A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 1

Prologue

My life changed during my seventh Thanksgiving. As with other holidays, we celebrated it with Boarders.

My father, Edward Houseman, taught History at the Morton Academy, a very prestigious and very expensive school in Connecticut. He was also the author of several books including Our Father’s Lives, about the Founding Fathers in the decades before the Revolution, which became one of the most popular entry-level American History textbooks.

My mother, Marion Russell Houseman, was one of the Russells, one of the two original families that founded the Morton Academy in 1882. The family had lost a great deal in the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and was somewhat faded, but Mom had been a Morton Girl and Columbia graduate with Honors in History, where she met my father, a quietly intense student from New Hampshire.

Yes; it was all very preppy, very New England, very Old School.

I was born Benjamin Russell Houseman, after a difficult pregnancy. I was carried high, with a heart rate of 150, and the ultrasound never showed any genitalia. Everything indicated that I would be a girl, but then everything indicated that I would never be born at all–my mother developed symptoms that indicated an ectopic pregnancy. Fortunately, a visiting doctor from England had only recently had a similar case and realized it was not ectopic but was dangerous. I was small and frail and things were touch-and-go for a time, but both my mother and I recovered by my first birthday. My mother’s overall health had been affected and she quietly moved from being an active tennis player to a stay-at-home homemaker. She began working on a history of her family and the Morton Academy.

The Morton Academy had been a girl’s school until the 1960s and co-educational ever since, although it was strange to consider the addition of male students as ‘co-eds’. It was originally a beautiful brick mansion some miles outside of Hartford that grew and grew over the years, and had quietly produced the wives of senators and bank presidents, and once co-education and feminism hit in the Sixties, it produced senators and bank presidents of both sexes–also two movie stars and a few novelists and one particularly notorious hedge fund trader.

As with similar institutions, it had split into three parts; Lower, Middle, and Upper Schools, which would translate in public school terms as elementary, middle, and high school. My father taught American History to the Uppers. Our house was two miles from the school, last of the Russell legacy, a rambling eight-bedroom affair that was on the state’s historic homes preservation list. Most of the rooms were storage for family and Morton memorabilia. Our lives centered around Morton.

There were two divisions of students; Day and Boarders. There were very few Day students because the tuition was upwards of $25,000 per year. Boarders were the rule, with tuition and board starting at $46,000. The draw was the school’s quiet prestige, outstanding academics, and the student accommodations were much more comfortable than other private schools. In addition, one of the alumni had become a microchip billionaire and had given a huge endowment of technology to the school. Consequently, the century-old school was now absolutely cutting-edge in computer-related fields.

My father used the powerful internet capabilities available to him to research his last book, Changing Fortunes, about how wealthy families had guided America’s cultural direction until the influence of New Money and the 1929 Crash affected their stewardship–as the blurb on the book cover said. It was short-listed for a National Book Award for Non-Fiction, although it lost to that one about Jackie Onassis–who had been a Holton-Arms and Miss Porter’s Girl.

Actually, there were divisions within the divisions of students. There were the wealthy and the super-wealthy, of course, but also the ones who were driven and the ones who were slack, the ones who wanted to change the world and the ones who wanted the safe comfortable world of their families’ estates, and so on.

Among the Boarders were students who were rarely at school; they spent every possible moment with their family. Usually this was out of deep love and close-knit families, but often it was an excuse for other activities. Skiing at Aspen or Cortina, snorkeling in the Maldives, attending the Oscars or Wimbledon. And of course, they were gone at every holiday, returning tanned and full of stories.

But there were also Boarders who had quite clearly been tucked away at Morton and rarely left the campus. They were out of the way because of family problems–divorces among the wealthy were usually spectacularly vicious–or because they were embarrassments to the family in one way or another. The dorky boy that just didn’t fit the image of the heir to a sportswear empire, for instance. Or the inconvenient child that got in the way of a single parent’s sexual escapades.

I document all of this because of the influence of my parents, genetically and socially, and my observations.

Chapter 1: Thanksgiving

We celebrated Thanksgiving on the campus with those Boarders who stayed. At the time I was a small but precocious seven-year-old with few friends. I loved my father but spent more time with my mother; I helped her cook and loved helping her in the Library. On this Thanksgiving, I was helping out in the kitchen, carrying things in as best I could to the students and the few faculty families. There were only two Lower School kids there; usually the Forgotten Ones–as my father called them at home–were older. Six more were Middle and four were Upper. The Uppers usually found ways to get invited to friend’s homes.

One of the Lowers was a skinny red-headed boy who was fighting to keep from crying. Mom whispered to me that his parents were divorcing and this was his first holiday away from home. There was also a chubby girl with glasses and stringy black hair.

She appeared at my side as I slipped. I was carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes; somebody had splashed something on the floor and I hit the wet patch with my heel. I started to go backward and there she was stabilizing me. I grinned and thanked her.

She grinned back. “You can do the same for me some time. I’m Shelly. You’re Jenny, right?”

I started to correct her that I was called Benny but my mother had seen my near-disaster and called out, “Honey, are you alright?”

“Yes, Mom,” I nodded. “Shelly saved me.”

“Then bring the potatoes over. Mr. Hanson is starving!” she teased the gangly Upper boy seated near her.

I promptly responded and only when I set the potatoes down did I realize that I hadn’t corrected Shelly’s misunderstanding. And then I was fetching and carrying; my family and the few other faculty people had a rule that the regular kitchen folks should have the day off. Most of them were home with their local families anyway, but we did the lion’s share of the cooking and serving and it was a nice tradition.

My father was probably the most loved of the teachers present, at least by the four Uppers who knew him, but everybody seemed to know of him. He wasn’t the most senior present, though; that was a mathematics teacher named Mr. Stoat. I thought it was a Wind in the Willows type of name, and he was a beefy, red-faced man that Mom had said ‘was going through a tough time’. I didn’t know what but, at seven, I was already learning about divorce and drinking as the two most common ailments of adults. Mr. Stoat sat at the head of the table and often mopped his sweaty face with his napkin, deferring to my father to be the principal coordinator of the festivities.

We sat around and prayed, a non-denominational prayer delivered by my mother. Ordinarily this would be the role of Mrs. Carey, the head of the school, but she was having hip surgery. Since my mother was part of the school’s history–although no longer active at the school–it was fitting that she perform the duty.

Afterward, we went around the table with the ritual of each of us telling one thing we were thankful for. With a glance at Mr. Stoat, my father allowed that we had to be truthful but could be lighthearted. He began by saying he was thankful that the Patriots quarterback was healthy. This was kind of funny because my father was definitely not a typical football fan; he was an academic with a build that I’d heard called ‘slight’. But the New England Patriots–and the Red Sox–were his sports passions.

It cleared the air; usually people are embarrassed to say things like, ‘I’m thankful for the love of my parents’–the sort of thing that would be expected to be said but was clearly awkward given that the students here were the Forgotten Ones. One-by-one we went around the table. One teacher said she was thankful that her back problem was easing up. One student said he was thankful that he finally understood quadratics–although we figured that was trying to butter up Mr. Stoat, who only nodded. He’d said he was thankful for ‘this excellent Pinot Noir’.

I was probably a goody-two-shoes; I said I was thankful that I got to be with my parents but that I also got to have a larger family–all of them. That earned me some ‘aws!’ and a ‘that’s so sweet!’ from Shelly and a thrown crouton from an Upper who joked about ‘Hallmark cards.’

After he was disciplined with a slight cuff on the head, it moved on to Shelly.

“I’m thankful my mom’s in rehab.”

There was silence and I realized that nobody was sure how she meant it.

She looked up and said, “No, this is a good thing. She …drinks. So when she realized how bad it was getting, she checked into that place in Malibu.”

People then nodded their understanding that this was a good thing, and the conversation moved on. I was close enough to hear her quietly add, ‘Just hope it works this time.’

It was a long and busy meal with little conversation; we were largely strangers or co-workers, and I was the only one with his whole family present. But the food was good and other than the Lower boy knocking over his milk, everything flowed nicely. The students were elected to clear the table and while we were doing that, I came up to Shelly and said softly, “I hope it works for your mom.”

She gave me a sad smile. “Thanks, Jenny. Hope so, too. You’re pretty cool for saying that.”

“It’s, uh, Benny, actually.”

“Benny? What’s that short for?”

“Benjamin.”

“Why do you have a boy’s …” Her eyes widened. “Omigod! I’m so sorry! I thought you were–”

I raised a hand. “It’s okay; I’m used to it. No problem.”

As we went back into the dining area, I evaluated the situation. Morton Academy was elite but not super-strict, in the sense that while students wore uniforms and faculty wore coats and ties, they allowed longer hair and even beards and mustaches on the senior boys that could grow them–but only with faculty approval. My light brown hair was parted in the middle and swept back behind my ears. It was entering what Mom called its ‘Winter Long’ stage, where it was at my collar in back. The students at the dinner were in casual clothes–which didn’t mean jeans or sweats; it meant slacks and skirts–but most wore variation of the uniform.

For boys and girls, shirts were either white or light blue. The girls’ blouses had Peter Pan collars, and both boys and girls wore polo shirts in white or light blue. Slacks for boys and girls were Navy blue or khaki and girls wore Navy blue skirts, although there was a push on for khaki skirts for Spring. The school blazer was Navy and boys wore the school tie, a yellow-and-blue Repp style, or girls could also wear blue ribbon ties. The athletics uniform was blue shorts and light blue t-shirts and there were heather gray sweats. There were two sweaters, heather gray or Navy V-necks, and of course almost everything bore the school’s crest.

Shelly wore Navy slacks and a light blue blouse with a ribbon tie. I wore Navy slacks with the white polo. We were about the same height but she looked like she weighed two of me. That wasn’t a comment on how fat she was as much as a comment on how skinny I was, combined with her stockiness. I was already familiar with how strangers perceived me–they’d often told Mom, ‘Your daughter is so pretty!’–so I knew that I had a face that Mrs. Carey had once called ‘angelic’.

The funny thing was …I didn’t squirm when these things happened. I didn’t freak out; I didn’t yell ‘I’m a boy, darn it!’ at them. I didn’t really feel like a boy; I mean, I could look at Peter Hanson the Upper and think it was like we were two different species. Even the kid that knocked over his milk seemed alien compared to me. I was a small, quiet child of small, quiet parents and quite content with that. But Shelly’s thinking that I was a girl rocked me. It wasn’t the casual passing thing of strangers complimenting Mom; it was right up-front and in my face and the strangest thing was that I felt a connection to her or with her. There was just something about her eyes when we looked at each other …

Students drifted off back to their rooms and faculty left for their homes but we were faced with the large lump that was the senior faculty member. Mr. Stoat had accounted for at least a bottle of Pinot, I overheard my father say. So he coaxed Mr. Stoat up from his chair and to his car and loaded him into the passenger seat. My father had already gotten Mr. Stoat’s keys to drive him home, with Mom and I following in our family car.

We were right behind them at a red stoplight. Mom pointed out that my father was looking at us in the rearview mirror. We waved to him and he waved to us. The light turned green. He pulled forward with us following and suddenly a black sports car flashed in from the left, running the red light at full speed. Mom started to shout just as the car hit Mr. Stoat’s car at the driver’s door.

Chapter 2: Four Years Later

“God, I was worried you wouldn’t be here!” Shelly squealed with glee as we hugged for the first time that fall.

“Where else would I be?” I chuckled. “You look great!”

She did, too; her mother’s routine was to dump her in a ‘fat farm’ each summer and each fall she returned to Morton tanned and maybe a little less chubby. But our last year of Lower had been hell; we eyed the Middle kids with envy. Shelly wanted desperately to be popular but so far her closest and only friend was me, and I was no great shakes in the popularity department.

Shelly and I were the smartest kids in class and universally disliked and distrusted because of that. As more than one kid angrily told us, we ‘blew the curve’ for them. With my background, I was best in English, History, Art and Drama, French and Journalism. Shelly was the Science, Math, Health, and Information Technology whiz. Yeah, we were the class nerds. So other than one or two kids in each class who were friendly, we spent our time together. And we were content.

We spent so much time together you’d think we’d get on each other’s nerves or at least bored with each other, but we didn’t. Shelly had kept me going in the year after my father’s terrible death, and this past Christmas Shelly’s father walked out. He’d always been a sort of mysterious figure; I’d never met him although I’d seen photos of her mother. Tanned, taut, leathery, dripping with gold jewelry and absolutely devastated that she had to waste a moment smiling at the camera. There had been a young guy in the photo with her, ‘her driver’, although they’d been sitting by a pool, so no driving was being done. So it looked like a divorce made sense. The father wasn’t Shelly’s biological dad; he was her mother’s third husband–the second that Shelly had known–but she’d known him the longest and it was the speed with which her mother had dumped him that hurt. And her mother was oblivious to Shelly’s hurt; she was already preoccupied with landing the next one. Shelly noted that her mother ‘had the knack’ of marrying rich and divorcing richer.

But that Christmas split had rocked her. She was staying at Morton over the holidays, of course, one of the Forgotten Ones, in my dear father’s words. That was okay with us because we got more time together. With permission from Mrs. Carey and Shelly’s mother, she came to stay with Mom and me–after all, we had eight bedrooms! It was a very sad time for Shelly but a very happy time for both of us.

The second morning, Mom had sat us down and told us that, unfortunately, we were getting older. It was no longer ‘proper’ for a young girl and a young boy to be together as we were.

Shelly looked at me–one of her laser-direct glances–and turned back to Mom and said, “What about two young girls? Is that proper?”

Mom made a small smile. “Shelly, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shelly nodded, her eyes wide. “And you know what I mean.”

Mom looked at me, saying nothing.

It was no secret that I should have been a girl. All of the old wives’ tales predicted a girl. Heck; all of the medical evidence had predicted a girl. I was small and thin; even with the most rigorous weight training program I might grow to be ‘slight’, as my father was. But I was delicate–really the best word for it. At ten, I was 4'3", thin-boned, with light brown hair pulled back in a school-acceptable ponytail now. Large blue eyes; clear, almost milky skin. A high voice. My testicles had not descended and my penis length was only two of my fingers’ width, although my mother did not know that Shelly knew that.

My mother did know that Shelly and I acted like two girls when we were home. Correct that–we didn’t act like girls; we simply were ourselves. And we were just two girls. It was getting increasingly difficult to separate how we acted when we were alone together, from how we acted at school. In other words, there was some bleed-through, as Shelly called it. We’d be at lunch and she’d say something and I’d giggle and a nearby boy would mumble ‘fag’. Once she’d been showing me some new earrings, holding her dark hair back, and I leaned close to see the tiny gold knots, and an Upper girl passed by and mumbled ‘lezzies’.

We had fun; we got each other, and we had each other’s backs. We competed one-and-two in every class but were both genuinely happy for the other.

We were best girlfriends; BFFs–except that I was male.

Mom sighed. “The two of you …you’ve been so happy together. But I’m afraid that as much joy as you’ve had, you’ll have as much or more heartache as you get older.”

There was a look of such sadness on her face; I knew her statement also applied to her life with and then without my father. I put my hand on hers. She smiled sadly.

“Oh, sweetie, you can always tell, can’t you?”

“I miss him, too,” I said, simply.

There was a long moment, and then Mom patted the back of my hand. “As I was saying, I think that you two had better realize the world will be changing for you.”

“We do,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Shelly said. Then she said, “Mrs. Houseman …you know that …” She frowned. “You know about Jenny.”

Mom nodded.

Ever since that first meeting at Thanksgiving when Shelly had mistaken the name Benny for Jenny, we’d kept that as a special name between us. In the mourning period for my father, I’d somehow moved from being Benny to being Benjamin to the rest of the world. But Shelly still called me Jenny and I loved her for it. She loved that I called her Shelly …also because her mother only called her Michelle.

Mom said, “This is an extremely …delicate situation, a very complicated adult situation you’re talking about.”

Shelly shook her head. “With all due respect, ma’am, I disagree. Jenny is …” She turned and looked at me and smiled, then turned back to Mom. “Your child is a girl. Female. Always has been and always will be.”

Mom sighed. “I will acknowledge that Benjamin is somewhat …feminine.”

I felt Shelly close to exploding and headed her off. “Mom? I’m more than somewhat feminine. There’s a lot of things I haven’t told you because …well, you’ve been so sad for so long. Or so busy.”

To offset flare-ups of grief, my mother would go on binges of projects, usually involving intense research. One time it was about the regiment that a Russell had served in during the Civil War. Another time it was the development of the tea ceremony in Japan. Once it was the evolution of Victorian-era wallpaper patterns–really!

Mom simply said, “I …have to keep the wolves from the door.”

The ‘wolves from the door’ was an old pet phrase of my father’s, even when everything had been fine. We really needn’t fear ‘the wolves’ as far as I knew; a friend of my father’s had set her up as a consultant and researcher–by internet and phone–and she had an actual client list and worked from home. The wallpaper thing had grown out of one such consultancy, for a Yale professor’s book on Victorian England; she’d been paid for her research but then went off on her own tangent with the wallpaper. There was money from my father’s insurance and some other money, and the Morton Academy paid the founding families dividends in perpetuity. And as a founding family member, I attended absolutely free, as my mother had. It was the only way we could have afforded the school, and I was receiving a superior education.

Shelly looked at me and then squeezed my hand. It was her ‘trust me’ squeeze. “Mrs. Houseman, I said you know about Jenny. But you don’t …excuse me; you don’t really know her. She’s too worried to tell you herself.”

Mom was rocked by the female pronouns; she actually twitched.

Quickly I said, “Mom, it’s true. I don’t consider myself a boy. I never have. I consider myself a girl.” I felt Shelly’s disapproval and shook my head. “No, it’s more than that. I am a girl.” Shelly nodded.

Mom said slowly, “Well, you do spend a lot of time …” She faded out. “Oh, dear; I wish your father were here.”

I put my hand on hers and said, “So do I, Mom. Every minute of every day. And I know you’re hurting and that’s one reason I never said anything but …” I looked at Shelly and back to Mom. “You said it yourself. Feminine. Not effeminate. And …more than ‘somewhat’.”

I looked at Mom to see how she was taking it. I added, “And Mom, if my father were here, I would tell him all of this right now. In fact …I probably would have told both of you years ago.”

“When did you …how do you …know …” Mom said, looking at me neutrally.

“The first that I learned there were two kinds of people, boys and girls, when I was really little? I knew. I mean, I knew that there were boys …sort of over there …and there were girls. Like us. I was just like you. I was going to grow up just like you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom said, her lip trembling.

“I loved Daddy, but he was this …other, you know? And it was okay, because I saw how it was the two of you, together to–” I realized what I was saying would hurt. “Mom, I’m sorry; this is painful. But you have to understand. I saw that it was the two of you that made us all one. That’s why you’re hurting so much; it’s not just him that’s gone–it’s that part of you that he made up.”

Tears formed. Shelly produced a tissue from somewhere and handed it to her. Mom dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. “You’re only ten years old. How’d you get to be so wise?”

“She’s just like that,” Shelly said with a grin.

Mom gave an odd look at Shelly, who just shrugged.

I went on. “Mom, it was only when I started at Morton that I was forced to be put in the boy side of things. And in my head it’s always been forced.”

“You don’t say anything about it,” Mom pointed out. “You act as if everything’s normal.”

“That’s the acting,” I said. “Every day it’s rubbed in my face that I can’t be the girl that I am inside. And thank God for Shelly, because she knows the girl I am, and I can be myself with her. Otherwise I’d just …explode.”

Shelly said, “I knew it the first time I met her, back at that Thanksgiving. I know I misunderstood ‘Benny’ and said ‘Jenny’, but I could tell she was a girl. So it was kind of funny to see everybody treat her like a boy.” She chuckled. “Still is, kind of.” She grew serious. “But you said it, ma’am, we’re growing older and the world is changing and all that. And it’s time that she grows up!” Shelly pointed to me.

Mom looked at me and asked, “Are you dressing up like a girl?”

I blushed. “No, not really. I mean, I have tried on a skirt and …skimmers.”

“Skimmers? You mean the shoes?”

“Yes, Mom. Flats. But I haven’t worn anything outside or–”

Shelly jumped in. “Don’t blame her; I made her. I was going crazy because I could see how much it hurts her to be a boy every day. And I just thought I’d make her feel better about herself. So I had her put on the school skirt, you know?”

“How did she …he look?” Mom asked.

“She. Well, it backfired,” Shelly said, looking sadly at me. “I thought it would cheer her up, you know? But it made her miserable. It was like teasing. And I really didn’t mean that!”

“I know you didn’t, sweetie,” I said back to her. To Mom, I said, “It was like a peek at what could be–what should be–and it just …hurt.”

The three of us were silent for a time. Mom looked past us, thinking.

And at that moment, the phone rang. Mom answered automatically. “Houseman. Yes, it is. Oh, hello Mrs. Benton. Yes. I’ll put her–oh.” She listened. Her eyes darted to Shelly. “I see. Yes. An hour? I understand. She’s right here; should I–I see. Alright, then, Mrs. Benton.” She hung up and looked at the phone a moment.

Then she turned to us, frowning. “Shelly, your mother is sending a car to collect you in one hour. Please gather your things; she said she’ll be keeping you until school starts in January.”

“But I only just got here!” Shelly cried, and then shook herself. “Alright. Alright. I think I …I think I know what’s going on. I’ll pack.”

She turned to go to her room. I followed. “Shell? Can I help you?”

“Sure, Jen, it’s just …” She sighed and leaned against the wall. “I think she’s split from Tom. I thought he might be the keeper.”

“You liked him.” He was husband number four; now he was history.

She shrugged.“He was okay. Actually, more than okay; he was so okay that I wondered what he was doing with her.” She frowned. “What’s that thing they do, the settlers …come on, you’re the history buff–circle the wagons. That’s what she’s doing. Only it’s just protecting her investments, I guess. Or she wants me for sympathy. Or to have somebody else to yell at.”

“Aw, sweetie,” I said, going to hug her.

Mom came into the hallway. I turned to Mom. “It’s not fair. She’s only going to be hurt, and it’s Christmas time!”

Mom gave me another sad look. “I know, sweetheart. But I want to tell her mother when she gets here that Shelly is welcome here any time. Forget about what I was talking about earlier. You’re always welcome, Shelly.”

“Thank you, ma’am, only …well, two things. First thing, you were right. The times they are a changing, and please, please, please …let Jenny come out to live in the world. And the second thing is …you won’t talk to my mother. She’s sending a car; she’s probably in Manhattan or Malibu. Or in a bar.”

She’d said this last with such bitterness that Mom and I looked at each other, worried. Shelly went into her bedroom and began emptying the drawers that we’d filled only the night before. She did do one thing that shocked me. She’d brought a lovely Christmas dress for when we were all going to see The Nutcracker ballet in Hartford the following week. It was bright red with white faux fur trim. Actually, knowing how wealthy she was, it was probably real fur; some endangered white fur and outrageously expensive.

Shelly took the dress out of the closet, turned to her suitcase and then turned to me. Looking at my mother in the doorway, Shelly walked up to me and held the hanger up in front of me, in the way of girls everywhere holding up clothes to see how they’d look.

Mom gasped; her eyes went wide and her hand went to her mouth.

Shelly murmured, “She’d look so pretty …”

She looked at my mother with so much intensity, and only then took the dress, folded it and laid it in the suitcase. A few more items and she was done; she closed the suitcase. I ran up to grab it. And it wasn’t being macho–it certainly wasn’t–because when I dragged it off the bed it almost pulled me to the floor.

It broke the mood and we all cracked up.

Chapter 3: Middle School

Shelly had cried for the first time when we spoke on Christmas day. She’d always been strong, acting as if her mother’s continuing soap opera didn’t affect her. She said that it was different this time, though; she was very aware of my mother’s warning about things changing. And she missed me, and I suddenly realized that she had been looking forward to her time with us as a brief oasis of normalcy.

When she came back in January, she was subdued. And finishing up our Lower years was surprisingly tough. The reason was that with the three divisions–Lower-Middle-Upper–there were students that came for only one or two divisions as well as the few that went all the way, as I would because of the free tuition. Consequently, there was a last-ditch preparation for students that would be moving onto another prep school. Mrs. Carey, of course, wanted the other prestigious elite schools to be impressed with Morton Academy students. So we all paid for it with a heavy load of schoolwork.

That Christmas had been very flat and lonely, because of Shelly’s departure. She’d brought energy to our house and we’d planned to have so much fun together. And …we were going to try to get Mom to accept Jenny. With Shelly ripped from us so quickly, it wasn’t discussed any further. But several times I found Mom giving me long thoughtful looks.

And without discussing it, but by mutual subconscious connection, we did not go to The Nutcracker.

The school workload helped keep me distracted–even as I was increasingly distracted by the girls around me. Some of the girls, even at ten or eleven, were getting curvy or developing breasts. I felt a pang when Shelly showed me her budding nipples. She’d simply said, “Yours will, too, sweetie.”

But it seemed like it might be a childhood dream, never to be realized. Like some kids that wanted to be astronauts, or the next Donald Trump–aside from the few kids whose parents could buy Donald Trump–perhaps becoming a girl–actually living as a girl–would become a dream I set aside as I grew up.

There was a little transition ceremony, bridging from Lower to Middle–or ‘outta here’, as one boy snickered–and I felt a cold fire burning inside with envy and shame. Envy at the pretty white dresses of the girls, and shame for feeling that envy.

And then came summer, and Mom had managed a two-week arts camp for me in Vermont. The rest of the summer I read, I helped Mom at home and with her research, and I read. And in between, I read. The arts camp was full of genuinely arty kids and others, like me, that …well, weren’t athletic. There were nature hikes and such, but they’d usually wind up squatting on the ground and sketching wildflowers. I spent most of my time doing digital photography, uploading and fooling around in Photoshop. I had a small laptop at home but used the more powerful hardware and software to take several photos of me and ….selected campers. Well, they were selected because they were girls–but not for the usual pornographic reasons. I worked in secret, extra hours, with a file at the ready to drop into place if anybody came in. I did all sorts of things; I found some websites that sold girls’ clothing and was able to superimpose the outfits on the shots of my full body–sort of like high-tech paper dolls! The shots of the girl campers I would use to try superimposing my face in girl situations.

All of which was bordering on the perverse, I thought. But it was also painful. That cold fire of envy and shame never seemed to leave me.

Finally school started and I was waiting at the entrance as the limousines and SUVs pulled up with returning students. And then Shelly got out of a Town Car and I couldn’t help it; I squealed and ran to her and we hugged and giggled.

“God, I was worried you wouldn’t be here!” Shelly squealed with glee as we hugged.

“Where else would I be?” I chuckled. “Oh, Shell; you look fantastic!”

What had happened was not the results of the fat farm–in fact, she hadn’t even gone to one! As we walked to her room–the driver getting her bags behind us–she said that she’d been dragged from Manhattan to Paris to Rome to Aruba to Detroit–huh?–and some other places. She’d called me a couple of times and emailed a lot but they were pretty much ‘How’re you doing?’ because she wasn’t impressed with her own wealth and didn’t waste time going on about her lifestyle. The moving around was due to business, with her mother consolidating bits and pieces of the empire that she ignored the rest of the time, and also because she was just bored. And maybe there were eligible young men to be sought out.

But in all the dragging around, Shelly had been thinking about my mother’s statement that the world was changing, we were growing up …and Shelly realized that she couldn’t rely on her mother for, well, anything. Including her weight. So in Manhattan with lots of free time, she’d sought out a nutritionist, on her own. They’d put together a program of exercises specifically for her body and metabolism, and they put together menus that she could use for both hotel room service and restaurants, since they always stayed and ate at the most expensive places that were equipped to provide anything a guest desired.

Now, she was entering Middle as lean and as tight as any girl there. Her hair was very chic with a ragged cut–with all the wealth at Morton haircuts were fabulous! as girls often shrieked–and she kind of looked like the Twilight actress Kristen Stewart. But she didn’t look at all like the chubby little pre-teen of the past year. I suddenly worried that she was moving forward, away from me.

As soon as the driver deposited the bags and left, Shelly took my hands and sat me down on the bed.

“How are you, Jenny?”

I was so grateful that she’d called me Jenny right off the bat, like nothing had changed, that it brought a lump in my throat.

“Okay.” I smiled. “Better, now!”

She bounced on the bed. “And your mom?”

“Good. Doing a thing on Amazonian Indians right now.”

Shelly looked sad. “Still doing those projects?”

She meant the ones that Mom threw herself into to distract her from her grief over my father. But this wasn’t one of them. “No, it’s a contract project. She’s …well, she will never forget my father, but I think she’s more focused now.”

“Did she ever …” She frowned. “You never said anything about it, but did she ever talk about you being Jenny?”

I shook my head and studied my hands. “No. We never talked about it. Not once.”

“But she knows!”

“Yeah, but …” I sighed. “No progress.”

“And what about you?”

I knew what she meant. We still seemed on the same wavelength.

And suddenly I was crying. Sobbing.

We sat on her bed, her arm around me, shushing me and hugging me, handing me tissues from her purse. Finally I got myself together.

“Think I got my answer,” Shelly finally said.

I sighed deeply. “If I had one wish, one super genie-sized wish, it would be to have my father alive. If I had a second wish, I would have been born a girl. To be your best girlfriend.”

“Aw, sweetie! You are my best girlfriend!”

“Aw!” and we did another hug.

When we broke the hug, Shelly gave me a very strange grin.

“So …Jenny …” Shelly began, with the grin remaining. “What would you do to be a girl?”

“To be a girl? You mean, like, start living as one, all the time?”

“Yep.”

“Almost anything. I’d …” I sagged. “I want it so much. And I think Mom does, too.”

“Are you sure? Because I really like your mom and don’t want anything to hurt her, either.”

“Thank you for that, Shell. Um …I think that …well, you know how she was kind of resisting the idea, back at Christmas? Before you had to leave?”

“I didn’t think she was resisting as much as she was sort of stalling. Like she wanted to see what we’d say.”

“Yeah, I think so, too. Like maybe she knew more than she let on …And then your mother called.”

“And spoiled everything. Her trademark,” Shelly said with a disgusted look on her face. “I only survived my time being with her by not being with her, you know? I mean, there’s a part of me that really loves her, but that’s the old mom, before she got caught up in being rich and young.” She said that like it was a dirty word. “I even got the creepy thought that if she could find a gypsy witch that would allow her to switch places with me, she’d do it in a heartbeat, just to be younger.”

“Wow. That is creepy!” I giggled.

Shelly shrugged. “I just hope that one day she realizes that she doesn’t need to …to be the cartoon she is. God, she’s such a cliché!” She rolled her eyes and giggled. “So I stayed out of her way and …explored things.”

“Explored? Oh, like getting your own trainer,” I nodded.

“That and some other things,” she nodded in time with me, her odd grin returning. “Jenny, do you …do you trust me? Trust that I want you to be happy? And to be my friend?”

“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “I was worried that you were outgrowing me. You’re so pretty now and …growing …” I sighed, looking at her.

Her breasts were no longer buds; she had creamy mounds at the top of her lacy camisole. With the chubbiness gone, she was curvy and seemed longer, if not taller. I was green with envy and also so happy for her.

Shelly took a very serious tone of voice. “Jenny, I have a plan for you. For us. For your mom, too, I think. But it’s secret, it’s liable to really complicate things before it makes everything wonderful, and you don’t have to do it. I just want you to know that I love you and think it’s the best thing for you.”

“Okay. What’s your plan? You want me to take up yoga or something?” I teased.

“No. I want you to become a girl.”

“Me, too!” I grinned. “So what’s your plan?”

Slowly and carefully, she repeated, “I want you …to become …a girl.”

To my surprise, she got up and went to one of her suitcases and dragged it onto the bed and unzipped it. She rooted around and took out two large white plastic bottles that rattled. She sat next to me, holding them.

“I know your height and weight–well, when school was over, anyway, and knowing you, you probably added a sixteenth of an inch and a quarter-pound!”

I laughed with her. “Maybe an eighth-inch and a half a pound!”

She sighed. “Oh, sweetie; I missed you so much! Okay, where was I–yeah. So I know your height and weight and pretty much your metabolism–I’ve been next to you for nearly every meal for years–and so I talked with …let’s just say a lot of specialists. You know I’m pretty sharp about science and health and stuff–”

“You’re the science whiz of the school and you know it!”

“Well, of Lower, yeah; Middle, well …we’ll see. But this became a project of mine, sort of like your mother’s projects, you know? To distract me from how crazy my mother was making life.”

I told her I understood and she handed me one plastic bottle.

Her voice had been alternating between joking and hesitant. Now it grew adult, almost business-like, as she pointed. “That is a bottle of androgen blockers. They will suppress any male characteristics and basically stop any male puberty dead in its tracks. In other words, you start taking them and you will not become any more masculine than you are now. Ever. No chunky muscles, no deep voice, no facial hair–none of the stuff that happens in Middle school.”

“Wow.” I stared at the bottle.

“Want to take them? If you do, it means you will not develop as a boy into a man.”

“Fine with me, but I don’t want to be a sixth-grade boy the rest of my life.”

“Medical science says that everybody produces the hormones of both sexes. Males produce mostly male hormones but some female hormones, too. Every man, from Marines to Brad Pitt; they all have a small percentage of female hormones within them.”

“I’ve read that somewhere.”

“These blockers will mean that your body won’t be producing …that’s not quite right. Your body might still produce male hormones–the ones that will give you chest hair and a deeper voice–but your body won’t accept the hormones. Basically, these pills tell your body to ignore the male hormones. They won’t have any affect and will just be peed out for the most part. But your body will be open to accepting the female hormones you already produce, so you’ll start sliding over to the female part of the scale.”

“Kind of in that general part of the scale already,” I joked.

She didn’t crack a smile but continued in her business voice as she hefted the other bottle and handed it to me. “But we need more than a slide. That’s where these come in. These are female hormones. Estrogen and some progestin. Basically the magic ingredients in birth control pills, but a bit more concentrated. Start taking these and your body will have the normal quantity of female hormones, the full complement, just like a regular girl. Combining them with the estrogen your body already produces–and the androgen blockers suppressing any male hormones–and voila! You will finally get your puberty–but it will be a girl’s puberty.”

I stared at the bottles and at her. “So you’re saying that if I take these, my body will turn into a girl’s body?”

“Pretty much,” she nodded. “You’ll still have a penis but it’ll get smaller and smaller. But your voice will stay high, you’ll get curvy, prettier, your skin will be even softer and smoother–your hair will probably be fuller and softer, too–and most importantly, your breasts will develop, and unless somebody literally looks into your panties, you will appear to everyone as a girl.”

“What about Mom?”

“She’s going to have to deal with the truth, the truth that you’re her daughter. It’s what we tried to do last Christmas until my mother blew it for us. Now, you’ve got a little bit of breathing room before really …confronting your mom. I mean, it’ll be gradual–all of these take months to really take effect–but be prepared that at some point you will have to appear before your mother as a girl and tell her it’s what you want for your life. That it is your life.”

“I hoped I already would have had that talk with her.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t happen and it’s questionable that it will happen, unless we force the issue. I mean that you have to be brave and know that there will come a time when you tell her that it’s too late to ever be a boy again, and that you never really were one to begin with. You’ll be taken to doctors who’ll run all sorts of tests and accuse you of stuff and yell at you for tampering with your body. And in the meantime, you’ll be taking all sorts of crap from Neanderthal boys about what a sissy you are. They’ll call you a fag and a lot worse.”

“But I’ll know that I’m not a sissy boy; I’m becoming a girl …” I was worried about the impending crap but dazzled by the possibility of living the life I wanted.

Shelly nodded. “All I can tell you, from everything I’ve read, is to keep your goal in mind, whatever it is.”

“I already know what it is. To live every day for the rest of my life as a girl, to grow up to be a woman. With my mother’s approval and support.”

“So …” She tapped each bottle. “These can make it happen. But you don’t have to go this route; you can tell your mom–I really think you should, anyway, and soon–and hope you guys can find a psychiatrist who won’t try to make you be a boy. You might have to go through three or four–with probably months and months of finding another one and waiting for an appointment–before you find one that will even accept that you should live as a girl. And then you’ll start probably at least a year–maybe years; I researched it–of therapy before they come to the conclusion that, yeah, you really are a girl. Because they’ll keep saying that you’re too young to know your own mind. Meanwhile you’ll be getting older and they’ll be waiting for you to say it was all a mistake and you want to be a boy. Which we both know you will never say. So they will finally agree that maybe you should try things as a girl. And only then would they maybe let you start dressing like a girl. Maybe get blockers, but you’ll have had those extra years of male development while you were waiting, before even starting to block.”

I was staggered by her bleak prediction. “That’ll take forever, and ruin my life, and …and Mom could never afford the cost of the therapy. Even though she’d want to, I couldn’t allow her to spend all that money. And it’s only delaying the inevitable! I will live as a girl!” I was breathing hard. “No, I know what to do.” I stood up, holding the bottles. “What’s the dosage?”

“Two of each to start and then one of each a day. Morning or night; your choice, but be consistent. Simple.”

I went into her small bathroom, took a small paper cup from her dispenser and filled it with water and set it down. I opened the bottles and threw the cotton batting into the wastebasket and shook out four pills into my hand. I turned and looked at Shelly, still on the bed. Her eyes were huge.

“Only if you want to, sweetie,” she said.

“I absolutely want to, sweetie!” I smiled.

I tossed the pills into my mouth and then added the water and swallowed all four at once.

End of Part 1

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 2

Chapter 4: Turning Twelve

Shelly’s mom left her with us at Thanksgiving again and we had another Morton “Forgotten Ones” dinner. There were some Upper boys that almost got into a fight about Packers or Steelers and the odd thing to me was that neither boy was from anywhere near Wisconsin or Pennsylvania. It was yet another example of how I just didn’t get boys.

I did get girls, though, and after nearly three full months of Shelly’s pills I was feeling some effects. I was mellower, as a whole, but was subject to higher highs and lower lows. Shelly had warned me that’s what they’d do so I handled it better than if I’d been blindsided. She said in another month or two I’d be able to plot the curve, so to speak, and know that I was coming into a monthly cycle just as if I was menstruating. That information alone gave me chills of excitement and happiness.

The pills themselves we nicknamed ‘Girl Pills’ and then shortened them to ‘GPs’ and then ‘jeeps’. It was a funny thing for us, a secret thing. Shelly would say, ‘Take your jeeps?’ and I’d nod, or I’d be bitchy and she’d tease me with ‘Jeep much?’ But the pills were working and that was the important thing–I knew I was on my way to becoming a girl.

As to getting girls, I was developing new friends–we both were. I had a regular group of girls that I hung with, sat with for meals, and Shelly sat with us but was also getting some other girlfriends as well. Our friendship was so strong we didn’t need to constantly cling to each other, and I was glad that she had more friends now, after having no one but me for years. Her new girlfriends were getting interested in boys, too, while the girls that I hung with–Amy Holden, Connie Montalba, and Chen Lu–were right on the cusp of boys. Well, Connie and Lu were interested–Lu was very shy and quiet but her eyes sparkled when boys were near–but Amy was still in the ‘Boys? Yuck!’ stage. I bridged the gap as a ‘safe’ boy in every sense.

And that was part of the weirdness. I walked and talked and giggled and was just like them, and on days when they wore the uniform slacks, we looked just alike. I was aware that their bodies were changing; Connie already wore a bra although the others just wore camisoles. But they could do cute things with their hair, and nail polish was acceptable for Middle girls–with restrictions–although only Connie wore any. And they all wore lipgloss while I took to chap stick. But in so many ways, we were just four girls.

Shelly scared them a little, I thought, and that was fine with her. They all got along but she would be the driving force if any of us were together, and the others didn’t seem to mind. I spent as much time with Shelly as I could, and her with me. There were two girls she was spending time with, due to classes, Monica Shelton and Brianna Jansen. They were nice girls in the sense that they weren’t bitches like Heather Maxwell or Jessica Randolph. But Monica was super-rich, as much or more than Shelly, so they could relate. And Brianna was some politician’s daughter and was boy-crazy. Shelly wasn’t quite there yet, but the incredible transformation she’d undergone during the summer had opened a new world to her. And, bless her, she was sticking to her customized meal plan and exercising–I joined her for running–and she was looking great.

Boys were noticing her and they were noticing me, too, for entirely different reasons. They were noticing Shelly because she was shapely now, with her face that had always been pretty, and she was smart and she was rich. Boys were noticing me because I looked like a girl, or at least a very young Lower boy. My hair was still long–I kept it in a ponytail and behind my shirt collar and nobody really knew how long it was getting–and had clear, creamy skin, big eyes, and by winter I was getting …soft. In every way. My voice was still high and light and I was fine with that. I was still pretty much the smartest kid in class so I was ostracized anyway. And the whispers of fag, or fairy, or queer, pretty much accompanied me daily. I didn’t mind because I knew they were so wrong, but I was oddly glad that my father wasn’t around to hear the taunts. I wouldn’t have wanted him to be embarrassed by his son, but I did hope that he would be proud of his daughter someday.

Somehow I’d still managed to not wear any girls’ clothing. The uniforms took care of that at school, of course. I didn’t wear the girls’ blouses but the boys’ shirts were the same light blue or white, and the polo shirts that I usually wore were identical to the girls’, as well as the slacks. I would have loved to wear the skirts, of course, but other than that one time with Shelly’s, I had not worn one. I had decided I would wait until the changes in me were inevitable.

The weekend before Thanksgiving was interesting for two reasons. On Sunday, Amy’s mother took her–she was a Day and so was already home for the weekend–and Con and Lu and I and took us to the mall. When our little group was first forming, Amy’s mom had been concerned when she’d heard about a boy joining her daughter, but on meeting me, I saw her eyes do that thing. I was already familiar with it; it was the mind registering me as a gay boy. I was okay with that because it was a temporary category and was truer than not. I rarely saw her, but she seemed to accept me as a ‘safe’ boy for her daughter–as long as Con and Lu were with us, I guessed.

The students at Morton usually avoided anything to do with the uniform when they weren’t in school. And, as I’ve noted, they were well-to-do all the way to super-rich. There were a few scholarship students that were middle class or even poor–Amy’s family had quite a bit of money, which was how they could afford the tuition for a Day student–but I was the only student whose life pretty much revolved around Morton Academy. So I had no problem with the uniform–in the sense that kids couldn’t wait to get out of it–and I usually wore bits and pieces of it because I wasn’t outgrowing it. And with Shelly’s blessed pills I wouldn’t, I thought with determination.

The four of us hit the mall, therefore, looking like four regular kids. Amy wore baggy khaki cargo pants, a green tank and a gray hoodie; Connie wore another gray hoodie over a blue plaid sundress over black leggings, and Lu wore tight jeans, a black tank and a black leather jacket. All three girls wore black flats. On the other hand, I wore trainers, dark blue slacks, a white polo and the school’s gray sweatshirt–meaning that I was fully dressed as if for school. The others were used to it and made no comment.

We drifted through the mall, window shopping mostly. We hit American Eagle and Abercrombie and the girls tried some things on; I always found something to occupy myself in the stores. I was always caught up in the fun but in Claire’s, as my eyes drank in all the wonderful earrings and jewelry, I had to play the part of a boy and appear bored even though I dearly wanted to get my ears pierced. I hated having to act that part; it was the only time when I was ‘a boy’. Fortunately the girls didn’t bother with Victoria’s Secret; I didn’t know if I could contain myself there! From Claire’s we moved on and hit Jamba Juice for smoothies and kept walking. One store had ball gowns in the windows and the girls stopped and sighed. We stood and sipped.

Connie said, “Definitely the red.”

“With your coloring? Absolutely,” I said.

“Her coloring?” Amy asked. She wasn’t really into fashion yet.

Lu explained, “Her skin tone, hair, eyes …her coloring.”

“Oh,” Amy nodded, clearly not getting it. “Which one do you like, Lu?”

“The icy blue, I think,” Lu answered, tilting her head to look at the gown dreamily. “I think the green would be perfect for you, Ames.”

“Or the red,” Amy said.

“Sorry. Dibs!” Connie laughed.

“Hey, it’s just what if,” Lu teased.

“Okay. She could try the red, too,” Connie allowed.

“Which one for you, Ben?” Amy asked.

It was perfectly innocent, coming from Amy, but I could feel the other two stiffen slightly but I ignored it. “Well, if you and Connie could share the red, then Lu and I could share the icy blue,” I grinned.

Lu looked at me with big eyes but Connie said, “What, not the black?”

“Too formal,” I said, keeping my eyes on Lu’s. We seemed to be on a wavelength.

“It’s supposed to be formal,” Amy protested. “That’s why they’re called formals! Geez!” She rolled her eyes.

Lu kept looking at me and said, “No, Ben’s right. It’s more like for cocktails than a school dance.”

We sensed something and turned and saw Heather Maxwell and two other girls standing and laughing at us.

“Isn’t that just the cutest thing?” Heather said to one of the others. “The little girls are having big girl dreams!”

“And then it’s back to their Barbies,” one of her cronies snickered.

Amy said hotly, “Hey, we’re not little girls!”

Heather said, “And you’re not even all girls!”

“Yes, we are!” Amy shot back, without thinking.

Heather smirked. “You ought to check with Benjamin first before speaking.”

Amy spun to me, her eyes wide with shock at realizing what she’d said. For my part, I’d never heard my name said with such disgust. It was just a knack of Heather’s.

Quietly and calmly, Lu said, “Heather, there is a beautiful dress in there that I thought would look really good on you …oh, sorry. It’s probably out of your price range.”

That did it. “What are you talking about?” Heather sniffed. “I can buy this store with lunch money! Which dress?”

“It’s a green …no, it’s pretty steep,” Lu shrugged.

“Ha!” Heather scoffed. “Come on,” she said to her friends as she headed into the store. “I’ll show you!” she called over her shoulder.

Amy said, “What dress? Can you see it?” She stood on tiptoes to look in the store.

“Ames, we were never in the store,” Connie said, laughing. “Lu just got rid of her.”

“Beautifully done, Lu,” I grinned.

“God, she’s so easy,” Lu said, rolling her eyes.

And the mood was light as we continued walking.

The other interesting thing happened towards the end of the day. We tried an odd little boutique that was decorated with all sorts of 1940s styles. There was an old-style brown leather bomber jacket.

Connie said, “Nice leather,” as she felt it, and then said, “I’d look silly in it, though.”

“What size? Oh,” Amy said, disappointed when she saw the tag.

Lu said, “Just the thing to look macho.” She was giving me an odd look.

“Yeah, Ben, try it on!” Amy said with enthusiasm.

I shrugged and took it off the hanger and put it on but it was too bulky with my school sweatshirt. Lu reached out to hold the jacket for me, her intentions for me clear. I shrugged again and stripped the sweatshirt over my head. Two things happened.

Amy reacted to my first with a gasp. “God, Ben! Your hair is way longer than I thought!”

Connie nodded, her eyebrows raised.

My hair was still back in a ponytail but I’d had it between my shirt and sweatshirt rather than just under the shirt collar; it was more comfortable that way. But now they could see that my hair reached the middle of my back. I knew this because I could reach behind and touch the bottom of my hair if I tilted my head back.

But the other thing was that Lu was staring at me, wide-eyed. I quickly grabbed the jacket from her and put it on.

“Naw,” Connie said. “Kind of clashes, somehow.”

“Yeah,” Lu said, matter-of-factly. “Looked better on the hanger. Oh, hey, look at the cute shoes!” She had looked past me to the far wall.

“Wow! I didn’t see those!” Amy grinned. “Come on, Con!”

The two of them walked away as I removed the jacket. Lu took it from me and I picked up my sweatshirt to put it on but Lu put her hand on my forearm.

Lu quietly asked, “Ben, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” I said with innocence, about to pull my sweatshirt over my head.

“This,” Lu said softly, pulling the front hem of my polo down and then pointing to my chest.

My nipples had budded a few weeks before, and were now hard little knots. With my polo pulled taut, it looked like I had grapes on my otherwise flat chest.

“Can I tell you later?” I said with some desperation; the other two were coming back.

“Sure. But, Ben …it’s okay, you know?” Lu tilted her head. “I mean, with me.”

“Nothing fits in this store!” Amy said with some petulance.

“Nice retro stuff, though,” Connie said.

“No,” Lu said, her eyes on mine. “But some things fit better than others.”

Chapter 5: Talking Turkey

As it was, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Lu at length; it was back in the van and back to school and she got a call from home and that took care of the rest of the evening. Then it was school until Wednesday; I had two classes with Lu but also with Shelly. We were all swept along by the other students and didn’t talk.

I told Shelly what had happened, of course, and she just nodded.

“I like Chen Lu. She’s a good counterbalance to Amy.”

Shelly considered Amy little more than a child, and it was sort of true. Without talking behind Amy’s back or being cruel, Middle School everywhere is a cauldron of kids at both end of the growth spectrum. Boys range from Dragonball Z and fart jokes to shaving, dating girls, and …fart jokes, I guess. Girls range from Barbies and Rainbow Brite to bras and dating boys. You just lump them all in and hope for the best. Amy was a good person and Shelly liked her, but had difficulty grasping the concept of actually shopping with her. But Shelly really liked Lu and that made me glad.

Shelly said, “You know, that was only the first. Or the first and second, whatever.”

“What do you mean?”

“First and second times that people are going to be not just taking you for a girl, but you’re going to actually show them. You can’t hide those much longer,” she said, pointing to my nipples.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, looking down at my nubbins. With pride!

We were in her room, flopped on the bed as usual. I reached over and took a pillow and put it on my chest and crossed my arms.

“I’ve been getting away with not taking showers because it’s sixth,” I said, meaning that I had Boys’ PE at the end of the school day and implied that I showered back in my room. I was pretty sure most of sixth PE didn’t shower in their rooms, though.

“And it’s getting colder and you’re wearing your sweats,” Shelly nodded. “But real soon, girlfriend, those ladies are gonna show, even through a sweatshirt.”

We were silent, in agreement.

Then she said, “You’ve got to talk with your mom.”

“We can do it this weekend,” I said.

“Yeah, if my mom doesn’t call,” Shelly grinned, referring to the Christmas call that ended our first attempts to talk with my mother about my impending girlhood.

So our Morton Thanksgiving dinner proceeded, with kids mostly unknown to us–although Shelly pronounced one Upper boy as ‘hot!’ and couldn’t take her eyes off him. She helped clear dishes near him and went to watch him watch TV for a little bit. I talked with two Lower girls that were feeling left out, ending with a group hug when they cheered up. Then we gathered Shelly’s things and Mom drove us home.

We were full of turkey and kind of lazy; Mom had a pumpkin pie and ice cream for us for later so we got all settled in and then were all three curled up on the couch, watching an NBC special, some variety thing, and chatting about this and that.

I felt Shelly nudge me and I looked at her and shook my head. She widened her eyes hugely and nodded once, decisively. I shook my head again. She narrowed her eyes at me, almost like a gunslinger, and when I didn't respond, she took the plunge.

“Miz Houseman?” Shelly said to Mom but looking at me. “Jenny has something she’d like to tell you.”

I stared at her.

Mom said calmly, “We’re back to that, are we?” She turned to look at the two of us and then at me. “Alright. What would you like to tell me, dear?”

I glared at Shelly and then sighed. “Well, we started talking about this almost a year ago, at Christmas …”

“Then my mom called and ruined it,” Shelly said.

“Now, Shelly, that wasn’t why she called,” Mom said gently. “Honey?” She wanted me to continue.

So, sitting there sandwiched between the two females I loved the most, I told my mother that I was a girl. I told her that I’d always felt that way and gave examples. I told her about my research on the internet and everything I’d learned. I told her that, quite simply, I wanted to live as her daughter. I wanted to do anything and everything, no matter how painful, so that I could live as the girl that I knew I was.

Shelly remained silent throughout; I thought she was deserting me but when I faltered and had come to repeating myself, she picked up my dropped flag and explained once again from her view, how I had always been a girl, from the first day we met.

Mom remained with a neutral face, nodding a little here and there. Then, completely oblique to our discussion, she said, “Pie, anyone?” And to our amazement, got up and went to the kitchen.

“She’s like totally denying!” I said forlornly.

“No. She’s processing,” Shelly said. “Let her be. It’s pretty heavy; she needs time.”

So we didn’t press or act as if anything out of the ordinary had been said. Mom came out with three plates with pie a la mode, and we sat and watched the variety acts on TV and ate and Mom was licking her spoon.

“I wish your father were here,” she said.

“God; me, too,” I said.

“Oh, I always wish your father were here,” Mom said with a sad smile. “But especially now, after what you’ve told me.”

I hung my head, all of my hopes circling the drain. “So he’d …straighten me out? Talk sense into me?”

To my utter shock, Mom laughed. “No, of course not! Because he was right!”

The word hung in the air, pregnant with meaning and unknowable. I looked at Shelly; her brow was furrowed and she shook her head–she had no idea, other.

Mom sat back and looked at me, the traces of the smile still there. “Your father said …oh, you must have been three or four. He said that you might be transgender. Actually, he said, ‘probably’. Possibly gay, but he thought transgender was the most likely.”

I was still staring. “My father …knew?”

“How?” Shelly said almost at the same time.

Mom looked at the ceiling. “Little things you said or did. The way you reacted to things. He’d …well, you know he’d had a twin brother and sister.”

I nodded. They’d been much younger than him and his brother had died in Iraq and his sister had been killed by a drunk driver; sad endings to bright beginnings. I’d never met them.

“He said it was a rare opportunity to see almost exactly the same person as a male and as a female, as close as possible. Fraternal twins, raised in the identical environment, and yet developing two distinct personalities. And most importantly for you, they developed as a normal boy and a normal girl although they certainly had every chance to be some sort of hybrid of both. And then your father spent time overseas, working disaster relief for three years, and saw groups of children.”

I’d only vaguely known something about that; it was before I’d been born. Earthquakes and a tsunami, that sort of thing; but I didn’t know in what capacity he’d gone. A prep school History teacher doing disaster relief? I realized that he was even more wonderful than I’d thought and was humbled.

Mom said, “So his point was that when he looked at you, going about your three-year-old, four-year-old way …you were so cute!” She drifted off in happy visions of the past. “Anyway, he said when he looked at you he saw a girl. Not an effeminate boy–a girl. And explained why he knew the difference. So I was just saying that I wish he was here to hear you tell me that you’re a girl. He’d just say, ‘Yep. Already knew it,’ with that nod of his.”

Shelly and I both stared at her. I swallowed and couldn’t speak. I knew that nod. My eyes were fighting tears.

Shelly cleared her throat and said, “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Hmm?” Mom said, as if in a daze. “Oh, I suppose …there’ll be a round of testing. Doctors and the like. Won’t be easy. Expensive. But regardless of how …sure you both are, procedures must be followed. And so they’ll require an evaluation before proceeding.” She sighed. “I’ll start researching; can’t really make calls until Monday.”

“Mrs. Houseman?” Shelly said. “You said, ‘expensive’. I want you to know that I will pay for it.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you,” Mom smiled, “But no, there’s no reason why you should but thank you for offering. And it’s …going to be pricey.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shelly shook her head. “And there is a reason why I should and that’s because Jenny is my best friend. She always will be, too. And, yeah, I know that we’re just Middle school girls and we’ll have a lot of friends and we already do, but we’re joined at the hip in some dimension or other, and we’re together for life.”

“Aw, sweetie,” I said, squeezing her hand.

Shelly held up our joined hands and said to Mom, “There, you see? Typical feminine response, if you needed any further evidence!”

Mom chuckled. “I don’t need evidence. I think it’s already …evident. But thank you for pointing that out.”

Shelly said, “And as for the expense, I mean …what are you talking?”

I knew, somehow, that Shelly already knew–she was always on top of things like this–but was sounding out Mom, so I kept quiet.

Mom waggled her head back and forth. “Oh, I have no idea how much the evaluations and initial exams are, but I read that treatment can run as high as ten thousand dollars. Not counting …surgery. If there is any.”

Shelly glanced at me. Yeah, she knew, but asked Mom innocently, “How much is the surgery?”

“Upwards of twenty, twenty-five thousand dollars, probably; maybe more,” Mom said sadly. “Just …much too much.”

“So you’re saying, what, about thirty-five grand, start to finish?” Shelly asked.

Mom nodded solemnly.

Shelly barked a laugh. “Heck! I’ll have that much by the end of seventh grade!”

Mom stared at her and I realized that Mom wasn’t aware of quite how rich Shelly was.

Shelly said, “I get five thousand allowance per month. Not counting what I’ll get for Christmas, that’s thirty thousand by June.” Mom stared and Shelly shrugged. “My last damn fat camp cost forty grand!”

Mom was rocked. “I had no …idea …but, no, you can’t …”

Shelly looked sad. “Please? Mrs. Houseman, I don’t …I don’t have anybody in the world I love as much as Jenny. And you.”

“And your mother,” Mom said.

Shelly shook her head. “I did love her, the version of her a few years ago. The original Mom. I don’t even know this lady anymore, and …I don’t think she does, either,” she finished up sadly.

“Dear Michelle,” Mom said with such sadness, as she put a hand on Shelly’s.

I put my arm around Shelly and leaned against her. “Love you, Shell,” I said.

“Love you, Jen,” she said back.

There was a stillness to the tableau. Then Mom broke it by saying, “That reminds me. Your name.”

“My name?” I asked, dumbly.

“Oh? Don’t I get any say in things?” Mom’s eyebrow was raised, comically.

I looked at Shelly and then at Mom. “Well, I’ve been …Jenny for so long …”

“Only to me,” Shelly pointed out.

“And to me,” I protested.

“Between us, I mean,” Shelly said. “She really should have a say in this.”

“Whose side are you on?” I teased.

“Yours, babe; but your mother should …” She trailed off, then said, “Your mother and father should name you. Did you?” she asked Mom. “Did he? Omigod! He did, didn’t he?”

Mom had a Mona Lisa smile as she looked at Shelly. “Oh, you are sharp!”

“Mom!” I complained.

“Want to guess?” Mom said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying to guess what girl’s name you had for me when I was born?”

“You bet,” Mom said, clearly enjoying this. “Now, here’s a clue. Think about your father. Oh, and I heartily approved of the name, by the way. But he named you. So …guess.”

“Martha!” Shelly shouted.

“Martha?” I turned to her with some disgust.

“Washington, dummy! You’re the history nerd.”

“Jefferson, too,” I pointed out. “Well, if my father named me, there’s only one name I can come up with,” I said. To Mom, I said, “Was she the wife of a president?”

Mom nodded.

“And the mother of a president?”

Mom beamed.

Shelly was bouncing. “Tell me! Tell me!”

“Abigail Adams,” I said.

Mom smiled and nodded, “Abigail Elizabeth. Elizabeth was Abigail’s mother’s name. Also the wife of Samuel Adams.”

I was stunned.

My mother then gave me a look of deep sadness and also deep happiness. “You would have been Abigail Elizabeth Houseman.”

Shelly said, “She is Abigail Elizabeth Houseman. Only we call her Abby.”

Without thinking, I said, “What happened to Jenny? And who is ‘we’?”

“Jenny?” Shelly waved a hand. “Feh! A mispronunciation of Benny. A childish game. But you, young lady, are Abby. From now on.” She grinned. “Although I might slip now and then and call you Jenny. But everybody is going to call you Abby!”

“Um …Mom,” I started to say.

“Yes, Abby?” Mom grinned.

“See?” Shelly cried triumphantly.

Chapter 6: Baby Steps

It was the start of a new life for me. That Thanksgiving night, we were pretty tired and slept. But the next morning Shelly had a wicked grin when she woke me; she’d put some things in the bathroom and told me to take a shower and shave my legs and under my arms. I didn’t hesitate.

I came out smelling sweet and feeling slick and Shelly had clothes laid out for me; very simple–black flats, a denim skirt, and a peach top with creamy lace at the bodice. And there was a white bra and panty set.

I looked at her. “You planned this.”

“Of course,” she grinned. “I hoped that this time we’d get to finish the conversation with your mom. But now I realize that we’re really just beginning the conversation, so to speak.”

“The conversation, so to speak?” I rolled my eyes. “You mean like the vision that I see?”

“God, you can be annoying, Missy Perfect English Girl,” Shelly laughed. “How’d you like me to strip off that towel and push you out the door?”

The towel was up around my chest; I didn’t care if Mom saw me but figured she was still sleeping. Shelly had gotten us up early for my transformation.

And transform I did, putting on my first girls’ clothing, from the skin out. And they felt …right. There weren’t any trumpets blaring or mighty orchestral crescendos; I just felt like a girl getting dressed. As I was brushing my hair I realized that the feeling was good; I wasn’t dressing just for the clothes. They would allow me to be myself, and someday the world would see me as the girl that I’d always known I was.

Shelly got dressed similarly and we went to make a breakfast. Mom padded into the kitchen in her bathrobe, yawning, and looked at us for a shocked moment–we froze, waiting–and then grinned.

“Morning, girls,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And in some ways, it was. I hugged her when I set her melon before her, and she said, “Thank you, Abby” and Shelly was looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Mom surprised us by announcing that today, the day after Thanksgiving, was the traditional start of the Christmas shopping season. Well, that we knew already, but she suggested we head up to Springfield, Mass, to the Eastfield Mall. It was only forty minutes away, but was in another state and the chances were we wouldn’t run into anybody that might know Benjamin Houseman.

“You mean …” I stared at my mother.

“Yes. I’m taking Shelly and Abby shopping!” Mom grinned.

“And I’m buying!” Shelly said and then quickly held a hand up to my mother. “No, I’m insisting. I’m the guest, right? And the guest gets her way?”

On the drive we talked about what I would need. Mom said I’d get ‘a few things to try’ but Shelly maintained that I needed a complete wardrobe. She allowed that it wouldn’t be possible to get it all today.

“But we can start,” Shelly nodded. “Lingerie, basics. Start on her shoe collection.”

Mom said, “But she’ll only be wearing these things at home.”

“Well, duh!” Shelly laughed. “We wear the uniforms at school. Oh, you mean after-hours. Well, yeah, but …” She looked at me. “You’ve got to decide, babe. How much of Abby are you going to reveal at school?”

It was a deceptively simple question, because we both knew that my body was changing but my mother had no idea yet.

I cleared my throat. “Mom, you’ve probably already figured this out, but I think you’re going to have to talk with Mrs. Carey about me.”

“Not until we get you to a doctor,” she said, glancing at me and back on the road. “It will have much more force if you’re already under medical supervision. If we can get a diagnosis of gender dysphoria, then we should have no problem.”

“Wow,” I said. “You’re up on your gender stuff.”

“Well, I told you that your father and I were already discussing it. And last night, after you went to bed, I jumped on the internet and learned a lot more. That’s why I was kind of groggy this morning; I was up late.”

“So you think I have gender dysphoria?”

Mom pursed her lips. “I think that’s the general term they’d classify you under, except that I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t find some physical …abnormalities, too. Abnormal in that you never developed as a male.”

Shelly whispered, “Abby-normal!”, causing me to snort and fake a cough. God, already she was teasing me about my name–and using Young Frankenstein to do it! Aloud Shelly covered my noises by saying innocently, “Never developed as a male, huh?” Meanwhile, she elbowed me, teasing me about now developing as a female.

“Right,” Mom said, either ignoring our giggles or not hearing them as she negotiated a roundabout. “The medical evidence will carry greater weight with the school.”

Shelly said, “Mrs. Houseman, I thought you could just …tell Mrs. Carey what to do? I mean, she’s headmistress but you’re a Russell, right? And don’t you kind of own the school?”

“Well, those are a yes and a no. Yes, I’m a Russell, and I do own a piece of the school, in the sense that a shareholder does. But I can’t tell the headmistress what to do. I can advise, I can strongly lobby, I can voice my approval or disapproval, but decisions are ultimately hers. And Mrs. Carey isn’t an outsider; she’s a descendant of the founding Mortons.”

“Still …can’t you walk in there and say, ‘Oops, sorry; little mistake. Slight change needed; Houseman, Benjamin T., male, is now Houseman, Abigail E., female. Love the blouse, by the way. Tah!’”

Mom and I cracked up at Shelly’s silly line.

Ah, but then the heart of the matter. Shelly said, “So why does she need to see a doctor, anyway?”

I realized that she was afraid that my dosing myself with hormones would be exposed. I gave her an understanding look but said, “No, Shell; I want to be under a doctor’s care. Like Mom says, it legitimizes me, and who knows what they might find out?”

She gave me a worried look.

At the mall we did exactly as Shelly described, getting lingerie and clothing basics. It took several trips to the car, and I was carried along with the thrill of being out in the open and being seen as just another girl. Before we’d left, Shelly had brushed my hair differently, across my forehead and clipped with a barrette. She’d done my makeup, Mom watching and critiquing. The only thing missing were earrings; Mom wouldn’t allow me to have my ears pierced but Shelly found some ‘heavy-earth’ magnetic earrings that pinched but looked like pierced earrings and were stylish as well. I loved seeing the reflection through my hair, although my hair was a sore spot. Shelly wanted me to get into a salon and Mom said no.

“Benjamin will have to be in stealth mode at school,” she said. “Or maybe it’s …Abby will have to be in stealth mode as Benjamin.”

So pierced ears were out, as were nail extensions. We messed up, though. We were looking at makeup in Macy’s and the next thing I knew I was in a chair getting a makeover. I don’t know if the lady knew I was a boy or not or didn’t care; she treated me like a pretty girl and I loved it and relaxed.

She was an old pro and as she bustled around my face, she had tweezers out and was ‘neatening my brows’ before Mom or I could react. There was this moment of ‘Oh-oh!’ tension with Mom and Shelly and I, but we relaxed. What was done was done, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But the mirror showed delicately arched eyebrows that opened up my eyes. A girl’s eyes …

Great. Maybe Benjamin can start wearing sunglasses at school …

The remainder of the weekend we spent at home, except that it was full of a fashion show, so to speak, and putting things away, and a lot of talk. Late Sunday night, I had to strip off all of my pretties and become Benjamin again. Mom drove us to Morton.

I was flopped on Shelly’s bed as she unpacked when there was a knock at the door. It was Chen Lu.

“Somebody said that they thought Benjamin was here?” she asked.

Shelly looked at me and I nodded. “Come on in, Lu,” Shelly said.

“Hey, Lu; what’s up?” I asked as I sat up on the bed.

She looked very nervous. “Um …I don’t mean to interrupt. I just …um …wanted to talk with you about something. It can wait.” She turned to go.

Shelly gave me a look that I read and I nodded and said, “Lu? Whatever you want to talk about with me, you can talk about with Shelly.”

“Um …I don’t think so. I mean, don’t worry about it.” She started for the door again.

I said, “Lu? You want to talk about what happened at the mall last Sunday.”

“Um …yeah.” She was clearly embarrassed. For me or for her? Or just due to the situation?

“Please, Lu, you can say whatever you want to say. Ask whatever you want to ask. With Shelly here, I mean. I guarantee you, it’s not a problem.”

Lu glanced at Shelly and a little smile flitted across her face. Shelly leaned down and patted the edge of the bed and Lu sat. Shelly said, “I’m just putting things away. I spent the weekend with …Benjamin and his mom.”

That seemed to startle Lu, and then didn’t anymore, because she nodded. “Yeah, you guys are close. Okay,” she sighed. “I just didn’t want to embarrass anybody.”

“I know, Lu; it’s cool,” Shelly said. Then she turned to me. “All yours, sweetie.”

I said, “Lu, you want to ask about my choosing the blue gown. You want to ask about how I handled myself at the mall. You want to ask about my chest.”

Wide-eyed, Lu nodded slowly.

“So …ask,” I smiled.

“Um …are you a boy or a girl?”

I was smiling but Shelly snorted. “Sorry! Let me answer that one. The answers are, yes and no–and no and yes.”

Lu stood up. “I’m sorry; this was wrong …”

“Sit down, Lu, please,” Shelly said, softening. “I’m sorry. I’m truly not making fun of you.”

I said, “I think Shelly told the absolute truth, too, with the ‘yes and no’ thing. Lu, you asked if I was a boy or a girl. My birth certificate reads Benjamin Thomas Houseman, male. I’ve lived as a boy, gone to school as a boy. So Shelly’s first answer to you was correct–yes, I’m a boy and no, I’m not a girl. But ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like a girl. I mean, like I figure a girl feels like. I do know that I’ve never felt like a boy. I don’t think like them, act like them …and usually don’t even understand them. According to my mother, I was supposed to be a girl at birth.”

“She’s Abigail Elizabeth Houseman, female,” Shelly said with pride. “Or at least, that’s what her birth certificate should have said. But she’s Abby at home, now.”

Neither of us let on that it had only occurred three nights before.

Lu was staring.

I said, “So Shelly’s second answer was right, too. Do I feel like a boy? No. Like a girl? Yes.”

“You’re transgender,” Lu said, nodding. “I was trying to remember the word.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m entering a doctor’s care this week. Finally! And we’ll see where it goes.”

Mom had said she’d try to make it happen this week so I was taking her at her word.

Shelly said, “There’s more to it than that.” She sat next to Lu, so she could look at me. “I knew Benjamin was really a girl the first time I met her. Him. Whatever.”

“Four years ago,” I said.

Shelly said, “And it was so obvious.”

Lu said, “You two have always been on some weird psychic connection thing.”

Shelly shrugged. “What can I say? We’re both mutants.” Then she looked at me. “And we’re both girls.”

“So what are you going to do? Besides the doctor, I mean,” Lu asked.

It was my turn to shrug. “What I’ve been doing. Being Benjamin Monday through Friday and being Abby on weekends. Until the doctor clears me and Mrs. Carey approves the next step, where I can be Abby all the time.”

“Are you going to get that surgery? You know …”

“Yeah, I know. And, yes I am. I have to wait to be eighteen, though.”

“Not necessarily,” Shelly said. Lu frowned and Shelly said, “I just said, ‘There’s more to it than that’?” Lu nodded. Shelly looked at me. “Her body’s changing. She’s heading into puberty–a girl’s puberty. This isn’t like on TV where some burly truck driver says he’s a woman trapped in a man’s body.” She pointed at me. “That’s a girl. But unfortunately there’s an ‘M’ on a piece of paper that screwed up her life.”

I said, “And a little piece of flesh between my legs that did that, too.” I shrugged. “But I’m really glad that my body seems to be getting it right. I’d rather it did it when I was in the womb instead of waiting twelve years to decide I’m a girl.”

Lu gasped. “You’re budding!” She’d obviously wondered but hadn’t fully grasped what she’d seen when I’d removed my sweatshirt, because her mind was still classifying me as a boy.

“Yep!” I said proudly.

“And, oh, boy, is that gonna screw things up!” Shelly chuckled.

Lu said, “Have you told anyone?”

“No. You found out because you’re smart,” I smiled at her. “And you’re a good friend.”

“And Shelly’s your BFF,” Lu smiled. “I get that, and I’m cool with it.”

Shelly said, “Good. I like you and you guys can go have fun together, but remember that Abby is my very best friend in the whole world and I will damage anybody that hurts her!” She was pretty fierce.

I said, “What she’s saying is, please don’t tell anybody what you know about me. Forget everything.”

“I will,” Lu said, solemnly.

“No, you won’t,” Shelly said. “Look, guys …she’s not gonna do a memory wipe. It can help things if she knows but doesn’t tell. But she could help run defense if you screw up and start flashing your boobs again,” she grinned at me.

I rewarded her with a thrown pillow. She let it hit her full in the face and stared at me, open-mouthed. “With my own pillow you give me such a smack?”

I stuck my tongue out at her and Lu giggled. “God, you two are such girlfriends. How can you keep this secret?”

I got serious. “We just have. You’ll see. I’m myself now but I’ll be Benjamin tomorrow. But Shelly’s right; I might screw up again. I got too comfortable with you all at the mall on Sunday.”

Lu nodded. “You really were just another girl with us. Okay. Shelly’s right, and I can help run defense for you, even if it’s only to tell you to butch things up.”

Shelly snorted. “Abby couldn’t be butch if her life depended on it!”

End of Part 2

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 3

Chapter 7: Revelations

Despite Shelly’s teasing about screwing up, I kept things together for the next month. Of course, everybody at Morton was distracted by the upcoming holidays and I stayed under everybody’s radar. I was still buds with Lu and Amy and Connie–although Connie had the hots for an eighth grader named Steve and didn’t spend as much time with us–and with Shelly. Weekends I was Abby from the time I got home and showered Friday evening until the drive back Sunday night. Mom was amazingly comfortable having a new daughter and I realized it was because, as she’d explained about my father, she’d always known.

And true to her word, Mom got me a doctor’s appointment after school on Wednesday. Apparently there had been a gender clinic in Hartford but it had closed for various reasons. Some of the doctors and psychologists affiliated with the clinic were still in the area, either in private practice or at Hartford Hospital. There was also a gender studies program at the University of Hartford.

So Mom picked me up and we spent two hours with Dr. Audrey Nielson, a psychologist who spoke with us individually and together. I debated about not telling her about Shelly’s ‘jeeps’ but I knew that the first time I had a medical checkup the cat would be out of the bag. And then they wouldn’t trust me ever again. When I was talking alone with the doctor–after I’d come to feel that she accepted me–I asked her point-blank if she’d reached a diagnosis.

Dr. Nielson tried to avoid that but with some prodding, finally said she had a tentative but fairly certain diagnosis of gender dysphoria, but that my stature and appearance called into question possible medical explanations as well.

I asked if at any point, did she foresee anybody trying to make me be a boy?

Again, she tried to dodge the question because I was a new patient but finally sighed and said it would be highly unlikely. The time seemed right, so I told her that I was taking some medication to become a girl. She was deeply concerned, of course, and did a lecture about doing myself biological harm. I waited patiently and said that I understood that, and it was part of the reason why I told her. I didn’t want my self-dosing to delay or prevent any continuation on the road to being a girl. I stressed the point that it was not pills that were making me want to be a girl; I wanted to be a girl so badly that I was taking the pills to make it happen.

Dr. Nielson nodded, deeply frowning. I told her that my mother didn’t know; I wasn’t ashamed of wanting to be a girl but I was a little ashamed of not telling her about the pills. We talked some more and she called Mom in.

I knew it had to come to this; I gathered courage by thinking of Shelly’s love and support and my father’s long-ago diagnosis. I turned to my mother.

