Definition: A change agent is an event, organization, material thing or, more usually, a person that acts as a catalyst for change.
I don’t know why I’m writing this; something just made me want to start a journal. I’m not doing it for any class or anything; Mom didn’t tell me to do it or even hint at it. I just have this …feeling that I should write down things.
Since it’s my journal I should say something about myself. They say that people who keep journals or diaries look back years later and are surprised by what they thought ‘way back when’.
So I guess that’s why I’m doing this.
Okay, personal details. We had to keep a journal for one semester so I kind of know the things that are supposed to be up front, descriptions and such. My name is Christopher Hanson, and I live with my mom Ruth in a little house on the edge of the housing development. It’s all forest behind us. I’m kind of short and have long light brown hair. I tried to grow it long so I’d look, I don’t know, like a rocker, maybe. So it’s always tied back in a ponytail. I go to West View Middle School, finishing up the seventh grade. I’m an okay student, B’s mostly. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
My best friends are …well, my only friends, really, are Craig Wesson and Tommy Donohue. Craig is the smart one of us three, always planning, always coming up with schemes in the name of fun. He’s average height, I guess, with wavy sandy hair and likes to wear black a lot. Tommy’s a big guy, all action, fighting Irish and all that. Short black hair and as many muscles as a fourteen-year-old can have–even more than some seventeen-year-olds. So Craig and Tommy are the brains and brawn, which makes me the follower, I guess. The third musketeer, whatever. I don’t mind, because they’ve always watched out for me.
That’s because I’m …well, not short, really, like I said before. Not like a runt; there are guys shorter than me. I’m the shortest of my buddies, but that’s okay. So, not short, but I’m just small. Small all over. Thin bones, skinny legs, that sort of thing. Not Little People small, just on the lower end of the bell curve for my age, according to Dr. Paulson. He’s been my doctor since forever. No, wait. After my father left us, right after I started kindergarten, I think was when we started going to Dr. Paulson. So nearly forever.
My father left us. Those four words say it all. For awhile I thought it was something I’d done or hadn’t done; I think all kids think that way. Then I thought it was all Mom’s fault and I wasn’t nice about it. But now I think he left us. A little of both, and a lot of him. Mom says he’s a traveling salesman now so I can’t write him, and I’ve kind of lost interest in doing it, anyway. He’d worked at a supermarket, and worked in a church, so I guess he just drifts. I’m fine with it being just me and Mom. She works in the administration at St. Joseph’s Hospital and is a really nice lady. I just think she’s lonely, only having me.
So back to Tommy and Craig. Because I have a feeling this journal’s going to have a lot about them. We met in second grade. I was going through some of my nastiness with Mom about my father leaving, raging and being a jerk, and mouthed off to the wrong kid at school who clocked me. I mean, I never saw it coming until I was staring at the sky, dizzy. Then there was a blur and this voice yelling, ‘Get off the little guy’ and that was Tommy rescuing me from a fifth grader that had decked me. Meanwhile, Craig picked me up and the three of us have been friends ever since.
I said that Craig’s the brains of the outfit. He’s always coming up with something for us to do. I don’t mean like, ‘Hey, let’s go to the playground and hang out’ types of things to do. I mean things like, ‘Hey, I know a place where we can get a block of ice for less than a buck. Stick a cardboard box on it and ride it down the hills at the golf course.’ That was a wild ride, let me tell you, just insanely fast! Then the golf course security guys came rolling up in golf carts–what else?–and busted us. But it was fun, Craig was right about that.
Some of his ideas, though, are a little dicey. Mom and I have this …thing about honesty, being honest and speaking the truth. So when Craig comes up with something that might be illegal I beg off, and that’s usually enough for him to spike the idea and come up with something else. I don’t mean illegal ideas like stealing something, or hurting somebody. Just things that are a little out there. A little …off..
***
Okay. I’m back. It’s later, but I want to get this thing started right. I just have this uneasy sense that the whole world is off, somehow. I don’t mean teenage angst, either. We learned about that in class the other day. Anyway, I’m going into the whole Tommy and Craig thing because it’s all part of …the off-ness.
Three weeks ago, Craig had another of his ideas that was maybe a tiny bit over the illegal line but too enticing to pass up. The tiny bit was that it didn’t involve breaking and entering, just trespassing. And then, as he pointed out, only if we got caught.
Right.
Like I said, some things Craig came up with were a little off.
But the enticing part was too good to miss. There’s an industrial park on the far side of the forest, just a featureless rambling monstrosity of huge anonymous beige buildings. Craig had some supposedly very good info that video games were made in one of the buildings. And not just video games, but that it was the headquarters of Intellia, the guys that make Omega Chronicles, the ultimate, ultimate video game. It’s like the big brother mashup of Gears of War and Halo, only on steroids. And Halo was made in an anonymous building right next to a supermarket outside Seattle, so Intellia could very well be in our industrial park! Craig’s plan was to try to slip in and see what we could see. Not to take anything–although I brought a little digital camera–but to find out about the new version if we could. Just getting in would allow us to score over all the other gamers we knew.
I’m not totally into the games like Craig and some other guys. Tommy’s not very good at them; he usually gets too angry and winds up throwing the controller. I’m not like that; I just don’t get into them like other guys. Maybe because Mom and I are always reading, and I like to watch old movies. Well, any movies, but I really love the old ones. But I was sure aware of the gamer world, and if we could pull this off, the street cred we’d get would be massive and we’d roll into eighth grade next year as heroes.
So we did it.
Craig had been watching the place for a week before. He actually set up an old movie camera and let it record for six hours at a time and scanned what time people came and went. Then he targeted those hours and after a week of his surveillance we had a pretty good schedule. There was a way to slip in the loading area, he said, when the waste guys came for the dumpster. I asked about getting out, and Craig laughed and said locks are only to keep people from getting in, not keep people from going out. That made sense …sorta.
We did the thing of telling our moms that we were all at each other’s houses, or in transit, so we had a few hours’ time to skulk around. We hid where Craig had filmed from, and used the dumpster truck for cover to scamper alongside and sure enough the dock gate opened up and we were in, and scrambled around keeping everything between us and anybody watching the process and then crouched behind the now-empty dumpster. Craig pointed out the button on the wall that opened the gate, if we needed it. He’s sharp like that.
The gate closed and we grinned as the lights went off. Then we crept onto the loading dock and the door had a glass window. We scanned through it and then slipped in. Here was the dicey part; we didn’t know what was inside so we had to move fast and improvise. It was a featureless hall with doors; most seemed to have the glass insert so we could peek in. The first three had people in them and the fourth was empty and unlocked. I’d shot photos–without a flash–of the halls and through the corners of the windows as quickly as I could, and then followed the other guys into the room.
The room had eight amazing computer workstations, with three monitors each surrounding ergonomic keyboards, all with screen savers going with the Intellia logo. I shot that as Tommy and Craig posed high-fiving each other in back of the screens. Craig tried each station but they all had password protection. We went back to the window and saw somebody walking down at the end of the hall. We shrank back to the walls, which was kind of silly when I think about it. The guy’s footsteps stopped briefly in front of our door and I thought my heart stopped when the doorknob turned and the door opened an inch. Then it closed and we heard a key slipping in the lock and the footsteps started away.
Tommy started to mutter something but Craig whispered that it was just a routine guard thing, and he found an unlocked lab so he locked it; that was all. He grinned and reminded us that it wasn’t to keep people from going out …
…and then he was proved wrong. We couldn’t get the door opened. It was somehow locked on both sides. We sat at separate workstations and debated what to do. Craig said no problem and pulled out his cellphone but there weren’t any bars so we looked at each other, wondering just how much trouble we were in.
Then The Voice began.
“Stay calm, boys,” came a disembodied, deeply male voice. “We’ll get you out in a moment.” There was a pause. “Stand up.”
Craig and I stood; Tommy looked at us with disgust.
“You, too,” The Voice said to a startled Tommy, who quickly stood. “Yes, we have cameras. We’ve monitored you since the loading dock. Now, there’s no need for this to be ugly. You guys thought you’d sneak in, get some cool photos to show to your buddies and be heroes, right?”
It was strange nodding to an unseen voice, but we did.
The Voice actually chuckled. “We understand. Okay. Help’s here. Stand by the door and no hassles, big guy, okay?” I guessed that the hidden camera or cameras had shown Tommy getting in a defensive crouch. He looked at us and then loosened up.
The door clicked and a bearded guy with black curly hair and a dark blue polo shirt with the Intellia logo stood there with two other guys in the same getup.
“Come on, guys,” Bearded Guy sighed. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he said matter-of-factly, “You’re not the first and you probably won’t be the last that tried this stunt. Let’s make this as painless as we can, okay?”
I’d been freaked by The Voice but what he said now relaxed me a little; Craig, too, I think. We meekly followed them to another room with several chairs and a computer workstation and we sat.
Bearded Guy said, “Any ID?” and we looked at each other, knew we were screwed and fished out our wallets and handed them over. He grinned. “Well, you’re not the first but you’re certainly the youngest, I’ll give you points for that.” He made photocopies of our ID cards, those crummy handwritten ones that come with the wallet, and copies of our West View Middle School student IDs. Then he handed them back to us.
“Right. Craig, Thomas–go by Tommy?” On Tommy’s nod, to me he said, “Christopher–go by Chris?” I nodded and he gave another deep sigh. “Right. You know you’re trespassing, yada-yada-yada. No sense getting police records over this. Are all of you gamers?”
Craig said he was and Tommy nodded. I shrugged. Bearded Guy said, “Not a gamer, Chris? Why’d you risk the cops, then? For your buddies? Thought so. Oh, camera, please. Canon, was it?”
I nodded, impressed with their surveillance cameras, and handed it over. He pushed the buttons like he’d done it a zillion times and handed it back. Wiped clean, of course.
“Sorry if you had shots of your girlfriend there; she’s gone, too.”
Tommy snorted and Bearded Guy looked at me a little gently, I thought. “No girlfriend, then? Right. Well, you’re young yet. You guys …well, you know that you’ve found Intellia. But there’s a complication. Usually I’d let you back out the loading dock and that would be that …but you picked a bad night to show up.” He inhaled deeply and looked up. “And it’s Showtime,” he said to our puzzlement. Especially because he looked almost …sad.
We turned as the door was flung open and a guy came in, wearing mostly grays, even his windbreaker. From all the movies I’d seen, something about him said military or ex-military. And he was followed by two big guys in black who dwarfed everybody in the room. The other two Intellia guys probably felt that, because they quickly left without a word, leaving Bearded Guy looking kind of stranded. The two Bully Boys stepped on either side of Military Guy, flanking him. Only then did I see they were carrying what looked like big flashlights but were probably stun rods.
Military Guy stood looking at us for a moment and then surprised us by smiling. “Gentlemen. Points for bravado. But you understand that we can’t allow any trespassing. Now, I want you to know that I will not involve the police if you’ll answer some questions for me. Are we clear?”
We knew enough to say, ‘yes, sir’ and, as freaked as I was by the stun rods, I could tell Tommy and Craig were as relieved as I was that we could avoid police. We’d been grounded forever for the ice block-golf course thing.
“Fair enough,” he nodded. “We’ll move to another room, get out of this fellow’s hair.”
Bearded Guy gave us a quick frowning look and said, “Do you think it’s wise?”
Military Guy said crisply, “Already been decided.” To us, all smiley, he said, “You guys want something to drink? Soda? Juice?”
We looked at each other. They wouldn’t be offering drinks if we were really truly busted, right? So we started to smile–Craig was grinning.
Tommy said, “Pepsi if you got it.”
“Sprite. Or Seven-Up, something like that,” Craig said.
“I’m fine with water. Or juice,” I said.
“Health freak,” Tommy muttered.
“Excellent choices,” the guy said, and pulled out a walkie-talkie and relayed our requests. “Follow me.”
We got up and left Bearded Guy. I was the last in line and turned to sort of wave and saw that he was staring at us, and looked worried.
Military Guy led us down another featureless hall to another door like all the others. Inside was a table and three chairs, with our drinks set next to glasses with ice cubes and a napkin. Two opened cans of Pepsi and Sprite and a bottle of Dasani water with the cap next to it. Like a hotel, I thought, cool! We couldn’t be in that much trouble if we were getting like room service, right? There was a desk and computer and Military Guy sat there; the Bully Boys took chairs on either side of the door. I thought it was interesting that the room had been set up so precisely and quickly and anonymously. Maybe it was always like that.
The three of us sat by our drinks, Craig in the middle, and since Military Guy was silent, just watching us and nodding pleasantly, we went ahead and poured and sipped. After we’d swallowed and did the ‘ah!’ thing, he grinned, leaned forward and launched into a long speech about the need for secrecy, bootlegs giving new games a bad reputation, blah, blah, blah. It was all stuff we’d heard before or could figure out on our own, but I guess he thought he had to give the speech. I figured it was the price we had to pay for not involving the cops.
The speech ended, Military Guy fired up the computer and asked each of us what games we played, how old we were when we started playing video games, and other marketing-type questions that he entered, a page for each of us. He asked about our social lives, to flesh out the profile, I guess. He said it was to get a better grasp of gamers, and said the industry had learned a lot after the screw-up with Halo: Reach Again, and we all nodded, remembering that with a laugh.
Some of the questions were personal but they were personality data Military Guy said the marketing guys needed. And it would keep us from the cops. So we told him about our grades, girlfriends–that was easy: None–siblings and parents, what type of computer systems we used, what kind of internet feeds did we have, did we play online, that sort of thing. We’d finished the drinks long ago and Tommy said he had to whizz, one of his favorite words. Military Guy nodded and Tommy was escorted out by a Bully Boy. Craig and I looked at each other and Military Guy laughed.
“Look, we all got rules and protocols. I have to have one guy on the kid …whizzing, and one guy here. That way the head guys don’t get all freaked out that we let you wander alone, you understand?”
We did, and Craig went when Tommy came back. I sat there thinking, first Bearded Guy, now Military Guy, and he’s talking about Head Guys …how many layers were here? Although Military Guy didn’t sound like he actually had any Head Guys, from his attitude. Then Craig came back and I went. Boring hall to a restroom, like all the other doors but it had the male bathroom symbol where the little windows were on the other doors. Industrial plumbing, not unlike school but absolutely spotless–so not like school!–and then my Bully Boy and I went back to the room.
There was a little speech for the need to keep quiet, although we hadn’t really seen anything, and he’d see if maybe he could get the three of us an advance copy of the new game. It was obviously the bribe to keep our mouths shut.
The Bully Boys took us back to the loading dock, opened the gate, we walked through, the gate closed, and that was it, just like it never happened.
Whew! That took me hours to write yesterday, but I think it’s important to know every moment of our little adventure.
Because something is happening to me, and I think it’s because of that night, three weeks ago.
We got home and considered ourselves heroes, even if we couldn’t tell anybody what happened. And we’d never tell our buddies because we’d sound lame. They’d say: “Let me get this right. You say you snuck in to Intellia. You say they caught you, interrogated you, and conveniently wiped your camera. So, basically, you’ve got nothing.” Yeah, right; there was no point in telling anybody anything.
Three or four nights after that night, though, I felt …funny. I felt soft and kind of …squishy. There wasn’t anything to put a finger on; I figured I’d caught a cold that night because the timing was right if I was coming down with it. It passed the next day, and although I had a few sessions of diarrhea in the morning–thank goodness it was a teacher workday, no school–I felt fine afterwards. I went over to Craig’s house to hang out but was just kind of tired, I guess from all my time on the toilet. He just thought I was coming down with something and we didn’t do much; he was fiddling with Omega Chronicles while I read an old Rolling Stone, so I went home early.
It wasn’t until about a week later that I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating. I’d had a weird dream but couldn’t remember it; just a flash of images that made no sense. And the next night, and the next night.
It’s been two weeks now and I’m sleeping okay; I haven’t had a dream for two nights now. I still feel soft and squishy, though. But the reason I started writing all this is because of something Craig said.
The three of us were in the park, sitting on the merry-go-round. Just sitting, not doing anything, just talking. There weren’t any little kids around so it wasn’t like we were hogging it or anything; just hanging out. At some point Tommy said, “Man, I think I’m coming down with the flu or something. I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy.” Craig shot me a look but didn’t say anything. A while later, Tommy said he had chores and had better head home. We watched him leave the park.
Craig said, “He never does chores.”
“Maybe his dad is reading him the riot act,” I said.
He snorted. “His dad doesn’t read; he might hit him with the riot act, all rolled up.”
Tommy had a rough family life, full of a bad-but-true cliché–drunken macho brawling between his father, his older brother, and Tommy.
Craig said, “Did you hear what he said about the Pillsbury Doughboy?” I nodded. Craig squinted. “That’s weird. I’ve been …” He stared into the distance. “Ever since that night at Intellia, I’ve been feeling weird. You?”
I sighed and nodded. “Only way I can put it is, I feel sort of soft and squishy.”
Craig nodded enthusiastically. “That’s it! I was thinking that I felt kind of …I don’t know…fragile, I guess, like walking on eggs, but, yeah! Soft and squishy; that’s exactly right! And weird dreams.”
“I got those, but not the last couple of nights.”
Craig gave me a look. “Something very weird went down that night.” I nodded. He said, “Something in our drinks, maybe?”
“Or the ice cubes, or the glasses, or the toilet paper, or the air …weird chemicals in the room …anything.”
He stared off into the distance for a long silent moment. “Well, unless we start having convulsions, or like …dying or something, we’ll just have to keep quiet and ride it out. We can’t tell anybody anything. Oh, and don’t say anything to Tommy. He’ll freak, probably think it’s some curse or something. You know how his folks go on about curses.”
Tommy’s parents were both devoutly Irish Catholic and also amazingly superstitious.
“Probably just got sick on dirty glasses or something,” I offered.
“In that place?” Craig snickered. “It was so sterile we could’ve eaten off the floor.”
Still soft and squishy, but now there’s a weird calmness. Everything is fine. I got a crummy grade on a test, one that I’d studied for, but I didn’t focus on the questions and did the thing wrong, pure and simple. Usually I would have blown up but now I thought, no, the teacher’s right. I need to pay more attention. I need to get along with him. I did ask if I could re-take it, or a different test. The teacher looked at me like he’d never seen me before and agreed to let me take a different period’s test. I aced that one. So maybe the calm thing is working out.
I don’t know if it’s a late spring fever, or what. I’m still calm, but hearing all the boys talking the usual talk is bugging me. It’s all ranking and trying to top the other guy. For the first time in my life, it seemed …silly. I was thinking about that while I walked to lunch and heard some girls talking. Jenny Allen, Miranda Stevenson and their buds. They were talking about Evermore, a new pop band and what they were going to wear to the concert and it sounded like fun.
I thought, the guys are just trying to outdo each other but the girls are joining in, sharing their hopes and will share the concert experience together. Guys wouldn’t even go to an Evermore concert because it wasn’t cool. And if they did go, all they’d talk about later was how great their seats were and how they could play the riffs faster in Guitar Player than the guitarist himself.
Never thought like this before. Maybe it’s growing up. Maybe that’s part of the calmness, just taking life and thinking about it.
Two more weeks of school left. I’m getting used to this odd feeling; I mean, it isn’t odd anymore. Craig and I were talking about it, figuring we were just ‘coming out of it’, whatever it was, when Tommy came up to us. He had a black eye and a swollen cheek, and told us his big brother told him that he’d been whining like a baby and just slugged him. We’d seen Tommy’s bruises when he was younger, but not for awhile.
“What’d you say to piss him off?” Craig asked.
“All I said was that we should maybe spend time as a family, talking about our day, instead of just eating and back to the TV.”
Craig and I looked at each other. I asked, “Why’d you say that? I mean, you’re right, but …why’d you say it?”
He shrugged. “I’d helped Ma with the dinner. First time I’d done that. Ever, I think. She just looked so tired and I thought of the four of us, you know, it’s a lot of work. So I asked if she needed help. I learned a lot of stuff, you know, about cooking. And then watching my dad and brother suck it down and thinking they’d just get up leaving their dishes and not even a thank you to Ma, and …” He shrugged again.
Craig and I locked eyes. We were both thinking the same thing. Tommy helped cook dinner? And then lectured his father and brother about their eating habits? He was lucky he got off with a black eye!
I had a long talk with Jenny Allen today. I realized we’ve been classmates since kindergarten, and when I heard her before Math telling Elaine Blackwood all about the Evermore concert, I thought, she’s a nice girl. Lainey is, too. And so on the way out of class I asked Jenny about the concert. She looked startled that it was me asking, but launched into another enthusiastic telling. I was right; it sounded like fun. Way more better than the guys standing at the locker room talking about a NASCAR crash.
Jenny smiled. She has pretty auburn hair. “I never thought you were into Evermore, Chris. I mean, I don’t know any boy that likes them.”
“I don’t really know them, I’ve got to tell you up front. It was just, well …hearing you tell Elaine about the concert made it sound like it was a really cool experience.”
“Oh, it was!” She lit up and went on telling me about it.
We separated at one of the hall junctions and I headed down my hall. Tommy was leaning against a locker, watching her go.
“Jenny was telling me about a concert she went to,” I explained.
He nodded. “Cute skirt,” he mumbled, then blushed.
That bothered me a lot, because it wasn’t something he’d say, and he knew it.
And he was right; Jenny’s skirt was cute.
I thought about it last night, lying in bed. And a weird dream came, based on the events of the day. I was sitting at a concert next to Jenny Allen, and we were screaming our heads off. Everybody was screaming. Over the screams and the band I could hear ‘cute skirt’. Then Jenny and I were holding hands and jumping up and down giggling and then separated and I ran home to call her and talk to her some more. It was all so warm and so friendly and so fun and so nice …
Craig had some bad news. Really bad. His dad has gotten transferred to the East Coast, and they hadn’t told Craig or his sister Teresa–she’s a senior in high school–until the end of the school year. But Craig’s sister is pretty smart and found out a week early. So the parents have already made their plans and school ends the 12th and Craig leaves the 14th and that’s it.
After all these years.
Bummer!
Tommy, Craig and I decided to spend a last day together. It’ll be the 13th, when we should be enjoying the first day of summer vacation but we’ll be saying goodbye. I don’t want them to know it but I cried last night, thinking about it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess it’s the end of the school year, Craig moving away, it all just piled on and I hugged my pillow and bawled.
Mom came in and asked what was wrong. It was so nice with her sitting next to me on my bed, stroking my hair and saying, ‘there, there’. I felt really close to her and rolled up and hugged her, crying. Finally, I had to say something.
“Mom, I’m …sorry, I’m getting your blouse wet. It’s really pretty, too,” I said, brushing it.
“Thank you, honey.” There was an odd tone in her voice. “Don’t worry about the blouse. I know you’re crushed at Craig leaving.”
“You knew?”
“They told me last week, and said that they couldn’t keep it a secret from their kids any longer so you’d be finding out and they wanted me to be alerted to how sad you’d be. I know you’ve been friends for so long …”
I started blubbering again. She did the ‘there, there’, adding ‘hush’ every so often. Finally I got the crying under control. Oddly enough, I felt better.
