This is a story that I really can't explain where it came from. I don't really know. It's also hard to explain what it's about, exactly. It's about a little girl that simply knew who she was, and anyone that doesn't agree is just not paying attention.

When I finally changed my name legally, not only was it an easy choice who I would become, but everyone around me already knew what I would choose.

Hrm. Maybe I need to go a bit further back. I mean, the name change was more like the ending than the beginning.

It was about twenty-five years ago, more or less. Let's call it Nineteen Eighty-Two, just for the convenience. I seriously can't vouch for the exact year it happened. I mean, when you think back to when you were a kid, and you remember a big event in your life... you know what year it was because people told you that it happened then, not because you were even really aware of what year it was, right?

I have a big sister, so in 1982 she woulda been... fourteen. Twice my age. Of course, I worshiped her. Whether they admit it or not, everyone that has an older sibling pretty much is fascinated by everything that big person that's not-yet-an-adult does. I wanted to be just like her, but I wanted to be me, too. So I'd ask her lots of questions about what she did when she was my age. Most of the time she'd just shrug her shoulders and ruff my hair — because she knew I hated that. Well, truthfully, I'd never tell her, but I loved it when she did it, but not so much with anyone else. I think she knew anyway, though, that I didn't mind.

The day dawned early for us. By dawned early, I mean Mom woke us up really early. The sun wasn't up yet. The morning-side of the sky was dark blue, though, so it was on the way... the dinnertime-side of the sky was still black, though.

Today was the day that “the family” would all be there. You see, we had a huge-ified extended family. Once every ten years, we all get together. They're spread out all over the world, but apparently it's always held here. Whoever is living in Horsey Acres (that's what everyone called the big old place — it has an actual name, but no one cares) were responsible for organizing and hosting it.

Let me tell ya, Horsey Acres is humongous. The house itself has five bedrooms (each with a private bathroom) in the family living area, plus the normal house-type rooms. Then there are big and awesome rooms that almost never get used — except, apparently during the once-a-decade get togethers of “the family” that was upcoming. Big, empty, smooth-floored rooms for dancing. Dining room with a table big enough to host an entire checkers tournament by itself. Other rooms like that. But there were also what Mom and Dad and Constance and Eric called the Guest Suites. It was like four bedrooms that shared a bathroom and had a little living room-ish area with a couch, and a TV and a little table with a couple of chairs. Horsey Acres had one hundred thirteen of these Guest Suites. Yeah. How many kids can say their houses have 457 bedrooms and 119 bathrooms? Now, I don't want you to think we were rich. Constance, Eric, and their two kids shared one of the Guest Suites. Constance was the one that ran the household staff Eric was the head of the ranch hands. “The family” owned Horsey Acres. Whoever was living there got to live in the family area and had a stipend paid to them from the DuSchonde Fund. Don't ask me what that fund is all about, I just know it's sort of, but not quite, “the family”'s money. The responsibilities of the family members living at Horsey Acres was to take care of all of Horsey Acres. Including the gigantic herd of horses, and of course the donkeys and mules that were smaller in number. I think at that point we probably had about a half-dozen each of donkeys and mules, but easily 300 horses. We groomed them all, made sure they had feed, and other such drudgery. But we also were allowed to claim one per family member that wouldn't be sold or traded as our very own. We learned to ride, we held steeplechases, we entered a few into actual races. So, like I said... Horsey Acres was really big.

Eric only reported to my dad, and Dad was just as involved as Eric — he used to say that he didn't feel right about just hiring folks and not having a hand in the day-to-day stuff. So he was pretty much a modern day horse rancher. He loved it there as much as any of us did.

Constance, well, I'm not sure she ever really reported to anyone, but she technically worked for Mom and Dad. Mom would do all the accounting and “business” stuff for Horsey Acres, and Constance would do most of the cleaning and cooking herself... but she would also make any of the four kids in residence do stuff and learn. Laundry, cooking, making our beds. Me, my sister, Tom, and Jerry. Yes, she was aware of the poor choice of names for her twin sons, but she'd never seen the cartoon when she named them. They were about the same age as my sister, maybe a little older. I think they were one grade ahead of her in school. Apparently, though, when “the family” was coming, she hired on extra help. Two other ladies for cleaning help for the two weeks that everyone would be there, and one for kitchen help for that two weeks. I don't remember any of those three ladies' names, though.

Anyway, at the breakfast table where all eight of us were eating that dark morning, Dad told Eric he'd have to handle the ranch hands, the race trainer, the groundskeepers, and pretty much the entire workforce for at least a day. Eric just said, “Okay, Bob,” and nodded. Eric always called everyone 'Bob' no matter who they were. Dad said it was some kind of weird inside joke. Mom and Constance were gonna be getting all the Guest Suites ready. We had over 400 people coming to visit for two weeks. Dad was going to go into town and getting the food he'd already ordered. Cheaper to ride a horse into town proper (about three miles) and drive the refrigerator truck back to the house instead of having a driver deliver it. Then he'd drive the truck back to town, then ride home. Then his part of the job was to organize the big walk-in refrigerator with all the food for “the family” for two weeks. Brr.

We kids had to help with the Guest Suites, but not unreasonably so. We each had to make five Guest Suites were in good shape. You know, dust, open the windows to air 'em out, and just generally make sure it's livable. Then we had the rest of the day to do whatever we wanted.

Oh, by the way. My sister's name was Jessica. But I never called her that, back then. Everyone else did, but my favorite series of books had a character I liked to pretend was me, and she had a big sister, too. So I'd call my sister “Beezus” instead of Jessica. She'd let me do it, but not anyone else. We had a secret, and we almost never fought. You see, Beezus was the only person in the world I ever told my secret heart wish. That I wanted to grow up to be just like her, instead of being a boy. Yeah. When we were alone, she'd call me “Ramona” like my favorite book character instead of Ethan, which was my boy-name. She would pretend with me that I was her little sister instead of her little bother. I mean brother.

We both looked more like Mom than like Dad, anyway. Dad has bright red hair and green eyes and was one of those guys that were tall and lanky. He was almost seven feet tall, I'd've sworn back then. He's really only six feet and five inches tall, but from the viewpoint of a seven-year old that's still under three feet tall... he was a giant. Mom, though, is still one of those women who never look nearly as old as she is, and just stays ruggedly beautiful. The woman who you can tell has had a happy life. She's tall, for a woman, too. Five feet and eight inches. Chocolate brown hair with light brown highlights from lots of time in the sun, blue eyes that can stare right through you and make you admit you took an extra cookie. Beezus looked like a younger version. She wasn't quite as tall as Mom, maybe a couple of inches shorter, still. She ended up the same height as Mom, with the same type of hair and eyes. I had the brown hair and blue eyes, too. I was also slight and short, even for my age. Eric would joke with Dad, actually, about my size, “Hey, Bob,” he'd say, “Little Bob over there is gonna make a fine jockey one day!” then he'd laugh and Dad would laugh with him and rub the back of his own neck. Dad did that when he was embarrassed.

That day, Beezus and I finished our ten Guest Suites, and checked on Tom and Jerry. Tom was on his third, Jerry was on his second. We decided to go for a ride in the woods. We went out and waved to Eric, who nodded as we went into the little household stable. He'd tell Mom and Dad where we went. We saddled up our horses, we both had mares, because they were smaller. Mine was really only a size or so bigger than a pony. Beezus had named hers Windsprite, which she said meant, “Fairy of the Wind,” which was a pretty cool name. Windsprite was a pretty dappled gray that made her look light blue when you were more than 30 feet from her. Mine was a deep red color, with markings on the face and feet that were dark brown. I asked her what a name that meant sort of the same, but for Trees instead of Wind because my mare looked like a stand of trees in the autumn. She said, “Dryad,” and so my pretty girl got that name.

We headed through the different pastures, making sure to shut and latch all six of the gates along the way. Then we were in the edge of the woods with the trail that had been worn since the 1700s twisting away into the shaded corridor. We were only walking the horses, because we enjoyed the smells and sounds of the woods, and we liked to be able to talk. Racing was silly, to us. I mean, the boys would act like they were the best in the world when they'd win a race, but the horses were doing all the work it seemed to us!

We had been going through the woods for about an hour when Beezus pulled something out of her saddlebag.

“Hey, Ramona,” she called to me, “Catch. It's almost lunchtime.”

Leave it to my wonderfully perfect big sister to remember to pack us up a lunch before we left. Mmm. Venison jerky, a sandwich (my choice of a grilled cheese or a peanut butter and banana — she knew I'd take the PBB, my favorite), and a bottle of Gatorade. She's so smart, she had brought a couple handfuls of carrots for Windsprite and Dryad. We slid to the ground and there was a creek nearby where the horses could get a drink. We sat on a mossy rock and just talked, like sisters do, while the horses calmly stood on the bank and drank when the mood struck them.

“You know you're gonna have to be Ethan for the entire two weeks, right?” she asked me.

I sighed, “Do I hafta? I mean, can't we get away at all so we can have some time so I can be me?”

“'Fraid not, li'l sis,” she replied. “There are so many cousins coming you won't believe it. I mean, last time this happened, me and Tom 'n' Jerry were all younger than you are now. You weren't even a thought in anyone's head. There's too many folks to try to dodge 'em all. We have a ginormous family.”

I mulled that over. A kestrel called out from the clearing a couple hundred feet away. Probably found a small rabbit or a mouse.

“I guess it's only two weeks,” I said, sadly, “But not even at night?”

“Maybe,” Beezus said, “but only in our rooms. Maybe I can sneak you an old nightgown of mine so you can be my secret li'l sis at least when you're sleeping. Will that help?”

I threw my arms around her neck and gave her a peanutty kiss on the cheek.

“Ew! Let's go wash up in the creek, and ride on for awhile,” my ever-so-reasonable sister directed, “We have most of the day, and I know Mom and Constance would appreciate us keeping ourselves scarce and outta their way.”

We poked our trash in one of the saddlebags, then remounted and headed out. We got to the clearing after a few minutes. It was really like a meadow in the middle of the woods, and the horses wanted to run a bit, so we let them gallop. When they wanted to slow down, we were all the way on the far side of the clearing/meadow, and we found a trail we'd never taken before. We grinned at each other and gently steered Windsprite and Dryad toward it.

“After you, Ramona,” said Beezus when we got to the narrowing part.

This trail was old. And thin. We had to go single file for awhile, but we were only walking again, so we continued to talk.