“Mom, for four months now I’ve been taking pills to help me turn into a girl. I’ve been taking androgen blockers to prevent my body from any further development as a boy, and estrogen pills to develop as a girl. My, uh …my breasts are budding.”

And then, to her surprise as well as the doctor’s, I stood and took off my school sweater and lifted up my polo, exposing my chest. Mom gasped a little.

“Yes, I got them from Shelly,” I said, reading her mind. “We’re in this together. She got them from a doctor in Europe to fit my body mass and age and metabolism. Here’s the point that I told the doctor. I’m taking them to become a girl; they’re not making me want to be a girl. I will do anything I have to so that I can live as your daughter Abigail. I have the pills hidden, and I will keep taking them even if you tell me not to. Even though disobeying you hurts me. Because I’ve got to do this! I can’t live as Benjamin forever; it’s just not me!” I was starting to cry. “But I hope that you and the doctor can get me treatment so I don’t damage myself taking these pills. I mean, treatment to let me become a girl. Other blockers and hormones, I mean. But if not, I will continue taking these because I will be Abigail!” I finished, fiercely.

There was stunned silence at my outburst, and then Dr. Nielson said, “That’s one of the clearest declarations of intent I’ve ever heard of. Mrs. Houseman, do you understand the determination of your child to proceed as a girl?”

Mom was still looking at me. “Absolutely, doctor. And …Abby, you don’t have to be quite so dramatic. With the striptease, I mean,” she grinned, and then got serious. “But I am concerned about the two of you procuring illegal drugs.”

“Mom, I don’t believe they’re illegal, in the sense that they’re not banned or controlled substances. They’re just not prescribed for me by a doctor in this country. So, taking them without a prescription might be illegal, but the drugs themselves aren’t.”

“Your child may have a future as a lawyer,” Dr. Nielson said ruefully. “That is essentially correct.”

Mom said, “I understand, but do you understand that I just worry about you hurting your body? Even with the best of intentions?”

“I do, Mom, and that’s why I told you. I know that the next step is medical evaluation, and once I pee in a cup they’ll know.”

Dr. Nielson said, “Good that you told me ahead of time. Well, folks, I think it’s time to arrange for the next step, which is the medical evaluation. Pee-in-the-cup time. Let me call.”

She set it up for Friday at Hartford Hospital, so that weekend started with, yes, peeing in a cup, having blood drawn and cheek swabs taken for DNA. Then we went home and I was Abby all weekend. Blessedly, Mom completely accepted why I’d started the pills and wasn’t troubled by it. Worried, but accepting. Monday after school we were back at the hospital with Dr. Nielson and a white-coated, silver haired doctor named Dr. Randall. I was ‘of interest’ to the gender studies group within the hospital as well as the university, and by the time we left, I was officially diagnosed as ‘gender dysphoric with possible physical abnormalities’, and under the official supervision of both hospital and university.

Next came a very odd time. I continued my Benjamin-at-school/Abby-at-home routine, but it was now complicated by being both a patient and a case study. Since I was now under care, it was time that Mom and I met with Mrs. Carey.

It was a shock to discover that I wasn’t the first transgender student at Morton Academy; there wasn’t one now–besides me–unless Mrs. Carey was being cagey. She said that the board of directors had already been confronted with and discussed the issue and guidelines had been drawn up. I realized that Mom already knew this, as she was one of the directors, being a Russell.

Mrs. Carey smiled with warmth and some sadness. “I won’t say that I’m surprised, Marion …Abigail,” she nodded to each of us. “I’ve known Benjamin his entire life–please excuse the pronouns and proper names, but I think we need to keep things in a linear sense.”

“I agree, Barbara,” Mom said. “Benjamin has attended Morton Academy, but Abby will be attending.”

“Yes, but the question is, when?” Mrs. Carey pursed her lips. She looked at me, expecting some input.

I said, “Mrs. Carey, obviously I want to start living as Abby right now, from the moment I walk out of your office, but I know that’s impractical. And maybe not possible, legally. I can wait until the end of the school year.”

“You mean continue as Benjamin while at Morton until June?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mom frowned. “Honey, that …may not be possible.”

“I’ve been doing it for some time now,” I said.

Mom shared a look with Mrs. Carey and said, “Yes, but …you’re developing.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. Of course.

“You may have the best of intentions to continue in a stealth mode, but you are becoming more and more undeniably feminine. You won’t be able to keep up the masquerade of being male for much longer. No matter how deep you make your voice or strut like a stud, your boobs will kind of give things away!” Mom grinned.

I blushed and hung my head. “Yes. I hadn’t …thought of that. Sports bras, maybe? Really tight?”

Mrs. Carey said, “It’s brave of you to consider that, Abby, but you–” She broke off, startled. “Dear me! It’s so easy to slip and call you Abby.”

Mom smiled. “You should see her in a dress on the weekend sometime. There’s no way on earth you would think she was a boy.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Mrs. Carey smiled in return. “But we’re still faced with the situation of being mid-year. Any dramatic change such as this would not be possible.”

“That’s why I said to wait until next year,” I said, and then sighed. “Although it’ll make me crazy.”

“Your life is already crazy!” Mom said with affection. Turning back to the headmistress, she said, “Barbara, I think we’ve done what we needed to do at this point. We have alerted the head of school and her file now contains the official documentation. I would suggest each of her–damn! Each of his teachers be quietly informed of the situation.”

I said, “What if they disapprove?”

Mrs. Carey said, “As a private institution with our …demographic, they are much more flexible than you would imagine. There have been significantly odd situations that would disrupt another school, that they have taken in stride. And, they’re aware of the prestige of their appointments and, quite frankly, the substantial paychecks they receive. I believe that should be sufficient to persuade them to be …tolerant.” She smiled but it was a little shark-like. I was glad she seemed to be on my side.

After discussing some ways to protect me if I got hassled by anyone, we left and Mom thought it had gone well. I asked why Mrs. Carey had been so quick to basically threaten her teaching staff if they messed with me.

Mom grinned. “She’s a Morton.”

That was all I got out of her, until I realized something that had never occurred to me before.

“Mom, are you and Mrs. Carey related somehow?”

Mom smiled at me and went back to driving. “I thought you knew. We’re cousins.”

“You said she was a descendant of the Mortons. But you’re saying ‘cousin’ now. Close cousins? Like I’m related to her?”

“Absolutely. She is your first cousin once removed.” She drove a bit, with her smile that I knew meant a happy memory. “We grew up together.”

“You did? You never told me.”

“You never asked!” she teased. “Besides, it might not be good to know that the headmistress was your cousin. It might have given you airs or something. But nobody could have known how sweet you’d turn out.”

“So she’s protecting the school, but she’s also protecting me?”

“Absolutely,” Mom said with conviction.

Chapter 8: Approvals

My body was responding beautifully to the new hormone regimen, according to Dr. Randall. Once I’d confessed about taking Shelly’s jeeps, I had to bring in samples of each. I didn’t want to lose them in case my gender care was discontinued, so I emptied the bottles of all but three and brought them in so they could inspect the containers and analyze the pills. Dr. Randall questioned me closely about the pills and I’d had to really tap dance around to not name Shelly, although it would have been obvious to anybody that knew us. Then I discovered he didn’t actually care who had provided the pills, in terms of legality. He told me that over the years he had seen some amazing determination on the part of patients to procure any method of changing their bodies.

Dr. Randall’s interest was in how they’d been prescribed for me without being prescribed for me, so to speak. They were certainly the genuine article and pharmaceutically pure–there were no worries there–but he said that within a tiny variation, they were just what he would have prescribed for me! I told him that ‘the procurer’–Shelly, of course–had given detailed information about me and my body and ‘the source’–whatever doctor she’d bribed–had guessed right, based on the data provided.

This was actually vitally important, because if they’d been the wrong type of pill, I’d have to discontinue them immediately and it would be possibly months before the stuff was out of my system. Only then would the gender studies team start cautiously start me on blockers–and Dr. Randall said it would be at least a year of blockers before they’d even think about adding estrogen! They would have had to test and test and withhold and test and start again and test and so on. He said it could often take two years or more for a teenager’s system to stabilize.

I’d had nearly four months of what had turned out to be the proper dosage and pill type, and had no adverse reactions. Of course, since Shelly never did anything halfway, I was taking both blockers and estrogen, and my body was already responding–as Chen Lu could now testify. Dr. Randall speculated that although he’d have loved an opportunity to examine my body the week before I started the pills, it was like my body had been ‘hovering’ around a female puberty and had needed the slightest nudge to start developing femininely. Only instead of a gentle nudge, I’d slugged it with a baseball bat with the estrogen on top of the blockers!

The week before Winter Break was very worrisome, as their committee debated what to do, but the Thursday before break they told Mom and I that they were going to continue my blockers and estrogen without stopping. The only thing they asked was that I use their brand, so to speak. I guess they had to for liability reasons, and I only agreed once I knew they were identical to the pills I’d been taking, since my body had accepted them.

Mom was thrilled almost as much as I was. On the way home, she was radiant.

“Oh, sweetheart, I was so worried that they’d make you stop!”

“Me, too, Mom, but …you’ve still got to be mad at me–and Shelly–for taking them behind your back.”

“Well, in a …parental-handbook sort of way,” she said. “But Dr. Nielson told me something that kind of changed that. She was telling me about the absolute hell that her patients live through, and I wouldn’t want that for you. And she told me about the determination of them to change their bodies to match themselves. Their selves.”

“Dr. Randall said almost the exact same thing. I was thinking that …well, I have it easy. I’m young and I’m tiny and I was already very girly. Come on, Mom, you know it’s true! I did what I could to ignore it over the years, but now in Middle school, it’s starting to be noticed.”

Mom nodded. “That’s one of the things that frightened me; wondering about you being bullied or attacked.” She frowned and her jaw tightened. “Just because people have money or come from First Families doesn’t mean they can’t be bigoted brutes.”

“Yeah. Shelly said something once, about a girl in our class that’s …a bitch?”

“I do know the term, Abby,” Mom chuckled. “But try not to throw it around too much.”

“Yes, Mom. But Shelly said the only difference between a private school and a public school is that the kid who beats up your kid has more money.”

Mom threw her head back and laughed. “God, I love Shelly! So wise, so …full of life! And she’s right. It’s a wonder …” She trailed off.

I didn’t pursue that thought; I was still brooding over my original thought.

Mom noticed and said, “You were saying …”

“Right. I was saying that I’m kind of blessed, because of my size and age and …nature. But I was thinking about poor transgender girls that are like two-hundred-pound truck drivers or 6'5" or something. There’s no way on earth they’ll ever blend in, be taken as regular girls. Not all the pills or surgeries or anything. But still they’re determined to make their body be female, even when it’s just them looking in a mirror.”

“It’s the psychological hell Dr. Nielson talked about,” Mom nodded. “It’s a wonder they survive.”

“I was …kinda mean, or I feel kinda mean, talking that way about those women. The ones that are masculine-looking, I mean. Because …” I sighed and looked out the window. “Mom, I’m delighted to be able to dress as a girl–ecstatic–but not because of the clothes. Not because of the mirror that I just mentioned. Because I know that being female is way more than just clothes. Or mirrors. It’s …”

“It’s who you are,” Mom said quietly.

“Exactly. Exactly! And that’s my point. Because when I was just saying that about looking in the mirror, I thought of lying in bed in the dark. No clothes–I mean, not that I can see, but whether it’s a nightie or pajamas don’t matter. But no clothes, nobody else there, and certainly no mirror. And I know that I’m a female. So even if they are big truck drivers, they’re still women and they know it and …oh, my God!”

“What, honey?” Mom asked, taking a concerned look at me and then back to the road. “What is it?”

“Mom, I’ve been thinking about something, and I want to say upfront that I am not and never have thought about suicide, okay? So don’t freak out on me?”

“Okay. One free pass but I reserve the right to freak out some other time.”

“Deal,” I grinned, and then got serious. “I was thinking about some …” I stopped. “Let’s call that ‘Thought B’. I think I have to tell you about ‘Thought A’ first.”

“Wait until I fire up the cocoa,” Mom chuckled.

It was a tradition that we have deep, heavy discussions over cocoa, and we were nearly home. I was very, very happy, because I only had one more day of Benjamin and then three weeks of non-stop Abby–Morton Academy took very long Winter Breaks. And I was happy because the gender program had allowed me to continue with the pills that I knew were making my new life possible.

Curled up with steaming mugs, Mom chatted until I was ready to start.

“Mom, you know how we’ve talked about Middle school being so weird, with the boys and girls at both ends of the growth spectrum, so to speak?”

“I believe you said once, Barbies or bras, something like that.”

“Right. In the last month–really the last few weeks–that’s kind of clarified for me. And something else has clarified.”

“Thought C?” she grinned.

“No, maybe a subset of Thought A. Or …let’s just forget the sequence?” She nodded and sipped. I sipped, too, swallowed and frowned. “I know that friendships change quickly in Middle school. At least, I’d heard that, and other than Shelly, I’ve never had a friend. And, upfront, let me say there is no change in my friendship with Shelly; that’s forever.”

“I know, dear. I had a friend that way.”

“Um …I’m confused. First, I don’t want to be rude, but …I don’t know anybody that you’re that close with. And how would it be forever, then?”

“Oh, Abby,” Mom said with such sadness. She reached out and stroked my hair once. “Because sometimes life gets in the way.” Her face clouded, her eyes far away.

I stared and found my voice. “I’m sorry,” I said, upset that I’d hurt her.

Mom sighed deeply. “Sweetie, you couldn’t know. I met Maggie–Margaret Chamberlin–when I was …my goodness, just about the same time you met Shelly! We were nearly ten, I think. At a summer camp in Vermont. And we clicked. From the first look at each other. Just like you and Shelly. That’s why I made such allowances for the two of you, by the way.”

“Allowances?”

She chuckled. “What mother in her right mind would allow sleepovers with a boy and girl at your age? Before Abby showed up, I mean?”

“I never thought about it. Because she was Shelly, you know?”

Mom nodded. “I do, indeed. And because you were Abby, deep down.” She sighed. “Maggie and I were at Morton together–I’d told her all about it and she got her parents to start her there the next year. And we spent so much time together. Summers I usually spent with her family; they had a big old place outside of Boston. They made auto parts, did very well.” Mom sighed. “We were at Bennington together, and then she got an offer to work with a guy in Greece. A fellowship. She was an archaeologist, and don’t be thinking it was the stuff of romance novels. He was ancient himself, world-respected, and it was a tremendous opportunity for her.”

“So that was the first time you were really apart since, like, ten?”

“Yes. But we were young women and feeling the world …” She took a deep breath. “So with Maggie out of the picture I went to do grad work at Columbia.”

I gasped. “Where you met Dad! If Maggie hadn’t taken that fellowship …”

Mom was smiling and nodding. “We might not be having this conversation.”

“So …what happened? Why don’t I know about her? She sounds great!”

“Oh, Maggie was more than great. She was …such a life force. So positive.”

She was silent then, and I knew not to press.

Finally, Mom said, “She was my maid of honor. And had already met a wonderful man in Peru. Eduardo. But her love was in the Middle East–Mesopotamia, mostly–and …they’d been married about a year and she’d just found out she was pregnant. She was absolutely over the moon, and I was so happy for her, and had my own little infant that I cherished and wanted that happiness for her.”

“Me!” I’d blurted out, like a five-year-old, so caught up in the story.

“Yes, dear, you. So Maggie decided the dig in Turkey would be the last in the field; for the pregnancy and motherhood she’d move into researching and teaching. And then …” She shrugged. “An earthquake. They have them in Turkey quite often. Nearly ten thousand were killed, but …also Eduardo, Maggie …and their child.”

I gasped and tears burst. “Oh, God, Mom!” I was weeping, not just for the sadness of the story, but for the absolute loss on my mother’s face. I hugged her. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! I never meant to bring up that sadness!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she hugged me back. “I carry Maggie with me every day of my life. I mean, the memories we shared, not just the hurt of losing her. There are times when I’ll think about something she said, or just a look she gave me, and I’ll smile. She still makes me happy. But it’s not just my loss; the whole world lost a wonderful, bright soul the day she died.”

We were silent, hugging and I was weeping. Mom got me together with some tissue and went to refill the mugs. Then she grinned.

“If you had any doubt you’re female, that waterworks demonstration should have proved it!”

“What can I say? I’m hormonal!” I laughed, but also with the sadness of my mother’s story. We’d already talked with the doctors about me having mood swings and ‘a period’, a monthly cycle just as if I were menstruating.

Mom laughed with me, and then said, “Okay. So you and Shelly are on firm ground. So these deep, heavy thoughts you were teasing me with …?” She tilted her head.

I took a breath. “You know I’ve been hanging with Amy and Connie and Lu, right? Well, it’s like that Middle spectrum thing. Connie’s kind of boy-crazy at one end and Amy just doesn’t get it at the other. She doesn’t go so far as to say that boys have cooties or anything, but she’s pretty close.”

Mom nodded. “Amy’s …young.”

“Uh …yeah. And Lu’s just …Lu’s great.”

“I’m glad that you and she have hit it off.”

“Why?”

“Well, Shelly needs a life, too, you know!” she teased. “But however your friendship with Lu had started, she knows about your transition to Abby and I suspect that she’s actually friends with Abby. I mean that she sensed the girl within and so in a way, she’s your first friend as girl-to-girl. And she’s got a good head and a good heart.”

I frowned, thinking. “Well, I think it’s fair to say that Shelly also sensed the girl within me, but she could have sensed the wildebeest within me and we’d still be friends.”

Mom chuckled at that. “I daresay you’re right. But I think Lu is good for you.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that because this kind of involves her, too. You see, Connie’s always going on about boys but Lu isn’t. And, you know that …well, we’re all at the age where kids are interested in sex and different sex things and start being worried about being gay.”

“And the name-calling,” Mom said. “And suspicions.”

“Yes. Although the name-calling …I’ve had that for years. I’m used to it.”

“It still goes on, doesn’t it? You never talk about it.”

“I keep Dr. Nielson updated; it’s what she wanted. I don’t have to talk about it, I mean …Mom, you’re pretty. Yeah, every kid thinks their mom is pretty, but you are, and I’ve seen pictures when you were young and you were gorgeous.”

Mom actually laughed. “I’d never say gorgeous! But …I was pretty, I must admit without false modesty.”

I bounced. “Mom, do you have pictures of you and Maggie? Now that I know about her, I really want to see the two of you!”

“Yes, of course I do. I’ll dig them out at some point. So, you were saying I’m pretty …” She teased me by theatrically posing.

I laughed. “My point is that you must have walked through a day and guys hit on you. Or just wolf-whistle or something.”

“Well …yes. Occasionally.”

“So did you come home and say, ‘Mom! Dad! A man in the store said I was pretty!”

“Of course not. That would be bragging, and silly, and …”

“And it happened so often it was no big deal, right?” She shrugged and nodded. I shrugged in return. “Same thing with me. I get called ‘fag’ or ‘queer’ so often it’s no big deal. So I don’t tell you about it, not that I’m embarrassed. It’s just part of my daily life. But Dr. Nielson said she wants to ‘monitor it’, to see if it changes over time–the things they say, I mean–and if I change how I feel about it.”

“Smart woman. I like her.”

“Me, too; I’m glad we found her.”

“Goodness me, we’ve gotten sidetracked. What are we talking about?”

“You know, I’ve sidetracked myself so many times I’m going to get right to the heart of things. Amy said something and somebody overheard and misinterpreted and thought Lu was a lesbian. With Amy, of all people! Who probably puts ‘sex’ after ‘root canal’ for her least favorite subjects!”

Mom had to laugh at that.

“Anyway, Lu’s not gay. We got to talking because, well, she thought I was. Benjamin was, I mean. This is confusing, but I think you get it. Before Lu knew about me being Abby, she just assumed that Benjamin was gay, because, well, let’s face it!”

“A reasonable assumption,” Mom said.

“And she likes boys, but not gay boys, like some girls do, because they’re ‘safe’? I don’t mean she doesn’t like gay boys, I just mean that–”

“You’re tying yourself in knots. I understand. Lu is heterosexual and likes boys. She’s open-minded enough to accept gay boys as friends.”

“Thank you. Yes. Okay. Connie thought I was gay, too–Benjamin, I mean–and that was okay with her. And gayness just isn’t on Amy’s radar. Anyway, Lu likes boys. And Lu knows about Abby. So Lu and Abby were talking …”

A smile started on Mom’s face. “And Abby discovered she likes boys, too?”

I blushed. “Um …yeah. I think if I’d had to work it out on my own, there’d be all these hang-ups. I’ve talked about it with Dr. Nielson.”

“That’s what she’s there for,” Mom nodded.

“And talking with Lu, about a guy she thought was cute and who else she thought was cute …it just kind of morphed into what boys we thought were cute and it was like a truck hit me. I was thinking about cute boys!”

Mom nodded again. “Never doubted it for an instant. I’ve had a small worry that because of the roundabout way that you’ve become a girl, you might sort of talk yourself into things that weren’t your natural inclination. I wouldn’t have a problem with you being a lesbian, or even celibate, but my money was on you being a heterosexual girl. And it sounds like you are.”

“I think so,” I grinned, blushing again. “And, Mom, once I realized that …”

“It was like the dam burst?” Mom raised an eyebrow and then laughed at my sheepish nod. “Oh, my goodness–there are boys everywhere!” she teased, waving her hands in mock-fright.

“Just about! Just walking the halls is so different now. Suddenly they’re–”

“The opposite sex,” Mom said confidently. “And really interesting!”

We giggled–there’s no other word for it. My mom and I giggled together.

After sips of cocoa, I said, “God, we’ve talked about so much tonight! But I never really got to what I was thinking in the car that started this whole thing.”

“Thought A? Or was it B?”

“I think it was B, when I realized I had to tell you about me and boys, which was Thought A. Okay, the original, original thought, isn’t cheerful. I was saying that I’m lucky that I was already pretty close to a girl, and how sad for really tall or really masculine girls that are transgender. It just makes their life more difficult.”

“I’m assuming you mean ‘girls’ as what they truly are, but not their birth sex.”

“Exactly. Because I can certainly testify to the …reality of their sex, in their minds, I mean. So I was thinking about the high rate of teen suicides. Articles and brochures and things talk about the pressure to succeed, to meet impossible goals set by parents, things like that. All the pressures they mentioned seemed to be the external world pressuring the kid. But what about internal pressure? Sure, they’d feel like failures to their parents and maybe couldn’t live with that, but I bet …” I took a breath. “We always hear in the news about teens that kill themselves because they were bullied. And, yeah, probably some of them do, just because of the bullying. But I think the super-high rate of teen suicides is also partly due to a percentage of them being transgender. Boys and girls. And they don’t have the support of their family or the ability to get help or the strength to endure and all they see is their body …as a boy, I mean …all they see is their body getting bigger and hairier and less and less like the girl they know they are, and year after year of having to pretend to be something they’re not, and no end in sight. And …so they end it.”

Mom stared at me and shuddered. She hugged me tight. “I’m so glad you told me that you’re not suicidal, and I thank God you told me about Abby–thank you, God, for Shelly, too!–and that you’re being treated and you’re so strong. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Have you mentioned this to Dr. Nielson?”

“Sort of. She stared at me, and I thought that maybe she thought I was suicidal, so I kind of backed off.”

“The medical and psychiatric communities may already be aware of it, but I think you should mention it to her again, and I can, too, if you want.”

“Thanks, Mom. I just …my heart breaks for those poor kids. It was never their fault.”

“No, and you’re right.” She took a deep, sad sigh. Then a sip of cocoa.

Then she clasped her fingers and grinned at me.

“So …what boys do you think are cute?”

Chapter 9: Changes of Plans

The next day, the last Friday before Winter Break, was scattered as usual, with things all over the place. Amy got her period! Her first! Later, Connie made an offhand remark that ‘Maybe now she’ll be interested in boys!’ and my talk with Mom the night before was very much on my mind. I didn’t say anything about boys to Amy, who’d run to tell me, all full of excitement and happiness, and then had done a blushing back-down when she realized what she’d just confessed to a boy. I smiled warmly and hugged her and said I was so happy for her and it brought her smile back. She said thanks, and started to run off and came back to me.

“Benjamin, I want you to know that …you’re really special to me. You’re a boy, but you know, you’re like …one of my best girlfriends. I hope that doesn’t hurt you.”

I grinned. “No, Amy, it doesn’t hurt at all! It makes me happy–I want to be one of your best girlfriends!”

We hugged again. She scampered off four or five steps, and turned with another confused look on her face, and then she truly scampered off. With her size and nature, ‘scamper’ was really the only word for how she moved.

She’d told Lu and the two of us were walking to our classes and Lu frowned at me.

“You’d better butch it up, babe,” she said.

“How so? And why start now?” I grinned.

“You’re holding your books like a girl.”

“I am a girl, silly,” I said softly. My books were held against my chest, as hers were.

“I know that, silly,” she retorted. “But I overheard some of the boys …”

“Call me a fag? Kinda old news, Lu!” I grinned.

She stopped and put her hand on my arm. “No, this is serious. Steve Duncan was talking to some guys and I overheard. They sounded like they wanted to jump you today.”

I frowned and thanked Lu and we parted; she turned down a corridor and I continued down two more doors and walked into class. I was thinking hard. I hadn’t offended anybody that I knew of. I rarely spoke to any of the boys. I had only one class with Steve, although I didn’t know who the other boys were.

But I did have another class with Lu. When I got there, Lu was at her desk writing furiously and handed me a note just as the teacher called the class to order. I read the note and felt chilled. Lu had written:

‘More info: SD&guys talkin bout getting YOU.’ She’d underlined heavily. ‘SD says warning to all fags at MA. Today bcuz cant be suspended–winterbreak. STAY WITH PEEPS!! ’

It made dreadful sense. There were a few gay boys that were out in the Upper school, and that had encouraged some Middle boys to come out. I had never made any motions one way or another but was obviously swishy and fit all the criteria. I was supposedly untouchable by being connected to the school–and was assumed to be rich because everybody else was–and I’d ignored the taunts for years, so I’d never experienced any actual intimidation. But for whatever demons drove Steve Duncan and homophobes, they planned to make an example of me to all the gays at Morton Academy–if a Russell descendant could suffer, anybody could. And by assaulting me on the last day before the long break, they figured that the school wouldn’t press charges–if it even would–and they wouldn’t be reprimanded. Maybe a stern letter would be sent home to be ignored while I had three weeks to recover. That way, when we returned in January, it would all seem like ancient history to the adults–but in the minds of the students, the point would have been made. And finally, Lu warned me to stay in a group with people friendly to me.

She glanced at me to see if I’d read it. I quickly flashed the sign language gestures for ‘Thank you’ with a solemn nod. Then I added ‘Love you!’ Her mouth tightened and she quickly nodded back and then class really got going.

So we walked out of class and discussed where and when I might be attacked. We didn’t have the next class together but she had a class with Shelly and would relay the information.

God bless my girlfriends; they kept me safe. Lu rallied Amy and Connie and two other girls I was friendly with, and since Shelly knew my schedule, she was with me but also got Monica and another girl that was huge–the star on the field hockey team–to join us. So I had two to five other girls with me at all times. I was gratified and humbled by their friendship and more than a little humiliated. But then I thought, what if Lu had overheard Steve say they were going to rape a girl? The girls would have rallied as well and the intended victim could count herself lucky for her friends.

Finally, back in the dorms, it was Lu and Shelly and I. We all hugged and Shelly said she loved Lu forever for ‘watching out for Abby’ and Lu’s face went funny.

“It’s so weird how casual you are with that,” Lu said. “I mean, I get it, but it’s still weird.”

“Imagine how it looks from my side,” I grinned.

Shelly pointed to me and said, “Lu, do you have any doubt that this is a girl named Abby?”

Lu looked at me seriously. “No. Not really. Yeah, between her legs!” she grinned and then sobered. “But the person? The soul within? Absolutely no doubt.”

Shelly nodded, smiling. “It just makes sense. It gets hard to remember to say ‘Benjamin’. And I like your thing about calling her ‘babe’ in the halls.”

Lu had come up with calling me ‘babe’ for several reasons. It was a term that boys and girls both used and wouldn’t be noticed as odd, and she said it was also the B from Benjamin and the AB from Abby and even joked about the E from Elizabeth–once she’d learned my full, true name–and was always a fun thing between us.

When I’d told Shelly, she’d just shrugged and said, “I call you ‘babe’ because you’re a babe’.”

Either way, I liked it!

We hugged again and Lu left. “Come to my room,” Shelly said.

I flopped on her bed as usual. Shelly was frowning, stalling as she thought. I knew to let her have her time when she was like this; then she sighed deeply and faced me.

“Got a call from my mom.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ah, crap. Shelly! She’s taking you away for the holidays again?”

She nodded. “More to it, though. She wants to meet you.”

“Meet me? Why? And why now?”

“She wants to …oh, crap,” she sighed. “She’s coming here. I don’t know what she’s up to. Just that she said she wants to meet you.”

“Um …”

“Yeah …um,” she said, nodding. “She said she wants to meet my best friend.”

“Shelly …what have you told her? Or not told her?”

“That’s just it,” she said, flopping on the bed next to me. “I don’t know! Or I’m not sure …”

“Okay. Let’s take it this way. Does she know about Benjamin?”

“Of course. God, I’ve known you–him–for like five years, now. I mean, we don’t talk but she knew I was at your house last year when she sent the car …” She trailed off and then sat up. “No, she doesn’t! I’m pretty sure of it!” She was starting to smile, remembering.

“What? What?” I sat up with her.

“She was really kinda pissy last year. I thought I was going to at least be in Manhattan or something, but she made no plans. I remember what she called you–she called you ‘my little friend’. I was thinking about how boys love that Scarface movie?”

I nodded. You would not be a boy growing up without some guy pretending to shoulder a machine gun and doing a bad Al Pacino impersonation: ‘Say heh-lo to my leetle fren!’

“When she called last year, she asked if I was still staying with my little friend, and to give the address to her for her driver. And although we jumped around a lot she hardly spoke to me. I think once she said something like, ‘Everything okay with you and your little friend?’ so I don’t think she knew it was a boy named Benjamin. So it could have been a girl named Abby!” she said with a grin.

“But she wants to meet me now? Why?”

“Don’t know. Big doings on the Mom horizon; I don’t know. Maybe she read something about bonding with your daughter, being involved. But it’s not like her. But she …” She gave me a guilty look. “She’s actually coming here. I mean, in person. Not just sending a driver. And she wants to meet my best friend and also her family. Oh! That proves she doesn’t know about Benjamin–she specifically said, ‘I want to meet your best friend and her family.’ That means you and your mom.”

“Uh …okay. When?”

She really looked guilty now. “Tonight.”

“What?” I stared at her.

“Abby! I only just found out an hour ago! She sent the urgent text thing to call her right away. You know, for medical emergencies. She was landing at Hartford! She was going to get freshened up, she said–God, I hope that doesn’t mean she’s drinking again!–and then come here!”

Shelly seemed more confused than excited. And a bit frightened, too, I thought.

“So what do we do?”

“I stay here. You go home and get into your best Abby duds. If I know Mom, she’ll look around my room with disgust, go see you at your house, try to hide her disgust, and then be bored with the whole thing and drive off.”

“Mom’s coming to get me in an hour and a half.”

“Might not be enough time. Plus, there’s the chance Steve and the guys will jump you. Crap! Okay, I’m calling you a cab.”

“What?”

I say that a lot around Shelly.

“No time, and your safety might depend on it. God, I sound like a bad detective movie.” She was already dialing and ordered a cab and was told ten minutes. “Okay. I can see the road in from here. We go to your room, grab whatever you were going to bring home, and we come back here. Steve and the guys might try your room.” She was texting furiously. “Mon’s coming, too. Okay, we hang here until the cab pulls up, go down in a cluster and off you go.”

I called Mom to tell her the crazy plan–not mentioning Steve and the boys but only Shelly’s mom’s arrival–but she approved instantly, trusting Shelly’s instincts. Shelly and I went to my room and I threw the last of my things into my bag and then locked the door behind me. Shelly had taken a little piece of scotch tape from my desk and stuck it high up on the door and the jamb.

“Can tell if anybody’s been in your room!” she grinned. “Got that from a good detective movie!”

Monica met us in the hall and we went to Shelly’s room and not two minutes later we saw the cab coming up the drive, yellow against the dark trees and white snow. We left and were one floor from the main door when we saw Steve Duncan and three big guys coming down above us. Duncan shouted ‘There he is! Get him!’ and we heard them stomping downstairs.

Shelly and Monica and I crunched through the snow and icy path as fast as we dared. Shelly shoved money in my hand as shee hustled me into the cab. She barked, “Leave! Now!” to the startled cabbie, slammed the door and banged twice on the roof and the driver sped off. Looking out the back window I saw Shelly and Monica standing shoulder-to-shoulder as the boys ran out, steam bursting from their mouths in the chill air. They yelled at the girls, did the disappointed kicking the ground thing, yelled at the girls some more, and stormed off.

I texted back to Shelly: RU OK? Tell Monica I owe her big time!

She texted back: We cool. Just get pretty!!

When we got to my house, the driver turned to me, read the amount on the meter, and said, “Why those boys want to chase a pretty girl like you?”

“They’re …mad at me.” I was momentarily stunned that, even in my boy’s uniform, he thought I was a girl.

“What you do to them?”

I couldn’t say ‘I threaten their sense of masculinity’ so I improvised a lie. “They’re mad at me because I did well on a test. They wanted everybody in the class to do badly on the test so they’d have an excuse.”

He nodded. “Ah. You blew the curve.”

I grinned. “Yes. You know the term?”

He laughed. “In Romania I teach engineering. I know grading on curves.” He nodded, smiling.

“You’re an engineer?”

“Romanian engineer,” he grinned, wagging a finger. “In America, that means I drive a cab.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life is not fair, pretty girl. But you do what you can. You …roll with punches, you say.”

I suddenly realized that he was certain I was a girl–and a pretty one. He seemed to have picked up on that.

“Why you dress down? You should let your hair go, wear pretty dresses–I am sorry; I go too far. Excuse me.”

“No, it’s okay. I thought that, well, we all wear uniforms and kind of look alike and …” I shrugged.

He nodded. “I have two daughters. They too had a time at …what are you, twelve, thirteen?”

“Yes. Thirteen.”

“My oldest girl …she was the best. She was smartest in school, fastest in sports, better than the boys …and then suddenly she …” He burst out a Romanian phrase and then gestured downward with his hands. “She dimmed her light?”

I nodded. “Sometimes we say, ‘hid her light under a bushel’. A basket.”

“Yes, yes; so many farm phrases still in big city America!” he grinned. “She dimmed her light. To not challenge the boys. So sad.”

“Is she okay?” I really wanted to know.

“She married a butcher, got fat, made babies. Five grandchildren,” he shrugged. “But that smart, fast little girl of twelve …gone.”

I felt a lump in my throat even as I wondered what I was doing spending time talking with this guy. But I knew that somehow it was important, and I was already home. On an impulse, I reached behind and pulled out my ponytail and took off the small elastic holding it in place and fanned my hair out. I was rewarded with a smile.

“It is like the sun coming out after storm!” he nodded. “Wait; I bet you are smartest in class?”

I shrugged and then nodded.

“Those boys …soon they will be chasing you for a different reason! But you must promise yourself to not do as my Anna did. Do not play down. Play up. Always up. And that is how you do not drive cab in America.”

It felt like a final benediction but I had to ask one more thing. “Your other daughter …did she play down?”

“No. She is not smart like Anna. She is loving and kind and works hard, though. She is going to Connecticut College and will be a teacher, like her father. Only employed!” he grinned. “Oh, one thing I should tell you …”

“Abby,” I said automatically, realizing it was the first time I’d given my name to a stranger.

“Abigail?” he asked and I nodded. “A great name. I read history; you know Abigail Adams?”

I smiled. “That’s who I was named for.”

“Be like her. If that woman could have lived now, she’d be a CEO! Or President!” He wagged his finger in the air again. “But I was saying about Ramona, my youngest. She was threatened. By students. She is small and dark and had a hard time learning English. So they tease her, they knock her books down …”

He looked out the windshield, remembering some pain. Then he said, “She learned Aikido. Martial art. But not for offense, not for hitting and kicking. For dodging, for using opponent’s force against him. To …step aside and let him go past, like a bull.” He nodded. “Just the thing for a pretty girl like you to learn, who is so smart she blows the curve for the boys.” He grinned.

I asked for his card and gave him a huge tip and told him that I almost never took the cab but anytime I did or my mother did, I wanted it to be him. He grinned and wagged his finger again and drove off.

End of Part 3

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 4

Chapter 10: Travel Possibilities

I took a fast shower and came out feeling human. In other words, not Benjamin! I powdered and scented myself with some things Mom had found for me, and dressed in light blue bra and panty set, a burgundy camisole, gray-and-burgundy plaid pleated skirt and black flats. I did my makeup, put on my jewelry including the magnetic earrings, and then did my nails. God, I’d been wanting to do that! They were a nice plum and Mom had found one of those blue light gadgets so I was nearly dry just as Mom walked in.

And looked really, really pissed.

“Hi …?” I said tentatively.

“We have to talk, young lady,” Mom said, leaning against the door jamb.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, cowed and confused.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been threatened.”

“But nothing happened; it was just threats–wait a minute; how do you know?”

“Shelly told me. She called me right after she got you in the cab.”

“I’ll kill her,” I said. “I didn’t want you to be worried. And it’s over now.”

“No, it’s not over, not with those kinds of boys. It’s never over to them until they hurt you.”

“Well, they’ve got three weeks to forget about me.”

“They’ve got three weeks to plan how to hurt you and not get caught. I can’t believe you’re this naíve. You were a boy, for God’s sake; you know how they think–the bad ones, I mean.”

I hung my head. “Mom? I really don’t. I never …got them. I didn’t understand half the things they talked about, or that meant something to them, and …it was kind of like being in a foreign country.”

“But you …” Mom trailed off, staring at me. She sagged against the door. “You really don’t know, do you? You truly are a naíve little girl …”

“Mom …” I said, on the edge of tears. That had hurt.

She rushed to me. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean it to hurt you. I meant that you were a little girl, growing up in her own world, not understanding the world of boys around her.”

She was hugging me now and I sniffed and nodded. “I just didn’t get it,” I said again.

“How strange for you; I never …I don’t think until this moment I really comprehended, truly grasped how …how alien being a boy has been for you for thirteen years. Oh, my poor baby.”

“I just …tried to be invisible. If I hadn’t found Shelly, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“She’s a Godsend. And probably on her way here. Okay, game plan.”

“Game plan?”

She nodded. “I talked with Shelly and here’s how we play it for her mom. Very simple. You’re a girl; you’ve always been a girl. You knew the boy Benjamin that Shelly was friendly with when she was little but ‘he’s gone’. That’s all we say, ‘he’s gone’.”

“Well, for the next three weeks, he is!” I grinned.

She squeezed my shoulder. “Yes, I think that was our plan anyway.”

There was something in her voice. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Did Shelly say anything? She just told me she’d gotten the call from her mother and I guess her mom is taking her away but wants to meet ‘her little friend’.”

Mom laughed. “Yes, she said the same thing. No, I think that all we have to do is be the Housemans, mother and daughter, long-time friends of Michelle and her refuge from Morton.”

“Which we are, basically.”

At that point the doorbell rang. Mom motioned to stay in place. She went to answer it and I heard her say hello to Shelly so I went out.

Shelly stood there, looking nervous. “You okay, babe?”

I said, “Thanks to you. Are you okay?”

“Babe?” Mom said.

“I’ll explain later,” I chuckled. “So what’s up, Shell?”

She rolled her eyes. “My mother’s in the car, won’t even get out until she knew you both were home.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Okay, actually. Dry. Tanned. Getting leathery,” she shrugged.

Mom and I looked at each other. Mom said, “Shelly, what would you like me to do? Go out and invite her in?”

“Normally, sure; but I don’t want it to look like you’re a servant preparing the way or anything.”

I said, “How about I go, and Mom stay here like the lady of the manor?”

Shelly said, “Um …yeah. That’s exactly right. Sorry to put you guys through this. She’s just …weird.”

“And so are we, each in our own way,” Mom smiled. “Oh, and Shelly? Abby is your best friend, has always been a girl; she knew Benjamin but he’s gone and we don’t know where.”

That brought the first smile from Shelly. “Works for me!”

“Here, honey,” Mom said, tossing me a white sweater.

I put it on and wrapped my arms around me when I stepped out and the cold hit me; the two of us walked carefully to the black Town Car. Through the windshield I could see the a driver in a black tie and suit. The side windows were blacked as well. As we got to the car the side window slid down.

Yow! Tanned and ‘getting leathery’ was right! Maybe a face lift or two as well; she looked artificially youthful–almost painfully so. Dripping in gold and in diamonds. One or the other, I thought. Her hair was coppery and lush and I realized she looked a bit like recent photos of Sophia Loren.

Shelly said, “Hey, Mom, you wanna come in?”

“Now, Michelle …” her mother said with some disapproval.

“Hello, Mrs. Benton,” I said in my ‘best’ voice. “I’m Abigail, Shelly’s friend–”

“Best friend!” Shelly blurted.

“–best friend,” I grinned at her, and then looked back at her mother. “Would you like to come in for a moment and meet my mother?”

“We really don’t have the time,” Mrs. Benton said.

Shelly said, “Mom, the whole point of this was so you could meet Abby and her mom, right? So if we’re running short on time, don’t spend any more of it sitting in the car. Come on. It’s cold out here.”

I glanced up and saw Mom smiling and nodding graciously at the open door.

“Thomas?” Mrs. Benton said.

Shelly blew out some air. “Oh, for Pete’s sake–Thomas, stay there. I can open her door.” She reached for the door handle.

Mrs. Benton barked, “Michelle!”

Shelly stopped and kind of sagged. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Benton said, “Thomas?”

The chauffeur got out and buttoned his coat and came around. Shelly and I stood back as he opened the door and extended a hand. A leathery hand with long magenta nails–like talons, I thought–took his and she stepped from the car. She was in black boots, a black silky dress with a white fur that draped down to her knees. She released the hand and sort of straightened herself. Part of me hoped she never saw pictures of Cruella deVille from 101 Dalmatians. The other part wondered if she had.

“Michelle,” she said. There was some disdain, something hidden, in her tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” Shelly said. That tone obviously meant something between them.

It was painful seeing my friend treated this way, and reacting this way. To see Shelly like a beaten puppy was almost more than I could bear. This was so alien compared to life with my mother; my heart went out to poor Shelly as we accompanied her mother in a stately entourage to the steps and up to our door. Mom kept her smile on the whole way as if this was all perfectly normal.

A little part of me was glad that even though it was just Mom and me, we lived in a large, stately home. Not a mansion by any means, but as we walked slowly, careful not to slip, I realized how different this would go if I’d lived in a small tract home. Or, God forbid, an apartment! I bet Shelly’s mother wouldn’t even leave the car. I was pretty sure it was only the size of our house that made us at least borderline acceptable. Maybe I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

Mom was gracious and welcoming, smiling and saying, “Welcome, Mrs. Benton; it’s a pleasure to meet Michelle’s mother.”

“Yes, thank you,” was the response, like of course meeting her was a pleasure.

We got in and I shivered from the cold. There was the awkward ‘won’t you have a seat?’ thing and tea was offered and Mrs. Benton did something that meant nothing to me but Mom seemed to interpret.

“Abby? The tea is nearly ready if you would do the honors,” Mom smiled at me.

Confused but knowing enough to just say ‘Sure, Mom’, I went into the kitchen. She’d pulled out a family heirloom China tea set, exquisite porcelain that made me instantly terrified of dropping the tray. Everything was prepared so I brought it out slowly and carefully and set it on the coffee table. I guessed it was a tea table, now!

Mom also had me pour, because there was some ritual going on, I realized. Not the Japanese tea ceremony kind of ritual, but a High Society thing. Mom had grown up in a very genteel social structure, and also had dealt with The Rich all of her life. I could learn so much from her.

I also realized that if we were in Mrs. Benton’s house, a servant would be pouring the tea–she would never pour her own. So it was a status thing; if Mom had poured, it lowered her status to Mrs. Benton.

Tricky.

Shelly looked like a deer in headlights. I smiled at her and she rolled her eyes and looked a little better, but not much. I could tell she was worried on many levels.

After the obligatory sip–or fake sip, I noticed–Mrs. Benton put her cup and saucer down and complimented the tea and tea set. Mom did the thank you thing with a gracious head tilt and then there was silence.

“The tea is lovely, and this is a lovely home,” Mrs. Benton said, in a tone that indicated she didn’t really believe it.

“Thank you,” Mom smiled, riding on top of the disdain.

“It seems …uniquely located. Close to the school, but not isolated.”

What the heck did that mean? It felt like it was another hidden dis of some sort.

Mom said, “It’s been in my family for generations, as well as the school.”

“Yes, Michelle said something about you being distantly related …” She let it hang.

“We founded the school,” Mom said complacently but with force of pride.

I thought to myself, ‘Ha! Chew on that!’

“Ah,” was the only response. Then, needing to regain some superiority, the school was the next target. “It’s a small school but I’ve been told has some prestige,” she nodded. “Please understand it wasn’t my first choice for Michelle, but …she seems to be doing well there.”

Not ‘she likes it’ or anything like that.

Mom said, “Shelly is very smart. We think the world of her.” She beamed at Shelly, who looked so grateful.

“Mom,” Shelly said, “It’s a good school. I like it there.”

“Yes,” her mother said, neutrally.

There was silence again. I noticed that her tea was untouched since that first non-sip.

Mrs. Benton said, “And I understand that your daughter is a friend of Michelle?”

I wanted to answer but knew that the question had been directed to Mom. She gave me a look and said, “The girls have been best friends from the day they met. Years ago.”

“Almost five years,” Shelly said. “Abby’s my best friend ever.” She said it almost as a challenge.

I said, “I think Shelly’s the best person ever.” I got a surprised and warm smile from her.

“I see,” Mrs. Benton said, in that way that wasn’t clear if she did or did not see.

Mom said, “We are always happy to have Michelle stay with us. We love to have her. And that certainly includes this holiday.” She had left things open, I saw. The plan had been that Shelly would stay here, since she hadn’t heard from her mother until a little over an hour ago. Now …who knew?

Mrs. Benton gave a small frown. “It is my intention to have Michelle with me for the holidays.”

“Mom!” Shelly blurted. “Sorry. Okay.” She seemed to sag.

Mrs. Benton eyed her. Then she said, “I was wondering if your daughter would like to accompany us.”

I startled and looked at Shelly, who was just as shocked.

Mom seemed unperturbed. “I’m interested in what that would involve.”

Mrs. Benton said, “My plans are flexible. She has a passport, of course?” It wasn’t a question, though.

“No,” Mom said. “We’d planned to get one in the spring for summer travel.”

This was news to me–or made up on the spot. I suddenly flashed that I couldn’t have a passport because it would say Benjamin!

Mrs. Benton waved a hand. “No matter. I have no real interest in Europe this season. Does she ski? I was thinking Game Creek or Tallus.”

I didn’t know what Tallus was but there had been something on the news about Game Creek that was supposed to be the most expensive ski resort in America. It was in Vail or Aspen; I didn’t remember which.

“Abby has never skied,” Mom said. “Perhaps it’s time for her to learn.”

“It can be enjoyable,” Mrs. Benton said.

I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew somehow that she’d never skied. I’d have to check with Shelly.

“We can take lessons; it’ll be fun!” Shelly said.

Her mother looked at her, blink-blink, and then said, “Perhaps another year.”

Mom said, “Mrs. Benton, what are you proposing, what length of time?”

“Oh, a few weeks, I would think,” Mrs. Benton replied casually.

“You mean past Christmas?” I sort of blurted out. I looked around. “I can’t leave Mom at Christmas!”

Mrs. Benton gave a sigh, sort of like she had to shoulder the world’s burdens, and completely ignored my outburst. “If we forego Vail, perhaps sun is the answer. One of the islands, perhaps.”

I had no idea what Mom was thinking about, but I’d realized that I couldn’t really fly anywhere–no passport or ID proved Abigail Houseman existed, so Shelly’s mom would know about me, and might say we couldn’t be friends, or might even take Shelly out of Morton! I knew in that instant that I had to speak up.

“Mrs. Benton,” I said politely, trying to mirror my mother’s even tone. “I thank you very much for your interest in my accompanying you and Michelle this holiday season. It’s very kind of you, and there’s almost nothing I’d like more than to spend time with your daughter. But there is something more important to me, and that is spending time with my mother. I don’t see her for more than eight days a month, so Winter Break is a special time for us. I thank you for your very kind offer but must respectfully decline.”

Shelly stared at me and then gave me a burning glare–how could I do this to her?

Mom looked at me with a mixture of sadness and pride. She said, “Although I know how much it means to Abby to spend more time with Michelle, and as much as I would love for her to have new experiences, I treasure our Christmas times together as well. And I must add my thanks to hers, Mrs. Benton, and I respect my daughter’s wishes to decline your most gracious offer.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Benton said.

Again, it was unclear whether she did or didn’t–or maybe just didn’t care. I think there was also an undercurrent of …relief?

“Abby!” Shelly whispered furiously, sounding betrayed.

“Michelle,” her mother said in that tone.

“Yes, ma’am.” Shelly sagged.

God, is that the extent of their conversations? I caught a glance from Mom; she seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Mom said, “As I mentioned before, Michelle is more than welcome to spend the holidays with us.”

Mrs. Benton inhaled and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “That might perhaps be arranged.”

“I’ve got my stuff in the car!” Shelly said with enthusiasm.

“Oh, no-no-no,” her mother shook her head once. “I was thinking …perhaps this. I wish Michelle to accompany me but she needn’t spend her entire holiday with me.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Shelly said, trying to be helpful. “Maybe we can video conference on Christmas Day or something.”

I thought she would be disciplined for that as impertinent, but her mother wasn’t troubled in the least; apparently in their world that was very real and practical and probably done a lot. But not doable, this time, for some reason.

“We have some business to conduct first, but perhaps next week sometime you might return …”

Mom said, “Michelle is most welcome at any time. Might I suggest something that may or may not fit in with your plans? Abby and I will be spending some time in Manhattan for various events, ballet, some shows, perhaps. We could perhaps rendezvous and then return here with Michelle for Christmas Day or the day after?”

Mrs. Benton did the inhale-ceiling-look thing again that I realized was her way of organizing her thoughts. “Yes, that might be possible. I rather like the idea of Manhattan during Christmas week. Yes, that is possible. We will arrive in Manhattan on the twenty-second or twenty-third.” She waved a hand at how trivial dates were to her.

Mom said, “We will stay flexible, then. Until we hear from you or Michelle. At some point we will rendezvous, see the sights, and then return with Michelle to Hartford. And, if I understand correctly, Michelle will remain with us until school commences in January? And that is perfectly fine with us, by the way.”

Mrs. Benton nodded slowly. “Excellent. Yes. A plan. Well.” She stood. “Your home is quite lovely. And thank you for the lovely tea.”

She’s reversing, I realized; she’s saying the same entry lines as her exit lines.

There was that fingertip handshake thing society ladies do.

“Come, Michelle,” Mrs. Benton said.

Shelly was frowning.

I quickly said, “Mrs. Benton? I have a little present I want to give Shelly–Michelle–that will just take a moment. And I’ll send her right out.”

Mrs. Benton nodded. “Don’t be long, Michelle.” Turning to me. “A pleasure finally meeting you, Abigail.” Turning to Mom. “And you, Mrs. Houseman.” There was no pleasure in her eyes; only the desire to leave.

“And you as well, Mrs. Benton,” Mom said, still smiling graciously. How does she do that?

Mom led Mrs. Benton to the door and they went out. As soon as the door was closed, Shelly whirled on me.

“How could you do that, Abby? We had three whole weeks together!” She looked hurt.

“Shelly, there’s nothing more I’d love than three weeks hanging out with you, but geez, girl–think about it! Everything she mentioned was traveling. She asked about the passport. Then Vail, and ‘the islands’ …”

“The islands! Yes! Cute bikinis! We’d get tanned!” she nearly wailed. “And you didn’t want to?”

“I did want to–I do want to!” I cried in response. “But the Department of Homeland Security would want to know why a boy named Benjamin was wearing a bikini!”

It was like I’d hit her. She froze, stunned, her eyes wide–and then she burst out laughing. “Omigod! I never thought …oh, God! That would be so …” She shook her head, laughing. “Good thing you were thinking!”

“It’s not just the weirdness or the embarrassment,” I said. “I could take that. But your mom would be told and–”

Shelly’s hand flew to her mouth. “Omigod–you’re right! She’d never let me speak to you again! She might even–”

“Yank you out of the school,” I nodded solemnly.

Shelly glanced at the door. “I gotta get out there. But you did give me a present! I was sitting there wondering why my best friend didn’t want to spend time with me. But you were thinking of me all the time!”

“And you were thinking of me and saved me from Steve and the guys today. I love you, Shell!”

“Love you, Abby!” She headed to the door. “God, I can’t wait until Manhattan!”

Chapter 11: Car Talk

Mom came back in and we looked at each other. “Interesting woman,” Mom said.

“Interesting?” I was surprised at the word. “She’s like a character in a bad movie or something. A caricature.”

“Yes, I agree,” Mom nodded, smiling. “Very perceptive, honey. An excellent word …caricature. And that makes her interesting.”

“I don’t agree,” I said. “As much as I want to spend time with Shelly, the thought of time with her …” I shuddered theatrically. “But …come on; interesting?”

“Did you have any sense of the woman? I mean, an actual person?” Mom asked. “You said ‘a character in a movie’ and even Shelly herself said ‘cartoon’.”

I thought for a moment and then nodded. “No, you’re right. Unless I missed something. It was all …surface. Like there was a box of costumes and pieces and she wanted to put together the costume for a Rich Bi–” I checked myself.

Mom laughed. “I know what you meant to say, don’t worry! And you’re right. It’s a character type. It’s all surface. I think there’s a deeply …missing person somewhere. I think she’s trapped in some image that she thinks is essential to maintain. I wonder …” She looked thoughtful.

I asked her ‘What?’ but she brushed it off and said for me to grab my coat and purse. I did automatically, still feeling the happy buzz at hearing her say that–and being able to do it. My coat was a long dark herringbone with black collar and cuffs, and I decided I’d better switch to boots because of the snow. My new boots were my newest pride and joy; we’d only gotten them the previous weekend because snow had been predicted.

In the car my phone rang; it was Shelly.

“Look, I only have a little bit of time before she comes back. We’re at the airport and she’s hassling somebody about something. As usual.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“LA, I think. She seemed to like you and I’ve been talking up you and your mom like crazy. You guys were great and is she there?”

“Hold on,” I said, and handed the phone to Mom who drove one-handed, despite the law.

“Hi, Shelly. Tell your mother it was a pleasure to meet her–” She paused. “Doesn’t matter if it was or not, just tell her, alright? Specifically, it was a pleasure to meet her. Okay. Is there anything I can do for you? Or both of us can do?”

She listened and nodded. Then she said, “I suspected something like that. Again, can I help you?”

She listened again for longer, and then said, “Alright. And I actually agree whole-heartedly. Think wonderful thoughts and know that we love you. Here’s Abby.”

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Your mom can tell you. Listen, I think you’ve got to really, really consider dropping the whole Benjamin thing. Not just so you can fly–crap, here she comes. But Benjamin’s not you, babe! Start the new year as yourself, as Abby. Oh, hi, Mom,” she said louder. “Just saying ‘bye’ to Abby and her mom. You want to say hello?” There was silence and then Shelly said, “She’s going back to yell at somebody. Man. Okay, just …think about it. Talk with your mom, your doctors, Mrs. Carey …you’ve got to factor in Steve Duncan, too. He’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Iceberg?”

“As long as you’re a gay Benjamin, you’re a target.”

“If I’m a trans girl, I’m one, too.”

“Not if you handle it right! Geez, Abby, lie your pretty little butt off! It’s a medical thing; you’ve always been a girl, just had a weird clitoris that looked like a penis, but hey, anybody taking a look at you over the last ten years would say you’re a girl, and now you’re developing breasts–wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles. Doesn’t that prove you’re a girl? Always were a girl?”

“But that’s because of the pills–”

“God, you’re too honest for your own good, Abby! Think about it–gotta go; she’s waving me to the gate. Love you-love you-love you!” The phone went dead.

Mom drove us to a mall in West Hartford, parked and then turned to me. “I’m figuring that most Morton students won’t be heading to this mall the afternoon they’re let out of Winter Break. So the chances are slim that you’ll run into anybody you know. What are your thoughts?”

“Well, I’m nervous, but I think it’s more excitement than fear of running into anybody.” Steve Duncan was first and foremost in my mind.

“So will you come in and shop with me?”

“Yes, of course, Mom,” I said, giving her a look. Why had she phrased it that way?

Mom didn’t move to get out of the car. Instead, she tucked her chin onto her chest, deep in thought. I sat back and let her think. Actually, it was the first bit of downtime I’d had all day. Then Mom took a deep breath.

“I want to discuss something with you; it will be something we talk about at length but I want to …put it out there, as they say.”

“So …put away, Mom,” I grinned.

“What did Shelly tell you at the end of her call?”

“Um …that I should drop Benjamin. She meant now. Like …now.”

Mom nodded.

I waited for her to say something. “That’s it,” I said.

She nodded again.

“Mom?”

She looked around the parking lot and then turned and faced me. “Sweetheart, this isn’t the best place for this but it is the time. I loved Benjamin but I’ll be perfectly honest. There always seemed to be something missing in him; your father had thought it was because there was girl within you that was suppressed.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

“By suppressing that part of you, Benjamin could never be a whole person. Do you see that?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a look and said forcefully, “Don’t just agree. It’s vitally important that you understand that fundamental truth. Benjamin could never become a whole person. We didn’t know why, but we do now.”

“Because I’m Abigail. I mean, even though I didn’t have the name, it was like …” I looked out the window, gathering my thoughts. “It’s like Abby had to be asleep for Benjamin to function. And, yeah, I think that …she peeked out every so often. Shelly saw her peeking out the first time we met.”

“Yes. And others have commented on it.”

“Who?”

“Just people, strangers, others …” She frowned. “Even Barbara Carey told me I had a daughter, years ago.”

“She knew?” I was truly shocked.

“Like you said, Abby peeked out through the Benjamin mask every so often. And people noticed.”

I sighed. “Thought I’d had it under control. Trying to be a boy.”

“And, quite honestly, failing miserably at it, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “Not equipped for the job …” Then I laughed. “Actually, I was given the tool but no instruction manual!”

She stared for a moment before she understood and then laughed heartily. “That’s borderline naughty, but maybe that makes it all the more accurate! Oh, sometimes you’re too smart for your age!” She sighed. “Right. The reason I’m bringing all this up now is that things are coming to a head. Your life is changing faster and beyond things you can control. Just today makes that very apparent. From not having proper ID to fly, to being seriously threatened by boys who won’t go away. To the fact that …you just aren’t a boy anymore. You’re not a boy at school and a girl at home. At school, you’re a neuter, a cipher. A mask. Would you agree?”

I nodded. “Sorry. I tried my best. So I kept my head down and …you know. Tried to be invisible.”

“And invisible is no way to go through life,” she said firmly. “So. What I’m proposing to you, Abigail Elizabeth Houseman, is that we put an end to Benjamin Thomas Houseman. Tonight.”

I actually gasped. “But …Dr. Nielson said …and school …”

“We’ve actually discussed this, your doctors and I. Last night and this afternoon, and when Shelly called me and told me about the Duncan boy and the gang, I called them again. The issue of identification that prevented you from some fun with Shelly was the final straw. We’re all in agreement, your doctors and I–but ultimately it’s your decision.”

“But school …”

“You sound like you don’t want to become Abby.”

“I do. I do! But …are you saying that it’s okay with Mrs. Carey if I …” I could feel my eyes widen. “You mean I could be Abby in January?”

Mom nodded. “It may be unavoidable now.” Her smile was tight. “Young Mr. Duncan and his cronies may have done you a favor. How you handle January …we’ll have to work on that.”

“Shelly says to lie,” I said, frowning.

“Lie? She surprises me.”

“She said to tell anybody that it’s a …it’s always been a medical condition. That I was female at birth and that …she was kind of graphic. She said I should say that my clitoris was mistaken for a penis and they said I was a boy. But that I’ve always been a girl, and that when I started developing breasts, it was obvious. But not to mention that I’d taken pills or anything.”

Mom was nodding. “There’s actually a lot more truth than lie in that. I can see where it would …check off a lot of boxes. My goodness, that Shelly is a smart girl! We’ll keep that idea around; it may be your best bet, eventually. And while you don’t want to go around talking about your clitoris, you could say something like …‘a birth defect that made something look like a boy’s’. You know, a general sort of nudge-nudge.” She nodded again. “She’s a smart girl.”

“Yeah, if she’s so smart, why ain’t she rich? Oh, wait a minute–she is!” I joked.

Mom chuckled. “Come on. Time to jump in the deep end.”

Chapter 12: The Deep End

I still wasn’t sure what she meant until we almost headed into Claire’s, the teen-girl Mecca. I froze and grabbed Mom’s arm.

“Wait a minute, Mom!” I tugged her to the side and leaned close. “Are you thinking about me getting my ears pierced?”

She gave me a blank look. “Do you want that?”

“More than anything! But …doesn’t it cause problems with school? I can’t hide them.”

Mom said, “I think the time for hiding is over, don’t you? That’s what we were talking about in the car. Putting an end to Benjamin? Tonight? Well, this is the first step.”

I started to say, “If you think I won’t get into trouble, I–”

My phone rang. I frowned and Mom nodded; since I wasn’t one of those kids who was constantly getting called, it was unusual and should be checked. I was surprised; it was Chen Lu.

“Hello?” I asked, tentatively.

“Um …hello?” her voice came through. “Um …who am I speaking to?”

“Lu? It’s Abby,” I said.

I heard the relief in her voice. “Oh, thank goodness! Listen, Abby, are you okay? I heard about Steve Duncan.”

I frowned and looked at Mom and said, “Where are you? I thought you were heading home?”

“Oh, I am already; I left Thursday right after school. I’m back in San Francisco.”

Mom guided us to a bench and we sat as I continued the call. “That’s why you weren’t in–hey, if you’re in San Francisco, how do you know about Steve? That was just a few hours ago.”

“News travels fast. I think Monica Shelton was there?”

“Yes. She helped me get away, her and Shelly.”

“Monica’s brother called me. He’s got a crush on me,” she giggled. “And I got his take on it, from a boy’s angle, and then called Mon and she told me exactly what happened. You got away okay, right?”

“Yes. Thanks to Mon and Shelly. Shell called a cab and they hustled me right into it. Steve and the guys came stomping out just as the cab pulled away.”

“God, you’re lucky,” she breathed.

“Yeah. But thank you for caring, and calling me, Lu. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, babe!” She kind of cleared her throat–it was hard to tell with the long distance. “Listen, Abby, I’ve got to say something or I’m going to go crazy. Don’t be mad at me, okay? I’m probably butting my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

“Lu, you’re my friend. You can say anything, okay?”

“Okay. And you’re mine, too. Um …okay.”

“You said okay already,” I teased.

“Yeah,” she giggled, and then took a breath to start. “Okay–God, I can’t stop!”

“It’s because you don’t want to start. Just jump in,” I said, thinking of Mom’s comment about ‘the deep end’.

Lu said, “This is the thing. I’ve been thinking about this for …ever since you told me about Abby. And now this thing with Duncan …Well, I think you should seriously consider being Abby. All the time. Get it straightened out with the school–”

“Wait a second, Lu. Bad reception on my cell phone,” I lied, looking at Mom. “Go ahead and tell me again. Lu, what did you say about being Abby?”

I had pushed the ‘speaker’ button and held the phone between Mom and I and we leaned close.

Lu said, “I said I think you should seriously consider being Abby all the time. Talk with the school and see if they’ll let you do it right away. I mean, like January, you know?”

“You think I should stop being Benjamin?” I asked, looking at Mom. She had a small smile.

“Babe, you stopped being Benjamin about, oh …forever,” she giggled. “Seriously, I love you, and I know you’re trying to be a boy, but you’re no darned good at it. And you give the gay boys a hard time of it, sort of, because you’re not like them. They’re effeminate and flaunt it, but you’re feminine and spend your time hiding it. Stop hiding! You’re a girl, silly, so start being one!”

“Actually, Lu, my mom and I were thinking along the same lines.”

“Good. I bet Shelly thinks that way, too.”

“Absolutely,” I grinned. “God, I love you, Lu. Thank you for saying this! And you’re such a good friend, and I miss you even more, now!”

“I’m getting dirty looks from my mother–she just walked in. I’ve gotta wrap this up. I’ll call you in a few days. Just …think about it, okay? I think you’ll be happier–no, I know you’ll be happier, because you’ll be you! Bye, Abby, gotta go!”

And Mom and I stared at each other over the phone. She raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

I looked at Claire’s. I said, “Maybe I need a couple of holes in my head …”

She laughed as we stood and entered.

I couldn’t get over the timing of everything, from Shelly’s mom to Lu’s phone call, and how the almost-attack by Steve Duncan seemed to have catalyzed things. Certainly my mother was convinced, and my reluctance was fear about the next semester, but I asked myself which was more important: Laying low as miserable Benjamin or finally living my life as Abby? And after the Duncan business, laying low might not even be an option anymore. These thoughts occupied my mind as I followed Mom into Claire’s and right up to the point where I suddenly had the pop-pop and realized that I had pierced ears! I looked in the mirror and, yeah, they were only gold studs, but they were my gold studs in my ears!

Mom beamed. “I can tell how happy you are! Okay, let’s pick up some goodies!”

And we picked several sets of earrings, and some necklaces and some rings and a lot of bracelets and some scarves and I was just buzzing with happiness.

Walking back into the mall, I hugged Mom. “Thank you, Mom, for allowing me to …” I couldn’t think how to finish.

She did, though. “For allowing you. That’s all you need to say. I’m allowing you to be you.”

“I’m not even going to think about my first day back at school until maybe the night before.”

She nodded. “Good idea, because you don’t know what to expect, and things may change, so why spend time and effort agonizing over something too soon?”

That made sense and I could actually feel some relief. But then Mom steered me into Diventaré , a high-end salon. I turned to Mom. “Are you getting something done?”

She grinned. “Tempting, but no. But one of us is, I hope!”

Before I could speak, she led me to the hostess of sorts, a tall silver-haired woman who looked more like a manager. Mom spoke in a different voice than I’d heard her use before.

“Yes, I’ve finally convinced my daughter to drop the whole tomboy routine.” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “I’m hoping you can squeeze her in quickly, before she changes her mind.”

The woman smiled. “My niece went through a tomboy phase. Drove my sister crazy for years! Let me see what we can do.” She flipped through the book.

I thought ‘why not just turn around and look at the empty chairs?’ but I guess proprieties must be observed. The woman looked at her watch and said, “Miko can take her in ten minutes. Would you care for a glass of wine while you’re waiting?”

“Yes, please, that would be lovely,” Mom said in that different voice.

She accepted the wine which seemed to appear out of nowhere, and we sat. I leaned over and spoke quietly.

“You’re drinking wine?”

“I’ve been known to enjoy a glass of wine now and then. But who said anything about drinking?”

“But she …” I realized she’d accepted an offer of a glass. “You’re splitting hairs semantically?”

She grinned. “You’re thirteen and throwing around words like ‘semantically’?” She laughed slightly. “You are your father’s daughter.”

That sentence made my heart leap for joy; warmth spread throughout me. But I also felt humbled, and all I could say was, “I love you, Mom.” And I so wished my father was there with us.

“I love you, Abigail-girl-of-my-heart, and yes, I wish he were here, too.”

Freaky how she could read my mind.

We sat with her not drinking her wine but occasionally lifting the glass; I guess it was courtesy on both sides between Mom and the hostess. Then a round-faced Japanese woman walked up, smiling. Her hair was long and straight and had bangs straight across over her eyebrows, and she was dressed entirely in black.

“Abby?” Miko asked.

“Miko?” I smiled, and she nodded.

Mom stood with me and I remembered the last words she’d said before Miko’s arrival–‘Let them do their job’. I’d said ‘Huh?’ and Mom explained that it was all going to be new to me but not to feel embarrassed because she’d used the ‘tomboy phase’ excuse to explain why a pretty girl like me didn’t know salon procedure.

That had startled me; aside from the brilliance of the little white lie. I’d asked Mom, “You really think I’m pretty?”

“I’m your mother so I’d have to say that, sweetie!” she grinned. “But in your case it’s true. Benjamin was a …questionable young boy, but Abigail is definitely a pretty girl. And as such, she would have had close to ten years of having her hair and nails done and wouldn’t be just wearing a pair of starter earrings at thirteen. So the tomboy thing explains why a genuinely pretty girl has never set foot in a salon.”

This was on my mind as I realized that the hostess and Miko both treated me as if I were, as Mom had said, a genuinely pretty girl.

Huh!

I was led to a changing robe where I partially undressed and wore a black robe. Then I was shampooed and massaged–that alone almost made me purr!–and then Miko began working on me. And after what seemed like a lot of cutting, she began wrapping bits of hair in foil and painting them. I asked her what was going on. I was worried but trying to ‘let her do her job’ as Mom had said.

Miko told me she was ‘brightening’ my hair. I had no more information than when I’d asked the question, so I just nodded. Then Miko supplied the missing piece of the puzzle.

“Your mother ask for this,” Miko said, never letting up on the brushing.

But then an older woman came up to with a rolling cart and took my right hand and began doing something to it. I slowly glanced down–to not disturb Miko’s work–and the woman was stripping my nail polish! Gee, I’d only had it on about two hours, and I liked that shade! But I lay back.

Miko seemed to be done with my hair but then began putting goop on my eyebrows. Ah, to match the brightening, whatever that is, I thought? Then she put a hand on me, said something, and rip and yow! I’d twitched and was just settling back for a second rip and Miko smiled and bent to work again on my brows. Okay, they can grow back, I thought. But in three weeks?

The nail lady had moved to my left hand; all the poking and prodding and funny feelings were blurring together and it had been a school day and the run from Steve Duncan and I just drifted off a bit, I guess. The next thing I knew I was being brushed by Miko. I shook myself, feeling a little fuzzy, and yawned slightly. I could see my feet, and was surprised that my shoes were off and my toenails had plum nail polish! I hadn’t done that at home; I’d only been thinking about my fingers and didn’t have that much time to get ready before Shelly’s mom would arrive.

I looked up and saw Mom standing a few feet away, smiling at me. Actually, smiling didn’t do her justice. She was radiating happiness, broadcasting it, with a huge smile, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, sweetie!” was all she said.

Miko appeared next to her. “Good?” she asked.

“Great!” Mom nodded.

Miko smiled and then turned to me. “Okay, you look.” She spun the chair around.

I remember once seeing a novelty snow-globe, but not like the typical snow-globe that had a city or mountain scene–a winter scene. The novelty one I’d seen was a beach, with a beach umbrella and beach ball and those folding chairs and on the little backdrop you could see the ocean in the distance. And when you shook it up, it snowed. It was just kind of slamming the two seasons together.

For some reason that silly snow-globe came to mind when I looked in the mirror.

It took a moment but then I knew it was me. My eyes looked at my eyes and there I was in a chair and there was Mom and Miko in the reflection. But it wasn’t Benjamin, and it wasn’t Abby as I’d gotten used to seeing in the mirror over the last month.

This was a really pretty girl.

I was glad that I had that moment of not knowing it was me, because it gave me a chance to give an honest, objective assessment. Modesty didn’t enter into it, or embarrassment, or vanity, or anything else. It was just my reaction observing a girl …who was really pretty.

And she was me, and instantly I felt more confident. ‘So that’s what Mom meant,’ I thought. Then I realized that Mom hadn’t seen this girl. So …

My hair was still past my shoulders but flowed. It swept down with feminine grace, framing my face. And especially complementing my eyebrows, which were now delicate arches. They and my hair were, yes, brighter than I remembered, but not colored. Not streaky highlights, either. Just …brighter.

I reached up to my hair and saw the plum nail polish and suddenly realized that my nails were longer! She’d put some fake nails or extensions or wraps or whatever they’re called–I had so much to learn!–but they were just a bit longer than my old nails and were feminine ovals.

And I had some makeup …how long had I been asleep?

It wasn’t movie-star stuff, just mascara, eye shadow, subtle liner, some blush and lipstick, but omigod it looked wonderful!

Mom said, “Do you like it?”

“I love it! Everything!” I said. I spun the chair to smile at Miko. “Thank you, Miko! And the other lady that helped–thank you both!”

The hostess had walked up and shook her head. “How in the world did that beautiful girl ever think she was a boy?”

Her remark freaked me out. I glanced at Mom who seemed unperturbed. Did the woman guess about me, somehow? But her next remark relieved me.

“The whole tomboy thing …” She shook her head. “I acknowledge it, but I just don’t get it. I can never understand why such a pretty girl wouldn’t want to be pretty!”

I didn’t have an answer for that, so I said, “It’s not me; it’s really good work from Miko and the other lady. Thank you.”

The hostess smiled. “And she’s polite and gracious, too,” she smiled at Mom. “But now you’re going to have your hands full! The boys will be chasing her!”

Inside, a little voice screamed at the reality that a few hours ago, that was exactly what had happened–but not the way she meant!

And, of course, it meant that Mom and I would be talking about boys …

End of Part 4

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 5

Chapter 13: Shocking Tea

I came home a very different person than I’d been when I woke up that morning. I was exhausted, deliriously happy, and looking forward to life–and absolutely terrified. But Mom had a basic rule.

“This might be self-evident, but it’s important that it be acknowledged between us. From now on, Benjamin is no more. Alright? Don’t feel that you have to hold back with anything. Don’t censor yourself or your actions because they might seem too girlish. You are a girl. Benjamin is over. If you try to somehow keep Benjamin alive, all you’ll do is cause problems for yourself. You are Abigail from now on.”

“What about school?”

“Is that going to be your new mantra?” Mom looked disapproving. “How about, ‘What else can I do?’, huh? Benjamin is the past and you’re living in the now and moving into the future.”

