Darren Lawrence had what most would consider an idyllic life- a beautiful family, a house, a close circle of trustworthy friends and his music. However, all of this changed the day he lost his job. This disappointing yet seemingly innocuous occurrence sets off a series events that threaten to strip Darren of his identity and turn him into everything that he hates.

A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.

Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: [email protected]

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

PART 1

Chapter 1

“This is the story of my life. You work hard, harder than anyone expects you to. You never complain, and then you are just pushed out because they can’t keep you. Downsizing, deficit reduction plans whatever the new corporate buzzword is. In the end, it just means that the people who haven’t been there long enough are out.”

I was understandably angry, having just lost my job. I raised my voice to wife, and while I wasn’t speaking to her, my one and a half year old daughter stared up at me with big eyes, likely thinking she had done something wrong. My wife comforted her with a gentle tousle of her hair. “Daddy’s not mad at you, Chloe.”

I wasn’t mad, just disappointed. I was passionate about my work. This had happened before, and it was the same story. The boss says “We appreciate all the work you did, you have been an asset, but there is no work for you here.”

Thinking back, we should have just moved away while I was teaching a few years before, moved somewhere where there were actually jobs to establish at least some stability, but I wanted to buy a house, raise a family and set down roots. Also, my family was in town, and being a momma’s boy of sorts, I could not see myself leaving.

However, once I had all those things - a house, a beautiful wife and daughter, I still wasn’t happy. As a child, I had been obsessed with play. I wanted nothing to do with activities I didn’t enjoy, so you can imagine that until I matured, school was a chore. This mindset had developed into an adult desire to find a job I could enjoy, leaving me miserable in positions that did not push the correct buttons.

My wife replied, “Darren, you will find something else. It isn’t always going to be this way; you know that things will start picking up once the economy improves. Just find whatever you can for now. Maybe something in private practice? I’m sure there are firms out there that could use your skills.”

I knew she was right, but I didn’t want to be even more underemployed or work in a job that meant I would never see my family. I knew she didn’t mean that she expected me to work at McDonalds, but anything meant data entry or even a call centre. In my previous job, I had worked as a paralegal for the government, which is essentially a lawyer without all the fancy credentials. They do all the same work, but they get paid less. I wanted to be a lawyer, but the six years of part-time schooling I would have to do to continue working made it seem like an impossible goal.

A shiver ran up my spine as I considered her words, “Amélie, didn’t you sometimes work twelve hour days in private practice? I want to be home for Chloe, you know I want us to eat dinner together. I want us to be a family. Isn’t that why you left and became a public servant?”

Amélie answered, “Yes, but we need the money. But you can’t really have it both ways. You can do what you want now and spend less time at home, or you can work in something you’ll potentially dislike and be home for dinner every night. What about applying for some jobs below your position?”

As supportive and understanding as Amélie could be, she could also be very blunt. I replied with my head lowered as I moved toward the sink and pulled on a pair of pink rubber gloves. “I have too much pride. I need challenge in my life. I had it when I was doing all that legal research. You know sometimes I wish I could go back.”

Amélie looked at me with an incredulous expression, although a little smile crept onto her face as she asked, “Go back?” We had had this conversation before. I started to fill the sink with hot water and two quick squirts from the dish soap dispenser turned the hot water into a mass of bubbles. Chloe watched us with a curious expression, and then got bored and pulled on my wife’s pant leg.

As Chloe was begging Amélie for milk, I quickly filled the sink with dirty dishes. “Well…back to university, I would change my major. I would go pre-law probably. As rewarding and challenging as teaching was, I just couldn’t take the lack of stability.”

Amélie laughed lightly and gently blew a stray bubble in my direction, “Well you know what your dad would say. You want everything too quickly, it can’t happen overnight.”

I quickly retorted, “I just feel like I go from one profession to another without any direction. And each one - it just feels like one mistake after another. Don’t you wish you could go back and fix some of the mistakes you’ve made?”

Amélie had finished getting Chloe her milk and gave it to her. The little girl quickly chugged it down from her Cinderella sippy cup. She shook her head, “It is all an experience. I mean if you hadn’t worked as a law clerk first, you never would have found out you liked the law so much. Or that you were so good at legal work. Nothing you have done is a wasted experience.”

I piled the dishes carefully in the dish drainer as Chloe tried to reach up and see into the sink. She was clearly mesmerized by the bubbles. I winced at a particularly ripe Tupperware container. Amélie had left her vegetable dip to rot overnight. I left it for last and moved onto the plates, while replying, “Fine okay. But I feel like life could be better if I had made some better choices. Here is a perfect one. I only really started seriously singing and playing guitar in my twenties. Imagine if I had started when I was fifteen? I would be a much better musician. I probably would have been able to talk to girls in high school too.”

Amélie grinned, “I had a crush on a guy in a band in high school, so you are probably right, but what’s the point in dwelling on this? You are in a band now, and you have a girl.”

Since my mid-twenties, I had been in bands with varying degrees of success. And by success I mean, actually leaving the basement where we jammed. I had the drive, and people said that I had the talent to move beyond my band’s dank headquarters, but I look back and think that I squandered this gift, playing video games through high school and part of university. Now that I actually wanted to play and had the drive to succeed, I didn’t have the time to devote to it because of my responsibilities as a father, husband and general working stiff.

Amélie could tell that I was formulating my response. My eyes tended to shift back and forth. She laughed and said, “Okay, you are overanalyzing this. There is no point in wishing that the past could be different. You’ve got a family that loves you and a wealth of skills, why waste your time on what could have been?”

I begrudgingly accepted her words of wisdom, even though the thoughts never really left my head. Forget the work world- I could have been a rock star. Even though there was only a minuscule tiny atom splitting chance that it could have happened, the thought still stayed with me. I noticed that such thoughts had not been as prevalent in my mind when I was younger, but as I got older, I realized that if given the chance, I would go back and shake my younger self by the shoulders until he had the same drive I had now.

Amélie gently pushed my arm, “Oh my god, you are still thinking about it. Give it up.”

I nodded slowly, knowing I couldn’t win. She looked down at my pink rubber gloves and laughed, “You are such a princess.”

I quipped, “Maybe, but at least I don’t have red, raw hands like you when you do the dishes.”

I removed the gloves and gently pulled Amélie towards me, “Thanks for the advice. I guess I will just start looking, I know that any break in pay will be a problem. I’ll just take what I can find.”

She pulled me close and we kissed- nothing with burning passion, but a kiss of trust and of security. “That’s all I ask.”

Chapter 2

Despite the apparent sorry state of the economy, I managed to find another job quickly. I was lucky, in that, my soon-to-be former boss gave me a sparkling recommendation to her manager. In turn, this manager spoke to a colleague who desperately needed a secretary. I was originally not thrilled at the prospect of being a 32 year old secretary, even though the title is now the politically correct- executive assistant. Still, I knew that we needed the money, so I readily accepted the position after a brief interview.

The position actually paid better than my previous job, but it had all the challenge of tracking tasks on calendars and playing phone and e-mail tag with people on a regular basis. Still, it was money and experience, plus there was a greater chance for a permanent place in the organization than my previous job.

I told myself that I would go into this job with a positive outlook, and that I would do what I always do, work hard and hope to whatever all-knowing entity above that they would be able to keep me long enough for me to gain some seniority and scale the ranks. To be honest, I was still enamoured with law, but I told myself that I would just keep applying and hope for the best. If this job turned out to be permanent, then so be it.

Amélie seemed happy with my attitude, and the weeks that followed were pleasant. Our home life was generally happy. The trials of being new parents certainly tested our relationship, but we soldiered through. The late night crying fits, diaper changing, and the near constant sickness among all family members, still it was worth it.

Amélie was also more willing to enter the bedroom with me, likely because I was no longer depressed and mopey. I had staved off unemployment, which is what she wanted, so she was happy to reciprocate in other ways. My band was moving forward and writing new songs became easier because of my restored focus. My daughter was finishing teething, and winter, the longest in recent memory, was finally ending. It had held its place in the seasonal hierarchy with a death grip that brought unusually cold temperatures in March. With the melting snow, the first sign of spring, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Living in Canada and near the coldest capital in the world (on average), winter can be an unpleasant affair. As a kid, I remember liking it a whole lot more, but then I didn’t have to shovel, salt and sand the driveway, stress about driving in snowy and icy conditions, and I swear the cold didn’t bother me as much then as it did now. I basically lived on our backyard hockey rink, so I was ignorant to all that winter had to offer, short of the annoyance of having to shovel the rink.

Nevertheless, winter was ending and Amélie and I had decided to have another baby. Something about spring and the end to snow and ice, plus the overall good luck we had recently- it seemed like the right time. We had talked about it before, but I didn’t feel that I was ready yet due to my lack of stability, but two weeks into my new job I was offered a permanent position with benefits, sick leave and vacation, as long as I passed the brief probationary period. When I brought this news home to Amélie, she was overjoyed. Yet something in the back of my mind, a child-like voice lilted, you are unhappy. I realized that I was.

At work, I was terribly bored. My boss was an understanding and caring woman. She understood, as a parent herself, the need to take time off to care for sick children. Unfortunately, the job had none of the challenge of teaching, where each and every day was a different adventure. It lacked the academic stimulation of analyzing legal texts and forming coherent arguments with that research. I was basically a secretary, and I saw myself that way. Better than the job.

Four weeks into the new job, I was thinking about leaving it on a daily basis. My boss was so impressed with my work that she reduced my probationary period to two months; however, all I could think of is that my mind needed to be challenged. I asked for more work, but my boss said that I wasn’t ready. She was going to bring me in slowly. The organization was growing, and she explained that by being her executive assistant, I would learn the business. All I knew so far was that the company did audits of other businesses to determine how best to improve based on set criteria. I wanted part of the higher level work, but I was given minimal tasks, and I completed them usually by 10 AM.

The only thing that made me stay was Amélie and Chloe. I knew that I needed to continue working until I found something else, so I spent the rest of the time searching for other jobs and daydreaming about my band actually leaving the basement.

The other two members were fathers also, and while it was difficult, we managed a weekly practice. We understood when one of us had to cancel because of an illness in the family, so it actually worked out nicely. We were a hard rock/progressive band. I was the lead singer and guitar player. The music was very bass and drums heavy, my guitar simply adding depth and flavour to pounding rhythms. My vocal went from soft almost spoken word to outrageous and pained screams to drive a chorus. Being in a band was another thing that made me happy; it was a pleasant escape from the drudgery of my desk job. I still had dreams that one day I would make it, but that dream was fading as I got older.

On Friday night, Amélie and I planned a special evening. Chloe thankfully went to sleep around 7 PM, so we uncorked a bottle of wine and celebrated my recent success. We finished in the bedroom and with two and half glasses of wine in my system; I was thinking less about having another baby and more about slapping Amélie on her ass while I took her doggy style.

Amélie, in my eyes, was perfection. She was a classical beauty who needed very little makeup. I had been with girls who literally had to put their face on, Amélie was not like them. She wore makeup only to accentuate her eyes and cover the odd blemish. She wore her light brown hair a little longer than shoulder length. It curled lightly at the ends, making it look as if she had little ringlets in her hair.

As I kissed her body, I relished in its softness. I will admit that I enjoy curvier women, some would call them fat, but only the most ignorant heroin chic obsessed person would say that my Amélie was fat. Truth be told, she was what I would term voluptuous, with full round breasts, a round globular ass that shifted up and down in even the loosest of pants. She had small love handles that I enjoyed squeezing.

There were times that I felt freakish for enjoying forms that were not the norm. But really, Amélie is average, as her size 10 jeans can attest. However, Amélie and I had fought about her weight before. I thought that she was dieting in an unhealthy way. She told me, especially after Chloe was born, that she felt fat and unattractive. Still, I could not keep my hands off of her. We came to a compromise when she accepted that it was possible for a man to like curvier women, and for me to understand that her desire to go to the gym daily was not an unhealthy obsession to lose weight, it was an attempt to stay active. She felt working out made her feel better about herself, and I accepted that.

We continued foreplay. I moved to her clit, and she let out a soft gasp. I always tried to have her climax first, knowing that it was inevitable for me to reach mine. She ran her hand along my hard abs, slightly softened by a sedentary desk job, but still visible and firm to the touch. As I deftly brought Amélie to orgasm, my thoughts went to another place entirely. Amélie was straddling my cock a little too much, so instinctively, I tried to think about something else to avoid early release. I had pretty good control, but the wine had caused her to be more involved than usual.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I thought about my job and how bored I was in it, even as I entered Amélie. It allowed me to maintain my control. Ten minutes later as I was climaxing, our bodies entwined and such thoughts were ripped from my mind. The bliss of the moment and the soft afterglow as I held Amélie banished my unhappiness. Shortly after, both of us were sleeping, the wine and sex bringing us to such a state much easier than usual.

That is when I had the absolute strangest dream in my life.

Chapter 3

I was stepping out on stage, but instead of the tens of people that I had played for in previous bands, there were thousands. I could hear and see in the background the bustling of the inner workings of a rock show.

“Camera two ready. Adjust tilt on centre-left spotlight.” Another voice, this one asking in a worried tone, “Have we got the right mix for the vocals tonight? There were complaints last night. People said they sounded thin.”

I had never been backstage at a concert of this magnitude before. I had played some tiny clubs with at most a hundred people, so to step out on stage in front of thousands would be a thrill, even if it was only in a dream. I knew that I would wake up feeling that I had just been teased with what I truly wanted, but for now, I would bask in the spotlight. It was the sort of dream where I lacked any sort of control. I knew that my body was there, but I lacked the means to manipulate it. I could still feel the energy coursing through my veins, the elation at having reached this point, and my nerves were on a knife edge. The dream itself was incredibly vivid. I could feel my emotions as if I were awake. Dreams are usually detached and random pieces of thoughts and desires, but this felt real, even though I couldn’t move.

With my vantage point amounting to tunnel vision, I could only see what was directly in front of me, but what I saw was nearly forty people moving in unison, completing tasks they had done hundreds of times before. From what little I could see, I was impressed- they moved almost as one entity. I saw two roadies pushing out a whole rack of guitars. I caught a glimpse of one of them. A sunburst Fender Stratocaster. I usually used something with a little more meat, but it was still a beautiful guitar. As the roadies pushed the rack passed me, I noticed another guitar. This one looking like it belonged in Prince’s collection. The guitar was much smaller than I was used to as well, like something a child would use. It was acoustic, although I could see it had pick-ups, so it was meant to be plugged into an amp. The strangest part in all of this- it was hot pink with a black and white tiger-striped glitter-laden strap. I guess one of my guitar players was a woman, and a tiny one at that.

If this was supposed to be a rock show, and I was supposed to be the lead singer, why would I allow something so sugar-coated poppy? The guitar lacked any rock credibility at all. I was about to say something along the lines of “I hope that guitar is only here to be smashed”, but I was interrupted. Plus, when I tried to move my mouth, I couldn’t. It was as if it was sewn shut. In fact, beyond the emotions and the energy, I could not feel my muscles at all.

Then, I heard something that you do not hear at rock concerts usually, unless it is a glam rock show, or perhaps KISS is taking the stage. “Wardrobe!”

I blinked my eyes slowly, realizing that I was gaining control of my body.

A male voice spoke, but I couldn’t crane my head to see what he looked like, “We have 34 costume changes tonight. Where’s the list? Now look, this isn’t going to work. I know that she wanted us to change the order tonight, but we just can’t. There isn’t enough time for that costume change and the set will have to be redone for it. The lights won’t reflect properly anyway because there wasn’t time to reprogram them.”

Another voice spoke, this time female, “Just do it! We have a 10 minute intermission for that set change. Just do it.”

I shook my head, or at least I tried to. It felt like I was trying to move while buried up to my chin in quick-hardening cement. It budged an inch and then another inch.

Was it always this chaotic backstage, or were these people just incompetent? I was beginning to think that something was wrong because the dream felt so real. Usually when I dreamed or had a nightmare, there wasn’t time to react to the wrongness of a situation because you just float from scene to scene. Dreams are usually like watching only parts of a movie, except for this one, which felt like watching the whole movie but being strapped to the chair at the same time.

“We have two minutes to show time people.”

I blinked again, nerves now beginning to make me feel sick to my stomach. I looked down, and I saw that I was dressed exactly as I expected for a rock show. In fact, this is what I wore during band practice usually. I had on a pair of grungy looking Converse shoes. My light blue jeans were ripped. I also wore a light green hoodie with a simple white t-shirt underneath. Now I began to feel that I was in the wrong building, and the others were beginning to notice just how out of place I looked. Between the pink guitar, the backing dancers wearing red and green candy cane coloured skirts, and the piano player wearing a blue wig, it was clear that I was at the wrong venue.

I could hear the crowd, unlike any crowd I had heard before. The screaming was ear-piercing. Someone, noticing my discomfort quickly gave me a set of industrial strength ear plugs. It sounded like screaming teenage girls. There were boys as well, but they were not nearly as loud. This simply did not happen at rock concerts. I doubt anyone ever fainted during the solo of “Enter Sandman” like they have at Justin Bieber concerts. I wanted out of here.

Young women with makeup brushes approached me, and I tried to move my arm to shoo them away. I managed to move it, but it only brushed against one of them.

The girl I brushed against shook her head and turned to me, “If you don’t look right, they will make you into what they want. Crowds always do that.”

It was the first time anyone in this psychedelic acid trip had actually spoken to me. I moved my mouth, but the left side was still paralyzed, and I only managed a slight gurgle. How did they expect me to sing if my vocal chords didn’t work? Another young woman, this one far more annoyed than the other actually poked me in the chest.

“You starlets are all the same. Well don’t blame us if those people out there devour you. Out you go.”

I don’t know how this simple rock concert had suddenly turned into an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but I didn’t have time to ponder that question. The girls pushed me onto the stage. The band started playing, but I didn’t recognize them or the song. One of the roadies handed me the sunburst strat, and I slung it over my shoulder expertly. I checked the cable making sure it was looped. This would keep it from being unplugged suddenly, however, I quickly realized it was wireless. In fact, the whole band was wireless.

I looked at my bandmates, who in turn looked at me, but it wasn’t really me they were looking at. It was the crowd.

I didn’t know where my cues were, so I kept the music playing. The backing dancers in the tiny red and green candy cane patterned skirts moved to the rhythm, their bodies gyrating in rehearsed movement. I sighed inwardly, this was a pop show, and one so pop that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the dancers bled bubble gum. The set piece was from some sexed up Hansel and Gretel with a buxom witch adding the odd harmony part over the instrumental. It was actually well done, but I was too caught up with the fact that every last person in the arena was booing.

I made my way to centre stage with a little smirk. They came here and obviously paid to see some pop starlet, but I was going to give them a rock show, whether they liked it or not. I sneered at the crowd. I located my amp, a nice Marshall full stack and turned it up.

Amazingly, there was an option to turn the volume up to eleven, which I quickly did. This had a two pronged effect: one, my stage volume was now eclipsing the drums and everything else, and two, it absolutely ruined the sound mix. The audio engineers would have to manually turn down my amp, instead of just at the sound board. They would have to turn everything else up at the board just to match the volume of my guitar.

I motioned to the drummer, a clean cut young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty, and I started into the opening riff to “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was a little thing Kurt Cobain used to do when he was seriously pissed at his audience. He would play the first two bars and then switch to some innocuous pop song, usually sung out of key. The drummer didn’t play along. The audience booing penetrated through the sound waves of my grunge anthem, beating it back to the point where only booing could be heard.

The guitar player, another clean cut and very boyish looking young man wearing white cut off shorts and a sequined vest, whispered in my ear. “You better get centre stage and start playing the right song or they will tear us apart.”

This was my dream and with the level of control I had been given, I was not about to let some hormonal girls ruin my fun. So I kept taunting them, singing bum notes and even starting to play one of my band’s songs. I wanted to hear what those huge power chords would sound like in a stadium like this with a tube amp cranked to 11. The fans wanted what they had paid for, and they continued to boo raucously.

As I stepped up to the microphone, centre stage, the spotlight struck me. I was bathed in a bluish glow. The band restarted the song with the guitar player shouting into his mic, “Hey sorry about that! Technical difficulties. I am sure if we picture who we want, she’ll come out.”

At this point, I was just about ready to wake up. I had had my fun. I finally recognized the song that was playing and my brow furrowed as I laughed into the microphone in front of me. I shouted, “You start the show with a cover? How original.”

The backing vocalists sung: “Don’t need your sad face baby
But I made up my mind
I made up my mind

Don’t need a re-run baby
You’re so back in time
Get back in time”

Great, now I had to listen to this inane pop song. I moved to the microphone and started shouting into it again, trying to drown out the music. I noticed that I had a guitar pedal in front of me, and I quickly tuned in a tone to give my guitar an extremely screechy sound. It literally made it sound like my guitar was wailing like a banshee. I hit pinch harmonics, incredibly high-pitched notes. It sounded like two devil cats having a spat over living space. As I moved to the microphone, to scream into it again, I noticed that I had to angle it downward slightly. I made the adjustment, and then I made it again. I looked down and, I couldn’t see my shoes anymore. The cuff of my pant legs completely covered them.

The backing vocalists sung: “Don't need a rescue
It's all good baby
I been hittin' my stride
Hittin' my stride”

I had to admit, the backing vocals were good. It didn’t sound like they were using auto tune or any studio magic. I glimpsed into the monitor in front of me to determine what was happening. At first, I thought I had lost my belt, but I felt it cinched around my waist. The stage itself had a number of different cameras built into it, and in the monitor, I could see my image. The same that was plastered on the big screen. The same one that was causing such vitriol from teenage girls who had minutes before been screaming in anticipation for their wonderful bubble gum princess hour to start.

My eyes widened as I saw what appeared to be snakes roosting in my hair. My hair was cut quite short since I had started my new job. Image of professionalism after all. The dark brown roots seemed to have been infested with a number of long blond snakes. To any casual observer, I had a blond mop on my head, but the snakes (or were they tendrils?), were actually attacking my dark roots. As I created a cacophony of sound on my guitar, I could actually feel the tendrils entering my skull, and like a reverse chia pet, the blonde tendrils actually pushed out my dark roots. I was bald, save for what looked like a very lively mop on my head. I remember my sister having a doll whose hair you could style at differing length. You only had to pull a string at the back to release the hair and then pull it to full extension and the long flowing locks would retreat. I felt exactly like that doll because soon enough, my scalp burst with long strands of blonde hair, and gradually, it went from a pixie cut, to shoulder length, and finally to full ringlets, dancing and waving, hanging just to the small of my back.

As I thrashed about on the guitar, my newly grown blond locks obscured my vision. I thrust my head to the side, which caused the dangling ringlets to sweep across my back. My bangs still obscured my vision, so I stopped playing for a moment and quickly pushed them out of my way. I must have looked very odd with my dark brown sideburns, but I was more curious about whether the hair on my head was actually a wig. I tugged roughly on the hair, managing to pull a few strands loose, but it was certain that this was no wig. Still, this was a dream. So, as odd as it was, I doubted that I would remember any of it when I woke up.

I noticed that my playing was getting worse. I had started to solo over top of the music, but it was a messy screechy attack on the pop music before me. My nails kept getting caught on the strings, which caused me to hit a lot of unintended notes. I stared down at my hands. It was getting harder and harder to hold the pick properly. My nails kept jabbing the fleshy part of my palm on my right hand, while the nails on my left made it nearly impossible to form full chords. I tried a simple C5 power chord, and while I managed to get it to sound properly, the long nails clipped the strings above and below. It was at this point that I noticed the colour on them. Invisible brushes drew hot pink lines down each grown nail. I had previously kept my nails in bad shape, as I tended to bite them causing them to be uneven. Now, each nail was immaculately shaped and coloured. They had grown from uneven nubs to elegantly crafted professional-looking tips. Over top the pink polish, the invisible brushes drew white stars on each nail.

I was having trouble reaching frets, not only because of my nails but because my hands were clearly shrinking. Previously, I could go from the first to the fourth fret with my pinky with little difficulty. Now, I was having trouble going from first to second. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of the roadies. He was holding that pink acoustic guitar with the very girly strap. My fingers were slender and long, perfect for playing piano or for reaching far along the fret board. I looked down and my fingers were shrinking, but they were also losing their slenderness. As they shrunk, they became chubbier, until I was left with stubby digits that could barely reach around the neck of the strat.

The roadie, without any warning, brought the pink acoustic toward me and I quickly slipped off the strat and handed it to him. Now I could not make nearly as much noise as my clamour would be relegated to the tone of the steel stringed acoustic. I wouldn’t be able to squeal or screech at all. The crowd roared their approval, but half of them were still booing.

I noticed before that that same roadie was only a few inches taller than me, but as I tried to move back into position at centre stage, I tripped on my pant legs and nearly fell off the stage. I could feel my belt was still cinched around my waist, keeping my pants up, but with less leg to fill them, they had pooled at my feet. As I got back to the microphone, it was a good five inches too high.

I stood up and gripped the pink acoustic; it fit my new hands perfectly. The frets were tiny. Suddenly, the chords appeared in my head and my hands, these alien appendages, started to play the correct song, which elicited another round of applause from the crowd. I realized that I was still controlling my hands, but I was falling into what is known as muscle memory. I did not even need the chords because apparently, I had played this song enough times that my muscles knew where to go in each part.

I stared up at the jumbo screen that was displaying all of my changes to the raucous crowd and noticed that my face looked softer. I considered myself to be a pretty good looking guy. My wife certainly thought so. I did not have rugged looks, but I was not boyish either. I had near constant stubble above my upper lip and on my chin. This was a result of me using my razor blades too long before chucking them. My chin was well-defined with a slight cleft. My jaw line was angular. I had slight pock marks on my cheek as a result of bad teen acne, but it was not very noticeable.

My jaw line was the first to change, starting to round out gently as weight was added to my face, giving it a more feminine and definitely younger look. I looked like I was in my early twenties with that simple change. The dark circles underneath my eyes, a result of insomnia, quickly disappeared. My face was not exactly worn, but it was clearly a man’s face with rough skin and uneven bumps along my cheekbones. My pores shrunk and my skin bore a fresh look, as if I had just left a spa. My facial hair also disappeared, actually retreating into my face as the pores shrunk.

I looked even younger than twenty now. I would have had a very hard time buying alcohol without being carded. My jaw line rounded out entirely as my cheekbones rose to prominence, gaining a sudden rosy glow. My lips formerly thin and pale, reddened and plumped. The bottom lip plumped the most, placing the mouth in a near constant pout. Phantom brushes painted my lips ruby red.

The backing vocalists sang: “Got my red lipstick on
Engine's revving
You're so far behind
And I'm taking mine.”

My eyes widened considerably as my thin eyelashes gained volume and curled outward. My dark brown brows had the colour drained from them, now matching the colour of my hair. The bushy blond brows thinned to the point where they were just expressive lines dotting a face that could not have been more than eighteen. My nose thinned and turned upwards slightly, it maintained the small point, but it shrunk in width as the nostrils flared only to become smaller. My face rounded out more, gaining baby fat around the cheeks and chin. The bluish spotlight that still bathed me in light actually entered my eyes, blinding me momentarily. My orbs filled with blue light, the hazel and the offending colour dancing as if paired in a washing machine, until the blue was victorious. If you looked hard enough, you could actually see tiny flecks of hazel amongst the sky blue of my new eyes.

I let out a startled gasp as the face displayed on the massive screen couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen. My eyes widened as I realized that it was the face of a teenage girl. She had wide expressive sky blue eyes, a soft and rounded jaw and high cheekbones. The baby fat on her face made her look younger, so even when she wore makeup to try and look older, say eighteen, her face would betray her. I would be lying if I said she was pretty, she was beautiful, but since she was me, I wasn’t going to admit that.

I had heard that there were ways to end dreams. I remember one dream where I fell off a chair and then woke immediately. I didn’t want to let this bizarre dream reach its conclusion, so if I could induce the feeling of falling in my dream, maybe I would wake up.

I had difficulty moving quickly because of my pant legs. I had to waddle because, while I could lift the pant legs, they would just return to their pooled state when I moved an inch. As I started to tuck them into my socks, I felt a compression in my chest. My ribcage was shrinking, and the sudden decrease caused me to momentarily lose my breath. I gasped for air, and as I did, my tight white t-shirt started to move forward. I stared down and the sparse chest hair that I had was gone. As if someone had attached a bicycle pump to my chest, my pectorals started expanding. I didn’t have an overly muscular chest, but it was noticeable enough when I felt my pecs suddenly dropped as they began to gain heft to them. It started with little nubs where my nipples were seemingly trying to pierce the material of my t-shirt, but they grew to the point where I could feel them dangling. It was a bizarre feeling, but I put it out of my head and finished putting my pant legs into my socks. As I stood, my new breasts wobbled. They pressed up against my t-shirt obscenely. A young man in the front row gawked at my chest as I continued my trek toward the front of the stage.

It was impossible to think that moving a few feet would be so difficult, but it was. It seemed as if the closer I got, the farther away I was. Maybe I could just throw myself backward? This is exactly what I did, but it was clear the guitar player knew my intentions and he quickly caught me. He whispered in my ear, “This will be a lot easier on you if you stop fighting.”

I shook my head furiously and pushed him away, yelling, “What the hell are you talking about?! This is just a crazy dream. You aren’t even real. I just want to wake up!” I still had my male voice, but I knew that wouldn’t last. I continued toward the front of the stage, however; as I did, I suddenly stepped out of my shoes. My socks looked ridiculous. At the end, where the toes would usually go, the sock was completely empty. Like my hands, it was clear that my feet were tiny as well. I removed the socks altogether, but as I did, I noticed that the pink acoustic was hanging lower than before. The sleeves of my hoodie had engulfed my hands, making it impossible to even fret the guitar. I waved the long sleeves about, trying to free my hands. This elicited laughter from the audience.

My shoulders slimmed and the hoodie sagged down further. Now I looked like I was playing dress up in my older brother’s clothes. Nothing fit. My breasts still pressed against my t-shirt, but the bottom of the shirt moved lower to a point where it looked like I was wearing one of those shirt dresses that were so popular in recent years. The shirt, which previously hung just above my crotch, now reached just above my knees.

While it seemed like ten minutes had past, it was actually only one or two. I could tell by the swell of the music that the song was reaching the chorus for the first time.

The backing vocalists sung: “Oh, oh,
Been feeling so fly
Since you been gone
My face to the sky,
Sunglasses on
Turning up the beats so sick,
I'm like a brand new chick”

I remember how much I hated this song. The lyrics were so inane. It was clearly about a girl who broke up with someone and then just dances her problems away. Still, it was catchy, and I could actually feel my hips swaying to the music. With an uncomfortable crack, my pelvis widened and fat accumulated on my hips. I felt my angular hips filling out, pushing against the confines of my ripped jeans. My ass, which Amélie believed at times was non-existent, received much of the same treatment, expanded against the pockets until a pert bubble butt had formed. I had an hourglass figure, although my hips were just a hair wider than my chest.

I began to feel a draft on my legs. I peered down at my pants and saw that the rips and tears were actually widening. The stitches holding the jeans together tore, and the fabric split into short thin strands. At this point, I was in my boxer briefs with what appeared to be a skirt made from the split fabric of my jeans inching its way up my thighs. It had difficulty navigating over my hips, but eventually it pulled itself up.

The verse restarted and then the chorus began again, but everything was a blur now. The sleeves of my green hoodie began to melt away. My arms previously untouched, and rather silly looking attached to such tiny hands, softened as all of my arm hair disappeared in the same way as the hair on my head. In its place, grew sparse and very fine blond hair. My biceps softened and were quickly covered by a thin layer of fat. I never had arms like a bodybuilder, but now, they fit the rest of me perfectly, soft and silky looking, with just a hint of a wiggle as I tried to shake myself out of my quickly dissolving hoodie.

My belly, which really had no trace of fat on it before, softened and grew outward. The supple flesh invaded my abs, filling in each little crevice between them with fat. A little hint of love handle peeked against my t-shirt on each side, which was also dissolving. Apparently, this girl had been enjoying the craft services table. She wasn’t fat, but she wasn’t skinny either. My t-shirt was actually morphing into a skimpy sailor outfit. My breasts now supported with a red sequined bra created significant cleavage as the top two buttons of the ridiculous sailor outfit remained open.

The socks that I had pulled up to just below my knee unraveled and then reformed into a pair of sheer stockings. The stockings traveled up my legs, the muscle I had built from so many hockey games melting away. My thighs expanded, the skin becoming silky, my leg hair having long since retreated. My former jeans had been dyed pink, the strands now forming a bizarre skirt that looked like someone had just sewn the slat of a Venetian blind on the ratty remains of a jean skirt and decided to make it a piece of clothing. The slats shook and jostled with each other as I shook my hips, beginning to feel the music.

The swell of the music brought the end of the chorus and the beginning of the bridge. It was the same lyrics and beat. They didn’t even bother to change the key. I hated this song, but I wanted to sing it. I blinked slowly and walked over to the microphone, now a good eight inches taller than me. As I walked, I noticed a pair of pink Converse hi-tops appear on my feet, the laces tying themselves.

The backing dancers sung: “I'm like a, I'm like a, I'm like a brand new
I'm like a, I'm like a, I'm like a brand, brand
Turning up the, turning up the, turning up…

I felt a sudden emptiness in my boxer briefs, and within seconds, the only thing I was wearing was a thong. Nothing was pushing out against it.

One of the roadies adjusted the microphone for me. I took the pink guitar off and gave it to the roadie. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as the lyrics poured into my head.

I sang in my male voice: “Turning up the beat so sick.” The crowd had stopped booing. Some were actually cheering.

My Adam’s apple retreated into my throat as my neck gained the same smoothness as the rest of my body. I felt a slight tickle in my throat and along my vocal chords. I coughed slightly as the music swelled again.

I sang in a voice that was very clearly a soprano female with more power than my male voice ever had, “I’m like a BRAND NEW CHICK.”

The audience roared, but all I could hear was my wife’s voice. She sounded concerned. “Darren! Darren…-wake up!” She was shaking me.

Chapter 4

Amélie had never had to shake me awake, and considering it was Saturday, dread began to fill my mind. Was there something wrong with the baby? Did we need to call an ambulance? My heart raced, the dread causing my stomach to cramp. I am the paranoid type, and with an active imagination, my mind began to formulate all sorts of possibilities. Was Chloe having trouble breathing? In the instant that it took to imagine the worst possible scenario regarding my daughter, the next moment, I began to notice that something was off. My eyes shot open, and I saw that Amélie was staring at me. I had only seen her like this one other time. About a month ago, I was hospitalized with severe stomach flu. I was unable to ingest anything, even water, and I quickly dehydrated. As she watched me in the hospital, she cast a similar look, however; this one was one of horror and disbelief. The look of disbelief was absent at the hospital.

I had stupidly taken sleeping pills last night after the wine. I was just so used to taking them, I didn’t even think about the side effects of mixing them with alcohol. Had I stopped breathing momentarily?

Amélie and I slept with separate comforters. She said it was because I always stole the covers from her, but I think we were equally guilty from the times we shared hotel beds together. I was surprised to see my comforter completely off my body. I was still groggy from the sleeping pills, and I could see that it was just light outside. The room was dark, except for a little sliver of light where the two curtains met.

Amélie muttered, “I don’t even know how this happened…you hit me in your sleep. I turned over and you started thrashing. I thought you were going to hurt me.”

Clearly there was more, but Amélie was not forthcoming. She just stared down at me, seemingly unable to compute what had occurred. I felt extremely lethargic, my limbs seeming to weigh the same as patio stones. I had mixed the pills with alcohol before. I did it rarely, but still, I had never felt this hung over. My head ached, and even worse, I felt a wave of nausea. This was not a wonderful way to start the weekend. Odd though, I had never been sick from wine.

Any light is an anathema to one nursing a hangover, but I would have to get out of my bed to banish that sliver, and my headache was just too debilitating. I noticed that my pajama pants were pooled strangely at my feet. I remember putting them on after sex last night, but as I tried to kick them on, I had a lot of difficulty. The closer that my feet got to the ends, the higher I had to pull the waist. When I finally managed to pull them up, the waistband of the pants was sitting right below my chest. My mind said that this was impossible.

“I saw them grow out of your chest Darren. I saw the whole thing. I can’t even begin to comprehend it, but I saw it.” Amélie muttered to me, a look in her eyes that made me believe she thought this was inconceivable despite having witnessed it.

While my hangover was still making coherent thought difficult, the look in Amélie’s eyes sent a burst of adrenaline through my system. I became aware that my clothes didn’t fit, beyond my pants, my shirt was hanging down to just below my knees. And what I thought in the darkened room was my blanket obscuring my vision was clearly a pair of breasts. My mind immediately shot toward the bizarre dream I had.

I read fantasy novels, enjoyed Lord of the Rings in theatres, and I had seen the Harry Potter movies, but none of this was possible. We live in a world devoid of magic. The only way to change genders was through hormones and expensive surgery, and that did not allow the newly made women to have children, nor the newly made men to impregnate them. My mind registered the fact that I was clearly in another body, but the logical part of my brain suggested that this was still a dream.

I told Amélie matter-of-factly, “I am still dreaming. This is just the continuation of the insane dream I had before.” My voice was sweet sounding, even hung over and groggy from lack of sleep, it was soft, dulcet.

Amélie’s eyes widened again, “Oh my god, you even sound different Darren.” Her eyes closed as she listened to my words, obviously trying to get past how different I sounded. I didn’t have a gruff overly manly voice, but I didn’t exactly sound like a teeny bopper either. Her eyes filled with hope, “This is a dream- wait, mine or yours?”

I answered her, while propping myself up, using my pillow as a head rest. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Here, try this. Stand up out of bed and then fall back. The jolt should wake you up. I’ve had dreams where I was falling and it wakes you up almost immediately.” I could tell she was still freaked that her husband sounded like some sophomore’s teenage dream, but she did as I asked.

Amélie frowned, “Then it must be your dream. Still, how can we have these thoughts in a dream? It seems very complex. I have dreamt of you before lots of times, but you- well I can’t really describe it. You just really didn’t seem to be there, but even though you look like that, well you act the same way. You talk the same way.”

I shook my head, my long hair swishing back and forth. “This is impossible. It just can’t happen, if magic was real, don’t you think we would have heard about it? The internet captures the most embarrassing, ridiculous and horrible moments. There would be something on there about this. Plus, why would people pay for surgery if they could just use magic to get a pair of these?” I motioned to my boobs. It was so unbelievable, and because it had just happened to me in a dream, my mind, which needed evidence to fully believe this was real, would not accept it as anything but an extremely vivid dream.

I slowly lifted myself over the side of the bed, nearly falling out as I realized that my feet took forever to touch. My hand snaked out and caught the headboard. Amélie helped me toward her side of the bed. Even if this was a dream, my nose wrinkled at the very prospect that Amélie could be taller than me, but she was. At 5’4, Amélie is not a tall woman, and while I had only been 5’10 before, I was even shorter than her. Standing next to her, I had to look up. Even in this dream world, I was annoyed that Amélie was a good four or five inches taller than me! I always felt short, since many of my friends were taller than me growing up, so being shorter than Amélie was just the perfect addition to this nightmare. I was eager to have it end.

The evidence that I spoke of earlier, I received in spades. First, as I fell backwards on the bed, I didn’t wake up. Almost immediately after, the head rush was accompanied by another wave of nausea, but this time, I knew I would soon have to grip cold porcelain.

I absolutely hate throwing up. I know that no one likes it, but before the stomach flu struck earlier in the winter, I had not been sick in eight years. I had an iron stomach. Amélie would tell me that one day I would be sorry and that I would eat the wrong thing. As a bachelor, I once ate blackened eggs because it meant I didn’t have to cook again. I would eat leftover meatloaf without a thought of what it would do to my digestive system or drink milk that was a few days past the best before date. Now, however, I was crouched over the toilet bowl about to have a very unpleasant start to my Saturday.

My mind was slowly settling into the fact that this was not a dream. That what was happening was in fact very real. Every inch of this body, these sensations, thoughts and feelings that I could feel swirling about in my brain, it was all real.

Amélie rushed in behind me. I turned to look at her, my eyes narrowing and teeth clenched. “Get out- you- you know I don’t like you in here when I am sick.”

Amélie who was clearly still in disbelief that this had happened quickly stationed herself behind me and didn’t say a word. Seconds later, I knew why. As my stomach convulsed, my tiny hands gripping the sides of the toilet bowl, I could feel Amélie pulling the long strands of hair away from the red zone. She gathered up my mane and held it while I was sick, making sure that none of my hair caught any debris.

I slowly pulled myself away from the toilet bowl, and Amélie handed me a paper towel. She was so good at this. My daughter was the one who sought her out when she was ill, or cranky. Mommy could make it feel better, and here I was a grown man, at least in mind, and she could make me feel the same way, warm and safe. I muttered, “Thanks…” I felt weak, but I also felt infinitely better having removed the offending substance from my body. The wine, made by Amélie’s father, was usually not a problem. It usually went down like juice, and a little water would stave off a hangover.

I leaned against the wall in the bathroom. I sat with my legs together and shook my head repeatedly. My pajama pants, which I had kicked off during the mad dash to the bathroom, had hidden the fact that there was nothing in my boxer briefs, that I was no longer a man. The front of the briefs hung loosely, while the back contained my new fleshy ass and stretched the elastic to create an unmanly silhouette when coupled with my now wider hips and prominent chest. Still, I could not hide my silky thighs and hairless legs now, nor the pink toenails attached to such tiny feet. Amélie was staring at me, trying to comprehend the impossible.

Amélie broke the silence. She looked at me fearfully, “Is that you Darren?” Amélie rarely cried, but she was on the verge of tears.

I lifted my hand and saw the wedding ring displayed on my left hand. It would be nearly impossible to remove now with my chubbier digits. Thankfully, the ring setting had been slightly loose before, so I was not left with a throbbing pain in my finger. I frowned; I had promised Amélie I would get it resized after I thought I had lost it. I never did, but ironically, it fit far better than before.

I responded. I had wanted it to sound firmer, assertive, but I just sounded scared. “Yes- I- I can’t explain it. All I know is that I had a crazy dream, where I was on stage, but I was me. Well how I looked before I meant.”

I tried to gauge Amélie for a response that she believed me, but her lips were tight and her eyes stared through me. She let me continue my explanation about the dream.

“The problem was that the people who were there, well they didn’t want to see me.” I stood slowly and looked at myself in the mirror. It was the same girl from the dream, minus the skimpy outfit and with her hair in disarray, the ringlets having come out and then tangling in places. “They wanted her.”

Amélie nodded slowly, listening to me speak as if this was a test to prove who I was. I guess it was. She said softly, “I- believe you Darren. Even though you look like that, you have the same mannerisms. The way you sit, the way you speak.” She looked into my eyes and then turned away, “Wow your eyes…they are so blue. You don’t look like I would expect you to look, you know if you had changed genders. You.-“

I finished the sentence for her. “I don’t look like anyone from my side of the family.”

Amélie feigned a smile, “Yeah.” She laughed, and if it had been anyone else, I would have been furious with them, but I knew her. She laughed when she was nervous. We once got into a car accident, not serious, but enough that it required a police report. Amélie was driving and hit some ice that was hidden under freshly fallen snow. She laughed when the cars struck each other, and the driver of the other car tried to argue that she was reckless, that she meant to crash my leased car into an old sedan, but I knew better. It was how she handled stressful situations.

Amélie continued, “I have never heard of anyone changing genders like that overnight, but I saw it happen. Everything Darren. I wish I could unsee it, that it was just a nightmare. That this wasn’t real because I don’t know what to do. You know, if this was Buffy, we would just meet the gang down at the Magic Box for some research, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

We had fallen in love with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix, watching nearly the entire series, so I understood Amélie’s reference.

I couldn’t imagine what was going through Amélie’s head, but my paranoia filled in the blanks. I thought that she wouldn’t love me anymore, if this was permanent. I thought that she would throw me out, and I would be forced into a halfway home for wayward girls and never see my daughter again. Then I remembered that she just held my hair as I puked, and that she believed that this was me.

“Well the obvious place to look is the internet. If there is a record of this happening, it would be there.” I pulled my pajama pants back on and rolled up the legs. “Maybe now that I have been exposed to magic, we will be able to find a magical solution. I mean, we didn’t think that magic existed before this right?”

So, we got onto our phones and scoured the web for anything related to magical gender change. Amélie asked me matter-of-factly, “Did you anger any gypsies or witches? Enter into any strange hall of mirrors?” I shook my head. She continued, “Are you wearing a cheap looking medallion, or did you visit any beaches recently?”

I shook my head and added that it was still freezing outside. Each time Amélie suggested another cause I shook my head. We looked for an hour and then returned to the bedroom. From what I could see, nothing had changed beyond my body. All my male clothes were still in my closet, and my phone didn’t suddenly have a pink case with sparkles or anything. I looked out in the driveway, and I could see that both cars were still there, my sport wagon and Amélie’s SUV. I pulled my wallet out of my dress pants, and it showed all my identification, credit card, debit card and social insurance number.

Amélie was still looking down at her phone as I finished looking around the bedroom, “Wait- what about a wizard in a bathrobe?”

I laughed, “Wait, you made that one up right?”

I appreciated the levity she was trying to bring, but to be honest, I was scared. We had no idea beyond the internet where to look. We couldn’t exactly go to a doctor. They would think we were both hallucinating from a drug trip or mentally ill. I knew I needed to be strong. I was a father, and I had responsibilities. I had to care for Chloe, pay my bills and contribute to the mortgage payments. I couldn’t break down and simply say “poor me”. It isn’t what an adult would do.

My thoughts were interrupted by Chloe who was calling for Amélie. “Mama, mama!”

Chapter 5

If we were lucky, Chloe wouldn’t wake us up before 6 AM, even on a weekend. Chloe had no concept of time, or how tired mommy and daddy were. There is no such thing as sleeping in when you have a young child. When Amélie and I were dating, we would often stay out until 3 AM, get home and sleep until noon. That was the life of someone whose only responsibility was to show up to class on time, and even then, it didn’t always happen. Our lives changed irrevocably when Chloe was born. I had battled insomnia all my life, but having a new born baby exacerbated this, causing me to seek medicinal measures to resolve my inability to sleep.

Considering I had just thrown up, and my head was still pounding from the severe hangover, I honestly just wanted to go back to sleep. However, Amélie looked equally tired, and Chloe would not relent, so I figured we would start the routine. Plus, falling into the routine would allow me to ignore the bouncing of my chest and the way that my ass moved when I walked. It was all very disorienting. Not only was I lower to the ground, my centre of gravity was altered, plus it felt like I had ten pounds of hair attached to my scalp. I couldn’t imagine even trying to lift my head when I got that mane soaked from a shower.

I noticed that I didn’t smell the same way either. My arm pits, smooth and hairless, still smelled of my deodorant, but the scent was superseded by the flower blossom smell coming from my hair. The hair, which had bangs that tended to dangle in front of my eyes, smelled like strawberries. It was so- girly. I suppose I would have to ask Amélie for help with it because I had no idea. I had previously lived in a world where it took five minutes to style my hair. I never used a blow dryer. I had a sudden urge to cut it all off when I thought about how long it took Amélie to dry her hair, and hers was only shoulder length, while mine tickled my ass.

I walked into the kitchen. Amélie had put Chloe in her high chair and was preparing to give her breakfast and despite my recent queasiness, I actually felt hungry. I walked over to the cupboard and reached up for a bowl without thinking. I did this every morning, taking a bowl out and putting cereal into it, add milk and presto- my morning routine. This time however, I couldn’t reach the shelf. This was embarrassing because Amélie could reach the second shelf, and previously, I only needed a chair to reach what was on the third shelf. I sighed and then dragged a chair from the dining room table. I retrieved my bowl and proceeded to shovel cereal into my mouth as quickly as possible while sitting hunched over in my chair. Amélie said nothing. I was having trouble reading her. I wondered if she was still having trouble processing what had happened. I know I was.

It was an uncomfortable silence because I really wanted to know that Amélie still believed me, that she wasn’t going to call the police and report her husband missing. Chloe broke the silence, but it did not help the tension. She was at a stage where everything she did was adorable. From the way she would comically wave her hands when saying “no”, to the way she would tell us whenever she sat down, it was all ridiculously cute. A few months ago, Chloe and Amélie stayed over at her sister’s place, and according to Amélie, she asked for me constantly. This was such a time.

Her eyes opened wide as she scanned the room for me. She turned to me, sitting a mere three feet away, and said, “Daddy?” I knew that she wasn’t calling me daddy. She was wondering where I was. Chloe then turned to Amélie and asked her the same question, her eyes still adorably wide, her voice lilting and expecting an instant response, “Daddy?” I frowned as I felt a tiny pang in my heart.

The worst part came when I moved toward her. Still expecting her daddy, I stepped in front of her and proceeded to make faces at her, she quickly dismissed me with a wave of her hand and a quick “no”. Undeterred by her rejection, I moved to gently tousle her hair. This elicited another request for daddy and another painful tug on my heart strings.

I looked at Amélie who was on the verge of tears. Her eyes were closed, but I could see tension in her face. I was the one in our relationship who usually showed my emotions.. I was the type who got immersed in movies, fell in love with characters and hated when they died, who cheered when the villain got his or her comeuppance. I had never attributed this to a female versus male dynamic in our relationship, but Amélie often joked that I was more of a woman than her when it came to certain movies because they really got to me. I gave Amélie the playful nickname of ‘Robot’, which she disliked immensely. As we matured in our relationship, we stopped using such nicknames to belittle each other.

Now, however, Amélie was the one showing more emotion than I was. I don’t know if I was just burying my feelings, or if I was still groggy from the sleeping pills, but I was just numb. I felt like I was going from one extreme to another. I could have cried when Chloe rejected me, but now, I felt nothing.

I broke the silence, “I am sure she will get used to it. I will treat her the same way until we find a way to change me back. I want her in my life.” I said the last words firmly.

Amélie shook her head and then looked at me angrily, “You think I would take her away from you because of something like this? Why would you think that?” She looked hurt.

I was flabbergasted by her reply and quickly back-pedaled, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that I want to be the same person that I was, even if I look different, you know? I didn’t mean that you would take her away from me. I know you wouldn’t do that.”

Amélie’s face softened, but her lips remained tight. “I don’t want to hear you talk like that. I would never stop you from seeing her.”

Before I had a chance to respond, Amélie continued, “We need to think of the worst case scenarios here though.” Amélie tended toward the pessimistic side while I was more optimistic.

“If this is permanent, Darren, things might change. Do you really want people thinking you are her daddy?”

I narrowed my eyes and barked at Amélie, “I have that right. I am her daddy. No one can take that away from me.” The emotions were boiling in me.

It was Amélie’s turn to play damage control; she said softly, “I know they can’t. Not mentally, but we need to think of what is best for Chloe. It’s not all about us anymore; that changed when she was born. I mean how do you think it will look when we walk into her parent teacher interviews and you announce yourself as her dad?”

I scowled, stomping from the table before depositing my bowl in the sink. “So what, am I supposed to be a different person, to forget everyone I know, to just pretend that I died or something? What about my parents? How do you think they would react to that?” I was upset now, tears brimming in my eyes. It felt like I was on a roller-coaster that climbed vertically and then seconds later dropped on a steep curve only to climb again. I didn’t like it.

Amélie looked me in the eyes and realized her mistake. Perhaps she didn’t realize how fragile I was because I hadn’t been near tears yet. “I- I am sorry Darren, it’s just that- I love you, I don’t want to see you hurt, but I love Chloe too. We need to think of her. You are her daddy in my eyes, and no matter what happens, you always will be. I didn’t mean to say you wouldn’t be her dad- just that we need to think that if this is permanent. I mean- what are we going to tell people?”

I gently tousled Chloe’s hair again and brushed the tears away from my eyes. She tilted her head. My long nails skimmed her scalp, and I quickly took my hand away. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Bobo!”

I knew Amélie had a hard time believing that we would find a cure. She did not believe in witchcraft or magic. We had discussed it on occasion, but with my sudden and complete transformation in front of her, how could she not? Despite our earlier failure, I knew that the answer was somewhere. I remembered from science class, every action has an opposite and equal reaction. It had to be true about magic, if it could do this to me, it could turn me back. I wasn’t a science major by any means, but it seemed to make sense. It gave me hope.

I turned to Amélie, “We will just keep looking. Right?”

Amélie nodded her head slowly. “Of course.”

Chapter 6

I sent a quick text to my band mates telling them I had to cancel practice tomorrow. I hated canceling practice. At work, I would feel the excitement build as the weekend approached, knowing that I was closer to being able to step into the practice space and let loose. Music was therapy for me. It was the way that I expressed myself and my creative outlet. When I was singing and playing, I was ten feet tall, nearly invincible, and I did not mind when all eyes are on me. Outside of music, I was shy unless brought into active and often controversial topics- politics usually. I was uncomfortable in crowds of strangers. When I was on stage, I felt an energy brimming in me, not unlike the feeling from my dream oddly. So when I had to cancel or when one of the other guys canceled, I felt immediately depressed because it was another week of drudgery to wait for that satisfaction.

Certainly I got fulfilment from writing lyrics, coming up with a new vocal melody or guitar riff, but there was nothing like playing with others. When we were tight, everything felt seamless, the transitions and timing- perfect. I lied in the text, implying that I was sick again. We had just gone through one of the worst winters in recent history for illness. For my family, it was worse, because it was Chloe’s first year in daycare; she brought home all manner of nasty viruses. To me it seemed like whoever was sending these bugs down was preparing our immune system for some super bug, and without the constant sniffles, sore throat and aches, we would be wiped out as a species.

The bass player, Andrew, wrote back and said he understood. He had a newborn baby at home, so he had had to cancel a few times since the birth. Amazingly both he and the drummer, Steven only missed a week of practice after their children were born. Steven wrote back, asking if we could practice during the week. The answer to that question depended on if Amélie and I could find a cure for my condition. I wasn’t ready for the world to see me, and especially not my friends and family.

I felt a pressure on my bladder. Having just finished breakfast, I was surprised, but I ignored it. Certainly I had drunk a large glass of water to replace the fluids I lost after puking, but I was used to waiting a few hours before peeing. In fact, under certain circumstances, I held it for an entire day.

I had what Amélie termed a ‘disorder’, in that, I never used public washrooms, unless they were pristine. Porta-potties were out of the question. I actually held it for a full 12 hours during a day-long concert because the only options were movable washrooms. In previous jobs, I used to hold off going to the washroom if I knew it was not cleaned regularly. Even when I was in school, I used to hold it until I got home. I think my fear of public washrooms stemmed from being peeked at when I was in grade school. One of my 3rd grade classmates pushed the door in while I was trying to go to the washroom. These events certainly contributed to my ‘disorder’.

Five minutes later, I found that I could not ignore it. Amélie looked at me quizzically while Chloe watched television, thoroughly transfixed by the Muppets. I was shifting back and forth.

Amélie motioned to the bathroom, “It isn’t going to get any better. You better go. You remember the times where I told you that I felt like I was going to pee my pants? You know when we get home and I practically knock you over to get to the bathroom? That is how it is. If you hold it, you could get a bladder infection. Or literally pee your pants.”

I wrinkled my nose. While I enjoyed Amélie’s body, I had no interest in learning how her body functioned internally. The mystery behind the monthly visitor remained so, as I insisted Amélie do such business behind closed doors. She did not push the issue, telling me that it was the part she disliked most about being a woman, happy to keep it a secret. I shuddered at the thought of her having to show me anything about the inner workings of this body.

So, I retired to the washroom, annoyed and embarrassed. Imagine that all your life you have done something one way, only to wake up the next day and realize that it has changed. I was not the type of guy who considered being able to stand up to pee a great advantage and due to my anxiety over public washrooms, I never used urinals. What bothered me was that I no longer had the choice. I pulled down my pyjama pants and slowly lowered myself onto the toilet.

I heard Amélie approaching the door. She asked, “Darren, I know this might be embarrassing for you, but do you…need any help?”

I shouted through the door, “Why would I need help with this? I am not an invalid!”

I could hear Amélie storm off, but I didn’t care. I pulled up my pants, noting that the legs had unrolled, leaving them to pool at my feet again. I sighed. I would have to wear Amélie’s clothes if I didn’t want to worry about tripping on the legs, or I could cinch a belt around my waist. Either way, I felt that I would look foolish. Plus, the thought of wearing Amélie’s clothes- well it was cross-dressing or close to it and the legs would still be too long. Almost everything she owned was pink. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but honestly, I felt that way after doing the laundry. I couldn’t see myself wearing anything but my clothes at this point, even if they were ill-fitting.

The day passed quickly as weekend days often do. Amélie had intended to go out for supper with her friends from law school, but my transformation had changed those plans. I wasn’t sure if she blamed me for what happened, as if I had asked for this, but we did not talk much after my outburst in the bathroom. We were both very headstrong people, and when we felt slighted we could move into a severe passive aggressive mode. I could see that she was still conducting research, so I went downstairs to my computer to conduct my own.

I knew that we would talk about our fight tomorrow, but for now, we were both too angry. I was upset because I resented Amélie treating me like I was a child, and Amélie was likely angry because she had tried to help and was rebuked for her attempt, plus she had missed dinner with her friends.

We ended up discussing the result of our research in bed- neither of us had been successful. We went to sleep without saying another word.

Sunday morning came and nothing had changed, I was still trapped within this body. Amélie woke up wanting to talk, and for the second time in two days, she roused me, but this morning, it was a gentle nudge, rather than the forceful shaking from yesterday. “Darren, we need to talk about yesterday. If we are going to stay sane through this, we have to avoid fighting. It is just going to make things worse.”

I grumbled, groggy from my sleeping pills likely due to the increased dose I had taken. I had had a lot of difficulty falling asleep the previous night, my mind drifting between accepting the reality of this situation and passing it off as a dream. Living within the dream world would have allowed me certain serenity, but it would not have been the practical way to handle this. I turned over, my hair in my face as Amélie gently brushed my bangs from my eyes. “We will still look for a cure,” she said, “but I want to help you. I know you aren’t a child, but this can be easier for you.” She leaned over to the side of the bed and picked up her hairbrush. She gently brushed my hair, untangling my mane and pushing the bangs from my eyes again. She handed me one of her headbands. “This will keep it out of your eyes, Darren. I know you want to be strong, but you are allowed to accept my help. You don’t have to do this alone.” I pulled the headband over my head and, Amélie adjusted it.

I smiled gently at her and opened my arms, inviting her toward me for a hug. We embraced, our boobs pressing together, with my hand then lightly tracing her thigh through her silk pajama pants. She rolled over and we spooned. That sliver of light invaded the darkness of the room again, this time illuminating a grimace on Amélie’s face, reflected in the closet mirror, as my now softer body pressed into hers.

Chapter 7

Sunday morning Amélie left to buy some clothes and shoes for me. Earlier that morning when I went to take the garbage out, I tried my boots. My now tiny feet swam within them, and even tied, I could not keep them on. They had not only shrunk but had also narrowed. If not for what I deemed a prominent chest, I could have sworn that my body was only eleven or twelve years old. Not even Amélie’s boots or shoes fit me. They were better, but her feet were wider than mine, so the sides rubbed uncomfortably enough to eventually cause blisters.

While Amélie was gone, I took my first shower as a girl. Chloe was napping peacefully, so it was a good time to do so, knowing that it would also take forever to dry my hair. I entered the bathroom and stripped off my still ill-fitting pyjama pants, boxer briefs and t-shirt. I liked to enter the shower with the water already at the perfect temperature, so I turned on the water and set my hand underneath the spray. I also liked my showers hot, so hot that my body was often reddened in places. I felt the optimal temperature and quickly ducked under the water. I immediately let out a high-pitched shriek as the stream touched my skin. It was unbearable. I quickly exited the shower, my back sore where the scalding water had struck.

I was glad that Amélie had not seen this. It was embarrassing, and I should have known better because she always said that she could not stand the temperature of my showers. When we enjoyed a playful shower together, the temperature was always much lower than I was used to. My stubbornness to follow my usual routine had left me with a painful burn. I tried to peer at it in the mirror, the girl looking back at me grimacing in pain. Eventually, the pain subsided, going from red-hot needles to a gentle throbbing. It still hurt, but not nearly as much.

I reached my hand into the shower, trying my best to avoid the scalding stream, and turned up the cold considerably. I was able to enter the water without discomfort. The water cascaded over my body, thoroughly soaking my hair. It felt like I had a damp mop attached to my head that gradually got heavier as it soaked up more and more liquid. I had hoped the shower would calm my nerves, but it was more disconcerting than anything due to the range of sensations brought on by the shower head.

It was nothing sexual. I had no interest in exploring this body, and while a part of me thought that it might give me a unique vantage point when I did return to my original body, it just felt wrong. I did not think of it as my body. It was shell holding my mind and nothing more than that. Also, the girl whose body I inhabited was likely barely sixteen years old. I felt it disrespectful and frankly perverted. I soaped each breast, washing underneath as I had seen Amélie do and then quickly allowed the stream to remove the soap.

Still, once the water was at the right temperature, it was actually pleasant. I tried not to think about the body I was in, as everything felt out of place. The heaving mounds on my chest, while not stripper-size, were still too large because of their very existence. They were smaller than Amélie’s, but I still felt them constantly. Every time I shifted to allow the water to remove soap from a different part of my body, they shifted as well. While I hated to admit it, a bra would likely be needed for both comfort and control.

As I looked down at myself, I noted the padding I had. The extra layer of fat that seemed to coat my body gave me a soft, huggable shape. The girl’s body was not overweight by any means, but she had wide hips and soft pliable thighs, and along with her chest, it was a figure that would no doubt catch many eyes. I ran my hands over my stomach, scrubbing vigorously with the soap. While my sedentary office jobs had softened my belly before my change, I still had discernible abs. Now, my slightly rounded belly dipped as I leaned down. If I tightened my stomach, I could feel the muscles underneath, but as soon as I released them, my belly returned to its gentle curve.

I exited the shower and towelled off, but my hair was still soaked, quickly forming a puddle on the bathroom floor with the constant dripping. I wrapped my hair in the towel as I had seen Amélie do and tried to soak up as much liquid as possible. I went into the bedroom and plugged in Amélie’s hairdryer and turned it on full blast. Why did the hairdryer have to be pink all-over with black leopard spots? Considering no men I knew actually used a blow dryer, it seemed that the device could be white or just black and still serve the same function. Still, the colour was not surprising considering Amélie absolutely loved pink. I was glad that she was out buying me clothes because I had no interest in wearing hers. I just hoped she'd resist the temptation to buy pink for me!

I continued browsing on my phone while I mindlessly moved the hairdryer to different parts of my head. Last night, I had found a public chatroom for practising Wicca. I had not been in a chat room in years, but apparently, it was still one of the best ways to communicate with people who had similar interests. I suppose I could have looked on Facebook, but the chatroom was in no way linked to my friends. I was just a random IP address among the millions on the internet this way. I signed in as a guest and just listened as I had done last night. For the most part, it was women discussing Wicca as an empowering quasi-religion, but someone under the incredibly lame nickname WizardCAN87 was sparking debate. He, the user had a profile that showed his gender, claimed to be a real wizard. The Wicca in the chatroom stated that while real magic could exist, manipulating the magic would only be allowed if the natural order allowed it.

While I found the discussion interesting, I was not any closer to a cure. The Wicca explained that this natural order would never allow someone to come forward and brag about their abilities. Magic involved circumstance, they explained, such as the ability for a mother to protect her child, gifting her with incredible strength to fight off a threat; however, she would have no idea that it was magic that gave her that strength. I thought that the ‘wizard’ was just trying to stir up debate, but I decided to add his nickname to my chat list and send him an invitation for a private chat.

I filled out a profile for myself, and figuring that I was more likely to get a response from this supposed wizard, I entered my gender as female. I put my age as eighteen, and while I knew this not to be the case, I worried WizardCAN87 would not answer my invitation if he thought I was too young. I heard Chloe crying, so my private chat would have to wait. I could log back on later to see if WizardCAN87 had accepted my request and initiate the chat if he was online.

Before getting Chloe, I had to get dressed. My options with respect to clothing were limited if I did not want to be tripping over my pants. I slipped on a pair of Amélie’s sweatpants over my boxer briefs, amazed that even a simple pair of sweats could place such emphasis on my butt and the exaggerated curve of my hips. Thankfully, they were Capri style, so they weren't too long for my short legs. I would never have worn clothing like this as a man. They clung to my skin, the silky fabric smooth on my legs. I pulled on one of my t-shirts, which stretched across my chest and hung down to my knees. Chloe was getting more upset by the second, so I halted my fashion show and hurried to her room.

She was calling for Amélie again. I lifted Chloe from her crib and into my arms. She looked at me inquisitively. She was usually not afraid of strangers, but she was hesitant to allow me to pick her up. I brought her into the living room while she did her best impression of a human arm bar. She was tense in my arms, until I lifted her shirt with my nose and gently nibbled at her side. This caused her to giggle and then laugh with a high-pitched squeak. It would have worked better if I had a scruffy face, but Chloe still enjoyed it. Eventually, she was laughing uncontrollably, and this was the sound that greeted Amélie as she returned from shopping.

She beckoned me into the bedroom, “Someone is in a good mood.” I nodded and put Chloe down.

Chloe followed us into the bedroom, obviously curious about the contents of the bag. Amélie looked at how I was dressed. “Those fit you better than they fit me.”

This was not what I wanted to hear for two reasons. The first being that it meant Amélie was still concerned about her weight. I thought she looked amazing in anything, even sweatpants. The second reason was that it made me feel strange. I did not want to be told I looked good in girl’s clothes.

I started going through the bags, pulling the pants and shirts out. Amélie was watching me with trepidation.

I pulled out a pair of jeans from the bag and furrowed my brow. The jeans were feminine in style, with a flare at the leg and pink stitching. On the back pocket, emblazoned in pink script, the word ‘sassy’ could clearly be read. I shook my head angrily, pulling out more pairs and tossing them on the floor. I saw only one pair that looked remotely masculine.

Before I could ask Amélie why she expected me to dress like such a teeny bopper, she said, “Try those on first. But I will tell you now. They will not fit.”

Amélie explained the issue, “That was the biggest pair of men’s pants I could find that would actually be the right length.” She motioned to the masculine style jeans, “The problem is this, you are short, but you aren’t exactly petite. I have the same problem with jeans, but yours is worse because you are shorter than me. So you don’t have a lot of choice.”

I snatched the men’s jeans from her, a nondescript pair of blue jeans with wide legs. I figured that they would be far too big for me when I held them up to my body. They looked like the kind of pants a teenage boy who liked rap music would wear. I remembered them from high school; they wore their pants so low you could see their underwear. Thankfully, I never succumbed to that bit of fashion nightmare history.

I had little difficulty getting my legs into the pants, but once the jeans reached my hips the problems started. I grunted while twisting my body, trying to wiggle into the pants. Amélie motioned for me to lie down on the bed and then pull them up. I had seen her do this with pants that needed an extra effort to put on. As much as I huffed and grunted, and as red as my face got from the exertion, I just could not pull the pants over my hips comfortably. I managed to get them over eventually, but they pinched my new hips. I knew that I would get angry red marks if I wore them.

Amélie sat next to me on the bed, “Now you know why I hate shopping for jeans.”

I sighed, slowly inching my way out of the pants. Amélie was right. I had worn her clothing before, but it was for past Halloween costumes. I had had little difficulty getting my bony hips into the pants then. Now, I was annoyed that I could not wear clothing of my choosing.

I felt that Amélie had not done enough to find pants that fit, but I did not want to start an argument. I appreciated that Amélie had tried, and honestly, since she was the only one who had seen my transformation I did not want to alienate her. I needed her to trust me, or I'd be left in a very vulnerable position with no identification that matched my current appearance.

She had bought me a pair of white running shoes that seemed to be the right size, so I was pleased about that at least. I suppose a part of me worried that I would come to enjoy wearing such clothes, that it would become second nature to slip on a bra, panties and then a pair of form-fitting jeans. I slipped on the Capri sweat pants from earlier. I had been avoiding it all weekend, but I realized that I would soon have to come to grips with that fact that I could not go to work on Monday morning. This was a far more pressing issue than a pair of jeans.

Chapter 8

Monday morning came like a flash. Amélie and I spent Sunday evening engrossed in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, choosing to have a mini-marathon, which avoided having a difficult conversation about what we were going to do Monday morning. We were usually irritable on Monday mornings, but when Chloe had a poor night and Monday struck, the tension in the house was palpable. I will admit that I have not been the best partner with respect to taking care of Chloe at night. With my sleep anxiety, I feared that I would not be able to maintain a proper sleep schedule, and this would cause insomnia. Another part of me just allowed Amélie to care for Chloe at night because I did not want to get up. I knew this was selfish behaviour.

After a few weeks of Chloe's not sleeping well, Amélie was fed up with us both, but she took out her anger on me. I apologized and told her that she could wake up me up if my sleeping pills were keeping me from hearing Chloe’s cries. I wanted to help, but I wanted to be asked. She was skeptical, but I told her that this is how I was wired. She accepted it but with the assurance that I would help and that she could wake me. A week ago, I got up for the first time with Chloe, staying up with her while she teethed, watching Sesame Street and rocking her gently. I was proud of myself. We had an understanding from this point on that Amélie could wake me when it was my turn.

Amélie glared at me as I stumbled into the kitchen, still very groggy from my sleeping pills. She was feeding Chloe in her high chair, “I wish you wouldn’t take those pills. I couldn’t wake you. I have been up with her since 2.” There was venom on her lips; I could tell she was not happy that I was still in this body, and coupled with it being Monday and Chloe not sleeping, it was a recipe for a serious tongue lashing.

She continued, “I know this has been hard on you, and it’s been incredibly hard for me to see my husband walking around in the body of a teenaged girl, but I still need help. I know you have been taking more of those pills. You are in a different body; you don’t know what they will do to you.”

I had not been expecting such an outburst from Amélie, but considering she had been up with Chloe all night and it was my turn to get up, maybe it was not so surprising.

I shot back, “Those pills are the only thing letting me sleep right now. I know you don’t like me taking them, and I am sorry you weren’t able to wake me up, but would you rather I not sleep?”

Amélie shook her head angrily, “Darren, you are walking around drugged. I don’t trust you to take care of Chloe at night, so I will do it myself. Just forget it.”

I knew this to mean that she did not accept my behaviour, and that she wanted me to handle this. Soon after, Amélie left to take Chloe to daycare. Normally, I would have gone with her, dropping Chloe off and then riding the bus with her to work, but it was clear I could not show up to work looking like this.

I knew that the medication I was taking was not addictive. My doctor had said so, and Amélie trusted him, since he chose not to medicate immediately, unlike some doctors. I considered lowering the dosage I was taking. I texted Amélie, knowing she would be riding the bus. The text explained that I knew that I was wrong, and that I was sorry I had scared her. I would lower the dosage so she could wake me up.

Amélie texted back, “I couldn’t wake you up Darren. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? I know you have problems sleeping and this hasn’t helped, but promise me you won’t do that again.”

I wrote back quickly, “I promise. I’m sorry. I love you.”

My phone vibrated with a new message from Amélie, “Love you too. Are you going to be OK at home alone?”

I answered that I would be fine, but in the words on the screen, Amélie could not see the worry. I knew that I would have to inform my boss that I wouldn’t be in today. I had only started two weeks ago, and while I had shown that I was highly competent, I had not yet shown I was sufficiently reliable and trustworthy to justify unscheduled time-off.

I could not call in. My voice sounded too young to be taken for my wife, so my only option was e-mail. I wrote my boss, saying that I had bronchitis and that I was highly contagious until Thursday. I described my symptoms and explained that I had been coughing all night. My boss, an understanding woman with children of her own, bought my story. She had no reason not to, but she asked me to call her when I was feeling better. She wanted to discuss bringing me into the business side beyond just being her assistant. She was so pleased with my work that she wanted to send me for professional training. It would mean an eventual promotion if I was successful.

I read the words displayed on my phone with my mouth agape. I swore and then proceeded to punch the wall, regretting it immediately and thankful I had not struck a stud. My hand stung and my nails dug into the soft flesh of my palm. Why had I been cursed with this body? I would lose an excellent opportunity to advance my career if I could not change back soon.

I quickly logged into the Wicca chatroom. WizardCAN87 had accepted my invitation, but he wasn’t online. I checked back every five minutes. Finally, by eleven, he had signed on. To pass the time, I conducted further research. If the Wicca in the chatroom were correct, my issue would solve itself, and the natural order would not allow me to realize that anything had changed. I had a hard time believing this because I would not soon forget what had happened to me.

My nails clacked on the keyboard. They were causing me to make typing mistakes. The nails seemingly gained from my dream, still adorned with the white star over top the pink polish, were even longer than Amélie’s. I wanted to be rid of them. I knew also that long nails would make playing guitar difficult. Before beginning my chat with WizardCAN87, I decided to take a pair of nail clippers and remove the hindrance. With a few quick clips, my nails were shortened considerably, the white stars obliterated. The nails were uneven, but I didn’t care.

WizardCAN87 had taken the initiative and sent a message. I was worried he might have signed off, before I could answer, but I saw he was still online. I had chosen the nickname ‘MusicLover’ for obvious reasons.

WizardCAN87: Hi MusicLover
WizardCAN87: You there?
MusicLover: Yeah sorry. How are you?
WizardCAN87: Good good. So do you go to school?
MusicLover: Yeah, I go to university here in town.
WizardCAN87: So why are on Wicca chat? Do you practice?
MusicLover: No, but I’d like to.

I figured I should just ask him a straight question, since he had been so upfront regarding the use of his supposed powers. It was impossible to read his legitimacy at this point and because I didn’t even know what signs to look for, I would just have to keep asking him questions.

MusicLover: So, your school of thought concerning Wicca differs greatly from the others on the chat room, how do you explain this? The others were adamant that magic could not be used unless the natural order allowed it.
WizardCAN87: You sound like the Wicca. Look, magic is the same as religion. You have to believe. The only difference is that magic is tangible, if you can feel it.
MusicLover: And how can you feel it? What makes you special that way?
WizardCAN87: You are born with it. So you have to believe, but you also have to have the capacity for it.
MusicLover: OK, so why are you hanging out on a Wicca chatroom bragging about your powers and not ruling the world? With the power you were talking about, you could influence decisions on a worldwide scale.
WizardCAN87: Yeah there is that, but there are others like me. I just like to stir up those do-nothing Wicca. Some of them have the ability and some of them don’t. What is the point in just letting nature control when magic is used? They have the ability, but their precious natural order keeps them from experimenting.
MusicLover: You sound bitter, why?
WizardCAN87: Nah, just trying to get them to take the broomsticks out of their collective ass. You know? Shake things up.
MusicLover: You still haven’t answered my question. Why aren’t you prime minister?
WizardCAN87: Well I hate politics first of all. I just choose not to use my power that way.
WizardCAN87: Look, I can tell you are smart, you are interested, and you are asking the right questions. I could see if you have this ability inside. We’d have to meet though. And I know this sounds creepy, but we can talk more before if you like, even over the phone. So we get to trust each other. When we meet, it can be a public place. That is how I always do it.

I was extremely conflicted, but I also had no other options for a cure at this point. I had used online dating sites before. If you were someone who could really compose their thoughts well, you could be very successful. I met all kinds of women and even dated a few of them. I even met a girl after one week of speaking to her a few times over chat and once over the phone, but this was different. I knew I was more vulnerable as a girl, still- if he intended to meet me in public, at least I could leave if he was a freak, right? Maybe he could shed some light on my theory about being exposed to magic for the first time allowing one to see and experience the arcane on a more routine basis. I answered him after a few minutes of deliberation.

MusicLover: You’ve done this before?
WizardCAN87: Sure. I am always interested in bringing out the talents in others.
MusicLover: OK, we can talk again. I’m interested.
WizardCAN87: Good to hear. So what type of music are you into?

It continued this way for another hour. It was a casual discussion that never returned to the topic of magic. He had managed to get me to practically bare my soul regarding my taste in music, my hate for anything that was not genuine song writing and, we even discussed hockey. He was a Toronto Maple Leafs fan, but if he could help me, then he could be forgiven. Plus, he seemed like a nice guy. I have had issues with male friends due to a history of bullying through high school, but this guy seemed to be a decent guy, just one who claimed to be a wizard.

I decided not to tell Amélie about WizardCAN87. I wanted to meet him before I brought her into this. Even though she had seen me change, I knew that unless I could get her proof, she would not believe that wizards could exist. If I could return to her with evidence that magic existed outside of our bedroom, then maybe her pessimism could be replaced with cautious optimism. I knew I was grasping at straws, but I was desperate to have my life back.

I went back upstairs to prepare lunch, feeling optimistic that at least I had tried, and that I was simply not accepting this fate. The research aspect was not new to me, but here I was not searching for an argument to strengthen a case; I was searching for the means to return to my body. Research requires a great deal of patience because often you can input a search that will not yield results. I looked at my search for a cure very much the same way.

As I was spreading butter over a slice of bread, I noticed that my nails were poking into my skin again. I knew that I had cut them unevenly, but still, the nails had been trimmed to look as masculine as possible, minus the remnants of the pink polish. It was then that I realized the nails were growing before my eyes. Within a few minutes, they had returned to their former length, even the white stars had returned.

I stared dumbfounded at my nails. This had to be a record for the fastest growing nails in history. I knew I had changed physically in a very drastic way, but to see this magic in front of my very eyes, it was eye opening. While I was stunned to see my nails grow as I watched, it seemed to confirm my theory that once exposed to magic, the doors to a formerly secret arcane world would open.

Despite having to deal with the bothersome nails again, the fact that I had seen magic again reaffirmed my belief that there were those who could wield magic. After all, something had done this to me, right?

The rest of the day and evening was uneventful. Amélie and I fell into our routines, and while I could tell that Amélie wanted to discuss the next step with regard to my predicament, I managed to coax her into watching more Buffy.

Chloe woke at a quarter to three and as part of our agreement and my reduced sleeping pill dosage, I woke to calm her cries. I found it odd that I could hear the cries more clearly, even though I was wearing my ear plugs. Usually, the cries were muffled, but the shrieking was crystal clear. Apparently, women hear higher frequencies than men and Chloe’s howling was definitely in the upper range.