“Mom, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe it’s the growing-up thing, but I feel all out of sorts and having weird thoughts.”
“Well, it’s all part of being a teenager. You just turned fourteen a little while ago so it’s all so new.”
“I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s …” How could I put it? “I think it might be something more. But I don’t want to tell you until …well, until a little while longer.”
“I understand. I remember this time, being your age,” she said, smiling. “Dimly, of course, because I’m so ancient!” she teased.
“You are not ancient!” I retorted. “You are just about the prettiest mom ever! I love that you’re so …well, so you.”
“Why, thank you, Chris, and I love you, too. Now try to be brave about Craig leaving.”
***
I don’t know what she thought about our little talk. Did she think I was a normal boy dealing with being fourteen? Did she think I was gay and losing Craig was breaking my heart? How could she ever guess that I thought that all three of us were being changed somehow by that night when we’d been doing something illegal?
End of Part 1
Oh, God. Craig’s gone. Or he will be, tomorrow. It was weird going to his house, where I’ve been a zillion times, and it was all empty and they were living out of suitcases.
Oh, and school’s over. Just a couple of half-days and time for the three of us to hang as much as we could, and all day today. Craig’s parents sprang for us to go bowling and have pizza and then unlimited game room time, just like a birthday party, but none of us wanted to celebrate. Craig’s sister Teresa is a basket case; apparently a cute boy had just asked her out, finally, and now she’s got to move. The high school let out a week earlier for seniors so she’s already done the graduation thing and all that.
Craig told me that he felt closer to his sister than he ever had before. He said this while Tommy was bowling and the parents weren’t around. Craig said that it was probably the move that brought them closer; they’d been living separate lives with separate friends and schools and now they were just two kids again, doing what their parents wanted.
I told Craig, “You’re lucky. Your sister is so cool. And so pretty! I can’t believe that guy took so long to ask her out!”
“I know!” he nodded. “Chump.”
“Yeah. I mean, I love her hair, with that new style. And she’s always dressed really nice, you know? Not a total Hollister clone like a lot of girls.”
He nodded again. “That stylist got it right. I like the new cut, too. It frames her face.”
Tommy came up from the lane. “Frames? How many?”
He’d thought we meant ‘bowling frames’ so Craig said, “You can do one more, if you want. My arm’s kind of tired.”
I looked at my right hand. “I think I’m getting a blister on my thumb. I’m going to lay out, too.”
Tommy nodded and then, to our shock, hugged Craig. “I’m going to miss you so much,” he sniffed, and turned away back to the lanes before we could see his face, but I think he was starting to cry.
“We’re all pretty emotional,” Craig began.
“And having interesting dreams,” I added.
“And we’re soft and squishy. Have you noticed Tommy’s getting a little …”
“Rounder?” I’d noticed it in his face.
“Eating better, maybe,” Craig said, but something in his voice said he didn’t believe it.
“Craig, we’ve gotta admit it,” I said, looking around to see that we were alone. “Whatever happened to us at Intellia that night did something weird.”
He shook his head. “Not just did something weird; it’s still happening.”
“You’ve noticed, too?”
He turned to me. “Look, Chris, you’re the only one I can talk to about this. I can’t talk to Tommy …he’s got too many other problems at home and I don’t want to lay it on him until I’m sure. But you, you and I …” He looked around. “Have you …felt yourself lately?”
“You mean, like, playing with myself?”
He grinned. “Well, that, too, but I meant …well, start with that. Have you played with yourself lately? And come on, we know we all do.”
I blushed. “No. I mean, yeah, I did, but I hadn’t thought about it until you just said that. No, I haven’t played with myself since …yeah,” I nodded. “Since at least that night.”
“My point exactly. So, what I said before …have you felt yourself? Like …” He looked around, made as if to stretch, and traced his fingers over his chest. “..this?”
“Not really.”
“You will, I’ll bet. Have you been thinking about girls differently than you used to? I know you have, because you’re talking with Jenny Allen all the time.”
“Not all the time …but, yeah. Maybe it’s just growing up.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s more. Have you thought about …about their clothes?”
“No, not beyond any …” I stopped myself, suddenly remembering how we’d just been talking about his sister, and then I remembered complimenting Mom on her blouse. “Yeah, now that you mention it. And I remember Tommy saw Jenny a week ago and said, ‘cute skirt’.”
“Which Tommy would never say.”
“Which Tommy would never say,” I agreed. “So you think we’re …oh, God …do you think we’re turning gay somehow?”
He gave me the saddest smile imaginable. “Not gay. Not that simple. Maybe, but …no. I think we’re turning into girls.”
“Into girls?” I almost blurted loudly. “Why …how …”
“Why, I don’t know. The how is obvious–our beverages at Intellia. Something that all three of us got, in the drinks or the ice cubes, and I think …” He sat up closer to me and lowered his voice. “Everything I’m saying applies to all three of us, okay? And so we’ve got to be completely honest with each other because we can’t not be–because we’re the only ones who know. And it’s not us being weird, it’s something that was done to us. So there’s no shame in that.”
“But not telling Tommy right now–”
“Is because of his family. You want him to maybe get an arm broken? Neither do I. Okay.” He ticked points off on his finger. “First of all, everything odd started that night. That’s a given. Next, we’re all feeling, like you said, soft and squishy. Next, we’re all having strange dreams. Dreams about girls and boys and different feelings.”
“I haven’t dreamed about boys.”
“Not yet, but you will, I bet,” he said bleakly.
Strangely, that thought didn’t revolt me; it almost sounded …neat.
Craig sighed. “We’re using words and speech patterns closer to the girls around us than the way we spoke before, or the way guys speak around us. Next …well, I’ll bet you’ve been seeing the guys as school in a new light. Differently than before. Same with the girls.”
I nodded.
He did, too. “Next, the clothes …girls’ clothes …are really, really fascinating. Like the way my sister’s skirt swings when she walks.”
“God, I know! Teresa’s so cute!”
“See, there you go, doing it!” he grinned. “But we used to watch her butt. Now we watch her skirt. See the difference?”
I stared off at the lanes. “We’re becoming girls.”
He nodded. “We’re becoming girls.”
“But how far?”
***
So we spent the rest of the day not talking about it. We promised each other that as soon as the time was right, I was going to have to tell Tommy without Craig being there. But Craig’s got a fancy video hookup on his computer, and mine is cheesy but works. We figured we’d be emailing each other, and then get Tommy in front of my computer for a three-way conference.
Our Intellia Conference.
Craig was right, as usual. I discovered my fingers tracing lazy circles around my nipples while I lay in my bed, reading. There was a puffiness to my nipples; I lifted my t-shirt and sure enough, there were little swellings under my nipples. I pulled my shirt down and tried to read but my mind was on my body.
About an hour later I checked my computer and finally there was an email from Craig, all apologetic about how the movers didn’t have all of his computer in one place so it took a while to track it all down and reassemble it. He wrote a bit about the new house and neighborhood and then got to it. He said ‘that thing’ we’d talked about was on his mind and for me to email him when I’d be alone in my room for a video feed. I emailed right away that I was there for the rest of the night. I ran down to tell Mom that I might be getting a feed from Craig and I’d be on headphones and I didn’t know if the signal would be any good so if she needed me for anything to wait until I came back out. She said she completely understood and to say hi to Craig for her.
About five minutes later I sat with the phones and microphone boom awaiting the feed. It was funny; when it came through it was just like when Craig lived in my neighborhood. It was weird thinking that he was in another time zone now.
His head loomed in the monitor as usual. “Hey, Chris.”
“Hey, yourself. I read about your new house. Sounds neat.”
Small talk out of the way, he asked if we were ‘secure’ and I said yes. He asked if I’d been thinking about what we’d talked about at the bowling alley. I had; I asked him if he remembered an old spy movie where they used the code ‘Moscow Rules’ and he did, grinning. It meant we’d only speak when absolutely sure nobody could hear. And we’d tell each other the truth. And no recording! We both agreed and said the phrase ‘Moscow Rules’ and I told him about my kind-of puffy nipples.
He said, “They’re kinda puffy, huh?” and unbuttoned the green shirt he was wearing and flopped it back over his shoulders. The camera showed his nipples were puffy, sure …but there was a small mound rising around each nipple.
“I saw Teresa when she was first getting her boobs. I look just the same.”
“Well, yeah, same genetic stock,” I said, lamely.
“You know what this means?”
“We start shopping at Victoria’s Secret?” Lame, again.
He grinned, though. “Not yet, but maybe soon. This is way faster than Teresa’s. I’ve been reading up on this thing called ‘gynecomastia’, which basically means boobs on boys. We sort of qualify, but not on the timetable, and definitely not with everything else.”
“You mean the dreams, the …thoughts …” I trailed off.
“Boys?” he said oddly.
I nodded. “I was looking at a People magazine, just browsing, you know? And suddenly my heart went thumpa-thumpa and it was this guy with six-pack abs and was only seventeen and I was almost panting.” Just remembering it made me breathe faster.
I wasn’t surprised when Craig nodded. “I saw this boy down the street and my brain said he was cute and I wonder what kind of girl he likes …and I realized that my brain meant, ‘girl’ as in me being the girl.”
“What the hell is happening, Craig?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yeah, we both know; something was done to us on purpose or by accident at Intellia. But how and why a video game company would have the ability–or even the stuff laying around–for that to happen …”
“We’ve got to dig up info on Intellia, beyond the games.”
“That’s the starting point, sure. The one thing that confuses me–I mean, that doesn’t fit–is that it’s the wrong demographic.”
“Oh, sure, of course; I was thinking along the same lines,” I teased. “What the heck do you mean?”
“Their games–the whole range of games, even ones we don’t play?–they’re all boys’ games. I mean, not just Omega Chronicles and shooters, but hard-core sports things like football and basketball. There’s not even softer stuff like Bejeweled or that Dance-Dance thing or Guitar Hero–heck, even Teresa plays Guitar Hero!”
“Well, that’s part of what makes them so cool, so hard-core. Gamers wouldn’t want the same place that makes Halo, say, to make an Easy Bake Oven.”
Craig actually giggled at that, but said, “That’s what I mean about the demographic being all wrong; they don’t …”
He paused, thinking.
I said, “The only thing I can come up with for Intellia to do something like this is that maybe they figured we’re hard-core gamers; we proved that to them, with all the questions they asked. So if we turned into girls, would we still be gamers? Like they could find out what we didn’t like about the game–as girls, I mean–that we did like as guys? And then come out with a …I don’t know, a unisex Omega, maybe?”
“It’s a stretch, yeah,” Craig nodded. “Except that it doesn’t quite fit. If there was a girl-gaming community besides the hard-core fan-girls–I mean, if it was perfectly normal for girls like Teresa and Jenny Allen to game–then your idea would fit. But they’d have to already be into gaming, and they’re not, so it would have to be a whole new social restructuring. It’s a good idea you had, but it would be like testing two different car models on some remote villager who only drives ox carts. The poor guy wouldn’t have the experience to determine if five cup holders was a good thing!”
We agreed that the demographic-test idea was unlikely, and then Craig went on to tell me some of the stuff he’d dug out about boys turning into girls. There were some rare conditions where it happened, but for all three of us to do it and in the exact same time frame was ‘statistically impossible’–one of Craig’s favorite phrases, I remembered. Plus, like he’d said, the timetable was all wrong, all sped up, based on how fast he was developing compared to his sister’s rate as a normal girl.
I had a weird sudden flash of, ‘I wonder when I can wear a bra?’ Not if, or have to, but when can I …
I said it was time to get Tommy in on it, and we agreed I’d get him over for a Moscow Rules session and we laid out a basic schedule for another video feed and then ended the connection.
It was still early enough that I called Tommy and got his brother who was normally nice but kind of sneered and asked ‘Why did I want the little faggot?’ and all I could think of was, poor Tommy. He came on the line sounding very, very strange.
“Chris. Hi. Uh …”
“Listen, Tommy, how you doing?”
“Okay.” He was definitely not okay.
“Can you come over tomorrow some time? For at least an hour or so?”
“Um …hold on.”
The phone was muffled and there were voices and a bit of shouting. When Tommy came on he was sniffing. “Not tomorrow. The next day, maybe. Five or six. I’ve got to be back home by seven.”
We agreed on five and I emailed Craig and got a response that he’d be on day after tomorrow at 5:15, our time. I lay back in bed and thought.
And my fingers were gently stroking my nipples.
I decided to help Mom today. I do, anyway, but we did a big day of laundry and dusting and vacuuming. I wore a t-shirt and shorts and suddenly flashed on several things. First of all, girls wore t-shirts and shorts. Other than underwear, my clothing was truly unisex. I was wearing flip-flops, too. All of the moving and stretching involved in the work made me realize my nipples were rubbing against my t-shirt and it both hurt and felt good at the same time. Kind of like that icy-hot feeling with Ben-Gay or Atomic Balm. But I knew that it was only a matter of time before I became noticeable.
And then what?
Mom went out shopping and I flipped through the new magazines from the mail and I found myself checking out the girls and boys–but entirely unlike any time I’d looked at magazines before. I’d looked at cute girls in magazines but now, the girls I was rating as cute–but cute but in a totally different way. ‘Cute’ like, that was a cute outfit; I really liked the skirt. Or, that looks like a cute top. Or even, I wonder if my hair would look that cute if I got that hairstyle.
When Mom came home I was unusually quiet. She gave me my space but asked if I’d join her in a movie on the couch. It was an old rerun of Miss Congeniality and I watched it with new eyes. The ugly-duckling becoming the beautiful swan …
I spent most of the next day on the internet, after a bike ride. Mom was working late so I was completely undisturbed, and we’d get our video conference done with before she got home. I also uncovered a bunch of stuff to tell the guys.
And I had a shock at five.
Tommy did not look like Tommy to me. Oh, the black eye was nearly gone, but there was a swelling along his cheek, and when he reached for something his t-shirt sleeve slid up and I saw his upper arm was black and blue. We’d seen stuff like that over the years and it made Craig and I really crazy and sad at the same time. Helpless, too. We learned to ask once how he was doing and then shut up about it. So I asked but knew he’d just shake his head and not say anything. But instead he put both hands over his face and burst into tears. Tommy? In tears? I sat next to him and hugged him and we sat there for awhile until he got himself together. He was still sniffing when the video feed came through.
After Moscow Rules–and explaining it to Tommy–Craig immediately laid it all out. He apologized for us not telling Tommy sooner, but we’d only just found out ourselves and talked at length yesterday. Not entirely true, but it satisfied Tommy. Craig said quite bluntly that something happened to us at Intellia and whether by accident or on purpose …all three of us were become feminine. Possibly becoming females, he said.
“God, I knew it!” Tommy squealed. “I’m becoming a sissy!” He burst into tears again.
It took us a bit to get him calmed down. Craig said there were some things that seemed to mean that it wasn’t just becoming girlish males. He asked about Tommy’s chest and the way he shook his head vehemently led Craig and I to look at each other and nod. I went first. I lifted my shirt.
“Tommy, look at me. Look at me, please.”
Tommy glanced and did a cartoon-worthy double-take. I had the puffy nipples and now the slight mounds that Craig had shown me yesterday. Then on the monitor, Craig grinned and unbuttoned his shirt again and turned sideways. Tommy and I stared at Craig’s boobs. There was no other word for them–his profile showed the mounds unmistakably. Tommy gasped and Craig looked at him, still with his shirt off.
“Well, Tommy?” I said, gently.
He hung his head, then took a sharp, ragged breath and undid his baggy shirt. There were two mounds, puffy nipples and all. Suddenly we all broke out laughing, giggling uncontrollably. Eventually we calmed down and buttoned up. But at least Tommy felt way better.
I told them the results of my net searches. There was that statistical impossibility to overcome, and I told various theories about different species that changed sex. Tommy said, whoa, maybe we’re just growing boobs, but I confessed to thinking about cute dresses and cuter boys.
Craig said, “Not to play one-up-man-ship, but I think I’ve got you beat.”
He’d been sitting at the computer and now stood from the chair and stepped back. Omigod! Craig was wearing a denim miniskirt! He sat back down.
Matter-of-factly he said, “One of the advantages of having a sister.”
I asked if he’d told her; he said not yet but he’d grabbed a few things that might be explained as ‘lost in the move’. He said it just felt right, but that he was going to take a bath later tonight and shave his legs. He said then he’d feel right.
Tommy just stared at him. I just thought about how cute Craig had looked in the skirt and thought about myself in one. Maybe like the cute one Miranda wore the last time I saw her?
Focus, Chris! I told myself.
Craig then told about his researches, and it seemed that Tommy really needed to hear it. And I was staggered by what Craig had found.
Intellia was a state-of-the-art video game company, but it was so ‘bleeding edge’ that it had been acquired by another company. And another company had that one as a subsidiary, and another one …it was like that cartoon with a fish coming to eat a little fish, with an even bigger fish right behind ready to eat the first fish. Infinite regression, I remembered from a thing I’d read about M.C. Escher and murmured his name.
“No,” Craig said, grinning wickedly. “Not Escher. Pentagon.”
He’d tracked them one by one until it became obvious that the ultimate ‘parent company’ of Intellia was the Department of Defense.
“I don’t think Intellia is doing anything for the D.O.D.,” Craig said. “I think it’s just part of a blind, a front, maybe. And lord knows it’s a profitable one.”
I said, “So you think that the Military Guy wasn’t Intellia …”
He nodded. “I think he was directly or indirectly D.O.D. or at least worked for them. Did you see the look on the guy with the beard? It was like he was scared of those guys.”
“And was helpless,” I mused.
Tommy spoke for the first time. “I think the Bearded Guy was going to let us go really quick.”
“Yeah, before the Black Hats arrived.”
“Hats?” Tommy asked.
I explained the term, and he nodded and then I said, “So are we being punished …or tested?”
Craig shrugged. “I’d say we’re being tested.”
Tommy said, “Tested to do what?”
Craig and I exchanged one of our countless looks over Tommy. Craig patiently said, “Not tested like in school, tested like …well, like lab rats.”
“What?” Tommy almost jumped from the bed.
I calmed him down and reminded him that what was happening to us had been done to us; it wasn’t our fault.
Tommy seemed frantic. “Yeah, but we’re still growing tits! I can’t …I can’t do this!”
“Calm down, big guy,” Craig said. “We don’t know–”
“Big guy? Ha! What a laugh!” Tommy almost sobbed. “You two are going on and on about your tits, but what about your dicks?”
Craig and I exchanged looks; we hadn’t gotten to that part yet. At least, I hadn’t …
Craig calmly said, “Yeah, my dick is smaller. Yours, too?”
Tommy groaned. “Yeah …oh, God!”
I said, “Look, Tommy, this isn’t God’s Divine Punishment or anything like that,” knowing his religious bent. “This is something those guys did to us.”
Tommy said, “So let’s just go back and tell them to fix it.”
It was stunningly simple except for one thing.
I cleared my throat, getting their attention. “Guys, I rode my bike over there today.”
“Great!” Tommy said.
“Oh-oh,” Craig said.
“Yeah, oh-oh,” I agreed sadly. “They’re gone.”
“Gone?” Tommy gasped.
Craig said, “I was afraid of that. We …breached their security. They ‘fixed’ us and then had to pack up.”
“Intellia’s gone?” Tommy said dumbly.
“We’ll just have to track ‘em down,” Craig said. “In the meantime–”
“In the meantime,” Tommy almost snarled, “you think we’re turning into chicks!”
Neither Craig nor I spoke. Then, just to get onto a different subject–sort of–I asked generally, mostly for Tommy’s benefit, “Why would they turn us into chicks? Why even come up with something like that?” I didn’t bother telling Tommy about our ‘demographics’ idea; I knew it would only confuse him and Craig and I had pretty much discarded it, anyway.
Craig said, “Ah …I may have an idea. Two ideas, really. Okay, I’ve been reading a lot of odd websites lately, and one of my bookmarks is for a site talking about cutting edge weapons. Not weapons that go boom!–but weapons that make the enemy not want to fight you. And some of them are just crowd control, like for riot situations.”
“Or political protests,” I said, getting cold at the thought. I’d read something about it.
“Yeah,” Craig nodded solemnly. “They’re really strange, all over the map technically. They’ve got sound cannons that send a special sound frequency that is like the ultimate fingernails-on-the-chalkboard. And one frequency that’ll make your stomach sick and you crap your pants.”
“God!” Tommy exclaimed.
“I don’t think God’s involved in these; He’s probably embarrassed by the ways we come up with to hurt each other,” Craig said dryly. “There’s another ‘cannon’ thing–I think anything that outputs something is called a cannon–only this one doesn’t put out heat, exactly.”
“I read about that one!” I said excitedly. “In Wired magazine, I think. It makes you feel like your skin’s on fire; supposed to be total agony without anything actually burning.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. There’s things about super-glue, and sticky nets, and all sorts of stuff. And you’re right, Chris; most of those were all crowd-control things for protestors. But the weapons for armies, or maybe like a terrorist training camp …” He broke off, lost in thought for a moment.
It went on so long that I said, “Craig? We still doing Moscow Rules?”
“Yeah, Moscow Rules. I just had a thought. I was going to tell you about bio-weapons, like plague and that Ebola virus and stuff, and there was something about tranquilizers in the water supply. I suddenly had a thought …” He paused for a moment, holding his hand up. Tommy and I looked at each other; we knew that when Craig got like this, his wheels were turning at high speed.
Craig nodded and spoke. “Yeah, it makes sense. Think about this. The terrorists–I mean, the ones we’re mostly fighting now–are religious fundamentalists, really conservative and all, and you know how they keep the women hidden and wearing those big black things?”
“Burkhas,” I said.
“Yeah. Veils, the works. Women are second-class citizens, if they’re even considered as ‘citizens’. Sort of like ‘failed men’. Not all Muslim countries are like that, and not all Arab countries.”
“Just the fundamentalists,” Tommy nodded. “Like those Christian fundamentalists with like sixteen wives and they all dress alike and look like robots.”
We’d all seen that on TV when their compound had been raided.
“Exactly, Tommy,” Craig nodded. “Yeah. So, I’m just going off the top of my head here, but I said I had two ideas. The first is, religious fundamentalists. And I don’t mean just Islamic guys. Tommy was right about the Christian guys, and I don’t know about any other religions really well, but it seems that in every single one of them, the back-to-basics, fundamentalist kind? In every single one of them, women are downgraded. Second-class citizens, or really just slaves, good for babies and keeping house.”
I said, “I saw something about that on the History Channel, and I never thought of it before, but you’re right. They’re all really macho, me-Tarzan-you-Jane sort of things.”
Tommy actually giggled at my Tarzan reference and put his hand over his mouth, fingers straight up. “Sorry!”
Craig and I exchanged a glance at that, both the giggle and the gesture.
Craig went on. “Okay, so any of the fundamentalist crazies, any religion, all seem to be rough-tough macho male-dominated groups, that look down on women?” He paused and Tommy and I nodded.
“Oh!” I said as the thought came. “The Taliban and one of those Christian camps up in Montana or Wyoming or something, the one the FBI raided?”