“Mom …”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know; ‘what about school?’ Okay. I’ll call Barbara Carey tomorrow. So you can’t do anything about anything until then, right? So go to sleep, my darling girl, and dream sweetly.”

I did, in my nightgown and trying not to think about anything, as ordered. No dreams, though, which was probably a blessing.

In the morning I got up, showered, powdered and wrapped myself in my robe and had breakfast and Mom said she wanted me to put on my school uniform. There was something about the way she said, “It’s hanging in the back of your closet.”

I wondered if she was curious how girly I would look dressed as Benjamin so I approached it as just something to humor her–and find out for myself–and went to my closet. To my complete and utter amazement a complete Morton uniform hung there, brand new–a girl’s uniform! Light blue and white blouses with the familiar Peter Pan collars with a plastic bag holding the ribbon ties around the hanger. The blazer was the same–until I looked closer and saw that it was a girl’s, with a different cut and the buttons reversed, of course. Slacks appeared the same but were cut differently, too. And best of all …best of all …was the skirt! Three of them, actually. And hanging against the wall was the girls’ PE outfit.

“Mom!” I shouted.

“Abby, I’m not deaf,” Mom said, so close she startled me.

I turned to her grin. “What’s all this?”

“This is what a well-dressed Morton Academy girl wears to school. Why? What did you think it was?”

“When did …how did …”

“I’m guessing that the answers are ‘About three weeks ago’, and ‘While you were having breakfast’. So …try them on.”

I was so excited that I disrobed and pulled on panties and a bra. I noted with happiness that my nipples on my little breasts hardened in the sudden chill when the robe came off. I knew they’d embarrass me in the future but the doctors were pleased and I was overjoyed with how my breasts were developing.

I put on the blouse and then pulled on the skirt and tucked in the blouse, then opened the bag to the ribbon ties and tied it properly, then the blazer. Finally, I quickly stepped into black flats, added my jewelry and took a deep sigh at myself in the mirror. Miko’s hairstyle was brilliant; it looked cute when it was sleep-tousled, and brushed out it looked great!

And I looked great–and I looked ordinary. I looked like any pretty girl at Morton. My breath caught in my throat. I think Mom had the same reaction.

“Oh, sweetheart! You’re a Morton Girl!”

I turned to her and hugged her. “I hope so. God, I hope so! But thank you for letting me see what I’d look like. I was kind of worried.”

Mom smiled at me and surprised me by telling me to grab my coat and purse. And then we went right to the school! I was super nervous, but I was carried along by how wonderful–and yet again, how ordinary–it felt to be there dressed like I belonged. To my further surprise, we went to Mrs. Carey’s living quarters at the back of the school. It was actually the original house that the school had grown from; her daughters were grown and married and she’d been widowed when I was little.

And Mrs. Carey was expecting us.

“Come in, come in, Marion, Abigail,” she smiled.

Whew, I thought! At least I didn’t have to go through an explanation.

We got settled and she had tea already made–I guess when Mom alerted her–and we sat, all very domestic. Mrs. Carey looked at me, smiling.

“I must say that I was wrong. I always thought that Benjamin would make a pretty girl. I had no idea that she would be so lovely. You really are remarkably pretty, Abigail.”

“Um, thank you, Mrs. Carey,” I blushed. “Do you mean that? About always thinking that about Benjamin?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, as if it were the most natural, trivial thing. “Your father and I talked about it, as well as talks I’ve had with your mother. The question wasn’t so much ‘if’ as ‘when’.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We were fairly certain, from your very first few years, that you were transgendered, although I have my suspicions that there is a medical cause underlying that. But there was little doubt that you always were female in your soul. Quite frankly, we worried about your safety.” She sipped her tea. “Amazing that it was only yesterday that the danger finally manifested.”

Mom said, “From what I understand, Benjamin had mastered the art of being invisible.”

Mrs. Carey nodded. “A good description. But by Middle it’s impossible to be invisible on matters of sex and sexuality. It’s all they think about, once they start thinking about it.” She made a small smile. “I wouldn’t teach Middle schoolers for all the tea in China.”

“Well, as you said, the danger has manifested,” Mom said.

Mrs. Carey put her cup and saucer down, folded her hands and addressed me. “Strictly off the record, could you tell me what happened?”

I told her everything, especially praising Shelly and Monica, but also the other girls that had run defense for me all day once Lu reported what she’d overheard.

Mrs. Carey nodded, with a pleased smile. “If there was any doubt as to your acceptance as a girl by the girls, yesterday dispelled that. They see you as one of their own. I don’t foresee too much difficulty in January. There are a few potential problem children, but I’ve reviewed the files and feel that we can weather any difficulties they present.”

“Ma’am?” I asked, unsure of her meaning.

Mrs. Carey looked a little embarrassed. “When we pre-screen applicants, one of the areas that has caused some concern in recent years has been religious extremism. We and other schools have found that the …demographics for schools such as ours generally enjoy a very low percentage of …zealots, shall we say. But some may be in any school and their presence becomes known only when a situation arises that …inflames their zealotry.”

I said, “We’re not talking suicide bombers, but ….”

Mrs. Carey’s mouth pursed in a small smile. “No, I believe not. But religious zealotry and bigotry still rear up from time to time. Greenwood school was blindsided with a lawsuit–particularly tricky to fight, the way it was constructed–over three gay students, brought by two so-called Christian families. They were demanding the sin of homosexuality be cleansed from the school. And, in a dazzling display of hypocrisy altogether consistent with religious extremists, they completely ignored four lesbians, all of whom were quite open.”

“Did the gay students win?”

“Eventually. And yet not at all. Two of them left the school and the one remaining family toughed it out but suffered business losses engineered by the extremists.”

I looked at Mom. “Suddenly I’m scared.”

Mom smiled. “I’m not.”

I said, “Mrs. Carey, I don’t want to bring any dishonor or notoriety on Morton Academy. I love it here and it’s my home, but rather than cause problems, maybe I should just transfer to a public school.”

“That’s gracious and courageous of you, Abby,” Mrs. Carey smiled, “and just what I would expect from a Russell woman–and a Morton Girl!”

I felt wonderful–but still scared.

“Seriously, Mrs. Carey,” I said. “I would dearly love to attend but it will cause too many problems.”

Mrs. Carey pursed her lips again. “Among the many points of pride here at Morton Academy is our inclusive nature. We tend towards a very liberal student body. Now, there will always be homophobes such as Steve Duncan, no matter where you go. Our student body is multiethnic and multicultural. Steve’s behavior was reprehensible and utterly unacceptable in any civilized society. If we were to sweep the problem under the rug, so to speak, or have you remove yourself to another school, then Steve Duncan–and any who would agree with him–will not learn the barbarism of his actions. Even if punished, to his way of thinking, the punishment would be either due to getting caught–and not the action itself–or would be perceived by him merely as a way of protecting the victim. In either case, he does not learn the error of his ways–to put it mildly.”

Mom said, “The only true way to let bigots or racists learn that their beliefs are out of step with society is through exposure to peer pressure. When they learn that almost nobody else thinks and believes as they do, when they learn that they are ostracized or even ridiculed for their beliefs, then they can examine their wrong-headed ideas and begin to change.”

“Take a family of Klan members in Alabama or Mississippi,” Mrs. Carey said casually. “To children growing up in that family, racism is taught as a matter of course. They think everybody knows that blacks are inferior to whites. They think everybody knows the Catholic Church is secretly trying to enslave them. And any of the other silly ideas they have. It’s only when they get out of that family, that community, that racist environment, that they discover that hardly anybody believes the same things. And that they suffer a social stigma if they continue to cling to their racist beliefs.”

I nodded. “That all makes sense, but …to the black man they’re lynching, he might hope for a speedier, less violent learning process.”

Both Mom and Mrs. Carey laughed at how I’d put it, as I’d intended.

Mrs. Carey was still chuckling. “You are your father’s daughter, the way you phrased that. Well done!”

I said, “If you’re sure the school can …handle the uproar …” Inside I was glowing from her comment about my father.

Mrs. Carey picked up her cup and took a sip of tea. “Are you sure you can handle the silence when you show up as Abby and everybody shrugs and says, ‘So you’re a girl? We knew it all along. What’s for lunch?’”

Mom chuckled. “Terrible blow to a girl’s ego!”

I looked from one to the other. “You’re kidding, right?”

Mrs. Cary put her cup down again, laced her fingers and smiled at me. “Unless you present me with a serious objection, I am ‘handling the uproar’ by expecting Abigail Elizabeth Houseman to be in all of her classes the first school day of the new year.”

Chapter 14: Rearranging Things

Actually, I had a serious objection. But I forgot about it, carried along with the euphoria of walking back to the car. Mom gave me her Cheshire Cat smile and was quiet for the short drive home. Back in my room, I carefully and lovingly removed the uniform and put on a denim skirt over gray leggings, and a fisherman’s knit sweater over a white camisole. I thought I was just going to lay around the house, but Mom told me once again to grab my coat and purse–frowning at my flats–and then we were off to Hartford.

I loved my black boots and Mom took us to two shoe stores where I acquired a lovely brown pair and some black low boots that were perfect for snowy winter walking and also fit my outfit. I wore those new boots, but was still careful in the snowy parking lots. Next, we went to a huge furniture store and found a white vanity and bureau set, and arranged for it to be delivered the next day. Only then did we hit the clothing stores proper. Mom told me that we were looking for more ‘everyday’ clothing.

“After all, you’re going to be dressing as a girl every day!” she teased in a ‘golly-gee-whiz’ kind of voice. Then in her regular voice, she added, “Because what else would a girl wear?”

We debated a movie but decided on dinner in town and then an early night. The restaurant host said, “Right this way, ladies” and I was thrilled and wondered if it would ever sound ordinary to me.

A slow dark drive back and once home, I didn’t so much put my things away as stack them; everything would be moved around and placed differently once the furniture arrived.

We watched an old Julia Roberts movie with cocoa, our legs curled up under us, enjoying things. Then something a character said made me remember my ‘serious objection’ that Mrs. Carey had asked about.

“Mom, it’s not all about me,” I said. “I mean, going to Morton as Abby …it’s not about will Steve hurt me or won’t he.”

“Good, because I vote for ‘won’t he’,” Mom grinned.

“Seriously, Mom; it’s about the other kids. To be really graphic, what restroom am I going to use? Or showers, in Upper?”

“How is that graphic? The girls’, of course.”

“I mean, don’t you think somebody might object–and not just religious extremists–to the presence of a boy in the girls’ restroom or showers?”

“But you’re not a boy, are you? We’re pretty clear on that.”

“That’s the graphic part. I have a penis. Regardless of how I feel about it, don’t you think some girls or some parents will object to …the presence of a penis in the girls’ restroom?”

“An interesting way to put it, like it’s disconnected and somehow walking around by itself!” she chuckled.

“Yeah, and I wish it was disconnected,” I grumbled.

She turned to really look at me.“You really do, don’t you? You really don’t want your penis.”

“No. I’ve never had a connection to it. It’s funny; since my breasts have started developing, it’s become really obvious to me that I love them as an extension of myself, of my femininity. Oh, I know that little girls before they develop–or women after breast surgery–are every bit as feminine even without breasts, but they’ve had a life as females since birth. My breasts are so new that I have to look at them differently. They’re like an expression of my gender. And I …don’t love my penis as an expression of my gender, and never did.”

“You were going to say that you love your breasts and you hate your penis?”

I sighed. “I go around and around this with Dr. Nielson. I don’t actively hate it. It just doesn’t belong there! I told Dr. Nielson it’s like having a sixth finger on a hand. Or a little third leg sticking out of my hip. It doesn’t belong there and should be removed.” I shrugged. “It’s as simple as that. But I know that the law says I have to wait until I’m eighteen.” I groaned. “Five years stuck with it!”

Mom didn’t say anything further that night, but I thought I saw a touch of the Cheshire Cat about her, but I was sleepy and that was it for the night.

Sunday snowed and I worried about the truck but the guys made it, crunching through the new drift to bring boxes to the porch. They stamped their feet and put on booties and carried the boxes into my room. I’d spent the morning taking things out of my old boy’s dresser and putting them on the bed.

The guys came in and asked, “Where do you want the items, miss?” and I loved being called ‘miss’ and pointed where each one went and then was pulled out by Mom, who whispered to leave them alone ‘with their big boy stuff’.

They left with every scrap of box and packing material and with my old dresser to donate. Then Mom and I rearranged everything else in the room and began the sorting and folding and hanging and that took the better part of the day–she insisted that I have an ironing lesson along the way–and then ordered a delivery pizza for fun. I pointed out that it wasn’t fun for the delivery guy, and Mom laughed and said if New England stopped doing things when the snow fell, nothing would get done half the year.

I had a doctor’s appointment Monday morning so it was an early night. In the morning I put on my cold-weather boots, tights, skirt, and sweater, and went to see Dr. Nielson, followed by a meeting with Dr. Randall.

And then I met Dr. Kramer …

Apparently Mom’s Cheshire grin on Saturday night was because she knew all about this, of course. It was a three-step process. First, we told Dr. Nielson my determination to start the new year as Abby full-time. She smiled and nodded. We talked about genitals and I told her my concerns about the protests of others. She asked if I could wave a magic wand, what would I do? I grinned and said, “Make all traces of Benjamin vanish. All documents and all physical traces.” She nodded and smiled and wrote in her file, handed it to Mom and I was off to see Dr. Randall.

Paper gown time; I was gently probed and felt up and told to remain where I was, in the stirrup chair. Mom was smiling at me but not coming up with any explanation. Dr. Randall left and returned with Dr. Kramer, a blonde woman that looked Scandinavian. We were introduced and then an explanation came–and a good thing I was in the stirrup chair or I would have fallen to the floor.

Everybody was in agreement that the time was right for ‘the procedure’. I’m sure it had a fancy name with a lot of syllables, but among them it was only called ‘the procedure’. Dr. Randall promised that he and Dr. Kramer could basically tuck all of my Benjamin genitalia and make it look like Abby’s genitalia. My testicles were still inside me, otherwise they’d be placed back in my abdomen. But I would be catheterized and my penis folded back on itself and up. There was some discussion about my perineum, the part of the body that boys called ‘the taint’ that was between the anus and the scrotal sacs. The length is apparently one of the skeletal factors used to determine the sex of the individual–boys’ are longer. And mine was shorter, much more like a girl’s, and was just one more checkbox in my favor for life as a girl. The empty scrotal sacs would be pulled down and everything surgically glued into place. The final result would look like a girl’s external genitalia; even six inches away it would look pretty authentic.

Wow.

I wanted it, absolutely, but I raised my last objection. “Couldn’t it still be said–I’m thinking of the lawyers for parents that complain about a penis in the girls’ restroom–couldn’t it still be said that it’s super-glued but it’s still there? As in, still present?”

“A very smart question to ask, and you might have a career in law,” Dr. Kramer nodded. “And let me answer by speaking in generalities. In legal terms, the presence of a penis determines sexual categorization, but it’s the potential activity of a penis that determines threat. This has all been ruled on, many times, so there is a large body of legal precedent.”

Dr. Randall said, “The androgen blockers and hormones you receive have eliminated any chance of an erection.”

“But I’ve never even had an erection,” I pointed out.

He countered. “That’s in your favor as a patient, but as a potential defendant, it’s meaningless. If a man let a pit bull run loose on the grounds that ‘he’s never bitten anyone’, would you feel safe that the dog never will?”

“Uh, no …”

“So your personal history has no bearing, legally,” Dr. Randall nodded. “But medically, we can prove that you are incapable of …activity with your penis.”

“Sexual assault,” Dr. Kramer said. “He’s pussyfooting around what he means. But I do want to warn you to avoid a physical fight with another girl at all costs. A sharp lawyer would say it was sexual aggression.”

“But I’ve never done anything like that!”

“And not likely to, young lady,” Mom said, keeping her hand in.

Dr. Kramer soberly said, “But the dog hasn’t bitten anyone …” and her point was made.

Dr. Randall said, “It’s part of your file that you are …well, the common term is ‘chemically castrated’, which means–”

“I know what it means, Dr. Randall,” I smiled. “And don’t worry; it’s fine with me. Castration is something I want. Okay?”

He grinned. “I know you do, Abby. And you’re there already. Actually, you may have been even before you took the blockers, but we’ll never know.”

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “But I had to do something.”

“Understood,” he nodded. “But now we can conclusively prove, medically, that your penis is not a threat. And then, with the procedure, it renders the whole issue moot.”

“Um …I’m pretty sure what that means, but I’m not sure if we’re there yet,” I said. “I have a scenario. Two scenarios. Nightmares, actually. Tell me how the procedure works in these cases. First, I’m in the girls’ restroom with my girlfriends, touching up our makeup, and a girl walks in and screams ‘There’s a boy in the girls’ room!’ and a big brouhaha and her parents come with a lawyer and say, ‘Our daughter knows that just last month, that was a boy named Benjamin and now you expect us to believe he’s a girl all of a sudden?’

The adults looked at each other. Dr. Randall started to speak but Mom quickly said, “And what’s the second scenario, honey?”

“The second scenario is I’m jumped by Ste–by some boys. They’re screaming ‘Get the sissy!’ and that sort of thing. They flip up my skirt and pull down my panties. What then?”

Dr. Kramer said with some force, “You’re being raped. They should be arrested and prosecuted. But you’re wondering about them knowing that you’re a boy but then seeing what appears to be a vagina. So they retaliate.” Suddenly she gasped. “Or they try to really rape you, and discover …”

I nodded. “Nightmares.”

There was silence. Then Mom said, “Lie.”

The doctors looked at her with confusion.

The lightbulb went on. “Shelly,” I said, and Mom nodded.

We explained Shelly’s advice to me to lie that I’d been born female but with a birth defect that had looked like a penis. Dr. Kramer was nodding and murmured, ‘Enlarged clitoris’ and I knew we were on the same track. I finished up and they all began speaking in rapid-fire medical talk. Mom and I shrugged and left them to it. Dr. Randall called Dr. Nielson and then told us she’d be there in five minutes.

“Can Abby get dressed now, or can we at least get a blanket for her?” Mom asked, and a blanket was draped over me and I was grateful. But why couldn’t I just get dressed?

The doctors seemed to be throwing ideas against the wall when Dr. Nielson walked in, concerned. Dr. Randall spoke quickly and they did the multi-syllable thing back and forth and even what sounded like some legal cases. Finally they finished and faced Mom and me.

Dr. Randall said, “Your friend had a remarkably astute idea, especially since I assume she’s another thirteen-year-old?”

I nodded. “Where I’m smart in English and History, she’s the Science whiz.”

Dr. Kramer said, “I would encourage her in that direction. I’d like to meet her. Doctor?”

She deferred to Dr. Randall, who said, “It’s a bit of a stretch and yet not much, so ethics are observed. Your detailed medical records are completely confidential, of course; I want to assure you of that right from the start. Now, you’re in need of what we could call ‘a cover story’. One that would explain Benjamin in December and Abigail in January.”

Mom and I nodded.

“And do I understand correctly that you have the approval of the headmistress for the …transition?”

“Absolutely,” Mom said. “We met with Barbara Carey yesterday; Abby was in her girl’s uniform and was welcomed.”

“Alright then,” Dr. Randall grinned. “This is almost too easy! We can craft a public document–in the sense that it’s in your personal file at school or for legal situations but is not your complete medical file. The document will state essentially what your young Science whiz surmised. The baby that had been expected to be female was, in fact, born female but was subject to a late-term hormonal event that spurred penile development of the clitoris. At birth you presented as a small male–they don’t look too closely sometimes–and your parents hurriedly came up with the name Benjamin, after months of being assured they would have a daughter, Abigail.”

Dr. Nielson said, “We’ve covered your childhood thoroughly; there’s nothing inconsistent with a gender-variant or misdiagnosed female. In other words, your childhood was not a boy’s.”

Dr. Randall resumed. “With the onset of puberty your true female nature was discovered; medical evaluation determined that you are a female misdiagnosed at birth. A minor surgical procedure over the holidays and you can begin your life properly, as Abby.”

I was amazed but had to ask, “But what about the operation at eighteen?”

“Oh, you’ll still have that,” he nodded. “But you’ll have five years of completely establishing yourself as a girl. And then maybe some …abdominal problems, perhaps, to explain your need for surgery then?”

Dr. Nielson grinned. “One of those ‘women’s problems’ perhaps?”

Dr. Randall laughed. “Exactly! Nobody will know. But the important thing is that you will have those precious five years. And can start your new life in a few weeks.”

Mom said, “Any boys that you saw naked will be creeped out, probably, but that’s not legally actionable. The vitally important thing is that both of your scenarios are answered. The girl in the restroom scenario is handled by the information that you’re not a boy and never were. If you were feeling frisky you could even pull your panties down and show her–that should shut her up!”

There was some laughter at that. Mom went on. “And the far more dangerous gang-rape scenario–and we will do everything possible to protect you–could be defused by proving to St …” She broke off as I had, reluctant to say his name, and looked around.

I said, “Mom, I did the same thing. I was almost attacked; I was certainly chased. We’ll just call him Steve.”

Mom grinned. “Alright. Steve objects to a sissy. Steve has no objections to girls. I’ll talk with Barbara Carey; perhaps over the holidays we can contact his family and tell them that you’re a girl and not a boy and hopefully eliminate that threat.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I murmured.

Dr. Nielson said, “I’ll get started on a draft of the document, and I can run it by your legal department?”

Dr. Randall nodded. “Absolutely. I was going to suggest that.”

I said, “I probably shouldn’t bring this up but …aren’t you …um …lying? I mean, Mom and I can say whatever we want for …my protection, I guess.”

“Honey?” Mom said, worried.

I looked at her to acknowledge her concern but turned back to the doctors.“But, I have to ask …you are all bound by your oaths to tell the truth, right? So you can’t tell the story about me being born female.”

There was a very odd look shared between the doctors.

Dr. Kramer spoke first. “Actually, I think you’re referring to the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s …it’s about doing our utmost to heal, basically. And to respect your privacy. In fact, one sentence goes like this: ‘I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know.’ But there’s nothing in there about being bound to tell only the truth.”

Dr. Nielson said, “It’s an elective oath, too, by the way; a lot of medical schools no longer require it, sad to say.”

“I agree,” Dr. Randall nodded. “It was one of the proudest moments of my life. But …” He looked at Mom and said, “Mrs. Houseman?”

There was the strangest smile on Mom’s face. “I think it’s time to tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I demanded. “You guys are freaking me out!”

“I don’t think the oath says we can’t freak out our patients, does it?” Dr. Randall said.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Dr. Kramer grinned.

“Sometimes a good freak out is just what they need!” Dr. Nielson chuckled.

“You guys!” I almost shouted.

“It’s not a lie,” Dr. Randall said, grinning at me.

“Huh? What? What’s not a lie?”

“That you were born female,” Dr. Nielson said.

“Wait …you’re …I don’t ...Mom?” I turned to my only certainty.

Mom spoke calmly, although her smile was twitching with glee. “Doctors, could you please tell my daughter why she’s my daughter?”

Dr. Randall said, “I’d be honored. Abby, when you were born the doctors looked at your penis and declared you a boy.”

“Well, they generally do go together …” I joked. “But …”

He held up a hand. “Had they done genetic testing you would have posed a puzzle to them.”

Dr. Kramer said, “Still only two places when she was born.”

“Huh?” I said again. “I’m sorry; you’re talking like I have some information I don’t.”

Dr. Kramer said, “I’m sorry; my remark was to Dr. Randall but he’ll explain what ‘two places’ means.”

Dr. Randall said, “Abby, you said your friend is the Science whiz, but I know you’re an extremely intelligent girl yourself. Do you know about DNA, about the determination of sex by chromosomes?”

“You mean, XX girl, XY boy?” He nodded and I did, too. “The basics. That’s about it.”

Dr. Kramer said, “Abby, those letters, XX or XY? That’s two places. One place for each letter, each chromosome.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you were saying that if I’d been tested for DNA at birth, I’d have been …what?”

“Well, XY,” Dr. Randall said.

For some reason, that totally deflated me. I felt terrible. “Yeah, I’m a boy,” I said all grumpy.

“No, you’re not,” Mom said emphatically.

“No, you’re not,” Dr. Randall nodded with her.

“Excuse me?” I frowned.

Dr. Randall said, “We now factor the sex determination chromosomes to several places, if the individual has them. Mind you, the majority of people are XX or XY and stop there. But there are individuals who have a genetic makeup that includes additional markers. You are one of those people.”

“This is a good thing?” I said.

“For you, it explains so much. Basically you are …well, I’ll make it simple. You are XY …XXX and that’s as far as we’ve gotten–so far.”

Mom said, “You hear that, sweetheart? You are female–four out of five!”

“Maybe even nine out of ten, if we can factor that far,” Dr. Kramer grinned. “All of her indicators point towards that.”

I was numb. “So that …explains why I’m like me …but …what about legally and all that?”

Dr. Nielson frowned. “That’s the sticky part. The law in this state has only recently accepted DNA evidence in criminal cases, and they’re still woefully behind on other matters.”

“They would only read the first two markers, the first two places, unfortunately,” Dr. Kramer said.

“At least in criminal cases of evidence,” Dr. Nielson pointed out.

I said, “You mean, they’d only look at the XY and not the other Xes?”

“If the evidentiary rules of criminal cases apply to other areas,” Dr. Nielson said. “If that’s the case, legally–and you are sharp to zero in on that–legally you would be a genetic male under the law and as such, not eligible for sexual reassignment surgery until eighteen.”

“So we’re right where we started,” I said sadly.

“Not at all,” Dr. Randall said. “Two points: First, our legal department will check whether additional genetic markers are allowable in cases of identity. They’ll be looking to other states’ determinations to establish legal precedents. That’s a key point–identity. Not just your sexual identity, but your identity as certified by your state-issued birth certificate. And second, our oath doesn’t require it, but we’re not lying when we testify that you were female at birth. The overwhelming preponderance of X markers determines that.”

I stared at him. “So the letter …isn’t a lie?”

“No,” Dr. Nielson grinned. “You are a girl. You were born a girl. A ‘misdiagnosis at birth’ is not quite accurate, because the genetic testing for multiple markers didn’t exist when you were born, and if a DNA test had been performed at the time of your birth, it would have come up male.”

“Oh! The ‘two places’ Dr. Kramer said!” I sat up.

“Yes. But as far as today’s science is concerned, the truth is that you were born female but were told you were a boy. The story your friend suggested is the exact truth–and she came up with it at thirteen!–and we will provide the documentation to support it. And that should satisfy the state and federal governments as to your identity. Your true identity, as Abigail Elizabeth Houseman.”

Mom said, “Do you understand, honey? We might be able to get a revised birth certificate, and you’ll be female on your driver’s license when you’re old enough–and best of all, your passport could say female! So that should take a load off your mind!”

I did; I felt so odd, kind of floating ...like I was weightless, and I realized that it was like I’d been cut loose from Benjamin, truly severed, and was ‘up in the air’. And when I finally came to earth, I would be Abigail, forever.

Mom had this happy, happy smile and I returned it.

Then, Dr. Kramer said, “So, boy and girls …” It took me a second to realize that the ‘boy’ was Dr. Randall.

“Ah!” Dr. Randall said. “The procedure.”

They were all turned and looked at me. Mom smiled.

“Honey, I’m asking this formally in front of these witnesses. Do you understand the nature of the procedure they’re talking about?”

“Folding the boy genitalia back into something resembling a girl’s genitalia? Yes.”

“Do you understand the pros and cons?”

Dr. Randall said, “We’ll make sure you can urinate normally. You’ll have to sit as all girls do, but Dr. Nielson assures me that you already do.”

I said, “Yes, I always have. My only question is, will this procedure screw up things for the operation at eighteen?”

“An excellent question, and the answer is no, not at all,” Dr. Randall smiled. “Anything else?”

I shook my head. Mom grinned and said, “So, now, Abby, in the presence of these witnesses, do you want this procedure?”

“I want the whole operation,” I grinned, “but right now I’ll settle for the procedure. Yes, absolutely!”

Ah, but then came a shot …

End of Part 5

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 6

Chapter 15: Show and Tell

Tuesday was a hoot. I was stoned from the shot, semi-delirious through the procedure and the drive home, and bundled into bed. It was all one big fuzzy dream full of tugging and pressure and weirdness. And then I slept straight through, almost to noon.

When I woke up I felt a little groggy like I’d slept too long, but at least I wasn’t stoned anymore. I swung my legs out of bed and whoa everything felt different and I pulled up my nightie and pulled down my panties and there it was! Or I should say, there it wasn’t! And I giggled and cried at the same time. Mom heard me and came in with a worried, ‘Honey?’ and I reached out my arms and we hugged and I sobbed–but with happiness.

Oddly enough in that day of oddness, the first thought I had was, ‘Let Steve Duncan pull my panties down now!’

Next came a shower, recommended by Mom to ‘sweep the last of the cobwebs away’. It felt wonderful and then amped up several levels of wonderful when I began soaping my breasts, tummy, and moved down and there was nothing there! I was careful and a little sore but oh, God! It felt like it should have always felt!

It was hard to see anything, really, so after drying I got a hand mirror from my vanity, lay on my bed and looked at myself.

It was so pretty!

I hadn’t been prepared for it to be pretty; I was concerned first with its existence, and second with its functionality, in the sense that it would prove that I was a girl.

But suddenly I realized why some girls called it their ‘little flower’. I was pleased and proud. And I wondered how over-the-moon I would be when I got my actual vagina!

I started dressing with new, ivory panties, and it was exquisite to pull them on and there was my smooth mound! I called out, ‘Mom!’ and she startled me by being right there, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Yes, dear,” she smiled. “Bikinis.”

“God! How did you read my mind?”

“It’s the first thought I had, too,” she chuckled. “And leotards. And maybe we can find you something today to celebrate your new status.” Then she almost giggled. “Time to warn you about camel toes, too!”

I blushed. “Already know about ‘em, Mom,” I giggled with her. “And I won’t lie–I’d be a little bit proud to have one!”

“After your journey so far, I understand. But still, now that you’re a young lady, propriety must be observed. Oh, I have some news for you. But finished getting dressed and get some breakfast in you.” She left.

I put on my bra, then a ribbed, rust-colored top, pulled on a denim skirt and did my hair and put on flats and went to eat.

Mom was being mean, not telling me my news until I got everything finished and put away, went back to put on makeup and jewelry, and, yes, grabbed my coat and purse.

In the car, once we were out of the driveway, I turned and said, “So …news?”

“Oh, it’s nothing …Abigail Elizabeth Houseman.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why the full name?”

“How much of our discussion yesterday do you remember? Before the procedure, I mean?”

“Um …most of it, I think, until the shot, and then everything kind of melted.”

Mom chuckled. “Interesting way to put it. Alright; I’ll do a slight recap and fold it into the calls I’ve had this morning.”

She paused as she negotiated a turn at a busy intersection. Once we were in the traffic flow, she began.

“As you may or may not remember–and please, ladies and gentlemen, save your questions for the end of our presentation–you are genetically female when all of the genetic markers are added up. At the time of your birth, your birth certificate was based on the …”

“Dangly boy bit?” I said, like an old Monty Python line. “Sorry.”

“That was your one free interruption,” Mom teased. “But it was exactly right, but let’s add one word. Your birth certificate was based on your dangly alleged boy bit. And they did no routine DNA testing at the time. So ...”

Another turn.

“So, the hospital’s legal department has been buzzing since yesterday afternoon and had some news for me earlier today and then called again just when you were in the shower.”

She paused as she pulled into the mall–our mall.

“We’re going here?” I said, worried, and then said, “Sorry. Not for the interruption; for the …little freak out. Of course I shop here now. I’m a girl now. No going back, right?”

“No, sweetheart; no going back.” She parked, turned and looked at me. “You’re ready?”

“For the mall, yes, but not until you tell me about the phone calls!”

She acted innocent. “Oh! Did I say anything about any phone calls?”

“Mom!”

She laughed. “Alright. What I’m going to tell you is a work in progress, okay? They gave me an update but …you know the saying ‘daylight at the end of the tunnel?’ Well, that’s where they are, where we are. We’re still in the tunnel, moving forward.”

“So how is that any different than last night?”

“Ah! To keep my metaphor going, we’re in the tunnel but we’ve established there is, in fact, light at the end of it–guaranteed light, so to speak. And we know we’re heading in the right direction, and the way is straight and clear. And it just takes time to traverse the last remaining bit of straight tunnel into the light.” She tilted her head and looked surprised. “Whew! That metaphor worked better than I thought!”

“Okay. Now, if you could un-metaphor it for me. Or de-metaphor.”

“What did Shelly call you sometimes? Little Miss English?”

“Missy Perfect English Girl,” I smiled, remembering. “God, I miss her! I hope she’s okay!”

Mom nodded but didn’t comment. “To translate the metaphor into concrete terms, then. The hospital legal department, pushed by Dr. Randall, determined this morning that with changes in medical science and medical law, you are, in fact, female and they’ve mounted the case to petition the state for a change of name and change of birth certificate. It’s a one-two process usually, for medical reasons. But in your situation, they’re approaching it differently. They’re taking the angle that your original birth certificate is fraudulent, which is very different than petitioning to alter an existing, true document.”

“Mom, are they …stretching things? Calling it fraudulent?”

“The doctors are confident and, honey, they’re certainly mindful of their reputations. They wouldn’t be doing any of this if it wasn’t true and justified. You’re just reluctant to accept the whole truth, and I don’t blame you. You’re cautious, and that’s very wise. But I’ve got to tell you, I was floored when they told me! I just kept saying, ‘Wait, wait; go back. What?’ and they kept taking me over the details. I’m convinced, and they’re convinced. And the lawyers are convinced; they’re working on convincing the state. So …are you convinced?”

“Um, kinda,” I said, sheepishly. “Sorry I questioned. Go on. I’m in a tunnel …”

Mom chuckled at that. “Okay. So the lawyers say it’s only a matter of time–and I gather they mean in the next month, maybe sooner–and you will be legally declared a female at birth and a new birth certificate will be ordered. I know that ‘fraudulent’ bothers you, so how’s this? ‘Corrected’. Your birth certificate will be corrected. I filled out papers last night while the doctors worked on you, so while we may have to make a court appearance, it’s in the hands of the lawyers and courts now.”

I was actually getting excited about the possibilities; so much so that I forgot my anxiety about going into ‘our’ mall. “So the upshot is …”

“The upshot is that very soon–I’ll tease you and say ‘as soon as an hour from now and as long as six months from now’–you will be declared completely and utterly female at birth. All of your legal and school documentation will change to reflect that; and we’ll apply for a passport for you as well.”

She looked at me strangely. I couldn’t read it; usually I could but not right now. Plus, I was antsy about shopping. “That’s fantastic news! I can’t wait to call Shelly and Lu. Um …can we go in now?”

Mom grinned. “Sure, honey.”

I couldn’t figure out that look but forgot about it while we shopped. On Mom’s whim, I got some leotards, white lower and royal blue upper, and some more tights, and of course some more odds and ends at Claire’s.

Coming out of Claire’s, we came face-to-face with Amy and her mother, Mrs. Holden, coming in.

There was a moment of polite smile and then Amy gasped. “Benjamin?”

“Abby,” I said with some force. “Excuse me,” I said to her mother. Amy was frozen, staring, and I plucked the sleeve of her coat to pull her out of the store entrance and over to a bench.

Mom stepped in quickly. “I’ll talk with Mrs. Holden for a moment. I’m Marion Houseman …” she began, as I stepped out of earshot.

Amy found her voice. “I can’t believe it! You look great! What’s going on? Do you do this often? Do you–omigod, your hair is so cute! And …”

“Amy, Amy; calm down and listen. You want to listen?” I said patiently.

She’d actually stopped speaking but her mouth still hung open. She closed it and nodded.

Okay, I thought, first field-test of the new story line.

“I’ll tell you everything if you promise to not interrupt.”

“I promise! And I won’t tell a soul! I promise that, too!” She crossed her heart.

I laughed. “No, Amy; I’m not swearing you to secrecy! This isn’t a secret, not anymore. So don’t worry about telling anybody, okay? There’s nothing to hide, okay?” If I said ‘okay’ enough times, maybe she’d get it, okay?`

She frowned. “But you’re dressing up like a girl in secret, at home, right?”

“No, I’m not ‘dressing up’ like a costume. I’m dressed like a girl because I am a girl,” I shrugged.

“But …”

I held up a hand. “Mom?” I called.

“Yes, honey?” she said, looking at me from a frowning Mrs. Holden.

I said, “Should we all go somewhere and tell this?”

Mom looked at Mrs. Holden who nodded. I noticed her frown had changed from sort-of disapproval to sort-of confused.

The mothers conferred for a moment. Amy said, “But you’re a boy–”

I shushed her, saying, “Please? Amy? Hold off on saying anything?”

The mothers walked up. Mom said, “Under the circumstances, nowhere is truly private enough here at the mall, so Mrs. Holden suggested her van.”

“It’s right out that entrance,” Mrs. Holden pointed. “We were just leaving but checking Claire’s before we left.”

In a matter of minutes we were in their van. The only weird thing was that as we walked, Amy gasped, “God! The way you walk!” and even her mother shushed her.

There was a little back-and-forth and it was decided Holdens up front, Housemans on the back bench. I slid in first, mindful of my skirt.

I looked at all of them and said, “I’ll go first. Mrs. Holden, I want to tell you first that at no time has there been any fraud or any hanky-panky or any weird stuff of any kind. You’ve always been very nice to me and I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, Benja …” She trailed off, realizing the name was all wrong.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Holden; I realize this is a freaky situation. And to explain it, I’m going to have to be a little …graphic in …”

Mom stepped in to relieve me. “She means she needs to discuss anatomy. With all due respect, of course.”

“Yes, exactly,” I nodded, glanced at Mom and began. “When I was born, I was supposed to be a girl. The way Mom carried me, all of the doctor’s visits, ultrasounds, everything. My name was picked out, Abigail Elizabeth. So when I was born, the doctors themselves were surprised that there was something that looked like a penis so they said that I was a boy. Apparently it was a shock to everybody. Since we were told that I was a boy, for thirteen years I’ve been trying to be a boy named Benjamin. But I never felt like a boy, I never thought like a boy. They’re the opposite sex to me. I always felt closer to girls, like I was one of them, except that I was supposed to be a boy, because that’s what they told me I was.”

I let that sink in.

Then I tried a new tack. “Mrs. Holden, Amy …you know boys and you know girls. Did you ever think I was a boy?”

Amy frowned and then shook her head. Mrs. Holden said, “Well, I don’t want to …”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Holden,” I said. “You can say anything. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

Mom said, “It will truly be best for everyone to say what they truly feel and truly mean. I think that you’ll find that …” She looked at me and smiled. “You’ll find that we’ve got pretty thick skins.”

Mrs. Holden nodded. “Fair enough. I always thought Benjamin was a gay boy. Extremely pretty and effeminate, and …” She frowned, looking at me. “You know, you’re right. You said that I know boys and I know girls. And I’ve met a few gay boys, too. You seemed …On the surface of things, you seemed like a gay boy. Small, delicate, pretty, long hair, the way you talk and walk and giggle and you were like just one of the girls …”

She stared. “Oh, my God! That’s it! You were like one of the girls because you were a girl! Are a girl!”

I nodded. “Mrs. Holden, some …medical things with me led us to get me checked out and …”

I noticed Mom frowning slightly at me and I realized that I needed to be clearer than ‘some medical things’.

“I’m sorry that sounded vague, and after I’d said I’d speak in graphic anatomical terms! Okay. Mrs. Holden, Amy …I started puberty. A female puberty. My breasts budded and are growing. That kind of made it evident I needed to see the doctors! Once they examined and examined again, the doctors found to their surprise that I’m female. Genetically, I mean, not just wishin’ and hopin’. They discovered that when I was born, what my birth doctors thought was my penis was an enlarged clitoris.”

Amy gasped, staring wide-eyed, while her mother nodded. “I’ve heard of this before.”

I said, “I’ve got more doctor things to do, but the lawyers are already changing things. Very soon a proper new birth certificate, a corrected birth certificate, will be issued stating that I was female at birth.” Mom was right; I liked ‘corrected’ much better.

Mrs. Holden said, “I understand. And it is true, isn’t it?”

Mom said, “Absolutely. And it explained so much …I can’t tell you how relieved I was. I’ve been so worried about her safety.”

Mrs. Holden said, “Honestly, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been–she hasn’t been attacked by now.”

“Amy? You okay?” I asked, noticing she was still staring.

“You’re really pretty and all, but …I don’t …” She was frowning. “I don’t want to be mean or anything, but I just don’t get it.”

Mrs. Holden said, “I can explain when we get home.”

Amy said, “But he’s a boy! Boys don’t change into girls!”

We all knew that Amy was still immature and pretty innocent, but I realized that her entire worldview was shaken. I came to a quick decision.

“Mrs. Holden; you said you were on your way home. Do you have an extra ten-fifteen minutes?”

“Certainly. We were done shopping and dinner won’t be started for another hour or so.”

“Could you both come with Mom and me? Back into the mall, I mean?”

So we shuffled out of the van and back through the crunchy snow to Macy’s. Amy did the gasp thing at how I put my purse over my shoulder, fluffed my hair, and so on. I noticed her mother’s smile twitching; she’d figured what I was up to and didn’t bother shushing Amy. Mom and I led them to the Ladies’ Room and we went in, earning another small shocked gasp from Amy. There was one woman finishing touching up her makeup and just leaving, and for a moment, anyway, it was just the four of us.

Mom said, “I’ll see if I can keep anybody else out for a moment.” She left us.

I said, “Mrs. Holden? Amy? This is going to be so weird for all of us so let’s just get it over.”

I quickly peeled off my top and heard an intake of breath at my bra. Mrs. Holden automatically reached out to hold my top for me. I reached behind and unclasped my bra.

Amy gasped. “You’ve got boobs!”

Her mother said, “Hush, honey. Yes, she does.” Her smiled twitched again. “She told us she does!”

Amy took two steps towards me, staring and frowning.

I sighed. “You could touch them if you want–if you need to.”

A hand started to raise, but she shook herself. “No, it’s okay. They’re boobs. Breasts, I mean.”

“Yes,” I said, quickly redoing my bra and taking my top from Mrs. Holden I pulled it on.

“Oh, God! The medical thing you said!” Amy said with surprise.

I nodded. Mrs. Holden said, “You must admit, Amy, that when Benjamin began developing breasts they had to see a doctor.”

Amy nodded automatically, still awed. Meanwhile, I unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it, standing in my ivory panties. Mrs. Holden again held my skirt. I hooked my thumbs in my panties and pulled them down all the way, stepped out of them and stood with my legs apart. Thank you, doctors, I thought fervently.

That got a gasp from both of them! Amy’s hand flew to her mouth, staring, but Mrs. Holden smiled and nodded. “You may get dressed, dear,” she said, just as Mom knocked on the door.

Mom’s head poked through. “Almost done?”

“Let them in,” I said, taking my skirt and stepping into it. I quickly stepped in a stall and closed the door. I could hear Mrs. Holden say, “Hush!” softly to Amy.

I flushed and came out and said, “Sorry!” but didn’t explain further to the two older women who entered as I washed up. I brushed my hair and touched up my lipgloss and saw Amy staring at me in the reflection. I hooked my arm through hers and whispered, “Now do you believe me?”

She nodded, still in shock, and we joined Mom outside. We escorted them back to their van. As Amy got in, she turned to me. “You’re a girl!” she said with surprise.

“Yes, Amy. And you’re a girl!” I teased. “Now that we’ve established that, are you still my friend?”

She startled and then grinned. “More than ever!” We hugged, and Amy leaned us from side to side in the joy of her hug.

I thanked her mother, who smiled. “You are most welcome, Abby, and I wish you all the best. Bless you, my dear!”

As they drove off, Mom said, “You know she’s going to blab, don’t you?”

“Counting on it!” I grinned, to Mom’s laughter.

Then we hit the stores determined to find a bathing suit. I tried on maillots and two-pieces and got one of each. Between the two I liked the maillot better; there was something about pulling on the single sheer piece of stretchy fabric from my shoulders, past the mounds of my breasts, and smoothly between my legs …

And I demanded to at least be allowed to try a tiny bikini, and Mom laughed and agreed and found a pink and white one with string ties. We were in the fitting room together and I was adjusting the bottom and thinking how fantastic it was that yesterday at this time, I would have had a little bulge from a penis but now I was smooth and sleek and–

–The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I swallowed. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” Then she gave me an odd little smile. “Did you just …think of something?”

I tied off the bikini quickly and went right up to her. Keeping my voice down as much as I could with my growing excitement, I said, “You said my …birth certificate,” I whispered, “would be new?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Corrected.”

“And …about waiting until I’m eighteen …” My mouth was dry and I stared at her.

She took a deep breath. “Don’t count chickens, but the lawyers think the eighteen requirement may be waived.”

“You mean …”

“We’ll talk about it later, sweetie,” she said, her eyes traveling.

I wanted to pin her against the wall and talk about it now but I didn’t trust myself to keep my voice down.. So I nodded.

Mom said, “And you are absolutely delicious in that pink bikini. And against my better judgment, we’ll get it, too.”

Chapter 16: Hints from Eloise

Back home I texted Lu and Shelly, telling them to call me anytime. Lu called immediately. I asked how she was; the weather was warm in San Francisco so she actually went bike-riding in Golden Gate Park. California was so alien to me! Lu said she met two cute boys but got dragged away by her mom. Laughing, she asked how I was.

I told her I was better than I’d ever been and would be even better. I told her my condensed story and unlike the shocked Amy, Lu just said, “Always figured it had to be something like that.” I could visualize her shrugging; it was no big deal. I was girl? No biggie; she’d always known.

I loved this girl!

She did recommend that we not trust ‘logic and reason’ with Steve Duncan when school started in January, and that we try to coordinate classes with Mrs. Carey so I was not alone–so I’d have at least one or more of my close friends around me at all times. And that my room get changed to the girls’ wing. How could I have forgotten that?

When I told Mom; she actually slapped her head–she’d forgotten, too! She went to call Mrs. Carey and I went to put my new things away. I especially liked knowing that I had a cute bikini–as if I’d ever get a chance to wear it!

Mom and I were sitting down to a baked chicken that I’d learned how to make when Shelly called. Mom said we could put it on speakerphone; Shelly didn’t mind.

“Hi, kids!” she shouted enthusiastically.

“Shelly? Modern technology–you don’t need to yell!” I teased.

“Sorry. Got carried away. Where are you?”

“Sitting down to dinner. We’ll save you some if you’ll be over later!”

“Yeah, I wish!” she laughed. “Actually, it’s not too bad. You still want to get together?”

“Um, gee, sorry, I have to wash my hair,” I joked. “You dummy! Of course I do! More than ever! When? And where are you?”

“Miami. Manhattan tomorrow. You wanna hang?”

“Absolutely! What’s your schedule?”

We talked about planes and transfers and hotels; Mom let me know that it was about three hours by train to Penn Station and then only a cab ride to The Plaza Hotel, where Shelly would be staying.

“I told Mom I refused to stay at the Trump place anymore. I think he’s a jerk. But I had to compromise and stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel in LA.”

“Poor baby!” I teased. “You’re really roughing it!”

“Yeah, I know it’s a big name and all, but I feel like I’m sixty years old there! And it’s not near anything. Not like the Beverly Wilshire. At least there, I can just walk around, but …Sorry.”

I knew Shelly wasn’t bragging about her wealth; she’d already told me about the hotels ‘just being rooms’ to her, so she was always more interested in the areas around them. I guess the Beverly Hills Hotel was isolated; I knew she’d told me the Wilshire is by the famous Rodeo Drive. But among the reasons that I loved Shelly was that she was so unlike the pretentious rich girls at our school, like Heather Maxwell.

Shelly went on. “Anyway, we’ll be at The Plaza tomorrow and remember my mother’s promise that we can get together and you …” She trailed off. “You still want me to come over?”

“Absolutely! I can’t wait!”

It was hard to not tell her about the revelations of the last 24 hours; my news could wait until we were together. After we hung up–first getting our schedules together–Mom and I began getting our house ready. Of course, I kept thinking that compared to The Plaza, we were pretty much small potatoes, but Shelly had never said anything about it and always seemed to have a great time here. The one funny thing she said for me to do was tell her mother that I loved Eloise. I had no idea who that was. I wondered if it was a Morton girl I didn't know.

“You know, from the books! The Plaza!” Shelly had sounded exasperated.

“Um …the books?”

“Sorry. I sometimes forget that you didn’t grow up a girl.”

If she only knew my news, I thought!

Shelly said. “There’s like half a dozen books or so about a little girl that lives at the top of The Plaza. Some people say she was based on Liza Minnelli. Anyway, the little girl lives at the top of The Plaza. She’s pretty famous. They’ve got a big portrait of her in the lobby. Or they did, last time I was there.”

“And Eloise is important because …”

“Because you loved the Eloise books when you were a little girl, and I thought it would be a nice thing to do for my best girlfriend to let her stay at her favorite hotel?”

“Aw, I’m your best girlfriend?”

“Geez, you know you are!”

“I like how you said ‘when I was a little girl’.”

“Well, it could have been true.”

I almost bit my tongue to keep from telling her my news.

“Wait a second–stay at the hotel?”

“Well, sure. Overnight at least, right?”

“Where are you guys doing Christmas? I mean, Christmas Day?”

“Um …” She seemed oddly embarrassed.

I jumped. “Do you want to spend it with us?”

“Um …I’m not sure. I’ve asked Mom three or four times and she’s kind of vague.”

“Shelly, is she …um …”

“Oh, not that kind of vague. She’s been amazingly dry and it’s been pretty much okay. She’s been leaving me alone a lot.”

“Shelly …why does she drag you around, then? I’m sorry; that’s rude.”

“No, it’s cool. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked that myself. But it was for appearances. There’s a …” She sighed. “There’s a power struggle going on in one of the companies she owns. And they got the bright idea of challenging her fitness as a mother, sort of. Some weird thing in their articles of incorporation with board members having to have high moral standards. Mom’s drinking and flings with pool boys wouldn’t really meet their standards. They had private eyes after her, checking up on her. So she’s gotten dry but I hope it’s for more than just this corporate thing.”

“Wow. It sounds like some best-selling thriller!”

“Yeah. So she’s showing that she’s a loving mother, doing lovely things with her beloved daughter during the holidays. And I kind of leveraged that into letting her beloved daughter’s best friend stay with her at The Plaza. So, you see, you’ve got to come to The Plaza, just for the corporate intrigue!”

“Cool! Uh, I’ve got to ask Mom, though.”

“Geez, Abby! I mean her, too! We’ve already got a room for you!”

Thus it was that Mom and I were on the train to Manhattan early the next morning. We had overnight bags and I loved that there was not a single item of Benjamin’s in my bag. Mom suggested I doze on the way in but I was too keyed up. I realized that Benjamin had pretty much been a drag, not feeling up to doing a lot of adventuresome things. I’d been to New York exactly twice and the first time I was too young to even remember.

We taxied from the craziness of Penn Station to the bustle of The Plaza with the timeless doormen. I was in awe of Central Park–it was right there! And the next thing was remarkable: A change came over Mom that I couldn’t figure out until I saw her with the Concierge. We had them check our bags for us and suddenly I realized that Mom was quite comfortable in this moneyed environment. She was just Mom to me, but I had forgotten that she came from a moneyed family, and Mom had been schooled in how to conduct herself. I asked that she teach me and she smiled.

“Watch me and if anything doesn’t make sense, ask. Some things are kind of odd and I’ll tell you why. I remember that some of the things I learned seemed silly to me.” She grinned. “Wait until we have tea!”

We planted ourselves in the lobby near the huge 25' tree and I asked Mom about Eloise. She pointed out where the painting was, and advised me to go study the pose. I did and two different people passed me and said something about ‘Isn’t she darling?’ and I realized they meant me, not the painting! I was wearing a black skirt and white tights into my black boots. I wore a pink sweater over a lilac camisole and a white puffy coat. My hair was brushed straight back and I had a white stretchy headband.

I guess I was sort of cute.

I was sitting with Mom for ten more minutes and then this entourage entered, almost like a mob of people circling around one woman; some huge movie star that I couldn’t name. I was thinking that I really needed to learn more about popular entertainment; I’d been isolated, insulated, in my own little world for too long. But then right behind the entourage was Shelly! I got up and quickly walked towards her only to have two of the entourage break away and come towards me, their hands shooing me away. They kept saying, ‘Sorry’ and I just looked at them.

“I’m going to see my friend,” I said, pointing at Shelly. They followed my point and Shelly was already waving.

The entourage people lost interest and turned back to their group, but the woman said ‘Sorry’ again but this time she meant it.

I walked quickly to Shelly and we hugged.

“God, you look fantastic!” Shelly gushed. “Your hair! Wow! And …you got your eyebrows …” She shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about what you’re going to do back at school!”

I ignored that, savoring the truth. “And you!” I responded. “You’re so tan it makes me sick! With envy, I mean!”

“You like it?” She pirouetted, giggling. She was tanned–well, she should be, having been in LA and Miami with time on her hands.

Mom joined us and Shelly hugged her. Then Shelly’s mother arrived, yelling at some poor bellhop with a golden cart heaped with matching luggage.

“Oh, hello again,” Mrs. Benton said with distraction. She turned away and turned back and gave a fingertip-handshake to Mom and waved at me and then turned back. “Louis, I’m warning you!” she threatened the hapless bellhop. “I told you it would require at least two!”

Knowing her ways as I did now, I realized that one bellhop wasn’t as prestigious as two, whether they were needed or not. I’m guessing Louis was the only one available after the star’s entourage arrived. He was managing the cart, but Mrs. Benton’s sense of importance was diminished by only having one cart.

Shelly looked like she was counting to ten and softly said, “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” Mom said and called out, “Mrs. Benton? I can keep an eye on the girls.”

Mrs. Benton waved a distracted hand and accompanied the luggage cart to the front desk. We joined her, with Shelly saying, “Same thing at every hotel!” to us. So I wasn’t bothered by her mother’s actions; it was just something she did.

Mom was waved over to join Shelly’s mom at the front desk and I realized we were being checked in. Shelly said softly, “Did you do any kind of research? On Eloise, I mean?”

I grinned at her and went to her mother. “Oh, Mrs. Benton! Thank you, thank you, thank you for choosing The Plaza. Have you seen her portrait? Eloise’s, I mean?”

I struck the same pose as the portrait and then giggled. “And there’s a whole Eloise shop on the Concourse!”

Mom was staring at me, then a smile twitched. She knew I’d read the brochure.

Mrs. Benton looked annoyed but it passed. “It’s my pleasure, uh, Abby. I knew how much it means to you.” She turned back the desk clerk.

Shelly was fighting a laugh. She gave me two quick thumbs up.

Maybe I’ll actually read an Eloise book someday …

Chapter 17: I’ll Take Manhattan

And our suite was huge. Mom was a little bothered by the expense but I pointed out the old diamond ads. They used to say ‘three months’ paycheck is the right amount to spend for an engagement ring’. Mom said that was preposterous.

“Yeah,” I responded, “but I’m thinking about percentages. I don’t really know how rich Mrs. Benton is; Shelly doesn’t talk about it and I don’t care, but she has a lot of money. The price of a room at The Plaza–even one as big as this one–is probably a smaller percentage of her bank account than us putting up friends in a room at the Motel 6.”

Mom laughed at that. “You’re right. It’s hard not to feel beholden to the wealthy.” Something passed over her face and I realized it was unpleasant memories. Then she changed the subject. “When did you get to be so wise?”

I grinned. “When I became a woman!”

Mom really laughed at that one. “Not yet; you’re still a young girl and I want you to revel in it!” She sobered. “But I think you will make a most formidable woman.” Her eyes shone with pride.

We went to their suite–which dwarfed ours, not that it mattered–and Shelly let us in, rolling her eyes.

“On the phone again. Can I get you anything, Mrs. Houseman?”

“So formal, Shelly!” Mom laughed. “I can help myself.” She nodded to the fully stocked buffet.

“In that case, can I borrow your daughter?”

Mom nodded and Shelly grabbed my hand and dragged me into her bedroom. She closed the door and whirled around.

“Okay, spill it! When I left you, you were a scared boy just discovering he was a girl. And being chased by thugs. And now, you come waltzing across the lobby of The Plaza looking like a million bucks. The most feminine girl I’ve seen in a long time! You’re like …radiating girl-ness! What the hell?”

I laughed and we flopped onto the bed and I told her everything. And I took down my panties and I thought she was going to shriek with laughter.

“This is fantastic! Absolutely fan-effing-tastic! Wow, you look great!”

“Thanks,” I grinned, pulling up my panties and setting my skirt in place. I’d been a little freaked when she had laughed, but I understood it was joy.

There was a knock at the door and Mom said for us to join ‘them’ in the main room. She grinned at that.

Shelly’s mom was pacing, still on the phone. We came and sat on the couch next to each other.

Once Shelly’s mom got off the phone, she announced that she was much too busy to enjoy things right now. Some lawyer had thrown a monkey wrench into things, she said, and she had to stamp out a brush fire; I rather enjoyed the mixed metaphor. The upshot was that we were on our own and she’d try to join us but ‘no rest for the weary’. I truly had never heard anybody throw around so many clichés before.

I remembered the discussion that Mom and I had when we’d first met Shelly’s mom; Shelly’s comment about her being like a cartoon and Mom sensing there wasn’t a person there. Hearing the clichés now, it dawned on me that everything about her was surface. Clichés were a way to speak without thinking deeply, or being concerned about the person listening, whether it was Mom and me or even her own daughter. It was like an impersonal multiple-choice way of talking: Open mouth, insert phrase from list, repeat.

Once again, my heart went out to Shelly. I’d never really grasped how truly alone she was, even with her own mother.

Mom spoke with her for awhile and then announced she was taking command. I went with Shelly for her to get her things–I thought of Mom always saying ‘Grab your coat and purse’–and we headed out into the city.

And it was incredible! A cab took us to Rockefeller Center and we saw the huge Christmas tree and then began walking around. I knew that Mom hadn’t been to Manhattan for years but she guided us around like a pro. We talked about things to do and decided we could pass on the Rockettes but if we could do Nutcracker it would be great. Shelly said she’d take care of it; she used her phone to call the Concierge at The Plaza and said we’d have three choice tickets waiting. Even if her mother was free, she hated ballet and would have some excuse to miss it, so there was no reason for a fourth ticket.

We went to Fifth Avenue and shopped and oh my God it was incredible! We stopped in some famous place for lunch and shopped some more. The fun thing was not having to carry bags; Shelly would tell the clerks to send them to The Plaza and it was all perfectly normal in that environment.

I remembered another old quote: ‘I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.’

Ain’t it the truth!

When we got back to The Plaza, Mom’s phone went off and we stopped in the lobby while she talked. I motioned that we’d go to the Eloise place and she nodded. And for never having read the books, I was amazed at how elaborate the Eloise store was–and how pink!–and I bought a keyring.

Shelly raised an eyebrow at that.

I said, “You know I’m not into her, but I figured I can hold up the keyring and thank your mother and tell her I got lots more stuff, did she want to see?”

Shelly was laughing at that. “Oh, God! She’d run in the opposite direction! And you only spent, what, five bucks? Brilliant!”

Then there was a strange moment, suspended in time, and the humor left her eyes and was replaced by a deep warmth.

“This is what I knew it would be like, when I first met that scared little girl Benjamin.”

I knew what she meant, as mixed-up as it was. I hugged her fiercely.

Back in our suite, the bellhops brought up our bags. We’d bought one extra rolling suitcase to handle our loot, and it was still questionable if it would all fit.

Among the things we’d bought was something proper for the New York City Ballet, and was my first ever official Christmas dress. It was a deep purple, or velvet, but was made of velvet, so would it be velvet-velvet, I wondered? White lace stockings and the highest heels I’d ever worn–enough to make me worried about walking in them, so I practiced in the suite. Mom said I was a natural!

Shelly’s mom had gotten us four appointments at the hotel’s salon, and I got the lovely pampered treatment and my hair was styled and makeup done by professionals. And although it was a small thing, it meant a lot to me when Mom said that just for the evening I could take out my studs and wear actual dangling earrings!

We were told that Mrs. Benton had already had her salon appointment and I realized that if we weren’t here, Shelly would totally be on her own, and that she was used to it, and that it explained some of her personality. I could understand the pudgy girl she’d once been finally deciding that she was going to get fit, and taking action. It made me love her all the more.

The ballet was fantastic, and we felt like proper Manhattan girls-of-the-world. Yes, rich is definitely better!

But back in our suite, with Shelly and I having strawberries and cream, Mom told us about the phone call. The lawyers had a breakthrough or brainstorm or something. There was a particular judge that they wanted to get, and his calendar had an opening at 2pm tomorrow and then at 3:00 he was gone for the holidays. We’d have to leave early and not spend another wonderful day in NYC, but we could always come back later.

Shelly nodded and went to her suite. Mom told me that she was sorry we couldn’t spend more time in the city, but the lawyers were confident we could save weeks or even months by landing this judge before his holiday. We began packing and Shelly came back, bummed. She couldn’t go with us the next day–her mom needed her to ‘parade’ in front of the lawyers or shareholders or somebody–but she’d join us as soon as she could. She knew how important it was for us to make our meeting on time and said that she was using ‘executive privilege–no objections’ and had arranged a car for us–a sort of limo, actually–to take us directly home.

Mom protested once and accepted and Shelly said it was okay to go thank her mom, which we did. It was awkward, only relieved by my little happy act with my keyring, which went over exactly as planned. Her mother looked cornered and ‘suddenly remembered’ a call she had to make; Shelly was doing her best to keep from laughing out loud. We did the social niceties, and then Shelly and I hugged extra hard and then my mother and I went back to sleep like princesses in our suite at The Plaza.

End of Part 6

A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 7

Chapter 18: The Judge

When we got back home, it was like we’d just lived a magical twenty-four hours. After the black limo rolled away, we had only the extra bags to prove that our stay in New York hadn’t been a dream. It had been heavenly, and having the limo take us allowed us to have a leisurely hotel breakfast before leaving for home. Shelly was eating with us; her mother made what Mom called ‘a cameo appearance’, with phone in hand, distracted, and a very awkward hug. Poor Shelly looked like she was being penalized by staying behind! But I came up with the neat idea of having almost all of her bags carried by our limo; that way they’d be waiting for her at our house and it also meant she could travel lightly when she arrived.

It also might force her mother to let her come to our house since her things were there, if she had any second thoughts.

As soon as we arrived home I took a shower and then dressed in a sort of hybrid outfit–half school uniform and half banker. Blue skirt and a white satin blouse with a floppy white bow; you could see my lacy white camisole and bra under the blouse. Mom gave me a very light pink angora wrap sweater and we brushed my hair straight back with a white satin ribbon at the crown. When I looked in the mirror, I said it was ‘Alice in Wall Street’ and she cracked up.

We met our attorneys for the first time in the foyer at the courthouse; they introduced themselves so quickly that all I knew was that they were Mr. Dunn and Mr. Lambert, but five minutes later I couldn’t tell which was which. I wasn’t clear whether they were hospital lawyers or an outside firm retained by the hospital, but they were working on the hospital’s behalf perhaps a bit more than mine. Mom had explained this; the gender program was excited to be working with me but if I was a traditional thirteen-year-old transgender male–if there is anything traditional about that!–then there was a lot they couldn’t do; in any event, all legal procedures would be scrutinized closely. If I was truly oddball, as I seemed to be, getting everything declared ‘female’ by the judge freed them of worry. So it really was in the best interests of the hospital–and my best interests!–that I be declared ‘female’ as quickly as possible.

So we filed in and sat back in the gallery, watching, along with about a dozen people. There were two cases before us; a guy getting out of a contract, and a divorce. Mom had made me worried by a comment that the divorce might sour the judge’s disposition, but we were very fortunate that this divorce wasn’t at all like the movies. These were two people, both present in the courtroom and both friendly to each other–even sitting together until they had to sit with their attorneys–who said that they realized that they were friends and not spouses and neither one contested the divorce. Everything was already divided and signed off on by both sides, and the judge gave them a little lecture about not marrying in haste, but commended them for the mature, reasonable approach they took. He could see why they were friends and agreed that sometimes that just wasn’t enough.

I studied the judge; he was lean and tanned but not from a booth. The attorney for the husband was very friendly with the judge and congratulated him on winning a 10K, so he was probably a runner himself. He seemed cheerful, but very practical and very real.

Our attorneys were up and presented their papers; since it was just them and the judge, they spoke in rapid-fire legalese.

Until …the judge said that he would have to carry over until January; all of the documents were in order but he wouldn’t feel comfortable ruling until he could meet ‘the petitioner’ and since ‘the young man’ was not in court and could not be there for the 3pm deadline, he’d have no choice but to–

“Your honor,” Mr. Dunn or Lambert said quickly, “the petitioner is in the court.”

“Well, bring him in,” the judge said.

Mr. Lambert or Dunn turned and smiled. “Abby? Would you come forward, please?”

Mom squeezed my hand once for good luck and I stood and went forward. The judge’s face was priceless; I was sure he thought it was some sort of trick.

He looked at me and then looked at the documents and said, “Am I to understand that you are Benjamin Thomas Houseman?”

I cleared my throat and without thinking, did a tiny curtsey. “Yes, your honor, at least according to my birth certificate.”

He frowned. “What is your name?”

“I am …that is, I hope to become Abigail Elizabeth Houseman, your honor.”

He looked at the papers and as if he were talking to them, he explained, “You will understand that while in the petition process I am required to refer to you as a young man named Benjamin, and to use male pronouns?”

“Yes, your honor, I do. And may I ask, do you want my mother to come forward, too? Because I’m a minor?”

He smiled. “Certainly. I can tell she’s your mother; you look very much alike. Mrs. Houseman?” Mom got up and started walking forward and the judge said, “It’s a pleasure to have such a thoughtful and polite young lady–darn!–young man in my court.”

Then he chuckled. “This is going to be harder than I thought!”

I worried for a second that he meant my case but realized he meant looking at a pretty girl and having to say ‘young man’.

Mom said, “I am Marion Houseman, mother to Benjamin Thomas …and Abigail Elizabeth, here.”

He smiled quickly and turned to the documents again. “Mr. Dunn, do you have the …oh, here it is. That’s what was missing. Everybody please stand by; you obviously know how complex this is.”

As he read, I looked around at the few spectators left; four people not counting us and the court staff. The spectators obviously weren’t entirely sure what was going on; once the judge buried himself in the papers they seemed to have lost interest. I turned back and smiled at Mom and then kept my eyes forward.

The judge said, “Mr. Dunn, you realize how unusual this is.”

The attorney stood up. “Yes, your honor, and we appreciate you taking the time for this extraordinary case.”

“Extraordinary?”

“Yes, your honor. The medical staff has estimated Miss Houseman’s condition as approximately one in …”

He turned to Lambert, who was already handing him a piece of paper. Mr. Dunn read, “They noted, ‘Based on global reports of similar cases, factoring in unknown cases in undeveloped nations, we estimate patient to be approximately one in 27.3 million live births.” He handed the paper back.

The judge said, “One in 27.3 million? Not 27.4?”

“No, your honor,” Mr. Dunn said earnestly.

“Just messing with you, Mr. Dunn,” the judge grinned. He looked at me. “Well, then, you are an unusual young man, aren’t you?”

“If it please the court,” I said, “I have been informed by my doctors that according to current medical science, I am not a young man. But at the time of my birth, according to the procedures available at that time, I was diagnosed as male.”

The judge stared at me.

Oh, crap, I thought! I said too much. Missy Perfect English Girl, damn it! Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Stupid-stupid-stupid!

But then the judge smiled. “Two firsts in my career. I have never thought of the determination of a baby’s sex at birth as being a ‘diagnosis’, but of course it is, in a way. And I have never had this much medical and legal mumbo-jumbo,” he held up the thick sheaf of my documents, “reduced into two simple, declarative, and absolutely clear statements. By any lawyer. And now, by a thirteen-year-old …girl!” He smiled at the last word.

He looked at Mom and smiled, and then held up a finger to us all and then quickly read through several papers and then shuffled them together. He announced in legalese that I could decipher, that it was his court’s ruling that I had been improperly declared male at birth, that I was female then and now, and agreed to grant the legal change of name, change of gender, and ordered that all documentation conform to his ruling and that a new original birth certificate be issued for Abigail Elizabeth Houseman, female.

Bang of gavel, done!

I was almost trembling from nerves and relief. But I was almost frightened when he crooked his finger to Mom and I to approach the bench. He crossed his arms and leaned forward and looked at me.

“Miss Houseman–and let me be the first to legally call you that!–you are an impressive young lady. Where are you attending school?”

“Morton Academy, your honor,” I said.

His eyes did a thing, I didn’t know what. “Keeping your grades up? It’s a tough school.”

“Yes, sir. Your honor, I mean.”

Mom said, “Her last report card was 3.92, and that was …” She looked at me and said plainly to the judge, “She maintained better than 3.9 while coming to terms with her body changing and discovering that she was not a boy named Benjamin. Your honor,” she added.

He nodded. “A heavy burden for anybody, but especially one so young. And you’re right, Mrs. Houseman; it makes her all the more extraordinary. And you reside in Hartford?”

It was all in our file and I wondered if he was trying to trip us up.

Mom said, “Yes, your honor. Just outside the city, actually.”

Then I realized that it was Morton that had raised his interest, because it was so expensive.

I said, “We’re not rich, if that’s what you were wondering, your honor. I can only go to Morton because I’m a legacy, I guess you could say.”

“Ah, you were a Morton Girl, too?” the judge said to Mom, who nodded.

I said proudly, “More than that, your honor. She’s a Russell!”

Mom made a small, embarrassed shush to me, but my statement had had the desired effect on the judge.

“Founders, right?” Mom nodded. The judge smiled. “My wife was a Morton Girl. In fact, it was her fond memories of Hartford that brought me here, after we were married. It’s a tremendous school.”

He turned serious and said to Mom, “Legacy or not, a 3.92 at Morton is highly commendable. But the proof was her conduct and statements in my court today.” He smiled at Mom and then at me. “I asked you two for this conference because I would like to urge Miss Houseman here to consider law as a career. You may think that’s years in the future, but it’s never too late to …” He shook his head as if correcting himself. “Houseman …are you by any chance related to Edward Houseman, the historian?”

“My late husband,” Mom said, and I reached out and squeezed her hand.

“My father!” I said with fierce pride.

He was smiling widely. “I’ve read several of his books. I was particularly impressed with Fortune’s Gamble. That …turmoil with Aaron Burr …remarkable.” He nodded. “It is a pleasure and privilege for me to meet his wife and daughter. And now I can certainly appreciate your performance in my court today. Please, Mrs. Houseman, I strongly urge you to both to consider a career in law for this young lady.”

Then he grinned and said loudly, “And I strongly urge everybody in the courtroom to have a wonderful, safe, and happy holiday! See you next year!”

He actually winked at me and then stood. The bailiff called ‘All rise’ but we were already standing, and the judge, black robes flapping with his speed, flowed out of the courtroom.

Chapter 19: Christmas

Mom and I were in kind of a daze when we sat with the lawyers, back outside. They handed some documents to Mom, told her all sorts of things but my mind was going in every direction. Pride at my father being recognized, amazement that I was now a girl with one bang of the gavel, fear at what the Steve Duncan types at school might have in store for me, and so many other things.

Finally we were driving in happy–and still stunned–silence, and she pulled into a nice restaurant. She said we were going to celebrate. And halfway through my salad, I sat back in amazement.

“Did that really happen?” I asked. “I’m only thirteen and I kind of zoned out a little this afternoon while I was thinking about …things.”

Mom chuckled. “You did have more than a few things to think about!” She sighed deeply. “But, yes, it did really happen. And by the time we left the courtroom, you were completely, legally female. Still are!” she grinned. “It’ll take some time for the paperwork to all get caught up, of course. Oh; speaking of which …”

She took her cell phone out and dialed. To me, she said, “Excuse my rudeness but I think you’ll understand the reason for the call.” She paused, then smiled. “Hello, Barbara? Marion. This is just a quick call to let you know that our lawyers managed the incredible today. We got before a judge and it’s official, now: I have a daughter named Abigail. They’re issuing an original birth certificate identifying her as female.” She paused, smiling. “I know you did. And, yes, she is; over the moon!” She listened and nodded. “Just as soon as the wheels start turning again after the weekend. But, yes, it simplifies things. Oh, and she needs to change her room–ah, you’re so fast! Then we’ll see you Tuesday and she can move.” She listened. “Yes, it is, and I’ll tell her, and thank you for everything, and Merry Christmas, Barbara!” She hung up.

I said, “Isn’t it weird the way we nod when we’re talking on the phone? They can’t see us nod.”

Mom grinned. “Always thinking, aren’t you? That was Barbara Carey, of course, who says that she always knew you were a female, she says it must be a tremendous load off your shoulders, and that it simplifies dealing with Steve Duncan and anybody else. And she’s already arranged for you to move to the girls’ rooms. We’ll see her next week and she’ll give you the speech she gives to all the girls and then you can move your things.”

“Where is it?”

“She didn’t say, but the move alone will put you beyond the immediate reach of Steve Duncan.”

That was true; there wasn’t an easy way that boys could wander through the girls’ rooms. My girlfriends had already volunteered to accompany me around during classes, and I would be safe in my room. Up until now, since my room had been in the boys’ rooms, Steve or anybody could attack me.

But hopefully it wouldn’t come to attacks. Hopefully the announcement of my change of status would freak and disgust some people but nowhere the way it would if it were announced that I was a boy changing to a girl. It would be harder to generate any outrage and should defuse Steve.

Mom reminded me that we had an appointment Monday for what my doctors called ‘a complete internal workup’. The only thing I recognized on their ‘to-do list’ was an MRI.

Something struck me as odd for the first time. “Mom, why are they only getting around to an MRI now? Is there something …do they think there’s something wrong with me that they’re not telling us? Or they told you and they haven’t told me?”

Mom toyed with her salad, frowning. “There were several things I want to point out. First, they’re not ‘only getting around to it now’. I know you’ve lived inside the whirlwind but remember, it’s only been a short time that we’ve even been seeing the doctors!”