After a long while — I couldn't tell you how long, we were talking and I totally lost track of time in any way — we came out of the woods into an area way back that neither of us had been to before. The wind was whipping up something fierce, and the sky was all dark and nasty. It was gonna start raining any moment, and it was gonna be a gully-washer. We spotted what looked like a road aways a bit, and made for it. We had the horses going faster now, and they were all nervous, too. The rain started coming down and we were drenched, but before too long, we found what looked like an old stable out that dirt road. We walked Windsprite and Dryad to the back and pulled out our rain gear. We always kept one saddlebag on each horse with a drying blanket for the horse. Also an oil slicker and hat for the rider. We pulled off the saddles, because we weren't going anywhere soon. This was a stable, after all, so we posted the saddles and dried off the mares. We put our slickers and hats over a rail so we could grab them if we needed to head out into the nastiness.

There was no way to tell how late it was. It was dark because of the rainclouds, so we couldn't judge what time of day it happened to be.

“Mom and Dad will be worried by now,” said my sister after awhile, “We've already been here a couple of hours and we were at least three hours ride out before the rain started, if not more. I should head out back.”

“I don't wanna make poor Dryad go out in this storm... besides, it's kinda scary,” I responded.

“I didn't say we head out back, I said me. You could stay here and wait for us to come back with help. Get the trailer and the truck. I mean, that's a road right there, so it has to connect with the regular roads somewhere, right?”

“You don't mean leave me here all alone, do you?” I asked, and I know I was about to cry.

She reached over and hugged me, then ruffed my hair.

“See, your hair is already dry, and I'm sure mine is, too. Do you want them all to be worried about us?”

“But what if you get lost in the rain? What if you get hurt? You know they don't want us ever to ride by ourselves,” I replied, then inspiration struck, “And you know how much of a lickin' you'd get for leaving poor li'l ole me all the way out here by my lonesome?”

She grunted, and sat on one of the empty crates there.

“You're right... I guess. But it's gonna get chilly, soon. We're gonna need a fire. Help me gather up these old crates over by the open side, there where we won't smoke out and it won't get wet.”

That's my sister. Always with a backup plan.

We dragged the dozen or so empty crates over and I smashed them while she dried off her flint and steel kit, and found some old rags to use for tinder. It wasn't long before we had a small fire going. We talked and joked. We wished we had another packed meal. We knew it was getting late in the day, now. We decided now that the horses were dry and the saddles were dry, we'd re-saddle the mares so that we'd be ready to go if the rain let up.

I woke up with Beezus screaming for me to get on my horse and get out.

I started coughing and then realized that we were surrounded by fire. We both got onto the horses and we were trying to keep them calm.

“What about the oil slickers?” I asked.

“Forget 'em! Look, there's a hole in the fire over there!”

We got the mares pointed toward the flameless part and just gave them their heads. We went from too much smoke and heat to... still downpouring. Beezus turned and rode back toward home and I followed. We went as fast as we dared to take the horses in the rain and mud. We could barely see but about 50 feet in front of ourselves. When we made it into the woods, the trees stopped enough of the rain that we could hear each other shout above the torrent.

“When we get to the clearing,” Beezus was yelling, “book across it to the ford across the creek and then head for home! Come on!”

I was too scared to do anything but nod vigorously.

We picked our way through the wet and the trees and then came to the clearing. Beezus and Windsprite went straight across, but Dryad was a bit more skittish. I had to take her around the edge of the meadow. But when I got to the edge of the path we knew, I headed in, figuring Beezus would wait for me down by the ford.

She was waiting, but I don't think she would've had a choice if she wanted. The creek was already flooded.

“Can we make it across there?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard above the rain.

“I dunno, li'l sis,” she replied, “but we gotta try. I'll go first.”

She got Windsprite into the creek, and you could tell the horse was straining to keep her feet. The water came up halfway, covering my sister's riding boots. They came out on the other side and she slid off of the mare to calm her down even as she motioned me to come on across.

We're shorter. The water came all the way up to my saddle, so that only Dryad's head and neck were above the water. It seemed to take forever, but we made it across. We were both exhausted, but I told her she was a good girl and that she was getting as many carrots as she wanted from now on.

Beezus was back astride Windsprite, and we began picking our way through the familiar part of the woods. It was getting harder to see, and Beezus figured the sun was probably setting. I was just scared and trying to follow her carefully.

Even at the faster pace, it took us more than an hour to make it back to the edge of the woods because of the rain.

Of course as soon as we were back where we could see, we made our way back toward the household stables doublefast.

We ran the horses into the stable, where Tom was waiting.

“Holy smokes!” he exclaimed, “You two've been out all day! Our dad and yours are out looking and the cops've been called and everything! What happened?”

Beezus slid off and started working on the wet buckle for the saddle on Windsprite, while I did the same for the one on Dryad.

“We're safe, so there's no more need to worry. We even closed the gates on our way back in,” she explained to him

“Eep!” is the closest I can describe the sound that came outta me. “Um, Beezus... I think I forgot the last one! Tom, can you dry off my horse while I run back up and latch the last gate?”

He nodded and I sprinted for the last gate on the rise that's just where you can see Horsey Acres on your way back from a ride.

Okay, when I got there, I had shut it, but hadn't latched it. Whew. Dad would kill me if any of the horses got out. Selling season was coming up soon.

The latch was on the top rail, so I climbed up the gate so I could hold it in place with my legs while I fastened it. It took me a few tries, because the rain was still running into my eyes without a rain hat. Finally, I pushed the big metal clip into the stainless steel housing.

There was a big, satisfying, clunky sound, and the gate was secure.

I sat down on the top rail to swing my leg back over the gate so I could head back for the stables again.

There was a big bright flash suddenly everything hurt. I don't remember nothing else.

I couldn't open my eyes, but I could hear, and I could smell. It smelled like medicine. The rain seemed to have stopped. What happened? I heard Tom's voice off in the distance explaining something. It was hard to think. I hurt all over, too.

“... he just ran back out. It didn't occur to me to stop him until it was too late...” he was saying.

I wondered who he was talking to out here?

I wondered who he was talking about?

I'm was tired and so drifted back off.

I heard a beep and tried to open my eyes again. Didn't work. But I was indoors. I figured that out. It still smelled like medicine. I was thirsty. I coughed.

Then I heard Mom.

“Ethan? Are you awake baby?” she said.

“Thirsty,” I tried to say... it came out sounding like I had swallowed some sandpaper. Feeling like it, too. That hurt.

“Okay, Sweetheart, here's some water, sip from the straw. I'll put it to your mouth,” Mom said.

Sure enough, there was suddenly a straw at my mouth and I sipped. I was really thirsty, but the water was cold and just a bit made me feel better.

I still hurt all over. I whimpered and Mom was right there for me.

“Shh, baby. Does it hurt?” she asked.

I tried to nod my head but it felt like I was on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the County Fair. I whimpered again.

Mom explained a bit to me, “You're in the hospital. The doctors say you're going to heal up, but there are some things that are gonna be different. We're gonna make things as much like before as we can for you. Your eyes are bandaged shut because you may have lost your sight. You're bandaged mostly all over, actually. I'm gonna leave Jessica here with you, now that I know we're not gonna lose you. Your father and I have to be there to let all “the family” know what's happened. Some of 'em will start to get there tonight, after all. But as soon as we give folks an update, I'll be back here.”

She paused, then said, “If it makes you feel better, Tom has been kicking himself for letting you run out in the thunderstorm by yourself.”

That's when I fell back to sleep.

I woke up and heard a machine bleeping. I lay there and listened. I heard something that sounded like a piece of paper being shaken, and remembered what Mom had said.

I swallowed and it hurt. I needed another sip of water. “Beezus?” I asked the void. I still sounded and felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper.

“Ramona? You're awake?” came my sister's voice.

“Thirsty. Please,” I managed.

A moment later there was the straw at my mouth again. I sipped. I swallowed. I sipped again, and let the cool liquid waller in my mouth and over my tongue for a minute before I swallowed it.

“What happen?” I asked.

“Mom told you, right?” she answered.

I shook my head and asked, “How?”

“Oh that,” she replied, “Lightning hit the metal gate you were sitting on. Blew you clean off the gate, too. Your eyes are burned, you've got a lot of nasty burns, actually, you've got both of your legs on your left arm all having what the doctor called 'bone bruises,' which near as I can figure, means, 'near broken, but not quite,' from the way you were moaning in your sleep. You got nothing really broken, but... um... Maybe I should let the doctor or nurse out there at the desk explain the last bit.”

“What's wrong? If I'm not broken up and all, I just need to rest up, right?” I asked, pushing the question a bit more.

“Hang on, li'l sis, I'll get the nurse.”

I heard her chair creak — not something I probably woulda noticed if I hadn't been all ear-focused — and then heard her sneakers across a floor. A few minutes later, I heard the footsteps again, and then a lady's voice.

“Ethan?” said the voice, “You're awake?”

I nodded.

“Your sister tells me you want to know what's happened?”

I nodded again.

I heard a chair being pulled closer to me, scraping the floor. I heard it creak and the lady's voice began.

“Well, you were sitting on top of the metal gate when it got hit by a massive electrical discharge. Your, ah, genitalia were burned so severely that the doctor doesn't have much hope of saving it.”

“You mean my balls and peepee got fried off?” I exclaimed.

“Uh, not exactly fried off. But your parents have to decide whether the doctor should even try to fix the damage, or call in a specialist to do something drastic.”

“Oh. So that's a yes.”

“Um. I'm so sorry, sweetie.”

“I think I wanna just talk to my sister now, please.”

“Of course,” she said, “My name is Pamala, if you need anything,” she paused and put something in my hand, “press the button on that plunger and I'll come as quick as I can.”

Then I heard her scooting the chair back and then leaving the room.

I waited a moment for Beezus to say something. But she didn't. I knew she was just sitting there being all quiet, waiting for me to say something.

So I said something, “I hurt.”

“I'm sorry. What did you wanna talk about?”

“Well... do you think this is the time?”

“What time?”

“Time to tell Mom and Dad about me wanting to be Ramona a whole lot more than being Ethan.”

“Oh, that.”

“Well?”

“I'm thinking, squirt. The way I see it... if they have to cut off... you know... they'll be worried about why you're not upset.”

“Why wouldn't I be upset at that?”

“Because, dopey, girls don't have them.”

“They... we, I mean... don't?”

