, “Why on earth, Blair, would your pretty Barbie dolls want to bash another doll? Why can’t your dolls behave in a feminine way — you know, by getting married, setting up house, and throwing tea parties?”

“Because they’re Charlie’s Angels, mommy! It’s their job to punish the bad guys! And Kirk’s two dolls have been acting really, really badly. One of them is a vampire, and you said yesterday that there were far too many vampires in this house. So the Angels are going to put a wooden stake through Edward’s heart. See — I sharpened this China stick for them to use. As for Ken, he’s been stealing panties from the girls; so the Angels are going to force him to wear them. He won’t do it unless they beat him up first because he doesn’t want to be a girl.”

“Yeah,” muttered Kirk, “Sweet Kenny likes being a boy and being naked with boys.” Kirk punctuated his comment by having the Ken doll give a big smooch to Twilight Edward. Thus distracted, Kirk’s dolls were swiftly overwhelmed by Blair’s Angels. Before they could pound the chopstick through Edward’s chest (for real, not pretend), Maggie called an end to their play. She sent them upstairs to bathe.

“Separately,” she shouted after them, “since it’s inappropriate for a ten-year-old girl to be seen in the nude by her older brother.” Maggie then turned to Laird: “Honey, you were right — and how! It was a big mistake for me to ask Kirk to play dolls with Blair. I abhor all that violence.’

“I wouldn’t blame the violence on Kirk. His dolls were about to be killed or neutered by Blair’s. Wow, I didn’t know that tween girls did that sort of thing with their dolls. But I guess we shouldn’t stereotype how boys and girls play.”

“It’s obvious that Blair is going to behave like a tomboy as long as she apes her older brother. She needs to be around girls, not like at school where she has to behave like a boy, but in other places where she has to behave in a ladylike way or be exposed as a crossdresser.”

“Where are you thinking of?” asked Laird.

“Tomorrow morning I am going to enroll Blair in an all-girl’s soccer league. I found the perfect one for her, across the Columbia in Washington. Over there, well away from our community, her secret will be safe, indeed, super safe because the league uses a soccer pitch that has neither showers nor change room. The girls come and go in their kit. I’ll even make sure Blair applies a scented deodorizer just in case her perspiration smells differently.”

“Do you really think there is any risk of our Blair working up a sweat? She’s never shown any interest in, or ability for, athletics,” Laird noted.

“That, my love, is precisely why Blair needs to learn to play soccer. She needs to develop as a well-rounded girl and become less of a woos. In addition, since soccer can get rough, Blair will learn how push and shove (“And trip and hold,” added Laird) like a female athlete rather than like a limp-wristed boy. Soccer will teach her to move with grace.”

“Maggie, I’m surprised that you’d see sports as the best way to get Blair thinking and behaving like a female. I’m surprised, but pleased, that you don’t want our daughter to grow up to be la prissy stereotype like Butterfly McQueen in Gone with the Wind or Cordelia in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (Laird an expert on Buffy? Yes, he had developed an innocent “thing” for Sarah Michelle Geller.)

“Laird, I don’t regard soccer to be the best way to educate Blair in the manners of modern girlhood. It’s just one way for her to meet other girls and I wouldn’t expose her to the rough ways of female athletes if I didn’t have the perfect antidote — a place where she still will be interacting with other girls and where she will be taught to move with classical feminine grace.”

“Classical? You don’t mean …”

“Yes, love, I have enrolled Blair in the Dame Margot Pavlova Ballet School. As it’s downtown, it’s not hitherto attracted any girls from Bybee Lake; thus, Blair can totally be a girl without fear of meeting anyone she knows.”

Laird turned around to veil his emotions. Maggie saw his shoulders sag, as he said, his voice as obscured by sadness as the nearby mountains were by rain and mist, “I’ve feared for years that Blair would end up a male dancer — like one of those queens in a tux and top hat in Blazing Saddles, but until now, I never thought that one of my kids would end up as a ballerina in a tutu. There are limits to what a man can stand; and so, don’t count on me to drive Blair to ballet class or, heaven forbid, to see the kid in a public spectacle. No, there are limits.”

Maggie embraced him, holding him tight, kissing his neck, as his body began to quiver with deeply suppressed emotion: “Laird, honey, listen to your language — “queens in a tux”. That tells you what you really fear — not that Blair might become your daughter for keeps, but that he’ll end up a prissy sissy called “Miss Thing”, living in San Francisco or West Hollywood.”

“I’m no bigot, Maggie. I’ve got no problem with gays who behave like men; it’s the queens I can’t stand. You’re right, as always, my love, I would indeed prefer Blair to be a female than an effeminate male. The funny thing is that Blair has been flitting about the house less since he became a she. Blair seems to appreciate that real females don’t mince around like drag queens. Thank God for small mercies.”

“Laird, I hadn’t thought about it until you mentioned it, but Blair does seem have her feet more solidly on the ground since she started wearing panties and skirts. And I know that I’ll be able to convince her to play girls’ soccer, whereas the old Blair would rather have gone to school painted blue than try out for boys’ soccer. Blair may well be the most inept girl on her soccer team, but at least she won’t face taunts from the sideline about running or kicking like a girl.”

Laird chuckled: “So that’s the plan, is it? To ‘butch’ Blair up by transforming him into a girl.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” Maggie laughed. They embraced, then headed off to the bedroom together, in love, and agreed (for a time at least) that they were definitely doing the right thing by their daughter Blair.

Around two o’clock in the morning, Maggie stole out of bed and into Blair’s bedroom, where she briefly watched her daughter fast asleep, the blankets lowered just enough to show off her pink brocaded nightie. “Naughty girl,” thought Maggie. “She didn’t remove the makeup she put on after dinner. I don’t want her to ruin that peaches-and-cream complexion.”

Then, after kissing Blair on the forehead, Maggie rummaged through the back of Blair’s dresser to find two white tee shirts, never yet worn, left over from her daughter’s boyish childhood. These Maggie took to her sewing room, where with the help of cloth shears, a sewing machine, and raw talent, she shortened the sleeves on both tees to mid-length, thus giving them a slightly more feminine cut. That way she hoped to convince Blair that the tee shirts had been recently bought in a girls’ department, with the hope that Blair would consent to wear them to school. For all her bluster, Maggie was determined not to have another confrontation with Miss Umbridge, and to that end she wanted her daughter to dress as conservatively as possible even while continuing — at least in Blair’s own mind — to be clothed “in girls’ clothes” from head to toe.

The plot seemed to work: Blair wore a white tee and unisex jeans for the next two days, and her first week of attending school as a girl in unisex clothes passed without further incident. True, Blair had to endure two after-school detentions, and admitted, when pressed by Maggie, that, “My teacher really hates me. She’s always picking on me.” Even so, Umbridge hadn’t made any attempt to draw attention to Blair’s change of gender, and Blair had to admit that, “Miss Umbridge treats most kids badly, most of the time. She’s very difficult to please.”

“So maybe, just maybe,” Maggie thought, “The harpy won’t try to harm my daughter.” Somehow, Maggie realized that she was hoping for more than flawed human nature could deliver.

Miracles weren’t always possible: For example, it had been foolhardy for Maggie to expect Kirk to “play nicely” with Blair’s dolls. On Thursday evening, she’d had to order Kirk never again to go near them after he had almost set fire to Blair’s bedroom. Maggie, her curiosity pricked by the silence (save for the occasional giggle) that had befallen their play, had peaked into the bedroom where she discovered them about to set fire to a “funeral pyre” built from wooden pencils, on which were arrayed Twilight Edward and every doll that he’d “bitten” — which was all of them, save for Ken (because Edward wasn’t, as Kirk explained, “a homo”). The only reason that Maggie was able to avert a veritable Barbiecue was Kirk’s failure to set fire to a mechanical pencil.

Maggie concluded that Blair was either too young or too old or not yet girl enough to be trusted with dolls. Maggie was relatively relieved, then, when the children reverted to dress-up and role-play after Kirk was banished from the doll harem. As before, she marveled at the many ways that female clothing could masquerade as male — at least as the sort that almost all males wore before the invention of the zipper, and still wore (at least on festive and ceremonial occasions) in most of the Eastern Hemisphere. Maggie was surprised to see how easily a petticoat could function as the skirt of a Greek sentry, her linen nightie as a “Pharaoh outfit” for Ramses the Great, or a black blouse and skirt to emulate a priest’s cassock (“like they wear in Italian movies”). Maggie was less than pleased that Kirk wore an extra-large white tee shirt over a black dress for their game of “the priest and the altar boy,” which mainly consisted of Blair clumsily chasing a giggling, more agile Kirk around the house. The game usually ended in a tickle fight.

On the first Saturday after Blair’s first visit to the school psychologist, Maggie took her daughter to a sportswear store to buy her soccer kit, all from Addidas: black soccer shoes (with three pink stripes); diva pink and white helios (armless) jersey; and diva pink training shorts with a darling white draw string and side stripes. After Blair changed into her soccer togs in a women’s bathroom (with Maggie standing guard), they drove in the pouring rain across the Columbia River to Rose Villa, a flowery suburb of Vancouver, Washington where, with the help of GPS, they found the soccer pitch that played host to the teams of the Girls’ Friendship League.

Soon enough they had met the League secretary, Mrs. Beverly Bolton, standing under a large golf umbrella. Her first remarks — she simply couldn’t help herself —addressed Blair’s gear. “So this is Blair. Aren’t you the little cutie! How darling and unusual for you to dress in pink for a practice session. With all the sliding about on the west grass and mud, most girls wear such drab colors for practice — mostly browns, blacks and grays. So you will certainly stand out like a rose among the thorns. Let’s hope your game is equally noteworthy.”

Bolton then explained to Maggie and Blair that the league had “An Every Girl Must Get Her Fair Share” policy, which they found easiest to enforce (given kids’ natural resistance to standing on the sidelines watching everyone else have fun) by restricting team size to a maximum of fifteen players. Five of the eight teams, alas, had already reached their full complement, but three were still looking for girls, two (Gold Pride and Sky Blue) their fifteenth and last, and one (Breakers), its eleventh.

“All three teams will be practicing on one third of the pitch over the next ninety minutes,” Mrs. Bolton explained, “and the idea is to have Blair join each team to determine on which one she fits in best. We’ll trust the three coaches to decide, as they have decades of experience and will, given Blair’s personality and skill level, find the right place for her for the remainder of the League season. There aren’t many regular games left, but the playoffs and invitationals should, however, guarantee her a healthy amount of exercise before the summer holidays. So, Blair, why don’t you run over to that team?” Mrs. Bolton pointed to the Gold Pride squad.

Mrs. Bolton gasped:

Oh dear, Blair has already tripped and fallen down — before she reached her first team. Maybe she slipped on the wet grass. Or it may be her shoes. They looked brand new before her fall. That’s right. They’re new today, you say? Well that must be the problem; she still has to break them in. Still, it’s a genuine pity that she fell into that muddy pool of water. Almost no one got to see her pink outfit. Ah, well, maybe it’s for the best. As you see, Ms. Maguire, in this climate girls generally don’t wear pastels and whites to practice. And I do recommend you add rain gear to her kit; soccer football, unlike baseball, tennis and golf, is a sport played rain or shine — and around here, that means mostly in the rain. However, the skies generally clear for the playoffs.

Anxious to change the subject away from her faux pas in picking Blair’s clothes for the tryout, Maggie exclaimed: “Oh, look, Blair is already taking — I think you call it — a penalty shot. Does that mean she was tripped or tackled or hooked from behind? My girl has always been a fast runner; she must have left one or two players so far behind they had to cheat.”

“Not exactly,” Ms. Maguire.”

“Oh do call me Maggie.”

Mrs. Bolton, with an obvious sigh of relief, replied,

Likewise, I’m Beverly to my friends as I am sure you soon will be. I think you will find that Blair probably hasn’t run more than few yards yet. It’s customary to start by watching her kick a few balls at the net. In that way, we get a feeling for her strength, stamina and accuracy. After the Gold Pride coach gets a feel for the range at which Blair can hit the net — you know, the range at which she can consistently “score” on an empty net with a kick hard enough to get by the goalkeeper, then we’ll know whether Blair should play one of the attacking positions.

As they watched, Blair mostly missed the ball entire entirely, about half the time ending up flat on her back, as though someone was yanking the ball away at the last second. The Gold Pride coach, deciding that Blair was trying too hard because the goal looked too far away for the kid’s best-struck ball to reach, kept spotting the ball ever closer to the goal line. Finally, at three yards out, the Gold Pride Coach concluded that there was literally no distance from which Blair could sink the ball into the net more than one time out of every seven tries. And that was on an empty net. There seemed no point in seeing whether Blair could shoot or run the ball past a live goalkeeper. Even a deceased, expired, defunct goalkeeper nailed to a perch could probably prevent the girl from scoring even once during an entire season.

The coach, despairing of ever seeing Blair’s foot make solid contact with the ball, next tried the girl on headers. After about a dozen tries, with Blair demonstrating a near total inability to judge the path of a flying object, the ball finally hit her head by sheer accident. Well, the League had probably never heard anyone wail as loudly as poor Blair. Oh the pain! Oh the agony! She was inconsolable until the Coach promised that she could play soccer without having to use her head. No, she couldn’t wear a helmet, but the coach did instruct her how to “duck and cover” if the ball seemed about to bonk her.

The Gold Pride coach, noticing a lull in the play of the Sky Blue, currently occupying the midfield, suggested that since Blair was not really suited for an attacking role, that maybe she should join the Sky Blue in their game of ball chase. “You’ll catch on quickly,” the coach assured her, the game’s a simple one: each player is trying to use her feet to gain possession of the soccer ball, and then to keep it away from everyone else for as long as possible. That generally means a general melee when your age group — the ten-to-twelves-- play. It’s great fun, though your ankle might take a beating. Sharon, would you lend the new kid your shin guards? We don’t want her to go home black and blue from her tryout.”

Now wearing Sharon’s shin guards — sort of — Blair was passed off to her second team whose coach’s instructions were simple enough: “See if you can strip the ball from whoever’s got it and then run around with it until someone takes it away from you. Have fun — that’s what soccer’s all about.”

Though simple, the instructions were impossible to follow, inasmuch as Blair didn’t once catch up to the “whoever’s got it”, in part because she did not, as Maggie boasted, run like the wind, but for the most part because she always got the worst of the scrums that occurred whenever two girls or more attempted a tackle at the wrong time. Blair, it turned out, might have been trying out roller blades for the first time — she was that easy to tip over.

Even so, she did have fun because she spent so much time on her knees, bottom or back in the mud (there being an inverse correlation between the intensity of play and the density of the grass) that her time with the Sky Blue reminded her of the time, two years ago, that she had tried to build the Great Wall of China on a tidal flat near Long Beach, Washington.

As Maggie watched her hapless child, she was pleased to see that Blair seemed to be enjoying herself, although it might be more a case of the pleasure she got from stamping her feet in the puddles being formed by the downpour in every recess of the pitch than of actually playing soccer. Maggie was making a mental note to remind Blair that it wasn’t “ladylike” to cover her shoes, socks and legs with muddy spray when she noticed that Blair wasn’t the only girl playing in the puddles; the activity seemed to appeal to several other girls, who like Blair were younger, smaller and less athletic than the giants actually able to maneuver a soccer ball through, around or above a water puddle.

Even so, Blair was easily the muddiest girl on the field when her coach handed her off to the third team on the pitch, the Breakers (named, like the others, after a team in Women’s Professional Soccer). The military demeanor, shrill whistle, rippling muscles and close-cropped blonde hair of the Breakers’ coach made Gus Anderson a standout on a field filled with females — that and the fact that Gus was the only male involved in an official capacity with the Girls’ Friendship League.

Having already assessed Blair’s athletic potential (Gus was said to have watchful eyes on all four sides of his square head), Gus told Blair, “You’re here to have fun. Since you’re just starting out, you’re more likely to twist an ankle or crack your funny bone than the girls who are more familiar with running around a wet field, so I don’t want you attempting any tackles or charging after the ball. I want you instead to position yourself a foot or so in front of the goal line about ten feet wide of our net. There, if you stay put, you will be ideally positioned to make it almost impossible for an attacker to run around the last defender on her way to the goal.”

Although her new station took her almost entirely out of the play (even in practice session it focused on defending the penalty area directly in front of the goal), Blair had fun chasing down and carrying back soccer balls shot wide of the net and past the goal-line; she could now envisage a role for herself in girls’ soccer! She also enjoyed chatting with the Breakers’ goalkeeper, who had little to do, given the prowess of the Breaker fullbacks, who were easily the League’s elite.

When an occasional ball came her way, Alicia, the Breaker goalkeeper, nonchalantly, almost disdainfully, caught or stopped it; she then kicked it over everyone’s head to give herself some time to talk to the “new girl”. Being a gifted athlete and coach’s daughter (and sole reason for his interest in girls’ soccer), Alicia could pretty much take the practice for granted. As Blair moved ever closer to the net, the conversation became ever more personal, and soon Alicia was regularly kicking the ball high into the sky gray, halfway down the field to the annoyance of Sky Blue, whose turf it invaded.

Alicia quickly made it clear that no one called her by her birth name: “Hey blue eyes, everyone calls me Big Al. You should too.” The nickname was a natural for Big Al, who, at age 13 (an age she had attained five weeks after the start of the League season, making her its second oldest girl) stood five foot ten and weighed 180 pounds with an a body mass index of 20.3. Built like the proverbial brick outhouse, Big Al looked awesome — especially to paper-thin Blair.

Big Al took an immediate liking to Blair, whom she showered with endearments like “Blondie, Apple Cheeks, Honeybunch, Rose Lips, Bubble Butt, Button Nose, Pinky and Sweetie pie. However, “Blue Eyes” had become her favorite before practice ended. Had Blair been older and worldlier, she might have been alarmed by Big Al’s language and attentiveness. (Big Al at one point was so engrossed in slowly tucking Blair’s tee shirt into her shorts — “for neatness sake” — that Big Al missed a breakaway on goal.) And a child more perceptive than Blair might have wondered at having a girl who had started the day as a total stranger buy her a veggie dog and diet drink. (“We must protect your little girl figure, mustn’t we,” Big Al had said to Blair, who would have preferred more calories and amino acids.) The biggest clue, save for the clueless, who included Maggie as well as Blair, was Big Al’s offer to come by the house the following day to teach Blair “the fundamentals” — in soccer, that is. When told that Blair lived in another State, Big Al said, “No worries, my dad lets me take public transit alone. He knows I can handle myself.”

Despite Big Al’s impulsive “friendship” for Blair, it wasn’t clear for a while whether Blair would even be allowed to play for any of the teams, even less the formidable Breakers, of the Girls’ Friendship League. Since she didn’t live in Rose Villa, she had no automatic claim to a spot on a roster. And unsurprisingly, none of the coaches wanted Blair for a player. The coach of the Gold Pride voiced the firm opinion that Blair didn’t have sufficient coordination or natural ability to be a team gofer, as in go for water, towels or snacks: “She’d definitely trip over own feet and end up hitting one of my girl’s face with a head butt, an elbow or a bottle of ketchup.”

The consensus, to advise Blair to take up chess instead (albeit, with someone else moving her pieces for her), was first challenged by Big Al. She had been listening in on the conversation, and didn’t like it one bit. Determined to keep “Blue Eyes” around, she demanded that her father add Blair to his roster “Because, after all, the Breakers don’t even have eleven players. We’re always a girl short.”

Gus wouldn’t budge: “There is no way I’m going to add a girl from another town who plays so badly that she’ll weaken my team. The Breakers are a much better team playing a girl short than they would be trying to avoid inadvertently hurting that girly girl. If one of you feels sorry for Little Tangle Foot, then you take her! Don’t impose her on the Breakers.”

But that was exactly what Mrs. Beverly Bolton and the other two coaches insisted on doing. They were anxious to bring the Breakers down a notch, because the team hadn’t lost a game, which was bad enough for morale on other teams, but it was winning while playing a girl short, which was downright embarrassing for the League. To be sure, everyone agreed (with varying degrees of reluctance) that the Breakers were better coached than the competition, but the team’s remarkable success was also attributed to Coach Anderson’s “unsportsmanlike” refusal to permit tyros and tykes to stay on his team. He had used, they said, a Drill Sergeant manner to drive away every ten-or-eleven-year-old, which allowed him to put together a “packed team” aged twelve and thirteen, in contravention of the rules of the league and the spirit of the Pacific Northwest.

Everyone, including his own daughter, thought it was finally time — indeed, past time — to impose a “green girly girl” on Coach Anderson and the Breakers. He relented, agreeing to add Blair to his team after the phrase “otherwise forfeit the season” started getting banded about.

Big Al excitedly hugged her father: “Coach, you don’t know what it means to me to have little Blair added to the team.”

Gus sighed: “Alicia, I think I do know what it means. That’s one reason I wanted to keep that girl off of our team. You need to keep your mind on the game, which you can’t do if you’re obsessed with whether Blair is having fun, getting wet, or looking tired. You tend to smother your “favorite” girls with so much attention and affection that you scare them away, after which you become so depressed that your soccer and schoolwork suffer. We can’t have that happen again, can we?”

“Don’t worry, Coach. I’ve learned my lessons well. While I do intend to become the best friend, the most loving friend, that Blair has in the entire world, I’ll take my time. I won’t rush things. But Coach, you understand: I’ve just got to stick close to Blair, ‘cause she’s easily the cutest, sexiest girl I’ve ever met. She’s dreamy.”

Blair dreamy? It was difficult for Coach Anderson to see the mud-splattered, clumsy girl as anything but a nightmare. For one thing, he considered her much too young for anyone, even a newly minted thirteen-year-old, to be swooning over. So he repeated the warning: “Just don’t get hurt, Alicia. Blair seems awfully young and naíve. She’s probably not knowingly met a girl like you before or ever aspired to the kind of romance that you seek. So, honey, be cautious; don’t do anything that might force us, once again, to move to a new city. I sort of like it here.”

What befell Blair during her stint with the Breakers is quickly told; her relationship with Big Al was, in contrast, extremely complicated and, as the Coach feared, kind of messy.

The first thing that Blair had to do as a Breaker was to foreswear pink on the soccer pitch, for the Breakers dressed in menacing black: black shorts, headband and socks (of whatever make), black sports shoes (obliging Blair to hide her pink stripes with electrical tape), and a black, team tee shirt with the name of the team’s sponsor, J. Hoffa Wrecking and Salvage, in block letters on the back, and the team’s name and logo — a giant wrecking ball smashing into a soccer player’s knee — on the front.

Thus attired, Blair had only one responsibility on the field — and that was to stay out of the way of her teammates. “Ferdinand the Bull” was the name that Coach Anderson gave to her role on the pitch. She was to wander at will, playing her hunches, always as close as feasible to the enemy net and far from Big Al in her own goal. However, she was always to move away from the flow of play so that if her teammates were being totally stymied, they had the option of lofting a pass to her. If by some fluke, she were able to trap it with her body or foot, Blair would be ideally placed to score.

It didn’t bother Blair that no one ever took the pass option and that her foot touched the ball only once in three games (by sheer accident — the opposition were trying to kick it out of bounds to slow the Breaker attack). Blair was happy not to tackle or be tackled because her highest priority was to avoid getting dirty or sweaty, as she knew that her friendship with Big Al somehow depended on always looking her best. She even wore a shower cap during the game— much to the derision of fans and players — because Big Al didn’t like the look of her bangs and bob when they became soggy from the incessant rain.

Even though it was heartwarming to know that Big Al was watching her from a distance more closely than the goalkeeper was watching the ball, it was also discomfiting. So Blair generally kept her own gaze low, looking for ladybugs and four-leaf clovers, or high, gazing at nimbus clouds or branches buckling in the wind.

Despite, or possibly because the Breakers continued effectively to play with a ten-girl roster, the team won the League championship with a perfect record. Consequently, Blair won her first athletic trophy, as girl or boy. That was the good news. The bad news was that teams as successful as the Breakers played in tournaments, not all of which were in Washington State. Indeed, the Breakers were destined to play for the Valley Championship against the Smith Lake Smiters on a soccer pitch less than a quarter-mile from Blair’s own school. Needless to say, that game would be life-changer for Blair.

As would Blair’s friendship with Big Al. For a girl who lived in another State, it was extraordinary how much time she found to spend with Blair: after practice, after games, after any excuse at all. The pretense of helping Blair learn “soccer fundamentals” she soon gave up — it was simply too difficult for anyone to imagine Blair’s ever connecting with the ball more than randomly.

However, Big Al did persuade Blair to wear her pink soccer kit often, her look topped off with a pink hair band and a sterling silver necklace with a diamond-like pink amethyst, a gift from Big Al selected with the help of an Avon Lady who came to the Finlayson-Maguire home. As it was a good excuse to get Blair into the pink soccer outfit, easily Big Al’s favorite, the two girls frequently kneeled on Blair’s bedroom carpet, using her dolls to play soccer with a ping pong ball supplied by Big Al, who had used a black felt marker to color it like the real thing.

Somewhat sheepishly, yet proudly, Big Al added a new doll to Blair’s collection: it was Skipper, whom Big Al said was Barbie’s “little sidekick.” Short, blonde and wearing a pink soccer outfit concocted by Big Al out of an assortment of Barbie’s cast-offs, Skipper represented Blair whenever they played with dolls. Big Al chose Twilight Bella as her own avatar so that Al could pretend that the doll had been bitten by a vampire, thereby giving Bella an excuse to bite Skipper, and Big Al, in mock emulation, to nibble on Blair’s neck.

Kirk also attempted a few nibbles of his own — on Big Al’s neck as well as Blair’s. Somewhat surprisingly, he started to hang out with the two girls, not only helping them to play doll soccer, typically as the last line of defense for Blair’s hopelessly inept team, but also crowding with them around the computer as Big Al introduced Blair to all “the” Internet sites that would help her to develop into a cool, yet ultra-feminine teen. When asked by Big Al, Maggie, Laird and Blair what he could possibly find interesting in these sites, Kirk blushed fiercely, first saying that he wanted to learn what made girls tick, then later admitting that he just liked to hang out with Big Al.

Although Maggie and Laird would have chosen a different girl for Kirk’s first crush, she was pleased and Laird was thrilled that Kirk was finally showing some interest in the opposite sex. True, Big Al did seem infatuated with Blair; but both parents hoped — for Kirk’s sake — that, being a coach’s daughter, Big Al had been raised a tomboy. “I know,” Laird said to Maggie one night in bed, “that Alicia comes across as a lesbian, but she’s still young enough to be in the pre-adolescent stage of development that Freud called the latent homosexual.”

“But,” Maggie asked, “Why have you never thought the same of Blair, who is even younger? That she too is merely going through a phase that she will soon grow out of?”

“Because Maggie, Blair is never going to be attracted to women. Even though the kid enjoys the presents and attention from Alicia, I don’t think it’s ever occurred to Blair that Alicia could possibly have sexual designs on her “little sister”; and if Big Al does ever make a pass, I predict that Blair’s reaction will be — ‘Ugh, gag me with a spoon’.”

“Maybe, but I believe that Alicia could successfully seduce Blair. Not only that, but I wish I could find a way for it to happen, because don’t you see, if Blair’s first sexual experiences are with a female, then Blair will be much less likely to end up a male homosexual.”

“That would be a relief. But,” Laird asked, “Isn’t there some risk of Blair’s ending up a lesbian if our … daughter associates sexual gratification with female-on-female sex?

“Yes,” Maggie replied. “There is indeed some risk of that; yet it’s one well worth taking, honey, because if Alicia introduces Blair to the world of amour, then Blair will definitely want to remain my beautiful, sweet daughter forever. You’ve seen how Alicia encourages Blair to be a girly girl — and Laird, I do think you’d prefer to have a lesbian daughter than a gay son to introduce to your men friends.”

He nodded.

“Then we must find a way for Alicia to initiate Blair in the mysteries of Venus and Aphrodite.”

“Easier said than done,” Laird said. “Remember: There is a small snake, no more than three or four inches in length, that is likely to expel Blair from Alicia’s garden of delights long before he … she has tasted the forbidden fruit.”

“Yes,” Maggie sighed. “Why does a small thing like gender have to matter so much to people? Alicia clearly loves, indeed lusts after Blair. Should it matter, then, what Blair has between her legs just as long as Blair looks and acts like a beautiful, sexy girl?”

“It’s just a thought, Maggie, but maybe gender isn’t as easy to manipulate as you believe. Indeed, is it possible that there is something indefinably male about Blair? I know, I know, it’s hard for us to see, and yet it may be there and just possibly it enables Alicia to know subconsciously that Blair is a male. Is it possible, Maggie, that Alicia isn’t even a lesbian? A tomboy for sure, but maybe not a lesbian. After all, what kind of lesbian is it that mistakes a boy for a girl?”

“Let me get this straight: You’re saying that Alicia may realize deep down that Blair is a boy and that she’s after his body because she’s, unbeknownst to herself, heterosexual and domineering enough to want a boyfriend who wears dresses?”

“Sure, why not? I’ve read of stranger things on the Internet.”

Maggie was lost for words. She even felt a low wave of panic, for she regarded a domineering girlfriend (heaven forbid, a bossy wife!) to be the worst possible outcome for either Blair or Kirk. She wanted Kirk to grow up to be a Mensch, an Alpha Male, and she wanted Blair to be the Alpha bitch in the pack.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. Blair’s life has become more complicated now that he’s joined the Breakers, a girl’s soccer team and Big Al, the coach’s daughter, has decided that he’s the girl she wants to marry. Big Al also turns out to be Kirk’s ideal female (and mate?).

Chapter 8 A lesbian’s choice

For a month the tension had been tightening like a corset on a fifty-year-old drag queen. At school, Miss Umbridge was taking increasing umbrage at the failure of sarcasm, ridicule, petty punishments and after-school detentions to drive Blair to distraction or, better yet, from the school. Moreover, the kid’s grades refused to fall; “the pervert” was heading towards success. After three weeks, she wised up to the fact that the detentions actually protected Blair from its (the pronoun Umbridge used) fellow students.

So the teacher, after making a grand gesture of “forgiveness” one day by ending the detention regime, tried to ruin Blair’s life the next. Her excuse was the Amethyst and silver pinky ring that Blair wore to class for the first time. It had been a gift from Big Al, a token of their “going steady,” and enough of Blair’s classmates believed his story that he had found a girlfriend on a mixed-gender soccer team in Washington State that the ring at first did his reputation more good than harm. Though cynics and skeptics wondered why Blair had gone across the Columbia to find a soccer team when there were plenty nearby, the credulous bought his explanation that, “I had to go to another State to find a team bad enough for me. Everyone knows I’ve got two left and right feet.”

It was the ring that convinced a furious Miss Lucretia Umbridge to switch from a policy of slow attrition to one of open insinuation. Believing that Blair had violated their modus vivendi by “flaunting its deviancy” with girl’s jewelry, she was determined to find a way to “out the little bastard” in such a way that the school would become too hot for Blair to stay, yet remain cool enough for her to stay. She had no intention of losing her job because of the “brat”.

Thus, she dared not finger “the brat” as a crossdresser, a topic that the school psychologist had declared verboten until he had a chance in the (never-never) future to rule on whether or not Blair had a mental disease. She therefore decided to lecture to her charges on the subject of homosexuality. She knew where she stood with “the fags”: They had to be treated as sacrosanct. If she dared to criticize them, then she’d be the one suspended or discharged for being infected with homophobia. Consequently, she schemed to draw attention to Blair as a probable homosexual while condemning gays with faint praise.

She started by making a plea for tolerance for gays and lesbians “as for all God’s creatures.” Sure, the four-percenters made sex in a different way than the ninety-six percent who constituted the “vast majority of Americans”, but deviations from the norm were to be expected in any group of animals, among whom she placed the primate apes.

She then explained in graphic, almost pornographic detail the sexual practices of gays and lesbians. Ten- and eleven-year-olds, who couldn’t even handle a frank discussion of their own body parts, never mind masturbation, were grossed out (it was like eating live, wriggling worms!) to be told that “fellatio” was the act of one male “submissively receiving fluid directly from the pee-hole of another male”.

As for lesbian sex, the boys were mightily upset to learn that “dykes” liked to hump each other with “dildos” (a new word for about half of them) about four times as wide and four times as long as their own manstick. This information called into question their own capacity to please any woman.

One boy timidly asked why lesbians were called “dykes”. Did the name have anything to do with Holland? Possibly with wooden shoes? Were they the original dildos? (Any girl with any imagination shivered at that image.) Miss Umbridge put few minds at ease by saying that the word “dyke” probably derived from “hermaphrodite”. By the time she had explained what that was, most of the kids had concluded that dykes had dicks. Sally Hamwich knew that wasn’t true, but she kept silent.

If they weren’t unsettled enough (the detailed discussion of anal sex had already sent two pupils to the washroom to avoid upchucking on their desk), the children were further rattled by being told that homosexuals were exactly like other males and females in their dating and mating patterns: Thus, lesbians waited to be asked out on a date, which made it difficult for them ever to connect; and gay males, being just as randy as heterosexual males, played a more aggressive role — indeed, they would make a pass at any male (hide away your pets, kids) they thought might be available, and even some males who were not.

But don’t worry, Miss Umbridge explained to the boys in order to ease their alarm, gays are just as likely to accept “no” as an answer from a naked boy who doesn’t like being propositioned in the shower as heterosexual males are to accept “no” from a naked girl standing beside them in the shower.

“Boys and girls, don’t believe those prison movies,” she advised, “Gay rape is uncommon; it certainly doesn’t happen every day. And lesbians know that it’s just as illegal to invade the private, vulnerable parts of an unwilling girl with a painfully enormous dildo as it is with their hands or tongue.”

A frail, pretty little boy then asked, his voice quavering: “You say that homosexuals act a lot like regular girls and guys. Do they somehow look different? Does a gay male have, for example, slanty eyes like an Oriental dude?”

“Stephen, you shouldn’t use that term,” lectured Miss Umbridge; “only bigots use that word now. The correct word is Asian. And no, it’s a sign of prejudice to believe that gays and lesbians look different than you and me. Homosexual males don’t necessarily look effeminate; nor do lesbians necessarily look masculine. It’s an Old Husband’s Tale to believe that they always do.”

“So how do they find each other,” asked Rachel, “if they don’t look at all different from normal people? I mean they’re going to get their faces slapped a lot of times if they can’t tell the difference between a girl like me and a lesbian.” Rachel then smiled at several males in rapid succession to alert them that she, at least, was available.

“Rachel, homosexuals find each other through something called gaydar.”

Several called out for an explanation. She had their rapt attention now. Jason Harper was even taking notes. “If you meet someone of the same sex in the school corridor and they gaze into your eyes long enough to force you to avert your eyes in discomfort, that person is gay and is sending out the gaydar waves — just like radar does. If you look away, then the homosexual knows you’re not gay and then stares into the eyes of the person behind you. However, if you don’t lower your eyes or if you detect the stare faster than you should, then you’ve bounced back the gaydar like radar waves from a military target. Word quickly goes around the community, and from then on all the gays or lesbians know that you’re one of them, and one after another they’ll attempt a “bombing run” on you until you’ve become a “mission accomplished.”

Blair finally took the bait: “Are you saying that it’s somehow dangerous for boys to look other boys in the eyes; and girls, other girls? How are we supposed to make any friends? If a kid doesn’t look me straight in the eye, he’s shifty-eyed and I don’t trust him.”

The teacher pounced:

Of course boys can look each other in the eyes and girls can do the same. But if you exchange lingering glances, then you’re sending out and bouncing back the gaydar. Blair, you’re going to find that gay males will be constantly trying to pick you up because, as I have noticed, you tend to stare into the eyes of males long enough for them to look away in confusion or disgust. Your staring is an innocent habit, I’m sure, in one so young, but you should turn down the gaydar when you look at other boys, unless you are gay and want to advertise your sexual availability. Of course, I have no right to ask you whether you are gay or whether you’re lusting after any or all of the other boys here. After all, this school has a policy of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. But if you are gay, I am sure that it wouldn’t matter to anyone in this class, for we honor diversity in this community. There are no bigots here. If Blair were to tell us that he’s gay, we’d all applaud his honesty and courage. Right, class?”

Everyone looked in his direction. Blair shook his head: “I’m not gay,” he mumbled.

“Of course you’re not, Blair. Not that it matters to any of us. If you’re not gay, I do advise changing the way you look at boys. You should look at them in the same indifferent way that you look at girls.”

Jason asked, with pen poised: “I’ve heard that it’s gay to wear for a dude to wear an earring on his right ear. Is that always true? And what about hankies in the back pocket?”

After briefly explaining how some gay males advertised their sexual preferences by putting a colored handkerchief or teddy bear in the rear pocket of their jeans, Miss Umbridge confirmed that it was “very gay indeed” to wear studs or earrings on the right ear or on both ears.”

At this, Blair and several other boys hid their ears in their hands — to no avail, of course. With the coffin lid already being nailed shut around Blair’s reputation, Miss Umbridge finished her little chat on the need to identify and befriend lesbians and gays by saying, “Of course, I’ve found that there is, among gay males at least, the jewelry equivalent of the cross for Christians or the Star of David for Jews. A gay male will wear this as the ultimate form of gaydar.”

“What is it, Miss?” begged Linda Haskins.

“It’s a pinky ring, of course; especially one with a gemstone.”

Miss Umbridge waited ten minutes to calm the ensuing uproar. Everyone was pointing at, jeering at, laughing at, shouting at, snarling at … Blair. His teacher made no attempt to control their language. Openly reviled as a “homo” and “fairy” (the boy-girl was in Umbridge’s opinion something far worse), Blair would, she hoped, run tearfully out of the classroom. As soon as “it” made that mistake, Miss Umbridge planned to take “the creature” directly to the Principal and to insist that “it” be transferred to another school since “its” homosexuality had somehow become common knowledge” and, despite her best efforts to preach tolerance, the classroom had become too hostile an environment for Blair to continue useful studies.

The scheme might have worked; but Blair refused to budge. He figured the only hope that he had to convince anyone that he wasn’t gay was to “take the crap like a man”. When things had calmed down, he planned to ask, “If I’m a fairy, then why didn’t I run when Bob Oates threatened to punch me out — right there in Umbridge’s class?”

For some other boy, an exchange of fisticuffs with Bob Oates might have sufficed to salvage his reputation, but Blair had long been considered the biggest sissy in the fifth grade. He wasn’t going to get off lightly with a bloodied nose. A lot of students had sensed there was something “queer” about Blair well before he started wearing panties to school. Now they “knew” he wasn’t one of them. From that class onward Blair dared not use the boys’ washroom or walk on the school campus whenever there were other students about. He headed off to school earlier and earlier, and returned later and later with each passing day. And he learned to avoid liquids.

Naturally, Blair looked to Kirk to protect him in the schoolyard. (There was nothing that Kirk could do about the verbal insults and lewd pictures in the boys’ washroom.) As Kirk got into one fight after another trying to force someone to take back his insults or to stop pummeling Blair, Kirk became as tightly wound as a training bra wrapped around D-cup breasts. The girls in grade seven were especially unsettling to Kirk’s equipoise, since they enjoyed seeing him react to their observation that “gayness runs in families”.

To unwind, Kirk walloped Blair. As usual, the two siblings were squabbling over Big Al. Blair keenly resented that Kirk and Big Al seemed to have more in common than either teen had with him. Even though Big Al was still smitten with Blair, she spent almost as much time with Kirk who shared Al’s enthusiasm for performance automobiles, contact sports, new technologies, heavy metal bands and rock climbing. Blair, feeling excluded, accused Kirk of “trying to steal my friend. Big Al was my friend first. You have no right to take her away from me.”

Usually Kirk simply ignored Blair’s whining, but this time it got to him: “Blair, you need to get real. Big Al isn’t a friend of the real you. The only reason Alicia likes you is that she thinks you’re a girl. She’d never be your friend if she knew about your ding-a-ling. In fact, she’d despise you.”

That did it! Blair threw himself at Kirk, slapping Kirk’s cheeks, scratching Kirk’s face with his lacquered nails, and pulling his hair out. (Blair found a brush cut didn’t yield easily.)

“Fighting like a girl, are you? Well, I fight like a guy,” shouted Kirk as he threw two punches, first a left jab that split Blair’s lip and then a right hook that blackened Blair’s eye. As angry as a wet cat, Blair went for Kirk’s eyes. Fortunately, Maggie broke up the fight before any permanent damage had been done. Both children were punished — Kirk more than Blair because a boy should never hit a girl, even his sister.

Seeing the futility of riposting that Blair wasn’t in fact a girl, Kirk stoically accepted exile to his room while Blair endured no more than a tongue-lashing as Maggie soothed his wounds with salve. Kirk, lying atop his bed, eyes riveted to a crack in the ceiling, benefited from his extended timeout: It gave him some time alone, away from his bratty sister, to come up with a plan to avoid total annihilation by Big Al, who was bound to come looking for him once the big bruiser had seen Blair’s black eye.

When Maggie came to his room to end his punishment, Kirk vented:

Maggie, all you think about is Blair. You don’t care about me. You don’t want to know what a hell school has become for me because of ‘little sister’. While no one seems to know about the crossdressing, the whole effin’ place believes Blair is a homo. Some of the kids think I must be one too — like it's contagious. I’m in one fight after another because of Blair. You promised to get Blair out of Lewis A. Clark if I helped you transform the sissy into my sister. Well, it’s been weeks since Blair has worn boys’ clothes. So when is she going to transfer to another school like you promised?”

“Soon, honey, as soon as I’m sure that Blair actually wants to be a girl. Until then I can’t administer your sister the female hormones that she will need in order to pass daily inspection as a schoolgirl.”

“Why don’t you start Blair on the feminine hormones now? They don’t work overnight, do they? Yeah, that’s what I thought. So Blair could take the hormones for a while, couldn’t she, without growing giant boobs or something else that she couldn’t hide under a loose sweatshirt?”

“Well, yes …”

“Don’t you think, Maggie, that if Blair’s body gets filled up with female atoms and mol’cules, then Blair’s brain will start telling her that she’s a real girl? Then she’ll be thrilled to lose her balls and dick.”

“It’s not quite as easy as that. Yet you’ve given me food for thought. I bet the Internet could tell us where to find a mild, slow-acting hormonal treatment for Blair that will render her mind so female that she actually will insist on the body modification she needs to pass muster in a girls’ shower room.”

“No worries, Maggie. I can find the right website, ‘cause Blair taught me how to surf the Net. But before I start hunting I want your promise that if I can find some hormones that will totally fem’nize Blair’s brain without her growing giant tits, that you’ll ‘mediately start feeding ‘em to her.”

It took a little more wheedling, but Kirk eventually got the assurances he sought. He then began surfing with so much zeal you’d think he was a teenaged boy looking for a nude image of Hannah Montana.