That startled me and I realized it was only a matter of …weeks, really, since I’d first officially met with Dr. Nielson. “Wow! You’re right! But we’ve come so far so fast …haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have, but think about the sequence of events this way. Dr. Nielson led to Dr. Randall and got you entered in the program. In the early, initial stages of that, they did the whole blood and DNA workup. That’s the easy part that takes little time and expense, unlike an MRI, which costs an arm and a leg. Or so the insurance guys tell us.”

“That makes sense; sure. It’s really all just in the first few weeks of our relationship. I just forgot it’s so new, because of the hearing.”

She nodded. “That’s understandable. But, you see, your DNA triggered alarms, so to speak, and they realized that they’d have to start getting the legal ball rolling, for documentation and everything. They alerted the legal department, and there things might have stayed for a month or two. Meanwhile, the doctors would move on to the next stage, which is the internal exam.”

“But Christmas hurried things instead of slowing them down?”

“Exactly. The legal department discovered that the folks they dealt with were trying to clean their desks before the holidays, so to speak. So they approved the first step, which triggered the second, and so on, so the whole process took less than a week. And they knew the judge they wanted and they knew his schedule and took a chance and it paid off.”

I frowned. “I liked the judge and everything–well, once he explained why he had to call me ‘Benjamin’–but was he truly the only judge that could rule like he did? I mean, was my case so shaky or something?”

“Not at all,” Mom shook her head. “Your case was sound and the lawyers were confident of approval, no matter who they drew as a judge. But judges are people, too, and although they try to remove any personal bias, it creeps in now and then. Most judges would have ruled exactly as the lawyers planned, but they told me there were a few that might disapprove on moral or religious grounds. And while they couldn’t say it that way, they could refuse and then the case would be prepared again for another judge. Worst case scenario would be that we’d have to go through it two or three times before approval. Depending on scheduling the judge’s calendars, it might have taken months.”

“That’s right; somebody brilliant had said it could take ‘an hour from now to six months’ or something,” I winked.

She smiled at her words coming back to her, but continued.“So it was the happy combination of the holiday rush and a lucky opening on a judge’s calendar.”

“And now I’ve got this MRI hanging over my head.”

“It’s not ‘hanging over your head’, Abby. Don’t be such a drama queen!” Mom teased. “Actually, you would have had it this week except the holiday and the judge’s schedule bumped it back to Monday. So you’ve had Dr. Nielson peering inside your head for awhile; time for Dr. Randall to peer inside your …insides!”

We had a pleasant, tired night that felt so normal that it was hard to believe we’d spent the previous night in a luxurious Manhattan suite, but we had the new purchases as proof. The next day was Christmas Eve and Mom declared that we’d bake, just to have a mother and daughter activity. The funny thing was that I broke down and cried a couple of times. The whole emotional turmoil was catching up with me. One minute I was using a Christmas tree cookie-cutter on some dough and the next I was collapsed in a kitchen chair, sobbing my eyes out. Mom said it was the hormone mix catching up with me, too–the mix of my doctors, not Shelly’s girl pills, the jeeps. Everybody was amazed that Shelly had gauged my dosage so well that I hadn’t had any side-effects; just a slow, steady physical change.

But there was another theory that Dr. Kramer believed, and had been suggested before by Dr. Randall. That was that my body had been heading towards a female puberty anyway, and that this was the year the timer went off. If I hadn’t had the jeeps, my body and emotions might have gone seriously wonky due to the lack of estrogen. I wouldn’t have developed more as a male because there was only a minute amount of testosterone produced, even before the androgen blockers. But the jeeps had blocked that and provided my body with the estrogen it needed so it went on its own merry way, smoothing my skin and starting my breasts and curves. And it had kept me mellow but docile, which also explained why I’d been so weak and indecisive. Let’s face it; not all women are fragile blossoms. I had only to look at Shelly and Monica standing up to Steve’s gang as an example.

Now the doctors were tinkering, adjusting the mix, and maybe that was the reason for my Christmas Eve meltdown. But I was also just so relieved and not scared except for what was in store for me with Steve and his gang. And besides, crying is what women get to do!

Mom and I had a lovely Christmas morning. I’d managed to get her Christmas presents during my shopping trips with Amy, Connie, and Lu, and Shelly had run interference for me in Manhattan, distracting Mom while I got a few things for her then, too.

All of my presents were girl presents, of course, and yet I think the best present that Mom and I gave each other was when I turned to her after we’d cleaned up all the wrappings.

“Mom, I’m a girl now, and that makes me a Morton Girl, and also, doesn’t it make me one of the Russell women?”

“Yes, it does, sweetheart,” Mom smiled warmly.

“Then I’d really like it if I could learn about us, the women of the family, I mean. Old photo albums, stories, all of that; I want to learn about us. I never really paid much attention to our family history, and Daddy was always busy with the Revolutionary–” I broke off, staring.

Mom stared, too, and then her smile returned and she nodded. “First time, huh?”

I nodded, slowly. It had been the first time I’d referred to my father as ‘Daddy’ and it had come out so naturally and easily.

Mom hugged me. “Oh, my darling; every day I miss him and wish he was here, but never more than now, so he could meet his daughter!”

“Do you …” Tears were coming and I sniffed. “Do you think he’d like me?”

“Sweetheart, he’d love his pretty daughter!”

Chapter 20: The Next Christmas

Wow.

I’ve read over everything I wrote last year and it’s all just as I remember it. There are a few things that I left out, and a few things that I didn’t need to go on and on about. It was all so compressed, though. There are the milestones of meeting Shelly, and discovering Abby, so to speak. And then the crazy flurry of the holidays, from our hitting The Plaza to the judge ruling that I was a girl to Shelly coming to stay with us until school and the moving in and to top it all off, the total craziness of the internal exams.

After Christmas, I had the MRI. And another. And a CT, and a bunch of other initials for tests with gleaming white machines. The more the doctors found out about me, the more they were confused. In a nutshell, I was a mess inside. I was a mix of mostly developed female parts with some rudimentary male parts. The doctors speculated that in the womb I was a girl all along until something triggered a last-minute burst of testosterone that only started altering me to a male. If Mom’s pregnancy could have lasted twelve months, for example–half again as long after the testosterone triggered–I might have turned out a more-or-less normal male. But there wasn’t enough time to become male; just enough time to be a scrambled female. Dr. Randall suggested that the Y chromosome had been overwhelmed by the multiple X chromosomes. It hadn’t been blocked completely but delayed just enough that it had what he called ‘insignificant effect.’

I pointed out that giving me a sort-of penis and declaring me ‘male’ was not insignificant!

The return to school was fantastic and very quickly became last week’s news, which was fine with me. All of my girlfriends accepted me without question and any girls that might have objected were taken care of by my friends. The boys were a different matter; the very first day before classes started, Steve Duncan sought me out and his face was priceless! I was walking down the hall with my girlies and it happened that I was partially blocked from Steve’s view. He recognized me from a distance, and from my group of friends, and called out ‘Houseman! Your ass is mine!’

It was a wonderful moment. He probably had never thought of what he’d say, and if I truly were a sissy boy, the gay implications of his statement never occurred to him. He’d expected terror from a trembling sissy. Instead, he and his buddies stared as we girls turned to face him. He’d expected dweeby Benjamin Houseman in the boys’ uniform like his own. Instead, he was faced with Abby in a blue skirt, light blue blouse with ribbon tie and blazer. I had barrettes in my hair, dangly earrings, and makeup. And I stood proudly, the mounds of my breasts visible and my legs quite shapely.

My girlfriends and I looked haughtily at the stunned Steve, and then turned to leave. We flipped our hair and our skirts, noses in the air, and kept moving and Lu said something as we passed about ‘sexist comments’ to Steve and we knew that whether it was ‘his’ or not, he was watching my ass as we walked away and I put a little extra girlish wiggle to it.

During first period there was an announcement that Mom and Mrs. Carey had crafted. One of the things that was typical of posh private schools was how students came and went, as their parents’ lives changed. Kids might be pulled out of school to go to a movie shoot in Asia, or parents might divorce and suddenly there’s no money, or one takes the kid to another continent. Or the kid couldn’t handle the academics or had personal problems and moved to another school. Families that had been trying to get into Morton could take advantage of the ebb and flow and we’d have new kids join, but often between semesters as well as at the start of each year.

So the announcement was the standard that hoped everybody had a great holiday, welcome back to Morton, time to get back to work, blah-blah-blah. And they announced the names of kids who had left–there were three–and kids who’d been added–there were four. But really, it was two and three …

“As some of you may know, some students have departed Morton. We say goodbye to Anthony Battaglia, Cheryl Hendricks, and Benjamin Houseman. We are happy to announce the addition of new students Marie De La Fontaine, Thomas Baumann, Abigail Houseman, and Han Sung Jee. You are all most welcome at Morton Academy and we wish you well.”

I’d like to think that everybody got it; that Benjamin had left and Abigail had arrived. If they thought it was two people, fine. It was only my immediate bunch of Middles that knew the reality. We didn’t broadcast anything like ‘Benjamin the boy is now a girl named Abby’ or anything. There was no need for it. If anybody had any problems with me, they didn’t say anything to my face. I had been invisible as Benjamin and was well-liked as Abby. But any complaints–especially parental freak outs–would go to Mrs. Carey, who handled anything with ease.

And the second week of school, we had a little event. One of the Upper boys was the son of two huge movie stars and they both arrived with lawyers and paparazzi in tow and were publicly fighting over custodial rights. Mrs. Carey and her staff ruthlessly clamped down on the public exposure of the school and all that we knew was that the kid was there one week and gone the next and then back again.

So in that first month, the overlooked dweeb Benjamin was forgotten. The new girl Abby giggled along with her girlfriends–as did all the other kids–over the spectacle of the quite-visibly drunk World Class Movie Star who’d tripped over the school’s stairs and splayed, dress up over her crotch and crying, demanding to be picked up.

The kid was pulled out of school in February, by the way.

Spring was wonderful and I fit in and was so happy. Shelly and Lu and I were a new trio. Amy was still in the little girl mode, and Connie found another boy-crazy group to start hanging with. I was also friends with Monica and discovering other girls were nice, too.

And I could now, quite freely and without hesitation–thanks to working with Dr. Nielson–discover that boys were nice, too. Yes, some not so nice, but by and large it was a more supportive environment than the boys’ world, where they were always competing with each other. Plus, there was the simple fact that I understood the girls’ world as I never had understood the boys’.

And the strangest thing was that by May, Steve Duncan quite obviously had the hots for me. Lu said, quite clinically, that ‘homosexual panic’ was at the root of his hatred of me last year; that he’d been turned on by the pretty boy Benjamin and reacted with aggression. Certainly the first time he saw me in the school’s swimsuit, his eyes fell out of his head. I’d joined the swim team after it was discovered that despite never really swimming before, somehow I was quite fast. Our school suits were ultra-thin one-piece racing Speedos in royal blue with a white vertical stripe over the heart. There was no mistaking the natural swell of my breasts or the slight mound at my crotch, and, yes, like most of the girls, I had the unmistakable Speedo ‘camel-toe’. When Steve saw me, he was fully convinced I was a girl.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing; I had to deal with Heather Maxwell, who was also on the swim team. She made a point of loudly protesting that she was shocked that Morton Academy would allow a boy in the girls’ locker room! And to think that they even gave him a girl’s swimsuit and expected him to be treated like a girl! Shocking! And so on.

Shelly came to my rescue with something so simple it was funny. She told me, ‘Let her beat you’. We knew from the posted times that I was faster than Heather. But since the races against other schools were based on cumulative times, it really didn’t matter who was first and who was second if they were on the same team. I had a talk with Ms. Chambers, our coach. She was getting so annoyed by Heather that she was going to cut Heather from the team or me, and I told her of Shelly’s idea. Since she was always going on about sports psychology, she liked the concept, and had a day of mock time-trials. She posted the new times, with Heather in first place, and just to make sure, Shelly recommended–through me to Ms. Chambers–an actual race. Which I threw and Heather won by half a length. I did my best to appear completely winded and had to endure her smug smile of triumph. If Ms. Chambers had not been in on the deal, she would have flayed me alive for throwing the race. But it did the trick; Heather never said another word about me being a boy. I was just another girl that she beat.

Our team won the Middle championship between five other prep schools, and Ms. Chambers was really excited about me swimming as an Upper for the school. I’ll do it, of course, because I love swimming and it’s great exercise and I feel a devotion to the team and the school, but I’m not going to fully pursue it. I can’t, for two reasons. The first is that I don’t want the larger arms and shoulders typical of the hard-core girl swimmers.

The second–and most important reason–is that competitive swimming at the college level, and some high schools, involves routine drug testing. After all the Olympic scandals, the idea is to test everybody beforehand. And what they do in the Olympics, they do in colleges–to prepare for Olympic and professional athletic careers–and what they do in colleges, they do in high schools, to prepare for collegiate competitive life. The chances are that any routine gender testing would reveal me as XY, noting only the ‘two places’ my doctors had talked about, without the additional X markers that made me legally female. It was a can of worms that I would deliberately avoid.

I had a meeting with Mrs. Carey, Ms. Chambers, and Mom, and told them that I’d give 110% to the school’s swim team right up to the point, in the possible future, where they began testing for gender, and then I’d quit, reluctantly. And I would not seek a college scholarship that involved swimming. Everybody agreed and Mrs. Carey praised my forethought, and Ms. Chambers was happy to know she could continue to win prep races with me for a few years.

Lu and I double-dated with two boys from St. Andrews, another prep school. It was funny; it had been set up by her family. The boy she was paired with, Wen, was from another wealthy Chinese family and the parents had hopes of a dynastic marriage. Alas, it was not to be; the boy was gay and told Lu right up front, even before we went on the date–although his parents didn’t know. He had a friend named Paul Broderick that knew he was gay and was okay with it, so the decision was that the four of us would go out to satisfy the parents; they’d report back ‘no chemistry’ and life would go on.

For the first time I experienced the thrill and giddiness of getting the right outfit and getting ready with Lu. The parents had rented a chauffeur for the night so we piled in and went to a fancy dinner in Hartford, just like we were little adults. It kind of bothered me that this useless fling–useless in the sense that they weren’t going to make a dynastic marriage–cost so much, but as with Shelly’s mom, money had a different scale with these folks. What nobody expected was Paul to be absolutely fascinated with Lu–and Lu was fascinated right back! They were so into each other that I grabbed Wen and left the others for awhile. He was nice and funny and fully accepted being gay; it wasn’t any more important to him than being left-handed.

It was a fascinating experience for me, because I had never really talked with a gay boy before. There were some at Morton but I literally had never spoken to them; not out of choice but simply because of class scheduling. And maybe because, until the very end, Benjamin was invisible–so much so that he was even under the gay radar. Wen only knew me as a pretty girl, so we could talk freely in that way that boys and girls can if they’re comfortable with their sexuality. The end result was that I felt another of those weights off my shoulders, the ones that I never knew I had until they were gone. This particular weight was the question, should Benjamin just have gone through life as an effeminate gay boy? And it was obvious that Wen still thought like a boy in the way that Benjamin could never even grasp. I was so much more convinced I was female after spending time with a gay male!

The next interesting thing in my Spring of surprises was Spring Break. Mom and the lawyers had continued to press for documentation after the judge’s gavel in December, and by March I had a gorgeous passport that stated Abigail Elizabeth Houseman, Female! So Shelly worked out something with her mother–busy again with something or somebody–and Shelly, Mom, and I went to Aruba! It was prance around in the sun time, in the skimpiest of bikinis, and I was deliriously happy! And we were deliciously golden brown–with wonderful bikini tan lines!–when we returned, as were most of the wealthy students.

And then Lu and I doubled again; this time Paul brought a friend named Derek, who also happened to be a swimmer. And while we didn’t high-roll it like the Chinese match-making date, we might have had an even better time. We ate at T.G.I.Friday’s and laughed and Derek was really sweet with brown curly hair and green eyes and these dimples when he smiled–which I tried to make him do as much as possible! We decided to forego a movie and went bowling, instead, which I’d never done. I was terrible and everybody was patient but the best, the absolute best, was when I bowled and knocked down nine of the pins! After all the gutters and onesies and twosies, I was ecstatic! And without thinking I threw myself into Derek’s arms–he’d come out from the scoring thing to congratulate me–and his hug and suddenly we kissed and oh God it was heaven! We pulled back and Lu made a joke about ‘Can we bowl now?’ and I blushed but it was absolutely the best way for me to have My First Kiss.

I knew that if my first kiss was one of those where it’s at the end of the night, the good-bye thing, I’d be so nervous I’d probably blow it. And always wonder if he really wanted to kiss me or whether it was just obligatory. But I’d definitely kissed Derek, and he’d definitely kissed back, and that was it! We spent the rest of the evening as two couples, kissing and nuzzling and I felt so alive!

Derek and I made a point of calling each other once a week. Then he met some girl and things kind of tapered off. Mom told me it was best that my first was fantastic and brief. I had learned about myself, and about boys, and another weight had been lifted.

Shelly and I doubled a couple of times but she never met a guy who could keep up with her, although she did have her eyes set on one of the Morton Uppers …

And then the school year was over and Lu went to San Francisco and Shelly went to join her mother hopping around–and I went into the hospital.

That December revelation about my true nature chopped five years off my surgery schedule, as Mom had predicted. Dr. Randall had mentioned in passing that we could have put me in the hospital the afternoon the judge ruled, but because the recovery could take time, barring complications, we waited until the first week of summer vacation. So while other Morton kids were surfing or skiing or doing whatever, this Morton Girl was getting sliced open!

It was a long and complicated surgery, not the typical sexual reassignment kind. The reason for this was that I had those mostly-female organs the MRI had discovered. Depending on the organ itself, it was unclear if they were active, dormant, or non-functional. The Holy Grail, of course, was to be able to hook everything up and have my body completely function as a female, with menstruation and the ability to become pregnant. My girlfriends had opted for their choice–no periods or pregnancy chances, so I could have sex freely. And they’re only Middle school girls!

It was decided that I would have what turned out to be two more surgeries over summer. I fully agreed; as long as I could tan–even artificially in tanning salons–while I recuperated, and as soon as I was cleared each time, I swam furiously to keep in shape. But the first surgery was the most important to me, because it gave me my vagina! Then I had to learn to use these dilator things to keep it open, and then the next surgery came with its recovery period, and by the third I was pretty much done. It was too soon to tell what, if any, results we’d have. In theory everything was hooked up; in some cases it was easy and others difficult.

For instance, the doctors discovered that my testicles had never descended because they had never become testicles; they were still tiny ovaries. The doctors were pretty sure they’d function correctly, and hooking them up was ‘easy’, according to Dr. Randall. On the other hand, they’d had to add some tissue to my uterus–yes, I had been a boy with a uterus!–and it was unknown what functions would result.

I know that the doctors said I was a genetic anomaly from birth, but I like to think that it really came down to the Thanksgiving that Shelly and I met. She saw her best girlfriend under the shy boy exterior, and later she got the bottles of pills to let her girlfriend come out. The fact that I had the weird genetics was secondary, in my mind.

But I was a very happy–and very complete–girl that returned to Morton in the fall. We were big Middle girls now, and already full of distractions that Uppers had, like thinking about colleges and thinking about boys. I dated two boys during the fall, including some heavy necking after the Harvest Ball, when I did, in fact, wear an icy blue gown! Not too ‘Harvest-y’ a color, but I really stood out, and it was worth it to see my date basically melt. But I didn’t get serious about boys, despite the boy-crazy madness of some of the girls swirling around me, because I wanted to focus on my studies. I was still thinking about the judge’s recommendation that I go into law.

Thanksgiving was traditional, in that Mom and I participated in hosting the school’s Forgotten Ones, and I felt the first stirrings of what I guess I’d call maternal feelings. There I was dishing peas for a lonely Lower girl, and then wiping the nose of a Lower boy, and I felt such warmth and happiness. Weird; all along I’d never thought about being a mother. It was so far beyond the beyond that I simply never thought about it. But it was on my mind heading into December.

Shelly had been at the Thanksgiving break, staying with us, and probably would for Christmas, too. Her mother had a financial setback in August and things looked dicey for a time. Dicey, that is, if you consider going from $300 million to ‘only’ $60 million dicey. But sometime in November the coin flipped or shoe dropped or whatever–knowing her mother’s use of clichés–and Shelly said in passing that her mom was breathing easier and was back up to $280 million. I couldn’t really comprehend it but was glad that Shelly would still be at Morton.

And then I got the very best, most amazing Christmas present. The day after Christmas …I woke up with cramps and bloody sheets. I had my first period! It was a trip to ER with Dr. Randall and two days of observation and then released as healthy–a healthy female. Shelly joked that I was pronounced ‘cured of boyhood’!

And she was right.

There was no longer the tiniest scrap of doubt–I was 100%, completely through and through, once and forever, a Morton Girl.

The End

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 2

Chapter 4. Come Saturday Morning

I woke up Saturday morning and felt absolutely wonderful, but didn’t know why. There was a momentary thought of ‘hey, these aren’t my boxers and t-shirt’, but I quickly remembered that I was in a nightie–and was delighted! I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, lifted the hem of my nightgown, lowered my panties and sat to pee. It all felt so natural that I actually sighed with happiness, just like in a movie or something.

I splashed some cool water on my face, put on the bathrobe, and headed downstairs. Mom was already up, and when she saw me coming she laid out a placemat, bowl, and melon.

“Morning, honey, how’d you sleep?”

“Like a princess!” I said, laughing.

She laughed, too. “That’s my girl!”

“Is this what I’m having?” I stared at the melon.

“Yes, honey, and you might as well face it–you were eating pretty poorly before, just typical carbo-heavy boy stuff. Probably thought it was you were supposed to eat, as a boy, not that it ever put an ounce on you. I always wanted you to eat healthier, and now’s a perfect time to start anew.”

She poured a glass of juice and set it before me and added some wheat toast when it popped up.

I had to admit she was right, so with a funny thought about ‘keeping my girlish figure’, I tucked into the melon. It wasn’t bad at all, and I felt pretty good after I ate it. It surprised me that after the toast and juice, I was pretty much full. I started to get up from the table and Mom gave me a ‘harrumph’ and a stern look. I realized that I’d left my breakfast things on the table, so I picked them up, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher.

“Sorry, Mom,” I said as I turned from the dishwasher. “I guess I had some bad habits.”

“Typical boy habits, and my own darned fault,” Mom nodded.

I thought for a moment she meant how I was now was her fault; my face must have done something because she came to me and hugged me.

“None of that, honey! I meant that it’s my fault that I fell into the routine a lot of women do, picking up after the men-folk, that sort of thing. Doing the laundry, doing the dishes, whatever.”

“Women’s work,” I nodded, reaching out to give the words ‘air quotes’.

“Exactly. But you know what’s silly about the whole thing? Bachelors. Nobody ever considers that if a male lives alone–or even with other guys–he’s got to do his laundry, do his dishes, and so on. So there’s no woman around; what do they call the work then?”

I giggled, remembering some TV shows and movies I’ve seen. “I think a lot of guys don’t do their laundry or their dishes!”

Mom nodded. Then she got more serious and held me at arm’s length. “And it’s the fault of mothers like me who raise their sons to think that basic cleanliness and courtesy is beneath them. I made that mistake with my son Andy; just fell into it.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, patting her hand. “For all the dishes I left, the laundry I didn’t help with …”

She smiled and hugged me. “That’s alright. We’ve got a chance to do things right, now. And now it’s time to start your day, honey. You’ll get to see some of what it’s like being a girl. I thought that because of the newness of it all, we’d ease into things. You usually wear denim jeans, a t-shirt, socks and tennies, right?”

“Sure. You know that.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘ease into things’–I couldn’t wait to spend my day as a girl!

“So I thought that that’s what we’d start with–”

“Mom, I don’t want to wear my old clothes–”

“Young lady, you must stop interrupting!” she said with a mock-serious tone.

“Sorry.” Still, I got a warm rush at the words ‘young lady’.

“I thought we’d start with the same sort of things you wear, only a girl’s version. I actually do have my reasons, but we’ll talk about that later. Come upstairs with me.”

I followed her upstairs; she had been busy while I was eating breakfast. She had laid out a v-necked yellow t-shirt with capped sleeves, denim skirt, white cotton panties, short white socks, and white Keds. I had to chuckle; except for the obvious differences, there really wasn’t any difference from my usual ‘daily uniform’!

“I’ll step out and let you dress, Angela, then we’ll see to your hair.”

As the door closed I went and felt the panties, and realized that I’d guiltily looked around to see if anybody saw me. Then, of course, I realized that nobody could see me, and it was okay, because I was now entitled to wear them. They were my panties!

I dropped the robe, then thought about my new life and personality, and remembering my breakfast dishes, I picked it up and hung it on the door. It sounds silly, but I wasn’t sure how to get undressed; should I take off the nightgown, then the panties, or the reverse? Well, I had to pee again, so that solved things. I picked up the panties and carried them into the bathroom. I sat down and peed, then wiped myself and tried on the panties, tucking myself back and away. They fit closer and more securely than the nightgown’s panties, and I thought they’d feel great all day. I pulled on the t-shirt, pulling my hair out the neck hole, and spontaneously shook my head. My hair floating back and forth felt wonderful.

Now came the moment of truth–the skirt. I pulled up the denim skirt. I zipped it and stood, looking down at my legs. So far, I didn’t feel anything earth-shaking. But I did think my legs looked surprisingly good. Well, I might as well finish, I thought. The socks and shoes were no big difference from what I usually wore, except the socks were low and had a pretty design, and the Keds were narrower than my usual tennies. And clean.

Fully dressed, I took my first steps as a girl. Oh, God, I prayed, please let me do this! Please let me pull this off–no, that’s not right. Please let me become the girl I truly long to be–no; even that wasn’t quite right! How about this: Please let me live as the girl I really am!

Okay, so it was a sloppy prayer with bad grammar, but as I walked around the room, feeling the skirt against my legs, it just felt great, and it felt real. I felt real. I hadn’t had too much of a chance to feel the hem of the nightie, because I got into bed right away, and then I had robe on this morning. So this was my first real feeling of walking with that open feeling, that skirt feeling–and I loved it. I walked to the closet and began checking out my new things more closely than I had last night. Mom had moved all my boy’s clothes to the far right, kind of shoved together as an afterthought. New hangers held my clothes–Angela’s clothes–neatly, according to type of clothing.

I couldn’t believe how much she’d bought! When she asked me what outfits I thought looked good, I never dreamed that she’d buy them all, and other things as well! I went out to thank her and to talk about things. I found her in the laundry room.

“Mom, I can’t believe how much stuff you bought last night!” I moved a laundry basket aside for her.

“Don’t worry about it; I’m sure it’ll all be needed. Now, Angela, we need to talk about today.” She leaned against the dryer and blew some hair out of her face. I leaned against the wall, rolling one leg on my toe.

“Angela, you’ve got to start learning girl’s chores. Much as I love you, you weren’t any great shakes at doing your chores as a boy–”

“Well, I did the garbage …”

“Yes, that’s true, you did the garbage and I thank you for it. And like I said, I fell into the trap of letting a son get away with things. But please, there are things every girl knows how to do and does for her family, and I need you to help me.”

“You mean like sewing and stuff?”

She smiled. “No, that’s a skill that you’ll learn, but I’m talking about basic chores. Okay, today we’re going to strip the beds, wash the bedding, make up the beds with new bedclothes. Follow me so far?”

I nodded, thinking what a drag it would be, then catching myself on the bad pun. And also chastising myself for that automatic ‘boy-thought’, because I didn't ever want to be the ‘lazy son’ again!

Mom saw my glum face. “Don’t worry, honey, there’ll be lots of things to talk about to pass the time. So we take care of the beds. We’re going to have chicken tonight, so you’ll clean the chicken, washing it and salting it to soak. And then we’ll see where we are. But first, there’s something I want to show you. Follow me.”

I followed her up to my bedroom; she made a detour into her room on the way, coming back out with a small box. She sat down on my bed and motioned for me to do the same, so I did. She cleared her throat; whatever this was, it must be heavy, I thought.

“Angela, do you remember me saying that you’re basically wearing the same things you wore as a boy? Except for the skirt, I mean?”

“Sure. And the skirt feels wonderful, by the way.” I realized that I had kept my knees together when I sat, and it just felt and looked normal.

“I’m glad to hear that. Well, you haven’t mentioned this, so maybe it slipped your mind. There is one item of clothing you aren’t wearing ... a bra.”

I blushed and looked down at my skirt’s hem. It took a moment to speak. “Well, I don’t have anything ... that is, I don’t think I’d fit ... and it seemed like you might think I was, I don’t know, presumptuous.”

She smiled. “I think I understand. Well, if you haven’t already, look in your top right dresser drawer.”

I got up and went to the drawer, and in it were several bras neatly folded. They looked smaller than Mom’s, of course, but they also looked so intensely feminine that I got another warm rush.

Mom might have noticed my reaction.

“I understand that you don’t fit now, but girls your age have developed a bust, right?”

I thought of the girls in my class. Yes, they all had busts, all except Sharon Dodson, who weighed a thousand pounds so it was hard to tell. But Denise Waverly had big enough boobs for both of them; she’d started developing around fourth grade.

Suddenly I realized that those were uncharitable, unkind thoughts. Well, it was true that Denise started developing in elementary school, but …I was mad at myself. They were either the thoughts of a typical boy–which I didn’t want to be–or a ‘mean girl’–which I also didn’t want to be. I resolved to be kind and compassionate; I’d been so unhappy and now my mother was helping my dream come true. The least I could do was be a nice person!

These thoughts flashed quickly and my resolution was made. But it all happened so fast that Mom didn’t notice. Aloud, I just said, “Yes. Nearly all over them developed by the end of eighth grade.”

Mom’s voice was soft and very gentle. “So it’s past time for you to wear your first bra, Angela. Choose one.”

I picked a white cotton one that had a small geometric pattern in the cups. I carried it back to the bed and sat down, holding it like it was a wounded bird. Mom was as gentle with me.

“You’ll need to remove your top, honey, and I’ll help you put on your bra. Ready?”

I nodded, and pulled off my top. I can’t explain, but I felt very vulnerable right now, and had the urge to cross my hands over my puny chest. Instead, I held my arms out and Mom put the bra on me, hooking it in back. She tightened the straps, then pulled here and there until it fit securely. As long as I’d dreamed of wearing a bra, I hadn’t known how wonderful it would feel!

“Angela, when you put on a bra as a daily routine, there’s a quicker way to do it alone. Put it around your waist, turn it around so the cups face behind you, hook it, turn it cups forward, put your arms through the straps and pull it up. Then lean forward–” She broke off. “Sorry. I mean once you have breasts, lean forward and get the bra to fit in place.”

The casual way she said ‘once you have breasts’ gave me another huge warm rush. She hadn’t said, ‘if you ever have breasts’, or ‘this is what it would be like if you did have breasts’; she said it like it was only a matter of time! Oh God, if only it were true!

So I was standing there with the bra on. It fit around my chest and over the shoulders, and the stretchy fabric of the cups clung to my chest but was obviously loose. I was wondering what to stuff the cups with when Mom opened the small box.

She looked into the box full of tissue paper and began speaking in a ‘small’ voice; I guess she was embarrassed. “Before your father left, I tried different things to try to save our marriage. It seemed ... he told me he wanted a sexier woman, one with bigger breasts ...”

“Mom, it’s okay; you don’t have to tell me anything that’ll hurt you.” I laid my hand on her shoulder.

She looked at me with a sad smile. I could see tears at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me. But I think you’ll need to know the hurt a woman can feel, too. I just hope it’s only second-hand and not have any man hurt you so …” She looked again at the box. “You were too little to notice anything, but I began dressing sexier around the house, trying to keep your dad. I didn’t know that he already had somebody else waiting.” Her jaw clenched. “I even began wearing sexy lingerie and tried to be something I wasn’t.”

My mom was a wonderful mother, and a hard worker. She wasn’t one of those 1950s ‘June Cleaver’ types with pearl necklaces, white gloves, and a vacuum; she was modern and more than a little hip. One time I’d looked at her with other than a son’s eyes and thought she would be a catch for a good man–not the skunk my father turned out to be. He left us in the middle of the night after cleaning out the bank account. Before the courts could catch up with him, he’d died in a drunk driving accident. Needless to say, he was not a good role model.

But I already knew that it wouldn’t have made any difference if he was a wonderful guy and they’d stayed married. I knew–I knew, absolutely–that I always would have felt that I was a girl, regardless of my family circumstances. That her marriage had been unhappy wasn’t a reflection on Mom.

Mom continued with her story. “I bought these for the sexy lingerie, to give me bigger boobs. God, I can’t believe how I tried to make myself be something I’m not! Anyway, I think maybe some good can come out of them.”

She reached through the tissue paper and pulled out two small breast forms, made of a flesh-colored gel. I realized what she meant by ‘some good’ and began getting excited, damping it down because this was a solemn, important moment. She held the forms between the palms of her hands.

“I wore these under my breasts to push my breasts up and out.”

I swallowed with embarrassment, because my mom was talking about her own body so frankly. She must have noticed, because she looked at me and chuckled.

“What, didn’t you know I had breasts? Of course I would never talk to my son this way, you understand.”

She gave me a serious, direct look.

I nodded. “I understand, Mother,” I said formally. There was this flood of happy warmth as I truly understood her meaning.

She smiled. “I think you do, Angela. Well, these are not full-size mastectomy forms; they’re smaller and designed to work like I described, under an adult woman’s breasts, but I think they’ll suit your needs. While small for a full-grown woman, they’re perfect for a growing teen-age girl, don’t you think?”

I nodded seriously, realizing that she was quite literally giving me her breasts. “Mom, these mean ... they mean so much to me, I can’t tell you.”

She leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thank you again, honey. Okay, stand up. Time to develop your boobs!”

We laughed together as I stood. She pulled a cup from my bra, inserted the form, and moved it around, then moved it again. Then she looked at it, and moved it again. I cracked up.

“What, did I tickle you?”

“No, Mom, it’s just that you’ve got the same look of concentration you have when you’re rearranging furniture!”

She laughed too, then continued moving the form slightly. Then she inserted the other form, did the same adjusting–and look–and then stood back to admire her work.

“They’ll warm up with your body temperature and you’ll be amazed how they feel like part of you. Hmm ... jump up and down on your toes.”

I did that and felt an incredible sense of jiggling weight on my chest. So that’s what breasts felt like! I loved the feeling! And with the bra there was a sense of support, of …protection, and I loved that, too.

“Mom, they feel ... Oh God, Mom they feel so good!” I walked to give her a hug, and felt my breasts against hers, and suddenly we were both weeping.

“Oh, my sweet angel ... my pretty Angela! Someday, my darling ...” she said as she pulled back, holding my head between her hands and looking at me. She didn’t finish her thought; instead she kissed my nose gently. “You’re adapting quicker than I thought you would. Maybe not, actually …Well, let’s get on with our day.”

I put my top on, feeling for the first time the pull of my breasts against the top, and looked at myself in the mirror, with my denim skirt and yellow top. Yep, I thought. That’s the real me!

Chapter 5. The First Full Day

My first full day as a girl started out ridiculously simple. But busy! I stripped the beds, carried the bedclothes down, then got our two hampers and watched as Mom explained the best washing procedure for all the items. Then we made the beds together; I’d never done that before and floating the sheets in the air was kind of fun. As I lifted the sheets, I could feel my bra pulling against my chest and shoulders. I rather liked it.

Then it was time to get a cooking lesson. Mom told me how to prepare the chicken we’d be having for dinner, by washing it and salting it and letting it soak. When she’d first told me about it, I’d thought it was a long, complicated procedure. It was so simple–but the raw chicken felt weird!

My next assignment was to tidy my room and vacuum. I decided to attack my room like it wasn’t mine; I never really tidied things up when ordered to because I’d get distracted by something. Or I’d spend time daydreaming, thinking about how my room would look if I could decorate it like a girl’s. My vanity would go there, I’d have a hat stand or tree or whatever they called it for my pretty scarves over there, and so on.

So looking at it now, through Angela’s eyes, it was a stranger’s, and it was very easy to see the mess. It also helped to distance myself from the boy who made the mess. I would be a neat and tidy girl. As I bent over to pick things up, I learned to keep my knees together and roll them to the side when I lowered myself. I could also feel the weight of my new breasts. Beyond that, I just concentrated on the task at hand.

We folded laundry next; it was strange when it came time to fold the boy’s clothes. I actually thought about it like that–the clothes of some boy. There were no girl’s clothes, of course, since I hadn’t gotten anything dirty yet, but I did watch Mom closely to see how she folded her bras and panties.

Next was the dusting and vacuuming; as I pulled the vacuum towards me I could see my legs under my skirt; it probably sounds silly, but they looked like they ‘belonged’ there. I found that I wasn’t the least bit sexually excited by wearing the clothes; it was only the newness and the ‘at last!’ feeling that was exciting. Good, I thought; I don’t want to be a transvestite; I want to be a girl. There’s a difference, and I guess I’d already figured out that I enjoyed wearing a girl’s clothes because I was a girl, pure and simple.

After a wash-up in the kitchen, Mom declared a break in the action; she’d made ice tea so we went out to the patio to sip the tea and relax while the chicken cooked.

After a sip and sigh of satisfaction, Mom said, “So, how are you doing, honey?”

“Fine, Mom. Do you ... have you been doing this work every week?”

“The laundry’s done every week, of course; beds every couple of weeks. I usually give up on your room, though.” She grinned.

I grinned back. “I don’t blame you! That boy was so messy! Why couldn’t he learn to put things away?”

She stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. “Yep, Angela; boys are so messy! But girls can be kind of messy, too, if they don’t keep their room tidy!”

“I will.”

The calm certainty with which I said this made her get serious quickly. “Well, let’s not rush things. Angela’s only been around less than a day–”

“That’s all I need, Mom. This is me! I’ve been trying to imagine what it would be like to go back to being Andrew forever, and I can’t. But I also don’t want to be Angela just on weekends, you know?”

“I think I do, honey, but let’s just take it one day at a time to find out just where you really fit. I just want you to know that I love you and I’ll support your decision–whatever it is–100%.”

“Thank you, Mom. You know, the weird thing is that I haven’t been thinking about this at all–”

“I don’t understand?”

“Well, as soon as I got dressed, you threw me into chores so I didn’t have time to sit around and go, ‘oh, look at me, I’m a little princess’. I plunged into the work, and I guess the back of my mind was working, because my decision’s already made and I never consciously thought about it. I think maybe you had that in mind all the time.”

She laughed. “Caught me! Yes, I thought that just sitting around dressed in a skirt wouldn’t do anything for you. Remember what I talked about yesterday? The essence of being a woman isn’t just the clothing. Of course, it’s not doing all these chores, either. Tell you what; let’s check on dinner and then see what the rest of the night holds.”

We’d finished the tea; we took the things inside and I helped Mom get dinner together, listening and learning. She told me that every girl has to know how to keep house, because even if she never married she’d be keeping house for herself. Continuing what she’d said earlier about bachelors, she said that she suspected some men marry only because they want another ‘mother’ to take care of them, but women were stronger and always took care of themselves.

My usual eating procedure–Andrew’s procedure–had been to wolf down as much as possible as fast as possible. Maybe it was because I’d helped prepare things, but I decided to take my time and enjoy the meal. I sat carefully, my knees and ankles together, the napkin across my lap. It felt right and wasn’t uncomfortable; I was glad that my testicles were tucked away. Mom complimented me on my eating manners so I made a resolution to continue this way.

It seemed like each resolution came naturally; even the word ‘resolution’ seemed too heavy. They were just simple facts. I would help clean. I would not think unkind thoughts automatically about girls I didn’t really know. I would keep my knees together. Just simple facts.

As I cleaned up the dinner things, Mom looked through the newspaper and suggested we see one of the new movies.

“Cool, Mom, I heard that’s a great–oh-oh!”

“What?”

“So I’ve got to change, right?”

She looked at me over the top of the paper. “It’s not fancy; you know that. Unless you want to.”

“Mom, you know what I mean. I’ve got to dress like a boy!” Amazingly, my eyes stung at the thought.

She looked at me for a long time without speaking. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Then I’d rather not see the movie, much as I want to.”

“You mean you’d rather ...”

“Yes, I’d rather continue being Angela.” That sounded odd. “I mean, I am Angela …you know what I mean.” She nodded. “So I’d rather …not go if I have to go as a boy, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. Listen, honey, you can have what you want, you know. Come to the movie with me. As Angela. As yourself.”

“Oh, God, I’d love that, but what if someone should see me?”

“The movie’s playing on the far side of town, too, so we’ll go there and we shouldn’t see anyone we know. It’ll just be a regular mom ‘n daughter night out.”

“Mom ‘n daughter ...” I started weeping again. “I can’t believe how much I’m crying lately! Oh, Mom, I want to be your daughter in every way and all the time–”

“Remember, Angela, one day at a time.”

“Okay, okay. Well, what do I do?”

“You can wash your face if you’d like, put on a little makeup. Wear what you’ve got or change–”

I interrupted her belatedly, because what she said had just sunk in. “Makeup?”

“Sure. Every girl wears some when she goes out.”

“I know that, silly! I mean ...”

She gave me a knowing look and went with me to my bedroom. She stood at the door and surveyed the now-neat room. I opened a drawer and pulled out a baby-blue long-sleeved top with a scalloped neck. As I put it on, I noticed Mom was murmuring quietly.

“Maybe wall paper, some lace curtains ...” She spoke up. “Well, I think you would need to exchange that desk for a vanity, don’t you think? Every girl needs one.”

“Fine with me, Mom!” I’d already spent hours dreaming of my girl’s room and my vanity, and now it might actually happen! And I really didn’t have any friends that came over, so nobody would ever see my room but us.

“So normally you’d sit there to do your makeup.” That simple thought, of that simple action, made me tingle. She turned me into the bathroom. “So you’ll have to do your makeup in here.”

“But–” I saw a brightly colored tackle box that had never been there before; I recognized it as a Caboodles makeup kit. I opened it and it was filled with really cool makeup–not Mom’s makeup, but teenage brands.

“Mom, thank you! But I don’t know how ...”

“I understand. Well, the movie won’t wait; would you mind if I helped you?”

“I’d be honored!” I grinned.

Mom sat me on the toilet and holding my chin in one hand, rubbed and brushed and stroked. It was all over so quickly that I figured she’d given up. Then she brushed my hair and put clips on both sides, so my hair was pulled back off my face and then hung down, framing it. She left the bathroom to get something. I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it–a pretty girl stared back at me. Mom had put a touch of soft brown shadow, a bit of blush, and a soft pink shiny lipstick, and I was absolutely transformed. The effect was so startling that I let out a yell; she came back in the bathroom and I hugged her.

“Do you want to change into some other shoes? You’ve been in those tennies all day. How about some flats? They’ll be more comfortable.”

It was a great idea, but of course I wouldn’t have thought of it since everything was so new–and I really didn’t know everything I had! Mom had bought several flats with almost no heel in different colors; I carefully put my tennies away and threw the socks in the hamper. Andrew would have dumped everything on the floor. I slipped my feet into the white flats and we were ready. Walking to the door, I almost bumped into things because I was looking down at my feet. I was probably flipping out, but I thought my feet looked so pretty in the flats and not at all boyish. No boy could have such pretty feet, I thought.

Mom had more surprises. At the front door she handed me a yellow sweater to carry, and handed me a purse–a shoulder bag, really. It was not an old lady purse; it was a young, hip bag. I was once again amazed at how she’d thought of everything.

“I’ve put some things you’ll need in there, like tissues and a brush, and some lipstick for touch up. You can put whatever you want in, of course. Now, lift your hair.”

She reached behind my neck and attached a necklace; a thin gold chain with a cute, stylized heart pendant.

“Of course, you can pick out your own jewelry, but I saw that and thought it’d look pretty on you.”

I was delighted. “Oh, Mom, I love it!”

“It’s a little weird for a girl not to have rings and bracelets, earrings and necklaces and personal jewelry, but I don’t suppose anybody’s going to be too critical in the dark theater.”

Still in awe of her complete thoughtfulness, I followed her to the car after she locked the door. It wasn’t until I got in the car that it dawned on me that I was out on the street dressed as a pretty girl!

Dressed as me!

Chapter 6. Going To The Movies

The movies were all the way across town, as Mom had said, and it took awhile to get there, allowing me time to think about things. I realized that I had received no feedback as to how I looked–beyond Mom’s reassurances, but she had to say reassuring things; she was a mother. I began to get nervous. We pulled up at the theater and I was reluctant to get out of the car; Mom had to coax me. As we crossed the street, she told me to stand up straighter and walk proudly as a pretty girl should. I think I did it; either way we got to the box office.

I dreaded the bright lights of the front of the theater and lobby, but we just whisked through with the crowd. There was a hitch though; the movie we came to see had been bumped by a sneak preview, so we decided to see it. It was about a hip young girl starting her business career and the men who tried to romance her or block her way. It was all very breezy and everything, but I realized that I was following the girl much more closely than I would have if I was sitting there as Andrew. In fact, as Andrew, I would have been at the action flick next door, watching aliens get zapped.

The odd thing was that Andrew would only have been at the action flick because it was what boys did. And he would have been miserable. There would have been a Damsel in Distress for the Hero to sav e from the aliens, and Andrew would have stared at her and wanted to be her, to wear her clothes, to be with her girlfriends, maybe …

But it would seem to any observer that Andrew was just a regular boy at a regular boy’s movie, never knowing how unhappy he was, and how much he wanted to be in the theatre next-door, watching the romantic comedy.

But Angela could watch the romantic comedy. And I could freely giggle at the funny parts and sigh at the romantic parts. And I could freely identify with the girl. Without forcing myself to maintain a boy’s perspective, I was wrapped up in this girl’s life. Could it ... could it be mine?

Halfway through the movie I had to pee. No problem, I thought. I knew I’d have to use the women’s rest room, but I wasn’t worried because everybody was watching the movie. Wrong! I immediately learned one of the downsides of being female–lines at the toilet! There were four women waiting for a stall; a mother and little girl and two older teenagers. The girls were talking about their boyfriends or their dates; I wasn’t eavesdropping but there was no way to avoid hearing them. Even the mother heard them, and I could tell she disapproved and didn’t want her daughter hearing.

The odd thing was, I immediately panicked when I saw the others, but had to pee so bad–and the men’s room was not an option–that I stayed there, trying to be invisible. I was playing with my necklace, sliding the pendant tight along the gold chain. But listening to the girls, I got caught up in their stories, and forgot to be self-conscious. It also helped immensely that none of the females there paid me any attention; in their eyes I was one of them.

The mother and daughter went into a stall as an older woman came out, washed, and checked her makeup before leaving. One of the girls made a comment about a guy named ‘Chuck’, and her friend jumped right in.

“Yeah, but Chuck’s an asshole, Gina! I’ve told you that, Diana told you that–heck, even Becca told you that!–and face it, girl, you know it yourself!”

The girl named Gina looked sad. “Yeah, I know he is. But he can be so sweet when we’re alone.”

“That’s just an act he’s putting on to get laid. You know it, Gina! The best thing is, you haven’t slept with him yet.”

“I know ... But he can be so nice, Carrie ...”

Carrie snorted and turned to me as if I was already in their conversation. “He’s an asshole.”

She shook her head at me, as if I should join her in being exasperated with Gina. I just smiled weakly, wishing I could disappear. I was so sure that she would realize I was a boy.

Gina turned to me, also. “He can be really nice! You know?” She looked at me hopefully.

I realized that both girls thought I was a girl, too, and I got an incredible warm rush of happy confidence. They were both looking at me–I know it seemed like minutes but it was really only a second or two–and I felt I was supposed to say something. I thought about a jerk I knew in class.

“Well ...” I checked to see if they really wanted to listen; they did so I went on. “I don’t know the guy you’re talking about, but I know one guy that’s sort of like that. The only question is, which guy is the act? Is he a nice guy who is sometimes an asshole, or is he really an asshole that occasionally does something nice?”

The girls looked at me, thinking about it. Gina’s eyes widened and she went, ‘oh wow’, and a smile formed on Carrie’s face. Gina looked shell-shocked; just then a stall came open and she went in. The former occupant checked her face at the mirror for a second, fluffed her hair and headed out.

Carrie turned to me. “You’re right. Boy, are you right.” She leaned her head against the wall and looked at the ceiling. “Poor Gina. I think it’s the second one.”

“Pardon me?” I had been worried for a second that I was the ‘boy’ she’d just referred to but realized it was just the saying, the exclamation, like ‘wow’. Or ‘man!’ I reminded myself not to be so sensitive; the girls seemed to be accepting me as one of them, so why didn’t I accept it?

Carrie sighed. “The second one you said. Chuck’s an asshole who sometimes is nice, because he thinks he’ll get lucky. And Gina’s going to be hurt. I’ve tried to be a good friend and warn her, but I think she’s gonna get burned.”

“Then you’ve got to be a good friend and be there for her afterward.”

Carrie looked at me. “You’re right; I will be. But I hurt for her. I’m Carrie,” she said, turning to me.

“I’m Angela,” I said, saying and hearing it out loud for the first time outside my home. It sounded right and fine.

“Do you go to Burl?” she said, using the slang for Burlington High School.

“No, I go to Westmont,” I said, and mentally slapped myself–I couldn’t believe I told her my school!

“That’s why I haven’t seen you–”

A stall opened and an old lady came out; Carrie started towards the stall and turned back to me.

“Listen, my email’s ‘burlgrrl–two R’s–at gmail’. Drop me a line if you feel like it.”

Then she disappeared into the stall. Gina came out next, and as I headed into the stall, she held the door.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

I said ‘sure’, wished her luck, and went in. Okay, I knew what to do, sort of; pull down the skirt, pull down the panties, sit, do it, wipe, make sure everything’s back in place. I was terribly self-conscious; I wondered crazily if anybody could tell that my pee sounded different from a real girl’s! I finished and left the stall; Carrie and Gina were gone and there were now two other women waiting. I washed my hands, checked my face–it still startled me to see this girl looking back with my eyes–and went back to Mom.

“I thought you’d fallen in!” she said in a whisper. “Any trouble?”

I whispered back. “No; just a line.” Mom nodded; she knew all about Ladies’ room lines. I leaned closer. “I think I might have made a friend.”

Mom turned in the dark and looked at me, smiled, and turned back to the screen. She whispered that I hadn’t missed much. A little bit later there was a love scene, and I got uncomfortable sitting next to my mother, watching the scene. Not because I’m a prude or anything; it’s just that I suddenly thought about it from the girl’s side. I wondered what it would be like to be held that way, to be kissed that way, and then when he put his hands on her breasts and kissed them, I got a quick hot rush. Where were these feelings going to take me?

Finally the heroine wound up with a promotion and a future romance with an artist. We all left the theater; out of the corner of my eye I caught Carrie and Gina with two guys, and I wondered if one of them was Chuck. Carrie noticed me and called out ‘see ya, Angela!’ before they turned the other way with their boyfriends. Mom looked at me again while we waited for the light to change.

“She seems nice. Did you know her before?”

“No, she goes to Burlington. She gave me her email address.”

“Are you going to email her?”

“Sure. I guess. I don’t know; do you think it’s a good idea?”

The light changed and we crossed. Mom smiled and said, “A girl’s got to have friends.”

We didn’t say anything more about that; we talked about the movie and agreed it would do okay, but probably do much better in video release. It was a long drive home, and I found myself getting sleepier with each mile. When we got home, I didn’t even think about neighbors seeing me; I followed Mom in a daze.

I went upstairs and flopped down on my bed. Mom passed my door and looked in.

“Oh, no you don’t, young lady! Get ready for bed and call me when you’re ready to wash up.”

I undressed sleepily. I put the flats in a line with the others, then stepped out of the skirt and hung it on the odd skirt-hanger. Then I pulled off the top and hung it up, too. I didn’t know the ‘hamper procedure’ for these clothes. I’d been wearing them but they weren’t dirty, so should they go in the hamper after one wearing? That was for Mom to decide. A big yawn overtook me, and I stretched my arms up toward the ceiling. As I did that, I felt the bra pulling against my chest, and felt the breast forms against my chest, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Damn! I really looked like a girl! And the stretch just felt so good, and everything was just so nice today, that I never wanted it to end.

Reluctantly, I removed the bra and placed the forms on the dresser, removed the panties and hampered them. I didn’t know if I was supposed to put on the same nightgown and panties I’d worn last night so I put on the bathrobe and went to see Mom. She was in the bathroom laying out new items. She told me to wear the same nightgown if I wanted, as long as it wasn’t soiled, but to change panties every night and every day; that way I’d always feel fresher. We decided that I’d shower in the morning and just wash up now. I was going to remove the necklace but she said I could keep it on; I was glad because I loved the way it sparkled and hung down my chest. After I brushed my teeth, she instructed me in how to use the cleanser, astringent, and moisturizers she’d bought.

As I wiped the last bit of cream from my hands, she held my face in both hands and studied it closely, then smiled.

“You’ve got your grandmother’s pores.” I must have made a strange face, because she chuckled. “That’s a good thing, honey. Unfortunately they missed me, but those good genes are strong in you. Be glad for them. Rejoice in them.”

I nodded tiredly, and went back to change into my nightgown. After I was under the covers Mom came and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How was that for a first day?”

“Pretty–” I yawned, “–terrific, Mom.”

“I’ll say! Thank you for all your help today, honey. I promise we’ll do something fun tomorrow.”

“Going to the movie was fun ...”

“And you found a new friend, too! Well, good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night, Mom.”

She turned off my bed light as she stood, then turned at my door and looked at me with a sweet smile.

I heard her gently murmur, “Good night, Angela.”

End of Part 2

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 3

Chapter 7. Sunday Math

I woke the next morning and was so glad to still be in my nightgown that I hugged myself under the covers, my hands feeling the smoothness of the nightgown down my body. I felt slightly embarrassed, like some wanna-be Ann-Margret in Bye, Bye, Birdie,–a favorite of my mother’s and mine, now–but I just felt so good! I got out of bed, my nightgown falling down around my legs, and thought, this is the way it should be, always; it should be so natural a part of my life that I don’t think anything about it at all.

I put on the chenille robe and went downstairs. Mom saw me and pulled out some melon slices and poured a glass of orange juice. Toast joined the melon. I hugged her and sat down to eat.

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and smiled at me. “My, aren’t we chipper today!”

I swallowed some melon and said, “I just feel so good. So natural and free.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t want to rain on your parade, young lady, but do you remember a certain note a certain geometry teacher sent home?”

I almost gagged. “Omigod, that completely slipped out of my head! Oh, there went the day.” I angrily speared another piece of melon and slammed my teeth down on the bite.

“Well, not entirely. After you’re dressed, why don’t you see how well you study. Maybe around one or so, I’ll give you a little quiz; we’ll see how you’re doing. Okay?”

“Great,” I grumbled, “studying and a pop quiz.”

“Oh, it won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”

I couldn’t read the look she gave me, and I didn’t know if she meant the studying or the quiz wouldn’t be bad; either way, I thought the day was shot. The way I’d been going in class, I’d be lucky to get two pages done, let alone the thirty or so I’d need to catch up. Damn, why hadn’t she reminded me yesterday? Then I’d have at least four pages done by Monday. Oh well, nothing to it but to do it, I thought.

I put my dishes in the washer and headed upstairs. After washing up and pulling my hair back into a high ponytail and holding it with a scrunchie, I changed into a new pair of white shorts. I loved the way they flared out slightly at the hem. I put on a white cotton bra, the inserts, and marveled again at how comfortable the weight and support felt. I realized that large breasts could be tiring, and I suddenly felt sympathy for some of the girls in my class.

I’d never thought of that before; just more learning about this new world. It also reinforced my resolution of yesterday; my unkind thoughts about the breasts of Sharon and Denise had no place in the person that I want to be–the girl I am.

Finally, I put on a peach and lime-green tank top, tucking my bra straps under the straps of the tank. I found a pair of low socks, pulled on the white Keds, and was going to leave but sat back down to apply a bit of lipgloss and, what the heck, the tiniest of blush. I just felt better that way, smiled at myself in the mirror, and headed back downstairs.

Mom had stacked my schoolbooks on the dining room table, along with a notepad and pencils. She was so thoughtful, but the best way I could repay her back was to really crack down on the work. I sat down, knees together, then decided to cross my legs at the knees. I’d never really tried it before, but tucked as I was, it felt fine, although a little unusual.

I started working, and after fifteen minutes, I’d already reviewed three pages! I only knew it had been fifteen minutes because the clock in the living room chimed the half-hour. I mentally stepped back to analyze whether I was really getting the math, or just skimming and faking it. As I reviewed my review, I realized that I really did have it! The only thing I could think of was that I wasn’t spending my work time daydreaming about what it would be like to be dressed as a girl, because I already was! I just felt like a normal girl doing her homework, and while I’m sure girls had distractions, too, for some reason I could just focus today. So, I jumped back in with enthusiasm.

The next time the clock chimed, I’d made up another ten pages, and I realized that I really did know this stuff; I just had been slagging it off while part of my brain absorbed it. Like when I’d answered wrong in Geometry; it wasn’t because I didn’t know the subject–I just hadn’t been paying attention to the teacher. All along I’d been half-way focused on learning Geometry, but then I’d get distracted. Now that I fully focused, it was all coming together.

I got up to pee. Even that was both normal yet odd; odd in that I peed sitting down and didn’t think anything about it until I was washing my hands. Why was all this coming so naturally? I’d have to think about that fully at a later time; right now it was back to the book.

By the time one o’clock rolled around, I’d done thirty-two pages of review and taken the test at the end of the last chapter. Checking the answers in the back, I’d only gotten one wrong and I immediately realized how I’d goofed–won’t happen again, I thought! I was starting on the next week’s work when Mom appeared.

“You’ve been going great guns, honey; how are you doing?”

“Mom, it’s hard to explain but it’s all come together and I think I’m caught up.”

“Ready for a test?”

“Bring it on!”

She produced a page from a folder she was holding; it was a photocopy of one of my Geometry teacher’s tests. It was one I’d never seen, and I realized that somehow she’d gotten it from him. For a brief moment, everything I’d learned threatened to crawl out of my ears and scamper away, but I pulled it together and attacked the test. Mom timed me; I had 45 minutes to do it and finished in about a half-hour, then checked my work, fixed one goof that I’d rushed through and handed it to her.

She even had the answers! She pulled a second sheet from the folder and checked my work. She smiled continuously and her smile only got bigger. When it was done, she raised her eyebrows, looked at me, and then wrote “100%” across the top in big red letters. I let out a whoop of victory, and she laughed.

“I knew you could do it! Oh, Angela, I’m so proud of you!”

The fact that she called me Angela gave me pause. I was getting strange feelings, but before I could analyze them or discuss them, I had some questions.

“Where did that stuff come from?”

She smiled a little shamefacedly. “Oh, remember when I went to call the doctor? I also called the school and talked to your teacher–no, don’t get excited, I didn’t tell him anything about Angela. I asked about your behavior in class, your daydreaming, and so on. He faxed me this test and the answers, but said it’s not the same one you’ll get. The same material, but not the same exact questions.”

“Aw, shoot!” I pretended to grumble.

“Anyway, he said that if you could pull yourself up to at least an 85% on this test, your final grade would come up a notch.” She looked down at my finished test. “He didn’t say anything about coming up to 100%!”

“Don’t tell him; let me do it again on Monday and give him a heart attack!”

“Well, I think he’ll be pleased. I know I am; you did excellent work, young lady.”

That was what was bothering me. “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, honey, anything.”

“I’ve only been dressing for a day and a half now, really, but you’re already calling me Angela and ‘young lady’ like you’ve always been saying that.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, yes, I love it, but ... well, it kind of sounds like you’re already familiar with saying it. I mean, you don’t have any hesitation saying ‘young lady’. And I was wondering if you ... if you kind of …already thought of me that way.”

“Do you mean, did I think of you that way before Friday?”

“Well, that, and do you think of me that way now, or are you just playing along?”

She twirled a pencil, studying the tip for a moment while she gathered her thoughts. “I’ve always thought of you as my child–after all, you are–but over the last year or so, I’ve seen how unhappy you were and I’ve lain awake nights thinking of reasons. I was wondering about your gender identity; in fact I’ve wondered about it off and on for years–”

“What?” That startled me!

“Well, you did things, said things when you were younger that sounded just like the things I used to do and say, and I began studying little kids in the playgrounds, boys and girls. When I watched you with the boys, even discounting my own subjectivity because you were mine, you just seemed …other. Apart; an outsider. Truth be told, it was quite rare that you were with a group of boys. I don’t recall ever seeing you voluntarily walk to a group of boys; usually you were herded together with them by a monitor or teacher. Left to your own devices, you invariably played with girls.”

Her smile was warm and a little sad with the memories. “And, again, trying to observe you as objectively as possible, you were …just like them. They were really no different from you; they were just dressed differently. And, of course, they were girls, but the games, the laughter, the chatter, the …movements …all were completely natural. You were just one of the little girls. And with the boys ...there was always that ...difference between you and them. That’s what I noticed, consistently. You just didn’t fit with them …but you did fit with the girls.”

“I never ... I mean, I never consciously tried to say or do girl things–”

“I know, I know; it was so natural, and that was what was so striking about it. Anyway, I was fairly certain that, deep down, you felt like a girl. Of course, it might be something you would grow out of, but I found myself wondering what life would have been like if you’d been born a girl.” She paused a long time.

“And?” I prompted.

She was reluctant to go on. “And ... oh, I shouldn’t …Honey, let’s just be glad–”

“Mom, you’re avoiding the subject, and I don’t think that’s fair right now. We’ve got to be absolutely truthful with one another; I know I have been, no matter how embarrassing it was.”

“I know, honey, and you’ve been very brave. I’m just reluctant to say anything that might influence you in any way.”

I was beginning to understand her–I hoped. So, I plunged in.

“Mom, I don’t know if this will influence you in any way, but you said let’s see where things stood on Monday. I’m going to tell you right now that I’ve never felt better, more alive, more …real, more ...human than I have since becoming Angela. The idea of going back to Andrew is almost more than I can bear; I don’t even want to think about it but I know I have to. But if there’s any way I can become Angela forever, I want to do it. Even before seeing any doctors or shrinks, I know that I want them to change me. Surgically. Completely. You know what I mean.”

She looked at me for a long time. “Wow. Well, you’ve been honest, I must say, and I’m sure that took a lot of courage. Don’t call ‘em shrinks, by the way; they don’t like that.” She frowned. “Well, I guess I have to say my piece.”

And then she didn’t say anything. She seemed about to, and then stopped herself. Frowned. Started to open her mouth, closed it and frowned deeper. I just let her have her space and time to put things into words.

Then to my surprise, she got up and went to the window. My heart sank; I was sure she was going to say that the whole Angela thing was a mistake and that I must change now and we’d take everything back to Target. She turned at the window and looked at me and sighed deeply.

“Honey, if you knew how many nights I wished to God that you could have been born female ...If you knew how many times I prayed that somehow it would all turn out to have been some medical mistake, that you weren’t a boy, that you truly were my daughter ...I thought that if that happened, then you had a chance at happiness. Because that’s what it was all about; not my happiness at having a daughter, but your happiness, my child’s happiness.”

She chuckled sadly. “And then I’d lay awake feeling guilty and beating myself up for denying my son. Honey, it’s been eating me up for years. When you came home Friday and we talked, I almost couldn’t believe my ears; it was all I’d hoped for. The only thing I never had was a name; as soon as I heard Angela I knew it was right, and that somehow I’d try to keep you Angela forever–but only if it was what you wanted …if it was what you needed. Then, of course, I began feeling guilty all over again for trying to influence you to be a girl.”

She looked sheepish. “I guess that’s why I kind of went overboard at Target. But it’s so good to be able to say ‘young lady’ and think of you–at last–as Angela, my daughter. And, like I said before, it just fits. And you …you are so much happier–happier than I’ve ever seen you, ever–and capable of so much more, as Angela, based on your schoolwork today, that I …” She sighed and smiled. “I just can’t deny the truth–you were meant to be my daughter, and should be!”

“Oh, Mom!” was all I could say as I rushed over to hug her.

We cried, looked at each other through our tears, and cried some more. She led me over to the couch, but I think she wanted us closer to the box of tissues on the end table. Finally, sniffling and wiping our eyes and noses, we sat up and laughed a little at our outburst.

Suddenly, I thought of something. “Oh, God, what about tomorrow?”

“You mean school?”

I nodded.

“Unfortunately, the law says you have to go. And unless you want to die a swift but messy death at the hands of the jocks, you’ll have to go as Andrew.”

“I figured that. I don’t want to, though.”

“I know, but it’s only three weeks. You’ve got to focus, though; don’t fall back into Andrew’s bad old habits. Think of yourself as Angela undercover, maybe?”

The phrase ‘Angela undercover’ somehow sounded comical and I laughed.

“Don’t allow yourself to daydream; just nail each class as it comes along. And anyway, you only have to be Andrew–”

“You mean, dress up as Andrew,” I corrected. “Not be.”

She smiled. “Yes, Angela, ‘dress up as Andrew’–until you get home. Then you can wear whatever you want. But!” She held up a warning finger. “No going half-way. Do not try to hide panties under Andrew’s clothes. You must wear only 100% boys’ clothes. It’ll be far safer for you.”

“I understand. Although I won’t really be a 100% boy!”

It was her turn to laugh. “It’ll be rough; keep your head down and focus your attention on your classes. It’s always broken my heart that you never had any friends, but maybe that’s turned out to be a good thing, now; they won’t bother you. And, I thought it was indicative of your future that the very first full day you became Angela, you made a friend. What was her name?”

“You mean Carrie? At the movies? We’re not really friends.”

“She gave you her email address, didn’t she? Don’t fool yourself; girls do things differently than boys and she wants to be your friend. Oh, did you tell her your email address?”

“No; I was just embarrassed enough that I told her my school.”

“Why don’t you think about a new screen name for Angela and send Carrie a note today sometime?”

“I could do that. I will do that! She was kind of cool.”

“But my point is this: In the two years Andrew’s been at Westmont, he has made zero friends. In less than twenty-four hours, Angela already has a friend. Coincidence? I think not.”

I laughed at her using the old cliché, but she had a strong point. “Okay.”

“Okay? To what?”

“Okay to everything. I’ll think of screen names and tonight Angela will email Carrie. At school I will dress as Andrew and act just like Andrew, the poor old schlub, until the end of the year. Once I get inside this house after school, Angela comes out. But Mom, what about summer?”

She looked at me warmly. “I was hoping my daughter and I could spend it together.”

I hugged her again. “You know she will!”

Chapter 8. Monday Changes

It was surprisingly difficult to stop being Angela. Mom and I discussed it and she felt that Sunday night should be the changeover time, not Monday morning.

“Going to need an hour or two to work the girl out of your system,” she teased.

“That’s never gonna happen!” I said, surprising even myself with my fierceness.

Mom sat. “Oh, sweetheart, this has disaster written all over it if we can’t get a handle on it. I blame myself for letting you so completely become Angela this weekend; I’ve just made things harder for you.” She thought for a moment while I brooded over the unfairness of the universe.

Then she looked up and said, “Earlier you laughed at the phrase ‘Angela undercover’ but it applies. Maybe it’ll help; if not, there’s always the mask thing.”

“Mask?”

She nodded. “If you’re dressing up like a werewolf for Halloween, do you walk around saying, ‘But I’m not a werewolf!’ or do you get in the suit, put the mask over your head and jump around and go ‘arrr’!” She raised both hands as claws and snarled.

I laughed and was about to say something but she cut me off.

“Or do you take the mask off, like you’re going to the bathroom or something, and still go ‘arr’!”

“No!” I laughed.

“Or do you realize it’s just a silly costume; you know how to act like a werewolf but it doesn’t mean anything to you; it’s just acting like the costume you’re wearing?”

“Okay, point made,” I nodded. “Geez, I’m not dense, you know!”

“Young ladies should not say ‘geez’–ah, there I go,” she slumped and shook her head. “Alright. Until doctors tell us different, Angela is the real child, the real daughter, the real person. Andrew is artificial, a costume, a mask, that Angela has to wear for fifteen days out of the next nineteen, and then only for six hours of the day.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

She continued. “And on the twentieth day, Andrew goes into a box or a laundry bag or even a Hefty Bag and that’s the end of that, God willing.” She gave me a piercing look. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said solemnly.

“Since we’re in agreement on that key point, I ask that you follow my recommendations. First, during the week, the Andrew mask is only to be worn from waking until you return home from school. You will do everything in the morning that you have been doing as Andrew and go to school. Wear the same clothes, walk the same way, say the same things. And walk home as Andrew. I expect–and I think you do, too!–that the mask will be dropped and Angela will be here when I get home from work.”

“Sixty seconds after coming through the front door!” I said enthusiastically.

She laughed. “Maybe a bit longer; you might want a shower or something. In fact, that’s a good psychological thing, a shower to …wash away the boy, maybe?” She grinned, and I did, too. She chuckled. “As if it were that easy! Anyway, do your homework, chores, watch TV, whatever. That would be your routine from the end of school Monday through Friday. But tonight, I’m going to ask something different of you. Because you’re coming off the first glorious discovery of Angela, with two fully-intense days of being a girl, I think you need to start your adjustment back to Andrew tonight. No nightie, I’m afraid; your old jammies after a shower. Practice the mask, the walk and talk. What do you think?”

“I think–I know–I’m going to be miserable. But I think you’re right and I’ve got to do it that way.”

And that’s what I did, and I was miserable, but kept thinking, ‘Fifteen out of nineteen’ and kept my fingers crossed.

Mom drove me to school the next morning; I could feel her observing me closely and she pronounced me ‘Andrew’ like it was a level of achievement–‘You have successfully achieved Andrew’. I went to class and she went to the Administration. I told her I could weather the PE coach’s stupid remarks but she said there was ‘a bigger picture’ and events needed to be documented. Nothing was said about what the picture was …

I wondered if girls would be even more distracting to me after the weekend, but knowing what I did about myself, and knowing that in a few hours I’d be in a skirt, too, eased things considerably and I was able to focus. I got an A in Spanish, which was my best class; all that time with Santiago was paying off. At lunch I sat alone as I usually did, but got a note in my next class to go to Study Hall and report to Ms. Roberts for last period, which was PE. So I guessed Mom was successful!

Ms. Roberts was one of the younger English teachers and just nodded at me when I showed up at her desk; she quickly told me the Study Hall rules and I managed to get all of my homework done! It was a light load because we were mostly studying for finals, but it was nice to know that it didn’t cut into my Angela time.

Walking home, I heard my name called, only it was ‘Andres’, which was Santiago. He was jiggling his way to me. I stopped and he arrived, winded.

“Why you no in PE?” he said between puffs.

“Why were you not in PE,” I corrected automatically.

“Si, yes; why you not in PE?” he asked, nodding, annoyed. “You leave me with Coach.”

“Sorry, Diego,” I shrugged. It was a diminutive of his full name. “My mother found out the way the coach talks to us and got pissed off.”

“He talks that way when he no pissed off!”

“Not pissed off–no, I mean,” I rolled my eyes. “My mom got pissed off and went to the principal today and demanded I be pulled from the class for the rest of the year–I did not send her, Diego.”

True enough; I thought her Administration trip was about matters in the future, not PE today.

“So I am stuck with Coach for the rest of the year?”

“It’s only three weeks–less, now that today’s gone, and I don’t there’s any PE the last couple of days.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “Thought you were mi amigo.”

“Todavia soy tu amigo, Santiago,” I said. I still am your friend, Santiago.

He did one of those Hispanic looks and noises that was the equivalent of a disgusted ‘yeah, yeah’.

Then he began walking with me. “Tienes que sonreá­r como un idota ahora,” he sighed. Got to smile like an idiot now.

“Eso no es diferente que antes,” I teased. That’s no different than before.

“Eh!” he laughed and swiped his fingertips across my arm. “Antes, yo era sálo el cincuenta por ciento del idiota!” Before, I was only fifty percent of the idiot!

We laughed together; he told me the coach had got him alone and snarled, “Where’s your little girl friend today?”

I debated telling Mom about that; there were good reasons to tell her and good reasons not to. In the end, I figured I’d pass it on as hearsay and not to be acted on; I was already out of the class so it really didn’t matter. But I felt bad for Santiago.

When I got home, I took the shower to ‘de-boy’ myself, and powdered and fresh, my hair fluffed out, I put on a blue bra and panty set, the inserts, and felt instantly better. I pulled on a berry camisole and denim skirt and flats and what little jewelry I had. I found a thin white ribbon and on a whim I tied it behind my neck and over my head like Alice in Wonderland and liked the look. Then I sat took the new makeup kit to the bathroom and began experimenting. Less is more, I knew, and after three applications and removals, I was getting the hang of modest makeup but had a lot to learn.

Since I had no homework and Mom had told me she would bring dinner home, I had time to surf the internet for teen makeup tips. I began bookmarking a lot of sites; makeup sites, clothing sites, sites to help with girls’ personal problems–all the things in the girls’ magazines but more specific and in depth. I found a makeup page and plugged in my variables–hair, eye, skin color, and so on–and then printed out the color chart it recommended, with the names of three brands and color names for foundation, eyeshadow, liner, mascara, blush, lipstick, and concealer.

Wow.

Mom came home with Chinese and told me about her meeting with the school; no yelling but she did threaten a lawsuit. She ‘kind of hinted’–her words–that I had recorded the coach, and mentioned another boy was a witness, but did not name Santiago. After swearing her to take no action, I told her what the coach said to Santiago about me today. She was boiling mad.

I wasn’t. “Mom, I’m sitting here in makeup and a pretty skirt, and you’re upset that he called me a girl?”

“No, sweetheart,” she calmed and then chuckled. “I’m upset that he’s so open about his bigotry, and also that he’s inflicting it on that poor friend of yours.”

I was about to say that Santiago wasn’t really a friend–we’d never done anything outside of PE, I meant–but I realized he was my only friend in the sense of anybody I actually spoke with on a regular basis. And I had said I was his friend, today–and I’d said it in Spanish! So, yeah.