“That's the essential difference. Boys have 'em. Girls don't.”

“Why didn't I know this?”

“You're seven years old.”

“So?”

“Augh. You can be so dense sometimes. Little kids aren't supposed to know things like that. It's grown up stuff.”

“But you're not.”

“I'm not what?”

“A grown up! At least not yet...”

“Anyway... so now that you do know...”

“Yeah. I want it to go away. Wait, if it's burned up, then will I be a real girl?”

“As close as it gets, li'l sis.”

She hugged me then. We talked some more. I found out that it was almost suppertime when it happened, and it was about one in the morning now.

Mom came back. Apparently, she had trouble getting in because of Visiting Hours being over. But she came in and sat with us, and we all talked. Then a doctor came in. Well, they said it was a doctor, and she introduced herself as a doctor.

“Hello, Ethan, I'm your doctor, Jordan Quinnley. You can either call me Jordan or Doctor or even Doctor Jordan. I suppose you could call me Doctor Quinnley, but everyone does that. It's been about twelve hours since your accident, so we're gonna try to remove your bandages from your eyes. We have the lights dimmed, but if it's uncomfortable at all, you let me know, and we'll get you bandaged right back up. Okay?”

I nodded and I felt someone take my hand. Mom, probably. Beezus woulda just ruffed my hair.

I heard what sounded to me like cutting construction paper. and then I felt my head slightly swaying as they unwound the bandages.

“Okay. Try opening your eyes,” came Jordan's voice.

I cracked my eyes, and it wasn't that bad. They started watering, but as I reached to wipe them, Jordan grabbed my hand and stopped me.

“It's okay, we need you to let them flush, if you wanna cry, it would actually help.”

I giggled at that, and opened my watery eyes the rest of the way.

“Can you see, Sweetheart?” asked Mom.

“Mostly. It's blurry.”

“Probably due to the watering,” said Jordan, “Just let yourself get used to it a bit.”

After a few minutes my eyes still smarted, but I could see. I mentioned this.

Jordan said, “Feel free to keep them closed as much as you like. You only have Pamala and me that'll be in here tonight. You're what we call a time-sensitive case.”

She then turned to Mom and asked, “Do you mind if he hears our discussion?”

“Do you want to know what's going on, Ethan?” Mom asked me.

I nodded, “I want Beezus in here, though.”

“Of course, Sweetheart, she's right here.”

“I won't leave you alone, squirt,” came my sister's voice from somewhere off behind Mom in the room.

“Okay,” said Jordan, “Just remember, kid, crying's not only okay, it's good for you at the moment.”

The doctor's voice took on a businesslike tone and she began, “From the preliminary examination, I would recommend the second option that we gave you earlier. We discussed that option, but your husband seemed against it. But I see it as the only chance for your child to have a normal life at this point. I can have a specialist from France here by 7am. There's supposed to be an 18-hour fasting period before such a drastic step, but from what your daughter told me, neither of them had anything to eat since yesterday around lunchtime. Even assuming noon, that means by 6am we would be able to operate. There seems to be an aggressive infection, so we would need to operate as soon as the specialist arrives. Rush her straight into scrub-up and already have the patient anesthetized.”

Mom whimpered. Sounded an awful lot like I had earlier.

“I want you to do everything possible to try to save my son's anatomy as it was meant to be, first doctor,” said Mom, “I want this saved as a last resort. Only if his life is in danger from it remaining.”

“Frankly, ma'am, it is. Even now.”

This made Mom angry enough to yell and scream at Jordan, “So you're not even going to try? Just giving up? I want a second–“

“No.”

That last was from me.

“What?” asked Mom.

“I said no. Make me a girl. I want to live, and I've always wanted to be a girl anyway.”

“Honey, you don't know what you're saying–“ began Mom.

“Yes, actually,” said Beezus, “she does. Since she started Kindergarten, she's known that she wasn't really a boy on the inside. It made her so sad that she couldn't be like the other girls. She told me about it.”

“But–“ tried Mom.

Doctor Jordan was already leaning out the door to tell the nurse's station to get the night Psychologist up to the room.

“It really is for the best,” said Jordan to Mom, “and she seems to be a lot farther toward the mental part of the process than could have been hoped.”

“He,” said Mom in a hiss, “is only seven years old and will do as I say!”

“Mommy?” I said. I hadn't called her that in so long...

“Please? Think about it, you know I'm not anything like a boy. Can't I be your daughter?”

“Ethan?” Mom whispered, but I think she was well on her way into shock.

She turned to Jordan and said, “Alright, Doctor Quinnley. Get your specialist here.”

“She's already somewhere over the Atlantic. Comtessa Doctor Minuet Fiershonde.”

Mom turned back to me and Beezus, who was up and hugging me.

“What,” she asked, “am I going to tell your father?”

Beezus spoke up, “Tell him the truth. The only real choice was to let my brother, Ethan, become my sister, Ramona.”

“Ramona is a lovely name,” put in Doctor Jordan.

However, as the one who had spent hours reading the books to me before I learned to read them myself, Mom couldn't hold in her giggle.

“I have to admit that it's appropriate to you. I... I need to get your father here before that specialist arrives. I'll be back,” said Mom, and then she grabbed her purse and was out the door.

Well, I'm not gonna give you all the details. Yes, I woke up in a whole world of pain. And I spent almost the first whole week of “the family” visit in the hospital.

The day I was released, Jordan had a big talk with me. I had to use these things called stints. I asked if my sister could help me, and Doctor Jordan said that was okay, as long as Beezus was okay with it. Mom and Dad and Beezus came to get me. I was wearing my very first dress. Jordan got it for me, and told Mom and Dad that I needed to wear nothing but skirts or dresses for the next few months. Beezus did say she'd help me. She said it was gross, but she'd help me.

When we got back to Horsey Acres, Dad picked me up and carried me into my room. It was Friday, and I'd been in the hospital since Sunday night. Doctor Jordan didn't want to let me go unless I promised that I'd be careful and no hard activity — including riding horses — for at least another month.

I didn't figure out until Saturday night that Dad didn't have any intention of letting me out of my room while “the family” was here. I heard him and Mom arguing about me. It wasn't a good thing. When he came in to see me for goodnight and tucking in, I asked him why I couldn't eat dinner with the rest of everyone.

“Well, you could if you could wear shorts or pants,” he answered.

“But the doctor said I had to wear skirts,” I reasoned with him.

“I know, son, but I don't want you to have to deal with all the teasing because you're dressed like a girl.”

“But I am a girl now. Why shouldn't I be dressed like one? And why would they tease me?” I asked.

“Because you're not a real girl. And they all know that. It's just how things are,” he answered.

“I can take some teasing, I want to meet all of everyone. I won't get another chance for ten whole years! I'll be old then,” I protested.

“I said no, son, and that's final. Now, sleep well,” said Dad.

A bit later Mom came in.

“Ethan?”

“No one here but us Ramonas.”

“Sorry, Sweetheart, but it's going to take some getting used to. After all 'the family' has gone, we'll work on it,” she said.

“Dad was just in here and I don't think he wants me to be able to meet anyone.”

“It's not that he doesn't want you to meet anyone, Baby, it's just that he's trying to look out for you,” Mom replied.

“You too. Do I stink or something?”

“No!” answered Mom, “Of course not... but it wouldn't be a good idea. They all know you're a boy.”

“But I'm not a boy. Not anymore. I don't want, and never did want to be a boy.”

“About that... how do you know?” she asked me.

“How do I know, what?”

“How do you know you never wanted to be a boy?” she clarified.

“Mom, did you ever meet me before? I'm not a boy. The kids at school have said I was really a girl since Kindergarten, too. I agree with them. I play with the other girls at recess. The first day of Second Grade, Missus Williams said she'd never met a girl named 'Ethan' before. Wait'll I tell her that I'm 'Ramona' now, when I go back for Third Grade this Autumn.”

Mom sighed at me, gave me a kiss on the forehead and left.

I heard them arguing about me again that night.

The next day was both better and worse.

Beezus sneaked in and got me up and ready before Mom and Dad were even awake, and we went into the big dining room I mentioned before to have breakfast with “the family” that was all gathered.

“Well, this must be Ethan.”

“Why's he wearing a dress?”

“Are you sure they only have two kids?”

“I thought they said he died. Struck by lightning last week or something?”

“That's why we've not seen the kid, some kind of little deviant.”

I was a bit overwhelmed. This was a lot of people. But still, I would find out later that it wasn't but about a quarter of all of them. I was clinging to my sister's belt like it was a lifeline. She kept an arm around me. I felt safe with her. We took seats at the big table and no one around us said anything for almost the whole breakfast.

I was eating my biscuits and gravy quietly, when an older man across from us finally talked to me.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. This is ridiculous,” he said to the people nearby in general, then to me, “Dear, what's your name?”

“Ramona,” I answered.

Immediately, this tidbit was passed both directions around the table, along with accompanying speculations.

“Where do you live, Ramona?” asked the old guy.

“Here. Horsey Acres,” I answered after I swallowed my bite. Mom always taught us not to talk with our mouths full.

Over the course of breakfast, we got them to understand that I used to be the little boy named Ethan, but now I was a little girl named Ramona. It was easy peasy lemon squeezy to understand to me. But it seemed the adults had trouble with it.

I dunno if they were more upset that I had switched over or that Dad wasn't letting me out of my room while they were all there.

Then Mom and Dad came in. They were angry. Probably with me. Dad came up to me and took me by the arm and pulled me away from the table. It hurt, so I started crying. Beezus and the old guy came to my rescue, though. They convinced Dad to let me stay, as there wasn't much he could do about keeping me secret now.

“We will talk about this later, young man!” scolded Dad sternly.

“Young lady,” said the old guy.

“Excuse me?” said Dad.

“It is obvious that you have two very lovely daughters, boy. Stop trying to act like it's a bad thing. It's not the girl's fault she had an accident, but from her manners and the way she seems to be happy the way she is, I'm guessing this might be for the best,” said the old man this time. He was now my bona fide hero.

“Uncle Trayger, this is none of your concern,” said Dad to him. Kinda rudely, too.

Uncle Trayger reached over and extracted my hand from Dad's. Then he crooked an elbow to me and one to my sister.

“I believe,” he said, completely ignoring Dad's sputtering, “That I'm going to tour the facilities now. And these two young ladies would be perfect escorts and guides. Shall we ladies?”

Beezus laughed and took his arm. I watched how she did it and then took his other arm.