“Where they shot the FBI guy?” Tommy said and Craig was nodding.
“Teenagers,” I said. “They’re all teenagers. I mean, not every fundamentalist and not every religion, but I know the Christian guys were like seventeen–at least the one that shot the FBI guy was–and I think the Taliban’s really young.”
Craig’s face was grim. “Yeah; I remember a phrase somewhere that few things are more frightening than a sixteen-year-old boy full of God and carrying a Kalashnikov.”
The image made me shake, like a sudden chill.
Craig’s mouth quirked in a wicked smile. “So what do you guys think would happen to a big old terrorist training camp, like a hundred rough-tough guys–especially macho teenaged dudes–when they all start turning into girls?”
“Omigod!” I gasped.
Tommy cracked up. “They’d be so busy disciplining each other, even when they were turning into girls themselves!”
Craig laughed and said, “They sure wouldn’t be spending too much time on training how to shoot and blow up Americans.”
Tommy said, “Maybe they’d all take up baking instead!”
We all giggled at the vision–as politically incorrect and ignorant as it was–and there’s no other word for it; we all were giggling.
Then I said, “What’s the second idea?”
Craig said, “That Intellia is the legitimate public image, the respectable front, with labs in front designing software, and in the labs in the back rooms one of the Black Hat outfits tinkers away at their experiments, completely hidden.”
I put it together. “So you think they were working on a …call it a ‘girl-bomb’ somewhere in the building we snuck into? And they infected us, exposed us somehow …” I nodded grimly. “Our drinks, yeah. You said that before, Craig. And all of them were opened. Maybe in the ice, but definitely in the drinks.”
Tommy said, “So, why? So we’d turn into girls and be too busy shopping for purses at the mall to say that Intellia’s got Black Hats in it? They’ve already left; what’s the point?”
“The marketing,” I said, stunned.
“Huh?” Tommy asked.
“Not the demographic thing we first thought,” Craig nodded.
“Remember the ‘marketing survey’?” I used air-quotes. “The one that Military Guy did? Remember the questions? Some were typical marketing things like what kind of computer do we use.”
Tommy said, “Maybe so they’d know which computer was ours if they broke in?”
Craig said, “Possible, big guy. Or they–”
“Stop calling me ‘big guy’,” Tommy said, glumly. “I don’t know what I am, or what I’m turning into, but …” The tears came again.
This time I handed him a box of tissues and went on speculating. “The questions were also about our parents, siblings …”
“Girlfriends, sex questions,” Craig went on. “Yeah. All mixed together. Brilliant. But, hey, they’re the D.O.D. so taxpayers pay ‘em to be brilliant!”
“But why turn us into girls?” Tommy whined, sniffing.
“To test the stuff. They know how much they gave us, and–” He broke off and went into his deep thought mode briefly. “Hey, Chris; you mentioned the Taliban and I just remembered something about them …” Then he had it. “Yeah. There was a thing I watched on terrorists, that was like the life cycle?”
“Not a long cycle,” I joked.
“Hate those guys!” Tommy blurted out.
Craig gently said, “Tommy, remember we talked about how hate makes us stop thinking? Those guys want us to hate them so much that we do something stupid.”
“Hate ‘em, Tommy,” I said, rubbing Tommy’s shoulder. “But don’t let the hate rule you.”
We both realized that it was odd to be sitting there, knees together, with me rubbing his shoulder. I stopped.
Craig might have seen all that but let it go. “So in the documentary, these kids go into religious schools when they’re like five or something, and by the time they’re our age, they’re so conditioned in the religious craziness that they happily go shoot people or blow themselves up.”
“Yeah; Chris was saying the guy was like seventeen or something,” Tommy said.
I didn’t correct him that the Christian guy had been seventeen.
“Don’t you see?” Craig nodded. “It’s our age. We’re like almost prime terrorist age, so they could test it on us and know that it would be similar to the guys in the terrorist camps. Maybe a little younger, but cut ‘em off before they strap on the explosives, you know?”
I said, “And even the older guys that do the training, if it worked on them but slower …”
Tommy said, “Like we said, they’d be so busy screaming at each other, totally freaked out, that the whole thing would fall apart. The camp, I mean.”
Craig said, “So we were perfect test subjects. Just three normal guys, and willingly gave them all that ‘marketing info’ so they know who we are and where we live, and we’re probably being monitored right now. And will be, too.”
Automatically I glanced at my windows; my curtains were down. I shrugged. “Which probably means they’re intercepting this transmission, Moscow Rules or not.”
Craig obviously hadn’t thought of that; he was visibly shaken. “Damn. Okay. I’ll contact you again in a few days. We all hold tight. Maybe …maybe talk to our moms. Not our dads–sorry, Chris.”
“Do we have to?” Tommy pleaded.
“We’re not going to be able to hide it much longer,” I pointed out. “And you’re already getting beaten up just for helping your mother in the kitchen.”
Tommy rubbed the bruises on his upper arm without thinking; and then nodded sadly.
Craig said, “We’ll back you up, Tommy. It’s happening to all three of us, so they can’t be totally down on you.”
“You can’t even begin to know,” Tommy said quietly.
End of Part 2
I spent the last two days pretty much on the toilet. Mom said one more day and we’d call the doctor, but I told her it must have been something I ate at a friend’s house–not from her cooking–and so I did a lot of reading (thank goodness I’d gone to the library a couple of days ago!) as I squirted my guts out.
And I know it’s gross, and that guys sort of like talking about icky body junk, but this is factually accurate, I think. I’m pretty sure that’s kind of what I’ve been doing–squirting my guts out. At first I thought my cover story was true, although I hadn’t eaten at anybody’s house or at the mall or anywhere else. But the night of the 18th when there was no letup in the thing, I began seriously checking the toilet’s contents and I think that I was …well, this morning it struck me …I was dumping parts of me. No other way to put it. It wasn’t the usual stuff of poop and it wasn’t the usual stuff of the flu. It was yellowish liquid with …all I can say is, chunks of skin. Or flesh. Chunks of me. When the idea struck me, it was only because of something that Craig had said, about the Ebola virus, and I remembered reading about people ‘bleeding out’ as their tissue sort of liquefied and they died.
I was freaked at first except for two reasons. First, I felt fine. No fever, no other symptoms, nothing–just a periodic cramping below my belt and then another half-hour of more reading time. And thank God for the bathroom deodorant spray! Second, I was pretty sure that Craig was right. We’d been ‘tested’ with Intellia’s ‘girl-bomb’ so we were changing, not dying. If they’d wanted us dead it would have been a straight, undetectable and time-delayed poison so there was no connection with our Intellia night. Or they could do it quick and just toss our bodies in a dumpster. No; for whatever reasons, Intellia wanted to see what their little mixture could do. So I wasn’t worried about death.
It was kind of unfair to keep using the word ‘Intellia’ as the source, since we were pretty sure that Bearded Guy was Intellia and wasn’t part of the girl-bomb testing, because he was going to let us go right away, and because he was scared to death of Military Guy.
***
I got to discuss that with Craig, because yesterday I got an email that looked like spam but had the words ‘M. Rules’ in the subject line. It turned out to be Craig using an anonymizer that would hide our email signatures. It had instructions for me with contact times and how to anonymize. So we had a quick flurry of very lengthy emails with the agreement that he’d use a different anonymizer type and contact me again with the subject code word ‘Lisa’. He said–and of course he didn’t ‘say’, he ‘wrote’, but it’s just easier to think of it as ‘talking’–he’d explain then, and I had a hunch that Craig was becoming Lisa. It was the kind of name his family would choose, like Teresa, his sister.
The upshot of our emails was that he wasn’t cramping and pooping like me, but he said that he’d had cramps but a lot of what he was calling ‘bone pain’. Like the arthritis commercials on TV, he said. His chest was developing and his brain, well …he just said there was no doubt he was getting ‘more girly’ in his thinking. I figured he was too embarrassed, even with our vow to be totally truthful, so I told him how I’d found myself thinking very sexually about cute guys in magazines, and then he confessed to that, too.
We talked about that a little, and about how different the three of us were, physically. Craig said that if we went ‘all the way’–by which we meant that the girl-bomb made us complete girls–then I’d be the luckiest because I was short for a boy but normal-sized for a girl, and because I already had long hair. I pointed out that he’d probably be okay, tallish for a girl, and after wigs, his own hair would probably be really pretty if he took after Teresa–she could do shampoo commercials–and he seemed to agree. But we both worried about Tommy because he was big. Would the girl-bomb shrink us, too? That would help Tommy but I couldn’t afford to shrink too much or I’d have to get a job in the circus. Craig gave me an ‘LOL’ on that one.
Finally, the biggest development. Craig told his sister. He swore her to secrecy up one side and down the other, and found that after her skepticism at this story–she was sure he was playing a joke–he just stripped naked and said she just about had a heart attack! But she took him by surprise and immediately accepted him as her soon-to-be little sister and got all protective. So they were working out a plan for telling their parents, and in the meantime he’d started wearing a bra–he was a full A cup now–and panties, because his ‘boy-bits’ were shrinking. Mine, too, I said, and I thought about Craig in a bra, panties, and his miniskirt, and I didn’t laugh–I found I was jealous! It was probably the way my brain is changing, but I wanted to start dressing like a girl, too.
So we set it up for me to wait for the ‘Lisa’ email.
First of all, I haven’t been able to reach Tommy. I’ve called a bunch of times and at first whoever answered said he was out, and then his brother one time kind of sniggered when he said his name, and the last time his father said Tommy could not speak and for me to not call again. I told Mom my concern–not the cause of his family’s weirdness, of course–and Mom suggested a round-about. Tommy’s mother was a meek, mild woman totally under the thumb of the males in her family. Mom and some other ladies had tried to get her involved in things outside the Donohue family but she’d retreated, but Mom had learned a couple of things.
She told me that Mrs. Donohue did the family food shopping once a week, alone, every Wednesday at the Food 4 Less on Edison. I figured I’d ride over there on my bicycle with a book and sit and wait how many hours it took until I saw her and then try to talk with her.
My toilet adventures seem to be over for the moment, although I went into the Food 4 Less to use their restroom so I knew where it was. I got a funny look from a guy when I left and I realized it wasn’t long before I wouldn’t look like I should be using the Men’s room! Then I found a good spot for my bike with some grass under some trees on the far side of the parking lot, spread out a little blanket, and waited. I knew the van that she drove and it took about two hours but then she pulled in. My bike was already locked; I threw the book in my backpack and stuffed the blanket in as I ran across the lot to catch her before she went in. I didn’t want to try talking to her after she’d shopped because she could use the excuse of food spoiling to cut it short. And maybe it was because I was carrying the backpack, but running felt different somehow, and I flashed on Craig talking about ‘bone pain’.
I caught her just as she chirped the van locked. She was a small woman with reddish hair, cut short and pulled back into a tiny stub of a ponytail, and a simple blue blouse and ‘mom jeans’. She was really very pretty, but there was something …squeezed down about her, repressed or suppressed. ‘Screwed down tightly’ came to mind. I stopped running so I didn’t scare her, and I called ‘Mrs. Donohue’ and knew for a moment she didn’t recognize me.
She looked scared. “I’m sorry, Chris, I didn’t recognize you.”
“How’s Tommy?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, “But I can’t talk to you about Tommy.”
“Please, Mrs. Donohue. It’s a lot more important than you know. I haven’t talked to Tommy for three or four days and I’m kinda concerned.”
“Well, he …” She stopped and looked around the parking lot.
I had an idea. “Maybe we could talk in the van? You know, sitting down?”
She agreed and we got in. There was this awkward silence and I suddenly remembered something I’d heard in a movie where cops interrogated a guy–so I didn’t say anything, just letting the silence wear on her.
Finally, she ‘broke’. “Tommy’s …well, he’s kind of sick right now. He’s home, sick,” she said with more conviction, and I realized she was trying to convince herself that her cover story was sound.
I asked gently, “Has he been …punished?”
“Punished?” She was so startled that I knew I was right.
“Like …beaten, or something?”
“Nonsense. Beaten? No!” She was flustered. “We’d never …he’s not been beaten. Ever.”
“Mrs. Donohue,” I said softly, and put a hand on her forearm. “I know he gets beaten at home. It’s okay.”
Quickly, she said, “No! No! I don’t know what he’s telling you at school, more lies, but …no, he’s not beaten.”
“Ma’am, we’ve seen the bruises. And the black eyes.”
“Those are just things he gets from the scuffles at school. You know, all those fights he gets in.”
I was shocked but not as much as I realized that she would be. “Mrs. Donohue …there are no scuffles. Tommy doesn’t get in fights at school.”
“Of course he does! All those bruises …”
“Ma’am, Tommy hasn’t gotten in a fight since he rescued me from big kids five years ago. He truly hasn’t. I mean, who’d fight him? He’s so big!”
“Oh, God …” Her lips started trembling.
I said, “I hate to have to say this, but you need to know. Tommy’s dad and brother have hit him for years. He doesn’t like to talk about it and never uses it as an excuse. But we know.”
“Oh, God,” she said again, grabbing a tissue. “I’ve tried to do my best …”
“It’s a tough situation that you’re in, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’re doing your best to keep your family together the best you know how.”
“Thank you, Chris,” she said, dabbing her eyes.
“So I’ve got to ask you, because it’s really, really important. Is Tommy …recovering from a beating? Or really truly sick? And sick, how?”
She sniffed and folded and re-folded the tissue. “God, it’s sad to say but it actually feels good to be able to admit it. All these years I’ve turned away and denied, denied …denied …” She looked out the window. “Ah, sweet Mary, mother of God, what I’ve done to my baby!”
I let the silence go on again.
She ‘broke’ again. “Oh, you’ve always been such a good friend of his, Chris. And that Craig, the three of you palling around …” She sighed and went back to folding the tissues. “He’s been acting odd lately, our Tommy, and saying and doing odd things.”
When she didn’t go on, I said, “Odd like how? The last time I talked with him he was proud about how he helped you with making dinner.”
“Ah, yes, that was lovely …” she smiled. “But he’s been so …strange of late. Moaning and saying odd things and telling lies.”
“What odd things was he saying?”
“Oh, like how pretty my hair was. I mean, it was a lovely thing to say but so out of place.”
“You do have pretty hair, Mrs. Donohue. No offense, but you don’t do anything with it, because you’re so busy at home. But it is pretty.”
“Why …thank you, Chris,” she said, but there was a waver in her voice.
“Mrs. Donohue, you said Tommy was telling lies. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, maybe, but he’s honest and loyal and has a really good heart. I’ve never known him to tell lies.”
“Well, maybe he has a different face at home,” she said, but I don’t think she believed it herself.
“You said ‘different at home’ …” I said, feeling my words carefully. “How does he look?”
“Look? Well, after he …”
Gently, I said, “Was beaten?”
She nodded, tearing up again. “Oh, God; it was terrible to hear!” She sniffed. “But after that he’s taken to his room. Not even coming out for meals.”
“How’s he eating?”
“Not like usually, but I’ve been leaving a tray and knocking.” Her voice broke. “Like a hotel! I never thought my family …”
I made a snap decision and said, “Mrs. Donohue, you said Tommy told some big lies. Or was it one big lie?” She shrugged and nodded. I nodded, too. “Mrs. Donohue, I’m going to tell you a story. Remember, I haven’t talked to Tommy for awhile. You know me and you know him. You know him. Not what you’re telling yourself, to keep peace in your family right now. You know Tommy’s a great guy.”
“Yes …yes, he is,” she sniffed. “That’s why it’s so strange that he …is doing the things he’s doing to himself …”
I knew I was on the right track. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I’m going to tell you a story. And it can’t leave this van; it’s very important that you know that up front. This will sound like something out of a movie, but your safety–and your family’s safety–depends on not telling anybody else, okay? And what I’m going to say will sound like something from a movie, too. Please don’t interrupt until I’m done because there are so many ways to get sidetracked but I told you this is really, really important. Okay?”
She agreed, and then I told her. Everything. From Craig coming up with the idea to my last emails from Lisa. Her face went through so many changes, from disbelief at the similarity to what Tommy told her, to details that I knew but Tommy didn’t, all the way up to the end.
I finished up with, “Mrs. Donohue, from all the evidence Craig and I have put together, we have no choice to believe anything else. We’re being turned into girls. Craig found some scientific articles and said it might just be a big hormonal thing, you know, to develop breasts temporarily, but with some of the pains and …other things …he said it’s possible that …Ma’am, do you know anything about genetics? DNA, that sort of thing?”
“I know what it is but nothing scientific.”
“Well, we’re getting into science fiction territory here, but Craig found articles that seem to say that it might be possible that our DNA is being overwritten. Or re-written, maybe. You know how stem-cell researchers say that the cells, once they’re put in the patient, will ‘decide’ to become what cells are needed? Like a liver-transplant guy, the stem-cells are sent in and are convinced to become liver cells, and grow a whole new healthy one?”
“That’s what they say,” she agreed. “And why Christian conservatives don’t like it. Even our Church is leery about it, like playing God.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I knew better than to start discussing that, or pointing out that maybe new scientific discoveries was God’s way of letting us make more of His Children healthy … So I brought her back to the point. “Mrs. Donohue, we think that the three of us are being tested, used as guinea pigs, for something the Department of Defense is looking into to use against terrorists.”
“That’s a terrific stretch and–”
“Not so much, based what we’ve discovered about other weapons they’ve designed. But isn’t it possible? What else would explain the changes to all three of us?”
“All three? You’ve told me what Craig has said happened, but he’s long gone now and could be having you on.”
She didn’t believe it, but I had to kill any doubt. I looked around and then turned in my seat and unbuttoned my shirt. “Mrs. Donohue, do these belong on the chest of a fourteen-year-old boy?” I showed her my breasts. They weren’t bumps anymore; they had swelled in the last 48 hours and I knew a bra was only a few days away for me.
She stared, wide-eyed, and looked away.
I buttoned up quickly and said, “Tommy’s not telling any lies. I think that big diarrhea thing I had was my male innards being ejected. Craig is talking about ‘bone pain’ and it’s his pelvis–I think his bones are reconfiguring to a female pelvis and it hurts like hell, excuse my French. And poor Tommy, because he’s bigger than all of us …he must be in agony.”
Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, my poor child!”
“It’s not his fault, Mrs. Donohue. He didn’t ask for it to happen to him; none of us did. It’s like if he was walking across the street in the middle of the crosswalk, and a car ran the stop light and hit him. It’s not his fault.”
She seemed to sag. “He’s been acting …fruity, my husband called it. Said he was going to beat it out of him. ‘No son of mine is going to be a fairy!’ he shouted. And it went on and on and on …” She winced at the memory. “And I just let it. As much as I loved Tommy helping me in the kitchen, and the nice things he said, my husband’s word is Law, and so …” She crumbled, hiding her face in her hands. “My poor baby! Oh, God. What do I do? What do we do?”
“Tell Tommy–when his father and brother are gone–tell him you know. Tell him Chris and Craig told you everything. Accept that it’s not his fault but you’ve got to accept that he’s turning into a girl. Love him. Support him. You’re going to have to …I can’t tell you what to do, I’m just a kid, but you’re going to have to stand up to your husband and tell him that if Tommy’s a girl, he’s under your care now. And get him to a hospital.”
“No hospital! They’ll …” She was stricken, putting a hand on my arm. “No! No!”
I realized that the hospital would recognize the results of his beating and that they’d be required to press legal charges against the family. God, I wondered, how badly had they beat him? Reluctantly, I nodded. “Okay, no hospital; I understand. Well, tend to him as best you can. Help him understand and I’ll do anything I can for him, okay?”
“Chris, I’m being so selfish …you’re going through the same thing. And Craig.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “but Craig’s already told his sister, and they’re telling his folks probably tonight. And I’m okay; it’s just Mom and me. Makes it easier. And I’ll be telling her real soon. Look, ma’am, I’ve gotta go. Take care of Tommy. He’s a really good guy and doesn’t deserve any of this.” I opened the door and paused, turning back to her. “But she …she does deserve her mother.” I gave her a direct look; her eyes were wide and startled but I saw that she understood; she nodded once, her mouth trembling.
I got out, feeling guilty that I haven’t told Mom, yet. I left Tommy’s mother sitting in the van, trying to get herself together to do the shopping she needed.
This will probably be the longest entry, because so much happened! I’m actually writing all of it on June 22–hey, it’s my journal so I can do what I want! I’m going to break it up into Morning, Afternoon, Evening, and Night, even though the timing isn’t strictly accurate in a chronological sense–I went to the library in the early afternoon, for instance, but included it in the Morning part. But it’ll all make more sense why I divided it into these four parts.
***
I couldn’t talk with Mom last night after leaving Mrs. Donohue, because Mom had a late shift and didn’t get home until about ten and I was so sleepy that I just crashed about then. I had looked up stuff on the internet until I was bleary eyed and then went to bed. I should make a note that it wasn’t like I was sitting there yawning and decided to turn in early; I’m talking about sitting there one minute reading my computer screen and the next minute I’m hitting the screen with my forehead, so groggy and weak that I almost fell out of my chair. I turned into a zombie instantly and collapsed onto my bed.
I woke up really sore today; I hurt generally, but the worst was my butt and pelvic area, and I thought it was from riding my bike all the way to the Food 4 Less yesterday, and maybe the sitting on the grass for two hours. But there was also the possibility that I was starting to go through the ‘bone pain’ that Craig and Tommy seemed to already have. If that was the case, the girl-bomb was treating each of us on a different timetable. Because of the different drinks, different dosages, or just our different body types and genetics, I wondered. I could almost imagine their scientists’ eyes light up with excitement, studying us.
Mom would be home around six, and I had nothing special planned so I went to the library to take back the books I’d finished while I was spending so much time on the toilet. I tossed ‘em in the slot and went in, found some new titles and was browsing for more when I saw Jenny Allen and Miranda Stevenson sitting at one of the computers. Well, Jenny was at the computer and Miranda was checking her nails and her split ends.
Then Jenny looked around, while waiting for a site to load, I guess, and saw me. There was a weird double-take; I saw her eyes go from the impersonal glance, the little startle, and then focus on me. She frowned and then she smiled. I gave her a little half-wave and she did, too. Miranda looked up at her movement, saw me, shrugged, went back to her nails and then back at me, then back to her nails a little slower. She leaned to Jenny and whispered something; Jenny frowned and whispered back to her and then glanced at me again.
I saw all this because I was at the New Books section, which was a half-shelf. I couldn’t very well disappear back into the stacks, or drop behind the half-shelf to hide, so I was exposed and saw the whole little show. Jenny got up and walked to me so there was no way I could hide now.
“Hey, Chris,” she said pleasantly.
“Hi, Jenny. Doing homework?” I joked. Summer school hasn’t started and they don’t give homework, anyway. It was just something to say.
“Nah. My computer’s in the shop and I needed to check my email. Miranda doesn’t have the internet.”
“Wow. I thought everybody had the internet. Don’t they require it in high school?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She and her brother went through that. They made their parents sign something that said ‘your kid will have a hard time if he can’t get the net at home’ or whatever.”