“Not so poor, maybe,” I said. “His folks own a restaurant.”

“Really? Which one? Do we know it?”

“I don’t think so. It’s called La Rioja, over by the new mall.” Across town, in other words.

“Spanish restaurant?”

“Um, yes, I think so; they’re from Argentina but I don’t know how much of the food is from there.”

“We should try it sometime. This weekend, maybe.”

“Um, Mom? This weekend …I can be Angela, right?” She smiled and nodded. I frowned. “Well, I guess we could go. I’d just wear what I wear to school.”

“Nonsense; that pretty blue sundress, maybe,” she grinned. “You’d look so cute in that in a Mexican–sorry!–Argentinean restaurant.”

“No; Santiago might be there; I can’t risk him seeing me. As Angela, I mean.”

“Why not?”

She just looked at me.

“I don’t …I’m not ready …”

“Sweetheart, we need to discuss this. You will not hide under a rock this summer. You’ve already gone out to the movies, met that new friend of yours, and had a nice time! We’ll be doing more of that once school’s out. And I know that this boy is not a close friend, just a classmate, really. And even if he is working at his family’s restaurant, the difference between the unhappy boy he knows and the pretty girl you are is …well, it’s remarkable. And he doesn’t know me, either, so it should be no problem.” She smirked. “But if we’re eating, and he does show up, just promise me that you won’t suddenly stand up and scream, ‘Omigod! I’m your classmate Andrew and I’m wearing a dress!’” She laughed. “Unless you tell me beforehand so I can bring a video camera!”

She was having way too much fun with that scenario, so I grumbled and went on eating.

I thought about it that night, though; she was right that nobody would know me. And it would be wonderful to be out as mother and daughter. And I do like Mexican–scratch that; I’ve got to find out what kind of food they serve.

Chapter 9. Restrooms

Tuesday was a little weird, then really weird. And, truth be told, it was a little weird making the mental change from dreaming happily in my pretty nightie to putting on the drab Andrew clothes and adopt the shuffling walk. Since yesterday had been so successful, Mom said we could try the nightie–she knew how happy I was to wear one–and see if it affected my ability to ‘be’ Andrew. And I got through the morning okay.

And then the first weird thing was my Geometry teacher.

“Mis ..ter Preston,” he began with a hesitation that was …weird. “Your work yesterday showed a marked improvement.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Um …maybe it’s too early, but will it affect my grade in time?”

“It’s a start,” he nodded. “Your work improved dramatically from Friday, but which is the true standard of your ability?”

I frowned. “What can I do to …I guess I should just keep it up?”

“Exactly, Mis …ter Preston.”

Again with the hesitation, I thought as I walked out of class. Almost like he was the bad guy in The Matrix, with the pause when he said ‘Mis-ter Anderson’, but it wasn’t exactly that; more like–Omigod! I realized he was on the edge of saying ‘Miss Preston’! But I’d been in his class all semester; he knows I’m …

I stopped dead in my tracks. I realized that there was one of those ‘disconnect’ things going on. He knows I’m ‘Mister’ but somehow his senses were signaling that he should say ‘Miss’. That was exciting and really cool and incredibly scary, too. I thought I’d been in total Andrew mode, totally the same boring guy, but something triggered that disconnect in Geometry. Maybe it was just seeing me up close?

There wasn’t a lot of homework for me to do in Study Hall, which was a good thing because I was brooding about Geometry. It had been a little weird. And I guess it was a little more weird when I looked down and had been doodling. I’d been writing ‘Angela Marie Preston’ in cursive, trying things with the ‘G’ and dots on the ‘I’ and things and that would be fine–at home! –but not on a notebook page in school! I quickly turned the page and decided to try focusing on studying for finals.

And then the really weird thing happened. Well, first, I caught my hair in my backpack when I was putting it on when I left Study Hall. I kind of tugged and kind of went ‘ow’ and the rubber thing snapped and my hair came loose, but I got the backpack on. I decided to pee before walking home and had my hand on the Boys’ restroom door and heard this loud ‘a-hem!’ from behind.

A deep voice called, “Wrong room, missy!”

I knew that voice.

The weird thing was, it was polite.

I turned and it was my PE coach. And for the strangest reason, I knew instantly that he didn’t recognize me. I’d only been out of his class for two days! Well, plus two days of a weekend. So four days ago he had been in my face calling me a faggot, and now he was standing there, one hand on a hip, the other extended and pointing in a circle to the Girls’ restroom next door.

“There you go, honey,” he said, still wiggling his finger.

I was already in the process of pushing the door open and he did an ‘Uh-uh-uh!’ like he was an uncle or something. He was still doing the wiggling finger thing and raised his eyebrows.

Still didn’t recognize me …

Nothing to do but follow the moron’s directions. I released the Boys’ restroom door and, what the heck, did a girlish giggle and wiggled my head like ‘Silly me!’

And went into the Girls’ restroom.

Thank goodness, there was nobody in there; enough time had passed since school let out that everybody had peed and gone home. Quickly I did my business and then washed and–yet again, what the heck!–decided to fluff my hair at the mirror and wash my hands, sighing with pleasure. God, if I could do this for real–really be just another girl in the Girls’ restroom …

The coach was gone when I came out, his Good Deed of directing the silly girl to her proper restroom successfully concluded.

Condescending, sexist jerk!

When I told Mom about it that night, I thought she was going to pee herself, she was laughing so hard.

Wednesday was another tough morning, making the mental shift from Angela to Andrew. I got an A on the last Spanish test of the year, seemed to do pretty well in every other class, and got a smile and nod in Geometry. Study Hall was quiet and I went straight home.

And I had to–had to–had to have a bubble bath.

When Mom came home I was wearing a sundress that we’d bought over the weekend, and I was putting together a chicken-and-rice dish that we liked. Mom watched me for a few minutes.

“You’re so …lovely,” she grinned. “That dress just floats around you and you move so gracefully …”

“Thanks, um,” I said and started rinsing the salt water from the chicken.

“Honey, do you want to stick it in the fridge and let me take you out to dinner?”

“It’s no bother, Mom; I can make–”

“Come on, sweetie,” she playfully whined like a young girl. “I haven’t been able to go out with my best girl for, like, ever!”

“Four days ago, Mom,” I said, but was already laughing.

We drove to an Applebee’s across town, with the cheerful, ‘Good evening, ladies!’ that made me warm inside. We had salads and ice tea–much like home–and it was kind of odd. Every TV in the place–and there were many–were all showing baseball games.

“What if you don’t like baseball?” I asked.

“Men think you should,” Mom said, with an odd undercurrent. Her voice turned sad. “Part of being a woman, Angela.”

“Mom, all but two of the waiters are women, and looking around the place, easily half the people are women. But there isn’t one station that isn’t ESPN something-or-other.”

She gave me a look and I added, “And over half the world is female!”

“Over half the world …plus one,” she grinned.

Then she switched subjects and began telling me what to expect tomorrow after school at the doctor’s appointment. I had a pretty good idea after reading things on the internet, and we coordinated times and things. It was a peaceful and happy drive home and after getting in my nightie and washed and moisturized, Mom actually tucked me in bed. She kissed my forehead and smiled, then took a deep sigh.

“Tomorrow may mean everything or it may mean nothing. We either will start moving forward with your new life, or we will explore other avenues to make it happen. Either way, my darling, be brave, be smart, and know that I love you and support you and we will find a way that Angela can live free.”

Nothing of note happened at school the next day, and then we went to the doctor’s office.

Chapter 10. The Doctor and the Spanish Lesson

I had to write a comprehensive, detailed account of my meeting with the doctors; they wanted my impressions as part of their program. So I won’t go into a blow-by-blow account; I don’t want to have to write the darned thing twice.

But, briefly:

We met with Dr. Watkins in his office across the street from the University Hospital. First there were some forms, then I peed in a cup, had blood drawn, a few strands of hair were cut and the inside of my cheek swabbed, and then we talked. As a group, then Mom left and I talked with him, and then Mom came back in and I was given a questionnaire to fill out in the waiting area. Great, I thought; Finals haven’t even started and already I’m taking a test. I finished it and was reading old magazines–actually a great back issue of Glamour; I forgot to mention that in my detailed account!–and then I was back in with the doctor.

Then a second doctor was called in, a woman named Dr. Chang, and she had the lab results. Well, I was male, but we all knew that, but I was, as Dr. Watkins put it, ‘barely male’. Dr. Chang did that thing with the thumb and forefinger really close.

They wanted to discuss everything further and asked that I come in the next day just for the labs again–Mom and I looked at each other–and we’d meet on Monday.

And that was it; we were back in the car and Mom cut me off.

“Honey, I have absolutely no idea what any of that meant. I gather it’s probably a good thing they want another set of labs, though.”

She drove home as we compared notes, each telling the other what happened when we’d been alone with the doctor.

The next day at school was a half day, which was the last sort-of official day of classes, because Monday started Finals Week, where the schedule was all over the place, and Seniors were getting ready to graduate. I’d been telling Mom how great it would be, for three reasons. First, only a portion of the school’s kids were there; Seniors were already gone so that was 25% missing right there, and only a percentage of kids left because some families took off for early vacations. It cut down the population considerably. Second, in and out. You walk right to class, head down, open your test booklets and go to work and dump them in the box and go home. Third, I was ready for all of my classes. The only class I’d feared was PE, not for any final, but for the inevitable low grade.

I closed my locker for the last official class day and turned and there was Santiago.

“Hokay, now you are my friend again,” he grinned.

“What do you–oh, PE’s over?”

“Si. You could not stick it out just four more days?”

“Sorry, Diego,” I shook my head. “It wasn’t my idea, remember? I think Mom thought it was three more weeks. She was angry at me for not telling her sooner.” Okay, I was embellishing a little.

He nodded. “Is okay. Coach didn’t yell at me so much. I think he …” He shrugged.

Things kind of clicked into place. “You think he was mostly yelling at me, and you sort of were in the way?”

He smiled and bobbed his head. “Si. Yes, maybe.” He shrugged again. “But it was quiet this week.”

“Well, I’m glad for you. Now maybe you’ll be like my mom and be pissed at me for not getting out of class sooner!”

Santiago laughed. “But he always say ‘faggots’! Meaning more than one!”

That bugged me. “Diego, listen, I’m sorry about that. He didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just the way he talks, like calling all the guys ‘girls’ if they run slow.”

He did that Hispanic thing again, sort of like the French ‘enh’ with the shrug. “Es estúpido.”

What I could tell Santiago about yesterday, the coach, and the restrooms! But I shrugged, too, and said, “Una cosa mala muerte que decir.” Yeah, but it’s a crummy thing to say.

“Su español es cada vez mejor,” he grinned. Your Spanish is better and better.

“Gracias,” I grinned.

He turned and looked across the school. “You know, in Argentina …the gay thing is not so much a problem. Latin culture, sometimes a problem, but Argentina …”

Santiago often talked about his home country when we shuffled along instead of jogging in PE, but he went on to explain that the country had given gays equality in 1992, and after a tremendous financial crash around 2001, things relaxed even more. And just recently, Argentina passed sweeping gender rights reforms, allowing ‘sex-change surgery’ and hormone prescriptions as part of their regular health care–and even to specify which gender they wanted listed with their name!

He did the shrug thing and said, “The crash was big change. When the people are eating from the garbage cans, a kiss between two men is …no es una gran cosa.” Not such a big deal.

“Yeah, but here in the Land of the Free, we freak out if two men kiss.”

“Si.”

There was silence and things felt weird.

“I’m not gay, Santiago,” I said, looking at him.

“I am not gay either, Andrew,” he said. “I thought …” He shrugged.

“Oh, you thought I was but it didn’t bother you–just like the jerks in the locker room saying ‘Argenteenan’ doesn’t bother you?”

“Si. Like no bother if dogs bark–it’s what they do.”

I laughed at the simple way he dismissed the jerks as dogs. “But, really …I’m not gay.” I paused. “You think because the coach stopped yelling ‘faggot’ when I was gone that …”

He was waving a hand. “Just the biggest, loudest dog. No. Andrew, it does not matter to me.”

I didn’t stop to think; it just came out. “Santiago, I’m not gay. I’m a girl.”

God, did I really just say that?

I jumped in. “I’m seeing doctors, I’m …Santiago, do you know what ‘transgender’ means?”

“Significa sur transsexual, si.” It means being transsexual. He frowned and then nodded. “Yo lo veo.” I see it.

“Okay, I need to know; do you mean ‘you see it’ as meaning you understand it, or ‘you see it’ as meaning you can see it with your eyes?”

“Spanish lesson?” he chuckled. “Both!” He openly laughed now.

Then he saw the shock on my face and waved a hand as he shook his head. “Andrew, mi amigo, please, I do not want to …” He frowned. “I do not want to say this wrong. I can see the girl in you, and I understand transsexuals and it’s okay, okay?”

“Really?”

“You say you see doctors …do you …dress like a girl?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding solemnly. I swallowed. “Every day after school and all weekends.”

“And summer and beyond, like a girl?”

“Si,” I nodded, my mouth dry. “For the rest of my life.”

He paused. “This is not what I came to talk about. I came to joke with you about not being in PE, and then to ask why you do not come to our restaurant.”

“Oh. Oh! Um …Mom and I don’t eat out that often–” I caught myself because of the recent Applebee’s trip. “Well, we did like a quick thing at Applebee’s, but …isn’t your place expensive?”

I had no idea if it was a palace or a corner sandwich shop.

“En realidad, es, má¡s o menos.” Actually, it is, kind of. He nodded. “I thought that was it. I want to invite you and your family.”

“Thank you, Diego!” I said enthusiastically. “And ‘my family’ is just my mother and I.”

“Your mother and …” He left it hanging.

“Me,” I frowned.

“Your mother and …”

“Uh …I don’t know what you mean?”

He rolled his eyes. “It will not be your mother and Andrew. It will be your mother and …”

The lightbulb went on. “Oh! Um …” I looked around; coast clear. “Angela. Mi nombre es Angela.” My name is Angela.

He nodded and pulled out a business card, somewhat bent from the back pocket of his jeans. “Then Mrs. Preston and mi amiga Angela are invited.” He grinned. “Hasta luego,” he nodded and walked away.

End of Part 3

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 4

Chapter 11. Lovely Dinner

“Just like that?” Mom asked, fingering the card.

“Just like that. From boy to girl. De chico a chica.”

“You’re sure there was no misunderstanding?” She looked worried.

“Mom, he said, ‘Mrs. Preston and mi amiga Angela’. Very different from ‘and mi amigo Andrew’.”

“And he’s not …playing a trick on you, or setting you up as a practical joke?”

“No, he’s …Okay, first of all, he’s not like that. But if it was for a joke, wouldn’t he have said, ‘Be there on Saturday at 7:15’ or something?”

“Maybe …” She seemed unconvinced. Then her face did a firming up thing that I recognized as a decision. “Honey, I want you to put on that burgundy top and the black skirt.”

“Are we …you’re not …”

“Yes, we are, and yes, I am. I can certainly afford dinner for two at La Rioja. We won’t call for reservations so there’s no chance of warning. You and I will simply be a mother and daughter dining out. At the end we can see if Santiago’s invitation is good, but this way we should get a very nice dinner and avoid any chance of a trick.”

“No, Mom, I can’t, I’m …”

She raised an eyebrow.“¿Niño o niña?” Boy or girl?

“I forgot you spoke Spanish. Niña.”

“¡Mi linda!” My pretty one!

And so we went to La Rioja, which got top ratings according to the newspaper and magazine articles framed on the wall. It was odd because it was like a Mexican restaurant but different. No sombreros, no serapes; the paintings on the wall were of a Hispanic culture very different from Mexico. And the prices were way up there, but Mom explained that Argentine beef is some of the very best in the world and that Argentines had the highest rate of beef consumption in the world. I stared at her, and she grinned and told me she’d hit Google while I got ready.

Mom had helped me get ready; I looked more grown-up in the outfit she suggested, and she brushed my hair to the side and clipped with a silver barrette and had found some rare-earth magnet earrings with silver dangles. She carefully did my makeup to match the maturity of my clothes, and I wore black pumps of hers that we’d discovered fit me. She said I looked eighteen and that would further confuse anybody that might think that Andrew was lurking about. I loved her thoughtfulness even as I worried about her plan.

We ordered a small ‘Espalda Asado’, a flat iron steak, for me, and Mom ordered ‘Mero de la Costa’, a sea bass. The menu was recognizably Spanish with a host of new words and I wished Santiago was there to describe them to me. Mom had asked if I wanted to inquire about him from the host, but I thought it best to wait. The host didn’t look like a host, actually; not only did he seem a bit under-dressed to be a host, something about his face made me think he might be related to Santiago, his father, perhaps. It was enough to make me cautious for the time being.

Everything was absolutely fantastic. The place felt classy; there seemed to be a happy bustle in the kitchen and at the waiter stations. The piped-in music ended and a single guitarist played a sort of flamenco, to applause–and the food was the best I’d ever tasted. Mom had told me that many considered this the best steak house in the city, and my little steak was incredible.

We split a Dulce de Leche cheesecake; Mom had I both had coffee, a rare thing for me, but oh what a heavenly match for the cheesecake! Before the bill came, Mom raised a meaningful eyebrow. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and nodded.

Mom called the waiter over and dazzled me with, “Perdón, ¿por casualidad está Santiago Mendoza aquí esta noche?” Pardon me, by chance is Santiago Mendoza here tonight?

She grinned at me. “Pretty good for an old lady, huh?”

“Very good, Mom, but you don’t need to roll the R so much,” I teased.

She pretended to be offended. “Oh? You’re an expert on Spanish R rolling?”

I chuckled. “No, but I’ve been listening to the waiters and the host and their sound is different from Latin American or even Castilian. More like this …”

I demonstrated and she nodded.

“I stand corrected,” she nodded, then grinned. “Or, I stand cor-r-r-ected!” she added, rolling her R like mad.

“Buenos noches,” a familiar voice said from slightly behind me. “I am Santiago Mendoza …?” There was a question in his tone.

Mom looked over my shoulder and smiled. “Ah, Buenos noches. Mi nombre es Senora Preston. I believe you go to school with my son Andrew?” She raised an eyebrow. “I would like to present my daughter Angela.”

She did, in fact, ‘present’ me, gesturing towards me with her hand flat, fingers extended.

Santiago took two steps past me and looked down.

And stared.

And stared.

I cleared my throat daintily and said in my true voice, “Buenos noches, Diego. Su restaurante es fantástico. Fue la mejor comida de mi vida. Gracias por invitarnos.” Good evening, Diego. Your restaurant is fantastic. It was the best food of my life. Thank you for inviting us.

I tried to speak as I do as Angela; only Angela had never spoken Spanish. I hoped I didn’t sound foolish.

“Dios en el cielo …” he murmured. God in heaven.

“Truly a superb meal,” Mom said, maybe to pull focus away from me.

“Uh …gracias, gracias,” Santiago said, frowning. “You are …”

Then, to my amazement, he laughed. Laughed! I mean, like a gut-busting ‘Ha-ha!’ sort of thing. I felt myself collapsing, certain that he was making fun of me, until he spoke.

“¡Ese idiota! ¡No puede distinguir entre un niño y una niña bonita!” That idiot! He can’t tell the difference between a boy and a pretty girl!

“Really? You think …I’m pretty?” I asked, my hand automatically going to my hair.

“Asá­ que muy bonito,” Mom smiled. So very pretty.

Santiago suddenly transformed. He seemed to take a deep breath and looked more …manly somehow. Slimmer, too, somehow. He bowed slightly.

“Angela, mi amiga, you are truly beautiful. I told you I knew of …what we spoke of today, but I did not dream that you could be so …muy, muy hermosa.” …very, very beautiful.

“Gracias, Diego, mi amigo,” I smiled at him.

He looked at me a moment longer and then turned. “Papa!” he called and excused himself, returning with the host. They fired Spanish back and forth; I got most of it and blushed at some of the compliments. At least I could understand that not a word was said about a boy in class named Andrew.

His father bowed to us and said, “My son tells me you are Senora Preston and Angela. You are most welcome to La Rioja, and I can only hope that you will grace us with your presence again.”

Mom bowed her head slightly and said, “Usted tiene un restaurant encantador. No puedo recorder una comida mejor, o un entorno más amable.” You have a lovely restaurant. I cannot remember a better meal, or more gracious surroundings.

“Gracias, gracias,” he smiled and nodded.

I said, “La mejor cena de mi vida y me encanta todo sobre él aqui.” The best dinner of my life and I love everything about it here.

“Ah!” he clapped his hands once with delight. “Two lovely ladies who speak so beautifully. I must thank my son for inviting you, and inform you that for speaking so well about my humble restaurant, I cannot accept any payment; your words were payment enough.”

“Dinner is on the house, in other words,” Santiago grinned.

“Diego!” he snapped, but still smiling, and burst out something that was like ‘don’t be a chump!’

Mr. Mendoza was called away to the host station and Santiago took a chair from an empty table–one of only a few, because the restaurant was busy–and said, “My sister was hostess but haves a difficult pregnancy. The girl to replace her …” He did a thing with his fingers. Oh, she vanished. “Papa is hostess!” he grinned.

“It’s a very fine restaurant; you must be very proud of him,” Mom said.

“Si. He’s …” He looked towards the host station and his father gathering menus. “He tries too hard. I mean, he tries to be everywhere.”

I found it interesting that Santiago’s English was much better, more colloquial, than at school. I realized in a flash that he was acting a character at school, too, just as Angela was acting as Andrew.

“You mentioned your sister, does your mother work with the restaurant, too?” Mom asked.

“Si. Not here, but she is …contador. Accountant.”

“Like a bookkeeper?” Mom asked.

“No, she is …accountant …”

“Like a CPA, I guess,” I said.

Santiago laughed. “No, no! I know what you mean, the CPA …”

“Certified Public Accountant,” I supplied.

“Si, si. That is what she is, but she is not ‘CPA’.” He grinned. “In Argentina, CPA is the Cá³digo Postal Argentino, the, um …zip code.”

We all laughed at that and he studied me. He leaned into our table and said, “You even laugh like a beautiful girl.”

I stared, but Mom said, “Yes, she does.” She cleared her throat. “Santiago, you understand the situation my daughter is in? With school, I mean?”

He nodded. “Although I have never seen her at school. I used to see my friend Andrew Preston–you know him, maybe?” he teased, and then adopted a sad-sack face. “But my friend Andrew deserted me.”

“I did–he did not,” I hissed, keeping my voice low. “Now you know, right?”

He held up a hand. “Please, I am only joking.” He turned to Mom. “Mrs. Preston, the coach …Andrew told you about?” She nodded and he did, too. “There is something wrong with that coach. But no matter; we are done with him and no more running.” His hand did a brushing-away dismissive movement and he smiled happily.

Mom glanced at me and then back to him. “Santiago, if I may ask you a personal question–well, two, really. First, do you truly accept my daughter Angela?”

“Si,” he nodded. “I already told …Andrew. And now I tell it to Angela.” He turned to me. “I will protect your secret until …” He looked at Mom now. “Until Andrew is no more.”

I felt a buzz at hearing that and wondered how he could have accepted this monumental change so easily?

“Thank you, Diego,” I said warmly.

Mom said, “Yes, thank you, and my second personal question …well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t wish to, but …How could you handle the terrible things that coach said to you?”

Santiago’s eyes flicked to me and he looked serious. In a soft voice, he said, “If my friend Andrew was gay, it did not matter to me. I know that I am not gay. So they were meaningless words–”

“Like a dog barking, he said,” I threw in, smiling at him.

He did the shrug thing and nodded. “As if he were screaming at us because we were not purple, or because there were more letters in our names than his. Nonsense.”

“You are very mature, and I thank you for your friendship with my daughter.” Mom sat back. “But I’m still sorry that you had to listen to that …that dog barking …” Then her mouth quirked, thinking about it.

I reached over and put my hand over Santiago’s. “Diego? Thank you, truly. From the bottom of my heart.”

“You are most welcome. And …” He frowned. “It will be difficult to see Andrew in school.”

“Finals,” I reminded him. We had no other classes besides PE.

“Finals, si,” he nodded. “Still …when school is over, Andrew is …”

“Gone,” I said.

He nodded. “A nice person.” He left it at that and stood. “I must help my father; late guests.”

Sure enough, the voices in the front of the restaurant seemed to multiply. I guess it was a restaurant family’s genetic trait or something, being able to sense the crowd.

He bowed to Mom. “Senora, Angela,” he said, keeping his eyes on me longer. Then he left.

“Interesting,” Mom said.

“What is? There’s so many interesting things …”

She took a sip of coffee. “Interesting how mature and manly he is; not at all the …I believe you once called him a ‘fat-boy’ and said something about a bobble-head?”

I closed my eyes. “Oh, God! Don’t remind me! I had just met him and heard what guys said about him and I was young and foolish and–no! Andrew was young and foolish!” I thought again of my resolution that Angela be a better person than Andrew had been.

She chuckled at my admission. “And how easily he accepted you …remarkable.” She took another sip. “Great coffee. And it was interesting watching you. How you moved, how you spoke to him–there wasn’t any Andrew present. And when you put your hand over his …”

“Mom, I didn’t plan that or anything, it just …seemed the thing to do …”

“Your instinct was correct, sweetheart. And it was a feminine instinct.” She sighed deeply. “A wonderful, wonderful night.”

Yes, it was, I thought, but I felt a little twinge of worry–why did everything with being Angela seem so easy and so right–and so quickly?

Chapter 12. A Phone and a Pond

Two other things happened on Friday but they were just ‘wait and see’ kinds of things and not as odd or amazing as the coach and the restaurant. Mom was waiting for me at home–she’d taken a later lunch–and brought me to the hospital for a quick blood-and-urine test; we were back on the sidewalk ten minutes after they’d called my name.

Then we’d had that incredible, fantastic dinner at La Rioja, and I felt so wonderful afterwards, full of good food and the warmth and acceptance by Santiago and his father, that impulsively, I emailed Carrie, the girl that I’d met at the movies. I’d been thinking of a girlish account name like hers but I’d read enough about the dangers of that; so I created a jumbled random one on Gmail and it felt right to do it that way. And so I emailed my hope-to-soon-be girlfriend! I apologized for taking so long; crazy last week at school before Finals, some doctors’ appointments, blah-blah-blah. I said it was neat meeting her, and changed it to ‘cool’, and left it open-ended. She might answer or might not. My finger hovered over the Enter key but I sent it and felt better.

Saturday morning, it was laundry time, only we didn’t have to do the bedding. I gathered our hampers and decided to do pillow cases anyway; Mom smiled at that but said, in general, be careful about washing bedding items at different rates because the colors could vary. So much to learn! I said something along those lines, but Mom chuckled.

“It’s not really that difficult, sweetie, because some of the things you learn don’t change. It’s not like …Oh, God, having to learn a new cell phone all over again when you get a different model!” Her face went funny, and then she said, “Anyway, that laundry tip applies elsewhere, too. Men’s suits should only be dry-cleaned once in a while, supposedly, but they stress that jacket and pants get the same treatment at the same time. You’ll do it with your suits, too, and–what?”

She’d seen me flinch. My throat was tight and I felt like tears were just around the corner. “You think I’m going to be in suits?”

She stared and then tossed her head with a laugh. “Oh, God, sweetheart, no! And yes! Oh, my,” she chuckled and took a deep breath. “You know that dark blue skirt and jacket I wear when I have union meetings?”

“Yes. It’s so pretty, the blouses, I mean, and looks powerful–oh!” My eyes widened.

Mom nodded. “That’s a suit, too, honey–just like you will have a ‘power suit’, something in navy or gray, with a sensible skirt. And a pretty blouse!” she teased.

My relief was huge, and she hugged me. “Oh, Angela, did you think that I had any doubts about you?”

“Not …really,” I said, sniffing back the threatening tears. “But you said ‘men’s suits’ and then ‘your suits’ and I guess I freaked.”

She sighed. “I think you will freak, from time to time, but know this: I completely and fully recognize and accept that you are my daughter. I look at it …” She trailed off and I could feel her frown. “This probably isn’t psychologically correct to say to you right now, but I’m already this far …”

Mom turned and held me with both arms straight, her hands on my shoulders.

“Angela, my view is that you were born my daughter, you are my daughter, and always will be my daughter. However, there was a …birth defect, of sorts, the way I look at it. It caused you to not have the girlhood that was your birthright!” she said with some vehemence, and calmed. “And only now we’re in the process of medically correcting it. Like if you’d been blind since birth, and just got a bump on the head or something and gradually, sight is becoming possible. Make sense to you?” I nodded, and she smiled sadly. “That’s the way it is in my mind, anyway. And I think …I know for me it’s the healthiest way. That way I don’t get hung up by thinking ‘that’s my son in his pretty bra’, or …’that boy thinks my son is pretty and wants to ask him out’. I could only get tied up in knots that way. So I know that it’s healthiest for me to consider you as always my daughter.”

I nodded. “That’s why you kind of jumped in so fast; I mean, with going to Target and things.”

“Yes. I wasn’t buying for my son to be my daughter; I was buying for my daughter who, through no fault of her own, had no girls’ clothing. So that works for me. Now, I think it’ll be healthier to you, too, to think that way. Although I’m not telling you ‘this is how you should think’. I leave that to the psychologists to tell you. But you might want to consider it the same way I do–that you were always a girl but a birth defect caused a misdiagnosis and is only now being corrected.”

Her face did that thing again, which I knew meant she had a thought that troubled her and she filed away for later.

“Mom, that’s twice now you’ve done that …thing with your face. You thought of something else but don’t want to say it.”

“You know my secret face thing?” she cried theatrically. “Now I must keel you!” We chuckled and she sighed. “Not something I don’t want to say, but something I want to say later, just to not lose my train of thought. Well, the darned train’s derailed, anyway, so I’ll tell you. The thing just now …”

“You said ‘corrected’ and did the thing.”

“Thank you, missy-too-sharp-for-her-own-good!” she laughed, and then grew immediately serious, frowning. “Correction. As opposed to …reassignment.”

Her eyes bored into mine and I stifled an involuntary gasp. “Oh,” I said in a small voice.

Her voice was gentle. “Sweetheart, we haven’t discussed this, and we have to at some point. If you care to now, fine; if you want to wait, fine. But …well, the doctors are going to bring it up, maybe even by Monday, and we need–you need–to be clear on your feelings.”

I nodded. “Because you’re clear on your feelings?” Her face was neutral, and I said, “Correction?”

“Ah. Yes. And I’m not going to say anything else about it until you want to talk about it.”

“Wait; the first thing you did the face thing, you were …” I frowned, thinking. “Oh, yeah; you were talking about having to learn a different kind of phone.”

“I’ll say ‘ah, yes’ again. That was just that I was saying something about learning a new system all over again, as opposed to learning about laundry or cooking that pretty much don’t change. Once you’ve learned the rules, you’ve learned ‘em and you don’t have to re-learn them or update them, really. But it made me realize two–no, three things. First, you don’t have a cell phone. You …Andrew had no friends, no activities, and was always at home. Second, you should have a cell phone, because already Angela has made a friend–assuming something works out with that girl you met at the movies–and watching Santiago last night, I believe you’re going to be much more social than Andrew ever was.”

“Mother! Santiago’s a friend. It’s not like …that.” It freaked me out.

“Sweetie, he is your friend, but I saw his eyes re-assigning you from …short gay boy to pretty girl. I’m not saying that he’s going to have romantic feelings for you–I suspect you’ll be friends still, but different–but that gleam in the eye …I recognized it and know that lots of boys will look at you that way. And you’re so much happier as Angela and people respond to that, too. And that leads me to the third thing about a cell phone–safety. You’re a pretty girl relatively naíve about the way of the world, in terms of boys and girls and …just life. So, that thing I did with my face was thinking all of this and deciding that you and I will go to the mall and get you a cell phone today.”

“Cool!” I said happily.

I changed from the doing-the-laundry shorts/tank/flip-flops to a yellow sundress and white flats. I felt light and pretty and happy …and all the time my brain was whirling with the other thing.

The gleam thing …

Once again, Mom took us to a faraway mall–since the stores were all the same and I wouldn’t run into anybody I knew–and she surprised me. She stopped walking in front of Claire’s.

“In for a penny …” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? All the girls shop there, yeah …” I shrugged. Then I realized what she was thinking. “Mom, you …pierced ears?”

She just blinked at me, expressionless.

“Mom, I’m still in school, still …Andrew during the day …”

“Well, that’s true, but it’s Finals Week. Didn’t you tell me something about how great it was, only half the school would be there, it’s in and out, head down, go home?”

“Well, yes, but …”

“Do you want to wear pretty earrings? Hoops, dangles?”

“Oh, yes!” I answered without thinking, and then slumped theatrically. “Ya got me.” She chuckled and I had to, too. “I’m just trying to play it safe, you know.”

“I know, sweetie, and keeping you safe is my primary responsibility. So if you want to wait another couple of weeks …” She let it hang, and then added, “Of course, it might score you some points with the shrinks …”

“Didn’t you tell me not to call ‘em shrinks?” I teased.

“Ya got me,” she grinned. “Sorry; I’m pressuring you. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel thing, and you’re right, there’s a lot of–”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

I nodded firmly. “Yes, let’s do it.” I turned to face her. “Mom, I really want pierced ears, but I’ve been afraid. I’m already mistaken for a girl at school, even fully dressed as Andrew. And, yeah, it’s in and out, half the school there, and …and I want them. Yes!”

And in less time than it took for us to have our discussion, I had two pierced ears! Gold studs, of course, and Mom and I had fun picking up earring cards and holding them up to me to see what to get with our two pairs as part of the starter package. The girl had been a little surprised that I was as old as I was without them being pierced, but Mom just dove in with a stunning lie about finally being ‘out from under’ a tyrant of a husband. I think she used the actor’s thing of ‘sense memory’ to be convincing that she was glad the guy was out of her life. The girl made the connection and smiled and even recommended a special flesh-toned flat stud that could be put in place of the gold balls; from a distance it looked like there was no earrings. She said it was ‘in case I still had to see the creep.’

Mom and I were still giggling about the improvisation as she marched us into the phone store. She’d brought her latest phone bill and I was directed to look around and ‘see if anything spoke’ to me, much as she said I should choose a purse, while Mom and the phone girl had their heads together, going over the bill. Then the girl came out and showed me several phones on the wall that fit in with the plan Mom chose, and told me the pros and cons of each one. She couldn’t seem to believe that a high school junior girl wasn’t already texting her little head off. Finally, we settled on a new entry-level model of Blackberry, and I figured I’d spend the evening learning about and loading the thing up with addresses–which made me realize, sadly, that it would probably take all of two minutes.

The girl helped set it up to check my email account and then she grinned and handed it to me.

My eyes and smile widened. “Mom! I got an email from Carrie!”

I read it quickly and happily; she asked if I was able to hit the Burlington Mall tomorrow, maybe around one; she had to get something for her little sister and ‘we could hang’. Yes, yes, yes! Mom smiled and said she’d drive me over and I had the phone girl show me how to text on the phone, and since she’d heard me read Carrie’s email to Mom, her advice was to suggest Claire’s at one. That way if anybody was late there were things to do–meaning shopping!–and a single girl waiting wouldn’t be bothered by boys in the all-girl environment of Claire’s. I also added my new phone number and that if Carrie’s phone used the same carrier, texting and talking would be free.

I left the store feeling fantastically happy; Mom was smug because her points of getting me a cell phone–new friends and activities–had come true so quickly.

And there it was …

In a blinding flash of clarity, of recognition, I knew what Mom had been talking about–’a correction’–and my feelings.

“Mom, I want to talk. Um …smoothies and go someplace?”

We hit Jamba Juice and Mom’s face was unreadable, standing there as teens swirled around us. She still wasn’t talking as we got back to the car and she drove to a nearby park.

“I remembered this from years ago; nice to see they’ve maintained it,” she smiled with the sad smile of memory. “I think there’s a pond …”

She led me on the trail and sure enough, there it was, and then she pointed out a bench a little off the path. We walked there, carrying our smoothies, and it was perfect; tucked away in thick brambles so nobody could be behind it, and with a sweeping view of the pond and the path in both directions. We could talk and nobody could hear us; if they walked past us, we’d see them coming and be able to change the subject.

“This is nice,” she sighed, looking across the pond. “Nice …”

It was odd how she’d trailed off and I thought she was trying to not say too much because she knew that I wanted to speak.

And, of course, I locked up for a moment. I looked at the pond, some joggers went by, ducks came in and took off. I sighed.

“I want the correction, Mother,” I said. “I want it. I know you’re talking about SRS–the Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Or GRS, gender reassignment. I’ve been reading up on the internet. I haven’t talked with you about this before, and I know that it seems all sudden and like we’re only going into the second week of Angela, in a way.”

“I promise not to interrupt too much, but I think you need to explain your phrase, ‘in a way’.”

“Well, obviously, dressing as Angela but …” I nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been Angela for years–practically forever–and even though I didn’t know her name, I was still her. You know?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do, sweetheart.” She paused. “Wanted to make sure you knew it.”

I nodded, watched a duck on the pond and waited for a mother to pass us, pushing her stroller. We three smiled at each other and Mom and I watched her go.

“I want that,” I said without thinking. “And I can’t have it.”

“Please, Angela, help me with this. Be more specific. You want what?”

“That young mother, with her baby …” Strangely, I felt my throat tighten and eyes sting. “Mom, I’ve never thought about motherhood before, but …” I sniffed back the tears. “And I can’t have it …”

“Yes, you can,” she said gently. “You can adopt. Sweetheart, you don’t know if she bore that child.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. “I never thought of that …and …” I waved a hand. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

I checked both sides of the path; there was nobody near. I turned to face Mom.

“Mother, I want to live the rest of my life as a female. I’m absolutely certain. I know it seems rushed, but it’s so incredibly right. I have no doubts whatsoever. None. I will undergo whatever tests or procedures the doctors throw at me, take any pain they dish out, if I can be Angela. I want hormones because I want to develop my own breasts, and I want that surgery–I know I have to wait until I’m eighteen–but I want that surgery because I want my vagina and I want there to be no doubt in anybody’s mind that I’m a girl.” I paused and frowned. “And I want to fall in love with a wonderful man and marry him and we’ll adopt and I’ll maybe be able to breastfeed my baby …to …b-b-breastfeed …”

I broke down in tears, something I told myself I would not do. Mom comforted me and had produced a tissue and hugged me and gave me comfort and made small shushing sounds. She gently patted my back.

“You see why I used the word ‘correction’? It’s not changing a boy into a girl. It’s allowing a girl to discover her true nature, to live the life that was meant for her.”

I nodded, still blubbering.

But she was right, and I knew I would consider the surgery as a correction. And she knew that I wanted it.

Chapter 13. Bridges

I did three things at home that night. First, I made the chicken-and-rice thing for dinner–risotto, really–and while it paled in comparison to the fantastic dinner of the previous night, it received raves from Mom.

The second thing was that I got my phone set up the way I thought I might like it. Midway through I got a text from Carrie confirming Claire’s at one. I thought, ‘I’m meeting burlgrrl at Burl Mall’, but that’s because I was almost giddy with happiness. A new friend, who only knew me as Angela!

The third thing was that we curled up on the couch and watched a ‘chick flick’. Well, first, I was curled up with my legs under me, working on my phone.

Then Mom cried out, “Oh, I love this one!”

It was While You Were Sleeping, with Sandra Bullock. Mom and I watched a lot of movies together, but often Andrew had sat there in misery, afraid to show how much he liked them if they were romantic, because that’s not something for boys to do, right? But now I could gush right along with Mom. And gush we did; it was such a delightful movie, and at the conclusion there was this great up-swelling of happiness and, yes, tears.

And somehow it led to a discussion of, well …’What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up’. It came from us talking about how sweetly Sandra clutched the ring that Bill Pullman dropped in her toll booth coin slot. It was so poignant that I got choked up thinking about it. Mom went to make tea and came back with the mugs and a question.

“What was Lucy hoping for? In life, I mean?” Mom asked as she sat.

“To go to Florence …no, to fall in love,” I sighed with happiness, thinking of the movie. But that wasn’t quite right. “No, she was hoping for …change.”

Mom nodded.

I said, “She’d had a wonderful relationship with her father, and then he died, and we don’t really know how she wound up in the toll booth, but it was a dead end and she …” I stopped, open-mouthed.

Mom calmly blew on her tea. “So, I’m not sure I remember. What were Andrew’s plans in life?”

“Andrew? There wasn’t anybody named Andrew. It was Jack, Jack and Peter and–omigod!” I blurted, my hands to my mouth. “I …forgot …”

Mom nodded, grinning. “You forgot all about Andrew, didn’t you? Gonna make it even harder to finish out school, but at least you don’t have any more classes. Ready for Finals?”

“Yes, I am, and stop trying to distract me. You messed me up, so this is your fault,” I teased, pouting.

I shook my head. I had completely not considered ‘Andrew’ as me. Of course, in the context of talking about the movie, it made sense, but still …

Mom said, “I suspect that the doctors are going to be putting you through some heavy psychological evaluation.”

“Already did.”

“Even more so, coming up. And they’ll do things like that to you, changing subjects abruptly to get your reactions, so be on your toes. But, sweetie, I really didn’t plan to do that to you; it wasn’t a trick. I was really just changing subjects. So, my question was, what were Andrew’s plans in life?”

“I noticed you used past tense,” I nodded. “And that’s right, too. At the risk of sounding too flippant, none. He had zero plans in life. See, every single day was just …get through this day without being hassled too much.”

“By the coach, you mean.”

“By the coach and most of the guys,” I shrugged. “Some of the girls, too. I just wanted to–”

She held up a hand. “Wait a moment, please. Do you mean to say that you were hassled by more than the coach?”

I nodded and shrugged. “Just a fact of life.”

“Please, sweetheart; put on your Andrew hat for a moment and tell me …” She sighed and shook her head. “You never said anything about being hassled until you mentioned the coach. And it seemed so over the top that I acted immediately …but you’re saying there were other times?”

I looked my mother in the eyes. “It’s an exaggeration to say ‘every single day’ but it’s absolute truth to say ‘every single week’. I just tried to get through every single day without–”

“What did they say? What did they do?” She was so angry she was nearly shaking; she had to put down her mug of tea.

“Mom, it’s not important, and it’s–”

“Please, please; it is important to me. Tell me and don’t worry about offending me; this is …too important to soft-pedal.”

Her eyes were boring into mine. I sighed. “Usually it was just name-calling.” On her look, I shrugged. “Faggot, fairy, queer, princess, fruit, um …fudge-packer …uh, cocksucker …” I flinched at that, worried I’d offend her.

Her eyes were now brimming with tears and her hand was at her mouth. “Oh, sweetheart! I had no idea! I can’t believe they …and you took this?”

I shrugged again. “Had to. What could I do, say the same things back? Fight them? I’d either be as stupid as they are or I’d be seriously injured. Hah! I’d be just as stupid and seriously injured! So …I just didn’t respond and kept my head down.”

“And …how long did they say these things to you?”

I frowned. “Mom, they never didn’t say them. I mean, when it started it was like ‘fairy’ and then they learned the, um …harder words as they got older.”

“Started when?”

“First, maybe second grade. Just a fact of life, like I said.”

She stared and her tears spilled down her cheek. “I had no idea …” she said again.

“Mom, there was nothing I could do about it. Oh, I suppose I could have grown a foot taller and gained a hundred pounds and it would’ve stopped, but that wasn’t going to happen. But I learned to tune out the names.”

“I can’t believe the school allowed …” She frowned. “They never knew, did they?”

“No, just like the coach calling Santiago and me ‘faggots’ up close so nobody else could hear.” It was weird thinking of Santiago as the bobble-head fat boy anymore; there hadn’t been any of that in his family restaurant.

“Terrible,” she muttered to herself. “But at least they didn’t harm you–”

Unfortunately, my face had betrayed me.

“What?” Mom asked, sitting taller. “They …did they do anything physical?”

That made me chuckle; it burst out of me without thinking. “Mom, think back to all the stories you know of kids being hassled in school. From your own school years to movies.”

She frowned.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me what kind of hassles you mean?”

“Well, pushing and shoving, for instance?”

“I’ll count that as one thing,” I said, raising my index finger.

She frowned again and said, “Well …pushing …and tripping …”

I ticked off the next finger.

“Hitting food trays in the cafeteria so the food goes everywhere …”

I did the next finger, causing her eyes to widen.

“Oh, honey!”she gasped. “Restroom things …”

I said, “Tossing things in the toilets, from books to clothes,” another finger, “and spraying my crotch with water from the sink,” another finger, “peeing on me,” she gasped loudly and I moved to the other hand, “and ‘swirlies’, shoving my head in the toilet–although that only happened twice–”

“Twice?” she shouted. “Oh, my God! I had no idea …This is …You’re not just playing–no, you’re not …oh, my God!” Her hands were at her mouth, her eyes spilling tears.

I dropped my hands and shrugged. Quietly I said, “So you can understand that the coach getting up close and calling me a faggot was …kinda mild.”

She enclosed me in a hug, almost frantically, as if she could protect me from the things I’d already suffered.

“How could you …” She squeezed tighter. “How could you endure?”

“I had to,” I said simply, earning me a tighter squeeze.

It took several minutes to calm her down. She was still seething, but managed to get her tea back in her hand, I said simply, “So …Andrew was just getting through day-by-day. No thoughts about college, growing up, jobs, careers, anything.” I frowned. “Mom, you’ve got to believe me on this. I never thought of killing myself. But I did think of Andrew just …ending. Maybe moving to a new city and …being somebody else. Andrew was like …you know those disaster movies where somebody’s going over a bridge and they realize it’s been torn off? They get out of the car and just stand at the ragged edge, looking down at the ocean or the nothing where there had been a road?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment.

“That was Andrew. And the Road of Life, I guess. Any future was unimaginable for Andrew. But I didn’t think of actively ending my life, killing myself. Just the Road going nowhere, like that bridge; just a drop-off into …nothing.” Involuntarily, I shivered and sipped my tea. Cold.

I stood with my mug and reached for hers. “Gonna nuke ‘em,” I explained and went to the kitchen. A terrible pun came to me regarding tea and tonight’s movie: While You Were Steeping. It made me laugh and suddenly I thought …did Andrew make jokes like that? I was still thinking about it when I came back with the hot tea.

“Mom, I had a thought in the kitchen,” I said as I sat and handed her mug back. “Maybe it’s not the road ending, torn off. Wait, I mean, for Andrew it is. But who’s to say there isn’t the other side of the bridge, just with that ragged edge behind, so it’s leading forward? And that’s the Angela side of my Road of Life, or is that too easy a cliché?”

She gave a little smile. “Dangerously close, but remarkably accurate. I had thought along much the same lines while you were in the kitchen.”

I told her my bad pun and she almost got tea up her nose from laughing.

When she was under control, she said, “So, keeping the bridge and road metaphor, are we agreed that Andrew had no future plans because, somehow, some way, in the back of your mind, Andrew had no future.”

I nodded.

“And Angela? What are her plans?”

I smiled. “Angela is so new in the world–wait, not that she’s so new herself, like we talked about, but so new out in the world?” She nodded and I did a confirming nod. “So it’s going to take time for Angela to discover what she wants …ah, the heck with the third-person! Mom, I’m open to anything as long as it includes being allowed to live as Angela.”

She nodded. “Angela’s moving forward. On the other side of that bridge …”

End of Part 4

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 5

Chapter 14. Malling

There was a lot to think about that night, but one thing I remembered dreaming about the next morning: I had been walking around the pond pushing a stroller with my child and feeling such bliss. Wow. And I knew, from my talk with Mom last night if not before, how much non-stop worry and agony was involved in raising a child.

And yet, somewhere deep inside me, I wanted a child …

We did the lazy Sunday-papers thing; I told her how odd it was at first to try sleeping with studs in my ears, and of course I’d added cleaning them to my nightly regimen. Now that they were pierced, I wasn’t worried about school for some reason–I just wanted to be able to put in some of the pretty hoops we’d bought!

And, of course, reality check–Mom just chuckled and told to me to wait until the first night I slept in rollers!

Since I wasn’t planning on any heavy-duty shopping for myself, I could wear anything, but stuck with the standard uniform of flats, denim skirt, and layered camisole, in melon and lime. Mom and I joked about the ‘food’ colors for women’s clothing, and I told her that I had to learn the names of everything. She recommended I read the signs in the stores, just in passing, and study the Penney’s catalog description of items; I could get a lot of terms those ways. And, of course, close study of my teen girl magazines. They really were my key, my Rosetta Stone, to the new land of teen girls, as Mom and I had talked about the night I’d admitted that I was a girl.

We drove to the Burlington Mall and Mom said she would stay in the area, puttering around, and pick me up at five. If by chance I saw her at the mall–she had some things to return to chain stores–it was up to me to ignore her or to introduce her to Carrie.

“But overall,” she smiled. “No pressure. This is your test flight, sweetheart. First time, one-on-one, with a girl who only knows you as Angela. If things get weird in any way, call me or text me. Let’s call that part of Sears the extraction point,” she teased as she nodded to a side entrance.

I tried to make light of it. “You make it sound like I’m going behind enemy lines!”

“No; that’s what you do when you dress as Andrew,” she answered seriously.

I had no response to that. I hugged her and told her I loved her and went in, found the directory, and was standing in front of Claire’s, grinning to myself that I was now a Claire’s veteran, with my pierced ears! Five minutes later, Carrie showed up.

With a twelve-year-old girl.

Carrie was dressed almost exactly like me; flip-flops, denim skirt, teal cami. The girl was obviously her little sister, and wore white shorts and a leotard top.

We greeted and I was introduced to Alana, her sister. I kind of stuttered and Carrie laughed.

“I know, right? I said we have to find a swimsuit and she’s got the leotard on!” She rolled her eyes.

I had actually thought that she was going to be alone, shopping for a suit for a little sister–like six or seven, not twelve–so I covered by chuckling. “I was just thinking how to make a hard thing to buy even harder!”

“What?” Alana said, concerned that we were making fun of her.

I said, “It’s just that it’ll be more work for you trying things on, to take off the leotard, try the suit, pull on the leotard …”

I had been guessing, putting it together quickly, and I’d guessed right, judging by Carrie’s knowing nod.

Alana nodded, unconcerned now. “It’s okay. Yeah, I know what you mean, but it’s okay.”

Alana was actually not much trouble; she’d skip ahead to a store window and call out, “Hey, you guys–come see this cute skirt!”

Carrie murmured, “Like walking a puppy!” but it was said lovingly with a smile and eventually got Alana her suit, although she tried on about a thousand and took forever in the fitting room each time.

Meanwhile, Carrie and I just walked along and chatted. It was pretty cool that we went to different schools because we could talk about the kids in class and not worry about word getting back to them. We weren’t dissing them or anything, just funny stories. And even though the names were different, the situations were pretty universal and it was just pretty cool.

We seemed to get along easily; there was no competition between us. She told me of her family–an older brother and Alana–and in contrast, I was an only child of a single mother. We talked about the pros and cons for awhile, but with Alana’s final choice paid for and bagged, we just had to buy her a smoothie–we all had one–and sat in the Food Court and kept talking. Alana got a little restless, almost violently swinging her feet, but then she saw two girls she knew with their moms–waving so furiously I thought she’d fall from her chair!–and we let her go sit with them, keeping an eye on things.

Carrie blew out some air. “Great! She’s gone! Now we can drink, smoke, and talk dirty about boys!”

I stared at her for a moment and then laughed; she did, too.

“Gotcha! God, your face!”

I finished laughing and decided on nearly the truth.

“Carrie, I don’t …I don’t really have many friends. I’m kind of a bookworm, always studying.”

She slapped the table. “God, I knew it! You’re the girl that blows the grading curve!”

“Guilty!” I laughed and then quieted. “Things were …kind of rough when my father left. See, he, um …you know how they say, ‘He walked out on us?’”

“You mean in movies? Yeah.”

“Well, that’s literally what he did. Walked right out the door and closed it behind him and we never saw him again. And by the end of the week Mom found out he’d …taken everything. Their money, I mean; cleaned out the bank accounts and split.”

Her eyes were widened. “I thought that was only in the movies!”

I shook my head. “It’s where the movies got it from. And then things got really, really tight, and Mom had to take another job, and I became one of those latchkey kids.”

“Flying solo?”

“Completely. Get up alone with an alarm clock, make my breakfast and go to school. Come home and do homework, fix dinner for Mom when she gets home. Still pretty much do that, although things aren’t as bad as they were.”

“Oh, Angela, I …”

“Carrie, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or ‘oh, poor little me’ or anything. It’s just why I’m …the way I am. It was Mom and me against the world. I love her to pieces and I’m lucky; I’m not like a lot of girls that always fight with their mother. I like being with her. We do things together, like when I met you, Mom and I were at the movies.”

She nodded. “I can understand that relationship. God, I feel like a Norman Rockwell painting now, with my Perfect Little Family!”

“I don’t want you to worry about that; I envy you, but I wouldn’t trade my closeness with Mom.”

Carrie looked at me for a long moment and then nodded. “You’re a good person, Angela. I’m glad Gina and I ran into you that night.”

“Hey, how’s she doing?”

Another eye roll. “You gave her darned good advice, and she was seeing the jerk with new eyes, but she’s kind of backsliding. Summer coming on, she’s afraid she won’t …” She frowned. “He was kind of her ticket to a lot of parties, things at the beach, whatever. Got some bucks.”

“The kind that seems like a catch until you caught him?”

She slapped the table again. “God! You’re right on the money! I love that about you; you see through stuff right to the heart of the matter, the truth of it.”

I suddenly flashed on my tea-making pun, wondering if Andrew had ever made a single joke. But I knew that Andrew had never seen right to the heart of the matter of anything …and it just reinforced how right it was to be Angela!

“Just a lucky guess,” I grinned happily.

“Naw; you’re …I guess it’s because of the life you lead–I don’t want to insult you or anything and I don’t mean it in a bad way–but you’re kind of an observer of life, from what you told me.”

“Now you’re right on the money,” I nodded. “And I …I’m finding I want to get more involved with it. That’s why I …” I blushed. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been talking to you and Gina. I’d just have nodded and kept my head down and not said anything. And I sure wouldn’t be here with you! I’d be safe at home, reading a book.”

“Time to fly, huh?”

“A bit of wing-spreading, yeah,” I chuckled.

Carrie nodded. “And that’s why a cool girl like you doesn’t really have friends. I bet most of the kids in your class, you’ve been in school together from like kindergarten or something?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, like seventy percent of ‘em. Maybe eighty.”

She nodded. “They’ve got you pegged as the loner girl from years ago, when your father left. Oh, did your mom’s lawyers ever track him down? Get anything back? Sorry if I’m nosy.”

“No, no; you’re entitled. I did start the story. No lawyers; couldn’t afford one. But track him down …yeah, sort of.” I sighed. “We found that he’d been killed in a drunk driving accident.”

Her eyes were wide. “Omigod! And did …”

I shook my head. “Couldn’t get a dime of it, if there was anything left.”

“Omigod!” she said again. “Angela!”

She leaned over for a spontaneous hug and I thought this closeness, this comforting, was just part of the reason why I was so proud and happy to be a girl.

Since it was Sunday the mall was closing at five; I’d told Carrie about my mom picking me up and they were getting picked up earlier, so at 4:30 I met her mom, a nice but frazzled lady in a minivan. Carrie and I had already exchanged cell phone numbers and now we hugged and promised to get back in touch after Finals–she had them the same week I did. I returned Alana’s furious wave and then walked back to Claire’s and browsed. I found some bracelets that I liked and another pair of earrings. Just the simple act of checking them in the mirror and buying them, so familiar to all girls my age, was strangely comforting to me now. Mom had been right and wrong–it wasn’t the shrinks that the earrings helped convince; it was me.

I went to ‘the extraction point’ and Mom pulled up and I told her all about my day with Carrie. We stopped at a soup place for two custom-made salads, then to home. I was ready for tomorrow’s Government and English Finals but cracked the books anyway. I came to Mom to say good-night, all shiny with moisturizer and pretty in my nightie, and she said she was proud that I hadn’t bought any more than the few things at Claire’s, and was happy that I had made a new friend–further proof that Angela was the real person, not Andrew. Then we talked a bit about the next day’s doctor’s appointment, which was probably ‘the big one’, the decisive yea-or-nay for my future.

Mom smiled warmly at me as she gently stroked my cheek. “You have my absolute promise, Angela, that if, for any reason, things don’t start moving tomorrow–either they’re full-up with patients or don’t want to treat you or you just don’t like them–we will continue. We will find other doctors, other avenues, whatever it takes, for your life as Angela. And if things do start moving tomorrow, well then–look out, world!”

Chapter 14. Finals and Firsts

The Government final had one trick question in it that I realized I’d answered wrong; I was usually able to finish tests and double-check and l suddenly realized I’d written the mini-essay about the wrong guy! Frantically I began writing and quite literally dotted the last period as the teacher’s voice rang out calling ‘Time!’

That set me up wonderfully for English, because I was more cautious in reading each set of instructions. Plus, I had already been writing in Government, so it was easier to keep the ‘essay muscles’ going. I don’t know what it would have been like if the first final had been like a math class, using a different part of the brain. But I felt full of words and language and I think I aced it.

Finals are always weird because everybody’s different. The teachers are more formal, more aware of their status as monitors or proctors or whatever they call themselves that day. They’re also much more on guard against any form of cheating, so they either sit at their desk and sweep the room with radar eyes, or they actually patrol the aisles. Government was a patroller and I knew Geometry would be, too; English had been a sweeper.

The kids are different, too, because first of all the Seniors are gone; they went through this the previous week and were busy graduating this weekend. As I’d told Mom, that was a quarter of the population gone, and then we only had one or two periods a day–no finals for PE–and the choir, band and orchestra kids had extra rehearsals for a concert. The greatly-reduced student body didn’t lead to power-shifts or pranks, because everybody was worried about finals. That worked well for me, because the guys that usually hung out and terrorized people like me were worried, too, for the most part, and their ranks were thinned. Bullies become very quiet when there aren’t as many of them to back each other up, and when their own grades were on the line.

I had made Mom promise to not tell the school about the bullies until Finals were concluded and I was completely out of school. I felt cowardly doing it, but Mom’s complaint would draw the biggest of bulls-eyes on me, at a time when bullies were quiet and a time when I needed my wits about me. She looked at me long and hard and began talking about the whole nature of bullying. I realized she was speaking to me as an adult, not as a parent, when she talked about abuse cycles and the price of keeping quiet. My point, selfish or not, was to let me survive the last few days and put it behind me. In exchange for her temporary silence, I would provide her with the names of students who were abusive–and teachers who condoned their activities. The concept of ‘naming names’ didn’t sit right with me until Mom said that the point was to actually help the bullies–if they were being abused at home. I’d never thought of that before and felt better about my confession.

Mom told me there were groups that dealt with this sort of thing, and she was already in contact with them, after I’d told her of my experiences. She planned to meet with the school district with a representative from one of the groups immediately after my departure from Westmont; I just had to survive until then. Despite Mom’s temporary silence, I knew there were a couple of really bad bullies who might still cause a problem. They were the ones whose day wasn’t complete unless they hurt somebody, and after talking with Mom, I still feared them–but I also found that I pitied them.

Still wanted to avoid them, though! I was fully dressed as Andrew, trying to keep my mind in Andrew-mode for school–although not the Andrew who had daydreamed about pantyhose–and the only difference was that my ears were pierced but I was wearing the flesh-toned studs and my boys’ low ponytail was tied a bit looser to sort of cover my ears. Nobody seemed to be worried about how they were dressed; I was surprised to see Jenny Bowen in shorts that probably weren’t up to Dress Code but like I’d told Mom, it was in and out. Show up, take test, go home. Or in Jenny’s case, to the beach, maybe?

The big point in my favor was that I was Angela. I was able to shelve my worries about the doctor’s appointment and focus on my finals, and knowing that I was Angela, I wasn’t going into the old Andrew daydream about ‘what if’ when I looked at girls like Jenny. Instead, I wished her well and thought it was a cute top and wondered if she’d gotten it at Wet Seal.

And there was a sense of farewell for me, too, that I didn’t realize until I was walking out of English. My first thought was I aced it! But my second thought was, in each of these classes, to each of these people around me, I consciously thought, ‘This is the last time you will see Andrew Preston’. Sure, some of them were in my other classes, but basically I realized it was goodbye to Andrew with the end of each final. I knew that with Mom’s declaration of support last night, no matter what happened this afternoon, I was going to be in school next year–somewhere else–as a girl named Angela Preston. So the word ‘final’ itself took on a new meaning.

Now it was time to get focused on the doctors. I stopped by my locker to get the next day’s books and was thinking so hard about the appointment that I almost missed the yellow paper that had been shoved through the vents. I unfolded it and it was a note from Santiago asking me to call him when I could, with two numbers, home and I guess the restaurant. I stuck it in my Biology book and walked home.

I had time to fix a lunch and then shower, shaved my legs and underarms, and carefully did my makeup and hair. I switched out the studs and was happy to see the gold balls again! Mom and I had talked about how to dress and we had decided on a very light blue bra and panty set, a light yellow camisole with a lovely short-sleeved open-front white lacy top we found, and a black denim skirt. My legs were shiny from moisturizer and I wore the Mary Janes we’d found the very first shopping trip–we’d been incredibly lucky on my shoe sizes and everything had fit–and my purse, of course. Once I was ready, I decided to get my mind off the doctors by cracking my Biology book for tomorrow’s final–and Biology seemed appropriate for my Doctor Day!

Mom came home, had a piece of melon and some yogurt while we double-checked everything, and then off to the hospital. It was a short wait–is that good or bad, I wondered?–and we were ushered in to see Dr. Watkins at his desk, Dr. Chang at the window, smiling at us, and a man in a suit reading a file, sitting to the side. He was introduced as Brad Alexander, an attorney for the hospital. We sat and there was this awkward pause, which reminded me of just before somebody pushes you into a swimming pool. You haven’t hit the water but you’re out of control, in the air …

Dr. Watkins cleared his throat and started to go through my test results, all of them, in a very dry and clinical way. At some point there was a snort from Dr. Chang, who had taken to looking through the window as Dr. Watkins read.

“Within normal parameters?” she chuckled. “Doctor, the Prestons don’t need to hear that; it doesn’t really mean anything to them.”

“I think we need to be clear on the test results,” Dr. Watkins said, glancing at the lawyer.

I suddenly understood that Watkins droning on was not for us but to satisfy whatever legal demands the hospital had. I tentatively raised my hand.

Dr. Watkins smiled, “You don’t have to raise your hand, Angela. Just speak up.”

There was a small sound from the attorney.

“Thank you, sir. Um …it’s nice to hear you use my name, too. Dr. Chang, I think I know what you mean, and in a funny way, Mom and I are obviously not ‘within normal parameters’ or we wouldn’t be here.”

There was a general polite chuckle.

I went on, “But it’s okay for Dr. Watkins to state all these facts and figures because, well, I need to know, and they might bring up questions. So if you all have the time, I’d like to hear him out.”

Dr. Chang smiled at me. “Good girl,” she nodded once. “Go on, doctor.”

The attorney did a ‘harrumph’ thing, clearing his throat. “I think we may be a bit premature here. Dr. Watkins has referred to the patient as ‘Angela’ and Dr. Chang has referred to the patient as a ‘girl’.”

Both doctors did the polite-doctor version of rolling their eyes. I could feel Mom getting angry.

Again, I suddenly understood something and quickly said, “If I may?”

Dr. Watkins had opened his mouth to respond to the attorney but closed it and nodded.

I turned and said, “Mr. Alexander, I think I understand your point about referring to me as a girl named Angela. I agree with you; it is premature in a legal sense. I’m waiting to hear …we’re all waiting to hear, I think …if it’s premature in a medical sense. But please understand, to my mother and me, there is no doubt whatsoever that I am a girl named Angela. I think the doctors were being polite, to ease our worries on a very important day.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. He said, “You have a valid point, and I might suggest a career in diplomacy. Or perhaps law …Miss Preston.”

Wow! That eased the tension!

Dr. Watkins seized the moment to start droning again about percentages and parameters; Dr. Chang grinned at me, and Mom squeezed my hand.

Then Dr. Watkins closed the file and sat back. He glanced at the window. “Dr. Chang? You want to take it or shall I?”

She smiled. “You’ve got your voice warmed up. Go ahead. I’ll play backup.”

Dr. Watkins looked at the lawyer, an ‘eye-to-eye’ thing happened with them, and then turned back to us, leaning forward and lacing his fingers over my file.

“Mrs. Preston …Angela …” He tucked his chin down for a moment and then looked back up at us. “Mrs. Preston, the file reports that your child is genetically male, but chemically and by measurable medical standards, a significantly underdeveloped male. There is enough neurochemical evidence to indicate that the brain chemistry, the brain functions, are female.”

“Indisputably,” Dr. Chang tossed in.

Mom frowned. “Indisputably?”

Dr. Chang said, “The brain chemistry is one factor; psychological testing is the other. Your child–and you do understand why we’re using that phrase?”

We both nodded–the lawyer nodded–and she went on

“Your child’s brain tests ‘within normal parameters’ for a female. It would be exceedingly odd–to the point of making medical history books–if your child was psychologically male. However, the psych testing we did, as I said, the results were indisputably female as well, as would be expected with–”

“Ah!” the lawyer started to say.

Dr. Chang quickly raised a hand. “I think you’re objecting to my phrase ‘as would be expected’. You were going to suggest that there was a bias toward a diagnosis of female based on the neurochemical results. And that could be a valid objection, if both parties were aware of the other’s findings, but not only were they independently performed …the neurochem screening was done after the psych evaluation.”

The importance of this was shown by how the lawyer immediately nodded and backed down.

Dr. Watkins nodded to the lawyer. “Every precaution was taken to isolate the testing procedures, in full compliance.” With what, he didn’t say, but the lawyer nodded yet again, satisfied, and made a note.

Then Dr. Watkins turned back to us. “Mrs. Preston, other than the genetic test, if your child had tested–in any of the procedures–as male, the normal prognosis would be massive doses of testosterone and androgens as well as years of psychological counseling to cope with being a small, rather delicate adult male. Some of the results strongly indicate nonfunctioning sexual ability.”

I have no idea why, but I turned to the lawyer, looked him in the eye and calmly said, “I have never had an erection in my life.”

I think it was his objections that made me do it; I understood, logically, that he had to be the Devil’s Advocate and protect the hospital, just doing his job and all that, but while I wasn’t a male, I knew how they think–and I wanted him to fully, personally, understand a little of what my life was truly like.

It had the desired effect–his eyes widened and he involuntarily gasped. He cleared his throat and tucked his chin to his chest–I thought it was his way of regrouping–and nodded.

Dr. Chang was almost snickering. She exchanged a glance with Dr. Watkins, who was fighting a smile. He got himself together and said, “Yes, as …the patient has reported, erections have been nonexistent, and even with massive testosterone therapy would most likely remain non-existent for the duration of the patient’s life.” He frowned. “I know we have to state all the ins and outs and whys and wherefores, but I think everybody in this room knows that, as the patient stated earlier, in the medical sense, the patient should be living as a girl named Angela. Treatment to conform the patient in line with birth sex would be pointless, as it is highly doubtful there would be any measureable results of any positive nature. There is ample evidence that there would be significant health risks, and would be seriously detrimental to the well-being of the patient. As well as highly questionable, medically.”

“And psychologically devastating,” Dr. Chang said, gloomily. There was a pause and she continued but with a smile. “So, treatment to conform the patient to birth sex is destructive. However, treatment to conform the patient to actual gender is relatively benign and anticipates a very healthy prognosis. In other words, it makes every bit of medical and psychological sense to enter male patient Andrew Preston into our Gender Identity Program and begin medical and legal transition to female patient Angela Preston.” She paused. “Immediately.” She paused. “Assuming it is the desire of Mrs. Preston and Andrew.”

I was already nodding as Mom spoke up for the first time. “There is no Andrew in this room, except on paper. I am absolutely certain that my child has never been Andrew, except on paper. I gave birth to a daughter with a birth defect–that’s the easiest way of thinking about it–that forced her to try to be a boy. Quite frankly, she’s never been good at it because she isn’t a boy. She’s a happy and, if I may say, quite a pretty girl who is already making friends as Angela, while Andrew had never had any friends. Ever.”

Mom faced the lawyer directly and spoke forcefully. “I believe …I guess I have to say this for legal reasons. I truly believe that my child’s mental and emotional well-being–her life–is at stake here. Yes, it is my desire that she be entered in the program and begin treatments so she can live as the girl she is. My daughter.”

“I love you, Mom,” I said, my eyes stinging with tears.

The lawyer said, “You, uh …do understand the full implications, ramifications, of this program?”

I cleared my throat and took my eyes from my lovely, wonderful mother. “Yes, Mr. Alexander, we both do. The program will–I hope!–begin with hormone therapy. I know there’s a testing period and I’m willing to undergo all the ups and downs of that until they get it right. I’m willing to legally change all my documentation to Angela, female. I’m willing to undergo the difficult social pressures of small-minded people, if I can be who I am. And, finally, at eighteen or sooner if at all possible, I am more than willing to undergo any and all operations, painful and lengthy, to remove my penis and give me the vagina that I should have been born with. Mr. Alexander, I know this is hard for a man to understand. I don’t hate my penis but it doesn’t belong there, any more than you would expect a pair of large breasts to belong under your business suit.”

Boy, did that shock him and the room! Dr. Chang did snicker at that one, and I earned a reproving ‘Angela!’ from Mom. But I plowed on.

“Mr. Alexander, I’m not saying that to be disgusting or make light of the situation. What I meant was that a visible indicator of the opposite sex, on your own body? It just doesn’t belong there.”

I held his eyes, and he nodded. “Point taken. And you might want to seriously consider a career in law. You would make a formidable litigator.” But he was smiling!

That little exchange had a remarkable effect; it completely cleared the air and we moved into the next phase, which was a flurry of document signing. Mr. Alexander was no longer the Devil’s Advocate; he was Mr. Efficiency, a machine handing pages to us and saying ‘sign here, please, and initial here’ every few seconds. That was done finally and he stood after collecting the pages.

He shook Mom’s hand and mine, smiling at me, and said, “I wish you all the best in your life, Miss Preston.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alexander,” I smiled back. “And you may call me Angela.”

“Angela,” he nodded. Then he chuckled. “Legal and medical assessments aside, it only takes five seconds with you to know that you are obviously a girl.” He turned to go and turned back with a bigger smile. “And a formidable litigator!”

After he left, there was a whoosh of breath from everybody. Dr. Chang said, “Water all around?” and went to another room, coming back with small bottles.

Mom said, “What was all that about being a litigator?”

Dr. Chang handed her a bottle and said, “Angela did a classic trial lawyer move twice. She came to each individual point, answered them succinctly and then finished with a punch that caught him off-balance.”

“Oh, you mean like the …um …breasts thing?”

Dr. Watkins said, “It wasn’t just the idea of having breasts; it was adding the words ‘under your business suit’. That hammered it home to him, made it really personal. Smart girl.”

I was blushing.

Dr. Chang said, “And at the end, forcing him to say her name. Pretty sharp.”

Mom frowned. “Forcing?”

Dr. Chang said, “By social mores, when she gave him permission to call her Angela, he almost had to respond in kind or be rude. But it forced him to publically declare that she was Angela. She beat him.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was like that,” Mom said. “Not like a battle or anything.”

“It was,” Dr. Watkins said. “He’s protecting the best interest of the hospital, and it’s his job to root out any subterfuge or fraud or anything that could reflect badly on the hospital. He’s darned good at it and darned sharp. He’s rejected or blocked several patients in the past.”

“Oh, those poor people!” I said sadly. I was thinking of girls like me, rejected by Alexander.

“A few, yes, my heart bled for,” Dr. Watkins said. “But not all were gender patients. One was seeking a kidney operation and it turned out they had been paid to donate the kidney so they faked the illness.”

“My God! People would actually do that?” Mom gasped.

Both doctors nodded. “And a lot more,” Dr. Chang said. “But Brad caught it. You see, we can only look at the medical end of things, testing results and so on. In a legal sense, I mean. We were pretty sure the kidney patient was faking but he’d done his homework; his bio workups all showed renal failure. Legally, we can’t go before a judge and say, ‘Your Honor, I kinda had a hunch he was lying’. We can only testify and certify that the patient tested properly for renal failure. Brad sniffed him out and satisfied the legal requirements for rejection.”

Dr. Watkins said, “But in your case, it was kind of pro forma for him today. He’d read our results; I think the moment you walked through the door he was convinced but he had hoops to jump through.”

“As did we, but our hoop-jumping is over for the day!” Dr. Chang grinned. “So, Angela …ready to get shot?”

I felt a buzz of excitement at her words, and in quick order I was in the room next door, removing my skirt and then lowering my panties. Two–two–massive shots that brought tears to my eyes, and I had androgen blockers and estrogen in me! The doctors said they often blocked for months, evaluated, and then cautiously introduced estrogen, but my medical results and the circumstances of being a sixteen-year-old soon-to-be Senior girl allowed them to proceed. They warned me to be on the lookout for mood swings and to document everything, and with some prescriptions handed to Mom, we were done!

It wasn’t the shots, I swear, but as soon as we were in the car, buckled in our seatbelts, I suddenly burst into sobs. I cried and cried; Mom released our belts and leaned over to hug me and stroke my head and hand me tissues. I was shaking because I was crying so hard, or I was crying so hard because I was shaking, with relief, with released tension, with happiness.

Chapter 15. The Offer

Driving, Mom said, “You know this calls for a celebration! Where would you like to eat?”

“I’d like to eat at La Rioja. Every night of the week! But it’s closed.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t worry; I know we can’t afford it anyway, but the food was so good. Anyway, I saw that Monday is the only night they close–hey! Santiago left me a note!”

I told her about it but would have to wait until we got home. We decided on a new vegetarian restaurant and had ice tea and salads, but it could have been champagne and caviar; we were so happy and so relieved. Then Mom went in a whole other direction.

“So now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stay? Move? What?”

“Move? What?”