There were small perks to occupying this body, millimeter sized perks compared to the obvious disadvantages, but perks nonetheless. I no longer needed my glasses or contact lenses. From what I could tell, my vision was perfect. I could see objects in the distance clearly. So while I would save a few hundred dollars a year not having to upgrade glasses or contacts, I could not go to the job that was paying me thousands of dollars per year.

Being half asleep, I reached over to put my glasses on, but once I put them on, I noticed that my vision was worse. It took a moment for my brain to process the fact that I no longer needed them. I left the bed, being careful to ease down slowly to avoid falling. I was annoyed at my short legs because formerly I had just swung my legs out and they would hit the floor. Now, I had to take an extra step and carefully scoot off the bed until my feet touched.

I was not a midget, but our bed, a more recent style queen, was high off the ground, so my losing nearly a foot was significant given its height. My hair danced in my eyes as I stumbled through the darkness. I grabbed one of Amélie’s headbands, pulled back my bangs and set it in place as she had showed me.

I spoke in hushed tones as I entered the baby’s room, the sweetness of my voice not matching my words, “Shh Chloe, Daddy’s here.” I wasn’t sure if this would confuse her. Amélie and I hadn’t talked about what Chloe should call me since our previous argument. I picked up Chloe, and in the darkness, she must have mistaken me for Amélie because she said, “Mama?” Either that or she wanted Amélie.

I brought Chloe into the rocking chair beside the bed, letting her gently rest on my chest. Before, Chloe did not enjoy my firm chest, preferring the pillow-like consistency of Amélie’s. Now, however, the girl laid her head on my breast, allowing me to rock her slowly. She usually did not allow herself to be rocked, but because of her teething, she permitted the rocking that had so often soothed her as an infant.

I smiled at her in the darkness, pleased that I could take away the pain so easily with such a simple gesture. I guess to her I was a lot more comfortable now. Instead of sharp angles, I had curves that gently nestled. It took only a few minutes before she was fast asleep. I crept back into bed, feeling proud that not only had I helped Chloe fall back asleep, but also allowed Amélie to get some much needed sleep.

Chapter 9

A week passed like this, me rising to take care of Chloe, and her getting used to me. When I didn’t return to work on Thursday, I e-mailed my boss again, telling her I was still ill. As for Chloe, she did not call me Daddy, but she accepted my presence at least. She often called for her daddy causing me to nearly burst into tears on occasion. I knew that it was hard on Amélie, but her telling me that Chloe often asked for me when she was picked up from daycare was beyond painful for me. The daycare workers told Amélie that one day, every time someone came into the classroom Chloe asked simply, “Daddy?” This was the proverbial dagger in my heart. After hearing that, I went downstairs, closed the door and cried. I hid my feelings from Amélie, thinking she would want me to be strong, but I had seen her nearly tearing up during the past week too.

I was not only thinking of myself when I thought about the grave necessity to find a cure. I wanted Chloe to have a daddy, and I wanted Amélie to have her husband back, the man she had pledged a lifetime to. I thought also about my family, my mother and father, and my younger sister. My parents were on vacation down south. Like many Canadians, who could afford it, they spent much of their winter away from the bitter cold and the subsequent viruses that come with such weather.

During the weekend, exactly one week after my change, I received an e-mail from my parents, indicating that they were coming home early. My mother missed the baby terribly and that was reason enough to cut the trip short. How was I going to explain this to them?

I had a brief reprieve before my parents arrived, their three week trip trimmed to two weeks; in the meantime, however, another issue surfaced. The day before, my boss had called my cell phone. I let it go to voicemail:

“Darren, I hope you are feeling better. You are missed in the office, but do please take the time to get better. I wanted to remind you about the sick leave policy. Because you are on probation, you will need to get a doctor’s note. I hope to see you on Monday. Take care.”

I looked at Amélie my face distraught, “How am I supposed to go and see a doctor like this?” I picked up my wallet and removed my health card. The picture showed a tired looking young man, while the name inscribed in hard plastic clearly said, “Darren Lawrence”. I had done it for effect more than anything to show my frustration. I knew that the girl in the mirror did not match the man on the card. As I slipped the card back into my wallet, I noticed my driver’s licence, realizing that like my health card, it too was invalid until I could return to my body.

Amélie shook her head, “I don’t know. If you can turn back soon then it won’t be an issue. Just go see Dr. Fitzgerald, and he will give you a note. You and I are practically always sick anyway, he will believe you.”

I nodded, considering the winter we had, Dr. Fitzgerald would write the doctor’s note without much of an examination- if I could return to my body. I didn’t know how patient my boss would be with my absence, especially considering I had only been there two weeks.

Amélie sighed, “It doesn’t feel like anything is going right lately.”

I thought to tell her about the Internet wizard I had spoken to, but I realized how preposterous it sounded. I replied to Amélie softly, trying to be optimistic, “Well Chloe is sleeping much better. That’s something.”

Amélie nodded slowly, “And you’ve been getting up-“

I added quickly, “Well I promised, plus it isn’t as if I can go to work. I know how hard this has been on all of us; I want to help where I can.”

We moved closer together and hugged, our soft bodies pressing together. I was feeling a little adventurous, and while Chloe was in the living room watching television, I lowered my hand and gently grasped Amélie’s soft ass. Amélie did the same, but when her hand reached my bubble butt, she quickly brought it back up to my waist.

Amélie said, “Sorry, I need to get ready to take Chloe to dance. Can you watch her?”

I nodded softly. I didn’t expect us to have sex or anything, but the contact was comforting. It added a sense of normalcy to the bedlam caused by my change. What intimacy Amélie and I had shared since my transformation had been infrequent, uncomfortable and awkward. I suppose I couldn’t blame her. I was probably fifteen years younger than her in this body and female to boot.

A part of me wanted to see Chloe at dance. It was her first class, and I wanted to see her reaction. I wanted to see her gleefully bounce to the music, jumping mostly, as one and half year olds have no concept of rhythm usually. Another part was terrified at the thought of others seeing me in this body. I knew that they wouldn't know me, and to them I'd be just another teenaged girl, but I wasn’t ready to be seen that way ... not yet and perhaps never.

Amélie left with Chloe, and I decided to call WizardCAN87. He had given me his number and his real name after our last private message chat on Thursday. It was getting to a point where I was beginning to trust him. It was gradual, but I realized that I had to trust him because he was my only lead. I wasn’t ready to meet him face-to-face, but I wanted to see if he was normal enough- for someone who claimed to be a wizard. I picked up my cell phone, my hand shaking and my heart thumping in my chest.

I was nervous. I felt like I did when I called a girl for the first time, a girl I had chatted online with multiple times before. You just never knew if the chemistry you had over text would transfer to a phone conversation.

It rang three times before I heard a voice on the other end, “Hello?”

I stuttered, “Uh. Hi, it’s Brad right?”

The voice on the other end was confident as it spoke, “Abigail? Good to hear from you. I am glad you called.” I had spoken words like that to girls before, and they always seemed desperate; however, from him, they were strong, deliberate.

I had chosen Abigail because it was one of the names we considered for Chloe. We chose Chloe because it was more bilingual, being less of an issue with regard to being butchered in English and/or French.

After hearing his voice, I wasn’t sure I liked him anymore. He sounded like a meathead, the type of guy who only spoke to a girl if it meant they had a better chance of getting in their pants. I was willing to give him a chance, especially since I knew he was confident, after all, he sounded like that in his chatroom words. Maybe, I just disliked the fact that I thought he was flirting with me from the first words out of his mouth.

Still, Brad was perhaps the only means for me to regain my manhood, “Yeah I was hoping we could talk. And maybe, meet- eventually.” The last words had slipped out. I was apparently more desperate than I thought.

Brad said, “Cool. Yeah. We can do that.” He acted so smooth. I wondered if girls actually fell for this. He was clearly trying to impress me with a nonchalant attitude. It was the type of thing you would read in a men’s magazine. Act aloof and she will beg you to come take her to bed. While I didn’t have a very good first impression of him on the phone, I also needed him, so I had to play along.

I said sweetly, eagerness in my voice, “Well where do you want to meet?”

Brad replied, “Well there’s a bar near my place we could go to, the Ivory Tower. It’s near the university downtown.”

I was supposed to go to that university as Abigail, and I had actually attended it before as Darren, so I knew where the bar was. It was where pretentious academics tried to impress each other with how much they had learned from Psych 101. I avoided it, but I was dragged there once for karaoke night. Perhaps the seven minute tone deaf rendition of “American Pie” had left a bad taste in my mouth.

Drinking age for the bar was 19, but since it was so near the university, many students frequented the place. Despite how young I looked, I knew that I would have no trouble getting in. I had seen so many girls who looked underage get into bars simply because of how they looked.

I said, “Yeah I know the place. Listen, can we meet during the day, it’s easier for me.”

I shifted the phone nervously; worried that he would try and coax me into meeting him at night, when it would undoubtedly be busier. He replied, “Whatever’s easier for you. Listen, I’ve got a lot of stuff going on this weekend, but I could meet you say…Thursday next week.”

We agreed to meet an hour before lunch. It meant that the Ivory Tower would be mostly empty, which suited me considering I didn’t need people thinking we were on a date. Not that anyone would recognize me. The very prospect of it made me sick. I thought about what Brad might look like - a muscular no-neck Neanderthal with bulging biceps, perhaps? I was thankful when I didn’t feel any attraction toward the image I created. I still found girls in general, and Amélie especially, sexy. I tried not to look at myself too much in the mirror, especially naked. It would be far too awkward to be turned on by my own body. Still, I was pleased that nothing had changed in that respect, girls sexy, boys icky.

We chatted for another twenty minutes. I created a persona for Abigail, fleshing her out, giving her substance. She was an only child. She was taking music in university, hoping that the theory she learned would help her as a musician. She mostly just wanted to be in a band and hang out with people like her. I was making her out to be a real rock chick. I didn’t see myself as some shallow princess, and because of that I wouldn’t be expected to show up dressed like I was trying to knock Brad’s eyeballs out of the sockets with a skimpy thong and a pair of tight jeans.

Amélie opened the door just as I was about to hang up. I quickly said, “Uh sorry Brad, my roommate is home, she needs help with the groceries, see you Thursday!” I clicked to end the call, hoping that Amélie had heard none of my conversation.

I got a text from Brad a few seconds later. “Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Guess we’ll c what’s inside you on Thurs.”

I grimaced at Brad’s tactless innuendo, but five seconds later, he texted me back saying, “Didn’t realize how creepy that sounded when I wrote it. Really sorry about that. I meant the magic of course.”

I texted him back a simple, “LOL Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant.” I smirked, thinking that Brad wasn’t as smooth as I thought. I put my phone down and went to help Amélie with the groceries.

Chapter 10

I considered many times texting Brad to tell him that I couldn’t meet him. I thought of a multitude of excuses. I had not left the house in nearly two weeks, except to take out the garbage when I went swimming in my boots. I had again cancelled band practice. My band mates called my phone, but I didn’t answer. I sent them text messages saying that I was still very ill.

The issue with this is that people began to talk. Laura, Andrew’s wife, also best friends with Amélie, asked her what was wrong with me. She expressed her concern over my well-being, asking Amélie if she needed to talk. Amélie and I were receiving texts on a daily basis from people asking how I was doing. My sister asked me why I wasn’t answering my phone.

Allison, my younger sister, seven years younger in fact, showed up at our door on Tuesday night. I could hear the conversation from my hiding place in the basement. I never answered the door anymore; for fear that it would be someone I knew. Thankfully, I was in the basement chatting with Brad, so I just stayed downstairs when I realized it was her.

I could hear Allison in the upstairs hallway, “What’s wrong with Darren? He won’t return my calls. Is he really sick Amélie? Laura is really concerned too.”

Amélie replied, “Well you remember when I had to bring Darren to the hospital when he had the stomach flu, well it’s back. We are going for more tests tomorrow. I am sorry we didn’t tell you.”

I could hear Allison’s feet shifting from my basement hide-away. “Why didn’t you tell us?” She sounded hurt. “Do you know how it feels to hear from someone else that your brother is really sick?” Feeling out of the loop, Allison must have contacted Laura, who told her that I was still very ill. We hadn't told her, thinking it was for a very good reason. I wasn’t incredibly close to my sister, but we weren’t strangers either. When she texted me, she knew that she would get a call back eventually, but this time, the call never came, so it was understandable why she was so worried.

Amélie replied, “We just didn’t want to worry you or anyone else. We don’t know what it is, the doctors don’t either. We didn’t want to scare anyone.”

Allison said, “I guess it’s a hard time for you guys. Please just let me and everybody else know when you do. Even if it’s bad news.” She lowered her voice, and I couldn’t hear what was said.

I heard the door close, and Amélie shouted for me to come up. She was not happy. “How long are we going to have to lie to people about this, Darren? Your sister thinks you have cancer or something equally horrible. Laura has been trying to call me to talk about this for three days now. Are you just planning to hide in the basement until people forget you exist? Because these people care about you. They deserve to know what happened.”

I knew she was right, and with my parents coming home in less than a week, they would want to see me as well. My mother would not let Amélie keep me from her. She would have barreled her way into the house and forced open the door, even if I had the stomach flu or cancer, or some life-threatening infectious disease.

I said in a tiny voice, “I know we will have to tell them. I just don’t know if I am ready. Can’t we just ask people to leave us alone until we figure this out?”

Amélie made me look her in the eyes as she spoke. I tried to turn away, but she put her face in mine, “I am sick of lying to people about this. People thinking you are dying or something- it’s bad karma. You aren’t dying, Darren. And I think you are going to have to come to accept this as a one-time thing. I don’t like it any more than you.”

She continued, “I can’t think of a reason why you might have left and why there is a teenaged girl staying at the house. We could make up a story that you are a runaway, but that wouldn’t be right. You want to see your parents don’t you? Imagine how they would feel if I told them you left and didn’t tell anyone. Would that be better?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I was angry at Amélie for confronting me this way, but upset with myself for forcing her to lie to our friends and family. It was not a very mature thing to do, but I desperately wanted to hide until this was over.

I looked at Amélie with hurt in my eyes. “No of course that wouldn’t be better, but I don’t really know how to tell my parents that they don’t have a son anymore. Plus, you were the only who saw me change. What makes you think that they will believe this is me?”

Amélie’s face had softened since my outburst, “Because you are the same person. You may be in this body, but you act just like the Darren I love. You speak, sit and walk the same way. If anyone will recognize this, it is your parents and your closest friends.”

I nodded slowly, actually pleased by Amélie’s words. If I was acting the same way, then the change had only altered my body. Of course, Amélie knew nothing of my ‘date’ with Brad, and I wanted it to remain a secret until I knew if he could help me.

I replied, “Well that’s good at least. At least I am not suddenly in love with the latest fabricated teen idol.”

I begrudgingly added, “Alright, we will have people over and tell them the truth. My parents, my sister and Steven, Andrew and Laura. No one else.”

Amélie smiled and put her arms around me, my head reached her nose as she brought me close and kissed my cheek. “It’ll be OK Darren, they will believe you.” I pressed up closely against Amélie, my hand lifting up her t-shirt and then gently tracing the outline of her stomach then squeezing her soft love handles.

Amélie grinned, “Definitely the same person.”

That night, as we were watching television, Amélie moved over to the middle of the couch. She leaned up against me the same way she used to, her head resting gently on my chest. It was awkward because as Amélie was now taller than me, my arm had to stretch uncomfortably to hold her. We adjusted our positions, me moving to the centre of the couch and resting my head on Amélie’s breasts as she reclined.

I was surprised when Amélie gently rubbed my shoulders and then moved to my stomach, she then rubbed along soft thighs, as I had done hundreds of times to her. I had to admit- it felt weird. As a man, Amélie stayed away from my legs. I had been ticklish there, but not anymore. Amélie usually liked to rub along my chest, but I doubted she would move there considering the breasts I now possessed.

I enjoyed the contact, pleased that we could maintain some intimacy in our marriage, even though it wasn’t exactly the same. I wondered if there was a chance that Amélie might develop some attraction to this body. If this was permanent, then it would certainly make things easier. I knew that the age gap would be an issue, but I was content to have the contact, even if it was strictly PG.

Chapter 11

I knew that I had little choice now - I would have to meet with Brad. While I had agreed to meet with my family and closest friends, I did so knowing that I would be meeting with Brad. The last thing I wanted was for others to know about my condition. I found it embarrassing to explain, and I feared a lack of acceptance. Would my band mates still want to jam with someone who looked like they should be in high school? I worried most about my parents, and my mother especially, we had a special bond. I couldn’t even fathom her reaction. My decision to meet Brad was further strengthened by another voicemail I received from my boss. The message was not nearly as understanding or amicable as her first:

“Darren, I still haven’t heard from you. I don’t know why you haven’t called me. If you are really sick, please have your wife or a family member call so we can certify your absence. Listen, we have had trouble with people abusing our sick leave system, and while I was very impressed by your work, I will have to let you go by the end of the week if we can’t certify your absence. We are just too busy here.”

She also sent me an e-mail, obviously beginning the paper trail toward my dismissal. I considered asking Amélie to call, but she had had her fill of lying, so I knew that I absolutely had to meet with Brad. When he sent me a text Wednesday night, asking if I was still OK for Thursday, I replied with quick yes. He also sent me another one:

“Sorry again about that message I sent. I want you to trust me; it’s a really important part of the process.”

I texted him back to tell him not to worry about it, honestly, I was surprised that he was so concerned. He had been aloof at points during our conversations, especially the way he scheduled our ‘date’ almost a week later. I stopped myself immediately, realizing that I was overanalyzing the situation. I was a little worried that I was thinking so much about our meeting, but again, I was desperate. It wasn’t as if I was pining for him like some love-struck school girl. I just needed to know if he could help me.

Thursday morning finally arrived, and I was thankful that Chloe had slept the night. I wanted to be alert since it would be my first time in public as a girl. I considered taking the bus to the Ivory Tower, but opted for the car instead. I wasn’t ready for the stares on the bus - eyes boring into me, seeing me as I did not see myself.

I dressed the part of Abigail, choosing from one of my numerous band shirts and a pair of jeans that Amélie had bought. To be fair, Amélie was right; it felt much better to wear clothes that fit. I could have worn a pair of my own jeans, but they would be nearly a foot too long. That is a lot of excess material to stumble over. While I was playing the part of a rock chick, I did not want to be tripping over my pant legs. That is if I could even get them over my hips.

That didn't mean I had accepted my change by any means, nor the feminine finery that went with it. It was simply a matter of comfort and practicality. I was still wearing my own socks and underwear. I wasn’t about to wear Amélie’s unmentionables, and I certainly wasn’t going to go shopping for underwear. Amélie had not bought me any bras or panties, perhaps figuring I wouldn’t wear them anyway.

My t-shirt hung across my braless chest, pushing out my breasts across the logo, but not obscenely. I knew that Amélie and I would likely have the bra talk at some point, but I wasn’t ready for it.

If this was a real date, I would definitely have done more to prepare. As it was, I simply pushed back my hair and used one of Amélie’s headbands to move the bangs out of my eyes. I wondered if the same magic that was keeping my nails at a constant length would do the same for my hair.

I didn’t even consider any makeup. I knew I looked young, but I didn’t even know where to begin. I remember girls from high school who wore too much makeup. It didn’t make them look any older, no, just the opposite. The garish streaks made them look like junior prostitutes. Plus, I did not want to lead Brad into thinking this was anything but a meeting about magic. So, while I wasn’t dressed like a bum, I wasn’t exactly dressed to impress either.

I put my familiar green hoodie on, annoyed that, just like my dream, my hands struggled to free themselves from the confines of the sleeves. I rolled them up, but it wasn’t much better. I shrugged, deciding to keep it on, hoping that Brad would think it was my boyfriend’s or something.

I slipped on the white tennis shoes and put on one Amélie’s jackets. The weather had warmed considerably, but it was still cold enough for a jacket. My jacket, a military style waistcoat, would have dragged on the ground if I wore it in this body. I unlocked my car and slid in, noticing immediately that everything looked bigger, from the dashboard to the steering wheel.

I reached my hand down and adjusted the seat to accommodate my new height. It would have been better to drive the SUV, but it was parked near Chloe’s daycare. I couldn’t risk taking it and then have the daycare phone for Amélie to come get Chloe. So, I was stuck with my sports wagon. It was a higher-end model, metallic blue paint job, 17 inch wheels and a sun roof. The only issue was that it was much lower to the ground than the SUV, so I had a harder time seeing in front of me. I remember my grandmother on my mom’s side, who was about my current height, saying that she had a hard time driving because she often couldn’t see enough over the hood. I recall her using a small booster seat or even a telephone book in one of her old Cadillac cars. Once she got a mini-van, with its higher vantage point, she found it easier. I refused to even consider using anything so humiliating to boost my height.

The car was also a manual transmission, so it required a little more thought than putting it into drive and backing out. My hand gripped the stick shift, pulling it into reverse and then I turned my head to back out. I frowned, realizing that if any children were running behind the car, I would not see them. I backed out at a snail’s pace, nearly stalling the car multiple times, and trying to inch up off my seat to see properly out the back. The car rolled down the driveway with me applying the brake often. I took a deep breath and then proceeded to pull out completely.

I realized how foolishly I was acting. Just because I refused to prop myself up, it had taken twice as long to back out. It was dangerous not being able to see properly while driving, so I quickly returned to the house to fetch a phonebook. The thick document boosted me two or three inches, but now I knew why Amélie felt safer driving her SUV.

On my way to the university, while stopped at a traffic light, a young man with obnoxious rap music attempted to get my attention. He had one of those pathetic teenage boy moustaches. I hadn’t started seriously growing facial hair until I was in my twenties, so I avoided the wispy semi-transparent moustache that this boy wore with apparent pride. Apparently revving his engine and turning up the bass to the point where the car shook was supposed to impress me. He put his window down in an attempt to speak with me, and I did the same. He grinned, probably thinking his technique had sufficiently wooed me. I shouted, “Your music sucks,” and then pulled out a second later as the light turned green.

I reached the university with no more problems. I drove exactly on the speed limit, did complete two second stops and did not follow too closely. It probably looked as if I was about to take my driver’s test, however; the last thing I needed was to be pulled over and then be unable to produce a valid licence. It would be difficult to explain why I had Darren Lawrence’s car as well. There were only two insured drivers on the car: myself and Amélie.

It took me ten minutes to find a parking spot, even though I opted for the student parking lot. The parking situation hadn’t really improved since I was a student there. The attendant didn’t say anything, but he looked at me oddly. Considering that there were seventeen year olds attending the university, I suppose I could have passed for a college girl, but the second look I got from the attendant told me probably not.

After the attendant’s reaction, I was worried that Brad would bail as soon as he saw me. I wondered if, on seeing see how young I looked, fifteen or sixteen at the most, he’d leave, realizing I had lied to him. Still, I didn’t speak like any high school girl I remembered, and having taught and attended high school I had a unique vantage point, so perhaps I could convince him if he stayed long enough to talk.

The Ivory Tower was a dive even as far as student bars go, and it was exactly how I remembered it. It had a reputation for serving booze to underage kids, and, thankfully, because it was primarily a night spot with a very limited lunch menu, it wasn’t busy and wouldn’t be busy until around 9 PM. The patio had plastic chairs strewn about, still frozen to the ground and tables covered with a few inches of snow. The front door was thick, but it had a number of kick marks at the bottom, likely a remnant from a recent raid on the place or overzealous drunks unhappy at their removal. The outside showed no windows. The grey walls were covered in graffiti and posters announcing various upcoming and past shows.

I didn’t know why Brad wanted to meet here, other than that we likely would not be disturbed. Discussing the finer points of magic in a crowded place might elicit strange looks. I suppose we could have been discussing a video game. In high school, I still recall speaking to a friend of mine on the way home from school about a guy I “killed” in a game. An elderly woman looked at us, shocked that we would be so brazen to discuss murder in front of her. We laughed at her, thinking how out of touch she was. I couldn’t imagine someone these days threatening to burn us as witches for a simple discussion about magic, though.

Either way, this was the place Brad had chosen. Inside was not much better. The tables showed the wear of a student bar, legs showing glue marks where they had initially been severed. The booths had sunken and stained cushions. The floor was sticky, my steps making soft ripping noises as if stepping on and off fly paper. I had played in some dives before, but this place made some of the clubs downtown look like five-star resorts.

As I was taking in the scenery, one of the servers walked up to me. She was tired looking, either from partying or late-night studying, but attractive, with long auburn hair and a slender figure. Not exactly my type, but she was attractive. Her eyes narrowed as she saw me scoping out the place. “Listen, we can’t afford to lose our liquor licence again, so if you are here to check out the place for your underage friends, then you should just leave. You won’t be getting in tonight. The bouncers will be checking IDs. All IDs. Pretty ones like you won’t be getting in, even if your tits are popping out. You hear me?”

My eyes widened, and I shook my head vigorously, “I’m just here to meet someone that’s all. You don’t need to worry about me.”

It was true for two reasons, first I had no interest coming back here to be crammed into a room with a hundred sweaty bodies dancing to bad music and the second being that after throwing up the wine, I had no intention of drinking alcohol anytime soon.

The server looked at me closely and nodded her head, “Yeah well you don’t look like the ones who usually come in here to see who is working and if it means they can get in. Just spread the word OK? No more underagers in here.”

I nodded again and then went to sit at the cleanest looking table I could find. I figured a booth would give us some privacy, so I chose a table with one. It was a few minutes after eleven. I pulled my phone out, answering a text from Amélie and then checking my e-mail. I was getting the hang of typing with long nails, knowing that I had to avoid stabbing at the touch screen. Instead, I had to press down with the underside of my fingers.

As I was typing a reply to an e-mail, I heard Brad’s voice. “Abigail? Is that you?” A tall young man approached my table. I couldn’t tell his exact age, but he looked to be in his early to mid-twenties. He was slimmer than I imagined, I had imagined him as a muscular behemoth, and while he was muscular, he was not the type who lived and breathed the air in a gym.

I don’t know why I imagined him in that way originally, but the fact that I did was more than a little disconcerting. He had blue eyes like my own, but his hair was more ash coloured to my golden locks. His face was smiling, his eyes expressive and his mouth showing gleaming white teeth. He was dressed like most Canadians at this time of year, a winter jacket, boots and a toque (beanie in other places, but not hipster fashion, more of a necessity).

I had to admit that he was handsome. I compared myself to other men in that regard, as I knew girls did from conversations I had had with Amélie. Brad’s face had a strong defined jaw line, laughing eyes that had energy to them and an unassuming confidence. He probably could have modeled for a department store catalogue, if he were so inclined. His smile seemed genuine as did his offered hand, which I took and shook.

Brad settled down at the table, removing his hat, coat and gloves. It was at this point that I noticed, he wasn’t really that tall, I was just that much shorter than everyone. It was infuriating, and it was playing havoc with my self-confidence. Imagine being shorter than most of your friends your whole life. After seeing a video of my best friend and myself on our first day of high school, Amélie thought I was going to junior high, while my friend was off to halls of the nearby high school. Imagine then shooting up ten inches over high school and still feeling short. I felt like a midget now, literally looking up at everyone.

“You look exactly as I pictured you Abigail. And no, I didn’t use any magic to figure that out.” Brad added, “So I guess you are wondering why I wanted to meet here?”

I nodded my head, putting my phone away in my pocket, but finding it nearly impossible with the thin pockets of the girl’s jeans seemingly for show instead of utility. I slipped the phone in my jacket pocket.

“Well I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed. Plus like I said, it’s near my place. So, you ever been here before?”

I replied, “Yeah I have, a few times. Just with friends. Place plays awful music usually and the karaoke is painful.”

Brad laughed, “Sure, but that’s the point. Why do you think drunken Japanese businessmen love karaoke? It’s just fun. You aren’t one of those moody rock chicks that writes depressing break up songs and describes their exes as poison or toxins running through the body - are you?

I raised a quizzical brow at Brad, “What makes you think that?”

Brad smirked, “Every rock chick I’ve ever known says she hates pop music. Professes to loath anything that isn’t genuine, but then somehow has a Britney Spears song as their ringtone. You know?”

I nodded, “Sure, they are called frauds. I admit that I like certain pop music. The Beatles and Katy Perry or Lady Gaga. Not that they are the same caliber. Anyway, I don’t only listen to rock and I admit that I like anything with a strong melody.”

Brad replied, “See that’s why I like you Abigail. You seem like the real deal, and you aren’t close minded. People who are close minded, they usually don’t have the gift that I have.”

I accepted Brad’s compliment, even though I was lying about almost everything, including my name, age, and current occupation. He continued:

“Even if you have it, it takes a long time to fully realize any innate abilities you might have. So you need to have a lot of patience to stick with it.”

I was more interested in what he could do, although having the ability myself would be useful. I asked, “I hope you don’t consider this prying, but what sort of spells have you done before?”

Brad appeared deep in thought for a moment, as if carefully choosing which secrets he wanted to divulge. “Well I guess I’ve done the obvious one, lead into gold. It takes a lot of lead to make a little bit of gold. It’s legit though, I’ve taken it to pawn shops and they buy.”

I furrowed a brow at this, “That seems dishonest.”

Brad raised his hands, “Sure and so is paying practically nothing for someone’s family heirloom diamond engagement ring just because they desperately need the money to avoid losing their house or their thumbs. It’s cheating crooks.”

I pondered this and then replied, “Fair enough.” Something in his words got my instant attention as it registered in my brain. Brad had performed a transformation spell by turning lead into gold. I added, “Have you ever changed anything bigger?”

Brad nodded, “Sure, I changed a snake into a rabbit and then back once. The process is actually quite interesting. I had to study the anatomy of both the rabbit and the snake, knowing every minute detail down to where the heart is located to how the eye sockets were arranged. Magic isn’t a snap of your fingers and then you have it. It is painstaking at times, and a lot like school unfortunately.”

I smiled, letting my guard down at the same time. Brad was making me feel relatively easy. He did not talk down to me like a child. He thought I was intelligent and authentic. Now I had to convince him to turn a pretty girl into a man. I replied to him, “I admire that in a person, it’s impressive when you can really focus on something and be successful. I am sure there were times you failed?”

He smiled. It wasn’t that his boyish charm was working on me. No, it was the fact that he could help me that enthralled me. He replied, “Of course. That same spell, I tried a fish and frog. I ended up merging them into this fish frog creature. It died almost instantly. That’s the issue with these spells you know. You need to know exactly what you are doing. See I could turn you into a beautiful fawn, but you’d die if I mistakenly put your lungs in a place that could puncture them.”

I was hooked. “So it is almost a science then?” I leaned forward; he had my full attention. As I leaned forward, my braless breasts jostled in the tight confines of the t-shirt. I thought it caught Brad’s attention, but I didn’t catch him looking.

His eyes were locked onto mine, “Sort of. I guess I was always good at biology, so that part is easier for me. You still need to be able to manipulate the magic. It is something you can feel in the air, you can pull at it.”

Our conversation drifted to other topics, as it had during our online chats. We discussed the hockey playoffs, and I provided a passionate argument why his team was going to be swept in the first round. He laughed at this, and then we moved back to music. As we talked, he looked at me, not in a creepy stalker way, but in a way that showed he was interested in what I had to say. I wasn’t thinking like a girl would, that he was checking me out or anything. I thought of us as two guys having a conversation, save the discussion about magic, the same way I did with my band mates.

Even though, I was supposed to be Abigail, I could be myself around him. I guess that Abigail was me in most respects, save what was supposed to be between our legs.

We talked about my schooling, and I started to open up to him, Abigail’s life actually mirrored my own in places. She was bullied for not fitting into the cliques in school, preferring to hang around the musicians rather than the Barbie dolls, while I was bullied because I was small. I knew the bit about the Barbie dolls was cliché but Brad didn’t seem to care. He asked me so many questions that I had difficulty coming up with suitable lies at times, but he let me craft Abigail into a living breathing person. I had to admit, she would be a pretty cool girl to hang out with.

About half an hour after we had sat down, he asked me, “If you could be in any band in the world right now which would you be in? Like a famous band.”

I answered with a smile, “My own. I don’t want to play someone else’s mus-“

Brad spoke again before I could continue, cutting me off with a smile, “So, are you ready to see if you have the talent?” Apparently, I had passed his test with my last words, or he was just bored of me talking about myself for 30 minutes.

I nodded, although I thought that it might be embarrassing for us to test my affinity in a restaurant that would soon have tens of people in it enjoying terrible food. So, I wasn’t surprised when Brad asked me to go back to his place, saying that he needed to complete the test in a place that was more familiar to him. I didn’t even think twice when I said yes.

I wasn’t thinking like a fifteen year old girl as Brad walked me toward his apartment. I was thinking like a grown man who had a chance at regaining his life.

Chapter 12

We approached a four storey brownstone apartment building. I had lived in such a building with Amélie when I was in teacher’s college. The memory of that time is bittersweet. It was the first year that Amélie and I lived together, and it was a time of aspirations and of dreams. Amélie was starting law school, and I completed my year of training only to be thrust into the world of education with a piece of paper and very little experience. A part of me regretted ever becoming a teacher, believing that it was time wasted. Friends of mine who got stable government jobs right after graduating were nearly ten years into their career. I had come to the party late.

Brad’s voice broke me from my reflection, “Abigail, did you forget your purse?”

I blinked, realizing that Brad was speaking to me. “I- uh, left it in the car.” I figured it would be odd if I didn’t have one, considering every woman I knew carried one.

Brad used a digital key to unlock the door to the lobby, ushering me inside first. “Oh, I thought you may have left it at the restaurant.” I was surprised how well Brad and I got along. It looked as if our online chat had transferred seamlessly to face-to-face.

The lobby was well kept for a building mostly occupied by university students. It was similar to many other apartment lobbies, carpeted with ancient newspapers strewn over a worn coffee table. We entered the elevator and stopped off at the 4th floor. The smells reminded me of my first apartment, curry and fast food mixed with a mouldy odour of the carpet that should have been replaced years ago. It created a nostalgic spice in my nostrils.

Brad unlocked his front door, “Ladies first.” The young man was a thorough gentleman. As I stepped over the threshold and into the apartment, I considered my actions. I was not thinking like a teenage girl should. This young man was likely ten years my senior and here I was entering his apartment without a care.

To be fair, I was often careless growing up. I walked through bad neighbourhoods late at night confidently. If I heard footsteps behind me, I knew I could run and never be caught. If I had wanted to and had the focus, I probably could have been a world-class sprinter. I still had this mindset, even though my untested legs were far shorter and probably lacked the musculature to carry a body my size with any speed.

Plus, Brad had earned my trust. He had done nothing to make me think that he was anything but a perfect gentleman. I had known men that could put on a façade, but the truth always surfaced. I considered myself an excellent judge of character. I had met plenty of men I disliked immediately because of their behaviour, and Brad wasn’t one of them.

His apartment was clean, but it was not what I expected either. I suppose I didn’t expect to see pentagrams lining the walls or a basket labeled ‘spell components’. It was the apartment of a twenty-something man. There were framed posters on the wall displaying what I assumed were his favourite hockey players. There was an Xbox 360 and a huge collection of DVDs. It looked a lot like my computer room at home, a room that held my CDs, old video game systems, comic books, and a collection of music memorabilia.

Brad removed his boots, and I removed my tennis shoes. He took my coat and hung it up, and invited me to sit on the couch. Before sitting down, I checked out his DVD collection. I noticed a rare bootleg disc from a concert I had never seen. I pulled it out and asked, “Is this legit?”

Brad grinned and nodded, “Yes, from the infamous Halloween show. It was taken on a Handycam. The guy who took it actually got hit by Kurt’s guitar. At one point, he moves the camera down and you can see his hand is all covered in blood.” This had my full attention. I popped it open and beamed, “We have to watch this.” I knew why I was there, and I still hoped that Brad had a use, but for now- I had to see it.

Amélie wouldn’t be home for hours still, and I was starting to really like Brad, so if we hung out a bit before he did his test, it was fine. It was better than sitting at home wallowing in self-pity.

So we watched the DVD. Brad took out snacks and I lounged on the couch. I took my hoodie off, exposing my soft arms and through the gray band t-shirt that clung tightly to my chest, it was clear I wasn’t wearing a bra. Brad stayed on his side of the couch, although it was more of a loveseat, since there was little space between us. I noticed that he had a co-op game for the 360 that I hadn’t played, and Brad was happy to oblige.

I actually lost track of time. We played for several hours before I noticed that it was getting near the time Amélie was expected home, and now, I would have to fight rush hour traffic to get there. I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t want to know right away if Brad could help me. Why had I stayed this long? Brad was a cool guy, but it still didn’t explain why I was stalling. Was I worried that he wouldn’t be able to help me? Was I procrastinating because beyond a few silly stories I had found, he was my only real hope at returning to a normal life?

There were only four inches between us on the love seat, and as we played, Brad grew closer. Eventually, I could feel him on my hip. Our bodies bumped at times, but I thought nothing of it, since I was engrossed in the game. I was having a little difficulty holding the 360 controller due to my smaller hands, but it had not impacted my abilities noticeably.

We reached a new game level, but I simply had to know. I had wasted enough time. I had to get home and help Amélie with the baby. Staying here all afternoon just to satisfy my pleasure centres was immature. I put the controller down, and then looked over at Brad. “I’ll need to go soon. Can you see if I have the ability? Does it take long?”

Brad looked wounded by my words, obviously unhappy that I would have to go soon. He wore puppy dog eyes but they didn’t faze me. My slight grimace showed my insistence. He nodded, “It won’t take long. You trust me right?”

I nodded slowly and Brad continued, “Because it might make you feel a little uncomfortable, but it is part of the process. Some girls like it, but some are little freaked out. Just trust me and close your eyes.”

I wasn’t stupid. “I’m not closing my eyes Brad.”

Brad had positioned himself behind me on the loveseat. He gently turned my body so that I was facing the entrance. I could see my coat hanging on the rack behind the door. Brad put his hands on my shoulders and started to gently massage them. It was unlike any massage I had ever received. It felt purposeful, more so than removing kinks or knots in the muscles. He moved in a pattern as if tracing symbols along my back.

The touching made me feel uncomfortable, not because I was disgusted at being massaged by a man. No, the issue was that my body was enjoying the contact. My mind was aghast, but my body melted at his expert touch. I felt myself sighing gently and arching my back a little causing my breasts to push out.

I muttered, “So do I have the same gift you have?” Brad shushed me, and I could feel his fingers inching toward my front. My eyes widened in alarm as I felt something hard pushing against my ass.

He whispered in my ear, “You like this don’t you, Abigail?”

A moment later, Brad’s fingers touched my breast flesh, causing them to jiggle in my shirt, and then his entire hand was over my breasts, groping them.

In an instant, I had torn myself away from him, but the action ripped my shirt where he had been firmly clutching my breasts. He reached out to grab me, and caught my hand. He proceeded to drag me toward him, and then force me back onto the couch. I was amazed at how easily he held me down. My eyes showed pure terror. It was not until that point that I realized how much had changed. I was being manhandled. I had no upper body strength to lift him off me. He could have done anything to me.

He looked at me fiercely as I yelled at him, “You lying asshole, you realize that this is sexual assault right? Let me up!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Help me! He won’t let me go!”

Brad shook his head, “Okay, okay, just don’t yell again. Sorry I lost my head. What’s up with you though? You've been sending me signals all day. I thought you wanted this. ” He let me up, and I quickly grabbed my jacket and slipped on my shoes. I wanted to leave immediately, but I had to know the truth from his lips.

As I threw my jacket on and stared, narrowed dagger eyes at Brad, “You are full of shit aren’t you? You just hang out on that chat room to screw around. You aren’t a wizard or anything like that.”

Brad wore a lopsided grin as he walked up to me, standing a good foot over my head. “Of course not. Magic doesn’t exist. You’d be stupid to believe it does. Most of the girls on that chat don’t believe it either. I thought you got off on it, like they do. That was the whole point of today.”

He pointed an accusatory finger at me, “I’m not the only one here who is liar though. You can’t even be 18. What are you 16? You were lying to me the whole time, how is it any different?”

My eyes grew wide with fury instead of fear now. “Are you brain damaged? Do you have any idea how idiotic you sound? You threw yourself on a minor. Then you tried to hold me down. How is lying about my age the same as that?”

I was seething, not just because my only lead had turned out to be a bust, but because of my own stupidity. My decisions were not those that a mature adult would make. My anger manifested into an even more foolish decision. I grabbed Brad’s 360, which was sitting on the coffee table and proceeded to smash it through his plasma television. The screen shattered instantly, a massive Xbox-sized hole actually punctured straight through the back of the television. The Xbox tumbled from its precarious position, teetering on the edge of the carcass of the ruined plasma for a second and then it fell and cracked open.

As Brad watched his precious television get destroyed and the 360 fall to the ground, I grabbed my prized green hoodie from the loveseat and sprinted out of there. I threw my shoulder into the stairwell exit and nearly fell down the stairs. My lungs screamed, but I knew I had to get out of there. My mind was a flurry. I could hear footsteps thundering behind me. I jumped down the stairs three steps at a time, until I could see the fire exit door. I had gone too far and bypassed the lobby. I was entering the basement. I threw the door open, which immediately set the alarm off. I then ran into the parking garage, which obviously required the elevator to gain proper access to avoid setting off the fire alarm, and started looking for a side door. All the while, I was both terrified at the prospect of Brad finding me and utterly shocked at my behaviour.

Chapter 13

The fire alarm blared in my ears. My jacket was still half open and my torn t-shirt and braless chest exposed my left breast. The nipple was hidden by the remains of the shirt, but the flesh itself was visible. The garage was not large, but even so I couldn't spot the door. One of the lights flickered, as if desperately holding onto life. It flickered again in rapid succession and went out. There was a very horror-movie quality to it, and I half expected Brad to launch himself through the door wielding a chainsaw or machete. My paranoia was playing tricks and casting shadows with teeth.

Still, there was enough light for me to find the door. I did not hear any footsteps, nor did the elevator door open but as soon as I stepped outside, a hand grabbed me and I was thrown roughly against the brick wall of the brownstone.

Brad screamed at me, “You bitch! I can’t believe you did that!” He pushed me hard against the wall and my head flew back and struck the brick. Grey spots danced in front of my eyes as I slumped. The slushy snow underneath me seeped into my pants, soaking them. I closed my eyes for a moment and then got up to run. Brad gave chase, but I had a secret weapon.

While the power of my voice was impressive as a man, it was far more powerful in this body, and most importantly, it was louder. I had not attempted to sing, outside of the dreamscape, but when I screamed in Brad’s apartment, I thought that I was going to shatter glass. So, as I ran, I screamed at the top of my lungs, full diaphragm and as loudly as I could. It was the most high-pitched sound I had ever made. It sounded like a teenage girl scared for her life. This had a two pronged effect: one, Brad quickened his pace and managed to tackle me as I slipped on a patch of ice, and two, it brought help.

The fire alarm had caused the cautious to vacate their apartments. Some students remained, thinking that it was a hoax, but those who feared there might be a fire left with coats and boots, a small conglomeration of bodies in front of the brownstone. A young woman with fiery red hair and another with pink streaks through blonde came to my rescue. There was nothing physical needed. As soon as he saw the two girls, Brad ran. I don’t know in what direction because I was too busy picking myself off the ground. My head had hit the pavement, and I saw the grey spots again.

The girls saw my state of dress and rushed to help me up. The blonde looked at me fearfully, “Oh my god…-did he?” The red head quickly zipped up my jacket, removing the peep show that was my exposed breast. She said, “We should take her to the clinic.” They supported me under my arms, easily lifting me to my feet.

I shook my head, muttering, “No…I need to get home to my wife- she’ll worry.”

I started to dip in and out of consciousness. I heard the girls say something about a concussion, blood and a clinic. I think the blonde, or it might have been the red head, said, “She’s losing it. We better take her. Try to keep her talking. It’s dangerous if she loses consciousness.”

I blinked my eyes, desperately trying to focus on what was ahead of me. I heard more voices, but I couldn’t tell who was speaking. “Poor kid. We should get her phone and call her parents.” I felt one of the girls reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.

“I tried calling her mom and dad. They weren’t home. Says it is the Lawrence residence though. So we have a name. She doesn’t have a purse, so thank goodness she didn’t lose her phone.”

“There’s another number on here too that she’s called a lot. Amélie. Maybe it’s a good friend of hers?”

“It’s ringing. Yes, hello my name is Rachel, we found your friend. Oh, she’s your sister.
She’s hurt. Looks like she hit her head. Can you meet us at the campus clinic downtown? I don’t know. Her shirt is torn. Oh I’m sorry, this must be so hard for you, she is conscious yes.”

“She’s leaving now. I heard a baby crying in the background too.” I think the blonde woman said, “This Amélie, she sounded frantic. Probably her older sister. I didn’t want to tell her too much, like…”

“That she might have been raped. Yeah no kidding. No one wants to hear that about their kid sister.”

The red haired woman looked at me and noticing that I was paying attention to their conversation and seemingly coherent she asked, “What’s your name sweetie?”

My head swam and that annoyingly familiar feeling of nausea struck again. I replied, half dazed, “Darren…” I lost consciousness seconds later.

I had no idea how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes, I was inside the campus clinic. The red head smiled at me, “Hey look who’s up! Listen, we called Amélie, and she’s on her way. She’s your older sister right?”

I thought about my response for a moment, wondering how Amélie would want to be seen in our web of lies. I doubt she would like to portray my mother. The very thought of Amélie having a child as a teenager was laughable. She was not a wallflower, but she was not hugely popular with boys at her school. She said that it was something about living in a small town and the secrets that she knew about her potential suitors. Because of this, she did not start dating seriously until she was in college. Her having a teenage daughter was impossible, and I doubted very much she would wish to play the part now.

I nodded my head slowly, “Yeah, older sister.” It hurt to think, my head throbbed from the small amount of brain power it took to speak and move my head.

I was uncomfortable in the waiting room. It was not only because of the pain in my head, but my pants were cold and thoroughly soaked through with slush. I looked down, and I could see that my knee was scraped. The cut had stopped bleeding, but it still stung in the open air. I pictured Brad’s face with Darren’s fist impacting his jaw, shattering it as if it were made of glass. The motion caused his entire face to cave in, as if the jaw were the load bearer for his entire skull. I was broken from my reverie by the blonde girl speaking to her friend.

“So, they’ll take her soon. Probably in a few minutes. The nurse said to just keep asking her questions and maybe she will remember who she is. Because she certainly isn’t a Darren.”

The blonde added, “Maybe Darren is the guy who was on top of her.” The red head interjected, a frown lining her face, “It really isn’t any of our business, Sam. If she wants to tell us, she will.” Rachel, I remembered her name, added, “Right sweetie?” She looked at me with a smile.

I did not reciprocate; I was annoyed, not only because of the pain, but because of the way the two girls had been speaking as if I was not right next to them. I shook my head angrily. “You know I can hear everything you are saying. I’m not a child.”

Sam raised a brow at me and then looked to her friend and then back to me, she grinned. “She’s got attitude. I like her. She dresses like me when I was that age.” She added with a smile, “Okay, so how about telling us your name, we need to fill out some paperwork before you see the doctor.”

Sam fetched a clipboard from the nurse and turned in my direction. “Name?”

I thought about telling her Darren Lawrence, but that would only raise more questions and potentially be a cause for concern when I saw the doctor. It made little sense to attempt to reassert my identity in front of these college girls. I would fight that battle with my friends and family in a few days. I said, “Abigail Lawrence.”

Rachel smiled and rubbed my shoulder reassuringly, “Well you said Darren before, so that’s an improvement. Was that the pervert who was on top of you? And listen, I know we should have done this before, but do you want us to call the police? I don’t know what he did to you exactly, but with the way you were screaming, it sounded like he was hurting you.”

I shook my head fiercely. I did not want my name associated with such a brazen and unseemly crime, nor did I want to tell them the truth. If the police got involved, I would have a lot of explaining to do. First and foremost, why there was no record of my birth nor my schooling- they would search for a paper trail that did not exist. I did not want them involved, and as much as I despised Brad for what he did, it was too dangerous. I answered, “No, it’s Jason. And no, it’s not necessary to call the police. It’s complicated because Jason and I..." I hesitated, "I just don’t want to involve them.”

Rachel looked at Sam, sharing a sad grimace and then they turned their eyes back to me. Sam looked at me sadly. “Look Abby, you don’t mind if I call you Abby right?” I shook my head and she continued, “We know that what he was doing wasn’t consensual?

Rachel interjected “But we are going to respect your privacy, Abby. If you want to tell us, or the doctor, or the police you can. Here.” She took my phone and put both hers and Sam’s number in my phone. “Call us any time.”

Sam shrugged her shoulders and cast a dirty look at Rachel. Sam then continued with the questions, “Okay Abby, age?”

I replied, “Uh, sixteen.” I decided to accept that no one was going to take me for an adult in this body. It made little sense to lie to these girls about my body’s age. I told myself that it was a body- a mere shell, and I was just a participant in this mad dance of moving parts, muscles and organs. Not a willing participant either.

I refused to say fifteen, but considering how I looked I wouldn’t have been surprised. The issue was the fresh-faced look I had and the slight chubbiness of my cheeks. I even had very light freckles below my eyes. These characteristics told anyone looking at me that I was not an adult. The two girls had slightly more angular faces, still feminine, but their baby fat had long since melted away.

The questions continued. I gave a fake address, (my old apartment building near here). I replied that I had no known medical conditions and that I took sleeping pills. Rachel looked at me oddly for a moment, but she stayed quiet. I suppose a sixteen year old girl taking sleeping pills was considered odd, but I didn’t want the doctor to give me something that would either counteract or increase their efficacy. After today, I knew that I would need to take an increased dose to fall asleep. A few minutes later, the nurse said that the doctor would see me.

Chapter 14

The campus clinic had a bad reputation. The clinic was clean, and it was efficient. The nurses were professional, courteous and sympathetic to the plight of students even those few who were less than respectful. Unfortunately, the issue lay with some of the doctors who could be rude and pushy in an effort to see as many patients as possible. While we do enjoy the benefits of universally free health care in Canada, the system also allows for doctors to get big payouts the more patients they see. This means, they want you in and out like a drive-through restaurant, the result- a fast prescription which may or may not work.

I figured that given the clinic’s reputation, the doctor would coldly poke and prod me, ask a few questions, and then send me on my way, but as I opened the door, I was greeted by a bespectacled woman who looked to be in her early sixties. She smiled at me kindly, “Hello Abigail. Please have a seat.” I did as she asked.

She continued, “I’m Doctor Alberts. Now dear, I am not here to get you to tell me anything that will make you feel scared but I do want to help you feel better. OK? If there is anything you need to tell me about what happened to you, please feel free.”

I couldn’t tell if this is how she spoke to everyone, but it was reassuring, even though I felt she was treating me like a child. She was a refreshing surprise based on the reputation of the clinic. I nodded my head slowly. I suppose to her, I must have looked like a frightened teenaged girl who had likely suffered an assault. However, I wasn’t thinking about what Brad did, that still hadn't properly registered. It was Brad’s words that burned themselves in my mind, a white-hot branding that screamed of my failure. It was difficult to swallow because both Amélie and I knew that magic did exist. Brad, however, seemed to think that it was a simple fetish, nothing of substance, just words for play and then sex. I knew that I would not give up trying to find a cure and perhaps the Wicca on the chatroom could help, but I was extremely hesitant to open myself to anyone like that again.

Dr. Alberts tightened her lips, her brow furrowing, “Abigail, I asked you if anyone called your parents.”

I blinked, realizing that I must have been staring off into deep space. I replied, “I think so, but they are out of the country. They will be back on Saturday.” As the words left my mouth, my shoulders slumped, and I felt my entire body sinking. I would have to follow through on my promise to Amélie to meet my closest friends and family, explaining my situation.

Dr. Alberts continued, “Okay. Please stand on the scale.” For all of the devices that had gone digital, doctors still used the old weight and balance scales. It reminded me of visits to the pediatrician.

I thought that the doctor was tall for a woman, but I kept forgetting just how short I was. This was confirmed by Doctor Alberts, “Okay. 152 cm. Or 5’ feet even.” Having the actual numbers confirmed soured my mood. I knew I was short, but now I knew how short.

Dr. Alberts noticed my expression and smiled gently, “You could still grow more Abigail. It’s true that most girls have their growth spurts in junior high, but you could be a late bloomer.” She added, “Okay all done. Weight: 126 lbs. You can step off.” This body was lighter, but it didn’t feel that way. Not with the way my ass bounced or the way my breasts jiggled with no effort on my part.

The doctor continued the examination, asking me to remove my soaked pants. She cleaned the area where I had scraped my knee, applied antiseptic and then bandaged it. She said nothing about the fact that I was wearing ill-fitting men’s boxer briefs or my lack of a bra. The doctor then asked me a series of questions. I recognized them. She was testing to see if I had a concussion. The last time I had been asked similar questions was after being thrown forcefully into the boards during a hockey game, my head impacted with the boards slightly, but my hands had snaked out to stop my momentum, saving me from a broken neck.

The questions were simple, but because I had to lie for nearly each one, it took a moment to process the question and then to try and fit the response into Abigail’s world.

“So, it appears that you have a mild concussion Abigail. I know that you are embarrassed and scared about what happened but I need to inform your parents. They will need to take you to see a doctor again, and there are certain signs they need to look for to make sure you aren’t getting worse.”

She continued, looking embarrassed momentarily, “Oh actually I see that you have your older sister listed as your emergency contact. Do you not live with your parents?” I shook my head.

Dr. Alberts said with a smile, “You don’t need to tell me any more. I just need to make sure that your sister understands what she needs to do to make sure you get better. Do you know if she is your legal guardian? She will need to sign some forms before I can release you.”

I was becoming visibly upset as the kindly doctor explained what would be a relatively simple process for an actual girl my age. Before I could break into a tirade about how I didn’t appreciate being talked down to, Amélie entered the room with Chloe in her arms. “Abigail! Are you OK? What happened?” I was pleased that she hadn’t called me Darren as that would have been both embarrassing and nearly impossible to explain. I nodded slowly, preferring to stay quiet for now.

Dr. Alberts offered Amélie a seat, and she sat down quickly. Chloe was restless, trying to break from her mommy’s grip. She arched her back and threw her head backwards; she wriggled and squirmed until, finally, Amélie set her down.

Dr. Alberts smiled at Amélie, obviously trying to reassure her. Chloe made her way over to me. I took her and set her on my knee, gripping her by the arms and then bouncing her. Chloe still didn’t call me daddy, but she had accepted me as someone who wasn’t leaving. She knew she could come to me and be amused, so at least that hadn’t changed. She was soon giggling madly, her face beaming. I was surprised by how easily I fell into parent mode despite the trauma. I understood the need for Dr. Alberts to speak to Amélie without interruption.

Dr. Alberts said, “Ms. Grenier thank you for coming. Unfortunately, Abigail is slightly concussed. I am also very concerned about how she received this injury. The girls who brought her in say they saw a young man on top of her. She won’t tell me, but I am hoping with you here, she will open up. It’s very important for reasons that I am sure you understand.”

Dr. Alberts moved over to me and smiled, then gently patted me on the shoulder, “I want you to trust me Abigail, anything you tell me here doesn’t need to leave this room.” She then looked at me seriously, “But I can’t help you if you don’t tell us.”

I was mortified. The doctor wanted me to spill everything in front of Amélie. It was beyond humiliating. My stomach felt uneasy. I frowned and then spoke up firmly, “Listen, all I will tell you is that I met a guy I’ve been talking to online. We went back to his place, and he wanted something I didn’t want to provide. That’s it. When I was leaving, I tripped in the parking lot and hit my head.” I knew that there were holes a mile wide in the story, like my torn shirt, which spoke of a struggle, but I hoped that the doctor would drop it.

Dr. Alberts took the clipboard with my information on it and started writing. She exchanged sad looks with Amélie, almost mirroring the ones Rachel and Sam had shared earlier when I refused to tell them everything.

Amélie looked at me, and she could see the resolve in my face. She did not push the issue further in the doctor’s office, knowing me too well, and understanding that I would say nothing more.

Before the meeting with the doctor concluded, I was put through a series of questions that left my head spinning.

Dr. Alberts removed her glasses and proceeded to gently wipe them with a cloth she removed from her pocket. “Abigail, I am sorry to have to ask you these questions. They might be embarrassing, but it is policy. Your sister can leave if you’d like. You know what that means right?”

I nodded my head and said through clenched teeth, “It means that this clinic has an established list of policies that must be followed, and in my case, a potential rape or sexual assault, you are obligated by your employer to ask these questions, to avoid liability,” trying to avoid an outburst that Amélie would later chastise me for.

Dr. Alberts looked at Amélie and then back at me with a look of wonder, she beamed, “Well, I bet you get all straight As in school don’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders as Amélie came to take Chloe from me. She understood that I wanted her to leave simply by the look on my face. Dr. Alberts spoke to the retreating Amélie, “Please come back in when we are finished. I still need you to sign the guardian leave forms. And we will have to talk about keeping Abigail home from school for a few days. With this sort of head trauma, we really need to be careful.”

The sound of the door closing behind Amélie heralded the first question from Dr. Alberts, “Abigail, when was the last time you had your period?” I looked at the doctor as if she had two heads. Not two normal looking heads, no - perched next to the doctor’s human head was a nightmarish head with a grotesque bulbous nose covered in warts, a jagged mouth that breathed fire and smoke as dark as night and that spoke only in startled gasps of air. It was an abomination.

I replied with wide eyes, “Uh. Last month I guess?”

The doctor frowned, “I see. And are you sexually active?”

I scrunched up my face, wrinkling my nose in an almost porcine snout as I fought the urge to say “Gross!” I said, “No, no absolutely not. That’s not even on my mind.”

Dr. Alberts quirked a brow, a look of surprise lining her face. “You know it’s okay to have thoughts like that Abigail, you just have to be cautious about acting on them.”

I added quickly, trying desperately to end this humiliating exercise as soon as possible, “Yes, yes I know. Abstinence is the best policy, safe sex is good sex. I have heard it all. Believe me.”

Dr. Alberts smiled. “I believe you, Abigail. But you have to know that you put yourself in a vulnerable position when you meet someone you only spoke to on the internet. Well it’s very dangerous. Did you tell your sister where you were going?”

I shook my head, and the doctor continued. “Almost done. One last question, why won’t you tell me or your sister what happened?”

I looked at Dr. Alberts considering my response. I thought about the phrases that used to drive my parents insane when I had done something wrong. The first place winner was always “I don’t know.” At the time, I probably didn’t know, or I was lying to cover up the fact that I had done it. So I figured this was a very typical response.

As part of my teacher training, I had taken a course on adolescent development, with a particular focus on the brain and reasoning skills. When an adolescent does something illegal, they may actually not know why they committed the act. Being an adult, I had superior reasoning and decision-making skills, despite what happened with Brad. I knew why I made the decision after all - because I was desperate.

I replied, “I don’t know.”

The doctor sighed and shook her head. She removed a card from her coat pocket, “Abigail, when you are ready I want you to come and see me. I don’t take new patients at my practice, but I am going to make a special exception in your case. You are a very beautiful and bright girl, and I would hate to see you hurt yourself, just to protect someone who has hurt you.”

I took the card, never intending to use it.

Chapter 15

Amélie re-entered the examination room as I exited. She handed me Chloe, who started kicking her legs furiously, ready to enter full tantrum mode. Clearly, she wanted Amélie, but we were stuck with each other. I put Chloe down and that seemed to appease her. I knew her teeth were bothering her, so she was ultra-sensitive.

Rachel went up to Chloe and smiled, “Hey you. What’s the matter?” She made a silly face, extending her eyebrows upward and turning her mouth into a wide grin. Chloe thought it was hilarious and tried to emulate the expression. Rachel stopped when Chloe stopped fuming; however, this caused Chloe to start pointing at the palm of her hand.

Sam, who was lounging with her legs set across two of the waiting room chairs, said, “Oh. She knows sign language.”

I nodded and added, “She wants you to do it again.”

Rachel made a similar face, but this time, her jaw stuck out farther. Chloe didn’t seem to notice the difference and giggled.

A few minutes later, Amélie emerged, Chloe ran to her immediately as if the others in the room never existed. Amélie scooped her up. She turned to Sam and Rachel, “Thank you so much for bringing Abigail to the clinic. You have no idea how much it means to me, that you would do that. Someone else may have just left her there.”

Sam smiled, adding a simple, “No problem. We were just there at the right time.”

Rachel actually blushed and said, “It was our pleasure. You seem like such a nice family.”

Sam asked, “It must be hard taking care of a baby and a teenager at the same time. How do you do it?”

Amélie replied, “Oh Abigail is no trouble. She helps with Chloe all the time. Even gets up with her at night sometimes.”

Sam took Amélie aside, speaking at a volume that made it impossible to hear. I was annoyed at what was becoming a common occurrence- I was being left out of conversations that no doubt involved me. The adult world that I had been a part of for so many years was slowly being blocked off.

Moments later, we said our goodbyes to Rachel and Sam. I thanked them subtly. I had never been a person to heap praise and adulation on others, even though I enjoyed it myself. Amélie looked at me with narrowed eyes, but she said nothing. Obviously she expected me to be more gracious, but I was content with offering them a simple thank you. Did I need to grovel at their feet to show my gratitude?

Ironically, I now had the medical certificate that I needed to stave off my imminent firing. Unfortunately, it stated that my name was Abigail Lawrence and that I should miss at least one day of school so my condition could be monitored. Dr. Alberts had also provided me with a temporary pass that allowed me to keep my car in the campus parking lot for a full week free of charge. It was given to those who could not legally drive due to injuries. I wanted to drive home immediately, but the look on Amélie’s face when I suggested it told me that it was not a battle I could win.

So, I would be trapped in the car with Amélie. My wife’s face was a strange mixture of sadness and fury. She rarely showed her emotions, but they were plainly written on her face. I had only seen this face a handful of times or variations of it.

“So when exactly are you going to tell me what happened? Or are you just going to let me wonder if you’d been raped?” Amélie said her words through clenched teeth. Even Chloe, who had been difficult at the doctor’s office, remained quiet, perhaps sensing that now wasn’t the time to make trouble.

Before I could answer, Amélie continued her tirade, “Do you have any idea how stupid you were to meet that guy and then go into his apartment?” Fury blanketed Amélie’s pretty features, “Should I even ask why you were meeting a guy ‘Abigail’ or are you going to keep that from me too?”

Amélie was driving erratically. Her driving made me anxious as it was verging on road rage. When she blew through a red light, I knew that I needed to try and calm her down.

“I was meeting him because he said he was a wizard. That he knew magic. I thought that he could help me- you know- with my condition. I wasn’t meeting him for any other reason. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you in front of the doctor. She would have thought I was crazy.”

My words had the desired calming effect, Amélie’s face softened, but it remained tight- it just wasn’t a mask of fury any longer. She said, “Darren, you scared the hell out of me. You know how we’ve had those conversations about Chloe when she gets older. How we are going to worry when she is out. Imagine you got a call like I got today, except it was about Chloe. How would you feel?”

I replied, “Like you. Out of my mind with worry, worried that I am never going to see her alive.” I looked over at Amélie, “Look, I am sorry, but I was desperate, and I really thought this guy could help.”

Amélie shook her head, “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Why wasn’t I there with you?”

It bothered me to think that I needed Amélie’s protection, but in hindsight, Brad would have reacted much differently had I brought Amélie along. Amélie would have been no nonsense. I realized that the decision I had made was very foolish. It was what a kid would have done. I had hidden this from Amélie the same way a girl my body’s age would have hidden an older boyfriend she thought couldn’t bring home to meet the family.

“Because I didn’t think you would accept that a wizard could exist, and I thought you would try and convince me not to go. You don’t understand what I am going through, and you cannot possibly understand how much I don’t want to face my parents this way.” We were halfway home at this point, but it felt like an eternity. Amélie was still driving at the brink of road rage, at least twenty kilometers above the speed limit, but the argument dragged on as if we were crawling along the road.

Amélie kept turning her head toward me, which made me nervous, because she really should have been watching the road, especially because we were on the highway. She raised her voice at me, “Do you want me to treat you like a child, Darren? Because you are certainly acting like that. What happened to the openness we were going to have about this? I know that you are terrified to meet your parents, but you have to. It’s the adult thing to do. They need to know what happened to their son.”

She twisted her head back to the road at my urging, but she continued to speak, however; it was in a softer tone, “Darren, think of it this way. Wizard or not. I would have gone and should have gone with you. You still act like you are invincible. You act like a man. Here’s a wake-up call for you. You are vulnerable. As much as you don’t want to admit it, people are going to see your outside and think that’s what you are.”

I shot back, “So you want me to act all defenseless like I need saving? You want me to act like a girl, is that it? Is that your plan, to just accept that this is how it will be?”

Amélie changed lanes rapidly, cutting off a transport truck in the process. She replied, “Stop thinking of it that way. I know who you are, but no one else does. This guy you met certainly didn’t know who you really are. I don’t want you to act like a girl, but I want you to be more careful.”

She added, “I am honestly shocked that you would do that. It was so foolish. I am scared that this change has done something to your brain.”

I shook my head, “No it hasn’t. I told you that I was desperate for a cure. That’s why I went. That’s the only reason.”

Amélie frowned and then took the highway exit, now reaching the homestretch of this tortuous ride. She looked exhausted. I saw worry lines etched in her face. She looked older than her actual age of thirty. “Please just tell me he didn’t do what the doctor was suggesting he did.”

I said, “He didn’t do anything like that.” I felt sick to my stomach telling my wife this, but she had asked, and she was not the type to let it go. “He was rubbing my shoulders saying it was part of a ritual- and…well he started moving forward. As soon as I felt him touch my chest, I bolted out of there. Well he chased me down and threw me against a wall. I screamed for help and that’s when Rachel and Sam came. Not before he threw himself into me and knocked me down. I hit my head there. Before too I think- he pushed me into the wall and I hit my head.”

Amélie listened to me speak. I could see her anger growing as I continued. It melted away momentarily as I told her of my escape, but her lips pursed and her jaw clenched. Red-hot rage erupted from her lips, “That asshole! He assaulted you! We have to go to the police now. Right now.” It looked like I had no choice. The police station was not far from our home.

I began to shake with fear at the prospect of police officers getting involved. I shook my head repeatedly, “I didn’t tell you the whole story. I smashed his TV and his Xbox before I left. That’s why he chased me and threw me into the wall…I was angry because he was a fraud. And his pawing me didn’t help.” I added, “Also, look at it this way, we can’t go to the police. They will realize I don’t actually exist. And when they start sniffing around, well who knows what will happen. No, we can’t go to the police. They will wonder where Darren Lawrence is, and that will just get even messier. You know I am right.”

Amélie turned back toward home without saying a word. Her expression had softened, but she was still clearly upset. As we pulled into the driveway, she said, “Dr. Alberts wants you to stop taking your sleeping pills. They aren’t meant to be taken by teenagers. She said that there can be side effects due to your- uh their developing brain. She said that the anti-depressive effect for adults can actually work the opposite way for teens.”

As I listened to Amélie’s words, I started to playback the results of today’s failed expedition in my head. Perhaps Amélie was right and my brain had changed. Paranoia set in, and I feared what other ways my mind could change. I had to get out of this body.

Chapter 16

Friday came and with it the inevitable phone call from my boss. I didn’t even bother asking Amélie to manufacture a story because I still had no proper medical certificate. If I had tried to use my real name in the doctor’s office, I would have likely ended up in the hospital under mental observation. Even if I avoided going to the hospital, I still wouldn't have got a certificate in my own name. My probation stated that I absolutely needed a medical certificate for an extended absence. I did not bother listening to the voicemail on my phone. I knew what it was going to say because I saw the e-mail also.

The paper trail for my termination was complete. It was infuriating because I was not playing the system; I was in an impossible situation with no clear solution. Those who played the system found crooked doctors, or they acted the master thespian, putting a show on for their doctor to get a certificate. I suppose I could have visited a less than reputable doctor, but even then, I would have had to show my health card, which had Darren’s picture on it. Dr. Alberts had only agreed to take me because I was a potential rape victim, and I had likely suffered head trauma. She told Amélie that I would need to bring my health card to any subsequent appointments because it ensured the doctors were paid. Dr. Alberts waived the fee given my circumstances.

Without a health card, I couldn’t use the free system. I would have to pay out of pocket, and, considering our financial situation without my job, I hoped that I would recover without any need for follow up medical appointments. I was still dizzy at times, but the nausea had left, thankfully. Amélie took the day off on Friday to monitor my symptoms. I spent a lot of the day sleeping, again hoping that my body would recover on its own.

I was secretly taking my sleeping pills. Thursday evening, I took a double dose, as the seriousness of the situation in Brad’s apartment dawned on me. It wasn’t the pawing or even his rough treatment outside the apartment. I think if I was a real girl, I would have felt more violated because I would have considered this my body, and while I certainly did not want anyone except Amélie touching me, it didn’t bother me near as much as finding out that Brad was a fraud.

I knew that it was only one incident and one failure, but I was beginning to doubt that there was anyone that could help me. A part of me thought that I was insane, that I was, in fact, locked away in an institution, and that this life was only a schizophrenic episode. It seemed impossible for someone to change like I had. I remember from my psych classes, hearing stories of people who were lost to their illness. Homeless people, for instance, can suffer from simple schizophrenia, making them accept the rigours of life on the street. The illness that allows them to throw off consumerism’s shackles also robs them of any drive to succeed. Was I lost within such an episode?

I realized that as the seconds ticked by on every clock in the house, on my phone and my computer, it was one second closer to the time I would have to face my parents. I didn’t want to talk to Amélie about tomorrow because I was still upset with her for forcing me to meet the people who had known me for 32 years as Darren Lawrence. I was conflicted because, although I did not want them to worry, and I wanted them in my life, I simply had no idea how they would react.

I opened the laptop and saw that Amélie was already logged onto Facebook. I wasn’t supposed to look at anything with bright light, but I figured again that I didn’t really have a concussion and that the way I had answered the questions made Dr. Alberts think that I did. I saw a discussion she had with Laura, and with other friends as well. Most of them seemed to suspect that I had cancer and offered their well wishes to us both. In fact, even Amélie’s parents, who were concerned when I was admitted to the hospital before, were asking Amélie if I had something more serious because word had reached them that no one had seen me in two weeks.

I shook my head, realizing that once this got out, it would be impossible to contain. I almost wished that it was cancer. It would have been easier to explain. A lump started in my stomach and formed into a tight knot. My anxiety over the possible humiliation I would suffer over my transformation gripped my stomach in a vice and twisted it slowly.

Amélie came into the room carrying a tray with soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She frowned as she saw me looking at the laptop.

“Didn’t Dr. Alberts say that you aren’t supposed to be looking at anything with bright lights?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t like how you are talking about me on Facebook. And to your parents too. Can’t we just keep this secret until we find a cure? Why does anyone need to know? I just know that once our small group of friends knows, that the whole world will know. You know how things spread. I don’t want to be some kind of medical experiment freak show.” I shook as tears began to run down my cheeks. My emotions were overwhelming, and while I was not exactly stone-faced before, I never cry so easily.

Amélie set the tray down on my lap. I was wearing a pair of my pj pants, and while they were too long, I found them comforting, just like the soup she had brought.

Amélie’s face remained calm. She sat down next to me on the couch, held my hand and said firmly, “Because every night when your mom and dad go to bed, they will wonder what happened to their son. And every morning, they will wake up and wonder the same thing. And so will your sister.”

She continued, “You could hide this, but by doing that, you will be hurting the people who love you.”

I looked at Amélie with eyes blurred with tears, “I can’t…I just can’t face them like this Amélie. I have never felt so ashamed. I don’t want to hurt them, but I don’t want them to see me like this either. I am worried they won’t accept me.”

Amélie remained calm. “Just show them you are the same person underneath. Be yourself, and they will accept you. Have an argument with your dad about politics, make weird trumpet noises and sing random nonsensical songs. Do all the things you have always done and everyone will accept you. Because they will know it is you.”

She added, “And as for Facebook, since when has everything you read on the net been absolute truth? Also, what scientist in their right mind would theorize that magic could exist?”

I had to admit, Amélie was making me feel better about the situation, although the soup and grilled cheese with ketchup was helping too. If I simply acted like myself, acceptance would come. If I could do that, I would feel that maybe, my brain wasn’t changing, and that despite this form, I could still be myself.

I leaned over and squeezed Amélie’s butt cheek playfully, “So how long were you practicing that speech?”

Amélie half smiled and replied, “In my head for the last week at work pretty much.”

I was feeling better about tomorrow because it would also give me an opportunity to show that despite a different skin, I was still me.

Chapter 17

I used to revel in Saturday mornings, certainly I could not wake up any later than Chloe allowed, but it also meant I did not have the trudge to work. It meant Amélie’s waffles topped with real maple syrup and strawberries. Now, Saturday morning would forever be tainted. That was the day my life had changed irrevocably.

Still considering what happened on Thursday, I was feeling much better, but I was shocked when I managed to fall asleep at 9 PM on a Friday night. Usually, Amélie and I had sex or at least enjoyed each other’s company. It was rare that I fell asleep before her, but considering my possible concussion, it was hardly surprising.

Amélie and I had not had sex since my change. I had hoped that she would come around to the idea that I was only occupying a different skin and that I was the same person inside, but she had blocked most of my attempts at amorous behaviour, and other than the one night where she rubbed my legs, she was not exactly reciprocating. I understood to a certain degree. If Amélie turned into a man overnight, I would have trouble touching her. All the taut muscle in a powerfully built, hairy body with thick pipes for arms would be hard for me to deal with. I figured it would be easier for Amélie to like girls because well, girls were softer, prettier and I understood liking girls ... that way. Still, Amélie had never shown any interest in women before, so I had a long road ahead of me.

I checked on-line for the actual arrival of my parents’ flight, and it was on time. I dug into Amélie’s special waffles, drenched in syrup. Chloe, who was busy colouring at her kid-sized table, asked me to sit with her. She smiled and held up a fistful of crayons. At her age, she mostly coloured on the table, and if it actually got in the book, it was usually just a random selection of lines and scribbles.

“Daddy needs to finish his breakfast, then I can colour with you Chloe.” I continued to call myself daddy in front of her, and Amélie did the same when we were at home. I had hardly left the house in the last two weeks, so other than the clinic, we hadn’t had many opportunities in public to deal with my condition.

Chloe scrunched up her face and said, “No Daddy! Alee. Alee. Alee. Sit, sit, sit!”

I frowned, but did as Chloe asked, my padded butt filling out more of the seat than it used to. It was a child-sized seat, but I had very little ass before. In fact, I used to have to put a cushion under my butt for long car trips because it would actually get sore. Amélie never had to do this, and I guessed that I wouldn’t need the cushion in future. I didn’t consider this an advantage because my current ass actually jiggled when I moved. I disliked the feeling immensely, knowing that it only brought attention to the area. Male attention.

I looked at Amélie with concern, “Why is she calling me that? She has been doing that for the past few days.”

Amélie replied, “I’ve noticed that too. Kids Chloe’s age are very visual, so because she doesn’t see ‘daddy’ then she can’t respond to you that way. Even if we call you daddy or Darren in front of her, she can’t reason like we do, so she makes up something to call you.”

I finished chewing a particularly large mouthful of waffle and replied, “But if we keep calling me daddy in front of her, she should start calling me daddy eventually, right?”

Amélie turned her back to me and busied herself with clearing the dishes from the drainer. “I don’t know, Darren. I think she is confused. She still calls for you, especially at bedtime. She wants to say goodnight to daddy. I do think she will probably get used to it though.”

I could tell that Amélie didn’t exactly believe her own words, and to be honest, neither did I. I wondered if Chloe would always remember my image before my change and consider that person her daddy. She often pointed at pictures of me and would say “Daddy?” clearly wondering where I was. I stopped thinking and just coloured with Chloe, enjoying our time together. So what if she didn’t call me daddy?

My parents’ plane had touched down as we finished breakfast. Chloe pointed at a picture in her book that she wanted me to colour. It was a picture of a princess in a tower with long hair. I recognized it from the story ‘Rapunzel’. She pointed at the picture and then at me, saying “Alee! Alee!” While my hair was not as long as Rapunzel’s, it certainly felt that way, especially when Chloe tugged on it. I took a yellow crayon and started colouring the girl’s long golden hair. I would have done this before mind you. I was not the type of guy who thought that colouring a girly picture with my daughter was somehow emasculating. It was just odd to have her point at a picture of a princess and then point at me.

I turned to Amélie, “How should I dress? I mean I was thinking that I could wear a pair of those pants you got me. Maybe even the ones that got ripped and my green hoodie.”

Amélie nodded her head, “Yeah, well the hoodie will do it for most people. You did ask to be buried in that before.”

I laughed, “I still want to be buried in it.” I was happy that Amélie had not suggested anything remotely girly nor had she suggested I wear a bra. She was taking it slowly with me, and I appreciated that. Thursday’s episode had told her to what lengths I was willing to go to find a cure. I turned back around and coloured the girl’s dress green.

I showered and then Amélie met me in the bedroom. I pulled on a pair of my boxer briefs and a white t-shirt, which was too long but stretched tightly across my chest. Amélie wrinkled her nose at my selection. You could see my nipples pushing against the fabric.

“Darren, if you are going to wear that. You should really do this.” She moved in front of me and proceeded to zip up the hoodie. “If you aren’t going to wear a bra- well you should just do that. You don’t want to be all busting out in front of your parents, right?”

I nodded my head in quick agreement. Amélie took me in front of the mirror and held a brush in her hands. She then proceeded to brush my bangs back and then tuck them over my ears. I didn’t exactly want my parents, kid sister and closest friends to see me wearing a pink headband, so I appreciated her gesture. “It will be OK Darren, they will believe you.”

I nodded again, although the girl’s image, the blue eyes staring at me and the soft feminine features, they screamed at the obvious disparity, causing a sudden pang in my stomach when the doorbell rang.

I hurried downstairs into the basement. I hid underneath the stairs in our storage area. It was the perfect place because I could hear everything that went on upstairs yet not be seen. Our home was a raised ranch style, meaning that unlike a bungalow, the basement acted more like a second floor with two bedrooms and the music room. The second bedroom was my man cave, and ironically, also where the previous owners had placed their teenage daughter.