There was a bit of awkward silence.
I asked, “How’s your summer going?”
“Okay. Yours?”
“Okay.” Boy, I thought, was that a lie!
She looked back at Miranda and said, “Um …Chris …would you …” She looked around and tried again. “I’ve got something to show you; if you’ve got the time, do you want to stop by my house?”
“Um …yeah, I guess, sure. I’m just getting some new books. But aren’t you hanging with Miranda?”
“Well, yeah, now, but she’s got a dance class and her mom’s picking her up here.”
I said okay, I didn’t have anything planned today and I was pretty much done choosing books so I could hang out until she was ready, and at that point I noticed Miranda twitching and pulling out her cell phone. I mentioned that to Jenny, who said she was getting texted. Miranda stood, put her purse over her shoulder, and waved at Jenny, giving me another odd look, and left. Jenny turned back to me.
“I’ve got to go log out. We can go now. If it’s okay with you.”
It was fine, so I walked back with her to her computer and kept walking to the checkout desk, my brain going a mile a minute. What could Jenny Allen have to show me? We were classmates, and towards the end of school we’d gotten friendlier and talked more than we had since …well, ever.
Walking along with her was strange. I knew that anyone driving by would think we were boyfriend and girlfriend, but I didn’t feel anything like that for her; she was just a friend. I was surprised to discover that she lived on the same block as Tommy; all the times I’d been over at his place and I’d never seen her. Maybe it was one of those selective things where little boys didn’t notice little girls until they got older. But then, my mind pointed out that I wasn’t exactly a little boy anymore …or for very much longer, maybe, if this girl-bomb thing went all the way. I had no idea what was on her mind until we got to her house and she offered me drinks. I must have made a face because I suddenly flashed on what happened the last time somebody offered me a drink …
Jenny caught the look. “What?”
“Just thought of something that happened awhile ago. Um …I didn’t know you were on the same street as Tommy Donohue.” Fortunately, she set an unopened can next to a glass of ice. I opened it and poured.
She made a little face. “Oh, yeah. The Donnybrooks …”
I didn’t get it, and she explained that her family could often hear the Donohue family yelling or fighting, and her father said an Irish word for a fight was a ‘donnybrook’. I actually knew that from an old movie, but was embarrassed for Tommy–and now for Mrs. Donohue–that they were known that way in their neighborhood.
I asked, “Have you seen Tommy lately?” She shook her head. I sipped my Diet Coke and said, “So …what did you want to show me?”
Her kitchen had one of those bar things in the middle, with high stools, and she sat, so I sat across from her. Jenny was really a pretty girl, and her long auburn hair was loose and she wore almost no makeup but was still quite pretty. I felt absolutely zero attraction towards her …but I was thinking about the green tank top and white shorts she was wearing, and wondering about how my legs would look in shorts like that.
Jenny looked sheepish. “I …well, I lied. I don’t have anything to show you. I wanted to ask you something and the library wasn’t the right place. Even on the street. But nobody’s home–” She broke off, realizing that what she’d just said might have been taken differently if we were boyfriend and girlfriend, but she made some decision that she was ‘safe’, and went on. “Anyway, nobody’s around so you can tell me, if you want.”
“Tell you …?” I waved my hand in the air and then tucked my hair behind my ear.
“There! See, right there!”
“What?” I had an idea where she was going but decided to make her work for it.
She leaned forward confidentially, even though she knew we couldn’t be overheard. “Chris, can you tell me what’s happening with you?” I paused, and she blew out some air. “Come on, Chris, I’ve known you like forever, and although we’ve only started really talking, I’ve kind of known you for years. You’re making this hard for me so I’ll just go for it. Are you gay?”
I almost did a spit take, making the mistake of drinking when she’d asked. I’d expected her to be closer to the truth. Gay? Geez …that was only the tip of the tip of the iceberg …
“Jenny, I think I know the answer to my next question, but I’ve gotta ask. Can I trust you to keep a secret? I mean, really keep it, even if it’s so stupendously weird you feel like you’ve gotta tell somebody or burst? Can’t tell anybody, not your mom, not Miranda, not anybody?”
“Well, first, I wouldn’t tell a secret to Miranda. She’d forget it in half an hour but that was only after texting everybody on the west side,” she grinned. “And I’m close to my mom but, gee, Chris, give me some credit. So, yes. I can keep a secret. I think you know I’m not the type to blab.”
She wasn’t; I knew she was a really good person. And I knew that although I’d told Mrs. Donohue, that was because she was already involved and was aware that something was going on, and Tommy’s condition had brought things in the open. With Jenny, I’d be telling somebody who was completely uninvolved, starting from ground zero, so to speak. I thought it would be a good rehearsal for telling Mom, which I planned to do tonight.
So I told the whole story from start to finish, like I’d told Mrs. Donohue only with a little more than I’d told her, about things Craig and I had speculated. I knew Jenny was smart and open-minded, and when I wound down, after twenty minutes of non-stop talking, she didn’t say anything. She got up, took my glass, and I thought I was going to be thrown out when she tossed the drink in the sink, but then she added fresh ice and topped it off with more Diet Coke before topping her own, and then she sat.
“I think you’re right,” she said calmly, almost matter-of-fact. “I think the …what you call the Black Hats, were piggy-backing Intellia. It’s been done lots of times before.” I was stunned that she wasn’t freaked out, and on my look, she shrugged. “My dad’s totally aware of conspiracies, Men In Black–the real ones, not the movie–the Kennedy assassination, you got it. Not in a crazy way, either; he looks for the proof. I mean, he’s a lawyer so he looks for verified documentation. And he talks about it with me. So, yeah, you guys stumbled into a kind of classic setup.”
“I can’t believe that you believe me!” I felt tremendous relief.
She grinned. “Chris, if you came to me out of the blue, like six weeks ago, and told me this story, I’d think, yeah, it’s possible, but there’s no evidence and it’d be only a so-so movie.”
“Why six weeks ago?”
“Geez, Chris; don’t you have a mirror at your house?”
“Yeah,” I blushed. “There are some …changes …”
She snorted. “Some changes? Chris, when I looked around at the library, I was just bored and looked at the people. I saw a pretty girl that I didn’t know over at the new books and then, whoa! My eyes and brain kind of clicked in and I realized it was you. But because of that lag I knew you didn’t look like the Chris I know. And then talking with you, well, you don’t sound like the Chris I know. Not even the last of school there, when we started talking. Do you have any idea how …how much of a girl you are?”
“How do you mean? I’m not being difficult; I mean, do you mean inside or outside?”
She nodded. “That makes sense. I can’t really know your inside because you haven’t told me. And I don’t know what your body’s doing …inside.” I made no move and she went on. “But your face is very girlish, rounder than it was, softer. Your hair’s in much better condition and doesn’t look like a boy’s dingy ponytail anymore. You walk differently–did you know that you held your books against your chest the way girls do?”
“Sort of. I mean, I’m kind of covering up.”
“Why do you think we do it, silly?” She laughed. “We’ll talk about that later. Anyway, your movements are different, the way you move your hands and your arms, just …” She shrugged. “…just everything. Chris, you’re the evidence that proves your story. I don’t want to be mean, but you know you were never the most macho guy …”
“Duh,” I said, sipping and grinning.
“But the …transformation in such a short time is incredible. So Craig’s doing the same …” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God, poor Tommy!”
It was so similar to Mrs. Donohue yesterday that I flinched. “I’m really worried about Tommy. And about his father.”
Jenny looked sad. “My dad wanted to call the police on them a couple of times but Mom always says we don’t know the whole story, we have to live on the same block so let’s get along.”
“I’m just worried that one day they’ll go too far and cripple him or worse.”
We stared at our drinks, thinking dark thoughts.
Then Jenny sat up and said, “I just thought of something. I said I had something to show you. I also said it was a lie. So maybe it wasn’t a lie, after all.” She grinned and stood up. “Come on. I want to show you something!”
“What?” I asked as I stood.
Her grin widened. “You’ll just have to find out!”
So I called this part Morning; maybe Act One is more like it.
End of Part 3
I followed Jenny to her bedroom and felt a little surge of envy for the beautiful, feminine décor, in light blues and yellows and lace and all the …things girls accumulate. The furniture was white; there was a freestanding large oval mirror, a hat rack festooned with hats and scarves, and a cluttered vanity. She also had a study area; a serious desk with neat stacks of papers and books and a very serious laptop with printer and other peripherals. It was an odd contrast to the delicacy of the rest of the room, but I realized the room had been set up when she was a little girl but was now a student and growing woman. I felt my heart clench at the image of being a little girl and growing up a woman.
Jenny turned and faced me, looking above me and to the side and I realized she was looking at the whole of me. She took a brush from her vanity and raised an eyebrow; I understood and undid the scrunchie that held my low ponytail. I was told to bend over and she brushed my hair, and then told me to straighten up and it was a lot fuller. She reached up and fluffed both sides of my hair and then began brushing this way and that way. I just stood like a manikin while she did this. Then she found something she liked and led me to the standing mirror.
Jenny grinned. “Just as I promised back at the library. Let me show you something.”
Even with the baggy cargo pants and baggy work shirt I wore, I saw a girl. Jenny had brushed my hair across my forehead and had it flowing down my shoulders and it was really pretty. I thought of Miranda fiddling with her hair and saw that I had split ends that needed trimming. I just nodded at the girl–me–in the mirror.
“See?” Jenny said triumphantly. “See the girl?”
I made a snap decision, my brain churning but clear on what I was about to do. I quickly unbuttoned my shirt, slid it off to the floor and turned to Jenny, my breasts puckering in the sudden chill. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“See?” I said. “See the girl?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh …my …God! I knew you were getting more feminine, but …omigod!”
As much as I wanted to grab my shirt, I crossed my arms over my breasts. “Yeah. Omigod.” I sat on the edge of the vanity bench. “Imagine it from my side.”
She reached down and picked up my shirt and was going to hand it to me but snatched it back, tossed it on her bed and said, “Chris, do you trust me?”
“Yes. I think I just proved that,” I said with a sad chuckle, looking at her and then down at my mounds.
My breasts.
She went to her bureau and turned back with a light blue bra. She handed it to me. “I think you’re just about an A cup. This one is really comfortable. I think …I think you pretty much need it.”
On autopilot, I took the bra and nodded. I looked at her and she understood, showing me how to put it on backwards around my waist, turn it around and pull it up and she helped adjust it. There was a little hesitation as she silently asked my permission. I nodded and she touched my boob! It was just to adjust the cups, but the thought of what had occurred was major. I think I trembled a little bit.
Jenny put both hands on my upper arms. “Shush,” she said gently. “It’s okay. It’s a big deal in every girl’s life, getting her first bra.”
She’d meant it so kindly that I was incredibly grateful to her and probably was responsive when I saw her frown slightly and say, “I don’t know if I can call you Chris anymore, like Christopher. Do you …do you have a name? You said Craig is going to be Lisa.”
“I’m guessing that; I won’t know until he emails me back. I don’t know what girls’ names Mom had picked out. But there are girls named Chris …”
She waved a hand. “Yeah, but they’re like sporty girls. Chris Evert, like that. But you’re …pardon me for saying this but I think you’re going to be a girly girl; you’re certainly pretty enough already. Um …until you talk with your mom–and I can’t believe she hasn’t noticed!–can I call you …I don’t know. Christy? Chrissie? What do you think?”
Without thinking, I said, “Chrissie.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I think so, too. Okay, Chrissie. Your first bra. What do you think?”
I said I didn’t know, and started walking around her room, reaching, bending, stretching and feeling the newness of the support. I turned back to her with a foolish grin. “I like it!”
She grinned. “It’s yours. No, really, I mean it! It’s a special gift between us, okay? And it’s practically new, and–oh!” She searched a drawer. “Here …No sense standing around without a top.”
I know some of the names of girls’ clothes; this was a raspberry camisole with spaghetti straps. I don’t know if she was teasing me or testing me or just handing me a top, but I didn’t make a big deal about putting it on.
That is, until I had to pull it over …my boobs. Jenny snickered a little bit and said, “Going to have to get used to them, Chrissie!”
Impulsively, I stuck my tongue out at her and giggled. I don’t think I’ve stuck my tongue out since I was five years old!
Jenny smiled and said, “I thought so.”
“What? That I have a tongue?”
“No, that you’ve got pretty arms and shoulders. Take a look.”
We both looked in the mirror and I had to admit that there was nothing masculine about my shoulders and bare arms. The light blue and raspberry straps lay right where they should and everything looked delicate and, well, yeah …pretty.
Jenny nodded in our silent agreement. Then she went back to the bureau. “Here’s the matching panties. Don’t want to break up the set, and they’re really nice and–” She stopped, realizing. “God, I’m sorry! I didn’t even …”
I reached for the panties. “No, Jenny, it’s cool. I’m …yeah.” I smiled. “Thank you.”
She nodded and there was that odd moment again. I realized she was looking at my baggy cargo pants. I looked down at them, too. It was a different view because the bra supported my breasts and made them look bigger and I actually had to bend a little bit to see down. My hair fell down and I had to pull it back.
Jenny said, “Hang on a minute, sweetie,” as if she’d been saying it for years.
She came at me with the brush again, and this time used a barrette to pull my swept-hair to the side. She grinned. “Looks really cute. Now look down again.”
This time the hair didn’t fall and block my view …of my breasts and my cargo pants. I frowned.
“They’re baggy, but …” I looked at Jenny.
She looked up and caught my eye and nodded. “You were wearing those at school a few weeks ago. They …didn’t fit like that, I’m pretty sure.”
I nodded, too. “I had to really cinch ‘em with the belt. Two notches. I thought it was maybe just eating better …” The truth dawned on me and Jenny saw it, too.
She said, “Have you measured yourself lately?” I shook my head and she nodded. “You’d better. And track it every day, you know?” I nodded. “I should have realized because you and I are pretty much the same size now.”
I sighed. “Wonder how much smaller I’ll get? I made a joke to Craig about working a circus if I shrank. But now …”
“I have a theory,” Jenny said, seriously, frowning a bit as she took a sip of her drink. “Based on no scientific evidence, just …theory, okay? If we start with your theory about the Black Hats using a …” She giggled. “I love that phrase, ‘girl-bomb’! Anyway, if it is overwriting your DNA, maybe …” She frowned and sipped again. “Maybe you’re–all three of you–maybe you’re being transformed into the body you would have had if you’d been born female. You know what I mean?”
“You mean we’re not being made into anything planned out, that they didn’t program us to look one way or another.”
She nodded. “Let’s pretend that they’re …well, let’s say your Y chromosomes are being absorbed or converted to X. So you’re becoming an XX female–and that’s a girl in my book!–then your body is …configuring itself to how it would have been if your body were …” Her eyes widened. “You’re returning to your natural state!”
“Oh, God, not back to the womb?” I half-joked.
“No, silly! Everybody starts out with an X and then the Y gets added, if it gets added, and changes height and bone structure and …genitals …and sex drive and how you think and everything. So I’ll bet the girl-bomb is changing the Y to an X in every cell. Making you XX just like you would have been if you were born a girl. And that stem-cell thing you compared it to? The breast tissue doesn’t do anything in its XY state, and then gets changed to XX and you started to develop breasts. And you’ll probably be the same eventual size you would have if you’d been born female. And functional, too, I’ll bet; you’ll have the ability to nurse. But growing so fast …” Her eyes widened. “Whoa–new idea! Back to the womb, you said; but the scientists say that our cells have biological clocks, you know?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “That’s why we age–or those kids that are genetically messed up so they look eighty when they’re ten. Their cells told them they were eighty …” I trailed off; I saw where she was going.
She grinned, knowing we were on the same thought. “So your cells are being changed to XX, and your biological clock is okay and so they’re adjusting your …female body to where it should be, according to your age now. The cells’ internal calendar, so to speak. Not ‘back to the womb’, but fourteen years later.”
I was strangely excited by her theory. I also had no idea she was so darned smart. “So when this whole thing, this process, is over–if it ends–then I’ll be exactly the girl I would have been if I’d been born and raised a girl?”
“Uh-huh. And the same biological age.”
“My mother’s daughter, in other words, not just a …non-son?”
“Yep. Minus, of course, thirteen or fourteen years of culture as a girl.”
“God, you’re right. It makes more sense than anything else!” Then her last comment hit me. “Fourteen years of girl culture …It’s more than just not knowing what fork to use, isn’t it?”
She laughed out loud. “Oh, yeah! But don’t worry, Chrissie; I’ll help you.”
I paused and asked quietly, “Why?”
“Why? Because …” She sat on the edge of her bed. “You’re a good guy–scratch that, you always were a good guy. Always a really nice, friendly, compassionate, nice guy. And to tell you the truth I always thought it was a shame that you weren’t a little more …”
“Butch? Macho?” I wiggled my eyebrows. “Male?”
She giggled and then sighed. “Yeah. I would have been attracted to you, maybe.” There was an odd moment of communication and shared loss for something that never was and never could be. “But when you started talking to me at the end of school, I just felt really comfortable with you. I didn’t know why.” She frowned and then asked, “I wonder if the stuff was already working on you then? Oh! Of course it was, and that’s why …Remember, the first thing we started talking about was the Evermore concert, and you were talking about the fun we girls must have had. That’s not a boy thought, nice guy or not.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time. I mean, it was sincere, but I think it was …well, Chrissie talking.”
She nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. Take away the fact that I know you’re a boy, or have been for however many years, and I just get a nice comfortable girl-vibe from you. I did when we started talking and a lot more, now. So that’s partly why I’m helping you. Girls like to try on different clothes with each other. And to be brutally honest, there’s an X-Files kind of fascination to the whole thing.” She shrugged. “And maybe you’re just my big Barbie doll and I like to play dress-up.” She grinned.
“Thank you,” I said. “I mean it. I’m going to need a true friend to get through all this. I only have two friends, Craig–and he’s gone–and Tommy, and they’re going through it, too.”
“There’s your mom,” she said gently.
“Tonight I’m telling her, I hope. It’s just been her darned work schedule that I haven’t told her; I haven’t even seen her for a couple of days. And I didn’t know as much to tell her as I do now.”
“Hey, can I tell my dad about this?” Jenny held up her hand. “Not with names, of course, but he’s got a lot of knowledge about that conspiracy stuff and has ways of digging deep for information. It might come in handy for you.”
“Uh, okay,” I said, thinking that it might be a good idea. “Hold off on names but once I’ve told Mom and checked with Craig …or Lisa, I’ll give your dad details.”
She nodded and we had a comfortable moment and I suddenly realized I was still holding the panties. I said, “Um …”
Jenny misunderstood. “Oh, I’m sorry; I’ll take ‘em back.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just …well, I should try them on …” I looked around for a bathroom.
“Oh! Down the hall and second door on the left.”
I took two steps and froze, staggered by a thought. “Um …If this is too weird, let me know, okay? You said, ‘girls like to try on clothes with each other’ a while back, and I’ve heard that girls change clothes in front of one another …”
She shrugged. “Sure. Yeah. We do it all the time. Go to the mall, cram ourselves in the fitting rooms and try things on. Or in our bedrooms …” Her voice trailed off. “Oh.” She smiled warmly. “If you trust me that much, Chrissie, I’m honored.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. “Cool. And you’ve got a choice, and this is super, super-weird, but …do you have any interest in …seeing what’s left of me?”
It took a moment before she got it. “Um …yeah, if you trust me.”
I grinned to ease the awkwardness. “Hey, I let you touch my boob, didn’t I?”
She giggled. “Sure did! But what the hell–we’re all girls here!”
The enormity of those four words …
I let the cargo pants slide to the ground. It seemed like–and it was probably true–my waist was narrower, my hips wider, and my legs more slender than they used to be. But I had on the boxer shorts that I didn’t like, the last ‘boy’ remnant. I preferred tightie-whities, but last year Craig and Tommy had said they were for little kids so I’d switched to boxers.
Taking a deep breath, I let the boxers slide down. Jenny let out a little gasp and quickly said, “Sorry. Um …is that …like before?”
I looked down at the tiny, shriveled penis, about two fingers-width long, with a curious detachment. “I was never a stallion, but no, it’s smaller. It was larger this morning and it was larger than that the day before.”
“Are you documenting any of this?”
God, what a moron I’ve been! “Omigod! I never thought …and I got a digital camera!”
“I’ve got one if you want to start right now. You can email the photos to yourself and we’ll wipe ‘em off this camera for security. But you’ve got to document this! You said it’s moving fast, day by day, and nobody’s going to believe it without some evidence.”
“I hope Craig’s documenting it; I’ll have to ask him.”
Jenny picked up a shiny blue camera from a charger on her desk, held it up and gave me a direct look. “You’re okay with this?”
“I’ve got one at home, but the way things are going, I might be even smaller by the time I get back. So, yeah.”
It was so strange to be so casual with her, with me standing naked below the waist, my puny little manhood dangling.
Jenny, bless her, was all business; clinical like we were in a doctor’s office. She handed me a ruler as she said, “This camera time-and-date stamps; your camera probably does, too. You might want to get a shot when you get home and see if there were any changes in however long it is between shots.”
Then she sat on her vanity bench, I stood before her and delicately held my penis, extending it to its full and pathetic length, with the ruler next to it. She shot from different angles and I sent a silent prayer: ‘Lord, don’t let anybody walk in right now!’ because it looked way kinkier than it was!
“Got ‘em,” Jenny said, studying the little screen on the camera’s back. She put the camera in the charger cradle and fired up her laptop.
I took the moment to tuck my little penis back and pulled the panties up, leaving a smooth, clean mound. Just like any other girl’s.
It looked so good, and so natural, that it took me a moment before I realized–yeah, my penis was small, but where were my testicles?”They’d been there, last time I’d looked, which was …I couldn’t remember exactly. And now they were gone, maybe up inside me, maybe actually gone …with my penis soon to follow.
All of this passed in a flash and then I was back to smiling at my smooth, mound, just like any other girl’s …
Jenny hadn’t noticed my startled discovery. She smiled. “Looks good, babe. You’re getting curvy, too. You’re going to be in a bikini before too long, and the guys will …” She looked stricken. “God, I’m sorry! I just get too comfortable with you as a girl!”
“Jen, it’s cool, really,” I said to calm her–and me. A bikini? And boys? “Craig and I have already compared notes and we’re both …well, let’s just say that we seem to be turning into heterosexual girls.”
“You mean …oh!” She grinned at the thought. “So boys checking you out in a bikini isn’t such a bad thing!”
I looked her in the eye. “I hope they will!”
She smiled happily. “We’re going to have such fun, Chrissie!”
It was a warm smile and a warm moment we shared.
Her laptop dinged. She murmured, “Okay …shots up …” She pressed some keys. “What’s your email address?”
I gave it to her and watched as she attached the photos and sent them. Then she deleted her sent mail–with the JPEG images–and deleted the uploaded images still on her computer. She removed the camera from the charger unit and wiped the memory and grinned at me.
“Now you have porn in your mailbox!”
I laughed with her. “Yeah, but I can always say you sent it to me!”
“No, you can’t,” she said, seriously.