At this point she laughed so hard she held her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I just heard what we’d said! What? What? What?” She laughed again and then sighed. “Okay. We know now–we know–that Angela is forever, and that will soon be a legal reality. And I don’t care about documentation, assurances from the school district–anything!–I am determined that my daughter Angela will not do her Senior year at Westmont.”

After our discussion about bullies, I knew she was adamant. Plus, after she and the anti-bully group met with the school district, it would be obvious that Andrew Preston was the source of the bullies’ names. Angela wouldn’t have a chance to live–Andrew would very quickly be a dead little boy.

I nodded. “Westmont’s out. Done. History.”

“His-tory!” she chuckled. “An old joke, but never more accurate than in your case!”

“Yer killin’ me, Ma,” I said in a cornpone voice.

“So, definitely a different school,” Mom nodded, back on track. “Because after we meet, it should be easy to get a variance for you to go to another school. So the question is …where?”

“You said, ‘move’. Um …can we afford that? Because some of the guys …know where Andrew lives.” I meant the bullies, of course; I’d sure been chased home enough over the years. Even though they hadn’t done it in high school–much–they still knew my address.

Mom was unaware of the chases; I’d told her about the school bullying but not about my years of running home.

She nodded, though. “A move is warranted, tough as it may be. If they know you live here they might know somebody that goes to your new school, wherever that will be. It only takes one to whisper ‘Hey, that girl Angela? She’s a guy!’ for disaster.”

I shivered at the thought of my hoped-for new life crashing down around me. It was hard to swallow but I did and just nodded.

Mom said, “Honey, we’ll make the move happen. And I’ll start looking into other schools, parts of town, and so on. Okay, we move and Westmont’s history.”

It felt very strange, in the middle of Finals, to think about it. But I nodded. “Westmont’s history.”

Mom frowned and then looked a little sheepish. “Maybe I should have waited to bring this up. I know you’ve still got, what, four more classes to go, and I don’t want to throw you off your Finals mindset.”

“Three more; no final in PE. Um, no, I understand but I don’t think there’s any problem. Biology is Biology; it’s not Westmont Biology. Okay. Yes, this week is …” I trailed off and began laughing.

“Honey? What’s up?”

“It’s just …it’s just that my last final, fifth period Geometry. It will be my final final Final at Westmont!”

She laughed, too, and we were so giddy that we couldn’t even speak when they came to refill our glasses. When we calmed down, Mom said, “The reason I bring it up now is that schools’ offices are still open. That’s why we’re meeting with the school district so soon. Pretty much you will walk out of Westmont and we’ll be walking in the front door. As far as transfers to another school, once summer hits, it’s almost impossible to get anybody on the phone until Labor Day. So any transferring of files, setting things up, all has to be done as soon as possible. But we’ve got two problems.”

I nodded. “Name and school.”

She nodded with me. “I’ll call the hospital tomorrow–that nice Mr. Alexander …”

We both knew she was being somewhat sarcastic and chuckled and she went on.

“Anyway, now that we’re still fresh in his memory, I’ll see how fast he can move for his favorite little litigator.”

“Mom …”

She grinned. “It’s true, honey; you did impress him. I think you should truly believe what the doctors said about that. I know I sure was impressed! Anyway, between now and the answer back from him, we can talk about where Angela’s records will be sent.”

“You’ve got your job–”

She waved a hand. “I’m willing to commute–all of this is only for the final year of high school–and I might not have to. We have to go online and look at the maps of the school districts; I have no idea where we are in Westmont’s district, only that we are, but we can forestall any decisions until we look at the maps and get a timetable from Alexander.” She paused. “Except for McKinley.”

I nodded; McKinley High had the worst reputation for fighting and racial troubles.

As soon as we got home, I fished Santiago’s note from my Biology book and called him.

And got a shock …

After the initially cautious hellos and ‘how’d you do in your finals today?’ questions, he veered off.

“Eres una niña para siempre, ¿verdad?” You are a girl forever, right?

“Si,” I answered, my mouth dry. “Es lo que soy.” Yes. It’s who I am.

“Entiendo,” he said, and I could–maybe?–hear a smile and imagined a nod. “When? Now?”

“Cuando no estoy en la escuela. En todos los demás sitios sí.” When I’m not in school. Everywhere else, yes.

Part of me worried about whether this was a creepy ‘What are you wearing?’ sort of thing, but I didn’t get that vibe.

In the same tone as his other questions, Santiago asked, “Do you have a summer job?”

What? It took me by surprise and I was silent too long, regrouping, so he repeated it.

“Uh, no …” I frowned.

“My father like you very much. You are my friend but he like you anyway!” he teased.

I laughed with him. I said, “Diego, it should be ‘likes’, with an ‘S’. My father likes you, okay? And your father is a very nice man and should be proud of La Rioja.”

“Muchas gracias,” he said and this time I really heard the smile in his voice. “Saturday night was un desastre.” A disaster. “He tried to be everywhere–the kitchen, the front, seating, everywhere. His heart …it is not good.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Diego,” I said with worry. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Si, si; we got him to sit. And he barks the orders and jumps up and down, ay-yi-yi,” he laughed. “Tonight he rests. But we talked and …” He cleared his throat. “Angela, we would like to ask you to be hostess–la dueña de casa–at La Rioja. Good pay, good food.”

“Santiago, I’m flattered. Me siento honrado.” I’m honored. I was so stunned that it took me a moment to regroup. “But I don’t know how to hostess. I’ve never done anything like it.”

“You smile, you say hola, bienvenido, you take one menu for each and take them to a table. Smile and repeat!” He chuckled.

“Come on, I saw how hard your father worked!”

“He tries to do too much, to say too much. He is taking them to the table and telling them about the paint not matching in the restrooms! And it has always been a girl.”

“Um–what?”

“La dueña de casa–it was my sister and the loser who left us,” he said with a little disgust. “My sister will not be back for some time and you speak Spanish and if you need a job, nos gustaria que usted lo considere.” We would like you to consider it.

“Diego, totally truthful–en total honestidad–is my Spanish good enough to do the job?”

“Si. No, truthfully, si, si!  Ángela, ¿cuándo fue la última vez que preguntaste a qué me refería?” When was the last time you asked what I meant?

I knew what he meant, but I teased, “Huh? What did you just say?”

“Angela!” he laughed.

“Okay, not recently. Because you’ve been great at helping me with Spanish!”

“And why would I no help a pretty girl with her Spanish?”

That rocked me. “Um …it’s not help …um, Diego, I wasn’t a pretty girl when we were running around in PE.”

“Two things. First, yes you were. Second, we never ran!” He laughed.

I had to laugh, too, but frowned. “Santiago Mendoza, I am serious! I never–”

“So am I,” he said in a tone that I knew was serious. “After I meet Angela at La Rioja, I believe that even though you were in Boys’ PE and called Andrew, under was Angela.”

“Underneath,” I said automatically. “And …oh, God, thank you, Diego! It’s been …sumamente raro.” Supremely weird. “Yes, I guess you’re right although I thought I …hid things.”

“I thought you were my gay friend Andrew. Until I meet Angela. Now I know it was never a gay boy, it was a girl hiding–una chica escondida” A girl hidden away.

“Thank you for that, muchas gracias, un mil gracias, Santiago.” A thousand thank yous. “My mother and I have not talked about jobs but I will talk to her tonight. How late can I call tonight?”

“Until eleven. Bueno; I hope you can help us this weekend.”

“This weekend? I thought you meant like, sometime in the summer.”

“ ¿No es verano ya?” Isn’t it summer already?

“I hadn’t thought of …” I shook my head. Be a businesswoman, Angela! I told myself–and then got a buzz that I’d called myself that! “Santiago, I need to talk with my mother. What nights, what hours, and what rate of pay? Salario?” Wages.

“We are open Tuesday to Sunday. We would love all six nights but Friday and Saturday especialmente. Hostess six to ten, four hours. No tips, but ten dollars an hour. Two ten-minute breaks. And dinner break. ¡Y mucho caminar!” And a lot of walking!

I laughed with him and thanked him and went to discuss it with Mom.

And was absolutely floored; she thought it was a wonderful idea and what did I think? She pointed out that it was a very good rate of pay–and a La Rioja meal!–and as I had no social life at the moment, it wasn’t cutting into nights with ‘my friends’. She did point out that she had little doubt that I would quickly gather friends, mentioning Santiago and Carrie as a good start, but it was a wonderful job for a soon-to-be-Senior.

Of course, she did bring up the potential negative of transportation, but said we’d work something out. In the meantime, she suggested that I go in Thursday night–there was no more school after Thursday’s finals–to see if it was right for me and for training, and then jump in for the weekend. And to find out what they would like me to wear, if it was a provided uniform or my own clothes. She thought it might be conservative black skirt and white blouse, since it was an expensive restaurant.

“Oh, and sweetheart–this just validates that you are a woman in the world!”

She was so happy and I was absolutely blown away by the whole thing. I went to my room and sat, thinking, with my arms hugging a pillow to my chest. When I was honest with myself, the only negative was my own fear of being out in the world–and yet I so desperately wanted to be a girl out in the world!

I called Santiago at 9:30 and told him yes. He agreed with the Thursday idea and told me the standard would be white blouse and black skirt and to wear flats because of all the walking. He’d heard every complaint from his sister over the years and said that he could arrange a meeting with her; she could tell me the ‘tricks of the trade’. That made me laugh; he’d said it was simply saying hello and welcome and showing them to a table. So there were tricks? We ended the conversation and I was bubbly with excitement–and I still had Biology staring at me.

End of Part 5

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 6

Chapter 16. Final Finals

Fortunately, I was ready for Biology and really amped up for my Spanish final! I felt great when I got home and found Mom’s recipe for meatloaf. We had a quiet night while I browsed through Geometry, checking and double-checking myself. All set for my last day!

I arrived at school, my head full of theorems and figures, made it forty feet and got slammed sideways into a wall of lockers with an ‘outta my way, fruit!’. Okay; the bullies weren’t all on their best behavior. I leaned against the lockers, my head throbbing, and tried to regroup the math in my head but something burst up through the scattered equations–Mom was right. I had to name names. I had to ease things here if I could. And the truth was, it wasn’t just me that was slammed into lockers, or tripped, or ‘swirlied’. Other kids got it too; small kids, odd kids, ethnic kids, smart kids. We all just took it and …

Another thought burst up, stunning me as I leaned; one word–Sarajevo. I remembered something I’d seen on TV about the Balkan Wars, and they showed children taking circuitous routes to their school to avoid snipers. Even the documentary cameramen were dodging and weaving, taking cover, as they showed these kids clustered behind cars, running from car to car as shields, slipping out and around and down back alleys, when their school was only a few blocks away. It was a testament to their courage and to their desire to learn.

But I also remembered the most horrific moment of the documentary: One moment a child was scampering between cars, and the next he was sprawled on the concrete, victim of a sniper’s bullet. His thin legs twisted under his shorts, his books spilled in the street …it was the single most graphic image imaginable to me, and seared my mind.

I’d always thought of that tragic child–but now I was struck by remembering what happened afterward. I’d never thought about it before, but other kids continued their way to school! They didn’t run out to help the child. I’d first thought it was because they could tell he was dead, but surely common decency would move one of them to go to him …But I was younger and simpler then, and later I learned that the reason they didn’t go to the child’s aid was because they would be shot, too. It was standard procedure for the snipers to shoot one person–child, woman, old man, anybody–and then pick off those who rushed to help. The schoolchildren had already learned the terrible lesson that to go to the sprawled child would mean their death. And they still had to get to school …

Being slammed into a locker wasn’t even in the same universe as the one those Sarajevo kids lived in; even the worst abuse I’d experienced paled in comparison. But I’d taken the abuse, day after day, year after year, as did the small kids, smart kids, ethnic kids; just like the Sarajevo kids, we kept our heads down, suffered our losses and went on. And we’d gotten used to it, just as a normal school day in Sarajevo meant dodging snipers. It was a fact of life; heck–it was our life. And that was no way for a kid to live.

Mom was right. God, was she right! Anything I could do to stop bullying was justified. And thinking of those Balkan kids, and the kids in Westmont–and at Mountain View, my middle school, and all the middle and elementary schools that had kids bullied daily–I resolved something else. I wanted to ask, or have Mom ask, the anti-bullying rep about helping the bullied. The kids like me who tolerated the intolerable. Mom had been talking about the abusers being abused at home, but what about a different ‘cycle of abuse’–the kids like me who expected it daily? It was like we were a generation of victims!

I knew that it was only because I was fully Angela, in my mind and heart, and I felt stronger. These thoughts would never have come to Andrew, who was still surviving day-by-day. Keeping his head down, metaphorically running behind cars, dodging snipers. And not helping the other kids who were bullied. Mom’s plan to move was exciting because it was new, but there was a little taste of running away, to me. Part of me thought I should dress up as Angela and march up to the Administration Office and proudly tell them that I was transgender and that they had bullies …and the reality was that I would eventually be shot down metaphorically, just as a kid rushing to the fallen boy would be shot literally in Sarajevo. And the bullying would go on; the Powers-That-Be that allowed bullying to exist–or participated in it, like Coach–would just say that it was a single instance, it was my fault, it was just me. And I couldn’t expect the other bullied kids to stick their necks out, one-by-one. I’d be proud if they did, and it made for great, stirring movies, but the reality was survival.

Benjamin Franklin popped into my head–his line was something like, “We must all hang together or we will all hang separately.” But I couldn’t be the rallying point for the bullied; the sad, bitter reality was that being transgender would make me an outsider among the outsiders. It wouldn’t just blur the issue of bullies; it would become the issue. The fairly conservative suburban families around us …they could maybe justify that their child was a target because he was small, or she was smart, or she was Mexican, or he was into Theatre. But I knew that some would be certain that, somehow, I deserved whatever I got because I was so different. I could even imagine ladies in the supermarket discussing me, saying, “Well, it is sick; so I suppose being slammed into a locker was a perfectly reasonable reaction to something so …perverse.”

As I straightened up from the lockers and headed to class, I realized that Andrew being Angela was completely separate from Andrew being bullied. I wasn’t Angela all of the past years that I’d been bullied. Well, I wasn’t named then, and hadn’t declared myself and knew that I had a future. I’d known that I was a girl, or at least wanted to be one–but the bullies didn’t, and that was the key, because they bullied other kids who weren’t transgender. So the factor of being trans was separate from being bullied, but it would cloud the issue if I tried to be the ringleader, the One Who Stood Up, whatever.

Walking the halls, my eyes scanning for any possible confrontation, I worked on the problem. My radical new thought was that in addition to naming names of the bullies, I would name names of the bullied–not to the school district, but to the anti-bully group if they had a system or structure of helping bullying victims. I would discuss this with Mom, of course, but it felt sure and right and in a perverse way, I was almost thankful to my locker-slammer because not only was he probably the last–the final–bully of Andrew’s life, he made me think outside of Andrew’s little world of survival.

With this decision, the theorems and equations and geometrical figures all came flooding back in my head; I managed to make it to class just in time, sliding into my seat as the bell sounded and we got right to work. I got a smile and head nod from my Geometry teacher when I turned in my final, and since I didn’t have a sixth-period class–it had been PE, and there was no final for Study Hall–and since there was no other bullying, I was done, done, and done. I double-checked that my locker was empty, and that was the end of my attendance at Westmont High School.

The end of my existence at Westmont High School.

Wow …

Because it also meant that it was the end of any necessity for Andrew Preston to exist. I walked home, feeling oddly bittersweet about The End of Things, and drew a bubblebath. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the afternoon; I was feeling a weird mental exhaustion and I guessed it was from always keeping Angela under wraps when I was Andrew, and also just the being of Andrew–having to walk and talk a certain way–was exhausting. Well, no more; I lay back and deeply breathed the eucalyptus scent of the bubbles and thought, yet again, that this moment marked the start of the rest of my life.

Mom got home a little earlier than usual; I was just in the bathrobe fresh from my bath. She instantly knew what I’d been thinking and feeling–not about bullies, but about the End of Andrew–because she crossed the room to me and enfolded me in a big hug.

“My Angela, my sweet daughter,” she murmured.

It was a fantastic, loved feeling that brought tears.

Mom said, “We’ll go do something fun. Come on!”

“What about the meatloaf?” I asked; we’d planned to finish it off tonight.

She waved a hand. “Enh …let it loaf!”

Bad joke aside, and with her working as a cheerleader, I quickly did my makeup and hair and added jewelry and put on a denim skirt and was going to put on a tank but she suggested a camp shirt in aqua; she said it was really cute on me and she liked to see it. I wore a white cami underneath, grabbed flats and purse and we were out the door.

It was a mystery to me what she was up to; she was driving to a part of town I rarely visited and then pulled between buildings and there was a small lot. She seemed in a bit of a hurry and I had to almost run to catch up when she got out of the car.

Turning onto the main street, she turned into the first door which turned out to be Modessa, a salon. A woman came forward, with upswept black hair and a big smile, and they embraced. Mom turned to me.

“This is my daughter Angela. Angela, one of my oldest friends, Kathy. She owns Modessa.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I smiled.

“Oh, she’s lovely, Carol!” Kathy beamed.

My smile faltered; ‘one of my oldest friends’ could be a nice thing to say, but the ease with which Kathy called Mom by her name meant the phrase wasn’t empty. And if she knew Mom as Carol, then she must know …

Kathy gently said, “I imagine that you’re a little worried right now. Please relax, Angela. There are only the three of us here at the moment, so I can say that I always wanted to meet you, and …” She looked at Mom, who nodded, and Kathy nodded with her and looked back to me. “And I believe Andrew has …left?”

I shook a little but nodded.

Kathy and Mom did the Look thing again, and in a quiet but warm voice, Kathy said, “He was never real, sweetheart. You were always there, hidden deep inside because you had to. It must have been so difficult, and I honor you for your courage. And now you’re finally here, a gift to your mother!”

I’d never thought of it like that, said so, and suddenly was in a three-way hug which Kathy broke.

“Okay, to business. I gave the girls a dinner break and they’ll be back in …ten minutes. Do you know the procedure?”

Quickly I looked at Mom and back to Kathy and said, “No, ma’am; I have no idea what’s going on, besides meeting you …”

Kathy rolled her eyes. “Carol! You didn’t tell her?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Mom chuckled.

I said, “She just said we were going to ‘do something fun’.”

Kathy bobbed her head side to side. “Can’t say she lied to you. Yes! Fun! Okay, less than ten before the girls are back.” She faced me directly. “Angela, my employees know nothing about you. And I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. They’ve been told that you have been a tomboy and you’re just coming out of that silliness and embracing your femininity. They will completely understand and cut you some slack, because you’re so pretty it would seem odd that you haven’t already had your hair done! By the way, three of the Modessa girls were hard-core tomboys but I’ll defy you to guess which ones! Now, your mom has scheduled the works for you. Hairstyle, facial, nails, the works.”

“A treat, sweetheart,” Mom said, her smile so wide she looked like a kid on Christmas.

Kathy grinned. “So I want to say a few things quickly so you’ll be confident, because I guess you’ve never been in a salon before?”

“Not as a customer. Only once or twice, waiting for Mom.”

“Before I got back in town, I trust?” Kathy said mock-threatening to Mom, who chuckled and nodded.

Kathy grinned. “Okay, then! So, Angela, you’ll go in there and put on a smock. You may strip down to your lingerie if you feel comfortable or not, your choice. Six of one, half dozen of another. Some women like being as comfy as possible because this’ll take awhile.”

Mom smiled gently.“Sweetheart? I want to say some things quickly for your benefit and Kathy’s. First of all, don’t worry about the cost.” She turned to Kathy. “She’s so good about money!” Back to me, she went on. “And second, I’ve told Kathy what I have planned for you so don’t think anybody’s going off on their own.”

“Huh?”

Kathy said, “She means if they ask you to lay back for aromatherapy, don’t say, ‘I didn’t ask for aromatherapy’.”

“I’m getting aromatherapy?”

“No,” Mom chuckled.

“In a manner of speaking,” Kathy said. “We try to use nothing but organics and many of them have some degree of aromatherapy built in. But a session with your head over some herbs, not tonight,” she chuckled. “Alright. I’ve got some ideas, seeing you now, but there are a couple of books to look through to see if you fall in love with anything.”

She pointed to a table in the waiting area, with butter-yellow leather couches around. There were rows of magazines and several large, wide books.

Mom and I sat and she turned to me. “Oh, and the third thing is …enjoy it! Just let them pamper you and …” She sighed. “Oh, honey; I’ve waited so long for this!”

I realized how important and special this was for her, too, just as saying goodbye to Andrew in my bubblebath was important to me. We were looking through the books, collections of hairstyles, and discussing them as ‘the girls’ came back from their break. It was funny, because I expected teenagers. Two were in their twenties, but the other three looked like they were in their thirties. They came back giggling and chatting and happy.

Kathy came over and sat. “Find anything?”

I spun the books to show her. “Um, this one, maybe, and I kinda like that one,” I pointed.

She nodded. “Both very reasonable. I’m thinking more along these lines.” She took one of the books and flipped to a section I hadn’t seen–Mom and I had been looking through the ‘Kids & Teens’ section.

Mom grinned. “What do you think, honey?”

“Wow, I …uh …” I stared at the picture.

The girl in the photo was probably early twenties with black hair. But setting that aside, her hair looked like it grew like mine and was about the same length at the farthest point. Her face was similar to mine as well. I nodded and just said another ‘wow’.

Kathy laughed. “Alright! We got a winner! Number forty-two, the daily special!” she called out in a funny voice. Seeing my odd look, she really laughed. “Just teasing! We don’t number ‘em or anything; I was just …”

Quietly, Mom said, “Kath? She’s freaked enough as it is.”

Kathy was immediately contrite. “Sorry! My sense of humor sometimes has no sense. I’m sorry, Angela, okay? I’ll be on my best behavior from now on. So, do you like the style?”

“I love the style, but please, just be yourself. Don’t feel like you have to be on your best behavior–” I laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that! I meant–”

Kathy grinned and patted my knee. “I understand, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.” Her grin turned wicked as she turned to Mom. “Her legs are even better than yours, Carol!”

Mom just beamed. “I know. She’s beautiful,” she said, looking at me with such love.

It was too awkward to give her a hug, the way we were seated, so I just did an ‘Aw!’ thing.

And then it was Showtime.

I decided to keep my skirt and cami on under the smock, hanging up the camp shirt, and was led out. Mom was in a smock, too! I realized it was a mother-and-daughter package, which explained why the salon was open late and Kathy had given the girls a break. Mom winked at me and we were led to separate chairs and then attacked from all sides.

They first asked if I wanted to listen to music or chat. I didn’t feel confident enough for salon chatting, so they produced an earphone thing that lay below my chin and up to my ears. They asked musical preference and I said soft jazz with a question and one girl grinned and nodded and some mellow groove started up and I smiled back at her. She told me to pull the phones out while she washed my hair.

She shampooed and conditioned my hair and massaged my neck and forehead. On her nod, I put the earphones in as she gave me a fingertip-wave goodbye, and then the stylist began brushing and cutting my hair. I watched in the mirror, fascinated. The woman worked quickly and surely, and Kathy’s joke about ‘the special’ made me smile. The girls talked among themselves; the jazz was low enough that I could hear them say something like ‘turn to the right a little’.

My stylist’s hands were a blur with the brush and dryer. In the mirror I could see she was done and smiling and I was not only blown dry, I was blown away. My smile was huge and she spun me towards the chair where Mom sat, hands extended as a nail girl worked.

“Oh, sweetheart, I love it!” she smiled.

“Me, too! Thanks, Mom!” I grinned, and made to get out of the chair.

Apparently, I wasn’t done.

“Need to pee?” the stylist asked.

“Uh …no?” I slowly slid back down.

Then she began painting my hair! I remembered that Mom had authorized everything, so I lay back as she worked. I kind of zoned out with the whole thing; someone put cool things over my eyes so I didn’t really know what was going on. Someone took my hand and began working on nails. A massage and some eucalyptus-based damp towel to breathe–no aromatherapy, huh?–and things proceeded. It seemed like the girl on my nails was taking forever and I knew that I didn’t know, because I’d never had anything done like this. But I was startled when my shoes were removed and she began working on my feet.

It was dark outside and the salon had cheerful candles as well as lights on, when they spun my chair to face the mirror and I gasped.

Chapter 17. Decisions

I stared and stared.

Gasped some more with each revelation.

Mom was behind my chair, her hands on my shoulders, smiling so happily, her eyes sparkling.

My hair had been lightened or highlighted, I guessed–I’d have to find out the right terms for things. The cut was so feminine, with a side part and a sweep of hair, the ends tapered and feathered from my chin to my shoulders. The stylist had said it was just long enough that I could still do a ponytail–but not a low boys’, only a cute girls’ ponytail. That was fine with me; I never wanted to tie it down in back again.

The only negative of the whole time in the chair was the cooling and then ripping at my eyebrows, but seeing them now, it was completely worth it! They were–cliché, cliché–delicate arches, and made my eyes look bigger but totally eliminated any lingering traces of Andrew. There was some soft makeup applied, but not much under the circumstances, and they had given Mom a suggested color chart for me.

But my hands …omigod! My nails had been lengthened and were a soft rose color. They were graceful and feminine ovals and made my fingers look slender and longer. I knew my toes had been done the same way. Well, soft rose, but not slender and long! Most importantly, my hands did not have any relation to Andrew’s hands, and I realized just how powerful this was, psychologically.

“Meatloaf,” Mom said, startling me.

“Oh, yeah; I’m kinda hungry now …” I murmured, staring at my image and starting to worry about my vanity–and Mom’s sanity.

“That’s what made me think of it,” Mom chuckled. “You know how you had to squish the meat and milk and eggs with your hands?”

I’d made her recipe the night before and nodded.

Mom went on as if ‘meatloaf’ made sense–which it now did.

She grinned. “I thought, ‘She’d hate to do that with her nails done,’ which got me to thinking about getting your nails done. Which led me to call Santiago–at the restaurant–and ask about nail polish on the hostess and he said it’s fine as long as it’s not black,” she grinned. “And I double-checked the dress code; we’ll pick up something for you tomorrow. But tonight, it was time for mother-and-daughter makeovers!”

She really hadn’t had a full makeover; her hair was styled and her nails done but I suspected she was done long before me and had been chatting with Kathy while they worked on me. Which reminded me …tomboys …I had no idea. Later, I told Kathy that, and she laughed and told me which ones had been ‘hard-core tomboys’: “Beth, your massage girl; Connie that did your nails–and me!”

On the drive home, Mom told me that she’d grown up with Kathy, who had moved away and come back twice, and yes, she had been a hard-core tomboy. Mom had a funny story about a dance they went to where girls were flirting with Kathy.

“I thought she might be a lesbian, but she was my friend and that was all that mattered,” Mom said. “Then her dad got transferred and moved away. She came back to the area after college and there was no trace of the tomboy–or her father. It was Daddy issues, and when her folks got divorced, the issues moved out, so to speak. Not gay. I was one of her bridesmaids but we all …” She frowned.

She’d obviously hit an unhappy memory, so to divert her away from it, I said, “She’s got a beautiful salon, and everybody seems to get along so well.”

“Yes, they do, and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” she said, playfully stern. “But I love you for it. I was just thinking about the wedding, and …it was very hard for me. I knew–I absolutely knew in my heart of hearts–that the marriage wouldn’t last. Not because of Kathy, but I knew the guy and …” She shook her head. “But she was head over heels and I was stuck. Do I tell my friend the love of her life is a skunk? Or keep quiet and be supportive and then be there to pick up the pieces when it all crashed and burned?”

“It’s a tough decision, but I’m guessing you kept quiet, because you said were a bridesmaid.”

She nodded and sighed. “But they moved away and so I wasn’t there to pick up the pieces because it did crash and burn. I didn’t see her for years and years, and then she moved back here and started her salon and we reconnected.” She sighed again. “Maybe it’s for the better; I don’t know. Maybe I should have told Kathy that he was no good, stopped the wedding, even if I lost her for a friend. But that always bothered me; to tell or not to tell.”

“For what it’s worth, as an outside observer? She seems happy and successful and you two seem to still be friends. So whatever it took to get there, maybe you made the right decision after all. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“So wise!” she beamed at me, then back to the road.

As she drove, I thought about the Telling-Or-Not-Telling issue, and the similarities and differences with me telling about the school bullies. I remembered my thoughts about ‘blurring the issue’, and did a little ‘what-if?’ exercise. What if Mom had a fling with the groom-to-be? She’d have first-hand knowledge that he was a skunk. If she told Kathy, Kathy could turn right around and accuse her of wanting the skunk for herself. Mom could say ‘No; he’s a skunk and I love you and thought you should know’ all she wanted, but the issue of the fling would always cloud the issue of the, um …skunk-hood. Just as being transgender–until it was more widely accepted–would cloud the issue of school bullies. Being transgender needed to be widely accepted, but it was a separate issue from bullies, like skunks and flings and …

I actually waved a hand, as if brushing away these thoughts. I knew what I was going to do, after talking with Mom about it, so let it rest. I couldn’t help noticing that my hand was now gorgeous, and the girl in the mirror was gorgeous, and for the first time I felt really, truly, that I was on my right track. I was who I was supposed to be ….

After a time, I said, “How long were we in there for, anyway?”

“Just under two …” She glanced at me. “You need a watch, young lady.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Oh! I can use my phone for time!”

While I fished it out of my purse, Mom said, “You can’t be checking your phone just to tell the time. We’ll get you something tomorrow.”

I was reading my phone; there was a text from Carrie: ‘How U holdin up? Finals OK? Txt me.’

I smiled, thinking of her. “Carrie texted me asking how I’m holding up with finals.”

Slowly and fumbling, I texted back: ‘All done!!! Think I did good. How U holdin up?’

Her text came right back. ‘Most good, 1 bad!! Argh! 1 more tmorow. Wanna hang fri-sat?’

I said, “She says her finals are mostly good, she thinks she blew one, though, and finishes with one tomorrow. She wants to hang Friday or Saturday …or Friday and Saturday; I don’t really know much about texting and how to–oh! I can’t hang with her!”

Mom nodded. “I’m sorry it started so soon, the clash between friends and work. It’s a hard decision to make; everybody’s got to deal with it in their own way.” She paused and quietly added, “And live by it.”

I nodded. I’d had no friends and now I suddenly was starting a new life. But I knew that I would need a job, and the way La Rioja had just seemed to appear, just as Carrie had in the movie line …But I had to prioritize. Without saying anything to Mom, I texted back: ‘Starting new job Thu-Fri-Sat nites. Argh! Wanna hang w/U but …’ and sent it, and sighed.

My phone chirped again. ‘Job? Cool! Tell me all–Burl Mall Fri or Sat day? Too far?’

“She’s happy for my job but wants to talk, and she asked about getting together at the Burlington Mall during the day Friday or Saturday, but worries it’s too far.”

Mom pursed her lips, thinking, then said, “It’s doable. I think we can put something together for you for your meeting at La Rioja. Like we talked about, black skirt, white blouse. But we could leave early for the Burlington Mall–I’m guessing she’s out of school then–and you girls could meet and we’d pick out your work outfit. Then your old mother will go quietly knit somewhere in a corner while you girls have fun. Then you can change into your work outfit and I’ll have you at La Rioja by 5:30. Sound good?”

I pretended to consider it. “All except for the ‘quietly knit somewhere in a corner’ part.”

She chuckled.

With a straight face, I said, “I think crocheting suits you better.”

“Oh, you!” Mom laughed while I texted Carrie the plan.

It came back: ‘Food court Taco Bell at 1 Fri?’

I sent back: ‘CU@1!’

Ha, I thought! See if I can’t become a textin’ kind o’ gal!

Mom said, “I think the way you connected with Carrie so quickly is just …well, I was going to say ‘remarkable’ and it’s not remarkable for two girls to hit it off but it is remarkable in terms of Andrew, who had so few friends.”

“Zero friends.”

“What about Santiago?”

“Mom, that was …” I looked out the window. “It’s complicated. We were thrown together by being the slowest in the class. And I guess everybody thought we were both gay, so it got to be like safety in numbers. But I practiced Spanish with him and he practiced his English so we were probably more productive than the guys that could run fast!” I chuckled.

“But you seem to be actual friends now, from the way he spoke with you.”

“I think we were, sort of, although we didn’t really do anything together during the rest of the school day. I’m …humbled by him. That he thought I was gay but it didn’t matter to him. But I think we can be friends–I mean, actual friends–now. I think it was more …like guilt by association or something before, at least at the beginning. But I kind of feel bad because I think he was more of a friend to me than I was to him.”

“And now …” Mom nodded. “I think I know.”

“Oh, God; you don’t think he has any …romantic ideas, do you? I couldn’t work there!”

“I don’t think that; it doesn’t feel like that to me. I think I know the reason, and you just answered it yourself–only use the names and it’ll make more sense.”

“What, you mean …’he was more a friend to me’, that thing?”

“Yes, but use full names.”

I gave her a look but shrugged. “Okay. Santiago was more a friend to me–”

“Names, sweetie!”

“Santiago was more of a friend to …” I was surprised. “Oh.”

“Yes, exactly. Friends with Andrew or with Angela?” She glanced at me and back to the road. “I suspect he was friendly with Angela. When she was hidden behind the mask of Andrew as well as when she walked into his restaurant in a skirt. But Andrew couldn’t be a real friend, because he was a mask, and because he didn’t know how to make friends.” She grinned. “So don’t beat yourself up about it!”

Chapter 18. La Rioja

“You mean it, Mom? I can really do it?” I asked for the second time.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Give me …can I have ten minutes alone in your room?”

“Sure, but …Mom, if this is a bad idea or …”

She shook her head. “Honey, I think you’re right that we put Andrew away. I was a little surprised at first that you said you didn’t have anything you wanted to save as a memento.”

“But you do, though? Oh, Mom; I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of you.”

Mom’s chuckle was sad. “It’s just that …” She straightened up. “I think the fact that there isn’t anything you want to save from your life as Andrew is very strong proof that …he wasn’t real. And I understand, sweetheart, I really do. But he was real to me, in a way.”

“I’m sorry …”

“No, no; you misunderstand me. I don’t believe there’s a single …thing of Andrew’s I want to save. Not a piece of clothing or something from a trip or anything. I don’t want or need the object. But as …insubstantial, perhaps? Yes, like a ghost, maybe. As insubstantial as Andrew was–because the real person, Angela, was tucked away–as see-through as he was, we still did things together. Not a lot of things, but …you understand that nearly seventeen years of my life has involved a boy named Andrew. I just wanted a few minutes to …”

Then she laughed!

“What?” I couldn’t read her mood at all.

“There’s this sense that Andrew is dead, even though I think that he was not fully real is closer to the truth. But you want to clean your room of Andrew and donate it all to charity and that’s a wonderful thought, and I think it’s psychologically healthy. But it still kind of feels a bit like a clean-up after a death. That’s why I laughed; it struck me like something out of Ghostbusters or that TV show, Ghosthunters or whatever it’s called.” Her voice became stagey and she waved a hand loosely. “I just wanted a few minutes to catch the last vapors of the deceased Andrew before he dissipated into the ether …”

“God! You make it sound so creepy!” I giggled.

She did, too, and nodded. “Humor me, okay? Ten minutes, and then in with the trash bags and we haul his carcass away.”

“Geez, Mom!” I giggled with embarrassment.

So we did. I decided to do a mourning period of my own, to sit on our couch for the time she was in my–Andrew’s–room. I actually went twenty minutes, thinking about what life had been like for him, but that always led me to think about what Angela didn’t get to do. Andrew didn’t do Scouting or sports or have friends. Angela would have done Brownies and Girl Scouts and probably played soccer and have a tight group of girlfriends …and I had to go away from those thoughts back to Andrew. Because …it wasn’t about me–Angela–it was about Andrew. I’d be a lousy mourner if all I did was think of things I didn’t get to do.

And the thing was …the thing was that Andrew wasn’t me, not anymore and maybe not for a long time. And he did feel ‘insubstantial’ when I thought of it, and then I thought of poor Mom watching her unhappy son growing up and at a loss for an explanation–but she’d said she had some ideas–until my Geometry teacher sent the note home and I broke down and told her the truth.

We hugged in silence in the middle of my room, and then without a word, we began shoving things in heavy trash bags and hauling them to the car. Goodwill was very glad to get the donation; the guy said they’d run low on boys’ clothing. They’d donated their donations to a shelter for battered women and their children and wasn’t that a sad commentary on society?

Despite how emotional the day had started, to my surprise I felt much lighter and free and happy as we pulled away from Goodwill. I think Mom felt it, too. And why not? We’d had our goodbyes and Andrew was now, truly, history. His-story. Over.

In the happier mood we both felt, Mom swung over to the huge industrial park and the Ikea store. I had never been, although I’d seen their commercials, and wow-wow-wow! Huge place, everything under the sun–never saw so much unpainted or white stuff in my life!–and lingonberries?

We found a vanity and mirror-on-a-stand and hat tree and that’s all we would be able to get in our car. I had to laugh at how everything was named after a Swedish town or something. When we got home, I used a handcart thing Mom used for luggage to get them into my room and had to just leave them there, although I so wanted to sit at my vanity already!

I showered and did my makeup and hair and put on my ‘starter outfit’, as Mom called it. It was a black skirt of hers that she had me try on first. She measured and disappeared with it to do some sewing magic. I wore a white camisole and she gave me the most delicious white blouse that she grinned and said was ‘silk-like’ and all I could think was, if silk-like feels this good, give me more silk! We’d debated about wearing the Mary Janes or flats and since Santiago had said ‘flats’, there was no sense giving the wrong impression in shoes, so to speak. Mom came back in and the skirt fit beautifully. She’d taken it in slightly and it sat right on my hips, but it was longer than a typical black skirt for a girl my age.

“I think we’ll find your work skirts in the Business Petites section rather than Juniors,” Mom nodded. “But it makes you look a bit older, too, which fits with the restaurant.”

“Mom, do you think this is crazy?”

“Crazy? What’s crazy? My son comes home from school on Wednesday and starts the next night as a beautiful hostess for one of the top restaurants in town? What’s crazy about it?”

But she couldn’t keep a straight face and we were both howling.

We’d not answered the intent of my question, which was …yeah, hostessing–but technically I am a boy, at least until Brad Alexander worked his document magic. But I kind of answered that question on my own, as I was trying hoops in my ears for the first time. Forget the technicality. I’m a girl, everybody seems to agree that I was always a girl, I was obviously a girl, so why shouldn’t I hostess? And it was a darned sight better than flipping hot dogs at the place in the Food Court where you wear two foot of a big hot dog on your head!

There was a little bit of time before Mom was ready, and I had the idea to jump on the internet and plug in our address and La Rioja’s address on our local transit’s website. It plotted the best bus route and listed the transfers–only one–times, duration, and cost. I printed it out and brought it with me. We talked about me riding the bus; Mom was opposed on principles but I pointed out that for her to take me to work would mean she’d have to leave her work early on Thursdays and Fridays. We compromised, as I thought we would. I would take the bus to work those days–we’d play Saturdays by ear–and Mom would pick me up afterward, because the buses were full and much safer at five in the afternoon than they were at midnight. And I knew that I’d feel much more like An Independent Woman.

And I needed that.

Oddly, I didn’t have a tremendous urge to do all the things I’d missed out on, not being Angela. I knew I wanted to spend time hanging with Carrie, letting our new friendship grow, and maybe one or two other girls if I met them. But I wasn’t going to try to make up for lost time. I was going to be a Senior and it was time I grew up. Maybe Andrew was my infancy and Angela my adulthood …and that was weird to think about so I was glad we parked at the restaurant and I could stop thinking that way.

We met Santiago at the door, and he stared and then smiled widely. He introduced us to Mrs. Mendoza, a short but very jolly woman–I hated to think in clichés, but she was jolly!–and his father darned near hugged me. We talked about the details of the job; the Mendozas pretended to be guests and I seated them and they clapped. They were also subtly–and sometimes not so subtly!–testing my Spanish abilities. Santiago frowned at one point and hit them with a rapid-fire burst of Argentine Spanish full of colloquialisms that I couldn’t make out, and they looked embarrassed and were so apologetic that I began apologizing–and then we all laughed and it was forgotten. They said they would teach me the slang and the flavor that made their language sing more than typical Mexican Spanish that we heard around town.

They loved my outfit; Mom and I nodded to each other, and the flats and makeup and nail polish were all acceptable, and then they surprised me.

It was time for Rosa.

I thought at first it was Argentine slang for something, but it was the name of Santiago’s sister who had been the hostess. She was resting at home but would meet with me to give me pointers–and the final approval!

Mom and I followed Mrs. Mendoza’s car to an apartment building and we followed her in. She was being jolly and laughing and bustling but I sensed an iron strength in her that I rather liked.

The apartment was comfy and cozy and there was a four-year-old girl running around; for some reason, I’d thought that Rosa’s pregnancy was her first. The little girl, Aá±a, was spinning in circles when we got there, and stopped with a whoosh and a swirl of dark hair and big eyes. She stared at me.

Then, she declared, “ ¡Eres bonita!” You’re pretty!

I went on one knee and said, “ ¡Está¡s aáºn má¡s guapa!” You’re even prettier!

And that was it; I was in! After chuckles all around, we sat at the kitchen table with Rosa, a round-cheeked beauty who had pain lines at the corners of her eyes. I was concerned for her health. But I had a sudden pang of guilt that I wasn’t really a girl and also a sudden pang of envy and a pang of sorrow that I couldn’t share the pain of childbirth.

I’d passed the inspection with my exchange with Aá±a, I suppose, because Rosa was completely wonderful, launching into the procedure and then things to watch out for. She did a couple of ‘what if’ cases with me, and pronounced me ‘bá¡rbaro’, which apparently was slang for very, very good or awesome or something similar.

Whew–I passed the Rosa test!

So Friday night, I would begin hostessing. I took a menu home to learn it.

I was excited and scared to death at the same time.

Chapter 19. Shopping with Carrie

After breakfast I pulled on some shorts and a tank and grabbed a screwdriver and pliers from our little ‘tool drawer’ and tackled my new mirror and hat tree. They were absurdly easy to assemble and it was wonderful to see myself in the full length mirror; once I got the hat tree together my first thought was ‘scarves at Claire’s’ and even I thought ‘you’re such a girl!’

I drank some cold water in the kitchen while I read the instructions for the vanity; that would be my chore for Saturday, as tempting as it was to keep going. But new furniture made me think about my new life in my new room. I went back in and sat on my bed and tried to sort of empty my mind of what I knew about my room. I realized I’d been looking at the thing for about sixteen years. It was a dull white room. Andrew had been neat and never had friends over for sleepovers or roughhousing or any boyish thing like that. There weren’t generations of sports posters that might have marred the walls, and certainly not pinups!

When I was little, there had been some Winnie-the-Pooh prints; at some point I couldn’t remember, they had been replaced by some art prints that had caught my fancy. They were pretty much clichés now, but when I first discovered them at ten or twelve, they amazed me. One was Magritte’s The Son of Man, the name of the famous ‘guy with the apple in front of his head’ painting. The other was Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. I liked it because it was like a snapshot of real life over a hundred and twenty years ago. I used to think up ‘backstories’ for each of the people in it, made up relationships–

–and I realized that they had been my friends, my only friends! Andrew’s anyway …

In the Renoir, I’d wondered if ‘the Boating Party’ actually on a boat, like a floating restaurant, or had some of them been boating, explaining the guys in the t-shirts? I wondered if the men in the white sleeveless ‘wife-beater’-type shirts smelled of sweat; had they been rowing or just showing off? One guy wore a top hat in the middle of the day–what was that about? And every guy there had facial hair of some kind! A pretty girl to the left played with a little black dog–at the table in a restaurant? Maybe it was okay back then, or maybe she knew the owners? I wondered if she knew the other girl seated across from her; they were dressed kind of similarly and I wondered if they’d coordinated their clothes before the luncheon? I had assigned names and changed the relationships from time to time; the pretty girl in the yellow hat–I’d named her ‘Clara’–leaning on the railing near the center, seemed to be looking at the man with the brown bowler, his back to ‘the camera’, so to speak. Then I thought she was really checking out the cute young brown-haired guy on the right, leaning over talking to his friends. Or maybe she was looking at one of his friends, a ‘wife-beater’ guy seated and wearing a yellow hat like hers. Maybe she was looking at the hat, or the cute white hat on the girl in the group–she was ‘Isobel’–and it was kind of saucy, with blue stripes, and was Isobel a friend or competition …

With a cold splash of realization, I had the absolutely stunning certainty that I had–that Andrew had–been viewing this painting as a girl. Guys were smelly or cute, and I was thinking about the girls’ relationships. It hit me that if I’d told my thoughts about my Renoir ‘friends’ to Mom years ago, it would have been so obvious that I wasn’t a typical little boy.

So the Renoir stays, I decided firmly. The Magritte can go, though. I was neither a son or a man.

I laid back and tried to empty my mind again, and then looked around my room, trying to not think about where the bed and bureau were. They were Andrew’s, but where would Angela put her bed, bureau, vanity, mirror, and so on, and then I thought about painting the walls but remembered that we’re going to move, meaning this had been really a pointless exercise except for the incredible revelation about my Renoir.

Computer time, next, and between Google maps and three school districts’ websites, I was able to come up with a sort of Venn diagram thing showing the best options for us. I took into account the public schools except for McKinley and Westmont, and where Mom worked; what little I knew about some parts of the city let me throw out a couple of places. All in all it only took a half-hour but I had some maps printing while I showered and shaved my legs. Yeah, it was probably too soon, but I loved the femininity of it. And all too soon it would become a chore.

Mom’s plan was to take the afternoon off, come home for lunch and we’d meet Carrie at one. I would be dressed casually to try things on but have my flats and jewelry and things I’d need for work with me. And it was scary and exciting to think ‘for work’; I really was at a jumping-off stage into adulthood. We were meeting at the Taco Bell; was it just a rendezvous or were we eating? Mom suggested I have a light lunch and could be covered either way, and I had soup and a half-sandwich as we looked over and talked about my mapping project. She suggested we start driving in the evening and on weekends. The housing market was apparently resurging a bit so she was going to start the ball rolling on Monday to sell the house. It was jarring to think that, but I kind of felt like putting the house in a trash bag, too, along with Andrew. Just get that whole past behind me and look forward.

And I was so excited on the drive to the Burlington Mall; between seeing Carrie, shopping for new clothes, and then my first night at work, I had to work to calm myself down. I didn’t want to freak out Carrie by being too crazy.

On the other hand, she kind of squealed and danced when she saw me, so maybe a little freaking out was okay! She wore a pair of low-cut black jeans that had some stretchy stuff in them because they were tight-tight-tight and a loose tiger-print top, sleeveless. I introduced Carrie to Mom, and fortunately they both had the same idea.

“Let’s get this girl some work duds!” Carrie teased.

I felt bad because Carrie and I began walking and Mom was bringing up the rear.

“Don’t mind me,” she smiled when I stopped for her to catch up. “Let’s hit Dillard’s first and that’ll probably do it for us. Then you girls scamper off …or whatever it is you kids call it these days,” she added in a funny granny-type of voice.

Carrie laughed. “You’re cool, Mrs. Preston! She’s right, though. I got here awhile ago and went to check out that store Black & White, ‘cause that’s your dress code?” I nodded and she sniffed. “Old lady clothes.”

I glanced at Mom, hiding a smile. I said, “Well, that’s kind of what we’re going for, actually. Like the skirt I wore last night, to get hired? It was one of Mom’s with a longer hem.”

“Had to take it in,” Mom mock-grumbled. “My little girl is growing up–and she’s still littler than me!”

Carrie laughed and I shared a happy look with Mom; the phrase ‘my little girl’ meant so much to us both.

We found some candidates in an adult Petites section; I tried them on and now I had three skirts. There were two white blouses that would work and I thought we were done, but Mom wanted to drag me to the shoe department.

“There are flats and there are flats. The ones you’re wearing now are fine for a teenaged girl at the mall. However, you wouldn’t wear them in a business situation, although you could wear flats. Check these out,” she said, holding up a more mature version.

They had it in my size and I did, in fact, agree with her that they looked more professional. Mom was making a face, thinking, and veered off into another section and then handed a shoe to the clerk, who nodded and disappeared, coming back with two boxes.

“Pumps, low heel,” Mom said. “I know you already wear heels, but that’s on special occasions and a lot of sitting.”

I actually had never worn heels; she’d said this for Carrie, and it worked because she was nodding.

“Oh, yeah! I thought I was killer in heels, I’d wear them on weekends and all, but I had to do a presentation thing and stood for like three hours and I was dying.”

Mom nodded, saying, “Angela, I’ll get these for you and I want you to wear them around the house, just like learning with heels, even though they’re lower. In part to break them in but these would be a much nicer presentation at La Rioja.”

“What?” Carrie yelled. “You’re working at La Rioja?”

I was confused. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you just said hostessing and I thought like Applebee’s or Denny’s or something. La Rioja?”

I nodded.

She held her hands out. “That’s like the most awesome place ever!”

Mom smirked. “I take it you’ve heard of the place, Carrie?”

Carrie laughed at her own theatrics. “Oh, yeah. My dad’s favorite, favorite place for steaks. And he loves steaks so we eat there …I’ve maybe had twenty dinners there over the years. All fantastic. And the music, if they got the same guitar guy …I was dating this guitar player named Kevin? And Kev’s really good but he said the Argentine guy was the real deal and completely ignored me the whole time the guy was playing. I think he would have gone home with the guy if he could’ve!”

We all laughed and I asked if she was still with Kevin.

She waved a hand. “Ancient history. Moved to …Utah, I think.” She paused and grinned. “Poor guy!”

We got the pumps and then hit the Juniors for any other candidates. The skirts were too short, but we found two more really nice white blouses with some appliqués in white and nice stitching. Mom declared the ‘work duds’ were fully acquired and released us, telling me to meet her at the Dillard’s perfume counter at five. I’d change in their Ladies Lounge and we’d leave for La Rioja. So now it was Carrie and me and the Burlington Mall.

And we had a great time! We chatted about this and that, different stories about kids in our schools. We’d already kind of fluffed over how I really didn’t have any friends but where it really got dicey was how I got the job at La Rioja. I couldn’t very well tell Carrie that the son of the owner and I were in Boys’ PE together, so Santiago became ‘a classmate’ that I helped with English as part of a school program, and he helped my Spanish. Carrie was wiggling her eyebrows and saying things like, ‘So, this Santiago …he’s a cutie, right?’

I rolled my eyes at that one. “Carrie, you want to know the truth, he’s kind of pudgy and guys make fun of him for being gay but he’s not.”

Her mood shifted and she seemed almost angry.“Make fun of him? What the heck kind of school is that?”

I knew it was Bully Central but felt the need to downplay everything just then. “Just …dumb guy stuff, you know? Doesn’t have to make sense …they’re guys!”

She bobbed her head back and forth. “Yeah, you’re right. But making fun of somebody that’s gay–”

“Carrie, you’re missing the point. Santiago’s not gay. If he was gay, the morons wouldn’t be making fun of him, they’d be trying to beat him up or something. I think they know he’s not gay, and that’s where they get their fun, teasing him.”

Carrie nodded at that. “Morons, you said it. Yeah, that’s what they’d do. Think it’s fun to tease a fat kid, then beat up a gay guy. All in a day’s work for them.”

“You sound …kinda pissed off, and I’m not sure …”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, not at you, Angela! God, no! It’s just …” She shrugged. “I got a favorite cousin, Luke. A really cool guy, about six years older than me. When I was little, I just worshipped the guy. He was so smart, and so funny! When I was really little, I was gonna marry him!” She grinned like a kid. “Then when I got older, I was gonna marry a guy just like him.” Her smile faded. “Then he came out of the closet and my family kind of …turned their back, like disinheriting him, and he took off. I haven’t seen or heard from him for two years now.”

“Oh, that’s so sad!” I said, meaning it. “And you miss him a lot. And you’re worried about him.”

“Am I that obvious?” she asked, trying to be silly and roll her eyes.

I realized that she was very wounded over Luke’s disappearance. Without thinking, I reached out to hug her. She resisted for a moment, and then hugged but I felt her tremble.

She sniffed. “I just …I’m so scared for him, you know?”

“I know, Care,” I said and it just seemed to come out that way.

She stared at me. “What did you …Luke called me ‘Care-bear’ when I was little.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to–”

“No, no; it’s cool! You didn’t know, and …and besides, you didn’t say the ‘bear’ part.”

I nodded, smiling. “That’s still Luke’s.”

She looked at me for a moment and said, “You’re good people, Angela.”

“You too, Care. Oh–if that’s okay!”

“Sure,” she grinned. “And I might slip and call you Ange!”

“Better than ‘Ge-la’!” I teased.

We giggled and started walking.

End of Part 6

http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/rene-magritte/son-of-man-1964

http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/pierre-auguste-renoir/the-lu...

An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 7

Chapter 20. Table for Two?

Nervously I waited for the restaurant to open. I had read and re-read the menu, worked on my Spanish pronunciation of each dish with Mrs. Mendoza, who patted my cheek and told me I’d be fine. She complimented me on how pretty and how grown-up I was.

Part of it was because of Carrie.

We had been looking at tops in Wet Seal when she had an idea.

“You’re going to change at Dillard’s, right?” I nodded and she grinned. “See if your Mom can meet us there at 4:15 or 4:30.”

Obviously, she meant now, so I called and Mom said it would be ‘around 4:20’. At the right time we headed to meet Mom in the perfume section; Carrie and I tried some samples on little white cards while we waited. Carrie said she liked three for me; Narcisse, a Dolce & Gabbana one called ‘Light Blue’, and one called Viva La Juicy. Decisions, decisions!

Mom liked them all and asked for samples–I didn’t know you could do that!–and then Carrie told us her idea: Makeover!

During our time together, she’d asked what makeup I used. I didn’t want to say, ‘Cheap all-in-one kit from Target’ so I said it was a mix. She nodded and said she wished she could afford all M.A.C. but she liked a new youth line from Estée Lauder.

Carrie explained to Mom that I could pick a good, available, reasonable major brand, like Lauder or Clinique, one that was mostly for women. That way I’d get ‘a more mature palette’, and I thought that was a great way to refer to it. Then I should get a makeover for my first night’s impression, and the makeup ladies usually gave tips and discounts. Mom grinned and praised Carrie and then it was down to which brand and availability. Mom said if we promised not to share, for hygiene reasons, we’d do it.

So I was at La Rioja, wearing Estée Lauder makeup, expertly applied, and praying fervently that I remembered all the advice from the makeup lady!

When the makeup lady was done, and after they tore me away from staring at myself in the mirror, we went to the Ladies Lounge–which was like a palace compared to the mall restrooms! I changed into my new work clothes and new flats. I felt transformed yet again; from boy to girl and from girl to almost-woman.

Then Carrie freaked me out.

She said, “You look great, babe! Hey–what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna come over? We got a pool and it’s supposed to be hot.”

Pool …swimsuit …genitalia …

Mom realized it at the same time–or read the panic on my face–and begged off that I was committed to helping ‘a neighbor’.

I rolled my eyes and improvised, “That’s right; I’d forgotten that it’s this weekend.” To Carrie, I said, “It’s this nice lady, used to babysit me, and getting older …”

Carrie said, “I understand. I already told you you’re a good person, Angela!” She grinned. “Sunday, maybe?” Then it was her turn to wince. “Argh! Aunt’s birthday; we’re going over. Thanks for reminding me; you said, ‘getting older’ and I remembered Judy and …Monday, maybe?”

“Sure, I guess …” I said, looking at Mom.

She frowned and said, “I think there’s a doctor’s appointment but I don’t remember what time. She’ll have to call you.”

We left it at that. After hugging Carrie goodbye, in the car I turned to Mom. “A pool! What am I going to do?”

Mom calmly said, “We’re going to find you a wonderful suit, maybe a bikini, and you–”

“Mom! I’m freaking out that she’ll find out the truth about me!”

“And the truth is that you’re a pretty girl, right?” She glanced at me and said, “Honey, you shouldn’t have this on your mind before starting work, but don’t worry; we’ll work out something. But Carrie seems like a wonderful new friend and …we’ll work something out.”

So that was on my mind, waiting for the restaurant to open. Then the first guests came, a couple in their fifties.

I was at my station, cradling menus, and smiling. “Welcome to La Rioja. Bienvenido a La Rioja.” I’d talked it over with Mrs. Mendoza; she liked my idea of English first because most of their customers spoke English, and then Spanish to give the flavor of the place as well as to reassure Spanish-speaking guests.

After that it was guest after guest; it was a Friday night, after all! Mr. Mendoza was watching me and smiling and nodding when I’d look at him. I seated the guests and thanked them when they left. Then there was a lull and I felt awkward just standing there. I didn’t know what the protocol was–we hadn’t discussed it–so I just slowly walked though the crowded restaurant, flicking my eyes to the front to make sure nobody was entering.

As I passed the tables, I smiled and nodded and said, “I hope you’re enjoying your time with us. Thank you for joining us tonight” and things like that. There had been three groups that I’d seated that I knew were Spanish speakers, so I said my things in Spanish and they lit up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw people coming towards the front doors so I made my way up and greeted them and sat them.

It was just starting to slow down again and Mr. Mendoza came up to me. “ ¿Ángela, por qué pasaste por el restaurante antes?” Why did you walk through the restaurant earlier?

I said, “Porque no quería quedarme parado. Y pensé que a los invitados les gustaría.” Because I didn’t want to just stand around. And I thought the guests might like it.

He smiled widely. “Ah, el toque personal! Me gusta esto; muy profesional y muy amistoso. ” Ah, the personal touch! I like it; very professional and very friendly. He nodded and turned back to me with a wicked grin, “ ¡Por supuesto, ¡solo aumentarás la cantidad de caminata que tendrás que hacer!” Of course, you only added to how much walking you'll have to do!

I laughed with him and felt that I’d had the right idea. I also realized that when guests weren’t waiting, I could seat one table and do my hellos on the way back to my hostess station.

The last seating was just before ten–the last by me, I mean. The restaurant would remain open but late guests would have to wait to be seated. The guitarist had started at eight and he was superb; I don’t know if he was a genuine gaucho but he certainly looked like one and the flamenco was gorgeous.

At ten, Santiago came out and grinned at me and crooked his finger. I was brought back into the kitchen and off to the side was a table.

“You get dinner,” he explained. “You didn’t have before; you want it now?”

So that’s what I’d felt–I’d been so busy seating people and worrying about doing a good job that I’d forgotten that I hadn’t had any dinner!

The look on my face said it all, and he grinned and turned away, coming back with a full plate that I knew was easily thirty bucks on the menu. I started the no-no thing, but he told me to eat. I said I really shouldn’t, and he grinned and said to call it research–I’d know what the guests were having! I couldn’t argue with that so with a big glass of ice tea, I had a feast.

Mrs. Mendoza came and sat across from me, very happy with me, and suggested I come a half-hour early and eat; that way I could leave right at ten if I had something to do. Or I could eat after. I thought I’d try eating before on Saturday, because I didn’t want to get in the habit of having a full meal so close to bedtime. Because I really didn’t have anything to do when I got home except hug Mom, watch TV, and sleep.

Santiago returned with Mom in tow; there was some apologies because we hadn’t worked out a procedure. I told Mom about eating before and being out at ten so they got some flan-type of dessert for the both of us and Mrs. Mendoza proceeded to tell Mom how great I’d been tonight. Mom just beamed at me.

I didn’t have to tell Mom about the night when I got in the car, because we’d talked it out in the kitchen. I was really tired, and Mom suggested soaking my feet. I couldn’t imagine wearing heels all night, but thought it was a goal worth working towards. Walking towards?

Mom actually had a cute little blue foot bath, and we set it up in front of the couch and I got ready for bed and sat there in my nightie with my towel and my feet and almost fell asleep right there.

Chapter 21. Vanities

I told myself today was the day for me to build my vanity. And true to Ikea products, it didn’t take a day; I had the thing set up in less than an hour. I spent another hour arranging things, and then went out and flopped on the couch.

“What am I going to do, Mom?” I asked.

She understood I was talking about Carrie and her pool. “You got a reprieve this weekend. No sense worrying about anything until we talk to the doctors on Monday.”

“I really do have an appointment? I thought that was part of the little improv we did.”

“Really do,” she nodded. “At ten. Hmm …” She frowned. “Gonna do some net surfing before then.” She sighed. “So what do you wanna do before work?”

“Are you going anywhere?”

“I could. Why?”

“Um …regardless of what happens with the pool, and the doctors, I’d kind of like to get a swimsuit …” I was embarrassed.

“Sure, but why are you blushing?”

“I thought that days like today, I could …work on a tan, maybe? I dunno …kinda felt vain to say it.”

She laughed and within half-an-hour we were pulling up at the mall. Our mall. She parked and turned to face me. “Alright, a sort of acid test. Chances are that you will see somebody you know from school. Bear in mind that they don’t know me, so nobody’s going to say, ‘Hey, there’s Andrew Preston’s mom–that must be Andrew!’ or anything like that, right?”

Meekly, I nodded. I’d never thought of it that way.

“So we’re just some mom out with her daughter. Maybe we’re visiting. Maybe we just moved here. Maybe you go to St. Anne’s. Anything is possible; everybody doesn’t know everybody else. But you’re going to have this big fear that everybody’s looking and pointing and talking about you. I’m here to tell you that if they are, it’s only because you’re a very pretty girl. That’s why they’re looking at you. Got it?”

I got it, and she was right.

And that confidence carried me right up until I came out of the fitting booth after trying on some suits–and almost bumped into Jenny Bowen!

She was there with a girl I didn’t know, and the only thing that kept me from totally freaking out was that I didn’t know the other girl–which was in line with Mom’s words of encouragement. If both girls had been from my school, I think I would have shrieked and ran! But I thought, ‘I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me and everything’s cool’. That was my mantra and, actually, everything was cool. And because I was cool, I could relax and just be a girl among girls, and observe.

I remembered being swept away by waves of melancholy when I saw Jenny in the past. But now I looked at her and I recognized the shorts from Abercrombie and the top from Wet Seal. I didn’t know her sandals, but the other girl wore flip-flops from Penney’s and a Hollister tank and short set. I didn’t need the names on the items to know; I recognized them from my own shopping and especially wandering around with Carrie yesterday.

Jenny needed to touch up her lipgloss but was so pretty; the other girl wore a bit too much eyeshadow. Jenny’s ponytail was high and perfect as always; the other girl’s hair hung loose and a barrette or clip would have set it off nicely.

And I did not feel any waves of melancholy …

I felt myself a girl checking out other girls–girl-to-girl–and was proud of how I looked. I wore flared khaki shorts from American Eagle and a lime green tank; the straps of my raspberry bra could be seen in a nice contrast. My hair was brushed to the side and held back with a silver clip and I was wearing silver hoops. I know I’d rushed the pierced-ears-thing, but Mom said every girl did, and the important thing was the purity of the metal, the hygiene of cleaning, and rotating the posts.

Still, in another dimension, Jenny Bowen and I might have been girlfriends. That cheered me, because it made me think of Carrie, and that Mom and I would be moving, and that I’d have chance to make girlfriends that only knew me as Angela.

I wound up with two suits, including a black maillot that Mom was confident that I could use to swim at Carrie’s right now.

“Mom! No way!”

“Yes, way,” she teased right back. “You are safely tucked away and I couldn’t see anything down there and I knew what to look for!”

“But my boobs!”

“It’s padded and you don’t know this, but there is adhesive that came with those forms. I can glue ‘em to your chest, pull on your suit, and nobody could tell–unless you strip.”

“But girls change in front of girls all the time.”

She shrugged. “Say you gotta pee and change in the bathroom. Really common with shy girls. Or girls that just have to pee. It’s doable, is what I’m saying. Not hanging with Carrie in her pool will raise more questions.”

The other suit I bought strictly for tanning in the seclusion of our backyard; it was a pink-and-white gingham string bikini. Mom liked the sexiness of the skimpy string bikini contrasting with the wholesomeness of gingham.

We got home in time for me to goop up with sunblock and lay out for almost an hour–twenty minutes a side–while Mom sipped ice tea. She had her laptop and my printouts and was looking up potential places for us to move. We had some candidates, and she asked, “House or apartment?”

“Whichever you want,” I said.

“Really? Then I vote apartment.”

“What about the …what is it …building up the equity?”

She chuckled. “On a house you own for twenty years, sure. But you only have one more year of high school, and we haven’t even begun to discuss college.” She paused. “Angela and I haven’t.”

I was lying on my back and nodded. “Andrew didn’t really have any interests in going to college. Community college for the basic units, maybe, but …”

“He really didn’t have a future, did he?” Mom asked. I was silent, thinking, and Mom said softly, “It’s as if he knew his days were numbered.”

“That’s kind of creepy, but …accurate, I think.” I told her about seeing Jenny Bowen, and my thoughts about that. “And the thing is, I would have been–scratch that. Andrew would have been even more miserable and withdrawn as any hopes of really living as a girl got dimmer and farther away …” I sighed. “I never felt suicidal–I mean, like actually thinking about suicide, but if I’d gone on for much longer …”

She nodded. “It might have become a possibility. Well, thank God for pantyhose.”

“That’s out of nowhere,” I frowned.

“Pantyhose …Susan somebody-or-other …note from your Geometry teacher …ring any bells?”

She was right; that was the chain of events that led to me confessing and eventually becoming Angela. I grinned. “You’re right; thank God for pantyhose.”

Mom laughed. “Because of pantyhose, God gave me my daughter!”

Epilogue: One Year And A Bit Later

I am no longer a hostess at La Rioja.

I happily worked there all through the summer, adding Wednesdays, and those four nights gave me $160 a week. I was tempted to look for more work but Mom said I needed the summer to get my life in order.

Part of that took place the next Monday after my first weekend at La Rioja; that doctor’s appointment helped my life tremendously. Mom had been concerned–the doctors, too–about my ‘socialization’ as a girl, meaning having girlfriends. Carrie was my first but her offer of hanging at her pool would have ended things–except for the doctor’s glue gun!

Actually, it was more than that, but glue was involved. They had a procedure that would tuck my penis away, pulling the scrotal sacs to look like labia, and when it was all glued in place, I would look like any other girl, even from a foot away. I was overjoyed–but there was a separate issue, a sort of price, which I willingly paid. Our state allowed minors to receive an orchiectomy–castration, really–if the patient and parent sign along with medical professionals. Oddly enough, it is surgery, so you’d think they’d allow the sexual reassignment surgery under the same terms. But anything with sex freaks out the voters or legislators and maybe castration’s been around for centuries and there are many reasons for it not directly tied to sexual identity. So, orchiectomy okay, penectomy, no way.

Fine with me! We discussed it and I was a good candidate for it; Legal was consulted, documents were signed, and right then and there on Monday, snip-snip and I was a gelding and couldn’t be happier! Well, if they’d removed the penis and given me a vagina, then I’d be happiest. And an orchiectomy is a bit more than snip-snip, of course. But it was the first big step …

And that visit gave me the confidence to ‘swim-but-not-swim’ with Carrie a few days later. Before he set to work, the doctor had shown me what was planned for my male genitalia, pulling and tucking as he described the procedure, and there was a little discomfort because of my testicles. After the orchiectomy I was sore but ecstatic that they were gone and so was any discomfort when I tucked things back the way I’d been shown. So I could wear the tiny bikini at her pool but not go into the water, because of my mini-surgery. I was still freaked and thought that maybe I could get away with the maillot, but Mom pointed out that my excuse was ‘an infection …doctor’s advice …avoid chlorine …’ but that I could certainly lounge poolside with my new girlfriend. And Mom pointed out, if I was lounging, ‘catching rays’, shouldn’t I be wearing the skimpiest bikini?

I was a bundle of nerves until three minutes after I got there. The breast forms were small enough that even in the tiny cups of the bikini top–well, they were tiny to me!–they were invisible. Any tan lines I’d get might look odd if I were naked, but Mom said we’d fix that during the rest of my summer tanning sessions. The main worry would be if I jumped around or bent over and Carrie could see between my top and my chest, so my top was extra tight. I just told myself ‘no jumping around’ and would make sure I faced away from Carrie if I had to bend over.

I wore my bikini under a skirt and loose top, with other clothes, towel and things in a bag. Carrie met me at the door in a hot orange day-glo bikini that was, if possible, tinier than mine! Moments after arranging ourselves on lounge chairs, I forgot my nerves. I didn’t even have to orchestrate things; she laid a towel on a chair and went to get some bottles of cold water, so I could bend over as I spread out my towel. The weight of the breast forms–Mom had glued them to me–was a welcome reminder of Things To Come. And I was all arranged naturally when Carrie returned and plopped down. I relaxed and it was just two girlfriends tanning, giggling, and having a great time! The only difference was that when she overheated, she jumped in the pool, while I went to this shower they had in a corner of the yard. Carrie laughed that she liked to use it after she swam to rinse off the chlorine, so she did one swoosh through the pool to cool off and then joined me under the shower, giggling. Then back to our lounges and life was good!

The following week I returned to my doctor and everything looked great, some sutures were removed, and then the glue gun came out and the penis disappeared. It was heaven to look as I should, and I had absolutely no problems with the penis being gone; the psychologists praised how well I was ‘acclimated and acculturated to female anatomy’, as one of them put it. And there were no medical problems, either; I had regular check-ups–in the stirrup chair, of course–and periodically the doctor would dissolve the glue and clean me up, examine, and re-glue everything. Apparently I was lucky and never ripped or tore or–worst case–flopped down. I was secure in every way, and probably best of all was knowing that testicles were not an issue.

There were several benefits to the orchiectomy; the testicles had been busy producing testosterone and now I wouldn’t have that ‘poison’ in my system, allowing my estrogen to work faster to feminize my body. There was none of the discomfort of having testicles, and the empty scrotal sacs looked great as labia. They often have people like me place their testicles back up in the abdomen, but there can be complications down the line. So–no testicles, no complications. Mom had trouble keeping a straight face as she lectured me about avoiding a ‘camel toe’, but I was so happy that I could even have one! The upshot was that I could wear the tightest bikini bottoms, or even shower with other girls, and my groin looked just like theirs.

My groin did, but my chest was another matter. I was starting to bud in response to the hormones I’d started, but like every girl, my breasts were just too darned slow to develop! It had been embarrassing the first time I stripped in front of Carrie before swimming. I told her that my many doctors’ appointments were because of ‘some problem with my Fallopian tubes’, leaving out the truth which was that I didn’t have any–some problem! And it caused a delay in my puberty that was only now coming on line. Fortunately, I could remove my panties and put on my swimsuit–and she could see my tan lines from sunning myself in my bikini–and Carrie saw that I was a girl, based on my groin rather than my tiny new breasts.

By the end of the summer, though, I was using a gel bra like a lot of girls, and I was ready to go to my senior year at my new school, as a girl, with Girls’ PE, and I couldn’t help but giggle at my old Westmont coach asking me if that’s what I wanted–yes, I did!

Over the summer I’d gotten a legal name change to Angela Marie Walker, my mother’s maiden name. She kept her married name for awhile because it was the name she was known by at work, but around Thanksgiving she transferred to a new branch closer to us and filed her petition so she became ‘Ms. Gail Walker’. As a mother, let people think it was Mrs.; she didn’t care.

Then she met a great guy, Dan, at her new office, and things are heating up between them, which is absolutely wonderful and I couldn’t be happier for her.

So we are the Walker women, as Mom teased, in our new apartment. It was farther away from her job at first, but she got that transfer, and it was closer to La Rioja for me. And it was a two-block walk from Crestview High School, which scored second-best academically and number one when they factored in sports. I became a Crestview Senior; our cover story was ‘Mom got transferred from Pittsburg’ and the truth was, nobody really cared.

I was accepted immediately as a girl and got some new girlfriends, Heather and Stephanie. I was still very friendly with Carrie and my cover story with her was Mom’s transfer across town; it all worked out. Carrie and I did a lot of things together over the summer, and sometimes with another girl from her school, Susan, and later with Gina, the girl I’d met in the restroom line when I’d met Carrie. Gina had finally broken up with the guy–he was an asshole–but she was a needy type. All in all, though, I was learning so much about girls’ lives and my doctors were pleased with my socialization.

Of course, that word included being social with boys. We all cruised and flirted with boys, and I found myself attracted to several. It was such a shock the first time I felt warm and damp and my heart was racing, because then I knew! A very nice boy in my English class asked me to Homecoming, and the fantastically wonderful madness of Homecoming for girls was only topped by the sweetness of his goodnight kiss.

But I wanted to focus on the best grades I could and didn’t want to go steady–or go further on dates–and he drifted away. I spent Christmas single, but it was the happiest Christmas of my entire life–of Mom’s too, I think. And by the end of January I kind of had a boyfriend, a baseball player named Steve. Now his kisses weren’t just sweet–they were mad sexy! But the first time he caressed my breasts, I just about lost my mind. I told him I wasn’t going to go all the way but we did everything except that!

I finished the year with a 3.87 GPA and honors in Advanced Spanish. I took mostly AP courses so they counted for more with colleges. I had decided to go to State because it was affordable for us and had a very good Languages department.

Working at La Rioja had improved my Spanish tremendously. And through the restaurant, I met their meat supplier. This is a pretty prosaic job in most restaurants, but since Argentine beef is so highly regarded, and the Mendozas had a direct supplier, he was held in very high esteem. We began talking and I was interested in more aspects of the restaurant and by spring, I was offered a job with the supplier. The Mendozas gave me their blessing and I had the experience of coming full circle–I was the one that had to approve the new hostess, and gave her advice the way Rosa had with me. Rosa’s difficult pregnancy yielded a perfectly healthy baby boy but it took a lot out of her; by the start of summer she was doing well. She could probably have come back to hostess but her hands were happily full with her kids.

Santiago and I were friends. Lots of people thought we were boyfriend-girlfriend, or soon would be, but it was a genuine friendship and not awkward because of my past. By the end of summer, he had met a wonderful girl named Victoria and I just had to tell him to go slow and not become a father before he graduated!

It was Santiago that nudged me towards the meat supplier, based on my new knowledge of the restaurant and what he knew of me. The fantastic thing about the job with the meat supplier was that I would get to travel to Argentina after I graduated! It was part of the job and suddenly I have a possible future in international meat distribution.