I could hear that Laura and Andrew had arrived with their two month old baby. Andrew was my best friend and the bassist. He often wore a baseball cap to hide his thinning hair, and was slightly overweight. Laura was childhood friends with Amélie. A tall Italian beauty with flowing dark hair, she was someone you could trust. She could empathize with nearly any problem. I still remember when she consoled me when I thought I was going to lose Amélie to another. They were our best friends, and along with my family, they were the most worried. I had received many messages from Laura and Andrew over the past two weeks. I just told them that I would tell everyone when we had the test results back, as I had agreed with Amélie.

I could hear Andrew’s voice upstairs, “Hey, so where’s Darren, is he feeling better? I brought my bass. I was hoping he was feeling up to jamming again.”

Laura’s voice added, “I know he probably doesn’t want to see anyone. It means a lot that you would have us here along with Darren’s family.”

Amélie replied, “Well you are like family, Darren and Andrew are like brothers, and we’ve known each other since we were kids. We wanted you guys to be here.”

Amélie replied to Andrew, “You will see Darren, but he’s only going to come out when he’s ready.”

I imagined what Laura and Andrew were thinking. I figured that they, like everyone else, thought I had cancer, so I would come out completely bald and sickly.

Andrew replied, “Yeah we can wait.”

Our entryway was not wide enough to allow more than one person to enter at once, so as Laura and Andrew were removing their boots, Steven pushed open the door and nearly hit someone. I knew this because I heard Andrew say, “Hey Steven, watch out, you almost hit Laura with the door.”

I heard Steven’s voice, “Sorry man, you know how it is here. I never knock because Darren usually picks me up. When Amélie sent me that text, I figured we were jamming and that Darren was better.” Steven was built like a basketball player. He was well over six feet tall, but not gangly. He had very well-defined arms from years of drumming.

Andrew replied, “Yeah I brought my bass. I am hoping that we can play. It’s been two weeks. How’d you get here anyway?

Steven’s voice boomed, “No kidding. When Darren had the stomach flu we missed two weeks too. It’s like an eternity to wait that long. Pete drove me over. He was coming this way anyway.”

I could hear the footsteps upstairs, so I knew that almost everyone was here. I smiled, realizing that my band mates were as committed as I was, despite work and family obligations; they still had music on the brain- like me.

The conversation continued. Andrew added, “We’ll probably be a bit rusty.”

The doorbell rang again and I knew my parents and sister had arrived. I heard their voices. Everyone was here, but I knew that it wasn’t time to reveal myself yet. My stomach churned. I was nervous, but it was not good nerves, the type that keep you energetic before you start a set. It was the type that made me want to stay in the closet until everyone left.

I heard Laura’s voice, “Hey guys, I wouldn’t be expecting to jam.”

Steven replied, “Well it’s really unlike Darren to wait three weeks between playing. Usually, he is rescheduling trying to get in a practice a week. So-“

Andrew added, “Something must be wrong.” I could hear Amélie greeting my parents and sister and then I heard footsteps above me. Everyone was here and in position.

I heard my mom’s voice, “Allison, what are you talking about? We were going to come here to see the baby anyway, but why do you look that way? You hardly said a word the whole ride back from airport. What’s going on?” To say my mother sounded worried would be an understatement.

My sister, Allison replied, “Mom, Amélie wouldn’t let me see Darren the last time I came. He’s really sick, and she’s been hiding it from us. We have a right to know.”

Amélie replied, “You do Allison, but it was Darren himself who chose not to see you that night. I’m not keeping him from anyone. He’ll tell you that himself.”

I quietly opened the door to the closet and crept into the nearby band room, locking the door behind me. My father said, “I hear someone downstairs.”

I could hear footsteps coming toward me, and then I heard Amélie’s voice, “You will all know today what has happened to Darren. We just ask that you be patient. First thing, Darren isn’t dying. He doesn’t have cancer. But he’s changed.”

I wasn’t in the room, but I knew that the absence of the shuffling worried footsteps was a good sign.

I heard my mother’s voice, still stricken with worry, “Changed how Amélie?”

I picked up my guitar and slung it over my shoulder. I was forced to shorten the strap because before, it hung past my knees, making it nearly impossible to play anything but D drop riffs. I took my pick into my right hand, and my left hand now devoid of pink nail polish was cut nearly to the nub prepared to form a chord. I knew the nails would grow back, but I couldn’t play with them as they were. I began to pick one of our songs. It was one my band mates would know instantly. Laura would have heard it countless times because Andrew was our resident mix artist. He would take our recorded tracks home and mix them, often playing the mixes for Laura who had an excellent ear.

My parents and sister would recognize the song because I had played it at a family gathering at my aunt’s over Christmas. They said they really enjoyed it, especially since I wasn’t screaming. Being from a generation which saw the Beatles come to prominence, their ears weren’t exactly attuned to caterwauling. My mother used to call the music I listened to in high school ‘killing yourself music’.

I had not practiced the song the day before because I was still feeling too tired, but while my fingers were smaller than before, I could still fret with relative ease. It hurt to push down on the strings because I didn’t have the calluses from years of playing. I also lacked some of the strength and dexterity, but I knew how to form the chords. As I picked the strings up and down, I noticed how much harder it was to move around on the fret board because these hands had never done that. Thankfully, the song only had a few chords.

My Marshall amp hummed, blaring sweet chorus affected notes. The chorus effect is like putting a shiny coating over each note. It can hide a bum note, which is good because I was having some difficulty with my chord changes. The neck of my guitar, a knock-off Gibson with beefy pickups, was thinner than the Fender I had played in my dream, but my hands were tiny. I was loathe to admit it, but I would need a smaller guitar. I frowned as I stepped up to the microphone because I loved my guitar.

My first words were timid as I struggled to find the right octave. I had been a tenor, but now, I was a soprano, so my lowest notes were among the higher range of my male voice. Still, I had a good ear, and I knew how to hit the notes, so it would not sound bad, just hesitant in places.

The song I chose was about Amélie and her body issues, but also the body issues that women have in general. It used very deliberate imagery such as a hammer striking a nose, and even with apparent perfection, the recipient called for the hammer again. I sung of the enemy inside, the voice in a woman’s head, telling her she is imperfect. The small pause from the first soft chorus was longer than usual, because I wanted to hear if anyone was outside the door, or if the footsteps were stirring. Because everything was amplified, those upstairs could easily hear me.

The band room had curtains across the door, so I could not see if anyone was lurking outside, but I could hear people talking. There was a knock at the door, but I ignored it and moved into the third verse. The knocking became more frantic, but still I played on and continued into the third verse. This one about the Hollywood ideal and the ridicule faced by those who do not conform.

It moved through the soft bridge, pleading for the woman in the song to stop denying her beauty, and then I stomped my guitar pedal, distorting the guitar as I started to hit heavy power chords. I gained confidence as I heard my voice more and more. It was so powerful that I actually backed off the microphone far more than I usually did for the crescendo of the song. My voice was sweet, but tinged with the sadness of my tone, it was an intoxicating mix. It was hard to describe what I felt in that moment, a mix of elation that something coming out of me could produce such a beautiful sound, as I sung of wanting the woman to see herself as I saw her, and fear. Fear because I had actually enjoyed a moment in this body. I worried that should more moments like this happen, I might stop looking for a cure.

I threw the thought from my mind, realising that I was actually playing the wrong chord, but I was still singing in key. I ended the song as I always did, singing of the fact that nothing would change, that from the moment of birth, women would always allow themselves to be judged.

I had hit notes I had only previously dreamed of hitting. The fourth octave A that I had struggled with was effortless.

I set the guitar down on the stand, unplugged it and then clicked off amp. My fingers were killing me, the metallic strings almost like barbed wire across my soft finger tips. I was shaking. The endorphins released from my performance had made me giddy, but it soon wore off. I realized that I was going to have to leave the band room. The knocking was frantic again, and I could hear the disbelief in people’s voices.

I slowly unlocked the door and stepped out to my fate.

Chapter 18

The disbelief in the voices transferred to faces as I stepped out. The hallway outside the band room was only wide enough to fit two people comfortably, but as I stepped out, I noticed that everyone with the exception of Amélie was waiting for my grand entrance. I had sung a song that existed only in Darren Lawrence’s mind and on his personal notepad. We had not released any of our music and only the small group of friends who heard our basement show before Christmas would know what I had sung. Unless one of those people stole my lyric book and memorized the words, it had to be me. I was positive they would believe me.

I said, “Sorry for not telling all of you sooner. I hope you understand now why we waited so long.”

My sister blinked, looking down at the teenaged girl before her and then replying, “How- how is this even possible?”

The disbelief on everyone’s face was different from the one on Amélie’s after she saw me change. It was more confusion than horror.

Amélie stayed at the top of the stairs, while the others were only inches away. I felt trapped, enclosed by those I loved and trusted the most, staring at me with bewilderment.

Amélie interjected, “I saw Darren change. It was early Saturday morning two weeks ago. I can assure you that the person you see before is Darren Lawrence.”

We had no reason to lie about it. I had no gambling debts, neither was I the star witness in a mob trial, so I figured that they would believe me. Before allowing my appearance to sink in any further, I added quickly, “I want all of you to treat me the same. We have been trying to act as normally as possible, while searching for a cure.”

I turned to Andrew and Steven, “I want to keep doing the band thing with you guys. You’ve heard that I can still sing.” I said the last words with sudden pride. “And my playing will get better. I will probably need a smaller guitar though.” I frowned, recalling the glittery acoustic from my dream. I added, “Something smaller, but with flames.” I hid my left hand behind my back, as I could feel the nails re-growing.

Steven and Andrew looked at me and then at each other. I was growing concerned because other than my sister’s initial question, people were just staring and saying nothing.

Steven broke the silence, “Sure man, yeah we can jam.” I wasn’t sure if he actually believed me, or if he was just trying to sever the awkward moment.

Still, I broke into a smile, “It means a lot to me that you can all accept me like this. Listen, we are still looking for a cure, but no luck yet.” I noticed my parents were oddly quiet. I had expected my mother to burst forward from the small throng and embrace me, glad that I did not have a deadly disease.

My sister, who was now taller than me, approached and scrutinized me, “I still don’t understand how this can happen. Amélie, there must be a better explanation than this. Magic isn’t real. We would have seen it before.”

I felt that Amélie had been interrogated enough, so I jumped in. “Listen, why don’t we just go upstairs and talk about it. You guys are really in my bubble here.”

Andrew piped up, “That certainly sounds like something Darren would say.”

Steven asked, “When is everybody going to dance?”

I smirked and replied, “Right before the last song.” From that, it seemed that I had convinced my band mates. Steven’s question referred to the silly banter we did before the last song of the set. Only the real Darren Lawrence would know the answer. My choice of dress also likely helped them to make a decision. I wore practically the same outfit every time we played, including my green hoodie which was practically glued to my body. Unfortunately, that nagging sensation remained in the back of my mind as long as my parents said nothing. My mother looked a little like Amélie did when I first changed. She had wide eyes, and her mouth, usually smiling, was tight. There was scepticism in her eyes. My father peered at me; his gaze was steely. He said woodenly, “Give us a moment.”

Everyone returned upstairs. Amélie and I brought chairs from the kitchen to give everyone a seat.

My sister looked annoyed still. Her question hadn’t been answered. Again, the cancer explanation would have been easier, but with a different set of consequences. I didn’t want people thinking I was dying. My father helped my mother sit on the couch. She looked like she was in shock. I tried to avoid her gaze, but her troubled eyes found mine with pin-point precision.

Chloe was napping, but I felt a strong urge to wake her up, knowing it would please my mother to see her. If anything could snap her out of this state, it was Chloe’s beaming face and her infectious laugh.

Amélie laughed nervously as she handed out drinks to people. Again, the room had fallen silent.

Laura rocked her son gently. I knew she could feel the tension in the room, the great confusion. “Your voice is amazing, Darren. I had chills when you sang that last chorus.”

I smiled at the compliment, “Yeah, it is the only real advantage to this believe me. This body is just built to sing.”

My sister burst out, “How can you be so calm, Darren? What are you going to do? You sound like you are happy to be like that. Did you ask for it?”

I shook my head repeatedly, “No! No, absolutely not, Allison. How do you want me to act though? I am happy I can at least continue playing music.”

Allison pointed a finger at me, “Well music isn’t the only thing. What about your daughter and your wife? And what are you? Like fourteen? How are you going to keep your job like this? Why aren’t we all looking for a cure right now instead of talking about how great your voice is?”

I narrowed my eyes at my sister, “Look I am putting a brave face on here. I’ve been to some dark places literally and figuratively these past two weeks. Don’t you think I know what the consequences of this change are? I already lost my job.”

I added petulantly, “And I am probably sixteen.”

Allison shook her head, “It still doesn’t explain how it can happen. We’ve never seen magic. Are you trying to tell me now that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny exist, what about the tooth fairy? Are they coming here tomorrow to hear you sing?” I frowned, unsure of how to react to my sister’s sarcasm.

I lowered my head. Was my sister right? Was I acting normally considering the situation? I had been attempting to find a cure, but like any research, when you reach stumbling blocks, it pays to take some time off to rethink the parameters of your search.

I grimaced and Allison added, “Sorry Darren, if that's who you really are, it’s just how are we supposed to believe this? It seems impossible.”

I stood quickly saying nothing and went into the kitchen to fetch a pair of scissors. I then stood in the middle of the living room where everyone could see me. I took the scissors and began cutting my long, luxurious golden locks. I cut rapidly without any thought as to style or length, and when I was finished, a mass of hair lay at my feet. I then snipped off the tips of my finger nails. There were gasps at my behaviour, but no one moved to stop me.

I was taking a chance with my hair, but I figured that it was likely part of the package. And if I was wrong, well I could get my mother to even it out. She cut mine and my father’s hair. It wasn’t that I was cheap, no, it was a bonding moment for us when she played hairdresser. I enjoyed the time we spent together, and people generally thought her haircuts looked good. Not that many people would tell you that you had a bad haircut, but still the compliments seemed genuine.

If I was wrong, then I would have a much easier time drying my hair, but I had a feeling that I wasn’t. Whatever had made me into this girl seemed to dislike my ruining the finished product. At least, it wasn’t forcing me to wear what I had worn in my dream.

I said, “Watch closely.”

Within a few minutes, I could feel my hair tickling my neck again. The stray strands that I had missed in my assault soon had sister strands. The expressions in the room ranged from wonderment to shock. My mother opened her mouth in surprise, but closed it soon enough, returning to a tight-lipped state.

I held up my hands with fingers outstretched, palms towards me. My nails were almost as long as they were before I cut them just minutes before. The stars were back, standing out against the pink background.

I spoke evenly, “There is no other explanation for this but magic.”

Laura spoke up, “Is this a curse? Why did this happen to you?”

I sat down at the edge of the couch next to Amélie. I was tired of everyone staring at me, so I shifted from the centre of the room. “We aren’t sure. It all started with a dream I had.” I proceeded to describe the dream in great detail, my audience was spellbound again, seemingly in an in-between state where they believed everything they were seeing but lacked the means to process it. Amélie and I had gone through a similar progression when I had first changed.

I finished, “And when I woke up, I was like this. Minus the outfit. Thankfully.”

I could see in my sister’s eyes that the scepticism had diminished, but she still seemed unwilling to believe my story in its entirety. She spoke up, “Sorry Darren, it’s just really hard to believe. My brother is now my sister, and-“. I interrupted her:

“Brother. I am still your brother. Like I said, I want you to treat me the same as before, at least as much as possible.” My eyes met my mother’s again, and I quickly turned away. “It’s better for me that way.”

Andrew, who was in the process of burping his son, said, “We’ll do our best, Darren. I admit this is weird, but we’ll try. But what about our other friends? They are still going to ask what happened to you. The rumour was that you had cancer.”

I replied, “I don’t want people thinking I have cancer, but I also don’t want anyone outside this room knowing what happened to me either. Amélie and I talked about it, and we thought about some possible reasons why I would leave.”

My sister interjected, “You want us to lie to people, like you’ve been lying to us? I don’t like that.”

I frowned, “So what are you going to do, tell our extended family that you suddenly have a younger sister who thinks she is Darren? Neither option is preferable.” I addressed everyone, meeting their gaze one after the other as I spoke, “I just don’t need the whole world finding out about what happened. I don’t want the National Enquirer going through my trash or reporters knocking on our door to speak to the freak.”

Any feelings that my sister had previously regarding my enjoyment of my condition vanished. She nodded slowly, “I could see that being a problem, especially if you show them what you did us just now.”

I nodded, pleased that my sister, who had been the hardest to convince, was on my side now, “I’d appreciate if everyone could just keep this to themselves for now. If anyone outside this room asks you how I am, I’d like you to tell them-“

I was interrupted by Amélie, “Darren, I know we talked about this, and I agreed, after some convincing, but I don’t think this is right. If you want to be treated the same way, you can’t expect your friends to lie for you. We will find a way to turn you back, but for now, I think you should accept this.”

She continued, “It’s not like you are a social butterfly, so people aren’t going to be expecting you to be at every birthday party and barbecue. We can leave it to you to tell your other friends and family, but we shouldn’t be forced to lie to people. You know how I felt when I had to lie to everyone here. Don’t put them through that as well.”

I looked around the room, and there seemed to be a consensus among my friends and sister. I narrowed my eyes and lowered my head. When I raised it again, I felt Laura’s hand on my shoulder. “We won’t tell people what happened, but Amélie is right.”

I assumed that Laura and Amélie had spoken because their reaction seemed rehearsed. They had planned to have the mini-intervention, even though Amélie and I had spoken on Friday night about concocting a lie. I felt that the trust between Amélie and me had been broken. I played the scene with fury in my eyes but acceptance on my lips, “Fine.”

As this was going on, I could see that my parents were no longer in the room. They must have left when I lowered my head. I found them in the kitchen speaking quietly. Conversations going on behind my back infuriated me because they would not have done it if I was not occupying this body. Again, I felt as if I was not being involved in the conversations around me- adult conversations. It was embarrassing and maddening at the same time. Were my friends and family going to be making decisions about me without my consent eventually?

I approached my parents and asked my dad, “Dad, what do you think we should do?” I often asked my father for advice, but this was different than the employment or financial questions I usually asked.

My father and mother rose from the kitchen table, my mother barely meeting my gaze. My father said, “Sorry Darren, we have to go, it’s been a long day with the travel and everything. We’ll call you later.”

I knew that something was wrong when my mother was leaving without seeing her granddaughter. Even though she was sleeping, my mother would usually have waited for her to wake up. Instead, they said quick goodbyes and that was it. My heart sunk, feeling like it had struck the bottom of my stomach and then bounced back up. I had gained a measure of acceptance from my friends and my sister, but my mother hardly said a word. I worried that she thought I was a freak, or that she believed this to be a massive conspiracy, the former seeming more likely.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room after my parents left, but it was thankfully broken by my sister, “So what are you going to do for a job, Darren?”

Steven said, “You could come work at the store. Uh I guess you’d have to wear the clothes though.”

Steven was the assistant manager of a downtown high-end clothing store. The hipster crowd frequented the place, and it was the last place I expected Steven to work, but he dealt with it, like I did when I actually had a job.

I shook my head, “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve done retail already. I am going to try and get something law related. Legal assistant probably.” I looked at the surrounding expressions wearing various levels of incredulity.

I put my hands up, my voice rising an octave, as it did when I was exasperated, except instead of sounding like a falsetto man, I sounded like a child desperately trying to get her way. “I have a plan. Unless that changed too?” I shot a look at Amélie who wore a sullen expression. She knew what she had done.

The conversation eventually lightened, turning to upcoming social events and Amélie, my sister and Laura retreated to the kitchen.

Steven said, “So are we going to jam today or what?” I smiled and then followed Steven and Andrew down into the band room. I am sure that the conversation upstairs involved me, but to be honest, I just wanted to play music and forget this ever happened.

As I played, I could not ignore the nagging feeling that my parents did not accept me. They had known me longer than anyone else in the room, so I knew it might take time, but their silence terrified me. If anything, I was more into the music than usual, channelling these feelings into my singing. After today, I definitely had more song writing fodder.

I was thankful that despite my lousy playing, Andrew and Steven did not mind. They were mesmerized by my voice, giving me multiple compliments. Despite butchering the solo in the second song of the set, they were highly impressed by the way I finished the song with one last desperate scream. I had to admit, I liked my new voice. Where singing certain parts of the songs had been a chore or a real struggle, the power and control came easily. It felt like I could hold a note forever.

I accepted the compliments, but stated firmly, “Don’t get used to this guys. I’m not planning on staying this way.”

Andrew nodded and then looked to Steven for agreement, “Yeah, it’s just ... I mean I really liked your voice before, but Laura is right, it is amazing now. And I know you won’t be like this forever. It would be weird growing up all over again anyway.”

Steven asked, “Yeah, will you have to go to school again?”

I sighed deeply, “Can we just keep playing and quit with the drama? If I wanted that, I would have stayed upstairs.”

I could tell that they wanted to ask me more questions, but I started the next song, and they fell into place. I wanted band time to be an escape from this situation, not an opportunity to play twenty questions about what it is like to be a teenaged girl that grew up a man.

Still, I was glad that Andrew and Steven were not like some of the guys I went to high school with. Those guys would probably have hit on me. Also, I knew certain musicians that didn't respect girl guitar players, let alone a teenaged one. I had known girls in other bands that said they were treated very poorly, disrespected and told they couldn’t play, almost always by another guitar player. I was told this was the reason why so many of them started all-girl bands. I could relate.

In a previous band when I was the lead singer and rhythm guitar player, the lead guitar player tried to replace me, saying I wasn’t a good enough player if we wanted to be a serious band. After that band, I didn’t play guitar for a full year, focusing instead on my voice. I was damaged goods as far as guitar players went- I had lost my confidence. It was only at the urging of Andrew and Steven that I picked up the guitar again. So like those girls I had spoken to, I knew what it felt like to have deal with something as monstrous as the overgrown ego of a self-styled guitar hero.

Practice finished and talk turned to booking shows. The practice had gone as well as expected considering the amount of mistakes I had made. We never stopped a song- that was the number one rule even if it was laden with mistakes.

I said, “Well I will have a lot of time at home until I find another job. I can call around, meet some promoters.”

I could tell that the Andrew and Steven were hesitant, but with full-time jobs and children, I was the best bet to meet promoters and booking agents. The summer shows would be filling spots soon, plus we really had to get our feet wet.

Andrew said, “Are you really sure you want to do this, Darren? Are you ready?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Look, I will just give them the tracks we recorded today. The ones that I didn’t butcher. A show is a show. We need to book something to start to get out there. We can’t stay in the basement forever. I know how to talk to these people, you’ve got to commit at least fifteen people turning out to listen and they’ll book you. We can easily get that many just from the people we know.”

Andrew replied, “It’s not that we aren’t ready. We are. But are you going to be able to do a show like that? Do you even want to? If our friends come out to see us, well they will want to know who our new lead singer is. You know?”

I furrowed my brow and shot back, “Yes. Remember what I said about treating me the same way? If that’s how I have to tell them, then whatever. I need to keep playing, or I will go crazy. I need something else to think about, or I just start to feel bad for myself. And while it would give me some good song writing material, well we aren’t an emo band. You wouldn’t want me to sing about some of the stuff I’ve been thinking about.”

I added, looking both men firmly in the eyes, “Can you just trust me on this?”

Again, Andrew and Steven looked at each other, nodding slowly. Steven said, “No worries man.”

Andrew added, “With how you sound now, Darren, I have a feeling we’ll have no trouble getting booked.

I shrugged my shoulders but said nothing. I was grateful that my band mates were willing to continue, but their constant praise of my voice was filling me with unwanted pride. While practice had gone well and I had Andrew and Steven’s acceptance, I was anxious about my parents’ reaction. I called them that night.

“Uh hi Dad.” It was still weird to hear my voice over the phone. How could I expect people to treat me the same way when I sounded like that? I knew my parents had caller ID, so they would see my cell phone number on the display.

“Darren, is that you? Sorry this isn’t really a good time. We’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

My heart dropped into my stomach again as if I was travelling down a massive hill and then shot back up rapidly. “Sure Dad, no problem. Is Mom okay?”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His words dismissed any thought that I had been accepted by my parents. I said a quick goodbye and then set my phone down. A surge of emotions struck, washing over me and filling my mind with paranoid fear. What if they never accepted me? I needed them now more than ever.

I had made the call from the master bedroom. Amélie walked in on me, and I rapidly dried my eyes. The emotions overwhelmed me and I sought out Amélie, quickly embracing her. “I can’t- believe- they wouldn’t- even talk to me.” My words were stilted because of my crying. Amélie did not immediately take me in her arms, and her embrace was awkward and forced when she actually did. I noticed this and Amélie’s eyes were conflicted, clouded with concern and perhaps a measure of disgust? She had seen me cry before, but not so easily or with such an overflow of emotion. I broke the embrace rapidly and then retreated to my man cave in the basement. I refused to open the door for her when she called me. I stayed the night down there, sleeping on the futon. It took forever to fall asleep, sobs wracking my small body, crying both from the lack of acceptance and my complete inability to control my emotions.

Chapter 19

Amélie and I fought rarely before my change. Now, we were fighting on a daily basis, or so it seemed. I realized that the shock of having her husband reduced to a simpering girl in her arms did nothing for her state of mind, but I was having more and more difficulty controlling my emotions. One of the reasons I liked Amélie’s personality so much was because she did not cry at the drop of a hat. I never felt that I had to avoid her when she had her period.

I never liked girls whose moods varied wildly, or that were emotional, simply because they felt that way, at that time, on a specific day. I understood that men and women are wired differently, but Amélie to me, was perfect. She had the right mix of femininity and strength. She was not emotionally high maintenance, and I loved her for it.

I woke in the man cave to the smell of Amélie’s waffles. I stared angrily at my tear-stained pillow and threw it across the room, then I walked slowly upstairs. I could hear Chloe’s voice. “Alee, Alee!” The kid was obsessed with colouring, but she was also possessive. She would not let you colour certain pictures, and if you used a wrong colour, she quickly provided you with the right one. She was also demanding, but because she was so cute, it was hard to resist the urge to laugh. She came up to me with the colouring book and continued pointing at the table for me to sit down.

“Daddy doesn’t feel like colouring, Chloe. Maybe after breakfast.”

Amélie deposited syrup-drenched waffles in front of me, “I am sorry for last night, it just ... it caught me off guard. Sure I have seen you cry before, but never like that. It was scary. You seemed like a different person while I held you.”

Were my sleeping pills affecting my mood? Dr. Alberts specifically warned Amélie about the effects of the pills on teenagers. I was worried that if I stopped taking them, I would fall back into my insomniac stupor, where I feared every night I would stare at the clock until it was time to get up. Apparently, they could cause depression as a possible side effect. I frowned, thinking that I might have to return to Dr. Alberts if I wanted a prescription for something else to help me sleep. There were over the counter medications, but they were glorified antihistamines and wouldn’t knock me out. My pills were given in large doses to mental patients in order to control them. They had been on the market for many years, and I had done research on them before taking them. I suppose I just never figured I would be occupying a body like this.

I dug into the waffles and looked at Amélie sternly, “My parents either don’t believe me or don’t accept me. How was I supposed to react? You’ve said before that it is bad to swallow your emotions. You have wanted me to be more up front with you when things bother me.”

The curious thing about our relationship is that while I could be more emotional than Amélie, I also buried my feelings better than her. That was before my transformation, however. Now, I was a veritable powder keg where the tinniest spark could set me off, either with white-hot rage or uncontrollable sobbing, like last night.

Amélie replied, “I’m sure they will come around. I mean they are your parents. Look at me, I didn’t believe it at first. We both thought it was a dream. It takes time to process this. They’ve known you your whole life. Your mother gave birth to you but not to this.” Amélie pointed at my body.

She added, “So just give it some time. I know them and your mother especially, when she’s ready, she will want to speak to you. She’ll want to help.”

I nodded my head sullenly, but when no call came on Sunday morning or afternoon. I decided to take the initiative, but my parents didn’t answer. I left a message.

“Hey guys, it’s Darren. I need to talk to you guys. I know this is a lot to take, but I need you two on my side in this. I didn’t ask for this happen, and I know it is really weird, but you’ve got to accept that it happened. It isn’t a dream or-“

I swore, annoyed that the voicemail service had cut me off. I did tend to leave long messages, but that seemed short to me. Had they picked up?

“Hello? Mom, are you there?”

My phone beeped and showed that the call had ended. I decided to leave other messages, but this time, to show that I was Darren. If the song didn’t work, then perhaps memories of my childhood would. Amélie watched me as I called again.

“Are you sure you aren’t overdoing it, Darren?”

“They know how resilient and how stubborn I am Amélie. They raised me. If I show them these characteristics, maybe they will believe me.”

Amélie sighed as I made another call. “Listen, it’s Darren again. I thought you might need some proof, so here goes. Remember when I was five and Dad brought home that Canadiens jersey for me, and it had my first name on it? I was so upset because I knew that real NHL players had their last names on their jerseys. You told me there was a player whose last name was Darren who played for the Islanders. You had that very jersey the night I got married, and told that same story.”

A half hour later, I left another message. “You remember when I used to wake up and watch cartoons on Saturday mornings? I’d get Allison up too so you guys could sleep in. I gave Allison anything she wanted. You have to remember the time you came downstairs, and Allison was sleeping on a marshmallow bag pillow with a bag of caramels beside her, while I was eating my second bowl of cereal heaped with brown sugar. I still remember the look on your faces. You were desperately trying not to laugh.”

Two hours later after no response, I left another message, “Dad, when I got married. You gave me some advice that had seen you through all your years of marriage. You told me to never fight about money. You told me to love Amélie, but not to put her on a pedestal. Women are human, they are not works of art to be admired. And finally, you told me how proud you were of me, and how much you thought that my choice of bride was a good one.”

I felt like crying after leaving the last message. My voice was choking up as I finished it, but I held back the tears and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I had to get these emotions under control. I took deep breaths and that seemed to help.
.
Sunday evening I had still not received a response from my parents. I decided to throw myself into my work- which at this point was looking for a job. I searched the classified ads and noticed that there was a law office nearby that was looking for a legal assistant. I had done paralegal work before, so I could certainly bind documents and prepare papers for court submission. If the lawyers asked me to complete research for them, I could do that easily as well. Two issues remained to stymie my attempts. I could not use my current resume, and I looked too young to have any legal experience. I looked like I should be behind the cash machine at a McDonalds or helping some vapid teenage girl find the right pair of jeans. I was beyond those positions. I had done all of that when I was younger. I would go mad working with teenagers. As a teacher, I had met some very enlightened and intelligent teens, but I had also met ones that made want to slap them and their parents for raising such malcontents. Plus, they would treat me like one of them, and I wanted to avoid that, like I wanted to avoid a lecture from Amélie about my bra size.

I was eager to prove that I could succeed in the adult world despite my change, and I enlisted Amélie’s help. I made a fake resume for Abigail Lawrence and put Amélie as a reference. Amélie was actually a lawyer for the government, so I said that I worked in her office for a year. It was also helpful that we had different last names as it was never professional to use a family member as a reference. Frankly, I was convinced that once they met me, they would hire me on the spot. I knew how the law worked, and I could do the job of an assistant and more. If I succeeded, it would bring in much needed money, and I would still be able to work in my chosen field.

I was called for an interview on Tuesday morning at 8 AM. Thankfully, the office was close enough to our house that I could walk.

Amélie said the night before the interview, “You’ll need to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning if you want to be on time and use my help.”

I stared at her dumbfounded, lying in bed with my head propped up by a pillow. “It doesn’t even take you that long to get ready, and the place is walking distance.”

Amélie replied, “This isn’t like showering, shaving and then putting on a suit and you are ready to go, Darren. For a woman, it is much more involved. You’ll need pantyhose and a bra for starters.”.

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head, “Why pantyhose?”

“Because you’ll have to wear a skirt. None of my pants will fit you. Pantyhose are more professional looking than bare legs, especially for a job interview, and especially if you want someone to believe you aren’t in high school.”

“Plus, you’ll have to use makeup. With the right application, we could make you look older.”

I groaned and hid under the covers, “Maybe I will just apply at McDonalds.”

Amélie smirked and then pulled the covers off me, “It is hard work being a girl, Darren. You are going to know why I have to wake up so much earlier than you. With your hair, you might even have to even wake up earlier than I do if you don’t want it to look like a rat’s nest.”

I narrowed my eyes at Amélie, “You are enjoying this aren’t you?”

Amélie shook her head, “You think I enjoy having to dress my husband for a job interview in my clothes? No, not at all. I do think, however, that once this is over, you might have a better appreciation for what I have to go through and I am pretty low maintenance compared to some girls.”

“I appreciate that you are doing this, Darren, but you don’t have to. Why not just go on employment insurance until we find out how to change you back?”

I looked at Amélie and explained, “Because while I would qualify for it, I wouldn’t be able to stay on it. There’s a process. You have to prove you’ve been looking for work, you have to provide the names of employers you have spoken to. And under this government”, I said the last word as if trying to remove the bitter taste of battery acid from my mouth, “they are actually sending civil servants to conduct interviews in homes. It is red meat to sate the appetite of their voter base.”

Amélie rolled her eyes, “Maybe you should be a politician.”

I shook my head, “They wouldn’t want me. I’d expose them all for the frauds they are.”

I could get rather heated in my discussions concerning the current government. I had lost my original job because it was restructuring or adjusting the workforce- which basically meant firing a whole lot of people.

Amélie said, “On that note, we need to figure out your bra size. You'll need to wear one tomorrow.”

I groaned again. I knew that this process was going to be humiliating. It was like cross dressing in my eyes, even if I had the body for it. Ironically, the world would likely judge me less if I dressed in age and gender appropriate clothing than if I continued to wear my old male clothes.

Amélie approached me with a frilly pink bra that I immediately recognized. It was part of a bra and panty set that I had bought for Amélie one Valentine’s Day. She said, “You are lucky that I still have these old bras. I was a C cup when we first met, and I have a feeling that’s what you are.”

Amélie’s weight yo-yoed over the years. When we first moved in together, she started an exercise regime that saw her lose nearly fifteen pounds. She had also gained weight during her pregnancy, so she had a range of bras. She filled a D cup when she was breastfeeding, and while other parts of her shrunk after she stopped, she remained a D.

She added, “You are bigger than I was at that age.”

The process Amélie conducted to find the right bra could not have been more crushing to my male ego. I wanted to return to my hiding place in the basement, and I began to have serious second thoughts about my interview the next day. Would I have to dress like this every day? The thought was mortifying.

Amélie pulled off my white t-shirt and then proceeded to push my upper body forward until my breasts were resting in the cups. She then pulled the straps taut against my back and attached them. It was a bizarre feeling. My boobs were pushed higher, and because they were also pushed together, it created significant cleavage, although any amount was uncomfortable. I had to admit that it felt better to have them supported. I could have gone braless if I had been smaller, but with each movement they jostled in even the tightest shirt. It dawned on me that if I was going to spend any amount of time in public as a girl, I would have to wear one. I didn’t want guys staring at me and a braless chest would garner far more attention than one that was supported.

I frowned, “Can you at least choose a bra that I didn’t buy for you?”

I remembered buying that bra and panty set. The store was bathed in a sea of pink. It took me three trips around the mall to muster the courage to actually enter and buy it. I was thankful, extremely thankful actually, that I could fit into Amélie’s undergarments and that I would not need to go bra shopping.

Amélie replied, “Oh right, sorry about that. Here this black one would be better for your interview anyway.” She unhooked the lacy pink bra and repeated the procedure to get my breasts into the cups of the black one. The black bra was smoother on my skin. It looked like crushed velvet, but felt like silk.

Amélie said, “Okay, so you are definitely a C cup. All my old bras should fit you.” She said it as if I should have been pleased, but I suppose it meant I would not have to endure a tortuous trip to the mall. We went to sleep soon after.

That night I had a bizarre dream, not as strange or as vivid as the one that changed me but outlandish nonetheless.

I was in the same mall where I had purchased Amélie’s Valentine’s Day gift. I was dressed in my band clothes, which meant green hoodie, white t-shirt and ripped jeans, but I was still a teenaged girl, so the clothing fit poorly. I had no desire to actually enter the store this time, but as I passed the store, something grabbed me and tried to pull me inside.

As I was struggling, I noticed that the mall was in the process of closing. I could see the metal security gates closing access to the stores across the way. I looked down at my arm to see what was actually pulling me, and gasped - my potential captor was a string of bras. They were linked together, tied with a series of knots that I had no idea how to undo. The undergarments pulled me into the store, but I managed to snake my arms out and grab hold of the metal security gate, but it was slowly being pulled across, so eventually, my handhold would be lost.

If I thought that the madness that encompassed this dream had reached its peak, I was wrong. I saw next a number of thongs, slithering like snakes towards me. They inched their way closer, and as they did, they tied themselves together, until they were three inches wide. The collection of multi-coloured undergarments squirmed toward me and wrapped around my legs forcing me to my knees, but I still had a grip on the gate. The security gate was still open enough for me to pull myself through and escape, but without my legs to push, it was quickly becoming impossible.

I noticed that there were still people closing across from me, so I screamed for help but as soon as I did, my cries were strangled by another multi-coloured thong snake, which wrapped itself around my mouth, causing my screams to become muffled gasps. Still, I could see that my initial scream had had the desired effect. It brought help. A young man from the Gap came to my aid, but as he did, another thong snake actually cracked like a whip in his direction, causing him to bleed from the welts he received. This did not deter him as my steadfast would-be rescuer managed to catch the whip. He reached out to my bound hands and tried to pull me out, but by this point, the space made was too narrow. If only I had screamed earlier.

As the security gates closed, I could hear banging on the other side. The young man was still trying to get to me. I knew there would be a switch to open the gate from inside the store, but it was too dark to see, and I was still bound. I inched my way, forced to crawl along the ground to the far side of the store, where I thought I might find the gate release. As I reached my goal, the lights flicked on, bathing the store in white fluorescent light. Standing by the switch was a transparent sales girl with a beaming smile.

“It’s not time to leave yet, Abby. We are just getting started.” Her voice was soft, but it had a steely quality that terrified me, like sweet honey being poured over a bed of nails.

Three more ghostly sales girls descended on me and proceeded to strip off my clothes. One of them chided me as it saw my boxer briefs, “Gross. Why are you wearing boys’ underwear, Abby?” Another one said, “No bra either. You are such a slut Abby!” The ghost giggled and then pulled my briefs off.

“Try these!” A pair of skimpy thong underwear slid up my legs. The string nestled in my ass, making it feel like I had a constant wedgie. The girl to my left grinned, “Now it doesn’t look like you are wearing a diaper.”

The original girl that appeared brought a bra toward me. It looked normal enough, despite being pink with white polka dots over it, but as it attached itself to my body, I knew the difference immediately. It felt like my boobs were in my face. It was a push-up bra. With the size of my chest, I hardly needed such a garment because it put my boobs on display even more. The girl who brought the bra said, “There Abby, now you’ll really be able to show them off.”

A pink halter top slipped over my head, momentarily blinding me, but then settling down and lowering so that my bra and prominent cleavage were actually visible. The halter top had a stylized ‘SJ’ on the front. I then felt something moving up my legs, it stopped at my hips, and then cinched itself around my waist. Looking down, I saw that I was wearing a barely there black micro miniskirt. I was sure that any movement, even walking, would show the thong panties.

The girls said in unison, “Looking good, Abby!’

The ghosts then attacked me with makeup brushes, eyeliner pencils and lipstick tubes. They made me sit at a vanity, which was odd to see in a lingerie store, but this not exactly a normal store. My eyelids were painted with electric blue eye shadow, while my eyes were emboldened by dark eyeliner. Ruby red lipstick was applied to my lips, which caused my lower lip to become fuller. Even a grimace would give my lips a cute school girl pout, the type countless girls have used on their fathers to achieve their objective, usually the keys to the car.

The girls then teased my hair with brushes, they used a curling iron, which wasn’t plugged in, to carefully curl my golden locks at the ends. When they were finished, I looked in the mirror. With my breasts bulging from the push-up bra, my tiny skirt, and my makeup, I looked like a teenage prostitute, but the girls disagreed.

They said in unison, “You look so hot, Abby!”

Just before I woke up, I heard one of the girls whisper in my ear, “Now you are ready for him.”

TO BE CONTINUED

PART 2 TEASER: Darren Lawrence, seemingly now trapped within the body of a teenage girl, copes with an adult world that no longer sees him as one of their own. As Darren begins to defiantly push back at the world that has rejected him, he experiences surprising success and crushing failure. His marriage is tested further with a decision that will challenge the fledgling union. Worse still, his actions, once firmly grounded in logical and reasoned thought, show a surprising lack of judgement. Do they represent the actions of a man desperately clinging to the adult world, or has something more sinister nestled within his mind? Through all of this, his music may be the only thing that keeps him sane. (This is part 2 of 9, part 1 is required reading)
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.
This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.
Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: oneshot20XX [at] gmail.com
DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
PART 2
Chapter 20

The alarm on Amélie’s phone jolted me awake. I shot up immediately, eyes wide and mind buzzing from the dream. Amélie groaned as she turned over to face me. “Darren, you hit me in your sleep again. You were screaming too.” Tenderness washed over the gravelly tone of Amélie’s morning voice, “Are you OK? You look freaked out.”

I nodded slowly, “I think so, another weird dream.” I looked down at myself, half expecting to see that I was dressed like I was in the dream. I peered into the mirror on the bedroom closet, and my face was devoid of makeup. My hair was messy, the bangs dangling in my eyes, and thankfully, I was still wearing a pair of my pajama pants and the same white t-shirt I wore to bed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the dream stayed with me. I wasn’t sure if it was just my paranoid mind playing tricks on me or if it would actually be prophetic. In any case, I had no interest in meeting any guy after my run-in with Brad, let alone dressing like a whore to gain his attention.

Amélie started pulling all manner of professional clothing out of her side of the closet- skirts, blouses, suit jackets, which she threw on the bed. “You’d better get in the shower, Darren, it’s going to take a while to dry your hair. Plus, we’ll need to shave your legs.”

It was no use fighting Amélie. She had volunteered to help, and as much as I did not want to run the gauntlet of shaving, curling, plucking and primping- I had put myself in this corner. If I didn't want to be treated as a teenager then this was what I needed to do. I had to look like a young professional woman and professional women dressed this way. If I could convince someone outside my family that I was at least in my late teens to very early twenties, I could also regain some of the ground I had lost in this war. Clearly, Samantha and Rachel thought that I was a teenager, and my sister figured that I was only fourteen, but I planned to prove them wrong.

I knew the inner workings of law, information that only came from experience. Those interviewing me would surely realize this. They would not be able to use ageism to deny me this job. If I could have this victory, then I could stop the indignity that was my slow and painful expulsion from the adult world.

I finished showering. I had learned how to properly wring out my hair to avoid creating puddles that only a sock-wearing Amélie would step in. Even wringing it out, because of the length and thickness, it took nearly half an hour to dry my hair thoroughly- because apparently just moving the blow dryer around to random spots on my head didn’t actually do the job.

Afterward, Amélie sat me on the toilet and proceeded to shave my legs. My leg hair was fine, and Amélie commented on this, but I was indifferent. I was more concerned with hiding what was between my legs, or rather, what wasn’t.

Amélie raised a brow at my behaviour, “You know I have one of those too. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Darren.”

I frowned, trying to keep my legs closed, “It’s just embarrassing, Amélie. I don’t want you seeing me with-well…”

Amélie stated matter-of-factly, “A vagina.”

I nodded, and I felt my cheeks redden, “Yeah. That.”

Amélie didn’t say anything more. She was going through the process of getting me ready in a clinical manner. I was pleased that she wasn’t enjoying it, but I also didn’t want her to be mad at me. I wanted to go one day without us fighting. Amélie finished my legs and then did my arm pits.

Amélie frowned, “It’s almost six, and I haven’t even started getting ready. Plus, I need to get Chloe up. Think you can pick something out to wear that will match?”

She put emphasis on the last word, knowing that while I could dress my male body, since almost everything matched with black, I might have difficulty once I entered the world of pastels. Amélie often poked fun at my inability to dress Chloe in matching clothing.

I nodded and then immediately regretted my decision as Amélie left the room to take her own shower. I picked up a tan-coloured skirt and then a pale pink blouse. I then grabbed a black suit jacket. I put the skirt and blouse against my body as I had seen Amélie do. I had no idea if they matched. I rummaged through the pile and found a simple black skirt. I pulled the skirt over my hips and then zipped it up from the back.

The clothing that Amélie had chosen would fit because it was part of her “skinny” wardrobe. I wasn’t complaining about the skirt’s length, which on Amélie was knee-length, but on me it was four inches lower. The less skin I showed the better. I chose a simple white blouse. I fumbled with the black bra that Amélie had chosen. I was never a wizard at unhooking a bra. I hadn’t had any practice in high school and only some in university. I kept twisting around to try and see the fastenings in the bedroom mirror.

I heard Amélie’s voice behind me, “You're really are terrible at that.”

I shot back, “You’d be happier if I was a pro at putting on a bra?”

Amélie walked up behind me and hooked the bra seamlessly. She frowned at the suit jacket on the bed. “This is navy blue. The skirt is black. And this blouse doesn’t go either. You can’t wear this with that thin suit jacket. It’s got ruffles. The idea is that it needs to be a smooth line. The ruffles will make you look-“

Amélie stopped. I could see her looking at my skirt. “OK. So, you want to be taken seriously in an interview, and you wear boxers. They are so bulky. I figured you would have worn panties at least. You can’t have it both ways, if you want to be seen as an adult woman- you have to dress the part.”

She made me undress completely and put on a pair of panties. I was thankful she didn’t suggest a thong, but then, I doubt she wanted to be sharing thongs. So women, just to avoid a panty line, needed walk around all day with a string up their butt. I was beginning to understand Amélie when she said that that women sacrificed comfort for appearance.

Amélie did my makeup next. She did it tastefully, hardly the tramp paint from my dream. She then moved to my hair, which took the longest. The issue was that Amélie sucked at doing anything resembling an up-do. She put pins in it to keep the hair in place, but when the strands started coming loose, Amélie started swearing at my hair. She swore at her computer, at other drivers and the tax man, but my hair was a new target.

Eventually, as it neared 7:30, she was finished. She took no time to admire her creation. She whisked Chloe into her arms and hurried out the door. I shouted that I had no shoes to wear, but she didn’t hear me. She was going to be late for work. I sighed at the time lost to create something that might work. I mourned the fact that previously I could wake up a half hour before it was time to leave and still had time to make my lunch and even watch a little TV. If I stayed in this body and got a job that was remotely professional, I would have to go through a similar routine every day.

I peered at myself in the mirror. Amélie used cover-up to hide the freckles underneath my eyes. She also brought out my cheekbones to disguise the roundness of my cheeks. Unfortunately, the fact that my hair was off my face accentuated the roundness of my chin and jaw. The baby fat was still visible. Amélie was no hair dresser, and if I had paid for the styling she did, I would have asked for my money back.

While the hair was off my face, a few loose strands tickled my neck in places. Still, perhaps my clothing would convince the interviewers that I did not belong in second period tenth grade Algebra. Amélie had chosen a pale pink blouse with a black skirt and suit jacket. The blouse was fully buttoned with the jacket outlining instead of emphasizing my breasts. Amélie lent me her watch to complete the ensemble. It was dainty and very feminine.

My face was still the weak link in my plan. My height did not help, and because I had no experience walking in heels, I opted for a pair of black shoes with only a half inch heel. Wow, I was a full half inch taller. I chose one of Amélie’s more stylish purses, a burgundy coach bag knock off. How did I know that? Well, apparently I listened when Amélie told me things that I really had no interest in.

I scrutinized my appearance. I could pull this off if they didn’t kick me out of there immediately, laughing and pointing at the little girl trying to act all grown up. I would pull it off with what I had to say, not my appearance. As I looked closer, I had reservations. The suit jacket was made for someone taller, so it hung too low, cinching below the waist instead of on it. I frowned. It looked like I was wearing my older sister’s clothes, especially because the skirt was too low. The sleeves of the blouse were too long. I had to roll them slightly to avoid them hiding the palm of my hand. Also, I wasn’t sure, but I think the purse may not have matched. I looked at the watch and saw it was already ten minutes to 8, so instead of walking, I was going to have to run.

It was unlike me to be even close to late for a job interview, but with the parade of humiliation that I had to endure, the time slipped my mind. I was thankful that the law office was close. I smartly removed the heels and put on the tennis shoes, carrying the heels with me as I locked the door. I pumped my legs like I used to, shocked at just how slow I was. When I was running from Brad, all I felt was the adrenaline and the instinct to flee. I noticed my steps far more that I actually had time to analyze what must have looked like a ridiculous run. A teenage girl, dressed in slightly ill-fitting work clothing, wearing tennis shoes with loose strands of hair flapping behind her with a purse that may or may not have matched.

Because of my skirt, I had to take short mincing steps. As a man, I used to glide as I sprinted, my feet barely touching the ground. Now, my steps were less fluid and definitely heavier. I had lost weight compared to my male body, but much of it was muscle. This body was not as coordinated as my slim but athletic frame. Basically, I ran like a girl, and as stereotypical and possibly sexist as they may seem, it was true. I had seen women run that way because of the limitations of their clothing. I had a double whammy of short not exactly muscular legs and the constricting nature of the skirt.

I arrived at the law office with two minutes to spare.

It was in a small, modern looking building next to a skate park. The outside had windows all around, and I could see that even the lawyer’s offices had an open concept with glass doors. Even from the outside, I saw no hint of cubicles. There were workstations with walls no higher than three feet. I hurriedly pulled off my tennis shoes and put on the black dress shoes. They were Amélie’s and didn’t fit very well, but I would only have to wear them while I was inside.

There were a few skateboarders, who likely should have been in school, and one young man with a battered acoustic guitar. He wore a leather jacket, but his other clothing, a suit jacket and tie with black dress pants, showed that he went to a school where uniforms were the norm. There was no room in my purse for the tennis shoes, so I threw them in a bush that made up a small garden in front of the office. It was not an elegant solution, but I doubted that any real woman would carry her shoes into an interview.

I was annoyed when I realized that I could have put the shoes on the shoe rack just inside the door. I was surprised at my impulsive decision to leave my shoes outside, but I had to hurry and announce myself. Ideally, I wanted to arrive ten minutes early. I thought arriving one minute before might appear unprofessional, but it was too late to worry about that.

The office looked brand new. There was still protective plastic on some of the workstation chairs. The reception area, which was deserted, had an unopened laptop box and an unconnected telephone. The only contact I had was through e-mail- a woman named Stephanie Locke. She had the usual titles next to her name in the e-mail, so I knew that she was a lawyer. I had done some research on the firm, but was unable to find much. I knew that Stephanie practiced different aspects of law, but her speciality was constitutional law and human rights law. Her husband, Anthony, the other partner, specialized in administrative law. This would be a perfect match based on my work as a paralegal- if I could get even one word out without being sent home.

I took my resume out of a shiny black plastic jacket. I had no idea how I looked because I hadn’t brought a mirror or even a compact. I knew that more strands of hair had come loose. Amélie had done her best, but I knew that I had to impress them with my knowledge before my appearance affected their judgement.

A heavy set thirty-something woman opened her office door. She had mousy brown hair and a serious, intelligent face. She was dressed in a grey pants suit that hugged her curves. She dressed for her size, and her choices were flattering. She greeted me with a smile, and I shook her hand more firmly than she expected. Either that, or she was scrutinizing my appearance.

“Abigail is it? Sorry, we just moved here, and we are still getting things in order. That will be part of your job, should you get it of course.”

While the woman was pleasant, she was forthright. She had a strength to her voice that no doubt helped her in court. She was still looking at me as I ended the handshake. I could see her mind working, removing parts of my disguise, piecing together the evidence to reach an eventual conclusion. I maintained eye contact and continued to meet her smile with one of my own.

“Yes, Abigail Lawrence. I am here about the legal assistant position.”

I felt awkward walking around in the skirt, but I tried to move gracefully. I felt, generally, very uncomfortable in women’s clothing. It was like wearing a Halloween costume to a job interview. I thought that at any moment, I would be declared a fraud, not only regarding my age, but my gender as well.

As Stephanie brought me into her office, I sat and crossed my left leg over my right. I knew that at least, and it made sitting in the skirt more comfortable. Stephanie was still smiling, but it was calculated. I needed to begin this interview before she ended it.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly Ms. Locke. As you will see from my resume, I have experience in constitutional, human rights and administrative law. I am also familiar with the court system regarding the filing of documents. I am well versed in the creation of disclosure packages and the binding of material such as books of authorities. I can also use a number of different methods to conduct research including both electronic and traditional means such as Black’s law and Herald’s Interpretation of Statues. I can also edit and draft simple contracts.”

If Stephanie was expecting such a concise yet detailed summary of my experience, she certainly didn’t show it. I saw her eyes widen, and her head even moved backward awkwardly. She was amazed, just like Dr. Alberts.

Stephanie replied, still bearing a semi-astonished look, “That’s very impressive, Abigail. You are telling me that you gained all that experience working for this- Amélie Grenier?”

I nodded my head, “Yes, I am a very fast learner. I started as a clerk, but once they saw that I could do the work, well they gave me more. They were pleased with it.”

Stephanie nodded, “Ok, but Ms. Grenier is a tax lawyer- she-“

I interrupted her. This is usually the cardinal sin of interviews, but I needed to fill in the blanks of my resume. “She works at the tax court yes.”

Stephanie furrowed her brow, “How did you gain experience in human rights and constitutional law? Isn’t the tax court an administrative tribunal?”

I knew this was a test. It was to see if I had padded my resume just to match it to the partners at her firm. I nodded my head and smiled confidently. “Because there were times when an individual would argue that a particular portion of the Income Tax Act was unconstitutional or that it violated their human rights. Usually, it was section 15 of the Charter, but the defence was never successful because they were unable to prove they belonged to a disadvantaged group. That is what the Supreme Court has ruled each time.”

I knew my stuff, and Stephanie was clearly impressed. She leaned forward and placed her hands on the desk. She wore a half-smile, but it was the eyes that revealed just how awe-struck she was by my performance. I usually did well in interviews.

Stephanie said warmly, “You are a very impressive young woman, Abigail. I certainly didn’t know any of what you know at your age.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, my eyes jetting off to the side as I tried to formulate a response. Stephanie broke in before I could speak, “The position we are looking to staff is for a full-time legal assistant. I’m afraid that’s mostly getting coffee for clients, paperwork, photocopying, and light bookkeeping. You would prepare some court documents, but there wouldn’t likely be any research.”

I piped in eagerly, “But it doesn’t bother me. I just enjoy working in law. I like the atmosphere and the continual learning. I enjoy the evolution of law, Ms. Locke, the idea that one interpretation can change the very foundations of a country. Look at Roe vs. Wade or R. v. Morgentalier. These are monumental cases.”

Stephanie nodded her head slowly and said softly, “They are Abigail. Listen though, I was like you once, in a hurry to grow up. I think you will make a fantastic lawyer one day, but you can’t rush things. You should enjoy these years. Keep the law in your back pocket and get all the experience you can, but don’t do what I did.”

As she continued, I knew that my disguise was blown, “I spent all of high school with my nose in a book, and when I got to university I turned into a party girl to make up for it. Nearly failed my first year. Alcohol poisoning multiple times. I think if I had balanced things, you know gone to dances and tried to be social at school, it would have been easier to get used to university life. You are a super smart girl, Abigail, but I can’t hire a high school girl as my full-time receptionist. Mostly because, it would be illegal.”

I just stared at her, my eyes threatening to form tears as the emotions threatened the flood gates, teasing at them with each word that sunk a dagger into any hope of my being treated like an adult in this body.

“Oh Abigail, I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. I’m sure you are terribly bored in high school, but if you want to be a lawyer, you need to put the time in. Listen, I want to recommend you, no, invite you to our summer outreach program. I don’t think I will get a better candidate than you. It’s a paid internship that we usually give to pre-law students, but with your knowledge and ability, I doubt any of them could compete. I will need to talk it over with my husband, but I am sure after he meets you that he will agree.”

I was crestfallen and Stephanie could tell. I felt like I could fall through the floor. She put her arm on my shoulder, “I was where you are, Abigail. Just trust me. What does Ms. Grenier say about this, you worked with her last summer I am guessing? I know you padded this resume at least slightly- most lawyers do it, but most can’t talk their way out of it either.” She beamed at me, but I thought she was being patronizing.

“She thinks I am ready.” I answered firmly, but I sniffed lightly, trying to contain the tears that threatened to flow.

“Well if she is any kind of lawyer, she would know that it is against the law to hire a teenage girl in a full-time position that would impact her ability to attend school. She didn’t say that, did she Abigail? That you were ready.”

Now I was being chastised for my lie, but if I wanted to be considered for the very distant second prize in this game, I needed to come clean, “She didn’t. She said,” I sighed, “that I would be more than ready one day.”

Stephanie smiled and patted my shoulder- just like Dr. Alberts. My eyes flashed with anger, but Stephanie did not seem to notice. “I don’t blame you for trying this. And I am serious, Abigail, you will make an amazing lawyer one day. But you need to take your time, experience life. Because there will come a time when you will hate adulthood. Usually around tax time.”

She squeezed my shoulder, “Are you going to be OK? Do you need me to give you a ride to school? And I was serious about the internship offer. Your parents will have to approve it of course. We deal with some unpleasant issues here. Some of the human rights abuse cases can be very difficult to read. A parent or your legal guardian will need to sign this form.”

She gave me the document, and I put it in the purse I had brought. I said, “I will be OK.” The hurt in my eyes told a different story.

Stephanie said, “I want you here the second you finish your final exams Abigail. That’s in June usually right?”

I nodded and sniffed, “Yes. I think so.”

Stephanie added, “Don’t forget to get your parents to sign that form, Abigail. I’ll see you in a few months!”

I trudged out of the law office. My head was lowered. I was defeated. Would I try again in a different office? I began to think of my next step, but my thoughts were interrupted by an obnoxious voice.

“You get the job Doogie Howser?” I turned. It was the leather jacket clad prep school boy.

I don’t know why I allowed him to goad me, but I bit, perhaps because the interview, which had started extremely well, had not ended well. “How do you even know that show existed kid?” Doogie Howser was a television show that ran in the late eighties to early nineties about a sixteen year old boy who becomes a doctor.

He scoffed and furrowed a brow at me, “Kid? I look older than you. And haven’t you ever heard of Nick at Night? We have it on satellite.”

I sat down on the low rock wall in front of the garden and put on my tennis shoes, “Ooh privileged class. Lucky you. Let me guess, your parents have high-stress and high-paying jobs, and that’s why they don’t pay any attention to you. So you act out by skipping school and bothering strangers.”

The boy wore a lop-sided smile, “Actually, I had a dentist appointment, but close enough. You also forgot the part where I started a lame emo band to get out all my feelings about being unappreciated and unloved.”

I replied, “So you’ve discovered sarcasm- good for you.”

I had to admit, if I hadn’t been in such a dreadful mood, the boy might have been half funny. Before he could retort something equally sarcastic I said, “Wait a minute, how did you know how old I am?”

If he could provide some useful information, it might be helpful if I managed to score another interview in the near future.

The boy smirked and sat down next to me on the short garden wall. I inched away, so that my bubble, which had grown since my encounter with Brad, was not invaded. “A couple of things. First, you look like you are trying too hard. Believe me, I have an older sister, and I have seen what she does to try and get into clubs.”

“Next, just the way you walk in those clothes. When I saw you walk in there, you looked really awkward, like you would probably be more comfortable in jeans, and that you likely don’t have a lot of practice wearing clothing like that. ”

He looked down at my hands. “And now that I see them- your nails. They make you look really young. I can’t imagine anyone going to a job interview with nails like that unless it was a clothing store or something.”

He looked me in the eyes. I studied him. I had taught boys like him. I thought he looked like a rat or a weasel with little beady eyes and a somewhat hooked nose. He had straggly dark brown hair that hung down to his nose, partially obscuring his eyes. The acoustic guitar he had been plucking when I arrived was strapped to his back. Basically, he was a little punk kid, probably only fifteen at the most. They were the type who always came in late, never did any work in class and did everything at the very last minute.

I stood up, and he did the same. He was only a few inches taller than I was. Amélie might have been taller than him. “Don’t you want to know the last reason?”

I rolled my eyes and then turned back to him, “Fine. What is it?”

“Your face. It’s a dead give-away. Even with the makeup. So are you going to tell me why you were trying to get a job there? How come you aren’t in school?”

I turned away from him again and started walking toward home. He followed me like an unwanted puppy dog. “Hey, I played detective with you. The least you can do is answer some questions for me. It’s the polite thing to do.”

I turned on him and barked, “Oh like yelling sarcastic comments is really polite. I don’t have to tell you anything kid. Just leave me alone.”

I wasn’t feeling in high spirits exactly and the punk was the target of my ire because he just happened to be standing there.

“Hey come on I’m curious. What does it matter? My mom will be here soon to pick me up, and we’ll probably never see each other again. Just humour me.”

I walked toward home again, turning my back to the persistent annoyance. “What school do you go to? I go to St. Jo’s.” He moved in front of me and pulled his jacket back to show a stylized ‘SJ’ embroidered over his heart. “It’s a generally lame school, but there’s two coffee houses usually. It’s pretty easy to start bands too. I have been in three this year already.”

My eyes widened. I stumbled and the boy reached out to catch my arm. The stylized ‘SJ’ from my dream was the same as that sewn onto the boy’s suit jacket. It was at this point that I realized that the outfit I had been forced into in my dream was a cheerleader outfit. Over my dead body. First it was the pop star, and now a cheerleader. Whoever or whatever had done this to me knew nothing about me, apparently.

I regained my composure as the young punk helped me to stand. He asked, “Hey are you OK? You looked majorly freaked for a second there.”

I saw a black BMW pull into the parking lot of the dentist office. The kid said, “Weak. My mom is here. Well I gotta go, sick talking to you teenage girl- attorney at law. Hope I’ll see you around. Name’s Ethan by the way.”

Apparently, the kid watched reruns of Saturday Night Live as well. He had referenced the old Phil Hartman skit Unfrozen Caveman- attorney at law. I always liked those skits.

I shook my head, “Uh, yeah. Bye.” What a weird kid. I watched him go off and thought for a moment that maybe he didn’t look as weasel-like as I first thought.

***

So how did the interview go, Darren?” Amélie was sitting at the kitchen table eating the spaghetti Bolognaise I had prepared.

I sat across from her. My posture showed how the interview had gone. I sat with my shoulders slumped, my head downcast. My long hair was unbound and nearly dangling in my supper.

“Ok, so not well. You’ll just keep trying, like you always do, right Darren? That is one of the things that I admire about you. You are driven, whether it is music or your career, you push yourself.”

I was surprised by Amélie’s words because I thought she felt that I had made a mistake putting myself out there even though we needed the money. We could have asked our parents for help, but Amélie and I were fiercely independent. Amélie would not accept handouts from either set of parents. Our parents were not well off, but if need be, mine could have paid my half of the mortgage. I also had savings. We were not in terrible financial shape, but couldn’t continue to hemorrhage money indefinitely.

“I was offered a summer internship Amélie- at that same firm. It is paid, but it won’t start until June. After my ‘exams’.” I raised my head, realizing that Amélie still accepted me and supported my decision. Her support was vital to my morale, especially considering that my parents had still not called.

“That’s something, Darren. I think that we’ll be OK until then.”

“Yeah but it’s for a kid, Amélie. It’s an outreach program meant to bring pre-law students into the field to gain experience.”

Amélie replied, “The way I see it, you continue to gain experience if you work there. The woman who interviewed you seemed very nice from what you described. This is not a terrible outcome. It means money, Darren. Just do what you always do.”

I raised a brow, “Work so hard that they feel obligated to try and keep me?”

Amélie nodded, “Exactly. And this is a private firm as well as new. They can hire you if they like you. They don’t have to go through lists of dead wood permanent employees who have been laid off like they do in government."

If you had a permanent position in the government, it was nearly impossible to fire you. Even if you were laid off due to shortage of work, you were placed on a list where other government organizations were forced to consider you, even if you lacked the ideal credentials.

I didn’t tell Amélie about what Stephanie had said about it being illegal to hire me. The law had changed since we had gone to school, and I was only aware of it because I had been a teacher.

I was not heartened by the day’s events. My failure to convince a potential employer that I was even out of high school stayed with me as I fell asleep that night, but I at least could look forward to working in law soon, even if I had to do it in skirts.

That night, I slept terribly. It felt like my stomach was in a vice. I was worried that the stomach flu had returned.

Chapter 21

“Need you home now.”
“So much blood.”

I texted Amélie those words when I realized that the pain in my abdomen wasn’t from a flu bug, it was something much worse.

“Do you need an ambulance, did you cut yourself?”

My phone rang, but I didn’t pick it up. I texted her back.

“Come now I need you.”

Amélie texted back a few minutes later.

“I took a taxi. I will be there in 20 mins.”

I was thankful that Amélie had opted for a taxi. The buses after rush hour were hit and miss. If she missed the bus, it often took up to an hour to catch the next. I was laying on the bathroom floor, exactly how I had been between bouts of throwing up when I had the stomach flu. I actually wished for the stomach flu compared to this.

I was crying uncontrollably. I had rarely been in a position where I could not control my emotions to this degree. Certainly, I had been wronged on the hockey rink before, but I could channel my emotions into a devastating body check. I can only remember twice before when I was like this, when my grandmother died and when I thought I was going to lose Amélie to the other side of the love triangle that had developed.

I banged my fists against the wall in rage, and then seconds later I was back on the floor bawling my eyes out. I was glad Amélie was not there because it would have been extremely unattractive, not to mention disturbing, to see her husband crying hysterically. I knew what this was, but I denied it happening because it only confirmed what everyone who looked at me knew- I was a girl, and a fully-functioning one at that. I clenched my teeth as my abdomen tightened painfully.

I heard the front door open, feet stomping up the stairs, and then my wife saw me sprawled on the bathroom floor, my face streaked with tears and practically hyperventilating. I realized that I may have overreacted to a situation that millions of women faced on a monthly basis from adolescence to middle age. It was unwanted, unexpected and I knew what it meant. I could get pregnant.

It felt like I was going insane. My brain was on fire. The hormones coursing through my body filled me with anger, sadness, indifference, and joy, the latter being a speck of dirt compared to the planet of my ire and depression. I let the emotions consume me. They ran rampant through my mind. I am sure it would have been different had I been born female, where the ritual meant blossoming into a woman. It meant that everything inside was working as it should ... for a girl, certainly, but for a thirty year old man? Hardly.

Maybe I was over dramatizing the whole thing, but menstruation to most men is an enigma. It is a mystery best kept buried, so to experience it while I was already dejected because of my failure at the law office, was like a double-barrelled shotgun blasting alien hormones into a mind already weakened. It took me by surprise, and I had no defence against the onslaught.

I heard Amélie’s voice, but I didn’t look up. “Oh my god, Darren, I had no idea, I thought you were just sick. I would have stayed home had I realised.”

While Amélie sounded supportive, I didn’t hear her come any nearer. Her presence exacerbated the problem, my hyperventilating increased. Was she ashamed of me? I couldn’t bear the thought.

“Sorry Darren, I’m not sure what to do.”

I hoped that Amélie’s mothering instinct would supersede the revulsion she felt at having to deal with another of my crying fits. The first time I cried in front of her in this body, it was extremely awkward because she held me with wooden arms.

I felt her kneel down beside me, “Deep breaths, Darren.” I knew that Amélie was conflicted, but appreciated that she could still help. She gently rubbed my back, and my breathing normalized. I still sniffled now and then, but I knew I needed to regain control of my emotions for her to help me.

“I’m sorry that I’m being weird about this, Darren. I can’t help it. This is not something I expected to be doing. I just didn’t figure that whatever did this to you would give you all the working parts. Is this normal? I don’t even know. Maybe we should take you to Dr. Alberts.”

I leaned up against the bathroom wall, my blood-stained boxer shorts clearly visible as I sat with my legs open. “What? So she can tell me I am a perfectly normal teenage girl?” The words echoed in my head, and I could tell they caught Amélie off guard.

“Yeah. I suppose we should look at it that way. As long as you are like this, it will happen every month.”

I replied, “You have no idea how much it means to me that you didn’t run out of here. Like my parents. I need you so much right now. I need you in my corner, Amélie.”

I reached out my arms, and Amélie embraced me. I have never been a ‘hug person’ person, but because Amélie and I had not been intimate often, this was the only contact we could have that did not make her uncomfortable. I still caressed her butt and massaged her legs now and then, but even that was becoming rarer.

I was worried that Amélie would eventually see me as a different person. We were married though, I was her husband, and she my wife. Now we more often acted like sisters. Nothing could have illustrated better my fears concerning how Amélie saw me more than when she took out a tampon, put it in my hand and helped me guide it into my vagina.

I slept downstairs that night because I couldn’t share the bed with Amélie. I felt too ashamed. I knew the next time would be easier, I would likely have a tighter grip on my emotions because I wouldn't be taken by surprise. The experience helped to reaffirm my desire to find a cure because I never wanted Amélie to look at me like that again. Like I was really who I appeared to be.

The next day was easier, although needing Amélie to show me how to change the tampon was not the highlight of my life so far. She was at least more receptive and understanding and less horrified by the whole thing. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, like she had accepted that her husband would be menstruating from now on.

I couldn’t get over the feeling of general discomfort - both emotionally and physically. Even after showering that morning, I still felt unclean. I found myself rubbing my body more vigorously, but the feeling never disappeared, even as the soap ran down my legs and drained with the water.

Amélie explained it best after I asked her, “You won’t feel clean even after eight showers. You will probably feel bloated, and from what I can tell, you are having a heavy flow with some very bad cramps.”

I threw my hands over my ears and danced away from Amélie into our bedroom. Despite experiencing it, I still didn’t want to hear the gory details.

Amélie shook her head and glared at me, “You know, you’d think after having one yourself, you’d be a bit more mature about it. Besides, you were the one who asked.”

I shot Amélie a dirty look, “I didn’t ask for the life story of menstruation. Maybe you'd like us to have a discussion about my favourite brand of feminine hygiene product? Or maybe we could share stories about our first time? Well, here's mine. I had my first one yesterday- it sucked.”

Amélie frowned and then changed the subject, “Darren, I want you to come with me this weekend to my parents place for Easter. I don’t think it’s a good time for you to be alone.”

We had previously discussed it and decided that I would stay behind. I planned band practice on Saturday with Andrew and Steven, but I still hadn’t had a chance to get a new, smaller guitar. I had been planning on going today. “And what about band? You know how important that is to me, especially now. It’s about the only normal thing I do.”

Amélie’s firm expression softened, “You could have it during the week. Maybe Tuesday?” She looked into my eyes, “I really think it best you don't spend the weekend alone.”

I narrowed my eyes, realizing that we were heading for another fight. “Why? I am not going to do anything stupid. I love you and Chloe too much to even consider hurting myself. Don’t you trust me?”

Amélie shook her head, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Darren. Even you have to admit that you haven’t had the best week, though. And I know you wouldn’t hurt yourself. You are too strong for that. But-“

I was growing angrier as Amélie tried to reason with me, “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t trust me because you think I’ve changed too much?” Amélie was never a nagging wife. She was not the type who was upset if I missed dinner, as long as I told her, and she never expected me to ask her for permission to go out with friends. I felt like the dynamic of our relationship was changing, and that this was the first test.

Amélie replied, “I trust you. I trust you with Chloe, and I trust that you will make the right decisions. It’s really about this though, you said you want me in your corner, well I am here now. I want to help you, but I’m not going to be here over Easter, and I will worry about you.”

Before I could break in she added the deathblow to my argument, “It really comes down to this, Darren, and believe me I didn’t want to say this, but do you want me or your mom to help you with your problem?” She pointed to my crotch.

My eyes widened and whatever words on my lips were immediately forgotten. I stammered, “Well, I saw you do it ... it didn’t look too hard.”

Amélie raised a brow, “Okay fair enough, but what if you have questions? What if something happens that you can’t handle? I will be 500 KM away, and your mom isn’t talking to you. Do you think you’ll be able to call her up and ask her to come help you with your period? Or even your sister, can you see yourself doing that?”

Amélie sat me on the bed. I was speechless. I knew I absolutely could not ask my sister or my mother about any of what Amélie was suggesting. I would rather have crawled under the house and never come out.

I nodded my head sullenly. I texted the guys that I wouldn’t be able to do band during the weekend, but that I could probably do Tuesday. I didn’t tell them my wife was making me go see my in-laws, but when I told them it was personal stuff, they understood. Both of them had texted me back and forth throughout the week asking how I was doing and when I was going to get the new guitar. They were being as supportive as they could be. Anyway, I didn’t feel much like guitar shopping today.

That time of the month, Aunt Flo, menses, whatever you decide to call it, is unpleasant. I knew why most women did not bring up their periods in polite conversation because honestly it is disgusting. Amélie had gone to the pharmacy to get me something for the cramps. My heart sank as I took the bottle of Midol. My cramps were worse than Amélie’s, I knew that, but was I such a goddamn girl that I needed such a stereotypical means of relief? I knew that it would get easier to deal with, but part of me was happy that I was overreacting. What man wouldn’t act the extreme drama queen if this happened to him? Look at us as a gender. A cold can have us calling for our mothers, the so-called ‘man cold’. Can you imagine if every man menstruated? I shuddered at the thought.

I spent the day watching old wrestling matches on Netflix. I watched professional wrestling as a kid, but as a teen, I was caught up in the furore of the Monday Night Wars, which involved two rival companies. I wasn’t watching because it was the most macho thing I could find. If anything, considering the hormones having a field day in my body, watching two greased up muscular men in spandex tights could have been a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the nostalgia. It took me back to when I only needed to worry about getting school work done, playing hockey and video games. I was actually a generally happy teenager, despite some of the bullying I faced. I hardly rebelled. I was a good straight-edge kid, no drugs and no alcohol.

I suppose this was the equivalent of a woman watching a sad movie trying to ignore the unpleasantness of her period but enjoying the amplified emotion from the melancholy on screen, but I was no woman. A steel chair cracked into the heel’s (read: villain of the soap opera that is professional wrestling) skull. I smiled and all was right with the world.

Chapter 22

Amélie arrived home, and I realized that I hadn’t packed. I quickly threw some clothes into a small suitcase as usual. I used to pack clothes in a plastic bag, but for some reason this bothered Amélie. The bag took less room than a suitcase once emptied. Amélie had packed her massive suitcase the night before. It held her clothing and Chloe’s, plus toiletries and whatever else a woman needs for four days away from home. In contrast, my suitcase was less than half the size of hers and probably thirty pounds lighter.

Amélie entered in a flurry, carrying McDonalds and Chloe depositing them both at the top of the stairs before entering the bedroom. “I need you to set up the DVD player for Chloe, Darren and then to - ”

I nodded, “Pack the car. We go through this every time. I always pack the car.”

We planned to leave right after dinner. It meant that Chloe would sleep most of the way, hopefully. I set up the DVD player to keep Chloe’s attention during the long trip. Five hours was long for us but I couldn’t imagine how long it felt to a toddler. I began packing the SUV, putting in bags, toys and other items we would need throughout the weekend. It was like a game of Tetris, finding the perfect space for each item.

I re-entered the bedroom and reached down to grasp the handle of Amélie’s suitcase. I usually carried it with one hand, but I knew now that it would need two. I gripped the handle with two hands and then lifted. The suitcase had wheels, but this is how I had always done it. The case didn’t budge. I lifted again, and I managed to lift it an inch before my knees buckled and the enormous case fell heavily to the floor.

“Are you okay in there, Darren? Do you need help?”

Clearly, the suitcase was too heavy for me to carry alone, but something in my brain, either my masculine ego or whatever it was that made me smash Brad’s television, caused me to grip the suitcase handle and drag it down the hallway. I then proceeded to lug it down the stairs to the entryway. It thumped loudly down each step. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Darren, what the hell are you doing? Just ask for help!” Amélie was yelling at me from the kitchen. She was washing my lunch dishes, which I should have done, but I was suffering through my first period and, to me at least, it was the perfect reason to be lazy. I really didn’t want to do much of anything, except sit in front of the television.

“I’ve almost got it.” I was three steps from the bottom.

“And how are you going to lift it into the car?”

I ignored her and dragged the suitcase outside. The wheel on the left side was bent now, so it handled like a typical grocery store shopping cart. Good, serves her right for making me come with her this weekend. My thoughts were incredibly immature, but rather than feeling bad for damaging Amélie’s suitcase, I felt it was justified- for a moment. I shrugged off the selfish and juvenile thoughts and then opened my arms wide in an attempt to embrace the suitcase, but my arms weren’t long enough. I heard the other door open and moments later, as I continued to struggle, the burden eased. Amélie was helping from the other side.

Amélie frowned, “I should have packed it lighter. Sorry, Darren, I wasn’t thinking.”

I had been expecting a fight, especially since the wheels on the very expensive luggage were damaged, but Amélie apologized and then handed me the McDonalds bag.

“We’ll eat in the car. Are you ready?”

The trip was uneventful. Amélie drove halfway, but I had better night vision, and now better vision overall, so I continued the trip until we arrived. The small town in northern Ontario is quaint - one grocery store, one Laundromat, one church, and one beer store. It was originally a logging town, but like many small towns in the area, once the resource dried up, people left. Thankfully, it was also a mining town, but that did not stop the exodus. Young people wanted to experience the big city, and if you were either not good with your hands or ambitious, you looked elsewhere. Amélie herself told me that she couldn’t wait to leave. She loved her parents, but she could not stay there. She had greater aspirations than being the wife of a miner or logger. I liked the small town because while it is quaint, the people are pleasant, and I also really enjoyed the company of Amélie’s parents.

They were two of the nicest people you could meet. They were the type who would give you the shirt off their back if it meant you would be more comfortable. And amazingly, despite my change, the visit went very well. Amélie had told them what had happened, and apparently, she told them to treat me the same way. It was a very pleasant weekend, filled with crossword puzzles, board games and hockey games. None of the conversation revolved around my change, my employment situation or anything equally dismal. It was as if nothing had changed.