Uncle Trayger then marched us right past Mom and Dad. Right out the front doors. Right over to one of the rented golf carts so that folks could see all of Horsey Acres.

All day, though, there were stares and whispers. Fingers pointing, laughs. But Uncle Trayger made it all seem unimportant. Jerry started to give me a hard time at the racing stables, but Uncle Trayger just looked at him and said something that I couldn't quite hear. Jerry turned pale and left us alone after that.

By dinnertime, we'd had a couple of more arguments with Mom and Dad.

Most of the next week was more of the same. If I wanted to leave my room, I had to beat Mom and Dad waking up.

It was like they were ashamed of me. It made me sad.

Friday was my appointment with the Psychologist that the hospital set up. Mom and Beezus took me. I think Dad was relieved he didn't have to see me. We had to be there at 8 o'clock in the morning.

I wore what I thought was my prettiest outfit. It was a pleated and flared denim skirt, and a pink T-shirt that had writing in pink glitter on the front. It said, “Pixie,” on it.

Well, the lady Psychologist was actually really nice. She explained to us that she wanted to talk to each of the three of us alone and together. She wanted to see Dad, too, but understood that he had to stay at the ranch.

Her name was Andie. I don't remember her last name, because she insisted we all just call her Andie. She talked to me about how I felt before and since the accident. She also called me 'Ramona' the entire time. I liked her. Then she talked with Mom, then Beezus. Then she talked to us all three together. Mom looked like she'd been crying, so I patted her hand... but it made her cry more.

At the end of the day — seriously, we were there until almost dinnertime — she had Mom sign some papers, and promise to bring me back every week.

So. Life with my family was hard, after that. Especially my Dad. People at school didn't seem to notice, except that the teachers called me 'Ramona' now. Most of “the family” didn't really have trouble with it, either. It was mostly just Mom and Dad that had issues.

Uncle Trayger started visiting more often. Sometimes almost monthly. Always at least four or five times a year. He was Dad's uncle, and he told me that made him my “great-uncle” because of that. I agreed with him, he was a great uncle. He said he was checking on the assets of “the family” when he came, but I suspect he was looking out for me.

Mom eventually came around. Andie and Doctor Jordan had helped me through the years, too. When I started to develop like all the other girls, Dad was angry again. He eventually saw the wisdom of me being on what they called 'HRT' but was never happy about it. Dad never has liked what happened to me.

Really, all of the people from school never threw a fit of any kind. Dad kept steadfastly refusing to let me change my name, holding out some kind of weird hope that I wanted to be a boy again. There was the usual confusion with new teachers each year, but I had a pretty happy childhood with what seemed to me to be normal and average bumps along the way. Oh, it wasn't all rosy. There were always people both in school and in town that seemed to hate me just for being true to myself. The ER saw me at least a couple times every year. I thought about becoming a nurse or doctor, for awhile.

Ten years later, I had been talking to a lawyer about changing my name legally... finally. I was seventeen, and that meant that I could start thinking about my eighteenth birthday. I could sign papers legally then. So when “the family” got together in 1992, I made my announcement to them all that I would be signing the papers to legally change my name on my birthday in about two months. I would officially become Ramona Evelyn. Like I said at the beginning, no one was really surprised.

Mostly they were all happy for me. There were, of course, a few that were still uncomfortable around me, but for the most part, I was just another one of the girls by then. In fact, a bunch of us girls went on a giant shopping spree the weekend in the middle of the two weeks that time. Beezus led the “charge card charge” – she had just gotten engaged.

Me and Beezus never grew apart like some siblings do. We're still the best of friends, even all these years later. In fact, when she got married in 1994, she asked me to be her Maid of Honor.

She and her husband — and their four daughters — are the residents of Horsey Acres, now. She does pretty much what Mom always did, but Beezus has a big certificate on her wall that says she has a Masters degree in Accounting.

They're gonna host my wedding this autumn. Her eldest daughter... Ramona... is 13, and is going to be one of my maids of honor, but her mom is finally going to get to be my Matron of Honor. Like I said, Dad never did get past, “losing his son,” so I asked Uncle Trayger to give me away.

We figured out a nice way for both me and Beezus to get to stay there at Horsey Acres, too. It was my idea, but Beezus seems to be happy with it, and “the family” approved of the solution. This autumn, Constance and Eric will retire, then their son Tom and I will take over for them. It's all set to happen when we get back from our Mediterranean cruise and our honeymoon in Greece.

 ® "Any of y'all remember the basketball finals from three years ago, or am I the only one of us ain't touched in the head?"

 © "What kinda finals you meanin'? I didn't think they been further'n Sectionals until this year since way back 'fore any of us were more'n a spit."

 ¥ "No, you idjit woman. Not the boys. Just 'cause your grandson is the high-fallutin' star of the show these days don't mean the boys are the only ones what can do a good job. Some them girls are mighty fierce on the court."

 £ "Oh, yeah... that was the one where we come back from thirty points behind, right?"

 § "Thirty-seven points, actually! I was still followin' the radio commentary from when I just retired from it. What the heck happened there, anyways? Wished I'd've seen it."

 ¥ "What it was, was Magic!"

ᆠ"You old fool, if you don't pipe down, someone's like to think your oatmeal's gone off again. I was there, and it didn't look like no hocus-pocus to me. Our girls needed a kick in the pants, and they got it. Shoot, the girl that showed up halfway through third quarter is what saved us. She had a spark about her, somethin' special in her eyes, a certain... panache. Yeah, panache is a good three-dollar word. She had a panache to her, showed them spoiled little babies what a good leader can do for a team. Won with the last basket that was put in the bucket at the buzzer."

 § "We've had an awful lot of them 'favorable upsets' in the past few years, ain't we? I had to go and retire and miss all the fun."

 © "They've been in a lot of the girls' teams, lately, now that you mention it."

 ® "Yeah, like that volleyball tournament last year. My granddaughter was playin' in it. That was just plain odd. We was seeded last, and then we go and win every match we play, and it's all thanks to one girl makin' all the saves, havin' the great serve... Was that the same girl as in the basketball finals couple year 'fore that?"

 £ "Rumormill said that girl weren't even on the team roster."

 ¥ "I heared me somethin' about that, I think. What happened with that, she get in trouble or disqualified? What was that?"

 ® "What it was, was Magic!"

ᆠ"Oh good grief, you old men go gray and just lose your senses? Would they've let her play if'n she weren't s'posed to be there? They's just got 'em a girl with some skills to back up the brags they been makin' for years. I dunno if she was the same as the basketball girl, but if she was, why would it be so surprising to be good in one sport when you was good at another one?"

 © "Maybe that girl is why our girls're doin' so well these days. They got themselves a ringer. Should we maybe be gettin' the school board to give 'er an award of some kind or somethin'? No. She's just doin' her duty by her school. What else's she done for us, anyways?

 ¥ "How's about the big golf game over t'Midland Fields Course couple years back. Could that be her, too?"

 ® "Wasn't that a boys' golf tourney?"

 £ "I know what he means. Yep, it was the boys on the team, but golf's one of them co-educational sports. Most girls just ain't all-fired interested. Was a girl what hauled their keisters outta the fire. Most amazing round of golf I've ever seen, and my husband (rest his soul) was out on the links every durn weekend, May to September!"

 § "What it was, was Magic!"

ᆠ"Tarnation. You boys are sure hung up on that. What, she use her broomstick as a putter? You all sayin' that was the same girl again? I wasn't there for that game, golf course is no place for my rheumatism. Way I heared it, though, the li'l gal swinging iron that day had the power of Babe Ruth and the precision of a surgeon. Like that pro guy, whatzisname. Leopard Forest."

 © "Well, I just know it was her in the soccer game 'gainst Central."

 § "Didn't we lose that one?"

 © "Not that one, t'other one."

 ¥ "Oh, you mean that one three years ago? First time we beat Central in over 20 years. Not that you'd've knowed it from the past few seasons. Shoot. We whoop up on 'em every time, now."

 © "I says that was the same durn girl! 'Nother one'a them sports where the boys and girls play together, but ev'body knows it same as I do, that girl is the one that won it!"

 £ "What it was, was Magic!"

ᆠ"Don't you start encouragin' the menfolk, you old bat. You'd think the old farts were wantin' t'be in a faery story, what with the way they're a'lettin' on. So, since you all seem to be in agreement. Tell me more about this mysterious magic girl, then."

 £ "Well, she's gotta be a runner type, too... did the four hundred meter dash at the state track meet — and didn't she do the triple jump? Well, she did the 300 meter high hurdles as the only girl even competin' there, and the long jump, too. Won everything she was in, I know that."

 ® "Now't you mention, I think I sawed her at the big cross country meet a couple months ago when I went to see my girl's twins run. The same girl beat everyone there. Everyone. Even the boys with their too long to be natural legs. Kids these days are so dadgummed lanky and just long every which way."

 ¥ "Was she the place kicker what won the Conference Game for the football team last year?"

 © "I think you might be right. Couldn't find pads to fit her, so she risked it out on the field in just the uniform and helmet, then ran like the dickens after she kicked so they wouldn't spread her on the field like jam on toast."

 § "I seem to recollect that she was the one that took on all the other schools in Quiz Bowl this year single handed after we weren't able to field a team with any smarts worth a plug nickel. Single handed, I tell you. Won the whole kit and kaboodle like it weren't no more'n a mild pop quiz. Didn't blink. Yep. She's the one what made the other schools sit up and take notice that we weren't slackers in smarts or sports anymore. That li'l girl seems to be as smart as she is good at the sports."

 ® "The girl's downright amazing, alright. Too bad none of us knowed who she is, though. Hmph. Anyone all that mysterious and secretive, why I just don't trust 'em."

 £ "Aw, she's just not wantin' credit, I says. It's a series of selfless acts of school spirit. All of it, the past few years... she's gotta be a senior now, this'd be the fourth year. Whoever she is, I'd like to thank 'er for giving back the pride to the school and town. Don't rightly know what to make of all that she was..."

 © "What it was, was Magic!"

ᆠ"You five can make up stories about witches and giants and faeries all you want. Such nonsense. Pfeh! Magic, indeed. I'm going home, you lot keep entertainin' yourselves.

Yep. That's how I heard it happened. Must've given the listeners quite a chuckle to see the 'Pillars of the Community' talking about magic to explain sports, of all things. Heh. My granny Esne weren't as amused by it as I was, though...