Graduation was wonderful and filled with all the typical stuff; lots of giggles and lots of tears and everything was worth it to hear the principal call out ‘Angela Marie Walker’ and get my diploma with honors.

But my true graduation takes place next week: In the middle of summer vacation, I’m taking a month-long vacation, of sorts. My eighteenth birthday is next Tuesday; on Wednesday I enter the hospital and have what I call my ‘corrective’ surgery. They will remove the penis and create my vagina and then I can get on with things. Six weeks after that, I will fly to Buenos Aires for a week, and then return for a week and then start at State.

A year ago Mom joked about blessing pantyhose for starting the events that led to me becoming who I am today. The funny thing is, like every girl I know, I rarely wear pantyhose because they’ve gone out of fashion for everyday wear. Smooth and sleekly bare legs are in. Of course, I love tights during the winter, too! But Mom was right; if it hadn’t been for Susan Berger’s pantyhose …

I saw Susan not long ago in Dillard’s; she was not wearing them.

The End

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Two

12/19

I realized that I never got to the ‘not feeling comfortable’ thing. Well, today was a good example. Most Saturdays I would hang with Scotty at his place or mine or the mall. But the last couple of weekends, he’s been busy. He said his mom was making him go to some club because she got a family membership. But it’s not like he’s avoiding me; he’s just not around so much.

It’s just that … we don’t seem to have any classes this year, besides PE, and the Coach is on us so much we don’t get to talk or anything.

I went to the mall anyway, just to have something to do. It was all so beautiful, ready for the holidays, and much noisier than usual because of all the people and all of the displays. I walked around and then got an Orange Julius and just sat and watched.

It’s like I said: Uncomfortable. I saw happy families with kids, and I knew I hadn’t had that kind of childhood. I think I may have blocked a lot of it out or something, so any good memories got lost, but mostly I remember the years and years of my father yelling drunkenly. Or maybe not always drunk but just angry. Definitely yelling, though, and throwing things and then the hitting.

There were clusters of boys and clusters of girls walking around, and by high-school age there were clusters of boys and girls together, or couples. Normally I wouldn’t be seeing any of this; I mean, I’d see it but not really look at it, because Scotty and I would be talking on the way to the videogame store. It was the only place we went in the mall. Now it dawned on me that except for Scotty, I basically had … zero friends. I’d never thought about it before and I was suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness. Looking at the clusters walking around, I wondered what it would be like to be in that cluster, or that group, to be among friends, and I sighed.

Along those lines, I started to consciously eavesdrop on the people as they passed. Not the families so much, but the teens. I tried to imagine being among them, laughing at the jokes, or ‘contributing to the conversation’, which was a pet phrase of Mom’s. And it was kind of weird. I don’t mean weird because of the ‘violating their privacy’ sort of thing, but …

For instance, a group of boys walked by all excited about a new videogame. I knew the game; Scotty and I had talked about it … weeks and weeks ago. I sort of remembered getting excited about it when it was first announced in early summer, but now … not so much. Come to think of it, I hadn’t played any computer or videogames since … October, maybe? In any case, I wasn’t feeling any great desire to play the thing. I had a feeling that even if Scotty was here and we were talking about it, the buzz about the videogame wouldn’t be there for me.

And boys walked by talking about sports, of course; about different teams’ chances for the Super Bowl and another bunch were talking about NASCAR, I thought. I never got into sports like that. Growing up, it’s inevitable that you learn the basics about football, baseball, and basketball, but I almost never played them. Being small I almost never got picked, or I’d be picked last, and nobody ever hit or threw the ball to me. Let’s just say that kind of dampened any childhood enthusiasm for the games. Plus, there were weekends when my father was screaming at the TV and sometimes throwing things when his team lost. So that wasn’t any fun, either.

I liked watching gymnastics and skating on TV; I thought they were well-suited to television. You could concentrate on the one competitor, not a mob running here and there. Swimming was nice, too. But NASCAR? It just seemed to me to be something like five hundred left turns. That’s supposed to be skillful driving? The skill came in not getting clobbered by some macho jerk in the car behind you. So it was like bumper cars at a hundred miles an hour, until there was an accident, and I secretly thought that a lot of people hoped for the accident for some excitement—otherwise they’d realize it was just five hundred left turns.

The other thing boys walked by talking about was girls. Girls at school, girls at the mall, girls they saw on the street … and they seemed to be louder when they talked about girls. ‘Man, did you see the rack on that blonde?’ one guy would crow, loudly. Another would say, ‘Check out the ass on that redhead!’ and parents with little kids would try to distract their kids or even cover their ears.

I also knew—being raised in the world of boys—that it was all about ranking, about being cooler than the other guy. About topping him. About not being thought ‘a pussy’. And so lying was a big part of it, justified by keeping your ranking high.

Did I really want to be in that cluster? In that group?

On the other hand … there were clusters of girls. Once you got through the giggles and the ‘Omigods!’ they were talking about people. About other girls. Yeah, a lot of gossip: ‘Can you believe she went out with him?’ or ‘She thinks she’s so cool!’. But I realized that the girls weren’t talking about sports or athletes that they saw on television. Well, yeah, teen heartthrobs like that new Disney guy. But mainly they were talking among themselves: that is, they were talking about their group intersecting with other girl groups. Inclusive and exclusive: ‘Oh, Jeannie, that skirt looks so cute on you!’ or ‘Heather kept my red jacket’ or ‘Brianna’s such a bitch!’

I knew that there were sharp knives in their conversations as well as warm, friendly smiles.

The thing was, the boys were trying to top one another and the girls were trying to share with one another. Between the two, I thought I’d prefer sharing.

Then I saw a cluster of girls I knew; Susan McMillan, Amanda Joiner, Karen Krugman and Natalie Condolini were walking out of Icing. They’d gotten jewelry and were showing off their new bracelets and rings and necklaces and earrings—sharing their new things with one another—as they laughed and chatted.

Susan saw me and turned to the others; they kind of paused and talked among themselves, looking at me. I saw Natalie shrug and Amanda nod and Susan left them and walked to me.

She said, “Hey” and I said, “Hey” and I thought that was about it. She asked if I was waiting for Scotty; I said no, I was just watching the festivities. Susan looked at me for a moment, frowning.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and there was something in her voice.

I said, “I’m fine” but choked on the last word as tears started. I turned away from her and mumbled, “Gotta go. Bye!” and that was it.

If Susan hadn’t been there with her friends I might have stayed and talked with her, even with the tears. But I knew she was just being nice—she’s always been nice to me—and wanted to be with her girlies.

And I can’t blame her. If I’d been one of her girlfriends, I’d want to hang with them, too.

If I’d been a girl …

12/30

Another gap. I re-read my last entry. Wow. Talk about Holiday Blues!

Not that they ended. I’m just not talking about them so much. Scotty’s family went off to visit grandparents so he’s gone until school starts. I got presents for Mom and Judy last week but that was the only other time I went to the mall—too depressing for me.

Christmas was like Thanksgiving, though. It was warm and loving and just the three of us—what I’m beginning to think of as my new family. There was a part of me that had thoughts of being ‘the odd man out’, with the emphasis on ‘man’. I guess I’m supposed to be proud of being ‘the man of the family’ but I had quite enough of my father as ‘the man of the family’, thank you, very much. No way did I want that position. I kind of felt like I did when I’d seen Susan and Amanda and the other girls at the mall.

I just don’t fit in anywhere.

We had a nice Christmas morning with presents; I got a videogame and had to work at being excited about it; for some reason it just didn’t thrill me. And the things I sleep in have been getting kind of ratty looking, so I got what would be new pajamas but instead was a ‘sleepshirt’, Mom proclaimed happily when I opened it. It was red and decorated with all these holiday images. Mom said I could put it on right away—I had my shorts and tee under a bathrobe—and I did and actually it was comfy and although I sort of looked old-timey in it, I also realized that it required me to sort of keep my legs together. I got on the couch next to Mom and Judy with my legs tucked under me and we had hot cocoa—Judy’s special recipe—and I fell asleep leaning against Mom and woke up in my bed the next morning.

Damn! That sleepshirt really works!

Mom laughed and said she’ll get me more since it went over so well.

They liked my presents; for Judy, I got a book and an old MGM musical DVD Mom said she liked. I got an illustrated book of Gilbert & Sullivan for Mom—she loves them—and a nice necklace with a green stone to match her eyes. My eyes, too; thank God I didn’t get his eyes.

Lots of hugs and kisses all around and then boring days again until school starts.

1/6

What made me think anything was going to be any different, just because it’s a new year?

1/31

Yesterday, Scotty called and I met him at the mall. Maybe because of my time at the mall during the holidays, but while we walked and Scotty was talking, I looked around this time. I saw Amanda Joyner and some girls I didn’t know—probably the dance group she’s in—by the Food Court. She had on a really cute Hollister top, and I suddenly realized that I’d just thought, ‘wow, really cute top’. I didn’t know what to make of that.

The new X-Box game was cool, I guess, but I didn’t get a real rush about it. Scotty said I was ‘off’. I apologized and faked being into the stuff at Electronics Boutique. At one point I was leaning against the display case while the salesman was telling us about some new games, and I noticed Scotty looking at me strangely. I said, “What?” and realized that I had pulled my hair over one shoulder and was sort of braiding the ends, and I had one leg balanced on a toe, my knees touching. I dropped the hair and shook my leg, pretending I had a cramp, and Scotty seemed okay with that. But it had really felt like a natural, comfortable way to stand.

So what?

When I got home, I was kind of out of sorts, and Mom suggested a bath, which I haven’t had in a long time. Sounded like a good idea, and she gave me a jar with some rocks and crystals and told me to put some in the bath—stress relief, she said.

God, it felt good! I must have stayed there nearly an hour, almost dozing. Smelled light and fresh, too, and my skin was moisturized when I got out. I gotta get me some more of that stuff!

2/5

At the start of the year I wrote that school wasn’t any different this year; but now school’s kinda different because Judy wrote a note—as my doctor—getting me out of PE and into Study Hall, starting next week. She told me she was still worried about my ‘endocrine imbalance’ and said that I could always do aerobics to a workout video at home for exercise. So that was as my doctor; and as my mom’s lover and sort-of aunt, she grinned and said I’d probably welcome the chance to not have to listen to the Coach do his ‘Miss Cunningham’ garbage anymore.

PE was the only class I shared with Scotty, but something happened today that makes me okay with Study Hall. The Coach had us running as usual, which meant that Scotty and I were walking in the back of the group like usual, but Scotty kept jogging in place, and then apologized and said he just had to run. Maybe he had too much coffee; maybe his exercises were taking over, whatever, but he took off and man, he left me in the dust!

Screw it.

Oh, yeah; the Coach called me ‘Miss Cunningham’, as usual. But then he got a kind of funny look on his face and walked away. At least he’s out of my face as of Monday.

Crap day.

2/19

Study Hall’s pretty good, actually. No showers, for one thing!

The downside is that I get all of my homework done—it’s the last period of the day—and then at home, I’ve got nothing to do. Well, that’s not true; there are chores and stuff. But there’s a lot of extra time. So I figured the least I could do is get dinner ready for Mom when she gets home from work, so I should learn how to cook. I went to the library after school and checked out some learn-to-cook books, and one of them was in a section for teens. I found a book about ‘what every boy should know about his body’ sort of thing, and there was one for girls, too. So I got them both.

That made for some interesting reading!

2/26

Based on the last lab results, Judy gave me some more shots and I’ve got a new pill. Still falling asleep—I almost did in Study Hall, too—but I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve been doing the aerobics video workouts (the library has those, too!) and checking out all sorts of books. I’m just not that interested in playing games, even the new one Mom got me for Christmas. But I can curl up with a good book and then go make dinner, and then Mom and I sit on the couch and watch TV after. And I curl up there, too, in one of my sleepshirts. The holiday one was such a hit it seemed a shame to put it away until next holiday season, so Mom got me two new ones. One has a blue-plaid pattern that kind of looks like a hospital gown so I didn’t care for it so much at first, but the other is like an oversized gray t-shirt and is super-comfortable and I love wearing it. I curl up next to Mom, my legs tucked under me and pull my shirt down and feel all snuggly and the fact that I’m pretty darned lonely kind of goes away.

3/5

End of a not great week. I feel like crud; think I got the flu or something.

3/10

First day back in the land of the living, sort of. Slept from Friday to Monday, practically. Showered Monday and back to bed. Lots of soup from Mom. Went to see Doctor Judy this afternoon; she gave me another shot and a new or different prescription; I’m not sure what. Kind of woozy; I think I fell asleep on her again but she didn’t say anything. It was weird; she was listening to my chest and the next thing I know Mom and I are hitting the freeway.

Going to sleep again now.

3/12

Damn, whatever Judy shot me with did the trick. I feel human again! Mom doesn’t want me to go to school today—although I’ve missed so much, it doesn’t make much sense just to go for Friday—so Scotty’s going to bring over my homework so far, then I’ll go tomorrow with most of it done. Besides, I want to catch up on the gossip.

* * *

There wasn’t any gossip from Scotty. I looked like crap. I almost didn’t want him seeing me this way; I’m basically wearing sweats and I’m swimming in them. I showered again before he came over, and felt like if I bumped into anything I’d break; just felt very fragile. That’s the only way to put it. I guess it’s all the time in bed.

It was weird seeing Scotty after … well, since the end of January, I guess. I’d seen him in the distance at school now and then, and I’d asked him about what he was eating, but that was pretty much it. Now he was here and kind of embarrassed and I was, too, so I kind of stared at the floor and I didn’t really see him. Scotty filled me in, told me to get better, gave me a strange look or two, and left. I guess I must look like death warmed over, but maybe it was just that my hair’s a mess.

4/2

School was a drag all week. The only weird thing was Scotty. You know how you see something every day but don’t notice it until something makes you look at it differently, and you wonder, whoa, when did that happen?

Okay, that was a confusing sentence. The point is, it was a usual week until Wednesday, when I was talking with Susan McMillan. Our lockers are close; I’d noticed she had a new hairstyle, so I said something like, ‘Great hairstyle’. She thanked me and we talked about History—there’s a project coming up and we were both complaining about it and she joked that ‘misery loves company’ and maybe we should work on it together—and a couple of her girlfriends came up to talk to her.

I turned back to my locker but overheard one of the girls talking about Scotty, so my ears perked up. They were saying he was looking pretty good! Scotty? What the heck?

So when it was lunch time, I looked at him—I mean, really looked at him—and, yeah, he looked different. I noticed that his lunch wasn’t his usual Ding Dongs and pork rinds; he had a small sandwich and carrot sticks. And he was drinking a protein shake! I went out of my usual way to class to catch him and asked if he’d been losing weight, and he laughed and said that all my talking over the months about Mom’s exercising and my exercises had got him to start an exercise regimen of his own. How long had this been going on?

Well, long enough for the girls to notice, I guess.

4/10

Getting dressed today (Saturday morning), I went through my drawers looking for something to wear. I found a t-shirt I’d forgotten I had, from the one and only state fair I went to—my father took us because he wanted to go to the demolition derby.

Then he’d yelled so loudly at one of the drivers, all red-faced and spitting, that a security guard asked him to tone it down. We would up being escorted out of the grandstand by three guards. And that was my day at the fair …

Anyway, it was a yellow shirt with the state fair poster airbrushed on the front. On a whim, I tried it on, and it was way too small for me, practically skin tight, but when I looked in the mirror, I really liked it. The sleeves were so short that they rode up on my arms—I can’t really call them my ‘muscles’—and it was too short to tuck in, so as I moved my tummy winked back, and it was really cool.

I wore shorts when I was younger, but hadn’t worn any for long time because any guys that saw me laughed at my ‘birdy legs’. I don’t remember what the groundhog predicted back in February but it’s gotten warm already. So it just felt like it was going to be a shorts kind of day, and no guys around, so—birdy legs and all—why not wear shorts? I looked for some old jean shorts I’d worn before but couldn’t find them. Then I remembered that I’d been coming back from the library and Jerry Deakins shoved me off the sidewalk and into the street; I’d fallen in some spilled motor oil so there went my shorts and underpants.

And my father had whipped me for ruining them: “I’ll teach you to take care of things!”

There had to be something, I thought as I rummaged around. In a bottom drawer I found my one and only pair of cargo shorts. They were from a few summers ago but I had to wiggle to get them on because they were as old as the t-shirt and I’d grown a little bit. I got them on and barely buttoned, and they were in good shape but seemed really long—almost down to my knees. I know they had to have room for the pockets, but geez, they called these shorts? They were so long that they’d never be cool, and I was never going to use those baggy pockets, so I took off the shorts, turned them inside-out, marked where the pockets ended, got a pair of scissors and chopped ‘em off.

When I pulled them on again, they went on easier and I rolled the little bit of hem up like cuffs, so they wouldn’t unravel, and it made them look nicer, more finished, but even shorter. I really liked the way they felt, and the way my legs looked. I never really thought about my legs other than something to walk on, but the thing with Scotty made me start to look at other things differently. Besides, all of my exercising had made my legs and stomach smoother and flatter. I found a pair of flip-flops and went to breakfast.

Mom gave me a funny look when I walked into the kitchen. I figured it was because of the old clothes, or maybe the association of a time when my father was still around. I just told her I liked the way they looked and wasn’t wearing them because of him.

Mom had some minor spring cleaning chores; her philosophy is to do a little each week instead of burning out by doing it all in a marathon. So we vacuumed the house to a fare-thee-well. I liked helping her, and we talked about school and stuff while we worked.

At one point I almost snapped a toe when one of the flip-flops caught on the rug. Mom suggested tennis shoes; all I have are the big black-and-silver Nikes that I wear in school and I just didn’t like how they looked with the shorts. Mom said she might have something for me and gave me a pair of white Keds, which looked great. I really liked seeing the whole length of my leg, from my shorts to the Keds.

The other frustration was my hair; it kept flopping in my face when I bent over. I kept it in a ponytail at school, tied low and back. It wasn’t in defiance to my father anymore, but still I kind of hid behind the long hair. But here at home, I pulled it back and snapped a rubber band around it as usual, and Mom clucked her tongue and told me the rubber band would wreck my hair. She took a short piece of white ribbon and tied it around my hair, but I thought it might be better if I could wear a scrunchie, like so many girls in my class. Then I could put it around my wrist when I fluffed out my hair. It just made sense to do it that way.

At one point I went to the bathroom, and when I was struggling to button up afterward, I had an idea. I pulled my pants down and tucked my penis between my legs and then pulled up the shorts, and they seemed to fit better. It felt strange, but I experimented with some moves in the bathroom, and actually things felt less constricted, so I decided to keep it like that.

I looked at myself while I washed my hands, and then tried something quickly (didn’t want Mom to think I’d fallen in!) I pulled the ribbon off my ponytail, fluffed the hair and then pulled it up onto the top of my head, the way I’ve seen Susan McMillan and Amanda Joyner wear it. I tied the ribbon around and turned my head from side to side. I loved the way my ponytail swung around.

Just then Mom let out a yelp, and I rushed out to help her. She’d bumped into a table and had caught the lamp, but also grabbed a vase with one hand. And her knee was keeping the table from falling! The thing was, she couldn’t really put things back without dropping one of them; she needed another hand. I helped her and she thanked me, looked at me for a moment, and then declared it tea time.

We had a lovely pitcher of ice tea on our patio, and I was leaning over pouring a second glass when I realized the ponytail was still on top of my head! Mom said, “No, leave it; it suits you.” And so I did.

We finished off the work and Mom made a light supper, just a salad and some soup. Afterward, I was searching through the TV channels when Mom came in with the newspaper and said we could just make the new Sandra Bullock movie if we left immediately. I was torn; we both wanted to see the movie but I didn’t feel like changing into long pants and it would take too long anyway.

I quickly went to pee; when I came out of the bathroom, Mom tossed me a sweater of hers, a white fisherman’s knit cardigan thing, and I followed her, putting on the sweater as we walked to the car.

The evening was a little bit chilly for shorts; I didn’t mind too much but I kept my legs together for warmth and pulled the sweater cuffs down around my fingers. Mom just smiled and I relaxed. It was good to be out with her.

The movie was great; when Sandy’s guy left her I thought I would burst out crying, but held it together until the end, when he came back to her. I could tell that Mom felt the same way. On the way out, she put her arm around me as we both said how much we liked the movie, and one of the ushers said, “G’night, ladies.” Mom and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. She didn’t talk about that on the way home—only talking about the movie—but I kind of wish she had.

End of Part Two

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Three

5/2

Mom went out with Judy Friday night, and I told her I would be fine and she could stay over. I mean, I know what they’re up to, right? And they’re in love, Mom’s happy, and that’s that.

I made a pasta-for-one thing in the microwave and watched some silly comedy show, but one of the commercials had a girl with hair about the same color and length as mine, and it got me thinking about my hair. I’d loved how the ponytail had felt, and Mom had been okay with it. More than okay—I’d been wearing the high ponytail and ribbon when we’d gone to the movies!

It got me to wondering about other things to do with my hair. I checked out Mom’s pile of magazines on the coffee table, expecting Cosmo or something and was surprised to find the current Seventeen. I curled up on the couch and went through it, and there was an article on hair styles and some looked really neat, so I took the magazine to the bathroom, propped it up, pulled out Mom’s drawer of hair things and went to work.

I really had fun, as much as I could without actually cutting anything. I tried some of the styles in the magazine, and then some variations—I really liked playing with the clips I’d found in the drawer—and then learned how to braid, more or less. Also how to do a chignon, or at least a how to do a not-very-good chignon.

I suppose it was weird to be doing this, but, hey! I figured it didn’t hurt anybody and it kept me off the streets, right? I also tried some ponytail styles and even pigtails; and I wondered, is it just me or are pigtails always cute? I thought I looked cute, anyway. I mean, I looked like a doofus, but a cute doofus. Finally, with a sigh, I styled my hair in what they call a ‘sleep braid’ and went to bed.

Saturday morning, Mom called to say she’d be home around noon. I took a shower and noticed that my chest was swollen. Actually, there was a swelling underneath my nipples. And kind of around my hips. I guess all the exercises I’ve been doing have been for legs and tummy and the rest of me is getting soft.

One very cool thing happened: Okay, first I gotta say something very weird, and then I’ll get to the cool part. I have learned to dislike my penis. And testicles. They’re not very big, not like on guys I’ve seen, but they make a lump in my clothes, and they get caught on stuff. They’re just in the way, dangling there, so ever since that day I wore the cargo shorts, I’ve been tucking them between my legs and everything fits better. However, I have to let them dangle to clean them in the shower, then dry really carefully before tucking them back.

But today, I was so warm from the shower, and so relaxed, that as I was drying them, the testicles slipped right back up inside me, where they came from! Well, one went up, but then I did it with the other and it went up quite easily. That’s it, I thought, you’re staying up there, out of sight and out of mind and out of my underwear. It made tucking so much easier, and the front looks so much better now! Walking and sitting and everything just feels a lot better, too.

I wrapped the towel around my chest, and had my hair wrapped up in a smaller towel. I had a half grapefruit and some yogurt, and went to get dressed.

I forgot to mention that Mom had gone shopping for me while I was sick, so I had some new things to choose from and I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a red tank top. I was going to blow-dry my hair the way I usually did, but decided to bend at the waist, blow-dry it and then flip it back, like I’d seen in the magazine. It was amazingly full, even when I brushed it out, so I let it just flow over my shoulders.

I was putting laundry in the wash when Mom came home, quite happy. She told me I looked really nice and I felt wonderful.

About an hour after Mom got home (and after telling me about her plans with Judy for a long vacation), the phone rang and it was Susan McMillan. She asked if she could drop by to talk about the History project. While I’d been sick, I’d been assigned to be her partner, because we’d been kind of joking about it so she thought it would be okay with me. She’d started some work on it while I’d been out of school, but I sure needed to get going on it. Susan’s always been nice to me and she’s smart and fun so of course I said, “Sure, come on over,” and she said she was nearly here; she’d been talking on her cell phone.

Three minutes later, Susan was at my door and there was a weird moment where she looked at me, her mouth open, and I invited her in, and she was slow to move. Then she kind of shook herself and came in. I offered her some Pepsi or water; she took the water and we went to the dining room table. She had a backpack and pulled out school stuff, showing me what she’d done so far, and we started outlining the next part of the project.

One thing stuck in my mind: Susan was pointing stuff out on this map she found on the internet, and I noticed how cool her fingernail polish was, kind of clear but kind of blue and sparkly if you looked at it just right. It was like it was there and wasn’t there, you know? It made her hands look so great. And I realized that her nails weren’t any longer than mine, really. I just figured she worked on keeping ‘em in great shape.

Mom came through and liked how hard we were working. After about two hours, we had caught everything up for next week. Susan called her mom and packed up and she asked if I usually was dressed like I was. She was wearing a light blue top and denim shorts, so what was she talking about? I told her it was comfortable because it had gotten warm so early, and Mom had bought these clothes for me. She thought a bit and then asked if I wanted to go to the mall sometime, or come over to her place to hang or something.

I said, “Cool” and she said, “Cool” and so I guess it’s cool.

Anyway, she left about twenty minutes ago and I’m wondering, why did she act that way?

5/9

I tried wearing the yellow state fair shirt yesterday, and my chest is so swollen it looked like I had boobs. I think the meds are messing with me; I hope Judy can adjust things. At least, I guess that’s what’s supposed to happen, what I’m supposed to want. But … I kind of like them. My little boobs, I mean. But I’m going to have to wear baggy things to school. I hated my stupid old clothes, anyway. Now I hate them more.

5/10

Both Scotty and Susan are acting weird. Whenever I saw either one, they’d keep asking, “Is there something you want to talk about?”

I said, “No” and they just nodded—at different times, of course. I mean, that’s what was weird; they both had the same question and didn’t know the other had asked it. And both gave me the same strange nod.

Maybe there is something to talk about. I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. I didn’t before my father died, either, but maybe I should just feel different.

I wonder if I should talk to Judy. They say you should have at least one grown-up you can talk to, that isn’t your parent. Well, she’s not my parent—yet!

5/12

I’m going to talk with Judy about everything that’s been happening; I phoned and she said to come over on Friday.

Susan McMillan wants to come over Saturday and work on the project. For some reason, that makes me really happy.

5/14

A lot to tell.

Well, I talked with Judy. I feel guilty because I didn’t talk to Mom about it, and that’s weird on so many levels, but I wasn’t doing the Doctor thing with Judy, or Mom’s Lover thing. Judy is just an adult I trust.

After school I took a bus to Judy’s office, only a buck and a half. Her receptionist looked at me strangely because I wasn’t in her appointment book and I guess this was break time for Judy, but she came out and told the girl she’d asked me to stop by, so it was cool.

All along I’ve been thinking about how much to tell Judy. I hadn’t really decided, but we got comfy in her office, she got me an orange juice and some water for herself, and I just told her everything.

Some of it she knew, some of it she’d guessed, whatever. She told me that I had an imbalance in my endocrine system, and had been undernourished for a long time and that either or both might account for physical things, like my size and other stuff. She said that science was divided on how much chemicals can affect thinking, about who you are, I mean. The inner, real you.

She asked me did I think I was homosexual, and I was so confused by the question that I choked up. I really, really, really never thought about it, so I said, “Probably not,” but she asked and then I thought of Scotty and that’s when I choked up. She asked me about Susan or other girls and I told her how cool Susan was, and pretty much all of the girls, I guess. Maybe not Gabrielle Stockton; she’s a Goth; or Yvonne Simon, who is just mean to everyone. Well, maybe she’s not a bitch, but she just seems angry all the time, and she—

Just as I wrote that, I was thinking that not too long ago, I was angry all the time, too. Oh, God! Does she have a father like I had? Poor Yvonne! Now I feel so sorry for her!

Judy asked me if I felt like the boys in school, if I identified myself as one of them. No way! Then she asked if I identified with the girls in school, and I started to automatically say ‘no way’, but felt a little tug or something, and I said, not really. I just felt more comfortable with them and thought they were cooler than the guys. I mean, duh, isn’t it obvious?

We even talked about different things, like maybe I should take up tennis or dancing or seriously get into swimming; Judy said they were all great exercise and a great way to get to know other people. They also weren’t the whole ‘team’ mindset that led to crazies like our Coach. Sure, there are tennis and swim teams, but they’re still kind of individual—although I pointed out that it took two to play tennis or dance. She nodded but pointed out that there was solo dance, too.

I guess I was tired from all the stress, because the sun was warm through her window and she was going on and on about chemicals and I just zoned out, but just for a moment, I think. I felt guilty about it because what she was talking about was important, but, hey, it happened, alright?

And her advice to me was to find my own way; don’t worry about what society or my peers think of me. “Find out who you are,” she said; everybody has to do it. She said not to worry about pigeonholes or stereotypes; just ‘be myself and discover myself’. I realized that it was what Judy and Mom had done, discovering themselves, and that they were much happier for having done so.

Needless to say, I felt great when she finished and asked her if I could call Mom before she left from work. I called Mom and told her I’d come to Judy to talk, and Mom was very cool with it and was going to come get me, but Judy said she was through for the day so she’d either take me home or we could meet somewhere.

We went to a big plaza I’d never been to before, with a Barnes & Noble, a sporting goods warehouse, and some smaller shops and restaurants. It was a pretty cool place. On the way over I told Judy that she could tell Mom what we’d talked about—any and all of it. She thanked me and said she’d think about it, but that I was very mature and honest.

Mom met us in front of Barnes & Noble. She and Judy did a great little hug; it looked like every other two women greeting each other but I knew there was more to it. Anyway, Mom said, “Shop, eat; or eat, shop?” and I realized they’d been planning this evening and I was in the way, so I told them I was going to BN but they said, no, no, come with us, it’ll be fun. Mom said she needed my ‘keen eye’, whatever that meant.

It meant ‘shop, eat’, and the shopping was at the sports place for a tennis outfit for Mom! She’d been getting healthier and stronger and had tried some tennis at her club, liked it, and was going on a ‘tennis date’ with Judy this weekend, so we were here to get her outfitted.

She’d pull things off the rack and turn to me, then to Judy; I’d yea it or nay it, always deferring to Judy. Mom looked down and her hair flopped over her face—she’s been letting it get long like mine—and I told her she needed a scrunchie.

Mom said, “Oh, no, they’re for younger women” but Judy and I ganged up on her. She turned to me and said, “Okay, I will if you will!” and tossed a white scrunchie to me. I told her it was too weird with my school clothes and gave it back to her, although I really liked it.

She said maybe we should all take up tennis. Judy looked at me strangely and said, “My treat; let’s get you some gear.” I protested that I’d never played; what if I hated it? Then she’d have spent money for nothing.

Scored a point, I thought, but Judy said, reasonably, to get the clothes and they can be worn anywhere; rent a racket and try it and if I didn’t like it, I still had new clothes. Couldn’t argue with that. Except … the idea of a white polo shirt and white shorts didn’t thrill me. Mom said I should look at the unisex racks and pulled out the nicest tops.

I okayed a light blue and a light lime green for Mom, and she okayed the same for me. The only weird thing is that the blue one had a scoop neck and what Mom called ‘cap sleeves’ and the lime green was sleeveless. They also had tennis skirts, which weren’t for me, of course, but Judy said, “What about this skort?” and held up something. Mom tried it on and it was like shorts in the back with a panel in front so it looked like a skirt, and she looked great. Her legs have really toned up with her exercising, but she was still really pale. I told her to not forget the sunblock, and she told Judy that I was the one in the family with great legs! I almost died of embarrassment, but Judy didn’t laugh; she said she’d like to see them sometime and there was this strange silence.

Suddenly I knew how to fix things, so I took the light blue top to the rack, pulled out a darker blue skort that looked like my waist size and went into the changing room. Part of my mind was screaming ‘What are you doing?’ and part was excited and wanting to try the thing on. It was really simple, just shorts and this front panel thing, and looking at my legs under it, I told myself that they were shorts, after all, and from the front it didn’t look any different than a short apron.

I came out and went ‘Ta-dah!’ and threw my hands up and cocked a knee forward, and Mom kind of went ‘whoa’ and even Judy was shocked. Then she shocked me when she said, “Sen-sa-tional legs!”

Then I felt embarrassed and quickly pulled my hands down and stood behind a rack, blushing, I’m sure. Mom rushed over and hugged me and told me I looked fantastic, she was so proud of me, and she loved me.

A bit of overkill for the moment, I thought, but I was reassured and stepped out again.

The weird thing was, well, my chest. Nobody said anything, and I couldn’t tell if Mom and Judy had been concentrating on my legs, or were just being polite, but I have, well, some development.

I’ve been hiding it at school by wearing baggy shirts, and since it’s been getting hotter, I found some of my old t-shirts that I stopped wearing because they were too tight. But now they’re tight enough that they keep ‘my development’ flattened.

In the reading I’ve been doing recently, I’ve run across the word ‘gynecomastia’. A perfectly normal condition that hits some boys and leaves them as well. So maybe my development, my … two developments … are normal and would leave at some point.

But I’ve been kind of feeling that I don’t want them to leave. At night I’ve kind of cradled them in my palms, and the feeling is so nice but so weird. Judy doesn’t do the stethoscope test every time I see her, so from whenever the last one was until now, I’ve got enlarged nipples and, well, little mounds. That’s all I call them; all I can call them, until Judy thoroughly checks me out.

So standing there going ‘Ta-dah!’ with Mom and Judy smiling at my legs, nothing was said about the fact that I had little mounds under the blue top. Did they see and decide not to comment? Or were they just accepting it as a matter of course?

Judy said nothing about my top but focused higher, saying that now I could wear the scrunchie, and I quickly put on the white one, deciding ‘what the hell’ and pulled my hair up on the top back of my head. There was a three-way mirror behind me, so I turned this way and that and I looked, well, I looked ‘sen-sa-tional’ and told my screaming mind to shut the hell up. Mom looked a little misty; I guess she was happy to be with Judy and me. And that was more important to me than any old voice screaming in my head!

Judy took Mom over to look at rackets and I went to find shoes. I really liked the Keds that Mom had loaned me, but I knew they weren’t really good for tennis. The men and boys’ shoes all looked huge and chunky. One of the things about being 5'2" was that nothing really fits very well. I looked over at the women’s department, and aside from obvious pink things, the shoes were mostly white.

I had a sudden surge of determination, a strange sense that I was somehow taking control. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but I felt weirdly confident that this was the way I had to go.

I got one of those black and chrome gadgets, flipped it to the women’s and girls’ sizes, stepped on it, slid the thingie and got my size, and went looking. I found two pair that I liked, and tried them both. I was barefoot, but there was a basket with little stocking things and short socks. I figured they were for sanitary reasons so I put on a pair and tried the shoes, and decided. I took the shoebox and went to find Mom and Judy.

They were getting accessories, sweatbands and stuff, and smiled hugely when they saw me. I showed Mom the shoes and she agreed. Judy suggested some of the socklet things, and Mom handed me several. I was going to go change, but Mom asked if I wanted to wear my new things. What the heck, I thought, they were comfortable and new, and I liked them a lot better than my school clothes. I wasn’t going to play tennis right now, but they said they looked fine for regular wear, and I guess Judy had been right about that—we’d find out later if I liked to play tennis!

The clerk scanned my tags and cut them off; we paid for everything, dumped all the bags in the car and went to a restaurant with a huge salad bar. We had a wonderful meal, like we always did, mostly talking about tennis and when Mom asked me if my school offered tennis, Judy and I looked at each other. I nodded, and we both told Mom about our talk.

Mom’s face went through all these strange changes as we told her, and when we were done she tilted her head and asked what I wanted to do. I smiled and said, “I’m doing it.”

Judy smiled and nodded, but Mom didn’t get it. I told Mom I was finding out who I was. Mom seemed to understand, and squeezed my hand and smiled. I think she was close to tears; her eyes glistened.

We said goodbye to Judy—more hugs all around—and on the way home Mom stopped at a grocery store. She told me what produce to get, and we met up at the check stand. Only paying half attention, I gazed at our stuff going by on the conveyor and snapped awake and looked at Mom. She smiled and nodded, and I saw the teen girl magazines and moisturizers and stuff, and a small bottle of the same nail polish Susan had been wearing.

All Mom said on the way home was, she knew I’d liked it—Susan’s polish. Then she said that we should both find out who I was.

I swear to God, it wasn’t until I walked in our house that I realized that I was in the blue top, skort, and shoes. And I’d been to the grocery dressed like this? And wearing a scrunchie? On a high ponytail!

Mom chuckled and said something about ‘the cow’s already out of the barn’. The point being that I’d been mostly dressed like a girl, and not one person saw anything wrong with it.

Hmm …

Later, Mom taught me how to put on nail polish. My nails are in great shape thanks to the manicure kit, and I’ve been letting them grow a bit. I just like how they look; I don’t know why. Anyway, I put on two coats of the blue polish, and although there was no sunlight to catch the sparkle, I loved the look. I couldn’t resist—I put two coats on my toenails, too! I watched a little TV while they dried, and I put my feet up on the edge of the coffee table, so I could look at my toes. They looked so cute!

I got ready for bed, in my usual soft gray sleepshirt—I love it so much I practically wear it every night—and Mom took me to the bathroom and showed me the things she’d bought. She showed me how to wash and moisturize. She gave me a white hairband to hold my hair back, and asked if I wanted her to sleep braid it, so she quickly did that while she was giving me some tips on hair.

Then, my face all shiny and clean, I looked at us in the mirror, and oh my God—we looked like mother and daughter! Much more than we ever had as mother and son! I think Mom saw it too, because her hand flew up to her mouth and her eyes widened. All I could say was, “Oh, Mom.” We hugged and she led me back to my bedroom.

It was the sweetest goodnight I can remember since I was very little.

End of Part Three

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Four

5/15

Oh, God, what am I going to do? I have to go back to school Monday and I absolutely do not want to go. I mean, I like school but I don’t want to go back to being Alan. Stupid Alan. Stupid boy Alan.

What a day.

Saturday morning I woke up and showered. Nothing unusual there, except I felt so different than I had before, for some reason. I got out of the shower and was toweling off, I studied my legs, and something in me snapped. No other word for it; it was a breaking of sorts, between then and now. I grabbed a disposable razor from the medicine chest and Mom’s shaving cream. Not that I had anything growing, really, but I stepped back in the shower and shaved my legs. After all, I thought, if I was going to wear things like the skort and all my shorts since it was going to be a hot summer, I might as well make my legs look as nice as possible.

And to the little voice screaming ‘What are you doing?’ I said swimmers and bicyclists did it, too.

Of course, swimmers and bicyclists didn’t also shave under their arms. I did.

Afterwards, I knew enough to put on baby oil and to not put on deodorant right away. I wrapped my robe around me and went for breakfast.

I was having some yogurt, and Mom came in for coffee. She held my sleepshirt and kind of tsk-tsked at me. I said, “What?” and she pointed out that I’d worn and washed it so much that the hem was coming off and that the fabric was kind of balling up. Yuk! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed. My only excuse was being groggy with sleep when I put it on at night and never noticed. She said she’d have to get better quality next time, and more of them … and her face did something and she nodded like she’d made a decision. Then she announced that she had time before her tennis date, so I put on some blue-and-green Madras short-shorts, a sleeveless yellow tank top and my new Keds and we headed to a mini plaza I’d never been to.

Mom told me it was sleepwear time. There was a lingerie shop I’d never seen; Mom said that they had good quality, low prices, without the whole sexy emphasis of Victoria’s Secret or Fredericks. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even hesitate—I was going to buy some lingerie. And I was going to wear it. And it didn’t feel strange.

Actually, the strangest thing was that the saleslady didn’t bat an eyelash. I know I wasn’t dressed like a macho guy, but I wasn’t dressed all girly, either. I mean, I wasn’t in a dress or anything. Anyway, Mom showed me some sleepwear and talked about the pros and cons of each style. We settled on three, two white and one ivory, each of three lengths. Walking across the store, I noticed some really neat underwear. Mom told me my life would be easier if I just used the actual names. So, I had three nighties and was thinking about buying panties.

I turned to Mom, who had a knowing smile, and something just sort of … slid into place between us and I smiled back at her. We both looked at the rack, and without saying anything we picked out six pairs. Mom had something else in her hands, and showed me some camisoles, she called them, and I really wanted to wear them. They just looked so … nice.

So we went back to the car with my new underthings. My new lingerie. Although I wanted to shop for more and more, I knew that Mom had the tennis date. We were just getting out of the car at home when we saw someone on our doorstep—Susan was here.

The History thing! I’d forgotten she was coming over!

There I was, in Madras short-shorts and the yellow tank and my hair up in a ponytail, holding bags with the name of the lingerie store, and Susan saying hi and then her face going through a zillion changes. She had on a green shell and some blue plaid Capris.

I told Mom I’d forgotten about Susan, and I knew she had her tennis date, and did she want me to cancel. Mom asked Susan if it would be possible for us to study at her house. Susan called her mom who was away from the house; the mothers talked, and it was decided that we’d start at my house while my mom got ready, then she’d take us to Susan’s house, allowing time for Susan’s mom to get home. Whew!

Which just delayed the inevitable questions about my bags. There was no point in saying they were Mom’s. I just looked at Susan and thought, Aw, the heck with it. I asked her if she wanted to see; I know that girls love shopping, talking about shopping, and sharing shopping stories.

I told her my sleep things were getting ratty, and Mom suggested these, and I showed her the nighties. She also saw the camisoles, and I said, again, Mom’s suggestion. Susan didn’t see the panties, or maybe she did. She must have noticed my smooth, shaved legs. I know she noticed my nails, and I told her I’d admired her polish so much Mom got me some. Then I realized it sounded like everything was Mom’s doing, which it isn’t, so I said it wasn’t her, it was me.

I’d said it offhand, just to stop blaming Mom, but there was that snapping, breaking, ‘then-and-now’ thing and I knew it was absolute truth and said it again to Susan: It was all me; it was all my choice.

Susan asked if she could know what was going on. I thought for a moment, and simply told her that, on one hand, I had an imbalance of my endocrine system, and also that I really didn’t fit in with the guys, did I? She said no. She was nice enough to ask gently, was I gay?

The weird thing is, at no point had I thought about sex. That’s what I’d told Judy, and it was true. I mean, if being gay involves sexual interest, and I guess it does—or at least part of it—then it’s been the farthest thing from my mind.

I told all that to Susan, and had to honestly say I didn’t know because I wasn’t thinking about sex. She asked how long I’d been dressing in girls’ clothing.

I laughed and said I never had; I dressed in my clothing! But I knew what she meant, so I told her it had been about three weeks. She didn’t believe it, but Mom passed by, overheard, and confirmed it.

Then the big question: Susan asked where will I go from here. I told her what Judy had said—calling her ‘my doctor’ and not ‘Mom’s girlfriend’, of course—that I should find out who I am. And all I know is that this is the way I am, and I’m exploring it.

Susan thought for a moment and then nodded, smiling, thank God!

Mom was ready to go, so I quickly put the things back in the bag and put it in my room, and we left for Susan’s—we really didn’t have to pack up because we’d never unpacked. I just grabbed my school backpack and off we went.

I knew things would be strange with Susan’s mom; I told Mom to wait because I might be leaving immediately if Susan’s mom freaked out. I had debated changing, but I guess my key phrase for the day was ‘Aw, the heck with it.’

Her mom was cool. Although I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, she’s known me since I was about three. Before I’d been short and nondescript, but obviously a boy. Now I was in high-cut, blue-and-green Madras shorts, a yellow, scoop neck, sleeveless top, shaved legs, socklets and white Keds, with my hair past my shoulders and loosely held with a white scrunchie, and blue nail polish like her daughter wore.

I had, uh, changed from the last time she’d seen me. She handled it well. She had the same look that Susan had—I guess it was genetic—and Susan said, “An endocrine imbalance.”

Her mom just said, “Of course” and let us in. We unloaded our stuff on the table, and through the living room window I could see that Susan’s mom had gone out to talk with Mom.

Then Mom took off and Susan and I got to work.

There was one of those crazy moments when, about an hour into it, we were stretching and Susan’s mom came through and asked, “Can I get you girls anything to drink?”

The look on her face was priceless; she genuinely hadn’t thought about what she was saying. Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We said yes and stretched while her mom brought us Diet Pepsis, apologizing profusely.

I told her to relax; it was an obvious mistake. As we sipped, her mom asked the same question Susan had. I told her that for whatever reasons, medical or otherwise, I was happier this way. It was me. And no, I didn’t have a master plan and didn’t know where I was headed.

Susan’s mom asked if I wore dresses. I blushed and said no, I hadn’t. “Pity,” she said. “With those great legs, you should show ‘em off.”

That freaked me, because … well, just because.

We got back to work and got on a roll. This whole project thing is to come at a historical event in a roundabout way, not just a straight ‘he did this and they did that’ thing. It meant researching the culture and what the people were like, what they were thinking, and other things, too. We were doing the Norman Invasion and the Battle of Hastings in 1066.

Susan had a computer with a fast internet hookup, and we kept coming up with things to add to the mix. “Weather!” I’d say, and we were off, trying to find out the weather of the period. “Food!” she’d say, and we’d find out the diet of the average Englishman of the 11th century. Yuck, by the way.

The most amazing thing was finding out about the Viking invasion in the north that happened just before the Norman invasion in the south …

Anyway, that’s why it was such a big project. The thing is, Susan’s really smart and interested in lots of things, and we were a good team.

Finally, finally … we knocked it off for the day. We had all the primary research and had divided up the sections each of us was going to write. Mom had called around four and I told her we were on a roll and I’d call her back.

Mrs. McMillan asked if I’d like to stay to dinner. I could tell Susan wanted it, and I liked the idea. I called Mom and everything was settled. Susan said her dad and brother were at a double-header baseball game and wouldn’t be back until ten or so, so I wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with them. Mom would pick me up at nine.

We put everything away and I asked if I could help Mrs. McMillan; she laughed and said her cooking was ‘therapy’ and for us to get out of the kitchen and relax. Susan asked if she could show me something in her room, and there was an awkward moment while her mom weighed it, and then she smiled and said go ahead.

Susan’s room was a dream. Everything matched, and there was kind of a time-line flow to it. I could see her little-girl years in some of the dolls, and her gymnastics and dance awards as she got older. I didn’t know she’d won so many, and I didn’t know she loved horses, judging from the pictures. She told me she thought about really competing in dressage, but as much as she liked horses she loved gymnastics and dance too much to give them up.

She flopped on the bed and I sat politely on her vanity bench. I complimented her room and there was a moment after and then she started bouncing with excitement. It turned out she really wanted to ask if I was going to dress like this at school. I told her I hadn’t thought about it; it was something that was happening to me a bit at a time and so far I was okay at school.

She surprised me by snorting and saying that if I showed up at school looking like I did right now, I’d have guys following me asking for a date! I blushed and stammered and didn’t know what to say.

Then she asked if I really truly didn’t wear dresses. I told her I didn’t have dresses or skirts or anything like that. I had only gotten the nighties this morning and hadn’t worn them yet. It was all so new.

She asked if I knew that girls always shared clothes, and makeup—even though they knew they shouldn’t—and did each other’s hair, and all that. Yeah, I knew, but what did that have to do with anything?

Susan went to her closet and pulled out a denim skirt. “Here’s your first skirt,” she said.

Oh God.

My mouth went dry. I had a tight throat.

And an intense desire to try it on the skirt.

I slowly reached for the offered skirt and … things just happened naturally. Susan thoughtfully turned her back to look in her closet, and I slipped out of my shorts and pulled up the skirt.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was wonderful; it felt right. I looked down at my legs, and thought, ‘So that’s how they should look’. I know that’s silly; my shorts showed more of my legs but there was just … something about the hem of the skirt … Susan turned around and stared, then said, “My oh my, I think we’re onto something!” She had me turn around, then walk around in her room. She snapped her fingers and said, “Shoes!”

It felt like I was falling; I felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Part of my mind registered that Alice and Alan both started with the same letters. I didn’t feel like an Alan at all anymore. Besides; it was my father’s name and I didn’t want anything of his.

Susan had a whole section of her closet devoted to shoes; not as many as some girls I’d heard about, but a lot more than Mom and me put together. She said “Aha!” and handed me a pair of strappy sandals with a small heel. I took off my Keds and she gasped, giggled, and hugged me when she saw that my toenails were wearing her color of nail polish.

I sat on the bed and put on the sandals and immediately knew I had to have some! My feet looked so good in them, but could I walk? I got up and took a few tentative steps, and other than a slight pressure from my calf muscles because of the heel, I could walk. And my legs looked so much better—I never realized that standing on tiptoe could make my legs look so good!

Susan said, “God, you’re a natural!”

I started crying. It was that ‘cry-for-happy’ thing, but still, she hugged me and sat me down on the bench in front of her vanity. While I got it together, she held me and went ‘there-there’ and I calmed down. She started brushing my hair out of my face, and then picked up a brush and really started brushing.

All the time she was talking about other things, about what some girl in school bought, or a new song she liked … instinctively, she knew what to avoid; she didn’t talk about what I was experiencing. She began playing with my hair, brushing it this way and that, piling it up and over and fooling around with it, while I dabbed my eyes with tissue.

Then she frowned slightly and got serious, brushing and pulling sections and she basically put my hair up, with cute wisps hanging down by my ears because the hair wasn’t long enough to be caught up completely. When she was done putting my hair up, she handed me a gold necklace and told me that with my neck, I should wear my hair up more often. I giggled and pointed out that I’d never worn it up and she smiled and said, “You will!” and sounded really confident. To cover my embarrassment I tried to put on the necklace; I had a little trouble with it, as I’d never worn one before, so she fixed it behind me.

Then she let out a whoop of frustration and told me to sit still, close my eyes and not move. I had a trembling hunch what she was going to do—and she did it. I could feel her begin applying makeup to my face, the foundation, blusher, eye shadow and liner and mascara and finally drawing on my lips and a spritz of some fantastic perfume.

She waved the spray away from my face and said to open up and look.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

In the mirror was a really pretty girl. Not movie star-fashion model gorgeous, but definitely not plain.

Definitely pretty.

And definitely not a boy.

I stared—I think we both did—and I’ll never forget this; Susan said, “You know how you told me that your doctor said to find yourself, to discover yourself? I think you just did.”

Wow.

There were this period where time stood still as we both realized the world had changed. I knew those were both clichés, but they’re the absolute truth for how it felt. We both knew this wasn’t a one-time thing; we both knew I had truly found myself.

Susan softly said, “I don’t think I can call you Alan anymore.”

I told her that was funny, because I had just thought the same thing, and that I sort of felt like Alice in Wonderland. We both agreed that I needed a new name, and Alice was just too old-fashioned. Susan suggested Alana or Alannah, keeping my original name, but I told her that I had been named after my father and that I didn’t want anything to do with him or his name.

She pointed out that if I was going to truly change, to become a full-time girl—and looking at myself in the mirror, and enjoying the time spent with Susan, how could I not?—then having a feminine version of my name might make it easier to persuade people (like school administrators) that I’d always been Alana; somehow the computer dropped an A.

There was a lot to that, and I didn’t want to let hatred for my father color things. But then Susan got on the internet and we were looking at baby-naming sites, and we suddenly shouted “Alyssa!” at the same time! It was a much cooler name than Alice, but paid tribute to that original idea. It had the same start as Alan, as I had with my father, but then went in a different direction, the way I did. And the fact that out of all the names, we both said it at the same time—it was official. I just hoped Mom liked it.

Susan turned to me and said, “Hello, Alyssa” and it was so sweet that my eyes teared up. Susan rushed a tissue to me and told me to gently dab, and when I pulled the tissue away and saw my mascara marks, we both laughed at the natural, feminine moment.

Susan frowned again, and said something wasn’t quite right; something was off. I felt a cold grip of fear, wondering, and then her face brightened. I went from fear to embarrassment when she asked why I wasn’t wearing a bra.

I told her I didn’t have any; she found that hard to believe. She said with my long hair and a kind of slump when I walked in, she hadn’t really noticed, but with my hair up (and I guess I was standing straighter with the heels—and with a new pride) she said she could really see my boobs.

That’s what she called ‘em—my boobs. And as embarrassing as it was, I was thrilled.

And confused.

She really couldn’t believe that I didn’t have any bras, but she said her mom was a stickler for propriety, and as long as I was staying for dinner, I really should be properly dressed. She giggled when she said it, and I kind of giggled back, and then she got serious.

She said it was hard to say what she was going to say, because she’d known me—or Alan—for so long, but she always had kind of wished that ‘Alan’ had been a girl, because we always got along so well. She had friends like Amanda Joyner and Natalie Condolini, and she was friendly with some boys, but she said she always felt different with me. Maybe, she said, she was somehow sensing Alyssa, hiding inside of Alan.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Thank you; you’ve always been so special to me.”

Susan said she didn’t know what the future would bring, but she would really, really like it if she could be friends with Alyssa. I felt choked up but I said, are you kidding? Of course, and I was so grateful to her for letting me try on the clothes and she cut me off.

“Girlfriends are always lending each other clothes, remember?”

I laughed and gulped a happy sob at the same time, and managed to say that I’d heard something like that, but never really knew for sure; I had a lot to learn and I’d love to learn with her. And I’d love to be her girlfriend!

She seemed to be weighing something in her head, making a decision, then nodded and said, “Cool—first lesson: girlfriends don’t have any modesty, and we tell each other everything.”

I said, “Agreed,” but I didn’t say anything more out of shock, because she had pulled off her top and stood there with only her bra, a pretty light blue.

“Well?” she said, daring me, sort of. I eased out of my yellow top and for some reason held the top over my chest. Susan made a face and unhooked the back of her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, revealing her breasts, which made me gasp slightly.

But not like a boy seeing a girl’s breasts for the first time. This was pure envy; she was more developed than I was, of course, and her skin was creamy. She just looked incredible.

“What?” she asked, and I told her that I wished my breasts could look as nice as hers. She made me so happy by saying she thought that mine would be, and in the very near future. She said that mine looked better than hers did when they were that size, and I could have hugged her with thanks, except that would be too weird.

She went to her bureau and pulled out two bras, telling me that she took off her bra to help me relax, but it was also digging in and she wanted to change it, anyway. She laughed and told me that I’d find out soon enough that wearing bras wasn’t nearly as sexy as boys thought it was!

Susan decided to give me a quick lesson in Bra 101, pointing out some of the features from the ones she had in her drawer. She handed me a creamy, stretchy one and then she put on a white one, showing me how to attach it around the waist, turn it and pull it up. The one she handed me fastened in front, so I put it on and clasped it together. Susan pulled it this way and that, pulling the cups down a bit and adjusting the straps, because I was bigger than she’d been when she started developing.

We were just two girls, standing there in our bras, and it felt like the most natural thing …

I put my yellow top back on while she put on a pinkish camp shirt. She told me about adjusting a bra after the top was on, and how to deal with falling straps. God, I’m going to have to deal with bra straps! I told her this was all incredibly exciting, but not sexy-exciting, just new-exciting, and how strange it was that everything seemed so normal; it all seemed so regular, and she said that’s what she was feeling, too.

She changed out of the capris without any warning; one minute she had them on and the next minute she stood there in panties, white with small red flowers. She pulled a black skirt from her closet and wriggled into it, giving me instructions about skirts as she did. Slipping her feet into Dr. Scholl sandals, she bent at the waist and flipped her hair, then straightened and looked in her vanity mirror while she fluffed her hair, and then said, “Let’s go.”

Go? I freaked. But I timidly followed her downstairs; she told me to wait and that she was going to ‘present me to society’ like a debutante. I could smell that dinner was almost ready; her mom was in the living room, and I heard Susan announce, “May I present Miss Alyssa Cunningham!” and I marveled at how nice my new, whole name sounded.

There was a pause where my feet didn’t want to move, and then I carefully walked into the living room and stood with my hands in front of me, holding my fingers.

Mrs. McMillan stared, and then said, “Oh my God, what have you done?” to Susan.

I jumped in and said, “No, it’s not her fault, Mrs. McMillan, it’s mine.” I thought it was a disaster and was ready to run away.

Mrs. McMillan waved her hand in the air and quickly said, “No, no, no, you misunderstand. I was just amazed to finally meet you.”

‘Finally?’

“Oh, let me get a good look at you,” she said as she stood and walked around me. “Amazing! If I didn’t know Alan … but then, none of us really did, did we?”

I was amazed at how accurate her observation was, and also wondered, has it always been that obvious?

And what was that ‘finally’?

Mrs. McMillan ‘A-hemmed’ and gestured to my chest. Susan and I looked at each other, and I quickly said, “I’ve got some … ah … development, and Susan was nice enough to lend me something.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding; you don’t have … does your mother know?”

I told her, well, sort of; but I’d never dressed this much before. I’d never worn a skirt or heels or makeup or … anything like this. Mrs. McMillan couldn’t believe it, just like Susan couldn’t. I told her that she could ask Mom herself, and she thought for a moment, nodded and announced dinner was ready.

I was glad for the release from scrutiny. Susan and I helped set the table, and I felt this wonderful feeling of shared womanhood that I hope is going to be my future. It was really strange—well, everything about this was strange!—but more than putting on a bra or skirt, more than my new name, it was the moment of the simple act of setting the table that I had the absolute realization that I wanted to be a girl for the rest of my life. Maybe it was the combination of things, but the sense that there were three females in the room—and I had no idea how I thought that—was the clincher. It was also bending and stretching while wearing the bra; I could feel it as I reached to put down plates. I liked the support that I hadn’t even known I was missing. And, certainly, things like Mrs. McMillan casually saying, “Put those over there, Alyssa” and Susan saying things like, “Isn’t that a pretty color on her?” that helped put me at ease.

Anyway, it was a delicious pot roast with crisp seasonal vegetables, and ice tea. We helped clear up afterward, too, and I saw that it was nearly eight; Mom would be here in an hour but I decided to do something before I chickened out. I tried her on her cell phone, and she chuckled at my call, telling me that she’d found what she needed and was just going to kill an hour at the bookstore, so of course she could come over now.

I figured I had to show Mom what I looked like before giving the clothes back to Susan.

During dinner, we hadn’t talked about me; we’d talked about the food and some social stuff—Mrs. McMillan was angry at some legislation and wanted to know what we as teenagers thought about it. It just all felt natural and normal and pleasant. So I wasn’t on the spot until after dinner, when I sat down in the living room with Susan and her mother.

Mrs. McMillan wanted to know my plans. I told her I didn’t have any; everything was all so new and I had to talk things over with my mother. She asked how I came about the name Alyssa—she’d been very good calling me Alyssa all through dinner, saying, “Try these carrots, Alyssa,” or “Susan, would you pass Alyssa the gravy boat?” and it was amazing how fast I adapted. There wasn’t any hesitation in my brain—nothing like ‘But I’m Alan!’ bouncing around inside me.

We told her my reasons for the name choice, and she was surprised that this new me was … so new. She said I looked, acted, and moved so completely natural and normal that she figured that I must have been living as a girl for years. Nope, I said, ask Mom. Mrs. McMillan did have a point when she said that traditionally, parents name their children, so before I get used to Alyssa, I should get Mom’s input, and I agreed—other than hoping Mom liked the name, I hadn’t thought about Mrs. McMillan’s point about my parent naming me; everything was moving so fast.

Right on cue, Mom rang the doorbell. Susan and I had decided to do the debutante thing again, so I quickly went into the kitchen. Mom was greeted by Mrs. McMillan, who told her “The kids have something to show you.” I’m sure Mom thought it was related to the History project.

Susan was nervous; I’d told her to do this and it kind of put her on center stage. She said to Mom, “Mrs. Cunningham, you know how things are … changing for Alan?”

There was a long pause as Mom considered her response. I knew that Mom knew that Susan knew; Mom had heard it when Susan quizzed me on the lingerie earlier at our house.

Finally, Mom said, “Yes they are, and we don’t know how things are going to go.”

Susan said, “Well, maybe we all have a clearer idea after today. May I present to you … your daughter, Miss Alyssa Cunningham!”

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was only remembering the red-dress scene from She’s All That that I could find the courage to move.

Heart in throat, stomach in knots, my insides all topsy-turvy, I took the steps out of the kitchen into the living room and stood as I had earlier.

Mom’s hand flew to her open mouth; she’d said, ‘Oh, my God’ when she got the first glimpse of me. She looked me up and down, from my painted toenails in the heeled sandals, my shaved legs, denim miniskirt, a bra under the sleeveless yellow top she’d seen earlier, my hair pinned up in a feminine style, a delicate gold necklace at my throat and subtle makeup.

“Oh God,” she said, and I thought, ‘Funny, that’s what I said’.

Then Mom was rushing off the couch to me, flinging her arms around me in a swooping hug, sobbing, “Oh, my beautiful, oh, my love!” and I was hugging her back, loving her and crying too, but hoping she’d say it, say the word, hoping she’d make it real, make it official.

Then she said it: “Oh, my beautiful girl!” and I hugged her even harder, sobbing.

“Mom,” I cried, “please, is it okay? Can I be your daughter? Please?”

And she said, “Yes, oh yes; my beautiful, darling daughter!” and I just kind of went away for awhile, standing there hugging my mother and loving her so much; so grateful to Susan and her mother, and so wanting that moment to never end.

Mrs. McMillan and Susan had quietly left us, and I sort of came to and we broke the hug when they came in with cups and a pot of tea. I was so emotionally drained and gratefully accepted the box of tissues Susan handed me. Both Mom and I stood, dabbing at our eyes, checking our tissues for mascara and laughing at the similarity of our actions, and then we all sat down to tea.

Susan and I took turns telling about how things had reached this point. I was so grateful to have a friend like Susan, and she said such nice things about me, and of course I retaliated with wonderful things about her. Finally, the subject of my name came up.

Mom surprised me by saying that she loved the name Alyssa. I asked if she had a name picked out for me; she didn’t. I asked if she had a name picked out if I had been born a girl; she laughed and said my father wanted to name me after his mother, Monica.

“I guess even with that show Friends …” Mom trailed off.

Susan and I looked at each other, and Susan said, “Not even Phoebe!” and we both laughed.

Mom said “Alyssa” to herself several times, and smiled warmly. “Alyssa Cunningham is a wonderful name, honey!” and that settled that.

So now I’m Alyssa Cunningham.

So what am I going to do about Alan Cunningham?

End of Part Four

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Five

5/16

Remember the first thing I wrote in yesterday’s entry? About not wanting to be Alan anymore? Now, even more so. Even more so! A lot of stuff happened, but I’ll try to keep it shorter than yesterday’s, which was as long as War and Peace.

I’ll start with last night: Mom and I left Susan and her mom before the male McMillans got home, thank God. And, true to being girlfriends, Susan told me to wear the clothes home; she’d be over the next day and maybe we could do something and maybe she could borrow something of mine.

Yeah, like I have anything much.

On the ride home last night, it really struck me how I’d have to start from Zero and go on from there. Well, maybe not Zero, because I had the nighties and Mom had picked up some things like shorts and tops. But I knew that I wanted to start building Alyssa’s wardrobe, but I didn’t want Mom to go broke doing it.

We were both so happy when we got home that she hugged me before I went to get ready for bed. I washed and moisturized and came to show Mom how I looked in one of my new nighties.

Okay, I chose the short one. I had to!

I loved the way it floated around me, and I loved seeing my bare shoulders in reflections; I just loved being Alyssa, but I knew that reality would crash in.

Not yet, though.

Mom told me she loved me and that Judy would be delighted, and that we’d see how the world could handle two Cunningham women.

I was still chuckling at that as I got into bed, remembering the twinkle in my mother’s eyes when she’d said it. God, I love her, and other than her choice of husband, I want to be just like her. For the meantime, though, I’m overjoyed just to be her daughter—

Wait-wait-wait …

What the hell has happened to me? What is happening to me?

That’s what ran through my head as I lay back, stunned, and stared at the ceiling. I knew that I had been a boy named Alan. Yeah, I was small and unhappy and got teased a lot and then came home and got hit a lot, but I was a small boy named Alan.

Now I was a girl named Alyssa and becoming even more so, every minute. It didn’t seem like a then and now or a before-and-after, like stepping over a state line: Step there, you’re a boy. Step there, and you’re a girl. Instead, there was a flow, a blending, and I couldn’t say where me-as-a-boy ended and me-as-a-girl started—but I knew, absolutely, that I wanted to be a girl. That in some ways I already was a girl. There had been no conscious decision to it, no reasoning. Things … happened, like shopping for tennis things for Mom, and then things were different afterwards. Or maybe it had begun before that? In any case, little by little, change by change, moment by moment … I’d changed, and now I was overjoyed to be my mother’s daughter.

I’d have to talk about this with Mom and with Judy, and maybe someone else, although I didn’t want to. But just as I’d thought the words ‘overjoyed to be my mother’s daughter’, I’d felt the joy. I’d felt the happiness and warmth and the rightness that whether Alan-to-Alyssa had been little steps or a smooth flow or all at once, I was where I should be in my life. I was who I should be.

I felt another surge of happiness at that thought, and fell asleep quickly. When I woke up this morning, there was a confidence in my decision, in my life, that I’d never felt before—that Alan had never felt before—as well as a sense that the world had tilted, had slid; that I was in another dimension, an alternate reality … But it was the proper reality. The world had slid into place. Getting out of bed and feeling the nightie about me—even though it was wrinkled from sleep—made me more than ever determined that Alyssa was what and who I was meant to be. I don’t know how it happened, but it is right.

Judy came over around noon. I was in the denim skirt again, with a blue top and the bra, but the day was heating up so much I didn’t know what to wear, especially after Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t wear things two days in a row.

“So I’ll just have to go topless,” I said.

“Don’t be flippant, young lady,” Mom said, and all three of us cracked up at how automatically she’d responded, and how good it was to hear and say those words.

Judy was amazed at me all over again, and we hugged, and I felt wonderful. Susan called and we talked about her coming over, and she asked if I wanted to come back over to her house, because they have a pool.

Yeah, I thought, but what would I swim in?

She read my mind and told me don’t worry at all. Because they had a pool and she swam all the time, she had lots of swimsuits. I put her on hold and talked with Mom, and this is what we did …

We went shopping!

I can see why women love it; as Alan I never cared, but Alyssa loves to shop—of course, maybe because I don’t have very much right now. But it’s more than just getting stuff; it’s a bonding thing with women, and a learning thing, and so much more than just picking up something to wear.

Mom and Judy were going to some art exhibit in the afternoon, and it didn’t matter what time they got there, so the three of us piled in and went to a mall near Susan’s house, one that I hadn’t been to since a couple of Christmases ago.

On the way over, Judy complimented me up one side and down the other about how well I was ‘adapting’ to being Alyssa (she likes the name, too). Being methodical, she proposed that we go just three places in one department store since we had limited time, and could mega-shop later. First, we’d pick up some extra tops and skirts—‘functional day wear’ she called it—and second we’d pick up a swimsuit, although she admitted that swimsuit shopping can take weeks to do right!

In the Juniors section we picked up skirts in tan, black, and denim; an assortment of tops, and some capris, which I was dying to try for some reason. I think it’s because they’re pants that boys don’t wear. In the shoe department I got a pair of shoes like Mom’s Keds, brown and white flats, new flip-flops, and my own pair of strappy sandals! I was dying to try heels, but knew that would be rushing things. Still …!

On to swimsuits, and I was dazzled and overwhelmed by the selection. On the recommendation of Mom and Judy, I got two, a royal blue with white trim two-piece, and a black maillot. The time waster was trying on three different pairs of the two-piece to find a top and bottom that fit me well. I didn’t even have time to think about what it felt like to wear these things; it was just ‘into the changing room, off with this, on with that, off with that, on with this, back out and repeat’.

Whew!

We started out of the store, and Judy called out as we passed the jewelry cases. She and Mom murmured, and I suddenly found myself the proud owner of a thin gold chain, a bracelet, and the prettiest ring!

I couldn’t believe we’d only taken an hour—I said Judy’s efficient!—and yet I had a pile of things to put away when I got home. More to the immediate point, I had suits, flip-flops (and a towel courtesy of Mom’s detour), and some casual wear for after the swim. I put everything I’d need in one bag as we drove to the McMillans’ house.

Susan and I assumed it would be just the two of us lounging by the pool.

We were very wrong.

They dropped me off at two; Mrs. McMillan was going to take me home later. The day was getting summery hot and I thought the pool would be great. I should have realized things weren’t going to be so peaceful when I noticed all the cars parked on the street. Maybe someone on the block’s having a party, I thought in passing. Before I rang the bell, Susan opened the door. She was wearing a day-glow orange bikini top and had a towel wrapped around her waist.

The first thing she did was apologize; she said the thing wrong with having only one pool for two kids is that each kid might have separate plans for it. Susan said that just after we’d talked, her older brother Patrick had told her he’d invited ‘a few friends’ to use the pool this afternoon. Susan had tried calling me to alert me or cancel, but I was out shopping with Mom and Judy and she didn’t know our cell phone numbers.

So the pool deck was filled with teenage boys, a situation that would not be unbearable for a typical teenage girl, but might stress me out. But that wasn’t the worst … some of Patrick’s friends brought girls, including Amanda Joyner and some other girls from our class! Right now by the pool, there were three girls and maybe six guys who all knew Alan—and maybe more were arriving, because guys always invited guys who brought their guy friends along. And guys would bring girls, and the chances of people being there who knew Alan Cunningham skyrocketed.

I couldn’t very well ask Mrs. McMillan to take me home right now (Mr. McMillan was nowhere in sight). I couldn’t very well hide in Susan’s room all day. I mean, I could, but the other girls would probably come in and discover me. I couldn’t very well go out to the pool like I was a real girl, with the kids I knew from school.

Or could I?

I was thinking all of this while Susan walked me up to her room. I could hear the buzz from outside; it was inviting and terrifying all at once. Susan kept apologizing; I kept telling her to forget it. We got to her room (with a locking door, because of her brother) and Susan leaned against the door after locking it, and asked what I wanted to do.

My options came down to call Mom, call a cab, beg a ride from the McMillans, hide, run away, and what?

Face it. Ride it out. Go among ‘em.

Geez.

Well, Susan had asked what I wanted to do … and I knew, instantly: I wanted to be me. I want to be me, from now on. I was going to do it!

God help me!

I told Susan that she’d invited Alyssa over to go swimming, so … Susan and Alyssa were going swimming!

She jumped up and hugged me, and then asked what I was going to wear. I showed her my suits, which she said were very cool, and although I don’t think I have the curves for it, Susan was pushing for me to wear the two-piece. I tried it on—carefully making sure I was better tucked than ever before—and I reluctantly agreed with her (although my tummy is nice and flat from exercising). Susan said it really qualified as a bikini, the way it looked on me.

Incredible! I’m wearing a bikini—and it’s mine—and Susan says I look good in it!

There was an awkward moment when she looked at my chest. I’m not being evasive and refusing to say ‘boobs’; she looked there, of course, but also at the sides of the top and frowned.

“Um … Alyssa? You need to, um … well, some girls I know call it ‘fluff’. You need to fluff yourself.”

I had a glimmer of what she might mean, but teased her in a haughty voice. “I only fluff myself on alternate Tuesdays!”

Susan giggled. “You nut! No, I mean, um …”

“Something involving my boobs,” I said, even as I marveled at how easy it had been to say the word.

To test it further, I said, “Fluffing is doing something with my breasts?”

A thrill went through me; it was the first time I’d said ‘my breasts’ and it was right and it was proper and—and what did she want to do?

Susan was tentatively reaching her hands out towards me. “Um … Since you’re new to, well, everything … is it okay if I help?”

“Fluff away,” I grinned, even as I was almost shaking with nerves.

She locked eyes with me, then slowly reached into one cup and slid her hand under my breast and pulled it up and in, then tightened the strap slightly. I nodded and she did the other side, faster.

“Properly fluffed, are we?” I teased again.

“Yeah. No—we aren’t. Watch so you’ll know what to do next time,” she said, and quickly scooped her breasts to the top of her bikini cups and had much more cleavage than before.

So that’s how it’s done!

“Check it out,” she nodded to her mirror.

Omigod! I could see the round tops of my boobs above my bikini top! I had cleavage!

I was shocked by this but she just nodded—job done—and all that, and turned to her vanity. Fortunately, she’s a swimming pro, so she had lots of waterproof makeup. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to share mascara, but she had this waterproof kind, and a kind of waterproof blush, and some combination lip gloss and sunblock, and then a spray sunblock on top of everything else. Then she tossed a tube of sunblock in a tote bag; she said if we got lucky, we could have it applied later by cute boys—a thought that thrilled me and made me choke both at the same time. She also asked what to do about Amanda and anybody else I knew.

Geez again.

I did have to face them at school, and even if I ran away right now, I didn’t think there would be any way to get the Alyssa-genie back in the bottle. Trying to deal with my new femininity would be extra-hard at school. It had to be now. So, a cover story …

“Well, it’s a medical thing. You could say …” I trailed off, then made up my mind. “Just tell ‘em you’re helping me become the girl I really am,” I said.

God bless her; Susan just nodded and said, “And always was. Cool.”

I fluffed my hair up and out; it now fans out way past my shoulders. Armed with flip-flops, towel, tote (from Susan), sunglasses, and magazines (CosmoGirl for me, TeenVogue for Susan) we headed out.

It was a madhouse; loud rock from a boom box down by the deep end, guys jumping and screaming off the diving board, guys walking around with cans of soda pretending they were beer (and maybe some of them were), and a couple of guys sitting with girls. The McMillans have a huge backyard; to the side of the pool is a gazebo, with a little pool house behind that. Grass all around.

Susan led the way; guys stopped and stared, some whistled, and I was so glad I had sunglasses, because I’m sure my eyes would have shown my terror! Susan walked up to Patrick, pointed to some grass in the sun, and told him to keep his goons away from us. Patrick nodded, belched and his buddies cracked up. Susan did the cutest nose-in-the-air turn, all snooty, and I followed her to the patch of sunlit grass.

We laid out the towels and stuff, and I watched how she got down by swiveling with her knees together and lowering gracefully. I copied her, just a little bit behind her, and hopefully it looked like I’d been sitting down in a bikini all of my life.

Once we were set, I whispered, “Are we gonna swim?” and she said, “In time.”

I had to agree with her, actually; I’d probably look like a drowned rat.