The day after this victory, Kirk suffered a painful setback when Big Al gave him two black eyes as punishment for hitting Blair. However, Kirk staved off complete disaster by reminding Big Al of their many interests in common. Kirk thus remained inside Big Al’s friendship circle, albeit farther from its center. It was fortunate that these two lugs were able to repair their relationship, for otherwise Big Al might have stormed out of Blair’s life forever a week later.

The storm that threatened to uproot Blair’s friendship with Big Al and bring it crashing down like an exposed elm on a coastal bluff had its origins in Big Al’s understandable curiosity about the finer, more naked, less visible parts of the body that had so captured her fancy. While it was obvious that Blair still had the boyish physique of a young girl, Big Al wondered whether Blair’s bosom had begun to blossom and whether her darling’s groin remained as hairless as her armpits.

Big Al was no longer willing to wait to discover how far Blair had journeyed towards puberty and menarche. Deep down, she hoped that the younger girl hadn’t even begun the transition, for Big Al could then share and record every moment of her beloved’s passage to womanhood. That hope probably underlay Alicia’s initial attraction to a girl who looked prepubescent.

It wasn’t going to be easy, Big Al discovered, to see Blair in the buff, because Blair was abnormally shy around other females. Far from being willing to strip out of her bra and down to her panties in front of Big Al, as most of her girlfriends did when they were trying on or exchanging clothes or seeking an appraisal of their breast development, Blair behaved as modestly as a girl forced to change into a bathing suit in a men’s locker room. Only once had Big Al even caught a glimpse of Blair’s belly (delightfully flat with an innie).

Big Al finally surrendered to curiosity — or was it plain lust? — when she noticed that Blair had accidentally left the bathroom door ajar while showering. Half-inch by half-inch Al widened the gap until she could see Blair standing at one end of the bathtub below the showerhead. There wasn’t much to see, other than flesh tones, as long as Blair stood behind the shower curtain; but Big Al could hope to see more, as the curtain had been drawn only halfway along the tub. In fact, as Blair soaped “herself”, “she” occasionally backed away from the steam and rain of water, at which time the back half of her pink bubble butt came into full, intoxicating view.

Surrendering to Blair’s allure, Big Al thrust her right hand inside her own jeans, and then inside her gray cotton boy-leg panties. Just as Al’s fingers had gained their objective, Blair, “her” back turned towards the wall and away from the door, stepped out from behind the shower curtain and completely into view. The sight of Blair naked from the back nape of the neck to the back heels of the feet had an instantaneous effect: The entire body of Big Al shook as she moaned in ecstasy from the first genuine orgasm of her life.

Big Al was still shaking, still moaning, still orgasmic when Blair, still not realizing (thanks to the shower’s roar) that he was being observed, did a 180-degree turn to examine himself in a mirror as he soaped his privates. There wasn’t however, anywhere near enough soap to hide the self-evident: that Big Al, a self-identified lesbian, had just experienced her first orgasm by ogling a boy. Shocked, angry and confused, Big Al noisily stamped down the stairs, her right fist occasionally punching the wall, as she headed for the front door exit muttering, “I gotta get far away from that little turd or I’ll be hung for killing him.”

Kirk caught up with Big Al as the girl briefly stopped to pull up her hoodie for protection against the pelting rain: “Al, what’s wrong? Why the rush? Aren’t you friend enough to say goodbye?”

Big Al turned on him: “Some friend you are! Would a friend let me make a fool of myself by chasin’ after Blair? Come on, Kirk, you know I’m a dyke; so why didn’t yah tell me not to waste my time on a phony girl like Blair.”

“A phony girl? Blair? What makes you say something so retarded?”

“Still playing me for a fool, are you? Look, Kirk the jerk, I just saw Blair stark nekkid in the shower — from the front! I saw everything the kid has on offer and I’m not buyin’. So don’t try tellin’ me that Blair’s a girl with an extra big clitoris and two tumors. In fact, don’t bother tellin’ me nothing. I’m outta here. I never want to see neither of you dickheads ever again. Tell that little bastard that he better never come near the Breakers again. If he does, I’ll tell his ex-teammates the revoltin’ truth about him, meaning that they’ll be wantin’ to break his arms and legs.”

Kirk grabbed hold of her: “You don’t understand. If you knew the truth about Blair, then you’d still be her friend.”

“Let me go, I tell yah. You can’t fool me by usin’ the female pronoun. I know the truth about Blair and the truth has set me free.” Then, with an almost casual shift of her shoulders she threw Kirk to the ground. She’d almost reached the street before he next caught up to her. This time he tackled her from the rear, his momentum bringing her down; lying on top of her back, short of breath, Kirk gasped, “You’ve … got to hear … me out.”

Big Al would have none of it. She escaped from Kirk’s hold with lightning ease. He ended up supine, arms pinned, Big Al sitting on his groin. Her physical superiority proven easily, almost disdainfully, there didn’t seem to be anything to bar her departure. However, indecision overcame her; she made not a move. Then, a decision made, her knees eased their grip on his torso; her hands, on his wrists. Her weight subtly shifted and Kirk, sensing an unexpected opening, overthrew Big Al with a sudden, upward, almost erotic thrust of his pelvis. Now Kirk sat triumphantly atop her abdomen, his arms pinning hers, his head lowered so that his face was in her face.

“Now, you’ll listen.” And Big Al did. She made no attempt to free herself as Kirk explained that Blair was a transsexual who hadn’t worn a stitch of boys’ wear in several weeks:

She’s not been trying to trick you. Blair really is a girl in her own head and Maggie wants her to have a girl’s body before Christmas — that means everything but a womb inside. Her not having one of those shouldn’t bother you, not if you’re really a dyke. Blair is head over heals in love with you; the little fool even tried to scratch my eyes out because she’s hung up on you. If you love Blair, you’ll stand by her and help her transition to womanhood. If the only feeling you ever had for Blair was lust, then she’d be better off without you. You can go; I’m not keeping you.”

Kirk then rolled off her, and sat on his haunches to await Big Al’s next move.

Still lying flat on her back, but with her head turned so that she could gauge Kirk’s reply, Big Al asked, “Is it true? Blair really loves me?”

Kirk nodded, gulped, and confessed:

I love you too. I’ve never met a girl like you before. You have opened my eyes to the full range of choices that girls have in life. There’s no such thing as a typical girl. Girls don’t have to be little princesses who always wear pink. They don’t have to spend most of their time worrying about their appearance. I love the way you look, the way you dress, everything about you. You even showed me that a real girl can love sports and enjoy the same things as boys. I’ll be forever grateful to you, as I suppose I should be to Blair, for teaching me that boys and girls come in every color and shape — Blair in pink satin and you in blue denim.”

“How about you, Kirk? What’s your favorite color and material? Is it ….” She bit her tongue.

“Me? The same as you. I go for blue denim and black leather. You know -- we even wear the same color of cotton underwear.”

Big Al said in mock outrage:

You pervert! You know the color of my underwear? Boy, are you wasting your time looking down my jeans. I’ll never, never sex it up with a guy like you. Until I saw Blair in the nude, I’d have said I was 100 percent lesbian. I guess in reality I’m only 98 percent lesbian ‘cause I’ve fallen in love with a dyke with a dick. But you better have told the truth — Blair better get rid of those ugly ‘pendages within a few months. Funny thing, Blair’s still being a hairless little boy means that I’ll be able to see every change her body makes on its way through puberty to being an adult woman.

Kirk bridled:

I’m not a pervert! How wouldn’t I know the color of your underwear? Your jeans droop low enough for anyone to know it. Heck, sometimes your undies are halfway down your butt. Anyway, you’re the real pervert ‘cause you’re a Peeping Tom. So you’re going to watch Blair’s body change? How are you going to that? By spying on her when she takes a shower? Now that’s perverted.

“Okay, I apologize: So your eyes didn’t sneak into my pants; but you’re really naíve if you think I’m going to be hangin’ outside the bathroom door, hopin’ to get a glimpse of Blair in the nude. No, now that I know the real reason for her ‘modesty’ around me, I intend to seduce her. After that, she and I will be able to look and touch to our hearts’ content.”

Without further ado, Kirk and Big Al reentered the Finlayson house; he went upstairs to see ‘what’s up with Blair’, while she sought out the chatelaine of the house. Big Al found Maggie with her arms half in dishwater. After a brief exchange of niceties, Al boldly announced: “Ms. Maguire, you should know that I intend to marry Blair as soon as the law allows us girls to marry each other. Blair is my ideal woman.”

Maggie coughed, cleared her throat, and then said: “At ten, Blair is a long way from her wedding day. Alicia, I am sure you’re realistic enough to know that Blair is more likely statistically to marry a man than woman. Do you have any evidence that Blair is a gay girl?”

“Gay? That I don’t know yet. But a girl, a genuine girl? I already know that Blair isn’t one.”

Maggie gave a start: “Blair not really a girl? What makes you think that? Has Kirk been joshing with you?”

“Ms. Maguire, it’s got nothing to do with Kirk. I accidentally saw Blair in the buff. I saw his … you know what.”

“And you still want to marry Blair? Have I been wrong, Alicia in supposing that you liked girls better than boys?”

“Nope. I’m definitely a lezzie, Ms. Maguire. That’s why I want to marry Blair. With a nip here, and a tuck there, I believe Blair can become the most beautiful female in the entire world. Blair is so cute. I think about her a lot whenever I’m alone.” Big Al blushed, her cheeks a fire-engine red.

With Maggie remaining silent, apparently lost in thought, Big Al plunged on: “Ms. Maguire, I can help you and Blair. Just give me one sleepover with Blair. I promise you that I will get her so turned on by the female body that she’ll insist on getting one of her own as quickly as possible. One sleepover and Blair will never think of herself as a boy again.”

Maggie after a minute’s reflection replied, “Alicia, you’re Blair’s best girlfriend. Of course, you can sleepover with Blair — as best girlfriends do — any time you want, so long as it’s not a school night. We can’t have you keeping each other up all night giggling and gossiping and then falling asleep in class. Why don’t you ask your parents if you can sleepover this coming Friday night?”

Big Al flashed a huge, winning smile: “Sure thing, Ms. Maguire. I suggest you have some feminizing pills for Blair to take on Saturday morning. After a night with me she’ll be keen on feminizin’ her body as quick as possible.”

As she had done when speaking with Kirk, Maggie gave what she thought was no more than lip service to the idea of immediately putting Blair on “feminizing pills”. It was easy, she felt, for kids to get over-enthusiastic about Blair’s transformation; they didn’t risk going to prison for messing with the body chemistry of a preteen. But was it mere lip service? Just ten days later Maggie would be insisting that Blair swallow some ‘feminizing’ herbs that Kirk had purchased off the Internet (by using Laird’s identity and credit card).

As we shall see next, It was Blair’s brief fling as a ballerina that finally convinced Maggie that it was folly to wait even one more day without trying to make “her daughter” more feminine in all the ways that truly mattered.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. With Alicia determined to turn him into a lesbian and Maggie to turn him into a ballet dancer (and Wili), Blair doesn’t know which will come first: the loss of his virginity or a broken leg.

Chapter 9 A ballet school’s choice

On the Monday after Blair’s tryout with the girls’ soccer league, Maggie had taken her daughter to The Dame Margot Pavlova Ballet School. Its studio was a fifteen-story walkup located on the top floor of the Sealand Building, a squat, postmodern cube with a façade of blue glass, white masonry, terracotta “pillars” and dark green tiles. Blair gushed that he’d never seen a lovelier building.

Huffing and puffing, and desperately gasping for breath like a five-pack-a-day smoker at the summit of Mount Hood, Blair staggered through the Corinthian- leather portals of the ballet school to find Maggie already deep in conversation with a short, slender, bearded man wearing jet-black shades and dreadlocks partly hidden by the hood of his purple, zippered sweatsuit, on which glittered his bling-bling -- three “goon” chains and four honoring dance crews.

The little man, who looked to be in his forties, still had a lean, dancer’s body. He waved to Blair to join them: “Yo, you must be Blair. I bet you is a rain woman, you be lookin’ so fly! Yo’ threads are kickin’. (Blair was sporting a wet pink umbrella; two hair ribbons, one white, one pink; a white halter top over a pink leotard; and, of course, his hopscotch sneakers, with their dangling charms. He carried his ballet slippers in a silver lamé bag.) “Blair girl, put your arms over your head, give us a twirl, and let’s see you shake yo’ booty.”

As Blair feigned several ballet turns, the little man declared, “That’s the real shit! Girl, yo’ booty is quite the ba-donka-donk. You is also a natural dancer built tight and muscular. In a year’s time I predict you be our prima ballerina. Girl, you put yo’ junk in that change room over there, where you can hang with the other girls in yo’ class while I talk to yo’ mama about the bread.”

Blair, more than a little confused, looked to Maggie for confirmation. She nodded, pointing to the girls’ change room. Blair skipped off, leaving the adults to complete their business. “Mr. Five Cent — that’s the name you gave, right?” Maggie asked. When the little man nodded, she continued: “You said Blair’s classes would cost two ‘benjamins’. I believe that’s slang for two C notes or $200 cash. Am I right? And the price includes a guaranteed role for her in a public performance? Is that right?”

Nods to all questions.

Maggie next said: “Then we have a deal. But I must be frank — I was more than a little shocked when I found out that Dame Pavlova doesn’t exist and that you, a man, own and manage this school.”

“Listen to my flow. As I related to yourself befo’, the peeps in this areous ‘spects a ballet school to be Russian. To me, that’s wack, but I can’t live with no bread. And so, I named this joint afta the skank who danced duets with Stravinsky. You aksed about my creds. They is the bestest: I was a principal of Les Ballets Trocadero de Monte Carlo, which means I done danced befo’ the queens of Europe. But don’t you worry none ‘bout a man learnin’ yo’ girl, cuz I leave the newbs to Madame Monica Rafferty to ‘struct. And that bee-itch is bad! She been dancing with the St. Petersburg Ballet. You should seen her be dancin’ the roles of both Odette and Odille in “Swan Lake” in New York City! She had the peeps’ eyes a-poppin’ out of their sockets.”

“The St. Petersburg Ballet? That must be the world-renowned Kirov,” decided Maggie, who didn’t know about the little-known Florida ensemble whose costume malfunctions had brought infamy in New York and criminal charges in West Palm Beach. (Google Anything for a Moped for further information about Monica’s dance company.)

Mr. Five-Cent mumbled something that sounded to Maggie like agreement. She then grilled him about his name. Yes, he hadn’t been born Lucky Five-Cent; it was a street name. Pressed, he admitted that he’d been named Lars Swenson at birth, but to survive life in the ghetto he’d changed his name — along with the way he talked and acted — so that he would fit in, despite being a scrawny-ass white boy who couldn’t jump.

Maggie was horrified to think that Lars, er … Lucky Five-Cent, had grown up always having to keep his head down for fear of stray bullets. She regarded the little man with new respect.

Before she could discover the name of the horrific slum that had deprived Lucky of an education in Standard English, he, seeing his assistant Monica arrive, said to Maggie, “Sku me, but I’m gonna bail. Gotta see my banker. You can chill with Monica until class.” And he hustled off without making any introductions.

“Well, I never …” Maggie was not amused! However, Monica soon put a smile on her face; not only was the young woman unassuming, pleasant and physically attractive, she also spoke Standard English. She must have been the woman who had taken her phone call and arranged Blair’s registration. After the niceties, Maggie couldn’t contain her curiosity about the curious proprietor of Dame Pavlova: “I don’t envy Mr. Five-Cent his upbringing. It must have been terrifying for a small, vulnerable white boy to grow up in a place like Bedford-Stuyvesant, Watts, Highland Park-Detroit or the Chicago South Side.” She was fishing for information. For some reason she needed to know more about Five-Cent’s ghetto childhood.

Monica smiled: “He does give the wrong impression, doesn’t he? My boss grew up in Fargo, North Dakota where he lived until his folks paid for him to study dance in Paris, France. Fargo has always been whiter than Snow White, with less than a thousand black folk even now. His best friend from his childhood, Sven Larsson, told me that Mr. Five-Cent used to talk with as strong a Swedish accent as that pregnant, Brainerd cop in the movie named after his home town.”

“So why now does he talk so black?” Maggie asked.

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh: “You think he talks like an African American? He doesn’t talk like any of the ones I know. He’s developed a lingo that’s uniquely his own. I don’t think anyone else on the planet talks like Mr. Five-Cent. I don’t see how he could have been much influenced by African-American English because he’s not exactly surrounded himself with blacks. Sure, he once had an African-American lover, but that dude, an older man, spoke like Darth Vader or, if you will, like Morgan Player playing God. The only other black male that I know he ever got intimate with was a Belgian. Mr. Five-Cent said that Guy spoke French with a cute Flemish accent.”

“Mr. Five-Cent can understand French?”

“Not only that, but he also speaks French as well as German, Spanish, Estonian and Romansh. He doesn’t even need subtitles to understand British movies about slum kids.”

Maggie was now thoroughly flummoxed. “Then why is his English so poor?”

“Because he watched too many Hollywood movies? Or maybe because he wants it to be? He believes the ghetto shtick helps the school to get donations — and they are much needed, let me tell you — from prosperous whites, who’ll be extra generous if they decide that he grew up as disadvantaged as any ghetto black. He also hopes to attract his first African-American pupil to Dame Pavlova. But I think his efforts to ‘talk black’ are backfiring, as I have seen more than one African-American parent angrily stomp out of here after the initial interview.”

Maggie nodded. She could see that any black parent interested in ballet lessons for their progeny might view his “Hollywood” hip-hop language and style as a contrived insult, as though he were condescending to their supposed level.

Two doors were flung open. The soft sound of tiptoes running bare or in slippers entered the room. Monica headed for its center after a few last words to Maggie: “I fear I’m the one who must rush off now because I see my young charges are now ready and eager to dance. You might want to sit in one of those folding chairs by the windows because it will give you the best view of Blair’s work at the barre. As a novice, she’ll be spending a lot of time there. And don’t you fret: Your daughter will have loads of fun at Dame Pavlova.”

Ten girls and one boy quickly encircled their dance instructor. Blair, the twelfth member of their class, was a late arrival, off to a late start in the change room, and a late stop in the dance studio. (Indeed, Blair might have sailed into a wall had he not veered into two of the girls, almost flooring them.)

“Well, well,” chuckled Madame Rafferty, “for a newcomer you do like to make a grand entrance. And those darling leotards do make you stand out from the crowd.” (Poor Blair was the only one dressed in pink; everyone else, including the lone boy, was dressed in a uniform black, although a handful of girls had personalized their look with colored ankle warmers, while the boy wore a lavender-and-blue silk scarf.)

“I assume, girls and boy [Monica smiled at the solitary, undisguised male in the room], that you’ve all met Blair. I am sure you will be good to her, because, thanks to her, we’ll have an even dozen dancers for the performance later this spring by you, the school’s novices, of Giselle, the 1841 ballet classic by Adolphe Adam. You will be dancing to choreography by the immortal Marius Petipa as modified for this class by Dame Margot Pavlova herself. This ballet is, as eleven of you already know, is designed to give people the willies.”

Blair noticed that the rest of the class laughed politely, as though they once thought this a good joke. But what did it mean?

“The Wilis,” the instructor continued, “were supernatural beings who lured young men to ‘death by dancing’. I’m sure,” she chuckled, “that there have been many urchins, who dragged kicking and screaming to a ballet, thought that they were about to die from sheer boredom at having to watch girls ‘flit about’. Well, we mustn’t let any of those tykes die during our performance; so we want our Wilis to be as scary to them as a midnight monster movie. By scary, I don’t mean we’re going to frighten your family with dangerously inept lifts and jumps; instead we’re going to give everyone the willies by having ten of you girls dressed as Willis dance menacingly around Giselle and Count Albrecht in gossamer dresses so fluffy, white and flimsy that you’ll look like demons from hell.”

Blair shuddered. He had the willies. Somehow it was scarier to dance in public in a flimsy white dress than to practice soccer in pink sneakers and shorts. He wouldn’t be able to hide in a dance production or wander around the perimeter— he’d have to take center stage and let it all hang out. However, knowing that “it” couldn’t ever be allowed to “hang out” he was wearing two pairs of super firm, cotton-spandex panties under his leotard to keep well-hidden any excitement he might feel at seeing athletic young bodies — the lone boy’s especially — in tight, form-fitting garb. Gosh, their leotards closely followed the contours of their buttocks! Blair knew that he had to be careful: One of the girls was already tittering because she had caught “the new girl” staring at the bulge in Taylor’s dance belt. Blair was amazed that a twelve-year-old boy could be that big.

“And that, Blair,” Monica droned, “is our class objective for the spring term: to mount a production of Giselle for your parents and the invited public. Since you are a true beginner, you will dance as part of the corps de ballet, as a Wili. As for the rest, as we have only one male dancer — I don’t know what we do without you, Taylor — Mr. Five-Cent has eliminated the male roles of Hilarion, Wilfrid and Giselle’s father. As all but Blair already know, Linda Hernandez will dance the role of Giselle. The rest of the featured roles for girls are still up for grabs: namely, those of Giselle’s mother Berthe, of Myrtha, the Queen of the Wilis and of Bathilde, the fiancée betrayed by our sole male and villain, Duke Albrecht of Silesia. For obvious reasons, the role of the Duke will be danced by Taylor. All of you girls also get to be a Wili. Well, that’s enough information to bring the newbie up to speed. Now off you all go, including Blair, to the barre, to begin your exercises.

Her class in place, their hands lightly grasping the wooden barre along the right-side wall, she asked them to perform a sequence of half and full knee bends (demi and grands pliés) designed to stretch their leg muscles as they went through the five basic positions of ballet. As Blair strove to emulate their moves, taking Taylor as his exemplar, Madame Monica evaluated the newcomer’s flexibility, suppleness, lines and balance.

It didn’t much concern her that Blair couldn’t distinguish one position from the next — that much she expected — but she’d never seen a girl before who was unable to keep her balance even with the aid of the barre. Moreover, she had seen sixty-year-old Swedes in better condition than Blair: “The girl might be able to float across a room as though she has wings instead of feet, but she’s already out of breath after a few simple exercises. And she’s using the bar to pull herself up from a half-plié! Has that girl ever used her abdominal and thigh muscles?”

Blair didn’t do any better at éleves and réleves (also performed at the barre) where he was supposed to rise onto the balls of the feet, from a both a standing and plié position. In theory Blair was supposed to practice each of them for each of the five ballet positions, but a fundamental lack of balance made it impossible to rise to the occasion. Monica advised Blair to work on her pliés while the rest of the class completed their battements tendus (stretching their legs along the floor to a point) and ronds de jambe (a circular motion of their working foot on the floor).

Away from the barre, the class worked on arm placement, pirouettes, arabesques, lifts and spotting for turns. Through all, Blair stumbled about like a one-legged drunk. Never had a girl at Dame Pavlova shown less coordination or balance. That, however, wasn’t the assessment of Blair’s instructor, who was kind enough to say that she remembered a girl so overweight that she kept tripping over the feet she could not see, but of Maggie, who refused to believe during an after-class chat with Madame Rafferty that there couldn’t be another child of Blair’s age, of whatever sex, who had so little natural talent for dance. “The only thing that Blair can do,” Maggie decided, “is spot for turns. She’s also got the muscles to lift the other girls high off the floor, except when she drops them.”

Madame Rafferty agreed: “Ms. Maguire, you’ve got a point. Considering Blair’s progress in lifting, spotting and leaping, I’d say that she had an adequate first outing for a boy. But I fear she has a long way to go to catch up to the other girls her age.”

Over the next seven weeks, little changed for Blair at Dame Pavlova, even after Madame Rafferty had, in desperation to ready “that clumsy girl” for the public performance of Giselle, begun giving him free tutorial classes. With Mr. Five-Cent’s enthusiastic accord, Blair was told to move as slowly as possible two yards behind the closest Wili: “Blair honey, think of yourself as the army reserve, poised to rush to the front lines if one of Wilis already there falters or falls because of audience pressure.”

Blair, no fool, realized that he “sucked” as much at dance as he did at “soccer.” It might have seriously damaged his self-esteem if he had taken any of it seriously. Sure, Blair had hoped to play the female lead in both sports and dance, but, after failing the two auditions, he was happy to have a bit part in “both companies” that enabled him to study girls at close quarters — so that he could perfect the way he acted as one — and, in the case of dance, to hang out with a boy, Taylor, whose flowing blond locks and lithe athleticism were beginning to push Justin Bieber to the back and side periphery of Blair’s impossible dreams.

Blair was gradually coming to realize that it was tougher being a girl than he had anticipated when Maggie had first asked him to assume the role. It turned out that a boy with little ability or joy in movement wasn’t magically turned into a star player or dancer when he tried out for girls’ soccer or dance. And while Blair had inevitably made a host of new friends (actually acquaintances) by joining two, close-knit groups of girls (and one handsome boy), only one of them so far — the inimitable Big Al — seemed to like Blair as a girl enough to travel from a downtown studio or an out-of-state soccer pitch to visit “her” at home.

That was especially true of “dreamy” Taylor. Thanks to Miss Umbridge’s lesson on gaydar, Blair understood that his feminine gender was an insurmountable obstacle to a “special friendship” with the peacock of the Pavlova flock. Indeed, Taylor had even suggested that Blair was unfortunate in not having been born a boy: “You’re a good-looking gal, but if a boy had your looks, he would be as cute and sexy as they come.”

Not surprisingly, Blair had difficulty getting that compliment and verb choice out of his mind, especially at night, as his wet dreams, his very first, betrayed. Blair spent a lot of his waking time mulling over whether Taylor’s mom could be persuaded to authorize a sleepover for her inexperienced son with a girl who might, just might be old enough to bear his child.

“Gosh, maybe she doesn’t even know he’s gay,” Blair fretted. He decided that telling Taylor’s mom, “Don’t worry, he won’t even try to touch me because he doesn’t like girls” might not be the best strategy for getting an overnight with the dreamy male dancer.

While Blair was pondering how to procure his first sleepover with a boy, Maggie announced that she had already arranged for his first with a girl on Saturday night. Blair went ballistic. He said the sorts of things that a child only says to its mother (because anyone else would storm out of its life forever). Was she a complete dummy? Otherwise, didn’t she know that It was a no-brainer that inviting another girl to a sleepover risked blowing his cover once the two of them got down under the covers. Blair felt he had no choice but to explain the “facts of life” to his retarded mother: “Mommy, you don’t understand what girls are like these days. They’re not as ignorant as they were when you were young before the war. Big Al already knows that she likes girls, and only girls.”

Maggie took everything Blair said without blinking an eye, as though Blair were reading the telephone book to her. Maybe, Blair decided, his Mom was too Victorian, too much a product of the Puritans, even to realize that lesbianism actually existed. Maybe she thought lesbians were poets?

Blair felt he had to explain slowly and carefully, like a teacher to a grade-five sex education class, that lesbians like Big Al craved sex — the real thing — with girls:

Mommy, Alicia wants to do dirty things with other girls, things so dirty that a lady your age you can’t possibly imagine. Because she’s much stronger than me, she’ll definitely get into my panties if you let her share my bed. If you are stupid enough to let her do that, she’ll hate me for not being a genuine girl. If that happens and my only best friend rejects me, I’ll hate you forever.

Blair then started sobbing. He didn’t need an onion to fake the tears; they were the genuine thing. Why couldn’t his mother realize that she was about to ruin his life with her dumb sleepover?

Taking Blair into her arms, Maggie did her best to soothe “her daughter”:

There, there, my dear, sweet Blair. I know you could never hate me. Don’t worry your sweet little head. Everything’s under control. It was Alicia who asked for the sleepover. I know she’s a lesbian and that part of her friendship for you has its origin in sexual attraction, but there’s much, much more to your relationship than lust. Alicia is an only child. She loves you like the sister she’s never had; she could also love you as a brother. You think us old folks don’t know anything about the lives of teens. But sometimes we’re on top of things. Blair, I’ve already had a heart-to-heart with Big Al and she’s promised to leave you alone and untouched if you make it clear that your answer to sex is No. But, as I also said to her, it won’t bother me in the slightest if your answer is Yes. Every girl, I said, should experiment with lesbianism in her tweens and teens. I did.

“What? You told her all that?”

“Yes, sweetie. What I didn’t tell Alicia is that I want you to seduce her.”

The two of them laughed about a possible turnabout — Maggie heartily, Blair nervously.

Maggie then said:

Blair, it’s time for you to get down and naked with another female. Enjoy the intimacy. Take a few hours to explore Alicia’s body. See and feel what you’ve been missing and what you soon can have. You’ll be simply amazed at how much pleasure a girl experiences from having any one of her many, many erogenous zones touched. I promise you, sweetie, that after a single night experiencing the body of another girl, that you will be begging me the following morning for a bosom, clitoris and vagina of your own. Trust me.

By this point Blair was doing most of his thinking with his little red head. So he accepted his mother’s rather vague assurances that somehow she “knew” that Big Al would still love him after she had viewed his “superficial masculinity.”

“I’m positive,” Maggie said soothingly,

that Alicia won’t let a tiny thing like your penis stop her from loving the real you. I bet she calls it your clitoris because that’s what a girl has, and you, sweetie, are nearly the ideal girl for her. Sure, she’ll want you to improve your body, just as she would if you had a cleft lip, a wart or cellulite, but I am positive that a night spent naked together will prove to both of you that you are no more than a year, a few pills and a minor operation away from being the best-looking teen girl who ever lived in the Columbia Valley. Will Alicia reject you? No way, sweetie, no way. I promise.

It was with considerable nervous and sexual excitement that Blair awaited the sleepover with Big Al. Neither of them had slept a wink during the last thirty-six hours and both were running purely on caffeine and nerves by the time they’d downed a couple of cans of Red Bull and stared at their untouched dinners.

After dinner, they briefly played soccer with their dolls, with Blair warning off Kirk by announcing in no uncertain terms that dolls were “only for us girls”. Not only did Blair want to be alone with Big Al, but he also realized that Al appeared to be too distracted to stop Skipper, Blair’s avatar, from scoring at will.

Both “girls” gave up on doll soccer after a few minutes. It now seemed too immature a game for them to play, compared to the adult game they both had in mind. Maggie smiled as they mumbled an excuse to head up to bed at 8 pm on a Saturday night. She noticed that both girls were already holding hands, with Blair taking the lead on the stairs, as she had hoped.

What happened that night in Blair’s bedroom has remained a secret that both girls have kept even from their mothers. Yet their flushed cheeks, heavy eyelids, sudden maturity, constant sighs and smiles, conspiratorial looks, affectionate language and physical closeness convinced Maggie that both girls had lost their virginity — as least much as one girl can lose it to another.

Both of the lovers came up Maggie to talk, as much as they ever would, about their first night together. First Big Al assured her that, “Your daughter now knows that I love the real Blair, three warts and all. We agreed that she’s definitely a lesbian and a transsexual, a girl in a boy’s body, and that I’m going to help her become the girl of all of our dreams. I think if Blair can grow some breasts real fast, that she’ll never want to live as a boy again.”

As Maggie talked next with Blair, her sense of triumph soared:

Mom, while Alicia and I agreed that we shouldn’t talk about things that should remain private, I want you to know that I’m really ashamed of telling you that I hated you for inviting Alicia to a sleepover. I should have realized that you were right about the sleepover. You’re always know what’s best for me. Now me and Alicia are tighter than ever, best girlfriends for life. She says that a girl my age should show some breast development or people will soon start wondering about my femininity.”

“Blair, do you think she’s right?”

Blair replied:

Yeah, she’s right. Even in my training bra, I’ve got the flattest chest in my two classes. It’d be downright embarrassing to have breasts like these [Blair pointed to his chest] if anyone at school actually knew that I was a girl. I couldn’t get a date as a girl with this chest even if I offered to pay for both popcorn and the movie. Alicia also says that growing real breasts, even big ones, won’t make it impossible for me to return to being a boy ‘cause she read somewhere that teenaged boys often get titty at puberty ‘cause of a ho-mone imbalance. But they lose their breasts when they get older. Alicia says that my boobs will pop like a balloon as soon as I no longer want ‘em. So I don’t have to worry about growing them, do I, mommy?

Maggie, slyly nodding, asked: “So what are you saying, Blair? What should I tell your father?”

“If you want him to approve, then you should tell him I definitely want to be a girl and that I want you to start giving me whatever medicine it takes for me to get the sort of breasts that Alicia says a girl my age should have.”

“Don’t worry, Blair, with your help your father will have no choice but to agree to your becoming a real girl as rapidly as possible.”

But did Maggie intend to follow through? Even after Blair told an appalled Laird and a bemused Kirk that he was a lesbian who needed to grow real breasts to please his girlfriend, Maggie dithered over whether to grant the request. There was still the law to consider, and she hadn’t liked how much drinking Laird had done in the first hours after his youngest son declared himself a lesbian.

In the end it was Blair’s performance in Giselle that cast the deciding lot in favor of rapid feminization. After seeing her child stumble about the stage of the small theater rented by the Dame Pavlova School for its student productions, Maggie couldn’t wait a moment longer to wring the boy out of Blair.

Had she continued to attend Blair’s dance lessons, it would have been easy for Maggie to have averted the disaster. A simple “No” would have sufficed. But, distressed at seeing Blair stumble about the studio with all the artfulness of Hulk Hogan, the hirsute pro wrestler and “actor”, trying to stand on point in a tutu, Maggie soon got into the habit of doing her shopping during her child’s lessons and rehearsals. Maggie should also have been more suspicious than credulous when Blair, fighting for breath from excitement and exertion from running down fifteen flights of stairs, gasped, “You’ll never believe what happened at rehearsal today. Madame Rafferty and Mr. Five-Cent like the way I dance! I’ve now got one of the lead parts! Isn’t that cool!!”

Maggie, knowing that she and Blair lived in an era and country where every kid got a gold star, figured that the dance instructors had promoted her daughter to the fictitious rank of “duodecima ballerina,” still leaving her worst in the class and eleven steps below prima. Maggie might have lingered long enough outside the Sealand Building to confirm this hypothesis had it not been pelting rain. She and Blair ran for the car without further discussion about the “lead part” freshly bestowed on Maggie’s daughter. The entire topic soon passed from Maggie’s mind, probably because she didn’t want to pick at the scab that was her daughter’s dancing career.

Maggie, expecting a dance rerun of the soccer games she had attended, had little expectation of actually seeing her daughter anywhere near the center of downstage during the single public performance of Giselle by the novice class of Dame Margot Pavlova Dance Academy. Maybe, however, there would be a glimpse of Blair as “she did her thing” well upstage near the exits. And of course, there was sure to be at least one opportunity to give “her” a standing ovation during her first and only bow.

Maggie, having left Blair at the stage entrance, had arrayed her family, which now included Big Al as well as Laird and Kirk, in the first row center, left empty as usual by a general-admission audience unwilling to assume the responsibility of staying sufficiently alert and smiling to convince a group of beginners that they could dance like the Bolshoi Ballet.

Several rows behind them there sat by special invitation from Maggie, who paid for their tickets, an angry Lucretia Umbridge, homeroom teacher extraordinaire, and, beside her, Felix La Rond, Master of Psychology. Both had agreed to attend Blair’s first outing as a petite danseuse de 10 ans, in order to confirm their prejudgments that Blair was either a sick little puppy who needed to be quarantined like a rabid dog or, conversely, a twenty-first century Dorothy from Kansas leading a small band of like-spirited souls on a trek through an American Land of Oz to battle, possibly to overcome, the forces of sexual and gender repression that had transformed a toddler named Lucretia, a little girl full of hope and charity, into Miss Umbridge, a sexually-frustrated, hate-filled “Wicked Witch” of the Pacific Northwest.

Mr. La Rond looked pleased with himself. Miss Umbridge looked alternately expectant and irritated — “expectant” because she expected Blair (“the little pervert can’t help himself”) to commit an indecency that would strengthen her case for his expulsion on “compassionate” grounds; and “irritated” because the psychologist’s “love handle” was filling half of her seat.

Then there came a hush, broken only by a few dozen people coughing and Mr. La Rond burping, as the theatre’s lights dimmed and the string orchestra from a local high school began a semblance of the overture to Giselle.

Maggie’s eyes wandered to take in the rest of the audience; she was already having difficulty focusing on the stage, even staying awake, because Blair, a Wili, wouldn’t appear until the second act. “I wonder how wispy her costume will be? It’s been frustrating not to see any of the costumes in advance. It would have been fun to have sewn a fairy’s dress, gossamer wings and all, for Blair, but the dance school insisted on providing their own. I do hope the costume doesn’t look threadbare.”

She looked down the first row: as expected, Laird and Kirk were slumped in their seats. Was that a video game in Kirk’s lap? Alicia, in contrast, was perched on the front third of her seat. Maggie sighed: “Ah to be young and in love again. Look at Alicia; she’s visibly tingling with anticipation. Doesn’t she know that there’s an entire act to get through before her beloved makes her first appearance?”

It soon became apparent that Blair had confided more in “her” girlfriend than in “her” mother. Either that or Big Al had been a better listener. Because Blair’s first appearance came in the second scene of the first act, and far from being lost in the scenery, he — and this pronoun definitely fitted the occasion — was playing the lead male role (actually the only male role) in the Five-Cent version of Giselle — that of Duke Albrecht!

Maggie at first couldn’t believe her eyes: Her daughter Blair was dancing “in drag”, wearing a white shirt, a leather doublet, and beige tights with a dance belt with so much padding that Maggie’s sweet little filly looked like a well-endowed stallion.

Stunned, Maggie sagged in her chair, her mouth catching flies. Laird looked even more surprised. Big Al, however, was already giving Blair a standing ovation, yelling “bravo” over and over until the hostile glares from everyone around her (including those of five girls on stage) forced her to sit down.

Kirk had a look of supreme satisfaction on his face — like Sylvester, the “putty tat,” would have if he were able to catch and eat Tweety Bird with “good old dwanny” helplessly having to watch. Maggie, seeing the feline smirk, decided that Kirk had deliberately kept her from discovering that Blair’s “promotion” would entail the girl’s running about publicly, and embarrassingly, in male drag. That was far from the dance debut that Maggie had in mind for a daughter whose fragile sense of gender identity could be shattered all too easily by a fool’s miscasting. Kirk would have to pay some sort of price, she decided, for his complicity in this outrage.
Laird watched in amazement as his “daughter,” playing a nobleman disguised as Loys, a male peasant, flirted with, then seduced, then danced a love duet with Giselle (Linda Hernandez, actually), until the pas de deux was interrupted by Giselle’s mother. (“The hag probably thinks a girl as pretty as Giselle can do better than marry a peasant,” Laird thought.)

Next, Bathilde, the Duke’s erstwhile girlfriend, wrathfully stole a horn and sword from Blair’s, er … Loys’ pretend cottage, thereby proving to the rest of the dancers that the Duke was a cad bent on betraying both Bathilde and Giselle. At this news, Giselle fluttered wildly around the stage, finally dying from a weak heart, although onlookers understandably thought that the sword (Duke Albrecht’s) she was thrusting into her belly might be more at fault.

The curtain came down on the first act. With Big Al’s help, Laird was able to restrain Maggie from rushing backstage to “rescue” Blair from the “indignity” of playing a masculine role in the school’s production.

The second act opened with Blair (Albrecht), dressed in a “ducal” outfit of a pink ruffled shirt, a burgundy velvet doublet and pink tights, praying at Giselle’s grave, which unaccountably — given the forest’s infestation with Wilis -- has been put in a moonlit glade. It was just like Blair, Laird thought, to be such a hopeless romantic that he risked a fairy’s death by going into the bushes alone.

Inevitably, given the plot summary in the program guide, the Wilis, female fairies who have been jilted (like Giselle) before their wedding day, rose out of their graves like bloodthirsty zombies, thereby frightening the bejeezus out of Blair (Duke Albrecht) who ran like a frightened rabbit to safety in the theater’s wings. (It was at this point that Kirk decided that sissy Blair made an excellent Duke.)

For some unknown reason the Wilis obligingly left the stage and glade, leaving wily Giselle to greet Blair (Duke Albrecht) as he leapt back into the scene. (Although there was nothing balletic about Blair’s technically-deficient leap, it showed more verve and guts than Laird has ever seen from Blair before.)

A true romantic, Giselle, buying into Blair’s professions of enduring love, forgave him, at which point Blair (the Duke) had his second chance to dance a romantic pas de deux. As before, Linda Hernandez (Giselle) danced around her motionless beloved, who from time to time proffered his hand to support (like a barre) her turns or pliés.

“This is the logical moment,” Laird hoped, “to end this silly, old-fashioned ballet.”

Yet Adolphe Adam, the composer, alas, had other ideas, for the scene ended with Blair (Albrecht) chasing after Linda Hernandez (Giselle) as she ran deep into the forest offstage. (An audible moan could be heard from Kirk — was this blasted ballet ever going to end?).

Blair (Albrecht), failing to leave while he was ahead (Giselle had, after all, forgiven his dastardly behavior, and as a corpse had little more to offer him), was suddenly surrounded by the Wilis, whose mirthless queen sentenced him to “death by dancing.”

Briefly the audience was frightened out of its wits by Blair’s mistimed leaps, jumps, turns and twirls. (One mother will later tell her husband that, “I haven’t been so frightened for anyone’s safety since Jessie crawled out onto the window ledge when she was eighteen months old and we still lived in that high rise.”)

Fortunately, no one fainted, no one had a cardiac, because Linda Hernandez (Giselle) returned to protect Blair (Albrecht) from having the Wilis force him to dance until he had inevitably, given his sorry technique, broken his right leg, left arm, nose or skull. Her love saved Blair (Albrecht), as the Wilis slunk back like Vampire Edward into their diurnal graves; love also saved Giselle, who having refused to give into feelings of hatred and vengeance, ceased to be a Wili. Presumably she then went to heaven. Either that or she will rot henceforth unnoticed in her grave. (Certainly, she couldn’t count on flowers from Duke Albrecht!)

This time it was Big Al who moaned — loud enough for all to hear. It was a moan of love mixed with desire. She hadn’t believed it possible for one girl to love another as much as she did Blair, a true heroine.

For perhaps the first time in the history of a Dame Pavlova novice production the entire audience stood to applaud a performance. True, it wasn’t the first standing ovation for one of its productions because its audiences were usually quick to rise to their feet in order to put on their raincoats and so be first to the exits. But the standing ovation never involved more than two-thirds of the audience. The rest sat on their hands.

This was, therefore, the first time that the entire audience was sufficiently awake at the conclusion of a student performance to rise en masse for the exits. Usually, there were a couple dozen parents or friends who had fallen into such a deep slumber that they had to be awakened by a sharp poke from a crestfallen member of the dance company or, lacking that, much, much later by a member of the cleaning staff.