She came thumpin' in the back door, already a bellowin' fit t'be tied.

"Jack! Boy, get your lazy — oh, hullo Jill," she yells as she came in, though that last bit — the greetin' to me — was at a much more, ah, genteel volume.

"What's up granny Esne?" I asked, not yet havin' a clue as to what she was all fusticated and bothered by.

"Lemme see your locket a minute, girl," she demanded with her hand held out.

"But granny Esne," I protested as my left hand protectively closed about my beloved necklace, "Daddy's fixin' to be home any minute now. You know I don't wanna disobey you, but I don't wanna —"

"Just hurry up, youngun, and I should be done 'fore my daughter's husband makes it here. I hafta check on something important to us all: you, me, and your poor mama what passed on."

Reluctantly, I reached behind my neck and unhitched the li'l catch on my locket chain, and handed it over to granny Esne as I gritted my teeth and waited.

She took it and opened it up, peering in at the picture of Mama that always smiled at me from inside it. Once again, just like every time I set eyes on that tiny image of her, I wished that I'd've had the courage to really know Mama. Granny poked at it, muttered under her breath, snorted once or twice as she cussed at it, then snapped it shut and handed it back.

"Alright, Jack. Put it back on and get changed, then go change into your dress for graduation. I think I fixed the memory changer on it so that folks won't question you showin' up four years ago right after my daughter died. Your Daddy'll still remember you as Jill from when you were still a baby, but the best I can do for the town is make 'em not question Jack disappearin' and Jill showin' up. This'll be easier when you leave for college, 'cause no one'll know you there."

She paused a moment, just looking around like she always did. With a deep sigh, she began moving forward through the gate and headed toward row 11.

Grass needs mowing.

She arrived at her destination and settled down to the ground, then leaned forward as she knelt, plucking the weeds from around the large marble headstone.

After just sitting there for awhile, staring at the words on the stone, she brushed her short auburn hair out of her eyes and opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

I guess I don't have to say it out loud, anyway. I just. I mean I really don't know what to say, even today. It's been a year, and I'm still kind of in shock. I didn't know...

That's not an excuse at all, is it? I wish I could take it all back, I wish I hadn't been so stupid, I wish I could have seen how wonderful you were...

She sighed another deep sigh.

I'm sorry.

The wind fluttered her hair and she pushed it back again, as she sniffled and tears slowly began to squeeze out of her eyes.

I read your diary... after. I don't think I've told you that before. I was helping Mom go through your things, and saw it sticking out from under your mattress. I hid it from her. I don't know why, but I wanted it to be just between you and me. I mean... I really never know how to say anything to you, now, despite spending every Saturday afternoon here. It was like a window into your head, helping me to understand just how horrible I had been. I know it doesn't do any good now... but...

A quiet sob escaped from her lips.

I'm so sorry.

Her shoulders shook silently with the quiet sobs for a few minutes before she looked up at the monument-in-miniature in front of her.

I saved up and got one more fitting for you. Mom and Daddy haven't seen it yet, but I think they'll like it. I know they'll understand. You didn't need to be afraid of them. You shouldn't have believed me. Would you like me to read it to you?

She paused, straining as though listening for an answer.

I wish there were a way to get you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but... I want it more than anything in the world.

This amazing girl in my arms as we danced around the gymnasium. The streamers, the music, even the guys thinking they were being sneaky about spiking the punch... it all just added to my one perfect moment.

She smiled up at me and moved her hands from my shoulders to the sides of my head as she pulled me to her for a kiss. Y'know... that kiss could have lasted three seconds or three years and I'd never know the difference. I'd probably still be there kissing her today if the Geography teacher hadn't barked a, "break it up, kids!" at us.

For countless eons, he was a petrified redwood, waiting. Nothing of his being was able to even twitch, yet in his Phantasia the effort put forth striving to raise the courage was truly a task that would tax reserves for entire cities.

A hard swallow made the long journey down his esophagus, and from his eyes brave pathfinders broke trail across his cheekbones and down to the precipice of his chin.

They say your life flashes before your eyes, when you know you're about to die. But this was more like a meandering, and it wasn't everything, just... some.

A four-year old boy, proudly waiting for Daddy to get home from work, so he can show him. He had spent all afternoon in big sister's room, getting the pretty lace set just right. Daddy's home, yay! Hoping he likes his pretty dress! He was so pretty! Daddy had to love it! But Daddy doesn't look happy, and he's taking a breath like he does before he yells at naughty children...

A quiet, inexorable sob escapes his throat at the fusion of shame burning through, beginning behind his eyes and blooming like a slowly unfurling blossom at this first memory, even as his synaptic soldiers march inexorably on to the next. His hand trembles with the weight it bears, but he holds himself steady as he witnesses the events unfold in his mind, waiting to see if there is anything that may convince even him that it would be worth putting that weight aside.

A seven-year old boy, standing in the living room, with his head hung, wanting to explain to his Dad that he does respect him. That he loves him more than anything in the world. That he just can't help himself, and anyway he wore socks so no one else'd know his toenails were painted, anyway! -- The look of disappointment is worse than any grounding or beating he could have had delivered upon him...

The haunted disappointment that resided behind those sharp, cold blue eyes that day -- without any visible changes, the stream brimming from his wide open eyes increases in flow to a near river and there are spasms upon the hand-carved oaken handle resting its smoothness within his palm. His breath, slow and even... instead of ragged, quick draws as one would expect.

An eleven-year old boy holding his breath, as his Dad's uniform boots stood centimeters from his face, and the quiet static that was interspersed with the voice of his auntie dispatching here and there around the city. He can't let himself be caught. He had promised never to do this again, and the only punishment more severe than disobeying was lying. This was lying about disobeying. He began to relax as the boots took a step away, but then the shadow darkened, as the officer bent to examine under the bed...

A throb in the leg that still had a limp from -- from... from the response that Dad had that day. But he knew Dad loved him, right? He knew, Right?

A sixteen-year old boy, thanking whatever deities might be possibly real that it was Hallowe'en. He sat in the indecently short skirt, with the fashionably torn tights, along with the rest of the outfit. He had known he looked hot, hot enough to get any boy -- and some of the more interesting girls -- bothered for him. The calf-length, stiletto-heeled boots had been the perfect complement. But here he just wished he could find the courage to vomit, but that would take him across the cell too close to the three large men ogling his not-quite factual curves. Aunty had tried to talk the Sergeant into not putting him in with the rest of the men arrested that night, but the fat old man had just laughed and said he would be fine until Dad got there. And now, he could hear his father's raised voice coming from down the locked up hallway...

At least that time, Dad had jumped on the explanation to save face that it was a High School Hallowe'en prank. Though the furious look on his face as he stood and waited for those leering men to finish what they were doing was still frightening to think about... better than thinking about what they were doing, but frightening, itself.

"Look, Vaughn, I just --"

"No! Now, you just simmah ohn down now, and you listen t'ME!" she shook her finger in my face, her pretty brow furrowed in her worry and consternation.

I sighed and waited, she worried too much.

She made a visible effort to calm herself, and when she spoke again, the accent was again supressed.

"You don't make a deal involving Death and expect to come out on top. If you don't lose your soul, you lose something worse."

"Look, sweetie, it's fine. Death misspoke, probably because of that weird Royal way of referring in plural, and she included me when she did. Not my fault if the way she phrased it was wrong. I'm a lawyer, there's no way to catch me in this loophole."

"I don't like it!" she snapped, stamping her (cute!) little foot, "Tell me EXACTLY what was said!"

I chuckled at the memory.

My best friend was in the prettily lacquered pine box 4 feet away.

I looked down at my notes. I looked around the packed-in room at all the hypocrites. This was a small town. This kind of thing made the press come out. There was even a newsvan outside, and a guy with a camera in the back of the room.

"Excuse me a moment. Before I go on, I need to, ah, gather myself," I stalled.

There was a murmur at the irregularity of it, and I folded up the notes that Lance's mom had written for me.

"Sorry, folks, but... he was my best friend. I won't be long, just need a breath of air first."

Then I motioned to Kirby and headed toward the door.

We stood outside for a minute at the foot of the stairs and then the two from the newspapers in town and the lady from the evening news and her cameraman, followed us outside. Not wanting to intrude on us. I started walking with Kirby, he was being quiet and waiting for me, but all of the news folks caught my hand motion to follow us from behind my back as we walked around the corner of the building.

We were standing there waiting when they got there, and when they saw us waiting for them, they all looked kinda embarassed to be horning in.

"You folks want to know the real story of what happened, you'll be in there and ready when I get back up there. Kirby. I want you to make sure no one shouts me down, no one stops me, and no one leaves. Can you do that?"

He looked at me kinda strange and then as understanding lit his eyes, he gave me that slow nod of his.

"Alright. You folks. Go back inside. Tell them we waved you off if anyone asks. We'll be in directly."

After they had gone back inside, Kirby let out a sigh.

"What're you going to do, Sara?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

"Screw them. I'm not going to lie to make them feel better."

He nodded his slow nod again, and we headed back inside.

I walked slowly with my head down up the aisle, listening to the whispers in the gathered. I unfolded the notes again, and... I began.

"Lance Seniewicz... was my best friend. So many people here, if you look around, were shocked at his death by his own hand. So many people here cared for him..." I paused to swallow a sob that fought to escape.

"And so many people here," I looked around the room at his mother, his sister, the teachers that showed up, "... are bald-faced liars and acting like to try to win an Oscar."

There were, of course, gasps of surprise.

Kirby stepped forward and quieted those that looked about to protest with a glance. I could hear one of the newslady people whispering into a recorder.

"Lance was forced to commit suicide, as much as if those responsible tied the rope and pushed him out of that loft themselves. You want me to tell you the story? You want to know the truth?"

I glared at them all, took a settling breath, and started in.

"Lance was a small guy, liked the arts and was good at them, he was gentle, kind, respectful, and he would do what those he was supposed to respect told him to do. And they took advantage of that to destroy him. Did those things make him want to be a girl? No. Why would they? Is it only girls that like to dance and sing and read and act? What about Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby? Is it only girls that are respectful? Why would boys get in trouble for sassing back, then? No. He was betrayed by those who should have protected a wonderful, sensitive boy like Lance."

I stopped for a moment, breathing hard in my anger, feeling good to let it out. There were several people that were fidgeting uncomfortably, and would likely have gotten up and left if some of the boys there hadn't stood up to back up Kirby and joined him in his great baleful stare.