“Well, yeah; the email’s from your computer. It’s in your email address as Sender.”
Her grin was like a Cheshire Cat. “No, it’s not. You think you and Craig are the only ones using an anonymizer? I told you my dad knows about things like that. He set me up with one that I’ve never used. But from what you’ve told me about these guys, it made sense to use it this time.”
“God, you’re brilliant!” I whooped and impulsively reached down and hugged her.
Then we both realized I was standing there in panties and Jenny raised an eyebrow again. “Ahem …you might want to think about putting something on! Oh …do you want to try …”
I smiled. “A skirt? Yes, please. Might as well jump in the deep end.”
She smirked. “Well, it could be argued that a bra and panties was the deep end!” she laughed. “Actually, I was going to suggest shaving your legs, not that there’s much there.”
“Um …”
“It’s better in a bath but there’s a quick way. Come on,” she said, leading into her bathroom. I started after her automatically, while part of my brain was screaming that I was wearing a bra and panties and camisole like it was the most normal thing–while another part of my brain was calmly saying, ‘Get used to it!’
Jenny’s bathroom was every bit as feminine and lovely as her bedroom, only in pinks. She folded up a towel and laid it on the edge of the tub.
“Okay, what I do is I sit there and shave sometimes. But Mom’s got some Nair so get comfy and I’ll be right back. Oh, feet in the tub.” She left and returned in an instant. “Here. Reading improves the mind!” she grinned as she handed me a Seventeen.
She stopped herself. “Oh! Um …raise your arm?” I did, elbow up. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I want to see under your arms! I didn’t see …”
I’d raised my arm towards the ceiling and she peered at my armpit. ‘No; not armpit’, I reminded myself. ‘Guys have armpits; girls have underarms.’ Somehow I was fine with the idea.
Jenny said, “Next to nothing, but …”
She opened a cabinet and took out a small electric shaver and grabbed a tissue and turned back to me.
“Think I can do it in one. Hold that position.”
Placing the tissue under my arm, she turned on the shaver and didn’t really touch me with it, but I could hear a hair or hairs caught by its blades. She caught them in the tissue.
“What I thought,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Just wisp-wisp here, wisp-wisp there,” she sang goofily, to the tune from The Wizard of Oz.
She tossed the tissue in the wastebasket and replaced the shaver. “You can do a better job at home but the cami looks better now. I mean, if you have to raise your arms. Um …be right back.” Grinning, she left the room.
I was thumbing through Seventeen when she came back with a bottle. “You want to do it or me?”
“I’ll do it; you supervise,” I said, setting the magazine aside and holding my hands up.
She squeezed a dollop of the goo in my hands and I rubbed it in as she directed. Then she murmured, ‘Here’ and turned on her hand-held shower unit, holding it away from me so I could rinse my hands. She turned off the water and handed me a towel and I dried.
“Four or five minutes, tops,” she said. “If it burns, tell me right away. Don’t tough it out.”
In an innocent voice, I asked, “Don’t be macho?”
She snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right!” Then her face clouded and she sat on the toilet seat lid. “Um, Chris …Chrissie …”
“Yes, Jen?” I asked gently.
“I’m kind of …being all bossy here. I just realized. It might seem like I’m …using you. I joked about Barbie awhile ago, and I don’t want you thinking that …”
“I don’t think that, Jen,” I said in the same soft voice. “I …always liked you …”
Jenny leaned quickly and put her hand on mine.“No, let me say it,” she said. “I always liked you and I hope that you can be a really close girlfriend. I want to be your friend, Chrissie.”
I nodded. “As long as we both know that we’re not talking about boyfriend-girlfriend. I’m pretty sure I’m turning into 100% girl, and forever, and I know I’m going to need a friend but I hope you’ll be my closest girlfriend.”
She squeezed my hand and nodded as she beamed. “Hope so!” She nodded sharply once. “Good. Rinse time.”
We did the thing again with the hand-held shower; I held a towel up high over my crotch as I sprayed and then, standing, finished rinsing and used the towel I’d been sitting on to dry. She told me to blot, not rub, and then handed me some baby oil. I smoothed it on and was amazed at how smooth my legs were before I put the oil on, and especially after! I washed my hands, turned the shower off and wiped everything down and dried off.
“I am so jealous of your legs!” Jenny grinned. “Come on, babe.”
Without commenting, I followed her into the bedroom as she pulled a typical denim miniskirt from her closet and explained the ways of getting dressed in skirts as I pulled it up. She nodded and then grinned. “Ooh! Wanna go all the way?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” I said, airily, and giggled.
She had turned and spun back with a pair of brown sandals with a short heel. I nodded and took them, strapping them on. She smiled as I walked around, giving me hints here and there. “God, Chrissie, you got fantastic legs for heels, and you’re not even all the way there yet!”
The sandals required a different walking technique, and with her help I got the hang of it quickly, walking out of her room and up and down the hall. She was in her room doing something and suddenly burst out of her room and headed down the stairs.
“Something’s happening down the street! I think it’s Tommy!”
I ran after her as quickly as I could. She was about ten feet out from the door, looking down the street, and I looked the same direction as I came up next to her.
It was Tommy’s house, with an ambulance and police cars. I gasped and cried out ‘Oh, God!’ and took two steps to start to run to his house.
“Chrissie!” Jenny hissed and reached out, grabbing my arm.
I stopped dead in my tracks, suddenly aware–as Jenny had realized–that I would not help the Donohue family by running up in a miniskirt, strappy sandals, and a pretty camisole!
“I’ve got to change!” I blurted and turned to rush back into her house.
“Wait! Look!” Jenny pointed.
We stood there, shielding our eyes against the sun, watching the scene unfold. The paramedics were wheeling a gurney out of the house–that’s what Jenny had seen–and we couldn’t tell who was on it. But then the police followed them holding Tommy’s older brother, his arms handcuffed behind him. He wasn’t resisting but seemed proud and defiant. Jenny and I looked at each other, our eyes wide. I glanced around, conscious that I was dressed as a girl on the street, and saw several other families standing in their yards watching the Donohue house. Nobody paid attention to me and I looked back at the drama. An officer came out of the house, slowly, writing something and talking with Mr. and Mrs. Donohue, who walked beside him, nodding and pulling their coats on.
“Oh, God, it’s Tommy!” I gasped, knowing who was on the gurney.
The ambulance took off, Tommy’s brother was in the back of one squad car, and the officer gave a paper to Mr. Donohue, got in the car and the police left. Mr. Donohue looked somehow smaller and …beaten, I realized. Beaten down not by fists, but by his own prejudices, and their results. They got in their family van and drove off.
I had tears in my eyes and Jenny was trembling, her arms across her chest, rubbing her upper arms.
Jenny said, “You’ve got to …oh, God, you’ve got to tell everybody now. Not just your mom.”
“I know. I’ve got to find out what’s happened to Tommy and tell them, because all by himself they’ll never believe him.”
We went back in her house and up to her room. I changed, reluctant to shed the clothes and put on my own.
Jenny noticed. “Tell you what. I’m going to put all those in a daypack for you. Everything, shoes, undies, all of it. I think you’ll need them.”
“Need them?” I asked, sliding out of the bra and automatically crossing my arms over my breasts.
“Uh-huh. To show your mom, after you tell her, maybe. And if you go to the hospital, if you can find out about Tommy …”
I nodded. “God, thank you, Jenny! I can’t believe how …” I shook my head. “I just can’t believe it all!”
“Me, either,” she agreed, then grinned. “And I was just about to put some makeup on you, too! Oops, barrette,” she said, plucking it from my hair as I bent over to pull up my cargo pants. She went to her closet and came back with a blue daypack and began collecting everything into it.
The thought of makeup shook me but made me smile, too. Jenny came behind me and began brushing my hair back into my boy’s ponytail as I buttoned my shirt. I turned around and we hugged. It was two girlfriends hugging, nothing romantic, but it felt warm and supportive.
Jenny set her jaw. “Step one, tell your mother. Step two, get to Tommy. Step three, coordinate everything with Craig–you might have to just chuck the whole anonymous email thing and call him. Step four, bust this thing wide open. Step five, I guess …” she sighed. “Be my friend?”
“I am already, Jen. Your girl friend–Chrissie,” I smiled back at her, hugged her, took the pack, and left for home.
End of Part 4
Mom came home about twenty minutes after I’d gotten back. I’d unpacked the things from Jenny, shaking out any wrinkles. I saw that she’d tossed the barrette in along with the brush and a little sampler of makeup she’d probably gotten at a department store as a freebie. I teared up at her thoughtfulness.
I sent an email to Craig, not anonymously. I wrote, ‘Tommy’s in the hospital; I think he’s been beaten up.’ I was pretty sure it was his brother but didn’t want to commit until I knew. ‘I’m going there tonight to find out as much as I can. The doctors will run tests and the cat is going to be out of the bag, so M.R. probably don’t apply anymore. I’m telling Mom tonight. Email me back with details so we can talk on phone, what number, how late, whatever. It might be really, really late, or tomorrow morning. But things are definitely heating up.’ I added a postscript, leaving out anything about Jenny. ‘I just now thought about shooting photos of myself; I could kick myself for not doing it sooner. I hope you’ve been photo-documenting yourself all along.’
Mom arrived and as soon as she’d gotten her things put down, I braced her. I’d been thinking about how to do it and I knew the only way was full and immediate disclosure.
“Mom, are you hungry?” I said after hello.
“Not particularly. We had a late lunch. You can eat if you’d like, and I’ll just fix something for myself later.” She looked at me oddly. “What’s wrong with your voice?”
“My voice?” I remembered that Jenny had said something about it.
“It sounds kind of …” She shrugged. “Different somehow. Ah, well …I haven’t talked to you in a couple of days,” she smiled. “Maybe I just forgot what you sound like, or you’re coming down with something.”
I thought, she has no idea! “Mom, I have some very, very important things to discuss with you, and I think this is a three-pipe problem,” I said, using an old Sherlock Holmes saying. She’d introduced me to Holmes two years ago and I loved the stories.
“A three-piper, huh?” she grinned. “A pot of Earl Grey, then.”
She went to prepare the tea and I had to stop myself from pacing. I was still gathering my thoughts. When we were at the kitchen table with two steaming cups in front of us, I began.
“Mom, have you looked at me lately? Really looked at me? Have you noticed anything?”
She tilted her head. “Well, your hair needs a trim …and, I don’t know, maybe you could start exercising more. You’re looking kind of …” Her voice trailed off. At some point her brain had kicked in and went from the casual observance to, as I’d requested, really looking at me. “Oh, my …” she said.
“I have a lot to tell you, and it begins in April. Please don’t …well, it’ll go faster if you don’t interrupt. Oh, here,” I said and slid a notepad and pen to her; I’d just thought of it while she’d prepared the tea. “You might want to make notes or jot down questions.”
She frowned, seeing how serious I was. So I dove in, as I had with Mrs. Donohue and Jenny. I was really glad I’d had the practice of telling the tale twice. I went from Craig’s first idea to the Donohue family racing to the hospital. I had printed out my email exchanges with Craig, and some of the things we’d found on Intellia and Black Hats, and gave them over to read after I was done talking. God bless her, Mom didn’t interrupt. Several times she frowned and opened her mouth to speak but closed it and scribbled instead. When I finished, she looked directly at me, saying nothing, then nodded.
“I think now is the moment we knew had to come, honey.”
I nodded, too, and leaned back to unbutton my shirt. I kept it closed until it was completely unbuttoned, looked her in the eye, took a deep breath, and let the shirt fall around my shoulders.
Mom couldn’t help the reflexive gasp at the sight of my breasts. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, and then she nodded.
“Honey,” she said, choosing her words slowly as she went. “I think …you should …put on the things that Jenny loaned you. I’m going to sit here and read my notes and think and …” She blew out a breath and grinned weakly. “Definitely a three-pipe problem!”
I was slightly trembling as I dressed in my bedroom. It was a very simple procedure, actually, and it felt comfortable and it felt proper and it felt so right, somehow. I stripped completely naked; it just felt better starting from skin out. Then I remembered Jenny’s comment about documenting again when I got home so I grabbed my digital camera and a hand mirror and …quickly documented myself. I even used a ruler! Then I stepped into the panties, tucking my little boy-bit, pulled on my bra and smiled at the nice support. I pulled the camisole over the mounds of my breasts again, then pulled up the skirt and sat to buckle the sandals.
The thought occurred to me that what I was just doing, getting dressed in these types of clothes, was how I’d always be dressing in the near future. I leaned over and brushed my hair out, then quickly brushed it into place as Jenny had and used the barrette. I decided to forego the makeup, then decided just a bit of lipgloss was needed. I took my deepest breath of all and went to show Mrs. Hanson what her daughter looked like.
She stared and then nodded. “It all fits,” she said calmly.
I turned side to side, looking down at my clothes. “Well, Jenny and I turned out to be the same size.”
Mom chuckled. “No, sweetheart; I didn’t mean the clothes. Although they do fit you nicely and it’s a perfect look for you.” Her face clouded for a moment. “Perfectly normal look for you, now, I suppose. No, what I meant was …well, you’ve been a little …secretive the last few weeks. And that’s normal for teenage boys.”
Realizing that she meant boys and masturbation, I blushed. “I’m not …I haven’t been …”
Mom waved a hand. “No, no; I just mean at first I didn’t pay close attention. But then when you came to me tonight, before you started telling me what’s been happening. That’s when I noticed that things didn’t quite …fit. Your voice, for instance.”
“Jenny said something about my voice, too. What’s wrong with it?”
She smiled. “It’s probably been so gradual you haven’t noticed. But your voice is …” She tilted her head and frowned slightly. “It’s higher but not higher, and it’s thinner but not thinner. It’s also not younger …” She shook her head. ‘That’s a lot of things it isn’t. I’d have to simply say that it’s become a girl’s voice. Before I might have said that you sounded like you did a few years ago, but that’s not quite right. I think what’s happening, keeping in line with the theories you and Craig have come up with, is that your larynx has been altered by the …girl-bomb. And that’s a funny name but pretty accurate, like a bug-bomb.”
“Yeah, that’s what Craig was thinking about the name. Um …so I sound like a girl? I’m not trying to.”
“Well, your speech pattern isn’t like a girl’s …yet, but that’s a cultural thing.” Her eyes widened and she sat up a little. “My God, that explains a lot …”
“What does?”
“Well, the other thing that didn’t fit and does now is how you move. Everything, the way you walk, the way you hold your things, the way you move your hands. It might be considered effeminate but that’s not quite right, either. See, effeminate should probably apply to a …let’s just say ‘typical’ instead of ‘normal’, okay? Anyway, a typical male trying to seem like a girl will have a certain walk and gestures, but they’re approximations of feminine movements. They’re a …mimicry. Without what you’re looking like now, the way your body has already changed, if you walked and gestured like that you’d seem effeminate. But you don’t. It’s not mimicry, it’s not an approximation. You have a feminine walk and gestures because you are feminine, you are a girl …or at least pretty far on your way there.”
“That makes sense, I guess. I’m not trying to do anything, like I said.” I shrugged. “I just walked, that’s all. But you said a ‘cultural thing’ …”
Mom nodded again. “Girls have a lifetime of being girls to pick up things unconsciously.” She grinned. “Or in response to their mothers harping on them. Just thinking about my own girlhood …” A memory brought a chuckle. “You don’t have that, but you’ll pick it up quickly. For instance, you wear that skirt beautifully. You look very cute in it, very normal and regular and all that. You walk perfectly for a girl in a skirt; I’m guessing that your pelvis and bone structure is becoming more like a girl’s so that makes sense. But when you sat in your skirt, you sat in your skirt. No girl does that; she automatically reaches back with a hand and smoothes the skirt forward as she sits so it doesn’t bunch up under her. I said ‘automatically’, because it’s learned behavior, from her mother telling her to do that and all the other girls around her doing the same thing. And it would be the same with a mother telling her daughter, ‘keep your knees together so the boys can’t see your panties’ and things like that.”
“Learned behavior,” I thought about it; it made perfect sense but was worrying. “So I can learn these things, but will they take years to learn?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mothers constantly remind their little girls because they’re little. Everything takes repetition, like how to go potty properly and on up. The learning curve is long because they’re just growing kids. It’s different now that you’re older; you’re still growing, of course, but your thinking is more mature. For instance, I probably won’t need to remind you more than a couple of times about keeping your knees together or sweeping your skirt when you sit.”
“I think I’ll remember.”
“Because you’re older,” she nodded. “So your cultural girl lessons will be picked up very quickly, and naturally, too, I’ll bet. Because you’re already …” She did the head-tilt thing again. “You’re already a naturally feminine and very pretty girl, and you’re still …evolving.”
“Weird way to think of it–evolving …morphing, maybe …” I trailed off and frowned. “Mom, Jenny’s theory about my DNA being changed or reset …” I wasn’t sure how I was going to put it.
“You mean, that you’re becoming the girl that you would have been, almost like an alternate time-track?”
That startled me–me, the science-fiction reader! “I like that! Yeah, in my girl-track.”
“Don’t say ‘yeah’, sweetheart; girls say ‘yes’,” she said with a twinkle.
“Sorry! So, you’ll teach me? All the girl stuff?”
She grinned. “We’ll have to work on your girl vocabulary, too. We don’t say ‘stuff’ as much as boys do. But, yes, of course I’ll teach you. It’s a mother’s job to teach her daughter!”
I found myself rushing to hug her; she enfolded me in an embrace and kissed the top of my head. “Mom, you believe me, then?”
“How can I not believe you, my darling daughter?”
I pulled back from the hug. “Two things, one quick and the other not so much. The first thing is, did you have a girl’s name picked out for me if I’d been born a girl?”
She smiled with some sadness. “Yes. And a funny thing, too, because …well, the one thing we decided on was that the word Christ would be in your name. Your father was …” She trailed off.
I knew she didn’t like talking about my father. At the start of this journal I wrote about him being a salesman now and having been in a supermarket. When I wrote that, I was just getting started, and still kind of embarrassed about writing things down. And that pales in comparison to what I’ve had to write down, so it’s time to document the truth about my father.
He’d been a butcher at a local supermarket and became a Born-Again Christian, leading a worship service and quitting the market and becoming a lay minister. Mom was an old-fashioned Christian, the type that didn’t need to shout hourly about her faith. She said she didn’t have to, she just knew. But then my father was caught fooling around with one of his ‘flock’ …then another woman was discovered and maybe more and he resigned and divorced in disgrace. I think Mom was more angry about his hypocrisy than his unfaithfulness.
Mom picked up the thread. “Your father wanted Christ in your name. I just wanted faith in your soul, so I went along. Nothing wrong with it. But I did put my foot down on his first choice–Christian. I thought that was just …too much over the top. It’s a fine name, but with him it was a billboard. So we settled on Christopher, a saint’s name that satisfied him. Well, former saint, but that’s neither here nor there.” She smiled at me. “And if a girl? Christina. I am not making this up.” She held a hand up like an oath. “So you would have been Christina, or Chris, or Christy, or Chrissie–thank you, Jenny–or even Tina. Strange how it works out, huh?”
I hugged her again. “So you don’t have a problem with Chrissie?”
“None at all, my sweet Chrissie. Although I might call you Chris every so often.”
“That’s okay. I’ll know that you mean it as Christina, not Christopher.” I squeezed her and broke the hug. “The second thing is, I want to go to the hospital and find out about Tommy.”
She nodded. “While you were getting changed I made some calls. First of all, I called around and we’re in luck; he’s in St. Joe’s.” That’s where Mom works. “His condition is stable and he’s conscious–or he was when I called. So if we have a chance to see him, we’ve got to hurry.”
“Oh! Yeah. Okay,” I said, feeling the urgency. “Let’s go, can we? Please?”
Mom pursed her lips. “Yes, we can, but …” She looked at me and tilted her head, that thing she always did. “Honey, I know you just got changed, and you’re so pretty and I know–I know–that you’re going to be dressing like this from now on, but just now, for tonight–”
“I better change back. You’re right; this would only cause more problems with Tommy’s dad.”
I quickly went back to my room and regretfully changed everything, furiously brushing my hair back into the ponytail and rubbing off the gloss and putting on the boy clothes that I’d so happily gotten out of–only half an hour ago. On the way out of the house I grabbed the printout from our emails, just in case. And they just might be needed, because Mom told me that she’d made ‘some calls’, and one of them was to Dr. Paulson who was going to meet us at the hospital.
We got to St. Joseph’s quickly because there was so little traffic. St. Joe’s is a big rambling old hospital, more St. Elsewhere than ER, Mom says. I have to take her word for that; I’d never seen those old shows. Anyway, it is a really good hospital and is the main trauma center in this part of the state, so a lot of times you hear on the news about injured people ‘being airlifted to St. Joseph’s’ and sure enough, even as we parked, a helicopter was coming in to land on the fenced area on the side of Emergency.
Since Mom worked there, we moved quickly through while she greeted people left and right, and she came to a nurse I knew from occasional meetings, Nurse Rawlings.
“Nancy, hi, what’s the news on Tommy Donohue?”
The nurse looked pretty grim. “Pretty rough. He’s been cut up and beaten badly, not something we don’t see on weekends, but he hasn’t been in a bar fight. I don’t know everything but,” she sighed, switching to her professional voice, “multiple contusions and lacerations, left jaw fracture and possible left orbital socket fracture. The main thing was the cut at the groin. He lost a lot of blood and it was touch and go there for awhile. Defensive wounds on both hands.”
“De …defensive wounds?” I asked, my voice strangled with grief.
Nurse Rawlings said, “Often when a victim has been knifed, they fight their attacker and get cuts on their hands. Whoever did this had it in for the kid; there are some other lacerations that are just rage.”
“What about the groin wound?” Mom asked.
“Apparently whoever did the beating …” She broke off and looked at me.
Mom said, “You can say anything, Nancy; please speak freely.”
The nurse nodded. “It looks like the victim was nearly castrated. He’d probably twisted this way and that to avoid the knife but got multiple lacerations all around the pelvis.”
“And his penis?” I asked.
Nurse Rawlings gave me a compassionate look. “Don’t know. I’ll get an update soon. You two look …you look like you know more about this than I do.” Her eyes searched our faces, back and forth.
Just then we were approached by Dr. Paulson. I’ve already written that he’s been my doctor like forever, and he’s a good guy. As he’s gotten older, he’s looking more and more like a TV version of a doctor with silver in his hair and a fine, deep voice.
“Ruth, Christopher, hi. Nancy,” he nodded.
She nodded and smiled at us and turned back to her duties.
Dr. Paulson said, “Now, what’s so important that you pulled me away from Dancing With The Stars?”
It was the kind of light-hearted thing he’d say. I don’t know if he watched it or not and I don’t think tonight was even one of the nights the show was on. It was just a fun thing to say.
Mom looked at me and said, “There’s a very serious …tale we have to tell you and time is of the essence. That’s such a cliché, but it’s true. And it also involves two friends of Chris, including Tommy Donohue, who was just admitted after being knifed and beaten by his brother.”