Blair’s performance had kept everyone awake. It was like watching a tightrope walker perform without a net, some said. No, it was more like watching a lion tamer without a chair or whip, said others. Nascar fans said it was like watching a rookie driver trying to squeeze his car between two old pros in the final lap; and football fans said they hadn’t seen anything so exciting since “Rudy”, the famously puny (at 165-pound, 5-foot six-inch) defensive end, had sacked the Georgia Tech quarterback in the second and last play of his playing career with the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

Admiring his astonishing spunk, Rudy’s teammates carried him off the field on their shoulders; and briefly, it looked like Blair might exit the stage in similar fashion. Behind the curtain, his fellow dancers crowded around to thank him for filling in for Taylor. Alone in front of the curtain, Linda Hernandez (Giselle) received considerable applause, much of it for the bravery she had shown by trusting Blair to lift her into the air.

As for Blair, the applause was interspersed with shouted compliments — or maybe they were insults, for the “praise” had a calculated ambiguity, as in “Way to go, kid, it took real guts to dance like that in public” or “Thank you, Duke Albrecht, for proving that an evening of student dance can be as suspenseful as a Hollywood thriller” or “Kid, you’re a natural performer. I haven’t seen so many pratfalls since Charlie Chaplin, Curly Howard and Chevy Chase were in their prime.”

Immediately after the dancers had made their final exit from the stage for the single dressing room, Maggie cut short her family’s chatter about Blair’s key role and remarkable performance:

That will be quite enough talk about Blair’s humiliation, thank you. This was supposed to be the climax of Blair’s first four months as a female; and what was it instead? It was a bloody farce! The last thing I expected to see tonight was my daughter prancing around the stage pretending to be a grown man! A man! And not just any man, mind you, but a man who disguises himself as another male in order to seduce a consumptive female, who isn’t half as cute as, from my count, six of the Wilis. I mean — is there some kind of plot afoot to confuse Blair as to her true gender and identity?

“Now, honey …” Laird began.

“Don’t honey me! I am determined to uncover who is at the heart of this conspiracy to put Blair in a masculine role, thereby undoing weeks of progress in getting her to accept her feminine destiny. Just the other day she was asking for something to help her develop a mature female body more quickly; and now she’s been confused by hearing a lot of men praise her “manly” courage and athleticism. Blair has been sabotaged! Are any of you responsible?”

Maggie looked fiercely at Kirk, Laird and Alicia; but they all shrugged, and she realized deep down that none of her extended family had the means, the motive, or the money to bribe Mr. Five-Cent into risking permanent damage to his school’s reputation by assigning Blair a leading role in Giselle. No, if there was a culprit, it wasn’t Big Al, Kirk or Laird. It had to be the Fargo pimp or Monica, his dimwitted assistant.

“The three of you need to wait here for Blair. If she arrives before I get back, then I’ll meet you all at the McDonald’s across the street. I’m going to tear a strip off the clowns who run this so-called school.”

And before anyone could reply Maggie strode determinedly to the stage, climbed up onto it, and continued to and through the wings in search of a backstage confrontation with the impresarios of the ballet.

She found Lucky Five-Cent in a corridor giving Monica Rafferty his version of an after-show “rap-up”. Monica was dressed in a simple white blouse and black slacks, her only affectation being a paisley silk neckerchief. Five-Cent, in seeking gangsta chic, looked quite the wangsta: He was dressed entirely in black (save for the gold around his aviator sunglasses and bling-bling), his outfit comprised of a Brooklyn-style baseball cap (on sideways), a “Panther & Cobra” zip-up hoodie and black tee, bling-bling, Unlimited Drips shorts and (sockless) Coogi mid-height footwear sneakers.

As Maggie neared, Five-Cent, bowing deeply from the waist while flourishing his Chi Sox baseball cap like a Virginia cavalier, saluted Maggie: “Here come the queen bee herself! Monica, she’s gotta be the prize bee-i-itch here cuz her whelp is da bomb; that little thing be the funkiest white girl I done see. Shiznit, considerin’ the tough situ, that little hoe was bumpin’; she was down for it! That fox was showing off her booty real fine!”

Five-Cent stopped the flow when he realized that Maggie, far from being pleased with the praise he was heaping on Blair, was looking like someone whose quarter of weed had been ganked.

“My bad, Ms. Maguire, I should let youse get a chance to rap. Wassup?

“Cut the crap, whitey. I don’t like being called a bitch, and I definitely don’t like my daughter being called a little whore. You know that I enrolled Blair at Dame Pavlova because I wanted her to experience the ultimate thrill for a girl her age — to dance in public in a pink tutu or a white dress with gossamer wings. I wanted her to be a Wili! Instead, you had her masquerading as a dude and parading around with an overstuffed dance belt. Are you trying to fuck with my girl’s mind? Are you trying to make her gay, or worse, a transvestite like George Sand or Gertrude Stern? Why the hell did you do it?”

Five-Cent pulled back, cowering from the verbal assault. Afraid of being whacked, he slunk partly behind Monica for protection. Once there he felt safe enough to retort: “Shi-it, woman, is you totally loco? What you bitching about? We made your hot-ass daughter into a star!” Seeing Maggie’s hands forming fists, the short little man disappeared behind Monica.

That was Monica’s cue: “Please allow me to explain, Ms. Maguire, since this was my production and I made the decision to give the role of Duke Albrecht to Blair. I felt she was the appropriate choice after Tyler broke a leg trying to stand on point atop the seat of his moving bicycle. Because of his folly, we had no choice but to ask a girl to play the male lead. Blair, I admit, was not the first girl we thought of for the role of Albrecht; indeed, given her inexperience, she was actually the last.”

“You’re not telling me that Blair got the male part because she was the only girl who wanted it?”

“Not at all. Quite the contrary. Blair actually showed less interest in the role of Albrecht than any of the other girls, save for Linda Hernandez, who was already slated for the role of Giselle. I think the idea of a leading role intimidated Blair; that, and she said that you were keen on seeing her in Wili white. But the auditions for the role of Albrecht went so poorly that I, with the concurrence of Mr. Five-Cent, came to see Blair as our best candidate.”

“How could that possibly be? My Blair is a sweet girl, but her dancing ability reminds me of Elaine’s “Dry Heave” dance with the “little kicks” on the Seinfeld Show. It’s a wonder that Linda Hernandez can still walk after their love duets.”

“True, all too true. Yet you’re overlooking the assets that Blair brought to the part. First of all, Blair is by far the best actress in her dance class. She alone could make the part of Duke Albrecht believable; she alone among the girls could make us forget that she was a girl in a boy’s part. Second, Blair has unusually strong leg and arm muscles for a girl so loath to exercise. I felt that her physical strength would make up for her lack of technique when it came to lifting her co-star. Blair staggered about a lot when doing the lifts tonight, but she didn’t once drop Linda on her derriere, and that might not have been the case had I chosen a less muscular girl. The third reason is that Blair can’t dance well enough to be a Wili, and if I asked any other girl to be Albrecht, I would have been effectively a Wili short.”

“Not good enough for the corps de ballet, but good enough for the second lead? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I thought you knew that the male roles in a ballet as antique as Giselle don’t require anywhere near as much expertise as any of the female roles. The male is little more than a porteur, his primary job being to carry or support the ballerinas as they do the real dancing and arching. So I told Blair to plant the soles of her feet firmly on the ground whenever one of the girls, usually Giselle, came near. I said they’d cue her on what to do next. As for the leaps expected of a male character, I simply told Blair that she should, given her absence of technique, simply jump as high and as far as she could. Sheer exuberance, I said, would have to compensate for her lack of form. And, you must admit, it largely did. Your daughter was a big hit with the audience. She enjoyed herself immensely.”

“Well, I didn’t enjoy the evening — not in the slightest. You had no business putting my daughter in a male role without consulting either me or her father. You didn’t consult her father, did you? I see you shake your head, so you admit that you acted in a highhanded way that has made a mockery of the ballet as a finishing school for young ladies. Madame Rafferty and Mr. Five-Cent, if that’s you still hiding behind your assistant, this is the last you will see of either Blair or me. I am withdrawing her from this mockery and sham of a ballet school.”

“I beg you to reconsider, Ms. Maguire, for you won’t find a better dance school for Blair. All the ballet academies in the region are drastically short of boys, and if you take Blair to one of our competitors, I assure you that, given Blair’s strengths and weaknesses, that they’ll assign her a male role in their productions too.”

“Well, I never! What an insult to my daughter — to suggest that she’s not feminine enough for a female role!”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Monica feebly replied.

“Well, that’s what I heard,” Maggie rejoindered. “You, Madame, are no lady; and you, Sir, are no black man.” And with those insults, Maggie stomped down the corridor, and then out of view.

Five-Cent emerged: “Don’t pay her no mind, Monica baby. I know why that poontang be buggin’ us. She is a playa hata. She don’t like to see that little hoe of hers become a player and get some juice, some respect. Lordy, that old ass bitch is a attention whore just like her sweet fuckin’ daughter.”

“Whatever you say, boss, whatever you say. I don’t envy Blair having a mother like that. I do hope that sweet girl will be all right.”

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. After his extraordinary dance debut, Maggie is determined never to have Blair appear in public as a boy again.

Chapter 10 Choice at McDonald’s

“Blair, you were amazing. Your performance was exciting, daring, frightening even. Son… Blair, I mean, I’ve never been prouder of you.” Laird then literally applauded his youngest child in front of Kirk and Blair’s two biggest admirers, Maggie and Big Al, who joined Laird in clapping loudly enough to turn the heads of two families sitting near to them in McDonald’s.

Laird continued:

This is the first ballet I’ve ever seen. And frankly, until now I believed it was for only for sissies. Was I ever wrong! I owe you an apology, Blair, for ever thinking that ballet was like golf or tennis. It takes real guts to leap as high into the air as you did when you obviously weren’t sure of where you were coming down! Now I realize that ballet is a bruising contact sport — like football or pro soccer. Sometimes I saw you run over two or three Wilis in order to get to the girl playing Giselle. It was incredible how often she spun into you, almost knocking you over. But Blair, you stood your ground …”

“Dad, I think you’ve got it wrong ….” Kirk began, but Laird cut him off: “Blair, you made me mighty proud of the way you almost always got the better of the collisions, even when a dancer charged at you like an enraged bull at a cape. And are you ever strong! Strong enough to be able to haul Giselle’s sorry butt up repeatedly from the stage after she got her feet entangled with yours. What’s wrong with that girl? Why wasn’t she looking where she stepped? Is she nearsighted and too vain to wear glasses?”

“Yes, Laird, Blair certainly stole the show,” Maggie said; “but it was monstrous that our daughter wasn’t allowed to play a female role. I’ve already told the school’s management that our entire family was outraged by the miscasting. Blair, I was so looking forward to seeing you dance in a white dress and gossamer fairy wings. You were born to be a Wili.”

“So why was Blair given the male role?” Kirk asked, not so innocently. “Is my precious sister too masculine for a female role? Or is she too much of a sissy to make a convincing girl?”

Maggie gave him a severe look: “Kirk, don’t talk that way about your sister; it’s hurtful” — a painful reality that Big Al amply demonstrated to Kirk with a hard jab to the shoulder.

Maggie took control:

Alicia! No rough stuff in McDonald’s! You’re not eating at home. As for you, Kirk, I don’t think you’d want us to discuss whether there’s anything sissy about you. You can either refrain from butting in or we will change the topic to your sexuality. It’s possible that you’d make an even better female than Blair. Rather than discuss Blair’s performance should we go back to Dame Pavlova to enroll you as a girl dancer?”

“No effing way. I’d die first.”

“Then I take it, Kirk, that I have your silence while your father and I discuss with Blair her future as a dancer.”

Maggie then addressed Blair directly:

Sweetie, the two cretins who run Dame Pavlova have told me in no uncertain terms that, being permanently short of boys, that they will almost always be asking you to play a male role in the school’s performances. And they actually had the gall to tell me that the other ballet schools would treat you just as badly. They too would want you to play Albrecht, rather than Giselle.”

Blair was startled; he hadn’t heard anything like this from his instructors. “But why? Why won’t they let me play a female role? Do they think me a boy? Have they been … laughing at me behind my back?” Blair rapidly inhaled several times.

“Don’t fret, sweetie,” Maggie replied. “Monica and Mr. Zero Cents are 100% convinced that you’re a girl. And why wouldn’t they be? You were born a girl; you are a girl; you will be a girl and a woman until the day you die. But, like many girls, you’ve got a slight weight problem.”

“Blair has a weight problem? I don’t understand. Blair doesn’t look any heavier than the other girls her age. Indeed, she looks to me to be on the small size — like ten-year-old boys usually are when compared to girls their age,” Laird objected.

“Oh, I’m not saying that Blair weighs too much …”

“I’ll say! Blair’s weight is perfect — just like everything else about her,” announced Big Al with a big smile for Blair, who naturally blushed. Big Al then put a big paw on Blair’s bare thigh. Blair responded with a kiss on Big Al’s cheek and a hand on the big girl’s jeans.

“Maggie! Dad! Alicia and Blair are acting like lesbos again! Can’t you get them to behave themselves in public,” Kirk said loudly enough to be heard at the next table.

Laird responded: “Kirk, hush. Don’t raise your voice in a posh restaurant. As for you girls, a bit of decorum please.”

“Please let me continue — without interruptions,” Maggie interjected:

As I was saying, Blair has a weight problem that makes it difficult for her to dance the female roles. The problem is a simple one: Her weight is mal-distributed, with the result that she lacks the balance of most other females. It’s a simple, well-known fact, Laird, Kirk, that we women have better balance than you men; that’s why only female gymnasts work on the balance beam, and why any reality show that wants a girl to beat the guys asks everyone to stand on top of a pole or to walk a tightrope. Why do we gals have better balance? Because of the way we’re built — close to the ground with lots of weight around the hips, instead of a protruding beer belly that even you, Kirk, will be developing by age twenty-one. Simply put, women have a lower center of gravity — like a sleek sports car — while you guys are as easy to tip over as a SUV. No male dancer can stand on point the way the gals do.”

“Let me get this,” Laird replied. “You’re saying that Blair lacks the balance needed for female roles because she doesn’t have enough weight around her hips.”

“Precisely! At ten she also lacks the mammaries that we females use to such advantage for our twirls, turns and pirouettes. Breasts plus hips equal body in motion!”

“Hmm, what are you suggesting?” Laird asked. He wasn’t at all sure he liked the drift of the conversation. Blair wondered too: Was his mommy saying that he’d never be allowed to dance a female role unless he grew boobies? That raised a bigger question in his mind: Was the role of Giselle worth a body change?

As Maggie spoke, Big Al’s hand disappeared under Blair’s skirt. Thus hidden, the only sure evidence of its progress was the glazed look in Blair’s eyes. At a crucial juncture in Blair’s life, the kid was finding it impossible to concentrate on what Maggie was saying, just as Big Al likely intended.

“What am I suggesting? Simply this — that the deplorable choice of the Pavlova dance academy to assign a male role to Blair has left us with no choice but to commence the feminization of Blair’s body, and to accomplish it as quickly as possible so that she will never again face the abject humiliation of being asked to pose as a male in public. In short, Blair should start taking estrogen as soon as feasible. Am I not right? What say you, Laird? And you, Blair, and you too, Alicia. You also have a stake in this discussion.”

Laird grunted what may have been a yes, or maybe it was simply a grunt. Big Al, on the other hand, said it was a great idea; she was all for it; and she would help Blair adapt to her new body. “You can consider me,” Big Al said, “ecstatic over this decision.”

As for Blair -- with body arched in the chair, toes curled up, eyes looking towards heaven — “she” was simply ecstatic. When Blair’s spirit finally returned to the mundane world of McDonald’s, “she” cooed: “Whatever Alicia wants is cool by me.” Big Al rewarded Blair with a big wet kiss on the lips.

Kirk was pouting: “You didn’t ask me what I thought of your giving Blair a girl’s body as fast as possible.”

“Kirk, I don’t think you have the right of veto. Everyone else, including Blair, is eager for her to develop such a womanly body that she will never again be a credible male, whether it’s in dance, at school or at her white-dress wedding. So I do hope, Kirk, you’re not going to be negative. Blair doesn’t need negativity on the day of her first outing as a dancer.”

“Me, negative? Never. Not bloody likely. As far as I am concerned, I’d like Blair to grow boobs next week and get her dick cut off the week after. Why wait?” Kirk looked around: Everyone was nodding, although Blair may simply have been giving Alicia permission to move her hand, palm up, underneath his slightly raised rump.

Kirk continued: Well, I’ve sot the solution to Blair’s problems. Remember, Maggie, when you asked me to look up herbal hormones on the Internet? Well, not only did I look them up, but I also bought enough of ‘em to make Blair look like Miley Cyrus.”

At this point, Kirk emptied the pockets of his jeans, his shirt and his hoodie, producing one bottle of pills (or capsules) after another, until seven bottles of herbal hormones occupied the center of their table.

Maggie picked each of them up to read their labels: one bottle of saw palmetto, two bottles of Evanesce-ES, two bottles of Feminol, one bottle of AndroEase and one of CalmCompanion.

With some mispronunciation and misinformation, Kirk explained that this was the first month’s supply of “syngized” herbal extracts that would pump Blair’s breasts and thighs full of natural, fi-toe-stral estrogons, while blocking sperm-making in his testosterones.

Kirk added: “Blair needs to take 6 caps of Effervesce per day, four of FemAll, and two each of the willy shrinkers. I’ve even bought a cream for Blair to rub on her breasts to help them grow. Maggie, just make sure that Blair takes lots of ho-mones three times a day and she’ll need a real brassiere in a month or two, instead of a kiddy training bra.”

“Kirk, I never …. I am very impressed that you showed so much initiative. But how on ever did you know that we’d be talking about breast augmentation today?” Maggie asked.

“When Blair, bubbling and gushing like a tween girl, told me that he was set to play Duke Albrecht, a guy, in the dance show, I figured you would be revising your timetable for Blair as soon as you saw her in a dude’s clothes, even in the sissy clothes worn by male ballet dancers. So I came armed with the solution to Blair’s problem, to your problems, and to mine.”

“That was extraordinarily thoughtful — and perceptive — of you, Kirk. But where did you find the money for the pills? They must be expensive,” Maggie asked.

Kirk looked down at his sneakers as he said, “Well, I had to buy the pills on-line using a credit card.” He lowered his voice to add, “So I sort of used dad’s.”

“What the f….” Laird started to say, but Maggie cut him off sharply: “Laird, how can we be angry with Kirk for using your card? What choice did he have? There is no way the Feminol company would have accepted cash or sent feminizing hormones to a minor. The boy had to pretend to be you, an adult. No harm was done, and much good can now be done.”

“No harm done? But what if the Feminol company puts my name on a marketing list? The postman will tell everyone that I’m a tranny if flyers advertising fake breasts and vaginas, padded panties, size 18 dresses and extra-large, high-heeled shoes start filling up our mailbox, and all of them addressed to Laird Finlayson, female impersonator. We’ll be run out of the neighborhood! I’ll lose my job at the insurance company.”

“Their website promised that they wouldn’t share your address with anyone,” Kirk replied. “If they lied, the worse that will happen is your online mailbox may get some ads for 5x-sized lingerie, but that’s no worse than the Viagra and penis enlargement ads I bet you already get — not that I’m saying that you need anything like that.”

“We’ll see what happens, young man. We’ll also see about a suitable punishment for using my credit card without permission,” Laird said.

Maggie whispered in Kirk’s ear. “Don’t worry, Kirk. I’m proud of you, and I’ll make good any cuts your dad makes in your allowance. There is no way I’ll let you be punished for helping to feminize your sister. That would be insane.”

Kirk pushed two printouts towards Maggie. After reading them, she knew exactly the dose she wanted Blair to take, starting right there and then in McDonald’s: four of the phytoestrogens, two of the anti-androgens and, for good luck, two saw palmettos. However, the instructions warned against taking the capsules on an empty stomach, so she suggested that Laird take their orders. Everyone but Maggie wanted a burger and fries, but she admonished Blair for ordering a Big Mac combo: “Sweetie, if you’re going to be a ballet dancer, then you’ll have to order a salad just like your mommy. Dancers can’t afford to gain weight; it makes the girls difficult for a boy to lift and the jumps difficult for a boy to attempt. There are no lard-asses in dance.”

“Then I don’t want to be a dancer. I want a burger!” Blair said, stamping his foot on the floor for emphasis.

“Blair, let there be no doubt about this. If your father buys a Big Mac for you, then I will have no choice but to withdraw you from Dame Pavlova. Your promising dance career will be over. Is that understood? So what will it be — a salad or a burger?”

“A double cheeseburger combo. I suck at dancing anyway. I’m much better at soccer. I’ll help dad bring back the food,” and Blair sped off to the order counter, arriving there first.

Maggie smiled. For a mess of potatoes, cereal and beef, Blair had readily sold her birthright to become a dancer. That was fine with Maggie, as she had no intention of letting her daughter anywhere near another ballet company until she had the body and balance of a bosomy teenaged girl. So Blair would be allowed on this day to eat a big cheesburger; after all, her dancing had burned off hundreds of calories.

Of course, it would be salads for Blair at lunch from tomorrow onward because Kirk’s printouts advised that a feminizing “girl” had to avoid carbohydrates. Maggie also realized that It would be easier to constrain Blair’s waist development with extra-firm shapewear (with the end goal of an hourglass figure) if the girl were put on a diet that gave her just enough calories for feminization, but not enough to lengthen bones or strengthen muscles. Maggie could see no advantage to Blair in growing much taller; short girls had their pick of males.

As Blair and Laird did the ordering for the table, Maggie swore Big Al and Kirk to do everything they could to persuade Blair to take her hormone capsules “three times a day without fail.” Big Al said, “Blair will do anythin’ to keep the good feelings coming. I’ve been teachin’ her to love the female body — mine and hers. There is no way that she’s going to cheat me out of seeing her curves and breasts grow larger and her male clitoris, smaller, as all should.”

“Too much information,” protested Kirk, who didn’t like being reminded that his buddy Big Al was sexing it up with Blair. Kirk also seemed reticent to talk about the bottles of hormones. None of the bottles, Maggie pointed out, was sealed, which was highly unusual, she thought, in the post-Tylenol-tampering era. And after a quick count of the capsules in one of the bottles of Feminol, Maggie concluded that none of the bottles contained its advertised number of capsules. “What gives?” she asked.

Big Al answered for Kirk: “I was with Kirk — at the computer — when he ordered the hormones. They’re expensive, just like you said, and so Kirk asked in each case for less than a full month’s supply. That’s why there appear to be some pills missing. Ain’t that the truth, Kirk?”

“Yeh, that’s true. I wanted you, Maggie, to see how many bottles Blair would have to take each month. So I asked for fewer capsules in each bottle. It made sense to me.”

“Well, if it made sense to you, I guess it should make sense to all of us. But, Kirk dear, I will need you to go on-line with me tomorrow to ensure that we have an adequate supply for the remainder of the year. Blair will have to take pills like these for the rest of her life, but it’s a small price to pay for my happiness — and hers, of course.”

As Blair and Laird returned with four burger combos and a bacon ranch and chicken salad, Maggie could see that Kirk and Alicia were whispering conspiratorially. At her age, Maggie didn’t have hearing sharp enough to catch more than a couple of words, one of which was “Blair”. She did hope that Kirk and Alicia were going to cooperate as promised; but one never knew with kids.

Maggie already had given six capsules and two pills to Blair, who having secured one last assurance that their effect was temporary and reversible, raised them to his lips. He was about to pop them into his mouth, then to be washed down with an orange soda, when all hell broke loose in McDonald’s. Blair, startled by the clamor, accidentally dropped the capsules and pills down into two small, open containers of ketchup.

The commotion had started on the far side of McDonald’s, though within direct eyeshot of the Finlayson table as they discovered after the row became sufficiently noisy and intense to break through the mesmerizing discussion of Blair’s gender transformation. Some tables were already emptying, their occupants heading for the exits; others were reaching in their handbag or baby carriage for a concealed weapon, some of which even had a legal permit. (Mrs. Edna Podboski’s zip gun and Reverend Jim Brown’s sawed-off shotgun, however, were definitely illegal, shame on them.)

Although both disputants were to blame, Miss Lucretia Umbridge should have known better than to ask Mr. Felix La Rond, her reluctant companion at the dance concert, to join her for coffee at a fast-food restaurant “in order to get to know each other better.” She should have appreciated that La Rond, the consummate professional, would decline to discuss Blair’s sanity publicly in a fast-food joint. Such conversations were, he believed, reserved for higher class establishments like Red Lobster or Olive Garden.

Miss Umbridge’s essential point, ever more loudly expressed when the psychologist seemed too dense to comprehend it, was that Blair had shown, by dressing up as a female in order to dress up as a male who then dressed up as another male, that he was a schizophrenic, bipolar, multiple-personality, narcissistic, paranoid psychotic — possibly even a bed wetter — who needed immediate psychiatric help, preferably in a secure, institutional setting in a far-off State.

La Rond, busily eating his second “double quarter pounder with cheese,” wiped his mouth with a stained shirt sleeve, then grunted something.

“How can you possibly disagree?’ Miss Umbridge said, her voice rising to a fever pitch. “Look at the facts — first, the boy upsets an entire school by insisting that he’s a girl. Then, after everyone has bent over backward to accommodate this first delusion, he changes back into a boy in front of the entire community, to the shame and horror of his own family — you saw the mother rush out of the theater. Did you see her face? It was purple, I tell you, a violent shade of violet. Come on, admit it, Felix! That kid changes gender the way that other people — though not everyone [she looked at the psychologist with disgust] — change their underclothes. That’s abnormal. Even you can, Felix, can surely see it.”

La Rond started to respond, but decided he’d rather tackle a double side of fries. His silence stirred something primeval in Lucretia Umbridge. She started shouting, “It’s your fault, you fat pig, that the kid’s gone psycho. It’s your damn fault; it’s entirely your fault.”

She then deliberately swept his ketchup-drenched fries onto the floor, as well as onto the arm, lap and walker of Maude Benedict, an elderly lady so hard of hearing that she hadn’t noticed the disturbance. The shock of seeing her arm mysteriously “bleeding” (with ketchup) caused Maude to scream, “This is the Devil’s work! The Devil is right here in McDonald’s!” Maude rose to her feet, reached for her walker (apparently to make a quick escape), but, misjudging the distance, she missed it entirely, ending up on her hands and knees, desperately crawling for the nearest exit.

Either out of god-fearing chivalry or gut-shriveling thirst, La Rond rose ponderously to his feet, his table shaking violently as he used it to lever his mass upward. It wasn’t clear whether he intended to help Maude Benedict to get up from the floor or merely to return to the cash registers to replace his large fries. It also wasn’t clear whether he deliberately spilled his large Hi-C Orange Lavaburst and Miss Umbridge’s small Diet Coke on the teacher’s lap. Both drinks had probably been launched into motion by La Rond’s pressure on the table, but Miss Umbridge, convinced that the psychologist had deliberately wetted her, threw what remained of his drink, mostly ice, in his face. Umbridge screamed, La Rond howled and Maude Benedict yelled, as the orange drink dripped off the table into her eyes, “Fire! Fire! I can see the fires and hear the hounds of Hell!”

Someone reacted by pulling the fire alarm, which was the signal for everyone, including Big Al and the Finlaysons, to run for their lives — out of the overheated McDonald’s, past the garbage bins and spilled trays into the puddles of the rain-chilled parking lot. Last out were Maude Benedict, who required help from two of the teenaged counter staff; Felix La Rond, whose mass took extra time to gain momentum; and Miss Umbridge, her arm tightly gripped by the McDonald’s manager, who, watching and listening from afar, had decided that she was the culprit to hand over to the police.

Big Al, Maggie and the three Finlaysons watched awestruck, as the responders to the two emergencies — the fire alarm and the report of a “crazy lady” endangering the patrons of McDonald’s — decided whether the source of both alarums should be taken away in handcuffs in a police car or in a straitjacket in an ambulance. By this point, there was little doubt as to the identity of the “crazy lady” because Maude, fallen asleep from exhaustion, looked considerably saner than Miss Umbridge, who was loudly and profanely trying to extricate herself from the Manager’s grip in order to force “the fat turd over there” to do something about the “the little shit of a boy who thinks he’s a girl who thinks he’s a boy who thinks he’s another boy, who probably thinks he’s Jesus Christ.”

That last bit sounded pretty loony and fire chief and four police officers agreed with the EMT paramedics that Miss Umbridge should go as quietly as possible to a public hospital for psychiatric assessment. Instead, she went as noisily as possible, so noisily that it took three days of pleading from Felix La Rond, Master of Psychology, and Nea von Aft, Principal of Lewis A. Clark Charter School, to “spring” her from the cuckoo’s nest.

By the time of her release, Miss Lucretia Umbridge was mad enough to sacrifice her career if that is what it would take to rid the public schools of Oregon of a shape-shifting demon named Blair Finlayson.

When they finally returned to their table and a complimentary beverage (or fries) care of McDonald’s, the Finlaysons, now drenching wet, excitedly discussed the fate of Blair’s homeroom teacher. Naturally they hoped that they had seen the last of her. Blair spoke the most kindly when “she” expressed the hope that maybe Miss Umbridge might be able to continue her teaching while living at the asylum. Maggie, in contrast, thought that the best fate for the “hateful” teacher was to be treated as badly as anyone of her students for the rest of her “unnatural life”.

While thus engaged, they were surprised to see the corpulent figure of Felix La Rond, Master of Psychology, looming over them, a chocolate triple shake in one hand, baked apple pie in the other, blocking their view of the restaurant. He spoke first, pausing after every third or fourth word to guzzle his shake or to chomp on his pie: “Might I intrude … Ms. Maguire? What … I have to say … will … only take a … moment. But first … am I correct … to assume that this … handsome gentleman is … your husband Laird … and that one of … these two stalwart lads … is Blair’s brother Kirk?”

Big Al used a few choice words to correct the misapprehension.

“A thousand pardons … my dear girl. Of course, Kirk … looks more the man … than you. And last … but far from least … is Blair, who was … stunning, simply stunning … in her dance debut. However, do tell me … child, why you were … cast in a male role. I would have … assumed a priori … that you, of … all girls, would have … insisted on a female role … if not that of … Giselle herself. Certainly, you are attractive … and feminine enough … for the lead female role.” La Rond terminated this encomium with a loud belch. He had finished his snacks. He wouldn’t tarry long at the table before hunting for more.

Blair beamed — almost as brightly as Maggie, who quickly explained that Blair hadn’t been given a choice of roles: “My daughter either had to pretend to be a boy or there wouldn’t have been a performance.”

“Ah, if only Blair’s teacher had known that the gender choice was not Blair’s to make, then she might not have become so agitated that she had to go to the hospital for … ah … consultations. I do hope the Finlayson family will be discrete about the … ah … disturbance here today. Ms. Umbridge was having a bad day — don’t we all? — and she shouldn’t have to pay with her career for a brief … ah … attack of nerves. She’ll soon be back in the harness, more eager than ever to help pull Blair along to the next grade level.”

Kirk and Blair duly promised to say not a word at school about the fire alarm, police, ambulance or straitjacket. Blair did, it should be noted, cross his fingers as he made the pledge.

“Ms. Maguire, may I take advantage of this chance meeting to suggest that Blair should start seeing me once a week at school. Possibly immediately after school on Wednesdays? It’s important that I build a case file, demonstrating Blair’s mental soundness and fitness for school work or otherwise Blair’s crossdressing during Giselle might be used by Miss Umbridge or others that Blair is so confused about her gender as to require special education elsewhere. By building the case for considering Blair as a true transsexual who has no doubt whatsoever about her own innate femininity, I believe I can make it impossible to expel Blair from Lewis A. Clark Charter School as long as Blair is circumspect about her attire.”

La Rond addressed Blair directly: “I am right, Blair, in believing that you have no second thoughts about spending the rest of your life as a female?”

La Rond patiently waited for an answer while Blair debated his options. Of course, he had second thoughts and would continue to have them until the estrogen coursing through his system (coupled with the suppression of testosterone) made his mind and emotional makeup more feminine. There wasn’t a lot of testosterone in the pre-pubescent boy, but it was sufficient to produce doubts. And yet, if he expressed those doubts, Blair realized that he might be playing into the hands of his great antagonist, Miss Umbridge.

Blair had to affirm he was a transsexual or possibly face the teacher’s wrath without any allies. Maybe even Maggie would turn on him, and Kirk would offer little protection against bullying if Blair went back on their implicit deal — namely, that Kirk would cover Blair’s back as long as Blair was making strides towards becoming a female student at another school.

As Blair mulled over his best answer, Maggie answered La Rond’s query on her daughter’s behalf: “Dr. La Rond, I assure you that Blair’s determination to become a female in body and soul has never wavered, and will never waver, for just today, not more than forty minutes ago, Blair asked for and greedily gobbled down several estrogen and testosterone-suppressant capsules. At this very moment she is turning into a genuine woman before our very eyes.”

“Thanks for that information. Congratulations, Blair, on making a tough choice, but I am confident that it’s the right choice for you. I shall record this information in your school file and also inform Principal von Aft that you have finally taken a definitive, indisputable step towards adopting a female persona along with your female clothes.”

After a brief pause, while he considered his words carefully, La Rond continued: “There is one other point I’d like to make about Blair. While her dance moves are refreshingly novel and infinitely entertaining, I do not feel that ballet is her true forte. Blair is not a natural athlete. She is, however, a remarkable talent as a thespian. She has a true gift for acting — never have I felt the shame and longing of Duke Albrecht more intensely than I did while watching Blair dance the last act. Professionals could not do as well. Blair should attend an acting school, either in addition to her dance lessons or, preferably, in their stead.”

Maggie then told the psychologist that Blair and the family had decided to find an alternative to the Dame Pavlova experience. Did Dr. La Rond possibly know of an acting school in the central city? As it turned out, he did — an acting school near SW 4th Avenue run by Wil Shakspear.

After her disappointment at not finding a genuine Russian in charge of Dame Pavlova, Maggie got a bit rude about the school’s name: “The Will Shakespeare acting school! Is Will another phony hiding, like Mr. Zero Cents, behind the name of a great artist! What’s Shakspeare’s real name? How about Archie Leach or Norma Jean Baker?”

La Rond got a bit huffy, which was a bit scary since he looked big enough to blow a house down. “My dear lady, I assure you that Wil Shakspear is the real name of the school’s founder and head teacher. Wil is a contraction of her real name, an understandable contraction when you consider that it’s short for Willamette, as in the river and valley. As for Shakspear, that’s an English translation of her American Indian name. She is, you should know, a member of the Lower Umpqua tribe. So I would not, if I were you, make fun of her name. She literally knows how to shake a spear when’s she angry.”

After the requisite apologies, he gave Maggie and Laird the information, including the proper spelling, which they’d need to inquire about enrolling Blair in acting lessons at the Wil Shakspear School of Acting.

La Rond had, it turned out, one last thing to say — this time about Kirk: “Ms. Maguire and Mr. Finlayson,” he whispered when he saw that the boy had become distracted, lost in his own world; “I am mildly surprised that Kirk has not come to see me of his own volition. I am even more surprised that none of the teachers has sent him to me after one of his countless brawls in and about the school. From what I have heard, Kirk is a seriously disturbed youth.”

Laird bridled, then challenged: “What? Are you saying that Kirk needs psychological counseling because he behaves like a normal boy, unafraid of taking on his peers in a bit of rough and tumble?”

La Rond rebutted:

Normal? I think not, not unless you consider a volcano about to blow to be the normal state of the Los Angeles basin or an American ski resort. Can you not see how tense your son is? Look at the paper cups from your first round of drinks. Kirk has twisted every one of them into knots. His leg shakes so violently that it’s a wonder that it hasn’t knocked the food off your table. Look at Kirk’s hands. They’re clenched, don’t you see? It’s rare that they’re not. Mr. Finlayson, your son Kirk is seething with emotions that he desperately needs to discuss with someone who is, frankly, not a member of his family. There is so much anger in the boy; we must find a way to understand its origins before he can safely vent it. I must insist for Kirk’s sake, for Blair’s sake as well, that Kirk also see me once a week to discuss his hopes, fears and anxieties. Don’t deny me this request, for I do sincerely believe that Kirk has much more than the average teen to get off his chest.

La Rond then put his big paw of a hand on Kirk’s shoulder to get his attention: “How about it, Kirk? Will you come by my office at lunch hour on Wednesdays and Thursdays? We’ll share sandwiches and desserts as you tell me about your hopes and dreams. In me, you’ve got someone who will really listen — for a change. Naturally, we’ll discuss your feelings toward Blair. Her transition is bound to be unsettling for you.”

The last allusion to Blair alerted Maggie and Laird to their simplistic assumptions about Kirk’s ability to cope with having a transsexual for a brother. Possibly, Blair’s flagrant lack of masculinity was undermining Laird’s sense of his own. Yes, the rotund La Rond was right: Kirk needed to see a shrink, and the zero cost of his sessions with the school psychologist struck them as eminently reasonable.

Surprisingly, Kirk didn’t put up much of a fuss about sharing his lunch hours with “the school shrink”. Instead, he said that there was much he could tell La Rond, but for the sake of the family he probably wouldn’t. While Maggie didn’t appreciate the hint of menace, she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what Kirk was alluding to. That being the case, she wasn’t about to let Kirk worm his way out of his sessions “on the couch” for fear that he might “spill the beans about god knows what”.

After the psychologist had finally waddled off to order his third helping of dessert, Maggie finally remembered that Blair never had, as she had claimed to La Rond, actually taken the herbal hormones. Blair became quite flustered as he looked for them, but finally found one of them sticking out of his ketchup. Blair had no problem pouring the ketchup, capsules and all, down his throat. With that one dramatic flourish, Blair really did start his body down the path to womanhood, as the next three days of nausea made abundantly clear.

Told that the best treatment for his flu symptoms were more of the capsules, Blair faithfully followed Doctor Maggie’s orders for the first four days, at the end of which his nipples were tingling with signals to darken and grow. Blair, who had never experienced puberty as a male, was about to enter it as a female. The constant tingling drew Blair’s fingers frequently to his nipples after he had smeared them with estrogen cream in an attempt to soothe the irritation.

But all that was in the future. While still at McDonald’s, Maggie reacted to Blair’s meal of hormones and ketchup with gushing praise: “You’re the best daughter any parent could ever wish for. Isn’t that so, Laird?”

Laird shrugged. Maggie was insistent: “Please say it, Laird. Blair needs to hear you say it.”

“Blair, you’re the best daughter a father could have.” Laird looked for approval from Maggie, and won it, even though Maggie wondered at his choice of word to emphasize.

“And definitely the best girlfriend a girl could have,” Big Al piped in.

With Maggie urgently prompting, Kirk added, “Yeah and you make an okay sister.”

They had a group hug. Kirk and Laird were clearly uncomfortable. Blair took pride of place. This was clearly “her” moment to star. Big Al, who had the best view of the world outside McDonald’s, suddenly became so excited that she released her grip on Blair to rush to a nearby window through which the sunlight was now streaming. The rain had finally let up. Big Al, considering it a favorable omen, went closer to the window to peer out.

Big Al announced: “Look everyone, it’s finally stopped raining. Wow, I think I see a rainbow.”

“It’s one of McDonald’s Golden Arches, you doofus,” shouted Kirk. But no, it was the real thing, as the family quickly discovered as they stood, awestruck at the window, to view the entire arc of a rainbow stretching, Maggie hoped, from Blair’s soccer pitch to their home in Bybee Lake. The extended family stood together silently, hand in hand, Laird glumly, Blair all smiles, and Maggie and Big Al with tears of joy in their eyes.

All of them wondered at the emotions convulsing Kirk’s body. He was shaking so violently that their hands transmitted his sobs from one person to the next so that even Maggie, at the other end of the human chain, felt one tremor after another pass through Blair’s hand to hers.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. After the pandemonium at McDonald’s, Blair has ingested his first feminizing hormones and Maggie thinks she sees a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Or was that merely a Golden Arch? In this chapter Kirk get wiser about politics and Blair, about sex change.

Chapter 11 A choice of tea parties

After her three days of psychological evaluation, Miss Umbridge took a two-week, mental-health leave before returning to Lewis A. Clark. It was the sweet life for Blair, as the substitute behaved more like a stand-up comic than like a teacher. He eschewed homework for student reports on “interesting websites” they had found in the nether sectors of the Internet. Best of all, he had no idea that Blair was supposed to be treated with suspicion and contempt. Instead, he quickly established that anyone questioning a student’s heterosexuality would be putting his or her own sexual orientation into discussion.

In contrast, life for Kirk had deteriorated. Indeed, on the morning after Blair first felt his nipples tingling from his daily estrogen intake, Maggie received a call at 11:00 a.m. to pick up Kirk, who had been sent home from school at the insistence of his Social Studies teacher, Adlai Stevenson Tingle.

The confrontation between teacher and student had been brewing ever since Tingle, obsessed with current events, had begun lecturing his class about Barack Obama, subprime mortgages and Cinco de Mayo instead of World History, as decreed by the official curriculum. Kirk, who rarely showed much interest in his studies, might not have cared about the shift in focus had the teacher been less dogmatic (what thirteen-year-old likes being told what he must think and do?) and had Kirk not been keen on learning more about Saudi Arabian and Afghan women. Kirk thought it “really cool” that they didn’t have to show their face in public. That way their looks weren’t being constantly assessed by visually-obsessed males. A homely kid, Kirk sometimes wished he could wear a nijab.

But world history, even the recent past, slipped by the wayside during the healthcare tussle in Congress. Republican “obstructionism” provoked Mr. Tingle into telling the students, ad nauseam, what he really thought about Republicans and political conservatives; capitalists, corporate shysters and oil-spilling sons of BP; climate deniers and Gaia-raping, Viagra-popping miners; test-pushing school boards; Big Business, Big Pharma and small business; Goldman Sachs, Lehman Brothers and all the other Wall Street bloodsuckers with Central European names; gun-toting, God-fearing, reactionary rubes; as well as foreign-owned companies, their runaway cars, lead-flaked toys and slave labor; Southern rednecks, addled Californians and toothless Appalachians; Cuban exiles and Hawaiian haoles; Mormon baby factories and Catholic baby molesters; Scientologists and babbling-in-tongues evangelicals; female-hating, ovum-loving anti-abortionists; treasonous (to the feminist cause) stay-at-home mothers; xenophobes, anthropophobes, anuptaphobes, tropophobes, gynophobes and homophobes; balding, middle-aged, male heterosexualists, ageists and lookists; ticky-tacky white suburbs and the “bourgeois” blacks who moved into them; methane-belching cows and bull-torturing Spaniards; Anglo-Saxon imperialists and their Afghan-hating friends; Bush-league presidents; Zionists, Texans and Nazis; “too-stupid-to-live” volunteer soldiers and deer hunters; the Americans who stole Oregon from its native people and the Southwestern states from Mexico; moose-hunting Alaska idiots; anti-immigrant bigots and racists; fatties, smokers, pet owners and carnivores; virtually all white males and most white females. Mr. Tingle said he especially “hated haters.”