I didn’t feel like a freak in front of them because they made me so welcome. Even before I was dating their daughter seriously, but had aspirations to do so, they made my stays more than hospitable. My favourite foods and drink were present, Orange Crush pop and a box of sinfully good but terribly unhealthy Count Chocola cereal. This was cereal that turned your milk chocolate, but I loved it, even as an adult.

There was only one slightly embarrassing moment the whole weekend.

“Darren, you need to put a bra on around my dad. You are not exactly flat, and things ... move around. Last night during the hockey game, when the Canadiens scored and you jumped up and down. Well let’s just say, you really need to wear a bra. Poor guy turned all red.”

I was thankful that Amélie and I hadn’t had the bra talk yet. She hadn’t pushed me into wearing one since my interview, but I didn’t need a lot of coaxing there. I didn’t want to make her father uncomfortable, so I wore one for the rest of the weekend. I had to admit that it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, especially considering I wasn’t tiny either. It was more comfortable to have them supported, but it felt like a gateway garment. Would I be wearing daisy dukes or bikinis or something equally revealing if I took to wearing bras more often? As ridiculous as such a notion might seem, I could imagine myself falling prey to the seductive feel of silk against my skin. It would make more sense, too, because clothes certainly would fit better. However, it really came down to a mindset, I still considered myself a man, and men, don't wear bras. Still, if I didn’t manage to find a cure before I started at the law firm, I would be in a bra every day.

Other than the bra incident, there was only one noteworthy event. Amélie’s father had invited me to watch the hockey game at a local restaurant. Halfway through the second period, I realized I had forgotten to bring my wallet, so I returned to the house. Everything was within walking distance, so it was a quick walk back. I entered through the back door, but as I did, I could hear Amélie and her mother discussing my situation. I crept into the house and hid in the living room.

“He’s dealing with this the best he can Mom. It was just so unbelievable at first, that it took a few days to even accept that it happened. That it wasn’t a dream.”

“And you still have no idea what caused it?”

“No, just the dream, but that’s farfetched. We don’t really have any leads. We can’t go to a doctor because Darren is worried he will become some kind of medical experiment.”

“Have you thought about a natural solution? Healing crystals might work.”

Amélie’s mother was a strong believer in using nature to cure her minor medical issues- rashes, warts, aches and pains- nature had the remedy. She would still go to the hospital for serious conditions, but she tried to use natural methods as much as possible. I had to admit that some of what she had suggested in the past worked very well, but I did not believe in the healing power of crystals. Still, considering my situation, I was willing to try anything.

Amélie responded, “Nothing like that, but Darren is desperate, so he will probably try them.” There was a tinge of fear in her voice, likely the memory of what occurred with the fraudulent wizard.

“Have you thought about what you will do if you can’t turn him back? You know that we love Darren, and we’ll accept him in the family either way, but you can’t exactly be married to a teenage girl. And what about Chloe, would Darren still be her father?”

“I think about it every day Mom. I look at him, and I can see Darren in there. I know it’s him, and he has asked that we treat him the same way, but it’s going to be hard. It seems that the harder he pushes the world to treat him differently, the harder it pushes back. As for Chloe, well she won’t call him daddy. I think it’s tearing Darren up inside. He’s a lot more emotional, with good reason, but sometimes I see him differently.”

“Different how Amélie? From what I have seen, your husband is inside that body.”

“I don’t really know how to explain it exactly. Some of the decisions he makes aren’t good.”

“You said that he was desperate though, right Amélie? He wants his life back.”

“I know Mom, but sometimes I worry that I can’t leave him alone. That’s why I wanted him to come this weekend. I don’t know what he’s going to do half the time. And we fight so much now.”

“You are going through a very stressful time in your marriage, so you are bound to fight. The best you can do for Darren is to trust him, and show that, despite this change, you still love him. I will admit that what has happened is unbelievable, but you are right, I see Darren in that girl’s body.”

“But Mom, what if I stop seeing Darren in there?”

“Then love him a different way, Amélie.”

I crept back outside and returned to the restaurant to watch the rest of the game. I had forgotten to retrieve my wallet from the house, but I needed to get back to Amélie’s father. A few tears ran down my cheeks as I walked back. I was pleased that Amélie and her mother still believed I lived inside this soft body, but I was fearful that Amélie’s concerns might become a reality. Still, I knew who I was. If I had all my knowledge and memories, I would be the same person, right?

The next day we said our goodbyes to Amélie’s parents, thoroughly relaxed and pleased that Chloe had actually slept decently. Her parents were such saints that they got up to take care of the baby in order to let Amélie and me sleep longer. The last few weeks had been draining, so I was grateful for a stress-free holiday. Other than the conversation I overheard last night, it had been perfect.

We left with Easter chocolate, new clothing and toys for Chloe, and probably a pound or two heavier. They fed us very well, and because we were on holiday we ate with abandon. I found I could still eat more or less the same way I had before. I liked meat less, but I had a stronger sweet tooth. Amélie swore she would return to the gym on Tuesday, while I made plans to visit the music store. I had never really worried about my weight as a man. I was blessed with a fast metabolism.

The ride home was not as idyllic, unfortunately, as the trip out had been. Chloe decided that she wanted out of her car seat, so she proceeded to make a high-pitched wailing noise. Amélie couldn’t stand it, and while she usually drove home the entire way (apparently I drove too slowly), she asked that I drive while she attempted to distract Chloe. Mommy still had the magic touch when it came to quelling Chloe’s screams, so I was relegated to chauffeur.

Not even Amélie’s soothing tone, funny faces or offers of milk and crackers calmed Chloe.

“I think something is wrong with her. She usually stops crying by now. Maybe it is her ears. We need to put the ear drops in.”

I was busy driving, and I only heard some of what Amélie said.

“Didn’t you hear me, Darren? We need to stop.”

We were on a long stretch of highway where the only place to stop was the side of the road. Chloe’s shrieks had reached an ear-splitting frequency. I could also hear her cries becoming more frantic as she thrashed in her car seat.

“Darren, we need to stop now! There’s something wrong with her! Stop the car now!”

I will admit that I am a bit of a nervous driver. It comes from my general anxiety. So when someone is yelling at me, and there is a crying baby, I don't pay attention to the road or my speed as much as I should. The baby’s cries had caused me to increase my speed. I was already 10 km/h over, but now it was 20, and soon 25 km/h over the speed limit. I desperately wanted to find a gas station because I felt that this stretch of road was too narrow to safely stop. Either that or one of the junctions where transport trucks were able to make turns. I saw neither of those as I passed a lurking police car.

“Darren, stop the car! I think she’s having trouble breathing! Wait, is that a siren?”

I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the flashing lights of a provincial police car.
There is an old adage that states bad events occur in threes. All three of my grandparents (my grandfather on my father’s side was dead before I was born) had died in the same year, so while I wasn’t overly superstitious, I still believed there was some truth to those words. My parents’ reaction to my change, the failure at the law office and now the police car was the third.

I immediately lowered my speed, hoping that the police officer was going to pass me to go after someone else. I was frantic. My left leg started to shake, and my grip on the wheel went from firm to death. I still didn’t see a safe place to stop.

I looked in my rear view mirror, and I could see the officer actually motioning me to pull over. I started to edge my way to the side of the road, decreasing speed, but as I hit the shoulder, gravel started spitting up underneath the car, and I thought I was going to lose control. I quickly veered back onto the highway, and the police officer continued his pursuit.

“Darren, are you listening to me? You’ve got to pull over. Please pull over.”

I barely heard Amélie’s voice. My sanctuary appeared on the horizon- a gas station. I put my turn signal on and quickly turned into the parking area. The police car followed me.

I had never been stopped by the police for a driving infraction. I considered myself a careful driver. If I sped, I usually stayed within the 10 km/h over threshold. Most drivers believed if they only sped a little, they would not be pulled over. At one point, I was going 25 km/h over the speed limit, so it could be a hefty fine and, potentially, demerit points. Amélie and I lived in Quebec, but the Ontario police officer could still ticket me. Beyond the fine and the demerits, the main issue was that I didn’t have a valid driver’s licence.

I had the licence issued to Darren Lawrence, but there was no way the officer was going to believe I was him. I thought about asking Amélie to switch seats, but the cop was already behind us, and he would definitely see if we tried to swap. My thoughts shifted to Chloe, forgetting about my predicament for the moment.

“Is she OK?” I had turned my head to the backseat. I could see the police officer walking toward the car. Chloe was still crying, but Amélie was in the process of taking her out of the car seat, so that would likely stop her cries.

The officer walked up to the driver’s side. I had already lowered the window, and had the insurance card in my hand, but I had not removed the licence from my wallet. The police officer was tall, wore mirrored sunglasses, typical of traffic cops, and had a buzz cut. He was thick-necked and broad shouldered. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties.

The officer stated, “Licence and registration, please.” He had a no-nonsense manner. It was professional and slightly intimidating. There would be no talking my way out of this, but I would likely try.

I produced the registration. The officer furrowed his brow, “Miss, your licence?”

I had two choices. I could lie and say I had left my licence at home, but I would have to produce it to avoid a fine, or I could come clean. I decided to tell the truth because I knew that I would not be able to produce something that didn’t exist.

“I don’t have one. Sorry officer.” I hoped that being truthful would yield a smaller fine.

The officer pulled off his sunglasses and shook his head. He then ignored me entirely and went to the passenger side where Amélie was sitting. He tapped on the window, “Ma’am, is that your daughter? Is there a reason you are allowing her to drive without a licence?”

I was angered by the officer’s blatant ageism. My view on what occurred was just as valid as Amélie’s. I wanted to shout at the officer, but maintained my composure.

Amélie replied, “Um, no she’s my sister. And, I’m sorry officer, she told me that she had one.”

The officer shook his head again, “Considering the infant in your care ma’am, I would hope you would check something so important.” Chloe had finally settled down now that she was in Amélie’s arms.

Amélie nodded, “I realize that officer, but she is normally truthful. I had no reason to believe otherwise.”

I was seething in the front seat. Once again, I was being left out of the conversation.

The police asked, “Did you ask her to pull over when she saw the sirens?”

Amélie replied, “I did. She said that she didn’t feel comfortable stopping at the side of the road, so she waited until we got to the gas station. You could see that when she hit the gravel she got scared, so pulled back on the road.”

The officer nodded and wrote in his notebook. He asked, “For an inexperienced driver that’s understandable. She did a good job keeping the car on the road after nearly skidding in the gravel.” His face grew more serious, “That does not ignore the fact that she was both speeding and driving without a licence. As the owner of this vehicle, you face a hefty fine and demerits.”

I blurted out, “Does my side of the story not matter at all?”

Amélie narrowed her eyes and then addressed my behaviour, “Hush Abigail! You are in enough trouble already.” I knew that Amélie was playing the part of my older sister, but it still hurt to have her treat me that way.

The officer frowned and then walked toward me, “Do you understand how serious an offence it is to drive without a licence, miss? Also, when I motioned for you to pull over, you didn’t. Do you know that failing to follow the instructions of a police officer can result in possible jail time?”

I sneered at the officer. I knew he was beginning the intimidation power trip. “Like my sister said, I didn’t feel that it was safe to stop.” My expression softened as I formulated an argument, “I knew that it would be safer for you as well if I stopped in a wider area. The guard rail made it too narrow. You would have been far more susceptible to being hit.”

“Miss, don’t tell me how to do my job. I felt that it was safe. You should leave those decisions up to myself and your sister. She told you to stop, and I motioned for you to stop. You could go to jail for six months.”

He was trying to scare me, but instead, his behaviour was making me angry. I said through clenched teeth, “Look, you’d have to prove that I was wilfully evading you without reason. It is a mens rea offence if jail time is involved. I’ve told you the reason why, I didn’t feel it was safe. You followed me for less than a minute before I pulled into a gas station. You can leave your attempts to bully people to the G8 protests.”

The G8 protests, which occurred only a few years ago in Toronto, were infamous for police brutality that saw peaceful protesters attacked by overzealous cops. People were incarcerated without being charged and without being told their rights. It was our very own international embarrassment, something that you might see in countries without a Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

I had struck a nerve. “Miss, I suggest you shut your mouth. I could make this very difficult for you.”

I responded snidely, “Does the Police Services Act allow you to threaten people like that?” The Act governs a police officer’s conduct, including use of force and whether threats can be used during interrogation.

Instead of fear, I felt elation. I was putting this cop in his place. I wasn’t an expert in criminal law, but I knew that this cop was treading the line between professionalism and mistreatment. Amélie whispered in my ear.

“Darren, please stop taunting him. He is going to give us a massive ticket. What about that guitar you wanted to buy?”

I had no idea what the fine would be, but I was enjoying being rebellious. As a musician, I had written songs about police misbehaviour before, the G8 protests in particular, but at the same time, I also wanted that guitar. Still, something was happening to me. We play out situations in our mind where we say the perfect words to authority figures, but more often than not, only after the event itself. This time I acted on them, and I didn’t feel like backing down.

I saw the officer’s brow furrow again. A vein was pulsing in his forehead and his teeth clenched. His instincts were pushing him to act, but his training and maturity stopped him. His breathing was heavier than when he had first stepped in front of my window. A ghost of a smile appeared on my face as he returned to his car.

Amélie shook her head and grasped my shoulders, “Darren, what the hell are you doing? That’s a cop. You are playing with fire. What if he decides to impound the car?”

I answered, “He would only be able to do that if there wasn’t an alternate licenced driver. It’s just common sense. Plus he would have to be pretty horrible to impound a car with a baby in it. Anyway, you’ve yelled at people like that before.”

Amélie wasn’t convinced, “Yeah at meter maids maybe because of parking tickets but not cops. What’s gotten into you?”

The officer tapped on Amélie’s window, “Ma’am, I am citing you for allowing an unlicensed minor to drive your car. I am citing your sister for speeding, driving without a licence, and failing to heed the instructions of a police officer, specifically, failure to stop when ordered. Since your sister is a minor, imprisonment is not an option, but juvenile hall is. See you in court.”

I was unimpressed with the list, and I was about to snap back, but the officer walked away. He turned around, “Have a nice day.”

I got out of the driver’s side and slid into the passenger’s seat. “Those are hackneyed, tacked on charges Amélie. He is just upset because a teenage girl showed him up.”

Amélie shook her head repeatedly. Her eyes were wide, practically bulging, “Darren, you do realize if you lose, you could end up in juvie? Was it worth it just to play bratty lawyer with him?” She looked at the ticket, “These tickets amount to more than a thousand dollars in fines. What the hell were you thinking of, acting that way? What happened to wanting to avoid a paper trail? Well they’ve got a file on Abigail Lawrence now, and you’ll get a summons to appear as her.”

“We’ll win. He’s got nothing beyond the speeding and the licence. We can get those tickets reduced.”

Amélie frowned, “I’m worried about you, Darren. That wasn’t like you. You remember when you told me about the time when you were sixteen and, during a dance, you walked your date to her car and they wouldn’t let you back into the hall? You were so mad you swore at the cop for making you leave before the dance was over. That’s what that reminded me of. It was something a stupid kid would do. Sure, you’ve got all this knowledge, but you made a really stupid decision there. What was going on in your head?”

Amélie’s words echoed in my mind. This is exactly how my parents, and in particular, my father sounded when I had done something foolish as a kid. I hadn’t been particularly rebellious, but being a teenager, I still made mistakes. The rest of the ride home was done in relative silence save for Chloe’s occasional whine.

I looked up case law on my charges when we got home, while thinking that what I had done was very irrational. What was going on in my mind?

Chapter 23

My concussion symptoms from the week before had finally disappeared, and even better, my period was gone. It had run its course during the holiday weekend. Unfortunately, Amélie was still not speaking to me. Over a thousand dollars in fines still rankled. Tax season was approaching, and I expected Amélie’s mood to worsen as the time to pay grew nearer. We are heavily taxed in our province, and it meant we always owed.

Band practice that week was set for Thursday, so I still had a few days to get my new guitar. I had my own money, and in fact, had significant savings. I could have gone out and bought a masterwork guitar that would make any guitar hero jealous, but I knew it was a bad idea.

Amélie and I did not have a joint bank account, except for an education savings account for Chloe. As long we could pay our respective bills and the mortgage, both of us were fine having separate accounts. I never questioned her on her purchases, and in turn, she did not ask about mine. I knew, however, that given recent events, I would be interrogated instead of simply asked about what I bought.

While I did have a job lined up for the summer, it would not pay nearly as much as my previous one. I would earn student wages. I looked at the form I needed to return to Stephanie and saw that it was, in fact, only a few dollars over minimum wage. Still, it was better than retail, and it was law-related experience, which was invaluable.

I thought about driving to my usual guitar store, but if I was caught again so soon, I would be sent immediately to juvenile hall. Repeat offenders are not treated lightly. I had no aspirations to end up in such a place. The store also tended to be a little pricey. They carried the top brands. Even my Gibson knock-off cost over five hundred dollars. If I spent that amount, Amélie would see red. She would probably make me take it back. I didn’t want to have to lie to her, especially given our recent rocky history, so I started looking online for used guitars in my area. I knew that I needed ¾ size, but unfortunately there wasn’t a lot of choice. I cringed when I saw some of them. One was actually shaped like a pink and purple butterfly. The neck was moulded to form the stem of a flower. It was the so-called Debutante guitar. I would be laughed off stage if I bought something like that. Another was actually heart shaped, aptly named the Heart Breaker. Girls who wanted an ounce of rock cred would not play guitars like those.

After that, I texted Amélie, asking her how much she thought I should spend on a guitar. I hated doing that because again, it was my money, in my bank account. But with the uncertainty of tax time and my tickets, we needed to watch our money. I was actually pleased that I had not just bought a guitar impulsively.

“Probably two hundred max. Sorry Darren, we really have to watch our money.”

“I know, it’s just that really limits me.”

She replied in a text, “Yeah.”

I sighed. She was right. I wasn’t about to punish myself though. I was sure I could find a guitar that didn’t make me want to throw-up at the very thought of playing it. I realized also that I could remove the pick-ups from my current guitar. Well I couldn’t, but I could take it to a guitar technician who could.

My search took me to a local dealer. I checked out his website and found that he actually built guitars, collected and sold them. I saw that he had a mini-version of my current guitar. The pick-ups would be easy to replace, and the price was within my budget. I thought about going there alone, but I knew that Amélie would be upset. The guy worked out of his garage. It wasn’t that I was thinking like a teenage girl, I was thinking more about Amélie’s concerns. She hated the fact that I saw Brad alone, so I e-mailed the dealer and asked if I could meet him outside of working hours. He replied that he would be willing to do that. I was looking forward to seeing his workshop and trying out his guitars. I could not recall feeling so excited since my change.

The rest of the day I was in high spirits. I was singing in the house. I texted Amélie about the guitar shop, and she said we could go. Of course we could go. I hadn’t asked my wife for permission, had I? I did not let thoughts like that dampen my mood. I was pleased, too, because I felt more in control of my emotions. I had made a good decision to include Amélie in this.

Amélie and Chloe arrived home. We ate supper, and even Amélie noticed that my mood had significantly improved. I was singing nonsensical songs, dancing about, and acting very much like myself. I acted that way before my change, and ironically, it looked less strange in this body than it did in my male body. I was the excitable type. It’s just that I hadn’t had anything to be excited about recently.

The shop was on the Ontario side, so we crossed the bridge and entered a large suburban area. It was actually near where I grew up, so I knew the area.

“Turn here. It’s on the right.” I pointed to a large turn of the twentieth century home. There was a long veranda separated by four beige pillars. It looked a little like my childhood home, except this didn't have a dilapidated garage; it had an extra room attached to the house. I hurriedly exited the car and rang the bell. It was linked to a voice system. Amélie trailed behind me carrying an agitated Chloe.

“Abigail. And this must be your sister, then. Great, well come on in.” I used Abigail as my name again because it was familiar. I actually answered to it, so it would not appear I had only been christened with the name recently.

I heard a click, the large metal door slid open and I entered guitar nirvana. The walls were lined with guitars of all shapes, colours and sizes. There was a workbench, separate from the main sales area. It was partly enclosed by walls to keep wood shavings from flying about and entering the electronics in the room. A wall of amps that rivalled most chain music stores formed the southern portion of the ‘garage’. This was a place I could die in and be very happy to do so. My eyes darted about the room, like a cat chasing a laser pointer.

“I’m John.” He reached out, and I shook his hand. The man, I guessed to be in his late forties, was balding with a slight paunch. He had long silver hair, which he wore loose down his back. He looked like an ageing rocker, but it wasn’t pathetic, like he was trying to hold onto a career in which he had long since failed. No, he was confident and his eyes spoke of someone who loved his craft.

“This place is amazing. Thanks for seeing us after hours.” I had brought my guitar with me to show him the pick-ups I needed removed. Based on what he told me, he could do the swap easily enough.

Chloe ran around trying to touch everything in the room, while Amélie tried to thwart her attempts. John smiled and pulled the cherry sunburst guitar we had discussed down from the wall, and put it in my hands. It felt exactly like my old guitar, just smaller. My hands could easily grip the neck, and I had little trouble navigating the frets.

“That’s the right size for you Abigail. Now tell me why do you have this one? Did you parents buy it for you?” He was motioning at my guitar in the case.

“It was my brother’s. He doesn’t play it anymore, but I realized I can’t play it either. I was hoping to be able to use the pick-ups. They make the sound a lot meatier.”

John grinned, “It’s refreshing to see excitement in a girl’s eyes when she speaks about guitars. My daughter used to play, and she used to come out here all the time to watch me work. She moved out of town a few years ago.”

He frowned, “Here I am reminiscing about this like an old man.” He smiled again, “Abigail, why don’t you plug it into that Marshall there? It’s close enough to the amp you described.” I was glad I hadn't needed to bring my amp, mostly because asking for Amélie's help to load it would have been humiliating. I didn’t want anything to ruin this day.

The amp John directed me toward was already on. I picked up the cable, and it hummed in my ear. I sat on a stool and slung the guitar over my shoulder. It sounded as I expected it would, it lacked the edge of my ebony monster, where power chords sounded huge, and picked notes were full and soft when the guitar was clean. I frowned, it sounded tinny. It lacked the robust strength of my guitar. Basically, it wasn’t as beastly and my band’s sound would suffer because of it.

John said, “I see you are disappointed. I will be able to replace those pick-ups, and it will sound nearly like your brother’s. But, I think with the type of music you play, you might want to try something like this.”

John went underneath the sales counter and pulled out a silver guitar case. On the case was a number of stickers from bands I recognized: SLAYER, Metallica and Megadeath. These were all heavy metal bands, so I assumed the guitar would be equally beefy.

“When my daughter was thirteen, she went through a metal phase. Instead of liking Backstreet Boys or some boy band, she liked the heaviest, fastest and most hardcore metal. I am talking early Metallica, speed metal. I know you aren’t in a metal band, but since you are the only guitarist, this will definitely fill your sound.”

He opened the case, and I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. The guitar was hot pink.

A bed of roses lay along the far edge, but this is where the girly nature of the guitar ended. Amidst the roses, black tendrils erupted, attempting to pull human bodies that clung to the upper edge of the body of the guitar. Overlooking it all, just before the neck of the guitar started, was a skeletal prince. It was a metal masterpiece.

“I will admit I got carried away with the design, but it plays better than it looks. Trust me.”

I took his word, and was happy I did. While it looked like the axe of the queen of metal, the sound it made was unbelievable. I had never played guitars before that I could not afford. For the same reason, you don’t test drive a car you cannot afford. Because once you do, everything else is compared to that moment, to that feel, and to that touch- you know it was better. Clean, the guitar sounded angelic, with full sounding notes emanating from the hollow body. Distorted, it was a lumbering monster, pillaging with raking claws and saws for teeth. The riffs I played drop D sounded ferocious. Little bends sounded cleaner and each hammer-on was distinct.

It fit me perfectly. My hands danced over the strings. With the thinner neck, my smaller hands had no problem gripping the guitar. The frets were narrower, which meant that I could form chords easily.

John smiled and joined me by the amps. “You are a really good guitar player, Abigail.” I expected him to say ‘for a girl’, but the words never came. Chloe was enthralled with the design. She just watched me play, alternating between staring at me and the guitar.

“My daughter looked that way when she played it. It doesn’t even fit her anymore. Listen, Abigail, I can see it in your eyes. You love this guitar. I want to sell it to you, but I will only sell it to you as is. And you have to promise me you won’t get it repainted.”

I thought about what Andrew and Steven would say if I used this guitar. First of all, it was pink, and while it sounded amazing, it looked a little ridiculous. But the sound, I couldn’t get over it. It was like an ugly woman with a beautiful voice. Actually, the design wasn’t ugly, it was too much- and pink. So pink. I looked at John, and the poor guy looked as if he was about to cry.

“I don’t know…it’s just so pink. I’m not really sure it fits the image of the band. Plus, I probably can’t afford it. It’s custom made.”

John shook his head, “Maybe I was wrong about you. In rock, image shouldn’t matter. Look at Mick Jagger. He is one ugly-looking senior citizen rock star, but he still wears the same stuff he wore twenty even thirty years ago, and he doesn’t give a shit. He has so much charisma, no one notices how old and decrepit he looks, as long as he puts on a good show.”

“Here you’ve got an amazing sounding guitar, and you are willing to throw it away for some shallow image reason. Are you in a rock band, or are you some wannabe pop princess? You were meant to take this guitar out of here, Abigail. You are the first young woman to set foot in here since my daughter. I know she would be happy knowing this old thing is going to be played.”

Doubt gradually morphed into resolve. I knew what John was doing, but it worked. I knew that anything I played after this guitar would not sound or feel as good. I knew it was pink, but I knew he was right, sound is more important than appearance. Plus, it was pretty badass- just so pink.

“OK, you’ve convinced me with your old-time rocker wisdom. I’m interested, but I can only spend two hundred.”

John replied, “That’s fine. I doubt I will be able to sell it to anyone else, and if it gets used again, then it will be worth the-,” he cleared his throat, “loss on this sale.”

I smirked, “Are you a rocker or a capitalist?”

John replied with a smile, “I’m both, but I am still willing to make the deal because I can tell this guitar will have a good home in your hands, Abigail.”

I paid for the guitar and then John shook my hand, “Thank you. Now when is your next show? I want to see that thing in action.”

“Uh, we don’t have one yet, but I’ll let you know.”

He shook his head, “You know there is a world outside of the basement. I’m sure you’ll get one soon enough. I know a few promoters in a couple of different cities. They won’t book you unless you have at least a small following, but something to keep in mind.”

Later in the car, Amélie questioned me on my purchase. “So you bought a pink guitar. Why did you buy a pink guitar, Darren?” I couldn’t tell if she was worried or not. There didn’t seem to be amusement in her eyes either.

“Because of how it sounds. It’s the best guitar I’ve ever played.”

“Right, but it’s pink. You couldn’t have tried another one?”

“They wouldn’t have been as good. I just had a feeling. I know it’s a bit flashy, but look at it this way. Would you wear a dress that fit you perfectly, flattered your every curve and made you feel like a million bucks, but it was an ugly colour. Like it was puke green.”

“No, I wouldn’t wear a dress like that. I am sure I could find something that fit me and didn’t look like I’d been barfed on.”

“What about a car? Like if you got an amazing discount on a BMW coupe, and it was fully loaded. But it was old man beige. Would you drive it?”

Amélie begrudgingly said, “Maybe.”

I nodded, “OK that’s similar. I know it’s pink. But whatever. Am I less of a man for playing a pink guitar?”

Amélie asked, “Do you really want me to answer that?”

I just shook my head, “You just don’t understand musicians.”

Amélie frowned slightly and pulled into our driveway, “I guess not.”

Chapter 24

Thursday came and I had to admit, I wasn’t really looking forward to showing my band mates the guitar, but I knew once they heard it, they'd love it because of how it sounded. Steven might be a problem. He was typically very anti-pop, and while the guitar wasn’t shaped like a butterfly or a heart, it was still pink. I had once suggested we do a hard rock cover of a pop song, and Andrew joked he would leave the band if we forced him to play anything pop sounding. I reminded him that such covers could be very popular, and it was a good way to get an audience into your set, especially if they weren’t familiar with you. I gave the example of “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics, an 80s pop anthem that was successfully and very disturbingly covered by Marilyn Manson, a 90s shock rocker.

I had to admit that part of the reason I bought the guitar was because of its story. I felt sorry for John. He clearly wanted someone to take that guitar from him. I knew that it was just an object, but it had meaning. He was saddened that no one was playing the guitar he had hand crafted for his daughter.

I understood very well that it is possible to have a connection, or to show affection toward an object. When my parents moved from my childhood home to the cottage where I had spent my summers, they gave me some bowls they received as wedding presents. They were not fine china, but they were the bowls I ate cereal from every morning, first as a kid, and then as a young man until I moved away. Whenever one of those bowls gets broken, it upsets me. I know it is just an object, but it has significance. Amélie usually teases me for having such feelings toward something that doesn’t live and breathe, but those bowls were very important to me. They reminded me of my childhood and my parents. So, I could understand how important it was to John that I take that guitar.

As I was waiting Amélie to get home, I received a call from my parents. I had not heard from them at all since I revealed myself. When I saw the number on my phone, my heart jumped. Had my message worked? Had I convinced them who I was? Were they ready to accept me? My father told me that they would come in on Friday to see me. The call was more abrupt than I was hoping, but I was glad that my parents hadn’t disowned me. I was both excited and anxious to speak to them. They had hopefully finished the processing stage in this mad drama and the next stage was acceptance. Having a son for thirty two years who changes not only age but gender, required a monumental amount of understanding to achieve acceptance. I was hopeful they would reach that point.

Amélie arrived home, and we discussed how Friday would likely unfold.

“See Darren, I told you they would come around. It just must be incomprehensible to them. You showed everyone in the room the magic, but that is still a lot to absorb.”

I dug into the dinner I had prepared. Steak and potatoes, and broccoli. I nodded, “I am just glad they are talking to me. Well you saw me, I don’t want to go to that place again.”

Amélie frowned as she chewed the steak, “Something else we should discuss though is your cooking. It sucks. You still cook like you did in university. You’ve got the whole day at home, and you don’t use any spices or anything.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “And here I thought I was a gourmet chef. It’s edible isn’t it?”

Amélie shook her head and smirked, “Yes, but something being edible doesn’t make it good. You know why my meals taste better? Because I spend the time on them. I look up recipes.”

“You want me to wear an apron too? I know that men can be amazing chefs, but I’m just not interested in doing that.”

Amélie frowned as she bit into what I imagined was a tasteless piece of broccoli. “What do you do all day then?”

I smirked, “You caught me. I’m on Justin Bieber’s fan site the second you leave until twenty minutes before you come home. That’s why dinner sucks.”

Amélie shook her head, “Darren, you are such a goof. Can you at least put some effort into dinner a few times a week?”

I shrugged my shoulders again, “I guess. You want radish rosettes, Cornish hen and a soufflé tomorrow?”

Amélie rolled her eyes, “Just give me something that isn’t merely edible. And can we not have potatoes three times a week?”

Amélie had a point. Before my transformation, she had done most of the cooking, except for the barbecuing. Her meals were on a level far and beyond mine. After all, she utilized spices other than salt and pepper.

I looked at my phone, “Damn, I need to leave to go get Steven.” Steven did not have a car, so I needed to pick him up. Thankfully, he lived nearby. I put my shoes on and my leather jacket, but Amélie was standing in front of the baby gate, blocking my exit.

“Darren, are you crazy? What if you get caught again? You have no licence and no insurance. They’ll bring you right to the police station. Plus, how would you explain that you have this car? You can’t legally drive it.”

I blinked slowly, the enormity of the situation crushing my confidence. My shoulders slumped. “It’s only ten minutes.” I saw the look in Amélie’s eyes. It was like I was a drunk driver. She was going to snatch the keys from me, but I relented.

I sighed deeply, “I’ve been driving since I was sixteen Amélie. This isn’t right.”

Amélie went back into the kitchen without saying a word. She didn’t need to say anything because from her slight stomp into the kitchen, I knew that I wasn’t going to be driving tonight. I suppose she was right, but I didn’t appreciate being lectured like a kid.

Andrew arrived a few minutes later, and I met him in the driveway. “Uh listen, we’ve got some problems. Can you go and get Steven? I’ll come with you.” This was actually a lot to ask because Andrew lived about forty minutes away. He readily agreed though.

I slipped into the passenger side, and Andrew backed out.

“I guess you don’t technically have a licence. Or insurance.”

I nodded, “Yeah, it wasn’t a fun trip back. But I’ve got more song writing material at least.”

Andrew laughed, but it was an uncertain, nervous laugh. He then grew more serious. “How have you been, Darren? You know we can wait a bit to play shows. I know we talked about it, and Steven is really psyched, but we can hold off. I can’t say anything I’ve been looking into has really panned out regarding a way to turn you back. It’s just amazing to see what we saw, and then no mention of it anywhere.”

I smiled, “I appreciate your looking. And yeah, it hasn’t been easy, and that’s why I need the band. I need that escape, that outlet. But I need to feel like we are getting somewhere too. Not just spinning our wheels, as Steven says.”

I told Andrew about the guitar and John. Andrew was supportive in my choice, even though he hadn’t seen it yet.

Andrew explained, “You know I get that, plus once you turn back, well you’ll just go back to using your other guitar. Remember when we played with that one band, and they wouldn’t even talk to us because I used a Squire bass? Like we were amateurs because we used cheap equipment.” Andrew and I had played in bands together before, it’s just in this most recent band, we had yet to play a show outside of the basement.

I nodded, “Yeah those guys were such tools. They were a shitty pop punk band. Really generic.”

We were stopped at a red light, and Andrew turned to look at me, “It’s still amazing that you are in there. I mean, I look at you and I see- well a kid. But when you speak, I know it’s you. I guess what I am saying is, it’s still you above all else.”

I smiled again, “After this weekend, I actually really needed to hear that.”

We picked Steven up, and returned to the house for practice, warming up our voices on the way. Once we got to the practice space, I unveiled the guitar to my band mates. I took it out and turned my back to them, playing it before they could actually see it.

Andrew said, while tuning his bass, “I don’t care if that thing is shaped like a strawberry. That is one of the best tones I have ever heard from a guitar. It must have cost a fortune, Darren.”

Steven added, “Yeah that thing is a beast, even though it is so tiny.”

I turned around, and I looked at my band mates expectantly. “Guys, it was such a sad story, it was his daughter’s. Plus, he is coming to our show, whenever that is. And he knows a bunch of promoters in other cities. Maybe Montreal or even Toronto.”

Steven peered at the guitar from his drum throne, he smirked, “What? Was it his dying wish or something?”

I nodded, “Something like that. Check out this skeleton though, and the vines. I mean this thing is a masterpiece, it sounds amazing, and who cares if it’s pink? It’s going to improve the sound of the band.

If anyone had been watching this exchange, they would have thought it was three guys ragging on each other. It’s what we did. When our favourite teams played, we grew competitive. When one of us made a mistake in practice, we would joke about it, usually stupid stuff and always harmless. That is the reason I liked Steven and Andrew so much, they were musicians, but they weren’t cocky, and they were good guys. I mean it’s not like one of them said- I’m not having a chick play guitar in my band. They were my band mates, but they were also my friends. They were also my creative partners.

Steven and Andrew had instant chemistry when they first played together. Bass and drums need to be in sync, but these two played as if they had played together for twenty years. My guitar, simplistic in places, but heavy and filling, complemented the sound. It wouldn’t have worked if we had Jimi Hendrix in the band. It was a bass, drum and vocal band first.

Before starting the set, I went into the downstairs bathroom and clipped my nails to the nub. I didn’t want to do it front of my band mates because I still felt frustrated and humiliated about the whole process. Why could I see magic in front of my eyes, but not anywhere else? I had done a bit of research about girl guitar players. Before my change, I couldn’t name even one female guitar player, except maybe Courtney Love, but I disliked her immensely, so she didn’t count. She had ruined my favourite band of all time.

Most girl players kept their nails short because forming chords with long nails was very difficult. But what if I couldn’t keep my nails shortened? I actually found a video of Dolly Parton, of all people, strumming with nails longer than mine, but she used an open ‘E’ tuning which wouldn’t work with my band’s tuning. I wasn’t about to ask Andrew to retune his bass because of my ridiculous finger nails. Every thirty minutes, I would have to take a break and cut them again.

We started into the set like we did each week. I had been practicing with my new guitar, finding all the sweet spots, but I was still having a little difficulty finding all the frets. I was used to my ebony monster, even in this body- so, I would slip a whole fret over to compensate for what had been tiny hands playing a large guitar. Again, Andrew and Steven said nothing about my guitar, but plenty about my voice and how amazing it sounded.

Halfway through the set, we realized that Steven’s speaker had to be moved. Our setup could be finicky at times, and it was causing a lot of acoustic feedback from his vocal mic, not the good kind either, the type that comes in on a similar frequency to a baby’s cries or the high-pitched yip of a dog. That sort of feedback was the bane of any basement setup because it meant either turning down or moving something around to avoid the waves hitting at awkward angles. Turning down was never an option because Steven was simply too hard a hitter. He and Dave Grohl could have had a competition to see who could bring the police to the house the fastest.

Steven’s drum setup left very little in the way of access to the speaker, but I was able to squeeze in behind him. Andrew adjusted the vocal mic from the board to remove the feedback. Steven was still sitting on his drum throne, but as I passed him, my boobs pressed up against his back. He turned around and looked apologetic.

I shook my head, “What’s the matter with you? Here, you take this side.” I pointed to the right side of the huge 350 watt speaker. After a minute or so, Andrew had isolated the problem and removed the feedback. Steven let me get from behind the speaker first, and I returned to my guitar.

What was Steven’s problem, had he noticed I wasn’t wearing a bra? I had to admit, that when I got into the songs, I jumped around a lot and head-banged, which flayed my long hair into furious motion. Beyond my hair, there were my boobs, and they moved ... a lot! But, were they distracting? I wondered who was going to have the bra-talk with me first, my band mates or Amélie.

Practice ended, and we started talking about shows again.

Steven said, “A friend of mine went to a bar here in town last week. They let local acts play there a few times a month, if the band can bring in some people, they can play. I’ve got inventory at work this weekend so I-”

I jumped in, “I’m on it. I’ll talk to the owner, play him a few tracks, and see if I can get us in.”

Steven frowned slightly, “It’s kind of- well it’s not seedy exactly. You’ve probably driven by it. There’s always a bunch of motorcycles outside. I’m not sure-“

I narrowed my eyes, staring straight into Steven's, “I’m going to get pretty pissed off at you guys if you start treating me like a girl. I’m going into this place, and I am going to get us this show.”

Steven and Andrew exchanged nervous glances and then Steven replied, “OK Darren sorry, I just wanted to say that you should play them the hardest stuff we’ve got. We got some good takes today with your new guitar.”

I nodded, and my band mates left. I hadn’t thought much about the weird incident with Steven and my boobs, but I definitely thought about Steven’s treatment of me after. Had he meant to just suggest I play our harder stuff, or was he insinuating that I would be a poor choice to get us this show? Or even worse, did he think I shouldn't even be going into the bar? The thought stayed with me as I fell asleep that night. I was going to have to nip this in the bud, by ripping the bud clean off the stem.

Chapter 25

“Alee, Alee, Alee, Alee!”

“Daddy’s coming Chloe, just wait!”

Chloe was calling for me, and while I knew that answering to the name she had given me would not exactly help to convince her to call me ‘Daddy’, I could not exactly ignore my daughter either, but I could correct her.

She was making the international sign for 'feed me', which involved putting her fingers near her mouth and making chewing noises. I lifted her into her high chair.

“When are your parents coming Darren?” Amélie was dressed in jeans. I watched her butt while she did the dishes. I was not an ass man before Amélie, but she had introduced me to that wonderful world. I still found her incredibly attractive, so hopefully the millisecond of attraction I felt toward Ethan was a fluke.

“They should here by six.” I was dressed in a loose fitting hoodie and jeans Amélie had bought. They were form fitting, but not overly feminine. My hair was hanging unbound, my bangs in my eyes.

“Darren, your hair looks awful.”

I shook my head, “I don’t want to make it seem like I am accepting this. I want my parents to see that I still dress the same, act the same. And I don’t want a girly hair style.”

Amélie shook her head, “There’s a difference between having a girl’s hair style, and looking like you were attacked by pigeons in a wind tunnel. But suit yourself, still I bet your mom says something about it.”

My parents arrived just after six, carrying pizza from a nearby restaurant. We all sat in the dining room, and I tried to act as much like myself as possible considering how I looked.

There was no small talk. There were too many questions left unanswered from our last visit.

My father spoke up, “First, we are very sorry for not speaking to you Darren. It’s just that your mother hasn’t been coping well with this.”

It was bizarre to see my mother next to the baby and not be smiling. My father said that she woke up every morning asking him, “How do you think Chloe is doing today?” So, the fact that she was not glowing in Chloe’s presence meant that the road to acceptance might be more arduous than I thought.

My dad continued, “Your mother believes that it’s you Darren, but it took her a long time to accept it. At first, she thought that you were hiding on us, that you had done something terrible, or that you were really dying, and you had hired that girl to be you. When you consider what we saw two weeks ago, well it’s actually not that farfetched. Basically, she thought anything that was equally implausible.”

My mother broke into the conversation. She looked at me, but there was a distance in her eyes that I had never seen before. It scared me. “I do believe it’s you Darren, but it’s like you were ripped away from us. Ever since I saw you like that, well I haven’t been able to sleep, even with my pills. I just feel so bad, because everything has been taken from you.”

I interjected, “Not everything Mom, I still have you guys, and Amélie, and my closest friends and Chloe, of course. The fact that you believe me is so reassuring. I was beginning to feel you thought I was a freak or something.”

My mother shook her head, and I had an urge to hug her. She was so sad, but not for herself, for having potentially lost a son. She was more upset over what I'd lost. She is an amazing woman. “Never think that. We will love you no matter what happens. We know you didn’t ask for this and we’ll help in any way we can.” The distance in my mother’s eyes was gone, but she was growing more emotional as she spoke. The thick dark circles under her eyes spoke of a woman who had not had a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“I just don’t understand who or what would do this to you. It's taken your life away.”

My mother had a point. No one who had seen the result of my remarkable transformation had found anything to explain it. Perhaps it was a reflection of our society, but no one seemed to be looking at traditional sources- books. Still, even a cursory search of the local library on their online card catalogue simply turned up such titles as ‘Learning magic for dummies’, ‘The party magician’s bible’ and ‘Harry Houdini’s Greatest Secrets’. None of those was likely to offer a solution to a problem involving real magic. They were just tricks and illusions.

I nodded my head, but in actuality, it felt like I was nodding my hair as well. The bangs dangling in front of my eyes was bothersome. “We will all keep looking Mom. Other than the dreams, I’ve been having, there haven’t really been any signs.”

Amélie jumped into the conversation, “Wait, dreams? I thought there was only one dream. The first one. You’ve had other dreams?”

I frowned. I had been keeping the other dream a secret because while the first dream had taken my gender, the second was terrifying because it sought to craft a new identity for me. Those girls had spoken a name that was not mine, teased my hair, dressed me in clothing that not even Amélie would have worn at my body’s age, and then stated it was all for HIM.

Amélie was clearly annoyed. She put her hand on her hip, an action that Chloe had started emulating cutely. I nodded slowly, “Yeah, there was another one.” I told everyone at the table how I was dragged into the store, and how I was bound by women’s under garments. I then described the ghostly salesgirls, but I didn’t tell them that everything was for some guy.

I hid behind my hair, letting my bangs dangle over my eyes. My shoulders were slumped. I hated telling my parents that I had been dressed up like some over sexed cheerleader. “Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you.”

My father spoke up, “We do Darren, but the more information we have the better. Because the dreams could be linked. There could be clues in them.”

“Yeah, well it felt like the first one. Like a dream that was too real. I was just glad I didn’t wake up that way.”

My father tried to look me in the eyes, but my hair was still in my face, then said, “Darren, we have a proposition for you. We know that you might not agree to it, but please hear us out. Considering what we’ve heard-

“Heard what? Have you been talking to Amélie?” My mother started crying, seeing her like that didn’t soften my words, it hardened them, “You have, haven’t you? I’m sick and tired of all the big adult conversations going on behind my back.”

My father looked at me sternly, “We are concerned for your welfare Darren. You going into that young man’s apartment, how you reacted with the police officer, point to someone who isn’t making good decisions. You’ve got to admit that you haven’t been making great choices recently. And your mother and I, Amélie, we are worried about you.”

My father continued, “Think back to your time as a teacher. Do you remember why teens have poor decision-making skills?”

I nodded, showing my father that I had the knowledge that no teen would likely have, “They make their decisions with a part of their brain that is still developing, so it can result in some bad choices.”

My father nodded as he gently rubbed my mother’s shoulder to calm her, “Living in an adult world but being unable to make adult decisions is very dangerous, Darren. That young man you saw, he could have killed you. You could end up in Juvenile Hall because of what you said to that police officer. It will be a month tomorrow since you changed. Do you think that your decision making is going to get better the longer you stay in that body?”

I interjected quickly, “I did that because I was desperate for a cure so I wouldn’t have to face you guys. And considering how the last two weeks have been, I don’t really regret it. You guys have ignored me trying to deal with what it took my band mates and Amélie minutes or hours to process and accept. Do you have any idea how hard it was is to know my parents didn’t want to speak to me?” I was getting emotional. My voice was raising, and I could feel that lump building in my throat.

My father’s expression softened, “We are sorry about that Darren. It was just a lot to take in. Your sister said you might have cancer. We couldn’t do it. We aren’t perfect, but we are here now, and we want to help you.”

“Help how exactly?”

My father continued, “We feel that this is our responsibility. You are our son. We want you to come and live with us again. We were thinking of renting a house here in the city, so you can be near Amélie and Chloe. We think it’s for the best.”

It was Amélie’s turn to wear an astonished expression, “Hold on a second here, we didn’t talk about this. I can handle this-“

I interrupted, “Handle what exactly? Me? You are all being ridiculous. I made two bad decisions, and I was newly in this body at the time. I am getting used to the flux of emotions.”

My mother had calmed enough to speak, “Amélie told us that yesterday you were going to drive your car, even after the run-in with the police officer.”

My father added, “The other reason we want you to come and live with us is because of your court appearance. They are going to try and build a case against you, and even if you succeed in getting some of the charges dropped, the judge could make you a ward of the state because Amélie doesn’t have official guardianship over you. I looked into this Darren, and I even spoke to a retired lawyer at the cottage. He said they could take you away, put you in foster care. We need, at least in the interim, to build an identity for you. If you live with us, it’ll be much easier to establish.”

I clenched my teeth, “OK. Look I need you guys to trust me. I don’t need parents right now, not like that. I don’t even want to think of it. I’m not going to live with you guys so you can treat me like a kid. I will live in the world the way I choose. Did Amélie tell you that I got a job? I’m starting in a few months. It’s at a law firm here in town.” I didn’t say after exams, of course because that would have only added fuel to the fire that was my potential second childhood.

My father relented, “She did, but she said it was temporary for the summer.”

I nodded, “Yes, but I will make them keep me. I will do such a fantastic job that they won’t have any choice but to offer me a full-time permanent position.” I knew that Stephanie disagreed with my attempt at fast-tracking my career, but she had only seen a small part of what I could do for her firm.

“In the meantime, I need all of you to trust and respect that I am Darren Lawrence. I am 32 years old, and I expect to be treated that way. I don’t want to hear any more ludicrous talk about me living with you again. Amélie and I will be fine. As for my court case, don’t forget that I did this for a living. I can handle it. I have already found jurisprudence that supports my argument.”

I ended the conversation by standing up and bringing my plate to the sink.

The evening continued. My mother played with Chloe far past her bed time, and my father and I discussed the upcoming hockey playoffs. It brought the sense of normalcy that I craved. I didn’t want every future family dinner we had to turn into a debate over my welfare. In order to avoid that, I had to prove that I retained my adult mind.

A few hours later, as my parents were leaving, my mother came up to me and hugged me tightly. It was the type of hug you give to someone who's going away for a long time. I hugged her back with equal firmness. She whispered in my ear, “Is Amélie not helping you with your hair, Darren? You know I had really long hair before I was married, I could show you a few things that would help. I know you probably don’t want anything too feminine, but it will take it out of your eyes.”

I sighed softly and replied, “Sure Mom.”

Chapter 26

The next day, I was still angry with Amélie for talking to my parents behind my back. I barely made eye contact with her, and I plodded around the house as if my feet were made of lead.

Amélie shook her head, “You know sometimes, I feel like I really am living with a teenager.” Her words caught me off guard. She had my attention.

“What happened to that openness we talked about?”

I shot back at her, “Openness? Coming from the person who spoke to my parents behind my back, that’s pretty hypocritical, Amélie.”

Amélie had ammunition to equal my shot, “The same way you told me about that second dream, right? What’s happening to us, Darren? We never used to keep secrets like this from each other. We told each other everything.”

My face softened, “It’s just been hard on both of us. I didn’t tell you about that dream because it was so embarrassing. I was scared too by what it meant, considering the other one had come true, at least partially.”

Amélie nodded, “Your dad is right though, if we don’t know, then we can’t help you. As for talking to your parents, your dad called me a few times. I told him what was happening. Do you know why your parents acted that way, though? I don’t understand why they didn’t talk to you for two weeks. I know that must have been so hard for you. I asked them to call you.”

I took my time answering Amélie. She looked at me expectantly. “Well we’ve talked about this before. You should know that Mom is bipolar, so my change probably hit her the hardest. I remember when I was in university, my parents were fighting a lot, and my mom actually left. We found out later that she went to the cottage, but she took the car and everything she needed for a weekend. She didn’t tell us where she went or anything. I had a feeling my dad knew, but my mom must have asked him not to tell us. She needed the time alone I guess.

“My mom is super nice, but she has claws, and I have seen what she's like when she is on one of her downward spirals. I have a feeling that my change was harder on her than it was on me because, well you know, I’m her little boy. I just hope it hasn’t made things worse for her. She has been getting better in recent years.”

Amélie put a hand on my shoulder, “It’s not your fault Darren. You did what you had to do. It’s better they know you like this than not at all.”

I nodded, “I know that now. Still, why two weeks? I could understand a few days.”

Amélie rubbed my shoulder gently. She was getting a lot more physical with me now, just not in the way I wanted. “Well, I remember a case study from psych class. It involved a young man who was bipolar. He went on an extreme downward spiral. Eventually, he started losing touch with reality, he hallucinated, and heard voices. Maybe your mom was dealing with one of those episodes. Those can take a few weeks to deal with, even longer sometimes. Your dad has kept that kind of stuff from you before.”

Amélie had done a psychology major before law school, so she was knowledgeable on the subject. “To take them out of their mania, you have to remove anything that can contribute to it. So, in this case, you.” Amélie said the words softly, but with a clinical efficiency that demonstrated her confidence in the diagnosis.

I frowned gently, “If that’s the case, it must have been terrible for her. Those calls I made, they probably made it worse.”

Amélie remove her hand and looked in my eyes, “Maybe, or maybe they grounded her in a reality where she had those memories you spoke about. You can't know.”

Amélie continued, “Either way, she is willing to help you now. And I am willing to help too. I am happy to sign a guardianship over you. At least temporarily. I will look into it, but they might be right about your court appearance. You can represent yourself, which I am assuming you will, but your parents or legal guardian need to be there. I don’t know about that ward of the state business, but do you really want to risk it?”

I nodded, “It will look very fishy if my ‘parents’ just move into town one day. If the police go and interview them, they will find out that they don’t actually live here. It will all seem very fake, and we don’t need any more exposure. I think you might be right. The police officer took Abigail Lawrence down as my name though. You have a different last name. At least I gave this address when the cop asked me.

Amélie smiled, “Yes, but teenagers lie, right? I will look into it because with the paper trail this is going to create-“

I interjected, “Is it really necessary to do it officially though?” I didn’t like the fact that Amélie would have a control over my life. I didn’t know what a legal guardianship entailed exactly, but it would limit my adult freedoms to some extent.

Amélie looked at me seriously. Her eyes locked to mine, “I think that it is necessary because as I was saying, this court appearance will create an Abigail Lawrence in the system. If you show up to court without a legal guardian and with no parents, no birth certificate, you could be taken to a foster home if you can’t prove that you have those things. Once you are on their radar, there’s no telling what could happen.”

I shook my head, “I would just run away. I would come back here.”

Amélie frowned, “And you could avoid all that if I signed a simple piece of paper.”

I added, “And how do we get around the fact that I have no birth certificate? That will really raise red flags.” I now realized how foolish my stunt with the police officer was. Even though I knew they had no case with regard to my flight from the police officer, my lack of documentation could really put me in trouble.

Amélie took a moment to answer, but I could see from the flash in her eyes that she had a brilliant idea, “Well people have home births don’t they? We could just apply to the government for a birth certificate.-“

Unfortunately, there was a hole the size of a school bus in her theory. I interrupted, “And what about Abigail’s mother? You remember the form we had to fill out for Chloe at the hospital? We’d have to prove that the mother was pregnant, we did that with the ultrasounds. This will be insanely complicated, Amélie.”

Amélie shook her head and smiled, “Not necessarily. You forget that my Aunt Giselle is a registered midwife. She could sign off on all of the documentation. You have met her enough times that we could explain what happened. She would believe us.”

“Again, that could work. But who is the mother? If your aunt acts as a witness to a birth that happened more than ten years ago, how are my parents involved? Would they still legally be my parents? And why would they choose to have a home birth, when their two previous children were born in hospitals?

“And, why would they wait so long to get a birth certificate? This is going to raise a lot of questions.”

“OK, you are right, this is going to be more complicated than I thought. I’m going to look into it though Darren. You haven’t received your summons yet, so we have time.”

***

“I’m heading out to see about that show now.”

Amélie replied, “Okay.”

The simple affirmation did a poor job of disguising how she was conflicted. It was clear that a part of her didn’t like me going to the bar alone, but another part of her likely feared becoming some sort of nagging shrew or worse- a protective mother. I thought she was going to tell me to be careful, but she said nothing as I slipped on my leather jacket and tied my tennis shoes. My run-in with Brad had frightened her more than it had me. While it had not scared me on the same level, it had also not endeared my former sex to me. If anything, I would be more suspicious than I was before. Every word could be construed as a come-on, and every gesture, no matter how subtle, could reveal an interest.

Brad was the catalyst for this attitude, but, even as Darren, I had a history with other men. I found macho behaviour very unappealing. I didn’t like a lot of men. Whether they were greased out club goers who tried to grind against Amélie even with me standing next to her, or bug-eyed jock Neanderthal hockey players who sought to emasculate me on the ice, or gear head seat jockeys who tried to impress everyone with how loud their car could be. I didn’t like them. I didn’t hate men, but I could see through them usually, which is why my lapse in judgement with Brad should have been a warning. I chalked it up to my desperation, but was there something more sinister nestling in my brain? Was my judgement compromised by my desperation or was it something else, something I didn't want to acknowledge?

I displaced the thoughts from my head by switching my mind to the task at hand. I was eager to prove that I could get us this show. It would be the perfect opportunity to try out the songs on someone other than our circle of friends. It would also show my band mates, my wife and my parents that I was still very much capable in this body, the same way I had wowed Stephanie.

I had dressed like a prototypical grunge rock girl- torn jeans, faded leather jacket, unbound tangled messy hair, and a t-shirt from one of my favourite bands, Alice in Chains. I was a quintessential image of the 90s. My dress was purposeful. The t-shirt was from a band that saw most of their success in the early 90s. While I had serious doubts the bar owner would see me as a thirty-year old woman, maybe I could pass for a woman in her twenties if I knew something beyond Fall out Boy, basically from a time when rock didn’t mostly suck. As a teacher, I saw what the students wore and even the boys who were musicians didn’t wear band t-shirts from the 90s, so I doubted any girls did either.

The bar was walking distance from the house in a strip mall. There was a Dairy Queen just a few doors away from it, which Amélie and I enjoyed perhaps more than we should. Particularly now, chocolate was like some wonderful drug that could make problems disappear. When I had my period, Amélie brought me some Dairy Queen home, and it really was like a combination of the perfect witty comeback, the cleanest but most bone-crushing hockey hit, the greatest line of a song. It was heaven.

The bar was called “La Brasserie Grand Gueule” which translated roughly from French to the Big Gob Brewery. As I got nearer, I heard AC/DC’s “Back in Black”. The outside was red brick, but the wall was emblazoned with a set of giant red lips drinking from an equally massive beer stein. The lips looked a little like the famous Rolling Stones logo, but as I doubted that Mick Jagger was ever likely to set foot in the place, they were likely to get away with any alleged copyright infringement. I opened the large metal door and descended the long wide staircase leading into a room with a collection of worn pool tables and old arcade machines distributed apparently randomly. It was like something from the 1980s. I kind of liked it. It had a deliciously shabby authenticity.

The televisions were CRT, not even high-definition. If there was a major sporting event, it wouldn’t be the best place to watch because even the big screen TV was a dinosaur. The sixty inch monstrosity was from a bygone age when televisions were monoliths that sat against a wall. I hoped that meant that people were coming for the music, not the substandard pool tables and ancient televisions.

It was at this point that I heard someone singing “Back in Black” with a thick French accent. Living in Quebec, but so close to the border with Ontario, you were just as likely to get someone who spoke English as you would French. A woman in her mid-forties stepped out from behind the bar. She had dyed blonde hair, was relatively heavy set, and spoke with a thick smoker’s voice. She spoke French to me:

(Hello. Are you looking for your dad? They are unloading the gear from the back. )

Apparently, my disguise was not as effective as I had hoped. The owner or this bartender had mistaken me for the daughter of one of the musicians playing tonight.

I shook my head and answered in English, “No, I am here to talk to you about my band. We’d like to play here soon. I brought a CD.”

She answered back in French, clearly seeing that I understood. There was an expectation we would continue in French, which was actually a rare event for me. Usually, when I spoke French to a Francophone, they would switch to English. I hated it because I was making the effort to practice my French, but the person figured it would be easier to continue the conversation in English. In the meantime, my French was eroding more and more each day.

(We don’t do underage shows very often. We lose a lot of money on them. Plus ones that come in here, the boys who look like they are wearing girls pants, my regulars don’t tend to get along with them.)

Did I have a massive sign on my forehead that said MINOR? My thoughts turned back to my conversation with Ethan, and how he saw me, or the boy in the car who tried to get my attention with his obnoxious bass system. If teens saw me that way, it only made sense that adults would too, but I was too stubborn to admit it. Still, it didn’t make sense to lie to the woman. I answered in French as best I could, but I was rusty:

(The other members of my group. They are- older. All of the people who would come and see us would be illegal. I mean legal. ) I cursed the fact that we had to continue the conversation in French because I was at a distinct disadvantage. The woman could tell I was struggling, but she kept going in French.

(Well sure, but are those people all in a chartered bus waiting to come at a moment’s notice? Ma petite, I get a lot of kids like you in here saying you can bring people, and there’s never enough to make up for the loss in alcohol sales. I’d like to give teen groups a shot, but I can’t be losing money, you understand?)

I grit my teeth. This woman was patronizing me, calling me little one, but I held my tongue. I don’t know if she expected me to leave at that point. She looked at me expectedly, her eyes, directly in mine, seemingly making a shooing gesture. I replied:

(Just listen to the tracks. You will see we are good and a right fit for here.) I cringed inwardly. My French was terrible, but the woman with her tough-as-nails attitude, was unwilling to switch to English. I knew that if I was going to get this show, I would have to keep speaking French, no matter how many mistakes I made.

The woman smirked. (Ma petite, don’t tell me about my business. I know what my regulars like. This music you bring in here, it has no melody. You play fast but you don’t play well. And your screamers, they can’t sing or scream. I will tell you about the last time I had a band in here like that by 9 PM, everyone was gone. All my regulars. The ones who showed up with the band didn’t buy any drinks and they ruined a pool table. Are you going to give me a security deposit, eh? )

I disliked this woman, but she had a point. I had seen the destruction that teens could wreak on a school. The almost weekly graffiti that appeared on the outside walls that offered disparaging remarks concerning the principal’s mother and what they could do to a simple cafeteria was mind boggling. During lunch duty, I remember often having to tell teens to pick up their garbage. One of them usually remarked, “The janitor will do it.” I didn’t blame the kids so much as the parents who had raised entitled punks.

I answered the woman with an edge to my voice. She clearly wanted me out of here, and she wanted me to tell my teenaged friends that the Big Gob Brewery was not open to our kind. (My band is older I said. The one who plays bass, he’s thirty. They will bring paying customers. They will not break anything. )

The woman laughed, (Oh really? And why are you in this band then?)

I shot back, (The music is great. We are chemists with our instruments. And they are really good guys. ) Obviously, I had meant to say we had great chemistry.

The woman did not look convinced. She viewed me with a raised brow, (And your parents don’t mind you being in a band with guys that old? )

I shook my head, (Not at all. They know them and are good friends. )

The woman eyed me. She looked me up and down, trying to determine if I was lying. (I must say I am intrigued. Let’s listen to your CD. )

She put the CD into the bar’s sound system, which thankfully was not as ancient as the televisions and pool tables. I had put three tracks on the CD from our practice, all fast and driving with hook melodies. Not necessarily what I considered our best stuff, but it would suit this bar whose clientele I guessed liked classic hard rock or just rock in general.

The first song started heavy, and then drove into a manic chorus. The song was held together by a driving bass and drum rhythm. I watched the woman’s expression as she listened. Her hard features softened slightly as her expression grew thoughtful. As the bridge pounded with thick palm muted power chords and one final desperate scream to the chorus finale, the expression softened further. I saw the owner tap her fingers on the bar.

(It’s catchy. I’ll give it that. You’ve got a very mature voice for your age. ) I shrugged my shoulders. Hurray, but at least she seemed to be enjoying it.

The second song started, this time with a high-pitched slide. It was a very simple riff, and alone, it was probably very annoying to listen to, but once the bass kicked in, frantic and fast, followed by the drums thundering and crashing at once, it was a powerful mix. The song had a softer chorus, this one sung without screaming but equally powerful.

The woman nodded again, (Nice chorus. Do you write the lyrics and the vocal melodies yourself? )

I replied, (In a notebook, a school one. I’ve written lots of songs. In my last band, I wrote all the words. )

The owner smiled, (I still remember writing the names of my favourite bands on my school notebooks. You probably don’t do too well in school if you spend your time writing lyrics. What’s your name by the way? I’m Jacynthe. )

I had impressed her enough for her to want to know my name. What a great honour. To be fair, this conversation would have gone much differently if I had walked in as an adult male. Apparently, in this body, I had to prove that I wasn’t going to burn down the place. I supposed she had a right to give me the third degree, my band of teenage hoodlums could wreck the place, right?

( It’s Abigail. And I’m happy you like the music. )

(I do like the music, but before I book you guys, I would like to meet everyone in the band. OK? )

Did she think that I was lying? I was annoyed that our being booked was contingent on my bringing the other members here. I had spoken to promoters before, and I was able get shows over the phone. To be fair, they were ‘pay to play’ shows. These shows, much maligned, promised playing time for money. It was an anathema to the whole concept of live music. People come to see a band, and even an unknown band deserves a five dollar cover charge. Unfortunately, unknown bands have difficulty booking shows, so enter opportunistic promoters.

Greedy promoters forced bands to charge their fans ten dollars a ticket, giving none of the profit to the band, and sometimes more just for a chance to play a thirty minute set with an apathetic sound guy, a buzzy microphone and a mix where the vocals were always too low. I had apologized to the few fans a past band of mine had for a show like this, where there was absolutely no sound person! We were left with a mixing board and told to have at it. We had once sold sixty tickets for one of these shows, and considering the venue might charge five to six hundred dollars a night for rental, and we were one band, the promoter was making into the thousands of dollars if there were ten plus bands. And the bands? They got nothing. Exposure yes, but pay to play was vilified, and it usually resulted in the bands realizing they were getting screwed and this pushed them to organize their own shows.

That is why we'd decided to approach the Big Gob Brewery. I had no choice but to agree to Jacynthe’s proposal. We weren’t so much worried about the money, but I had a real problem with lining the pockets of promoters who refused to provide an even adequate sound person. I nodded my head and turned to leave.

Jacynthe grinned, ( Nice to have met you Abigail. I will admit, that I thought I was going to have to kick your ass out of here. See you soon. ) I nodded again and left up the stairs.

So I had the show, sort of. I had Jacynthe interested at the very least. I sighed as I walked home, thinking that Steven would have been able to convince her far more easily. I texted Andrew and Steven, explaining that the owner wanted to book us, but she wanted to meet the whole band first. I told them it was policy, not because Jacynthe didn’t really believe that two grown men would play in a band with a teenaged girl. Would Andrew and Steven come to see it that way, eventually? Would they start seeing me differently? I pushed the thought from my mind, fighting the urge to stop at the Dairy Queen for some wonderful anti-depressant soft serve.

Chapter 27

Another week came and went, and I felt like I was no closer to a cure. The strange magic that affected my body was absent anywhere else on the planet seemingly. Saturday morning, I was waiting for my mother and Amélie to return from Chloe’s dance class as I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. The girl staring back at me had become very familiar. I was scared to admit that it was no longer a surreal experience. It was becoming normal to look at the girl with the sad blue eyes. I did not look at my reflection in shock any longer. As humans we can acclimate better than any other species, we can settle in the coldest and warmest temperatures and survive, and while it was not an easy progression to this state, it had happened. I was getting used to this body.

I knew how it moved, and how my nose wrinkled when I brushed my teeth. I knew how it sneezed, which was completely unlike the gale force of my former sneeze. No, it was a feminine gasp that Amélie annoyingly called cute. To be fair, Amélie was frightened to be caught within the blast of my former sneeze, so I could not blame her. I also knew how this body looked, how the curves and angles mingled to create my physical form. I had not explored its more hidden regions yet, and was in no hurry to do so. I had to admit that I was confused. I found Amélie’s body attractive, yet not Abigail’s. I blamed it on my apparent age, thankful that I was not interested in robbing the cradle.

My face was one that could grace the cover of Teen People. Nearly blemish free, it was fresh, sufficiently round to give the impression of innocence, but alluring at the same time, with big blue eyes. It was as if someone took all the best characteristics of every pop star and blended them into this adolescent canvas. My nose, which hadn’t been over large before, was now upturned and small. My hair was another story. It was a tangled mess. My mother insisted she show me how to style it, but it was more like a visit to the dentist for a root canal. Actually, the styling would be preferable. I hate needles.

This was going to be a special weekend. My mother had begged to take Chloe for the weekend, so it meant that Amélie and I would have the house to ourselves. We planned to see a movie for the first time since Chloe was born. We weren’t huge movie goers by any means, but the opportunity to see a movie in a theatre was not one to pass up. Amélie had gone to the ‘Mommy and me’ showings, but it is difficult to get into a movie when you hear near constant shushing and the cry of an infant every few minutes. Even ‘Dude Where’s My Car’, a 90s stoner comedy, with its simple plot twists, would have been hard to follow with those interruptions. I enjoyed seeing movies with Amélie and rarely went with anyone else. I liked the shared experience. Beyond the movie, I was also planning romance with wine, brie and hopefully something else. I hoped that Amélie was opening up to the idea of a physical relationship with me in this body. We couldn’t exactly do what we did before, but I still enjoyed Amélie’s body. I expected full sex to be off the table, but I could certainly make Amélie feel very good.

I heard the door open and Chloe’s voice as she excitedly climbed the stairs toward me, “Alee! Alee!” I scooped her into my arms and kissed her cheek. “How did you do at dance today?” Chloe smiled at me, a large toothy grin. She was unbearably adorable in her little tutu.

My mother climbed the stairs behind Amélie, “She loves it Darren. She’s going to be a ballerina.” My mother was giddy. Not only had she seen Chloe in her tutu, she was getting her for the entire weekend.

Amélie nodded, “She did really well. She even walked on her tippy toes. She was more into it this week. You should come next week.”

I made a face. “I don’t think so.”

Amélie frowned, “You hardly leave the house. All you do is play guitar.”

I shrugged my shoulders. If I was still a man, I would have gone to the dance class and felt no less a man. I just didn’t want to play Amélie’s little sister or niece, or whatever role I was supposed to be playing. I wanted to feel normal. If I went to dance class as a man and danced poorly that would have been fine, if I hadn’t felt the rhythm and found out I was a secret Baryshnikov, that would have been perfectly fine. If I went to dance class as a girl, well I would probably dance like one without realizing it because of my moving appendages. While watching hockey or wrestling made me feel normal, feeling my ass move while I danced to ‘Wheels on the Bus’ did not.

I smirked and replied, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Amélie took Chloe from me and brought her into the kitchen. My snide comment had apparently ended the conversation. My mother shook her head and led me into the bedroom.

“Darren, you know that Amélie means well and considering no one even knows who you are at the class, it wouldn’t hurt if you went. Your father and I worry about you.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I know Mom, but it’s hard. I feel like everyone is looking at me.”

My mother sat me on the bed. She was tall for woman, standing nearly a foot taller than me now. She put her hand on my shoulder, “Well some might be looking, but you have to understand what they see. And, I think it’s great that you are continuing with your music Darren, but you do have responsibilities here. If you want to be seen as Chloe’s father, you need to show it. I know others won’t see you that way, but Amélie will.”

I nodded slowly, “Okay Mom, yeah I will go next week.” My mother was right. The distance that was building between Amélie and me was only partially due to my appearance, it was also my behaviour. I really did want to see Chloe at her dance class.

My mother smiled, “That’s my boy. Now about your hair. You really need to start doing something with it. The tangles will be painful to take out. You need to brush it in the morning, and for at least a week, you will probably have to do it before bed.”

My mother took a hairbrush out of a shopping bag. The brush was black with thin metal bristles. I hadn’t used a hair brush since high school when I had longish hair, for a man. She sat behind me on the bed and as gently as possible, she began to unwind the snarls that made up the rat’s nest that was my hair. I grimaced as she did. She was pulling on the tangles carefully, but it still hurt.

“Sorry Darren, your hair is in really bad shape. I know it hurts.” She brushed evenly when she managed to untangle a small section, allowing my locks which had been nicely curled in my dream to hang freely. I said little except for making the odd grunting noise, indicating that she was pulling too hard.

“If you brush it like this every morning, and you use a hairband, you could be done in five minutes.”

I made a face. Watching my face in the mirror, I looked like a pouting child. There had to be a way to avoid this, but with my plump lower lip and youthful face, it was difficult. The same face that I wore as a man, narrowed eyes, slightly outstretched jaw, that showed supreme irritation, looked much different on this one. The supposed ‘death’ look that I had given to passengers on the bus who hit me with large heavy bags as they passed, had gone completely. Now I looked like a girl who wasn’t getting her way. Maybe if I tried to tuck my lower lip in, I could lose the pout?

“They are kind of girly Mom. I don’t really want to wear a headband. Plus, I find they kind of make me look even younger. Amélie looks young when she wears them. I don’t want people thinking I am thirteen.”

I saw a little smile on my mother’s face that quickly disappeared. She was working out a particularly knotted section as she spoke, “No thirteen year old girl is built the way you are. I don’t think you will have that problem. If the hairband isn’t an option, then I can show you another way. It is very easy.”

To me, very easy meant not even using a comb. I used to just push my hair back with my hands, gel and then done. It was thirty seconds. My mother finished untangling my hair. She brushed the bangs into my eyes again and then gripped the hair that formed my bangs tightly. She proceeded to slowly wind the strands together, twisting each strand over the other. It looked like she was braiding it, but it wasn’t as extensive. She only wound half of what she had grabbed and then pulled it taut across my scalp, she held it there, but allowed the remaining hair to flow down my head toward my back. She used a hair clip to hold the wound hair in place, and suddenly, I had no bangs.

It still looked girly to me, but it was better than the hairband. It still put the attention on my face, but I felt I didn’t look younger at least. My mother removed the clip and the hair unravelled. My mother looked at me expectantly. “Your turn, sweetie.”

I struggled to wind the hair the same way my mother did, but she was patient with me. Each time I made a mistake, she unravelled the hair completely and asked that I start over. She clearly did not want me to half-ass it. I was getting frustrated, and she could see it. I was gripping the hair too firmly and yanking what I had in my fist.

“What’s wrong, Darren?”

“Are you ashamed of me?” I let the hair fall from between my fingers, my bangs forming again and covering my eyes.

My mother brushed the bangs away, “Why would I be ashamed of you, Darren?”

I sighed, “Because you feel like you have to do this. The whole thing is just ridiculous. It defies reason, but here you are acting like it is normal. Isn’t it eating you up inside to know what I used to be?”

My mother shook her head, “Considering what Allison told us, this is like godsend. We thought you were dying, Darren. I would rather have you like this than in a hospital bed. Your father and I aren’t ashamed of you at all. The fact that you aren’t hiding in a room tearing your hair out, it shows you are strong. I am proud of how you are taking this.”

I smiled gently. I felt like crying, but I wasn’t going let the water works flow in front of my mother. The emotions came to the surface so easily. I was like a pot of boiling water whose contents constantly lapped at the side, a small increase in heat potentially causing the water to spill over. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump that built in my throat. Ironically, I was very much like my mother. I have no doubt that if I cried, she would follow.

After a few more tries, she was satisfied that I would be able to emulate the hair style. I was just happy that once I got it down that it would only take a minute or so to do my hair. Unfortunately, that did not include the blow drying and brushing I would have to do to avoid the tangles.

I still couldn’t understand why girls put up with it. Sure, it looked nice. Amélie spent time on her hair, but unless she had come home from the hairdresser, I rarely gave her a compliment. Amélie was not the type of woman who fished for compliments. So why did she care? She said it was because she didn’t want her hair to ‘look like crap’. Apparently, girls were only confident if they had the perfect body and hair-do. Even if I found out I was stuck like this, I would never allow that to affect my confidence. I know that Amélie’s confidence is wounded when she doesn’t have enough time to do her hair. I can see it in how she holds her head and how she trudges instead of walks. I honestly couldn’t have cared less how I looked at this point, but if I was going to work at a law firm, I would have to learn how to keep my hair looking professional, so I was thankful my mother was willing to help because while Amélie could do her own hair- she sucked at doing other people’s. The pathetic up-do I had for my interview with multiple loose strands was proof of that.

My mother left with Chloe and Amélie and I had the house to ourselves. The day was uneventful. We went to the movies, deciding to eat the popcorn for dinner, since the amount they gave was ridiculous and probably amounted to hundreds more calories than we would eat normally. The massive drinks that they gave us and the bag of candy was more food than any sane person should have eaten, but when you pay the exorbitant prices they charged, you felt like you needed to at least try to finish it.

Another unwelcome part of my change came from my bladder. Before, I could drink nearly the entire mega pop and only use the washroom when I got home. Now, I had to actually pee twice. Amélie only had to go once! For once, she was the one explaining the missed plot points.

I felt strange going into the women’s washroom. I had not used a washroom other than those at home. I flew through the door, nearly bowling over a thirty-something woman who had a few choice words for me. I locked myself in the stall as I had done countless times before as a man, but it still felt bizarre. The tampon dispenser and the smell. It still smelled like a washroom, but it was different. Instead of the cologne or aftershave, or that terrible body spray that teenage boys or desperate college students wore because they thought it would attract a woman into their bed, it smelled like perfume, at least in places where it didn’t smell like urine. The teenage cleaning crew for the theatre were apparently lax in their duties. If anything, my time as a female was eroding my fear of public washrooms. When the choice is to pee my pants, I will always opt to sit on a toilet seat that may or may not have been washed within the last few days.

As we drove home, I thought about how the night would go. How I would convince Amélie that we could still have a physical relationship. I couldn’t give her what she really wanted, but it was going to be close.

I opened a bottle of wine, hoping that the alcohol would remove some of Amélie's inhibitions. I had to face facts, I wasn’t exactly Amélie’s ideal mate, but if we could still be intimate and not be awkward, our marriage would be strengthened. I hadn’t really thought about our marriage. I still considered Amélie my wife, but I don’t know how she saw me. Legally speaking, can a teenage girl be married to a grown woman? In Canada, the answer is yes. We had legalized same-sex marriage, but the question was, would Amélie accept being married to a teenage girl? I sighed lightly, finding that the thought lingered in my head too long. Tonight was supposed to be special, I didn’t need to be thinking whether I was still married to my wife.

We entered the bedroom after a few glasses of wine and some brie. I was feeling significantly tipsy, almost drunk. I was ready to buck into Amélie whether I had something between my legs or not. We got into bed, and I ground against her ass. Normally, I would have been rock hard, but it was a different feeling than having the blood flow down to fill my cock. It was almost like an itch or a tickle, and the more that I thrust against Amélie’s backside, the more the tickle became like a strange yet pleasant fire. My breasts still unbound in a tight t-shirt were topped with nipples that pressed obscenely against the shirt. I was turned on, but was Amélie?

Normally, she would have been naked by this point. We both would have been naked, but there was some hesitation, even with the alcohol. I had a secret weapon. I went to the living room and put Amélie’s Britney Spears ‘Blackout’ CD into the stereo. I cranked it and then returned to Amélie. Why Britney Spears, and why that particular album? Because the entire album is like an ode to dirty, raunchy sex. With the beats thumping, I helped Amélie remove her shirt and then reached behind and fumbled with her bra strap. I thought she was going to make a joke about how I should find it easier to remove it, but she removed the bra quickly. We went back into bed renewed. Blackout was the perfect aphrodisiac and like Pavlov’s dogs with the bell, the raunchy beats awoke something within us. Amélie had chugged her remaining wine. She was drunk now. I saw her body in all its splendour, curves, slight love handles, which I hastened to grip as I restarted the grind of my hips. She was perfect in my eyes, but other than the strange fire I had felt in my loins, I felt nothing else. I had expected to be wet like Amélie, but when my finger went probing for her clit, I noticed she was unusually dry. Ironically, even if we had been wet, we had nothing to make use of that wetness.