His light manner vanished. “Is he still in Emergency?” We shrugged and he turned to the Nurses Station. “Nancy? Could you give me an update on Tommy Donohue and I think Jack Warren is his Primary. Thanks.” He turned back to me and said, “Fancy a pee?”
He’d said that to me for years; it used to make me chuckle. I knew it meant he wanted a urine specimen.
“Yes, Doctor,” I said, seriously. “And you should draw blood–”
“I was going to,” he smiled.
“And however you check DNA. Is that the cheek swab thing?”
“One way, yes,” he said, frowning. “Are you …are you taking something, Chris?”
I made a face. “Taking, no. Given, yes. That’s what we need to find out and fast. It’s not poison, but …”
“But time is of the essence,” Mom finished for me.
They gave me a cup and I went in the little toilet, filled the thing, came out and sat for the blood and DNA swabbing. Dr. Paulson had told me that they actually can get DNA from blood and urine as well as saliva, hair, and so on, and he was going to have all three samples run because whatever I was worried about was genetic. I know he has a lot of respect for Mom and so he didn’t treat me like a strange kid.
We were back at the Nurses Station, the tests on their way to the lab. Dr. Paulson was studying a chart, frowning. I figured it was Tommy’s chart. Before we said anything there was a shout behind us.
“You!”
We turned–and everyone else–and Mr. Donohue was red-faced and pointing at me.
He yelled, “You’ve done this to my Tommy! You’ve turned him into a fairy! This is all your fault!”
Mrs. Donohue was next to him, tugging on his sleeve and frantically hushing him to no effect.
He took two steps towards me. “What have you done to him? What have you done? He trusted you! And you turned him into a faggot just like you are! My God, look at you! You’re more girl than boy! But you had to do it to my Tommy, didn’t you? All of you–”
Slap!
Mrs. Donohue had stepped in front of him and slapped him so hard his head turned sideways and the crack of the slap seemed to bounce off the hospital walls.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she cried. “For God’s sake, Mickey, shut up! You have no idea what you’re talking about, just lies and filth from your own dirty mind. You’re blaming poor Chris here for what you did to Tommy. Your hate and your ignorance have poisoned our children for too long, and Patrick acted on it. Sure, he took a knife to his own brother, but it was you that guided his hand!”
“Catherine, you …No, that’s not it …”
“Yes, that’s exactly it! When I married you, I fancied your bluster. You were the big strong man that could protect me and my family. But I’ve watched you get smaller and smaller with your meanness and it’s nearly cost me my children. Enough!”
“Catherine, I …”
“Shut up, I said! Now, and until you’re told to speak!”
As shocked as I was, I couldn’t help but have a huge boost in my estimation of Mrs. Donohue. She was no longer the meek and mild dutiful ‘little woman’. She was on fire!
Security arrived and she stepped forward to tell them everything was under control. A doctor came out in scrubs, and Dr. Paulson said, “That’s Tommy’s doctor, Jack Warren. He’s a good man. Jack! One minute?” He indicated the two of us to the doctor, who veered over.
“Hank,” he nodded. “What’s up? Don’t have time; I’ve got to talk to the family.”
“You might want to let them cool down a bit. Listen, this is Christopher Hanson, a long-time patient. I haven’t heard his story yet but I think we both need to be present because it bears directly on your patient Tommy Donohue.”
“There are some …anomalies,” Dr. Warren said, looking at me. “And you can shed some light?”
“Yes, sir,” I said with a firm nod. “And also the probable reason for the attack on Tommy. There were three of us–”
Dr. Warren frowned, confused. “Three of you in the attack?”
“No, no; I think that was his brother. No, there were three of us affected. In-fected,” I said.
Dr. Paulson said, “Three? You didn’t tell me that, Chris.”
“Yes, the other is Craig Wesson, a friend of ours. The three of us hang out together. Well, we did, but he moved away. His dad got transferred, but we keep in touch.”
Dr. Paulson nodded. “I know Craig quite well. I was also his doctor until they moved.”
“Really?” I said, brightening. “Could you …do you know his new doctor?”
“I know the doctor I recommended and transferred files to. Don’t know if they’ve met her yet; it’s only been a couple of months. They should like her, but they might even have switched to somebody else.”
“Dr. Paulson, could you contact his doctor? Craig’s new doctor, I mean? Because if she’s seen him, we can have some …what’s that word …”
Mom said, “Corroboration?”
“Yes, thanks! We can have corroboration of what I’ve got to tell you. I know there’s a time-zone difference, but it’s really important that you talk to her.”
Dr. Paulson frowned slightly. “I can try, but we’re going to run into patient confidentiality problems.”
“If I call Craig and get his family to okay it?”
He stared at me. “It’s really this important? And this urgent?”
“Yes, sir. And especially for Tommy.”
He held his look on me a little longer and then nodded and looked at the other doctor. “Jack, go update the Donohues. I’m going to my office and make the calls young Chris is demanding.”
“I’m not demanding, Dr. Paulson,” I said apologetically.
“I am,” Mom said. “Hank, this is important and especially for your patient, Dr. Warren.”
Both doctors nodded and went off in two separate directions.
Mom hugged me with one arm. “I’m so sorry you had to hear those hateful things,” she said.
“They were hateful, and totally wrong, but he did say one true thing. I guess I am more girl than boy.”
She leaned down to my ear. “And a very pretty girl, too.” She quickly kissed my cheek.
We watched Dr. Warren talk to the Donohues, who listened. Mrs. Donohue nodded but Mr. Donohue was frozen like a statue. I noticed that Mrs. Donohue asked the questions. After the doctor shook hands with the stunned Mr. Donohue and slightly bowed to Mrs. Donohue, he came back to Mom and me.
“This is going to get a lot more complicated before it’s settled. I just updated them and also got Mrs. Donohue’s approval to talk about Tommy’s condition with you. Excuse me.” He leaned over to Nurse Rawlings. “Nancy, would you prepare a Confidentiality Disclosure Authorization for the Donohues over there? Patient Thomas Donohue. Thanks.”
Dr. Paulson came back with a very strange look on his face. “I just talked with Craig and his family. He was expecting something like my call because of an email you sent?” I nodded. “That was a good thing, so it didn’t take much time. They had a …very interesting story, too. Something tells me I’m going to hear it again. They’ve approved my talking with their doctor. They’ve just seen her yesterday so we have the full workup still fresh. And they’re faxing an authorization.”
Dr. Warren said, “I just got the Donohues to agree to the CDA for Tommy.”
Mom said, “We’ll sign whatever you need so all doctors of all parties can talk freely and fully.”
“Thanks, Ruth,” Dr. Paulson said, still frowning. “It was the oddest thing. The whole time I was talking to Craig …” He shook his head. “No matter. We’re going to go into a conference room and open up the phone. I think the Donohues should be present, too.”
“If he’s calmed down,” Mom said.
“I think Mrs. Donohue has control now,” I smiled.
“Too late for poor Tommy, though,” Mom said grimly.
End of Part 5
We were all in Conference, and quite a mob, too. Mom and I and Dr. Paulson, Mr. and Mrs. Donohue with Dr. Warren–and she was still keeping Mr. Donohue under tight rein–and Nurse Rawlings, who I’d found out was Head Nurse; and two suits, one male and one female, who were Administration. Mom whispered that they were attorneys. There was also a representative for the police, a Latina with dark short-cropped hair named Sgt. Rodriguez, and for some reason I liked her immediately without even knowing why. She wore a crisp blue uniform with one of those little black shoulder walkie-talkie things, and somehow I knew she was not only carrying a gun but knew how to use it. She had to be good to be a female sergeant at a relatively young age.
There was one of those star-shaped conference phones and even a video hookup, and we’d be joined shortly by Craig’s new doctor, Dr. Sarkisian, who was a darkly handsome woman in her fifties. That was when the video popped into life and we were all present, with Craig’s family on several phone lines. There were notepads and pencils at every seat and water glasses and carafes of ice water along the table. I felt like we were part of the United Nations.
Actually, I kind of felt out of it. The long day was catching up to me. Had I wandered into the library only half-a-day ago? Mom noticed and told me to lean against her and doze if I could until it was time for me to make my presentation. The flurry of getting things went on without me as I kind of shut down, recharging, sort of.
Then it was Showtime.
There were introductions all around, and we had Craig and both his parents and even his sister on four separate lines at their home. Something was tugging the back of my mind and I couldn’t think what it was, and then there wasn’t time for thinking about it.
When Craig introduced himself, I was shocked. I suddenly remembered that Dr. Paulson had said something about ‘the whole time he was talking with Craig’ and I knew exactly what it was.
Craig’s voice was a girl’s voice. That was proven when Teresa introduced herself; there was enough similarity that they were unmistakably …sisters. I thought of Mom’s thoughts about the cultural differences, and Craig didn’t use words like a girl would, but the pitch and the whole …feeling of his voice was female. This was proven when I said, “Hi, Craig.”
“You, too, huh?” he chuckled. And of course, it was almost a girlish giggle. “We’re sopranos now and we’re not even Mafia.”
Looks were exchanged around the room. I jumped in. “Craig, do you want to tell the whole room the whole story or do you want me to do it?”
“Tell you what. I’ll tell it first. You’ve already told your Mom and maybe some of the others so they’ll be familiar with it. Then you can throw in anything you want. I think it’d be good for my family to hear you tell it, too.”
It was agreed, and before he started, he asked for an email address or FTP site to upload his photos. Good old Craig had been shooting photos from the start, and he was given the address and also one for a video feed. Nurse Rawlings made a call and a second computer video hookup was wheeled in halfway through Craig’s story.
He told it clearly and cleanly and factually. I thought he was very even-handed at taking the blame for the whole scheme, and his descriptions of the men we met that night were more detailed than mine. The only thing I noticed was that he didn’t mention the three different drinks, he just said ‘drinks’, so I interrupted.
“Don’t know if it means anything on our end, or even their end, but for the record, Craig had Sprite, Tommy had Pepsi–the full-strength regular kind–and I had water. Dasani, the kind made by Coke. Cans and bottle already opened. Separate glasses with ice cubes. Sorry, Craig. Go on. It’s all exactly right.”
He went on to tell the things I didn’t know that happened after they’d moved. Teresa jumped in with her explanation of how she suspected something was very weird with her brother. I looked over at the Donohues; Mrs. Donohue was gently nodding with a slight smile. Mr. Donohue, on the other hand, looked like he’d been ‘smacked upside the head with a 2x4’, as Tommy used to say. Suddenly I wondered, had Mr. Donohue actually used lumber to beat Tommy? But now he was hearing corroboration–my new word–of whatever Tommy had said. My throat tightened. God, poor Tommy!
Craig finished up. “We went to see Dr. Sarkisian–I really like her, by the way; thanks, Dr. Paulson–and kind of dumped it on her lap.”
He paused, and Dr. Sarkisian, who’d been listening with her arms folded across her chest, her head down and occasionally nodding, said, “I’ll talk about my examination when the it’s the doctors’ turns. You want to finish up …Craig?”
The way she’d hesitated saying his name made me flash–she knows he’s Lisa now!
Craig said, “I’m going to fire up the video feed. You’re set up there?”
Nurse Rawlings said, “Think so. The tech is still here if there are problems.”
“Okay, here it comes.”
We could hear some computer keys clicking and then the large screen popped into life like a big YouTube video. And we were looking at a pretty girl with long curly sandy hair. I knew immediately it was a wig but kept quiet. The girl had a light blue sleeveless tank top and, as we discovered later, a denim skirt. She wore a little bit of makeup and was just a very pretty girl.
“Hey, Dr. Paulson. Mrs. Hanson. Chris. Nice to meet you,” said the girl, who then grinned. “I’m Lisa.”
There was an audible gasp from several people, probably including me. I know that the Donohues were staggered.
Craig’s–or Lisa’s–father then spoke, walking into the back of the camera’s image of his new daughter. “This is Paul Wesson speaking. Oh, there we are.” He pointed, and I realized that the tech in our room had activated the camera so the Wessons could see us and vice versa. That strange thought tugged at me again but was lost in his words.
“When Terry brought Lisa to us …no, this is too confusing; I’ll use names for …before and after. When Terry brought Craig to us and they explained, we were shocked and pretty skeptical. Understandably. But there were undeniable physical changes to Craig that didn’t come from a tall tale, and research on the internet indicates that he’d have to have been secretly taking hormones for nearly a year for this kind of physical change. And I can testify that this girl you see here …sorry, honey, I’ve got to say it this way,” he said to Lisa, who shrugged. “Um …the girl you see in the camera is not the girl she was yesterday, and that girl was not the girl the day before that. What I’m trying to say is that the changes are …I don’t know …exponential or logarithmic or whatever the medical term would be. Just …amazingly rapid.”
“Hi, um …everybody,” Mrs. Wesson said, waving from the back of the picture. “What Paul’s saying is that Lisa’s body is changing every day. I can testify that, because …”
“Go ahead, Mom,” Lisa said, nodding.
“Well, a mother notices things. My goodness, that sound trite. What I mean is–” She broke off.
Lisa said, “What my mother is trying to say is that after Terry and I showed Mom and Dad, Mom and Terry and I went into the bedroom and I was measured. And I’ve been shooting digital photos and sent them; have you gotten them yet? Anyway, Mom’s being discreet but this isn’t the time for that. What both my parents were trying to say was that every 24 hours my body changes. Not click! like that, but …like morphing over time. So what Daddy said was right; I’m not the girl I was yesterday. My breasts weren’t the same size, my penis was slightly larger–hey, Chris, ain’t this fun!” Lisa leered, and I had to laugh; there were embarrassed chuckles around the room. “And my bone structure has changed. I’ve lost two and a half inches in almost two months.”
“That’s not possible!” Dr. Paulson blurted out.
“I would have thought so, too, Hank,” Dr. Sarkisian said, “but I know you take careful measurements, as do I. And Lisa is 6.3 centimeters shorter than your records of January this year.” She looked into the camera. “And I haven’t even begun the blood anomalies!”
“My God, what can do this?” Dr. Paulson said, shaken.
Lisa said, “I’m swearing to you, to all of you, and Chris can take the same oath. I swear before God that none of us, me, Chris, or Tommy, has taken any kind of drug. Or any kind of weird thing at all. We don’t do that sort of thing. And the fact that it’s just us three, and it started only after we crashed Intellia, seems to show that that’s when we got it. So maybe we were exposed to a gas or something, but there was never a time we were alone, once they busted us. The only thing we did that they didn’t was have drinks.”
“I thought it was odd they were so friendly to give us refreshments,” I added.
“No kidding. And it explains why the guy with the beard looked scared when we left,” Lisa said.
“You noticed that too, huh?” I said. “I was last in line so I thought I was the only one to see him.”
Lisa said, “Even Tommy said to me, ‘Dude, that guy was freaked!’”
“Are you …” Mr. Donohue said, broke off, and looked at Mrs. Donohue, who nodded. Wow, I thought. She’s strong! He’s already completely under her control.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure, Dr. Sarki …Sar …” Mrs. Donohue whispered to him. “Sorry. Dr. Sarkisian, are you sure that this girl is …Craig Wesson?”
“I can’t imagine a hoax, but that’s a valid question, Mr. Donohue. Because of the incredible implications of Lisa’s story, I also took DNA samples from her family. And they’re a match. This girl is the child of Paul and Emily Wesson and the sister of Teresa Wesson. Absolutely no doubt. And,” she smiled oddly, “absolutely no doubt that she’s the former Craig Wesson. His DNA profile is in his records, and everything matches that should match, with one glaring difference.”
“Female,” Dr. Warren spoke for the first time.
Dr. Sarkisian nodded. “Yes, female. Blood, urine, DNA of hair and sputum, the works. She’s a Wesson, and she’s a girl. And she didn’t used to be a girl, as of the middle of April, when Craig’s DNA was recorded.”
Dr. Warren says, “What could do this?”
“What could do this so fast?” Dr. Paulson said.
Mr. Donohue cleared his throat. “So you’re saying that my Tommy was …infected with the same thing as you and Chris, here.”
Lisa said, “Yes.”
“But you’re a girl with pretty clothes and hair and …”
“Well, I’ve got a sister for pretty clothes, and …” Lisa chuckled. “Hate to do this.” And she pulled off her wig, showing her Craig head, with sandy curls matted down by the wig, and it was odd because it was sort of Craig’s face, but very feminine. And, of course, she had makeup. “Okay? Good. I’m going to fix this. Chris, you wanna take it?”
I cleared my throat. “Everything Cr–Lisa said was exactly what happened. I had some massive diarrhea that I think was …internal stuff flushing out. Craig didn’t have that.”
“Later, I did. Haven’t talked to you for awhile,” Lisa said, back on camera with her pretty hair in place.
Teresa said, “I was pissed at first because she was always in the bathroom, but I got scared when it went on and on.”
“And on,” Lisa grinned. “But, yeah, Chris, it was just like you told me yours was. Chunks of me.”
“Chunks?” Dr. Paulson gasped.
“Chunks,” Lisa and I both said, and of course, we both giggled.
I went on. “The thing I noticed first was that it seemed to be changing my brain. The way I thought and felt about things was different. I started a journal and brought it along.” I had a disk in Mom’s purse. “Anyway, you don’t know this, Lisa. I ran into some girls we know from school and even they noticed the differences. How I looked, how I sounded, how I acted …everything. And I’m developing as a girl …” I stopped, and said, “Excuse me, everybody. I think I’m going to have to do something really embarrassing here.”
“Right with you, girlfriend,” Lisa said.
Wow. That was weird.
“Cool,” was all I said. I stood at the table and unbuttoned my shirt, looked around at everybody, and slowly pulled the shirt aside, exposing my breasts. I got the audible gasp and Dr. Paulson said, “My God!” under his breath. I turned slowly so everybody in the room could see, and the cameras, and then buttoned up and sat down, my head down. Mom rubbed my back.
“Sisterhood is powerful,” Lisa was saying.
I looked up, and she’d lifted her tank top to show two perky, round breasts with large nipples. Behind her, her mother said, “Honey …” and Teresa’s voice said, “Mom, she’s got to show them.”
Mrs. Wesson said, “Alright, honey, that’s enough.”
Teresa giggled. “Anything else, you’ll need a private room.”
Lisa pulled down her top and said, seriously, “So. Mr. and Mrs. Donohue. How’s Tommy?”
Mr. Donohue let out an anguished moan. Mrs. Donohue sat with her arms folded, her jaw tight. Mr. Donohue began sobbing, “How was I to know? How could we know?”
Mrs. Donohue took a deep breath, swallowed, and said in a very cold, tight voice, “My husband Michael and eldest son Patrick decided that Tommy was becoming a homosexual. This was despite anything Tommy said or did–in fact, they ignored when he pleaded with them. Pleaded! My husband Michael thought he could …what were your words, Mickey? Exactly? That you could ‘beat the queer out of him’? I wasn’t aware of it at first, and to my undying shame when I did find out I was too frightened of them to step in. I’ll carry that shame to my grave. Today–” Her voice broke.
Mr. Donohue didn’t even seem to be listening. He just moaned, “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He did!” Mrs. Donohue spat out. “He did and he did and he did and you just yelled, ‘Shut up you fairy; no son of mine’s turning queer!’ and you kept hitting him!”
“I stopped!” he roared back.
I was crying, thinking of poor, poor Tommy. Mom put her arm around me and I leaned against her, sobbing.
Mrs. Donohue continued, “Oh, you stopped, is that making it all right for you? You never gave him a chance to explain. These other poor boys are going through the same thing, and nobody is beating them. It took a big man like Mickey Donohue to do it! And then you got Patrick riled up!”
“Patrick …” he whimpered.
Mrs. Donohue faced the room, the words sour in her mouth. “Tommy took a shower today. First one in a long time; he’s been hiding in his room and I’ve been taking food to him. So he showered and almost made it back but Patrick saw him and started yelling. The same filth as Mickey, calling him terrible names. And poor Tommy, ah, my poor child …” She shuddered and regrouped. “Poor Tommy began crying, and that sent Patrick round the bend. He ripped the towel off Tommy and saw …and saw …”
She sighed and paused. The whole room was silent except for the noise of the electronics.
“Could I have some water, please?” she asked.
Her husband sat there, rocking slightly, wrapped in his misery.
“Could I have some water, please?” she asked again, pointedly, to Mr. Donohue.
“Oh,” he roused from wherever he was, and poured her a glass. She drank slowly, put the glass down and spun it slowly with her fingertips, and then crossed her arms again.
“Patrick ripped the towel and I’m guessing he saw Tommy’s …breasts and small penis. And curves, he’s gotten curvy, I’d noticed before he locked himself away. And Patrick went for his knife that he’s always carrying,” she glared at her husband. “As if he’s going to skin a moose in suburbia! Well, fine use for his moose knife!” And back to the room. “All I can guess is that he was going to try to …cut off Tommy’s penis and castrate him. I didn’t see this because I was in the kitchen and it all happened so quickly, but Patrick was shrieking ‘You wanna be a girl? You wanna be a girl? I’ll make you a girl!’ and then finally Mickey realized he’d gone too far and had to pull Patrick off Tommy.”
“Oh, God,” Mr. Donohue said, remembering. “And so much blood …”
“He’d cut the femoral artery,” Dr. Warren said. “Tommy would have bled out–almost did–but Mrs. Donohue got 911 to dispatch quickly.”
We sat there in silence. I wiped my eyes and looked at Lisa’s monitor. She was crying, too. I could feel Mom’s steady deep breathing, the way she did when she was furious. We were all in shock.
Sgt. Rodriguez said softly, “You understand, Mrs. Donohue, that I’ve recorded what you’ve told us. It’s required by law.”
Mrs. Donohue nodded. “Yes. To my shame. And …I want you to know what happened.”
One of the suits, the man, said, “This whole conference is being recorded. We can supply the audio tape with authorization, officer.”
“Sergeant,” she said, but with a smile. “And thank you.”
Back to the business at hand. During the confession, somebody had come in softly, handed a file to the tech, and left softly and quickly. He’d handed it to Nurse Rawlings, who nodded and handed it to Dr. Paulson. He was scanning it in the interlude after the Donohue drama.
Finally Dr. Paulson looked up. “I just got the lab results for Chris. Blood, urine, DNA swabs, all less than two hours old.” He sighed and looked at me. For the others at the table, he pointed at me. “This is the child that I’ve had as a patient for ten years, Christopher Hanson.” He shrugged, pursed his lips and frowned. “And yet the lab results show that this child is a female. There are some anomalies here and there–”
“In Lisa’s results as well,” Dr. Sarkisian added.
“Yes …we’ll have to compare those …later,” Dr. Paulson said. He took up another file and handed it to Dr. Warren, who scanned it and nodded.
Dr. Warren said, “And these are the lab results for Thomas Donohue, now in Recovery.” He looked at Mrs. Donohue with sympathy. “Genetically, your child is female. Now.”
“Female?” Mr. Donohue said, dazed.
“Female,” Mrs. Donohue said, firmly. “She’s our daughter now, through no fault of her own. And she’s mine, do you understand, Mickey? You’ve done enough ruination to Patrick–and Tommy–over the years. Now I’ll try to undo the damage with our daughter.”