Kirk didn’t know what to make of these tirades coming from the apparently self-loathing teacher, Mr. Tingle being a middle-aged, overweight, balding white, hamburger-eating Episcopalian from the California suburbs who still lived with his stay-at-home mother. Not only did the endless pronouncements from Mr. Tingle confuse Kirk, who was left uncertain as to whether it was Catholic priests, polygamous Mormons or Islamic mullahs who abused children, but he usually didn’t have enough prior knowledge to challenge the teacher to justify any of his self-evident biases.

Kirk did know, however, that he heartily disliked being told that he was a “privileged white kid”. Privileged? Did Mr. Tingle have any idea what it was like to grow up in a family where everything revolved around the sexual fancies of a kid brother?

There was one exception — one moment in the onslaught of opinion where Kirk espied an opening. It was during Mr. Tingle’s (by now) ritualistic condemnation of the Tea Parties as subversive, demagogic, racist and downright un-American. The teacher even mocked them as “tea baggers”.

Thanks to playground gossip, Kirk understood the insult being hurled at the conservative activists who had organized “tea parties” in instructive emulation of the destructive Boston Tea Party of 1773 to protest against “taxation without representation”. So he put up his hand for the first time in weeks and asked, his demeanor innocence incarnate, his teacher to explain the term “tea bagger”. Tingle, who prided himself on his ability to discuss all things sexual with his sixth graders, patiently explained that tea bagging was originally gay slang for one man’s putting his mouth entirely around the scrotum of another.

“So it’s something gay men do?” Kirk asked for repetition. The teacher’s affirmative gave Kirk his opening: “As I understand things, you despise the people who go to a Tea Party; and to demonstrate how much you despise them, you accuse them of performing gay sex acts on each other. So, aren’t you a homophobe, Mr. Tingle? Isn’t using ‘tea bagger’ as an insult the same as calling a dude a ‘pillow-biting, cock-sucking punk’? And didn’t you tell us that those were hateful words that we should never use?”

Mr. Tingle spluttered with rage. “How dare you insult your teacher, you uppity little punk! Get out of my class! Right now! Get your books and go tell the vice-principal that you’re being sent home for the rest of the day as punishment for brazen insolence. As Kirk left the class, he heard his teacher admonishing the class that while it was necessary for Kirk to be punished for his disrespect for authority, that they shouldn’t give the boy a hard time when he returned to class because the “poor kid already feels bad enough having a sissy for a brother.”

Inasmuch as Tea Parties had led to a half-day suspension, Kirk, being a recently-minted teenager, had no choice but to attend one. With luck, Mr. Tingle would see him on television. Now that would be choice indeed! It was easy to persuade Laird to take him to a Tea Party, as Laird, who hadn’t voted since Ross Perot lost his third-party bid, had never heard of the T.P. phenomenon. Laird readily bought the explanation that Kirk was expected to attend and report on a Tea Party as a Social Studies assignment.

It was more difficult, at first, to obtain Maggie’s consent, for she had heard that the Tea Parties were as disorderly as a teen house party with the parents away. There was no way, therefore, that she would permit Kirk to attend one, as long as Blair childishly insisted on tagging along. Blair, assuming there would be cake, clowns and ice cream, refused to “be left out of a party”. However, after two successive evenings had been marred by Kirk’s tantrums, Maggie received an invitation in the mail that permitted her to announce that she would take Blair to a tea party in Polish Knob, a small town south of Beaverton, while Kirk and Laird attended the political Tea Party downtown. Blair readily endorsed her plans after being told, quite truthfully, that he was more likely to find food and drink at the Polish Knob affair.

Kirk convinced his father that they’d have to carry homemade signs if they wanted to have a chance at getting their fifteen minutes of fame on television. It was difficult to know what to put on the signs, since Laird had never tuned into politics and the political signals Kirk had been receiving had been thoroughly distorted by an opinionated teacher. Simply put, both father and son hadn’t the foggiest idea of either the values or the goals of the Tea Party Movement. Even so, Kirk was, as a onetime boy scout, determined to carry a positive, patriotic message. And what could be more patriotic than supporting the President? Thus, Kirk devised two slogans that used “black slang” to express his family’s support for Barack Obama, the country’s first black President: “Obama is the shit!” and “Obama is the dopest President yet!” It’s hard to get more complimentary than that, Kirk believed.

At their Tea Party Kirk and Laird found themselves at the back of the crowd, their view of the podium blocked by a “fence” of waving placards, two Uncle Sams on stilts, two guys acting like asses in a donkey suit, and several Founding Fathers including a toothless George Washington and a bearded Abraham Lincoln, the latter played (disconcertingly for Laird and his son) by an exceptionally short woman.

Kirk and Laird heard not a word from the podium, partly because their hoodies muffled anything beyond the immediate sound of rain pelting concrete cobblestones, and partly because of the sales pitches from strolling hucksters of patriotic caps, tee shirts and buttons, but mainly because the two Finlaysons were yelling their own slogans in raucous disharmony with those of their neighbors. As most of the folks in the back were like themselves — middle-class whites from the suburbs — Kirk and Laird received a warm welcome for their brazen “insults” to the “socialist” President loathed by most of the Tea Partiers. Whenever Kirk shouted, “Obama is the shit,” he got a thumbs-up or a pat on the back from the men around him, although two or three of the older women muttered about “washing the child’s potty mouth with soap.”

It was only when Kirk and Laird chanced upon a middle-aged African-American wearing a business suit to the Tea Party that things got tense for the first time. An internist opposed to the Democrats’ healthcare package, he chided Kirk for making political dissent “so personal”: “Son, it’s always wrong to make an ad hominem attack on a politician, even the President, when it’s his party’s policies you should be opposing. After all, Barack Obama needed about 280 Democrats to get his mandates through Congress. I also think it bad manners for a child to call the President, any President, the ‘dopiest’.”

“Attack President Obama? That’s a crazy thing for you to say,” Kirk protested. “You’re a black dude, aren’t you? Don’t you know your own language? In ebony-icks, bad and dopest is compliments, heap big compliments. I’m calling Barack the dopest, not the dopiest. The “i” makes all the difference.”

“In the fourth century,” the internist replied, “an iota — that’s Greek for the letter ‘i’ made quite a difference. Adding it to the Greek word homos, thereby changing its English meaning from “the same” to “similar” when discussing Jesus and God, could get you declared a heretic to be executed. And your sign, son, does appear to have the damning ‘i’.”

And so it did appear because the incessant rain had caused the marker’s ink to run, an “i” magically surfacing between the “p” and “e”. Oops! After what the black man had said, Kirk now wondered whether his sign was somehow calling President Obama a “homos,” which appeared to be the Greek for “homo.” Kirk nervously looked around to see whether his father was standing close enough to cover his son’s back if they both needed to make a run for it.

“Son,” Kirk’s newest acquaintance now said. “After growing up in the home of two lawyers in Shaker Heights, Ohio, I went to Yale University and to the Harvard Medical School, and I do not, in consequence, know or speak Ebonics. Nor do I speak like a Hollywood Indian. But now that I know the true intent of your sloganeering, it’s incumbent on me to warn you that your message is not the one that this assemblage wish to read or to hear. Unlike you, they tend to dislike President Obama. Thus, I humbly suggest that before your apostasy becomes widely known that you and your father … RUN for your lives!”

The doctor chuckled as the party-crashers Kirk and Laird scuttled away like roaches from cake crumbs when the kitchen light comes on. “Those are two dumbass white boys” he said to a Latino friend, who replied, “Si, they’re as ignorant as an illegal looking for ‘la vida dulce’, the easy life, here in El Norte.”

Unfortunately, or unfortunately, neither Laird nor Kirk got to see themselves on television. Nor did anyone else, inasmuch as local television and radio deemed the rain-shortened, tri-neighborhood “Charity Run for Exotic Viral Diseases” to be a more newsworthy event. However, attendance at a Tea Party brought benefits to Kirk at school after Mr. Tingle somehow learned that Kirk had “courageously defied the riotous, neo-Nazi horde” with his pro-Obama message. From then on, Kirk could cut Mr. Tingle’s class at will, simply by saying that there was “anti-Tea Party stuff” to be done. While it would have been politically incorrect to call Kirk the “teacher’s pet”, he had definitely become the “teacher’s animal companion”.

Where attending a Tea Party ended up being a rewarding experience for Kirk, for Blair it proved more enlightening. Perhaps he should have realized that he wasn’t being taken to a political rally when his mom told him what to wear. Blair was to start with pink lipstick and eye shade, pink nail and toe polish, his electric pink Peace and Love bikini panties, a pink-and-white Peace Sign shaped (padded) bra, teardrop earrings and matching gold pendant (all with pink sapphires), a velvet pink hair band, her newest “party dress” (a thick strap, polyester tank dress in multi-tiered pink cloud chiffon and neckline of rosettes), and the only non-pink item — strappy, open-toe dress sandals with a soft satin fabric upper and glittering sequin trim and  ¾ inch chunky wedge heels. Blair had rarely looked more girlish and even now, after four months of dressing exclusively en femme, he felt foolish and vulnerable.

After the long, ninety-minute drive in the pouring rain to Polish Knob, a small town physically dominated by college buildings and a tall bulbous tower, the journey of Maggie and Blair came to an end in the visitor’s parking lot (aesthetically laid out in the shape of a camel’s toe) of the Yoni Punani Academy for Girls. Ominously (in a good sort of way), the rain stopped at the precise moment that Maggie turned off the car engine. The sunshine removed the last of the clouds that had been darkening Blair’s visage.

After a short stroll (actually, Maggie strolled while Blair skipped) past the school’s pie-shaped garage and an adjoining tool shed bizarrely festooned with lobster pots, bear traps, conch shells, bearded clams and stuffed peachfish, Blair and Maggie entered a bushy park with a fringed mound of wiry brown brambles (sheltering the grunion nests) and an alcove containing a box (decorated with hand-carved beavers, bells and cups) planted with honeysuckle and sheaths of anemones of love. They then transited a grotto in a secret cavern with space for a special nook for a statue of the fertility goddess Astarte, the one with a vertical smile and a forbidden rose clutched by her right hand.

As they came back into the light, they snatched a quick glimpse of two whimsical, less sacred artifacts -- a bas relief of Mrs. Slocum’s pussy (that is, of her pussycat, from the sitcom Are You Being Served?), a statue of a bearded lady and a mosaic map of Tasmania (Australia). After these frivolities, they came to a slit trench filled with cream-colored water and a snatch of lotus flowers; after which they pushed as quickly as possible through a dusky, undercut tunnel (and possible bat cave) that slashed like an axe wound through the inner heart of the campus. After pulling out of this “stench trench” (for it smelt of rotten tuna), they reached The Velvet Cage (the school gym) and The Honey Pot (the school cafeteria, then advertising filet-o-fish, buns, loose meat and vertical bacon sandwiches (with optional cabbage) and sweets such as sugared almonds, cookies, cake and donuts).

From there they penetrated a field encircling Pleasure House (the girls’ after-school activity center), Treasure House (the school library), The Nooch (a snack stand featuring fish tacos, beavertails, jellyrolls and passion fruit) and The Cockpit (home of the girls’ debating society). By then Blair and his mother had reached the inner terrace of the Punani campus, the lower mouth of which led through a jade gateway to a golden doorway (trimmed with red pearls) behind which was the climax of their journey — the Theodora Williams Auditorium & Theatre (usually known by its acronym) — in which the Academy was hosting an open house and tea party for those girls (accompanied by a parent) intending to enter the school in September.

Waiting in an antechamber lined with black velvet was Madam Flossy Cabrá³n, the school’s headmistress, who greeted all arrivals with “Fellow quims, welcome to the gates of heaven. Here wisdom is not a forbidden fruit, but a cherry to be popped.” Madame Cabrá³n already knew about Blair, whose pink ensemble she praised extravagantly, before suggesting, “Child, I want you to meet Angela, who will become your roommate in September at the suggestion of her mother and yours.”

Blair turned in confusion to Maggie: “My roommate, mommy? Am I being sent to a boarding school? Don’t you want me at home anymore?” He was on the verge of tears.

“There, there. Don’t fret, sweetie. Your father and I have decided that the Yoni Punani Academy for Girls is the ideal school for you, given its emphasis on academics, music and theatre, and its de-emphasis on sports. You’ll love it here, and the school is the ideal place for you to develop the manners and poise of a well-bred young lady.”

“But boarding school?”

“Only for five days a week, Blair sweetie, and only because the school is a ninety-minute drive from our house. I’ll pick you up every Friday afternoon and we’ll spend the entire weekend together, as well as holidays and three weeks each summer.”

As Blair still looked glum, Madame Cabrá³n asked Maggie, “We expected that you would have already told your daughter about our policy requiring all of our students to sleep here a minimum of five nights a week so that the school may have the time and opportunity to acculturate them as pure Punani girls.”

“I’m a little surprised at Blair’s reaction,” Maggie replied. “She’s known for months that her father and I intended to send her to a private girls’ school in September — to get away from the bad example being set by her older brother — but she’s not yet eleven and so bound to have some last-minute jitters.”

“Of course, my dear. Blair, we at the Punani Academy are aware that young girls are prone to homesickness — they even miss helping with the housework — and that’s why we permit pre-teens like you to spend weekends at home. From experience I can promise you, however, that you’ll be more eager to get back to your friends at school on Sunday evening than you will be to go home on Fridays to see your brother. Now, do take my hand, and I’ll take you over to meet Angela. You two are bound to become best girlfriends.”

Angela turned out to be a pretty, raven-haired eleven-year-old, short and slight, yet pleasingly curvaceous for her age. After the exchange of a few desultory words interspersed with long pauses during which both girls looked nervously toward their mothers who were in animated discussion a dozen or more feet away, Angela suddenly whispered, “Blair, do be a sweetheart and lower your ear. I have a secret to share. It’s a really big secret, so I have to whisper it.”

Curious, Blair did as bidden; he could feel Angela’s breath gently misting his ear.

“Blair, my mother has told me all about you.” Angela’s voice got even lower: “I know you and I are the same — that we’re both girls with a boy’s body.”

Blair almost leapt out of his skin.

Angela held tightly onto Blair, keeping him seated: “Don’t worry! I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. Let’s get out of here. My mother told me about a music practice room where we can have some privacy. If we’re going to be best girlfriends, as I really, really want us to be, then we can’t have any secrets between us.”

In the soundproofed practice room, Angela was a torrent of information: That her mother is a real ball-breaker who learned to hate males as a result of her grandfather’s lecherous eyes and fingers, her father’s early abandonment of the family, her two old brothers who fled home after years of regularly forcing themselves onto and into her in every sexual way conceivable (her pregnancy scare at twelve precipitated their flight), and three failed marriages, broken each time by a philandering, absconding husband, the last of whom left her with Andrew, a male infant to raise.

There being no way that she was going to let Andrew grow up to be the sort of person who hurt females — in other words, to grow up as a male — the much aggrieved mother immediately renamed him “Angela” and raised him — actually there was no longer a “him”, just a “her” — as a girl. Angela said that she had no doubts, whatsoever, of her own gender identity until a year ago when she had accidentally seen another girl and a boy fully in the nude. (They were, Angela blushingly affirmed, “in the act of doing it,” which made the naked truth about her own sexuality even harder to deny.)

After much questioning and challenging, her mother had finally brought Angela to a recognition that not only had she always been happy being a girl, but that she also couldn’t conceive of living life as a boy. But Angela wanted things regularized: in return for continuing to live as a female, her mother had to agree (reluctantly, given the expenditure involved) to give Angela an appropriately female body (with the appropriate birth certificate) before year’s end. However, her mother’s assent had also carried a condition: to wit, that Angela thereafter attend a boarding school. This condition her mother imposed because, as she admitted, she no longer wanted to have around her any reminder of “the weasel who screwed my life the most.” Her mother had hoped that a year of feminizing hormones would eliminate any resemblance the girl had to her father, but it hadn’t happened, and it was time for Angela to leave home to complete her education.

“So you see,” Angela concluded:

My mother pretty much decides what will become of my life. I learned long ago that it was pointless to resist her will. I think I could have been a good athlete, but mother said that it wasn’t ladylike to sweat, and so each year I become ever clumsier and prissier — I can’t seem to help it any longer — and now I want to vomit if I see dirt on my dress or grass stains on my slacks. I am so very pleased that this school puts little emphasis on sports and actually bans jeans. Mother definitely picked the right school for me. She always knows what’s best for me. I always do what she wants because I’m happiest when she’s happy. It must be the same for you: you too are mother’s little darling. That’s why you’re wearing that darling pink dress — to please mommy.

“I wear what I want. I do what I want. No one’s the boss of me,” Blair shot back. He hadn’t appreciated the aspersion on his … Well, “manhood” wasn’t the correct word; maybe “autonomy” was. Yes, “autonomy” would have been the correct word had Blair ever come across it. His “manhood” was not something he had much defended even before the momentous trip to the Mall, but he had an independent streak apparently lacking in Angela.

“I’m sorry, Blair. I wasn’t trying to diss you. I was just talking about the facts of life. Your mother, like mine, holds all the cards. You’re just a kid, and nobody listens to a kid. So your mother can do whatever she wants with you. You don’t have any choice if she’s really determined for you to be a girl.”

“Yes, I do have a choice. I’ve got an ace up my sleeve. I can play it if I have to. You’ll see.” Blair stood defiantly, his feet placed firmly on the ground — looking more like a male footballer than a girl in a party dress.

Angela wisely changed the subject: “Let’s not fight. We’ve got so much in common that we just have to be best girlfriends. I’ll let you see my breasts if you want.”

The offer definitely intrigued Blair, who bombarded Angela with questions about her breast development. It emerged that she has been taking the same herbal capsules as Blair, but for twenty-six times as long as his two weeks. The result, she boasted, were “boobs as good as those of a thirteen-year-old girl. Like my mother, I’m going to have big jugs.”

These Blair definitely had to see. And so it came to pass that Blair saw his first female mammaries. They were, remarkably, on a boy. Could Blair touch? Sure, if he reciprocated. And so, Blair got to touch his first breasts since his birth mom gave up breast-feeding. To his surprise, Angela’s felt not all that different from his own — at least, as they had become during the past two days. Their mutual curiosity soon stripped Blair of both dress and bra, and Angela excitedly confirmed that a mass was forming under each of his nipples that felt very much like a woman’s mammary. Angela estimated that Blair would no longer have to pad his bra in a week or two and that by the time he entered the Punani Academy that he’d be further along in female puberty than most of the girls in his class. “You’ll no longer fit into boys’ clothes. Won’t that be great?”

“Great? I don’t know yet. But I definitely want to know what it looks and feels like to be a girl. I’ve got to grow me some melons. That way I’ll be a better able to owdishon for roles where an actor dude has to pretend to be a girl. I’ll know exactly how to walk with breasts, since I would have had ‘em once.”

Angela was incredulous at Blair’s naivety:

Blair, they’re not going to be asking you to play male roles after you’ve developed breasts and feminine curves. You’ll only get girl roles. Don’t you know that you and I are playing the gender game for keeps? Once you’ve got breasts, the only way to get rid of them is for a surgeon to cut them off with a hacksaw. The same goes for your hips if they get too big for boys’ jeans. Hack! Hack! You could die from the loss of blood! It makes me shiver even to think of someone sawing off my nipples! As my mother splained, when young kids like us take estrogen and suppress the guy hormones in our balls there soon comes a day where there’s no going back. My mother says it’s already too late for me to ever look like a normal dude. She says the only choice I’ve now got is between being a popular, pretty girl or an unpopular, weird-looking guy — both for the rest of my life. That’s not much of a choice, is it? I mean which would you choose?”

Blair was thoughtful. He could now see that Angela’s pretty face had such round, soft, feminine features and her body, such wide hips and perky breasts that it was already difficult for her to “pass” as a male.

Angela, anxious to talk to someone about her transformation, added:

Tomorrow a real doctor will be giving me a shot of super-duper hormones that will, unfortunately, make me sick for a week, like people often are from a flu shot. A bit of wooziness is, my mother says, a small price to pay for the peace of mind I’ll have from then on. She says that after that first shot I’ll never ever wonder again whether I should become a boy. In fact, she says I’ll no longer think at all like a male, which my mother says is a messed-up way of thinking. I’ll be thinking only like a girl after my shot — more emotional, more in touch with my feelings, better able to make friends. Once I get the first shot — like polio boosters there will be more than one — I’ll hate my cock and balls so much, according to my mother, that I’ll be begging, actually begging! — for her to have them cut off. She says I’ll go crazy if I don’t get rid of them. Luckily, the doctor has a clinic in Cuba where he can replace my boy stuff with … well, you must know what we girls normally have between our legs?

Angela, her face reddening at having to mention, sort of, girls’ unmentionable parts, stared over Blair’s shoulder at the school’s crest etched in the glass door of the practice room: it contained an engraving of a sheath made from a split piece of wood into which a sword was deeply thrust, under which was arrayed the school motto, “Ipsa vulva angusta et tenera potestas est”.

The phrase was Greek to Angela at the time, but the following September Angela used a Latin-English on-line translator to figure out that it roughly meant, “There’s power in a soft, tight vagina.” After she began dating teen boys, she knew what the motto really meant.

Angela next told Blair: I’m really looking forward to my shot tomorrow, because I want the certainty, the peace of mind that it will give me. You’ll understand what I mean when the time comes for your shot….”
“I won’t let anyone stick me with a dumb needle that makes me want to be a girl forever,” Blair interrupted.

Angela smiled condescendingly (she was after the elder):

You don’t think you’ll ever get a shot or want one? Blair, you’re such a baby; you don’t understand mothers at all, do you? Mine will tell yours that you’ll be much, much happier after a shot in your arm, and yours won’t give you a real choice about getting it because she’ll be convinced that the final disappearance of the boy in you is for your own good. She’ll want you to stop having doubts about completing your sex change; she’ll want to give you the finality, the certainty that the shot will give you. Blair, once the super duper hormones surge through your body, your dick and balls will start shrinking so fast that you’ll be able to watch them get smaller, and soon your dick will become so tiny, much smaller than your pinky, that you’d rather die than let anyone, including your father and brother, see it. That’s when you will beg your mom for an operation to give you a girl’s private parts ‘cause they will look a lot better and work a lot better than a baby peepee. I know that’s what your mom has got planned for you.

This was a lot for Blair to absorb. There was no question that his self-confidence has been sorely shaken; he was much less confident of being master of his destiny than he had been before Angela told him about the mind-control shots and the mothers’ master plan. He realized, of course, that their “mothers” were quite different: His was one to love, hers was one to fear. And yet, both mothers wanted a daughter so much that they were administering ho-mones to feminize their son’s body. According to Angela, if Blair continued dutifully taking his cocktail of ho-mones, after two or three more weeks he’d have a girl’s body for the rest of his life.

Until now there hadn’t been much of a downside to Blair’s playing the part of Maggie’s daughter. In fact, it had been a primo role: His father and brother no longer muttered about his being a homo; strangers looked at him with more respect than they had when he’d come across as a sissy boy; there were also a lot more men now watching his every move and lauding his looks, and Blair loved the attention; in Alicia he’d found a girlfriend who did wonderful things to his body; he had been able to play soccer and to “star” in ballet without anyone’s expecting him to perform like a male; he’d had a chance to perfect his acting by playing a really difficult role, at least for a boy; he had been able to “bug” his least favorite teacher; he had acquired an extensive new wardrobe and no longer wore seconds from Kirk; he had learned that girls’ clothes were a real turn-on, psychologically and erotically; he was being offered a chance to go to a better school (although he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of boarding over); and best of all, his mom paid far more attention to her daughter than she had to Laird’s second son.

Indeed, there had been so few negatives to the role of Maggie’s daughter that it had been almost three months since Blair had seriously considered giving it up. He reckoned that no matter how he dressed or behaved, his future was his to control. Yet Angela was now saying that in less than a month his choices would be as restricted as a breast in a firm-support bra.

Somehow everything was different after talking to Angela. What a killjoy she was! It didn’t surprise him that she was already asking for the lower bunk because she wet her bed. A bed wetter! And she dared to call him a baby!

His mind thus occupied, Blair gave a start when Maggie, coming up from behind, tapped him on the shoulder to announce that the two girls were wanted in an antechamber of the auditorium where tea and cake would be served.

At the tea party Blair was a severe disappointment to his mother and Madame Cabrá³n. His mind now buzzing with a hundred unwanted thoughts and images, he forgot to sit and sip demurely like a girl. Indeed, he even showed a flash of panty as he sprawled slack-jawed and his little finger simply wouldn’t behave itself. It kept on trying to grip the cup. The words “please” and “thank you” seemed to be beyond his linguistic skills. In his unseemly (for a proper young girl) passion for cake he kept reaching far across the table, accidentally bumping arms and brushing against bosoms, in each case causing spilt milk or tea. As for his tea-pouring technique, Blair, his hand shaking, had so much difficulty finding the target that he scalded Angela’s mother, even as he drowned the cake crumbs on his own dress.

Madame Cabrá³n tried, in her own haughty way, to be kind to Maggie when discussing Blair’s performance at his first tea party:

Oh my, I see that there is some work to be done with Blair, who is not yet as poised and ladylike as our Punani girls. As you know, we receive more applications than we have spaces in the sixth grade, and frankly I wasn’t sure until now that the Yoni Punani Academy was the best fit for a girl from one of the newer suburbs. But I now appreciate that Blair desperately needs an elite finishing school like ours for her to have any hope of growing into a proper young lady. It won’t be easy, but our staff will rise to the challenge. She will, I promise, be ready for her debut in polite society eight years from now. If you will now see Ms. Gloria Huffington, our registrar, she will explain the procedure for enrolling Blair. I look forward to teaching her voice, posture and overall poise.

The news from Ms. Huffington was unsettling: To enroll Blair she would need his transcript from the Lewis A. Clark Charter School and a copy of his official birth certificate. Of course, Ms. Huffington had used “her”, and she was unlikely to be pleased with the “male” notation on Blair’s records. Indeed, Joy Torres, Angela’s mother, had already confirmed that there was no way in this lifetime that the Punani Academy would knowingly admit a transgendered student.

“Is there a way,” Maggie asked Joy, “to fake my child’s school and birth records? Do you happen to know someone good at forgery?”

Maggie thought no one could overhear. What she didn’t know was that Blair, intent on eavesdropping, had secreted himself behind a marble statue of a vestal virgin (also known as a temple prostitute).

“Forgery?” Joy replied:

Why settle for a fake when you can have the real thing? Doctor Benny Sentirsi, he’s the gender specialist I told you about, well, he gave me the phone number of a computer geek. He’s barely fourteen-years-old, but he can hack into any system, without anyone being able to track him down. And all the kid wants for pay is a Spiderman comic. I bought him an Amazing Spiderman #50 for $150, and for that small sum he hacked into the newspaper and government database in which my child’s original name and sex were identified. The complete record now shows that eleven years ago I had a baby girl whom I named Angela Maria Torres. Nowhere in the world of bits and bytes is there any evidence that a boy named Andrew ever existed, and with paper records everywhere heading for the dumpster, that’s all that matters.
Are you saying that this teenager has the ability to change Blair into a female -- that Blair’s school records and birth certificate can be altered to show that he’s always been a girl?”

“Yes, Maggie. Josh — that’s the teen’s name — will also alter Blair’s sex in the birth announcement in the newspapers, in his baptism certificate, in his library card — anywhere that you can think of. And fast! Is that kid ever fast! I promise you that Blair will no longer exist anywhere on the public record as a male within one week of your cutting a deal with Josh. Take this — it’s Josh’s mobile phone number.”

Maggie stuffed the note into her purse, but she still looked doubtful about using it: “I don’t know. It’s got to be risky to alter Blair’s school and birth records. There must be a law against doing that.”

“Maggie, there probably is, but it’s worth some risk, isn’t it, to enroll Blair in the Punani Academy? Once Blair enters it, you’ll have a daughter for life. Which reminds me — here’s Doctor Sentirsi’s phone number and address. He’s the one to contact, discretely mind you, when you decide to hurry up Blair’s feminization with injections and when, a while later, you decide on surgery to give Blair the female genitalia she’ll need to be a happy teen. Sentirsi has a protected clinic in Cuba where he’s transformed several colts into fillies, though none as young as Angela or Blair. But there’s always a first, isn’t there?”

To Blair’s consternation Maggie accepted the second phone number with greater alacrity than she accepted the first. Even worse, after hearing the entire conversation so far, he missed out on what Angela’s mother said next, because she dropped her voice real low, real conspiratorial-like. But he thought he heard this much — “… of course, Doctor Sentirsi will say that he never breaks the law; but it’s easy to call his bluff, all you have to do is ….”

And that was the last of their conversation Blair overheard, for Angela, finally locating his hiding place, tugged at his hair. That led to tickles, and the two mothers, alerted to the presence of their chicks, ended their discussion of Blair’s future. All four then took a quick tour of the school’s classrooms and residences, during which Angela and Blair decided that they wanted to share a room in Cooch Hall. They thought it somehow more “real,” its girls less prone to vain display and artifice, than Merkin Hall.

After the two “girls” kissed each other a tearful adieu, Maggie and Blair drove home quietly, pensively, in the pouring rain, the windshield wiper being their lone musical accompaniment. Blair couldn’t remember the last time Maggie hadn’t said a word for more than an hour, and he considered the silence ominous (in a bad way).

Dinner was a blur. Blair couldn’t concentrate until he knew what Maggie was going to do next. Did she intend to use those phone numbers? About half an hour after he was supposed to be asleep in bed, he crept into the upstairs hallway in his powder blue nightie and pink ballet slippers because he thought he’d heard Maggie pick up the phone. Suspecting at first that it was only his imagination — the kitchen and TV room phones were so far away — he pressed himself tight against the hallway wall when he suddenly realized that she was, remarkably, phoning from the bedroom. That was almost never done when both parents were at home, for they kept no secrets from each other. But here she was, his own mother, sneaking a phone call while her husband watched the NBA playoffs downstairs.

Blair realized that his life was spinning out of his control as he listened to Maggie’s side of the conversation:

Hello, Josh, my name is Maggie. I’m a friend of Joy Torres and her daughter Angela. Joy told me that you’re a whiz with computers. She also told me what you did for Angela. I’ve got a daughter named Blair; she’s got the same problem that Angela had. You know — a foul-up in her official records so that all of them erroneously state that she’s a male. Do you think you can fix the records so they all say that Blair has always been a female? You can? Great? I’ll email you the details. When can you do it? We’re in a bit of a rush because a school is asking for Blair’s birth certificate. By next Thursday? That’s super. I have the perfect Batman comic as a reward for you. It’s quite choice, as you kids say.”

A batman comic! For the price of a batman comic he was being sold down the river by another boy. In less than a week he, Blair, would be officially a girl in the eyes of the law. He knew what that implied, for he had seen the commercials about identity theft. He knew that it was almost impossible to get one’s good name back once it had been lost. And what about one’s sexual identity? Would the guys in the government tell him that it would take too much effort to change his sex back to male and that he should therefore bring his body into full compliance with the government records as quickly as possible? Might not the federal government actually mandate a sex change for him to avoid its having to admit that its computers had made an error?

Questions like these can keep a boy from falling fast asleep.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. In the last chapter, Kirk was enlightened about US politics and Blair about the long-term effects of hormones and Maggie's plans for him. And now they want him to play on a girls' team in front of a hometown crowd!

Choices, Chapter 12 A Na’vi choice

It was now mid-May. Miss Umbridge had returned to the class more than two weeks ago. Yet life for Blair went on much as usual at Lewis A. Clark Charter School, because either the sanitarium had chilled her out or because she was still on powerful tranquillizers. Whichever the case, discipline was becoming lax in Blair’s homeroom as the growing excitement and waning attentiveness of his classmates signaled that the countdown to summer and to the end of Blair’s days as a schoolboy had begun.

Ironically, Miss Umbridge had returned to teaching on the same day that a pimply-faced, bespectacled teenager named Josh had come by the house to collect two Mighty Mouse comic books from the 1950s that Blair, to his chagrin, had been required to find on-line for Maggie to buy. (She hadn’t truthfully explained why she needed them, as he fully realized.) For Blair, it would have been upsetting to have his birthright identity sold for the price of a rare Spiderman comic, as had happened to Angela, but for two stories about a flying mouse? That was galling indeed. As was catching his mother in an outright lie.

Maggie said nothing after Josh’s visit about the change in Blair’s legal and education status, but Blair knew enough to appreciate that he was increasingly becoming entangled in the web that Maggie had been weaving. He reckoned that he’d have to say he was a girl even to get a driver’s license. And no boys’ school would take him now!

But the best evidence that the “commedia e finita” for Blair’s boyhood — that the comedy was ending with Blair being unable to take off the Columbine mask he had lightheartedly begun wearing the preceding January — could be found on his chest.

(I know, I know — there is no possible way that Blair, still six weeks shy of his eleventh birthday, thought about I Pagliacci and a female character from the medieval commedia del arte when he looked at his chest. Still, I felt a sudden compulsion to expose my erudition, hidden thus far in my tale like Waldo’s private parts in a crowd scene, and I trust that anyone who has stayed with Blair’s story through several chapters won’t be so unkind as to observe that references to the death scene of I Pagliacci have become about as fresh as references to the ‘writing on the wall’. As Popeye the Sailor, one of my two favorite philosophers (the other being Chairman Mao), profoundly opined, don’t expect more of me, “I am’s what I am.”)

It wasn’t the writing on the wall that disturbed Blair (he’d simply blame the scribbled phone number on Kirk) but rather the condition of his chest: It now sported two small, female breasts. Yes, knockers, the real thingees. They had a puffy, red, angry appearance (as though rebuking him for fooling around with ho-mones); the boobs resembled two crocuses that had dared to poke their way through the spring snow. Big Al was, of course, thrilled with the first shoots of Blair’s womanhood, but soon realized — to their mutual frustration — that she’d have to go easy on her attentions until Blair’s “love cups” had become less enflamed.

As Blair believed Angela when she told him that breasts, once grown, could never be lost without major, dangerous surgery, he understood that physically as well as legally his options had narrowed to making the best of being a girl. Overall, he reflected, a permanent change of sex might even be an improvement over life as a sissy male; yet he still wished that he’d waited until he’d tested the waters as a teenager to make such a major choice in life. “Who knows?” he wondered, “Maybe teenagers are kinder than tweens to boys who are a bit different, even a bit ‘queer’?”

Blair’s life was now rushing out of his control: Even soccer, a sport that had hitherto proved a blessing, bestowing on him his first lesbian relationship as well as plenty of time for slowly walking about, thinking deep thoughts like Stuart Smalley and communing with nature, was now threatening to make him such a pariah in his own school and community that he’d need to find a boarding school much farther away than Yoni Punani if he were to escape the pitchforks of his neighbors.

His problem was simple: There were rumors that that his team would have to forfeit if he missed the second game of the home-and-away series that would determine which team of girls, aged 10 to 12, were the “Best in the Valley”. Several teams had already been knocked out, and the trophy and the honors would go either to the best team from the Washington side of the Columbia, the Breakers, or to the best team from the Oregon side, the Smiters.

True, the Oregon contingent weren’t from Bybee Lake, Blair’s home town; he wasn’t that unlucky. But the Smiters did hail from the adjoining community of Smith Lake, and that town’s multi-purpose field had been torn up by rampaging fans of the losing team in the Oregon State Croquet Championships.

The Smiters consequently chose the best pitch in Bybee Lake for its home game and grudge match against the Breakers, who had won 1-0 in front of their home crowd in Rose Villa, Washington. The close score scarcely reflected the balance of play, which had been almost entirely in the Smiters’ half of the field, but the Smiters had in Christine Ronaldo an awesome goalkeeper (6 foot 2 inches tall with lightning-fast reflexes) who had kept them in the game until a penalty kick in added time.

Naturally, given Blair’s luck, the best pitch in Bybee Lake formed part of the campus of D. B. Cooper High School, which in turn was less than three full blocks away from the Lewis A. Clark Charter School. There were bound to be a lot of kids (well some at least) from Blair’s school cheering on the Smiters against the Breakers. Not only were the Breakers interlopers from another State, but the Smiters had been the only team in the tournament not to run up the score against the Bi-girls, the woeful team representing Bybee Lake.

At first, only Big Al had been upset when Blair missed his team’s home game against the Smiters “on account of illness”. Frantic with concern, Big Al showed up at the Finlayson house at midnight with flowers for Blair. When she learnt that he had been feigning illness, her relief gave away to anger, probably with him, but understandably transfered by her to her father and teammates, whom she accused at a team meeting of being “delighted” that Blair had reported in sick.

She blasted her father: “You’re the one who’s sick, not Blair, ‘cause winning the damn trophy is more important to you than her well-being. Dad, you told us that there’s no “i” in team; I guess there isn’t a “b” either — “b” as in Blair.”

The speech had little effect on her fellow Breakers, who still did not regard Blair as a “real” member of their team, but it did reach the ears of four rival coaches and Ms. Beverly Bolton, president of the Girls’ Friendship League. Assuming not unreasonably that Blair had sat out the championship game in Rose Villa at the request or insistence of her coach, Gus Anderson, in defiance of the league’s mandate to “give every girl a chance to reveal what she’s got”, Bolton deliberately stirred the normally placid waters of interstate girls’ soccer by informing the coach of the Smiters that it was more than an outside theoretical possibility that the Breakers were forcing one of their players to feign illness in order to strengthen their team effort. Bolton couldn’t “prove” anything, she admitted, but she hoped that the Smiters could find a way to “compel” the male coach of the Breakers to play fair: “Perhaps we shouldn’t even allow men to coach girls’ soccer. Male coaches are so problematic. Either they have a Lolita complex or they’re much too competitive. They play soccer like it’s a war. Aren’t men beastly?”

Eda Petrie, coach of the Smiters, not only agreed that the worst player on the Breakers had a god-given right to play soccer, but she was determined to force the issue. She told the media (the news appearing in several free papers and on local cable) that she believed that the Breakers were so eager to win the championship that they were benching their worst player (fortunately, Petrie didn’t know Blair’s name), even though this meant that they no longer had the requisite eleven girls on the field.

Citing a technicality of a technicality, Petrie argued that the Breakers should be disqualified, the trophy going to the Smiters by default, if the Washington team did not have eleven girls on the pitch at the starting whistle. After the Bybee Bi-Weekly filled its op-ed page with two letters strongly siding with Coach Petrie and the Breakers and the Rose Villa Shoppers’ Guide couldn’t find a single rejoinder to print, it was clear that public opinion was massively behind the Smiters.

Coach Anderson crumbled like a New Orleans dike: without consulting Blair, he announced in the Smith Lake Seniors’ Times that all eleven of his girls were now healthy and ready for the big game in Bybee Lake.

However, Blair wouldn’t play ball. Despite two visits by the coach to his house to plead with Blair and his parents, Blair refused to disgrace himself by playing for an all-girl’s team in his home community. To be recognized publicly as a crossdresser was really, really bad; but much, much worse was the near certainty that Blair would leave the game with the reputation of being “the sissy kid who plays soccer worse than any girl.”

As Coach Anderson didn’t know that the “little prick” had an eenie-weenie secret between his legs, he personally lacked the necessary leverage to get Blair to budge. After all, Blair needn’t ever cross the Columbia River again.

But Big Al had the knowledge needed to induce Blair to change his mind about showing up for the big game; and, out of team loyalty, she used it to compel Blair to agree to play. No, she loved Blair far too much to threaten to use her knowledge of his primary sexual characteristics to punish a no-show. Instead, she used her intimate knowledge of Blair’s erogenous zones to persuade him that he’d do almost anything to please Big Al. After she made it clear to Blair that there was only one way for him to secure relief him from the intense sensitivity wrought by her tireless ministrations to his “zones”, he gasped that “yes, “yes, anything you want. I’ll do anything for the team.”

As Blair couldn’t renege on a promise made in the act of love, it was settled: he’d be rejoining the Breakers for their final game and that he’d need to find a disguise that would prevent anyone’s connecting the dots between “Blair Fines,” his name on the Breakers’ team roster, and Blair Finlayson, the suspiciously fey boy who attended the Lewis A. Clark Charter School.

Maggie advised Blair to trust his fate to Pierre, his hairdresser: “He will be able to change your appearance so that one no will know you are really are.” So off they went to the mall. As it was his tenth visit to the salon, Blair knew what to expect — Suzanne would give him a manicure, pedicure and makeup hints while Pierre cut and shaped his “hairs”, with Blair’s hairstyle becoming more daringly feminine as his hair grew down to his shoulders. Of course, Pierre kept in mind the need for plausible deniability, which meant that Blair’s still had to look somewhat “masculine” when brushed against the grain and commonsense. This time Pierre took Selena Gomez (from Wizards of Waverly Place) as his inspiration, which meant that Blair’s bangs now swept down to his left eye, exposing his right forehead, while his thick, layered hair now had dark-blonde highlights and, thanks to a curling iron, curled around his chin.

As Blair admired his new look in the mirror, Maggie asked Pierre if he knew of a way to disguise Blair so that none of his schoolmates would recognize “him” as “she” played for an out-of-state girls’ soccer team. It was a tall order, and in Pierre’s judgment, a wig was “outside of the question” because it would be difficult to explain to the Breakers and could be inadvertently torn from Blair’s head, exposing his blond locks to ridicule. “It is necessary to tint the hairs,” Pierre said. “To have the hairs become jet black will render unrecognizable the look of the pretty Blair, especially when Suzanne applies to her the makeup appropriate for the young girl with hairs so foncés — so dark.”

While a dye job had obvious short-term appeal, it was problematic in the mid-term: Blair risked obvious exposure if he still had black hair when he returned to school. Someone was bound to connect Blair Finlayson to Blair Fines if they had the same hair color. It would be difficult, though not impossible, to find a temporary black hair dye that could survive a rain shower (a not unlikely event in Bybee Lake), yet wash out after two or three shampooings. Black was, Pierre explained, the most permanent of the temporary tints. Blair came up with a daring solution:

Why not dye my hair blue? Wouldn’t that wash out better? I’ve always wanted to be one of the cool kids who dyes her hair a wild color. Next we could buy a Na’vi nose and ears for me at a costume store; I could even get some amber-tinted contact lenses so that I could disguise myself like a Na’vi in the movie Avatar. And of course, I’d smear my face, arms and legs — whatever shows — with blue theatrical makeup. If you braid my hair to look like a queue, no one will recognize me! I guess I’ll have to do without a tail, which Na’vis should have, ‘cause the other team will be pulling on it all day.

Maggie knew there had to be several problems with her daughter’s scheme, but she could see only one: How would Blair justify to her teammates her decision to show up in a Na’vi costume for the big game? “Won’t they think you a bit tetched?”