"Here's what happened. Saint Ezekiel's was going to have a Spring Showcase. Dancing, singing, acting, all rolled up together. Lance should have been the star of the show. He should have been the one they focused on. But his teachers," I pointed at Miss Gult, Miss Juniper, and Miss Holsteader in turn -- the Drama, Choir, and Dance directors respectively.

"... but his teachers," I continued, "decided that they couldn't have a specimen like Lance represent them and show how their best was 'unmanly' and inferior to their other darlings. Ladies and gentlemen, Lance was more of a man than anyone. Sorry, Kirby, but it's true. Lance stood when a girl entered the room. Lance did all the old-fashioned gentleman things for a girl, even me who he was as close to as his sister. Lance was the kind of boy that would become a man that any woman would FIGHT just to say they got to date him once. Lance... was the bravest man I've ever known."

Lance's mom finally couldn't take it.

"Sara! How could you disrupt this funeral like this!? Young lady, you sit down or I've half a mind to --"

I just stared at her.

"Wait your turn, Mrs. Seniewicz, I'll get to your part in this," I said infinitely more calmly than I felt.

She turned the meanest shade of red I've ever seen.

"How DARE you, you little dy--"

"Sit down, mother, before you say something to make this worse," said the quiet voice of Emily, Lance's big sister as she looked at me with tears streaming down her face and nodded for me to go on.

I took another breath and bit back the sob that was still trying to have its way with me, "These three women decided that the best way to achieve the goal of having a 'real' man represent their ambitions was to destroy my best friend."

All three made noises of protest, but then stifled themselves as two of Kirby's goon squad stepped to the end of the aisle they were sitting in.

"Knowing that he had no real choice but to accede to them, and knowing that his only recourse would be to have his mother plead his case, they first went to Mrs. Seniewicz before ever trapping Lance into the situation that they did. And damn her to hell... she agreed to help them."

Emily looked revolted and unbelieving. Her mouth gaping, she looked at her mother for a sign -- ANY sign -- that what I was saying wasn't true. To her credit, Lance's mom had the decency to look guilty. Emily stood, and at first I thought she was going to leave as she was approaching Kirby, but she went and hugged him, then came up on stage behind me, and gave my shoulders a little squeeze of encouragement.

I was now guiding everyone in that room. Even those I was accusing -- the guilty. No one was making a sound without looking to me for approval first. No coughs, no throat clearing... nothing.

"This began in October. You see, everything they told Lance was going to be featured in the Showcase were pieces specifically for a girl. His voice would be able to handle a contralto and counter tenor piece. He could dance any piece that a girl could, they argued. Only a real actor could convincingly pull off being a blushing bride. All of the women's parts in Shakespeare's time had been men. Every word, calculated to force him to a point of not being able to refuse. And when he got home, his mother... rather than being outraged for him or even sympathetic... told him he WOULD practice those parts and to 'help' him, she sent him to school dressed in his sister's clothing the next day. The humiliation my poor, dear friend put up with. Being spat upon, roughed up by boys he had no chance of overcoming if he didn't allow them their way, jeered... only thing is Kirby and the jocks still watched out for him because he was their tutor and more importantly... their friend."

Kirby gave a growl in the general direction of the teachers.

The sob finally escaped and I wept. I couldn't help it and Emily gave me a hug and held me while I cried. Seeing this moment as a chance to break the spell I had everyone under, the three teachers from the boys' school began clamoring for proof. Everyone there knew it was true, but they were right, if there were no proof, it didn't happen.

Unfortunately for them.

"Lance was NOT the idiot they thought him to be, as he put up with this garbage for months. He had the top grades in his school. Not his class. The entire school. And they thought he wouldn't see through what they were doing? They were planning the real Showcase in other rooms with their chosen while one of them would be forcing Lance to be as feminine as possible. He knew. He actually had acquired copies of the actual Showcase, and had learned them. He was NOT going to let them beat him. When he left all of this with me, I was aghast. I never thought I'd use that old word that Mister Jacobs taught us in Freshman English, but there it is. It's the only word that fits. Aghast. For what they were doing was ghastly."

The looks on those old crones' faces... their eyes widened and their mouths opened in a little 'o' each and they lowered themselves back to the chairs.

"Then, in March, he found out that his mother was in on it. He picked up the telephone to call me, and heard his mother discussing things with his teachers. How he wasn't breaking. How she was going to step it up and force him to dress as a frilly LITTLE girl both at home and at school. She was bigger than him, it's not like he could actually refuse."

I tried to bore a hole through the evil woman's nose with my eyes.

"And as he was sadly deciding he would put up with that for the two months left, he heard his mother admit to having been feeding him estrogens since the plan began."

Emily's hands tightened on my shoulders, and I continued.

"When he was finally able to get to a doctor in April, the doctor explained why he had a tender chest. Why he was more emotional. Why he couldn't, ah, get excited. And the doctor then explained that he was now irrevokably sterile. Lance could never be a father. He could discontinue the hormones -- he hadn't explained to the doctor what his mother had done... oh, hello, Doctor -- and he would continue about puberty, but he would never have an easy time of ... well, of sex and getting an erection, and he would never have viable sperm."

I felt something wet hit my shoulder and looked up at Emily's face. She was crying, still, but the look of hatred she was giving her mother was... downright frightening.

"All of this, Lance gave me copies of for safekeeping," I said speaking directly to the cameraman, "and if it sounds melodramatic to say that it's safe and ready to go to anyone if something happens to me, so be it. It's safe, and it will come out later today, whether something happens to me or not."

I stopped and took another breath.

"I was asked to give this eulogy because they all thought Lance was ignorant of what they'd done, and that they could sweep what they'd done under the rug. Lance was above that. He would never have used what he had, as long as he won. And he would have won by their rules."

I was having trouble breathing now.

"I was the one that found him, four nights ago, on the night that he died. I tried to get him to go to the hospital. You see... you all wanted people to think it was a shock, and there was no note. Well."

I was taking breaths in between my lurching, body-wracking, shoulder tremors that were the form my sobs took.

I found him behind the dumpster by the old playground. Still in his party dress that he'd had to wear to school. He was vomiting and bleeding and had been badly beaten. I helped him to his feet and then I helped him home, while he slowly told me what happened. There were three boys at school. Yes, I have their names. They caught him on the way home. They first beat him. Then they..."

Emily broke down and slumped to the floor wailing.

"My baby brother! No! Nononononono!"

Kirby went to her.

Mrs. Seniewicz looked shocked for real. She sat very still and her eyes asked me to go on. I had the weirdest calm about me. The hurt and everything just melted away. I looked into the camera and continued, matter-of-factly.

"They raped my best friend. In his mouth, in his ass, and in his mind. They told him that each of their favorite teachers had told them to stop Lance at any cost so that he wouldn't steal their Showcase. They figured that since he looked and -- to their minds -- acted like a girl, they would show him what it was like to be a girl."

The three teachers were finally hit by the magnitude. They were shaking their heads in denial.

"I sat in the barn with him for several hours. Holding him while he cried. Trying to get him to go to the doctor."

I looked up and a sense of well-being and peace washed over me, now the story was out.

"Lance was as close to me as to his sister. But to me... he was my soulmate. I loved him. I love him now. I would do again what had to be done. I left, and took the gun out of my father's desk. Then I went and found those three. They were still sitting around at the town square. They didn't know me. The four of us went out to the woods, and they didn't have any idea what was going on until the pop of the gun into their faces. Did I mention that I'm the junior girls' firearms champ for this state? I went back to tell Lance it was all better. That maybe he could love me as much as I love him. When I saw him, I couldn't believe it. He was more than that. The note fell out of his hand and I took it. I have it here:

I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough.

...he wasn't strong enough?"

"In closing, let me just say, Lance Seniewicz was the strongest man I've ever known."

Zombies.

Mummies.

Michael Myers (the one from Halloween, not the funny guy).

And... for girls like me... the worst and most frightening and soul-shredding of the slow-moving terrors... the one that shakes us to our very core and turns us into gibbering crying piles of emotive waste...

Puberty.

The years of absolute despair and horror as my body inexorably changes, into what I know I am not. I should have been one of the lucky ones. I told my mother. I wanted to be me, I begged to be me.

And I had to watch as I changed so slowly into who I was not.

Everyone always told me that I was the "very image" of my father. He's tall, rugged, square-jawed... like a nice and well-heeled version of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. I have watched as I became a copy of that sort of being.

I wasn't even screaming on the inside, I was numb. My mother knew about me. My mother knew and let it happen anyway, and took every opportunity to compliment my masculinity and how easily I would find a wife and be a good father and how I was a perfect specimen of manhood. She knew it was the worst torture for me, but because of HER values and expectations, she wouldn't let the rest of the family know. If ever I tried to tell anyone, she'd talk over me, and give me a dark look.

You always hear about how in letters like these, people like me talk about how wonderful their parents were, but they just didn't understand. Bollocks. My mother understood. My mother is a clinical psychologist with a reputation for being the shrink that all the TG folks in the area want to be under the care of. She's won humanitarian awards for it. Not that she ever mentioned this to me, I found it on the internet. I went searching on my own for help and kept being recommended back to my own mother as the "best" choice.

So, I'm not going to say that my parents did right by me, that it's just me. No, frankly, the way you'll find me is all her fault. She did rather the opposite of right by me. I do hope my father refuses to forgive her.

I whispered the wish again. I had long since stopped believing in wishes and faeries and all the silly things a child -- girl or boy -- were supposed to still hold dear to heart as fact at an age most thought quite sad. Over a decade ago. Harsh for a 17-year old to realize. But if the opportunity presented itself, I'd make the wish. Every time. Just in case.

Of course, voicing the wish always made the cold feeling take my stomach again. It wasn't a difficult wish... but I knew it would never really come true.

But that wouldn't stop me from making it.

My shoes crunched as I shuffled through the grass that had fallen frozen with dew in the after-sunset temperature drop. I could see my breath. I jammed my hands in the pocket of my pullover hoodie and turned my gaze from the sky.

Mom looked up at me, but didn't say anything as I walked in the front door and started kicking the snow off my boots. My little sister smiled, but I think she could tell I was in a bad mood because she went back to watching whatever inane tweeny show on the Disney Channel she had been absorbed in before I got there.

I was in such a bad mood. I hate being in a bad mood.