I could tell there was nothing he could do about it, and realized it was probably the best thing that could happen to Tommy, now that his …her mother had finally stood up to her husband.
“So, what is the agent of this rapid genetic change?” Dr. Sarkisian tossed into the room.
The doctors began conferring in quick medical lingo when my brain slammed into gear. It was her word ‘agent’ that did it; I suddenly realized what the thing was that had been bumping around my head. The agents! The Black Hats! If they were monitoring our emails and maybe our phones, they knew now that the merde had hit, as Craig used to say.
“Lisa …I just thought of something,” I said to the video camera. “The Black Hats?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, God! What do you think …what do we do?”
For a split second I flashed on how Lisa was different than Craig; he’d always been the one to come up with ideas first. I pulled out my cell phone and it read ‘No Service’.
I asked the room. “Excuse me, do cell phones work in the hospital?”
They were still all talking among themselves. I rapped on the table and raised my voice. “Excuse me! Do cell phones work in the hospital?”
My outburst earned frowns, but Nurse Rawlings said, “There are areas with cell phone blocks because of complications with the machinery, but they work on this floor. I can tell you where you can make a call.”
“Thanks, but that’s now why I’m asking. Mine’s not working. Anybody else?”
Everyone checked their cell phones and I could tell by their faces that they were surprised; even the suits were shaking their Blackberries. I said, “Check a land line.”
Nurse Rawlings did, punched some numbers, and nodded. I asked for the phone, used my phone’s address book to call Jenny, and prayed. Thank God she answered! I quickly briefed her on where we were and said she should tell her dad because Black Hats might be coming. She got it instantly and we hung up.
I looked at the room. “Paranoid, maybe. Better safe than sorry? Anyway, do you doctors have any idea how much farther …”
“Into girlhood,” Lisa supplied. “Good thinking, by the way.”
“Thanks. So, how much farther into girlhood we’re going?”
The doctors looked at each other, stumped. Dr. Warren said, “We can’t even imagine how you’ve gotten this far.”
“So far, so fast,” Dr. Paulson said.
“Flipping,” I murmured.
Dr. Paulson grinned. “Okay, so flipping fast.”
“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Our cells are flipping. Or chromosomes. I mean, our XY cells are flipped to XX. That’s all I can think of. Me and Craig, I mean. Lisa,” I nodded to the screen. I didn’t want to mention Jenny, for her safety.
The doctors stared at me. Dr. Warren muttered, “That’s not possible …”
Dr. Sarkisian said, “But setting that aside for the moment, let’s explore it. Can we posit that it’s a genetic mutation …a stimulator of some kind, that strips the Y chromosome or flips it–similar to cancer–flips it into an X?”
“We need to get a geneticist on this,” Dr. Paulson said. “Way overdue. Nancy, see if you can track down Linus?”
Nurse Rawlings nodded and made a call, then made a face because the phone was dead. I got a chill. She stood up and was halfway to the door when it opened, and in walked Military Guy and one of the Bully Boys he’d had with him at Intellia. Military Guy had a dark gray suit on and black sweater under it; the other guy was in a black suit, white shirt, and dark tie. Sheesh, I thought. Here come The Men In Black …
Military Guy smiled with cold eyes. “Good evening, everyone. Nurse Rawlings, please be seated. I am Agent John Turner and this is Agent Reynolds.” He flipped out a wallet showing some ID card and flipped it closed. “We are with the Department of Homeland Security and I am informing you that this conference and all information pertaining to the matters at hand is confidential.”
“Excuse me,” Sgt. Rodriguez said. “Could I see the ID again?”
“It’s all in order, Officer Rodriguez,” he smiled blandly.
“It’s Sergeant Rodriguez and I would like to see your ID, sir.” She was standing, absolutely not backing down.
I knew I liked her!
There was a little pause and he slowly–insolently, I thought–slid the wallet across the table to her. She took it and did the cop thing of somehow reading the information and keeping an eye on him. I’d been with Mom once when she’d been pulled over with a busted taillight and saw how it was done.
Sgt. Rodriguez raised an eyebrow, nodded slightly, and closed the wallet, slid it back, and sat down. The lady lawyer from Administration sitting next to her raised an eyebrow and Sgt. Rodriguez gave a slight nod back.
After retrieving his wallet, Turner smiled again. “Thank you for your compliance. I’m informing you all–and that includes Dr. Sarkisian and the entire Wesson family, here by video–that under the terms of the Patriot Act you are to comply with us. Don’t worry, folks, it’s a pretty painless procedure. First, all notes and recorded data concerning this matter are to be retrieved and handed to us. That means emails, too. And, of course, the medical records. Everything. Everything must be given to us–starting right now.”
End of Part 6
“You’re taking medical records? Wait a minute,” Dr. Paulson said. “What about doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Sorry, Dr. Paulson,” Turner shrugged. “That, I’m afraid, takes a back seat to national security.”
Dr. Warren asked, “What happens to the records?”
“They will be evaluated and then destroyed,” Turner said calmly.
“How exactly is national security involved?” asked the male lawyer.
“You are not required or even allowed to know exactly, but I can tell you that national security has been compromised by the break-in of these three boys.”
Mr. Wesson said, “Excuse me. You’re telling us that three kids sneaking into a video game place somehow compromises national security?”
“Mr. Wesson,” Turner addressed the video camera, “there are matters here that you are unaware of. I know the boys were not intentionally attacking our nation, but their actions have quite possibly endangered America.”
“Oh! Sorry! God, I’m so clumsy!” shouted the lady lawyer.
She’d dropped her water glass and it had fallen off the table and splashed Sgt. Rodriguez, who bent over and retrieved the glass.
“Did any of it get on you?” the lawyer asked.
Sgt. Rodriguez shook her head, but …something seemed to pass between them; then I thought it was my imagination, as once the glass was replaced and filled with fresh water, they both sat with their hands on the table, quietly listening.
Everybody was still reacting to the absurdity of Turner’s statement. Lisa’s voice cut through the din.
“Excuse me; excuse me!” she was saying. “I’m sorry, with the commotion there. Didn’t hear everything. Special Agent Turner, you were saying that Homeland Security wants to–what did you say?–destroy all the information about us three? Our medical records, even? I mean, for Chris and Tommy and me? Why, again?”
“National security. The three of you have compromised national security,” he said a little testily. “And it’s not Special Agent; that’s something the …F.B.I. uses.” His tone was disdainful.
Lisa said, “So it’s just ‘Agent Jim Turner’? No rank or anything?”
Turner was almost testy. “That’s John Turner, and ‘Agent’ with Homeland Security is all you need to know.”
“Sorry; the audio connection was a little fuzzy. You were saying …did I hear that right? Agent Turner, you were saying that my two friends and I compromised national security? We’re only fourteen-years-old!”
“Nevertheless, your actions endangered America.” Turner was back in control
“Just for sneaking into Intellia?” Lisa said incredulously. “We just wanted to find out about their new video game, Omega Chronicles Two or whatever they’re going to call it!”
“It was criminal trespass, Craig,” Turner reminded us. Then his voice turned snarky. “And I understand that there’s really no point in referring to you as Craig anymore, but as Lisa.”
“That’s because of whatever stuff you put in our drinks!” Lisa shot back.
“Was it the same stuff in all three?” I asked Turner.
“Not relevant,” Turner smiled at me like a snake. “And classified, anyway.”
Lisa said, “Is Intellia in on this with you, or were you using them as a front? Do they have any idea what you’re doing?”
Turner merely smiled, saying nothing.
I wanted to push Turner a little, to get him off Lisa, and I thought of the line that Tommy had said. “You were working on some way of turning males into females to do what …make terrorists drop their guns and start baking cookies?”
He turned his grin on me and it was an ugly thing. It was blandly superior and dismissive, and yet I felt like a bug under a microscope.
“That’s a sexist thing to say, Mr. Hanson, and I’m surprised at you. Especially because you’re very nearly Miss Hanson.” The grin widened.
“About that,” Dr. Paulson said. “I can probably understand Homeland Security needing to quarantine the data, but as one of the doctors involved, the health and welfare of my patient–of all of our patients–requires that we know what’s going on, medically. Are these temporary symptoms or permanent? At what point do the symptoms cease?”
Dr. Warren jumped in. “Are there any factors compromising our patients’ health? We need to know!” He’d said the last with some force.
Turner thought for a moment. “I will address certain questions but you understand that others will not be answered. In the emails exchanged between Craig Wesson and Chris Hanson comparing their …changes, Chris came up with the term ‘girl-bomb’, like a bug-bomb. A cute nickname, and you two might be proud to know that we’ve adopted the term, in-house.” He gave his awful grin. “Girl-bomb …yes, I like that very much. As you’ve already speculated, it evolved out of a desire to, shall we say, pacify anti-American militants. I leave you to think about who or what that would entail.”
I said, “Is the girl-bomb the end result? I mean, is it done and tested and you know the results? Like what Lisa and Tommy and I can expect?” It came so easily to me to say Lisa now.
“A valid question. You’re surprisingly sharp,” he nodded at me with a crooked smile that chilled me. “Your question is out of my original sequence, and I’ll tell you that of course we’re working on further methods and fine-tuning, so to speak, but yes, we essentially know the effects of the girl-bomb. But it was a wonderful opportunity to field-test it with a certain demographic under random circumstances when the three of you broke in.”
“We snuck in,” Lisa said. “We didn’t break anything; we walked in through an open door.”
“Yes, well, their security was lax that night,” he sniffed with derision.
Dr. Sarkisian said, “I have not examined Chris here or the Donohue boy, but I’m assuming the effects of your …girl-bomb are similar or identical for all three boys?” There was a quiet anger to her words.
“Yes, Dr. Sarkisian.”
I noticed how he always used people’s names, as if to show that he knew everything and everybody and held all the cards.
Dr. Paulson said, “Well, can you enlighten us? We were just speculating on a DNA …” He waved his hand.
“Flipper?” I said.
Turner smiled at me again and I really didn’t like that much attention. “Well put again, Miss Hanson. You really do have a way with expressive words. First you came up with ‘girl-bomb’ and now …yes. A DNA flipper …not as cute as a girl-bomb, but fairly accurate. Yes, that’s largely what it does and don’t expect me to explain further. The subject contains X and Y chromosomes–male subjects, obviously, otherwise what’s the point?–and the girl-bomb works at the cellular level to …flip the Y–thank you for the terminology–which essentially renders it an X.” He waved a hand. “Not scientifically accurate, but an easy-to-grasp explanation.”
“Because we all start out with the X chromosome; we sort of start out as females, or at least half of every embryo …sort of,” I said as a thought came to me. “Easier to double the X?” Like he’d said, not scientifically accurate but easy-to-grasp.
“Again, not scientifically accurate, but essentially right, Miss Hanson. And have you chosen a name yet, by the way?”
I slumped down in my seat from the intensity of his gaze and my mother, God bless her, took my hand and squeezed it and said, “Her name is Christina …or will be.” She looked at me and smiled and then turned back to face Turner defiantly and firmly said, “No, it is. My daughter is Christina. Christina Hanson.”
Turner nodded. “It suits her. And Mr. and Mrs. Donohue, I imagine with all the excitement today you haven’t come up with a name for your new daughter?” There was a sneer to his words.
Mrs. Donohue said, “No, we haven’t, as you well know. We’ve only just discovered …” She looked at me and smiled sadly before looking back to Turner. “We’ve only just discovered what’s going on. What you’ve done to my Tommy.”
Turner sniffed with derision. “Actually, your Patrick was what was done to your Tommy, today, anyway. I’ve already been to the police station and spoken with him.”
“My Patrick?” Mr. Donohue finally roused. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing, Mr. Donohue. I explained to the officers and Patrick that this matter was now under the control of Homeland Security. I can tell you a few things, though. The charges against Patrick will be dropped.”
“Thank God!” Mr. Donohue slumped back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.
“And?” Mrs. Donohue said. “There’s always a catch with your type. What else?”
“My type?” Turner chuckled coldly, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps. I wanted to tell you were that you’re going to have to accept the fact that Tommy Donohue is now becoming a girl. Totally and completely. Accept that fact and get on with your lives. Stop being a stupid Irish cliché.”
“Stupid?” Mr. Donohue automatically reacted.
“Yes, stupid,” Turner spit out in a commanding voice that immediately stifled Mr. Donohue. “To be so public in your prejudices …” He shook his head. “I’m not known for my kindnesses, so this is quite rare and you should pay attention. Mr. Donohue, I’m going to give you three pieces of advice and you’d do well to listen. First, your son Patrick is dangerous. Whether it’s your own doing or just something always within him, he’s a killer waiting to emerge.” Another evil grin. “And I do recognize the type. The homophobic nature of his attack …well, you might want to look into anything he’s repressing.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Dr. Sarkisian said with bile.
“Not actually, no, Dr. Sarkisian. Just agreeing to answer some questions.” Back to Mr. Donohue, he said. “Second piece of advice. Through no fault of his own–well, criminal trespass, of course–your other son Tommy is no longer male. She is female and you must get that through your head. Treat her as a female, as your daughter, and I hope you do a damned better job with her than you did with her brother. The third piece of advice is, well, I heard your wife’s comments from our command station outside as we monitored your video feeds. She’s a strong, smart, loving woman and you should count yourself lucky that she bothers herself with you. So my advice is to let her raise your daughter and you both try to undo the damage you’ve done to Patrick. End of advice.”
There was stunned silence all around; he seemed smug.
“Can we please ask some medical questions?” Dr. Warren said, partly to take the spotlight off the Donohues, who were squirming in their shame.
“Not too many. But I’ll tell you the gist of what you probably want to know, and then we’ll wrap up here. All three of your patients have been thoroughly dosed and are responding quite well within known parameters. To use Christina’s vernacular, the girl-bomb has flipped their DNA. Over the weeks, all traces of and effects of Y chromosomes are being removed from their bodies. This is a permanent condition, as there’s nothing productive by introducing a Y chromosome to females and once gone the Y doesn’t regenerate or reproduce. Instead, the cells go on their way, happily reproducing as if they’d always been XX.”
“Permanent?” Lisa said. “So I’m a girl for the rest of my life? Tommy and Chris, too?”
“Yes, Lisa,” Turner said.
“Thank God!” Lisa sighed. “I …I just couldn’t go back.”
“Nor will you. Or you, Christina,” Turner said to me. “And whatever name the Donohues come up with for their new daughter.”
“What about …well, genitalia?” Dr. Paulson said.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Turner did the evil grin again. “As the girls–for that’s what they are now–as the girls are in puberty, their breasts are growing. And their male genitalia is shrinking, reforming into what will eventually become vaginas.”
There seemed to be a strange …joy in how he’d said that last part. Involuntarily, I shivered.
“The diarrhea that Chris and I had?” Lisa asked.
“Your internal male organs that are no longer needed, as you assumed. Expect more of it, I’m afraid.” Again with the ugly grin. He almost breathed the last word: “Chunks …”
“So …Vaginas?” I asked, wondering if I’d push him too hard.
Turner spun to me and for a split-second I saw a change in his blithely confident face, the tiniest of narrowed eyes. It was just for a moment and then his face slid into placid superiority. He’d paused slightly and I realized he’d been about to say something but had changed his mind at the last minute as he’d regained control.
“Yes, vaginas, Miss Hanson. At one point in your email you referred to the Hollywood special effect known as ‘morphing’. Fairly accurate, as most of your conjectures have been, Miss Hanson. Your genitalia is morphing into the state it would have been had you been born female. With the Y influence gone, your body is returning to its embryonic, female state–only one that is thirteen or fourteen years along, as the cells …‘catch up’, you might say. To restate the point, you three are becoming the females you would have been if you had been born XX.”
“When is the process concluded?” Dr. Paulson said.
He waved a hand airily. “Probably the first time your patients menstruate, you can pretty much determine that the girl-bomb has run its course.”
Teresa Wesson could be heard chuckling. “She’s gonna get periods, too?”
“Geez! Don’t get so excited, Terry,” Lisa playfully grumbled.
Mom squeezed my hand again. I cleared my throat. “Can I …will I be able to bear children?”
“A wonderful question, Miss Hanson. You really are right on top of things. So far none of our test subjects has become pregnant, but it’s been only a very short testing time.” He grinned wickedly. “You’ll find out!”
There was a shocked moment around the table and I spoke again. “It seems like …like my mind is changing. My brain, I mean. Like I’m being rewired how I feel and think about things.”
Turner nodded. “As already proven, you have an admirable ability to define concepts in a single word, Miss Hanson. ‘Rewired’ is an apt term, another would be ‘chemically altered’. Male and female brains have different neural pathways and yours is reconfiguring along female lines. If you are subjected to a brain scan, your brain activity will be squarely within female parameters. So, yes, in a nutshell, you will find thoughts and feelings and emotions that you haven’t perhaps experienced before.” An ugly grin. “Including, I daresay, how you feel about the opposite sex. Which for each of you three is now the male sex. So you may be heterosexual females, drawn towards males, or you might be lesbians, drawn towards girls.” He shrugged. “It’s however you were wired long ago, in your XX stage as embryos.”
“So Tommy will be a fairy?” Mr. Donohue blurted out.
“Hush! Weren’t you listening?” Mrs. Donohue hissed at him.
Turner spun to Mr. Donohue. “Tommy isn’t Tommy any more, you stupid man. He’ll be whatever–well, I should say she’ll be whoever you name her.”
“Kathleen,” Mrs. Donohue said softly. “My daughter’s name is Kathleen.”
“An excellent choice,” Turner said casually, as if he really didn’t care..
“Kathleen?” Mr. Donohue gasped. “Shouldn’t we talk about this? Shouldn’t I have a say?”
“I don’t see why, the way you’ve been,” Mrs. Donohue snapped. “But in case you’ve forgotten, Michael Donohue, when I was pregnant we decided on Thomas or Kathleen. Well, however the good Lord fashioned it, we’ll be using both names for our child.”
“Kathleen?” he repeated to himself and then shrugged. “If it has to be …”
Turner snorted. “I’d say you don’t have any choice in the matter. So are we clear on this, everybody? Christopher Hanson, Craig Wesson, and Thomas Donohue cease to exist as of this day. That’s arbitrary, by the way, but as good a date as any. But no matter what stage they’re at, when the girl-bomb has completed its work, they will be Christina, Lisa, and Kathleen. And parents, your children are girls, they’re females, and treat them accordingly.”
He startled everyone by clapping his hands together in a loud smack. “I want to wrap things up fairly quickly. That concerns everyone’s documentation–and yes, doctors, that means you, too. First of all, as I said at the start, all documents here and on file will be gathered up by us. None of you are to speak about anything we’ve talked about, in part or in whole, or you will be punished to the full extent of the law under the Patriot Act.”
“What about school records, church records, all that?” Mrs. Donohue asked.
“It’ll be taken care of by us. We already know where everything is; it’s just a matter of changing things here and there.”
“You can’t just invent a whole new person!” Mom said. “Or obliterate another!”
“Actually, we can, Mrs. Hanson. It’s something we do. Be glad that it’s the records that disappear and not the individuals.”
The threat hung in the air, silencing us. Then there was a little commotion going on from the video feed between the Wesson parents.
“Ask him!” Mrs. Wesson said.
“It’s not important right now,” Mr. Wesson said, placating.
Turner turned to face the camera setup. “What is it?” he said with an annoyed tone.
Mrs. Wesson blurted out, “I know the cost of a daughter and the cost of a son. We’ve had both and paid the bills. Now suddenly I have another daughter, but she’s got nothing to wear, her room is a boy’s room–”
Mr. Wesson tried to calm her. “Honey–”
“You don’t deal with it! I know how much shopping for Teresa costs, and now it’s doubled with Lisa, and after the move things are tight and the other families are going to have to spend more, too, for–”
Turner barked, “Enough! Thank you for your input. I was hoping I could appeal to your patriotism but there’s always that one among you …” He sighed. “Each family will receive the sum of ten thousand dollars. That is the total amount you will ever receive; no future claims will be honored. And it’s generous, under the circumstances.”
“Hush money,” Mr. Donohue spat.
“It’s your money to do with as you see fit. Consider it a bribe, if you want, Mr. Donohue. But it’s wiser to consider what Mrs. Wesson has, quite practically, pointed out. We’ve found that rather than a bribe, the money offered will ease the financial burden imposed upon you, a burden that might cause you to seek additional compensation or try to, quite bluntly, sell your story. There are documents to sign–”
Turner broke off because there was some noise outside and a knock and the door quickly opened. A smiling face stuck around the edge of the door.
“Hi, folks, sorry to interrupt. Is there a guy with a gray suit here? He was walking down the …” He’d turned his head and saw Turner. “Oh, hi, I guess it’s you.”
The smiling guy came in and there was a momentary look between the Bully Boy and Turner, who looked irritated but then nodded and the Bully Boy stood back.
“Can I help you?” Turner asked the smiling guy.
The smiling guy was in a dark blue suit and his tie was out; he tucked it back in and his hand came out of his jacket with a folded paper that he handed to Turner. “Somebody saw you drop this. Hope it’s not too important. I was just heading down and she gave it to me to return to you …” He shrugged.
As he spoke, Turner had automatically taken the paper and casually glanced at it, then stiffened.
The smiling guy suddenly stood straighter, dropped the smile, and his voice was instantly professional and firm. “Franklin T. Adams, you have just been served and witnessed. You are to cease and desist any and all operations as of this moment and immediately report to Judge Arthur Stanfield.”
Color had drained from Turner’s face and his jaw was twitching. In a tight voice he said, “There’s been a mistake. I’m not Franklin Adams, I’m Agent John Turner. This Adams person must look a bit like me. An easy mistake for a process server to make,” he added disdainfully and then his voice hardened. “And you’re interfering with matters of Homeland Security.”
“Yes, well, mistakes …” The no-longer-smiling guy said dismissively. “You haven’t read further down. You’ll also find your aliases, including John Turner, Walter Davidson, and several of your other names, Frank.” He smiled now, but like a shark. “And I’m not a process server. I’m Jack Allen, an attorney and officer of the court of Judge Arthur Stanfield. Judge Stanfield happens to be deeply concerned about the security of our nation, and was displeased that required notification was not issued in this matter. He would like to see you immediately to clear it up. I’m sure you simply overlooked the notification process required by Article Sixty-Four, Paragraph D, Subpara–”
“Alright, Allen! Let’s go see your judge.” Turner looked like he’d swallowed something sour. Turning to the room, he raised a warning finger and snarled, “This matter is not concluded. Everything said remains classified, and any attempts by any of you to hide or disseminate this information will be treated as we discussed, until I return after clearing up this …” he sneered at Mr. Allen. “…bureaucratic garbage. Am I clear?”
Everybody nodded, heads kind of down. I looked up and Mr. Allen, Jenny’s dad, gave me a quick wink. Then he said, “I’m sure you have all the proper authority, but let’s just go satisfy the judge and you and I can go back to what we were doing.”
He maneuvered the Bully Boy out the door first and then Turner, following quickly and closing the door–but not before we saw the doorway lit up with strobe lights and heard shouts from a crowd and a bellow of rage from Turner before the door closed.