“Don’t worry, mommy. My teammates already think I’m skxawng. That means a ‘moron’ in Na’Vi. Already they don’t think my insanity is curable. And they don’t even know about my ding-a-ling. I’ll tell ‘em that my Avatar outfit will give me a ‘neural contact’ with Eyewa, goddess of nature, which will enable me to move about the soccer pitch as fast as the wind in July. I’ll tell them that the plan is to borrow me some energy, that way becoming the baddest cat on the pitch. After all, Na’vis are four times as strong as humans. Looking like a Na’vi, I am going to take my game to a whole new level. That’s what I’ll tell ‘em.’

Maggie was impressed: “By golly, Blair is really using his little gray rock. His plan might actually work. I know where we can buy the Na’vi prosthetics, but, Pierre, what about the blue costume makeup and hair tint? Do you have something that will last as long as the game, even if it rains, but can be washed out easily with body lotion and shampoo? I don’t want my baby’s skin to look as rough as a Hammerhead Titanothere’s when she returns to school the Monday after.”

Pierre, after reflected for a moment, advised:

It’s is difficile to find the hair dyes and the make-up that are temporary enough for the goals of Blair, and yet impermeable to the rain that the télé has just come to forecast for the day of the match. After all, we cannot have Blair resemble the zebra with the blue and white stripes; nor, let us perish the idea, can we permit his blonde hair to reveal itself. And so, it is necessary that one utilize products that are truly color-fast. And these are not facile to find if one also wants them to vanish themselves after one or two shampooings. But, we have the good chance! Samples of “Tree of Souls,” a new line of products from the Corporation Acme, have just arrived in my salon, and while one must wear a breathing mask while they are being applied, Monsieur Wile E. Kyotay, the responsible for the corporation, maintains that they are both permanent and temporary — tout at the same time. It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

And so it was arranged that Maggie would bring Blair to Pierre’s salon ninety minutes before the game, with Pierre promising “with the speed of the Fan Lizard to transform the pretty and young Blair, the ordinary Homo sapiens, into the Na’vi extraordinaire.”

Surprisingly, all went well at the salon on game day. Granted, the toxic fumes from Acme’s “Tree of Souls” products did cause Blair’s eyes to fill with so many tears that his amber-tinted contact lenses went swimming about, and fifteen minutes were lost until they could be relocated at the top of his eyes. In general, the contacts may have been a bad idea since they irritated Blair’s eyes, making it difficult for him to see clearly during the game.

Even so, he got to the Breakers’ dressing room in plenty of time to hear Coach Anderson’s pep talk to his girls:

Girls, I know you’re aware that we almost forfeited this game and the championship. The Smiters were pissing on us and not even giving us the courtesy of calling it rain. They had dreams of flying away with the trophy without even having to play for it, but eventually they had to wake up when Blair, our pintsized … er … Na’vi, finally came to her senses with Alicia’s help, and now we are ready to ANNIHILATE the Smiters! Show what you've got! Oh yeah, who's bad? You, you’re awesomely bad. That's right. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about bitches. There are some punk girls from the pukey state of Oregon who want to kill you and eat your eyes for jujubes. Well, kill them back! They’re sitting on shit that you want. So that makes them your enemy. So kick him hard, kick ‘em often, kick them in the place where the eye does not see. Now wheel your meat outta here!

As the girls, still shell-shocked stumbled onto the playing field, Coach Anderson grabbed Blair by his queue, pulling him back into the locker room and down onto his knees. The Coach snarled:

You little blue bitch, did you find yourself some local tail, and just completely forget what team you're playin' for? Your team is the Breakers, and not some bunch of tree-hugging Oregonians. If you intentionally screw the team today, I’ll shit you out dead with zero warning. No, don’t say anything. Shut your pie-hole and listen: Just stay away from the play. Yeah, you've got nothing to offer this team but a warm body. But keep running around the field, got it? That way you’ll fool everybody into thinking you’re trying to help. After the game, get your punk ass back to mommy because you’ve got no future with any team of mine. Try not to trip over your shoelaces when you run onto the field. That shouldn't be too hard even for you.

With tears blurring his eyesight, Blair misjudged the step out onto the field, and tumbled headfirst on to the grass, ending up at the feet of Big Al, who had tarried to help lift her girlfriend’s spirits after the Coach’s pep talk. Lovingly, Big Al helped Blair onto “her” feet, held her Na’vi girlfriend close, and assured “her” that the team was happy to have “her” back.

“But, Alicia, the coach doesn’t trust me,” Blair said. “He suspects me of being a turn-color turncoat like Jake Sully in Avatar. He believes I’ve fallen in love with a girl from Smith Lake. I know I shouldn’t say this about your dad, but he’s stupid — ignorant like a child. By now he should know that we’re like a mated pair. I’d never betray you or your team.” The two “girls” embraced, and would have kissed right then and there had they been brazen Canadians, but they held back for fear of hearing the L-word.

Big Al stared deep into her lover’s eyes as she gave her pep talk:

Blair darling, you don’t have to tell me or your teammates why you’re dressed like a Na’vi. We all know it’s to prevent your homies from knowing that you played a big role in Washington whipping Oregon’s butt today. That’s one bow we don’t blame you for wanting to take in a mask of sorts. If you were fixing to hurt the Breakers, you’d want your entire school to know that it was you whose “mistakes” helped the Smiters to win. You’d be flaunting your pretty blond locks like Lady Godiva, the candy maker, so the whole school could get a peep at you delivering the goodies for ‘Whoregon’. So, no more worrying about my dad, just think of them Smiters as scared little insects. Let’s scatter them roaches!

As Big Al dragged Blair onto the field, one hoped, and the other dreaded, that Blair’s game would become the stuff of legends. As expected, it was raining buckets. Had Blair looked down, she would have seen that her blue make-up was already dripping down her kit all the way to her socks and sneakers.

As the two teams headed to their dressing rooms to dry themselves at half-time, the two-game composite score stood tied at one apiece after an “own goal” by the Breakers. Although Blair, having never budged from the perimeter of the penalty area of the Smiters, couldn’t have been farther from the play, Coach Anderson was convinced that Blair had deliberately bumped into one of the Breaker strikers, thereby setting in motion a chain of events that ended with Susie Haggerty forgetting which net she was attacking. Big Al was yellow-carded for trying to pull her down before she got off her killer strike.

Despite this unlucky break, the Breakers should have been leading by a runaway score because the game had been played almost entirely in the Smiters’ half of the field. Yet, as in game one, Christine Ronaldo, whom even Big Al reckoned to be “one big damn goalkeeper,” was able to stop every Breaker shot on net, whether it came high or low.

Given the flow of the play, the Breakers had surprisingly few scoring opportunities even though, or possibly because, Big Al had been transferred to the offence after the low-scoring first game. Determined to have her girlfriend score the winning goal, Big Al kept passing the ball in Blair’s direction rather than going for the goal herself. Each time that she hit the ball in Blair’s direction the little Na’vi had half the net wide open; all he had to do was to make contact with the ball, but that proved impossible time and time again. Unable to time his kick to trap or redirect the ball, Blair ended up each time lying face down in the mud or sitting on the wet grass on his pretty little derriá¨re as the ball went wide or (if Big Al slowed the pace of her pass to give Blair a fighting chance) into Christine’s big paws. At the half, there wasn’t a muddier player than Blair on either team. Ominously, the mud had a deep-blue tint.

Blair expected to lose the mud when Coach Anderson tore a strip off “her” at half-time. Instead, the Coach, on his knees tearfully implored “her to forgive his harsh, pre-game remarks:

Dear girl, I know you don’t hold a grudge. You wouldn’t throw the game, would you, just to spite me? Think of your teammates’ dreams and hopes! Think of Alicia! You can’t let her down, not after she told me that you’re ‘the bestest girlfriend in the whole wide world’. We can’t let Alicia down, can we? Darling, darling Blair, will you forgive me?

Blair, confused by the Coach’s tears — Of affection? Contrition? Exasperation? — didn’t know what to answer. Interpreting Blair’s silence as rejection, the Coach next knelt in front of his own daughter:

Alicia, I ask you in turn to forgive me for yelling at your friend. You say there are no hard feelings. If there aren’t, then will you promise not to pass the ball again to Blair? You know that she [he paused to bite his lip] tries too hard to kick the ball. Don’t you realize that Blair is going to hurt herself if you keep passing the ball to her? Either she’ll pull a muscle kicking the air or she’ll fracture her tailbone or nose on one of those hard landings. Alicia honey, think of what’s best for Blair and the team.

Alicia still thought that Blair’s contributing something to the victory was “best” for both girlfriend and team, but she solemnly promised her coach and dad — to loud, spontaneous applause from her teammates — that she wouldn’t pass the ball again to Blair.

After the noisy celebration, Alicia’s teammates came over individually or in small groups to say that there were no hard feelings, for they too hoped that Blair could one day be a winner — it just wasn’t going to occur in a soccer game. Olivia suggested that Alicia find something “less physically challenging” for Blair to attempt.

“Yeah, like dominos,” said Jessica.

“No way,” said Branwyn, “Blair would get blood-poisoning from a splinter or be inconsolable after breaking a nail. She should stick to reading — but she should use an iPad so that she doesn’t get a fatal paper cut.”

Not understanding that Blair considered these barbs to be closer to Cupid’s arrows than to the poison-tipped, verbal spears hurled “her” way each day at Lewis A. Clark Charter School, Big Al charged into the second half of the game still determined to make a star out of her girlfriend. Even so, she kept her promise no longer to pass — or rather to attempt to pass — the ball to Blair.

Now, drawing deep on her knowledge as a pool hustler, Big Al endeavored to carom the soccer ball off of Blair’s shoulder, shin or seat past Christine into the net pocket. That meant, of course, striking the ball much harder at Blair than during the first half, and Blair, having little comprehension of the finer points of either soccer or billiards, concluded, as the ball banged against elbow, knee or shoulder blade, that Big Al was punishing him for his first-half ineptitude.

Blair bore his “punishment” with the fortitude that had enabled his heroic forebears, the whisky-befuddled Scots, to “pict” up their kilts during the first hootenanny to show their bucknaked blue McDuffs to the invading Romans, who, apparently stunned by the sight of male nudity, ran in terror back to their own camp. It was a brave thing for the Scotch to do, thought Blair as he rubbed his sore left cheek, to turn their naked backside on a Mediterranean male. So he vowed to absorb his chastisement with a smile — like a young schoolboy fagging for a senior.

Unable to understand the half-wit smile now permanently on Blair’s face, Big Al kept blasting away, but as Blair had an unwitting knack of ruining the angle at the last second with a clumsy pirouette or failed leap, the ricochet always went in the wrong direction.

Finally, the pain ceased: Big Al no longer had anything to bank off Blair’s shins because the Breakers had wordlessly, but unanimously resolved to keep the ball away from Big Al, who now ran around the pitch almost as aimlessly as Blair. Effectively two players down, at the seventy-third minute mark the Breaker attack looked set to smash itself to pieces on the adamantine, Smiter defense.

Then came Blair’s moment of soccer glory — a triumph even greater than his memorable terpsichorean turn as a “male” in Giselle: As he wandered around aimlessly, occasionally pausing to rub an “Alician” bruise, Blair accidentally bumped into Christine Ronaldo, who, seriously off-balance after a spectacular catch, fell heavily to the ground, badly spraining her ankle.

As Christine was helped off the field (with two of her shorter teammates serving as underarm crutches) to go to the emergency room of the general hospital (where, lacking adequate insurance, she waited twelve hours before finally having her lower left arm set in a cast), the Smiters demanded that Blair be red-carded — sent off the field — for “unsafe play” — that is, for deliberately, and with malice aforethought, injuring the opposition goalkeeper.

While the referee by now knew enough about Blair’s athletic ability (especially in the pouring rain) to realize that the “bump” might have been accidental, she had no choice in the circumstances but to hold up a red card, expelling Blair not only from the match, but also from the facility, as Big Alice, as team captain, had to inform her girlfriend.

Blair left the high school campus with her parents, the three of them more perplexed than embarrassed. Kirk, however, stayed behind to report back on the game’s final moments and to look for Blair’s left soccer shoe, which had flown off — to where no one yet knew — when Blair petulantly expressed his frustration at not being allowed to finish the game.

As the Smiters actually had more than eleven girls on their roster, they rearranged their squad to put Nancy Paderewski between the posts. At five-foot-four, she was not, however, as formidable as Christine when it came to shots heading for the upper corners, for the simple fact that she could not angle a jump that high.

Meanwhile, the Breakers were discovering that having to play with one girl short was better than playing with a short girl in net. Indeed, with Christine gone from the game and Big Al no longer trying to make Blair an unlikely heroine, the Breakers were able to loft four unanswered goals, winning the trophy 5 to 1 on aggregate.

The Smiters were not gracious losers. Believing that someone with Blair’s minimal soccer skills could only have suited up for the sole purpose of hurting their star goalkeeper, they refused to shake hands with the Breakers in the post-game ritual, an unladylike decision that shifted the hometown boos, until now directed at “the goon’s team”, sufficiently toward the Breakers for them to head for the locker room, their mud-caked heads held high.

Once there, realizing to whom they owed their victory, they voted to give the game ball to Blair. There was a lone holdout, who thought her three goals merited the honor, but even she was won over by Big Al’s point that, “Without Blair’s absence, we could not have carried the day.” Big Al and her father were deputed to bring the ball to Blair with the team’s signatures and congratulations, but not significantly, with a request to play for the Breakers again next year. Not that Blair would have agreed to return: Having won the Columbia Valley Girls’ Championship his first time out, Blair decided there was no further glory to seek in organized soccer.

It was fortunate that the Breakers won, or else it would have been a truly dreadful day for Blair, who suddenly realized after they had all clambered into the family’s SUV that he was oozing a toxic, odiferous mixture of blue dye and chemicals from every exposed pore of skin, as a consequence of his hair dye’s streaming in rivulets through his makeup all down his torso towards the tips of his fingers and toes as a consequence of the endless downpour. And yet his hair looked only slightly less blue.

The realization that he now looked more like Xavier University’s mascot Blue Blob than like a Na’vi came upon Blair quickly when Maggie shrieked at him for staining the front seat of the SUV a cyan blue (a color which never quite washed out). Mortified, Blair lay prostrate on the backseat floor, hoping never to be seen by another living person until he had spent an hour, two hours — whatever it took — under a shower head retrieving his normal looks.

Blair was so desperate to de-blue himself that he even begged for Maggie’s help with the scrubbing (especially of his back half), and for the first time ever Maggie got to see one of Laird’s modest children without a stitch of clothes, stark naked other than for the dye-makeup mixture that caked every inch that Maggie could see — which included Blair’s budding breasts. This was the moment that Maggie had been longing for — actual, physical proof that Blair so wanted to become a girl that he had been taking “ho-mones” like clockwork. And thanks to the blue dye, Maggie didn’t even realize that Blair’s juvenile breasts were still an angry red color, and highly sensitive to the touch.

Though she couldn’t be certain which was Blair and which, merely a blotch of blue goop, Maggie decided that the aureoles around Blair’s nipples had become larger, darker and much more feminine than those of a preteen, either a girl or boy. Maggie was so elated that she would have wet herself while hugging her daughter in the shower, had not she been fearful of ending up as blue as Blair.

After three hours of scrubbing, only the wrinkled skin disguised the obvious: that the best Blair could do was rid himself of the stench and to eliminate the discolored patches in his now uniformly blue skin. Miraculously, even his hair matched his cheeks, which matched his arms, which matched his eyes, returned to their familiar blue by the removal of his amber contacts. Both the make-up and dye had been experimental, Pierre had said. Some experiment! Blair felt like an experimental rabbit in a cosmetics lab. It’s not easy being blue.

It’s probably just as well that Blair didn’t know that “she” had in thirteen-year-old Cody Akins a fervent, new admirer, who having found “her” sneaker at the soccer pitch, decided that Fate had decreed that the “bitching blue Breaker” was his Cinderella to shoe one day.

There is no really no way to explain “love at first sight”: Perhaps it was the glistening blue skin that made Cody decide that Blair was “gorgeous,” for Cody had been looking for his own Na’vi to love since he’d seen Avatar for the ninth time.

Or perhaps it was Blair’s youthful spirit and preteen body, for girls Cody’s own age found the teen immature — and short.

Perhaps it was Blair’s sheer ineptitude; there was something endearing about a girl who literally took it on the chin and got back up smiling. Or perhaps it was the daringly casual “bump” that had won the game for the Breakers. Though Cody was convinced that Blair had done it deliberately, and though Cody came from Bybee Lake (indeed, he was Kirk’s best male friend at Lewis A. Clark), he admired the girl’s chutzpah. Cody would never have dared to foul a star player in front of enemy fans.

Or perhaps, in the final analysis, it was Blair’s innate “boyishness” that appealed to Cody who, though he spent most of his time frantically girl-watching, gave himself away with the music stored on his omnipresent iPod. Songs by Elton John, Freddy Mercury, Adam Lambert, Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli, Rufus Wainwright, the Petshop Boys and Frank Sinatra should have been a giveaway. (He was possibly protected by the fact that few of his age group had ever heard of these “golden oldies”.) Naturally, Cody loved show tunes.

Kirk, seeing his “best bud” scoping out the soccer chicks, had come over several times during the game to chat. They had also taken shelter from the rain together at half-time. At first, Kirk found it amusing that Cody was talking so much about Blair, and so he contented himself with “cruddies” (sardonic remarks) about the “Washington” girl’s inferiority compared to the local hotties, but as the extent of Cody’s sudden infatuation with Blair — Blair, of all people! — became apparent, Kirk wanted to upchuck. And when Cody, having been the one to find the sneaker, refused to give it to Kirk because Cody was determined to present it in person to the “Na’vi princess”, Kirk actually “tossed his cookies” — the remnants of two soggy hot dogs — behind a lamp post.

There is no telling what Kirk would have done the following Monday had he the slightest inkling that Cody might be gay, inasmuch as Kirk later blamed his own rash actions on his concern that word was bound to get out at school that Cody, having had his pick of twenty-four real girls on two soccer teams (plus dozens more in the audience) had become smitten with a cross-dressing boy, and Kirk’s younger brother at that! Neither Cody nor his friends would thereafter be able to escape the unfair suspicion that they were all “homos”.

Kirk vowed to protect Cody’s reputation come what may; that’s what besties did for each other.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. Blair is feeling blue after his first public appearance as a female Na’vi. Kirk’s best friend Cody, however, believes he has found his Cinderella in the strange girl from Rose Villa.

Choices, Chapter 13 Kirk’s choice

Laird, Maggie and the two children had a family conference to discuss whether Blair should stay home from school “sick” until his skin and hair had lost their doleful color. Kirk was adamant: There was no way Blair could go to school in blue face, as there was far too much risk of someone’s making the connection between the Na’vi girl from Rose Villa and the blond sissy from Bybee Lake.

Brother of a crossdressing sissy and goalie-tripping renegade was not a title that Kirk would wish on anyone, least of all himself. Kirk held that someone should shave off Blair’s hair (which Maggie refused to permit) and insist on Blair’s spending eight hours a day in the family bathroom with a scrub brush and sandpaper until he had sloughed off his outer layer of blue skin.

While Maggie dithered, unable for the first time in memory to cast a vote, Laird came down heavily on Kirk’s side: Blair should stay home from school until the tell-tale blue had faded away. As for Blair, his vote in favor of skipping school was a foregone conclusion, especially after Kirk promised (after an outburst of petulance) to contact his sister’s teachers to learn if there were any undone tests or assignments that might affect Blair’s promotion to the sixth grade.

Miss Umbridge refused to cooperate — to no one’s surprise.

The first Monday after the bluing of Blair, Cody talked obsessively about the winsome Na’vi from Rose Villa at every opportunity — not only to Kirk, but also to their best female friend since kindergarten, Nicole Petrović. At the time, a thirteen-year-old tomboy who preferred “hanging out with the guys” to dating them, by the time of her seventeenth birthday she had transformed herself into the easiest lay at Lewis A. Clark.

During a frank session with Felix La Rond, Nicole attributed her promiscuity to her erstwhile friendships with Kirk and Cody: “I learned from my first ‘boyfriends’ the bitter truth about nice boys, and ever since then I’ve been damn quick to verify the heterosexuality of dudes in the best way that I know — by having them bust a nut inside my pussy.”

However, her disillusionment with “nice boys” still lay in the future as she listened to Cody talk like a love-sick fool about a girl from out-of-state whom he was likely never to meet. “I guess,” she whispered to Kirk, “this crush goes to show how young Cody still is — he’s like those twelve-year-olds who post on the blogs that they know and love Zac Ephron or David Archuletta better than anyone else on the planet. Like those girls, Cody prefers to love from afar.”

“Well, it’s time he grew up,” Kirk replied. “It’s revolting the way Cody gushes over that blueberry tart. He knows nothing, absolutely nada, about her; she could be Washington State’s most notorious dyke for all Cody knows. If our friend doesn’t shape up soon — and quick — it may be necessary to learn him the facts of life.”

It wasn’t only Cody’s unfathomable crush on Blair that was pushing Kirk’s buttons. It was also the gossip at school about Blair’s sudden illness. One nosey parker had used a pilfered copy of the Breakers’ team roster to identify the blue devil on the Breakers as “Blair Fines”, a name suspiciously similar to that of the malingering boy. The kid raised the possibility that Blair might be sufficiently sissy, strange and spiteful to play in drag in a girls’ league in order to avenge himself on Smith Lake, either the community or its team, for some imagined slight.

Stephanie Willett wondered if the blue dye used by the Breakers’ avatar was more colorfast than anticipated. “Maybe,” she hazarded, “Blair is hiding out at home until his blue badge of cowardice has faded sufficiently for him to show his face around this school again.”

Others speculated whether Blair might actually be a girl, who had been masquerading as a boy at Lewis A. Clark in order to escape her “juvie” criminal record in the neighboring State. The most frequently-expressed opinion, however, was that Blair, a hopeless sissy as a boy, had finally crossed over the gender gap to be reborn as a girl. The expected him soon to appear in their midst, scrubbed pink and wearing pink.

Kirk heard all the gossip and innuendo, even though it seemed like most of his schoolmates were falling silent, shuffling their feet in embarrassment, whenever he passed by. He felt it was only a matter of time before a delegation of students or teachers showed up at his home to confirm or squelch the rumors raging ‘round the school. Desperate, feeling trapped, he felt like he was drowning and that his best friend Cody was helping to pull him under.

“It can’t continue like this,” Kirk told Nicole; “there is no place in this school for both me and Blair.” One of us has to go.”

“Then it should be Blair,” Nicole said. “The little wuss has no right to humiliate you in front of your friends. Even I’m beginning to wonder if Blair is crazy enough to join a girls’ soccer team. But why would he? From what I have seen he’d rather hang out in a boys’ locker room as team manager, smelling their jockstraps and picking up soap dropped in the showers.”

“Nicole, that’s no way to talk to me about my own brother. Blair may be strange but I can prove to you that he’s not hot for other boys, not like they say. Jeez, he even has an older girlfriend he regularly forks.” There was no need, Kirk felt, to tell Nicole that Blair and his girlfriend had a lesbian relationship. That would definitely be too much information.

Nicole was flabbergasted: “Blair a precocious Bluebeard? Will wonders never cease? Then all the rumors about Blair are wrong! But what can you do to stifle them? They’re ruining your reputation as much as his.”

Kirk thought a long while. He then said:

Everyone is guessing whether Blair is actually sick or just hiding out. I want you and Cody to come to my house today after school to investigate and report back to the staff and students of our school on Blair’s true condition. I really, truly believe that my future at Lewis A. Clark depends on you being an honest reporter, and Cody being one too. If you see Cody first, be sure to tell him we’re meeting at my place after school, and be sure to spread the word that the two of you are going to Blair’s house to settle once and for all whether or not my brother has been a “blue meanie” in need of some ‘transformation magic”, as The Beatles put it. Oh, one last thing — tell Prince Charming to bring the lost sneaker ‘cause while we’re checking out Blair, I’ll tell Cody where to find the girl whom the shoe fits.

Nicole, delighted at the prospect of having exclusive information, if even for a short time, that her classmates were desperate to have, agreed to the plan with alacrity. She went looking for Cody to ensure that he’d be her back-up witness on the morning after.

As for Kirk, he had no illusions about what he was doing — a visit by Cody and Nicole would make it impossible for Blair to return to Lewis A. Clark. “I’m finally calling Blair’s bluff,” Kirk said to himself —

He’s been play-acting at being a girl from the start and has no intention of becoming one for good. If I’m right, once his girly avatar becomes common knowledge, he’ll call off this crossdressing charade and agree to be sent away to military school to shape up as a male. He’ll never be able to come back to Lewis A. Clark. If I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am, then Blair will be begging for an immediate sex operation so that she’ll be able to hang out in the showers of the Punani Academy where, being a muff eater, she’ll want to watch the action. She may even be able to show her face around Bybee Lake if her looks change enough. Heck, once that slut Blair has a snatch, even Cody may decide to give her a sympathy fuck, which won’t be his reaction this afternoon when he learns that his mysterious piece of Blue Velvet is my brother. I can’t wait to see Cody’s face!

Later that day when Kirk arrived at their usual rendezvous, he found Cody, sneaker in hand, Nicole, and Emma, a girl whose name he knew but had never met. Sheepishly, Nicole explained that her Spanish class, believing that she was too close to Blair’s family to be an entirely trustworthy witness, had deputed Emma to find out what the “weirdo was up to.”

“How did your Spanish class know you were going to see Blair?” Kirk asked incredulously.

“Well, I guess I sort of was bragging.”

“How typical of a girl!” Cody snorted. “Want to spread a rumor at lightning speed? Tell a girl it’s a secret for her to keep.”

Neither girl looked pleased. Cody was such a sexist! As for Kirk, while he would have preferred to limit the expedition to his two friends, he considered Emma’s involvement a “good omen” since it meant that “someone up there” wanted to expose Blair’s gender games to a maximum of publicity, thereby forcing kid “brother” either to admit that he’d been hiding his true gender orientation — his homosexuality — behind a girl’s skirts or else to live openly as a girl full-time by going away to a boarding school.

Kirk couldn’t explain why it was so important to him that this choice be imposed on Blair. Possibly it was simply a case of his being envious of the attention and affection that Maggie was lavishing on her newfound “daughter”. Yet Kirk didn’t think he was seeing red because his blue-skinned sibling was making him green with envy. Although it was hard to express, what most infuriated Kirk were Blair’s facile assumptions, first, that it was easy for a male to fake being a female; and second, that he, Blair, a snot-nosed kid living in a one-woman household had the slightest notion of the interior life of a girl his age or any age. Blair was all histrionics, a poor player that struts and frets his hour as a female upon the stage, and then, after being outed, is heard no more. The story of his feminization is a tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Kirk believed that he knew a million times better than Blair what it was to think like a real woman, rather than to make dumb show of being one.

(Okay, okay, I admit that there’s no way that Kirk, a poor scholar at best, came up with that “sound and fury” line on his own. Yes, I plagiarized it from somewhere else — it’s probably from a flick about Newt Rockne entitled “Where’s the Rest of Me?” in which President Reagan was gippered out of all of his legs — but dear reader, it’s important to remind you through my film-script references that you are reading, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, a work of art. And I also need to distract you from Kirk’s last thoughts, as will surely be the case if the words “work of art” get you LOLling about. I don’t want too many of you, having decoded my signals, to stop fouling off my curve balls and knock one out of the park. Do you like the baseball simile? I’m proud of it myself, since it binds together a paragraph that started with a reference to Newt “The Babe” Rockne, the sexually-ambiguous dude — just look at his nickname, for land’s sakes! — who once predicted where his homerun would land by using a hot dog to point to a target painted on a bald head in the grandstand. At least, that’s the way I remember it.)

To get back to Kirk and the three-person commission of inquiry, it was with more anticipation than foreboding that they approached Blair’s lair. As it turned out, Kirk wouldn’t have to penetrate Blair’s inner sanctum (aka his bedroom) because Blair had finally emerged to eat. He had been too depressed to eat more than a dry piece of toast at breakfast and had foregone lunch entirely. However, Maggie had finally convinced Blair to put down his scrubbing brush and sandpaper long enough to put on some makeup, do his hair, and put on a Sunday dress to remind himself that blue could be beautiful.

Maggie, of course, expected her daughter to use her fashion sense to offset or compliment her basic blue. Instead, Blair endeavored to make himself as blue as possible — with dark blue eye shade, mascara and face powder, with a blue velvet hair band, blue “sapphire” earrings, pendant and bracelet, blue ballet slippers and a blue dress. Blair thought the ensemble vividly expressed his current emotions.

Although Maggie mildly chided her daughter for “wallowing like a sow in her own misery”, she felt sorry for a child so depressed that she ate only the blue M&M candies from the bowl that she had put on the kitchen table to boost Blair’s morale with a sugar high. However, exhausted by her efforts to cleanse Blair in spirit and in body, Maggie soon headed up to her bedroom for a “brief nap”. She fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of Blair’s wedding day and gown. When both turned blue, she woke with a start.

Meanwhile, Kirk and the detectives discovered Blair, still in the kitchen, still playing with his bonbons, still wearing a blue dress, and still looking as glum as the bluebird of happiness after she’d discovered a cuckoo in her nest. Cody was first to react: “It’s incredible. My Na’vi Cinderella is right here in Kirk’s house! Kirk, how did you know where to find her? How did you persuade her to hang out here?”

Then, before Kirk could reply, Cody went down on one knee to proffer the lost sneaker to Blair: “My fairytale princess, may I be thy knight and servant? Wouldst thou permit me to place this, thine slipper, upon thine foot?”

“I’m not a fairy!” Blair objected. “Have you ever seen a blue fairy?”

While everyone scratched their head in contemplation of the great unknown — What color was Tinker Belle, for example? — Cody, with some fumbling with the laces, replaced one of Blair’s ballet slippers with the lost soccer sneaker. “Let there be a blaring of heralds’ trumpets,” Cody said with a dramatic flourish, “for I, Prince Charming, have found the most beautiful girl in all Christendom even if she be but a lowly guest in Kirk’s humble abode!”

“What a doofus you are, Cody,” said Nicole. “You must be joshing us. Surely you recognize that your mystery girl is Kirk’s little brother? Come on, Blair; introduce yourself to us before Cody makes a perfect ass of himself by trying to kiss you.”

While Blair would have welcomed a big wet kiss from Cody, a handsome dude to whom he now owed a favor, Kirk’s presence made pretense pointless. As he didn’t want to get off on the wrong footing with a boy who obviously liked the way he looked, blue hue and all, Blair concluded that his name must come before the kiss. “Of course, I’m Blair. Who else would be living here?”

Emma threw some hardball questions, for which she figured she already knew the answers: “If you’re Blair, then you’re a boy. So why are you dressed up that way? And were you the one who played at soccer for the Breakers, a girls’ soccer team?”

Trapped at home with no place to run, Blair had no alternative to the Big Lie. He had to put a reverse spin on his crossdressing and double-crossing that would make him more hero than heel in the eyes of his fellow students after his treacherous brother and his three spies had spread their version of the truth:

Yes, I played for the Breakers, but only so I could sabotage them. I was always looking out for the interests of us Oregonians. If you saw the game, then you know I wasn’t playing like I wanted the Breakers to win. The red card incident wasn’t my fault. Some big ox deliberately pushed me into the goalkeeper in order to get both of us out of the game. She succeeded: that’s why my game plan failed; but I should be given a medal for dressing up like a girl (which I find very distasteful) in an attempt to help a local team conquer the Valley.

Nicole, smiling despite herself at the sheer audacity of the lie, challenged: “Oh yeah, and why are you wearing that blue dress right now? I don’t see a soccer game anywhere.”

Blair hastily replied:

That’s where you’re wrong, though I can see where you might jump to the wrong conclusion. Didn’t you know that the Breakers are celebrating their victory with a banquet tonight? So I had to dress one last time like a girl so they’d never suspect that I was always trying to trip them up. If they knew the truth, they might retaliate against my family. Their coach has mob connections, don’t you know? He’s coming for me …

“Cut the crap, Blair,” Kirk butted in. “You’ve got to stop lying to people — and to yourself. Listen, everyone, Blair has told his family that he is a genuine transsexual who’s wanted to be a girl since he became old enough to play with dollies. Admit it, Blair, you’ve not worn a stitch of boys’ clothing in several months; you’re taking hormones to give yourself female curves and breasts; and you’re scheduled to have your willy chopped off, ‘cause it’s the only thing male about you.”

Well, the teens became even more slack-jawed than usual. They had never met a genuine transsexual before. Nervously, they wondered whether the disease might be contagious. Emma spoke first:

You’ve got our sympathy, Blair. You’re pretty for a boy. So maybe you can pull it off. But you’ll never be able to have a baby, and that’s tragic. And obviously you won’t be able to return to Lewis A. Clark because now that we know there’s no way we can permit you to embarrass the guys who aren’t in the know, or confuse girls into thinking they’re lesbians. No, we can’t have that.

“Emma, you’re right,” said Nicole. “Look at how Blair tricked Cody into thinking that she was his Cinderella. Thanks to Blair, Cody has made a fool of himself at school. We can’t let that happen to any other guys. Blair, you’ve got to stay away from Lewis A. Clark. Does everyone agree? Do you, Kirk?”

Kirk replied hastily and brutally:

You’re bloody right, I do agree. Blair is already scheduled to attend a girls’ school in September; he should start tomorrow instead, so that you three can immediately spread the word that I am not Blair, am nothing like Blair, that in fact Blair’s only my half-sister, and that I would never mock the female sex by flitting around like Peter Pan in a skirt. How about you, Cody? We can help restore your reputation at school by spreading the word that it was you, outraged at being tricked by a tranny, who told Blair never to disgrace the halls of Lewis A. Clark again.

All eyes, including Blair’s (now drenched in blue tears), turned to Cody. Until now, the other teens had been so intent on making self-serving speeches that they hadn’t noticed that Cody not only hadn’t said a word since he’d declared Blair “the most beautiful girl in Christendom”, but that he’d never once taken his own eyes off Blair’s baby blues. So intently had Cody been staring that Blair had twice looked away in embarrassment. Blair didn’t have enough experience to know whether it was hate or love that burned intensely in Cody’s eyes.

Cody spoke slowly, his eyes never wavering from gazing at Blair:

Why are you all being so cruel? As soon as Blair’s skin and hair return to their normal color, what’s wrong with Blair’s returning to school dressed whatever way he wants? Nobody need ever know that he helped the Breakers win. What’s so important about a soccer game, anyhow? If there is a dress code, nobody knows it. So why can’t a boy wear a dress? I’ll wear a kilt if it makes life easier for Blair at school. And I don’t see why he should have to go away to school even if he is, as Kirk says, a transsexual. As good Christians or — he doffed a figurative hat to Nicole — or true humanists, we should help Blair through what’s bound to be a painful and emotional transition. Blair, you have an obligation to attend Lewis A. Clark as a female so that you can help us all to become more loving, more tolerant human beings.

“Well, if that isn’t the biggest, smelliest load of horse dung that I’ve ever come across,” replied Emma. “If Blair tries to attend our school as a female, someone will cut off his testicles for him before the day is over. Cody, I don’t know what you’re smoking, but I for one believe that the Christian thing to do is to write postcards to Blair at her new school far from here where she can make a new beginning.”

Kirk, Nicole and Blair concurred: It was inconceivable that Blair could attend Lewis A. Clark, as either boy or girl, now that his crossdressing was becoming a public knowledge. Kirk, who had finally noticed how much Cody was still staring at Blair, now said to his friend:

Hey dude, I think you’re still having trouble seeing Blair for what he is — a mixed-up boy. He’s not Cinderella and that was a boy’s sneaker and not a glass slipper that you put on his foot. You’re still looking at Blair as though he’s a real girl. What will it take for you to snap out of the trance you fell into at the game? Do you have to see his nuts before you stop thinking, no matter what anyone says, that Blair is actually a beautiful girl? If that’s what it takes, I’ll put down his panties here and now.

Blair ran in panic from the room, with Cody close behind him. Cody was calling out — “Blair, come back. You don’t have to run away. I’d never let Kirk do that to you.” Cody soon came back alone, saying that Blair had barricaded himself in the upstairs bathroom.

“You won’t see Blair for several hours,” Kirk told them. “He’ll be frantically trying to scrape off the tell-tale blue that proves that he’s a double-crossing crossdresser. Hey, I’ve got to get some fresh air. How about we go to Burger Queen for shakes?”

The girls agreed, but Cody said he had to split because he’d promised his folks to mow the lawn on the first day it didn’t rain. Kirk didn’t quite buy Cody’s excuse (for one thing, it had rained heavily all morning); but he figured that Cody was sulking over their treatment of Blair. At least that’s what Kirk suspected when Cody said, as they parted company, “You shouldn’t treat a stray dog that way, never mind your own brother.”

Kirk’s flip reply didn’t help mend the tear in their friendship: “One would think you still had the hots for Blair, the little prick, ball sack and all, but I promise you that once he’s out of sight, she’ll be out of your mind. Or vicey-versa.”

Cody shook his head, walked away, and then, after Kirk and the girls had vanished from view, he doubled back to Blair’s house where he rang the doorbell. Because Blair didn’t budge from the bathroom, Cody prowled the exterior of the house to see if he could catch a glimpse of the boy in the blue dress. Instead, he found that the sliding door between the kitchen and an outdoor patio had been left open. The two-inch gap was hard to miss. Without even weighing his options, Cody pushed open the door to enter the Finlayson home. He endeavored to make as much noise as possible, even calling out to Blair and Kirk, so that no one would think him a sneak thief, and little boy blue would not take fright.

He found Blair, not in the bathroom furiously scrubbing as Kirk had predicted, but in his bedroom lying on his bed, face in the pillow, sobbing. Cody called out quietly, “Blair, it’s Cody. I’m here as a friend.”

Blair gave a start, raised his head, looked deep into Cody’s eyes, and said, “I know you’re my friend. I see it in your eyes.”

“Blair, why is your brother so awful to you? I had no idea that Kirk intended to expose and mock you as a crossdresser. Gosh, I like the way you’re dressed. You make a really cute girl. I promise I’m not going to tell anyone about your turning blue.”

“Are you sure? You don’t think I look stupid?”

“Heck no! You look really sexy in blue. I know you’re a boy but I still think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. But I need to know: Why did Kirk nark on you today? Does he hate you that much?”

“Kirk’s my brother. I love him and he loves me. But he’s real conflicted about my dressing like a girl. Sometimes he says it’s better to be a crossdresser than a homo, but other times he seems to take it as a personal affront that Maggie picked me to be her daughter.”

“Do you really want to be Maggie’s daughter?”

“Sure, why not? It’s a good deal. But I do wish Kirk would lighten up. Cody — do you know how sexy a name you’ve got? — I could make real trouble for Kirk if I told our parents everything I know about him. But he’s got a lot of pain. I don’t want to hurt him; so I bite my tongue whenever I get angry.”

“Blair, you really are a sweet kid. Can I come over and sit beside you on the bed?”

Blair’s face brightened.

“Before I come over there, Blair, I’ve got to be honest about my intentions. I intend to kiss you because I’ve been in love with you since I saw you play soccer for the Breakers. You’re my Cinderella. I even brought back your shoe.”

“I know. It felt good when you put it on me. But you understand now that you fell in love with someone you thought was a girl. And I’m not really a girl — not down where it counts. Now you know the truth. You wouldn’t want to kiss me if you saw me naked.”

“If I saw you naked, Blair, I’d kiss every inch of you. You being a boy makes me love you even more. I love the way you look right now. Well, maybe you could look a little less blue. You look really cute whether you’re wearing a dress or soccer shorts. You’re perfect. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, but I also really dig the fact that you’re a boy. It’s a real turn-on that you’re both a girl and a boy, two for the price of one.”

Blair, now sitting up on the bed, held out his arms: “If you still want to, you can kiss me. I’ve always wanted to be kissed by a boy.”

“Me too.”

That day, with Maggie tossing and turning in the next bedroom, Blair and Cody didn’t go beyond French kissing, at which Cody, despite his three-year age advantage, was as callow and inept as Blair was proficient. It didn’t take long for both kids to know that one of them was still a virgin. Blair shyly confirmed that he’d “done it” with a girl, but reassured Cody that he had never been with a boy. So Cody could still be the first.

Eight days later they had the Finlayson house to themselves, and by the end of a long afternoon of wild passion there was only one thing that Blair hadn’t yet done to either a boy or girl. He was a natural, lifelong bottom. So Cody was always on top of their relationship.

Blair found Cody an easygoing lover and best male friend. Outside the bedroom it didn’t seem to matter to Cody what gender Blair chose to be (although Cody advised Blair to stick to a single one at school). Inside the bedroom, Cody wanted Blair to be as convincing a female as possible, without however, any surgical or hormonal enhancement. Cody wanted “his girl” to remain a boy physically.

Their “affair” could not long be hidden from Big Al, who squeezed a confession out of Blair by sitting on his chest until he begged for breath. She appeared to take the news calmly: “What we’ve got is special, Blair honey; it’s not something that you can do with a boy. No one can make love to a girl like another one can. I know every place on your body to make you tingle.”

Big Al even agreed to hang out with Cody. So all seemed right in Blair’s romantic life. He was having his cake and sausage too. Yet there were problems brewing: Big Al had no intention of devoting “the best years” of her life to loving Blair, only to discover one day that he’d rather be a gay male. Blair’s affair with Cody was warning enough that Blair might not be a born lesbian. As all is fair in love and … sex, Big Al repeatedly badgered Maggie to accelerate Blair’s feminization. As Big Al reminded Maggie,

If you want Blair always to be your daughter, then you’ve got to get Cody out of her life. You know the sorts of disgusting things that Cody does to Blair. They’re going to pollute your daughter’s mind along with her body and convince her that she is — despite her innate femininity — a gay male. We’ve got to fight that delusion. You’ve got to make Blair’s body so fundamentally female that Cody will lose interest in it. Take it from me, Ms. Maguire, that Blair’s boobs have stopped growing. They’re nowhere near big enough to turn off a queer male like Cody. So you’ve got to find a doctor to feminize Blair’s body as quickly as medically feasible. Blair will never again be tempted by gay males once she’s got a vagina.

Blair’s tender age (as well as ethics and the law) still made Maggie hesitate until Kirk came to her one day demanding that she tell Cody and Blair to stop kissing and groping each other when he was around: “You told me that Blair would stop acting gay if we encouraged him to act and dress like a girl. But he’s acting fruitier than ever. It’s like he’s trying to gross me out. And besides, Blair has no right to try to turn my best friend into a homo by confusing Cody about the sex of the kid he’s kissing.”

“My dear, I doubt that Cody is still confused about Blair’s sex if they’re groping each other. However, Alicia has also been complaining about their public displays, and I’ll definitely have a word with Blair.”