I tromped up to my attic bedroom -- at least I had some privacy. I threw myself onto my bed and stared at the sloping ceiling as I began to consider and worry the largest problem in my life at current.

The Spring Dance.

It wasn't long before I would have to make a decision.

Am I a slightly geeky (okay, I can dream that it's only slightly) boy that's going to ask the slghtly geeky girl he's been flirting with for three years (since 8th grade History) to be his date...

Or...

Am I a freaky and geeky girl-that-everyone-knows-as-a-boy lesbian that's going to hope that the slightly geeky girl she's been flirting with since moving to town is okay with being a lesbian and will consent to accompany her as part of this town's first 'official' lesbian couple?

Or...

Or am I the moody androgyn that no one is sure about and frankly rather frightens most other students that will attend the Spring Dance solo and not dispel any questions about gender...

Or...

Am I the creepy kid that silently rages against the establishment (at least in the eyes of the peer group) and will boycott the event in protest -- not because of a lack of date?

I looked in the mirror and was both elated and scared out of me geeky little mind. Mom hadn't said anything weird, just... said before I made a decision, and before I told my father my decision especially, she wanted to take me shopping for a suitable dress for the dance. Then, if I decided to be the me that she and my sister knew about... and decided to ask Maja to the Spring Dance as the real me... I'd be prepared already for the fallout.

My mother had taken me dress shopping.

Formal dress shopping.

And she acted, well, cool about it. Like this wasn't the first time she'd taken a teenager out to look for a formal gown. Like she was bored with it. At least, she had when the staff of the shop had been there. She'd even remembered to call me Heather instead of Donovan. When the salesgirls had wandered off giggling at what they thought was my being picky, Mom would lean close and tell me how exciting it was to finally get to do something special with her eldest daughter.

I wasn't being picky, I just had no idea what I was doing.

But... it looked like we had found it. Not to be a drama-llama, but... we'd found THE dress.

I was sure of it.

I was ecstatic.

I was about to faint.

I sat there, literally dumbfounded. Maja looked about as scared as I know I am. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, and I sat on the edge of the recliner. She had just asked me to the Spring Dance.

As her girlfriend.

What the hairy heck?

Apparently, she'd known there was something 'different' about me. And she'd picked up that I was moving toward making it public. So she took matters into her own hands and showed up at my door to ask me something important.

And when Mom and Petra had left the room (I knew they were in the kitchen with cups pressed against the door, but I'd tell them anyway and Maja didn't have to know) she kind of gathered her courage and asked me if I was straight or if I liked girls.

I answered before I realized what she'd said.

Tricky girl. I'm pretty sure I'm falling hard and fast for her.

Turns out she'd seen me and Mom the day we went dress shopping. We went 90 miles away so I wouldn't be recognized, but she was visiting someone with her family there that day and had recognized me anyway.

After I haltingly accepted her invitation, she asked to see my gown so she could color match.

Surreal.

So far, so good. Spring Dance minus twelve days and my first day at school as Heather. Only one teacher so far even halfway slipped, but she recovered and nothing happened.

It's crap dealing with the thickheads, though.

I'm a sissy.

I'm a fag.

I'm ... many things worse.

At least no one's gotten physical.

Yet... scary thought.

So.

And that is where our story really begins...

Turns out, boys do wear skirts. Depending on things like culture and societal norms -- which seemed to the parents to be very silly limiting factors on the expression and fashion sense of a child, so they set about seeing what they could do about it.

They told and showed him that in most of the world, skirts for boys were called, "kilts," and were accepted as normal even in their own country, to a point. Some boys and men in their country were so proud of having ancestors from the kilt-wearing countries that they wore kilts, too!

But, the little boy pointed out that the kilts were kind of limited in colors and designs, and not all that fun-looking. The two parent people had to agree with him and researched some more.

The next examples they brought to their precious child were of the berobed nobles of many cultures, and the rich colours and designs that the robes could be found in. Again, these were available in their own country by those proud of their heritage.

But... the little boy pointed out that the men in the robes could easily be just wearing the robes over their clothing and be expected to remove the robes.

Again, they had to agree and returned to the library.

This time, they had what they thought must be the answer.

Their answer was that it didn't matter, as society and culture are made up of many differences. They asked the little boy if he wanted to wear skirts, was that what this was about?

Well, of course, but he didn't want to offend anyone.

Why, who would be offended by something so silly as the type of garment someone was wearing. That would be quite a strange thing! Laughable, in fact!

The little boy was wise well beyond his tender years. But he also trusted that his parents would protect him -- or see to it he was protected when they were unable to be with him -- if such a thing were to happen.

So it was that it came to pass that the little boy arrived for his first day at the Williston School and was promptly informed by the Headmaster that he would have to return home to dress in a way that would cause less confusion, and would comply with the Dress Code of the rules of the Williston School.

Confused, the little boy used the telephone in the Headmaster's office and his parents retrieved him only a short time after they had delivered him.

The three of them spent the remainder of that day, aside from breaks for meals and enjoying a rollicking good television program together that afternoon, studying this new information the Headmaster provided that was the Williston School Dress Code.

Male students, it proclaimed, would be dressed in a certain way each day, in a way that showed that individuality was allowed -- but only slightly. The little boy cried out at the allowances made, as they were so minor as to be non-existant. He asked what a male student was, and received in reply that it was something he needn't worry about at the moment, but that they (the two good parents) would explain it fully before they returned with the little boy to the school.

Female students, it proclaimed, would ALSO be dressed in a certain way each day, but the individuality that was allowed was much more widely varied and showed much more character allowed. There was also such that said the hair of a female student must be styled long, but again the variety in the hairstyles that were allowed as long as they were long comprised quite a long list, indeed! The hair of the male students was outlined to be preferred to be short and above the collar, but that if longer than that must be worn in a specific type of style with no variation.

The little boy explained that if he had to choose based on this Dress Code, that he would be a female student. He had already surmised that female was different from male, and assumed that the parents that so lovingly went over this material with him would answer his question about what a female student was the same way they had answered his question about what a male student was.

The parents sadly informed the little boy that the Headmaster would consider the little boy to be a male student.

The little boy asked if there was no way he could be a female student, instead?

The parents returned to research and found that because of the difference in the Dress Code, the Williston School was not allowed to actually state that one Dress Code was for male students and the other for female students, due to something called a Sexual Discrimination Law (the little boy was told that he wouldn't need to know what that was in detail until he was an adult). So, if the Headmaster tried to protest, he would be breaking an actual law! So long as the little boy adhered completely to one Dress Code or the other and did not switch between them, the Headmaster could only protest and nothing more. The little boy could not be punished.

The Headmaster did, indeed, protest, but a man named Mister Uhturnee who was a friend of the parents accompanied them that morning and pulled the Headmaster aside to talk when he protested. Mister Uhturnee kept spelling a word the little boy was unfamiliar with, and sounded like a sneeze when he tried to pronounce it privately to himself. Ay See Ell Yoo, Ackloo.

The Headmaster decided that the little boy could be considered a female student as long as he adhered to the Williston School female student Dress Code, and to keep from causing problems with the other students (who might be jealous, the two good parents explained to the little boy) would have to pretend to be named something different and instead of being called he or him or his would have to be called she or her or hers.

That wasn't too difficult and if it meant that he (sorry, she) wouldn't have to wear the boring clothes from the Williston School male student Dress Code, then she would gladly pretend her name was different.

Or not.

It's not about whether or not what I write is actually worthy of being kept, I keep it all. Or at least I try.

But now and then... now and then I write something that is obvious that must be kept so as to say something... worthwhile.

Like the letter to the School Board, what protested the treatment of that girl. They say, "Well, she's really a boy," all they want.

Don't make it any more true.

Groggily, as I settled there bemoaning my utter lack of some of the delightfully arcane brew of the Ethiopians (the one that restores the potence and senses of all those with the proclivities toward glacial awakenings), the terrestrial stage coalesces into existence and envelops my being...

I've got to stop falling asleep reading Victorian Literature.

Why am I without my damn coffee?

Who the hell is moaning like the dead?

Oh.

That's me.

"Valery!"

He better not have already left and not made me a pot of coffee.

"Val? You awake?"

There's an answering moan from down the hall. Okay, so he's not awake yet. The good news is that he didn't leave me coffeeless. The bad news is... he didn't leave yet so - I - have to make coffee.

Let's see if I can fill you in, all narrator-style while I finish pulling my sorry ass upright and make it to the kitchen.

Name's... well, my name NOW isn't the same as it was when I was young, so you can just call me ... you can just call me Lysandra. The pile of flesh and bone in the back room of my apartment is my irksome brother Val. Valery for long. Where's the filters at? Why can I never -- ah. So. Why am I narrator of this little light opera? I guess you could say I have the knack for it.

We need a decent coffeemaker. One with a timer. It all started deviously enough -- you can't say it started innocently no matter what you wanna say -- with my girlfriend setting out to guilt me and Val into a brother and sister duo for Vaudeville Night. Yeah, I'm a lesbian, you got a problem with that? Yeesh. Coffee needs to hurry up. I'm heckling my audience that isn't there instead of them heckling me. Slow it may be, but at least this is coffee I'm waiting on and not that chai tea crap that Beaux is always trying to foist on me... I'd rather do without than that. You know what the Jedi Master of Coffee said...

"Brew, or brew not. There is no chai."

Back to my... narrative. So my girlfriend wants us to do some kind of brother and sister act with a twist. She wants me to be the brother and Val to be the sister. Hmph.

Val's game for it, he's a crossdresser anyway. I'm okay with it. But there's something I didn't trust.

"Cassie! You got the coffeepot going?"

* S I G H *

So he steals my thunder at a cool name and interrupts my narration at the same time. Who needs brothers? My name's not even Cassandra or anything. It's stinking "Cassie" on my birth certificate. No one ever accused our parents of having an imagination.

Since he's probably lumbering to the toilet and then in here, I'll make this quick as I can:

We're to do it in period costume. Victorian era -- which she knows I love -- and it doesn't occur to me to object until she's gone.

If anyone's clothes were more uncomfortable than a Victorian-era woman's... it was a Victorian-era man's formalwear.

Damn her. I'm gonna be sore for the next week.

Oooh!

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That's the cursor. My hands are on the keyboard. The text editor is open... and nothing is being written.

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Thing is, it's really hard to be "inspired" and make use of creativity, tap into that muse... when you don't feel like you deserve it.

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I used to be good at writing. I used to be able to crank out the stories and poems and just... enjoyed it.