“Media,” Dr. Warren said, grinning. “He had the press out there ready and waiting!”
Mom said, “Secret activities by unknown groups, people like Turner or whatever his name is …they can’t stand the light of exposure.”
“His name really is Frank Adams,” Lisa said from the TV. “God, Frank Adams!” She said it with awe, like saying a rock star’s name.
“Is he somebody, Lisa?” I asked. I thought the name was rather bland, but maybe that was the point.
“Chris, he’s like a legend among the Men In Black! Like the guy said–was that Jenny’s dad?–old Frank’s got a million names, but …wow! We met Frank Adams!”
“And lived to tell about it,” the female lawyer said. “Don’t count on them being able to restrain him, but I’d guess that the public exposure will pretty much limit any further damage he can do to you.” She turned to Sgt. Rodriguez. “Did you get it?”
Sgt. Rodriguez nodded. “Got it all,” she said, reaching up and clicking the black plastic thing on her shoulder.
“Omigod!” Lisa burst out. “You were recording all that? How didn’t he notice?”
Sgt. Rodriguez smiled and nodded at the lady lawyer. “She made a little note on her Blackberrry, showed it to me, then wiped it.”
“The dropped glass,” I said.
Sgt. Rodriguez smiled and me and nodded. “I leaned over and grabbed the glass with one hand and turned on my recorder with the other. I made sure my hands were in plain sight after that. This new model,” she turned and sort of looked at the gadget next to her face, “is a real beauty. I put it on Silent Mode so we didn’t get talkback. But it recorded audio and video directly into the server at the police station, and a backup on a thumb drive in my utility belt.”
Dr. Paulson said, “I noticed how you sometimes turned stiffly and I idly wondered if it was a job-related injury.”
She grinned. “I was worried about being too obvious about it, but I had to get the video feed on, although I have no idea how well they photographed. So,” she shrugged. “We have a record of everything that was said in here.”
“Actually,” Lisa said with a tone that I remembered Craig used to have, when he had some incredible news bursting out of him. “Actually, Sergeant, we have more than that! Right from the start when he showed up–God, Frank Adams! –I set up a program that recorded everything.”
“Brilliant, Lisa!” I said. “But won’t they just seize your hard drive?”
“Oh, they could seize it,” she grinned in the monitor. “But I also set it up to stream the broadcast to several websites and vlogs I know.” Her grin widened. “It’ll also hit YouTube!”
“God, then it’ll be all over the internet!” I blanched. “Our names, and–oh, God! And us talking about our shrinking penises and everything!”
“No worries. I set it up for those guys to hold the footage so I can edit out the parts about us. Names and penises,” she grinned. “Gonna start as soon as we log off here, and it should be edited and posted in a couple of hours. Probably be online about the time Frank’s finally back on the street, after seeing that judge.” Her grin widened.
I said, “Lisa, are you sure that we’re not going to be splashed all over the internet?”
Lisa smiled warmly. “I know you’re worried, Chris; I get it. I’m really happy now and I don’t want to turn my life into a media circus, or yours or Tom–Kathleen’s. Great name for her, too, Mrs. Dononue!” she called out. Back to me, she said, “Look, these websites don’t care about us, they want to fry Frank Adams. The main thing is that he experimented on American citizens without their knowledge–and I’ll bet without consent of higher authority, or Congress, or whoever he answers to. It’s what he did that’s criminal and of interest, not who he did it to. And there’s no sense trashing Intellia if they’re innocent, too, which is how it seems.”
“How did you set all this up so fast?” Mom asked. “Did you know Turner was going to appear?”
“It’s always been a possibility, Mrs. Hanson; Chris and I have discussed it. By the way, is she really Christina now? To you, I mean?”
“Absolutely,” Mom smiled confidently, hugging me.
“Yep,” I said happily and proudly and putting my hand on Mom’s. I smiled at Lisa in the monitor. “But my friends call me Chrissie.”
Lisa nodded. “He was right; it suits you. So, yeah, Mrs. Hanson, back to your question. Did you notice there were stretches where you didn’t hear from us?”
Mom smiled, “Probably because Turner was so pleased with himself and the sound of his own voice!”
“Yeah, that too,” Lisa grinned. “Well, I muted our audio feed, only opening it when we had something to say. That way they couldn’t hear the clack of my keyboard. And my keyboard’s not on camera, so they couldn’t see me typing. I’m a pretty good touch-typist so I didn’t have to look. So I was frantically writing all that stuff and getting the other guys online.” She giggled. “It was actually more fun than any video game!”
End of Part 7
I spent part of the day at the lake with Jenny Allen and Lainey Blackwood, and then had dance class. After class, Lucy Cho and I hung out at the mall until closing. It’s been a fun day, partly because the new bikini I wore at the beach is so tiny that guys were walking into things! It’s so cute; yellow with a hot-pink trim that makes it kind of vibrate. I had my leotards with me so after Mom picked me up I changed for dance. I can almost do full splits now, and I’m trying to lean forward in splits, too.
Lucy came home with us; she’s new to the area and we just hit it off and now we do lots of things together. I love her personality, and her skin is gorgeous, not to mention straight black hair that’s almost blue, it shines so much. She moved here from outside Chicago, and although Lainey’s not really spent any time with her, Lucy and Jenny hit it off and all three of us hang together.
Mostly hanging at the mall, shopping, movies …and cruising boys! Lucy and I showered and changed–she’d brought her bag with her and is spending the night. She wore super low-cut tight jeans and a red textured top, and I wore a short pleated grey plaid skirt, and a black top of tight lace that has a deep neckline. I love showing cleavage, something Mom’s on my case about. And we both had high heels …not great for walking the whole mall but if we stand around talking with some cute boys, who’s walking?
We’ll all be in high school together this year, and I can’t wait. I don’t have any problems with having been Chris and now being Chrissie. Just like Lisa; she’s already got a boyfriend and I can’t believe how sexy she looks all the time! Gee, a sexy computer nerd …who’d have thought it? I don’t care that much about video games like I used to, because all of my computer time is taken up with Facebook with my girlfriends. Although, I do spend a lot of time tracking conspiracy stuff, too. Jenny’s dad got me interested in it and involved in a couple of groups that are like those guys on the old X-Files TV show, always researching.
***
So here’s how things all shook out after the events of June 21.
As we expected, the whole Black Hat operation couldn’t stand the light of exposure and sort of …imploded, like the house at the end of Poltergeist. Just shrank to a little black nothing and ‘pop!’ it was gone, in terms of the media. Not a single mention in the newspaper, but we’d never really expected that. An edited version of the evening was put up on YouTube that night and removed the next morning, but there were apparently video sites all over the world that carried the footage and remained up and running. I’d been so tired after that night that by the time I awoke the next day, the YouTube version was gone but Lisa sent me a copy and she’s got a future in film editing! None of our names–including doctors, lawyers, and Sgt. Rodriguez–were heard, our faces were blurred although Lisa and I were unmistakably female, and details like the town’s name were obscured, so it came across that this had been done to unknown American citizens in Anytown, USA. That made it even more shocking–that any kind of outrageous experimentation could be happening anywhere, at any time, under the name of “Homeland Security”. It made the video even more damning–and effective.
Turner or Adams or whoever he was just vanished, probably onto a new scheme with new names. We didn’t expect him to be held accountable, or even held, really; he walked out of the judge’s chambers and into the night. However, there was some fallout–in a good sense, for the most part–and that’s what was interesting. By the way, Intellia hadn’t known what was going on, only that they were ‘helping Homeland Security’. It didn’t do them any good; their company was absorbed by another company and their name went away and their games went into limbo. It happens in software.
Turner had promised us ten thousand dollars per family. I don’t know if it was pressure from Mr. Allen, who is a great guy and really doesn’t like ‘spooks’ like Turner, but we were discreetly approached with a different offer.
Some company–a front for a government agency, Lisa and Jenny both agree–appeared and asked us to write our experiences. Put everything in, they said, any length. I had already started this journal and wrote it up to the point where I turned it over to them, ending back in June. Then they got the originals and all copies from everybody …except for the ones that Lisa and I stashed, which is how this journal survives, with this August entry. Upon receipt of all materials, each family received, unbelievably, one-hundred-thousand dollars! I’m sure the Donohues sniffed and called it hush money, but it could certainly buy a lot of ‘hush’! They also gave a one-time offer to help in relocation should anyone care to move.
Lisa and her family are perfectly happy where they are, and Terry and Lisa are having a ball shopping together and just enjoying being sisters. Since they’d already moved, she is only known as Lisa Wesson to everyone, and her school records were altered in the transmission to her new school. And, of course, Dr. Sarkisian is ‘one of us’ now and knows about the whole thing. So the Wessons didn’t need any relocation funds. And the hundred grand would certainly calm down Mrs. Wesson!
Lisa’s doing great, in fact greater than great–like I said, she’s got a boyfriend! The video hookup between us now is much better, and she looks fantastic and he’s a hottie. I just hope she doesn’t get him caught up in mad schemes like Craig did.
Tommy is a different story, with sadness and hope. I went with Mom and the Donohues and Dr. Warren to explain everything to Tommy, who turned his face away from us and sobbed. We left and I came back alone a couple of hours later and he was all sobbed out.
Tommy spoke with me, with his new, girlish voice. He said he’d sobbed not because he was turned into a girl. He’d been sobbing so hard with relief; because he’d thought it was his fault, somehow. In fact, he thought it meant he could spend more time with his mom.
His face was all bandaged and wired because of the broken side of his face, and his hands were bandaged and he was in some kind of metal gadget that kept him in place so he didn’t tear the zillion stitches. Dr. Warren said it was really interesting working with Tommy because he wasn’t just healing, his body was also transforming. Staying on top of the changes in Tommy’s size and metabolism was a challenge.
The girl-bomb certainly altered our DNA to female, but it was confirmed by the geneticist–when they finally tracked him down–that by all possible yardsticks, we were becoming exactly who or what we would have been if born female. In his words, the unique combination of genes from the mother and father that would create us dictated how we looked as females. If we’d been genetically primed to be short and fat, we’d be short and fat. If we’d been genetically primed to be nearsighted and bony, that’s how we’d be. So we really, truly were our parents’ daughters.
For Lisa, that meant that she got a bit shorter, into typical girl height, and she got way prettier, like her sister Teresa, with long wavy hair–she’s gotten rid of the wig and had extensions until it’s all her own. Oh, and she doesn’t wear black all the time as Craig did; she’s added red, pink, and grey. As Christopher, I couldn’t tell you if Craig or Tommy were good-looking guys; I guess Craig was, but Lisa is a hot babe!
For me, small as a boy, I lost some height–couldn’t afford to lose too much!–but I’m a classic Petite now, five foot two, eyes of blue, and so on. Clothes are not a problem fitting, like they were for Christopher, and I’m discovering that I’m a girly-girl, just like Jenny said. I’ll wear Hollister and American Eagle like all of my girlfriends, but I’m more skirts and tops and accessories than jeans and a hoodie.
For Tommy, though, the whole process was major. He’d been tall for a fourteen-year-old and bulky like his father and brother. But his mother’s genes were stronger with females, I guess, so he had a lot of shrinking to do. It had been extremely painful and was one of the reasons he pretty much locked himself in his room. And of course his breasts developed and his penis was shrinking, although that might not have been as noticeable when the rest of him was shrinking so much. But it was a hell of agony and fear. Once his voice broke again, sliding up into his girl’s range as his larynx altered and reduced in size, he was too frightened and too embarrassed to call me or Craig.
Poor Tommy thought all of this was happening to him alone, despite the things we’d told him! I guess it was because we hadn’t taken the plunge into girlhood the last time we talked to him; we were kind of sliding into the shallow end of the pool, so to speak. We’d shown our breasts to each other, but I guess he thought that Craig and I had stopped there while he continued on, becoming more and more of a girl, all alone.
There was one other matter, and that was the part where our brains were being rewired–since Turner liked my terms so much–and we began having girlish thoughts. It hurts to think of Tommy, hurting so badly as his body mutated in the darkness of his room, having no idea how far it was going. Then Tommy starting to think about boys the way Lisa and I did, and do, as attractive members of the opposite sex? I know Tommy had a TV in his room; was he sitting there watching TV and starting to get turned on by cute boys? If so–and it probably happened–it just would have increased his misery and fear. So poor Tommy will probably need lots and lots of therapy to overcome the shame and humiliation he felt, all alone, as his body betrayed him.
Of course, Tommy’s brother betrayed him, too. Turner’s snide remark about Patrick’s ‘homophobic rage’ rings true to me, at least the ‘rage’ part. Maybe he has gay tendencies, but I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think his attack was homophobic as much as it was trying to kill a personal demon. Tommy had shrunk quite a bit and was not the big strapping kid he’d been, and his face was softening into a girlish version of his pretty mother. Also, his black hair from his father was lightening into a reddish brown that’s a cross between his two parents’ hair.
Then throw in the fact that he was developing breasts, curves, and was naked and wet in a towel. For whatever reason Patrick ripped the towel off–as a joke, to show his parents, or just to see for himself what was going on–I suspect that Patrick was …aroused, as they say. I think he found himself reacting as a horny male to a soon-to-be pretty female, who looked like a girl, shrieked like a girl when she was exposed, and all the time Patrick’s brain was screaming ‘you’re turned on by your little brother’ and he couldn’t handle the overload, and snapped.
That’s my theory, anyway.
Turner–or whoever was covering up for him–did make the charges go away but they got Patrick into anger management therapy, probably the best thing for him, and no mark on his record. In a very, very odd way, we have Patrick to thank for how things turned out. I wouldn’t have Tommy go through his agony for anything, but it was Patrick’s attack that got all of us together and flushed out Turner, or Adams or whatever he calls himself now.
Mrs. Donohue has moved out with Kathleen, once she got released from the hospital, and together they’ve moved to stay with Mrs. Donohue’s sister upstate. Supposedly it’s just until Kathleen is fully recovered from her injuries, and also fully transitioned to girlhood and Patrick is fully transitioned to …not being a knife-wielding crazy. Then they hope to patch things up between their family, and if Mr. Donohue is even half-way smart he’ll follow Turner’s advice and submit to Mrs. Donohue. Most likely, Mr. Donohue will be spending time with Patrick and Kathleen will want to be with her mother, as the family heals. But Mr. Donohue will learn to love his daughter as he loves his wife, and if Patrick can learn and grow, they’ll do better as a family of equals.
I saw Kathleen the day she was released; there were still bruising and sutures but she was pretty and actually smiling. She was so changed, the most of any of us, that I wouldn’t have known her as Tommy–there wasn’t any logical connection except for the amazing girl-bomb. Her mother had found a curly reddish wig to cover her very-short hair–Tommy had always kept his hair military short–and I could see that Kathleen will be quite attractive. Much taller than me, of course–everybody is!–but still within typical girl height. And once she’s fully healed, she’ll probably be even prettier than her mom, and that’s saying something, because with the family tragedy behind them, Mrs. Donohue was blossoming and no wonder Mr. Donohue married her! And she’s not just a beauty; she’s a strong, wonderful woman, too …but had been too scared for too long.
So Lisa and Tommy had moved away, and Mom and I moved, too, sort of. We took the offer up on relocation assistance, but only moved across town to a wonderful little two bedroom Craftsman that we just loved, with hardwood floors and a glorious stone fireplace. The reason for the move was that it was in a different school district. All the middle schools and junior highs dumped into four different high schools in town, in different districts, and so I’m close enough to still get together with Jenny–and Mom can still work at St. Joe’s–but far away enough that nobody will know me at the high school I’ll start next year, and I will be just another ‘new girl’ …in every way.
***
And that’s the final part of the journal, being a new girl. Mom hit the nail on the head about having the body but not the culture. There was so much to learn at first about how girls interact with each other and with boys and pecking orders and ‘quilting groups’ and all of that psychological stuff. Jenny’s been my guide, my angel, because my other close friend Lucy doesn’t know that I was ever a boy. How could I be? She’s seen me naked at sleepovers and changing for swimming, not to mention tight leotards in dance class. So I learned from Jenny like an anthropologist learns from a native guide, which is what she was, in a way. And her dad’s so cool!
The relationship between Mom and me has never been stronger, or sweeter, or closer. I tell her and ask her everything, which often leads to a lecture, these days. Once I had my first period at the start of August …and what a messy, scary-but-exciting thing that was! …we can pretty much assume that I can become pregnant. Nobody knows that for certain, and our doctors hammered out a deal with the Black Hats, with Mr. Allen brokering, that they’ll be updated on the other, anonymous, victims of the girl-bomb. Incidentally, it’s got a long chemical name and a short three-letter code, but pretty soon everybody was calling it the girl-bomb, thank you very much.
July was the month I got my vagina. I started the month with a tiny penis and over the weeks it kind of disappeared inside me. Peeing was an adventure for a bit, because I never knew where it was going to spray, until it stabilized to ‘normal parameters’, as Dr. Paulson described it. There was a night of what felt like the most insanely-intense case of ‘jock itch’, and by the time I finally woke, exhausted, the next day, I had an opening. Things morphed along on their merry way after that, but that hurdle had been cleared. By the end of the month I hadn’t noticed any change in what I suspect is my complete vagina. And then the next week my first period came and we can pretty much agree that the girl-bomb has run its course in me.
I’m a five-foot-two curvy girl, with long blonde hair–I went to the salon for a great style and lightening–blue eyes, and delicate fingers. Pretty darned good legs. I look darned good in a bikini, too, and I can testify to that by various males’ reactions to my body. My body reacts to good-looking males, too, and I can’t wait to start dating in high school.
All of which has earned me lectures from Mom about what girls need to do, what boys will expect, yada-yada-yada. But it’s interesting having spent time as ‘the opposite sex’–meaning boys, now–and I think I’ll have a pretty good insight to the boys that come calling. And they will!
***
I’m a girl now, and I’m finding that means that I’m seeing the world very differently than I had as a boy. For one thing, I look at relationships more than rank; I see movies and read books differently–well, I see them and read them the same way, of course, but I feel them differently. Characters that weren’t as important to me, like Princess Leia in Star Wars, have much more meaning to me now. Not just because of identifying, girl to girl, but because girls feel the world and people differently.
That became really apparent to me, and tied directly to my personal experience, when I read about a resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan and other places. It seems like every major religion, once it starts developing and gets a hierarchy and becomes established, seems to put women in second place, or third place, and I’ve been reading a lot about this and thinking about it. Early Christianity had strong women in it–remember that the male disciples ran away before the Crucifixion, leaving the Marys at the Cross. Mohammed founded Islam with the support of his wife and daughter and women around him. Yet once the religions started getting structured with priests or rabbis or mullahs or whatever, women suddenly became secondary citizens. And in several cases, women became perceived as a source of evil.
Then, at some point, the religions tend towards fundamentalism. Not the religion itself, but a faction within it. A small group, going off on its own direction–which reminds me of Turner and his group. One of the strange things I ran across was the point that, only in the late 19th Century, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all started developing a small-but-vocal group with a fundamentalist viewpoint, demanding a “return” to a supposedly-purer state of their faith that never actually existed. It seems that fundamentalism is, at its heart, a reaction against the modern world. The folks that go on about “that old time religion” would be shocked to know that their narrow beliefs weren’t known before the mid-1800s! Another strange thing is that there’s a major new idea, an upheaval, that happens about thirteen or fourteen centuries after the religion was established. Judaism’s so old that it’s probably happened several times, but for Christianity, it was the Reformation in the early 16th Century. For Islam, established in the early 7th Century, fourteen centuries takes us to right now, with groups like Al-Queda and the Taliban.
Reading about the Taliban, which calls itself a pure form of their faith but seems to be mainly angry, horny teenage males with machine guns, it was brought home how hateful and fearful men can be towards women. The women living under Taliban rule are not schooled and are kept hidden at home, and outside they have to wear those head-to-toe black sacks, burkhas. And yet, a gun-toting teen can say that a woman ‘enticed’ him–through a tiny eyehole?–and can publicly whip her or even kill her.
Madness.
The reason I went on this rant is because of Turner’s girl-bomb. I don’t believe any kind of biological warfare is allowable, but, hypothetically …
I can’t help wonder what would happen if a whole camp–or a whole village–full of Taliban yahoos morphed into females in a matter of months, as the girl-bomb seemed designed to do. While it would be some sort of karmic payback for all the women they’ve whipped or slaughtered, it could never undo the pain or bring those women back to life. I mourn those women, and agonize over the mistreatment of women worldwide. I accept that I’m female now and I’m aware of the injustice towards women in the world–even the pay inequality in my own country–but it doesn’t lessen my desire to be female. Of course, I’m biased now and think that being female is absolutely wonderful, so I think turning the terrorists into women is too good for ‘em!
And I don’t believe that being female means not going to war–there are too many warrior women in history and in the world’s armed forces to believe that. On top of that, a large number of suicide bombers have been women. Oh, yes, women are not going to drop their guns and go shopping, start baking, or any of the sexist clichés. Women can be plenty deadly. And let’s face it, a woman can shoot a Kalashnikov as well as a man. Just a little squeeze of the trigger …
It’s like guys in the street gunning their motors to show their machismo. How much manliness is required to step four inches down on a gas pedal? Sheesh; you can do it in spike high heels with pretty painted toenails and the engine will rev just as loudly!
Yes, there are women of fundamentalist groups who firmly believe the nonsense their men spout, never challenging, never thinking for themselves. I can only hope they could retain their faith but become enlightened to some degree. I think of Tommy’s mother, a wonderful loving woman who lived in fear for too long while her child was brutalized. She reached the point where she had to take a stand, to declare herself, to save her child and ultimately herself. The family is healing; but they’re healthier, and with a better future than they had while dominated by Mr. Donohue’s old-fashioned beliefs and bullying. I hope that fundamentalist women may experience the deliverance that the Donohue family experienced, and not live in fear as second-class citizens.
But I wonder about the beliefs these guys cooked up about absolute male supremacy …after the girl-bomb gets them, as they develop as females and find their minds rewired and everything else …would they modify their beliefs? Certainly it would be fantastic if it reduced their desire to blow things up, but I’m more concerned about enlightenment. About equality, humanity …about reality. Would they finally allow women to be educated, to be able to go out dressed like human beings and not like sacks of potatoes, to be full members of their society, and all the rest that modern women do? Would the light of sanity cut through the dark craziness of their fanaticism?
These are some of the things that I now think about. Being a girl is not all about malls and cute boys checking me out in my bikini. It’s also about making my own way in the world, as a female, as a human being, and doing what I can for others.
But despite my heavy thinking, all in all, I’m a happy, healthy, fairly well-adjusted almost-fifteen-year-old girl. No matter how strange a path I took to get where I am, I’m content. Craig, Tommy, and Christopher all survived and, I’m pretty sure, are better for our experience. I’ve got great friends and I’m close to my wonderful mother, and we’ve got a new home and money in the bank and if I had to do it all over again or be a boy?
I’d want to be who I am, spiritually, emotionally, and genetically–my mother’s daughter, Christina Marie Hanson.
The End