Kirk went away upset — his usual mood these days. Maggie understood that it was undoubtedly troubling to him that both Cody, his best male friend, and Alicia, the girl he seemed most to admire, were besotted with Blair. Blair’s easy charm, apparently alluring as much to lesbians as to gay males, was difficult for a plain-looking kid like Kirk not to envy — maybe even to hate.

It would take a lot of plastic surgery to make Kirk anybody’s heartthrob. The poor kid would have to settle one day for a wife who admired “his mind”. And more’s the pity — Blair was not only more physically attractive than Kirk, he was also more intelligent. The only thing that Kirk really seemed to have going for him was his firm sense of personal identity — he knew who he was, even if “who” was a very forgettable, very average boy with, alas, less than average looks.

No, that was too harsh an assessment. There was one realm where Kirk excelled. Maggie had never met a male of any age with comparable insight into the female mind. His deep, instinctual understanding of “what women want” could one day make Kirk a millionaire if he were to design or sell women’s wear.

Thoughts of Kirk did not occupy Maggie long. She couldn’t ignore Alicia’s warnings about Cody’s dangerous influence on Blair. If she didn’t act soon, the “pedophiles” would claim another victim in Blair; her hopes for a daughter would be smashed like a climber falling off the mons veneris, the mountain of love.

A mother on a mission, Maggie marched to her bedroom where she made a secret call to arrange an appointment for Blair in four weeks time (the first open date) with Doctor Benny Sentirsi, the specialist in “gender confirmation”, whose name she had received from Joy Torres, Angela’s mother.

Maggie was no longer going to act like Hamlet, forever dithering; now she was Julius Caesar, staking all on crossing the Rubicon. She was determined not to lose her daughter to a gay boy.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. Thanks to Kirk, everyone at school now knows that Blair is a crossdressing, Na'vi turncoat. Does Blair have any future at Lewis A. Clark? Is s/he now trapped in skirts forever? Does it matter that Cody gets turned on by the sight of Blair in a dress?

Choices, Chapter 14 A Shakespearean choice

It took less than twenty-four hours for Blair’s crossdressing and bluing to become universally known at Lewis A. Clark Charter School. It took even less time for Blair to be expelled. Miss Lucretia Umbridge made certain of that. As soon as the rumor began circulating, she barged unbidden into the office of Principal Nea Von Aft to announce dramatically that a crossdressing Smurf was bringing their school into disrepute and should, consequently, be expelled.

Von Aft, looking up from her crossword puzzle, asked, “Does the Smurfette have a name?”

“Who else but Blair Finlayson? Surely Felix consulted you about the brat? Didn’t Felix tell you that Blair has been dressing like a girl for months?”

“Why no. Felix never mentioned it to me. Are you saying that the younger Finlayson boy has been openly crossdressing for months, and none of the parents have objected? Oh my, how society’s values have changed!”

“You misunderstand — I was the only one, outside of his immediate family I guess, who knew that Blair Finlayson was wearing girls’ clothes to school because the boy strove to keep his vice hidden by choosing unisex designs that either sex could wear.”

Principal Von Aft, now pretending to read her mail, replied:

I don’t see the problem if the boy favors a unisex look. Are you saying that he’s an emo or a goth? My dear Miss Umbridge, if we were to expel every boy who wears ear studs or makeup, even black lipstick, as well as a pink tee shirt and tight-fitting jeans, we wouldn’t have enough pupils to qualify for State funding. I fear that we all must accommodate ourselves to modernity, Miss Umbridge, tawdry and dispiriting as it may be. The unisex look is here to stay, for boys as well as girls. Anyway, didn’t you just tell me that no one is complaining? I can advise you from my long experience in school administration that inaction is usually the best course of action. Now, is there anything else you want to talk about?

“Well, I’m complaining for one, and there will be many others before the week is out, my dear Principal, because Blair isn’t an emo or a goth; he’s a blue-skinned transsexual, a true freak of nature. As such, he-she will draw the media to this school like flies to sh … er, to excrement, and parents will, in consequence, withdraw their little darlings en masse to shield them from the great hullabaloo. You’ll lose your school.”

The teacher had finally grabbed the principal’s attention. Von Aft put down her mail, her letter-opener making circles in the air, to say:

A transsexual, you say? And blue-skinned, like a Smurf? But surely the color’s not permanent? I’ve heard of blue bloods, but never of blue-skinned people outside of the movies and children’s cartoons. The child Blair must have deliberately dyed its skin in some way. I do hope it wasn’t trying to look African-American, for that would be serious indeed. We could be accused of harboring a racist student. I am sure that the child’s skin color will soon revert to normal. Or do you fear that Blair is for some reason trying to keep its skin as blue as possible?

“Damn the blue skin,” ejaculated Miss Umbridge:

The color of Blair’s skin isn’t the real issue. It’s his gender: Now that the entire school knows that Blair is a transgender, he won’t be coming to school in unisex clothes anymore. Where would be the fun in that? Blair will have nothing to lose, and something to gain, by making himself look as feminine as possible. He’ll be wearing a halter top and a skirt or hot pants to school and insisting on using the girls’ toilets and showers. Is that alright with you? Because it won’t be alright with most of our parents.

Principal von Aft virtually leapt out of her seat so that her twitching feet could have room to roam. Back and forth she paced across her office, with each pass forcing Miss Umbridge ever closer to the back wall, until the teacher was pressed against it. As she paced, the principal kept muttering to herself about her “pension,” her “political prospects” and the “union election”. Finally she resolved to show some resolve: “I have decided that Blair can neither stay at this school nor can he be formally asked to leave.”

“Huh? What sort of decision is that?” Miss Umbridge asked.

Nea von Aft replied:

A devious one, as you’d expect by now of someone qualified to manage a charter school. As we cannot abide the unfavorable publicity of making the decision for Blair, we must let the child — or more properly, its parents — make the decision and I am sure that they will, with suitable guidance, opt to remove it from Lewis A. Clark forthwith. Will you be available to meet with the blue child, its parents and the school psychologist an hour after classes have ended today? There is no reason to let this matter fester another day.

As it happened, everyone was available for the fateful meeting in the school’s office. All but Felix La Rond (who was closely examining the organic apple that he had brought for wormholes) were staring at Blair, the “Smurfette,” who had, as Miss Umbridge had predicted, decided to abandon all pretense of dressing like a boy. Blair, deciding that pink best complimented his blue skin, had opted for pink jewelry, headband, sweater, bobby socks, Mary Jane shoes and a pink ruffle miniskirt (under which occasionally flashed his pink cotton panties).

Looking at him, Miss von Aft decided that she couldn’t, and Miss Umbridge, that she wouldn’t, permit Blair to attend school looking like a, like a … cherry tart.

At the principal’s request, Miss Umbridge started the meeting by expressing her “concern” for Blair’s safety, given the tone of the remarks she had heard in the classroom and schoolyard. “It’s abundantly clear,” she ‘reported’, that it will be unsafe for Blair to use either the boys’ or the girls’ washrooms. I can’t honestly say in which he would be less likely to have his head pushed down a toilet.” She turned to Blair, “Do you understand, dear child? They may drown you alive!”

Laird asked whether it would be possible, in that case, to allow Blair to use a washroom normally off-limits to the students — “the toilet adjoining the teacher’s lounge, for example. I’m sure the teachers would be adult about sharing it.”

“I fear not,” Principal von Aft quickly replied. “Some of the teachers are quite prickly about preserving their privileges — one of which is having a temporary respite from constant contact with their students — and I am sure there will be a union grievance if we were to impose Blair on their private space. No, from a labor-management and riot-control perspective, it’s simply impossible to find a washroom for Blair to use at the school. But surely the child could wait until it got home from school?”

Laird didn’t think that sounded like “reasonable accommodation”. He also questioned whether the school was willing to protect Blair if push came to shove.

“This school has a zero tolerance policy with respect to violence,” replied Principal von Aft with considerable edge to her voice. “I can assure you that when Blair is seriously hurt by another student, that the latter will be severely punished.”

“Yes, I’d insist on a week of after-school detentions,” interjected Miss Umbridge.

“A week’s detention for gaining a reputation as the macho male who beat up the sissy? That’s hardly a credible deterrent, now is it?” Laird spluttered.

“We think it is,” replied the principal huffily. “At this time of year it’s still quite a punishment to lose an hour of sunshine. In any case, I would be loath to impose an excessive punishment on a child who will, as you say, become the school’s paladin for slaying the blue-skinned monster for them.”

“Monster? How dare you call my child a monster?” replied Laird, his voice nearing a shout.

“Please keep your voice down, Mr. Finlayson. You don’t want to air your dirty laundry in public,” said Principal von Aft, who continued:

I’m not suggesting that Blair actually is a monster; all I’m saying is that many of the students, probably a majority, see him as one. We must deal with the world as it is, not as we wish it to be. In short, while I and the teaching staff will do our utmost to protect Blair from physical harm, we will be constrained by the necessity of not making martyrs out of the inevitable army of would-be bullies, for if that happens, we may lose control of the school. Then education would cease as teachers barricaded themselves in their lunchroom. The forces of chaos and disorder would claim another victory. Blair would surely suffer the most if the bullies replaced the teachers at the front of his classes. You’ve seen The Lord of the Flies — think of poor Piggy’s fate, and he didn’t even crossdress!”

Blair spoke up: “Dad, mom, I’m no longer safe here! I’ve gotta change schools!”

“Blair, your principal is deliberately serving up an apocalyptic scenario,” replied Laird, taking his daughter’s hand, “I’m surprised that she hasn’t added a meteor and tidal wave to her lurid tale. Maggie, you’ve been awful silent, what do you think of all this malarkey? Don’t you agree that Lewis A. Clark can protect Blair without having to give up its educational mission? All it needs is the will to do it.”

“Laird, I fear I must concur with Blair and Principal von Aft. Realistically, there is no way that Blair can attend this school as a girl. At least not openly. We’ve always known that our daughter would have to change schools in the fall. That’s why we’ve enrolled her in the Yoni Punani Academy. So all we’re really talking about is the last month of this school year. Of that there are probably only two weeks that really matter.”

“Madam, I do admire your perspective and perceptiveness,” cooed Principal von Aft:

As you say, the last week or so of school is primarily given to class trips and special speakers; we might even ask you to speak to his class about tolerance toward the disabled, including transgendered children like Blair. If Blair were definitely gone from the school, I am sure that the other children would give his mother a fair hearing, if only out of sympathy and guilt. As for the last two weeks of book-learning and testing, why couldn’t you home school Blair? You teachers could provide Ms. Maguire with the books and teaching tools that she’d need, isn’t that so, Miss Umbridge?

Miss Umbridge sullenly grunted a yes. Blair piped in that he thought home schooling a good idea. “At least that way I wouldn’t be beat up; and Cody and Alicia could still come by to see me.”

Everything seemed to be settled until Felix La Rond unexpectedly spoke up. Either he had run out of food or, more likely, he felt that Blair was being railroaded by the three women, none of whom seemed to question whether a change of gender was in the boy’s best interest: “While I take it, ladies, that the three of you believe that Blair both wants to be a girl and would be better off becoming one, have you given any thought to the psychological implications of what you are doing today? They are weighty, weighty indeed.”

Laird took the bait: “What do you mean by ‘weighty’? Are you suggesting that we’re about to damage Blair in some way?”

Felix shrugged. While he thought it imperative to remind the women who were playing with fire that there was a danger that someone, probably Blair, could get scorched, it was much too close to dinnertime for him to launch into a disquisition on the subject of gender dysphoria.

Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure of what he should say, given that he hadn’t concluded one way or another, despite weekly sessions with both Blair and Kirk, whether Blair was actually a transsexual. Until this farce of a meeting he was leaning towards the affirmative. It was Blair’s unisex approach to dressing for school that he’d found most persuasive: that is, it indicated a strong desire to live quietly as a female, rather than noisily and dramatically as a drag queen. For transsexuals, sexual identity was about bringing unity to soul and body, not about bringing disunity to a school classroom. And so, La Rond’s professional opinion had been coming down on the side of recognizing Blair as a genuine transsexual, whose life would be easier at another school, one lacking the ghosts of boyhood past. But the clownish pink outfit, on top of the blue skin and hair, made the psychologist reassess his diagnosis. Was it possible, after all, that Blair was no more than a ham actor?

Suddenly seized by doubts, all that Felix La Rond could do was to evade: “What do I mean by weighty? I mean exactly what the word says. Our decision today is a weighty one, not to be made lightly. And that is my professional opinion.”

His hands rummaging through his pockets all the while, he finished his enigmatic remarks by popping two breath mints from his left jacket pocket into his cavernous mouth. They’d have to suffice until everyone has stopped nattering about Blair. Felix thought, “The kid can take care of himself and will be come out on top, despite the villainy and folly all around her.” Felix made a mental note to salute Blair with a pint of draft beer.

As the psychologist’s mind turned to his favorite brews, the meeting gradually ran down, as Maggie promised to home school Blair for a month, a pledge she kept, and the principal and teacher pledged to provide the necessary school supplies, a promise they had no intention of keeping. “There is no point to spending the money,” Principal von Aft explained to Miss Umbridge when they were alone, “because there is no way that Blair is going to fail any of his final tests, right?”

Miss Umbridge understood: The last thing the school wanted was for Blair to have to repeat his year, for that would give “it” or its parents, an excuse for its return to Lewis A. Clark. For the first time in her life, Miss Umbridge would be an easy “A” — or A+, whatever it’d take to get the transvestite Smurf out of her life. Blair’s other teachers would fall into line — of that Umbridge was sure. Besides, she knew that Principal von Aft would leave nothing to chance. Von Aft would even find a way to have Blair “appear” to attend the last four weeks of school so as to get reimbursed by the government.

And so it was that Blair left Lewis A. Clark Charter School for the last time, wiser and bluer — and definitely more feminine — than when he entered its hollowed [sic] precincts.

Blair had but one regret — that Miss Umbridge had outlasted him at Lewis A. Clark. He had wanted to dance wildly — like a young savage, she’d say — at her “early retirement” party. As it turned out, she left the school one week after Blair, without a party, without a formal retirement. In fact, she left the school in even greater disgrace than Blair. He at least stayed out of jail.

Ironically, it was her lifetime practice of cultivating “teacher’s pets” that proved her undoing. After Blair fell out of her favor, Miss Umbridge had switched her attention to Alex Shirazi, the thirteen-year-old student with the tight-fitting pants whose crotch she had once accused Blair of coveting. Actually, she had been the one doing the leering; and, as Blair’s continued presence in her classroom challenged her need for control, she increasingly fantasized about having her way with Alex. Maddened by Blair, she became mad for Alex.

And so, on the pretense of helping him with homework, she invited Alex to her house, got him blind drunk, and tried to have sex with him. He awoke from his stupor to find his teacher, stark naked, writhing about drunkenly on top of him, trying evidently to get his insensate body “to perform” for her.

Alex, full of rum and dread, yet void of lust and passion, responded to the outrage by vomiting in his teacher’s face. As she recoiled in horror, Alex rolled off the living room sofa, retrieved his jeans and briefs from the rug, and then, leaving his sneakers and socks behind, ran half-naked from the house. Barefoot and disheveled, his cheeks marred with cheap lipstick, Alex held nothing back (other than his homosexuality) from his parents when they chanced upon him as he was sneaking home via the garage door.

As she watched his bare posterior fade into the twilight, the truth dawned on Miss Umbridge: Not only was Alex gay, he was downright gynophobic. In a secret deposition (secret, that is, from his parents), Alex later testified that he found female nudity nauseating as a result of several unfortunate experiences: first, there had been the Swedish au pair, who after molesting him in kindergarten had betrayed his puppy love by running off with Travis, his underage cousin; second, he had been publicly humiliated in the third grade when it became general knowledge that he was still breast-feeding; third, his grandmother imposed petticoat punishment on him for even the most trivial offense (like not putting down the toilet seat); fourth, his favorite aunt paid him to dress up like a girl whenever he visited her; fifth, his father, anxious to ensure that his son’s first sexual experience was with a female (he didn’t know about the au pair) engaged for Alex a cut-rate hooker, who turned out to be a dominatrix; sixth, his two older sisters regularly “pantsed him” in order to see, measure and mock his weenie; seventh, his mother made him wear his younger sister’s castoff clothes; and eighth, and perhaps the best explanation for his condition, he had at an impressionable age seen a video of Britney Spears in which she wasn’t, gasp, wearing any panties. The sight of her hairy vagina (he swore it had teeth) so traumatized Alex that he swore off females for life. And yet, like Miss Umbridge, they often found him sexy cute and they would not leave him alone.

It’s also possible that Alex didn’t like girls because he was born gay. Maybe there’s no need for Britney Spears to feel guilty about her effect on lads like Alex; they were predestined to play for the other team.

Whether or not one blames Britney, one must fault Miss Umbridge for letting her stereotyping and biases interfere with her own “gaydar”. Normally she would have regarded Alex’s tight jeans, satin shirts and lavender sneakers as damning evidence of “queerness”, but she convinced herself that his clothes choices were normal for his “ethnic” group (like kimonos for the Japanese, sarongs for Tahitians or saggers for urban Swedes).

Alex was a Persian or Iranian (okay, okay, a Farsi-speaking American of Iranian descent), and most of the teacher’s knowledge about Persians she had absorbed from the movie 300, a film ostensibly about suicidal bodybuilders from Sparta, but which also conveyed thousands of memorable images of their Persian foes. The movie taught Miss Umbridge that Persian males have always looked effeminate, even when they were whomping Greek “macho, macho men”.

Yet none of the perfumed Persian males in earrings and makeup were gay in the fifth century BCE, and there still seemed to be a Persian immunity to homosexuality, at least in the mind of Miss Lucretia Umbridge, who had been profoundly impressed by the speech of Iran’s tiny president to a group of American college students, in which he had denied that there were any live homosexuals in his country. Now how many countries could claim that?

Accordingly, Lucretia Umbridge never gave a second thought to the possibility that Alex might be a gay Persian. Ignorantly she groped her way to disaster. Maybe, just maybe, Alex would have refrained from telling his parents about her “indiscretion”, and they in turn the police, had it been impossible to keep his sexual orientation a secret, but no one thought it “queer” that he had spurned the unsought advances of a middle-aged, drunken teacher. Alex’s father, a devout Muslim, was determined to have her punished for introducing his son to alcohol. He wanted to make certain that Miss Umbridge would never have a chance to serve hard drink to children again.

It was Kirk who had the pleasure of informing his family that the dreaded Witch of the Pacific Northwest had been led away in handcuffs from her classroom, her broomstick left behind. Months later, however, it was learned that Miss Umbridge eventually copped a plea about copping a feel, one that will keep her far away from children for the rest of her life, but will not prevent her subsequent appointment as the Education Czar in Washington.

Meanwhile, Blair had a new home room teacher in Maggie. Kirk envied his ‘sister’s’ life as a home schooler. With every lesson effectively a tutorial, Blair raced through his assigned course of studies, giving him ample time to hang with Big Al as well as with Jasmine and Megan, two girls whom Blair had met at a home school “social”.

Angela had also attended the social, and though she and Blair still didn’t click enough for Blair not to lose her phone number, Kirk, who had attended the event as a lark, struck up an immediate friendship with her. Blair suspected that Kirk was only pretending to like Angela, whom he considered a dweeb, in order to retaliate against Blair for moving in on Big Al and Cody. In any case, it was hard for Blair to take seriously Kirk’s claim “that no one has ever understood me like Angela”. And yet Kirk and Angela could talk for hours about nothing.

The best thing about home schooling is that Blair had lots of time for Cody. Sometimes the two of them hid out in Blair’s bedroom, but increasingly they worked together in the rec room on their lines. Cody had enrolled in the Wil Shakspear Actors’ Studio to spend more time with Blair, and the two of them were looking forward to appearing together in their first Shakespearean play, As You Like It.

Normally the school’s head, Wil Shakspear, would have deemed Blair much too young to attempt Shakespeare, but she judged Blair to be a born actress with a superior ability at memorizing a script. Besides, Wil liked the sexual tension that Blair and Cody unexpectedly (given Blair’s tender age) brought to their roles opposite each other as Rosalind and Orlando, the romantic leads.

This time Maggie left nothing to chance. Before permitting Blair to join the Actors’ Studio, she interrogated Wil Shakspear about the ratio of male-to-female students and likely roles for a girl as young and pretty as Blair. Their meeting began awkwardly as Maggie, noticing the abundance of masks, disks, totems and wooden chests decorating Ms. Shakspear’s office, asked whether they were “Indian in origin.” They must be, she thought, inasmuch as the studio head was an Umpqua Indian.

“Yes, they’re Indian,” was the laconic reply.

It was then that Maggie made the mistake of asking whether the “artifacts” all came from “the same Indian tribe”. Miss Shakspear, her face simultaneously showing amazement, disgust and wry amusement, explained that she had spent five years in Mumbai, India as artistic director of a small, English-speaking theatrical troupe, and had consequently fallen in love with “Indian art,” several examples of which she had brought home when her own “Passage to India” had ended. For example, the painted mask from Kerala on the wall behind her desk had been worn by Kathakkali dancers; and the elephant totem, or tiki, came from Bengal.

Poor Maggie, she had assumed that Native Americans were, like New Yorkers, only interested in their “own culture”. Wrong-footed from the start, Maggie never completely regained her balance. As a result, she didn’t dare grill the Studio director as thoroughly as she had planned. Thus, she never asked for a written guarantee that Blair would never be asked to pretend even for a single moment to be a male. She settled instead for the assurance that Blair would be playing Rosalind, the principal female role in the (junior) students’ production of As You Like It. Maggie thought it the perfect part for her daughter after Wil Shakspear told her that Harold Bloom, a highbrow critic, considered “Rosalind” to be one of Shakespeare’s “greatest and most fully realized female characters.” It would be a feminizing experience indeed for Blair to meld her essence with Rosalind’s.

Later, at the first and last public performance of the play, both Blair and Maggie wished that Maggie had found time to read a plot synopsis. That night Maggie expressed such a profound dislike for Shakespearean comedy that Blair, who had come to revere the Bard, never again felt that he owed his stepmother either unquestioning obedience or respect. In short, Maggie’s “philistine” outburst at the performance of As You Like It was the moment that Blair, already sexually active and increasingly cynical of outside authority, completed his coming of age. Afterwards, he had the temperament of a very short adult.

Naturally, Maggie had arranged for a large audience of Blair’s friends to bear witness to her folly: In addition to Laird and Kirk, the first two rows also contained Cody’s sister Shelby, Big Al, Angela, Jasmine, Megan, Linda and Taylor (the latter two from the Pavlova school) and, somewhat surprisingly, Alex Shirazi (who admired Blair for standing up to Miss Umbridge), as well as a driver or two for each kid. In the last row of the theater, a large tub of popcorn partially hiding his face, sat Felix La Rond, ever curious about the life and loves of Blair Finlayson.

The play, a pastoral romance, started badly: Blair (Rosalind) didn’t even appear until the second scene and Celia (played by a red-headed girl not half as beautiful as Blair) had the lion’s share of the girls’ lines in scene two. In scene three, the focus finally shifted to where it belonged — to Blair (Rosalind), who has been told by villainous Duke Frederick, her uncle, to “get out of Dodge” for the capital crime of being her “father’s daughter”: “Within these ten days if that thou be'st found so near our public court as twenty miles, thou diest for it.”

As death threats went, it was unusually polite, and no mafia don would have given her ten days to get lost; nevertheless, Blair (Rosalind) is quickly convinced by red-headed Celia to flee together to the Forest of Arden. Maggie’s spirit soared as she heard Blair (Rosalind) fret that she was too beautiful to venture safely into the forest where thieves did abide. That’s how Maggie thought of her daughter: as one so beautiful that she was safe only in the company of women. But Blair’s next lines caused Maggie’s spirits to crash earthward, down to the pit of hell itself:

‘Were it not better because I am more than common tall,’ said Rosalind, ‘that I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, a boar-spear in my hand …. We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, as many other mannish cowards have, that do outface it with their semblances.’

But a tiny voice — a small hope — yet remained in the Pandora’s box that Maggie had opened by enrolling Blair in the Shakspear Studio. As the language had been abstruse, even by Elizabethan standards, she thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Rosalind’s (that is, Blair’s) intent. Surely the girl wasn’t saying that she was going to dress up and pose as a man? Thus, Rosalind’s reply to Celia’s question — “What shall I call thee when thou art a man?” — Maggie found totally crushing: “I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page; and therefore look you call me Ganymede.”

Not only a man but the most famous catamite, or bottom, in gay history and myth! Her Blair was playing Ganymede or ”Sodom’s Minion” in the words of the Concise Oxford Dictionary (the other definitions Maggie found inconcise). Such a role mocked her efforts to transform Blair into a proper young girl. Much of the world already regarded Blair as a Ganymede, Bagoas, Antinoos or “beauty’s rose,” the young male, “my love,” to whom Shakespeare addressed his first twenty-six sonnets. The last thing Maggie wanted, therefore, was for her daughter to call herself “Ganymede” and to crossdress as a male in public.

Maggie couldn’t STAND it! Was there a conspiracy to prevent Blair’s transformation? Were first the dance school and now the actors’ studio privy to said conspiracy? Was some entity with godlike powers, maybe the Sun god Ra or Jehovah Himself, intent on playing with her hopes and dreams, and Blair’s, as though they were finger puppets on the fickle hand of fate? Maggie had been jerked around one time too many. She was no longer going to accept the whims of cruel Fortune quietly like a good little girl. There was only one thing to do: She let forth a SCREAM so loud, so prolonged, and so high-pitched that the last Shakespearean words that Blair’s family and friends heard that night were Rosalind’s about a “clownish fool”.

Alas, poor Blair, his first time to strut as a mere. comedic player upon the stage ended tragically in the First Act, as Maggie, her screams still piercing ear lobes, leapt up to stage front, grabbed Blair (Rosalind) by one arm, and then dragged the child actor, kicking and cursing, to the exit. Blair’s friends and relatives also hustled for the exits as the curtain fell prematurely on Act One.

An hour passed before the play resumed with Blair’s understudy, a timid girl, who refused to take her turn upon the stage until she had been assured, and reassured, that the “crazy woman” had been apprehended by the police several blocks from the theater, still raging, the police reported, at her daughter for being “a hopeless Ganymede,” whatever that was. The police suspected it was a new slang word for “whore”, but Laird vouched for Blair: His daughter, not yet eleven, had never accepted money for sex.

Back in the theater, Felix La Rond, who had used the hour-long interval to eat a three-course meal, regretted Blair’s forced exit because, “That kid really gets into the head of a female character. He’s much more credible as a sixteenth-century princess than that wan little creature who replaced him.” After having after-theater coffee mit schlag and Viennese cake, he intervened to prevent Maggie, still being processed by the police, from being sent to a mental hospital for evaluation.

“I can vouch for her,” Felix said, “as her daughter attends my school. I assure you that Maggie Maguire was simply suffering from stage fright, the result of seeing her child for the first time in a starring role; Maggie Maguire is as sane as her daughter Blair who in turn is as sane as Billy Bibbit.” That settled it for the police (who had never heard of Billy Bibbit, the suicidal mama’s boy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest), especially after Wil Shakspear phoned the station to say that she wouldn’t press charges so long as Blair and her family never again came within shouting range of the Actors’ Studio.

While Maggie regretted her impulsiveness (Blair for one refused to talk to her for a week), she now knew that she had been foolish to trust Blair’s fate to the whims of blind fortune. Maggie would have to take more decisive steps. Not only was she going to put Blair’s feminization henceforth under a doctor’s close supervision, but she also planned to give the family an ultimatum, one that started composing itself in her own mind. The actual phrasing kept changing, but it always came down to the same choice: Either Blair became a girl for keeps or Maggie walked.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. It seems impossible for Blair to stay a girl, even in a play. Maggie decides to take him to a doctor to accelerate his feminization. But why would any doctor cooperate?

Choices, Chapters 15 Mandy’s choice

Maggie was pacing. Already Blair and she had been waiting for over an hour. Why did these greedy doctors overbook? Finally, just as she had finally decided to leave in a huff or a minute and a huff, a haughty, middle-aged nurse with ramrod straight posture suddenly blocked her view of the door; the nurse sniffed, “Doctor Bene Sentirsi can see Blair now. I suppose you will insist on accompanying her.”

The nurse, pivoting sharply on her heels like a palace guard, marched into the physician’s consulting room, Maggie scurrying to keep up, Blair lagging well behind. After slapping Blair’s newly-made file onto the doctor’s desk, the nurse left to the quick march playing in her head.

“So you are Blair. And what can I do for you and your mother today,” the doctor began.

Maggie replied: “I’ve become worried by Blair’s breast development. It started early enough, given that she’s still one week shy of her eleventh birthday; but it seems to have entered a period of … stasis. Her breasts are no longer growing; and they’re always an angry red, puffy, and ultra-sensitive to the touch.”

“Hmm, Sentirsi replied, “I think I need to look at them. Blair, would you please remove your halter top and bra, that is, if you’re wearing one.”

Blair hesitated. He had never let an adult male see his breasts. It wasn’t proper.

Sentirsi cooed: “Oh come now, Blair, you’re going to have to get used to male doctors seeing you without your clothes. After all, I am going to have to give you a vaginal examination as well. I can assure you that I have seen so many female breasts in my practice that they have lost the allure they held for me in my adolescence.”

“If that’s the case,” Blair mused, “then why is he staring at mom’s breasts? And why, come to think of it, is she wearing that blouse? Not only is it missing the top button but I heard mom complaining only last week that the blouse had become too tight to wear anymore. She’s practically popping out of it.”

Blair also couldn’t remember when he’d last seen his mother wear a mini-skirt and sheer stockings. It was with these vaguely unsettling thoughts that Blair stripped off his halter top and training bra.

Doctor Sentirsi pinched, poked and prodded. He then looked up in some perplexity. “It’s definitely a rash. The swollen breasts and rawness result from the allergy and from the itching and scratching it induces. Does Blair have any known allergies?”

“Allergies? I don’t know of any,” said Maggie. “Oh, maybe strawberries. I remember being told that they once gave her hives.”

The doctor picked up Blair’s halter top and bra, on both of which he noted the J. C. Penney label and the polyester blend. He asked, “Do you often shop for Blair at Penney’s? And are Blair’s bed linen made of polyester? When Maggie nodded twice, Sentirsi believed he had found the culprit — it was polyester. He explained that allergies to polyester were quite common and that Blair’s symptoms — especially the redness, the sensitivity and the swollen breasts — were classic.

“The treatment is straight-forward. Blair should avoid polyester from now on. Her bed sheets should be 100 percent cotton and any comforter or duvet should be made from wool. And I’ll prescribe a hydrocortisone cream to deal with the symptoms.”

The truth was gradually dawning on Maggie: “Are you saying that Blair’s breasts, tiny as they are now, will be even smaller when her allergy abates?”

“Of course, Madam. Except for some subcutaneous fat, which might be baby fat, Blair hasn’t started breast development at all. It’s going to be quite a while before she has breasts as magnificent as her mother’s. While I shall have to verify my conclusions by examining her vulva, it would seem that Blair is late to enter puberty. She still has a boyish chest and [his eyes dropped] … waist, and hips.

Maggie glared at Blair, then yelped, “But that can’t be. That simply can’t be. Blair has been taking herbal hormones for months. They should have kick-started puberty.”

“Herbal hormones, like what precisely?” queried the doctor, a severe look on his face. He didn’t like people to self-medicate.

“Well, Blair has been taking Evanesce, Feminol, AndroEase and CalmCompanion, several pills of each, two or three times a day.”

“AndroEase? A testosterone suppressant? What the f ….” Doctor Sentirsi never finished the expletive (or was it an interrogatory sentence?); instead he grabbed Blair tightly by both shoulders and said in his most authoritative voice, “Blair, tell me the truth. You are a boy, aren’t you?”

Before Blair could answer, Maggie interjected: “Blair’s actually a transsexual, a girl who was born with a boy’s body. She and I have been trying to rectify that cosmic mistake, but as you have observed, the herbals that she has been taking were, it would seem, a total waste of money. That’s why Blair has come to you — to have a doctor oversee and accelerate her feminization. She desperately needs hormone therapy and surgery if she is to have the feminine body she needs for boarding school in September. Isn’t that right, Blair sweetie?”

Blair, gulping, nodded.

His veins bulging, his fists clenched, Dr. Sentirsi leaned towards Maggie:

Feminization is entirely out of the question. Blair is far too young, criminally too young, even for hormone therapy, never mind reassignment surgery. Madam, are you out of your mind? You cannot legally, morally, ethically, sensibly or sanely mess around with the body of a prepubescent. No matter how severely Blair appears to suffer from gender dysphoria, nothing can — or should be done about it — until he has passed beyond puberty and is thinking like an adult. A sex change for a ten-year-old? It is sheer lunacy. What’s next — gold crowns on his deciduous teeth?

Maggie shot back:

My dear doctor, the only lunacy is to require a transsexual, who knows her own mind and destiny at age ten, to have to endure the agony of undergoing puberty as the wrong sex. He or she — it’s the same for both sexes — will never look as naturally feminine or masculine as they would if their hormones worked with, and not against their development into happy, well-adjusted teens. What earthly good does it for Blair’s features to coarsen and for his chest and chin to grow unsightly hair if he’s destined to become a woman at the first legal opportunity — at the first moment that you, the almighty physician, deems acceptable? Who are you to play god?”

“Ms. Maguire, I am a doctor. I always play god. It’s a role that I spent more than $150,000 to obtain. And you, Madam, with your insanely inappropriate behavior have put me in an extremely awkward position. On the one hand, as a doctor, I am required by State law to report your treatment of Blair to Child Protective Services. If CPS are true to form, they will charge you with abuse and take Blair into protective custody, and since I suspect that your husband is implicated in this mess, Blair will probably end up in foster care.”

Blair started wailing. “No, I don’t want to lose my parents. I’ll do almost anything to stay with them. I love them. They love me. Foster care will kill me.”

“That, alas, is the ‘other hand’ or the equation. If I report this situation to the authorities, I will surely destroy a family, and possibly a child as well. What makes my situation especially hellish for me is the fate of my own brother.”

Sentirsi’s voice was quavering. “My parents called him Michael, but she was Mandy to those who loved her. So many, many people loved her.”

Sentirsi suddenly broke down completely. Blair went to his side and wrapped his small arms around the weeping doctor.

Dr. Sentirsi wrapped his own arms around Blair: “Mandy died exactly fifteen years ago Tuesday last week. A suicide. Our family didn’t have the money for her surgery, because every dollar we could earn, save, beg or borrow was going to my medical education. Finally, in despair, Mandy took a desperate gamble that in heaven she could at last be a woman. She told us beforehand that God owed her at least that much. If only I had recognized the signs of distress …. I wish I shared her faith in an afterlife. It would make it easier … to live … with my guilt.”

Dr. Sentirsi, breaking free of Blair’s embrace, buried his head in his own hands. His sobs were the only sound in the room until Maggie spoke: “Blair sweetie, I want you to put your halter top back on. You can stuff your bra in your purse; it seems that you don’t need it. When you’ve dressed, could you return to the waiting room? Please tell the doctor’s nurse that he has asked for privacy while we discuss your … condition. Would you do that for me?”

As Blair hurriedly dressed, Maggie strode over to the window and pulled shut the Venetian blinds. As Blair quit the room, he saw that Maggie had gone over to console the seemingly inconsolable doctor. The last Blair saw were her hands kneading Dr. Sentirsi’s neck to release the tension.

Maggie spoke softly and sensually as she worked the tension out of his shoulders and neck: “There, there, you have no reason to reproach yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

“But I should have known! I was her brother. I was interning at a hospital; I shouldn’t have been so blind ….”

“An intern? You mean you were working sixteen hours a day for a risible salary? It wasn’t your fault. It really wasn’t. Yet now I know why you’ve been providing hormone therapy for teens as young as thirteen, and why — yes, I’ve been told —you’ve got a clinic in Cuba where you’ve been doing gender reassignment surgery, again for young teens who otherwise would have to wait four years or more for it. It’s all because of Mandy, isn’t it? You’ve been helping girls just like her.”

Maggie then swiveled the doctor’s chair so that he faced her. Tenderly she took his head in her hands and lifted it so that she could kiss his lips; then she whispered in his right ear, “Bene, that’s the perfect name for you, for you are a saint walking among us. You know, don’t you, that you’ve saved many, many lives? Think of all the brothers and sisters, parents and children, who have their Mandy still present in their lives — all thanks to you.”

This time he kissed her back.

As she kissed Bene’s lips, cheek and forehead, Maggie found time to say, “I just know you can help Blair too. Sure, she’s young but she’s a smart kid and she knows that she was born with the wrong genitals. You can help her, I know you can.”

Before the doctor had a chance to reply, Maggie took one hand and placed it on her blouse, his fingers touching the bare top of her right breast. She didn’t have to move the other hand; of its own volition it began unbuttoning her blouse.

Sentirsi said nothing until the blouse lay upon the floor: “You’re so beautiful. Your breasts, they’re wonderful. Please, please let me see them in their natural glory.”

“Put your arms around me, Bene. I want you to unhook my bra.” Then, as the doctor’s fingers fumbled with the clasp, she whispered in his ear, “You can help Blair. I know you can. I know you will.”

“I can’t. I just can’t. Blair is much … too young. I don’t have … the right,” the doctor said, breathlessly, just before he tried to bury his head between Maggie’s exposed breasts.

With one hand Maggie guided Bene’s lips to suckle on a nipple, and with the other she moved his right hand to unzip her slacks: “Bene, the priests and the lawyers would say you didn’t have the right to help any of those girls. They were all too young in somebody’s eyes. Blair needs your help. Don’t let her become another Mandy. You can’t ask her to wait six or eight years.”

Bene had nothing to say, for Maggie’s lace thong was coming off with her slacks.

At this point in Blair’s story, it is important to realize that Maggie is, no matter her behavior, the only mother the poor child has. For Blair’s sake, it is best not to relate vivid stories about the half-hour she spent in the doctor’s locked office.

By all means let your imagination and sympathy roam. Ask yourself what you think Maggie would have done to further her ambitions for Blair. Consider as well how much or how little a doctor as fundamentally decent, yet as lawless as Bene Sentirsi, would demand of her, as she pled for her child’s happiness. How far did they go? How much did they do? Or how little? These are questions for you to answer in your own imagination, for they cannot be laid out in a story about a child, even one as sexually precocious as Blair Finlayson.

Blair had just finished his third pamphlet about the dreadful ailments that might await him as a woman when Maggie, her face flushed and clothes disheveled, emerged from the consulting office with Dr. Sentirsi. Excitedly she rushed over to Blair to say, “Sweetie, it took a lot of persuading, but the doctor has agreed to take you on as a patient. He’ll be giving you your first shot — that’s the really important one — on Thursday. In the meantime I have pills for you that will work a lot faster than those herbal hormones. And this is the best news — we’re going to Cuba, to a Caribbean island, in July! Won’t that be fun?”

Meanwhile, Dr. Sentirsi asked his nurse to schedule a series of sessions with Blair, as well as a weekly appointment with Maggie to deal with her “cervical” problem.

“Wednesdays, right after lunch, as usual, doctor?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, Wednesday afternoon will do fine,” said Bene, as his fingers played with Maggie’s thong, currently in a pocket of his white coat, but destined for his trophy drawer. Maggie definitely wasn’t his first “mlf”, but she was the best so far.

It was in the car driving home that Maggie detected that Blair was less than enthusiastic about the hormone therapy she had just arranged. “Do I have to?” Blair whined. “Things are fine the way they are. Nobody ever guesses I’m a boy. I don’t need boobs to fool ‘em.”

“Fool them? We’re not playing a game, Blair sweetie. We’re playing for keeps. I don’t want you merely to pretend to be my daughter; I want you to be her -- a real girl, who for love of me is willing to become a complete female … forever and a day.”

“But I’m a really good actor. I got the lead in both Giselle and As You Like It, didn’t I? And I’m much better at playing a girl than Corey Haim, Alex Linz, or Chad Lowe, or even that little French boy in that rose movie. Isn’t that enough, mommy?

“Blair, can’t you understand that I want you to be a real girl, not a pretend one?”

“I want to be a real girl for you, mommy, but I can’t grow girls’ breasts.”

“And why not, sweetie? Why have you changed your mind? There have been weeks when all you talked about was getting breasts to please Alicia. Blair, have you given up being a lesbian?”

“Sometimes I’m a lesbian,” Blair confirmed:

Alicia calls me a lipstick dyke. She’s got a way of making me beg for boobs, even for a virgina, ‘cause I know they would make her so happy. And I always aim to please. But I stop wanting to have a girl’s body when I’m with Cody. He’ll freak if I grew boobs or my willy vanishes.

Maggie sighed. Deep down, she’d always known it was a mistake to allow a gay boy like Cody to pal around with Blair. However, she had welcomed Cody into their life because he encouraged Blair to associate his sexuality with crossdressing. Cody had always seemed as anxious as Maggie for Blair to dress in an especially feminine way. Until it was too late it hadn’t occurred to Maggie that Cody was also teaching Blair to love the male body, even Blair’s own.

Maggie admonished Blair: “You can’t live your life to please Cody. He’s almost three years older than you; he’ll soon be moving on to girls or boys his own age. You can’t count on Cody. Your family — that’s what you can count on in life. And you know that everyone, even Kirk, wants you to continue with your sex change.”

“I don’t think that Kirk wants me to be a girl. He just doesn’t want a sissy brother at his school.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Blair. Everyone believes that you’ll have a much happier, better lifer as a female than you’ve had as a male. Isn’t that already the case — I mean, that the past few months have been your happiest? As a girl, you’ve made far more friends, including two exceptionally close friends, than you ever had as a boy. You even won a soccer trophy as a girl. You’d never have gone near a soccer pitch as a boy. Even Cody wants you to be a girl for him. You know something? You two boys are awfully loud when you’re together; I’ve even heard you through two closed doors. I know that Cody treats you like a girl, Blair. If you don’t start taking precautions, you could get pregnant.”

“Do you think I could get pregnant? Boys can’t have a baby, can they?” Blair asked.

Maggie replied:

Boys don’t normally get pregnant and have babies, Blair, because they don’t let other boys do to them what Cody does to you. Of course, you’re at risk of getting pregnant. That’s one reason why you’ve got to start taking the pills Dr. Sentirsi gave me for you; one of them is a birth control pill. If you’re going to do ‘naughty things” with Cody, then I insist on your protecting yourself by taking this pink pill each morning. After all, with you entering puberty, you and Cody will become capable of creating a baby together. If you can cum, Blair, then you’re not too young to have a baby. So you’ve got to go on the Pill. Understood?”