Amélie got out of bed and turned the lights out. Usually we would have sex with the lights on, especially because I liked to watch each curve and angle of Amélie’s body. When I took her doggy style, I liked to watch her plump ass smash against my body. I said nothing and returned to her clit. As I was doing this, I moved my lips over her left breast, teasing the nipple gently. Usually, Amélie would be rubbing my chest or stomach, feeling the hardness there, but she was completely passive.

I moved away from her nipple and then crushed my lips into hers, probing my tongue, looking for a partner. Her tongue moved from its listless state and met mine. I could feel her hips starting to buck. I could do this. Having a woman orgasm was an art form of sorts, or at the very least a process. They were like a tube amp. They took time to warm up, but once they did, their tone was incredible. Her breathing was getting heavier. She had her eyes closed, and she was starting to bite her lower lip. It was at this point that her hands became active. They reached out for me, tangled about my soft waist. Amélie gripped my ass and rubbed the fleshy cheeks. I was on top of Amélie with my hair fully unbound and draped over her naked body. My breasts still clad in the tight t-shirt pressed tightly against Amélie’s.

I noticed that it was taking far longer than usual for Amélie to climax. Two minutes later, Amélie’s hands had left my body, and her tongue was dead in her mouth. I moved to her neck, kissing her and nipping at it gently. It was at that point that I felt like I was trying to get a wooden board to climax. Amélie was doing her best impression of a store mannequin in a sex shop. Britney was still pounding in our ears, as Amélie gently reached her hand and put it over mine, the one that was trying desperately to get her to orgasm.

“Sorry Darren, I don’t think I’m going to be able to go.”

“Is it the nails? I can cut them again. You sounded like you were close.”

Amélie looked at me sadly, “I was faking it, Darren. I’m really sorry. I just don’t think it’s going to work. Everything feels wrong, how you touch me was fine, but we can’t have an intimate relationship with me never touching you.”

I moved off the bed to turn the light on. Amélie had already slipped her underwear back on. She continued, “You remember that conversation that we had about my weight? Remember how you were saying that you were turned on by my body, but if I was say thirty pounds lighter you would probably have trouble getting it up? Well…I am really sorry Darren but I am-“

I shook my head, refusing to believe her words, “You’ll get used to it. It was only the first time we tried. We can try again in-“

Amélie put her hand on my lips, her face looking so fragile I thought it was going to break into pieces. “I’m sorry Darren. I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.”

I wiped my nose, trying to hide the fact that tears had formed in my eyes. I went downstairs to my man cave and did something very unmanly- I cried until I could no longer form tears. I sniffled and adopted the foetal position. Amélie never came to see how I was doing, but when I got up to go to the washroom, I saw she had left a glass of water outside my door, obviously to help avoid a hangover.

Chapter 28

“Can we talk about last night?”

I hadn’t slept well, but with the promise of openness in our marriage, I wasn’t going to bury these feelings. The physical part of our relationship was fundamental. I was standing in the kitchen holding a bowl of cereal.

Amélie nodded her head slowly. I could see bags underneath her eyes. She had clearly not slept well either. I was hoping that she had spent the night rethinking her decision.

“So you didn’t feel anything last night? Because you really seemed to be into it at times.”

Amélie frowned, “It felt good Darren, everything you were doing felt good. But imagine this, I am a teenage boy, good looking but very young. And I have a penis. Imagine that in your head right now. Do you think you would be able to go if I was giving you a hand job? Answer me honestly.”

I shook my head, “But that’s just gross. Girls are just-”

Amélie interjected, “Girls are just what? Despite what many guys would like to think, the majority of girls don’t want to kiss other girls. For you it’s easy, but me, it’s going against my nature. I just don’t feel that way, and I can’t force my body to react to something that my mind finds uncomfortable and awkward.”

“And do I really need to talk about our age difference? I know you are in there, Darren, but there is no way I am going to be able to get into the moment knowing what you look like.” She was getting emotional.

“I really tried Darren. I pictured you, I tried to imagine that your ass was the same, that you had your pecks instead of boobs, and that there wasn’t hair laying all over my body. I can’t get over the fact, and I can’t go against my wiring. You’ve said it yourself, you are wired differently than most men because you go against the grain for your tastes in women. Well this is how I am wired.”

I shook my head, tears again threatening. I really had to get a grip on my emotions. I was starting to hate that lump that seemed to form so easily in my throat now. “So I can’t touch you that way again? You are disgusted by me?”

Amélie shot back, “That’s not fair. Are you honestly telling me that you would want to have sex with me if I was a teenage boy and you were as you used to be? I have seen you cringe when men kiss each other on TV. You can’t tell me you would want to even touch me. Would I turn you on, would you want to fuck me?”

I turned my face away from Amélie, angry tears staining my cheek. I wiped them rapidly and shook my head in answer to Amélie’s question.

I felt Amélie’s hand on my shoulder. “I love you, Darren, but there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. I am not going to wake up tomorrow and be a lesbian. We can get through this though. We stayed together when I moved away for a few months to take that job. We have been through a lot. You remember what you said in the wedding speech to me right?”

I nodded, “I said that I didn’t believe that destiny brought us together, it was our strength of will and the love we had for each other. Our mutual desire to make it work.”

Amélie smiled gently, “This is just the newest challenge. The hardest one we’ve faced. Are you going to let this split us apart, or are you going to fight? What about that song you wrote for me for our wedding night, we did everything to stay together before. Why let this stop us?”

I brushed the tears from my eyes and sighed gently. Amélie continued to softly rub my shoulder. “If you start thinking it’s over, then whatever did this to you has won already. We’ll get through this.”

It was an odd switch to hear Amélie speaking optimistically, but I do recall when things were at their worst in the past, and my optimism long since fled, Amélie’s steady hand calmed my fears.

“How Amélie, how can we be husband and wife? How can we have a marriage like this?”

“I don’t have the answer to that other than loving and supporting each other through this.”

“Then you have to promise me something. No matter what happens, you have to tell me everything, no going behind my back to others talking about my welfare anymore. I just can’t take it, Amélie. I can’t take being treated like a child anymore, especially from you. I’m worried that everyone is going to start treating me how I look. Do you know how scary that is, to feel like you are losing everything you are? Imagine everyone at work suddenly treating you like a know-nothing kid. That’s how I feel sometimes, but it’s worse because it’s my parents, my wife and my friends.”

Amélie clenched her face, clearly trying to fight her own tears. She was better at it than me. She spoke, “I can’t conceive how difficult it must be for you, but for me to agree to what you are suggesting, you, need to be equally honest with me. No more hiding potential cures from me because you think I won’t believe you. I’ve seen some crazy stuff Darren, I am going to believe it. And even if it is so out there that I don’t have the capacity to believe you, I still want to be there with you. And if there is anything you think would help in that search for a cure, even if it is embarrassing you need to tell me.”

There were certain things I couldn’t tell Amélie. I would not tell her that for a millisecond, no half a millisecond, I thought a boy was cute. I would take that secret to my grave. As for telling her about the mystery man in my dream, I did open up to her about that. There was no use hiding it, and it showed that I was following through on my promise. After hearing my confession, Amélie spoke up:

“So, the first dream had you becoming some sort of pop star for the crowd, and the second had you changing your hair, makeup and clothes for some guy. Well at least there’s a common thread.”

I nodded, but I didn’t add anything. I promised Amélie that I would tell her everything from that point on, and she did the same.

***
“Wait…we have to call you what?” Steven looked at me with disbelief.

“Abigail. I wasn’t about to tell the owner my name was Darren.”

I didn’t like how Steven was looking at me. It was the type of look he had given me when I suggested we do “Fireworks” by Katy Perry as a hard rock cover. His brow was tilted and he grimaced, his jaw held tightly.

“This is getting weird, Darren. I’ve got friends coming to this show if we get it. I’ve been thinking about this, and I have no answer for why you, looking as you do, would have joined our band.”

Thankfully, Andrew interjected, “Lay off, Steven, this wasn’t Darren’s choice. We said we’d support him in this. We need to play along.”

I frowned gently, “Steven has a point though. People are going to ask. I am so sick of playing other people, but it’s embarrassing to tell everyone.” I looked at Andrew, “What are we going to tell the others, the ones who haven’t seen me before? A part of me doesn’t even want to invite them, but people will talk, and it will get it out.”

I continued, “And people have been asking to see the band again. It will be impossible to hide it.”

Andrew nodded slowly and then jumped in, “Then we play the show, and we tell them after. They have seen you perform before in other bands, Darren. Despite the change, I can still see you in there. Sure, it isn’t as iconic as Steven Tyler’s scarf on the microphone, but there’s a way you hold your mouth, how you stand and hold your guitar. We can talk about it more when we get back. What time were we supposed to meet the owner?”

I replied, “Three. It’s about quarter to now.” We had taken a break to discuss the potential show at the Big Gob Brewery. The set had gone relatively well. I was still having difficulty timing the cutting of my nails. Steven liked to do the set in its entirety, but I had to pause after half an hour to clip them again. Where I had to think less about my voice in terms of hitting the right notes and maintaining my breathing, I had to think far more about my guitar. As much as I practiced, I would always have to stop and cut my nails, and the longer they got, the worse my playing got.

We left my place and were greeted by a warm spring day. It was now mid-April, and while there had been record snowfall, it melted quickly. Spring was in the air, but unfortunately that meant the smell of dog shit. Frozen and now thawed by the weather, the shit, left by negligent owners, mingled with the sweet smell of the lilac bush outside my bedroom window. Piles of salt, which was used to melt dangerous ice for cars and pedestrians alike, remained on our lawn, the walkway and along the streets, not yet washed away by the missing April showers.

Andrew walked alongside me. “Are you OK with telling the others? Sorry, I didn’t ask, I just figured that’s what you’d want because you didn’t want to play any more roles.”

I replied, “The issue is that Jacynthe, the owner, thinks my name is Abigail. I don’t really know what to do. Either way, our friends are going to wonder why I am not there. I am thinking at this point, don’t invite them.”

Steven shook his head, “So we are going to lie to my friends?”

I nodded my head, “We could. They have never seen us play. I am going to be nervous enough if we get this show. I don’t need anything else to worry about.”

We had arrived at the Big Gob Brewery. There were multiple motorcycles outside, mostly Harleys. Apparently, Sunday afternoon was a popular time for the bar. I hoped Saturday or Friday night was equally popular. My heart thumped. I knew that Jacynthe liked what she heard, but I worried that she was having second thoughts about giving us the slot because of my apparent age.

I entered and descended the stairs into the bar flanked by my band mates. Steven didn’t look happy that the conversation ended so abruptly, but we weren’t about to argue in front of someone who could give us our first show.

Jacynthe greeted me boisterously, in English, which was a welcome change because Andrew and Steven spoke little French, “Ma belle! Abigail, good to see you. So these are the other members. You don’t mind if I ask them questions?” I was surprised by Jacynthe’s demeanour and language change. I tried not to look too shocked, but I clearly did a poor job because a knowing smile appeared on the older woman’s face. “I played the CD for some of my regulars. They enjoyed it very much.”

All of this was excellent news, if she had played the CD for the regulars and they didn’t hate it, she had to book us. My heart leapt again, but this time from excitement. We were so close to booking our first show!

Jacynthe’s grin told me that we had the show. Her English was understandable, but it was fraught with errors, much like my French, “They are looking very much to hearing you sing, Abigail. One of them said, she has a beautiful voice like an angel, but you are enflammé, une vrai fille coléreux quand tu cris.”

I knew what Jacynthe meant, but as I looked over at Andrew and Steven, they were lost. I was glad. The regulars said I sounded passionate in my singing, but that I was a real spitfire too. I never thought anyone would describe me that way. It was the anger in my screams that made the bar patrons say that, but it was something you called a woman with a fiery temper or personality. It was not attributed to men- ever.

Steven blurted out, “So, we have the show?”

Jacynthe smiled, “Not so fast. I said Abigail could sing here, you are who exactly?”

Steven and Andrew introduced themselves, but Jacynthe was still unimpressed, “OK, now you two. You tell me why you chose to be playing with someone so young? What do your wives say eh?”

Andrew grimaced, but he answered quickly, “Well you see, she’s…,” and he sputtered just as quickly. I thought Jacynthe would ask us questions about the show. We hadn’t prepared a back story for me.

Steven was the one who saved the day, “We know Abigail through our wives. She is the sister of a friend of Andrew’s wife. We are very close though, we are like, uh family.”

Jacynthe raised a brow, “The question I asked, you didn’t answer. She’s just a girl, you can’t find someone your own age to play with?” The question Jacynthe had asked could have been taken in a completely different way- if, we hadn’t been discussing music.

Andrew recovered, “She’s very mature for her age. We have chemistry, you have heard the CD. We play well together.”

Jacynthe’s expression changed from interrogative with raised brow and tight mouth to open and beaming, “Yes, after we met, I knew this about her. So it’s true that she will not bring with her minors? You will bring people who will buy this,” she pointed to a mug of beer.

Steven nodded his head, “Yes, we will bring people who are legal. Don’t worry about that.”

Jacynthe shook her head, “You would bring no one, and I will still make money. I don’t want other kids in here.”

I piped up, “I don’t have any friends my own age. I prefer to be around adults.”

Jacynthe frowned slightly, “You are misunderstanding ma belle, I think I am not saying it right. You can bring some, a few girlfriends, and your boyfriend. Just not the complete class.” She winked at me, but I threw my hands up in the air in protest.

“Uh, I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t want one. I just want to focus on music.” I tried not to show the fact that I was aghast, but Jacynthe misread my expression as shyness.

“The right one hasn’t come along then.” She smiled at me, but I just shrugged my shoulders and wished desperately for the moment to end. Steven was snickering, and I elbowed him in the stomach. Could this end soon, please?

We signed a simple contract, which I read over briefly. We would get twenty percent of the drink sales that night. It was unlike any contract I had ever seen for such a small venue. Usually, there was a handshake and that was enough, but Jacynthe was clearly a savvy business woman. The twenty percent meant that it was both to our advantage and hers to bring in as many people as possible. We would play in a month’s time. Happy we got the show, yet utterly embarrassed at the same time, I was pleased to leave as soon as possible.

Just as we were leaving, Jacynthe shouted, “Hey, does your band have a name? I need to be putting something on the sign outside.”

I nodded, “Eyes Wide Open.”

Jacynthe smiled, “Very nice. See you in a month, ma belle, Abigail!” She looked to Andrew and Steven sternly, “You treat her good!” I reddened and quickly made my escape, bandmates in tow.

Steven said with a smirk, “Well, Spitfire, I guess you’ll have to be Abigail on show night then? You’ve got a bunch of bikers just dying to hear you sing.” Apparently, he understood French better than I thought.

I elbowed Steven in the stomach again, and he doubled over.

After the humiliating exchange in the bar, I wasn’t in a huge hurry to have my other friends, or even my family see me gawked at by a group of middle-aged men with rebel fantasies. I said, “OK, for this show, I’m Abigail. We invite Steven’s friends, since you already told them about the show, our wives, and anyone else who knows who I am.”

There was agreement among us and soon, excited talk about the practice schedule to prepare. We had our first real show as a band, and I was giddy but at the same time there was an edge of fear. I did not feel nearly ready, and while we had time, I wasn’t sure I could face people’s stares, especially the stares of men. It stayed with me as we returned to my place to finish our practice. Was this a terrible mistake? I had been front man in bands before, but I never noticed women or men undressing me with their eyes. As a reluctant leading lady, how could I fight the temptation to gouge out the eyes of those who ogled me? I realized that I was thinking far too much about this, but it was hard not to. Between Brad’s eager eyes, the boy in the car, and Ethan, I had had my fill of male attention.

Chapter 29

“This isn’t good Darren. What if you lose?”

“I won’t lose Amélie. Some of my savings can cover the tickets, and as for the wilful evasion charge- that is just sour grapes for a cop who got shown up by a teenager.”

A week after booking our first show, my court summons came in the mail. The hearing was set for mid-July. While I was not experienced in youth justice cases, I had done background reading on it.

I explained, “There are plenty of options for a judge other than a detention centre. If I prove to the judge that I am mature and that I will not reoffend, they can just give a reprimand, a supervision order, at the worst I would be on probation.”

Amélie nodded, but she was not convinced, “That still doesn’t fix the problem of you having no legal guardian. I haven’t had a lot of luck figuring out how we can get you a birth certificate. I am starting to get worried Darren, without that documentation, I mean they won’t deport a minor obviously, but you might be sent to foster care.”

This raised my ire. “I will fight them using their own system. I will argue that I am mature and capable enough to be emancipated from a guardianship or the state system.”

“Yeah, but driving without a licence is not going to convince them you are mature enough to be on your own. Plus, for emancipation, you’d have to prove you can provide for yourself. You will be getting a few bucks over minimum wage at the law firm. That isn’t going to be enough for even an apartment. Believe me Darren, when I did family law, I saw one of these cases, and it didn’t go well. The standard to be met for legal emancipation is very high. I’m afraid you don’t meet it. You would have to get a job that paid the same or better than your last one.”

Other than child actors, I couldn’t think of any children that made even ten thousand dollars, so legal emancipation might not be an option. I had compiled a list of cases that I was going to use at the hearing, but the obvious dilemma remained- I had no birth certificate and no proof of identity. I was an illegal alien, but because I was a minor I could become a ward of the state.

I asked Amélie, “What about cases where someone has adopted a child who didn’t have a birth certificate? Could we prove that this is the best place for me, that you are responsible and that you can support us? Maybe there is a precedent for something like that?”

Amélie nodded slowly, but there was hesitation in her tone, “I- I don’t know Darren. The more of a spotlight we put on ourselves, the more questions that will be raised. They will ask what happened to my husband first of all. This is all getting very complicated. I need to look more into this, speak to some of my law school friends about it.”

I found Amélie’s tone a little dismissive, but she was right- the web that we would have to weave to convince the authorities would be extremely complex and not without risk. If they found out that Amélie was lying, she could be charged with perjury. I wasn’t sure how youth justice courts worked, but lying to a judge was always a bad thing. The only thing that really mattered to me was ensuring that I would not be taken away from my wife and daughter. I wasn’t sure of the numbers, but I doubted very many people adopted teenagers, so I would have to stay in the foster home or half-way house until I was eighteen. The prospect of that sent me to the net for a fresh round of research. However, I wasn’t looking up case law, I was searching for a cure.

***

While we would lose the show at the Big Gob Brewery if I managed to regain my manhood, I would gain a great deal more than the opportunity to play at a biker bar. Being a history major at university, while not giving me the most fantastic job opportunities, had given me knowledge of different time periods. I knew that the influx of Christianity in particular had declared the formerly accepted spiritual religions blasphemous, but those religions, based in animal lore and multi-deities had many instances of transformation. While I was no bible scholar either, I was familiar with the transformation of Lot’s wife to salt as she looked back at the burning Sodom and Gomorrah. Unfortunately, our world today, while still religious to a degree, did not exactly have spiritual beings descending to Earth, dying and then being reborn. I lacked the faith required to believe, so I needed facts, but I had found little in the way of research beyond my own experiences. What had happened to me, it was impossible, right?

I was hesitant to venture away from the computer because I wasn’t sure if everyone treated magic as a fetish, or if everyone was like Brad. I wondered if I began to look into the older religions, the supposed pagan faiths, if I would find my answer there. Greek mythology had numerous stories of humans being transformed into animals as demonstrated by the story of Circe and Ulysses. The problem with those tales is that they are myths. None of it is proven fact.

I stumbled upon a webpage, titled “Curses, maledictions and hexes”. The page was written in a manner that made me think it had been translated from a medieval woodcutting, but when I reached the bottom, I saw the VISA sign. The supposed practitioner would determine if I was cursed if I had enough room left on my VISA card. My heart sank. So magic was for sexual perversion and making money apparently. I had not found any pages where charitable magicians offered their services. In my eyes, magic and religion were becoming closely linked, at least with respect to the money-making opportunities. I found sites where I could purchase love spells to ensnare the man of my dreams. Ugh. There were sites that offered half-price revenge spells.

For the spell, all I needed what a lock of hair from the target of my retribution. The site would send me the other ingredients and the instructions for the ritual- if I paid 59.99$. It was all very depressing, and I was really beginning to think that the internet would not yield a cure. I thought about asking Amélie if she thought it was a good idea to spend money on a potential cure, but I was growing discouraged, and to make matters worse, my savings were almost wiped out by tax time. I only had a few thousand dollars to last before I started at the law firm. To make matters worse, none of the supposed wizards, warlocks, mages, level-nine or otherwise, even offered consultations on physical transformations. My change was within the realm of fantastical stories, myths and legends. All this meant was that I was going to have to go to the dance class, not as Chloe’s daddy, but as Abigail.

***

“You aren’t really going to leave the house dressed like that are you? Darren, you need to wear a bra. You will embarrass me. Don’t you care how you look?”

I shook my head vigorously, “Why should I care? I don’t want any unwanted attention.”

Amélie frowned, “The only people there will be moms and maybe one dad. You are strictly off limits to them anyway. And why should you care? Because I don’t want people thinking I picked you up off a street corner. You look like you should be asking someone for change downtown.” To be fair, I hadn’t done my hair, I was wearing a ratty t-shirt and my ripped jeans. My tennis shoes, which had been pristine a few weeks ago, were now muddied.

I narrowed my eyes, “Why do you care what people think? Just screw them. If they want to judge people by what they wear or how they look, then let them. You do the same thing with yourself. You’ve told me that you feel like people, and especially other women, judge how you look. Why do you let them? Just because they can fit in designer size two clothes, they are allowed to look down on others?”

Amélie replied, “You don’t understand because you aren’t a woman. If I bring you to the class looking like a bum, I look bad. Aren’t you supposed to be my younger sister? Can you just put on a bra and a t-shirt that isn’t torn in a few places?”

I had to admit. I was very sentimental about my clothing, as demonstrated by my obsession with wearing the hoodie I had purchased in Montreal nearly 10 years ago. Most men are like this; even women have a favourite pair of jeans, but do they keep them for longer than five years? My father, Amélie’s father and myself, were all guilty of keeping clothing that was more comfortable than stylish despite holes or tears. Amélie’s father had a faded toque that he had worn every winter for twenty years. I had my hoodie, and my father had a tattered jersey that he said brought him luck. The funny thing about my current wardrobe, while it might have been comfortable on my former body, it was usually ill-fitting on my current one. So, the idea that I would be more comfortable wearing my old clothes held little water. The comfort factor came only from the familiarity, and most importantly, they weren't girl’s clothes.

I weighed my options. I could have another argument with my wife, or I could just put on a bra and a decent t-shirt. I had considered putting on a bra, and really, I should be wearing one if I was going to do any dancing. I was going to see Chloe dance, not to put on a fashion show.

“Fine.” I pulled off my t-shirt and then tried to put a bra on. I was still having trouble latching it at the back.

Amélie frowned, “When you start your job, you know I am not going to have time to get you dressed every morning. And you haven’t been brushing your hair like your mom asked either.” She threw me one of her hairbands. “You can brush it in the car. We are going to be late.” She finished helping me get into the bra. I wore one of Amélie’s band t-shirts, thinking that she would want me to wear something that fit at least. It was a little long, but at least it wasn’t down to my knees like some of my t-shirts.

On the car ride over, I asked Amélie about paying for a cure. Previously, she had said that she would support my decisions, even if she didn’t think they would work.

“I don’t know how legit they are, but I am at a point where I am willing to try it.”

Amélie watched the road as she replied. “This is the same site you showed me that had the break-up spell and the evil eye hex?”

I shook my head, “No, it’s a different one. This guy will come to our house, and do an assessment. He will tell us if some kind of curse has been put on me. He’s pricey though. How much money do you have left after you paid your taxes?”

Amélie’s face hardened, “How much?” I felt like I did when I was asking my parents for money for a toy or a new video game when I was a kid.

I sighed, “It’s three hundred for the consultation, plus travelling expenses. The guy lives near Hamilton. So probably about four hundred total.”

“Darren, you would usually be the first person to say that something like that is a con. So this magical consultant can tell us if you are cursed. What then? Can he turn you back, or does that cost extra?”

I could tell Amélie was being a little snide with her comment. She obviously thought that Charles Greaves, Esquire, was a charlatan. I replied, “I haven’t been able to find anyone who claims to do that type of magic.”

“So, if we find out you are cursed? What then? Sorry Darren, it’s just we really need to watch our money right now. Tax season was not kind to us. You don’t start until mid-June with the law firm.”

It was MY money though. We had never discussed it as anything but that. Amélie usually didn’t care as long as I could pay my bills and the mortgage. I added petulantly, “But it’s my money, which you never said anything about before.”

Amélie shook her head repeatedly. She was exasperated. “Okay, well then go ahead and have Mr. Greaves come to the house. Pay his expenses. But when you get your fourth and final notice for your car payment and the next week, they tow it away, don’t blame me.”

“Don’t be like that Amélie. I just want you to acknowledge that it is my money.”

“That’s the thing Darren, maybe we shouldn’t be thinking that way anymore. Not until you get changed back. We need to think about it as our money because we have to think about the ramifications of spending needlessly. When I don’t eat out one week, I think about how it is saving us money. We don’t know how long you are going to be like this. We need to try and save as much money as possible.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I felt that Amélie was being harsh, but in fact, she was simply being smart. It took me a few minutes of brooding to realize that she was right.

We arrived at the dance studio a few minutes later. The outside, similar to Stephanie’s law office, had huge windows. We had to take our shoes off at the door. We entered the studio itself. It was a spacious room. Mirrors lined the back wall, while two other sides had single bars attached to the wall. I knew the bars were used for ballet, but little beyond that. The outside wall, opposite the mirrors, was a huge window, which made the studio bright and cheerful.

I helped Chloe put her slippers on, and she was soon running with the other children in the room. Because the students were so young, the parents stayed close. I noticed that there wasn’t a lot of mingling between the adults, so I was hoping I could enjoy watching Chloe dance and stay under the radar at the same time.

What Chloe did wasn’t exactly dancing. She was the youngest in the class, and while the other kids were standing on their tippy toes and generally following the instructions, Chloe tended to do her own thing. She analyzed and then she acted. She was a lot like her father in that respect, except I overanalyzed at times.

We were encouraged to join in. One of the exercises involved bending and touching our toes. I was, not surprisingly, far more flexible than I had been as a man. I could touch my toes with ease. Halfway through the class, I was pleased that I wasn’t getting any attention, and I was happy that Chloe was enjoying herself, even though she was doing a lot of running and amused shrieking and not a lot of dancing.

There were two instructors, a young woman Amélie’s age, and her assistant, a bubbly brunette with a ballerina’s figure. The other parents were occupied with their children, but I had not counted on the water break to create a lull. The brunette walked over to me. She was a few inches taller than me, but she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Everything about the way she moved was graceful and dignified. Her posture was perfect, as if someone were holding her head up with an invisible string.

“Hi, I’m Alyssa. I haven’t seen you at the other classes. Don’t you think the kids are cute? How are you related to Chloe?” Before I had a chance to speak, she took my hand in hers and beamed, “I love your nails! I’ve been wanting to do a design like that, but they never turn out nice. What’s your name by the way?”

I blinked at the girl before me. She was probably around the age of my current body, but with her lithe and relatively undeveloped figure, she could have been younger. She looked at me expectantly, still wearing a welcoming smile. The girl spoke way faster than I was used to. She was excitable which made her the perfect fit for her current job. “Um. I’m Abigail.” I thought back to her other questions and decided to filter them, “I am Chloe’s aunt actually.”

Alyssa laughed, “Oh sorry, I guess maybe I asked too many questions. Aunt? Wow, your parents must have waited a long time before having you. Was your sister really bad? My mom says I need to slow down sometimes, let me know if I’m going too fast. How did you do your nails? They are super cute.”

I looked down at my nails and replied, “Uh. YouTube. It was a video.”

Alyssa jumped in, “Still, they are amazing. I love the detail on the stars. How did you keep your hand still to do it so well? I tried hearts once. They looked like lima beans when I was done. They sucked. This really mean girl at school, Véronique, she said they looked like dog poop. I really hate her.”

I guessed, “You use a stencil.” It made sense to use one, and it would always be the same size and shape.

Alyssa replied, “Wow smart. You have to send me that link. What school do you go to by the way? I go to St. Jo’s. Grade 9 really sucks because no one really treats you nice. The older kids anyway. My mom says that grade 10 will be better. Oh and the uniforms are boring, but it’s still fun to do stuff with my hair and nails. That’s one way you can be a bit different. I met a few nice people, but they don’t live close to me. Where do you live by the way?”

Following this girl’s train of thought was like playing goalie with multiple pucks flying at you, all at over a hundred km/h. I thought about the different buses I used to see on my daily commute. I remember seeing one that was likely a charter for a local high school. I responded, “I go to Grande Rivère. And I uh live about fifteen minutes from here. It’s near the strip mall with the Dairy Queen.”

The girl beamed. I wondered if it might be possible to harness the energy she was using to solve the world’s energy crisis. “Lucky you. No uniforms, and it’s not Catholic. I’m not even Catholic but my mom went to St. Jo’s, so tradition or whatever. It’s French though, but you don’t have an accent at all. I heard you speaking English to Chloe, so that’s why I spoke English to you. St. Jo’s is French too, which doesn’t make sense because the nun it’s named for wasn’t even French, can you believe that? The full name is St. Josephine Notre Mère de Paix but everyone just calls it St. Jo’s. So what do you like to do?”

I answered, “Music mostly. Playing guitar and singing.”

Alyssa grinned, “I knew it. Do you like that band though?” She was pointing at my shirt. “My older brother likes Disturbed. I love Katy Perry. I really want to meet her one day. I saw her movie, and she seems so nice. Like she really loves her fans, you know? She’s an amazing singer.”

I could tell that this girl was trying to be my friend, trying a little too hard in my opinion. Considering how I looked, she couldn’t really be faulted for that. She continued speaking a mile a minute, while I did my best to answer her questions by concocting lies.

Class restarted, and I realized that I had only been talking to Alyssa for three minutes. The girl should be an auctioneer. Alyssa took her place next to the main instructor. She was really good with the kids. Her smile and enthusiasm was infectious. I even found myself joining in more than I would have. Alyssa even managed to get Chloe to join in, instead of just running around with a maniacal grin on her face.

As class ended, Alyssa came up to me. “Wow, Chloe did a great job today. So are you coming next week?”

I expected that I would come back, if only to see Chloe dance again, and while Alyssa was very forward with her attempts at friendship, she was harmless. I nodded, “Um. Yeah probably. It was fun.”

“Great! Hey, don't forget to send me that link for those nails.” She gave me her e-mail and watched me put it in my phone. "Thanks Abby! See you next week.”

As we drove back home, I thought about how none of the adults in the room had paid any attention to me at all. They smiled at me, certainly, but they had no interest in talking to me. I had wanted to fly under the radar, but I realized that it bothered me that the only person in the room who had any interest in speaking to me was Alyssa, a teenage girl.

Chapter 30

I created an e-mail address for Abigail. Since Amélie was supposed to be my sister, I used her last name ‘Grenier’. I spent a few minutes on Thursday searching for the nail video I had promised Alyssa. She, in turn, sent me a number of e-mails saying how excited she was to show me her nails, and she asked for my phone number. I knew that if I gave her my number then it was admitting that I had accepted a ninth grader as my friend. She was so nice, it was hard for me to tell her to buzz off. Chloe had only one class left, so unless I agreed to a sleepover at Alyssa’s house, I doubted that I would see her again. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her nails looked nothing like those from the video. Her stars looked more like a set of lopsided asterisks.

On Saturday, before I could leave the final class, Alyssa caught me at the door. I didn’t like Amélie seeing me fraternize with a high school student. Amélie had seen the girl come up to me last week, so there was no way I could pretend I didn’t know the excitable teen.

A wide grin lined Alyssa’s face, but I could see expectation in her eyes too. “So Abby, do you want to hang out sometime? Maybe you could do my nails, and I could do your hair. I bet you’d look really cute with pink bangs. Sort of like Nicki Minaj, but not rainbow hair. That was too much, don’t you think? We actually live pretty close together, if you live near the Dairy Queen. I live near the library. I’m surprised you go to Grande Rivère, it’s so far compared to St. Jo’s. Don’t you have to take two buses to get there?”

I saw a pleading in Alyssa’s eyes. I don’t know what the kids at her school had done to her. Yes, she was hyper, and she spit words like a machine gun spit bullets, but she was honest. She didn’t hide what she liked. To me, she seemed very genuine, but then I had been out of high school for over ten years. It had been an unpleasant experience for me too, due to my supposed friends.

Once, when I showed an interest in the comic book collection of my friend’s dad, it was made quite clear I was behaving like a nerd. Basically, I was expected to only watch hockey and play real and video game hockey. Apparently, I had been doing things they had liked more recently, but one fatal mistake, mentioning my interest in comic books had one of the guys saying, “We thought you’d been pretty cool lately, but I guess not.” Comic books were for nerds, so if I wasn’t playing hockey, I had better be talking about it, or some other sport. Live and breathe sport, but nothing else. I wondered if Alyssa was treated similarly. Was Katy Perry cool? I didn’t really know. I knew who she was and respected her as an artist who sang, and sang very well, versus the auto-tuned robot voices of the majority. I barely knew who Nicki Minaj was and didn’t care to learn more.

I saw a little smirk appear on Amélie’s face as Alyssa asked me to paint her nails. Did she find humour in the situation itself? I hoped not. I wouldn’t be laughing if my wife, in male guise, decided to take up skateboarding. Maybe she was laughing at the very thought of me painting someone else’s nails. I hadn’t even done my own.

“Um. Well.” As I hesitated, the girl’s smile faded. I continued to stammer, “It’s just that-“

She interrupted me before I could stammer more. A smile reappeared on her face, but I knew she was hurt. The expectation in her eyes was gone, replaced with understanding. This had happened before. I couldn’t figure out why others her age didn’t like her. I felt like I did when I had broken up with girlfriends in the past. One girl had cried. I wasn’t worth it I told her, but apparently she knew better.

“It’s OK Abby. I understand. I know that I’m not at your level. Véronique tells me the same thing when I try and hang out with her and her friends.”

I was about to explain how wrong she was about herself and to try and rebuild her self-esteem, but she went back into the dance studio before I could. Amélie had heard the entire exchange as she was putting on Chloe’s boots.

I didn’t follow her, and I felt terrible for allowing her escape without my giving her an inspiring speech. In all honesty though, Alyssa frightened me a little. Her manner was so infectious that in our few exchanges, I felt like she could have been a friend. She awakened something in me, a childish enthusiasm that was only released when I was very excited, like before a big show or watching the Canadiens in Montreal during the playoffs. I felt like I could let loose with her, and it was scary.

The ride home was silent. I felt like I had swallowed a rock but it fell forever, filling my stomach with a never ending sensation of guilt-laden butterflies. What was I supposed to do? I really had no interest spending time with a ninth grader. She would take time away from my band, my family, and my search for a cure. I knew she lived in my neighbourhood, and because I had crushed the girl’s self-esteem as badly as the apparent Queen Bee Véronique, a part of me hoped I would see her again so I could apologize.

***

“Darren, we really need to talk about something.”

“I know that you don’t really want to, but with the show coming up, well there’s going to be a lot of eyes on you.”

Andrew continued, “We’d like you to start wearing a bra in practice, and at the show of course.”

I narrowed my eyes and stepped away from the microphone. It was Wednesday night, a few days before the Saturday night show, and my band mates had staged an intervention of sorts. “I was going to wear one for the show.”

Steven sat on his drum throne, “We won’t think you any less a man for doing it.”

I laughed and shook my head, “You guys aren’t serious are you? Maybe you should stop staring.” I thought they were joking. We messed around like that during practice. Not so much since my change, but I was hoping that meant they were getting used to it and starting to treat me as before.

Andrew frowned. He put his bass down. He approached me and looked into my eyes, “We are serious Darren. It makes us uncomfortable.”

I laughed again, but this time it was derisive. I was finding it hard to believe that my band mates were asking their lead singer to put on a bra. I was getting annoyed. “OK. You can cut it out now, it’s not funny anymore. Like I said, I was planning on wearing one show night.”

Steven replied, “You don't understand. It’s just getting weird, Darren. Last week when we got pizza, the cashier was staring at your boobs the whole time. Not sure if you noticed it.”

Andrew put his hand on my shoulder. “I am not sure if you’ve noticed this either, Darren.” He turned me around so that I was facing the mirror on the wall. “But you aren’t exactly hard to look at, and you’ve gotta be half our age. Steven and I talked about it, and we would really feel better if you wore a bra in practice. When you move around like you do, well it’s like a car accident. It’s hard to turn away. And I just feel like a pervert.”

I responded. I wasn’t angry anymore, just confused. “Look guys, it doesn’t bother me. Sure, I’ve caught you looking, but I don’t care. And that clerk? Whatever.”

Steven added, “Well it’s going to start getting you the wrong attention.”

“Oh so, you are protecting me? I guess chivalry isn’t dead. I don’t remember asking for it.” I said, dripping with sarcasm.

Andrew frowned, “Look, can you just do it? It would make us a lot less uncomfortable about the whole thing.” Steven nodded in agreement.

I sighed heavily. Was it really such a big deal? I was more irritated that my band mates were treating me differently than the thought of wearing such a feminine undergarment. To be honest, it was only my stubbornness keeping me from wearing a bra on a regular basis. Fact is, I rarely left the house, and lounging around playing guitar or conducting research did not require one. I knew that I was big enough up top that I really should wear a bra and with the amount of bouncing that was going on during practice, could I really fault my band mates for feeling uncomfortable?

I was also wondering if Steven had a point. Were males, particularly teenage males, seeing me as a slut? And what about Brad? He must have thought I was asking for it by not wearing a bra. Some guys would call it “easy access”. These were the same guys who thought a woman wanted sex if she wore something revealing. It was not something I believed, but there were Neanderthals who raped girls and used the excuse of a mini-skirt and a tube top. I also thought back to a discussion that Amélie and I had where she explained that I would get less attention if I actually dressed in gender and age appropriate clothing, and, most importantly, wore a bra. Wearing men’s t-shirts tightly plastered against unbound boobs brought a lot of unwanted attention, especially if it was cold.

It took me a while to get the bra on. It was a lot easier if I twisted my head to watch my hands fumbling with the fasteners in the bedroom mirror. I could hear Andrew and Steven jamming downstairs. Once I got it on, I hurried downstairs and joined in, stomping on my wah-wah pedal and just losing myself in the moment. A minute later, the creative burst was over, and we moved seamlessly back into the set for the second time that night. Nothing more was said about my bra or lack thereof. Apparently, once I had agreed, they were appeased- I was not.

I couldn’t get over the fact that they were seeing me differently. I do remember how Steven stared at the cashier. I thought the cashier got his order wrong, but apparently not. I had given my kid sister’s boyfriends, the ones I disliked, a similar look. Steven and Andrew were good guys, but I didn’t want or need them to protect me. How would they react when a room full of middle-aged bikers were staring at me?

***

Andrew and Steven got to my place at noon on the day of the show. We planned to do a light rehearsal. I would sing some, but it was mostly muscle memory for our instruments. I would not scream at all until tonight. I could have screamed, but it needed a lot more energy. I knew how to sing scream safely. You had to pretend that your mouth was a megaphone, holding your mouth like Billy Idol. The scream itself, if done correctly, came from the soft palette at the roof of your mouth. It reverberated off the soft palette, and this created the scream.

In previous bands, other musicians, even guitar players who made me look like a novice, were impressed that I could scream in key and with such intensity. I actually found it easier now. I knew where to place it, and how it felt when it was correct. I knew that not everyone liked screaming in music, but it could power songs, and while I did it less in this band, I still enjoyed the feeling. My sister had previously called my scream face a “murder face”. I practiced in the mirror in this body, like I had in my old one, and while I didn’t have a murder face, I did look like I belonged in a juvenile psych ward, mouth Idol-shaped, teeth bared and eyes filled with rage.

I was feeling good. I tried to ignore the fact that I was going to be performing as a girl for the first time. I knew that if I turned back eventually that this show would be a wipe, but any experience was good. I always learned things from shows, whether it was not to hire a sound person who only knew how to do karaoke or to make sure I drank enough water or had a lozenge when it was unbearably hot. I was actually more nervous about my guitar playing. My voice in this body carried songs better than my male one, but my guitar playing had suffered. Also, I could almost swear that my nails were growing back at a faster pace than before. After rehearsal, I made sure to pack nail clippers in my guitar case, along with the usual extra strings, and an extra D cell in case my active guitar pick-ups died. I also threw in a pack of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges, which were heaven sent if I developed a sore throat between now and show time.

We were scheduled to go on at 9 PM, and it was nearing dinner time. We had enough material to fill a little over an hour. I regretted not pushing Steven to learn some covers, but since the regulars had already heard us via CD, they would recognize some of the tunes.
We had pizza for dinner, but I only had one slice. It wasn’t because I wasn’t hungry, I was famished. I wanted to avoid too much dairy, which is a no-no for singers because it creates phlegm. Imagine sticking a bunch of goo in a flute or any reed instrument, then try playing it. The voice, a natural instrument, required a lot of maintenance. I wasn’t a diva or anything; I just knew how to take care of my voice.

I retired to our bedroom to ponder my wardrobe for the show. In previous bands, we had all dressed in the same colours, or even wore our own band t-shirts, which I still thought was terribly lame. A band should never wear their own t-shirt, but I had been outvoted.

Before my change, my wardrobe choices were simple, t-shirt, ripped jeans- done. Now I wanted to choose something that didn’t make my boobs stick out. I opted for the same ripped jeans that Amélie had bought for me a day after my change. The funny thing is that even though Amélie had bought me five pairs of jeans, I only really wore two, exactly as I had as a man. I wore one of Amélie’s band t-shirts, this time a Canadian band, Three Days Grace. I had bought it for Amélie on Mother’s Day the previous year. I did my hair the same way my mother had showed me, and then I undid it, realizing that I actually liked the long hair for the show. I could finally head bang properly, and the bangs would partially hide my face, just like Kurt Cobain’s blonde locks had partially obscured his. Kurt was my biggest influence, and while we weren’t a grunge band, he was still an influence on me. In previous bands, we were almost Nirvana 2.0, but because Andrew, Steven and I had diverse interests, our influences melded into a unique sound, at least I thought so.

I realized that Mother’s Day was Sunday, and after that, it was our one year wedding anniversary. Amélie and I had been together for seven years before we got married, but a lack of money, student life, and simply not being ready made us wait. Chloe had been born out of wedlock, but we knew lots of couples who solidified their lives before having children and getting married. People no longer got married right out of high school or even into college or university. Life was expensive, and yes, we could have eloped, but that would have broken my mother’s heart.

Amélie slipped into the room, “Darren, are you almost ready? Everyone is waiting for you.” Before Amélie would have made a joke that I was a diva like Celine Dion or Mariah Carey, but she said nothing. Maybe she thought that it would hit a little too close to home?

I nodded my head. I saw Amélie, dressed in tight, painted on jeans showing major cleavage and my eyes nearly bugged out of my skull. She had done her makeup darkly, smoky eyes and crimson lips. She was wearing leather boots with heels that made her legs go on forever. I wanted to strip her out of that outfit and ravish her, sticking my throb- I turned away for a moment.

“Are you OK Darren? Are you nervous?”

I composed myself. I knew she wouldn’t want me to touch her, even if I didn’t press my soft body against hers. I thought about our anniversary again. We had talked about going to Montreal before my change for a wild weekend of romance and rock shows. My parents would watch the baby.

“I’m fine. Did you still want to go to Montreal? For our anniversary?”

I felt she answered too quickly, it was rehearsed. “Sure. We can go.”

“Great.” I half smiled and then walked out of the room.

Chapter 31

The sound of a swooping helicopter filled the air. It sounded like the aircraft was approaching rapidly, the noise cutting the air, making it impossible to hear anything else. Just as it seemed as if it was going to land on top of the Big Mouth Brewery, the sound died. A few patrons began chatting excitably, but three seconds later the noise returned, however, this time it was run in reverse, a second later, drums, bass and the screech of an electric guitar roused the audience, eliciting a cheer. Steven had a special beat pad that he had used to trigger the helicopter effect. Those in the front row, mostly university-aged students, ambled to the front of the stage and began to thrust their heads forward, moving them in time to the music.

It was a stage, but it felt more like a rickety picnic table. It was only two feet high. I doubted that it could take much jumping. I moved my head to the music as well, watching my hair flay the air as I hammered up and down on my guitar. I was surprised by how quickly we had them, and I hadn’t sung a note. I remember this happening in a show before. It's actually easy to gain someone’s attention- but harder to keep it. That's the measure of a good band with an equally good song.

The place was packed. Apparently, Saturday night is a busy night, or we had buzz. Either way, I was happy to be playing in front of more than ten people. We were the only band that night. Jacynthe explained that she wanted to give us a proper sound check. It was more than we got in other shows. She had even hired a capable guy to man the sound board. The stage lighting was poor, but that's expected in a dim bar. Jacynthe had rented a spotlight, which she placed on me as I began to sing. I was amazed that she had gone to all this trouble for a band playing its first show. She had hugged me when we first entered and fussed over my hair, complaining that no one would be able to see “ma belle visage.”

Now, the spotlight was on me. My diminutive form was centre stage, with Andrew on my right, and Steven behind his drums. Both of them had microphones for backing vocals. My bangs hid my upper face. I could tell the university guys were trying to check me out, but even with the spotlight, it was hard to make out my face properly, since my bangs fell down to my nose. I tried to lose myself in the lyrics, ignoring the fact that the guys, who were probably in their late teens to early twenties were only feet away.

I saw one them, dressed in a leather jacket and sporting a Mohawk, smile as I began to sing. When I screamed for the first time, the sound guy who had been tweaking the sound little by little, slammed a compressor on. I hadn’t realized how loud it was going to be, but it sounded like a jet plane taking off, and without the compressor to stop the volume from rising, it was ear-piercing, but only for a second. Normally, I would have backed off the mic a bit, but I must have been feeding off the crowd because I let loose with my first, holding it longer than usual. The Mohawk guy grinned wide when he heard me scream, and I grinned back. During a quieter part of the song, I heard one of them yell, “Psycho chick is hot!” It was Mr. Mohawk.

The crowd was an interesting mix of university age guys, middle-aged biker men and women, and our friends and family. My sister stayed home to watch Chloe. She liked beach music, reggae, oldies and what I called guys who played guitar to get girls. Singer songwriters who wrote songs about how sensitive they were, and how much they cared, when all they really wanted to do was score. Guys like John Mayer. When he wasn’t practically masturbating while playing guitar, he was wearing a shit-eating grin that made girls want to throw themselves at him.

We finished the first song and I retuned quickly. I bent a lot of notes during the bridge, so my G string was slightly off. Andrew started into the next song while I tuned, but I had plenty of time to enter. We lost the crowd a little during the second song. Only Mr. Mohawk and his friend, plaid shirt, stayed at the front. The bar was set up for a rock show, with the tables pushed to the side. Most of the bikers stayed sitting from what I could see. The bar itself was in the middle. As we finished the second song, a few of the bikers got up to play pool. They weren’t really our target audience, but it was always hard to feel you were losing part of your crowd. I had played in front of crowds that felt like brick walls. Never play a show on a Sunday night in the middle of winter when the bar has lost its liquor licence. Jacynthe’s home brews were selling well, so this was very good for us all.

The next song was the same ballad I had sung to introduce my friends and family to the new me. When my voice powered into the bridge and I threw on my distortion, I felt all eyes on me again. I held the last note for what seemed like an eternity, and as I did so, I looked out over the sea of spellbound faces and knew we had them. There are certain notes that can actually cause the hair to stand up and send a pleasant tingle in the brain. I had hit one of those notes, and was holding it effortlessly. The pool playing bikers actually came to the front, mingling with the university students. There were probably about sixty people in the bar at this point, but more were filtering in. We finished the song, and as we tuned to drop D, Jacynthe jumped on stage.

She was beaming. The crowd was still buzzing from the last song, and while it was a heartfelt ballad, the bikers were seemingly moved by it. When I say bikers, it is not derogatory. My parents who enjoyed touring on their motorcycle considered themselves bikers. But because of the violent history between Quebec’s Rock Machine and the Hell’s Angels biker gangs, for some, the word was synonymous with violence. These bikers were enthusiasts. They wore leather pants and were tattooed, but they were not the intimidating crew I had expected. As Jacynthe grabbed the microphone to introduce the band, a few more bikers sidled through the door. It was a biker majority in the Big Gob Brewery that night.

Jacynthe spoke French to the crowd, (Bonjour! Thank you for coming to see this up and coming band from la belle province! I know that they are too modest to introduce themselves, so I will do it for them. Please welcome, Eyes Wide Open! )

The introductions were a staple of any local rock show. Since no one knew the band, it made sense to introduce the members. Jacynthe proudly stated we were from Quebec. None of us were actually born there but I wasn’t about to correct her in the middle of her introduction. As she moved from Andrew and on to Steven, each did a little fill on their respective instruments. Once Jacynthe got to me, I thought she was just going to say ‘Well here’s Abigail.’ but no- she had a story to tell.

(Ma belle Abigail here. She came to ask if her band could play here, ) she looked at a few people in the crowd who were likely regulars and smiled, (I told her that I didn’t allow kids to play in my bar, and Abigail said that she played with men. I thought that was strange, but tell me now- how many of you would like to be in her band? )

She looked out over the crowd again, but when there was hooting and hollering from a few of the drunker patrons, she said, ( Calm down now, she’s only in high school. Any of you touch her, you’ll answer to me! ) She emphasized her threat by moving her finger across her throat in a cutting motion and then broke into a wide grin. There was laughter in the audience.

At this point, I was beyond embarrassed. I could feel my cheeks redden as Jacynthe continued her little speech. I just wanted to get back to the show. I hid behind Andrew, but my guitar, which was now too close to my amp, started feeding back. Jacynthe taking this as her cue to stop, yelled into the mic, ( Enjoy the rest of the show mes amis! Rock on! ) Jacynthe reminded me a little of my mother, if she had been a groupie for the some 80s hair metal band. She was over the top, but she meant well, so I could forgive her for embarrassing me.

During the little interlude, I took the time to clip my nails. Thankfully, during the last song before the introductions, my vocal drove the song, so the little mistakes I made as my nails grew back were far less noticeable. Toward the end of the song my nails were catching on strings, creating little accidental beeps and blips. Drop D tuning was much less of an issue than standard because the power chords could be formed with one finger, but I played lead in certain places, so I would have to stop again and trim my nails after a few songs. I was beginning to realize how difficult this was going to be, and not every show would allow us the interlude that Jacynthe gave us. When we started playing again, Amélie and Laura moved up to the stage. Few people were actually sitting, which was a good sign. More bikers drifted in through the door to increase the biker majority.

One of the real crowd pleasers was a song I had written about the neighbourhood where I grew up. When I was a kid, the neighbourhood had character, it had a soul almost. It wasn’t the commercial Mecca that it is today. I preferred it before, when shop owners didn’t have to pay outrageous rent. One woman, who had run a ladies clothing shop for thirty years, had seen her rent skyrocket to the point where she could only afford a basement. No woman wants to try on clothes in a basement, so she closed the shop. It was stories like this that got me thinking about how money coming into a neighbourhood is not always a good thing. In this case, yuppies, poseurs and hipsters gentrified the neighbourhood, building condos that blocked the sky. My childhood home, one of the original houses on the block and over a hundred years old, was bought and bulldozed. It was sad to think that the places I had grown up with were gone. Now the corner store, where I had played countless arcade games as a kid, was a doggie clothing store, and the music store was a Botox clinic.

My lip turned into a sneer as I sung, but it was not the song that had me angry, a group of bikers, younger than the others who had arrived earlier encircled Amélie and Laura. As the song was reaching its crescendo, the bass and drums thundering and my wah-wah pedal engaged, my fingers hammering and pulling off at a rapid pace while I timed the up and down of the wah pedal to the beat, I saw one of the bikers touch Amélie’s shoulder.

I was becoming angry and our music was causing the crowd to become aggressive. The university-aged guys were being squeezed away from the very front of the stage by more of the younger bikers. Mr. Mohawk stood his ground, but his friend was pushed out toward the bar. No one pushed him, but the sheer number of people expelled him from what was a growing mosh pit. It was like someone trying to add to a jar of jelly beans that was already full to the brim. With every bean that was put inside the jar, more and more fell out. Instead of jelly beans, however, there were more and more tattooed thick-necked and angry looking young men pushing out the amiably drunk college guys.

We moved into the next song, which was equally aggressive. It started with a violent back and forth slide for a few seconds and then the drums pounded with cymbals crashing. We had a full on mosh pit. I understood that there was accidental touching in pits or on dance floors, people let loose and sometimes don’t realize where their limbs are pointed. Now, I was sure that the young biker was hitting on my wife, and he wasn’t backing down. When he grabbed her ass and started to grind against her, I leapt into the crowd with my guitar and slammed the head stock into the young biker’s back. He fell back from the attack, but this started a chain reaction. The crowd loved this and the mosh pit was in full riot mode. I ducked under a fist as I approached the biker who had been ‘romancing’ my wife.

I shouted, “The lady isn’t interested in a dance, asshole!” I was brandishing my guitar toward him. Amélie and Laura stood, looking at me wide-eyed. I saw John, the one who sold me the guitar, move into the crowd. Andrew and Steven kept playing. From their vantage point, they might not have seen that I was aiming at the biker, so if anything, they played the song even more aggressively while I was looking up at everyone with a menacing glare.

I saw that the biker who was interested in my wife had a typical motorcycle jacket, but I noticed on the back of another, the words ‘Rock Machine- Canada’. In the middle was a very unfriendly looking silver hawk's head. These were biker gang members. Their numbers have waned in recent years, but during the mid-90s, they were a fearful force, guilty of car bombings, kidnappings, and general mayhem. They had the Montreal police scared to leave their precincts, and I had just jammed my guitar head stock into the back of one and didn’t care. With adrenaline pumping, I leapt back on stage to finish the song, pleased that my outburst had seemingly stopped the biker. I noticed a flash of steel behind me, and a chill across my back followed by a sudden draft.

I could see that John and a few of the middle-aged bikers had wrestled the Rock Machine member to the ground. The gang members were outnumbered, but they were armed. I saw a knife fall out of the asshole's hand, and I realized that the draft was a hole. He had cut me, or at least tried. Jacynthe jumped on stage again as the song finished, Andrew and Steven now realizing that I had been attacked, abruptly ended the song. Those who hadn’t seen the attack were cheering madly. It had likely been a while since the middle-aged bikers had been in a mosh pit, and they were enjoying themselves.

(Get out of here before I call the police! ) Jacynthe was gesturing at the members of the Rock Machine. They were heavily outnumbered, but they could have still done a lot of damage to the more vulnerable in the crowd. John and the other man released the gang member I had attacked, and he motioned for the others to head toward the exit. Apparently, the threat of the police was enough to convince them to leave, or maybe it was because they were outnumbered.

Even as they started to slowly filter out, I was going over what I had done in my head. I realized that I hadn’t even thought about the consequences of my actions. I didn’t know that the man I attacked was a gang member, but still, is that how I would have reacted if I was still in a male, adult body? In the past, I had told people who danced too close to Amélie to leave her alone. My stare was usually enough. I tried to tell myself that the biker had crossed a line, but it was scary to realise that I had literally acted without thinking. The person that I had been, who overanalyzed every situation, who weighed possibilities and considered outcomes to actions, was this person gone, only to be replaced by an impulsive teenager?

I didn’t have time to further ponder my actions because Jacynthe was hugging me. She spoke in English, her brow furrowed, “Abigail, he could have hurt you terrible!” I could see my own mother standing at the side of the stage, looking equally concerned. “Is this grandmother of Abigail?”

My mother cleared her throat and glared at the bar owner, “I am her mother.”

My father was in his early sixties, and my mother, although younger than my father by over five years, also had silver hair. Since she had become a grandmother, she had stopped colouring it, so conceivably, she could have been Abigail’s grandmother, at least in Jacynthe’s eyes.

Jacynthe feigned innocence, but she knew she had deeply insulted my mother. No woman likes to be told she is a grandmother when she is, in reality, the mother. With Chloe, it was obvious, but with me, the line was finer. The bar owner’s eyes widened, and she stared straight at my mother, “Very sorry for that.” She allowed my mother to get in to hug me as well.

She whispered in my ear, “Are you OK Darren?”

I nodded my head and whispered back, “Yeah. No worries.” My legs were shaking. Not from fear but from the adrenaline rush. I played it tough, but, to be honest, I was more worried about how I acted rather than the knife that had been aimed at my back.

My mother frowned, “Just be careful. And Darren?” I turned back toward her, “You really do have a beautiful singing voice. I just wish you wouldn’t scream so much.”

I smirked and then moved in to hug her again. “Thanks Mom.”

It was uncharacteristic of me, despite my momma’s boy status, to initiate a hug, but in her embrace was comfort. She hugged me fiercely as my band mates moved in to inspect the souvenir from my first bar fight. I had expected them to come first, but Jacynthe moved in so quickly for the hug that I guess they felt awkward. My mother released the embrace as Andrew said:

“Looks like it just got your shirt.”

Steven nodded his head, “Can we get on with the show? These people paid to see a rock concert, not a taping of the Dr. Phil show.”

I moved to the centre of the stage and then turned my back to the crowd, showing them my ‘war wounds’. The crowd cheered. The energy in the room was palpable, between the mosh pit, the bar fight and the angry music, the crowd was riled up. We started into the final two songs of the set and the mosh pit started anew. It was a bizarre scene, seeing grown men who had probably not been in a mosh pit for nearly twenty years meshing with college age guys who were clearly very intoxicated, but it worked. The biker’s wives and girlfriends joined in, some who were clearly not fans of our music stayed on the periphery.

We finished strongly. The fight and the near stabbing had filled me with more energy than I knew what to do with. I was bouncing and flailing, thrashing on the floor, a veritable cacophony of movement. My guitar playing sucked, but I didn’t care, because at that point, we had the crowd. They had seen me nearly get stabbed after playing white knight to Amélie. I had a feeling we had made a lot of fans.

Our final song ended with an instrumental outro where I mostly let my guitar feedback as Steven’s arms became a blur. To do what he did, I would have had to grow two extra arms. The music swelled and I stayed on one note bending it, but going up and down on my wah-wah pedal. We ended in unison to an uproarious cheer. I beamed back at the crowd. I wanted to play more, but we had no songs left.

The crowd screamed encore, but I said sheepishly into the mic, “We’d love to play more, but we don’t have any songs left. You’ll have to come see us again to hear the new stuff.”

I also talked about our fledgling website, and I invited anyone who wanted to speak with us to join us at our table. After I finished, Nirvana’s ‘Aneurysm’ blared from the speakers, and I grinned again. It was fitting that we would end, and my favourite band would play. I was giddy as we started to pack away our equipment. I wasn’t strong enough to lift any of the amps. After I had nearly dropped Andrew’s bass amp down the stairs when we were loading the gear in, in an attempted macho display, I was delegated official band cable winder. Andrew was surprisingly (or annoyingly?) understanding given that I nearly dropped his expensive amp down a flight of stairs.

Amélie and Laura had a table staked out for us, and my parents joined us. Steven brought a pitcher of the supposedly world-famous Old Gob Brew. It sounded like something a pirate would drink. I preferred Stella or Corona, but I had to at least try the beer for Jacynthe's sake. I was on an extreme high that only music could provide. The show, I felt, had gone well. I know when shows have gone horribly because I immediately want to point out all my mistakes. It was odd, but the mistakes were less important because everyone, myself included, had had a great time, despite the odd elbow in the mosh pit from an errant limb.

I never drank before a show, so I was looking forward to my just reward. I poured myself a glass from the pitcher and took a long swig. We chatted at the table about the show, while I quickly downed half of my beer. I was about to compliment Jacynthe on her beer, but as she neared our table, her eyes widened and her brow furrowed.

(Abigail, what are you doing? How can you allow your daughter to do this? She is underage. ) She looked expectantly at my mother, who knew only a few words in French. The fact that Jacynthe was pointing at me and then to the beer clued her in, but I jumped to my mother’s defence, switching to English for my mother’s sake.

“It’s only one. It’s not a big deal, right Mom?”

Instead of agreeing with me, my mother actually started acting like- my mother. She shook her head, “This woman is right sweetie. You are underage. We might let you do that at home when we can supervise you, but you could get this woman in trouble if someone sees you drinking that. I know you are mature for your age, but this nice woman let you play in her bar, you don’t want her to get in trouble, do you?”

I gritted my teeth. “No. No I don’t.” My mood was significantly soured by the exchange. Jacynthe took my half empty mug away and brought me an iced tea with a slice of lemon in it. The woman tousled my hair and brushed the bangs from my eyes.

“You shouldn’t cover your face when you play Abigail. Let the boys see your pretty face. Why do you hide it behind all that hair? Tu es vraiment belle.”

I am sure that real girls liked being called beautiful, but I didn’t need a reminder of what I looked like. I was pleased at least that Mr. Mohawk had left when I actually showed him my face. I could see that he was likely in his mid-twenties. He told me I was hardcore, but once he saw how young I was, he steered off. I was respected as a musician, but not as a potential date, which suited me fine. He played in a local band too, and we exchanged contact information.

The night petered out. People saw that I was generally in a foul mood, so they tended to ignore me. My post-show buzz had worn off the minute my mother had traitorously taken Jacynthe’s side. As we were walking back to the house, I asked her about it.

“Mom, why did you take Jacynthe’s side? You know I want you to treat me normally. You treated me like a kid.”

My mother stood firm. “Mothers and really parents in general, we don’t want people to think we are bad at our jobs. If this Jacynthe thinks I am your mother, well then I have a teenage daughter who is not old enough to drink. It wouldn’t have been right. Will you want Chloe to be drinking in a bar when she's a teenager like you were doing?”

I jumped in quickly, “Yes, but Chloe will actually be a teenager. I’m not, and I don’t like you treating me like one.”

My mother replied, “I know this is going to be hard for you to deal with, Darren, but people are going to treat you as they see you. I know who you are, so privately, you are my son, and you are an adult. But in public, well it’s probably best if we act as expected, which means I might have to do some parenting. We don’t want to attract more attention than necessary, right?”

I nodded my head slowly, “I guess. It’s just, I’m scared Mom. I lunged at that guy who was harassing Amélie, and I didn’t even think about it. I’m worried that I am changing, and at the same time, I’m worried that people are going to start trying to make decisions for me because of that. So when you start acting like you did when I was a kid, it’s really hard for me to take. Adults have freedom to choose, and I don’t want to lose that.”

“I’m sorry Darren. I didn’t appreciate how you felt. I’ll try and keep my mothering to a minimum OK?”

I sniffed, “Yeah.”

I was glad my parents hadn’t brought up their invitation to have me live with them again, but I knew that events like tonight would allow them to gradually build their argument into something I would be unable to counter eventually. I had to prove I could make the right decisions, the ones I would have made with proper thought and consideration, but it was becoming clear that when faced with difficult situations, I kept choosing wrongly.

Chapter 32

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea Darren. We need to think about what’s going to happen after you finish at the law firm. We just can’t afford it right now. We can do something in town. Go out to dinner.”

It was a few days before our anniversary. It was our first, and it was supposed to be special.

“It doesn’t even feel like we are married anymore Amélie. We don’t do anything that normal couples do.”

Amélie frowned, “Most of the places we were talking about going, those rock shows. Those are in bars. You wouldn’t even be able to get in. You really think we could have a romantic weekend alone in Montreal with you like that?”

We were lying in bed. I fought the urge to escape downstairs. I had wanted the trip to Montreal to be a chance to rekindle the romance in our marriage, but also, to show we could be around each other and not bicker constantly. Perhaps it was selfish, but I was still trying to think of a plan to try and get Amélie interested in me, hopefully not one that required copious amounts of alcohol. My eyes were moving back and forth, and Amélie could tell I was thinking about my response. At least most of the time I was still able to consider my actions and words outside of stressful or hectic situations.

She added, “I know you Darren, and it’s not going to work. I can’t be intimate with you like that. I’ve already told you that.”

I sighed, “I know, but it’s hard for me to just stop trying. I love you. I want to touch you, to kiss you.” I was growing more upset the longer I spoke, “That goddamn biker got more action than I've had over the past two months.”

Amélie shook her head, “If you really want to go, we can, Darren, but we can make a day trip out of it. Find some all-ages shows. They apparently start early in Montreal. We could walk around Old Montreal. I have been wanting to take some pictures there since I took that photography course.”

It was not exactly what I wanted, but it was better than stewing at home. It was an opportunity to show Amélie that we could still act like a couple, even if we didn’t have a physical relationship. So, I called my parents, and my mother readily accepted, without even speaking to my father. It was only for the day. I sometimes wondered if my mother was actually waiting for us to call to come and see the baby.

The trip to Montreal took only two hours. We parked the car in the outskirts, opting to take the metro in to the centre, because Montreal drivers are a different breed. In almost every other part of North America, drivers can turn right on a red light. Not so in Montreal. My father, who has spent quite a bit of time there, said it was because pedestrians would have been killed. The pedestrians are almost as aggressive as the drivers. No one shoulder checks or uses turn signals, but because everyone is the same, somehow there aren't hundreds of accidents daily.

For me, Montreal is a city that I both love and hate. Previous trips had either gone very well or had been a startling disaster. Since our last trip had been terrible, an attempted romantic weekend with a sick baby that had us fleeing the hotel at two-thirty in the morning, hoping that Chloe would sleep in the car instead of crying in our room, the law of averages said that this trip had to be better.

It was unseasonably warm that weekend, the thermostat climbing to 30 degrees Celsius. Before my change, I could wear jeans comfortably when it was hot, but now, I was sweltering in long pants. Amélie was wearing shorts, but I refused.

“You know you could just wear shorts. No one is going to judge you for wearing them. I know I won’t. It’s hot.”

Amélie was wearing jean shorts that really showed off her shapely, full legs. I thought they were sexy, even though she was often conflicted wearing them. Sometimes, she thought that only skinny girls should be allowed to show off their legs. The shorts weren’t exactly daisy dukes, but they did show off a good portion of her upper thighs. I thought she looked great.

I shook my head. I was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and my now grungy-looking tennis shoes. I had worn a bra without being asked. I was tired of fighting with her, and since I was out in public, it meant I received less attention rather than more. I didn’t need scuzzy looking teenage boys checking my out my ‘rack’. By not wearing a bra, it meant that I put on a show just walking down the street.

As a guy, I hadn’t worn shorts, unless it was really warm. I didn’t like showing off my hairy, white legs. I think guys look terrible in shorts, myself included, and I pray that the gender neutral short-shorts of the 1980s will never make a comeback. Now that I had smooth hairless legs, I still didn’t want to show them off. Yes, I could have gone without shaving them, and other areas, but I had to get used to doing it if I was going to work for Stephanie. I had to dress professionally, and that meant a certain maintenance regime.

I replied, “No, it’s OK.” I was really hot. My legs were sweating, begging to be freed from the confines of my jeans, but I saw the looks Amélie was getting, and I didn’t want the same attention.

We spent the early afternoon in Old Montreal, enjoying the sights and then eating our picnic lunch (in an effort to save money, Amélie had packed sandwiches). After eating, we stopped at an ice cream parlour. It boasted that it served the best ice cream in Montreal. It was churned and made with buttermilk, which made it highly fattening, but apparently very delicious. I noticed Amélie bought a small cup, only 1 oz. I bought a medium. The teenage boy working the shake machine smiled at me, but I ignored him.

“Why did you get a small? It’s barely two scoops.”

Amélie dug into her ice cream with gusto, “Because we are going to go out to dinner tonight, and I need to save myself. Plus, these shorts are pretty tight already. I think I put on some weight. I just- I’ll eat more tonight, but I don’t want to feel I am losing self-control. I don’t want to become a whale.”

Amélie knew how I felt about her weight and about her concerns, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. If she ordered a salad tonight for dinner, we would have words, but for now, I was enjoying my double chocolate dipped waffle cone. If chocolate was a drug, I knew that most women would have been hard core addicts.

Amélie shook her head, “I can’t believe you can still eat like that and not gain a pound. It’s not fair.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “You said that you used to drink three Pepsis a day, and a whole bag of chips when you were my ‘age’, and you were skinnier than you are now. Chalk it up to teenage metabolism.”

Amélie looked frustrated as she finished her ice cream. She didn’t look like she was enjoying it. “I just wish you could feel like I do. To know what it’s like to fight with the image in the mirror. I think you’d be less vocal about my weight, don’t you think?”

I nodded my head to appease my wife. I wasn’t convinced. Our conversation turned to shopping, and what sort of clothing I was going to need for the law firm. I was bored by it. We left the ice cream parlour, and Amélie dragged me to a series of clothing stores. She insisted that I have my own clothing. Plus, her clothing was ill-fitting in places.

We went from store to store, with me becoming more annoyed as we went on. I felt that the clerks were being very flirty with Amélie. I don’t know if it was just guys from Montreal, but they seemed overly attentive in a suggestive way. They all touched her, nothing sexual, but a quick hand on the shoulder there or a little touch on the hip to guide her into another area of the store. This sort of thing hadn’t bothered me before. I knew Amélie was attractive, and I used to tell her when a particular guy was checking her out. I wanted her to be flattered, but now I was growing jealous. I didn’t want the attention myself. I would have to be clinically insane to want that, but I hated that as I tugged up skirts and buttoned blouses, the men outside the change room were hitting on my wife.

At the last store, I had had enough, when Pierre or Louis, or Jean-Francois or whoever guided Amélie toward one of the sale racks, I grabbed his hand. “You know she’s married, right? I’m sure you noticed the ring when you were staring at her ass. Can we shop and not feel like we might need a rape kit?” I realized how little sense my statement made, but I was angry, so it didn’t matter.

The man threw his hands up in the air, (Mademoiselle, my deepest apologies. I meant nothing by that. I did not know that your sister? That your sister was married. My gesture was not made to make her or you uncomfortable. We do this with all the customers, men and women. )

Amélie looked at me the way she looked at Chloe when she was having a tantrum. She could have pulled me aside to chastise me, but instead, she said it front of the clerk, “Abigail, that’s enough! Apologize to him right now. People here are just more open. It’s harmless.” Jean-Luc or Jean-Pierre nodded his head quickly in agreement.

Instead of apologizing, I picked up the clothes that I had been trying on and stuffed them into the clerk’s arms, then I stomped out of the store. It had been a really nice day before my outburst, one of the few recently when Amélie and I got along for an extended period without arguing, and I had ruined things- again. I ran into a nearby alley, already feeling the tears staining my cheeks. I covered my face with my hands to hide the fact that I was crying. I wasn’t even near my period, so I shouldn’t have been such an emotional wreck, but I was.

“Oh Darren.”

I peeked through my fingers to see Amélie standing over me. She had her hands on her hips, getting ready to scold me, but her posture softened.

“You’ve been weird all afternoon. Is it the girl’s clothes? I know you don’t exactly like shopping for this stuff. It can’t be the guys, it never bothered you before. “

I wiped my eyes, sitting with my back against a brick wall. My knees touched my chin. I looked up at Amélie, “It does bother me. It’s been driving me crazy how they look at you- it didn’t worry me before because then I had what you wanted, something that those guys have. I’m sorry that I am so jealous, but I can’t help it.”

Amélie looked down at me, and I wanted to be invisible. I didn’t want her to see how vulnerable I must have looked. How scared I was.

I sniffed, “I know you don’t see me like you used to. How long before you replace me, Amélie? What if we find out this is permanent? What if I am trapped like this? What then?”

Amélie shook her head, “I won’t ever leave you Darren, but we need to consider the possibility that what has happened to you is permanent.”

She took my hand, “I won’t ever stop loving you either, Darren. We will figure out a way to make this work. Maybe not as husband and wife, but something else. So you could still be with Chloe and me.”

I wiped my eyes. “As your kid sister? I don’t know if I can do that.”

Amélie helped me to my feet, “You don’t need to make that decision yet.” As she helped me up, I wrapped my arms around her. She returned the hug. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” I nodded, and we left for the restaurant.
*****
We had a great dinner at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. It wasn’t the romantic setting I was hoping for, but because we spent so long shopping and with the items that we bought, we had to settle for something less expensive and with less cooking time, if we still wanted to attend a rock show. Amélie and I used our phones to find local shows. I was picky with what I wanted to listen to, and most of the better bands played later. We had a few choices: a French pop punk band called les Foufounerie, which translated to the Silliness, a thrashcore metal band called Tueur de Vitesse or Speed Kills, or an emo band called This Bloody Life. We could have gone into one of the many bars along the main strip, but I wasn’t old enough.

Amélie, despite being a Francophone, disliked most French artists, so we opted for the emo band. Because it was an all-ages show that meant lots of kids. As we paid the cover fee, we noticed that the venue was mostly full of teenagers. A lot of the girls wore brightly coloured skinny jeans, and the boys wore similar pants, but they weren’t as colourful. I wasn’t a huge fan of emo music, but I did like Smile Empty Soul and some My Chemical Romance songs, so it was actually a good compromise.

The band was typical of many emo bands. Their lead singer had bangs that covered half of his face, and despite being an all-male group, they wore eyeliner. Their songs were catchy, and the crowd was into it. I found myself nodding my head to the music, a clear sign that I liked it. Amélie, surrounded by teenagers of all shapes and sizes, seemed to be enjoying herself as well.

I noticed a lot of girls had congregated at the front of the stage. The lead singer was clearly enjoying the attention as he moved closer to the girls.

I smirked and shouted to Amélie, “Kill me if I ever wear pants like that.”

Amélie laughed and nodded, “Oh don’t worry, I will.”

I had always preferred listening to female singers. I found their voices could evoke more emotion in me. I was a big fan of bands like Garbage, No Doubt, and Evanescence. Something about their voices made it seem that they were singing to me. As the leader singer of This Bloody Life powered through a chorus, I found myself not only listening, but watching him, too. I wasn’t critiquing his technique either.

He was singing a song with a premise that had been done a million times, unrequited love. He sang about the love he had for a young woman that was not returned, despite several attempts. I don’t know if it was because I was already feeling vulnerable with Amélie rebuking my own attempts at romance, or if- no, I refused to believe that.

The young man who was in his late teens or very early twenties sang well, but it was nothing special. I thought it was a little nasally, but that also fit the tone of the band. I found a lot of emo bands whiny, and it should have been the same with this one. The singer was tall, with a shock of jet black hair. His face was masculine, despite the eyeliner. His body was scrawny and pale. I thought he had beady eyes, a little like that Ethan kid. Why couldn’t I stop looking at him?

I tried to use Amélie’s body to help to divert my attention to an appropriate object of affection, but the young man’s siren song brought me back each time. My heart was thumping. I will admit that since my run-in with Ethan, there had been a few other such heart palpitations, but I was loathe to admit their existence. The most recent was at our show. When I was talking to Mr. Mohawk, whose name was actually Grant, I couldn’t get over how nice his eyes were. Considering how the rest of that night had gone, I didn’t need to admit to myself that I had found the young man attractive, so it had remained buried- until now.

I figured that because of my earlier outburst while we were shopping, that I was just more sensitive than usual. The same thing with Ethan and Grant, the interview had been stressful, and the show, while it had gone well, the aftermath just solidified my status in this world. I wanted to join the other girls up at the front, so I could be closer to him, but I resisted.

Part of the reason why I wanted to come to Montreal was to try and make a few contacts for my band, so we could invite them to our town, and they would hopefully return the favour.

As the next band was getting ready, I told Amélie that I was going to speak to the singer of This Bloody Life. I thought she looked at me strangely for a moment. Had she noticed that I was staring at him? She half shrugged her shoulders and told me she would meet me outside.

The girls flocked around the lead singer like peahens to a brightly-coloured peacock. Instead of plumage, he had tight bright red pants. Each squawked at him, trying to get his attention, excitedly warbling until the next girl had her turn. I was jealous, not because they were having their turn before me. No, it was because I never really got to enjoy the attention that comes with being a musician. I had already been dating Amélie for close to three years before deciding that I wanted to be a serious musician. I didn’t want a gaggle of groupies, but it was nice to see a girl watch you from the crowd. Oh god, what if he saw me staring at him as he sang?

As the girls thinned, I was eventually at the front of the line. I couldn’t believe how catty the girls are. As I approached, a few of them looked at me with disgust. I was their competition, even if I didn’t want to be. I ignored them. I felt an excited energy in my body as I came closer to him.

“Hey, nice show. You’ve got a good range. The songs are catchy too.”

He smiled at me, and he gave me the up and down. I was used to this by now. I was glad that I hadn’t worn shorts. His smile didn’t go away.

He replied, “Thanks, what’s your name?”

I wet my lips with my tongue before replying, they were dry. “Um. Abigail.” My hand was shaking a little. I hid it behind my back.

The smile never left his face. He was a good foot taller than me. “I’m Jeremy. Nice to meet you. So you enjoyed the show?”

I nodded my head more rapidly than I meant to, and then said, “Yeah. It was really good. You’ve got good energy. Have you ever played out of town?”

He shook his head, and still that smile, which was very pleasant, never left his face.

“Well- I have a- band. We are from the Ottawa region, if you ever want to play there- I could- I mean we could set up a show with you.” I couldn’t believe how hard it was to formulate my words and keep my thoughts together. I must have sounded exactly like I looked.

Jeremy nodded his head again. His posture was relaxed. “Sure, I mean I can talk to the guys.” He was looking directly in my eyes. I hurriedly gave him the contact information and got out of there as quickly as my short legs could carry me.

Amélie looked at me suspiciously, her eyes slightly narrowed and her lips tight, “What were you doing in there?”

I took my left hand and held my right, which was still shaking a little. “Networking. He’s going- I mean they are going to see if they can come to Ottawa at some point. Then I am sure they will return the favour.”

Amélie said nothing else, and we took the metro to the lot where our car was parked. While stopped at a red light about an hour into the trip, Amélie leaned over to see what I was looking at on my phone. The trip back had been pretty quiet to this point.

“You really liked that band eh? I didn’t think it would be your style of music.” Amélie could see that I was looking at the This Bloody Life’s band site.

I replied, “Yeah, neither did I.”