Of course, Amanda Joyner came over with a kind of snippy way of asking, “And so who’s your friend?”

Susan leaned up on one elbow and told Amanda to bend down. Amanda’s eyes widened as she was told about how my ‘endocrinological imbalance’ was permanent, and I was not becoming a girl; my body was finally allowing me to be the girl I always was. Way to go, Susan!

Amanda’s not a bad sort; she was just so amazed at it all that she forgot to be snippy and said, “That must be so hard for you—and so weird!” and I agreed it was, and then the awkward moment passed, she sat down next to me and somehow I knew—in Amanda’s mind I was now a girl. Even better, I’d been reclassified as always having been a girl.

I wondered, God, is it all going to be that easy?

Susan told Amanda not to say anything to the other girls; they didn’t go to our school and wouldn’t know Alan. As far as they were concerned, I was Susan’s friend and probably competition for the boys’ attention. Amanda agreed, but every so often she’d point out this guy or that guy and we’d all do the girly giggle thing, looking but not looking.

I was getting into it, playing along, when I realized that one of the cute guys Amanda pointed to was Scotty.

What the hell was Scotty doing here?

Only it was a Scotty I almost didn’t recognize. For one thing, familiarity blinded me, I’m sure, but over the months I had noticed that he seemed like he was getting in better shape. Since I didn’t have PE anymore, or seen him in the showers, I didn’t know just how much his body had been changing, even as mine was—well, not the same way, of course—and now … now he looked like the other guys. And better than some; he was a good-looking guy, an actual dude. Not fat little Scotty anymore; I bet he’s Scott now. When did this happen? Was I that wrapped up in my own life that I missed it?

Susan told me that Scott had helped Patrick on a test or report or something, and Patrick invited him. She looked at me over the top of her sunglasses and asked what I wanted to do?

“Disappear,” I said.

Amanda was kind of oblivious and was getting impatient and bouncy, and finally got up to walk towards the other girls (who were talking with some guys) when all of a sudden some guy swooped her up and dumped her in the pool! She shrieked going in and came up spouting water and bawling out the guy who’d dunked her.

“See how it’s done?” Susan asked. “Now watch what’s next—the hair move.”

Sure enough; just as Susan said that, Amanda bent at the knees and submerged, then came up with her face up, her hair streaming behind her. Then she reached up with both hands and kneaded the water out of her hair.

“And push the chest out—good, good,” Susan commented as Amanda did it. Susan giggled. “She probably hooked half-a-dozen guys with that toss. Look,” she nodded around the pool and sure enough; I could see at least six or seven guys staring hungrily at Amanda—and I also saw daggers from some girls.

I had no idea it was so much a formula, so predictable. I realized—again—how little I know, and was again grateful that I had such a knowledgeable and fun mentor as Susan.

Susan asked if I was ready to play. I stammered something, and she said we’d go get drinks and maybe make it back. And if I hit the water, she said, grab my top and keep it down!

I was so nervous that I forgot everything, except to follow Susan’s lead. We got up with a reverse of the knee-roll thing, and walked towards the house. I found that I unconsciously did the thing girls do with their fingers, sliding them under the bottom edge of their swimsuit and pulling it down.

Suddenly, the world shifted in an instant. I had the sense of falling sideways and then rising in the air, but Susan and I had been swept up by the Benson brothers, two blond giants with a future in pro football. Susan started her shriek, kicking her legs, so I joined her, as the two guys tossed us in.

I remembered to grab hold of the bottom of my top; if I hadn’t, it might very well have been knocked up by the force of the splash. I held it in place as I emerged, thinking quickly, what was the routine? Oh yeah, spout water, hair streaming down the face, and yell at them. I did; Susan did, and the Bensons were laughing and high-fiving each other, shouting, “Doubles!”

The next bit was to bend underwater and come up face first, my hair streaming. Then the biggie—arms up, hands to the back of the head to pull the hair back. I came up and was in my stretch, thinking that even my small boobs looked bigger this way. I could see (without appearing to notice) more than half-a-dozen guys staring at us. The Bensons had tossed Susan ten feet away from me, and she was walking toward me, a question on her face. I just smiled, and she smiled back and knew I was okay, but she was nearby if I needed her. Then I heard an “A-hem” behind me.

And, of course, it was Scotty, so there I was, my arms raised behind my head, my boobs sticking out, water dripping from my waterproof, mascaraed lashes, and all I could think was, ‘I hope I look good’. His face was doing all sorts of things; I think he guessed it was me but hadn’t committed to it.

Either way, he was diplomatic and said, “I gotta apologize for them. Not all guys do that,” meaning the pool toss. Part of me realized that, yeah, guys do it and girls let it be done and it’s all part of the flirting game, and I further realized that he didn’t know that, and it dawned on me that he’d only just joined this kind of crowd so it was all new to him—as it was to me, but I had Susan coaching me.

All this flashed in my head in an instant. All I could say was, “It wasn’t so bad, it was pretty hot out and we needed to cool off.”

Of course, my voice further confused him. Judy has commented occasionally that when I’m with Mom and her, my speech pattern changes to more feminine, softer and more musical, and that’s how I was talking. I guess it was also my concentrated time with Susan and Amanda.

Scotty said, “You’re … uh … do you know Alan Cunningham?”

I was already in a pool, but it was time to dive into the deep end …

I swallowed my lump of fear and said, “Yes, I do; I used to be him.”

Scotty’s mouth dropped, but it also had a strange smile to it. “Alan?”

“No,” I said, “Alyssa.” I swallowed again. “Hi, Scotty.”

He did the typical stunned, “Wha … how …?”

I stood closer to him and said quietly, “The endocrine problem I had earlier? That medical thing? It’s kind of sorted out now.”

I knew he wanted—and deserved—more information, but this was definitely not the place. I also knew that by standing closer to him, he couldn’t help but see my boobs up close. My cleavage! Then one of the Bensons—I think it was the one who tossed me—jumped in screaming, “Cannonball!” and splashed us both, to a roar from the crowd. Susan waded over and said, “Hi, Scotty. Let’s get those drinks, Alyssa.”

I smiled at the bewildered Scotty as Susan and I waded out with that left-hip-forward, right-hip-forward way you have to walk in pools. We got out—to wolf whistles and a pouty look from one of the girls—only to see Amanda get tossed in again, and we were temporarily forgotten. We crossed our arms under our chests and quick-stepped to the pool house refrigerator. Inside were a few cans of Diet Pepsi left. Susan said with some glee, “Beer’s gone—Dad’s gonna kill Patrick!”

We were standing to the side of the pool house, sipping our Pepsis, when Scotty came up to us. I must say, out of the water and only wearing jams, he looked surprisingly muscular. He was all embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. Susan offered him a Pepsi, which he took gratefully because it gave him something to do, I think.

I decided to grab the bull by the horns. I told him that he was lucky; this was the world premiere of Alyssa Cunningham. He was astounded. I told him I’d been out in public over the last few weeks with Mom and Judy, and hanging out with Susan, but this was the first time with other kids that might have known Alan.

He asked, “So is this … is this temporary or permanent? And what are you going to do?”

I told him, “This is me, now and forever. Everything makes sense now, and I’m far happier in the short time since I’ve become Alyssa, than in all my years as Alan.” I sighed and asked him, “Scotty, isn’t your life better now that you got in shape?”

I felt a catch in my breathing and my heart when I thought about him being in shape.

Scotty turned and looked at the pool and admitted he never would have been here if it weren’t for losing the weight. And, yeah, he felt better all around.

He turned back and asked again. “So what are you going to do?”

I told him, “About school, I don’t know. About life, well, it’s going to be as a girl. Because that’s what I really am.”

Susan, God bless her, nodded and said, “Scotty, I’ve known Alan all of his life. I’ve known Alyssa almost all of her life, and I know boys from girls. This is my friend Alyssa, and she’s a girl, one-hundred-percent, absolutely.”

I could have hugged her right then. Scotty nodded at what she’d said, and said that I was right; everything made sense now. Then the million dollar question: he asked, “But what about guys?”

I told him, “I don’t know; I’ll have to work it out. The old me says no way, but the new me says … to forget the old me. So we’ll see. Everything is still changing with me; to get all lyrical about it, I’m on a journey and I’m only part-way there yet, wherever ‘there’ is.”

He nodded again, and said, “Well, for what it’s worth … you look great. You look fantastic …” and then he blushed and looked down at his drink.

I thanked him and looked at Susan, who nodded and said it was time to go, and we headed back to the grass and retrieved our things. We walked into the house—I caught a glimpse of Scotty watching me—and Susan asked if I wanted first shower or second. I chose second because, well, I didn’t want to get out of my bikini so quickly.

And while she was showering … well, I did spend some time checking myself out in her full-length mirror. It showed a girl, pure and simple. Creamy skin, light brown hair darkened by water but hanging past her shoulders, green eyes and a cute face—not babyish, but sweet. Small boobs, yeah; but curvy and, I had to admit, pretty.

I was still trying to grasp all of this when Susan came out of her bathroom tucking in a towel at her boobs, and told me there was another towel and robe. I went in and reluctantly peeled off my bikini—I loved it so much now!—stepped in, rinsed the bikini and then washed, shampooed and rinsed. I wrapped the towel around my chest and went into her bedroom; she was brushing her hair. I thanked her again for everything and she waved it away.

“Just girlfriend stuff; no biggie,” she said.

Her face got serious and she asked if she could ask me a hugely personal question. I had some idea what it might be, and said go ahead. She asked what I did with … and pointed below my waist. I decided to show her; just girlfriend stuff, right?

I turned my back, did a quick tuck and turned back. I lowered the towel. Her eyes grew wide when she saw what looked like a typical girl’s mound. She said something like, “But how …” and I told her about tucking. I didn’t tell her about the testicles, but she guessed. She awkwardly asked about my penis. I’d gotten smaller in the last month or so, and so when I relaxed and widened my legs, there was this little droopy blob hanging between my legs. I quickly tucked it back. She asked if I was going to have surgery, and I smiled and said, “As soon as possible.”

Since I’d shown her my most embarrassing, revealing part, it seemed silly to be modest with her anymore, so I let the towel go to the floor, rummaged around in my bag and stepped into a pair of panties. “Looks perfectly natural!” Susan said, about how I looked in my panties, and I felt a rush of happiness. I put on a bra—a new one for me—and pulled on a white silk-like cami. I wiggled into some white capris that rode low on my hips and finished with a peach camp shirt hanging open. I began brushing my hair.

Susan, meanwhile, had slipped on a yellow printed sundress, and I was instantly envious—she looked so good in it; I wanted one—or more!

I had an idea; I called Mom who said it was okay for Susan to come over for dinner if it was okay with her folks. She went down to ask her Mom; it was fine with her—she’d have more than enough to handle with Patrick’s party winding down. I gathered up my stuff, Susan grabbed a bag, and we went out to the front lawn to wait for Mom.

Scotty came over; he’d dressed (jeans and t-shirt) and was already out front. We had this awkward moment again, and then Susan snapped her fingers and said she’d forgotten something, and ran indoors.

Darn her! Now I was alone with him!

But I also knew she’d done it on purpose, and I loved her for it.

The awkwardness built, until Scotty said, “So, are you going back to school?”

I said, “Well, yeah. State law and all that.”

He said, “I mean, what are you gonna wear?”

I knew what he meant, and decided to go for the truth. “I don’t know,” I told him, “I’m just playing it by ear. Now that you’ve brought it up, I’m terrified of getting laughed at or beat up. And I have no idea what the Administration’s going to do. But I don’t want to be Alan anymore.” I chuckled ruefully. “I think I’ve changed too much to pretend to be Alan anymore.”

He said, “That’s for sure; you don’t look anything like a boy.”

I smiled and probably blushed; and I got a warm buzz hearing that. I thanked him, but then tried to wave it away.

“Anyway, it’s for the doctors to decide, really. I’m just …” I kind of lost it and started blabbing. “God, Scotty, I know I don’t look anything like a boy, and I don’t feel anything like one, either. I feel like I’ve found myself, or I’ve come home, or something like that. It’s hard to explain, but the bottom line is I just want to fully live my life as a girl. As Alyssa.”

“By the way,” he smiled, “it’s a beautiful name, and it suits you.”

I thanked him again, and I know I blushed this time!

Susan came back out, discreetly, as Mom pulled up. Scotty said, “Hello, Mrs. Cunningham” and we all laughed a bit because it sounded like something from a rerun of Happy Days. We said goodbye and got in the car; as we pulled out, Mom said she couldn’t get over how Scotty had changed; he was almost a hunk, now!

“Not almost,” Susan chuckled, and nudged me with a twinkle in her eye.

And I’m going to make him my hunk!

End of Part Five

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Six

So that’s where I am, Dear Diary, here at the end of May, at the end of Spring, when things bud and blossom—interesting that both words are used to describe breast development!

Judy joined us for dinner, and the four of us had a great time. Susan told them about the pool party, and they shared stories about their own teenage girlhoods, and we laughed a lot. I told them about Scotty, and they all went, “Ho-ho!” and so that cat’s out of the bag.

“I have an announcement,” I said at this point. “I think we all pretty much know that there’s no Alan left; I want to be … No, not ‘want to be’,” I shook my head. With more confidence, I said, “I am Alyssa from now on.”

I heard Susan mutter, “Pretty much always was …”

I had to hug her for that, and my announcement earned me a hug from everyone and a special kiss from Mom. Then it was time to get practical.

We discussed what to do about school, and it was really pretty simple. Judy, as my doctor, would write a letter to the principal and I would be excused from the remainder of the semester—a whole three weeks. She said she’d done it before, once at my school and twice at a school across town, and that principals were usually very understanding. I asked the reason for the excuses, wondering if they were like me. She said once, at another school, it was a girl becoming a boy.

Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing; we’d had the exact same thought—who’d want to do that? But I sobered up immediately; I know first-hand that if your body’s not right, nothing’s right. Judy said the other excuses were asthma and a hernia operation. The point is, she said, some people blow out of school early to get a head start on vacation, and schools don’t like that. It’s far easier to get your work finished early and get a good grade when there’s a medical excuse.

So, we’ll call for the soonest possible appointment with the principal first thing in the morning, Mom will hand him the letter, and if all goes well, that should do it. I may or may not have to be there, depending on what the principal says when we set up the appointment.

We debated whether I should go dressed in super-feminine clothes, in a pretty dress, makeup and jewelry, or go in boy clothes and look terribly out of place. Susan suggested—rightly, I think—that I just go dressed like a regular schoolgirl. The point for the excuse was not really about me, other than my safety from being killed by homophobes. The point that would carry the most weight with the administration was that the last weeks of school would be disrupted, while everybody else buzzed about my change. Judy said she was right, and she knew our principal; it should work out.

That takes care of school, at least this semester. Now, about the rest of my life …

Judy said she can enter me in a program at the hospital. The downside is that I’d be part of the research, so I’d have to be willing to be interviewed constantly, about the most personal and embarrassing details of my transition—because as far as she is concerned, I am officially ‘transitioning’ to female.

Yay!

Anyway, the upside of the program is that it’s a sort of fast-track for treatment if I’m approved (and she sees no reason why I wouldn’t be), leading all the way up to the surgery when I’m eighteen. I fit the criteria, and we’ll try to enroll me into the program this week, so I guess that’s our second stop once school is sorted out.

Judy also said that acceptance in the program greatly helps the documentation problem, something Mom and I hadn’t even thought of. Things like ID, birth certificate, insurance papers, and all the rest can be a nightmare if we try to do it by ourselves; Judy said that’s part of the routine for the hospital, so that’s a big load off our minds—a load that we didn’t even know we had!

The documentation issue also touched on school, for next year, I mean. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to attend as a girl, but that would be a problem at my school, so I’ll have to go somewhere else. That bummed out Susan, but Judy said we probably wouldn’t have to move—nobody except Susan and Scotty knew where Alan lived—so we could still see each other.

We all figured it would work out better if I did my last year of middle school somewhere else, then entered the same high school I would have, anyway. We would have the legal name change, and enough students would have forgotten about Alan Cunningham by that time—not that anybody really knows me, anyway, besides Susan, Amanda, and Scotty. There’s also the possibility of going to another school, maybe a private one if we can afford it. I thought that would be best—except for the money, of course—because there’d be no chance of anybody knowing Alan, and I could see Susan and Amanda and maybe Natalie and I’d just be another girl from another school, hanging with them at the mall …

Susan reached over and squeezed my hand. “Soon, girlfriend. Soon!”

Then it was time to get Susan back home. Mom produced the freshly laundered skirt, sandals, bra (a new one to replace the loaner), and necklace that Susan had loaned me. Hugs all around, and then Judy volunteered to do the dishes while Mom and I took her home.

On the way to the McMillans, I told Susan again how much I valued her as a friend, and how eternally grateful I am to her. Mom said she was, too, and said we could never repay our debt to her. Susan said she’d already been repaid, because now she had a great girlfriend. I got tears thinking about how lucky I am.

When we got home, I was tired, I was wired, I was scared, I was blissful. Starting tomorrow, my life will change. For the better, I am absolutely sure. And it will be painful, in a lot of ways—of that I am sure, as well.

But before I move forward—the only direction open to me—I had to settle something.

We got home and Mom and Judy did their loving hug and kiss and regarded me fondly. I smiled.

“Tea, anyone?” I asked lightly.

“Oh, honey, it’s too late, I think …” Mom said, but trailed off as she saw my face.

Judy picked up on it, too. “I’ll get it. Rose Hips?”

We all agreed; tea was made, we sat. We sipped. We set cups down.

I folded my hands and studied my fingers, the cute polish, and then looked at the two women.

“You did this to me, didn’t you?”

The looks on their faces were not guilt, not shame, but more like … more like I’d passed some sort of test.

Huh?

Judy turned to Mom. “Sweetheart … me or you?”

“I’ll start. I’ll get bogged down, and you’ll save me.”

“Of course,” Judy smiled.

Mom laced her fingers with Judy. “You always do.”

I’d already long ago appreciated that Judy saved Mom—saved us—so I sat quietly. Took a sip and waited.

Mom said, “Easiest to start with his death, isn’t it? You were so angry and so unhappy and you’d been so unhappy for so long—we both had, living with him—but it was different for you. I’m going to fall back on a cliché, but it’s true nonetheless. A mother can tell. And I’m going to speak in the third person. I certainly knew about Alan’s size, and Alan’s … delicacy, and Alan’s slim-to-none chances of anything changing. And it was tearing me up.”

She shook slightly; Judy put her other hand on their clasped hands and Mom quieted and went on.

“I met Judy and my life changed, improved, started …” She looked at Judy and smiled with such love. “And it seemed that even though I’d been living in a dark hell, I could be pulled up into the light. And, oh, Alyssa! Those sessions helped me so much!”

Mom’s face lit up at the memory and I had a sudden thought.

“Sessions … you mean you were seeing Judy as a patient? I mean, she was your doctor? Before you two …” I wiggled my finger between them.

“No,” Judy said solemnly, shaking her head. “When I met your mother, I …” She glanced at Mom, who happily squeezed Judy’s hands. Judy nodded. “I had always been one-hundred-percent heterosexual. Never had a gay thought, even with the pretend-kisses with a girl in middle school. I outgrew it and right into boys. I was a straight woman, attracted to men and always had been. I dated them and … had relations with them, and—”

“Sorry!” I giggled. I’d rolled my eyes automatically at how delicate she was trying to be.

Judy chuckled. “No; I understand. You’re old enough that …” She shrugged. “I dated several men, was serious about a few, had sex with them and enjoyed it immensely.”

She looked at me for a moment to see how I took it; it was fine to me and understandable. I gave her a small smile and a nod.

She went on. “I was even engaged. For nearly two years. An orthopedic surgeon in Chicago; he broke it off when he …”

I saw Mom squeeze her hand; she obviously knew this story and its pain for Judy.

Judy swallowed. “He was sleeping with one of his nurses. Had been for most of our engagement, and figured he’d continue after we were married. I confronted him and he … chose to fool around, so he said the engagement was off.”

She stopped there and I gave her the silence her memory seemed to need.

Mom said, “He was a fool but I’m damned glad for it. Otherwise, she might not have moved here and we might not have met.”

Judy leaned over and they kissed softly, and Judy whispered something in Mom’s ear and she nodded. Judy sat back and said, “I don’t hate men. I was mad at Steve but then I realized I was really mad at myself for not seeing it, the long lunches, the phone calls.” She shrugged. “I was a fool, too. But, yes, I moved here for a fresh start and …” She smiled at Mom. “A fresh start.”

“The point is, honey,” Mom said, “that Judy isn’t a man-hater.” She gave a little wicked smile to Judy. “Except for Steve, maybe!”

Judy nodded and said, “The only thing I can say is that when I met your mother … when we met, it was like we were two tuning forks vibrating in tune, identically. Resonating. It didn’t matter what the sex or gender was, between us, there was only us. But I am professional, and it would be unethical to treat your mother because of my personal feelings for her.”

“Judy referred me to two doctors, including a therapist. I went for months.”

I’d never had an inkling that Mom had been in therapy.

Mom waved her free hand. “Oh, I was in terrible shape, on the edge of malnutrition—stress can play havoc with your system—and there were some imbalances that had to be taken care of, but the main thing was when I realized that love is love, and I loved Judy. And somewhere in all that, learning to deal with gender roles and sex roles and suddenly being a lesbian after years as a straight woman, I—”

This time I raised a hand. “Mom? Judy? As far as I’m concerned—from everything I’ve seen and heard and felt from you two—I think that neither of you ‘discovered you were a lesbian’, or ‘suddenly became a lesbian’ or anything like that. I don’t think you’re lesbians.”

Judy and Mom looked at each other with a slight frown. Judy went for humor. “Well … I’m kinda pretty sure we are.”

Mom smiled and nodded. “It took a lot of talks between us, but we accept that we’re lesbians.”

I shook my head. “No, not like the usual. Neither of you is attracted to women. You’re attracted to each other. Outside of Mom, Judy, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women. Outside of Judy, Mom, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women, either. You’re probably not interested in sex with men, but not because they’re men, but because that would be betrayal of your true love—each other.”

They stared at me.

Mom said, “You’re a wonder! How’d you get to … how’d you get to be so smart?”

Judy said, “When she discovered herself. When she stopped hiding.”

I blushed slightly under their beaming gazes, covered with a sip of tea, and set it down.

“Yes, about that,” I began. “When I ‘discovered’ myself. That brings me to my first question. You did this to me, correct?”

I gestured to show my girlish body and clothing.

Mom was shaking her head, opening her mouth to speak, but Judy squeezed her hand and Mom stopped.

Judy said, “I will answer that, and fully, but you must let me tell it in my own way. Because, Alyssa, the answer, right now without any explanation, is no. And yes. And it’s also yes, and no.” She reached to take a sip, the edge of her lips twitching slightly. When she’d swallowed, she said, “So, may I tell you the answer?”

I couldn’t resist. “Yes. And no. And no and yes.”

Fortunately, they chuckled and it cleared the air. To my surprise, Mom disengaged herself from Judy and moved to the arm of the couch.

“Honey, I got the feeling it looked like we were ganging up on you. This is the medical part of things, Judy’s got the floor, so I’m a spectator.”

“Mom, I know you love Judy. You’re a couple! Geez, go ahead and sit with your sweetie!”

They looked at each other with such love but Mom said, “Nope. Gonna stay here. Judy has the floor.”

Judy took another sip of tea, set her cup down, and her demeanor shifted slightly. I realized it was her professional posture; I’d seen it enough in her office.

“When you first came to me, I had you undergo a complete physical. You, too—” She broke off and glanced at Mom and back to me. “I’m going to use Alan in the third person, too, and male pronouns where they’re needed.”

I nodded and she started again.

“Your mother’s doctor had already transmitted her records to me, and Alan also showed the near-malnutrition and similar deficiencies. That’s not unusual in the same family with the same living conditions. But there were complications with Alan; his immune system was sluggish, and there were disturbing imbalances in his endocrine system. That was never a cover story, but quantifiable medical truth, and it’s all in your records. I sent the tests out to two different labs and they came back with identical results. Then I sent the results to two doctors, an endocrinologist and a specialist in pituitary disorders; I also sent one to my old professor at Columbia. They all came back the same.”

“Judy discussed this with me before she contacted all these people,” Mom said. “She showed me the files before she sent them and our names were removed. So please don’t worry about your privacy; the files had you down as an anonymous patient. And then she showed me the … “

She glanced at Judy and back to me. “She showed me the results, too.”

“What was that look?” I asked, pointing back-and-forth between them.

Mom sighed. “First, I want to say that they did all come back with the same results, the same predictions, the same … future for you. For Alan.”

She let me think about that; I nodded and she went on.

“That look was because … well, Judy will tell you in medical terms, but as your mother, it was all just so … depressing.”

Judy gave her a look of sympathy and then resumed her clinical speech. “The doctors were unanimous in their diagnoses and prognoses. They agreed—without knowing about the others—that the standard procedure would be a major improvement in diet, rigorous exercise and weight training, a strict and severe regimen of vitamin and mineral supplements, and an aggressive, massive hormone therapy. Male hormone therapy.”

“Boost the testosterone, you mean,” I said.

She nodded. “Exactly. But even in … let’s say ‘normal’ here, meaning un-stressed, relatively placid individuals, alright? Even in normal patients, testosterone therapy has a whole bagful of nasty side effects. Acne, unusual bodily hair growth, an unpleasant skin aroma and others—and rage. We’ve all heard of ‘roid rage, from steroid abuse. An extremely unpleasant and potentially dangerous side effect. Not just a danger from getting into fights, but serious degradation on other bodily systems.”

“I’ve read something about that,” I nodded. “One of the science magazines, I think.”

Judy nodded again. “Quite well documented. So … the patient presented with symptoms indicating the necessity of massive testosterone increase—but the patient already exhibited rage.” Judy fixed me with a direct look. “You were twisted with hatred. Alan was, I mean. Seething, boiling, erupting all too often. In agony.”

Mom nodded slowly and solemnly agreeing. “I was too, sweetheart.”

Automatically, I wanted to defend myself. “No, I …” But they were right. I gave it up and nodded, too. “Yeah. I was pretty messed up.”

“And not through your fault, either,” Judy said, “which adds injustice to your anger and it just gets toxic. And then to think about adding more testosterone, already known to increase rage? Unthinkable.”

“So you … what? Gave me female hormones?”

Mom said, “I’ll take over for a moment, then Judy can get medical again. Honey, for years I’ve known there was somebody in Alan. For years. Quite frankly, I thought Alan was gay. I remember thinking ‘If only his father could be out of his life and he could discover himself without fear’. But I knew that inside the mask you presented to the world was somebody else. Judy?”

Judy said, “I’m licensed in hypnotherapy as part of the holistic training I’ve undergone. I’m not a practicing psychiatrist, though; I’m an M.D., but with extensive psychological training. So that first time … I noticed you slipping into sleep.” She chuckled. “At first I wondered, am I that boring?”

“No, no; it wasn’t that,” I said automatically, but what had it been? Wait … “So you didn’t hypnotize me?”

“No, I truly didn’t. I was trying to explain how we’d address your under-nutrition and I realized that you’d gone under, all by yourself.”

“I really just fell asleep? All on my own?”

“Yes, but there’s sleep and there’s sleep, and yours was closer to a trance state rather than just dozing off—there’s an odd calm that’s recognizable. I had not tried to induce a trance but you were very nearly there already, all by yourself. There’s clinical evidence that in some cases of anxiety, the subconscious mind wants to unburden itself; it wants to relieve the stress. I did not perform any hypnotic procedure …” She chuckled at the memory. “I never even had any reason to, at that point. And I certainly never told you that I was a hypnotherapist, and my certification isn’t on the wall of my office.”

“I certainly hadn’t told you,” Mom said. “I didn’t know she even did hypnotherapy until she called me.”

“Right; because you’d gone to a different doctor and therapist,” I nodded, putting the pieces together.

“That’s right; she did,” Judy nodded with me. “So there you were, suddenly in a trance sleep induced by yourself, not by me. I was flattered that you felt comfortable enough, safe enough, with me to relax,” she smiled. “You see, subconsciously, the part of your mind that wasn’t boiling with anger was trying to find a release, a safe place to vent. It happened to be in my office; if I hadn’t been able to recognize the nature of your sleep, you would have woken a bit refreshed just from your mind taking a respite, a mini-vacation of sorts, from your anger.”

“You were so angry, sweetheart,” Mom murmured, almost to herself. “All the time, just simmering.”

Judy said, “But since I am licensed, I immediately called your mother and explained the situation. She gave her approval for me to truly induce a trance state, so I put you under deeper, to at least give you some chance to ease your anger and guilt.”

“Guilt?” I asked.

“Guilt,” she nodded firmly. “The natural guilt of a child who knows he’s supposed to love his father, but can’t. It can be devastating, and when coupled with your anger, and sense of injustice … as I said, toxic. So if I could put you under, it would give you some respite, give your system—that was so tightly coiled with rage—a bit of ‘down time’, and I’d start giving you tools to let your subconscious ease the pressure.”

Mom said, “You do know she couldn’t make you do something you didn’t want to do, right? You know that about hypnosis?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “Never was sure if it was true.”

“It’s mostly true,” Judy said, “and I’ll explain the mostly part in your particular case.” Another sip and she was ready to go. “The first time you went under and I called your mother, we agreed to try relaxing and calming suggestions. That was all; just to give you that down time from anger.”

“It worked; I felt great,” I nodded. “Well, better, anyway.”

She nodded. “And then, during your second session, you relaxed even further than your first, and everything changed. Everything. Your physicality, how you held yourself in your chair. Your gestures. Your speech patterns. You didn’t have a name but you were …” She trailed off and frowned. “I’m going to change what I was going to say. I was going to say, you relaxed and you were Alyssa. But that’s not accurate, because the girl on the couch—and make no mistake about it; that was a girl on my couch!—was nowhere as fully-formed as you are now. So I’ve got a new name for that time. Back to what I was saying, everything changed. You were no longer Alan; you were proto-Alyssa. Unformed at that point and yet I discovered she’d always been there. I did some regression with you and no matter how far back we went, proto-Alyssa was still there.”

She stopped there, looking at me to see if I believed her or not. My face must have shown ‘or not’, so she gave proof.

“Do you remember the time you tried to ride the bike?”

I shuddered at the memory. My father had obtained a two-wheeled bike somewhere, grumping about ‘Time for him to learn to be a regular boy’ and picking me up and setting me on the seat. That should have clued him in—the damn bike was too big for me! But there was no girl involved …

Judy said, “Proto-Alyssa was frightened to death. Inside, she was shrieking, ‘Daddy, no!’”

I shook my head. “I never called him ‘Daddy’. He got really upset when I did when I was really little, so he always had to be ‘Dad’.”

“She’s right,” Mom said, looking guilty and angry. “He thought it was more manly.”

Judy’s look to me was direct. “There, on my couch, you—as a little girl on that bike—screamed, ‘Daddy, no!’ quite loudly, with tears and shaking. It took me a bit to calm you.”

The implications of Judy’s story sank in, because I knew I’d never told that story to her, and Mom had not been home that day—she was working while he was trying to get me to ride this huge bike and …

I gasped. “I just remembered! He had a drink in one hand!”

“Usually,” Mom said bitterly.

“No! I mean, I never remembered it before, but I can see it clear as day! I remember the smell, too! He spilled some, and licked his hand!”

Judy said, “I think it’s proto-Alyssa updating Alyssa. You may find more memories coming to you now, things you either suppressed or haven’t been willing to remember. More memories like that one surfaced under hypnosis in later sessions. All, without exception, were from a girl’s perspective. Not once were any of your memories from a male point of view.”

“But … what about when I tried to fight him?” I asked, and felt my hands starting to curl into fists, like a reflex at the memory. I relaxed them.

Judy noticed that but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she said, “Do you think only boys fight off attackers? It was plain from what you said that you were a daughter trying to defend her mother.”

Mom looked sheepish. “Sweetheart? I have a confession to make. Judy’s revelations were so shocking to me—and wait! You’re going to ask about doctor-patient confidentiality, but you’re a minor, so she had to tell me. And you couldn’t give consent for things you didn’t even know about; it was part of the hypnosis.”

Judy nodded. “It had all started to just let you release steam, so to speak. You could vent freely and without guilt, and the ability to do that is clinically proven to be beneficial.”

There was a moment of silence so I took a sip, as did Mom.

Judy sighed. “So back to hypnotherapy. Your mother attended several sessions, entering the room after I’d put you under. And it’s late and we all have a big day tomorrow and I think all the preliminaries are done so here it is in a nutshell: We discovered Alyssa. We did not create Alyssa. We never suggested you become a girl. The only thing we did was to allow you to allow yourself to think and act without guilt and fear. To give you respite from that coiled unhappiness. Basically, I gave you permission to give yourself permission to relax. To accept that your father was truly gone and had no power in your life. You had permission to be yourself. And that began the … blossoming, you could say, of Alyssa.” She quickly held up a hand. “Ah, you say, but what about the physical blossoming? Okay, yeah, I did do that, but not the way you think.”

“Testosterone blockers,” I murmured.

Judy smiled and nodded.

I went on. “From what I’ve read, they’d halt the testosterone flooding my system and … what’s that word … stoking my rage. Because I was pretty angry.” I smiled sheepishly at Mom.

“We both were,” Mom said gently.

“Gonna git all medical on ya, here,” Judy chuckled. She took a sip of tea and set the cup down before going on in her professional voice. “Biologically, emotions primarily begin in the amygdale, in your brain. They analyze threats and largely tell humans to run or to fight.”

“Fight-or-flight; I’ve read about that, too,” I nodded.

“Right. Your brain releases neurotransmitters called catecholamines that speed up your heart, your breathing, and narrow your focus to the immediate threat in front of you. More neurotransmitters get dumped into your system—I mean, nearly instantly—like adrenaline and noradrenaline and others. That’s a lot of chemicals flooding the brain and nervous system. Also, the adrenaline doesn’t leave your system even after your prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that handles judgment—tells your body to stand down. Your heart rate and respiration may slow, but the increased adrenaline levels may last for a day or more. And the adrenaline already in your system tends to lower your anger threshold.”

“So I was angry all the time,” I said.

“We both were,” Mom said again, nodding.

“Not in the same way, though,” Judy said with a raised finger. “See, the average person isn’t faced with fight-or-flight that often. You two were faced with it nearly every day. The critical difference is your age, because your body—any adolescent and teen’s body—is at a critical stage in development. In terms of anger.” She pursed her lips. “Your system was being adjusted to the constant adrenal surge. To accept rage as normal. You could become addicted, in a way, to rage. Constant rage that would cause violence.”

I could only stare. It all fit; her description of me was accurate, even before she knew me. My breathing would get fast, my fists would curl and the focus thing … that made all the sense in the world. It was why I just couldn’t get my father out of my mind, and the anger would trigger again and the cycle continued.

Judy was absolutely right about what my body was doing to itself, and about the future for Alan. I’d read about children in battered families and the terrible toll abuse took on them as they grew. And in my case, that daily cycle, year after year? Anger triggering more anger, and that rise in anger firing up even more anger … and yes; I might have become like my father—addicted to rage and violence.

I sighed. “I had to block the testosterone. I mean, you had to. And thank you for that. But the other shots …”

“Vitamins and minerals, to counter your malnutrition and to help metabolize some foods better. The B complex, niacin, folic acid, and so on. Pretty potent, too; much more than over-the-counter,” Judy nodded.

“I got them, too,” Mom said. “But from the doctor I was seeing, and I knew they were working, and I approved them for you. They also gave me a diet plan; you probably noticed we ate better.”

“I just thought it was better because he was gone,” I said. Then I frowned. “So you didn’t … or did you … give me female hormones?”

“Only the last month, on a trial basis,” Judy said. “Blind test. And you took to them quite happily.”

“Only the last … but my breasts …” I was stunned. “My skin, my … hips …” I was wide-eyed.

Mom nodded slowly. “All you, sweetheart.”

Judy said, “With the blockers halting your testosterone, the estrogen your system was already producing is what brought on your physical changes. Some of the mental and emotional ones, too.”

“Huh …” I frowned, musing. There was something not fitting but I couldn’t quite—ah!

“But if my testosterone was enough to cause rage, was that the endocrine imbalance?”

Judy shook her head. “No; there were several deficiencies in your hormonal system. Your eicosanoids were all wrong; they control growth and immunity, both of which were lower than normal.”

“My size was from that?”

“Well, other factors as well. The amino acids and peptides were compromised so you weren’t processing protein very well. But your natural testosterone production was well below norms. In fact, that’s what was so curious! You had very, very little testosterone in you, and it was all out of proportion with your rage. In other words, your rage wasn’t hormone-fueled. Some tests we did, some of the mood-swings you may remember last fall, the one time you got sick …” She shrugged. “Testosterone poisoning.”

“Poisoning? Myself?”

“Yes. Not uncommon, but certainly life-altering for you.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You’re right; it’s late, and I’ve just discovered that the two women I love didn’t force me to become something I’m not. Wasn’t. Whatever.” I waved a hand and looked at them. “Under hypnosis I told you, or at least gave the indications, that I was female. Should be female. And you blocked the testosterone to help calm the rage, but my body also said, ‘Wow! Cool! Thank you very much! Let’s get busy making boobs!’”

They laughed at the unexpected image.

Judy was chuckling and nodding. “Pretty much.”

“And the reason I changed so far so fast is because it’s what I was always pretty much meant to be?”

Judy frowned slightly, then nodded in agreement, but Mom was already nodding. “So that’s the truth, sweetheart. Alan had no hope for a decent life, but Alyssa has every chance at success. Isn’t that what everyone wants for their child?” Mom gave me a direct look. “We did not conspire to turn you from a boy to a girl. You told us you were a girl and always had been and wanted to live as one from now on, and you went on and on about Susan and Amanda and other girls we’d never even heard of, and the things you wanted to do together but you couldn’t and it was breaking your heart. Broke my heart, too, to hear you hurting like that.”

Even with everything I’d learned that night, I was shocked at the admissions I’d made.

Mom’s face softened even more. “And my heart broke when you told us how miserable you were all the time, and about how grateful you were for Scotty as your only friend. And over time, you started telling us that you wanted to be more than friends with him and oh, God what were you going to do? So we blocked your rage, to ease your anger and anxiety. And then you began developing faster than we’d even imagined and so I gave my parental consent to experiment with the estrogen. Because by then you’d stopped being proto-Alyssa and you were Alyssa.”

Judy said, “But even that recently, not as fully-formed, as … real … as the pretty Alyssa I’m looking at.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s because every new experience just reinforces that I am pretty Alyssa. Huh …”

There was a comfortable silence as we all thought about what had brought us to this point, and where we were headed in the future, together, as three females.

“One thing,” I frowned slightly and looked at Mom. “If it’s too private, I understand, but when you two kissed a while ago, Judy whispered something to you.” I looked at Judy. “It was when you talked about moving here and meeting each other.”

Judy nodded but Mom just smiled and sighed happily. “Sweetheart, Judy had just said that we might not have met, remember? Then we kissed, and she whispered to me, ‘And we might not have met your daughter.”

My eyes stung and my throat tightened. I swallowed with difficulty and nodded. “Thank you!” I sniffed and looked down, blinking my tears.

Mom said, “I’ll clean up. Don’t worry about it, honey. You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted, Mom, but there’s this … floaty feeling of happiness.”

Mom’s smile was bright. “Because you’re so happy as Alyssa.”

“That, and because the two women I love most didn’t conspire, didn’t plot to make me a girl. You allowed me to … you allowed Alan to release Alyssa. And—” I had to stop for a yawn. “And so I’m declaring to you both, now that I know everything, that I absolutely agree with your decisions. Starting tomorrow, we all move forward making Alyssa the only Cunningham child. Your daughter.”

I stood and Mom stood and we hugged. Judy joined us.

And I knew that burying my father was the start of the best of our lives.

The End

The Changing Room universe, also known as “Changing for Gym”, was created by Xoop and added to by Maggie Finson and Dustin C. I was intrigued by the power of the school, but also the limitations. I wish to stay true to the universe but nudge things a little further; I have referenced characters from the last two in the series, “Slipping In” and “Slipping Out”, and used the traditional opening as Prologue.

Hill Street High School has always worked its wonders on the students–perhaps faculty might be involved as well?

Changing for Gym: Family Affair, by Karin Bishop

Part 1

Prologue

Hill Street High School was built in the early 1990’s in response to the town’s recent growth. Too, the old school was a remnant of the 1920’s, and looked it. The town had eventually given in to the inevitable and voted in a new school.

And the school was not happy.

Part 1

But the school learned how to fix things, how to mold the students and faculty, as well as parents that came onto the school grounds for conferences and events. The school craved order and adjusted the student population; the adjusted families seemed happier and the school gained in confidence. Then the school learned that simple adjustment wasn’t always the answer; the case of two students, Danny Halding and Bree Miller, convinced the school that one person’s happiness couldn’t be at the expense of another’s. The love that grew between those two students filled the hallways with happiness. And the school learned. Sometimes, happiness is more important than order. And, when people are happy, things tend to be put into order without much effort.

All was well …until the McMahons arrived.

***

There was no way they were going into there, declared Thomas ‘Tear-em-up’ McMahon. His younger brother Patrick agreed.

“Not gonna put no McMahons in no girly room,” he growled, as much as a fourteen-year-old could.

“Don’t worry, Pat. We’ll talk to this Harris guy, straighten things out,” his big brother chuckled.

‘Big brother’ really only applied to the three years that separated the McMahons. Like their father, they were compact. ‘Rugged’, their father Frank called them, no giant himself. They were sturdy, kept that way by their home diet of large quantities of meat and potatoes, served up by their long-suffering mother Kathleen. The boys were a stocky and pugnacious group–the McMahon Men, as Frank called them–and had been within an inch of being thrown out of their last school for fighting. They’d already been thrown off the football team for roughhousing, although Frank had declared the team and their coach ‘a bunch of pussies’ and said his boys were too good for the lousy team.

Now they were at Hill Street High, the last school in the district that would have them. Frank had called in a few favors to keep the boys from being sent to Valley, a ‘continuation’ school that was the district’s dumping grounds for sociopaths and pregnant teens. There were others there, but since Frank McMahon declared his boys were neither sociopaths–he’d had to ask about the word’s meaning–or pregnant, they would be in a mainstream school. So Hill Street High gained two new students–and an assistant football coach.

***

The school had been enjoying September. The hallways and classrooms buzzed along cheerfully, with everybody feeling a new sense of purpose after the long hot summer. The school even adjusted room temperatures so those that faced the sun were cooler. Students didn’t nod off and performed better. The school had worked to keep the fields from turning brown over the summer, and the football team practiced daily and hard on the lush green turf.

But there were disturbing sounds coming from the halls. The school was used to dealing specifically with one disturbance, one problem, at a time; this came from three–and one was an adult. The school would have to study this carefully.

***

“Mr. McMahon, we–”

“That’s Coach McMahon,” Frank said proudly.

Mr. Harris took a moment to calm himself. “Yes, I understand that Mr. Mulroney on the school board recommended that you join our coaching staff. Traditionally we’ve only called Bill Anderson ‘Coach’, as he is head coach.”

“And a piss-poor job he’s been doing, too, pardon my French,” Frank nodded. “And don’t worry; I’ve already told him this to his face. Three and eight last year? Two and nine the year previous? I’m here to shake things up, get a winning season. And not just because my boys will be playing. Gonna shake things up,” he said again. “And I do go by the name ‘Coach’–the boys learn respect.”

“Yes, well, ‘shaking things up’ …can be counterproductive sometimes,” Mr. Harris said, trying to regain control. “But district regulations must be observed. Any new athletes transferring in must spend a season as junior varsity before being named varsity. And I’m concerned about …is Patrick the younger boy? He shouldn’t even be eligible for the junior varsity team as a freshman.”

“Patrick plays better than the pussies you’ve got on varsity. I’ve never seen such a …” He snorted. “It’s like a bunch of damned hippies out there.”

“Please, Mr. Mc–Coach McMahon,” Mr. Harris tried again. “Don’t use words like ‘pussies’. At least within the hearing of students. It violates district code and could lead to lawsuits.”

“The truth is the truth, and if it leads to lawsuits, it should be considered an honor to defend the truth.”

Mr. Harris disputed the truth of calling the football teams ‘pussies’, but didn’t want to get involved with the coach’s last statement.

Frank took this as agreement–or perhaps surrender. He smiled. “So it’s agreed. Tommy will play varsity, Patrick will play JV. Now, about that joke of a locker room ...”

“Which locker room?” Mr. Harris asked, although he already knew what the complaint would be.

“My boys will not be stuck in some girls’ locker room!” Frank McMahon thundered.

Mr. Harris was about to retort but felt a wave of calm. Suddenly he knew how to proceed. “Coach, how’s your math?”

“My what?” The question had taken Frank by surprise.

“Your math. Can you …here; let me get a piece of paper.” Mr. Harris turned his back on the blustering coach and got a piece and a pencil and wrote down some numbers and turned back. “Our student population is pretty stable. So, allowing for a few students leaving or joining us due to unforeseen circumstances–like your two boys–here is the student breakdown as of last week.”

He pointed out the numbers to the coach.

“Our school was built in earlier times, with a lower population, and we’ve expanded and modernized to the maximum possible within the Fire Marshal’s and other civic codes. Seven-hundred and fifty students. Last week we were at seven-thirty-one; with your two boys we’re at seven-thirty-three so we’re still within acceptable limits.”

“Yeah, so? I don’t care how many students are here, unless they play football. I’m talking about the locker room.”

Mr. Harris held up a hand. “I understand, and that’s what I’m getting to right now. We can accommodate seven-hundred and fifty total but not lockers for all of them. This school was built in a time before the custom of school lockers started. The district added what they could, but there’s just not enough physical space to put more. We looked into having a portable unit added, with nothing but additional lockers, but there were district zoning problems. All lockers have to be within the physical school itself. So we tried having students share lockers, but a number of lawsuits ended that, due to invasion of privacy.”

“The district’s used to those lawsuits; shouldn’t have mattered,” Frank scoffed. “Just uptight hippie parents.”

Mr. Harris ignored that comment and explained, “These went beyond the district, all the way to the state courts.” To placate the man, he said, “I agree that the district should have been able to handle it. But the point is, even siblings can’t share lockers, under the terms of the state court’s decision. So it’s back to one-student/one-locker. And that’s the problem, but one of the architects found a room that could be used for overflow, a sort of combination room. For regular lockers and changing for gym use, I mean. And that’s the room we’re talking about.”

“So? I don’t see the math you were going on about.” He sneered the word.

Mr. Harris felt the calm again and pointed to the numbers he’d written. “Total students, as of this week, seven-hundred-thirty-three. Total lockers available in the main hallways? Seven-hundred-thirty.” He drew a line under it. “What’s left?”

“Three,” Frank said with disgust. “Oh, my boys are two of those? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly what I’m saying,” Mr. Harris said, as he wrote ‘3’ and circled it. “Now, the overflow room accommodates twenty additional lockers. That brings us to our capacity of seven-fifty. Any additional students use that locker room; they’ve been using it for years. There’s only one boy still using it, Danny Halding. Good kid. Senior. Anyway, your boys would be the two others.” He shrugged. “There’s a separate shower and bathroom there, too; all of the students have quite liked the room.”

“But it’s pink and girly!” Frank nearly yelled.

“I agree the tiles are pinkish now, but that’s just from fading over the years. My understanding is that it was built as a unisex room. There have been girls in there as well as boys over the years with no problems.”

“Wait–girls as well as boys? At the same time?”

There was a slight pause and then Mr. Harris chuckled. “Oh! I see what you mean! No, no; they weren’t there at the same time. On the rare occasion where the overflow students were a boy and girl, there was a staggered time arrangement, and very soon another locker opened up in the main hallways. As I said, the students were always reluctant to leave the room; it worked well for them.”

“So you’re saying that my boys may only have to be in the girly room for a short time?”

“May have to; I can’t guarantee that, but you really should stop thinking of it as a ‘girly’ room. It’s just an auxiliary, an overflow. That’s all.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Well, as long as there’s no guff from anybody for using that room …” He left it hanging, his threat implied.

“No ‘guff’ at all,” Mr. Harris smiled. “Never had any; can’t imagine any. To the students, it’s just a locker room; that’s all.”

“Well, if there’s no guff and they can move into another locker …”

Mr. Harris held up a finger. “If one becomes available.”

***

The school was both relieved and concerned. Relieved that it was able to calm the principal and nudge him into showing the student numbers and bringing Danny Halding into the discussion. Concerned that this coach-person was so disagreeable.

But the McMahons were trouble, and the school disliked trouble intensely.

***

“Stupid-ass locker room,” Tommy grumbled.

“Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding.

Another voice said, “It’s not so bad.”

The McMahons turned to see Danny Halding walk in and head to a locker down the row. He was a senior, tall and good-looking. Probably smart, too. The boys disliked him immediately.

Danny said, “First day I saw the place, I thought ‘what the hell?’ but it’s pretty cool, actually.”

“Yeah?” Tommy challenged. “Tell me what’s so cool about a girls’ locker room?”

Instead of rising to the challenge, Danny laughed. “Dude, I don’t know about you, but I’d think any guy wouldn’t mind checking out a girls’ locker room!” The boys looked confused, and he went on. “But I know what you mean. It’s just old and faded, not pink or anything. And it’s not a girls’ locker room; it’s just a locker room. Right now it’s got three guys in it, so you could call it a boys’ locker room, actually.” He chuckled. “But you don’t have the hassles with your locker like they do in the main hallway. Nobody slams into you or anything.”

“Like to see ‘em try,” Tommy glared.

“Yeah,” Patrick added.

“You guys are brothers, right?” Danny said, still smiling. “I’m Danny. Danny Holding.”

“We’re the McMahons,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick and he’s Tommy. They call him ‘Tear-em-up’ on the football field.” It was a nickname their father had coined; he hadn’t come up with one for Patrick yet.

“Tear-em-up, huh? Cool! Oh, hey! Your dad’s the new assistant coach, then, right?” Danny nodded. “Sure hope he can help us win more games!”

His enthusiasm was infectious; even Patrick found himself smiling. “Yeah, he will.”

“Got that right,” Tommy added. “So you’re saying we won’t get any crap from anybody for having our lockers in here?”

“Shouldn’t,” Danny shrugged. “I never did. And there were guys here before, and some girls–well, they didn’t get any crap. But I know what you mean. No; nobody ever gave anybody any problems. I think some of ‘em envy it. Especially having a shower to yourself.”

“Should shower with the team,” Tommy declared.

“Yeah, I agree with you there, and maybe you can,” Danny nodded. “But the thing about the showers is that there’s towel-snapping and junk like that, jokes and stuff, and the next thing you know you’re late for class.”

Both McMahon boys were no stranger to that; they could only nod.

Danny said, “I figure, nobody wants to hang in their locker room. Having the place to yourself, it’s in and out, zip-zip, and then I go hang at my girlfriend’s locker.” He chuckled. “She used to be in here, actually. But a girl left–her dad got transferred–and Bree was assigned to her locker.” Now he laughed openly. “It was about the time we started going together; they didn’t want us here all alone!”

The idea of teen sex in the locker room went a long way to defusing the McMahons’ resistance to the room; in fact, the idea that maybe a girl would transfer to Hill Street and join them made it all the better.

***

The school blessed Danny Halding yet again, and sent another cosmic apology for ever trying to adjust him. His girlfriend Bree–who had been Danny’s best friend Brian at their previous school–had been given a locker in the main hallway for precisely the reason Danny gave. Although the school had no power outside its grounds, it took advantage when the Ramirez girl moved away and gave Bree her locker.

And now it was feeling great disharmony from an unexpected area–the green playing fields.

***

“Ya pansies! You’re lagging!” Coach McMahon roared at the last two boys running the perimeter of the field. “I told you all three laps. I’m telling you two, do another!”

“But …but …” one of the boys gasped, turning to Coach.

The other boy gasped, “Don’t do it, man; don’t say anything!” He continued to run as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast.

The first boy ignored the advice and loudly called, “It’s too hot, Coach!”

“Two more for you!” Coach McMahon roared back.

“But I …I …”

The boy’s eyes rolled in his head and he twisted and staggered two steps and fell, heavily. The other boy turned to see, stopped, and began running to the fallen boy.

“Back to your laps,” Frank snapped. He walked to the boy. “What’s your problem, son?”

The boy didn’t answer. Frank leaned down and nudged the boy. The boy roused slightly, turned his head and vomited.

Frank stood up in disgust. “You’re sick. Should have said something. Messing up my track like that …”

He turned and scanned the field. Leaving the heaving boy, he walked over to where the Head Coach working with the quarterback and punter.

“Hey, Bill,” Frank said. “Got a sick kid.”

“Huh?” Coach Anderson said, turning to look at Frank and then past him. “What happened?”

“He’s sick; flu or something. Puking over there. Couldn’t run worth beans; should’ve said something.”

Concern furrowed Coach Anderson’s face. “Jensen’s a good kid. He knows better than to work out when he’s sick, especially on a hot one like today.”

He got up and to Frank’s disgust, Coach Anderson actually ran to the fallen boy. Frank thought it showed weakness. He walked up as the Head Coach helped the Jensen boy shakily get to his feet. Meanwhile, the rest of the team had finished their laps and collapsed on the grass. Frank spun and began walking towards them, waving his hands.

“What the hell you think you’re doing? Never lay down. Walk it off; walk it off.”

The other boy that had been running with Jensen finished his extra lap and stopped, bending at the waist and putting his hands on his knees, breathing deeply, then straightened and with his hands on his hips, walked in a small circle, catching his breath.

For the first time, the boy seriously thought about quitting football.

***

Absolutely unacceptable, the school thought. To cause such discord, and to make a boy sick was inexcusable. The new coach was a monster, it thought. His boys didn't feel right, either. Perhaps they were a family of monsters. The school had never felt such an assault before; an assault on harmony, on balance, on happiness. It wasn’t certain that it could adjust all three McMahons at once. But it was the father who had the most contact and influence over other students and his own sons; it would have to focus on him and let the boys sit tight for a bit. Usually the school liked gradual moderation, but the coach’s influence had to be nullified quickly.

***

“You know, there’s a difference between motivating and just yelling,” Coach Anderson said, sipping his coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Oh, I’m not just yelling; I want the fear in the boys, too,” Frank replied, taking a too-big bite of coffee cake, crumbs falling to his chin.

“No. Fear doesn’t work. There’ve been enough studies and enough teams examined to know that it doesn’t build winning teams.”

“Excuse me for pointing out, Coach,” Frank said with derision, as he spat a few crumbs. “You don’t exactly have a winning record to prove your point.”

The Head Coach felt anger and disgust for this man, but it washed away. He nodded. “Not the last two seasons, no; we were a game or two ahead three years before that and made the playoffs the year before that. It depends on the mix of kids we get, but there’s also been a shift in the district.’

“What, you’re saying the district supports losing seasons?”

“No; I’m saying the district came to the conclusion that the purpose of an athletics department is not to turn out NFL players. It’s to round out a student, keep them fit, and help them move into college. That’s where they turn out NFL players. Every so often a school will have a student that goes all the way.”

“I disagree. Not with the last part; I think the NFL is a great career opportunity and we should do everything we can to prepare our athletes for professional performance levels.”

Coach Anderson disagreed with the idea of the NFL as a ‘great career opportunity’–the statistics were overwhelmingly against a young athlete having a career if he focused entirely on football–but held that for another time. He held a hand up.

“Westmont is the football powerhouse here. Five district championships, two state titles. Shoreline is like us, either a losing season or break-even. So which has the better prospect for a kid that wants in the NFL?”

“Westmont, hands down. I’ve been to a bunch of their games. You’re right, there; they are a powerhouse. Damned good team.”

“Well, they seem so, but here’s the point. With all their trophies, Westmont has not produced a single NFL player. Not in twenty years; not one guy has gone all the way. A lot of scholarships and the guys went on with their lives, but not in football. Shoreline, in the same twenty years? Three made it to the NFL. So the trophies aren’t everything, as far as the NFL goes.”

“Shoreline? Three? I don’t believe it.”

The Head Coach ticked them off on his fingers. “Jake Randall with Miami. Dwayne Butterfield with the Patriots. Darryl Stangelini with the Forty-Niners. All from Shoreline.” He grinned. “You know Mike Blanton, the new QB for the Bears?”

“Sure, outta Stanford.”

“Outta Hill Street High, first!” Coach Anderson grinned, pointing to the tabletop. “My first year here.”

Frank’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “No way.”

“Yep,” Coach Anderson nodded. “A good kid. Little weak in the legs at first. But the point is, the majority of high school football players don’t go to the NFL.”

“My boys will!”

“Maybe Tommy,” Coach Anderson nodded. “Needs work on his game. Patrick …well, he should be in freshman ball.”

“See, that’s where I disagree. They don’t call Tommy ‘Tear-em-up’ for nothing. His defensive skills are solid. And I really don’t agree with you about Patrick. He plays hard and shouldn’t be held back.”

“It’s not being held back. It’s the physical reality. He doesn’t have the size or speed.” He paused. “Or the motivation, so far.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ve seen your boys together. Patrick obviously idolizes Tommy. But he mainly follows. I haven’t seen him lead on his own.”

“Thanks for that, Coach,” Frank nodded. “I know now where he has to work. Speed and motivation.”

He thought, and I’ve got the belt at home to motivate him.

***

The school was horrified. It knew two things from experience with adults: It was hard to get into their minds at first, and adjusting family dynamics could only work if it could get both husband and wife on the grounds. For this reason, it was time to work a different angle.

***

“May I have your attention, please?” Mr. Harris called out, and the room noise subsided. He smiled. “I want to thank you all for being here for our first Teacher Night, and what we hope will be the start of a new tradition. I want to thank District Commissioner Wakefield for suggesting it.”

There was polite applause.

Frank looked around the room. “Bunch of stuffed shirts,” he mumbled to his wife.

Kathleen McMahon thought the group looked lovely; certainly they were better dressed than her husband. She’d wanted him to put on a tie but he’d refused, even telling her she was getting ‘too gussied up’ when she’d put on her one church dress. She felt dowdy compared to the other wives, but she was, sadly, used to it.

“Suppose we should mingle?” she suggested to Frank, who half-snorted.

“What would I have to mingle with? Only one I need to talk to–besides Harris–is Anderson.” His eyes studied the Head Coach, in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. He looked like a damned banker, not a coach. His wife was pretty and probably sold real estate, he chuckled to himself. Talk to Anderson? Not a chance. “And I don’t even need to do that. I talk to him enough on the field.”

“Well, I’d like some more punch,” his wife said. She paused, and when he didn’t volunteer to get it for her, she sighed. “Can I get you anything?”

“Naw; I’m fine,” Frank said, raising his little plastic cup.

As Kathleen headed towards the punchbowl, she couldn’t help but overhear the comments from the teachers and their wives or husbands. Sometimes it was about a car, or something about where they worked, or a new housepainter they recommended, but often it was either about their children or their students. Statistically they were probably equal between boys and girls, but as she moved through the room, most of the comments were about wonderful daughters or girl students. This one was so pretty at her graduation, or that one is such an accomplished violinist. And all along, how thoughtful they were, and how friendly, and how pretty, and how proud the adults were.

Kathleen felt bitter envy wash over her. She had two lumpy, loutish sons and a lumpy, loutish husband. She would have to continue to suffer in silence. Perhaps her boys might surprise her and give her something she could brag about at next year’s Teacher Night …

But it would have been so nice to have at least one daughter …and maybe two would have made all the difference in the world. Maybe made a difference in her husband, too.

***

The school felt the McMahon woman had been nudged in the right direction. It was time to focus on the main source of disharmony. But it couldn’t ignore the boys, either. They were disrupting classes and were feared in the hallways already.

***

“What the hell?” Tommy yelled as he stared at his locker.

“What?” Patrick said, opening his own.

“This. Did you do this?” Tommy said, pointing.

“What?” Patrick said again. “Your books?”

“Naw; this,” Tommy said, gingerly pulling out some white fabric between thumb and forefinger.

Patrick stared at it. It was girl’s underpants. Panties, he corrected himself. With lace and a little bow.

“No, I didn’t have …” Patrick looked at his brother. “I swear to God, Tommy; I had nothing to do with that! I don’t even know your locker combination! You sure you didn’t get lucky or something?”

Tommy frowned and then stared at his brother’s opening locker. Patrick followed his gaze and actually jumped back a step. There, on the pile of clothing, was pair of white lace panties.

Patrick stared. “What the …”

Before he could say the obscenity, Danny came walking in and headed towards his locker.

“Hey, Holding, very funny,” Tommy called out.

“It’s Halding, actually,” Danny said. “And what’s funny?”

“This,” Tommy said, waving the panties.

“These,” Patrick said, nodding towards his locker.

“Oh, the prankster’s back,” Danny nodded. “My first year, there was somebody messed with the lockers for awhile.”

The McMahons moved as one towards Danny. Tommy said menacingly, “Only prankster I see here is you, Holding.”

Danny didn't correct him on the name. “What’re you talking about? I don’t even know your combinations.”

“You been here, what, three, four years? You’d have time to learn them,” Tommy said threateningly.

“Yeah. You could know them already,” Patrick added.

Moving suddenly, Tommy slammed Danny against the lockers with his forearm across Danny’s throat.

“I think you’re the prankster,” he growled. “Gimme back my underpants!”

Danny thought about how ludicrous the statement was but kept calm. “Don’t have ‘em. Tell you what. Let me see if he hit me, too.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed.

Patrick said, “Who hit you?” He paused. “Oh; the prankster?”

“There is no prankster,” Tommy said, “Only this guy!”

But he backed off and Danny straightened up and spun the combination to his locker, keeping his body blocking the numbers from the boys. He opened the door. Tommy rushed and pulled it open quickly. There, hanging on a hook, were a matching pair of white lace panties.

Danny laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Patrick glared.

“He probably …he probably got a three-pack!”

The McMahons didn’t see any humor, although a vision of a three-pack of brightly colored panties flashed through Patrick’s mind.

Danny shrugged. “I learned the only thing to do is wear the damn things. Or go commando if you want. The guy gets bored after awhile and things are back to normal.”

“You wear ‘em,” Tommy challenged.

“I will,” Danny nodded. “I learned it’s the easiest way. Then, no hassles.” He looked at the guys. “I’ve gotta get changed for gym.” The McMahons didn’t move. Danny shrugged. “You wanna watch?”

The challenge worked; they both retired to their end of the locker room. Danny got into shorts and regulation tee and headed out to the fields.

“We’re gonna be late for class,” Tommy said.

“What about these?” Patrick said with disgust.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going commando,” Tommy said, tossing the new panties in the trash bin.

“Yeah, commando,” Patrick nodded.

***

The school congratulated itself for listening so closely and taking action, adding panties to Danny’s locker in time. The McMahons never figured that if Danny had been the prankster, it would have been an easy set-up to divert suspicion. But Danny was such an obviously nice guy, even the thuggish McMahons knew he wasn’t responsible.

After the father …

***

During the regular Parents’ Night, Kathleen spent some time as the Coach’s Wife and some time alone, as the mother of two students, while Frank stayed in the gym to talk with parents. As the Coach’s Wife, she could feel the dislike her husband had generated in the boys and their parents. Usually it was mothers who were upset, but several fathers also called Frank’s rough coaching methods into question. They had been through high school and college sports themselves and knew that Frank’s methods were extreme.

After a time, Kathleen felt so embarrassed to be on the receiving end of things that she excused herself to speak with the boys’ teachers.

“Yeah, sure, go on,” Frank said with a wave of his hand.

Kathleen’s lips tightened. “Since you’ve taken the coaching position here, you haven’t paid any attention to their schooling, only to the football teams.”

“So? That’s where they have the greatest potential. Who cares if they can conjudate a verb or know what country Sweden‘s in?”

Kathleen had only a high school education; she’d dropped out of college to marry the football hero Frank McMahon. But even she knew the word was ‘conjugate’ and that Sweden was a country. Her lips tightened even more.

She’d left the gym to avoid future embarrassment, but felt embarrassment of a different nature in the classrooms. Her sons were mostly C- and D students, although Patrick had surprised everyone once with at B- in English. When she looked at sample papers in the various classrooms, she knew how vastly superior they were to the work her boys produced. Well, academics weren’t important in the McMahon house, she thought.

Then she corrected herself. Why weren’t they? And wasn’t she part of the McMahon house, too? And weren’t academics important to her? They had been, at one time, but after years of living with Frank …

She sighed and walked on. Depressed about her boys’ school performance, she decided she’d just look at the families. And then she found yet a new form of embarrassment–stemming from how radically different the McMahon household was from the families she saw. Polite, friendly boys proudly showed off their work, receiving hugs from their mothers and handshakes from their fathers. Boys whose eyes radiated intelligence and …and a kind of future. But it was the girls who made her most embarrassed about the McMahon shortcomings. The girls were so sweet, and all seemed very pretty, and so loving with their families, that Kathleen felt pangs of jealousy, envy, and a great sadness that she hadn’t had daughters.

Perhaps that would have been the answer. If Frank had given her daughters, she could have molded the family dynamic more to a loving one, rather than the blustery macho posturing she lived with. All the yelling. All the anger. Anger all the time …

***

The school was astonished at the anger in the gym. Parent Nights were usually placid, happy affairs with a lovely buzz of shared community, and the school and all within concluded the night with a warm sense of contentment. But people were arriving determined to ‘give that coach a piece of my mind’–as the school heard from many thoughts–and as much as the school attempted to dampen the anger, it had no effect; the collective rage was just too strong.

***

Frank McMahon yelled, “Because winning is the only thing that matters!”

“What about teamwork?” one father yelled back.

“What about good sportsmanship?” another yelled.

Frank laughed. “Good sportsmanship? That’s a phrase invented by losers to give them excuses for poor performance. Look, everybody, hold it down!”

He held both hands up to stifle the crowd, who refused to stifle.

One woman called out, “Are you trying to turn my son into someone like yourself?”

“He could do a lot worse!” Frank snapped back.

***

The school was appalled. Never, NEVER had anything like this happened before. Peace and harmony was impossible to achieve; everyone was so fired up that any sense of calm was impossible. The parents’ rage was too great for the school to calm. And nothing the school did seemed to have any effect on the red-faced, yelling coach. So the school had a radical thought: Maybe go the other way …maybe nudge the anger up just a notch, just a bit …so even a dullard like Frank McMahon could finally understand the truth–that it was his coaching methods that were at fault, not the parents’ perceptions. Ramp things up just a tiny bit so it would be obvious to him and he would back off and see the light …

***

“Failure to achieve is not going to be rewarded!” Frank roared. “Now, I know a lot of you come from that whole thing about ‘character building’ and that nonsense where the kid gets a trophy just for showing up, like those hippies that play soccer–”

“Did I hear you right?” one man demanded. “You said ‘hippies that play soccer’? I’ll have you know my son played on a select team that won the state championship–”

“In soccer,” Frank sneered. “Not a real sport. Running up and down with a ball. Kindergarten stuff.”

“Soccer is the most popular sport in the world!” a woman declared, shocked.

Frank snorted. “That’s what they want you to believe! Nobody plays it outside of posh little suburbia, with your pretty SUVs and all that. Not a real sport like football.”

“Soccer’s called ‘football’ everywhere else in the world, you idiot!” one man raged.

“It’s not called it here because football is football!” Frank raged back. “But I’m not here to tell you that football is a sport–hell, we all know that. It’s to say that the days of coddling little girly boys is over! We’re turning out football players, not faggots! And as long as I–”

“Faggots? Did you actually say that?” another man yelled. “You’re a disgrace!”

“I’ll tell you what’s a disgrace!” Frank roared, his face turning purple. “This idea that you can win football games without sweat. Without blood and effort and not being held back by faggot ideas like character building,” he sneered. “Which is just another word for losing!”

“It’s two words, you cretin!” a woman shouted. “And you’re wrong anyway!”

“I’m not wrong! Your whole way of doing things is–is …”

The crowd stared as he froze, mouth open with white flecks of spittle dotting his purple chin, tilted his head at an extreme angle, swayed, and plummeted to the ground, hitting a desk with his head on the way down.

For a moment, nobody moved towards him.

***

The school was as shocked as the crowd of angry parents. There was a suspended moment and the school immediately flooded the room with a soothing feeling, expending every bit of energy it could. Another suspended moment while the school tried to think what to do about the fallen man. It knew that it could affect the physical nature of the people within its grounds, but it seemed beyond its power to save Frank McMahon. For too long, the school had been concerned only with maintaining equilibrium, it berated itself. Just to harmonize between boys and girls, children and teachers and parents. It took a nudge here, a suggestion there …It didn’t know what to do about a stroke victim.

In the distance, sirens grew louder.

End of Part 1

The Changing Room universe, also known as “Changing for Gym”, was created by Xoop and added to by Maggie Finson and Dustin C. I was intrigued by the power of the school, but also the limitations. I wish to stay true to the universe but nudge things a little further; I have referenced characters from the last two in the series, “Slipping In” and “Slipping Out”, and used the traditional opening as Prologue.

Hill Street High School has always worked its wonders on the students–perhaps faculty might be involved as well?

Changing for Gym: Family Affair, by Karin Bishop

Part 2

The McMahon boys were back in school two days after their father’s stroke. Danny Halding was just leaving the locker room when they entered.

“Hey, guys, I’m so sorry about your dad,” Danny said gravely.

Both boys nodded and said, “Yeah.”

They sat down heavily and began dressing for football practice. Patrick just stared at the clothes.

“But what’s the point?” Patrick sighed.

“We do it for Dad. For Coach,” Tommy said simply.

But whether he’d said that because he really believed it or because he knew Patrick needed to hear it, it all fell apart at the next day’s practice.

It was obvious that with Frank McMahon gone, Coach Anderson’s methods were back in force. Tommy was disgusted by the emphasis on plays and teamwork; he’d been taught it was brute strength that won games. After he’d blown a scrimmage by smashing a rusher so hard the kid was dizzy, he was called to the sidelines.

Coach Anderson surprised him by not yelling; instead he called Tommy over and softly said, “What’s the news on your dad?”

Tommy swallowed his anticipated rebuttal and answered. “They’re moving him out of ICU tomorrow, maybe the next day. They said it’s a miracle he didn’t die. But he’s a fighter,” he said with determination.

“Yes, he is,” Coach Anderson nodded, looking into the distance. “Look, Tommy; I know you’re unhappy about your father and you have every right to be. But don’t carry that onto the field.”

“I didn’t,” Tommy said, more whiny than he meant to be. “He rushed and I took him out.”

“The play wasn’t to ‘take him out’; it was to keep him busy. While you’re blocking him, the two of you are both occupying space their team can’t fill. You took him out and you didn’t see Randall come right around you and he sacked your QB. That was the purpose of the play.”

“My purpose is to prevent the enemy from crossing the line,” Tommy said hotly.

“Not the enemy, son; they’re just the opposite team. And today, it was one of our own. If you had given him a concussion, we lose that player for the next game.”

“So what? It’s football, man.”

“High school football, not war.” Coach Anderson was getting more stern.

“It’s pussy football is what it is!” Tommy spat. “They call me ‘Tear-em-up’ because that’s how you play football! But this is pussy football!” he yelled again.

Coach Anderson bit back his first response and said evenly, “I think you’re still upset about your father, and I understand. Take a week off, get your head together. See you the fourteenth.”

“My head’s together now!” Tommy cried vehemently.

“No, son, it’s not–as proven by how worked up you’re getting. Take the week off.”

“The week? Hell, I’m taking the season off! I quit your pussy team! Good luck winning even one game without me!”

Tommy stomped off the field with Coach Anderson shaking his head sadly as he watched.

And of course, as soon as he heard, Patrick quit his team that same day.

***

After the paramedics had removed Frank, the school had spent the next two days in a state of numbed shock. It was if the school was a little child, huddled in a corner with its arms wrapped around its legs, rocking in misery.

Children were hurting.

***

Tommy stared at the panties. Well, he thought, the prankster that Halding had mentioned had at least waited before resuming his old tricks. Presumably even the prankster had sympathy for the McMahon family. He fingered the white lace panties. He wasn’t in football any longer; both he and Patrick had their schedules redone. After-school sports occupied the last period of the day; it was only available to members of the teams. With the McMahons quitting, they had to be integrated into regular PE, which meant that some of their classes had to be changed, and there was a scheduling nightmare for Liz Baker, the school secretary.

Now Tommy and Patrick didn't share PE times; Tommy had regular PE, a co-ed class that did different activities each week, but Patrick had to take the Dance class. It was the only option for his schedule. He’d yelled and screamed but quieted down when it was pointed out that athletes regularly take dance training to improve their agility. What had really done it was that one of the boys in the class, a gymnast named Luke, had challenged Patrick to a contest. Patrick had been grumbling loudly, saying things he thought his brother would say, when Luke issued his challenge. The first was pushups. Patrick had roared with laughter at the thought that the slender boy could beat him. Just look at him, he mentally sneered. Skinny and probably a faggot–what am I saying? Of course he’s a faggot; he’s in dance and he’s in gymnastics–not even a real sport!

However, the catch was …the pushups were vertical, handstands against the wall. Pushing your own weight straight up. Patrick did four and a shaky fifth before collapsing and rolling to avoid smashing his face. Luke whipped out ten and, upside down and grinning, looked at Patrick and asked if he wanted more. Patrick sneered it was a trick.

“Well, then, how are your legs?”

“Better than yours!” Patrick snapped back, but somehow that phrase sounded weird …

“Race to the wall?” Luke nodded to the opposite wall of the gym. “And back again?”

“You’re on!”

Another student was roped into being starter and the class watched. The teacher was allowing this to continue because she felt it was important. Patrick’s grumbling could become infectious and disrupt the class for the whole semester. Besides, the teacher was intrigued to watch the results. Patrick ran as fast as he could; Luke slapped the opposite wall and passed him in the other direction. Patrick had slapped the wall and turned, determined to make it up in a sprint to the finish, when the class cheered as Luke crossed the line.

Patrick walked back to the starting point, fuming.

Luke ignored that and said, “One more. Just standing.”

“Standing?”

“Sure. The running thing …maybe you’re better at distance than I am.”