No, Blair didn’t understand. He was getting very confused. He would have sworn that a guy couldn’t get pregnant, but earlier that day he had seen revealing pictures of a pregnant man in the waiting-room copy of Egyptian Weekly Magazine. Unable to read the eGypsy language, Blair couldn’t decipher how the guy got knocked up, but given the basics of male plumbing, the man must have gotten pregnant while lying on his stomach, just like he did for Cody. Maybe, Blair hoped, the pink pill could undo what he and Cody had done together last night: “Mom, can I have a pink pill now? I don’t need any water ‘cause it’s pretty small — not like that other one the doctor gave you.”

Maggie smiled exultantly as Blair got his first taste of synthetic estrogen. Fear of pregnancy would keep Blair taking the pink pill. All Maggie had to do now was to sell Blair on the merits of the “horse pill”. There was no point, Maggie decided, in sugar-coating it. She wanted Blair to know it would give her “big boobs” and a “smaller willy” and maybe even make it impossible for her ever again to wear boys’ jeans. So Maggie, stopping the car by the side of the road, held out the “horse pill” and told Blair to swallow it, even as Maggie exaggerated its immediate effects:

I want you to take a Big Pill like this twice a day and to give us a big smile when Dr. Sentirsi gives you a needle with enough female steroids in it to turn two boys like you into females. After taking just one of these Big Pills, your body’s chemistry will become half-female. After three of the Big Pills, your body will have swung so far over to the female side that you’ll never be able to be a boy again. Your genitals will eventually disappear entirely — that’s after just a couple of months of taking the Big Pills. But don’t fret — the doctor can give you a clitoris and vagina so you don’t end up with nothing at all to touch between your legs. Okay, Blair, this is where the play-acting stops and real life begins: If you love your family, if you love me, if you want to be truly happy, you will take the Big Pill now and will keep taking it until Doctor Sentirsi declares your sex change complete.

Blair cautiously moved his right hand toward the Big Pill, as though towards a glowing hot coal. He actually touched it before his arm retracted with a violent spasm, as though he had scorched his fingertips. “I can’t, I just can’t. I’m happy with the way I am. I don’t need my body to become more feminine ‘cause I already look prettier than most girls. Everyone says so.”

“Maggie replied sharply:

Blair, you little fool, if you don’t start taking the Big Pill, then male puberty is going to make your body ugly; your cute button nose will become an enormous hooter, and your features will coarsen. Who knows? You may end up looking like Quasimodo, the bell ringer of Notre Dame. Your eyebrows may grow together into a bushy unibrow; if that happens, you’ll look like a werewolf bitch whenever you wear a dress. You may end up with such a heavy beard that you’ll have to apply your makeup with a trowel, and still have a five o’clock shadow. Your shoulders may become so broad that you’ll look as hopeless in drag as Michael Oher, The Blind Side offensive tackle. And you’ll probably end up so narrow in the hips, with such a skinny ass, that Gumby will have more chance of passing as a female than you.

“That might not happen,” Blair objected. “Maybe I’ll grow up beautiful like Justin Bieber, Jason Dolley or Nick Jonas. They don’t look like cavemen.”

“They’re still awfully young. Time will tell. Look at what happened to John Travolta and Corey Haim. Passing through male puberty is, Blair, like playing Russian roulette with your appearance. You are a true beauty right now and if you faithfully take the Big Pill, I guarantee that you will always be a beautiful girl. If you don’t take it, one day you might look like Mick Jagger or Keith Richards. Here — take the pill, sweetie. Do me this one big favor. If you do it, you’ll be my beloved daughter forever; I’ll never stop loving you. Take the pill, sweetie, and you’ll never lose your mommy again.”

This time Maggie put the Big Pill directly on Blair’s tongue, and as one would a cat, she stroked his throat to activate his swallow reflex. Sure enough, the pill started going down Blair’s throat.

Maggie had won. Or had she? Without water, the pill proved too big for Blair to swallow. He started choking, his face becoming Na’vi blue once again. Alarmed, Maggie herself put her arms around her “daughter’s” chest to expel the Big Pill. It plopped into the dirt as Blair, bent over, fought to regain his breath.

Finally, he had inhaled enough oxygen, nitrogen and carbon dioxide to speak: Apologizing for wasting a pill, Blair actually offered to take another. Though tempted to let him try again, Maggie realized that Blair needed a glass of water to keep the Big Pill down: “Blair, sweetie, you’re the best daughter, indeed the best child, any mother could have. The Big Pill can wait until we get home now that you have convinced me that you are committed to changing your sex permanently.”

During the rest of the drive home, Maggie reminded Blair, over and over again, of the critical importance of Blair’s completing his sex change. She explained how suicidal she had felt when the doctors told her that she would never have a daughter. She had almost gone out of her mind. Grieving for the daughter she’d never have, her mind had been seized with thoughts of harming herself, of running away, even of finding another family to love, one with a daughter Blair’s age. But then, like a Biblical miracle, she and the Finlaysons had been saved by the fortuitous discovery that Blair was a transsexual.

“That’s what you are, Blair — you’re a transsexual. As such, you have a split personality. To heal yourself, to become a whole person, you need these pills and some minor surgery by Dr. Sentirsi. Once you have the right body, a gorgeous female body, you’ll never be lonely or unhappy again.”

Blair was doubtful. Life just wasn’t that simple. It is true that he’d often fantasized about being a female, but not for the rest of his life. He just wanted to be a real female long enough to verify whether Alicia was telling the truth when she told him that no male had ever experienced anything like the orgasm that one woman could give to another. His body tingled in anticipation of comparing the two types of orgasm that Alicia had promised him; yet that tingling was the very reason he feared losing his manhood forever. Both Alicia and Cody had amply demonstrated to Blair that there was nothing wrong with the pleasure sensors in his existing, male body. What he already had, he was understandably reluctant to give up — especially when it was easy for him to pass as a female.

“Blair, I have an idea,” said Maggie. “Let’s make a party out of your taking your first Big Pill. With chicken nuggets, fries, chocolate milk, vanilla ice cream and chocolate cake — all the things you like. And we’ll invite Alicia and Angela. Isn’t that a great idea?”

Blair guessed so. He wasn’t going to turn down ice cream and cake. So Maggie pulled out her mobile phone, and as she drove along one-handed, she arranged for Alicia and Angela to attend Blair’s “coming out” party. As Maggie got into convoluted conversations with their mothers, through inattention she and Blair had one narrow escape after another from slow cars, passing cars, turning cars, cars wandering like them over the white line, and from cars brazenly parked in the parking lane.

As his brief life kept flashing through his brain, Blair wondered if he really wanted to die as a girl. The mere thought of being undressed in the morgue so seized him with dread that he and Maggie almost ended up there, as he became too preoccupied to advise Maggie that traffic was backed up at a stop light. Fortunately, it was only a fender-bender.

Understandably, Blair begged off accompanying Maggie to the supermarket. That gave Blair some time alone with Kirk, who had arrived home from school with the news that “the guys” had discussed over lunch whether any of them would ever date “a girl like Blair” after a sex change. In principle, the answer was “no” or “never” or “I’d rather date a nanny goat”, but two of the guys allowed that Blair was bound to be “a fox” and that for “her” they might make an exception — just out of curiosity, mind you.

Kirk told Blair that the conversation “almost made me lose my cookies, but, funny thing, “it also made me realize that it might be different for you, Blair. Maybe you won’t end up looking like a drag queen or skank. By starting young and being prettier than a heap of girls, maybe you can become a real babe, “cunt, periods and all”. Kirk expected to be hugged for his magnanimity, but Blair hung back, more pensive than grateful.

First of all, Blair wanted to find out whether he’d have “periods,” whatever they were if he became a real girl. Kirk’s reply was not reassuring: “Of course, you’ll have ‘em. If you’ve got a cunt, then it’s going ooze blood once a month, like clockwork.”

“Ooze blood? That sounds dangerous! Do girls ever die from their periods?”

Kirk was “reassuring”:

Nah, they stuff a sponge or piece of cloth up their cunt to stop the bleeding. So girls rarely die from having a period, but I’ve heard that they can become murderers when they’re on the rag — real crazed like that older chick with a guy’s name in Fatal Attraction. So you’re going to have to learn Yoga, sewing or Mohammedism, something to help you chill; otherwise you’ll off somebody. But never take drugs; that ain’t cool.”

Possibly if Kirk had been less “reassuring”, Blair would have left undiscussed the events of his day, for the two siblings hadn’t confided in each other for several months, in fact not since the expedition to Pierre’s salon and to J.C. Penney’s. Blair had been “too full of herself” for a real conversation, and Kirk had been too resentful of his “sister”, especially after Blair had “used her feminine wiles” to intrude on Kirk’s friendships. Most of all, however, Kirk resented Blair’s beauty and the effortless ease with which Blair passed as a female.

Yet it took only two words from Blair to topple the psychological barriers built over the past six months. Big Pill. Once Blair started talking about that evening’s last-minute party, Kirk became all ears. He even became sympathetic. Most of all Kirk wanted to know whether Blair “really wanted her girl’s night out to last a lifetime.” Blair, in turn, wanted to see whether Kirk had been keeping faith. After both had bared their souls, they again became close enough, if only for an evening, to hatch a conspiracy to mess with the Big Pill Party.

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. With the help of a sex-crazed, guilt-ridden doctor Maggie has obtained the "Big Pill" and Blair is fast running out of wriggle room. Will the Big Pill Party go as Maggie wants -- with Blair making a psychologially irreversible decision to be a girl for life?

Choices, Chapter 16 Maggie’s Choice

Maggie couldn’t understand why her children were so churlish. The balloons, the streamers, the soda pop, candy and popcorn should have prepped them for an evening of fun. She did so much want Blair’s most fateful step yet to be associated with laughter and joy. This was to be the evening in which Blair would, by faithfully swallowing the Big Pill, believe that she had made an irreversible decision to become Maggie’s daughter till death did them part several decades thence.

While Maggie anticipated some nerves from Blair that evening, the high-strung kid seemed ready to snap. Blair seemed to be picking fights with everyone. Even Alicia judged “her” to be insufferable, and twice within the first half-hour Blair apparently had said something to cause Angela to burst into tears. While it was possible that Angela’s hormone therapy was simply making the girl weepy, there was no mistaking the tenor of Kirk’s remarks, which seemed not only to be misogynistic (with three “girls” present) but also homophobic (with two “lesbians” present). Did Kirk really expect to impress Blair, Angela and Alicia by telling them that they had an obligation “as females” to have a lot of babies so that Bybee Lake’s native population didn’t get replaced by “outsiders” who bred like rabbits — you know, like New Englanders, Japanese and Canucks? A feminist, Maggie silently applauded Alicia for forcing a recantation from Kirk by way of a half-Nelson.

What probably upset Maggie the most, however, was her inability to catch either Blair or Kirk dipping a hand into the candy or popcorn bowls, even though the contents of both were rapidly disappearing. It was almost as though they didn’t want her to see them having fun.

As the dinner party commenced, lugubrious Laird laid low the lingering party spirit. Blind drunk even before they sat down, he acted as though they were attending a wake. “Lesh drink to Blur, todaysh the day that she’s gonna take a rilly, rilly big pill so she duzn’t hav to worry eva again ‘bout puttin’’ the toilet down afta pissin’. Blur will be a good little girlie now on. She’ll stop peein’ on the rug.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, those were the last coherent words that Laird said that evening. Mumbling something, he left the table, picked up a half-full bottle of bourbon and a used beer glass, stumbled over to the living room sofa, where he soon fell fast asleep, snoring fitfully, the bottle now empty, the beer glass full to the brim with bourbon, two popcorn kernels floating on top.

Maggie apologized on Laird’s behalf, but her guests graciously claimed to have seen their parents in even worse shape. Kirk would have none of it: “You’re just trying to make us Finlaysons feel better. I don’t believe your mom ever got that hammered, Angela; and Big Al, your father’s been going to AA since you were in Pampers. No, my dad got awesomely trashed tonight because he’s ashamed of Blair. Any dad would get shit-faced at a Big Pill Party.”

Blair and Maggie glared at Kirk. Angela looked away in embarrassment. Big Al looked set to slug Kirk.

“We don’t use the s-word in this house, young man,” Maggie lectured. She otherwise didn’t know quite what to say. She was pleased, therefore, when Big Al asked, “What’s a Big Pill Party?”

“Alicia,” Maggie began,

"I’m so pleased you asked. Angela has already been taking the Big Pill as you can see from her new cup size. We’re having a party tonight to celebrate Blair’s decision to start taking Big Pills from this evening onward. She’s been taking herbals for months, but they’ve produced little or no breast development. So Blair is switching today to synthetic steroids. Today, when I filled my prescription for six months of Big Pills, theoretically for me, but actually for Blair, the pharmacist refused to believe that I was menopausal. I guess I should be flattered. He said that the high potency of the Big Pill didn’t make any sense unless I was trying to change my sex as rapidly as possible. So I had to admit that I was born a man. He was shocked, but he nonetheless complimented me on my success “at passing”. Blair, sweetie, if that druggist talks, then you’ll have to get used to everyone’s thinking your mother is a man. That’s a hoot, isn’t?"

“I don’t see the humor in it,” said Kirk. “When word gets around that my mother is as big a weirdo as my sister-brother, I won’t be able to show my face in public. Blair, you’re ruining my life. No wonder my friends won’t be seen with me.”

“I am not,” Blair said. “I’m not the reason you don’t have any friends. It’s your own sour puss.”

They were about to come to blows, but Angela in all innocence diverted them: “Ms. Maguire, I didn’t know you were originally a dude. Does that mean that Blair and Kirk are adopted? I mean they couldn’t be yours, could they now?”

“Angela, you are a total doofster! Were you born yesterday, along with your tits?” said Kirk. “Blair isn’t adopted. When two guys make a baby together, the kid is always a dickhead like Blair.”

Maggie admonished him: “That’s more than enough, young man. One more comment like that and you’ll be having the longest timeout of your short life. Angela dear, I was never a man. I’ve always been a woman. You do understand, don’t you, that the drugstore would never knowingly provide Big Pills to anyone Blair’s age? That’s why the prescription had to be in my name. That’s why I fibbed to the druggist.”

Kirk wouldn’t let up: “Come on, Angela, you know that Maggie isn’t our mother. Mine died and they’re still looking for Blair’s in the zoo.”

Kirk easily ducked Blair’s slow-motion punch; however, in doing so, he “accidentally” bumped Big Al’s arm, causing her to spill hot chocolate on her jeans. Big Al gave Kirk a mighty shove, causing him to bounce off Blair, who fell off his chair onto the floor.

Maggie raised her voice:

"Children, that’s quite enough! This is an adult occasion: A Big Pill Party for a transsexual child like Blair is the equivalent of her Bat Mitzvah. We’re celebrating Blair’s step into female puberty. It would help set the mood, consequently, if you, Blair get out from under the table. Your brother can see that you’re trying to tie his shoes together. And you, Kirk should get a paper towel for Big Al, to help her sop up the spilt milk; but don’t you dare put your hands on her thighs. Remember how a gentleman acts around a lady."

“Al’s no lady; she’s a bull dyke,” replied Kirk. This remark got him a sharp punch to his midriff, leaving him breathless and wordless.

Maggie used the lull in the “conversation” to serve cake and ice cream to the quarrelsome quartet. Atop Blair’s slice of cake, amongst the icing rosettes, she had artfully placed the now sugar-coated Big Pill that Blair would swallow, according to Maggie, to prove (before witnesses) that Blair wanted to live the rest of her life as a female. Then, to (over)dramatize the occasion, Maggie fibbed that Blair’s sexual transformation would become “virtually irreversible” once she had taken two Big Pills, followed by one Big Shot from Dr. Sentirsi in two days time. Maggie finished by explaining the importance to the peace and tranquility of Blair’s entire family that she keep her promise to take both a sufficient number of Big Pills and Big Shots — however many it took — to look like a complete female after reassignment surgery in July.

Angela and Big Al applauded; they urged Blair to “start with the icing” in order to get to the Big Pill “lickety-split”.

“Come on, sweetie,” said Maggie, camera poised, “start with the Big Pill, just like your friends said. This is the moment of truth — when you prove how much you love your mommy.”

“That’s it. I can’t stand it anymore!” Kirk shouted. “I’m tired of Blair being treated around here like Cinderella and me like an ugly stepsister. Let’s see if Blair is willing to eat her cake and pill off the floor!” With that, Kirk swept Blair’s plate of cake onto the floor between their two chairs. When Blair reached downward to save what he could from her upturned plate, Kirk pushed him up and away, in order to reach the “cake” first. Ignoring shouts from their tablemates, the siblings tumbled about on the floor, smearing themselves with cake and ice cream.

Finally, Blair, announcing that he’d found the Big Pill, surfaced with his mouth closed shut, the pill ostensibly inside. He then gulped down a swig of chocolate milk. “There, I’ve done it. Kirk couldn’t stop me from swallowing the Big Pill.”

Big Al and Angela applauded, but Maggie seemed paralyzed by doubt and suspicion. She didn’t move a muscle until Kirk, still lurking below the table, celebrated Blair’s “achievement” by pulling down his “sister’s” pink cotton panties (with white lace trim at the waist and legs). As Kirk rose to brandish them, Maggie told him in no uncertain terms to retire to his room “to reflect on how boys should treat girls.” Kirk headed off, but not until he’d wrapped the panties around Blair’s head like a head scarf.

Maggie noticed that Blair was reacting to her supposed humiliation with a moronic smile, while Kirk practically seemed to relish his banishment, despite the damage done to his standing before their guests. Suspecting that her kids were somehow in cahoots, she resolved to wrap the party up early. Fortunately, Coach Anderson offered to drive both his daughter and Angela home. His breath smelt of Gatorade.

As soon as the Coach had departed with the two girls, Maggie told Blair that she wanted a heart-to-heart, mother-daughter chat at the kitchen table. Once seated, she took Blair’s hands in hers and said, as softly as she could, “Blair, you didn’t swallow the Big Pill, did you? Did you even find it?”

She could see that Blair was weighing her options. After due deliberation, Blair countered, “I told you I swallowed the pill, didn’t I? Do you think I was lying?”

Maggie might have bought the lie if her daughter had been able to look Maggie in the eye or Blair had used more forthright language. Blair, Maggie noticed, had answered with interrogatives. Possibly to avoid an outright falsehood? And so, Maggie asked, “Blair, I don’t want rhetorical questions from you. I insist on a straight answer. Did you swallow the Big Pill and is it somewhere in your digestive system?”

Blair shook his head: “You’re right. I never found the pill. Kirk must have it. Maybe he threw it down the toilet. Didn’t you hear a flush after he went upstairs? Do you want me go to my room for fibbing?”

“Not so fast, young lady. As for Kirk, If he flushed a Big Pill down the toilet, he’ll be paying for it out of his allowance,” Maggie said.

"The Big Pills are expensive, so costly that their price proves, Blair, how much your father and I love you. It’s going to cost a fortune to transform you into the girl of our dreams. But it will be well worth it because I know that the day of your final operation is going to be the happiest day of your life — and most definitely of mine. Why, then, did you tell us that you swallowed the pill? Was it because you, always the ham actor, were improvising? Did you think that the party would be a bust if you admitted that you couldn’t find the Big Pill? Is that why you pretended to find it — to allow everyone to party with you? Is that why you lied?"

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Blair, the shoes on his twitching legs clacking against the chair and table leg.

A wide smile lit up Maggie’s face:

"Always my thoughtful Blair! No mother could hope for a sweeter daughter! While we’ve got to stop losing Big Pills, I’ve got another one here for you to take, and a glass of milk to help you get it down. So that there won’t be any tomfoolery this time, I want you to start swallowing the moment I place the pill in the back of your mouth. After you drink some milk, I want you to open your mouth really wide to prove that you actually took the Big Pill. Once you’ve done that, I’ll let you stay up late to watch television with me. We’ll curl up under a blanket and watch one of those sentimental movies about girls and their horses that brings tears to the eyes of we females. Now open wide …"

Blair’s jaws slammed shut. “I can’t! I won’t! You can’t make me!” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“What are you saying, Blair? That you don’t want to be my daughter?”

“Not if it has to be for the rest of my life! Not if I can’t ever be a boy again! I promise, mom, to continue dressing like a girl — for months or even years if you want. However, I refuse to act'ly become a girl. If you make me take a Big Pill or have surgery, I’ll run away from home. Thanks to Cody, I know that I’m not a transsexual, never was, never will be, because I’m actually a gay boy — just like Kirk says I am, and daddy fears I am.”

“Blair, what about the Punani Academy? Were you ever interested in going to it?”

Blair explained:

"Sure, I ‘m still interested in going to it, ‘cause it’s an amazing place. It would be awesome if Cody could be my roommate at Punani. I’ve talked it over with Cody. He says he’s cool with my dressing like a girl 24-7 during our entire stay at Punani, but he’d insist on the school administration knowing that I’m really a boy so that the school nurse doesn’t try to give me ho’mones to grow me boobs ‘like other girls my age.’ As for the girls at Punani, Cody knows where to find me some stick-on falsies that look like the real thing. I’ll even be able to shower with them on! Of course, everyone will have to know that Cody’s a dude because there’s no way he’d ever pretend to be a girl or wear anything but guys’ clothes. Do you think you could get the school to admit us both, me in skirts, and Cody in Levis?"

Maggie, perplexed, said:

"Blair, I simply don’t understand you. You’ve got no problem with crossdressing for months or years at a time. You didn’t even make a peep when we sent two-thirds of your male clothes to Goodwill and put the remainder in deep storage. I know for a fact that you love dressing up in your feminine finery. Now you talk excitedly about Cody’s finding you some ‘fake boobs,” and I assume that a plastic vagina will be next. But why on earth wouldn’t you want the real thing? Any why would you risk someone’s publicly exposing you — doing his utmost to humiliate you — as a crossdressing male, when you’re one of the lucky few who has a mother and doctor able and willing to transform you into a girl before you even hit male puberty. I’m offering you a chance to stay beautiful for the rest of your life. It’s an offer that Dr. Faustus accepted, why won’t you?"

“Did that doctor have to change his sex in order to look beautiful for life?” Blair asked.

Maggie had to admit that Faust not only stayed male, but received a good-looking wife for selling his soul. Blair didn’t think the wife part of it much of an incentive for a gay boy. Besides, he and Cody were already hitched for life.

Maggie pounced:

"Blair, you’re not even eleven yet, and you’re talking about being with Cody for the rest of your life? At your age, neither of you can be sure that you’re even going to end up being gay after your male hormones start raging. And if Cody really is a homosexual, then he’ll probably end up cheating on you with two thousand other boys, like all gays do. Could you handle his showing up with a new boyfriend twice a week? If you really want to marry a boy and live with him for the rest of your life, Blair, then you definitely should take the Big Pill because it will turn you into a real woman, and thus able to marry a heterosexual guy. Heterosexual males love their wives till death do them part. That’s what they promise in their wedding vows. So if you and your husband are both heterosexuals, you a female and he a male, then you’re much likelier to stay together forever than two gay boys, like Cody and whoever."

It had been an effective speech, for Blair had heard plenty of schoolyard warnings about “pedal files”, gay guys (presumably on bicycles) who were so crazy for sex that they’d do it with any boy, no matter his age or looks. And Kirk had told him when he started “doing it” with both Alicia and Cody, that Blair was “behaving like a typical gay slut.”

Blair now didn’t know quite what to do — he certainly didn’t want to be gay if Cody was going to cheat on him with two thousand other boys. Yikes, that would mean that Cody would be sexing it up with every boy in the elementary schools of Bybee Lake. Maybe to make quota he’d have to fool around in Smith Lake too! But it Blair, by taking the Big Pill, grew boobs as big as melons (or worse, lost his pecker), then Cody would be sure to leave him for a “real boy”, no matter how many times Cody asked Blair when they “sexted” with their mobile phones to pose in panties and a bra.

Blair was torn — to swallow or not to swallow, which was out of the question? As he pondered his options, he picked up the Big Pill speculatively, turning it over and over in his palm. He even tasted it for a couple of seconds with the tip of his tongue (almost giving Maggie an orgasmic rush), then decisively returned it to the table. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong. Cody loves me. No matter what other gays do, he’ll be different. He’ll never let me down.”

“Blair, if Cody truly loves you, he’ll accept your being a transsexual. He’ll love your body, no matter how feminine it becomes, because he loves the real you, deep inside. He says he loves the inner you, right, and not your blue eyes and blonde hair?”

Blair nodded. Maggie continued: “Well, the inner you is female. You know it; your entire family knows it. You think the reason that no one’s figured out that you’re a boy when you’re ‘acting as a girl’ is because you’re a good actor. That’s not it, not at all. To play a girl doesn’t require any acting from you at all because you are just playing yourself, your inner self. You’re no more acting when you dress up as a girl than John Wayne was acting when he played a tough cowboy; or Johnny Depp, a pasty-faced freak; or Madonna, a wanton slut.”

“I am a good actor, I truly am,” replied Blair, now pouting.

Maggie wasn’t going to let him change the topic:

"Of course, you’re a good actor. As a girl and transsexual, it takes talent for you to play a male role like Count Albrecht or even to be a half-convincing Ganymede when you’re obviously more comfortable being Rosalind. Most of all, sweetie, it takes enormous talent for you, a female since birth in all but body, to play the role of Blair, the sissy gay boy, so convincingly until you grew out of that role five months ago. Here take the two pills [which Blair reluctantly did]. It’s about time that you gave Cody a chance to prove how much he loves you. By taking those pills in your hand right now, without further fuss, you’ll prove that you have faith in Cody, to prove that you’re worthy of his love."

With one hand, Maggie placed Blair’s left hand around the glass of chocolate milk, and with the other Maggie guided (some might say “forced”) Blair’s right hand up to ‘her’ mouth, tilted it so that both pills slid to the back ‘her’ throat, the pink pill disappearing from view, and then brought Blair’s hand up to ‘her mouth,’ tilted to glass, and washed the Big Pill down Blair’s throat. At long last, the pill had not proven too big for the ‘girl’ to swallow.

Maggie suggested they toast the moment with glasses of chocolate milk. First she toasted Blair’s wisdom in giving a Cody a chance to demonstrate his deep and abiding love. Next, Maggie toasted Cody for being able to love Blair for what she truly was, a transsexual who has just made Maggie the happiest mother in the world. Finally, Maggie toasted Blair for having the courage to embrace her destiny as a real woman, who one day would, with the help of modern medicine, give birth to Maggie’s granddaughter, who would be another living doll like Blair.

Though Blair looked like she’d just taken arsenic, he nevertheless drank to each of his mother’s toasts. At Maggie’s urging, Blair added another of his own: “May I grow up to be as beautiful as my mom!”

Maggie took Blair into her arms to reward her daughter with dozens of loving kisses, after every three or four of which, Maggie took time to inhale and repeatedly to say, albeit in different words each time, that she loved Blair so much more deeply now that Blair had finally made an irreversible decision to become physically, as well as emotionally, a real daughter to Maggie.

It was almost immediately after Maggie used the word “irreversible” that Maggie noticed that Blair’s feminization was going into reverse. For whatever reason it was evident that Blair was having difficulty keeping the Big Pill down. Three or four desperate gulps revealed that Blair was actually at risk of vomiting his meal of milk and pills all over the kitchen table. It was, therefore, with a mixture of relief and despair that Maggie watched Blair lurch to the kitchen sink, where the kid promptly and repeatedly undid Maggie’s entire evening. Blair even had to admit that the Big Pill looked intact as it swirled down the drain.

“Sorry for hurling. I must have the flu,” Blair gasped, “cause I can’t seem to keep anything down”

Maggie wasn’t buying it: “You don’t look like you have the flu or any sort of virus. You can’t keep the Big Pill down because you refuse to complete your transformation into my daughter. You’re being stubborn and mulish. It’s hard to believe that you love me at all.”

“I do love you, mommy.”

“If you love me, then you’ll take the Big Pill and keep it down. Sit down at the table.” The Maggie carefully quartered a Big Pill with a paring knife. “Here, there should be no question now of the pill’s being too large for you to get down and to keep down.” Once again, Blair had the Big Pill in hand, albeit in quarters. Maggie next said: “Here’s a glass of water, just in case the chocolate milk is too rich for your delicate condition. Take a good healthy swig for each piece of pill — that is, if you want to prove to me that I’ve not been wasting my time on you today.”

Maggie then took a piece of pill, placed it on Blair’s tongue, and then, without waiting for Blair to raise ‘her’ own glass, Maggie, using a second glass of her own, emptied enough water into Blair’s mouth not only to wash the quartered pill down to the pit of ‘her’ stomach but also to half drown the ‘girl’. However, the pill stayed down despite, or because of Blair’s successful efforts to cough up the excess fluid in ‘her’ windpipe.

“You … almost … drowned me,” Blair remarked.

“Don’t be such a baby. One down, three to go. Now where did you put the rest of the Big Pill?”

Actually, they lay on the kitchen floor, close to where they landed after Blair, first in shock, and then in panic, threw up his hands in an attempt to block the watery assault on his windpipe. “They’re on the floor,” Blair announced. “I guess I’m fated to have only one-quarter of a Big Pill today. Oh well, what’s the rush to swallow the whole thing? Now mommy, now can … may I go up to my room?”

Maggie meanwhile had retrieved the pieces of Big Pill from the floor, and after giving them a quick dusting with a paper napkin, advised Blair that they were now clean enough for consumption. “Here,” she said, “a glass of water will drown any germs that might remain.”

Blair finally rebelled. As ready as he was to obey his mom, he blurted out: “First you tried to drown me. Now you’re ready to poison me — all so I’ll take that damn pill. Well, I won’t. It’s time you understood that you’re not the boss of me. Maybe I’ll take a Big Pill tomorrow, but I probably won’t. Stop playing God with my body and soul!”

Maggie was crying:

"How can you speak to me like that, Blair? All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. I’ve never tried to make you do anything that deep down you didn’t already want to do. I was right, wasn’t I, about your wanting to live as a girl. At first, you weren’t sure it was the right thing for you, but now you’re ready to spend years at an all-girls’ school, just as long as Cody is your roommate. Sweetie, I’ll try to make that happen for you. But I can’t help you if I don’t trust me. I can’t even continue as your mother or as Laird’s wife if you no longer trust me. Here’s another Big Pill. If you take it now, this instant, with or without water, whichever you think best for you, then I’ll know that you still love and trust me. But if you won’t or can’t take the Big Pill, then it will be obvious to me that I’ve lost your love and respect, and so must leave this family. I mean it, Blair. Either you take the Big Pill or I am packing my bags to leave you and your family. You will have to take full responsibility for destroying this loving family."

Maggie then placed an entire Big Pill once again on her ‘daughter’s’ tongue: “No more talk, Blair. Either swallow it or spit it onto the floor. Depending on your next move, we can either hug each other like a mother and daughter and I can bake you a batch of Tollhouse cookies, or … I can start packing to leave. If I have to pack, I’ll probably be gone before you wake up tomorrow. It’s your choice: Do you want a mommy or not?”

Blair spat the Big Pill onto the kitchen table. “Cody is right. I’m not a girl in a boy’s body. I’m a gay boy through and through. There’s no way I’ll be happy in my future life as a gay boy if I have a girl’s body. Mom, I’ll do anything else you ask. I just can’t take the Big Pill — ever … never. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, I understand that I’ll never have a real daughter if I continue to live with the Finlaysons.”

With that said, Maggie marched over to Laird, still dozing on the sofa, poked him half-awake, and announced, “Laird, it’s not working out. I’ve made my choice and it’s to leave you and your family. I’m not ready to give up on my dream to have a daughter, but I no longer believe I can achieve it here.”

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. His mother says she is leaving his family because of his refusal to feminize his body. To stop her from going, Blair has to make a choice that is, thanks to Maggie, no real choice at all.

Choices Chapter 17 Blair’s choice

Blair, tears flowing down his face, grabbed on to Maggie’s sweater as she tried to ascend the stairs. “Mom, you can’t leave,” he squealed, “Not until you know everything. You don’t know half of what’s going on here.”

Maggie was tempted to brush him off, but Blair was so pitiful-looking she lingered to kiss him one last time. It was definitely him this time. She no longer hoped for his metamorphosis into a genuine girl, but she couldn’t help loving him. And, darn it, Blair looked especially pathetic and vulnerable in his chocolate-stained, white party dress and ruined makeup.

As she paused to kiss him, Blair repeated, each time with increasing urgency, “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. He made me promise, but I can’t keep it secret any longer, not when you’re so upset.”

She finally heard him — “What promise? What secret? What have you been keeping from me?”

“You probably won’t believe me, not when you’re mad at me.”

“Try me.”

Blair, afraid to look Maggie in the eye, looked down at his feet:

First, I’ve got a confession to make: I haven’t been taking the ho-mones since I talked to Angela at the tea party. Until then, I thought any boobs I grew would go away as soon as I stopped taking the ho-mones. So I figured it would be a hoot to see myself with hooters; and I knew that Alicia would go nuts over them. It would be cool to have them for a couple of months, but I don’t want ‘em for the rest of my life ‘cause Cody would hate ‘em. So when Angela told me it would take a dangerous operation to get rid of my boobs once I got ‘em, I stopped taking the ho-mones, cold turkey like.

“You should have told me months ago that you weren’t willing to feminize your body. We could have saved a lot of money and heartache.”

Blair doubted it: “If you had known the truth, wouldn’t you have abandoned me and the family months ago? What was so wrong with letting you believe that I was changing into a girl? Anyway, I actually believed I had taken the ho-mones long enough to give me some small breasts for the rest of my life. In other words, that it was too late for me ever to be 100 percent boy ever again. When Doctor Sent-Here-to-See told me I only had an allergy, I realized that I still had a real choice: So no more ho-mones for me!”

“Blair, those herbal pills weren’t cheap. What happened to them? Did you flush them down the drain?”

“No,” Blair answered. Then he mumbled something. Maggie demanded a clarification. So Blair told her that none of the pills had been wasted.

“If you didn’t take them, who did?”

Finally, Blair cut to the chase: “Kirk’s been taking the pills. He was desperate to take the Big Pill after he heard you say that it worked a lot faster and better than the herbal pills. So that’s why we staged the fight — so Kirk could get the Big Pill. I bet he ate it even before he left the kitchen.”

Maggie was dumbstruck. “You’re telling me that Kirk has been taking your pills for months? You’re telling me that Kirk wants to become a girl? Kirk of all people? It’s impossible to believe.”

“Mom, Kirk started taking the ho-mones even before that day when we saw the rainbow at McDonald’s. Don’t you remember that the pill bottles were half empty? As soon as he got the pills in the mail, he started taking ‘em because Kirk’s been desperate to have a body worthy of a girl. That’s how he’s put it — not to ‘get a girl’s body’. He’s always had that, Kirk said; but ‘to get a body like other girls have’.”

“Like other girls? What are you saying? Are you trying to tell me, Blair, that Kirk is …”

Blair cut her off: “Yes, Kirk knows he is a transsexual. He’s always been one, he says, or at least since he’s been three or four. That’s why he’s always been so angry — ‘’cause he thinks he’s too ugly actually to live life like a girl. That’s what he keeps telling me — not that he’s a girl trapped in a boy’s body, but that he’s a girl born so ugly that it’s impossible for anyone even to imagine Kirk’s really being a girl. Like you mommy. It was so easy for you to see me as a girl that you’ve been doing everything you can to make me into one. That’s because I’m a little blond sissy. And people always say I’m cute enough to be a girl. But no one can imagine Kirk as a girl because, he says, he’s ‘ugly even for a boy’.”

Maggie rebutted:

Blair, you’re not being fair to me. It’s never been a question of looks. Kirk’s has always seemed to despise femininity. Look at his attitudes towards sissies, homos and girly girls. The only girl he’s ever seemed to admire is Big Al, Alicia; and yet he can’t stand her being a lesbian. No, Blair, there’s no way you can convince me that Kirk believes himself to be a transsexual. There is no way that a transsexual could despise the gender she covets. Nice try, though.

Blair now said:

You gotta understand, mom, that Kirk told me that he despises girly girls and sissy boys because he’s a fem'nist who thinks that there’s far too much emphasis placed on the way girls and women look. Girls should be strong like Big Al, not sissies like me. That’s what Kirk says. He said that Big Al is exactly the sort of girl he dreams of being, except for her being a dyke. It disgusts him that Big Al is sexing it with me. Kirk admits he’s a homophobe, which sure doesn’t help us to get along. Sometimes I really get mad at him. He always apologizes afterwards, but it’s not long again before he says something bad about us gays.

“Let’s see if I got your story right: You’re saying that Kirk has been trying to feminize himself for months, without telling me, because he believes that he’s a transsexual. Yet he also despises traditional femininity, possibly because of his own appearance, and in an ideal world he’d be a bull dyke, but one who’d only have sex with hetero guys.”

“Yeah, that’s about it. When Kirk saw a rerun of the first season of Survivor, you know the one — the one with the gay dude who went around in the nude?”

Maggie knew the one, mentally adding, “Yeah, the show in which the gay dude later went to prison for evading taxes on his million-dollar prize.”

Blair continued: “Well, that show had a female truck driver named Sue. She’s the sort of woman Kirk wants to grow up to be — you know, tough, reliant, takes no crap from anyone. Kirk also admires Roseanne Barr, women wrestlers and girl hockey players.”

“Blair, I know you’re upset that I have to leave; that’s why you’re telling me this wild story. But it’s impossible to square your version of Kirk with the one who, for example, created that scene at Penney’s or mocked you for playing with dolls.”

Blair replied with a touch of insolence:

That shows how much you know about Kirk. He acted up at Penney’s because he hoped that the clerks would ‘punish’ him by fitting him for some girls’ clothes. That way he’d learn what size to buy. He also hoped they’d secretly add some girls’ undies for him to wear in the stuff you bought for me. Kirk was especially anxious to get some shapewear because he wanted to know if he’d look acceptably female if he had the breasts and curves of a teenaged girl. Since then almost every time you and dad have left him alone he’s been admiring himself in the mirror while wearing his shapewear, often with a dress on over it. He even got me to wear his boys’ underwear to school most days, so that you’d not notice when doing the wash that he’s been wearing a bra and panties to school virtually every day since we shopped at Penney’s. Of course, he wore his own stuff, but also anything of mine that fitted him.

“You’re telling me that Kirk has been dressing like a girl every time I’m gone from the house?”

“Yeah, and I’m also telling you that he likes to play dolls even more than I do. I’m too grown-up now for dolls. They’re sitting on a shelf. But sometimes Kirk takes my dolls into his room, and I know he loves to dress and undress G.I. Joe in Barbie’s clothes ‘cause he thinks G.I. Joe is the doll that looks most like him. So he wants to see what G.I. Joe looks like as a woman.”

“G.I. Joe disappeared soon after we brought him home. You’re telling me that the action figure has been all this time in Kirk’s room? Well, I’ve not seen the doll. Where’s he been hiding?”

Blair answered, “In a white shoebox under Kirk’s bed, along with the dresses, skirts and halter tops that fit G. I. Joe the best.”

“Okay, Blair. That’s the first story from you that I can verify without having to ask Kirk to prove he’s not a secret transsexual.” Grabbing hold of Blair’s right hand, Maggie said, “Let’s you and me pay a visit to Kirk’s room. I want to see if he has a white shoebox under his bed.”

When Maggie knocked on Kirk’s locked bedroom door, there was a panicky voice announcing that she’d have to wait for a few moments because he wasn’t decent. “I’ve got nothing on but my underpants. Wait a sec.”

“Kirk, this is ridiculous. I’m your mother and there’s nothing special about a boy’s chest. Unlock the door please.”

His face flushed from exertion, Kirk was wearing his felt bathrobe when he finally came to the door. Maggie saw that she wouldn’t have to look under the bed for a white shoebox; it was sitting closed on Kirk’s bed. “What’s in the shoebox?” Maggie asked.

“Nothing much,” Kirk replied evasively.

“Even so, I’d like to look inside it. There shouldn’t be any secrets between a son and his mother.” Before Kirk could grab the box himself, Maggie seized it, opened it, and spilled its contents — G. I. Joe and his dress collection — onto the bed. She realized that at least part of Blair’s story was true. Was the rest?

“Kirk,” she said in her most parental voice,

Today we learned that Blair has been suffering needlessly from an allergic reaction to polyester. Had he not been so shy, I would have seen the rash and puffiness around his nipples, and he’d have been spared weeks or months of itching and pain. I realize now that I should have been insisting on inspecting you both on a regular basis just to make sure that you’ve not got a problem like acne on your shoulders or back that should be treated by a doctor. So off with the robe, young man. I want to look at your chest, back and legs.

”I won’t. I simply won’t. You can’t barge into my room and tell me to strip. This isn’t Chippendales. I want to be left alone. You told me to go to my room as punishment. Isn’t that enough? If you respected my wishes, you’d leave me in peace.”

“Kirk,” Blair said quietly, “She knows. I told her everything. She knows about the Big Pill, the ho-mones and the crossdressing. She even knows that you’ve got girl’s boobs and that you see yourself as the only transsexual in this family. You may as well take off your robe, given what mom already knows.”

Maggie was truly shocked. This was the first she’d heard about Kirk’s having boobs. Had the herbal hormones and testosterone suppressants actually worked?

“She knows?” Kirk asked in amazement. “You pinky swore that you’d never tell anyone, least of all Maggie and dad. Now you’ve broken your solemn promise. How could you do it to me? You’ve always been a hopeless sissy, Blair, but until now I had hopes you might yet prove yourself a Man. Instead, you’re the biggest loser I know.”

It was as though Maggie weren’t even there. She surmised that Kirk was having difficulty accepting that not only she was standing there, in his inner sanctum, but that she knew his innermost secrets — well, at least those he had shared with Blair.

“Kirk honey, don’t blame your brother.”

“My brother? I thought Blair was my everlasting sister!”

“Not any more I’m not,” Blair replied:

After I told mom that I’d never agree to take the Big Pill and so would never become a real girl, she got so upset that she said she was leaving dad and us … forever! She was going upstairs to pack. She said she was going to be gone before we woke up in the morning. She was upset, Kirk, because I could never be the daughter that she needs and wants. I’m just a boy who likes to dress up. But you, you’re different. You already are the daughter that mom wants. She’s just gotta to know the truth. That’s why I couldn’t keep your secret any longer. I had to tell mom; it was the only way to keep our family together.

“Blair’s telling the truth, Kirk. He did the right thing by breaking whatever promise you extracted from him. Now, honey, please take off the robe. I need to see the real you.”

“Blair’s the daughter you want, not me,” Kirk said loudly and emotionally to Maggie. “He’s as pretty as any girl, and as soon as he puts on a dress everyone wants to get it on with him. Jeez, Blair could probably make a million bucks a day if he turned pro. I’ve known for a long time that he’ll never agree to a sex change. It would upset his marriage plans for Cody.”

“Kirk, I know all about Blair. But what about you, honey? Aren’t you now the center of attention?”