Chapter 33

My alarm buzzed for the first time since my interview at the law firm. I rolled over and groaned. As much as I was looking forward to starting work, I wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of having to wear women’s clothing regularly. If I managed to change back, I couldn’t exactly put my experience on my résumé.

I helped Amélie with Chloe, and then went to take my shower. It was amazing to see how I smoothly glided from one task to another without thinking. I could do my hair easily, and while I struggled with the bra at times, it certainly wasn’t the comedy of errors it had been at first. I had practiced getting dressed. Since, I was working during the summer, Amélie had suggested skirts mostly, but I opted to wear pantyhose, as if that extra sheer layer somehow hid my legs from the world.

It had been over three months since my change, and I was no closer to a cure, but I still thought about it daily. Did it make sense to lie to myself? I had done it so many times over the past few months that it was easy. I will admit, there were days when I didn’t think about conducting more research or making more phone calls, mostly because, the whole process was so frustrating. It wasn’t a chemical or a pharmaceutical that had done this to me. If that was the case, a doctor or a scientist could have addressed my unique condition.

While I had convinced my family and my closest friends, I wasn’t about to announce myself to the world. I didn’t want the attention that it would put on my family. There is a fine line between journalism and harassment. Considering the coverage that the ‘Octo-mom’ received, and that was actually scientifically possible, I couldn’t imagine the attention that proof of magic would receive. Thankfully, those who knew my secret had kept it.

Amélie left with Chloe, and I continued to get ready. I wore a skirt, blouse and a blazer, along with what I learned were called ‘kitten’ heels. Figured that they wouldn’t just be called half inch heels. I could have teetered on six inch daggers, but I hadn't practiced walking in heels, let alone stilettos. As I left the house, I decided to use my black bag. It was a professional’s bag that I had used it to bring legal files to and from work before. I slung it over my shoulder and left for my first day.
***

“Wow Abigail! You really went all out. I expected you to dress well, but you could go to court dressed like that.” I knew that. I half smiled and nodded my head. Stephanie offered me a seat in her office. I sat down, crossing one leg over the other. I smoothed the skirt as I had seen Amélie do many times. I knew that it was important to not only appear professional, but feminine and confident as well. I had to act the part. I could have come in wearing a tailored man’s suit, but that would have raised questions. Everyone in the law office knew that a young woman named Abigail was coming, so there was no need to raise their suspicion by dressing or acting unusually.

“So let me talk a little about what you’ll be doing through the summer. We’ll need you to organize our precedent data. You’ll need to skim the cases and determine keywords. Another project that I have in mind for you is to prepare some disclosure packages.”

This sounded a lot like what a law clerk would do. I knew that I hadn’t been hired as a paralegal, but I was hoping for something more challenging. I replied, “And what about researching case law? And will I be able to assist at hearings?”

I had absolutely no court experience, so I was hoping to gain some this summer. When I worked for the government, I conducted research, assisted the lawyers in writing legal arguments, but I never got to attend a hearing. With the focus on saving money, we couldn’t have more than one person on each file, and I couldn’t act alone in court because I lacked the required paralegal credentials. Paralegals in the government didn’t need the credentials to do research or assist lawyers but those that went to court, did. Since I had been hired as a student, I really didn’t have a set position, so I hoped it meant I would get a range of challenging duties.

Stephanie smiled and leaned forward, “We’ll see. We need to start slow, Abigail. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

I nodded slowly. I had expected this. Stephanie assumed that I was a high school student. I would need to show my worth to the firm. There was a knock on the door, and a heavy set man in his mid-thirties entered. He smiled and offered his hand, “I am Anthony, Stephanie’s husband, and you must be Abigail. Stephanie was very impressed by you. I heard you even have experience in administrative law.”

I smiled and took his hand. A part of me was pleased that Anthony didn’t look like a well-built model. He wasn’t tall, probably only a few inches taller than Amélie, but then, my definition of tall had been forever altered by my residence in this body. Everyone I knew was taller than me. Anthony’s face was pleasant and gently rounded. It was boyish with a distinct lack of facial hair. His body was round, and I could see that the expensive suit he wore was cut to conceal much of his girth.

I was pleased I wasn’t going to be working with anyone particularly handsome. The feelings I seemed to have developed for Jeremy hadn’t gone away, but since he wasn’t local and I never saw him, they thankfully grew no stronger. There were certain points during the day when I found myself thinking about him, but I violently suppressed the thoughts whenever they surfaced.

I replied, “I have some yes, and I’m looking forward to helping you any way I can.”

I got to work updating the precedent database. It was easy work. I just had to do searches for new precedents. Since Anthony mostly dealt with administrative law, I checked the relevant tribunals before moving to the Federal and then Supreme Court. Even though lower court judges were supposed to follow the Supreme Court, they often didn’t go that far in administrative courts because many of the individuals were not represented by legal counsel. Meanwhile, Stephanie’s constitutional and human rights cases were often heard at the Supreme Court, so I looked there first.

It took me a week to completely update the database, write accompanying head notes and match the keywords. During that week, I met the person who got the job I had originally applied for. I also realized how incompetent she was.

Chantal was in her early twenties, and she dressed in a way that I felt was unprofessional for a law office. Her blouse often showed cleavage, her skirt was far too short and her nails far too long for the typing she was expected to complete. At least I had an excuse for my nails. Hers were likely an inch long with bright pink polish. I couldn’t understand why Stephanie had hired her. I could understand that Anthony might have hired her, but he didn’t seem the type to hire on looks rather than competence. She was attractive, with long legs, which were accentuated by the stilettos she wore daily. She was thin with a full bust that made people think implants, but I suppose some women are gifted that way. She was in her early twenties. She was fluently bilingual, which was about the only reason I would have ever hired her for anything.

“Chantal, Anthony wanted these single-sided. Books of Authority can be double-sided, but that’s it.” I was holding a disclosure package that I had put together and asked Chantal to copy.

Chantal replied with a thick French accent, “Okay, Abby.” There was definite attitude in her tone. It was the second time she had made the mistake, and I had only been there a week. I imagined that the Locke Agency, named after the husband and wife legal team, must have spent a lot on paper and toner. I disliked how Chantal called me Abby, but she refused to call me Abigail. Clearly, she felt she was working with a child, but I wasn’t the one making mistakes. The young woman was excellent on the phone and could take messages, but her attention to detail was terrible. She was very sloppy.

By my second week, I had settled into the office comfortably. Stephanie and Anthony were very pleased with my work, but they continued to give me the same mundane tasks. I might as well have been doing Chantal’s job, which I was, half the time.

During that second week, I heard Stephanie and Anthony discussing an upcoming case. Their exchanges could get quite heated, but both were highly intelligent and respectful. They were passionate. It made me think of when Amélie and I debated legal topics.

“That defence won’t work in this case. It’s a strict liability offence. You don’t have to prove intent.” Anthony was going to a hearing in a few weeks, and he was preparing his arguments. Stephanie was trying to explain to him that his current argument would not work in the case at hand.

Anthony replied, “I need to show that he didn’t intend to break the law though, and that he was just taking the advice from an official. The transport truck driver believed that what he was doing was legal because the official from the Ministry told him so.”

It was time for me to show how vital I could be. I was hoping that if I could demonstrate my importance to the firm, maybe they would hire me, and I could apply for emancipation.

I piped up, “Well you could use the officially induced error defence. If you can prove that the Ministry official gave the transport truck driver advice that led him to believe he didn’t need a speed limiter, then it could be seen as accepting erroneous advice. Because it is assumed that the advice given by an official is correct. As long as the transport truck driver can prove he didn’t remove the limiter until after speaking to the official, then you probably have a good chance of winning. There is plenty of case law on this.”

Stephanie and Anthony turned toward me. Stephanie was the first to speak. She had a big smile. “Now you know why I wanted to hire her. That’s exactly right, Abigail. Anthony could use that defence.”

Anthony cleared his throat. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or still in shock that a teenager knew so much about the law. “Uh. Thanks, Abigail. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

Later in the day, Stephanie asked me to come into her office. Anthony had been rather cool to me since my attempt to help, so I assumed she wanted to discuss that. “Abigail, you’ve been with us for a little over a week now, and I have to say I am extremely impressed with your work. I spoke to Anthony, and we want you to start working on some files. You’ve probably noticed that he hasn’t been himself this afternoon, but he was frustrated because he really should have known that the defence you provided was a possibility. Anthony is a great lawyer, but he can be a little stubborn.”

I nodded my head excitedly, “So I will get to meet with clients and discuss their cases with them?”

Stephanie’s features hardened for a moment, and then softened. “Not exactly, Abigail. I can’t have clients coming in here to discuss their legal issues with a teenager. They pay us, and they expect professionalism, and well, at least a university degree. If you agree, I can have you doing some research for us and maybe writing some arguments. We won’t bill the clients for it, but because you’ve already finished the two major projects I had for you, I want to keep you busy. I just can’t let our clients know you are working on their cases. Sorry it has to be this way, Abigail. Do you understand?”

I nodded my head again and tried not to look upset, but as always, my emotions surfaced and crept onto my face. “I do.”

Stephanie gently put her hand underneath my chin to bring it from its sagging state, “Don’t feel bad, Abigail. You are already working at the level of an articling student. That’s very impressive for someone so young. But this is business. I have already had people asking about you. It won’t help the reputation of the firm if our clients find out that a teenager is handling some aspects of their cases. They need to think you are filing and doing photocopies. I’ve told them you are assisting Chantal. OK?” Well it was fitting. I was doing part of her job already.

I wanted to tell that to Stephanie, but Chantal wasn’t a bad person, she just sucked at her job. I didn’t want to get her fired. I just wanted her to do a better job, so I wouldn’t have to fix her mistakes. The day before, for instance, I had to retype a letter she had prepared for a client. It was laden with spelling mistakes.

I nodded my head again.

Stephanie smiled, “And take a proper lunch! I know you are working through what is supposed to be your lunch break. Go outside and enjoy yourself for an hour. Someone your age shouldn’t be stuck in an office all day.”

She looked at me with amusement in her eyes, “Plus, I have seen the way you stare at the skateboarders out there. Wouldn’t you like to spend some time with people your own age instead of two stuffy lawyers? I mean, come on Abigail, yesterday you were talking about RRSPs (Registered Retirement Savings Plans) with us. Why are you in such a hurry to grow up?”

She was right. At times, I did catch myself looking at the skateboarders. Many of them were shirtless and sweaty. I should have felt like a pervert, staring at boys half my age, but I didn’t, or I couldn’t. It was as if my brain was being slowly rewritten. Would I become like the girl in my dream who shook her ass for thousands of people? It was scary to think that I might become a different person entirely, but the odd thoughts and feelings I was getting were a perfect match for my body. Would there be anything left of Darren Lawrence when or if this bizarre magic released me? Perhaps a more important question was, why the hell did there have to be a skate park right next to my work?

I answered Stephanie, “Because I don’t relate to those kids. The stuff they are interested in is insufferably boring. They are hopelessly immature. I prefer adult conversation.”

Stephanie frowned, “Don’t you have any friends your own age?”

I shook my head, “None. Like I said, I can’t stand them.”

Stephanie shook her head, “Oh Abigail, you have no idea how sad that is. Why waste your youth acting like an adult? There’ll be lots of opportunity for you be an adult later in life. Believe me, once you pay taxes, get a mortgage, have children, you will feel like an adult. Wouldn’t you want to be there during your lunch hour, instead of here?”

She pointed at a group of girls who were sitting at the picnic tables next to the skate park. They looked to be discussing something very important, probably which boy was the cutest in the group. Maybe that wasn’t fair. I didn’t think that all kids that age were boring or boy crazy. I had taught some students who were very mature and focused, but I didn’t want Stephanie coaxing me to join them.

I mean, Alyssa was nice enough, but did I want to be having enlightening conversations with her about Katy Perry and our nails? My attempt had the opposite effect unfortunately. Stephanie thought that my joyless life was miserable, even though I told her otherwise.

Stephanie shook her head again, “I don’t think that’s a very healthy attitude, Abigail. You need a proper work life balance. I know you’ll be a lawyer, but I also know one day, you’ll be sitting in your big fancy office, and you will regret how you acted in your youth. I know I did. I want you to eat lunch outside from now on, okay?” It wasn’t a request. I could tell from Stephanie’s steadfast eyes that she meant business.

I replied, “Fine.”

Chapter 34

“So what are you? Some kind of genius? Stephanie said this job usually goes to university students. You couldn’t be older than sixteen.”

Chantal was upset that I had caught another mistake. It was another attention to detail mistake. It was a homonym error, but one so basic that if I were a client, I would seriously consider changing firms. I was getting tired of explaining them to her.

I replied, “Look Chantal, I don’t want to fight with you. I just want you to do your job.” My voice raised in pitch. It really must have sounded like she was speaking to a child. I had wanted my voice to sound firm, but it had a whiney lilt to it.

Chantal shook her head, “It’s not a big deal. You are such a grammar Nazi. Everything is spelled correctly, isn’t it?”

I sighed. We were looking over a letter to a client requesting additional evidence, and a larger retainer due to the extra work. It was a messy case too, but it was also one that, if won, could bring a lot of prestige to the fledgling firm. It was a high-profile media sensitive issue too. We didn’t want our court documents plastered on the front page of a newspaper.

I recall teaching ninth grade English. Early secondary was an excellent time to teach the basics of the review. I used a Microsoft Word document full of homonym errors to show the Generation Y students, who had a heavy reliance on technology, how their word processor could fail them. Apparently, Chantal had not received similar instruction, or she wasn’t paying attention at the time.

“Yes, but you can’t just use spell check. You have to check the context of the words too. See here,” I pointed to her use of ‘their’ and ‘to’ in the letter, “This is a very important letter. You are good at transcribing what Mrs. Locke says, but you need to look it over afterwards as well.” I felt like her teacher, her frustrated teacher.

Chantal shook her head, “Look, I’m not going to let a kid talk to me like that. I’ll just show it to Mrs. Locke and see what she says.”

I tried my best to hide how gleeful I was that she was offering to show it to Stephanie. I bit my lip to avoid smiling and nodded, “If you think you’d like a second set of eyes to look at it- but”

“Wait, you want her to see it because you know there are mistakes in it. You are trying to get me in trouble.”

Chantal towered over me in her six-inch stilettos. She had her hands on her hips as she spoke, and her head moved forward slightly as she put emphasis on certain words, in an almost chicken-like manner.

I stood up, showing that I wasn’t going to be intimidated by her. “Look Chantal, I just want you to do your damn job, and do it right for once.”

A client walked in just as I finished speaking. He was an older gentleman who was trying to sue his employer for failing to accommodate his disability. I wanted to tell him how much case law I had found, and what sort of argument might be used to support his case. Instead, I stayed quiet, but Chantal didn’t.

She pointed to the very document that I had questioned her on and said, “Abby, you need to be more careful. This document has a lot of mistakes. Maybe, you should just get back to filing. You know, alphabetically, right?” She smiled at the client, “Sorry sir, Abby’s still learning, can I tell Mr. or Mrs. Locke that you are here?”

I held my tongue, but I was fuming. I knew how to check the calendar in Outlook to see not only who the client was but also who he had the appointment with, but Chantal apparently didn’t. Sloppy again. Also, I knew that Stephanie had spoken to Chantal about our arrangement. She was to act as if I were assisting her when clients came in, but I doubted that Stephanie intended it to be in a manner that was so demeaning.

Mr. Anders smiled back at Chantal, “I think it’s wonderful that you bring on students during the summer. Better to have them working than causing trouble.” He turned to me, “You listen to Chantal, young lady. She is a keeper.”

I feigned a smile, but it took extreme control on my part to not tell Mr. Anders that the only reason that Chantal was a ‘keeper’ was because I fixed her mistakes.

Once Mr. Anders had gone in to see Stephanie, I went behind Chantal’s desk and proceeded to poke her in the chest. “I don’t know if you paid any attention in class where you earned your supposed degree, or if you were too busy being some frat boy’s sloppy second, but if you ever talk to me like that again, I will present an itemized list of just how much money you are costing this firm with your mistakes.” I was wild-eyed. Chantal actually inched away from me. I wanted to punch her in the face as hard as I could, but I settled for a verbal beating.

“You are damn lucky that I am willing to sacrifice my pride for Stephanie’s firm because if I wasn’t, I’d see you fired in an instant. I know that the arrangement is that I’m your assistant, but let me put it this way. I could do your job, and my job. Do you understand?” It was true, in my government position because of a lack of personnel, I was both law clerk and paralegal, and I was supporting three lawyers, not just two.

Chantal nodded her head rapidly, but she didn’t say a word. I felt infinitely better after berating her. Despite her apparent surrender, there was something in her eyes that told me this wasn’t over.
***

It had been about a month since the show at the Big Gob Brewery, and we were asked to play another show there at Jacynthe’s insistence. She made a killing that night, and her regulars hadn’t stopped asking her for us to come back. So that Friday, we took to the stage again. The show was not nearly as raucous as the last one, and I felt it only went OK. That second show made one thing very apparent, we were going to need another guitar player.

I had suggested that we change all of our songs to drop D, and while that worked to a certain degree, making it easier for me to form the chords. My nails were growing so quickly, that I barely had time to finish one song before they had grown back fully. So while I could play Drop D rhythm, my lead parts were like Chantal’s attention to detail, very sloppy. My band mates had said nothing yet, but I could just imagine what Steven and Andrew discussed on the way back from band, behind my back.

I knew that in order for the band to be successful, we would need another guitar player. I didn’t want to stop playing guitar, but I was realistic. It was ridiculous to think that we needed another member because of my nails, but that was the reason. We hadn’t booked another show yet, so we had time to look.

I wasn’t sure how to approach the search. Before, I just posted an ad on Craigslist or a site called Bandmix. I had had success with both, but I was wary about bringing someone else on board, not only because it could wreck the chemistry, but it would be hard to explain why a teenage girl was playing in a band with two grown men. It meant we would have to lie to anyone who joined.

I brought the issue up at our next practice. I could see that Steven was becoming more frustrated each time I stopped to clip the nails on my fretting hand. After playing three songs and having to stop in between each to clip, I spoke into the microphone to get the attention of my band mates.

“Hey guys, OK. Let’s take a break.” We sat down on the floor. I unplugged my guitar and put it back in its case. I had to admit, I was really starting to like the homage to metal that was my guitar. Not only was the tone amazing, the action was perfect, meaning the strings were at the right level to allow me to form chords easily enough, but only if my nails were clipped. John even said that he would maintain the guitar for free. I had a feeling he missed his daughter, who had moved away, and while I wasn’t enamoured with playing surrogate daughter, John was nice, and I found his band stories fascinating.

“So, you have probably noticed that my playing sucks. Like really sucks.”

Andrew replied, “Well, we weren’t going to-“

I sighed, “Guys, if we are serious about this, then we need to be realistic here. My playing isn’t going to get any better. We also have to be truthful. You know I will say when you guys are off when you sing. I need you guys to do the same. I’m not a delicate flower. I can take it.”

Steven spoke up, “I know man. I didn’t really want to say anything either, but I want us to be a serious band. My friends who saw us play last time, they noticed it, and they aren’t musicians. It’s probably going to start to hurt our ability to get shows.”

I nodded slowly, “I agree. It sucks. Do you guys know anyone who might be interested?”

Andrew nodded, “Well there’s a guy at work. He’s already in a band but-

Steven shook his head, “We don’t want anyone who is in another band. They need to commit to us. I might know someone too. He’s a bit young though. Early twenties.”

I nodded, “That’s fine. We just don’t want a kid. They don’t have the attention span to stay in bands for the long haul. I had an eighteen year old in a band, and he saw some crappy indie band play and suddenly he wanted to be in a band like that, so he left after less than a year.” I knew not all eighteen year olds were like that, but considering my record so far with teenage musicians, and boys in general, I didn’t need to spend a lot of time with them. One painful crush was enough.

I continued, “You guys check out your leads. I can put an ad up on Bandmix. I can meet them at the house to save time, see what kind of players they are. Maybe we could jam a bit too. And I’ll play them the tracks.”

Steven and Andrew looked at each other. They both frowned. Andrew spoke up, “Darren, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I mean normally that would be fine but-“

Steven shook his head. “Look man, I don’t want to sound sexist or anything, but you really shouldn’t have guys you just met come into your place. Especially if you are alone.”

As I listened to my band mates, I felt rage build within. I was already emotional because my period was approaching, so it was like adding ten sticks of dynamite to a thrown grenade. My band mates saw I was visibly upset. My eyes were narrowed and my lips tight over my clenched teeth. My little fists were balled as I dug my nails into my soft palms.

Andrew put his hand on my shoulder, “Woah, woah before you say anything, Darren. Think about it. Think about some of the players you’ve let into your house in the past. Do you think this is a good idea? Remember that these guys don’t know who you really are.”

Andrew’s words defused my potential rage. He was right. Musicians are an interesting lot. I remember having one gentleman in my house who I thought was going to rob me. He looked like a crack addict, missing half his teeth with a sallow pallor. He called himself Chainz, and the only reason I actually let him in the house is because it is so hard to find bass players, but I regretted it because I learned he didn’t even have any equipment. Probably sold it for drugs.

So, was it smart to have men I had never met come into the house while I was there alone? Not for an instant, but somehow, I thought it was. Was I thinking that I was still a 32 year old man, or was I just not thinking?

I blinked and then nodded, “OK, yeah it’s a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Once Andrew had explained, it made sense. Something in my brain clicked that it was the smarter choice with the facts provided by my own experience.

We finished our discussion and resumed practice with me again having to cut my nails after every single song. For the longer ones, I cut them during parts where I wasn’t singing or playing. It was clear that we needed to find someone before playing another show. The issue of my apparent age came up, but we decided to tell the same story we told Jacynthe, I was the younger sister of Andrew’s wife’s best friend. This was obviously Amélie, but our new guitar player wouldn’t know that. It was best to be consistent with our lie.

That night I posted an ad on Bandmix. I stated we were looking for someone committed, with a mature attitude, between the ages of 20-40, with their own gear and wheels (ideally), who can play lead guitar and some rhythm guitar.

Chapter 35

I removed the mail from the box. There were flyers, which I usually dumped directly in the recycle bin and a few letter-sized envelopes, likely bills. Money wasn’t exactly tight, but with my serious pay cut, we did have to watch our finances more carefully. We did what we could to save money- running the air conditioning only when it was too humid to sleep, not eating out and avoiding any unnecessary purchases. My small wardrobe of skirts, blouses and blazers had put a dent in my savings- our savings. Amélie preferred we call it that because it meant that for everything we did, we would consider how it might affect the other. Despite my job, we were just scraping by. It was clear that I was going to need to get a job after the summer to continue to support my family, but my prospects were bleak, at least for jobs that didn’t involve retail or fast food.

I had looked further into legal emancipation. Amélie was correct when she said that the test had a very high threshold. I found examples. One was a professional hockey player who was successfully emancipated. He was seventeen when he was drafted in the first round. That alone enabled the courts to determine that he could support himself easily. Even the fourth line grinder made a million dollars. I found another involving a young woman, a pop singer, who was worried her parents were going to steal her hard-earned touring dollars. She was sixteen at the time, but she was grossing over a hundred thousand dollars before taxes. Amélie didn’t even make that much.

There was also my upcoming hearing, just three weeks away. Amélie had still not obtained a birth certificate for me, so unless I found a way to make a hundred thousand dollars, the state might find it in my best interest to be placed in foster care. I would fight them, applying for a stay of decision so that I could remain with Amélie while we built a defence, but the thought was worrying.

As I was sorting the mail, I noticed an envelope from a local school board. This in itself was not odd because we paid annual school taxes. What I did find odd was the weight of the envelope, because it meant there was more documentation in there than usual. So, either we had failed to pay our school taxes, or it was something else entirely. Our school and property taxes were usually added to our mortgage. I didn’t understand it completely, but I thought the bank took care of it, and we only received a notice indicating how much was owed.

I tore open the envelope, and my mouth hung open for a few seconds while I shakily found a seat at the kitchen table. Inside the envelope was a confirmation of registration at St. Josephine’s Notre Mère de Paix for Abigail Grenier. It was the same school that Alyssa and Ethan attended. My body tensed, and my hand shook as I stared at the piece of paper in my hand.

It was quite a detailed document, written almost entirely in French. I did a quick translation:

Student Name: Abigail Grenier Sex: Female
Age: 15 Date of birth: December 10, 1998
Grade of most recent completion: Ninth Parent or Guardian: Amélie Grenier
New student: Yes Previous school: Unknown
Contact in case of Emergency: Amélie Grenier Uniform required: Yes
Date of required attendance: September 2, 2013

My birth date was the same except for apparently being born when Darren Lawrence was in twelfth grade. The fact that Amélie was my guardian made me immediately think that she had somehow managed to obtain guardianship over me without a birth certificate. Why then would she have enrolled me in school without asking, unless it was automatic? I was in the system because of my alleged crime, but I was perplexed as to why Amélie would do this without speaking to me. Would the school have just assumed she was my guardian? It made little sense because I had told the police officer that Amélie was my older sister. Was it just a clerical error? A letter from the principal was attached, but it was addressed to Amélie, my apparent guardian.

The letter welcomed Abigail to the school and indicated that uniforms could be picked up as early as August 25th. It also discussed the tenth grade curriculum, and the different choices for art credits. I threw the letter down, but it did not meet the measure of my anger as it gently floated to the floor. I shook my head vehemently. There was absolutely no way I was ever going to attend classes at this school. I would fight for emancipation as if my life depended on it, and considering my most recent mental indiscretions, Jeremy being the latest, perhaps it was a battle for my identity, my freedom - in essence, my life.

I did not want to be surrounded by children all day, and, while I had done it as a teacher, I was not doing it dressed in a plaid skirt. I could not take being treated as a child by people who should be my colleagues. It would not only harm my adult ego, but it could be devastating to my psyche being surrounded by kids and their inane conversations. I wanted mature conversation, not discussions about why a certain class or teacher sucked. Plus, this was tenth grade. The students were still extremely immature, especially the boys. I knew this firsthand because I had taught English to a class of all boys. I shuddered at the thought of being the only girl in a class like that.

I thought about another possible culprit, but I doubted that Chantal had the mental capacity to dream up such a complex revenge. I knew she had heard me speaking to my parents about my legal emancipation research, and she may have heard me tell my mother that, despite the law, I would do everything in my power to avoid returning to high school. My parents were worried about what was going to happen after the summer. They were concerned about money and my well-being, but they also figured that, as a teenage girl, I might be expected to attend school. I told them that I had no intention of doing so, but I had no idea exactly how much Chantal heard of my conversation. I had the discussion outside during lunch at work, but I only realized Chantal was sitting behind me at another picnic table half-way through the conversation with my parents.

It would be a fitting revenge for her to have phoned the school board and indicated that there was a truant student. Still, I felt that was far above the intelligence of someone like Chantal. No, I had a feeling her revenge would be more petty and childish. So, that left two possible suspects- Amélie and my parents.

I called my parents, indicating that there was an emergency at the house, no one was hurt, but I needed to speak to them immediately. Amélie arrived home with Chloe a few minutes later, and while I acted coolly toward her, it did not seem too unusual because she knew I was on my period. My time of the month was when Amélie didn't speak much. She knew that my cramps could be bad, which meant I was likely to be in a foul mood. As far as the actual experience went, the bottle of Midol was never far away, thankfully. Unlike my first time, I was scared to watch wrestling as I had done before, for fear of being attracted to the heavily muscled tanned Adonises. Not only that, but the experience with Jeremy was never far from my mind never mind the shirtless skaters I saw outside whenever my eyes strayed at the office.

As for Chloe, despite my trying to act like her daddy, she didn’t buy it. She still called me anything but, mostly, she called me ‘Alee’ still. She still looked at pictures of me and asked for daddy, even though it had been months since my transformation. I wasn’t sure if toddlers could feel sad at the thought of missing someone, but there had been the odd time when I caught Chloe looking oddly thoughtful. She usually had only three faces, beaming smile, mischievous grin or full-on tantrum with waterworks and red cheeks, so seeing her wearing a different expression made me wonder if she thought about, or missed me. Amélie thought she did, but I wasn’t sure if a toddler had that capacity. Chloe had accepted me as another girl in the house, although she was never impressed when I tried to do her hair. Amélie had the patience to put an elastic in the hair of a squirming toddler. I knew how, especially considering I used an elastic to put my own hair in a ponytail at times, but I didn’t have the same tolerance I had before.

I even snapped at Chloe more when she refused to follow my instructions. She thought it was hilarious to kick me when I changed her diaper. She thought it was even funny to slap my boobs. Amélie disliked it when I yelled, so I tried to keep my outbursts to a minimum, but as Chloe would enter the genuine terrible twos in September, I knew that it would be harder to keep my temper if I hadn’t found a way to change back.

My parents arrived after dinner, my mother frantically entering the house. “Darren, what’s wrong, are you OK?”

I ushered my parents into the dining room. Amélie looked confused as I invited her to take a seat at the table with my parents. I took out the confirmation letter and laid it on the table.

I said with narrowed eyes, “So, anyone care to tell me what this is?”

Amélie peered down at the letter on the table, and my parents did the same. My mother was the first to speak.

“Amélie, did you apply for guardianship of Darren? I thought we had discussed this before. We want Darren to come and live with us. I thought we were very clear about that.”

My mother was hurt. I could see that she thought Amélie had gone behind her back.

“We are his parents, Amélie. How could you do this?”

My mother was the emotional type. My father was practical. He rarely let his emotions influence his decisions, as our many political and hockey debates can attest. He often played Devil’s Advocate, drawing on facts and hard evidence to form his opinions.

He spoke gently, “Now, we don’t know if this is true or not. Let’s not jump to conclusions, Pam.”

My mother who at this point was near tears said, “How else are we supposed to see it, Richard? Why else would this school think Amélie is Darren’s guardian?”

Amélie who had stayed out of it to this point spoke up. She could be accused of lacking compassion and empathy, being much like my father in certain respects, but she spoke gently to my mother. Much the way she spoke to me now when I was overly emotional. “I’m honestly as confused as you are, Pam. I did not do this. I will admit we talked about it. I wanted and I still want Darren to live with me and Chloe, but I did not apply for a guardianship. Everyone I spoke to, including my friends from law school in family law, they all said that we needed a birth certificate or at least a proof of the birth if it was a home birth. I never applied for a birth certificate for Darren, so I don’t know how this school even knows ‘Abigail’ exists.”

My father replied, “The school could know that Abigail exists because she is in the system now. Did you give this birth date, Darren?”

I shook my head, “No, I didn’t. The police notebook pages that I requested say the same date, but a different year.” I pointed at the photocopied pages, “It says 1997. So sixteen years old.”

My father frowned, “That will probably be considered lying to a police officer.”

Amélie nodded her head, “If this school document is legitimate, and I think it will be treated that way, this is far more serious. Yes, Darren lied, but more importantly, he isn’t even old enough to drive. That could lead to additional charges.”

I interjected, “How do we know the police even have access to this document?”

Amélie replied, “The issue is this. If we don’t provide that document, we have no record of your birth, nor whether you have a legal guardian, so even if you manage to win, Darren, you could be taken away. Without parents or a guardian, you could end up in foster care.”

My mother shook her head vehemently, “I won’t let them do that to my son. I am his mother, and I will tell the court that!” She was on the verge of tears.

My father said gently, “Amélie has a point. Darren, you need to show that document to the court to prove that Amélie is your guardian. I am sorry, Pam, but we need to accept this. The document is a double-edged sword, but it could keep Darren from becoming a ward of the state.”

I stared at my father in disbelief, “Are you serious? Doing that will make it official. I don’t particularly like the idea of being fifteen years old in the eyes of the law. I wouldn't be allowed to drive, and I wouldn’t even be able to vote for another three years. I still think that I can emancipate myself.”

Amélie frowned and touched my shoulder, “Darren, I told you that the test is very difficult to meet. How are you going to meet the test?”

I replied, “I will see if Stephanie can hire me. It is complicated because she can’t legally hire me until I am emancipated, but she can provide me with a document indicating her intent to do so. It was enough for the drafted hockey player. He hadn’t signed a contract yet, but by drafting him, the court ruled that it was the team’s intent to hire him. Plus, if she hires me as a paralegal, I would have no problem paying the bills. I have already proved to her that I can do the work.”

My mother looked at me hopefully, “Do you really think she would do that, Darren? That would be wonderful. Your father and I can help you out until then, of course.”

I shook my head, “We are OK while I have a job Mom.” I was thirty-two years old and certainly old enough to support myself. The last thing I wanted was to be dependent on my parents again.

My father looked pensive, momentarily, before adding, “It is a risk Darren. You would have to emancipate yourself before the hearing, which is in mid-July. That’s only three weeks away. How are you going to do that?”

I replied, “I don’t know exactly, but I will figure it out. I will make some calls tomorrow.”

My father added matter-of-factly, “OK, let’s say you don’t manage to see a judge before your hearing. Will you use this document? It would be very risky to do otherwise.”

My father was a pragmatist. To him, it would be unreasonable not to use the document, even if it meant a more severe punishment, because it likely guaranteed I could stay with Amélie for the foreseeable future. He wasn’t much of a gambler.

I nodded, “Fine. I certainly don’t want to end up in some teen half-way house.”

My father added, “The other issue is the fact that this confirms ‘Abigail’s’ registration. Because you exist to them, you may have to attend this school. You have to be in school until you are eighteen years old.”

I shook my head and looked at my father with my head slightly tilted, disbelief at my father’s words lining my young face. “Are you crazy? Did you forget that I was a high school teacher? There is no way I am going to submit myself to such a humiliating and frankly insulting experience. There are ways to get around this. For one, I could just do a GED (General Equivalency Diploma) and move right to university.”

My father shook his head, “I am just telling you what the law is Darren. I don’t know a lot of universities that would accept a GED. Community college, yes, but if you want to be a lawyer, university is the only option.”

I stated matter-of-factly but with a bratty lilt to my soft voice, “Well, I could do a paralegal degree at college first.” With the way my voice sounded, I might as well have accented my words with a quick ‘I can, too!’ or even a protruding tongue.

My father nodded, “OK Darren. We aren’t going to make you go, but Amélie may have to.”

I threw up my hands, “OK this is officially dropped. I am not going. You can’t make me, and neither can Amélie. I said I would find a way out of this, and I will. In the meantime, do any of you have leads on potential cures?”

My mother shook her head sadly, “We had a man who called himself a magician at the house last week.”

My father looked annoyed, “A master of transmutation, he called himself. That was a fancy way of saying he does cheap illusions. He took our two hundred dollars and ran. I called the Better Business Bureau on him.

“I think we may need to try a different city, or even country. And move away from magicians and try shamans or priestesses. Your mother and I are going to tour the southern part of the United States in August. We will be stopping in New Orleans. That is mysticism central as far as the States goes. Maybe we’ll find an answer there.”

I nodded my head, “I am willing to try anything.”

Amélie frowned, “Not voodoo, hopefully. My grandmother actually believed in it. I just think it is bad karma to mess around with things like that.”

I looked into Amélie’s eyes, “I am willing to try it. Even the darkest arts if I think it will work.”

My father nodded, “OK Darren, I’ll see what I can uncover.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I desperately hoped that my father would be successful because there was a chance I would have to attend school. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to my brain from being surrounded by children all day, not to mention teenage boys. I shuddered at the thought, but the memory of the shirtless skaters hung at the periphery of my mind, simply waiting for an opportunity to take a more permanent place within a psyche that was becoming more confused by the day.

PART 3 TEASER: With the arrival of the school attendance letter, Darren’s grasp on his former adult life is tenuous. Despite this setback, he hatches a plan to regain his status, and the prospect of salvation through legal emancipation becomes a reality. Should he fail, however, come September, he will face true horror- a second trip through high school. As this is happening, Abigail has her day in court. Through it all, Abigail experiences the powerful effects of what she hopes is simply a harmless crush.
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.
This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.
Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: oneshot20XX [at] gmail.com

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Part 3

Chapter 36

“Hey, if it isn’t the extraordinary teenage lawyer. So were you planning on ignoring me all summer, or just most of the summer? I’m hurt that you didn’t at least come and say hello.”

It was a week later, just two weeks before my hearing, I was trying to enjoy my lunch in peace and Ethan, being his usual sarcastic self, was keeping me from that enjoyment by his very presence.

“You know, I don’t even know your name.”

I didn’t look up at him. I stayed focused on my phone, trying to complete an e-mail to my parents. They had ridden their motorcycle down the east coast of the United States, and would be in New Orleans in a few days. My father was perfect for the task of rooting out the more unseemly elements of the city’s mystic community. He was fearless, as well as practical and had a sense of adventure that took him into the underbelly of cities. He had been to Afghanistan in the late seventies and more recently Nigeria, which he described as beautifully chaotic. I expected that he would enter districts that would make my mother’s already grey hair turn white. He would neither take her to those places nor would he tell her about them.

I replied, “Let’s keep it that way.” I stayed focused on my phone.

“You’ve almost always got your headphones on. You love music right? Well why don’t you come hear me play? I play every day at lunch over by the fountain next to the skate park.”

I knew when he played, and I'd seen that he actually attracted a little crowd every day. I had taken my lunch early because I knew that I was going to be very busy in the afternoon. I planned on only taking thirty minutes, even though Stephanie expected me to take an hour, because of my workload. She didn’t know that her husband, who had taken a real shine to me, was feeding me extra work. Stephanie would be upset because she would consider it Anthony’s work, but it meant that Anthony could work on other projects.

Anthony had won the case involving the transport truck driver, and with my help, Stephanie won the media-sensitive case. Due to this, the firm was getting more business, but Stephanie and Anthony were over-stretched. The firm needed to hire another lawyer or, at least, a paralegal. I knew that Stephanie would not agree, but I thought I could convince Anthony to have the firm hire me, since I had worked with him a great deal. This occupied my mind as Ethan continued to bother me.

“I see you eat your lunch here alone every day. Why is that?”

He moved into my line of sight, and the weasel-like boy with the beady eyes and the near hook-like nose was no more. First, he had grown probably two inches since I had seen him last. Even though it was the middle of summer, he wore the same leather jacket as when I first met him. His hair was still as shaggy, the bangs dancing in his eyes, obscuring them. At the back, it was almost feathered, but not in a girly way, it just had a lot of body. It was dark brown, almost black, but the tips of his bangs were dyed orange and green. It was the type of hair style that screamed ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think’, a testament to teenage rebellion.

His face, dotted with acne here and there, was more angular, having lost some of the baby fat that had made him seem so young when we first met. His body was still scrawny. He wore a pair of skinny jeans, the type so popular with teens, both boys and girls. His was a drain pipe style, grey and wedged tightly over chicken legs. I was pleased I could find fault with him. I was less pleased that when he entered my line of my sight there was a sudden tightening in my chest and a little tingle in my brain. It was clear that spending any amount of time around teenage boys was going to be problematic and potentially devastating to my male ego.

I answered, “It’s because I have a lot of things on my mind. Plus, I’m very busy at work.”

I don’t know why I replied, but I told myself it was because I hoped he would leave me alone, rather than that pleasant tingle in my brain.

He put a hand to his heart and acted wounded, staggering about, “Be still my heart, she spoke to me!”

I shook my head and glared at him, “You are such an ass.”

He grinned. “How’d you get that job anyway? And why would you want to work in a place like that. Isn't it boring? Wouldn’t you rather work at Dairy Queen or something? There’s kids our age there, you know.”

I said, “I don’t really get along with um, kids my age.”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Because you are so much smarter than us right, working in a big law firm? You are a weird girl. Here it’s a beautiful summer day, and you want to go look at books.”

I suppose I was strange. Whereas most girls my age were working at age-appropriate jobs behind the counter at fast food restaurants or as grocery store cashiers, I was reading and synthesizing legal material. I turned the question on him, “What’s wrong with being smart?”

He wore a lopsided smile, and his eyes moved upward gently, “Nothing wrong with being smart. You have to admit that not many girls your age are lawyers.”

“Um, I’m not a lawyer. I do research for them, help them out with their cases. It’s fascinating work.” Why was I spending all this time talking to him?

He changed the subject, “So what kind of music do you like?”

I answered, “Hard rock, some metal. Anything with melody really. Nothing too hardcore, like where it is all screaming.”

Ethan grinned, “Nice. Well I play stuff like that. You should really come and hear me.”

I shook my head, “I need to head back inside. Really busy today.”

Ethan’s shoulders sagged as I denied his request. “Well mystery not-a-lawyer girl. Can I at least get your name?”

The boy looked pathetic. He gave me this sad look where he pushed his lower lip out slightly and stared at me with downcast eyes. I kind of felt bad for him. He was annoyingly like an over-excited puppy dog, the type that peed when he saw his master and barked incessantly, but was generally a good dog. A part of me wanted to blow off the afternoon and jam with him, but I had responsibilities, plus- I didn’t really like how his presence made me feel.

“It’s Abigail. Um, but I really need to head inside.”

Before I could escape back inside, he said, “Hey look, Abigail if you come and hear me play, I’ll let you sing with me. I mean a beautiful girl like you, you probably have a really great voice.”

I knew that it was a line, and bad one at that. How exactly would beauty equate to having a nice singing voice? There are plenty of singers who have nice voices who wouldn’t win any beauty contests. Susan Boyle, who has an amazing voice, is no beauty queen. There are plenty of examples of homely looking men in rock who have powerful voices, Meatloaf being one of them. It was more of a stereotype for the hot girl to have a terrible singing voice. It brought to mind the idea that if you had the body, you could sleep your way to the top, as many critics accused Madonna of doing. She actually can sing, but the electric-laced pop stars of today like Kei$ha, who are attractive, couldn't hold a note without the help of studio magic and a hell of a lot of reverb. I sometimes joked that artists like Kei$sha could actually just have two barking dogs in the studio and still get a number one hit on the pop charts. Who would get the gold record, the dogs or Kei$sha? My vote would go to the dogs.

I should have instantly dismissed the compliment, but the attention I received from Ethan awoke something within. As humiliating and worrisome as it is to admit, it was a tiny measure of feminine pride. I knew that the girl I had become was pretty, but beautiful? It was something that I wrestled with from time to time, especially when I saw males staring at me. It was probably so easy for Ethan to say those words to me, but far more difficult for me to accept them as truth. Yes, the skin was beautiful, but the person inside that skin was still confused, unwilling and scared.

I felt a little smile creep onto my face. Beautiful. He had called me beautiful, but true beauty was acceptance, and I was not at the end of that road- yet. Still, the feeling it gave, was like the sense of acceptance I had with my band mates and friends, but amplified a hundred times over. Is this how normal girls, actual girls reacted? I had no one to speak to about this. I could not go to Amélie or my mother, so I bore the burden alone.

Ethan smiled back at me, “I knew I could make you smile. See you tomorrow hopefully, Abigail.” He put emphasis on my name, allowing the word to dance off his tongue.

***

That afternoon, I spoke to Anthony about the possibility of them hiring me at the firm. “Hi Anthony, thanks for agreeing to speak with me.”

Anthony smiled, his round face and jovial eyes gave him a welcoming presence. Despite Stephanie’s pleasant treatment of me, she was vicious in court, taking apart high-priced corporate and government lawyers. Anthony said that women in law often felt the need to take on ultra-aggressive personas because they thought they had more to prove. Amélie had spoken of women in private firms in similar terms, going as far as calling some of the female lawyers she dealt with ‘mega-bitches’. Anthony was a little easier going, still dedicated, but he did not walk around as if he had something to prove. Perhaps because he had no need.

“Not a problem, Abigail. Stephanie and I are highly impressed with your work. I had a little time this afternoon. So, I see in the e-mail you sent you would like to discuss future opportunities? Next summer then?”

I shook my head, “This fall. I know from the new case load you and Stephanie have, you will need to hire someone after I leave. So why not just hire me? I’m going to come straight out and say it. I am trying to get legal emancipation so I can continue to work- hopefully, here.”

Anthony frowned slightly, but he didn't have the same expression of disappointment that Stephanie had. It was more one of surprise, but I could see the wheels moving in his brain. I knew then that he was not entirely against the idea. “What about school though? You are probably in your last year right? Why not just finish the year?”

I frowned, but a part of me was pleased that Anthony seemed to think I was actually graduating, instead of entering the tenth grade as my school registration stated. “Because you have a need now and, if I go back to school, I will lose that opportunity. I really like working with you and Stephanie, and I feel like I am learning a lot.”

Anthony smiled, “It’s funny- you remind me a lot of Stephanie when she was your age. I didn’t know her then, but the way she talks about herself, she was focused and very career driven even in high school. I haven’t done any emancipation cases though. Do you know the test?”

I nodded my head and answered confidently, “The test requires that the minor have an ability to gain economic independence, a high level of maturity and either a talent or a capacity to perform actions outside of those expected of a minor. Essentially, you and Stephanie would have to indicate, in writing, your intention to hire me. I would need a second letter stating that I have a maturity level above and beyond someone my age, and for the third, proof that I am completing legal work beyond the high school level.”

Anthony looked impressed and his words matched his face, “Excellent Abigail, a student your age might be able to logically quote jurisprudence, but to explain a test that way and then be able to apply it to your exact situations, is remarkable. How old are you by the way? I can certainly speak to Stephanie, and then we can have a meeting to discuss it all together. How does that sound?”

I frowned slightly, “The issue is that I don’t think Stephanie thinks it is a good idea. She feels like I am wasting my youth working in a law office. And I’m sixteen.” I decided to use the same age I saw in the police report because that was, in my mind at least, more official than the school registration confirmation.

Anthony shook his head, “I met Stephanie when she and I were in law school. However I do remember her saying that she felt that her obsession with the law in high school caused her to take her pent up youthful energy and direct it in less than useful ways once she reached university. She was apparently quite the party girl. I think she's become fond of you and doesn't want you to make same mistake.”

I knew there was more there, probably promiscuity, beer pong and one-night stand mistakes, but Anthony wasn’t about to divulge anything like that. I knew girls like that in university, so it was easy to imagine what type of girl Stephanie was.

He continued, “The way I see it. It isn’t up to either Stephanie or myself. The law isn’t about emotion or feelings. It is the facts, and if you meet the test, then Stephanie should respect that. I will speak to her.”

I was playing a dangerous game. I risked causing an argument to erupt between Stephanie and her husband, but I knew that in order to succeed in this, I needed to gamble. I hadn’t been a gambler before, preferring to carefully weigh my options and then choose the least risky, but I was running out of time, and in this case, I needed to roll the dice, even if it meant rolling snake eyes, which meant having Stephanie upset with me. I figured that I couldn’t stay at the office either way if Stephanie disagreed with signing the emancipation documents, so I was willing to risk it all, potentially playing husband against wife.

“Thanks Anthony. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded, “You still may have to pretend that you assist Chantal.”

I smirked and looked at Anthony confidently, “Really? You don’t think that clients will be impressed with a teenage paralegal who actually emancipated herself?”

Anthony laughed, “You might be right about that, Abigail! I promise that I'll speak to Stephanie about this soon.”

I asked eagerly, “Do you think that it could be within the next week or so?”

He nodded, “I think so, Abigail. And, I actually know a judge who could hear your case. He owes me a favour.”

I smiled wide, “Great. Now, about the Richardson case, what do you think about using a section 15 Charter argument? It is accepted that the Charter can be used in administrative law.”

Anthony grinned, “I will talk to Stephanie about it tonight.”

Chapter 37

As I bit into my ham sandwich at lunch the next day, I heard someone strumming an acoustic guitar gently. It reminded me of when I first sang in front of people other than my family. I was so nervous that my guitar playing was louder than my singing. When my friends asked me to sing louder, I told them I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. The strumming behind me was hesitant. The same way my singing had been. I recognized the song, even though the player was making plenty of mistakes. It was “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton which many mistook for a love song, when in fact, it was about the death of Eric’s child. At least I thought so, reading the lyrics, it was certainly no “Wonderful Tonight” which was clearly a love song. I could play both songs on guitar, or at least I used to be able to before I had long nails.

I turned around to see who was playing to offer them encouragement, and potentially some advice on easier chord changes and saw that it was Ethan looking terribly nervous. His usual demeanour, sarcastic and confident was gone, replaced with that of a vulnerable amateur musician who looked at the fret board too much rather than the audience. Was he trying to serenade me? Oh god. He was. I raised a brow in his direction.

“Hey, uh, aren’t you supposed to be by the fountain? It’s show time isn’t it?”

Ethan stopped playing and looked forlorn. He was clearly not happy with his performance. I was shocked that his usual devil-may-care attitude crumbled when faced with something more than simple speech. Was it possible that everything was an act, his television references, his sarcasm? Was it simply the way he dealt with his nervousness? Without his wit and only a guitar, he was laid bare. There was no way his playing was normally this bad because he usually amassed a small crowd when he performed by the fountain. Some of the girls who had spent their morning gabbing and boy watching at the skater park often moved to the fountain to hear him play.

Ethan replied, “Oh sorry, I- um, I was just practicing.”

I shook my head, “Listen, it’s fine. Just needs a little work that’s all.”

As bothersome as the boy was, I was not going to crush his musical spirit. I still remember the encouragement I received from my parents, how proud they were when I managed to play my first basic 4/4 pattern on the guitar. When I started singing, my parents were equally supportive, but they offered their suggestions as well. My parents, and especially my mother, had an excellent ear, likely from years of piano lessons. I knew what it was like to suck, and I didn’t want Ethan to feel discouraged. I recall Anthony mentioning the boy’s playing a few times. He seemed to like what he heard.

Ethan grew defensive, “Hey, you know I’m a lot better than this you know. I- I am just having a bad day. I guess I’ll play 90s grunge songs this afternoon because even if it’s bad, I can just say, oh that’s grunge. An excuse to suck at guitar, right?” He tried to laugh it off, but I didn’t laugh along with him.

He was not preaching to the choir. He was, in fact, preaching to the unconverted anti-Christ at this point. The nineties were a decade that spawned my favourite music. To this day, I have not heard anything that can compare in terms of the style, the tone, the energy and the emotion. Ethan had unleashed a snarling beast when he insulted MY decade. The decade of my youth, when I became musically aware.

My eyes widened and the young man turned into a little boy under my gaze. “That is such a stereotypical attitude, and not one I expected from someone struggling with an intermediate level song. Grunge wasn’t about playing guitar badly, it was about playing for yourself, not the crowd. It was about a musical evolution that destroyed the stagnation of rock that was 80s hair metal. It was a resurgence of rock. Yes, some of the songs are simplistic, but they are catchy, with a fierce power behind the vocals.”

He threw his hands up in the air, “Okay, okay. So you think that music is great.” I could see the confidence fill him. His shoulders rose, his chest puffed out slightly and his head rose. “But songs are more than just vocals. Name me one good guitar song from the 90s. None of that lazy, three chord, bad guitar playing can even compare to anything that Mars Volta or As I Lay Dying puts out.”

I smirked, “Dude, let me guess, you read, or at least read comments on, Guitar World magazine’s page. They think Van Halen’s “Eruption” is a good song, when it’s actually just guitar masturbation.” Ethan snickered as I said the word ‘masturbation’ but I frowned at him, and he stopped. I continued, “Sweep picking doesn’t make a good song. Have you ever heard of Alice in Chains? Listen to the solo in “Them Bones” and then tell me that there were no good guitar songs in the 90s. In fact...”

I took out my phone and my ear buds, which were high-end. I got them on sale, but they were definitely better than the ones that came with the iPhone or any other smart phone. I dropped them into Ethan’s hand and said, “Listen to that solo. Each note is perfectly placed, yes it is dirty sounding, but it fits the tone of the song. It doesn’t make Jerry’s technique bad.”

I proceeded to play him “Rusty Cage” by Soundgarden. It was a perfect driving song. It had likely caused its fair share of speeding tickets.

Ethan’s expression went from dislike, to tolerance, to genuine enjoyment as I put him through a musical education over the lunch hour.

After thirty minutes of hard rock’s greatest songs (in my opinion at least), Ethan said, “So, who turned you onto this stuff? Your dad? I guess, I don’t know. I heard Smells like Teen Spirit and the solo is so easy, I learned it in like twenty minutes. It wasn’t like the stuff you played for me there. I liked that stuff.”

I shook my head, “Good music doesn’t have to be played fast, or screamed or have a million notes in a solo. It just has to sound good. You can like music you don’t want to play. There’s no rules, man. That’s what is so great about it. Actually, there is one rule. Nickleback sucks.”

The kid grinned again, and I couldn’t help but notice how close he was to me. I inched away from him and took my phone and ear buds back. “Yeah, I hate Nickleback too, they write one song about saving the world and the next about fuck- um, having sex with girls.”

I nodded, “Nothing worse than an insincere douche rock band. They give all Canadians a bad name. What’s it called?”

Ethan nodded, “Hoser rock.”

I laughed, “Yes, exactly.”

I was aware how easily Ethan and I were getting along, but as a fellow musician this was not too worrisome. What was of a concern was that I wasn’t sure my body would allow him into the friend zone. I liked talking to other musicians, and unlike Alyssa, we actually had something in common.

Ethan asked, “So you never told me who got you interested in this music. Was it your Dad?”

I nodded, “Uh, yeah. He’s got a massive CD collection. Played it all the time when I was a kid. Instead of Raffi or Barney, it was anything hard, heavy and loud.”

Ethan replied, “Your dad sounds really chill.”

“Yeah he is, uh listen though. I better get back to work.”

I was glad that Ethan and I were able to have a normal conversation. It was actually reassuring to realize that I was not completely ruled by my hormones.

Ethan got up to leave, and he flashed me a smile, “See ya around Abigail.”

As he smiled at me though, I had that pleasant little tingle, but instead of maintaining position in my brain, it filtered outward filling my shoulders and my chest with a similar sensation. I needed to speak to someone about this because as much as I wanted to be away from him, I wanted just as much to be near him. So while I was not making any moves, as long as he did, the feelings lived.

I could absolutely without a doubt not speak to Amélie or even my mother. Amélie could never know about this. I could think of only one person- Jacynthe.

***
Chantal said teasingly as I entered the office, “Did your boyfriend play you a nice song?”
She continued, “I saw you talking to him yesterday. And I see the way you look at him. The way you look at the other girls who sit next to him at the fountain.”
I shook my head vehemently, “I don’t care what those girls do.”
Chantal said, “Hey Abby, I’m just trying to help you out. I know you are the shy type. I did you a favour. I know how much you like music, so I told that boy to come play you a song. Did you like it?”
Apparently, Chantal’s revenge was to kill me with kindness by finding me a boyfriend. Great. Although, perhaps she had an ulterior motive.
“I know what you are trying to do, Chantal. You are hoping I will get all love struck and either quit, or at the very least, your little ploy is meant to distract me from the fact that you're still making the same mistakes day in and day out.”
Chantal shook her head. I looked at her face closely for any sign that she was lying. I looked for the tell-tale signs, but she maintained eye contact and a friendly, almost sisterly smile. “Abby, you know it’s not strange for you to have feelings for him. I saw your little exchange yesterday and today. It’s a crush. Don’t you feel all fluttery around him, like your legs are made of jello and like you can’t find the right thing to say sometimes? Do you think about him at any point during the day? Do you get mad when the girls flock around him while he’s playing guitar?”
I replied with a little more force than I intended, “No! I mean, we both like music.”
I was getting flustered, and while it sounded like she was reading off an official crush checklist from Cosmo, some of the symptoms she described were legitimate.
Chantal said softly, “You know, he asked me about you. Would you like to know what he said?”
Chantal had power over me like this. She could evoke feelings of nervousness, and genuine fear. My cheeks reddened. I was reacting like a real teenage girl, and it was terrifying.
I shook my head repeatedly and sat down at my desk. The open lay-out of the office did not allow me to hide from Chantal’s knowing eyes, but I stared down at my work.
“If you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
I replied, “I don’t care. Can we just get back to work? Mr. Locke is due in court tomorrow morning, and he needs those copies done. I’ll likely have to check them over.”
My last words were meant to retrieve some of the power I had lost. Thankfully, Chantal was still as sloppy as ever.
The smile disappeared from her face, “Boys don’t like ice queens you know. If you treat him that way, he will find a girl that can show her feelings, that doesn’t have her face stuck in a book. When I was your age, I had a boyfriend. I still did OK in school and I had a part-time job, what are you so afraid of?”
I narrowed my eyes at her, “Look, I am not falling for some weasel faced, long-haired punk. Just get to work before we fall behind and I need to stay late.”
Chantal looked down at me with a mixture of frustration and sadness, “And what do I tell him if he asks about you again? Do you want me to tell him that?”
“Tell him whatever you want. Just do your job.”
I huffed and proceeded to focus my attention again on my research. It was hard to concentrate on the employment accommodation research I was doing. Would Chantal tell Ethan that I wasn’t interested? In a way, I hoped she would, but I actually did enjoy talking music with him. I didn’t have many friends. My band mates were acting strangely around me, and Andrew, my best friend, was barely talking to me. Despite our practices, I felt isolated. We hadn’t managed to find a new guitar player. There was plenty of interest, but when we met the people, they were weirded out.
Some of them thought we were a family band and lacked the commitment. Others indicated their concern over a teenage girl being on tour with grown men. They questioned my ability to even go on tour, asking if I would be allowed to leave school. The really committed players even questioned Andrew and Steven on their dedication to the band because of their responsibilities as fathers. Musicians could be colossal jerks, but I wondered, too, about their ability to leave on tour. If things snowballed and we gained enough popularity to score a record deal, then we would be expected to tour. Could Steven and Andrew leave their families? Would I be able to leave Amélie and Chloe for months on end? Were we chasing a dream that would be impossible to live out?
Also, it was very difficult to explain that I would still play rhythm guitar. The musicians, one of them a woman, couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just cut my nails. Hers were shorter than mine had been before my change. She thought I was some girly-girl princess, and while I didn’t sound like it as I sung, the woman, who was in her thirties likely thought I was immature. We were still searching, but our lack of success was causing in-fighting in the group. Steven had discussed me no longer playing guitar and just singing, but Andrew was dead-set against it.
As for Ethan, I think part of the reason why I tolerated him was because of my loneliness. I was no social butterfly, but since Stephanie had banished me outside to eat my lunch, I was left on my own. Since I didn’t interact with the clients, as I was expected to play Chantal’s trainee assistant, my only real contact was with Chantal. The lawyers left me alone, busy with their own work and secure in the knowledge that I needed little supervision. Without the annoying crush, a conversation about favourite bands and guitar styles would have been a godsend.
From experience, I knew that crushes usually don’t last and mine would likely not be an exception. I immensely disliked the feelings I had because I feared they were changing me somehow. I made a point to speak to Jacynthe after work.
***
A few days passed, and still, I had not received an answer from Stephanie or Anthony about my emancipation, nor had I spoken to Jacynthe about my feelings. I asked Anthony, and he said he was still working on it. Ethan hadn’t come around since our last conversation, and I was finding myself more and more distracted at work. I knew he was just a kid, but we actually had similar interests. If we could stop making goo-goo eyes at each other, maybe we could be friends. I blamed it on the fact that I just missed talking to people about music, people who understood. Amélie didn’t understand, but Ethan did. Even if he liked some crappy bands. I actually spent a little time at work researching my crush and how to get rid of it. I couldn’t have Amélie catch me conducting research of that nature. I would literally die if she did. First, my heart would stop, then my eyes would bulge out of my skull, and finally, my head would tumble, dangling down like some macabre puppet. I nearly spit water over my screen as I saw one suggestion. “Want to get rid of your crush? Need to know how? Well pucker up baby! Girl, if you don’t feel fireworks, then he’s wrong for you!” Instead, I choked the water down. I needed to speak to Jacynthe about it, but I hadn’t mustered the courage. Chantal giggled at me as I continued to cough.

I had a little less than two weeks left before my hearing, and while I didn’t want to rush things between Anthony and Stephanie, due to the delicate nature of the conversation, I was running out of time. I noticed as well that Stephanie was distant. Her usual bubbly demeanour, in my presence at least, was replaced by a fraction of what opposing attorneys saw on a regular basis. She tolerated my presence only because we worked together. I also observed Stephanie losing her temper with Anthony. They fought over insignificant things like who had forgotten to refill the kettle. Had I caused this? Guilt crept into my stomach like skeletal hands from the grave.

Finally, the next day, Anthony called me into his office. He looked tired. I hoped that my request hadn’t put him on the couch the last few days.

“Abigail, I managed to convince Stephanie that you should go before a judge and have them determine if you meet the test. She wants to meet your sister though.” He pushed my employment form toward me, “It’s Amélie, right? It says here she’s your legal guardian.”

I nodded, surprised at first because I figured he was going to tell me he had been unsuccessful. He really was a talented lawyer. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Great, well have her come here tomorrow after work. Stephanie wants to speak with your sister to make sure she is on board with all this.”

I smiled, “Thanks Anthony, I really appreciate all you’ve done.”

He smiled tiredly, “Thank me when this is over.”

Chapter 38

It was after work that same day. I had gone home to change first, as I didn’t want to try and explain to Jacynthe why I was dressed so nicely. Plus, I was more comfortable that way. After two weeks of wearing a skirt, the kitten heels and blazer, I had to admit it felt less alien, but not exactly comfortable. I walked into the Big Gob Brewery. It was almost empty, except for a few regulars that I recognized. I knew one of them because he had come to both shows and introduced himself afterward. He was a big fan of our band. He spoke to me in French.

(Abigail, are you coming here to play another gig soon? I will bring my wife again. She couldn’t stop singing one of your songs on the way home the last time. ) He hummed a few notes, and I sang a few lines.

I liked to practice my French when possible, so I answered him in one of Canada’s two official languages, (We would, but we are finding trouble with a guitar player. We need two. )

He shook his head, (I don’t think you need another one, but I am not a musician. Are you here to see Jacynthe?)

I nodded, and a few seconds later, I heard Jacynthe’s boisterous voice, “Abigail, ma belle! Please tell me you are here to taking me up on my offer to play again. All I hear from people like Gaston is when is Abigail playing?' ”

I shook my head, “This isn’t really a business call, Jacynthe. I need to talk to you about something else. It’s kind of embarrassing though.”

Jacynthe smiled widely and then ushered me into her office. I waved a quick goodbye to Gaston before entering.

“So what can Jacynthe do for you? Is it boy problems?” The grin never left her face, and when my cheeks reddened, she put her hand on my shoulder. “I know that it is. I see your face. This boy, what’s his name?”

I frowned and shook my head, “Well it’s not really important what his name is. I need a way for him to see me as a friend only. The problem is that- I think I have a crush on him.”

It was momentous for me to admit that I actually had a crush on a boy to a person other than myself. I knew that if I could battle against this one, successfully burying the crush, I could survive the next one.

Jacynthe furrowed her brow slightly and took her hand off my shoulder. “You are working too hard, Abigail. Music is not a world. You need to have time for things like this. What does your mother say, or sister?”

“They say nothing because I didn’t tell them anything.” The smile reappeared on Jacynthe’s face and she leaned in to hug me.

“You make me very happy to come to me. Very happy. Now, the problem is that he doesn’t like you back, you bring him to me. I will talk to him.”

I shook my head, “No, I think he likes me fine. He played guitar for me the other day, or tried. He was very nervous. I just need a way to stop having these feelings.”

Jacynthe asked, “Ahh, you don’t like him back. That’s the answer?”

“Not exactly. I like him as a friend. We have a lot in common. I just don’t want to feel THAT way about him.”

My cheeks reddened again. I was thinking about Ethan. I squirmed in my seat and tried to fill my head with girls, half-naked girls, Amélie wearing her sexy high boots with her soft flesh all poured into her tight jeans. It worked, as it had the fifty other times I had to do it since this madness started. Ethan melted away among a sea of soft feminine flesh.

Jacynthe replied, “Well, this is good, you know you have a crush. But they are not easy to stop these feelings. I can see your face, your eyes, c’est la guerre.” This is exactly how I saw it. It was war- war between myself and Abigail.

She continued, “Why won’t you just see where this feelings take you, Abigail? This is normal for girls your age. Is he not your dating type?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I just need to focus on music right now. It’s an unnecessary distraction. Can’t I just tell him I want to be friends?”

Jacynthe nodded, “You could, but your body it’s playing different rules. You might still show you like him in other ways, your lips or your hips.” She grinned, “This is how I did it, shaking my hips with my first boyfriend. He was attentive.” I couldn’t tell if she had accidentally created a double entendre with her questionable English or if she purposefully meant to tell me that the guy was erect. Maybe it was my dirty mind? OK. Girls. Amélie. Deep breaths.

I grimaced, “I don’t want to show that to him. What if I just avoid him?”

Jacynthe replied, “Well then you would not be friends. Isn’t that what you want? To make friends with him?”

I frowned, “I guess- I guess I don’t really know what I want.”

Jacynthe said, "You are a strong girl, Abigail, if you want to be friends with this boy, you tell him the truth. That's the best way. Don't hide from him. If he tries anything after that, you bring him to me and we'll have a chat!" She smiled.

From experience, I knew what a crush was, and what it can do to a person. As a socially awkward teenager, I used to get crushes on any girl that paid the least bit attention to me. The enigma known as woman was mostly unknown to me at that point in my life. They were a whirling dervish of giggles and glares. While I numbered among them, in body, if I could control the crush and morph it into a friendship then perhaps my maturity and my logic would negate the feelings, and I could avoid joining the emotional whirlwind that is teenage girl.

It was nearly impossible to do when I was really a teenager because I lacked the experience then that I have now. I had dated only two women seriously before I met Amélie, but I had a fount of knowledge now. In a way Jacynthe was right, I was strong because I had an adult mind that could decode my emotions, and while I hadn’t been a girl before, I imagined that crushes worked much the same way. I could use my maturity to my advantage. I knew that no crush lasted forever, and by telling Ethan that we could only be friends, it would likely reduce the shelf life even further.

I remember one girl from high school, a leggy Italian blonde beauty who used to traipse around in heels very similar to the ones Chantal wore. She was actually taller than me in the heels. She would be a giant next to me now. I gazed at her from afar in math class, much the way Ethan did, but instead of a month, it took me a year and half to finally gather the courage to ask her out. She said she had a boyfriend, and while I continued to carry a flame for her in the short term, because I had actually established my feelings and knew how she felt, I could move on.

I nodded, “Yeah. That’s what I will tell him. Thanks, Jacynthe.”

Jacynthe moved in and hugged me tight, squeezing me with her beefy arms. “Oh Abigail, you come back any time and ask me more. You are such a sweet girl!” I thought the older woman was going to cry, but she proceeded to sniffle and then release the momma bear hug.

“Um. Yeah I will.” As I left, I wondered if Jacynthe had any children. She was old enough to have teenaged children, so unlike John and his daughter, they wouldn’t have left the nest unless she had them very young. Or maybe she couldn’t have children. I didn’t want to pry, but I had a feeling Jacynthe would tell me one day.
***

The next day after work, my parents picked up Chloe, and Amélie met me at the Locke Agency. Amélie was still skeptical that Stephanie would sign the documents, but I told her that Anthony had convinced her, mostly. We had prepared a story for why Amélie was Abigail’s guardian. Her parents lived in the country and because of the lack of quality schools there and job opportunities, they allowed her to live with her older sister in town. After spending a summer working in her sister’s employ, she found that she had an affinity for law, which is why she chose to approach the Locke Agency.

The parents still came into town once a month to check on their daughters, but they trusted Amélie’s guardianship. We avoided any of the obvious stories. No, Abigail’s parents didn’t abandon her, and no they didn’t die in a car accident. If I continued employment with the Locke Agency, there was a very good chance that Stephanie would want to meet my parents (actually, Amélie's). Given my understanding of the law, it made sense that the parents would allow her to attend schools with better academic records and more class choices.

Stephanie smiled as she shook Amélie’s hand. I was in a room with three lawyers, two of them fiery at times. I wasn’t talking about Stephanie and Anthony either.

Anthony began, “Thank you for coming Ms. Grenier. I want to say that we are highly impressed with Abigail’s work ethic and her abilities.”

Stephanie smiled, “No doubt Abigail learned a great deal in your employ.”

Amélie returned the smile and replied, “Abigail loves the law. She was very excited to get the chance to work in your firm. I am hopeful, you will keep her on after the summer.”

Apparently, even though this discussion was to begin the process of my emancipation, I wasn’t part of it. I stayed quiet and watched the exchange. I didn’t need an emotional outburst that would lessen Stephanie’s opinion of me.

The smile disappeared from Stephanie’s face, “We are happy with Abigail’s work Ms. Grenier, but I do have some concerns. I understand that you are her guardian, and that her parents have given their blessing, but I have some misgivings about employing a teenage girl on a full-time permanent basis. I did agree to this meeting, but I want to understand why you think it is a good idea to take Abigail out of school.”

Amélie answered calmly, “Abigail is extremely mature for her age. She would be an excellent addition to your firm.”

Stephanie’s frown deepened. I could see that Anthony was nervous. He was playing with a pencil and then his wedding ring, and trying to get Stephanie’s attention with furtive looks.

Stephanie replied evenly, “I asked you, Ms. Grenier, why you think it is a good idea to take Abigail out of school. The girl barely socializes with anyone in her peer group. I had to force her to go outside and eat lunch, but she still refused to associate with anyone out there. Until recently.”

My eyes widened and my mouth went dry. My tongue rolled back in my mouth. I thought I was going to choke on it, but Stephanie continued and my lunch time liaison with Ethan remained a secret.

“High school is a place where adolescents learn more than just what is on the curriculum. They learn how to act in peer pressure situations. They are given options, but it is a place where they can have fun too, dances, school trips and clubs. Friends. Are you not denying Abigail these things Ms. Grenier, by allowing her to grow up too quickly? She’s just a girl.”

Amélie looked over to me. She could see that I was seething. I had my hands clasped in front of me, but they were digging into the table. We exchanged looks. I had apparently brought Amélie into a quasi-courtroom, where she was facing a veritable shark.

“I allow Abigail to make her own decisions because she has shown time and again, that she can be mature. Look at the evidence in front of you. She does not goof off. She completes her work on time, even with the ultimate distraction in front of her, kids her own age at play all day long. As for her socialization. I believe that Abigail is simply on a different level. You do remember high school, right Mrs. Locke? Could you really see Abigail with the girls you knew? She is mentally beyond that place, ready to work for you, and to help your firm, which I understand she has done in spades.” Both women now were fully engrossed in the courtroom setting, using intonation they would have saved for cross examining belligerent witnesses.

“Has she ever tried fitting in with them? Does she have any friends her own age?” Stephanie shook her head.

Amélie replied, “No, but that is her choice. Between this job and her band, she doesn’t have a lot of time for friends.”

Stephanie stood and leaned down on the table, exposing cleavage, but at the same time laser locking her eyes on Amélie’s, “Right, the band she plays in with the two grown men.”

I had invited Stephanie and Anthony to our second show at the Big Gob Brewery. I was excited about it and mentioned it in passing, and Stephanie and Anthony, being ‘chill’ as Ethan would say, were pleased to come along. I had only been working there for a week at the time.

Before this conversation, I thought Stephanie was a highly intelligent woman, but all I could see was the obstacle to my freedom. I moved to speak up, but Amélie silenced me again. I shot her a dirty look and Anthony offered me a sympathetic face. The two women continued their barrage.

“Those grown men have known Abigail her entire life. One of them is the husband of my best friend from grade school. We are very tightly knit. I do not appreciate any insinuations, and please sit down Mrs. Locke.”

Stephanie nodded and sat down, smoothing her skirt as she did. The women in the room all had bare legs. I found it suffocating to wear panty hose in the summer, so the world was privy to my bare legs. Still, I couldn’t help but feel tiny in the room, not only because of my stature but because I wasn’t getting to say anything.

Stephanie replied, “I apologize for my misunderstanding, Ms. Grenier. I am more concerned with the fact that a girl who grows up too quickly, who enters the adult world before she is ready is often swallowed by it. I will use myself as an example. I was exactly like Abigail in high school, too ready to grow up, turning my nose up at kids my age because I thought I was better than them, smarter than them.

“Once I got to university, things changed. I didn’t have a sip of alcohol before then, and suddenly it was free flowing. Those people who I had looked down on sure saw the humour in my indiscretions. I lost focus on my studies and made some very bad decisions. I never noticed or cared about boys before, and analogously with the alcohol, they were free flowing. I see Abigail, a very bright girl in her own right, making the very same mistakes. Because I didn’t enjoy high school, I enjoyed university far too much. Without the small mistakes that teens can make, maybe stealing alcohol from their parents or staying out too late once or twice. These can have very serious repercussions later on because the stakes are higher. Letting Abigail make the small mistakes now is better than trying to pick up the pieces later on.”

I had had enough. Listening to Stephanie filibuster in what was supposed to be an amiable meeting had caused me to dig a small groove into the table with my nails. I spoke up, “That’s just it though, Stephanie, I’m not you. My experience will not necessarily be the same as yours. That is false logic. Assuming that because you had such an experience, that I will have it as well is faulty reasoning at its worst. I am not going off to university, not yet, and even if I do, I will not stay in a dorm room, as I trust you did to have such an experience.” She nodded, allowing me to say my piece.

“By forcing such logic on me, you deprive me of a unique experience. One that is all my own. Yes, you made mistakes, and I will make some as well, but you have to admit that I am the most mature adolescent you have ever met. You said yourself that I am working at a level similar to an articling student. That takes far more than simply the talent, it takes focus and most importantly patience, something that is lacking in others my age. I appreciate that you are worried about me, but have I done anything to make you think that I am anything less than a highly mature individual? If you agree that I have not, then I meet the test, and you must sign these documents.”

I looked around the table. Anthony was smiling, as was Amélie, but Stephanie was still frowning.

She said, “Is this what you really want Abigail? You could be missing out on so much. Everything that I missed out on.”

I nodded my head, “It is.”

To be fair, I had had those experiences already. High school wasn’t a fun time for me. University was where I blossomed socially. I didn’t feel like I missed out on anything, and I certainly didn’t want to relive high school as a girl.

Stephanie took the emancipation papers I had prepared and signed them all. Eventually, a small smile appeared on her face, which turned into a wide grin, “You are going to make a hell of a lawyer one day, young lady.

I smiled back, “I know.”

Chapter 39

It was nearing the end of lunch hour on Monday. I was still on an emotional high, feeling practically bulletproof as I walked toward the fountain where Ethan was entertaining. I had succeeded in getting the emancipation papers signed the previous Friday, and while it wasn’t a cure, it would enable me to continue to work in law, and to avoid having to return to school. Emancipation did not make me a legal adult. I still could not drink, rent a car, or vote (although there was some argument there), but in the eyes of the state, if I succeeded, I would no longer be a dependent. My legal independence would afford me the choice either to work or to attend school. I would, without a doubt, choose the former, of course. All of it rested in the hands of Judge Patrick Schuler.

Ethan hadn’t come by since I started his musical education the previous week. I wondered if there was even any point in addressing my little crush on him because he was apparently satisfied with playing hard to get. I stayed on the periphery with the men in the small crowd. The girls flocking around him didn’t bother me one bit. Not even their short shorts that showed just a little too much leg. OK. Maybe just a little. It was as if there was a tiny insignificant little girl in my head, whispering over the megaphone that was my male ego. When I was depressed, the megaphone was weakened and the little girl climbed into the device and shouted at the top of her lungs. To me, this is where the crush could be dangerous. On top of the world, it held little power over me.

As Ethan finished playing, the crowd started to thin. I say crowd, but there were only about ten people. Still, I saw the inside of his guitar case, and he had probably made thirty bucks in under an hour. It took me almost three hours to make that! As Ethan saw me, he made a beeline, causing dark looks to be thrown my way. I was amazed at how he totally ignored the girls who had probably listened to him the entire lunch hour, just because I was there. That little girl managed to commandeer the megaphone in my mind, and scream, “He likes you, he likes you!”

Ethan realizing that maybe he was coming on a little strong, and perhaps looking a touch pathetic, slowed his pace. He gave me a head nod. “Hey.”

I replied, “Uh. Hey. I like that song you played. It’s one of the ones I played for you.” Wow, he had taken the time to learn one of the songs I had…oh he had it bad. I did the exact same thing. One girl I was semi-dating in my early university years liked “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias. He was worse than John Mayer because he didn’t even play guitar. He just looked. He stared at the camera, with bedroom eyes, ushering the girls toward him, and for some reason they bought it. So to impress her, I played and sang the song for her, even though I thought the song was the worst kind of generic pop trash. I realized that I needed to extinguish the torch Ethan held because I knew that the next step was him writing songs about unrequited love, as I had also done.

He grinned, “Yeah, I downloaded every last Alice in Chains song. I like I Stay Away the best.” Yeah. It was my favourite too, which I had told him. He was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. My adult mind was easily able to deconstruct his behaviour. That boosted my confidence.

His grin made me feel guilty for what I was about to do, but I had to tell him the truth. The lunch crowd was thinning, but I wanted to do this in a less public place. I pointed over at an empty picnic table under an oak tree, and he followed me like a lamb to the slaughter.

We sat down, and he sat close, and then inched away realizing that I looked uncomfortable. It was very hot, and I wasn’t wearing a blazer, just a thin blouse and a skirt, my legs bare and my soft arms on display. Ethan was wearing his leather jacket.

“So, you liked what you heard? The song, I mean.”

He was nervous. I wonder if he thought I had brought him here to kiss him out of the watchful eyes of his jealous female fans. I saw such hope in his eyes, as well as expectation and excitement. He didn't realise I'd moved him away from those girls to avoid humiliating him. Maybe this was going to be worse than I thought. I had planned it carefully, but he wasn’t acting as I expected. I was trying my best to seem aloof and uninterested. Was I doing something to make him think otherwise?

I nodded my head, “Yeah. You nailed it.” He screwed it up, but I lied. He didn’t need to feel bad for two different reasons. He must have seen me coming and started playing it. I was amazed that he had actually gone home and learned “I Stay Away”, just for me.

His grin widened, and he inched closer to me on the bench. I could tell he was feeling adventurous, my compliment had given him courage. He looked me straight in the eyes, and with mirth in his voice he said, “You know Abigail, you look like a sexy librarian dressed like that. Some of the kids say you look like a nerd, but I stick up for you.”