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But then I was accused of doing something terrible, horrible, no-good, and really bad. Then it turned out that even though I didn't know I had done it, I was the one responsible for it.

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I did my best to apologize and even try to explain (though I really had no idea about it myself). Then... the theories began as to the why.

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One theory was that I did it all on purpose, with forethought and malice, to have material to write about. Since it was known that I was a writer, this seemed to be to most... kinda plausible.

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I haven't really been able to write anything of substantial volume since then.

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It's been more or less a year. And it's not getting any easier.

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I've written some.

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But just not a lot.

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I've even tried to begin the reworking of my older stuff to see if that helped.

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See how much it helped?

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I'm not sure if I'll ever recover from this downturn.

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But I do know if I don't...

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I'll really never be truly happy again...

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It's almost hypnotic.

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The cursor.

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Hushed, but definitely talking.

There's a few whoosh-klump noises, too. I think I'm in hospital. I think I'll open my eyes, get a good look around, ask folks what's going on.

Ack. That's a lot of light for a tiny crack open. Didn't even part my eyelashes.

Whoa.

"Did you actually get to talk to her?" she asked me excitedly.

"Yep," I answered with a grin that made fixing my lipgloss in the tiny mirror in my locker next to impossible.

"Well? This is driving me crazy! She only talks to a few people each week. You're like the only person I know of in the entire school who has actually talked to her and she's supposed to be from here. She has to go to this school, we're the only high school in the entire county. Unless..."

I looked at Haylea with a frown and asked the question she obviously left off there for me to ask, "What? Unless what?"

"Unless," she smiled slyly, "Unless you think she could be a middle schooler."

Psh. Shyah, right.

"Psh. Shyah, right. C'mon, Haylea, you've been in that chatroom as much as I have --"

"More."

"I know, right? You know that's no middle schooler. She's so..." I grasped in the dark for the right word.

"Wise?"

"She says she's fifteen. Wise doesn't cut it. Insightful. Yeah, that's the right word. She's so insightful that it's downright amazing. I mean, she reads in that chatroom all week as people present their problems, and then chooses like, what, two or three people every weekend to talk to in her private chatroom? And everyone she talks to has been energized, and inspired and..."

There was a laugh from a few locker-doors down the hall, and I glared over at the freak boy pushing his much-taped glasses up his nose again. What the hell? Where does someone like him, someone like THAT piece of rejected social refuse get off laughing at me?

"Is there something you have to add to the conversation, Bags?"

"Hm? Oh, no, Lucretia. You seem like you're enjoying yourself and I don't want to ruin that." And he said it without so much as a hint of irony. He was deadpan serious.

Of course, that meant I HAD to take the bait, even though I knew it was both a trap and folly.

I sighed mightily, a sigh for the heroine of an epic tale, and asked, "Okay then, schmot guy... ruin it... HOW, exactly pray tell?"

He shook his head and said, "You've been my best friend since before kindergarten, Cree, I don't want you to think I'm making fun of you. But I've seen what this chick writes about in her 'sermons' in that room -- yes, I gave in and checked it out -- and she's not that special. You make it sound like you're joining a new religion."

I just kind of stared at him for a minute. Then the bell rang and he just turned and smiled as he waved with his customary, "See ya at lunch!"

Argh. Boys can be so frustrating! Why the hell was my best friend one of them?!? Okay, a bit of background here... Yes, he's my best friend and yes, he's social refuse... I'm not exactly popular myself -- today's jump in interest due to actually being one of those chosen to talk to Hypatia not withstanding -- but liked enough that associating with Bags (Wilson Kenton Bagston) didn't make people hate me by association. Most didn't really hate him so much as he just wasn't someone anyone tried to include. He was kind of invisible. Well, except to me.

"I don't know why you even bother to talk to that guy," was Haylea's mumbled comfort a moment later.

"Because, Haylea, like he said, we've been best friends since we were kids. You don't just abandon friends."

"Are you kidding, Cree? Where do you think you are? This is high school for crying out loud!" she grinned so I would know she was at least partly kidding.

"C'mon, class... at least I like Drama."

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She sighed heavily and turned from the window, letting the curtain drop and guillotine the silvery trace as the hand that had held the wispy fabric now moved to curtail the moisture leakage. It had come to this. She was certain, in her own odd way, that she wouldn't be missed. All the torture she had been put through, all the emotional blackmail, all the guilt-ridden conversations... all the denial.

No, she wouldn't be missed. Not the way that he would be.

He was the golden child. The perfect son. As if the world-at-large even had the desire to see him for what he truly was. No, anyone that knew him was absolutely certain from the time he was born... he was the best and the most wonderful. Never making a mistake. Not in public -- and only in private when she had been the only witness.

Such a loaded word, that one. Complex, and simple in its entirety. Witness. Merriam-Webster defines witnes in many ways:

Noun definitions:

1. attestation of a fact or event : testimony
2. one that gives evidence; specifically : one who testifies in a cause or before a judicial tribunal
3. one asked to be present at a transaction so as to be able to testify to its having taken place
4. one who has personal knowledge of something
5. a : something serving as evidence or proof : sign
   b : public affirmation by word or example of usually religious faith or conviction
6. capitalized : a member of the Jehovah's Witnesses

Transitive Verb definitions:

1. to testify to : attest
2. to act as legal witness of
3. to furnish proof of : betoken
4. a : to have personal or direct cognizance of : see for oneself
   b : to take note of
5. to constitute the scene or time of

Intransitive Verb definitions:

1. to bear witness : testify
2. to bear witness to one's religious convictions

The origin of the word comes from Middle English - witnesse - which in turn comes from Old English - witnes - and the first known use as a noun was prior to the 12th Century C.E. (for those of you that don't do historic dates well, that means before the year 1100), and the first known use as a verb was during the 14th Century C.E. (the 1300s). There are a myriad of words related to witness, both synonyms and antonyms... attest, attestation, authenticate, avouch, certify, confirmation, corroboration, disproof, documentation, evidence, proof, substantiation, testament, testify (to), testimonial, testimony, validation, vouch (for), voucher...

Such babble filled her mind, and she knew it was simply some part of her mockery of a mind. A vestige of perhaps something good in her that wanted to survive, telling her not to do what she must.

As a sort of tribute to the son that never really was, before she carried out her goal -- no, her duty -- she dressed him slowly and carefully in the three piece suit. The gift of an Armani man's suit was never what he wanted. But he had mustered acceptance for it with all the enthusiasm that was expected. No, there was nobody that ever saw past his façade to the truth. Lies that even convinced himself for a short time.

The absurdity of what she was doing struck her for a moment as she slid the precise Windsor knot to his throat one last time. She even let slip a giggle. Or maybe a chuckle. Only a woman truly knows how to tie a tie on someone. She stifled the aberrant behaviour lest she become hysterical.

She looked at the bedside clock. The one that was destined to take up residence in the evidence locker at the local police station, at least until a coroner made a report -- probably longer. Barely ten minutes had passed since she wept in the moonlight.

Another moment of inappropriate humour... men get dressed so much more quickly than women...

It would take the police about seven minutes to respond after she made the call. She would be here, waiting for them. So would he. Would they ever understand what drove her to this? Not likely. Even with all of their "sensitivity training" and the role-plays that today's police undergo... not likely at all.

She reached out and lifted the telephone -- an old style, rotary, what they used to call a Princess style. He had thought it something that would be overlooked and not attributed to deviant proclivities. And of course, he was wrong.

Her hand, the same left hand that held the curtain, delicately dialed the three digits.

An inkling of a moment passed before a soothing and businesslike woman's voice answered, "Nine-one-one emergency. What is the nature of your emergency?"

She sucked in a breath through her teeth.

"I - I want, no, I need to report a death."

The operator's tone didn't change, but she could imagine the saddened look on the faceless woman's features as she asked, "Please stay on the line, ma'am, until I can transfer you to the ambulance --"

Some answers are easy to supply.

• What is two plus two?
  Four.
• What sound does a cow make?
  Moo.

Other questions require questions of clarification before an answer can be supplied.

• What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
  African or European swallow?
  Doesn't matter, 'twas merely a punchline.
• What time does the sun rise?
  What day, what latitude, what longitude, and what elevation?
  In other words, depending on the rotation of your location.

And then, there are the questions that have obvious answers that cannot be articulated. Most of these are quite personal. But the question recognizes the answer to which it belongs.

This is a true storybit about one of those answers, and it is about the question that belonged to her.

My life has never been easy, even discounting being transgender. I was always a geek. I've worn glasses since grade two. I was short except for grade eight. I was the only not-completely-white kid in the entire school from Kindergarten to seniors in high school. I looked at the world oddly. There were rumours I didn't believe in God.

** Author's Aside: those rumours were true by about halfway between age seven and eight, but I faked it until around nineteen and still fake it to avoid hassle in some situations, like family.**

But I didn't know I was a Question until I was nearly thirty-three years old. I began feeling depressed and lonely, even in a room full of people I liked. Reflecting back on my life, there were never any people who "stuck with me" once they knew me for long enough in person. A year, more or less a year either direction. I hid all of this, or at least the fact that it was getting to me, and carried on. I made a Plan. Not a good Plan, the kind of Plan that end in a well-written note left behind.

And then, my Answer found me. She was sure from the moment she saw a graphical representation of me, before she knew anything about me. She set about manipulating events so that the two of us would meet. At least, meet in a virtual sense. I knew as soon as I read her words on my screen. Before I saw her own graphical representation. But I refused to believe. She couldn't be my Answer. I have no Answer and am doomed to carry out my Plan in a few weeks. But... a Question's Answer cannot be denied simply because it is not believed. The truth is... the Truth.

Tentatively, contact was made. Then expanded. And in a relatively comparably short time, contact was no longer a choice, but a necessary part of daily life. Eventually, too long a time later and yet short by outside estimation, I accepted the Truth. My Answer had found me, and I her Question.

My Answer not only yearned for me as I yearned for her, but knows everything about me without having to be told. She sees my secret selves, inside the mask the world sees. She truly Answers everything about me, and makes me complete. The only true magic left in this world, is that connection, between a Question and Answer. We are all Questions, and we are all Answers. The wonderfulness is that as I am, everything I am, everything I have been, everything I will be, is the Question to her Answer and the Answer to her Question. This is the amazingly rare situation that is in operation. There are hard times. There are fantastic times. There are times when it is so difficult that one or both of us even doubt our connection being forever.