Kirk punched the wall —

"Me, the center of attention? You mean like the bearded lady at a carnival freak show? Maggie, I’m the homely boy nobody notices until he gets a black trench coat and starts listening to Metallica. If I were a girl, I’d either be the nice girl who’s never had a date or else the not-so-nice feminist who spends her Saturday evenings working on a thesis about ‘lookism’. Maggie, every time that God puts a girl into a boy’s body, it’s a frigging tragedy. But if God was to put a girl inside this body, with a face as fugly as mine, it would be a frigging farce. You really don’t want to see me without my robe. You can’t handle it."

“Yes, I can honey,” Maggie said as she walked over to Kirk who put up no resistance as Maggie untied the sash of his bathrobe, pushed it back over his shoulders, and onto the floor. Kirk, wearing a white, uplift bra (that he’d somehow bought himself) and white cotton panties, with a lace trim and padding on the sides and rear, was now exposed as a crossdresser — just like Blair. Yet Maggie wasn’t looking at Kirk’s lingerie. Her eyes were feasting on his breasts bulging out of the top of his bra. In size and shape, they would have turned most fourteen-year-old girls into a shower room exhibitionist.

“Kirk, your breasts are magnificent,” Maggie gushed, but how did you keep them a secret?”

“With lots of tape and painfully tight sports bras, that’s how,” Kirk answered. “And didn’t you wonder why I’m still wearing big, bulky sweaters and a heavy coat in mid-May? Do you want to see what I look like without a bra? Blair can stay. He’s been measuring them once a week since I started taking the herbal pills.”

Kirk, blushing furiously, slowly undid his bra. Soon enough, two youthfully perky breasts were liberated, their aureoles surprisingly large and dark for a male less than six months into his sex change. “What do you think?” Kirk shyly asked. It was obvious that his breasts were the part of his body he liked best. Possibly they were the only part of his body he didn’t loathe.

“What do I think?” Maggie echoed. She extended her arms outward, beckoning Kirk to come to her as girls have to their mother since the beginning of time. Maggie called out, “Kirk, love, you are the most beautiful daughter any mother could ever want or be lucky to have. Please come to me. I have so many apologies to make and I have so many wondrous plans for you, my dear, dear Kirk, my one and only true daughter.”

Mother and daughter fell into each other arms, sobbing. For the first time ever Kirk called her “mom,” over and over again. Her daughter would never again refer to her as Maggie.

Finally catching her breath, Kirk said, as he had once before, “But mommy, I’ll be butt ugly as a girl. You’ve always wanted to have a beautiful daughter like Blair.”

Maggie replied:

"No sweetheart, you’ve got that so, so wrong. A daughter has always been what I wanted. Her looks don’t matter. I’ve never said to myself that my daughter has to be beautiful, or intelligent or good with her hands. All I’ve ever said to myself is that I want a daughter to mother and to love! I’d never enroll a daughter of mine in a beauty pageant. They’re grossly exploitative. But if the judges saw you through my eyes, Kirk, you’d be sure to win Miss USA because my daughter is by definition the most beautiful girl in the entire world. Even so, I understand your concerns and your fears. You’re a teenager now and teens are never satisfied with their appearance. They always want to have their breasts enlarged, their ears pinned, or their nose bobbed. Well, we’ve got plenty of money to help you to improve your self-image. But seriously, sweetie, you’ve not had any help in learning how we women make ourselves look truly stunning. I guarantee you that with a little instruction from Pierre and me, you will look so beautiful by the end of this summer that you could even seduce Blair’s teen idol, Justin something."

Maggie then explained to the two children that Laird, whom she now intended to awaken even if it took smelling salts, was not likely to welcome a second of his boys becoming a girl. So she thought it wise to give Laird the “good” news about Blair first — namely, that Blair had decided to dress and behave like a boy for the foreseeable future.

When Blair objected, Maggie lectured him about letting Kirk have her moment in the sun, growing and blossoming in femininity without everyone’s comparing Kirk to her kid brother, still playing around in dresses:

"I’m not saying, Blair, that you can never again dress like a female; I just want you to cool your jets for a year so that your dad doesn’t feel like he’s no longer got a son. You’ll have to be the only son for a while. Can you handle the role? Needless to say, it would help if you kept Cody more in the background. Your father doesn’t need to know that you two are ‘an item’. Agreed””

Blair not only agreed, he understood. His dad could only handle one daughter at a time. Besides, there was no need for either of his parents to know what he wore when he was alone with Cody. His door did, after all, have a lock.

"After your dad has got used to the idea of having Blair the prodigal son return, we’ll give him the joyous news that you, Kirk, have become his daughter — indeed, that you have always been his daughter. Kirk, you will, of course, be the one to undergo surgery as soon as it can be arranged so you won’t have to worry about skinny-dipping in front of the other girls — no boys mind you! As for you, Blair, we’ll have to have a long talk about your schooling next September now that you’re not welcome at Lewis A. Clark.”

“A military boarding school is what Blair needs,” Kirk offered.

“How about a school for the performing arts?” Blair rebutted.

“The decision can await another day. Before we wake your father, Kirk, it’s best if you decide on a new, more feminine name. I assure you that there will be no difficulty in making it your official name of record. My geek is still in the market for classic comic books.

Have you ever thought of naming yourself Ellen Margaret in memory of your birth mother? I do think the two names — hers and mine — together make a simply divine name, indeed the perfect name for a student at the Punani Academy come September.”

A story about a family with two boys aged 10 and 13, in which choice is a delusion and gender, an illusion. It’s a familiar theme in the TG literature, but this time with an unfamiliar twist. We've learned that Kirk is TS at age 13 and Blair is TG at age 10 and 11/12ths. Poor Laird! Does it all work out for the best? Dawn, your intrepid reporter, asks a crystal ball to predict the future of the two Finlayson family.

Choices, Chapter 18 A wedding choice

Will Maggie do right by Kirk? Will Kirk become Ellen? Will Blair stop crossdressing? Will Laird and Maggie stay together? Does Laird even have a choice?

These questions, among others, compelled me, fabulist Dawn DeWinter, to consult the occult. Once before, Madame Zeta, a fortune teller in New York City, helped me to look into the future. Then I wanted to know whether Kyle, an Iowa teen who would do “Anything for a Moped,” ended up — through happenstance or predestination — changing his gender to female, and his name to Demi. With the help of a crystal ball, Madame Zeta told me enough about Demi’s future for me, and more important, my readers, to feel assured that she was going to have a long and vigorous life.

So once again I took the Path Train to New York City in order to look for Madame Zeta at the Brazilian Tea Room in central Manhattan. I hoped she would be able to foresee far into the future of Kirk, Blair and their parents. Once again, I found her peacefully snoozing on a pool table. After I had refreshed her with a splash of water and a tumbler of brandy, I discovered that Madame Zeta’s rates have gone up significantly since I last consulted her.

She blames higher inflation and taxes, as well as the need to build a big nest-egg before she’s put out of business in December 2012. Naturally, I ask, “What’s going to happen then?” (It’s always good to have advance knowledge of the future — for example, that a volcano is going to erupt in Greenwich Village. If I knew when that was going to happen, I’d have time to seek refuge in Iceland or Hawaii.)

“I guess you’ve not been reading the tabloids, Dawn girl. Don’t you know that the Mayans predicted that the world will end at the Winter Solstice in the year 2012?”

“What the fcuk!” I exclaim, or words to that effect. “Are you telling me that I’ve got only two more years to live? I’m not ready to die. I can’t and I won’t die a virgin!”

“Calm yourself, Dawn. Don’t stain your panties.”

“Who the hell are the Mayans?” I ask myself. “I know they are Indians of some sort, but if the Mayans could really foresee the future, then why didn’t they immediately use their war elephants in days of yore to push the British back into the sea when the Brits came looking for chutney and tea?”

Madame Zeta then explains that she asked her crystal ball to predict what will happen to New York when the clock hands reaches 21 December 2012, Eastern Standard Time (that, one hour ahead of Ottumwa, Iowa).

At first, the crystal ball comes up with plenty of excuses for its fuzziness (blaming Zeta for excessive drinking and abrasive cleaning agents), but gradually a picture comes into focus. It is of a very tall dude terrorizing New York City. According to Madame Zeta, no one could mistake the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl as he lumbers down 7th Avenue. True, he appears this time in the guise of a fifty-foot-tall, cockney-speaking gecko lizard, his modesty protected by suit trousers and a feather boa; even so, Madame Zeta would recognize Quetzalcoatl anywhere because she has a memory for faces.

When it reaches its destination inside Madison Square Garden the Aztec god thunders out to the standing-room-only crowd at a hockey game: “Don’t pay no mind to de Mayans. Dose ‘ayseeds never figured ‘ow to predict de future correc’ly. And don’t put your faith neider in dem Nostramusses, Cayseeds, Shite Twelvers, Messianists, and ‘vangelists who also claim to prophesy de future. It can’t be done by no one but an Aztec god or his priest. Got it, ever’body? ‘Ave a nice day.”

The giant lizard then ambles across town and into the Hudson River. As its head disappears beneath the foamy sludge, the crystal ball shuts down completely. It will take Madame Zeta several months to convince the ball to make even minor predictions (such as whether a fully loaded pizza will give her heartburn).

After that pronouncement, Madame Zeta tried to save her fortune-telling business by finding an Aztec priest to consult, but the ones she found loitering around Times Square turned out to be frauds. One of them even tried to persuade her that the Aztecs told the future via Three Card Monte. Finding Aztec priests impossible to find, even in Manhattan, Madame Zeta went next to the Public Library on 42nd Street. There she read that the Aztecs told the future through ball games between communities. This knowledge didn’t help much because she couldn’t figure out whether a Yankee victory or a Mets loss was the better predictor of stock market prices or the winner of the Kentucky Derby.

Not knowing whether the return of Quetzalcoatl two years hence will effectively destroy her livelihood, Madame Zeta coolly informs me that I have to pay top dollar for any and all predictions:

After all, Dawn, you soon may not be able to get any insight into the futures of Blair and Ellen without having to go down to Mexico, where you’ll risk ending up becoming a human sacrifice. You don’t want to have your living heart yanked out of your still steaming body, do you?

No I don’t want that. So I buy what little information I can at Madame’s current, extortionate prices. The crystal ball deigns to tell me about a single day in the future of the Finlayson family: January 2, 1921, Blair’s wedding day approximately ten years thence. The ball assures me that advance knowledge of this one particular day will tell me and my readers all that it is safe to know about the future. In an apparent attempt to justify its price hike, the crystal ball suggests that to ask for information about a second day would have me repeat the sin of Adam and Eve by attempting to pig out on fruit from the tree of knowledge. Besides, it adds, a TG writer can’t afford the whole truth. Nor do his readers necessarily desire it.

At first, the crystal ball is as fuzzy as a dream sequence in an old movie. But gradually, like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, a scene comes into focus. It seems to be a hospital room, with a woman who resembles Kirk on the bed, with Maggie and Laird beside her. So it must be their daughter!

Through eavesdropping, I learn that Kirk has indeed become Ellen. Maggie, however, has never sought to change Kirk’s name legally. It was simpler, ultimately safer, she held, to pay Josh to change Kirk’s vital and school records to “Ellen Margaret, female”. Computers say that the boy never existed, which is all that matters in the Computer Age.

But it took more than computers to make Ellen into a woman so real that only her gynecologist knows the birth truth. It took the help of her brother Blair, her father Laird, her friends and mentors, and above all, it took Maggie’s help. In the end, Maggie has proved herself a far better mother than anyone would have predicted in 2010. Needless to say, she has never been able to undo all the damage she did to Blair’s trust on the night of the Big Pill Party, yet he loves her as much as he does any woman.

Through the wondrous crystal technology, my spirit drifts to a second scene, this time in the quaintly timbered “Mozart Room” of the Trapp Family Lodge on the outskirts of Stowe, a ski resort in Vermont. A calendar informs me that it is the first Saturday in January, 2021. The setting reminds me of the movie White Christmas, except that Vermont actually has snow, fresh snow, with not a yellow streak in sight.

A sign at the entrance to the Mozart Room announces a double wedding. I am surprised, yet pleased, to see that Blair is about to wed his childhood sweetheart, Cody Akins. Yes, the same Cody Akins, Kirk’s buddy who taught Blair how to love a real male, emotionally and sexually, instead of sighing over a teen pin-up. As a lark, Cody has actually invited Justin Bieber to the wedding, but Bieber, who has never heard of either bride or groom, declined the invitation.

I don’t need the crystal ball to explain why Blair and Cody have chosen the Trapp Family Lodge for the ceremony — Blair simply adores The Sound of Music, the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical about the Von Trapps’ courtship, marriage and flight from the Nazis. Blair doesn’t know which role he likes best — that of Maria, played by Julie Andrews, who got the best songs to sing — or of daughter Liesl, the sixteen-year-old girl who got to kiss and nestle with Rolf, the scrumptious telegram boy.

The Trapp Family Lodge makes abundant sense, if one wants the most romantic spot for Blair in the entire state of Vermont. But why Vermont? It may seem an odd choice, since it is far from the family hearth in the Pacific Northwest and from the jobs that Blair and Cody have found in West Hollywood, California where they wait on tables whenever they are between acting jobs — which is most of the time.

But the breaks are now beginning to go their way: Cody has recently found a meal ticket in a series of TV commercials about the necessity for countries to learn their credit score before the World Bank, China and the IMF stop taking their calls; and Blair has a starring role in a movie (it will begin filming in February), in which he plays an immature, fourteen-year-old boy, who, maddened by the failure of “Global Warming” to warm up a normal winter in Minneapolis to tolerable, heats things up by burning down his school, one room at a time. It’s Blair’s angelic smile (he still looks the total naíf at age 21) that wins him the role of the cold-blooded killer — like Patty McCormack in Bad Seed or Macauley Culkin in The Good Son.

But back to the question of Vermont. Why there? Because it was one of the first states to legalize same-sex marriage and because it has the best ski hills in New England — a vital consideration to Blair’s sister, Ellen Margaret Finlayson. (Technically, Blair is not having a same-sex marriage, the crystal ball haughtily explains, because Maggie has forgotten to change his sex back to male. So far, whenever anyone has noticed the “F” beside Blair’s name, they have, assuming yet another computer foul-up, corrected it themselves to an “M”.)

Not only is Ellen Margaret going to attend Blair’s wedding, she is going to share it, for the second half of the double ceremony will see Ellen marry Oliver Kennedy Lowell III, a lawyer and yachtsman (already planning an America’s Cup challenge) from Bar Harbor, Maine. It’s Ollie who suggested the January 2nd date, because he likes the idea of starting 2021 off with a bang — actually, a pop, of champagne corks.

Since I know far less about Ollie than I did about Cody, I persuade the crystal ball to linger a while on his face, form and finances. I can see that Ollie’s physiognomy betrays the consequences of several generations of inbreeding amongst the descendants of the Puritanical founders of Boston, Massachusetts, especially after they, having fallen in love with equine show jumping, began to choose their wives for their riding skills rather than for their looks. (Ellen, for example, has developed a magnificent seat -- as well as derriere; she can guide her favorite gelding, “Alexander Kirk”, over any fence while riding side saddle.)

As a consequence of such marital choices, Ollie has a long, rectangular “horsy” face. Blair, whose tropes always seem to come from show business or the movies, told Ellen — after a “few too many” (which meant a couple of cocktails for Blair, still a drinking novice) — that Ollie reminds him of Fred Gwynne, a comedic actor known for his roles in The Munsters (as Herman) and My Cousin Vinny (as the stern Southern judge) — which is a bit unfair, considering that Ollie is barely twenty-six.

Whenever anyone intimates that Ollie has a horsy look, Ellen always shoots back (correctly, says the crystal ball) that Ollie is also hung like a stallion. To Blair, from whom no secrets are hidden, she confides that Ollie can mount her for hours. Moreover, if Ellen is — in horse lovers’ parlance — a “good seat,” Ollie has “good hands”. Blair is drunk enough on that occasion to say, “Maybe I should have volunteered for all those sex operations. Ollie sounds awesome.”

And many operations there have been — all of them made possible by Maggie’s Wednesday sessions with Dr. Bene Sentirsi (who is sitting in the second row fingering the thong he lovingly removed from Maggie’s loins after the Wedding Rehearsal).

Maggie has been almost as anxious as Ellen to erase every tell-tale sign of Ellen’s maleness in near record time. Maggie even took Ellen at fourteen to Sentirsi’s private clinic at the Playa Larga resort on the Bay of Pigs for sexual-reassignment surgery (SRS), done illicitly by one of Cuba’s most brilliant surgeons to supplement his official income, which paid him less in twelve-hours a day than a cab driver earned in eight in the resorts. (The Sentirsi clinic has long been tolerated because of its discrete service to wealthy foreign socialists and Cuban Communist elites, as well as its skills at smuggling and bribery.)

Ellen has needed a lot of help from the world’s surgeons, far more than the average candidate for SRS. Despite a fortune paid on plastic surgery, there is only so much that modern medicine can do for a boy originally as homely as Kirk. Indeed, it is a testament to money and medical science that Ellen hasn’t ended up being an ugly woman. However, there are limits to how much one can reshape a Jay-Leno brow or Frankenstein-Monster chin.

As a consequence, while her face still has too many hard edges to be called beautiful, it is a face with loads of character. A Democrat might say that Ellen looks a bit like a young Ethel Kennedy, the sports-loving widow of John F. Kennedy’s murdered brother. A Republican might say that she looks like a young Barbara Bush, wife and mother of Presidents.

Cinema-besotted Blair predicts that Ellen will, as she ages, evolve into a Grand Old Dame “like Judy Dench, Miss Marple or Helen Mirren”. Possibly, but in the meantime her chiseled looks commend Ellen to Ollie almost as much as her excellence in elite sports and her remarkable zest for life, treating almost every day as a special gift — as though she has beaten a normally mortal disease.

I have to ask the crystal ball, “Does Ollie know on their wedding day that Ellen once had male genitalia?”

The ball treats the question with some contempt: “Of course! What choice did she have? With a drama queen like Blair in her family, that “secret” was bound eventually to get out, but it was Ellen herself who first broke the news to Ollie. She waited until she had proven herself to be the “woman of his dreams” by crewing his catamaran to victory in the Marblehead Regatta. In relating her saga, Ellen explained that Maggie had paid another comic book to have Kirk’s birth, library, sports and school records replaced by hers at age thirteen. Since Kirk has never officially existed, and since Ellen’s operations have never officially occurred, she assures a silent, pensive Ollie that no one will ever be able to dispute her right to the trophies she has already won, or will win in future, as a woman. Nor, she said, did anyone have the moral right to challenge them because, “I began taking female hormones before I had a wisp of body hair. I had scarcely entered puberty. We Scots are late bloomers.”

When Ellen finally finished her story, Ollie, trophy in one hand, a gin and tonic in the other, replied simply: “Why, this is good news. I’ve never liked condoms. I shall henceforth dispense with them.”

That night in their bedroom Ollie gave exuberant, repeated proof that little had changed for the man with the good hands, and the woman with the good seat. However, it would be the first time — but definitely not the last — that he performed oral sex on a woman. Until that evening Ollie feared that “she might smell down there,” and, not wanting to lose “the world’s ideal woman”, kept his olfactory concerns to himself. (When I wonder why the Crystal Ball is careful to describe Ollie’s plunge into oral sex with Ellen as his first time “he has done it with a woman,” it sneers, “Don’t be daft, Dawn, for I’ve already told you that Ollie attended a boys’ boarding school in rural Connecticut for several years.”)

Inasmuch as Ollie has ten older siblings, there is no familial pressure to reproduce. Thus, for Ellen to bear a child of their own matters less to Ollie than does a lifetime membership in the New York Yacht Club or the Boston Athenaeum. Besides, their globe-trotting lifestyle would be unfair to a child, he says, for the child would inevitably end up in a boarding school or living at grandmother’s house. Ellen knows her man well enough to understand that, if she ever changes her mind about children, that Ollie won’t balk at adoption, provided that the child has a good “pedigree” (i.e., athletes in the family tree).

Why do Ellen and Ollie agree with her brother and Cody on Stowe for their nuptials? Well, the wedding couple both have often visited the resort, Ollie, because of its proximity to the New England coast, and Ellen (who recently graduated from Smith College in western Massachusetts) because it has the best ski hill in Vermont. Skiing is Ellen’s greatest sports passion (outside the bedroom at least), and she already possesses Olympic bronze medals for the Women’s Downhill and Giant Slalom. However, on her wedding day she is definitely going for the gold.

Laird and Maggie both attend the affair to give away one of the brides: Laird, his daughter Ellen; Maggie, her son Blair. There was no way, Laird said, that he is going to “give away Blair to a man, with Blair dressed in a wedding gown.” Thus, Maggie will do the honors.

Both parents admit to feeling uncomfortable during the ceremony because of Blair’s insistence that they honor the talent and heroism of the Von Trapp family by wearing traditional Austrian garb: Maggie in a dirndl, consisting of a white lace blouse with embroidered sleeves, a full-length red velvet dress (with a tight bodice), a long, embroidered-lace apron, as well as a necklace and earrings made from deer antlers; and Laird in a white cotton blouse and in Lederhosen, brown leather shorts (with a drop-front) held up by suspenders with a cross strap at his nipples.

Laird is not pleased to learn five minutes before the ceremony that he will be the only man in the room wearing leather shorts. “It’s just like Blair,” he pouts, “to order ‘short shorts’ for me. My legs and thighs are completely exposed; even a strip of my butt is sticking out.” He fears that every gay male in the room will be staring at his derriere.

“Why couldn’t the boy let me wear our clan’s kilt, to be true to our Scots heritage?” he moans.

Blair later explains:

Dad, if you had worn a kilt, most of our friends will conclude, given the circumstances, that you are wearing a skirt — drag, in other words. We can’t have them thinking that, because some will accuse you of trying to upstage your children, others of trying to mock our life and clothing choices, and the rest will assume that you too are TG — on the theory that an apple doesn’t far from the tree. In the latter case, I assure you that you will not want to hear their bitchy remarks about your ‘lack of fashion sense’. Dad, do you want them to say out loud that, ‘You’d think that hag would realize she’s much too old to wear skirts?’

Better shorts than a “skirt.” Even so, for the first time since his own adolescence Laird feels self-conscious about his knobby knees. The Crystal Ball, which claims to see and hear all, confirms that Laird is fortunate not to overhear what Lance Cartwright, an actor friend of Cody’s, later says about the “geezer who imagines that anyone wants to see him in hot pants.”

As Dr. Bryce Frederick Mercury-Wilde and the two grooms wait patiently at the front of the Mozart Room for the first of the brides to “process” down the center aisle — “Whoa, there, “I say to the Crystal Ball. “You really want us to believe that Dr. Mercury-Wilde of St. Wicca infamy will preside over the ceremony?”

“Why yes, whom (the Ball is proud of its grammar) do you expect to preside? He is, after all, the only religious minister that Blair and Ellen have ever knowingly met, and you must admit that he did play an important, albeit brief, role in both their lives.”

“Ah yes, but especially in Ellen’s. I remember now: Mercury-Wilde was the first person ever to say that Kirk, though dressed in boys wear, seemed more intrinsically feminine than Blair did, even wearing a dress.”

“Yes,” I replied. “The preacher gave Kirk the hope that precedes change.”

“You don’t need to stress the words ‘hope and change’,” groans the Crystal Ball. Your feeble attempt at an Obama-ism is further proof that your wordplay is more pedestrian than Olympian. Indeed, one might reasonably say that just as Kirk’s encounter with Dr. Mercury-Wilde unintentionally watered the seeds of hope from which Ellen sprouted, that you may have also, quite unintentionally, proven to yourself (as well as to your readers) through this writing exercise that you too have a choice — in this instance, the choice of a more fitting career than that of a fictional writer of a fiction that purports to be non-fiction. Have I made myself clear?”

Well, I never. I am the Ball’s intellectual superior! I’m the one ultimately paying for the ammonia cleaner it needs in order to shine! By what right does a hunk of cheap plastic have to insult me?

“And you,” I snarl to the Crystal Ball, “might choose to shut up!”

It is the wrong thing to say. The Crystal Ball clams up. It says not another word. Madame Zeta chides me, “Dawn, dear. Don’t you think it a tiny bit unwise to tell a seer of the future not to tell you anything more about it? Unfortunately, we’ll have to turn to a back-up.”

She then turns the belly button of “Harvey,” a six-foot-tall, stuffed rabbit sitting a foot from the table. I haven’t noticed it till now, but giving it close attention, I realize that it must have been a masterpiece of taxidermy until it began to molt. A 1950s’ television screen is located just below the rabbit’s navel.

“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, pointing to Harvey’s groin. “Won’t television give us better reception than a scratched, clouded and flattened Crystal Ball? (I am trying to get the Ball’s goat. I know it is still listening).

“I’m afraid not. As you see, the television set is an antique, and thus is not hooked up for cable. I’m afraid we’ll have to use the rabbit ears as an antenna.”

I hear the crystal ball groan, but it remains dark, giving nothing away.

It’s through the help of the many flickering “ghosts” on the 1950s’ television screen that I can complete the tale of Laird and his family. If anything turns out not to be strictly accurate when the year 2021 rolls around, it’s probably my fault, not the ghosts’, because I wasn’t always listening as closely as I should, inasmuch as I was constantly having to adjust the horizontal and vertical to get any sort of picture at all.

Now where were we? Ah, yes, with Dr. Mercury-Wilde presiding over the joint wedding. You may be wondering why the grooms have agreed to such an exotic choice. Well, it appears that Cody no longer has a choice, having a decade earlier chosen to persuade Blair to be more forceful, and less passive, in his interpersonal relations. Blair carefully listened, and over time their roles have switched. As a result, Blair has been in control of their wedding plans.

As for Ollie, he is delighted to have Dr. Mercury-Wilde officiate, for he has known the erstwhile preacher for six years as a de-motivational speaker at Government seminars, a role that the preacher adopted soon after a bankrupt St. Wicca’s became a gay dance and show bar.

It turns out that Mercury-Wilde has a knack for explaining to regulatory agencies that, since they live nihilistically and existentially in an entropic universe without God, that, “Their attempts at regulation are a futile effort to bring about a higher good. He recommends to regulators that they seek the inner peace that comes through full, friendly cooperation with the business world.”

While the exact message doesn’t mean a lot to Ollie, spender of old money rather than seeker of new, he applauds anyone whose essential message to the world is, “Why can’t we all get along?” Thus, he warmly “thirds” the hiring of Mercury-Wilde for the wedding ceremony.

And now the erstwhile preacher, garbed in a flowery silk kimono, waits with the tuxedoed grooms as Blair, followed by Maggie, fairly skips down the central aisle in spiked heels, bare legs (waxed to a sheen) and a careful reproduction of the red satin gown, with a sensual shimmer, peasant neckline and puff sleeves, worn by Bette Davis, playing a memorably bitchy Southern belle, to the Olympus Ball in an Oscar-winning movie from 1938 called Jezebel.

In antebellum New Orleans, the red dress makes Bette’s character, Julie, resemble a prostitute; and it still has the power to appall Stowe, Vermont: “I gather Blair wants us to know that he’s not a virgin — as though any of us thought he might be,” mutters a society matron in an aside.

There are contrary murmurs: “Ah, Blair is always so considerate; he’s allowing Ellen to star alone in white.”

“And well he should. After all, Ellen is the only woman getting married today. I don’t know why Blair feels the need to wear a dress at all?”

“You must be a guest of Ollie’s or you’d realize that Blair has been wearing skirts longer than Ellen.”

“Do you mean that Blair crossdresses most of the time?”

“No, generally he dresses like the flamboyant male actor that he is. But whenever he wants to get Cody really randy, Blair dresses in his most suggestive women’s finery.”

“Yes, I heard that Cody actually begged Blair to wear a wedding dress, and that it was Maggie who insisted that he not wear white, so as not to compete with Ellen.”

“I don’t understand — “Why does Cody want Blair to get married in a dress?”

“Cody certainly didn’t impose anything on Blair. It’s a mutual decision. I gather Blair was posing as a girl the first time they ever had sex — that was eons ago when they were both mere children.”

“I see: the sex is best when Blair plays the wench.”

“From what I’ve heard, silky lingerie turns Cody wild. And Blair does look totally believable and beautiful as a woman. Such small, delicate hands. And Mick and Bianca Jagger lips. I’ve never seen a man with a smaller Adam’s Apple.”

“The blond, shoulder-length hair — is it actually his?”

There are several murmurs about Blair’s “do”, but no consensus emerges on whether he has grown his hair long “for the occasion” or simply bought a wig. On the other hand, everyone “just knows” that Blair is still “male enough” to require lots of padding to mimic a woman’s curves. One individual of indeterminate gender who seems to be “in the know,” claims that Blair’s breast attachments are of “such high quality” that “they warm up to his body temperature and feel real to the touch. Imagine that.”

“Imagine that! Is it true that Blair owns a fake vagina?”

“He certainly does, yet I doubt he’s wearing it now. Still, from what I’ve heard, he’ll definitely need it for the honeymoon. Where Cody is concerned, the more orifices the better.”

The ladies’ uninformed speculations are driving me crazy. I walk over to the television set, grab and shake its rabbit ears, while demanding to know how much of the gossip is true. “For starters, why is Blair wearing a red dress and has he grown his hair down past his shoulders for the wedding?”

The television ghosts temporarily disappear. The picture briefly looks unusually clear: “How should I know?” says the TV set. “What do you think I am? A crystal ball?”

Evidently that is all I am going to learn about Blair’s motivation and performance on his wedding day. Fortunately, I don’t need the television’s help to recognize his processional music: It’s a recording of “Something Good” from The Sound of Music:

Perhaps I had a wicked childhood
Perhaps I had a miserable youth
But somewhere in my wicked miserable past
There must have been a moment of truth
For here you are standing there loving me
Whether or not you should
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good
Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good.

As they reach the front, Blair takes Cody’s hands and together they continue the song a cappella, (with Blair taking Maria’s part, and Cody, that of Captain Von Trapp):

CODY:
For here you are standing there loving me
Whether or not you should
BLAIR:
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good
BLAIR AND CODY:
Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could
BLAIR:
So somewhere in my youth
CODY:
Or childhood
BLAIR:
I must have done something
BLAIR AND CODY:
Something good...

As hoped, their audience rises in standing ovation, and remains standing while Ellen and Laird, arm-in-arm, slowly proceed down the broad aisle. Ellen is wearing high-heeled platform pumps in Diamond white silk (with peep toes, each adorned by a Swarovski crystal) and the same modestly flamboyant, floor-length, white gown (with full sleeves) made of Shantung silk that Julie Andrews wore to marry Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Its cathedral train and long, flowing veil are kept aloft by two seven-year-old girls dressed as page boys. Ellen has copious tears in her eyes as Big Al, her best friend from childhood, in a soaring baritone belts outs, “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” from The Sound of Music:

Climb every mountain
Search high and low
Follow every byway
Every path you know

Climb every mountain
Ford every stream
Follow every rainbow
Till you find your dream

A dream that will need
All the love you can give
Every day of your life
For as long as you live

Climb every mountain
Ford every stream
Follow every rainbow
Till you find your dream (And reprise)

There isn’t a single dry eye in the Mozart Room. Even as tears stream down his cheeks, Laird’s face shines with pride in his daughter.

Once again tongues quietly wag: “Isn’t her dress divine? It’s just like the one that Julie Andrew wore in the musical. She’s marrying her own Captain Von Trapp. How romantic!”

“Well, in my humble opinion, the dress is old-fashioned and frumpy — the sort of thing an ex-nun like Maria would wear. Ellen should have worn something more au courant, something strapless — to show off her magnificent breasts — like Jennifer Garner wore in Ghosts of Girlfriends Past.”

”Don’t tell me you liked that movie! Ellen would look even better in Kate Hudson’s wedding dress in You, Me and Dupree.”

“Another dog of a movie! In it, Kate Hudson was getting married in Hawaii; Ellen would freeze to death if she wore that dress in January, in Vermont. “

And so it went — most of the comments concerned, as they normally do at wedding, the bride’s gown. There were, of course, some remarks, all positive, on the bride’s beauty, usually along the lines of “Ellen simply radiates poise and beauty. She’s never looked lovelier.”

Only Babs, Ollie’s ex-fiancée, is tacky enough to say the obvious — that Blair is still a more beautiful female than Ellen — when he wants to be. And yet, as Babs’ mother immediately ripostes:

"Blair still acts the part of a frivolous, adolescent girl. It’s a role that will wear thin as he ages. Ellen, on the other hand, is the very essence of a mature, adult woman, which I find remarkable for one so young. Babs darling, there is much you could learn from Ellen about what it takes to become a complete woman, capable of capturing and keeping a real man like Ollie."

It is unknown what Babs or her mother will have to say if either of them subsequently learns about Ellen’s sex at birth. However, this is clearly a closely-held secret in 2021.

The second bridal party also includes the Maid of Honor for both: It’s Angela Torres, Ellen’s first roommate at the Punani Academy. The elder by two years, Ellen has grown into a “big sister” to Angela. Consequently, when Angela’s mother, having achieved her goal of thoroughly alienating her ex-husband from his erstwhile son, decided against spending additional money on “the wretched child,” Ellen persuaded Maggie to pay for Angela’s last year at the Punani Academy and for the girl’s gender-confirmation surgery at age eighteen (done locally, legally, and in Dr. Sentirsi’s case, non-lustfully).

Maggie has thus ended up with two daughters, plus Blair, who often plays the part of one. After the wedding, according to the knows-a-lot television set, Angela will be the only one of Maggie’s “children” still living at home (in Ellen’s old room, where she has been ensconced since Ellen left for Smith College).

Briefly I am worried for Angela’s sake — “She’s not going to end up a lonely old maid, is she?”

Madame Zeta gives me a withering look: “Get a grip, Dawn, Angela’s only twenty-years-old in January 2021. There is lots of time for her to find someone to love. Considering the way she looks in that strapless bridesmaid’s dress (cocktail length, in buttercup yellow gauze, with rouched bodice and tatted lace hem) I can’t imagine she has any trouble attracting beaus. One of them surely will, like Ollie, forgive an inability to have children.”

“Maybe she will be able to have them,” I then remark; “who knows what marvels medicine may have achieved by 2030? Look at all the breakthroughs in genetic research: They could make it possible for Angela or Ellen to conceive a baby by her own husband’s sperm, at least with the help of a Petri dish. And gosh, an artificial uterus should be snap for the doctors to make in the 2030’s. Tell me, Telly, will Angela or Ellen ever give birth?”

The television set, unamused by the nickname, briefly flickers in annoyance before bringing into focus (well, into focus by 1950’s standards — there are still a lot of ghosts) the rest of the wedding ceremony.

The second bridal party soon reaches the front of the Mozart Room where Ollie (as well as Blair, Cody and Maggie) await. Ellen briefly falters; and then, departing from script, turns to the audience to say, “Please, would all of you join me in applauding my mother Maggie? If it weren’t for her, I would never have had this joyous moment. Mother, you have my eternal love and gratitude.” The audience, already standing, stamps its feet in appreciation.

Unversed in religion, the two couples borrow their brief wedding vows from an Internet site:

"We are assembled here to celebrate the joining of Ellen and Blair to Oliver and Cody, respectively, in the unity of marriage. There are no obligations on earth sweeter or more tender than those you are about to assume. There are no vows more solemn than those you are about to make."

Who gives Ellen and Blair in marriage?

Laird and Maggie answer — he for Ellen, she for Blair.

Then the minister says to Ollie:

"Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife? Will you love her, comfort her, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, honor her at all times and be faithful to her?"

Ollie answered “I will”.

Then Mercury-Wilde turns to Cody:

"Will you take this man to be your wedded wife? Will you love him, comfort him, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, honor him at all times and be faithful to him?”

Cody answered “I will”.

And next to Ellen: "Will you take Oliver to be your wedded husband? Will you love him, comfort him, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, honor him at all times and be faithful to him?"

Ellen answered “I will”.

And then to Blair:

"Will you take Cody to be your wedded husband? Will you love him, comfort him, through good times and bad, in sickness and in health, honor him at all times and be faithful to him?"

Blair answered “I will”.

And finally to all four:

"As you take these preliminary vows, Oliver and Ellen, Cody and Blair, I would have you remember: To love is to come together from the pathways of our past and then move forward, hand in hand, along the uncharted roads of our future, ready to risk, to dream, and to dare.
If there is an exchanging of rings, kindly present them."

Dr. Mercury-Wilde then says, first to Ollie, and then to Cody:

"Please place the ring on Ellen’s finger and repeat after me: I, Oliver, take you, Ellen, to be my wife, to love and cherish from this day forward, and thereto pledge you my faith. With this ring, I thee wed."

With similar words, Cody, Ellen and Blair also pledge their fidelity with rings.

And finally the climax:

"Oliver and Ellen, Cody and Blair, inasmuch as you have consented together in the union of matrimony and have pledged your faith to each other in the presence of this company, I now pronounce you Husband and Wife."

"YOU MAY KISS YOUR BRIDE!"

Blair swoons, his lips unkissed, theatrically to the floor. While helping Cody to raise Blair to his feet, Mercury-Wilde steals a French kiss from an insentient Blair, which no one but I, Dawn — thanks to the rabbit ears — notices, as Mercury-Wilde adeptly keeps Blair’s back to Cody and the audience.

Blair, still woozy, is mightily confused: “Did Cody just kiss me? If so, why is he already coming back for seconds? And why does my hubby have foul breath today? I can’t handle another kiss like that until he takes a breath mint.”

With the bride now standoffish, the groom doesn’t know what to do next. The gay newlyweds look at each other blankly, while the hands of Mercury-Wilde discretely, yet sensuously, fondle the inner curves of their buttocks.

Both the bride and groom, at first thankful for his “moral support”, smile briefly and wanly in the ex-preacher’s general direction. However, their eyes soon widen and their jaws clench as the minister’s hands move ever more wantonly. Shantung fabric, stretched taut, effectively protects Blair’s “privacy”, but thin, loose-fitting, polyester/wool trousers let down Cody. After a quick, involuntary yelp, Cody “feels” that he has no choice but to sidle even farther away from his bride and their lecherous celebrant.

At this point, Mercury-Wilde, realizing that he has gone too far, scuttles from the Mozart Room. He finally appreciates that this is not the right time to ask Blair and Cody (especially Cody) if they are interested in a honeymoon foursome with Bruno and him. He’ll phone the newlyweds first thing tomorrow to make his proposition before they fly off to Salzburg, Austria to take “The Sound of Music” bus tour and to London to attend the revival of “Billy Elliot: The Musical”, with Daniel Radcliffe (of Harry Potter fame) in the role of thirteen-year-old Billy.

I am aghast! Not by the curious casting, but by Dr. Mercury-Wilde’s machinations. They are shockingly devious for a Wall Street executive.

“Will Blair and Cody say yes to his proposition?” I beg to know.

“What do you think, dummy?”

I could have done without the sarcasm. I was simply asking what every one of my readers is anxious to know. The Blair I knew at ten would be far too romantic to consent to a four-man honeymoon. Yet the past decade seems to have changed him. He’s definitely more assertive. Is he also more adventurous or, after ten years of sex play with Cody, even a bit jaded? I can’t say, and the television set doesn’t say; but I do know this — it’s not ideal to learn about one’s sexuality at too young an age.

Meanwhile, back in the Mozart Room, Blair and Cody, still standing almost a yard apart and unsure how to re-connect, shuffle their feet. So too do many in the audience. This is not the Hollywood production that the attendees anticipated from the normally “gay” gay couple.

Thanks to Blair’s vapors and the minister’s presumption, Ellen and Ollie enjoy uncontested center stage. As they embrace in the limelight, they linger … and … linger … on the kiss that seals their marital bliss.

The audience erupts in applause, prompting Blair, his lips firmly closed, to bestow a dry kiss on his beloved. Cody, taking Blair into his arms, finally kisses his bride. “Gosh,” sighs Blair, his lips letting down their guard, “that’s the Cody I know. It’s taken him only a couple of minutes to improve his breath and technique by a thousand percent. How does he do it?” This time, with his own back to the audience, Cody, now thoroughly aroused, presses his “joy stick” into Blair’s hand.

“Behave yourself, little brother,” Ellen whispers. You two can wait for the honeymoon if Ollie and I can.” She and Ollie then win another round of applause for the longest kiss yet — it is a ladylike kiss, like the one Ingrid Bergman bestows on Humphrey Bogart in the movie Casablanca.

Blair withdraws his hand long enough to cue the release of the two dozen doves from the cages that he’s secreted behind a velvet curtain at the front of the Mozart Room. Majestically, romantically, the doves soar to the ceiling of the salon — like prayers to Heaven for the wedded bliss of the two young couples.

Or so it seems until the doves, freaking at the enclosed space, start flying frantically above the audience in ever-narrowing circles, panic loosening their bowels. Mid-air collisions soon cause them to plummet to the ground like pelicans dive-bombing for fish.

“I don’t know why they’re doing this,” Blair gasps, as he steps daintily around a stunned dove, to drag his husband (his tuxedo splattered) towards an exit; “They behaved much better when I saw the very same birds released at a gay wedding at Russian River last summer.”
“That was an outdoor wedding,” Cody moans.

Breathless from sudden exertion, Maggie, asks her husband as they run from the Mozart Room: “Laird … which one … do you think … will be first … to give me a granddaughter?”

“Maybe … maybe … neither,” Laird gasps: “Ellen and Blair … may both choose … to adopt a boy.” He bends over to catch his breath.

“We can’t let the child’s gender at birth … be an obstacle, can we?” Maggie replies after they had reached “safety”. No longer winded, she declares: “My choice is definitely a granddaughter, one way or another. On that I am unanimous.”

The television suddenly goes dead. When I complain, when I ask to know if the two couples will live happily ever after, Madame Zeta chides me:

"I promised you a happy ending, and you’ve got it. Now you know that Ellen and Blair will be happy on their wedding day some ten years hence. What more do you want from me? To predict whether they will have happy marriages? No one can predict that. The outcome of a marriage is subject to so many variables that a happy ending depends on having a lot of luck. Will Ellen and Blair continue to bask in Good Fortune? The answer lies far beyond the capabilities of my rabbit Harvey or my crystal ball, of Tarot cards or I-ching dice, of tea leaves and coffee grounds, or of a witch’s cauldron or Delphic oracle, or even of goat entrails or chicken bones to reveal. I suggest that you either consult an Aztec priest, if you can find one in New York, or you can return on Tuesday for my weekly, group séance at which we use a Ouija Board. The Ouija may be able to tell you something more."

Take advice from an Ouija Board? Not on your life! I’ve seen the trouble it made for Dr. Mercury-Wilde. Kirk punched him out, remember? I’ve got a glass jaw. If I get hit by someone, I may never get back up.

“Be sure to take an advertising brochure,” Madame Zeta calls out to me, as I head off to my unknown future.

- THE END —

To those who have read thus far: “May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings, slow to make enemies and quick to make friends. And may you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.”