I replied, “Um thanks.” His words made me feel queasy at first and then the tingles I had felt during previous encounters in my head, neck and shoulders returned two fold, then tenfold until I actually shuddered. This was unlike anything I had experienced as a teenage boy. I dipped my head low, removing eye contact. The little girl in my head had turned the megaphone up to eleven apparently. Still, I was steadfast in my belief that I could beat this, so I gritted my teeth and blurted out.

“Listen Ethan, I know you like me, but I’d really prefer that we were just friends. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, but I really would like us to be friends. We have a lot in common. Do you understand?”

His face went through a range of emotions, so much so that I wondered if he might be auditioning for a role in a play that needed a wide range. His face fleetingly bore the sad puppy dog face, his hope squashed, and then confusion, as he probably considered my body language both in previous encounters and only moments ago, and finally an understanding smile.

He tossed his head back, moving the hair on his face to reveal his eyes, “It’s cool, Abigail. I never really thought we would date or nothing. Just, you know, hang out. It’s sweet, that you are a girl and you know all this stuff about guitars and sick music. If you wanted to be friends though, why have you been avoiding me?”

I frowned. I was trying to ignore how much I liked looking into his eyes. “Um. It’s complicated. There’s a lot of stuff happening in my life, you know. I have a band, and there’s my job. I don’t really have time for a relationship.”

Ethan grinned, “You have a band? Okay, you are officially the sickest girl ever. And why are you talking about a relationship?” He smirked, “What are you? Like thirty? Can’t we just hang out and not have people think we want to get married?” He laughed, but when I didn’t, he stopped abruptly and waited for my response. When it didn’t come, he broke the silence.

“Man, don’t look so serious. It was a joke.”

I guess he was right. I probably did look very serious as I tried to explain why I didn’t want anything but friendship with him. I don’t know why he wanted to hang around me. I must have looked depressed during a lot of the summer before I started to see even a measure of success regarding my emancipation. I think one of the reasons why I wanted to be friends with Ethan was because he brought me away from the dark places. I could lose myself in a conversation about music with him. I could be myself. Sort of.

“I guess I am a bit confused though. That girl from your work, she came to me a few times last week and asked if I was going to talk to you again. She said you liked me, but that you were shy.”

Chantal. That conniving bitch.

I sighed and replied, “That’s Chantal. You shouldn’t listen to a word she says. And I do like you, just as a friend. Maybe she got confused.”

Ethan looked unconvinced, but he replied with a smile nevertheless, “Yeah okay. So this band of yours, is it anything like Alice in Chains? Are you the singer?”

I nodded my head and said proudly, “Yes I am, and I play rhythm guitar. And it’s kind of a mix. We all have different influences, but it works.”

I took out my phone, and my headphones, which I dropped into Ethan’s hand. I took an earbud and he took one. I played him the tracks we had recorded shortly after my change. The guitar work wasn’t as bad at that point.

He nodded his head, “You guys are good. And I was right, you do have a great voice. Probably one of the best I’ve heard. When is your next show?”

The crush reared its head again, a lumbering beast of chaotic emotion that stomped through my mind. I felt my cheeks redden. How could Ethan get over me if I kept showing him I liked him? He was obviously more perceptive than most guys his age, unless he had taken Chantal’s words to heart and based his actions on that alone. To me, if I saw a girl blush like that, the attraction was obvious.

I cleared my throat, “Um. We don’t know. We are looking for another guitar player. I have a bit of trouble singing and doing some of my parts.”

Ethan’s eyes opened wide, “OK, crazy idea, but what if I tried out for the band? I have gear at home. I don’t only play covers, and I write a lot. So, it’s you and two other people? And no worries if it doesn’t work out, it’s just cool to get the chance to play with other people. I’ve played with drummers before, just nothing serious. Just guys messing around in a basement. Oh wait, that sounds kind of gay.” He had that excited energy surrounding him again. Was I going to shut him down twice in one day?

I replied, “I don’t know- I- mean. We are a serious band. We don’t just mess around. We have goals.”

He could tell I was considering saying no because he wore the puppy dog face again. I hated how that expression kept softening my resolve, but I did feel bad for him. I was amazed at how fragile he could be one moment and then the next, he could walk around as if he wore impenetrable armour.

I was surprised he had offered to audition so quickly, but then I knew how kids his age operated with respect to bands. When I was a teacher, I often spoke to the musicians in the school, not only because we had common interests, but because I was curious. I often wondered what bands they were in, what shows they were playing. It was always interesting to hear the ones who were really serious speak with such focus and determination. Ethan did not strike me as someone who would stay in a band, and just like his crush, I assumed he would move on to another band in time.

I said, “I would have to talk to the guys. They are kind of older-“

Ethan interrupted, “And what, they don’t want two kids in the band? How old?” He laughed, “You aren’t in a band with your dad, are you? Because I’m going to have to pass on that. I’m not joining the Partridge Family. And as for serious…” He adopted a very severe expression, and then said in a newscaster voice, “The prime minister requested another white paper this morning. You see the paperboy threw his on the roof of Parliament Hill.”

I laughed because I actually understood the joke. So-called white papers are often used to explain complex issues. Also, the prime minister would not have a paper boy delivering his paper at Parliament Hill. It was lame, but if you understood politics then it was funny, but certainly groan worthy.

Ethan said, “You have a weird sense of humour Abigail. My dad tells that joke to every new person he meets. He’s a lawyer but he’s obsessed with politics. I’ve told it to my friends, and they don’t get it. But like I said, I can be serious, and I am focused on music. It’s all I think about.”

I smirked, “Sure it is. Well like I said, I’ll talk to the guys.”

I wondered if it was a good idea to even mention this to Andrew and Steven. They were already treating me differently, but the longer we went without a proper guitar player, the rustier we would become. I didn’t want the band to fall apart. I had been in previous bands that broke up because we failed to find new members to replace the old. It gets to a point where everyone just wants to move on because they realize there is nothing they can do to save the sinking ship. We weren’t at that point yet, but the rats were already considering their options.

Was I playing with fire even considering letting Ethan join the band? The close quarters in the basement could certainly make things worse, acting as life support to the crush, but at the same time, it was an excellent test of my resolve. If I could save my band and break free of my feelings, then I would be well on my way to taming my emotions. Maybe I would stop crying so easily. I decided to speak to Andrew and Steven at our next practice.

***
Judge Schuler could not see me until Friday, but in the meantime, Ethan and I became fast friends. We hung out every day. Because I had been honest about my desire to be friends, Ethan didn’t offer any compliments that brought my crush to the surface. We talked music, and I even sang with him over the lunch hour. We made over sixty bucks in under an hour. Ethan gave me half. The crowd we drew grew, and by Friday, we had made almost a hundred dollars each.

Once he had found out I was not girlfriend material, his guitar playing got a lot better. There was still the odd awkward moment, when our bodies refused to listen to our brains, but overall, it was far more comfortable than it had been before I had come clean about my feelings. He was respectful of the fact that I wanted to be friends, and I tried to avoid blushing, squirming or shuddering in front of him.

I was pleased that I was able to seemingly control the crush. My adult mind was winning the battle with my teenaged body. I would speak to the guys on the weekend about having Ethan audition for the band. He could be very immature, making stupid jokes and comments, but I liked the fact we got along so well. I thought of him like a little brother. We could talk music, hockey, anything really. He seemed enamoured with the fact that a girl knew so much about his favourite subjects.

We only hung out during lunch. He invited me to his place a few times, but I never accepted. He was aware of my living situation. He knew I lived with my older sister, and had to help with the baby, so he understood. He also asked me to come to shows with him. There was one in Montreal next weekend. I told him I couldn’t miss band, but I also thought that sleeping in a car with a bunch of horny teenage boys over the weekend was probably a very bad idea, considering my burgeoning sexuality. When he offered to give me the backseat all to myself, it still didn’t change my mind. He also kept asking me about the band. I said I would speak to the guys over the weekend.
***
When I finally saw Judge Schuler Friday afternoon, I knew that was cutting it very close, since my hearing was on the following Wednesday. I figured it was enough time for the judge to provide me with the document I needed to show I had passed the emancipation test. Amélie wanted to go with me, but I declined. I needed to show the judge that I could represent myself. I knew that Amélie would interject if I brought her, so I went alone.

I had the papers signed by Stephanie in my black file bag. The papers stated that her firm intended to hire me on a full-time basis, that I was mature, and that I was completing work on a level far and above that completed by my peer group. When you compared it to making a burger or stocking shelves, I knew that I would easily pass that section of the test.

A young woman Chantal’s age invited me into the judge’s chambers. The chambers lacked the opulence that you see in their television equivalents, but they were still tastefully decorated. As I entered, my eyes were instantly drawn to set of black and white pictures. They showed a young man in uniform. I recognized the Canadian military uniform he wore, but more specifically, the paratrooper wings he possessed. I was a history major in university, and even as a kid I had an interest in anything semi war-like.

The judge had his back to me, but I could see that his head was almost entirely bald. He had wisps of hair in places that looked similar to the hair you might see on an infant, except for being snow white. He turned around, and I could see a face wizened by time. He had large bushy eyebrows and sagging cheeks. I could not see his body, but he was swimming in his well-kept robes. As much as my transformation had impacted my life, I was actually thankful I had not aged significantly, instead. As humans, I believe we fear death more than a loss of freedom and privilege. It was the first time I realized that there were worse things than being a pretty teenaged girl.

He spoke with kindness and strength as he greeted me. His eyes spoke of a lifetime of memories, but they were not dulled like I expected for a man that age. “You must be Miss Grenier. Yes, Anthony told me that you would see me. I trust that Melanie gave you an appointment in a timely manner.”

I nodded my head, “Yes, pleased to meet you, your honour.”

He raised his hands and smiled, “Please call me Patrick, or at the very least Mr. Schuler. I am not a practicing court room judge any longer, and I always disliked the formality of the title. I continue to practice law in a reduced capacity because I believe it keeps me lucid.”

The man exuded a powerful presence. I could imagine that in his day he caused many lawyers fear at the thought of having to face him in court. I could not call a man like that Patrick. I gained instant respect for him in shirking his official title and even more for fighting the stereotype of the feeble and senile old man.

“So Anthony says that you have come to speak to me about legal emancipation. This is rarely done. And I notice that you have no counsel with you. This in itself is highly unusual for someone your age. You do know you can have counsel present with you during these proceedings?”

I nodded my head, “I felt that I could show you that I meet the test far more effectively if I demonstrate how self-sufficient I am, Mr. Schuler.”

The judge smiled and clasped his hands in front of him, “When Anthony said that he had a high school girl coming to see me, a girl that worked in his firm. Well I told Melanie to book you in immediately. I must say that I have never had a successful emancipation, but you look to be a precocious young woman Ms. Grenier. How old are you?”

I answered, “Sixteen.” I still refused to say fifteen. There was no truth to that registration paper from the school, even though Amélie thought it would be accepted in court as an official document.

He smiled, “You and I are similar in mind Abigail. I joined the army at sixteen. We were both in a rush to grow up. Two years later I was in Normandy.”

I asked, “Did you land at D-day? I saw those paratrooper wings.”

The judge smiled, “I did. And I am glad they are teaching students about the war.”

“They do. When I taught that chapter, I made sure to discuss the ramifications of war. Yes, the Second World War is known as a necessary war, but it was also the war that saw the most civilian casualties. The mass bombing of Dresden, and the atomic bombs dropping on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I wanted to show both sides though. For instance, the atomic bomb stopped the war, but a generation of people suffered from increased incidences of cancer. ” I was enjoying the conversation, but I had thoughtlessly blurted out something that could blow my cover.

The judge raised a large bushy brow, “You taught the class?”

I answered quickly, trying to explain myself, “Uh. It was part of the unit. Everyone had to teach a portion. I picked Dresden and the atomic bomb dropping.”

He looked conflicted at first, as if my stance on the war, and war in general, ran counter to his own. Eventually, he smiled and replied, “You are a very intelligent girl, Abigail. And you have convictions. I applaud that. You could have seen my pictures from the war and kept quiet, thinking you might offend me or you could have accused me of being a warmonger. Instead, you speak your mind respectfully, discussing both sides of the issue. This is a measure of maturity, and it is part of the test. Now you have some documents to show me?”

I nodded and opened my bag, presenting the judge with the emancipation papers signed by Stephanie.

“Did you prepare these documents, Abigail?” I nodded.

“Did you have a lawyer look them over before getting them signed?” I shook my head.

He smiled, “Good, but you could be lying. So let me ask you this, it says here you are familiar with constitutional law, administrative and human rights law. If you were in court and you were defending someone who has broken a traffic law, how could you use a Charter of Rights defence successfully?”

I thought about the question, making sure to take my time. It was tricky because the Charter usually wasn’t invoked in an administrative tribunal where most traffic offences are disposed. My eyes widened and the answer formed on my lips.

“It would depend on the circumstances, of course, but Charter defences can be used if there is a penal consequence for the conviction. If it is monetary or a licence suspension, and as long as there was no racial or gender profiling, the defence could not be used. If jail time is a possibility then the Charter could be invoked.”

It was a trick question because the average person thinks of traffic laws as speeding or running a stop sign, but considering a traffic law could also fall into a criminal conviction, it was not an easy question, and it required that I understood how the standard was applied.

The judge grinned, “I am sure I could not go into any local area high schools and get the correct answer to that question. So, you have passed the third test. Well done. There is a caveat however, because you are making the minimum salary that the test allows, we will have to conduct interviews with your employer and your legal guardian.”

I frowned, “Wait does that mean I won’t be emancipated by next Wednesday?” My heart sunk.

The judge furrowed his brow, “I am afraid not, Abigail. There is an administrative process to something like this. I will do everything in my power to ensure your application does not sit on some bureaucrat’s desk, but it will take at least a week because the province’s lawyers will also have to review your application and decide whether they want to appeal my decision.”

I was successful in convincing Judge Schuler, but I would not have the emancipation document for the hearing. Ironically, now my fate resided in the hands of the public service. I hoped the work ethic had improved since I left their ranks.

I thanked Judge Schuler as I left, although he could tell I was upset.

“Are you in some kind of trouble Abigail, is there a reason why you need it for next Wednesday?”

I shook my head, “No, Mr. Schuler. Everything will be fine.” I wished I believed my own words.

***

Our practice that weekend could be summed up in one word- sucked. The morale of the band was low. Steven again insisted that I give up playing guitar, and we even discussed timelines for pulling the plug. Andrew was my best friend, or least he had been before my change, and he still supported me, but it was becoming clear that his support was waning. I decided to have the conversation with them about Ethan because I thought the band was on its last legs. After practice, as Andrew was putting away his bass and Steven was tightening one of his tom drums, I spoke up.

“Alright. I am not sure that this is ever going to work. We keep getting people here, and they never come back. I know we are a good band, and we’ve written great songs together, and because of that I am willing to make the sacrifice. I will stop playing guitar, but I don’t think it will solve an even bigger problem. My age. Even the college kids we’ve had come out were turned off by my age. They think that this is some joke of a band, and that I am not mature enough to be in a serious band. Well what if we went in a different direction?”

Andrew put his bass down. “What do you mean Darren? The older ones have been equally turned off. And we said no kids, right?”

I frowned. Andrew would have normally been on my side, at least before my change and the band turmoil. “I met a guy. He’s a really good player. He plays cover songs every lunch time next to my work.”

Steven narrowed his eyes, “How old is he?”

I added, “He is also really mature for his age. And he writes his own songs.”

Andrew shook his head and sighed, “How old is he Darren?”

I replied in a little girl voice, “Um. He’s sixteen.”

Steven shook his head, “Great, in a band with two teenagers.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, “Hey. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Andrew looked conflicted. His expression softened, “You know Silverchair started when they were fifteen. So this guy could be the real deal. I say we give him a chance.” I noticed that Andrew didn’t exactly defend me, but at least he agreed with me.

Steven looked unimpressed. He grunted and went back to adjusting his tom drum. It was two to one, and in a band democracy, majority rules. I could only imagine the conversation that went on while Andrew drove Steven home that night.

Chapter 40

Finally, the day for my hearing came. I felt prepared. I had located case law to show that I was not evading an officer. The only issue that remained had to do with my use of the school registration document to show that I had a guardian. I still felt that it was necessary to remain consistent with the story I had told the police officer. My father and Amélie disagreed wholeheartedly with my plan. I told the officer that I was sixteen, but the registration said I was fifteen. If the state tried to make me a ward, then I would produce the document.

My whole case hinged on the fact that I was a mature sixteen. It was imperative that I show I was not ignoring the officer’s instructions and therefore evading the police. I needed to demonstrate that my decision to wait was based on the careful observation of the road conditions and the width of the gravel shoulder.

My parents had returned only a few days earlier from the trip to New Orleans. My father said that he had been unsuccessful in locating a cure, but he had left his contact information with someone who claimed to be a prominent practitioner of voodoo. My condition was apparently unique even among those who claimed to practice a form of magic. He tried to downplay his failure, knowing that it could distract me from the task at hand, but I still appreciated his efforts and told him so.

My hearing was set for nine am that morning. Stephanie was happy to give me the morning or even the day off. She felt that she was taking advantage of me by paying me student wages while I carried out the job of a paralegal. She didn’t ask me what it was for, but she was pleased to have me take some time off. I wonder if she thought I was going to the beach or to an amusement park.

We arrived at the Ottawa courthouse. Despite living in Quebec, my alleged crime was committed in Ontario, so I would be tried there. The courthouse is a large grey structure. I thought it looked more like a prison due to its lack of windows. Once inside, it was no better. The atmosphere was stifling. Police officers manned the entrance. I felt a tinge of fear, which crawled through my brain like a spider. I could lose and end up in juvenile hall, away from Amélie, Chloe, my parents and my band mates. I knew it would be fewer than six months as the youth penalty had to be less than the adult one for my particular set of charges, but still, it would be six more months in this body.

I had a fleeting thought about Ethan as I entered the court room. I guess I would miss our conversations about music, but all I could think of was how his bangs partially obscured his eyes, and how I kind of liked that. For some reason that didn't bother me at the time.

I dressed in my best skirt and blazer, and I let my mother do my hair, putting it into a severe bun. I would have worn my glasses, but they hurt my eyes too much. I saw the police officer who had laid the charges against me, Officer Michael Patterson. I narrowed my eyes at him and wore a subtle smile. From listening to Amélie, and from working in a law office for the whole summer, I knew that intimidation and mind games could be key, especially because I was going to cross-examine him eventually. I knew I would have to take the stand as well, but because I was acting as my own counsel, I could call witnesses and even question the Crown’s witnesses.

Next to the officer was my enemy. Outside of the court room, he would have been a colleague, but in here, he was a bitter rival. The Crown Prosecutor was a man in his thirties. He was unassuming and wore a cheap grey suit. I knew that prosecutors made a lot less than lawyers in private practice, but his attire was ludicrous. Was this part of the mind game that lawyers played? Because he wasn’t wearing a three thousand dollar hand-made Italian suit, I would take him less seriously and let my guard down? His suit wasn’t even pressed, and he looked exhausted. He gave me a casual nod, but beyond that did not acknowledge my presence.

Despite the prosecutor’s appearance, I planned to keep my guard up. He could very well be a shark in cheap clothing. I had never been to court before, but by listening to Anthony and Stephanie through the summer, it felt like I had.

I was ushered into the court room. Amélie took a seat next to me at the defendant's table. I began removing folders from my black bag and setting them out on the table when I heard the clerk say, “The Province of Ontario v. Abigail Lawrence. All rise, honourable Justice Richter.” I rose, feeling nervous, and needing to steady myself. This was not a good turn of events. I had read newspaper articles about this judge. He was a strong supporter of the federal government’s tough-on-crime bill with a focus on youth justice. I fervently disliked the idea that judges could be biased. They were there to interpret the law, not to colour it with their political leanings. The best I could hope for is if I lost, it might be easier to appeal based on the apparent bias of the judge.

Judge Richter was the polar opposite to Mr. Schuler. Richter struck an imposing figure with broad shoulders and a strong chin. He had a grey hair at his temples, but they served to make him look distinguished. He wore a severe expression, and I wondered if his mouth was always scowling like that. I pictured him enjoying a romantic dinner with his wife on their anniversary. He muttered through the scowl, “These potatoes are delicious, honey.” I did this to alleviate the sudden fear I felt. The sensation was there when I entered the court house, but now it had returned with a vengeance. The fear crawled through my body, turning my limbs to rubber, and I quivered as I stood. Where Mr. Schuler had balked at tradition, Judge Richter revelled in it. He kept us standing while he made his way to his chair at a snail’s pace.

He spoke in a gruff, assertive voice, “You may sit. Counsel approach the bench.”

I moved to approach the bench, and the judge looked at me with a withering glare. My mother grasped my hand before I could go and whispered in my ear, “No matter what, Darren, they won’t take you away. I won’t let them.” This did nothing to halt my growing anxiety. In fact it exacerbated the problem because now I feared my mother was going to do something foolish. I exchanged worried, yet knowing, looks with my father. I hoped he would be able to talk her out of any irrational behaviour.

Other than my family, the stenographer, the judge’s clerk, a man in a three-piece suit, and two uniformed officers who were probably there to support their colleague, the court room was empty. Youth criminal cases are usually free of spectators. The reason for this is that the names of youth are protected, they cannot be published, so while they can be uttered in courtrooms, under the law, they cannot be mentioned outside them. For this reason, unless they are directly involved in the case, the public cannot enter.

The Crown Prosecutor and I approached the bench. He looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. I was hopeful that meant he would be lax in his duties. The prosecutor, whose name I learned was Mr. Anderson, looked at me with indifference. Clearly, I intended to defend myself, but Mr. Anderson didn’t seem to care. Judge Richter, on the other hand, stared at me intensely.

“Miss Lawrence, I sincerely hope you do not intend to act as your own counsel. This is a court of law, not a place to be playing pretend lawyer. The charges against you are serious, and they carry with them the possibility of detention for a period just under six months.”

Mr. Anderson stated, “Your honour, I have no issue with Miss Lawrence representing herself.” Of course he didn’t, but he had no idea who he was dealing with. They had both called me ‘Miss Lawrence’ because that was the name I had given to Officer Patterson.

I looked at Judge Richter and locked my eyes to his, I tried to speak confidently, but my voice wavered at times, “I am prepared to represent myself. I- I believe the Crown’s opening statement is first?”

Judge Richter’s gaze never wavered. He motioned for Mr. Anderson to sit down, but he asked me to come closer. “Miss Lawrence, I usually do not accept children as counsel in my court with this set of charges, but, based on the documents you have prepared, you do seem organized to defend yourself. I will not go easy on you, young lady. I expect you to know courtroom procedure. I will not hold your hand through these proceedings. Do you understand?”

I nodded slowly and returned to my seat. I had never been in court before, and I was certainly not enjoying my first exposure to the Canadian system of justice.

The clerk read the list of charges, “Miss Lawrence is charged under the Ontario Highway Traffic Act for allegedly speeding and driving without a licence. She is charged under the Criminal Code of Canada for wilful evasion of a police officer, specifically, she is alleged to have failed to heed the instructions of a police officer to pull over for a routine traffic stop.

“Miss Lawrence, how do you plead?” Judge Richter looked at me expectantly.

I answered firmly, “Guilty to the charges of speeding and driving without a licence. Not guilty to the charge of wilful evasion.”

Judge Richter asked me again, “Are you certain that this is how you want to enter your plea?” So much for not holding my hand. His behaviour was patronizing, if anything.

I nodded, “This is not a Traffic Court. I understand the gravity of the alleged offence. I will not waste your honour’s or the court’s time by arguing a traffic ticket.”

Judge Richter nodded brusquely and said firmly, “Mr. Anderson, your opening statement.”

The prosecutor addressed Judge Richter politely and proceeded to outline the case against me. “Because Miss Lawrence chose to plead guilty to the offences under the Highway Traffic Act, I will focus only on the charge of wilful evasion. The crux of the matter is that Miss Lawrence failed to heed the instructions of a police officer.” He pointed to Officer Patterson.

“The Crown will show that Miss Lawrence not only ignored police direction, but that she also lied to an officer of the law, and while she is not being charged with obstruction, the Crown will demonstrate that Miss Lawrence knowingly lied about her age and gave a partial false name. Due to this, the veracity of her words cannot be truly determined. In her statement to Officer Patterson, she stated that she knew she was being followed, but that she continued driving for safety reasons. The Crown intends to prove that Miss Lawrence is not credible, and that her words cannot be believed, and therefore, she wilfully evaded an officer of the law.”

Amélie and I exchanged worried looks. I had not submitted the school registration, nor was it in the disclosure package that I had been provided with. Amélie frantically flipped through the package, looking for the registration. It wasn’t there.

I stood, “Your honour. I request to see the disclosure package of the Crown.”

Judge Richter furrowed his brow, “Miss Lawrence, you were given those documents two months ago.”

I nodded, “I received no additional disclosure, and I believe that a document has been added.” Judge Richter motioned for Mr. Anderson to provide his copy.

I frantically looked through the disclosure package until I saw it. The school registration was there. Mr. Anderson may not have looked it, but he was slimy. He was trying to blindside me. I stood, “I object to the inclusion of this document. I did not receive this in my original package. I argue that the document should not be allowed into evidence.”

Judge Richter glared at Mr. Anderson, “Mr. Anderson, if this is true, it is a breach of process. The defence must be made aware of the case made against them.”

Mr. Anderson frowned. I thought he was playing innocent. “This document was only recently made available to us. I sent the additional disclosure last week.”

I pointed an accusatory finger at Mr. Anderson, “Sir, I did not receive this document.”

Judge Richter motioned for us to approach the bench. Mr. Anderson produced a mail slip showing that it had, in fact, been sent priority post. I said, “I have not had the opportunity to prepare a defence regarding this document. I never received it.”

Judge Richter said, “A document is considered served once it is sent. The Crown’s burden was relieved when it sent the document. However, based on this, I will allow a recess to let the defence prepare an argument regarding this document. Return here in one hour’s time.”

***

Amélie frowned, “Darren, this really hurts your case. The Crown having that document makes you look like a liar. You should have just come clean and said you lied. Maybe you should now. Just say you lied to the officer and maybe they will go easier on you. I have a feeling with this judge, the more you drag it out the more severe your punishment will be. I mean, we wouldn’t see each other for maybe six months.”

My father nodded in agreement, “You’ve shown yourself to be organized and mature. This is your first offence, too. Just apologize. We are talking about your freedom here, Darren, play it up if you have to.”

My mother said, “I agree, Darren, you need to do this. Tell the judge you are sorry, that you will never do it again.”

Amélie added, “Think about Chloe too. Do you really want her to visit you in a juvenile detention centre? You could also try and make a deal with the Crown. Community service or an outreach program. I can look at the different options.”

I shook my head, “No way. They aren’t going to win playing dirty like that. I bet they had that registration form a month ago, and they were just waiting to blindside us with it. I have a plan. Just trust me on this.”

My parents and Amélie shared worried looks, but they could see in my eyes that I was determined to win. My parents knew that I was stubborn. There would be no convincing me.

***

“Your honour, I am submitting a motion to remove the offending evidence from the record based on its lack of authenticity. The Crown cannot prove that the document is real.”

Mr. Anderson wore a sly subtle smile. I noticed it before it disappeared and seethed internally. He replied, “Your honour, if you allow me to call my first witness, I can prove the veracity of this document. There is no need for a lengthy motion which would require a reply from the Crown and take more public resources.”

“I agree. Miss Lawrence, your motion is dismissed.”

I gritted my teeth. Teenage boys were not the only ones to say things they thought people wanted to hear. Apparently, lawyers did it as well. I thought Judge Richter was too smart to fall for it, but I was wrong.

“The Crown calls Monsieur Martin St-Valentin.” The man in the three piece suit entered the witness box.

Mr. Anderson asked, “Mr. St-Valentin, what do you do for a living?”

He answered in a thick French accent, but his English was very good, “I am the principal of St. Joséphine Notre Mère de Paix secondary school.”

He looked to be in his early forties with a muscular build. He had a kind face, but he might as well have been my worst nightmare at this point. My eyes nearly bugged out of my skull. This was not good.

Mr. Anderson asked, “Is this school registration form valid Mr. St-Valentin?”

He nodded his head slowly, “It is. I can see that it was issued with a student number that matches the one in our database. You can see that here.” He pointed to a print out.

Mr. Anderson nodded and asked, “Have you ever had any problems with false school registration forms?”

He replied, “None whatsoever. The forms are actually issued from a central location. It is secure to my knowledge.”

Mr. Anderson stated, “No further questions.” He looked at me and said, “Your witness.”

I approached the witness box with a grim face. I was about to grill my potential future principal. As long as my emancipation went through, I would never have to see him again. He looked at me evenly, but I could tell he was impressed that a high school student was defending herself in a court of law.

I asked, “Mr. St-Valentin, have you ever seen me before?” He shook his head.

I continued, “On the form, it says that I am a new student. Would a new student not have to register in person? I read this in your employer’s administrative policy guide.”

The witness frowned slightly, “This is usually the way we prefer it. It allows the student and hopefully his or her parents to see the school and meet some of the staff, but it is not the way it always happens. Because students who move into our district may not always visit, we enrol them automatically in respect to the law, Miss Lawrence.”

I frowned. This was not going well. I asked, “You said that you didn’t know of any incidents where people had falsely registered students, but you also said that you don’t supervise the area where the forms are issued. How can you attest that the forms are not falsified?”

He replied, “I guess I can’t. You are right, I don’t work in the central office, but I have never heard of any stories about people trying to falsify forms.” This was a small victory.

I asked, “Where does the central location obtain this information?”

He replied, “I’m not really sure actually. I would assume in your case from the police database, but it is just a guess.”

I nodded, “No further questions.” Mr. St-Valentin stepped down.

A few moment later, Judge Richter stated, “While we cannot absolutely confirm the authenticity of the school registration document, it is the only document that provides Miss Lawrence’s, in fact, Miss Grenier’s, date of birth and the name of her legal guardian. When asked for a birth certificate or health card, Miss Grenier was unable to produce either document.”

He glowered at Amélie, “I would suggest that Miss Grenier’s legal guardian begin the process to obtain these documents immediately at the close of these proceedings.” He softened, “I can understand that losing such documents in a move is a possibility.” The harshness returned as he narrowed his eyes and brow beat Amélie, “However, such behaviour is extremely irresponsible.”

“Absent any other documentation, this court must accept the school registration document as the truth. Miss Grenier, in the eyes of the law, is fifteen years old.”

I heard my mother cry out, but my father hushed her immediately. My head sunk, and I closed my eyes. I was going away for six months, and because of that I would not be emancipated. I would have to attend school in juvie. I covered my face with my hands, trying to hide the fact that tears were starting to form. I thought about throwing myself on the mercy of the court, but I doubted that Judge Richter would look upon such pleas favourably. Amélie saw my downcast state and stood, “Your honour. A brief recess please.” He granted us ten minutes.

As we exited the courtroom, I walked like a man defeated. I looked backward for a moment to see the Crown Prosecutor, Mr. Anderson, following me like a snake silently stalking a hare gently grazing on nearby grass. He looked triumphant as if he was about to swallow me whole.

“Miss Grenier. Do you have a moment?”

He looked at me, and he could see I was crying, but I didn’t see a measure of sympathy in his eyes. Instead, I saw a cold and calculating lawyer, ready to deal the death blow. “You have an impressive knowledge of the law, Miss Grenier. You will make a fine lawyer in ten years. Now, the reason I want to speak with you. The Crown is prepared to offer you three months in a juvenile detention centre. You can choose one closest to your home, so your sister and parents can visit you easily. This offer is ... ”

Amélie interjected, “Get away from her, you vulture.”

Mr. Anderson was unfazed by the accusation, “The offer is off the table once we resume the proceedings.”

Amélie ushered me away, “She’s not interested!”

Amélie brought me into a quiet corner of the courthouse, away from prying eyes. My mother gently rubbed my shoulder. Amélie said, “Darren, you have to snap out of it. You have prepared your defence very well. You only have to show you weren’t ignoring the cop. You can do this. This is only a minor setback.”

I shook my head and wiped my eyes, “I can’t, Amélie. They are eating me alive in there. I am going to apologize, and play the stupid kid card. It was a dumb mistake, I’m sorry, I will never do it again.”

Amélie shook her head, “I know judges like this Darren. They admire strength. I was wrong before. If you fold, he’ll send you away for six months. You will lose your emancipation, and then, when you get back, you will have to attend St. Jo’s. Is that what you want? To be surrounded by kids all day? You’ll have to wear a plaid skirt, and be gawked at by creepy old men on the bus.”

I closed my eyes and slumped my shoulders, “I don’t know, Amélie - it feels like the world is against me. Everything that has happened, it’s too much. I can’t take it anymore.”

She put her hand on my shoulder, “That doesn’t sound like you at all, Darren. Don’t let this beat you. Go in there and show your strength. Oh, and show up that sleazy lawyer and that no-neck cop Patterson.” I could feel my courage returning with Amélie’s words.

“You’ve got this cop, Darren. You told me your arguments, you showed me the evidence. Don’t let him win.”

I narrowed my eyes and stood straight. “Okay, Amélie. I will.” I returned to the courtroom with fire in my belly.
***

I watched as Mr. Anderson questioned Officer Patterson. I checked the notebook pages that I had, ensuring that everything matched up. It did, but I wasn’t surprised. Officer Patterson had told his side of the story exactly how it had happened, in his eyes. It was time to poke gaping holes in the Crown’s case. Amélie smiled at me as I approached the witness box where Officer Patterson was sitting.

He was wearing a black suit with an electric blue dress shirt. The clothing barely contained his massive broad shoulders. The collar strained against his bulging neck. He looked at me with a sneer and with bold glaring eyes. Apparently, he bore a grudge. Mr. Anderson made eye contact with the officer and his expression softened to stone-like neutrality.

I began the questioning, “Officer, you say that I made no attempt whatsoever to stop. How is it then that in your very own police notebook, it states the following: Driver turned onto gravel, nearly lost control but turned back on highway, maintained pursuit.”

The officer narrowed his eyes at me and then cleared his throat. He hated me, and I was loving it. “I did not feel that that was an attempt to stop. Because of the inexperience and the circumstances, I thought that you were nervous. You were already speeding. The fact that you turned onto the gravel shoulder could mean that you were losing control of the vehicle. There were other parts along the highway where you could have stopped safely.”

He was smarter than he looked, or he had been well prepared by Mr. Anderson.

I asked, “If you had been driving in my place, would you have stopped, or would you have waited the minute before turning into the gas station?”

He answered quickly, “I absolutely would have pulled over. I know that I have to follow a police officer’s instructions. When it was clear the officer wanted me to pull over, I would have done so, yes.”

I nodded and returned to my table to retrieve a map. I showed the officer the map and the accompanying pictures I had taken from Google Street View. “This is the exact stretch of road that we travelled along for nearly a kilometre. As you can see, the first stretch has a very narrow shoulder and a guard rail. Are you telling me that you would have stopped there? There is almost no shoulder here at all. The rail continues for almost half a kilometre because of the very steep drop. Are you telling me that if you had your sister and her baby daughter in the car, you would have stopped here, allowing your car to sit halfway on the road?”

Officer Patterson looked uneasy. He looked at his colleagues sitting on the spectator’s benches. He answered, “No, I wouldn’t have stopped there, and as an officer stopping there, it would be very dangerous. That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t stop after the guard ... ”

I interrupted him, “You answered my question Officer Patterson. I didn’t ask for you to play lawyer, that’s Mr. Anderson’s job isn’t it?”

I revelled in this moment. I was getting the same feeling I had when I was first stopped. While I wrote songs about being rebellious, I never acted out. Even as a teenager, I had very few instances of adolescent rebellion. Putting this officer in his place was filling me with energy, boldness, an invincibility almost.

Judge Richter barked, “Miss Grenier, this is not television. I will hold you in contempt for another remark like that. This is not the place to live out some teenage rebellion fantasy, young lady. Now, continue with your questioning.” He looked then at Officer Patterson, “Answer only her questions. No additional comments, Mr. Patterson.”

I continued my questioning, “Returning to your question, Officer Patterson. Why didn’t I stop after the guard rail? As you can see from these images, the shoulder is comprised entirely of gravel from this point on until the gas station where I did stop. While there isn’t a great deal of jurisprudence on the subject, I did manage to locate the police handbooks for a few other provincial police departments. Most police departments suggest that officers not force ‘nervous’ drivers to stop on gravel during pursuits because of the likelihood they will apply too much force to the brakes, causing the car to skid. Your police department suggests the same. Would you classify me as a nervous driver?”

The officer was glaring at me again. He could see the amusement in my eyes, and I had a feeling he knew where I was going. He answered, “Well, I don’t know. I guess.” He was looking at Mr. Anderson, but the prosecutor was frantically taking notes. He hadn’t touched his pen before this moment.

I nodded, “You would. Because that is exactly how you described me in your notebook, Officer Patterson. It says as follows: driver is adolescent female, her driving was erratic once pursuit began very nervous driver.”

“So I had turned onto the gravel once, likely got scared when I nearly skidded, so why would you expect any driver to try and stop on gravel after being scared like that? Especially when it says in your own manual, nervous drivers should be allowed to stop on asphalt surfaces when possible.”

Officer Patterson barked, “That handbook is just advisory, we don’t have to follow it. Those are the recommended procedures for normal situations.”

The officers in the benches shook their heads.

I played coy, “Oh, so this wasn’t a normal pursuit?” My voice raised in volume as I continued. Each word projected with my diaphragm made it seem like I had a microphone. I saw the officer flinch. “Was I a dangerous criminal, a drug runner maybe? Is that why you were in a hurry to stop me?”

Mr. Anderson stood, “Objection. Your honour, argumentative. The defense is harassing my witness.”

I said, “Withdrawn. No further questions. The Defence rests.” I intended to call no witnesses.

I watched Officer Patterson leave the witness box with a subtle smirk painted on my soft features. His massive shoulders were slumped. The officers in the courtroom were snickering. Their colleague had been schooled by a teenage girl.

Since I was self-represented, I could not call myself on the stand, so it was time for closing arguments. Mr. Anderson went first.

“Miss Grenier has admitted to lying. She tried to bring a motion to block a document that caught her in this lie. Her words cannot be believed. She heard the siren behind her and continued driving for a full kilometer. She does not have to force the pursuit to continue for a hundred miles. As it states in Officer Patterson’s notes, she admitted that she continued driving, knowing full well that the police officer behind her wanted her to stop. This amounts to wilful evasion.”

I stood and gave my closing arguments, “The Crown must prove that it was my intent to continue the pursuit. Yes, I continued driving, but, under the same circumstances, what would a reasonable person have done? When faced with the guard rail, would they have placed their car in such a way that it sat halfway onto a very busy highway? When nearly skidding off the road, would they have tried this again, especially with an infant in the car? My intent was to find a safe place to stop, not to evade the police. The evidence of this is that I stopped immediately once it was safe, away from the guard rail and away from gravel shoulder, where I had been unsuccessful in my initial attempt to stop.”
***

Judge Richter returned to read the verdict after only one hour. I had given him my case law. All of the cases involved bank robberies and cases where individuals had reasons other than safety to evade the police. Amélie held my hand. She could see that I was shaking. My mother put her hand on my shoulder gently, and I smiled at her nervously. She whispered, “You did very well, Darren.”

Judge Richter spoke, “This is a very unusual case, not in the details, but in the participants. I have had adolescents represent themselves in front of me before, but never have I had a young person argue a case so thoroughly and with few exceptions, such professionalism. I would be remiss in saying that Miss Grenier’s defence was perfect, but for someone her age, her attempt was exceptional.”

“Mr. Anderson’s last minute trickery with regard to the school registration form is unbecoming of a lawyer representing the interests of this province, especially knowing that the defendant was self-represented. Instead of using such a blatant blindsiding tactic, Mr. Anderson should have offered Miss Grenier the common courtesy of a phone call to ensure she had received the additional disclosure package.”

“As far as the charge of wilful evasion, Miss Grenier’s jurisprudence was the most convincing. In all honestly, the Crown’s case contained very little evidence to indicate that the defendant had any intention of evading the police. Miss Grenier’s reasons for continuing to drive the car are believable based on the circumstance and the road conditions. The images she provided of the guard rail and the gravel road surface helped to determine that it was not safe to stop, especially based on her failed attempt to stop on the gravel.”

“Unlike Officer Patterson, I believe that Miss Grenier did intend to stop when she turned onto the gravel. It is clear that Officer Patterson dislikes the defendant, and that his responses may have been coloured by that. I decided to give less weight to his testimony for this reason, as he was the opposite of a disinterested witness. His classification of the defendant as a nervous driver, but his expectation that she would be able to safely stop on the gravel is a serious inconsistency in the Crown’s case, especially given the fact that Miss Grenier is fifteen years old and would likely have very little driving experience. Expecting her, with the stress of the police sirens, the speed she was travelling, to stop safely anywhere else but the gas station is unreasonable.”

“Therefore, on the charge of wilful evasion of a police officer, I find the defendant not guilty.”

My mother cheered loudly, but my father shushed her immediately. I looked to Amélie, and she was beaming. I felt relief pour over me, like a man dying from thirst drenched with an ocean.

Judge Richter cleared his throat, “However, as this court is different in some respects to an adult court, I have some flexibility with regard to punishment. I feel that a lesson must be learned. In many respects, Miss Grenier is an extraordinary young woman with a bright future in law. However, her penchant for adolescent rebellion is a cause for concern. Her conversation with Officer Patterson, and some of her actions in this courtroom show me that while she is highly intelligent, she lacks self-control, as might be expected for someone her age.”

“This is a slippery slope for adolescents. Her disrespect for the law by initially lying to Officer Patterson, and the flaunting of it by speeding and driving without a licence cannot go unpunished. I am sentencing Miss Grenier to a year of timed-supervision. This essentially means that during school hours, she will be in school. She is also not to leave the house past nine pm. While I suspect that Miss Grenier is already an exemplary student, as part of this she must also report to the School Resource Officer on a regular basis. This is similar to probation, but it is all done in the context of her high school. By doing this, I hope to curb her unruly behaviour.”

He addressed Amélie, “I hope that you see what sort of consequences can arise from allowing an unlicensed driver to drive your car. As the guardian of a teenage girl, I hope you will set a more appropriate example for your charge from this point on. The School Resource Officer will monitor this as part of the timed-supervision. If you are lax in your duties Miss Grenier, there could be severe consequences.”

“Court dismissed.”

Chapter 41

“Miss Grenier, that was extremely impressive. We will be very happy to have you at St. Jo’s come September. I hope there are no hard feelings either, you understand that I was asked to come as a witness? It was not my choice to be here.” My would-be principal extended his hand, and I took it, shaking it as firmly as I could.

Mr. St-Valentin smiled, “This is not usually how I want to meet new students to our area.”

I nodded. I can’t imagine how I must have looked. I had won, but I now had the curfew of a fifth grader. Not that I wanted to stay out during all hours of the night, but it was nice to have the option.

The principal said, “Our School Resource Officer is very nice. I think you will like her, Abigail.”

I nodded again. I was not feeling talkative, especially with someone who I hoped never to see again. My mind, even though it had just been put through a legal gauntlet, was already imagining ways to appeal my probation, or the supervised time as Judge Richter had called it. As if sensing that I was not in the mood for conversation, the principal’s excited tone faded to a polite monotone.

“You can pick your uniform up the week of August twenty-fifth.” The smile returned to his face. “I will be there that week too, if you and your sister want to see the campus. It’s really going to be an exciting year at St. Jo’s.”

He was clearly passionate about his job and his position. I wondered if I was ever that overzealous with my students. Now that I was on the other side, I found the man aggravating because I wanted nothing to do with his school. Ironically, I was like a typical teenager in that respect.

Amélie frowned and said, “Sorry Mr. St-Valentin, Abigail is just kind of moody. She didn’t get the result she was expecting. Thank you for the information.”

***

“Did you have to be so nice to him Amélie? Why even bother humouring him? I’m never going to go to that school anyway. Once I pass the interview with you and Stephanie, I will be able to work at the firm full-time.” We were driving home. My parents had taken their car. We were going to meet at home for a ‘victory’ supper of Chinese food.

Amélie replied, “What if you don’t pass the interview? What then? So you are rude to your future principal, and you get on his bad side. You have to go to that school, and you’ve already made a bad first impression. You have to think about that. It could happen, Darren. You always claim to be forward thinking, well show it.”

I narrowed my eyes at Amélie and said pointedly, “I-will-never-attend-there. No question, no argument. My dad was right about university, they don’t accept GEDs from anyone but mature students, so 25 and older. But I can still take an advanced placement at a community college in town. I can do the paralegal program and be finished in less than two years.”

Amélie shook her head, “I’m not so sure you can, Darren. On the timed-supervision order, it says that you must be supervised from nine am to three-thirty pm. On some days, you might have only one class, and then you’d have nothing to do the rest of the day. Even staying at the college, there are no teachers to supervise you. I don’t know that Judge Richter would agree with that.”

I said, “I don’t need supervision, Amélie. Now let’s just drop this.” It was clear that I did, if I failed to be legally emancipated, but I was not accepting that outcome.

I asked, “When is your interview scheduled with the court official?”

Amélie responded, “First week of August.”

“And do you know what you are going to say?”

Amélie frowned, “I am assuming you want me to say nothing about what happened here today. The order was signed in Ontario, but the judge knows you are from Quebec, Darren. I know that Quebec and Ontario don’t have a history of getting along exactly, but they might share that information with the Quebec lawyers, who in turn will speak to the officials. They will definitely share it with the school you are supposed to be attending. The court officials who interview Stephanie may question her on it. You would be better off coming clean with Stephanie about everything.”

I shook my head rapidly, “No, absolutely not, not when I am this close to being free. Even if Stephanie finds out about it afterward, I will already have the emancipation papers. I don’t have to work there. The fact that I am emancipated would nullify Judge Richter’s order, and I could go to community college, or work in a different firm altogether.”

Amélie sighed heavily, “That is so risky, Darren. Imagine today if you’d come clean, if you’d brought the school registration document. Maybe you wouldn’t have been saddled with that timed supervision order. You had that case from the moment you stepped in the court room. Even a hard ass like Richter could see that Anderson didn’t have a case. That cop wanted to kill you up there. I could see it in his eyes.

“You are digging yourself in deeper and deeper, and you can’t even see it. I’m scared for you, Darren. I’m scared because you can’t see what is happening to your mind. How this is changing you. The Darren Lawrence I know would tell Stephanie the truth, before she finds it out from someone else. He wouldn’t gamble with his future.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, and the Darren Lawrence you know lets people kick shit all over him if it means one more chance for another dead-end opportunity. And isn’t he the same guy who smiles and works hard and gets no reward, while some lucky piece of deadwood just bobs up and down in a public service paradise? I’m sick of it, Amélie. That way of thinking has gotten me nothing.”

Amélie said quietly, “Me.”

I asked loudly, “What?”

Amélie frowned and spoke up, “It got you me. I fell in love with that Darren Lawrence. The one that isn’t a cynical asshole who is pissed off at the world. You used to accept help and advice. You were optimistic without being completely irrational. What you are proposing is completely irrational. Why take an unnecessary chance when the stakes are so high, Darren? Yes, you are close, but I can tell you that Stephanie is not going to speak highly of you to that court official if she finds out you were keeping this secret from her. Tell her now while you still have a chance. It is the mature, adult thing to do.”

I stayed quiet for the rest of the trip home, my arms folded under my chest, and my lip set in a pout. Amélie didn’t make a sound, but I saw a few tears streaming gently down her cheek.

***

It was lunch time on Friday, and Ethan was a veritable bundle of energy. If he had been in an enclosed space, I was certain he would be bouncing off the walls. The next day, he was trying out for the band.

“So, how come you got involved with these guys? You are half the age of this Andrew guy. I mean, it’s not weird or anything. Just different.”

I frowned and shook my head, “Hey, you are holding back. It is weird. Admit it.”

Ethan tilted his head to the side causing his bangs to reveal his eyes. Now they were tipped orange and green. I tried not to stare into his eyes, but it was hard, because then it meant my eyes would go elsewhere- on his body. It would have been clear to anyone watching us that my crush still existed, even if in a more dormant state. I pictured Amélie in one of her past Halloween costumes. It was a dark angel costume, but like many costumes made for women it was very slutty and showed a sea of cleavage. It worked, as it had before.

Normally, such thoughts would make me hard, but since I didn’t have the proper equipment, I felt a little tingle. I was slightly worried that the tingle had been far more pronounced before, but I had a lot on my mind. Between my upcoming emancipation interviews, the band, and my court ordered curfew, my mind had not been on anything of a sexual nature. Not to mention that Amélie and I didn’t even snuggle anymore when we watched television.

Ethan smirked, “OK, so yeah it is a little weird. So are you going to answer my question?”

I nodded, “Andrew is a friend of my sister’s. His wife is my sister’s best friend. The other guy, Steven, is someone we found on Bandmix a little over a year ago. It started with Andrew and me jamming on some songs, and it just progressed from there.”

Ethan was pensive, the smirk replaced by the most serious face I had ever seen him wear. He was usually half smiling most of the time, now he was deadly serious. “Do you really think they are going to want another kid in the band? I mean I understand you because you know Andrew through your sister. It’s just- well it’ll be weird.”

I shook my head, “The guys are great. They can be immature. Sometimes we jam on ridiculous stuff just for fun. They both have good senses of humour. If you act like you do around me, you’ll do fine. They talk about all the same stuff we do, music and sports.”

Ethan’s expression changed quickly. Now he was wearing a goofy grin. “Abigail, you aren’t like any of the other girls I know. You are like a guy. You don’t care about makeup or crappy dance music, or anything stupid like that. You like cool stuff. I’ve talked to other girls before, and I have a hard time, with you it’s easy.”

I appreciated his words. It meant that I wasn’t acting like a typical teenage girl, and that was perfectly fine with me. I would be lying if I hadn’t thought for an instant about joining the gossip girls next to the skate park. I had the odd thought in my head about what those girls, with their tanned skin and short skirts, thought of me, but it passed, quickly forgotten. According to Ethan, the other teens thought I was a massive geek for dressing like I did. This was one of the main reasons I did not want to attend high school again, because even the girls, who were the most mature, were still mostly puerile children.

I nodded, “Yeah man. We can talk, it’s cool. So did you listen to all those tracks I sent you? We won’t expect you to know it all, of course, just a few songs would be good.”

He nodded excitedly, “I got them all. I know your parts. All the lead ones, and the ones you asked me to learn the rhythm. The ones that aren’t drop D, right?”

I blinked. I knew that my guitar parts weren’t complicated, but for him to have learned them so quickly was amazing. I thought about calling him on his potential bullshit, but I was interrupted by a saccharine voice.

“Ethan honey, Ethan!” A young looking woman was walking toward us. She had on a tight skirt, not pencil thin or a micro-mini, but it showed her tanned legs in a way that would have made it very inappropriate for an office setting. To me, she looked like the living incarnation of a Barbie doll, long platinum blonde hair and thin pose-able arms. As she approached, I realized that it must be Ethan’s mother, or his much older sister.

How did I know this? Her lips had collagen injections, and as she got even closer, her cheeks looked permanently pinched, indicating some form of plastic surgery. Her brow was puffy, but it wasn’t fat; it was the tell-tale sign of a recent Botox treatment. Nothing like injecting poison into your face. She looked like one of the Real Housewives mixed with an ugly helping of Jersey Shore. And how did I know this? Unfortunately, Amélie enjoyed the antics of the cast of Jersey Shore, so because of that, I knew of their orange skin, as well as their brutish and utterly insipid existence.

“Ethan honey, did you forget about your doctor’s appointment? I’ve been texting you.” She saw me, and her bee-stung lips formed a wide smile, “Is this the one you’ve been talking about so much Ethan honey, the girl with the band?”

Ethan looked horrified. His mother, clearly someone who enjoyed the sun, or at least tanning beds, was still smiling, but she was looking to Ethan for a response.
“Mom, can we just go? Um, see you later Abigail. I’ll see you tomorrow at your place, right? You guys practice out of there.”

Ethan’s mother frowned, her lips looking like two plump sausages as she moved them together, “Ethan, don’t be rude. Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

I wanted to laugh because if it were possible, Ethan would have died of embarrassment at that point. My parents had been embarrassing at times when I was a teenager. My mother answering the door in her rubber gloves, and my dad driving in slippers, but that was nothing compared to Ethan’s mother.

“Mom- this is Abigail. Can we please just go now?”

I cleared my throat, “Um. Nice to meet you ma’am.”

She smiled, “And so polite. Please call me Candice. Why haven’t you brought her to the house? I’m sure your father would like to meet this girl you talk about all the time.”

I couldn’t tell if the woman was doing this on purpose, as some horrible punishment for something her son had done to her. Maybe, he gave her permanent stretch marks, or she never lost the five pounds she desperately wanted to lose. I couldn’t tell, either that or she was completely oblivious, and maybe a little stupid. If Ethan could have crawled under the pavement, he would have done it.

I decided to relieve Ethan’s suffering, “Well I better get back to work. Nice to meet you, uh Candice.” Ethan’s eyes screamed his thanks as he looked back at me, quickly retreating with his mother toward her BMW. I smirked back at him. I was going to have fun with this.

Wait, he talked about me? All the time?

***

Saturday came quickly. Amélie was spending the day at her sister’s, so I was pleased at least that I didn’t have to introduce her to Ethan. I wasn’t sure how I would explain our friendship. I guess I could have gone from the angle that we were having trouble finding anyone and the band was falling apart, but Amélie was shrewd. She would see the magnetism pulling us together. I was still of the mind that the attraction between us would diminish, becoming merely faint tugs here and there. Today would be an excellent test of my resolve. I was thankful at least that Andrew and Steven would be in the room.

The one thing I failed to mention to Ethan was that Andrew was usually half an hour late. I always planned for this, knowing that I had extra time to warm up, but Ethan was right on time. In fact, he was early, so he actually waited across the street, pretending to look at his phone while he waited for one o’clock to strike. I peeked through the curtains at him. I thought it was kind of cute.

The door bell rung, and I realized I was still thinking how cute it was that he waited exactly for one PM. It was an alien thought, or at least it should have been. I was beginning to have grave second thoughts about this, but I was tired of my band's failing. I needed to be a man, and stop thinking about a boy.

Bands are much like relationships. To function everyone needs to be on the same page, and like a relationship, a great deal of time, effort and sacrifice goes into them. I kept telling myself that I could get through this as I opened the door for him. I was going to stomp all over these feelings.

Ethan said, “Hey.” and gave me the up and down. He had never seen me dressed like this, so I allowed him the look for that reason alone. During our lunch hours together, if I caught him staring at my boobs I would reprimand him with a punch to the arm and a quick “Eyes up here.”

Unlike my formal business attire, I had on my band clothing. It was far too hot to play with my green hoodie on, so I wore that same Disturbed t-shirt I had borrowed from Amélie when I went to the dance class. I had kind of stolen all of her band t-shirts. It showed off my soft arms and was tight across my chest. I wore ripped jeans. I really should have worn shorts but I didn’t really want Andrew and Steven seeing my bare legs, and especially not Ethan. I wore my hair down completely. Since I was playing everything drop D, I didn’t really need to see my guitar. My bangs fully covered my eyes. I brushed them away and replied:

“Hey.”

He was staring. He had his guitar case and all-in one guitar tone pedal. “Um, you look different.”

“Yeah, a change of clothes will do that.”

He smirked, “You are as sarcastic as me, Abigail. So where’s this jam room you’ve been telling me about?”

I nodded and took him down to the practice room. It had been the previous owner’s entertainment room, but now it was music central. We entered the French double doors, which acted as a very poor sound barrier, but I kept them because Amélie and I were the opposite of handy. We once assembled an Ikea cabinet incorrectly, and those pieces were like Lego. Anyone was supposed to be able to do it. We put the top on upside down, and then had to remove fifty tiny nails to fix our mistake.

Ethan’s eyes widened, “Woah. This place is sick. Are those from concerts your dad went to when he was our age?” He was indicating the concert posters on the wall. I had the famous Beatles Shea Stadium poster, the iconic black and white Sonic Youth poster that touted Nirvana, the opening act, as a new and up and coming band. Within a year of that show, Nirvana was playing stadiums and Sonic Youth, who are a great band in their own right, were still playing packed amphitheatres and dingy clubs.

I blinked, “How old do you think my dad is?”

Ethan made a weird face. He is eyes went one way and his mouth another. It was kind of- He replied, thankfully breaking my train of thought, “I don’t know. What am I? A math wizard? Like forty something?”

I shook my head, “Never mind. Anyway, I need to warm up in the other room. You can use Andrew’s amp in the corner there. You should be able to dial in a nice tone with your pedal.”

I was hoping that he would soon fill the house with a screeching guitar because my warm up was not something I wanted Ethan to hear. I hated having these feelings, but they were there. I felt embarrassed to remove an imaginary hat during the Alma exercise, and even more so, I cringed at the thought of him seeing me scrunch my nose and scream with bug eyes during the Nyat exercise. Throughout the warm up, I either sounded like an idiot or looked like a deranged mental patient. Probably, both. It was unflattering to say the least.

Halfway through the warm up, I realized that I was allowing my feelings to dominate my actions. I needed to march in there and warm up in front of him. I knew that if I didn’t, then it would be tantamount to admitting I still liked him. I opened the French doors and saw Steven and Andrew looking confused. Andrew was actually early and with my headphones on, I guess I didn’t hear them.

I smiled nervously, “Hey guys. You’re early. I haven’t finished warming up.”

I pointed to Ethan, who was tuning a magnificent looking guitar. It looked like a real Fender Strat with a sunburst body. It was similar to the guitar I had played in my initial dream, but it was smaller. It was such a popular model that I thought nothing of it. “This is Ethan.”

He looked up for a second and nodded before turning back to his guitar. I could see he was thrilled to be here. As I approached him at the door earlier, I thought he was going to burst through it in an attempt to get to the band room, but now, he was trying to act more subdued. My overly excited puppy analogy fit him perfectly, but I hoped he wouldn’t piss on the floor.

Steven and Andrew both offered a quick hello before adopting their usual spots in the room. I noticed that Ethan had set up his gear beside me. He would have known where I stood from the pink guitar sitting next to the mic stand set for a veritable shrimp, but it was the natural place to go, so again, I thought nothing of it.

I put my warm up exercise on the main speakers, and as Steven, Andrew and I sung, I saw Ethan desperately trying not to laugh or crack a joke. He continued to fiddle with his guitar pedal and the amp in the corner.

When we finished, Ethan asked me with amusement in his eyes, “Hey Abigail, how come you did the guy warm up exercise? The teacher, she said that those ones weren’t for girls.”

I had been doing the same warm up CD for nearly five years, so I had thought nothing of it. The instructor did mention that all the falsetto exercises could be skipped, since girls didn’t sing in their falsetto. I shrugged my shoulders, “Uh, force of habit I guess. Been doing this one for five years.”

Ethan laughed, and I noted how different his behaviour was around me, versus how he acted when he addressed Steven and Andrew. It didn’t help that Steven was giving him dirty looks now and then. Steven was the youngest of the original members, only in his mid-twenties, but he was playing Ethan in a very passive aggressive way, offering helpful advice for guitar tone thinly disguised as insults. I wasn’t sure if Ethan understood, but if he did, I doubted that he wanted his guitar to sound like a chicken-pickin’ banjo.

“You were screaming like that when you were ten or eleven? That’s sick man.” The CD was really meant to warm up your voice for scream singing, but it had conventional singing exercises too.

“Yeah, I guess I was.” Stupid. I had forgotten how old I was supposed to be. I could just imagine a ten-year old Abigail scrunching up her face, raising her eyebrows and shouting at the top of her lungs.

A minute later, we began, and Ethan knew the opening song. Again, it wasn’t difficult, but it wasn’t that easy to make out the notes in the recording we had made. The kid had a really good ear. He was doing all my parts, even the feedback that took us into the bridge. It was like all he did when he was at home was play our songs. As we moved into the second and to the third song, a ballad, Steven, Andrew and I had traded a few shocked but happy looks. The kid was good, very good. When he told me that he learned my parts, it was not bullshit.

If anything, the fact that I could focus more on my voice, especially during the verses where I usually wasn’t playing guitar, gave me the opportunity to experiment. By the fourth song, I was singing harmony with Andrew because I no longer had to try and position my fingers or think about cutting my nails at the end of the song. Since all I had to do was use one finger up and down the frets and strum, it was stupidly easy. It didn’t bother me though, because the band sounded amazing.

We took a water break halfway through the set, and the discussion turned to the hockey playoffs. They were finished, but we discussed it year round. Call us fanatics, but compared to baseball or Canadian football, hockey is the ultimate sport, grace, speed and toughness. Football is tough, but it isn't nearly as fast. No football player could run at 40 km/h. Yes, hockey players can skate that fast.

Steven said, “I can’t believe the Bruins won the Cup AGAIN. They cheated their way to it, just like they did against the Canucks.”

I nodded, “Yeah they are a bunch of knuckle-dragging Neanderthal bullies. They skate around like all they want to do is pick fights all the time. I can’t stand them.” I looked at Andrew, “If your stupid Leafs had beaten them in Game 7 and not blown a 4-1 lead in the 3rd, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

I laughed, “I mean who likes the Bruins? They are the dirtiest team in the league.” Andrew and Steven nodded in agreement.

Ethan had been very quiet up to this point. I thought he was too nervous. He had done very well, exceptionally well actually. No player who had come to audition before was as prepared as he was.

Ethan squeaked as quiet as a mouse in a house full of cats, “I like them.”

Steven shook his head, “Same thing with every kid who wears a Penguins hat when they won. You are a band wagoner kid. You probably liked the Kings last year.”

Andrew and I exchanged worried looks. Even though the songs were sounding better, because there wasn’t a guitar mistake every two seconds, Steven looked like he wanted to pick a fight.

Ethan shook his head. I could see the confidence pouring into him. “No way, man. I’ve always liked them.”

I was a little more than surprised. My team, the Canadiens had a heated rivalry with the Bruins. Ethan had never mentioned his preference for the Bruins when we talked hockey before. I planned to call him on it later. We needed to stop playing this game where we would let our feelings surface just enough to adjust our behaviour to avoid embarrassing or uncomfortable moments. It was something you did on a first date. We couldn’t be friends truly, until that happened.

Ethan continued, “I’ve watched the games with my dad for as long as I can remember. Haters on the Bruins,” he smirked, “they are jealous. We’ve got the toughest team in the league, and we just won the Cup, so haters gonna hate, right?”

Steven said, “It’s a fix. They won because one of their players is the son of the commissioner.”

Even I thought this was a ridiculous argument, and as much as I hated the Bruins for their dirty play, Steven’s argument was standing on stilts amidst a sea of beavers.

Ethan laughed, “You call me a kid? That’s an argument Canucks fans use to make themselves feel better. Maybe if the Canucks hadn’t been so soft, they would have won.”

Ethan was treading on dangerous ground. There is a difference between ragging on opposing fans and pushing their face in manure.

I decided to break up the burgeoning argument before it became heated, “Hey guys, let’s get back at it. Still six more to go.” I saw Steven shoot a dirty look at Ethan, but the teen had an impenetrable confidence about him. He just laughed it off.

We continued the set, and with each song Ethan gained more and more confidence. He was improvising more, and in some places, I thought he was doing too much. It sounded busy, like the music was all moving at the same time, but there was too much of it to be really pleasing to the ear. It forced me to stop playing guitar altogether in some parts, which I disliked immensely. Without my guitar, I was like every other girl with a microphone. I didn’t really see myself as a girl, but I figured that is how others saw me. I needed that guitar because it was a link to my previous life. At least, that is what I told myself.

Near the end of the set, I realized that Ethan was a fantastic guitar player, but with that comes confidence, and sometimes a cock-sure attitude. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to show Steven up, but the songs had become progressively faster to the point where I felt less like a singer and more like a rapper, spitting out words at a frenetic pace. I stopped the eighth song when neither Andrew nor I could keep up.

I said, “OK guys.” I looked at Ethan and then Steven, “When you are finished playing with yourselves, maybe we could play the song in the right tempo.” Ethan laughed and even Steven cracked a smile. I meant of course that it was like they were playing two or three completely different songs, the others had clearly taken it to mean something dirty. I guess it was funny coming from someone who at least looked like a teenage girl.

Musicians can be competitive. The ones that cannot play sports or excel in other pursuits can use their musical talents to belittle others. That is what had happened with Ethan and Steven.

We finished the set with Ethan playing less the role of the guitar virtuoso and more the guy who was still trying to be in the band. He played our songs, adding little bits here and there to improve without overshadowing them.

As Ethan was packing up his gear, Andrew said, “Nice jam.”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah man. I love your riffs. Really catchy.” Andrew smiled and nodded.

I walked Ethan to the door. I said, “I’ll see you Monday. Great jam.”

In response, Ethan wore a big goofy grin, “Thanks Abigail. It was a good one. I probably made a lot of mistakes, but I’m still learning the songs. I know I will get better if you guys give me a chance. I love the music. Your voice was amazing. Better than I’ve ever heard it.”

I shuddered with the compliment, almost like a pleasant wind had passed through my entire body in an instant, circumventing my bones and electrifying my nerves. I looked down at the floor, “Um, thanks.” I was glad my band mates had not seen my display.

“Yeah man. For sure. One thing though, you mind if I call you Abby? It just feels more natural, you know? When I use your full name, it’s just kind of weird and fancy. I’m being stupid.” He laughed nervously.

I smirked, “Sorry, fans of the Bruins have to call me Abigail. It’s a rule.”

He laughed and then left with a quick wave. I returned to the jam room to discuss Ethan’s future with the band.

***

When I entered, Steven and Andrew were arguing.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Two teenagers in a band with grown men, it just looks weird. I had a hard enough time explaining to my friends why Darren is in the band.”

Andrew replied to Steven, “I agree that it’s a little odd, but maybe being different like that will give us an edge. If you think about it, our demographic will be a lot wider because of it. I’m sure Ethan has friends that he’d bring, so right there we have a whole new generation listening to us.”

I nodded, “It happened in a previous band I was in. Our guitar player was nineteen, and he used to bring tons of people to our shows. We are talking way more exposure with him in the band.” I narrowed my eyes at Steven, “And what do you mean two teenagers? There’s only one teenager in the band if Ethan joins.”

Steven shrugged his shoulders, “My friends don’t know you are really a grown man, Darren. I am sure you appreciate that I don’t tell them. I know it was hard enough for me to believe. I mean I did believe you, but to come to the realization that it was you in there. It took more than just you singing one of our songs. To my friends, they just see a girl who sings in my band. I mean they are really impressed. My musician friends think you have great tone for your age.”

I shook my head, “I don’t really want them to see me like that.”

Andrew added, “Yeah, but you don’t want to tell the world who you really are. I mean, sure we’d get lots of press, but you’d have the media hounding you day and night. So it’s better they see you that way.”

I frowned, “Can we just talk about Ethan being in the band or not? Please?”

Andrew nodded, “Kid’s really good. The solo he did with the flanger and all the bends. Well no offence Darren, but he is a natural lead player.”

I nodded and smiled, “None taken. When we first started this band, I said I am a straight rhythm player. I got better at solos only because some of the songs really needed them. It doesn’t bother me that he’s better than me. It’s great in fact because crafting an excellent solo is an art form. Anyone can put notes together, but he tells a real story with them.”

Steven nodded begrudgingly, “Yeah, but he’s still a kid. Are we sure he’s going to be committed to us? And what about bars? Is he going to be able to play in them? The Gob was great because the owner is in love with Darren or something, but other owners aren’t going to be like that.”

I replied, “You think having Ethan in the band is going to hurt our chances to play in bars? Well what about me?”

Steven shrugged, “Man, looking like you do, some of the owners will just turn the other way because there’s going to be a hot rock chick in their bar singing. But Ethan, I mean yeah he’s good, but we could find someone better. Bar owners aren’t going to be as cool with him. We can only do all ages shows, and bars hate those. No one buys anything. So we are really limiting the shows. We’d have to play with a bunch of other bands with high school kids.”

Andrew said, “Maybe we would find someone better, but I don’t know if we’d find someone as committed. The kid learned nearly all of our songs, and sure they weren’t perfect, but it was our first jam. I say we give him another shot.”

Steven mulled Andrew’s words and then replied, “Yeah that was good actually. No one who came before him had done that much preparation. OK I admit it was impressive, but how do we deal with the fact that we are cutting the number of shows we can do in half, maybe more?”

I said, “You run the same risk with me in the band. Look, we aren’t going to be able to play any out of town shows anyway. I told you about my curfew. I am appealing it. So I say we play some local shows, one a month and really focus on our net presence. Who cares what we look like or how old we are? Let’s get the music out there. We want to record, and now we have the chance. And we can still play shows. We can go to the Gob again, and play every all ages show we can.”

Andrew frowned, “How did you think mouthing off to a cop would be a good idea, Darren? The way I see it, you are lucky you aren’t in juvie. How are you going to play even a local show and be home by nine pm?”

I shook my head, “I destroyed that cop in court. They had no case, other than the speeding and driving without a licence. And I will ask the judge if my curfew can be extended with adult supervision. He will probably only agree if it is Amélie.”

Steven said, “I guess you’ve got a point, Darren. I am still not in love with this idea, but I am willing to have him come back again.”

I nodded, “I think it’s fair. I think too that I will ask him to bring some original stuff and see how it matches up with our styles.”

We were in agreement that Ethan could come back. I was pleased that the band seemed to be getting back on track, but was I pleased for another reason? My earlier shudder at Ethan’s compliment told me clearly that the feelings still existed. Would a late night writing session become something else? Would an accidental touch as we are moving equipment ignite us? As much as I felt I was helping the band by bringing Ethan on board, I also felt like I was crawling into the lion’s mouth at the same time, potentially being swallowed by unbridled teenage lust.

Chapter 42

“So how’s it going with your boyfriend, Abby?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Chantal. We just hang out and talk.”

Chantal gave me a knowing grin, “Okay, so you hang out every day. And you never do anything else? You never want to do anything else?”

Chantal knew how to push my buttons. I was quickly growing flustered. I could feel my cheeks reddening. “No, we are just friends. That’s it.”

Chantal walked over to my work station, towering over my diminutive form in her stilettos. She put one hand on her hip. “Really Abby? You don’t want him to kiss you? It’s perfectly normal if you do.”

I shook my head vehemently, but the image of Ethan kissing my soft lips entered my mind with relative ease. My mind then went to work fashioning a scenario where it could happen. After band practice with Andrew and Steven both gone, and Ethan and I all alone? As the sequence developed, I realized that if Ethan joined the band, that scenario could play out for real. During our lunch time meetings we were alone, but we still had prying eyes. We'd be alone in the band room.

I replied to Chantal, “Normal? Maybe for you. But then I don’t spread my legs for every guy that smiles at me.” Despite my scathing retort, the fantasy refused to leave my mind.

In the scenario, Ethan approaches me from behind. I still have my guitar slung over my shoulder. He gently brushes the hair from my face. There is no sign of the goofy grin or even that lopsided smirk he wears at times. He cups my cheek in his hand and then moves in, closing his eyes, while I stand there like a marble statue. As soon as his lips touch mine, I awake, the stone becomes flesh and reacts. I am kissing him back.

My eyes widened as my day dream melted away. My boobs felt weird. I got up from my desk and quickly went to the washroom. Chantal laughed as I fled. I knew what she was doing. She was trying to get me to fall for Ethan, so I could become like she had been in high school, boy-crazed. If I was like that, she probably figured I would do my job as poorly as her. I locked myself in a stall and unbuttoned my blouse. Just above my boobs the skin was flushed, and my nipples were pressing hard against my bra. I had felt a tingling there before, but it was nothing like this.

When I returned a few minutes later, Chantal was gone. Stephanie stepped out of her office and frowned, “Abigail, have you seen Chantal? I need that Affidavit she was preparing.”

“I don’t know where she is, but I’ll help you look for it.” Stephanie went to the logical place, which was the official file. I went to the place I figured Chantal would have left it- her pigsty of a desk. I was amazed that Stephanie hadn’t fired Chantal yet, but since I fixed her mistakes, Stephanie and Anthony likely had no idea how incompetent their law clerk really was.

As I ruffled through stacks of papers, I spotted the Affidavit. Stephanie was still looking through the official file. I noticed an obvious spelling mistake. The name of the client who had signed the sworn statement was misspelled throughout the document. It was, in fact, spelled three different ways.

“Here it is.” I handed it to Stephanie, and it took her only a moment to see what I had seen. I saw her soft face harden into a severe frown. Her eyes flashed with anger. I could see Chantal now and so could Stephanie. Because of the open concept of the office and the many windows, we could see Chantal talking on her cell phone outside. She was pacing back and forth. I hid my smile as Stephanie left and made a beeline for Chantal.

I realized that I could have kept the document hidden amongst the unpaid bills and Cosmo magazines until I had the chance to fix the mistakes. To me, it was not really a matter of maturity or immaturity that governed my actions. Yes, I was tired of Chantal treating me like a child, but more importantly, for the firm to succeed in the long term, it was necessary that Chantal either improve her work habits drastically, or be fired. I was hoping for the latter of course. My own work was beginning to suffer because of her daily mistakes. Most of them could have been rectified with a brief proof-read.

The verbal assault that Stephanie had launched on Chantal continued back in the office.

“This is one of our biggest clients, and this is how you prepare the documentation for them? Do you realize that the sworn statement would be completely useless in court with not one, not two, but three different spellings of his name?

“You need to shape up, Chantal. Anthony and I don’t have time for this, and Abigail is very busy with her own workload. If I find anything like this again, I am going to have to let you go. I need to feel I can trust your work, Chantal. You have made little mistakes since we hired you in April, but this is a grievous error and one so easy to fix. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Chantal hung her head and nodded sullenly.

Stephanie said, “And is there a reason why this Affidavit was on your desk instead of the official file? We have had this discussion before, Chantal. If Abigail hadn’t found it, and you had left for the day, what would we have done exactly? How would I have reviewed the file? Answer me.”

Chantal’s expression went from sullen to rage in a matter of seconds. I could see her jaw set firmly, clenching and grinding down on her teeth. The rage quickly ebbed as Stephanie’s glower continued, “Well?”

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Locke. I will check my work very carefully next time. I will put the files in the right place. It won’t happen again.”

Stephanie nodded, “You know what will happen if it does.”

I had a golden opportunity to rid myself of Chantal, but the mature thing to do would be to work out our differences. I had tried to explain to her the importance of completing the work correctly, but she saw me as a kid, and she rarely took my advice. A part of me wanted to get her fired, but I had a feeling that was the same part of me that fantasized about kissing Ethan.

Stephanie went into her office, and Chantal immediately stomped toward my desk.

“Did you give that document to Stephanie knowing that it had errors in it?”

I frowned, “Yes, but she was asking for it. I couldn’t lie to her.”

Chantal shook her head. Her gaze bore into me. I was surprised by the intensity. “I’ll get you for that.”

I threw my hands up in defence, “Hey, look, you just you need to proof-read your work. The firm is really busy these days, and I don’t have the time to spend hours proof-reading your stuff. I don’t want to see you fired either because I think this is a good opportunity for you to show that you can be really good at your job. Without me. You know once I get my emancipation, I will be going to court with Stephanie and Anthony. You’ll be here alone.” I was trying to be the mature one.

I had tried to motivate her, but it had the opposite effect. Her stare never wavered, “I’m not taking advice from some kid.”

I added petulantly, “Then you’ll be fired. Don’t think I will give you a reference either.”

Chantal narrowed her eyes and put her face an inch from mine, “Not if I get you fired first.”

I smirked. It was the type of expression that told her I held all the cards. “Unlike you, I do my work correctly and finish on time. I’ve been carrying you for months, Chantal. Is this really how you want to play this? Because you’ll lose. I do exemplary work. You don’t.”

Chantal removed herself from my personal space and slowly walked back to her desk. Before she sat down she said, “I ruined girls like you in high school, Abby. You don’t want to see what I can do.”

I titled my head to the side and placed my hand underneath my chin, “Oh no, please don’t wreck my cheerleader audition.” I smiled cunningly. “Instead of crafting some juvenile revenge, why not actually do your work? Speaking of which, I need to get back to mine.”

Throughout the rest of the day, Chantal shot dirty looks in my general direction. I just smiled smugly when I caught her. This was going to be stupidly easy. All I had to do was complete my work and stop doing Chantal’s, and she would be fired. I realized that I was tapping into my own juvenile side with these thoughts, but I had tried to help her and she refused. I would let her twist in the wind, hoist on her own petard.

***

The next day, Ethan was late. I was sitting eating my lunch alone for the first time in weeks. I saw a group of girls who usually sat at the table next to the skate park coming my way. There were three of them, and they all looked to be my body’s age, give or take a year. All three of them were dressed in short shorts and tank tops had tanned skin and wore too much makeup.

They walked right up to my table. The tallest of the group, a leggy raven haired girl, spoke to me in French, (So you think you are better than us? )

I laughed right in the young woman’s face. My laugh was musical, but also obnoxious. I closed my eyes and shook my head, answering her in English, “Are you serious? This is a joke, right?”

The girl looked confused. The other two exchanged puzzled looks. Obviously, this was not the reaction they expected.

I smiled haughtily, “Look, let me guess, some lady came and told you this right? She said that I was all self-important and that just because I had this high-paying job that I thought I was better than you. Does that pretty much sum it up?”

The girl responded to me in heavily-accented, but passable English, “Yes, how do you know this? She came yesterday.”

I nodded. I was above these girls, but I didn’t need to express it- my eyes said it all. While they would have to return to school in the fall, forced to abide by school rules and their teacher’s instructions. I would be working as a paralegal.

“She’s making trouble for me because she’s worried she is going to be fired. She’s just using you to get back as me.”

The raven haired girl looked at me with narrowed eyes, “I think you do think you are better than us.”

I replied, “Why do you care so much, kid? Maybe if you did something with your time other than ogling boys and gossiping all day, you’d feel better about yourself.”

The raven haired girl stepped closer to me and uttered, (Connasse! Pute, what’s your name? )

I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I had a feeling she had called me a bitch. The French people I knew swore in English, so I was a little lost regarding the translation.

I replied calmly, “Abigail.”

She put her hand on the table and stood over me, trying to look menacing. I knew that she was taller than me, but then everyone was taller than me. ( What school do you go to? )

I smiled contemptuously, again answering in English, “I don’t. I work here.” I pointed to the law firm.

She replied, “It’s impossible. You have to go to school.”

One of the other girls, a short Latino, said, “Yeah it’s the law. They had a presentation on it last year. You don’t look eighteen.”

“What can I say, girls? I have the law on my side.”

In my body, I felt the same energy, the same sense of pleasure at putting these girls in their place that I did for cross-examining the cop at court. This conversation was feeding my rebellious side. A moment later, I saw Ethan enter my line of sight.

As he arrived, he coolly said, “Oh, hi Véronique.”

So this was the infamous Véronique who had treated Alyssa so poorly. I still felt bad for what I had done to Alyssa. I had checked my email a few weeks ago, and Alyssa had sent me a few. I have no idea why I looked, because it did nothing to alleviate my guilt. An idea popped into my mind how I could both weaken Véronique’s power base at St. Jo’s and help Alyssa.

I raised my head, looking supremely confident. “Oh, so you are THAT Véronique. Alyssa told me about you, and what you do to her.”

Véronique replied, “What do you care about her?”

I shook my head, “I care what you are doing to her. Are you aware that your behaviour could be considered criminal, or at the very least, subject to a civil action? Your slander of Alyssa over Facebook could lead to defamation action against you. As for what you did to her in the locker room, some judges would consider that assault. If I hear that you bothered her again like that I will consider starting action against you myself. I hope your parents are loaded because I will make sure the trial takes a very long time. I know you don’t know what a motion is, but the more of those I bring, the sooner you go to the poor house. Do you and your little clique understand me?”

Cyber-bullying is not a criminal offence in Canada, but I recall, as a teacher, the police getting involved in some acts of very serious bullying. As for Facebook, there is some jurisprudence concerning civil action brought against individuals who wrote slanderous comments that amounted to defamation. So, I was half bluffing, but Véronique didn’t know that and neither did her friends.

Véronique’s eyes widened, “You- you can’t do that. I did nothing to Alyssa, you can’t prove it.”

The Latino girl added, “Yes! You need proof for that.” The little blonde that was with them hadn’t said a word, but seemed to act the angry dog of the bunch, casting vicious sneers my way.

I smirked. I must have looked conceited. “How big was your gym class last year? Based on the fact you did it in the locker room as everyone was changing, well I would have at least a dozen witnesses. As for Facebook, you think your page is private? If the content of your page is needed for an investigation or any court action, I could force disclosure with enough cursory evidence.” I was talking out of my ass, but Véronique and her rabble didn’t know that.

“A good lawyer is about three hundred dollars an hour. So let’s do the math. A defamation case usually takes a week to complete. Plus there is the retainer and the hearing preparation. I am not really a math expert, but I do work in a law office, so that’s probably going to cost your parents over ten thousand dollars. Plus, there’s the motions I will bring. Requests for additional disclosure, things like that.”

Véronique blinked. Her eyes were wide. She was shocked, and I continued to smile. “T-ten thousand?” She switched to French, ( We have to pay that just for a lawyer, what if we lose? )

Ethan watched me silently. He wore a very neutral expression at times, but at others, complete shock. I replied, “Better get used to shopping at Value Village. You won’t be buying any new clothing. Oh and forget university, but a smart girl like you, you will probably have a scholarship right?

“In extreme cases, your parents’ wages could be garnished to help pay the penalty if the defamation is very serious. What were some of those names you called her again?”

Véronique said, (This isn’t over, pute. )

I smiled, “That kind of language could cost you. Are you going to leave my friend alone?”

Véronique glared through me and motioned for her clique to leave.

Ethan sat down next to me looking amazed. He spoke when Véronique had left, “That was incredible, Abby. Like really amazing. Véronique is such a bitch, and I have never seen anyone burn her that badly. She is really mean to Alyssa. The locker room- that was the worst. Like really, really bad. Alyssa missed two days of school after it.”

I frowned, “Did they really put balloons full of shaving cream in her bra and make her walk around like that?”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah that’s what I heard. I guess they found out she was stuffing her bra or whatever. Then they popped the balloons and the shaving cream went all over her. I remember her running out of school crying.”

Anger built up in me. I didn’t consider Alyssa a friend, but she was a nice person, and she didn’t deserve to be bullied like that. “You know Ethan, I was kind of embellishing a bit, but if the school fails to address that bullying and it is proven that it is systemic in the school. They could go after the school at the very least.”

Ethan shrugged, “It happens. It sucks, but it happens. Cops will just make things worse. Alyssa just needs to do what you did and stand up to her. Kids that tell like that, teachers, principals or cops, well you know ‘snitches get stitches’ right? It’s like that at Grande Rivière isn’t it?” Like Alyssa, I had told Ethan that I attended Grande Rivière.

I shook my head, “Ethan, you have no idea how ridiculous that is. You have kids cutting themselves, and even killing themselves, and you are going to apply the so-called rules of the schoolyard to everything? It’s asinine. And dangerous. Of all people, I thought you’d be smarter than that. You don’t exactly go with the crowd.”

Ethan frowned, “It’s a respect thing, Abby.”

He had started calling me Abby. It didn’t really bother me because others did it as well. I had told him he couldn’t, but my reasoning (him being a Bruins fan), didn’t have strong support.

“Why would you need anyone’s respect who adheres to such a ludicrous rule? There are kids killing themselves, and no kid can speak up because they are worried they will lose respect? From who, people like Véronique? Respect is earned, and it goes beyond stupid kid games and sayings. The people who earn my respect are the ones who don’t play by kid rules. The ones who have the strength of character to stand up to people like Véronique when the victims can’t. If we ignore it knowingly, we are just as bad as the bully.”

Ethan sighed, “You sound like a teacher. You hang around the adults all day, you are starting to talk like them.” He laughed, “I don’t even understand some of what you say sometimes, but I just nod along. You really need to meet my friends. I’ve been telling them all about the band and everything. They’d like you.”

He grinned, “As long as you don’t lecture them.”

He was trying to laugh off this serious discussion. To me, this conversation was the perfect reason why I shouldn’t go to St. Jo’s. My mind would turn to mush, hanging out with kids who thought ‘snitches get stitches’ were words to live by.

Ethan excitedly changed the subject, “I have so many ideas for the band. I am so psyched you guys are having me back. I don’t think Steven likes me, but I have a sick riff that he will love, I know it. Oh, and I meant to ask you, how do you know Alyssa?”

I should have been annoyed that Ethan decided to completely derail our previous conversation, but I couldn’t fault him. He was a kid. He didn’t see the bigger picture outside his world, few adolescents did. Most were trapped within a bubble of self-importance where every little bump along the way had the potential to be a crisis.

I nodded, “Yeah, he probably will. And Alyssa worked at a dance studio I went to.”

A big grin appeared on Ethan’s face, “You went to a dance studio? Did you do ballet?

I raised a brow, “Nope. I went there with my sister’s daughter. Just to help out, you know? The kids are cute.”

Ethan said, “Aww, and here I thought you wore a tutu and those flat shoes. Rock chick, ballet dancer and teen lawyer. You should wear a big ‘A’ on your chest. You are like some kind of superhero.”

I smirked, “You are such an ass.”

He nodded and the big goofy grin never left his face, “Yup.”

***

The rest of the week passed without incident. Véronique did not make any other unscheduled stops at my table, and Chantal actually did her work. I stayed true to my threat. I was not going to support Chantal like a shipwrecked survivor trying to swim with a bloated corpse. Eventually, she would sink without me, or she would improve at an astronomical rate. I only checked the documents that were directly related to my files.

It was time for band again. I knew that Ethan felt he had to impress Steven this week. I didn’t want a decision made about a new band member made unless it was unanimous. If Steven still didn’t want Ethan in the band, then Andrew and I would have to respect that. The audition was one thing, but if Steven had serious issues with Ethan, then letting the kid in the band could create a major rift. I asked Ethan to come later, so that we would have time to discuss his potential membership. I didn’t tell him that of course.

I was feeling more confident about allowing Ethan to join the band permanently because of the conversation I had with him where I stood up to his playground ideals. No one would seriously question the ideals and ethics of a would-be girlfriend or boyfriend. I was proud that I did not break under the pressure of his grin or his eyes. I had not had any other awkward dreams about him either.

We played the set, and once again, Ethan impressed. He was even more prepared this week than he had been the last. He had a whole new solo, which replaced one of mine. Again, the way I figured it, if he was concerned about protecting my feelings as a potential mate, he would just play my version at least initially. But no, his solo blew mine out of the water, then it landed on a deserted island filled with only landmines, which proceeded to launch it from one explosive burst to another, until it was obliterated. In other words, it was way better than mine, and pushed the song to new heights.

Ethan also didn’t bite when Andrew attempted to goad him into playing faster. Ethan seemed happy to play what fit the song. He was very good at placing his notes. To me, it sounded like he listened to a lot of Alice in Chains recently, but I wasn’t complaining. I couldn’t do what Jerry Cantrell did, but apparently Ethan could.

After the set, we moved into a jam session on some of Ethan’s material. One of the songs, likely inspired by his tastes contained an extremely catchy lead guitar intro. I couldn’t help it, but I was jealous of his playing ability. One of my goals was to write that type of guitar intro, and while I could easily come up with vocal melody to match any song, I couldn’t do it on guitar. I could never emulate what I had in my head, and even when I had the right notes, I lacked the timing to place them. I started to feel like my guitar playing wasn’t needed at all. I had also made an unusual amount of mistakes on the guitar during the practice.

I said, “Sorry guys. I messed up a lot of the songs today.”

Andrew said, “Some of the cues have changed, it’s understandable. Uh, Abigail.” My friends didn’t usually call me Abigail, so it made sense that Andrew would have difficulty at first.

Ethan nodded, “Your voice still sounded great today.”

I was pleased that, when Ethan paid me the compliment, I didn’t feel anything beyond a slight tingle in my head. From my vantage point, the crush was waning. I had seen Ethan’s childish side, and his inability to have a mature conversation, plus my jealousy over his guitar playing, both of which likely acted as a catalyst, was slowly extinguishing my feelings. I was starting to think that we could succeed in becoming friends only.

Steven walked up to Ethan and reached his hand out to shake it, “Hey man, you’ve got serious guitar skills. I’m sorry I was kind of an ass last week. As far as I’m concerned, you’re in, man. That last riff you did, and combined with Abigail’s vocal in the chorus. It’s our best song, hands down. We are legit now.”

Steven’s words hurt because it meant that even when I didn’t have long fingernails we weren’t a good band. I know I am not the best guitar player in the world, worse now with my fingernails, but he and Andrew had always encouraged me. When I was feeling down after a tough practice, they always told me just to stick to it, and when I said, let’s bring in another player- they always said they didn’t want to risk ruining the chemistry we had. Ethan had swooped in and suddenly we were ready for the big time.

I sighed and swallowed my pride, “Yeah. Good job Ethan. I really like the original stuff you brought. It will work with our styles.”

He smiled, “Thanks Abby.” He beamed, “So does that mean I’m in? Really?”

He was no longer the confident and sometimes cocky guitar player, now he was just a kid wondering if he was in a band. There was excitement in his voice, but a vulnerability in his eyes. Andrew looked at me and nodded his head.

I nodded, “Yeah man, you are in.” I could tell Ethan was trying to decide if he should run up the wall in the practice space or just bounce off them.

His delighted smile turned into a wide grin as he mock bowed “Madame, I graciously accept.”

Chapter 43

It was the first week of August. While we didn’t live in Ottawa, we were close enough to feel the brunt of its weather patterns. You know those people who say, well at least it’s a dry heat? I hate those people because, if anything, in Ottawa, it was a wet heat. Any time I left the house, I immediately started sweating. It literally felt like I was standing permanently next to a sauna. The heat was bad, but the humidity was unbearable. My body, which carried more fat now, was no help. Thankfully, we had central air at work, but we only had two small air conditioners at home- one in the bedroom and one in the family room.

We avoided using the air conditioner except at night, so I wore the least amount of clothing possible while preserving at least some sense of modesty. I had never worn a tank top in my life. They were not my style, and I would feel like a tool always showing off my biceps, like some muscle-bound meathead. Amélie had convinced me to wear some of hers, and once I did, I never looked back. Yes, most of them were pink or some pastel colour, but we were trying to avoid spending any money until I knew for certain I would be working on a full-time permanent basis at the firm.

I was used to wearing women’s clothes now. I no longer moved awkwardly in my skirt, and I didn’t struggle with my hair. In fact, getting ready for work was so routine, that I barely thought about it. I still didn’t wear any makeup or try anything higher than my kitten heels, but, after nearly an entire summer, I was a pro. Should this have frightened me? Logically, it made perfect sense, the more frequently you complete a certain task, the easier it becomes. I was a little concerned that I didn’t really consider skirts or blouses women’s clothes any longer. They were my work clothes. If I turned back, would I still wear them? Hell no, but as far as projecting a professional image, they had their use. It’s not like I was dressing like Véronique or even Chantal. If I did that, I would accept that I had completely lost it and check myself into the nearest psychiatric hospital.

The court official planned to interview Amélie that week during her lunch hour. We had spoken briefly about it, and I had come to the conclusion that she would give her approval regarding the emancipation. The evening after the interview, I was nervous when I heard Amélie come through the door. She had texted me to say it had gone well, but I wanted the juicy details.

Chloe, who was now able to climb the steps, quickly ambled up them and beamed at me, “Alee!” I smiled back at her and gave her a hug. I pointed at myself, as I had done a hundred times before, “Daddy. I’m daddy.”

Chloe shook her head and laughed loudly, “Alee! Alee!” Apparently, she thought I was playing a game, because she pointed at her herself and said, “Cat!” Despite her unwillingness to call me the name I desired, I had to laugh at her antics. Even if she didn’t call me ‘daddy’, I was just happy that I could see her grow up. I loved her more than anything, and I realized that she might be my only child, if I couldn’t turn back. The fact that I could get pregnant didn’t even cross my mind.

I then turned my attention to Amélie, “So, how did it go? Do you think that I passed the interview? You didn’t tell them about the car and the tickets, did you?”

Amélie sat down to dinner. I had warmed up the leftovers from yesterday, a stuffed pepper casserole that the whole family ate with gusto. “We’ll know next week if you passed. I think it went well. Your court appearance didn’t come up at all, and I didn’t make an effort to discuss it.”

Her face tightened into a frown, “I did have to tell them about that guy you met. From the internet.”

I spit out the food I was chewing and nearly choked on some I was in the process of swallowing, “Y-you what? Why?” Chloe proceeded to spit out the food in her mouth and then laughed like the cutest maniac. She was mimicking almost everything we did these days.

“Because they asked. The woman asked if there was any event that I could remember where you didn’t make a smart adult decision. I didn’t want to make it seem like you were perfect, so I picked the event least likely to harm your chances of passing.”

I sighed, “I guess that makes sense. I know you don’t like lying, and those officials are probably trained to notice that. So what else did they ask?”

Amélie replied “Well they asked if you were responsible, and they asked for different scenarios. I told them about how you get up with the baby sometimes. How you take care of her like a secondary caregiver. Oh and how you are going to watch Chloe this weekend. The woman seemed impressed by that. I guess she figured someone your age would want to throw a party with all the adults gone.

“She showed me how they score them. It is quite a transparent process. The fact that you are still planning on living with me increased your score.”

I smirked, “Well there goes my plan to live in a loft on the Upper East Side.”

Amélie grinned, “It’s good to see you in a better mood Darren. I was getting a bit worried about you after you got stuck with that curfew. Did you get an answer from the judge whether my being there can extend the curfew?”

I nodded, “Yeah, it can, but midnight is the very latest. Apparently, that’s when the world turns upside down and all the thieves, rapists and murderers come calling.”

I tried to mock Judge Richter’s authoritative tone, “Young lady, if your sister does not see fit to bring a fifteen year old girl home by midnight, I would consider her a very poor guardian indeed.”

Amélie laughed, “You sound like Cookie Monster swallowed helium.”

I raised a brow, “Uh thanks.”

Amélie said, “The first time I heard your new voice, I just couldn’t believe it was you. It’s just so-“

I interrupted, “Young sounding? Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Can we talk about something else?”

Amélie nodded, “I know things haven’t been easy for you, Darren. I want to say how impressed I am that you haven’t given up looking for a cure. I have to admit that I don’t look as often as I used to. I love you, and I am still hopeful that we can find a way to change you back, but if we can’t-“

I stopped her, “I am never going to stop looking Amélie. I owe that to you, to Chloe, and to my family.”

***

Chloe was completely obsessed with going to the park, so I wasn’t surprised when she asked me to go Saturday afternoon. She didn’t so much as ask, as demand it, pointing enthusiastically in the direction of the park and pulling on my leg. “Alee, Alee, Alee! Park!” After a few minutes of applying sunscreen to a squirming toddler, we left.

The park was only a few houses down. The play structure was plastic, and it had actual activity centres where kids could put on a puppet show, turn wheels or do a giant puzzle. It was nothing like the splinter-giving wooden monstrosities of my youth, with their metal slides and poles. Along with the splinters, I remember burning my legs on the slide during scorching hot days, so maybe these plastic structures were an improvement. The park was full of kids and the accompanying parents. I was hoping that it would be empty, but it was less hot today, so parents weren’t likely as concerned about letting their kids play for half an hour in the sun. To the parents there, I looked like a babysitter or a teenage mother, but as I didn’t look anything like Chloe, I was probably the dutiful babysitter.

I took Chloe on a swing. For some reason, Chloe didn’t like going alone, but I guess she was still too young to hold on confidently. She wanted me to do everything with her from the swings to the slides. She was still too young to be on the playground unaccompanied because some of the slides were too fast and there were some sections of the play structure where she could have easily fallen off. We spent twenty minutes going back and forth, until she found something she really liked- a simple ride-on motorcycle. I held her there and made vroom-vroom noises, and she pretended she was driving. When I stopped, she immediately gave the sign for ‘again’ followed by, “Again Daddy, again!”

I looked at her with surprise, and she looked at me with the expectation that I was going to continue playing with her. She repeated, “Daddy, again!” It had been five months since she called me that. I stared at her, and she quickly grew frustrated. She bucked back and forth on the motorcycle, trying to get the toy to move the same way I had made it move but she had little success. I snapped out of it and moved the toy from side to side, pretending that the motorcycle was turning. Chloe shouted, “Again, Daddy!”

I was joyfully shocked by her outburst in general, but I dutifully complied. An older woman, likely the grandmother of one of the kids at the park, approached us “You are really good with her, young lady. Are you her babysitter?”

I shook my head, “No, she’s my niece actually.”

The woman smiled, “So nice to see a mature and responsible teenager. Not like those hooligans that did that.” She pointed at the overturned porta-potty.

She added, “I noticed she calls you daddy. Does her father bring her here often?” I knew that the woman was just curious, but to me, she was being nosy.

I nodded, “I guess so.”

We made small talk for a few moments with the woman asking me all manner of questions. She was highly impressed that I was working in a law office. As I left the park a few minutes later, I thought about the possible reasons for why Chloe had suddenly started calling me Daddy. I had always referred to myself that way, and Amélie did the same, unless we were in public. I still acted the same way with her, pretending to be a monster, making pterodactyl noises, picking her up and throwing her on the bed- through all of that, I still called myself Daddy too. Had she come to the realization that I was her father simply by the way I acted toward her?

She was starting to notice the difference between things. She understood the difference between a big girl and a baby- a cat and a dog. Had she been looking at the kids around her, noticing how they were changing, becoming taller, getting more hair? I wonder if she thought that all daddies went through a similar metamorphosis. When we arrived home, Chloe zipped up the stairs and ran into the kitchen, she pronounced, “Daddy, chee! Chee!” I knew this meant cheese.

I conducted a test to see if she was still playing the game from earlier. I pointed at myself and said “Daddy”. She then pointed at me and said “Daddy!” I felt my emotions swell within. My daughter was calling me daddy again! I hugged her tight as a little tear dribbled down my cheek. She continued to request cheese until I gave it to her.

***

It was mid-August, a week since Amélie’s interview, and I had to admit, I was getting nervous about my emancipation. After my run-in with Véronique, I doubted that she would welcome me with open arms at St. Jo’s, and neither would her teenage gang. I hoped that my legal threats would keep Véronique from harassing Alyssa any further. On Tuesday, Amélie brought home incredible news. I had passed her part of my emancipation interview with flying colours. It wasn’t a cure, but it was still the best news I had had in a long time.

On Wednesday morning, I went into work in high spirits. Unfortunately, Chantal was in a foul mood. I guess her boyfriend had broken up with her or something. I didn’t really care.

Because I was no longer correcting her work, she had to stay after hours to fix the mistakes that Stephanie and Anthony found. They were small ones, but that didn’t stop Stephanie from chewing her out, much to my delight. I noticed that her work was improving, as she was clearly putting more effort into it, knowing that for a grievous error, she could be fired.

I had just finished a particularly challenging case, which we won, involving a very prestigious client, Mr. Sanderson. I had worked on it with Anthony. Despite the fact that I couldn’t actually tell Mr. Sanderson I had come up with the winning argument, I was still proud of my efforts. Stephanie’s interview was to take place this week, but I wasn’t sure on what day. In spite of the win, both Stephanie and Anthony were cool toward me for the rest of the week.

Friday afternoon, Stephanie called me into her office. When I entered, I saw that Anthony was already sitting next to his wife. Both of them wore expressions that told me their news wasn’t good. Had I failed the interview? Anthony’s expression was grim, a tight frown combined with sad eyes. Stephanie’s was slightly more controlled, but her eyes matched her husband’s.

“Abigail, there’s not an easy way for us to say this. We aren’t going to be able to hire you here on a full-time basis.” Stephanie said the words evenly, trying to suck all the emotion from them, but it was clear that it pained her to say this. My head dropped as if a hundred pound weight was suddenly attached to my chin.

I blurted out, “But why? Haven’t I done a good job here? Haven’t I prepared the cases for you correctly? You didn’t tell me anything to the contrary.”

Anthony sighed, “You have, Abigail. Absolutely. I really wish there was another way. You are a remarkable young lady with a penchant for the law, and a constant hunger to know more about it. But we’ve been- you see-.”

He was unable to get the words out. He fumbled with them and then Stephanie rescued her husband, “We’ve been speaking to our colleagues, and all of them have spoken out against hiring a fifteen year old girl on a full-time basis. You understand that this is business, Abigail. A law firm cannot be seen as an oddity, especially a small one like ours that is still very much in the red. We owe a lot of money, and hiring you, in the long term, could be seen as a very serious risk.”

I shook my head, “But Anthony said that I could go to court with him and everything. He agreed with me that having a teenage paralegal who emancipated herself would be seen as a highly impressive feat. It would be something the firm could be- wait? Fifteen?”

Anthony spoke up, “Some papers were left on my desk. We know you lied to us about your age and how you have been keeping your run-in with the law a secret.”

Stephanie nodded, “We don’t fault you for it Abigail. That information did not factor heavily in our decision.”

I was shocked, but I was stubborn enough not to capitulate. “I don’t think that the firm would be seen as an oddity. You would be seen as a trailblazer. A firm that respects the talent of their employees, no matter what their age.”

Anthony replied, “Honestly Abigail, we looked at the different ways that it could be spun, but all of the advice we received suggested that we keep you as a summer student and only that. This was not an easy decision. We couldn’t see any scenario where we could be seen as professional and competitive if you became a full-time employee. Yes, we would gain clients who lauded us as innovators, but just as many would look elsewhere. This is a cut throat business. There are so many law firms that we just worried that we would be seen as-“

I lashed back, “What- a circus sideshow? Why did you ever consider it in the first place? Were you ever intending to hire me?” I posed the question to Stephanie.

Stephanie sighed, “No Abigail, I never had the intention.”

Anthony said gently, “I am sorry that we got your hopes up.”

I narrowed my eyes, “You signed a legal document stating your intention to hire me. You realize that this amounts to breach of contract, right?”

Anthony smiled, but his eyes still bore sadness, “Yes, we do. I suppose you could take us to court over this. But would you? What would you have to gain?”

I sneered, “My freedom from the hormone infested, immature wasteland known as high school. You realize that because of you, I am going to have to go back there? I don’t belong there. I’ll make you honour that document.”

Stephanie pulled out a document from her drawer, “I knew that I was going to need this.” She pushed it toward me. It was a collection of case law with highlighted portions. I read it over with a scowl.

Stephanie said, “Based on that, we can terminate your employment at any juncture if we feel that you have fallen below the standards established by the test. That would void your emancipation. I am sorry Abigail, but we have to choose the firm over you. We could use the fact that you lied about your age as one strike. The knowledge that you drove without a licence, potentially endangering an infant, as another. But as I said, WE don’t want to do this.”

Anthony nodded, “Don’t make us do this, Abigail.”

I shook my head vehemently, “I’ll just go to another firm. I think you two are just worried that I will outshine you. I will find another firm that respects my talents.”

Stephanie tried to put her hand on mine, but I pulled away. She shook her head and shared a worried look with Anthony, “I suppose you could. I didn’t tell the court official who interviewed me about any of this, so it is my belief you will pass. Despite your skill and your knowledge, I just don’t think another firm will hire you Abigail.

I was stewing, my eyes moving from side to side as I considered my next move. Stephanie broke what was becoming an uncomfortable silence, “Why do you hate school so much? Do the kids pick on you for being smart? They did that to me.”

No Stephanie, they don’t pick on me. I hate high school because I used to teach it; I don’t want to wear a plaid skirt every day and be gawked at by horny boys; Oh, and I am a thirty-two year old man. Of course, if I had told her that, she wouldn’t have believed me, and she would have probably tried to mother me even more.

I said, “Not exactly. I just feel like I am beyond that place. You know I successfully acted as your paralegal for almost an entire summer. How can I even think about going back to a place where the most intelligent conversation I will have with my peers is what boy is cute or what YouTube video is worth watching? I want to have adult conversations and be challenged every day. This job gives me that. How dare you take that away from me after dangling it in front of me all summer.”

Stephanie replied, “The adult world is never going to accept you, Abigail. Never. Not until you grow up. I’m sorry to say, but that’s how it is. This is especially the case in law because people pay a lot of money for services rendered. Do you think they are going to pay a dime for the services of a fifteen year old girl?”

I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to say anything.

Stephanie again broke the silence, “You say you hate your peers, but you spend an awful lot of time staring out the window at them. And you spend a lot of time with that boy who is in your band. I think a part of you wants to go and join them, instead of working in a stuffy law office.”

Anthony said, “You can still do that and work here. Stephanie and I talked it over, and we’d be comfortable having you come in every second weekend to do research. We would pay you a part-time clerk salary.”

I shot back angrily, “I don’t want your charity. And frankly Stephanie, you know nothing about me. I don’t stare out the window like that at all.”

Stephanie frowned, “You do. How do I know? Well your work has suffered. Your production is down with regard to the memos you usually write. You seem more distracted. I just think there’s a girl inside you that wants to come out and join your friends. The longer you deny that side of you, the more your work will suffer.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “So what, you are psychologist now?”

Anthony jumped in, “Abigail, we just want what’s best for you. We can see a longing in your eyes. We just thought we could give you this opportunity to work for us part-time on the weekend and still have fun with your friends.”

I shook my head, “Right, so you can hide me away and your clients will never see me.”

Anthony sighed heavily, “Not exactly.”

I nodded, “Oh okay, so if they see me, then I’m still supposed to play copy monkey. Is that it? Do you know how frustrating it is to know that you have done all this work for someone, and it can't be acknowledged?”

Stephanie replied, “That is part of our decision too. We don’t think it is fair to you to put you in a situation where you have to lie constantly.”

I said angrily, “There’s still something you aren’t telling me. You had Chantal and me lie to clients all summer.”

Anthony said, “A few weeks ago, Stephanie had a meeting here with opposing counsel, a Mr. Everett Hughes.”

I nodded, “Yeah, he was really nice. He asked me about what I was doing, and what sort of law I was into.”

Stephanie nodded, “We’ve been cutting into his business a lot recently, and his firm is trying to buy ours. Well here’s the problem. You told him way more than you should have, Abigail. He thinks we’ve hired a fifteen year old paralegal. He has threatened to go to the law society with this information and- the press. So in return for his silence, we will send him some clients of ours, and he will back off on the takeover.”

I looked at both them with wide, unbelieving eyes. Here were two fantastic lawyers, allowing themselves to be controlled by a jackal. I blurted out, “But that’s blackmail! You have a case against him. You should go to the law society and have him disbarred.”

Anthony nodded, “And then he would go to the press. No matter what way we looked at things, if this got out, we’d be ruined. We could win against him in court, but his firm is massive. They could absorb any penalty with relative ease.”

They had assembled a strong case against hiring me on a full-time basis. It was hard to argue against their logic. Even if the clients saw me as a copy girl, opposing lawyers like Mr. Hughes would see me as way to damage the firm. I still considered opposing lawyers the same way I had seen other teachers, as colleagues more than foes, but, while both are professionals, lawyers do not share common goals except for the annihilation of their opponent.

Stephanie said, “We want you to finish out the summer with us, but you can understand why we can’t act as a reference for you except in the capacity of the student job description.”

I nodded feebly and exited Stephanie’s office. Chantal was smiling like a cat that had cornered a mouse and was simply toying with it, prolonging its life but torturing it all the same.

“So how did your meeting go? You know Abby, you say you are the smart one, but I don’t think a smart person would leave important papers at the photocopier. A smart person would probably hide them. Wouldn’t they?” My eyes widened as I realized that I had left my school registration document and my appeal package for my timed supervision at the photocopier, and Chantal had taken full advantage of that.

I balled my hands into fists. Chantal thought that she had sabotaged me, but her attempt had been mostly unsuccessful. Still, she had tried, and I was furious because my entire life was coming apart at the seams, so she was a convenient target. Just then, Mr. Sanderson entered the office.

“Hi girls! Is Anthony here? I wanted to thank him for the excellent job he did.”

Chantal said sweetly, “But don’t you want to thank Abby too? She photocopied the documents and put them in the binders. Then she put them in Mr. Locke’s briefcase. She’s been really helpful around the office. We will be sad to see her go when school starts back up in two weeks. Right, Abby?”

I wanted to do incomprehensible things to Chantal at that moment. Acts that would have placed me among the vilest killers of all time. The images in my mind involved a hammer, battery acid and a vice.

Mr. Sanderson looked at me with sudden shock and hurriedly said, “Well yes, uh thank you Abby- the binders were very well organized.” He must have seen the veritable mass of hatred pooling on my features, but he mistakenly thought it was for him.

“Please get Anthony for me, Chantal, I- I do need to speak to him.” I suppose a murderous look on a teenage girl’s face can be unsettling. I had no idea what I looked like, but from Mr. Sanderson’s reaction, it must have been frightening.

Logic and common sense dictated that I swallow the bitter medicine Chantal had fed me, but something inside me snapped and logic and thought process were thrown out. I was sick of being treated like a child by everyone around me, especially Chantal, and now most recently, Stephanie and Anthony.

I thought nothing of the repercussions for myself or the firm as I blurted out, “Mr. Sanderson, do you know who researched all the jurisprudence for your appeal? Who painstakingly went over every page of the transcript and formulated the arguments. Do you know who wrote the motion to introduce the evidence that was not previously available?”

Mr. Sanderson turned back in my direction, surprise still painted on his features. He remained quiet.

I walked over to Mr. Sanderson, just as Anthony and Stephanie were exiting Stephanie’s office. I said loudly, “I did it all. I basically prepared your entire case. Yes, I did the photocopying, but I also determined that the judge who ruled against you in the review had made a grievous error of law. I put your entire appeal together! Everything- Mr. Sanderson. Everything was me. And like a talented actor, Anthony took my work and played lawyer with it.”

Anthony shouted, “Abigail, that’s quite enough! I assure you Mr. Sanderson, we-“

Mr. Sanderson did not get to be owner of a very successful chain of men’s clothing stores without being a shrewd business man, but I also knew that he was friends with Anthony, so this had to hurt doubly. His entire appeal prepared by a mere girl. He turned his gaze to Anthony and said evenly, but with clear hurt in his eyes, “Is this true Anthony? You let her do this? Tell me the truth- and no lawyer talk. Did you let this girl prepare my entire case?”

Anthony frowned, “Well you see I was busy preparing for a human rights case that had a lot of-“

Mr. Sanderson raised his voice, “Tell me!” A half second later, I could tell he regretted his outburst and calmly said, “Tell me, please.”

Anthony nodded his head sadly. “Please Bruce, you can’t tell anyone. Hughes is already threatening to go to the press about it.”

If this were a movie from the early 90s, it would have been called, “Teen Lawyer”. Like other movies of this time period, “Rookie of the Year” and “Little Big League”, the kids in the movies showed their mettle and garnered respect from adults, but in their case, it was the world of professional baseball. In the movie, Mr. Sanderson would have come up to me and offered me a job on his legal team, then a montage of me winning case after case would play over the final credits.

It didn’t play out like that at all. Anthony offered to reduce his retainer, and Mr. Sanderson rejected the offer soundly and left looking wounded. Clearly, it hurt to have someone he considered a friend keep such information from him.

Stephanie looked at me angrily at first. Chantal wore a smug smirk in the corner, and Anthony just looked sad, slumped in a chair with his head lowered.

Stephanie took a breath and then tried to say as calmly as possible, “Abigail, you are- fired.” She wavered on the word ‘fired’, but she managed to spit it out with a measure of conviction.

I gathered my things, just as the weight of my actions came crashing down on my mind and body. My shoulders felt like they were made of lead. I had left Stephanie’s office feeling like they were treating me like a child. What did I do immediately after? I acted like one. Instead of biding my time, gaining more experience and thanking Stephanie and Anthony for the opportunity, and ultimately accepting the logic of their decision, I had vindictively lashed out. Would it have been worse if it was Hughes who I told everything to? No, because in that case I would have only damaged the firm. Here, I had knowingly damaged a friendship as well as the firm.

I needed to be away from everyone, so I went outside behind the building, planning on crying my eyes out, but what I faced was a self-assured Chantal, “I told you I would get you, Abby. But, it’s funny, you kind of got yourself didn’t you? You could have kept your mouth shut.”

I completely lost it and charged at her, launching myself at her. I managed to knock her down, in the process ripping her skirt, but she quickly gained the upper hand. In the case of Brad, it wasn’t surprising that he managed to hold me down, but Chantal, who did Pilates and the odd weight class at the gym? That was a shocker. She managed to trip me and then basically sat on me. I lacked the upper body strength to push her off me and my little fists, attached to short arms, couldn’t reach her face. I could punch her knees and mid-section, but when I did, she pulled my hair, and I was surprised by how much that hurt, so I stopped abruptly.

Chantal looked down at me with satisfaction, “You’re just a stupid little bitch, Abby. You think you are so smart, and you looked down your nose at me all summer. Well look who still has her job, and look who’s going back to school.” She tugged my hair again, and I let out a high-pitched yelp.

She continued, “Why don’t you just go and do what you’ve wanted to do all summer? Go fuck that kid with the leather jacket. You stare at him enough. You know you want to. Trust me, boys his age, they are just looking for an excuse.”

I almost laughed because Chantal had basically admitted to being a slut in high school, but I didn’t want her to pull my hair again. Goddamn, it hurt.

From my vantage point, and from what part of the sky wasn’t blocked by Chantal’s hateful face, I could see dark clouds overhead. I felt the first few drops of rain on my face, and then a few seconds later, I heard a shout, “Hey, come back here with that!” It sounded like the hot dog vendor I had bought from a few times over the summer.

When Chantal felt the rain, she quickly got off me and moved against the back wall of the building, the narrow awning providing some protection from the rain. As I was slowly getting up, I saw red and yellow streams fly over my head followed by surprised shrieks from Chantal. She looked menacingly at her attacker, and I turned my head to see Ethan brandishing ketchup and mustard bottles.

“Get away from her, you bitch. Or you’ll get it again.”

He had got her in the face and neck, but he was aiming at her blouse now. A small tear in her skirt was one thing, but large stains on her blouse would mean she would have to go home early and explain that she was fighting with two kids outside the office.

Chantal gritted her teeth and said, “Oh look Abby, your boyfriend's come to save you.”

She gingerly stepped around Ethan, trying to avoid getting soaked by the rain, which was falling more heavily. I wasn’t so lucky because when I tried to stand, I fell back down from the sudden pain in my ankle. I guess I had twisted it when I launched awkwardly at Chantal. I was trying to crawl underneath the awning, but in the process, I was getting absolutely soaked.

Chantal slowly manoeuvred her way to the front of the building. She turned around one last time, “Enjoy the 10th grade Abby.”

Just as she was leaving, Ethan squirted her right in the ass with both bottles. Chantal turned back to him and proceeded to make an attempt to grab at the bottles, but he was too fast, and she got squirted on the arm. Ethan kept dancing around her awkward attempts to steal the bottles, squirting her in the face and in the chest. At this point, I had managed to drag myself so that I was positioned under the awning, but I was thoroughly soaked.

Chantal let out an exasperated cry and finally managed to grab the ketchup bottle, but when she went to squirt it, she found it empty. Ethan threw the mustard bottle down and then ran toward me. He leaned down, obviously intending to give me a piggy back ride, and considering I wanted to be away from a half-crazy Chantal, I readily accepted. He lifted me with a slight grunt and then took off. I looked back at Chantal, but at that point, the hot dog vendor had retrieved his bottles and was trying to keep Chantal from chasing us. I could smell the rain on Ethan’s leather jacket, and his deodorant, that Axe body spray I used to hate. The way my boobs were tightly pressed against his back, the smells, coupled with my firing and beat down by Chantal, when Ethan slowed down, realizing that he wasn’t being chased, all of this combined, acted as a catalyst and I gently rested my head on his shoulder.

It was still raining heavily, and showed no sign of stopping. Ethan carried me to a nearby kid's play park. He deposited me in a long orange plastic tube that joined one part of the play structure to the other. The tube was made for children to crawl through, so there was little space between us. During the fight with Chantal, my hair had come loose and now dangled slickly across my back. My bangs were in my eyes, since the hair clip had either fallen or tugged out by Chantal.

He said, “We can hide in here. I don’t think they saw us crawl in. So what the hell was that about? I mean I know that you hate that girl, but I didn’t think you’d fight her like that.”

I shrugged my shoulders, unsure of what to say.

I noticed Ethan was looking at me strangely. Every few seconds, his eyes would dip down to my chest and then shoot back to my eyes. I knew that my blouse was wet through, but as I looked down, I realized why he was staring. It looked like I had entered a wet t-shirt contest for office workers. You could clearly see my bra through the blouse. Not only that, but during the fight with Chantal, the top two buttons of my blouse had ripped off, so now I had an unprofessional amount of cleavage showing.

Ethan was desperately trying not to look. He took off his jacket and handed it to me, “Um. Dude, here you can wear this.”

I snatched the jacket from him rapidly, but I felt my cheeks redden. From my vantage point, Ethan was experiencing something similar. I put it on and sighed gently. I told Ethan the whole story, not my transformation, but my attempt to gain legal emancipation and my firing.

He said, “So, you’ll have to go back to school if you can’t find another job that pays about the same?” Ethan’s voice in the orange tube had a different timbre to it. There was a strange resonance inside the structure that gave it a more powerful tone.

I nodded sadly, “Yeah.”

Ethan smiled, “Hey man, if you hate your school so much, then you should come to St. Jo’s with me. Alyssa goes there too. And who cares about that stupid job? You did all the work, and they took all the credit. That’s weak man. Really weak. You should talk to your sister about changing schools.

“Oh! And the band could play at the coffee house. It’s a sick event. They get a sound guy from a local music store. It’s really pro, you know?”

I shrugged my shoulders, but Ethan wasn’t deterred. “Now you’ve got two weeks to just relax. Isn’t that sweet? I mean yeah it sucks you got fired, but now you can meet my friends. We can hang out. They all go to St. Jo’s too, so if you can change schools, you’ll know a bunch of people.”

I shook my head, “You don’t understand. It’s…complicated. I don’t belong in high school. I should be working in a firm. I’m ready.”

Ethan replied, “Yeah, but the way that Stephanie lady made it seem is you will have trouble. She’s a bitch for making you think that you’d have the job though. Maybe she needs the ketchup and mustard treatment?” He grinned, and in spite and what had happened, I let a little smile creep onto my face.

Ethan laughed and pointed at my face, “Got you, Abby.”

I shook my head and resumed my frown, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Ethan. Plus, as I explained, logically it makes sense why they couldn’t keep me- it’s just. Well it’s not fair…”

Ethan nodded, “I know but that’s what it’s like. Are you surprised by that, Abby? You know that amazing weekend I had planned, go to Montreal and check out some shows, sleep in a car, you know that one?” I nodded.

“Well my parents decided suddenly to actually be my parents and they won’t let me go. They let me do lots of other stuff. They didn’t even give me a reason other than, hey it’s too dangerous or some bullshit like that. We would have been fine. So yeah, it’s not fair and it sucks, but parents suck either way, so whatever.”

I was amazed how little teenagers had changed since I was one. I know that at fifteen or sixteen there was no way my mother was going to let me go out of town and sleep in a car overnight.

I asked, “Do your parents know the guys you were going with?”

Ethan blinked, likely surprised that I didn’t just accept his ‘whatever logic’, “Uh, well yeah. Not the driver though, like I said, he’s the older brother of one of my friends.”

I said, “Well look at it this way, your parents have never met the older brother, and he’s the driver. So that is a cause for concern. If you want to do stuff like that in future, you should probably get your parents to meet the driver beforehand, you know get them to trust him. Then they are likely to allow you to go, or at least think about it.”

Ethan stared at me, clearly flabbergasted, “Uh, yeah I guess that makes sense. How do you know stuff like that, Abby? I would have never thought about it. I just thought they were being assholes that weekend. I guess I just tuned them out when they said no. Maybe they said something like that. I’m not sure.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “It’s just common sense.”

Ethan laughed off my semi-insult, “You know that’s funny because my parents say, and especially my dad, that I don’t have any common sense sometimes. Like this one time, me and some guys got this idea to take all the signs off the lawns during the stupid election. So we put them all on one guy’s lawn, and it actually got in the paper! I guess we were kind of dumb and posted it on Facebook. When my dad found it, he was like, you have no respect for the democratic process or something, and no common sense. We had to put all the signs back and give a stupid apology.”

I had actually seen it in the paper. I nodded “Well, that was pretty stupid. You guys could have gotten in more trouble than that. It might be considered vandalism, and you could have been charged for it under the Elections Canada Act.”

Ethan laughed, “Oh my god, Abby, you don’t work in a law office anymore, you don’t need to play lawyer. Kids don’t like that you know. It makes you seem like a know-it-all. I mean it was funny what you did to Véronique, but please don’t talk that way in front of my friends.”

My eyes flashed with anger and Ethan quickly back-pedalled, “Hey, hey! Okay, I didn’t mean it! You can talk like that all you want.” He grew more serious, “It’s just ... well don’t you want to fit in? I don’t hear you talk about anyone else our age except Alyssa, and it’s pretty rare. Do you have any friends other than me? Because you know, it might be the way you talk.”

I shrugged, “I like being different. And like I said, I don’t get along with uh, other kids my age.”

Ethan replied, “But you get along with me.”

I nodded, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Despite our slight disagreement, I noticed that Ethan was edging closer to me. I guess after rescuing me with ketchup and mustard bottles, he gained a fair bit of confidence. While I wasn’t aware of it immediately, as we were talking, I subtly licked my lips, just as I had with Jeremy, and I pushed the bangs out of my eyes. I also had that feeling of butterflies mixed with nausea, but as he inched closer to me, only the butterflies remained. I consciously realized that I was giving him signs that I liked him still, and he was acting on it.

I cleared my throat in an unladylike manner and then pulled my phone out of the pocket of my black bag. I looked at the time. “Hey, I am supposed to meet my sister somewhere. I, um- have to go catch the bus.” I was actually supposed to meet Amélie at her sister’s place because my in-laws were in town. Ethan was momentarily disappointed, but he shrugged it off.

“Cool, I’ll wait with you. Oh, and you can keep the jacket. I’ll get it from you at band tomorrow.”

The band was progressing at a rapid pace. Last weekend, we had written three new songs, all based on Ethan’s lead riffs. We had talked about heading back to the Gob potentially, but we wanted to get some recording done. It was difficult because the songs were changing as we were playing them, Ethan adding his parts and the rest of us altering our parts to fit the song. I had to admit, we were a better band with him. A much better band.

I tested my ankle, and while it was a little sore, I could limp on it. This had happened to me before, so a simple tensor bandage would help. Amélie’s sister knew first aid, so I would have her look it over. I thought about getting Ethan to give me a piggy back to the house to change, but I didn’t really want my boobs pressing up against his back because I could only imagine what that was doing to him up front.

We went across the street to the bus stop. Thankfully, there was a shelter, so we quickly ducked inside to escape the rain. Again, Ethan sat close enough to me on the bench that our hips brushed. I looked down, and I could see his hand fidgeting. Was he going to try and hold my hand? I told him expressly that I didn’t want to be anything more than friends, but I was still sending him signals. I couldn’t help it, but I really liked the way his drenched hair sat on his head, the bangs obscuring his eyes. I also couldn’t get the smell of him out of my nose. The smell, like a sort of clean musk coupled with the warm summer rain was driving me crazy. I had fought it while we were in the tube, but now our even closer proximity on the small bench was making it impossible.

I realized I was staring at his hair, at his eyes, at his body. His t-shirt was obviously soaked, so I could see his chest, which was almost concave, and his biceps as easily as he could see my bra, before he had given me his jacket. I though he looked a little like he would if he were exiting the shower. I squirmed in my seat constantly, and like him, fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing my legs. We tried to talk about the band, but there was clearly something in our brains causing us to react this way. Without a word, Ethan put his hand on my thigh, then with his other hand, he brushed back my hair from my eyes. Then he kissed me, full on the lips. It was magic, fireworks, sparks, and a burning flame. Like the old ring the bell carnival game, the feeling shot through me like a strongman striking down on the target and soundly ringing the bell. My head buzzed, my lips relaxed, and for an instant, I kissed him back.

My mind came spiralling back as I regained the ability for conscious thought. I told myself, I am married, I love my wife, and we have a beautiful daughter together. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my wedding band and broke the kiss. Mercifully, the bus chose this moment to arrive. I quickly removed Ethan’s jacket and hobbled toward the bus.

He looked shocked and hurt. “Abby, wait! I- I’m sorry.”

I didn’t look back at him as I boarded the bus. I must have looked distraught because the bus driver didn’t even ask me for my pass or a ticket. I limped to the back of the bus, pleased that there were still seats available. I was less pleased when a group of skeezy looking teenage boys leered at me. My bra was now fully visible because I had given the jacket back. I noticed more than just the boys, grown men were looking at me too, some of them married. A woman Amélie’s age saw what was happening and quickly changed seats to sit next to me.

She asked, “Are you okay sweetie?”

Tears were already brimming at my eyes. The woman put her rain coat over my shoulders and then buttoned just the top two buttons. This hid my bra and my cleavage. I shook my head and buried my face in my hands. My phone vibrated, indicating a text message, and then it vibrated again, and again. I ignored it. The woman gently rubbed my back as I cried.

TEASER PART 4: Abigail experiences the ramifications of the simple kiss as a burgeoning yet confused sexuality takes hold. Meanwhile, the divide between husband and wife widens as their roles within the slowly crumbling union are irrevocably altered. Yet, as all hope seems lost, and the first day of high school looms, a potential cure to Darren’s unique condition surfaces.
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.
This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.
Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: oneshot20XX [at] gmail.com

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 44 (part 4)

I cancelled band that weekend. I couldn’t face Ethan after what had happened on Friday afternoon. I felt ashamed that I had essentially broken my marriage vows. I told Amélie what happened at the Locke Agency, but I simply could not bring myself to tell her anything more. I withdrew both body and mind, moving to my man cave downstairs and neither speaking to Amélie nor answering any texts or phone calls. I listened to angry music, wrote lyrics, and wallowed. Much like I had done when something didn’t go my way as an actual teenager.

On Sunday afternoon, I heard my mother’s voice at the door, “Darren, we are worried about you. Please come out.”

My mother was sneaky. She knew my weakness. I could smell the heavenly aroma of her freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies. I remember as a kid, licking the beaters clean of all remaining cookie dough. The smell alone lightened my mood, as it brought me back to a time of innocence, Saturday morning cartoons and backyard hockey games, playing outside until it got dark and then slipping into a cozy bed surrounded by stuffed animals. I sighed. I really wasn’t handling my firing well at all. I realized how much I was acting like a kid. Adults and mature teens learn to use their support structures to push them through rough patches. Even worse, I realized that I was a textbook case of teen withdrawal. They had taught us in teacher’s college about how teens react to crisis situations, especially those with less developed emotional controls. They turn everyone away, exactly as I was doing.

I looked in the mirror. My eyes were still red and my hair was dishevelled, not the rat’s nest it was before, but certainly getting there if I went days without brushing my hair. I was wearing a pair of pajama pants and one of my old tattered t-shirts. I sniffled and opened the door, “Hi Mom.”

My mom embraced me tightly and as I hugged her back, she was already crying. Even though I didn’t look anything like my mother with her tall slender frame and dark hair, I had certainly inherited her emotions considering the amount of crying I had done since Friday afternoon. She said, “Oh Darren, you really had us worried. Amélie called us and said you wouldn’t come out at all. She didn’t know what you were doing and then you wouldn’t answer your phone. Please don’t worry us like that.”

I frowned, realizing that my behaviour had frightened my family. I nodded, “I’m really sorry Mom. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

She smiled, fresh tears lining her face, “I know Darren, but- please come upstairs, your father has some news about a possible cure.”

My eyes widened, and I shot past my mother like I was in a hundred yard dash. I snaked my hand out to catch the railing as I launched myself up the stairs. My father was already seated at the dining room table. I didn’t see Chloe, so I assumed she was napping.

Amélie hugged and then scolded me, “Darren, don’t do that again. It was scary. You’ve never been like that before. You wouldn’t answer any of my texts or phone calls. I checked on you last night when you were sleeping just to make sure you weren’t dead. I- I was really worried.”

I frowned deeply, feeling a burning in my face as tears threatened to come, but I managed to hold them at bay, amazingly. “I’m really sorry everyone, I won’t do it again. I just- I’m worried about my emancipation. As of tomorrow, I have two weeks to find another job of equal or greater pay. Or go to St. Jo’s. I just can’t even consider that a possibility right now. ”

My father interrupted, “You may not need to. You know the woman I spoke to in New Orleans? Well she got back to me. She sent me the instructions for a spell. She claims to be a descendant of the voodoo queen Marie Laveau.”

Amélie said, “Marie who?”

My father continued, “In the 1830s, a woman, by that name claimed to be able to cure any ailment and remove curses set by those who followed the left-hand path, or the path of the devil. The woman who I spoke to, Mama Khalia, said that she had actually heard of something similar to what happened to Darren. This supposed voodoo queen is said to have actually cured a man who - he read from a page, “... bore the curse of Eve, for misdeeds in which he slayed the unborn, into a shape and bore from a cursed womb a child, which he came to love-”

I threw up my hands, “Okay! Just hold on a sec here. I am not getting pregnant just so I can be cured. This is crazy.”

My father shook his head, “I don’t think that’s quite what it means. I think that the man’s punishment was for killing pregnant women or, at least, causing them to abort. He was forced to become a woman who bore a child, and then see, it continues “…which he came to love and was then stripped of body and child, and returned to Earthly form.” My father said, “I don’t think that the specifics matter so much as that he was returned to ‘Earthly form’. Mama Khalia seemed to think that it was worth a try. This is at least the closest we have come to a historical account of a gender transformation, outside of Greek or Roman mythology.”

I nodded, “Right, where the gods had sex with women and men in various animal forms. Zeus being the biggest pervert of them all. I agree, let’s do the spell.”

Amélie said, “Wait a second. Richard, you said that this Marie Laveau, she removed curses set by people who followed the path of the devil. Why would someone who practices black magic help to right a wrong? I’ve read up a lot on this since Darren’s initial change. People who practice black magic always do so for selfish reasons. Why would someone change a man into a woman to teach him a lesson? Something doesn’t add up.”

I shook my head, “I don’t care. This is the closest we’ve gotten so far. I say we try it.”

My father looked to Amélie, “I agree with Darren. We should at least investigate this.”

Amélie nodded, “I am not saying we shouldn’t look into things, but I am concerned that it might be a hoax. How much did Mama Khalia charge you Richard?”

My father replied, “That’s the thing. Other than a small fee that she charged for the spell’s ingredients, she charged me nothing. Initially, I just left my contact information. In her letter to me, she requested money to buy the ingredients, but nothing else. Unlike the charlatans who requested retainers. She really seemed to want to help Darren. I told her how it had affected my son’s life and our family. She sounds very sympathetic in her letter.”

Amélie said, “So, are you going to pay her airfare or something?” I looked over at my mother who was frowning.

I jumped in, “Amélie, stop it. This could be legitimate. You’ve seen it happen right before your eyes. You didn’t marry a fifteen year old girl, so something had to change me. It wasn’t science or weird chemicals, because those would have been gradual most likely. Medical science can’t do what happened to me. Why are you having such a hard time believing that a cure could exist? You were the one who said you admired that I was still looking.”

Amélie frowned, “Because I’ve stopped looking, Darren. I just can’t do it anymore. It’s like what happened to you happened in a different world. One that has different rules than our own.”

My father replied, “That’s just it Amélie, if you look back in history, magic was far more prevalent, especially before organized religion began. So maybe it is just something long buried. When we visited New Orleans, there were people there who genuinely believe that these voodoo queens or at least their descendants can effect miracles.”

He continued, “I am not going to pay her airfare because she isn’t going to have to come here. The spell can be completed by anyone, but Mama Khalia said that they have to believe it can work. I think that we need to look more into this before considering it, but I believe it is worthwhile. We don’t have any other leads.”

We agreed to complete further research and return in a week, but that left only one more week before my sentence began at St. Jo’s. In the meantime, I needed a contingency plan, so during the week, I started calling law firms.

I knew my job at the Locke Agency wasn't a fluke. I'd been very successful there, and they'd been immensely pleased with my work until it all fell apart. However, I also knew that it had been touch and go at the beginning when I applied for Chantal's job and managed only a student internship over the summer. That, and the fact that I was very close to being a high school sophomore, made me nervous when I spoke to the receptionists trying to get an interview with the partners at each of the firms I phoned.

The nerves tightened my vocal chords so that my voice was even higher than it was normally, almost a squeak. I'd hoped to sound more mature by the end of the summer but that hadn't happened. I sounded even younger than my apparent age - not even like a high school kid but more like a middle schooler who was trying get the receptionists to buy candy to support her seventh grade Jazz band. That didn't help my case, but what made it worse was the breathless tremor caused by my rapidly beating heart. Now I came across as a middle schooler lacking both self-confidence and experience. While the receptionists were polite with me, in most cases, the calls failed to yield the interviews I desired. Some of them even offered me tips, like preparing a script before I called. How mortifying.

During the week, Ethan made several attempts to contact me, and when I ignored his texts and his phone calls, he came to the house on Thursday night. I saw him at the door, but I wasn’t sure he noticed me peeking through the curtains. I hid downstairs. Thankfully, Amélie was gone to do groceries and had taken Chloe with her. The doorbell rang a few more times. I could tell that Ethan was frustrated because he rang it multiple times in a row. He had seen me. Still, there was solid wood and glass between him and I, and he wasn’t getting through. I wasn’t ready to face him yet- maybe not ever. I started to think of my kiss with him as an indiscretion, a moment lost to lust and powerful adolescent hormones. I told myself that it wasn’t me who kissed him back, it was Abigail.

I heard the door open, and I moved upstairs to help Amélie, but when I heard Ethan’s voice, I rapidly retreated downstairs. Had I forgotten to lock the door? I hid in the closet underneath the stairs, but I could hear the conversation very well.

“Thank you, uh- what did you say your name was?” I assumed Ethan was helping Amélie with the groceries.

“Ethan, ma’am. I was hoping to see Abigail. Is she around?”

There was a pause, and then I heard Amélie say, “I’m not sure…how do you know Abigail exactly? And please call me Amélie.”

There was another pause as the two conversationalists waded through a mire of confusion. I heard Ethan’s voice, sounding surprised with a measure of hurt, “You mean she never talks about me?”

Amélie replied, “Well maybe. Abigail hasn’t exactly been talkative with me recently. And to be fair, she never talks to me about any boys.” A truer statement was never spoken.

I heard relief in Ethan’s voice, “Oh okay. Well I’m in her band. At least I thought I was, she hasn’t been answering my calls or texts. Things were going well.”

I had made certain that whenever we had band, Amélie was out of the house. With the summer months and the gorgeous temperatures, it was easy to suggest she take Chloe to a far off park with a superior play structure or to the beach across town (because ours was too polluted). I hadn’t expected Ethan to be so persistent tonight, but now he had met Amélie and I was terrified at the prospect of him telling her what happened.

Amélie sounded surprised, “You are- in her band? The one with Steven and Andrew?”

Ethan replied, “Yeah, for like two weeks now. Last weekend would have been our third jam.”

Amélie said, “Well like I said. Abigail doesn’t tell me stuff like this.” She sounded annoyed.

Ethan said, “Well can you tell her something for me?”

Amélie replied, “Sure Ethan, I owe you for helping me with the groceries. Usually Abigail helps me.” She said the last words loud enough for me to hear anywhere in the house.

I could hear Ethan’s footsteps right above me. He said, “Tell her I’m really sorry.”

He must have clued in that Amélie thought I was in the house because he said his apology at the same decibel level.

“I will tell her when I see her, Ethan.”

Ethan thanked Amélie, and then I heard the door close, followed by Amélie’s footsteps. She was headed right for me. Amélie opened the closet door and stared at me. She looked neither angry nor happy, just confused.

I said, “Uh hi, Amélie. I guess you want to know why there’s a kid in my band?”

Amélie said matter-of-factly with a hint of anger, “That is one of the many questions I have for you, Darren.”

I didn’t like being interrogated in a closet, so I quickly went upstairs. I seated myself on the couch in the TV room, and Amélie sat across from me. The couch sat three comfortably, but the space in between represented very well the growing gap between husband and wife. Amélie didn’t even let me rub her legs any longer, opting to sit apart from me on the couch to remove any possibility of contact between us.

I explained, “It’s like this, Amélie. We were having trouble finding anyone. And I met Ethan over lunch hour at work. He’s an amazing guitar player, and he really helps the band.”

Amélie nodded, “I knew you were having trouble. Laura mentioned it to me, but now I know why you’ve been so insistent that I be out of the house when you have band. That kid likes you, or he likes Abigail at least.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah I know, but it’s just a crush. I told him straight out that I just wanted to be friends when I noticed. He’s pretty cool though, for a kid. We talk a lot at lunch, or at least we did.”

Amélie frowned, “So what did he do to make you so mad at him?”

I replied, “Oh, we got into an argument about hockey. You know he likes the Bruins? Anyway, it got pretty heated, and it got personal.”

Amélie shook her head with disdain, “You had an argument about hockey, and he felt the need to come over here and apologize? Well there you go, you finally found someone as fanatical as you.” There was a hint of mirth in her last words.

She added more seriously, “Teenage crushes can be powerful though, Darren. Just be careful. They can make kids like him do crazy things.”

I shook my head dismissively, “Amélie, I’m a grown man. I think I can handle myself against a boy. I’ve told him we are friends and that’s that. You aren’t weirded out by the fact that there’s a kid in the band though?”

She shook her head, “I know you are passionate about your music, Darren. And, you are willing to do what it takes to make the band successful. He seems nice enough, and if you let him in then he must be committed. Just watch yourself around him.”

With Amélie’s words of warning, I wondered if she was noticing that I was paying more attention to the boys when we went out. I did my best to hide it, staring at scantily-clad college girls or even women my own age, but my eyes always diverted back to the boys. It was getting harder to keep my gaze on the soft supple flesh that I once adored. Even Amélie in her bikini, sunbathing, her soft skin glistening from the tanning oil; her ass actually pooling out in places where the bottoms could not contain the flesh and the slight love handles, it brought a mild tingle, but it was nothing compared to THE kiss.

I was beginning to think that having Ethan in the band was detrimental to my sanity, but especially, my sexuality. My kiss with him had awakened not only a longing to see, but a desire to touch, and to be touched.

I should have been repulsed, but that sickly feeling, like nausea combined with spiders crawling over my skin, the same sensation I had when I thought that Ethan was cute for a microsecond, it was gone, and I couldn’t understand why. It was like someone had crossed the wires in my brain. I wanted to feel tremendous disgust, not only at the gender but the age difference as well, but it was becoming harder and harder.
***

“I just don’t think he’s right for the band guys. I question his commitment. He’s more immature than I thought too.”

It was time to put a line in the sand, and while it may have shown impulsive tendencies, it was clear to me that if Ethan and I spent any more time alone, we would likely be, or rather Abigail would likely be, trying to lick his tonsils clean. The more I thought about Amélie’s words of warning, and the fact that Ethan had come to the house, made me think that perhaps Ethan’s crush was slowly getting out of control.

It was easy to blame Abigail, as some wanton teenage vixen, but there was a part of me that knew we were one and the same- that I had kissed Ethan back and not some separate entity entirely. I was extremely confused about my sexuality, and I had absolutely no one I could speak to about it. I would rather have cut my ring finger off than tell Amélie. I could not speak to my family, nor could I discuss it with anyone who knew me only as Abigail. Was I suffering from a form of gender dysphoria? Would I eventually only see girls as friends or even worse - as competition, instead of as objects of desire?

Steven shook his head, “What’s going on with you Darren? Last week you cancelled band, and you never do that unless you are really sick, and now you are saying you want the kid out? You were the one who brought him in. We wrote some great stuff with him. And now you want to kick him out?”

Andrew nodded in agreement, “Ethan has shown nothing but a firm commitment to this band. He’s a great player. I’ve played the new stuff for a guy at work, you know he’s in that band Porcelain? Well they want us to open for them. He liked the old stuff, but he says the new tracks are great. This is a fantastic opportunity for us. And this is a downtown show too. We will get mega exposure.”

I shook my head, and like a diva, the type who asks for only blue M&Ms or a dressing room that is entirely white, I said, “Play the set.” Steven counted 1-2-3-4, and we moved into the old songs, although my band mates did so begrudgingly. I had to admit, they felt stale without Ethan’s parts, and admittedly empty in places because I could no longer play what was required. After four songs, Steven stopped.

“Darren, I don’t know what happened between you and Ethan, but it’s hurting the band. If he’s out, then we are back to being mediocre.”

I shot back, “Thanks for encouraging me to pick up the guitar again so you could call my playing and song writing mediocre.”

Andrew entered the fray, “I don’t think that’s what Steven means, Darren. You clearly can’t play the songs the way you used to anymore. And because of that it detracts from not only your guitar playing, but your singing too. What did Ethan do?”

I frowned, “Nothing OK? I just want him out.” I threw down my guitar, which caused a loud buzzing noise followed by a mass of feedback. “It’s him or me.”

Andrew looked to Steven. The two exchanged worried glances, but Steven was clearly the angrier of the two. Andrew turned off my amp to kill the feedback.

“Darren, when you decide to act like a man, instead of a five year old girl throwing a temper tantrum because she didn’t get her way, then call me. If not, then I’m going to start looking for another band.” Steven's voice softened.

“Look, I still want to be your friend man. I know what happened to you can’t be easy. But I can’t be in a band with someone who thinks they run the whole show.”

Andrew nodded, “Yeah, you are kind of acting like a diva, Darren.”

I turned my back to them, “Just get out, both of you.” I crossed my arms underneath my chest, “It’s him or me.”

Andrew shook his head sadly, and Steven said nothing, but the way he stomped up the stairs told me everything about his thoughts on the matter.

***

I failed to learn anything about Mama Khalia’s spell. The Ottawa area, being a mostly boring government town, didn’t exactly have a thriving voodoo community. Despite that, I was more than willing to try it. I was so desperate to avoid repeating the tenth grade that I was willing to try nearly anything, except pregnancy, but re-reading the history behind the spell convinced me that the pregnancy was unique to the individual apparently cured by Marie Laveau.

My parents arrived, and I was a ball of tightly wound nerves. Amélie and I discussed her findings, but she had also turned up nothing. My father brought his laptop inside and my mother trailed behind him.

I said anxiously, “Did you find anything out? Anything at all?”

My father nodded slowly and sat down, “I received another letter from Mama Khalia. I’m afraid it isn’t good news Darren.”

My heart sank, but still, I was willing to try the spell. My father continued, “I’m not going to sugar coat it. Amélie was right. The translation was very poor. Marie Laveau apparently never cured this man. She said that even the story was false. If you look at the tenets of voodoo, there is nothing that speaks of physical transformations. The so-called curses can afflict a body part, but not change a body.”

I looked at my father, and then I looked at my mother who had a more difficult time hiding her emotions. My mother hated it when my father lied. I could see her jaw clench. What wasn't I being told?

Amélie was clearly upset, “Why even mention this, Richard? Why would this Mama Khalia bring something up as a possible cure and then snatch it away like that? It makes no sense.”

I nodded, “I agree. There’s something you aren’t telling us.”

My mother frowned and then said gently, “The risk is too great Darren. It’s not worth it to try. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll have to go to that school.”

I shook my head, “This isn’t anyone’s decision but mine. I don’t care what the risks are, I am willing to do this. Just tell me what needs to be done. I believe it can work!”

My mother took my hand, while my father sighed deeply, “The son I raised might be head strong, but he’s not a fool.”

I said through clenched teeth, “Tell me.”

My father replied, “The spell has been done. The translation speaks of being returned to ‘earthly form’, well depending on the one who casts it, the result can differ greatly. The man who was ‘cured’ by Marie Laveau was actually regressed. I suppose whatever spirits allowed the release of the magic felt that he had not suffered enough, or that he would better serve this world if he was forced to grow up again.”

My father shook his head, “Voodoo is very much based on a spiritual connection. According to Mama Khalia, if these spirits believe you are unworthy, the tenth grade could be the least of your worries.”

Amélie frowned, “You mean Darren would be stuck going to middle school or even elementary school? Would he be a boy at least?””

My father nodded, “He might. But the man cured by Marie Laveau stayed female. So Chloe could even have a little sister, the way I understand it.”

I shook my head, “So what have I done exactly to deserve this? The man who was transformed in the 1830s was either an early adopter of abortion or a homicidal maniac. Either way, in that time period he would have been very unpopular with the earthly and spiritual world. I am neither of those things. Even if the spell is dangerous, I have a hard time believing that the spirits would decide to punish me further. What could be worse than this?”

My father replied while reading from a crumpled letter, “Mama Khalia dug deeper, and she said that Marie Laveau was not the first one to cast the spell. The first historical record of the casting involved an African warlord who had a silver tongue. He was cursed to become a mute and lost his empire because of it. His court advisor, still loyal to the warlord, approached the witch and explained what happened, and the witch provided a spell, the same one given to us. Upon casting it, the warlord’s heart stopped. The advisor returned to the witch for vengeance, and as she was impaled by spears she said, “The spirits will tear aside petty humanity, revealing only the light or the dark within. For those cursed by voodoo’s hand, let not the caster live in sin, for if so, the caster shall lose more than his lands.”

I interjected, “Dad, wait a second here. Both of the individuals you mentioned weren’t exactly candidates for the Nobel Peace Prize. I am not a saint by any means, but I am not as bad as them. I have a hard time believing that the spirits would kill me or turn me into a little girl.”

My mother said, “But do you really want to risk it, Darren? At least this way, you could graduate high school and move right into pre-law. It is a huge gamble. At least you are still you this way. Think about Amélie too, if you become even younger that will be a huge burden on her. I know you don’t want to come live with us, but if you become a little girl, I’m afraid you may not have a choice, honey.”

The old Darren Lawrence would have balked at such a gamble, but the person who was set to become Abigail Grenier as of September 2 was still considering trying it. My eyes shifted back and forth as they always did when I was deep in thought.

Amélie interrupted my thoughts as she had five months ago, “Considering there isn’t one record of this spell actually working in a way that benefited the caster, I don’t think you should do it Darren. You’ve lived five months this way. Being a teen girl isn’t the worst thing in the world, and the other casters would definitely agree with you. One being dead and the other a baby.”

I listened to my family and my wife deciding my future and stayed quiet. In my mind, this was not over, but I wanted them to think it was.

***

“Darren, you really should come. I took the day off today so that we could pick up your uniform. You’ll need to get it sized and everything. Plus, don’t you want to see the school?”

I was sitting on the couch in my pyjamas. I gave Amélie an uninterested look, “You know my size. You can get it. Why would you want me to go anyway? I saw the way you were looking at the principal after the hearing.”

Amélie shook her head, “That’s not fair, Darren. I know you are upset about the spell, but it’s for the best. I know you can’t really see what is happening to you, but are you really willing to chance it? Imagine having to go back to the fourth grade. You’d almost be living your entire life over again, and that would change you far more than this has changed you. I don’t want to lose you, Darren.” She wiped her eyes. “Please let me know that I can trust you to make the right decision. We won’t stop looking, but in the meantime, I am legally bound to make you attend St. Jo’s.”

I nodded my head, “You can trust me Amélie. Don’t worry about it.”

Amélie nodded and then left.

***

When the day arrived for me to attend at St. Jo’s, it had come after a tumultuous weekend. During a BBQ on Sunday afternoon, in our very own backyard, and in front of my family and hers, Amélie refused to allow me to drink any alcohol. She was drinking Corona, and I wanted one too. When I took one from the fridge, removed the cap and added the traditional lime, she snatched it from me, explaining that she did not want me to be hung over for the first day of classes. I noticed that, throughout the summer, Amélie had become more and more of a nag. I had had a beer in front of her before. During the Canada Day long weekend, I even had three. I was sick the next day, but I planned on only having one. Now, she was concerned with me having one measly beer. I couldn't take it.

Instead of my family backing me up, they supported Amélie.

Even my own little sister, the one who had regaled me with tales of puking in her hair and being so intoxicated that she thought drinking rum straight was a fantastic and most elegant idea. Then, of course, there was the story of her being caught by our father while double-fisting two beers and saying she was holding BOTH of them for other people. Despite that, she had the gall to state that I needed to watch myself.

This was a family backyard party not a loud, obnoxious club full of men trying to slip something in my drink. I could understand my family feeling protective, and my little sister trying to show me the ropes when it came to drinking alcohol as a girl, but it stunk of duplicity. Amélie was as bad as my sister, and in some ways worse. I used to have to cut her off. I recall one night, with two dollar shooters and mixed drinks when I had to stop Amélie from chugging random drinks she found in the club, after I had stopped her from buying more.

I relayed all of this back to both Amélie and my sister, but they used the excuse that I wasn’t thinking straight. I needed to be careful around alcohol. This coming from my sister, who did the same thing at fifteen was the height of hypocrisy!

***

Amélie said, “Promise me you’ll go? I can trust you to go, right Darren? I’d drive you, but you don’t start until nine.”

I was buttoning the blouse, which like the skirt, was a little snug. I tied the small cravat around my neck, but I never looked at myself in the mirror. I brushed my hair and did the usual style, but I wore no cosmetics. Amélie frowned at what she saw, but said nothing. I was not putting the same effort into my appearance because honestly, I had no intention of going.

As soon as Amélie left I changed into one of my work suits, a skirt, blouse and pantyhose. Now, I cared about my appearance. I took the bus downtown and literally pounded the pavement, walking from law office to law office. I did this Monday and Tuesday. In the meantime, I received a few texts from Ethan. Something about classes. I ignored them.

When I returned home, Amélie and I would have the same argument after she had received a call that I had missed another day. She threatened me, but I knew that if I could cement a full-time job, I could still be emancipated. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend college because Judge Richter said it did not meet the supervision requirements of my quasi-probation. I knew that I was taking a risk by skipping school, especially when I was court ordered to attend, but I thought my perseverance would eventually pay off.

Wednesday morning, Amélie drove me to school. As she was dropping me off, she said, “Darren, I’m sick of fighting with you about this. The school knows you are court ordered to attend. If you miss a full week, there could be very serious consequences. Don’t you care at all? I’m supposed to be your guardian. You aren’t making this easy on me. They said if you miss a full week, they will have to ‘engage in conversation with Judge Richter.’ You really don’t want them to do that, do you?”

I shook my head and played along. I saw the uniformed students moving two-by-two into the school, like drones. Amélie had dropped me off very near the bell, likely thinking that if I loitered outside that someone would bring me inside. Possibly the School Resource Officer.

I watched Amélie’s SUV disappear and then rapidly made my way to the parking lot. I hid between a pick-up truck and a sedan, quickly taking off my white blouse and putting on a t-shirt I had stashed in my bag. As I moved to stand up to check if the coast was clear, I was spotted by a teacher pulling into a space right in front of me. There was no use running from him, since he had already seen me, so I formulated a plan.

As I watched him exit his vehicle, I saw that he was a young man in his mid-twenties. His hair was short and neatly combed. He had a professional bag, much like mine, which was full to the brim with papers, some even sticking out at awkward angles, almost begging the wind for a little gust to free them. He wore a tie, which I thought was odd, considering no one except the principal had worn a tie when I taught. He was tall, and the suit he wore, with the pants too short at the ankle, a state of fashion Amélie called ‘l’eau dans cave’, was clearly made for someone with shorter legs and a broader gut. I guessed it was probably his dad’s suit. As I caught sight of his face, I felt a little tingle. I had to admit that it was handsome, with a well-defined jaw, neatly shaven and set with light grey eyes.

He asked me in French, (Didn’t you hear the bell?) He had a very crisp way of speaking, enunciating all of his words.

I answered in French awkwardly, (I have an ‘appointment” with the dentist. ) I couldn’t remember the right word, and then I realized it was rendez-vous chez le dentist.

He looked me over, obviously seeing that I was wearing a t-shirt, but that I still had my school skirt on. I could see that he was trying to determine if I was lying to him.

I said, (You can see my pass if you like.)

He said, (It’s not necessary, I believe you. What’s your name? )

I said, (Um. Ghislaine. Ghislaine Beausoleil. )

He said, (Okay, Mademoiselle Beausoleil. I take it you do not like the uniform? ) He was smiling at me, and clearly trying to make a joke, and the little tingle increased in intensity.

I shook my head and then quickly was on my way. I walked four stops away to ensure no one from the school could see me. It was past rush hour, so I had to wait nearly twenty minutes for a bus. Just as it arrived, a police car pulled up behind. Thankfully, as soon as the bus turned onto a main thoroughfare, the police car continued in the opposite direction. I was paranoid at the sight of any police cars. I wasn’t sure if they acted like glorified truant officers, dragging kids back to school who were caught playing hooky. I had never skipped a class in high school, and as a teacher, I let the robotic Scantron machine phone the parents. I expected these were the same calls Amélie was receiving every evening. I recall one kid I taught was court ordered to be there, or he would go back to jail, but I doubted that anything that severe would happen to me.

By the time I arrived home, it was already past noon, nevertheless, I got dressed in my interview clothing and returned to the job hunt. Unfortunately, every single time I approached a potential employer and enquired if they were hiring paralegals, I was practically laughed out of the office. Even when I quoted legal jargon and demonstrated a clear understanding of administrative and constitutional law, they treated me like an overzealous kid. I received applications for summer internships, but nothing beyond that. I felt like I was trying to open a massive, iron-wrought door, and I could not even move it an inch. Finally, after waiting until six-thirty, with my phone buzzing constantly with angry texts from Amélie, the receptionist at Vincent, Smith and Gill said that I could come back tomorrow and Mr. Vincent, a partner in the firm would speak with me.

***

Amélie said, “This is it, Darren. The very last time I am going to let you do this. If this firm doesn’t hire you, you go to school on Friday.”

I nodded, realizing that I had gotten my way. I wore a triumphant half-smile. “Yeah. Definitely, but I feel really good about this firm. They seem really progressive. Like the Locke Agency.”

Amélie frowned, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much though, Darren. These are businesses. Are they really going to hire someone who should be in high school? Think about this logically. You said yourself that Stephanie had no intention of hiring you.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Maybe this place will be different. They were the first ones not to laugh in my face or think I was trying to pull some prank on them.”

Amélie nodded, but her expression did not exactly look like a vote of confidence in my favour.

***

“Mr. Vincent will see you now.” The receptionist was the exact opposite of Chantal. She wore a beaming smile, was ecstatic to see I had returned and even offered me an iced tea from the firm’s mini-fridge. Her name was Gail. She was middle-aged, and while I didn’t like how she called me ‘young lady’, I was pleased that she spoke to me respectfully.

I entered the office and a man in his mid-forties motioned for me to take a seat. His office was what you would expect from a partner in a law firm, posh and opulent, but without the gaudiness of someone with simply too much money. Mr. Vincent had pictures of his family on the wall, alongside his diplomas. He was a family man, and I smiled at the images, although seeing him with a young girl at Disneyland, likely his daughter, caused a pang of sadness. It had been a long time since I had taken any pictures with Chloe. While she called me daddy now, no one else would see me that way.

I started, hoping that my enthusiasm and initiative would impress him, “Thank you very much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Vincent.”

He smiled, “Not at all. I don’t mind taking the time to speak to someone who is as interested in the law as you are, Miss Grenier. I have to ask though, did you get permission to miss class today?”

I nodded, “Yes, my guardian gave it, when I told her about this interview.”

The conversation continued, and as always, I gave a very good, confident interview. Something about Mr. Vincent allowed me to relax. The beautiful view from his office, and his easy-going manner reminded me very much of Anthony from the Locke Agency. We talked for twenty five minutes, and Mr. Vincent even declined a phone call from a client to continue our conversation. I could tell he was impressed by my knowledge of the law.

He said, “I have very much enjoyed our chat, Miss Grenier. I would be pleased to recommend you for our firm’s student internship program, and I would be happy to mentor you. I expect you will go pre-law?”

I blinked. “Uh, that wasn’t what I had in mind Mr. Vincent. I am here for a job. You see, I am trying to become legally emancipated. I heard that you were hiring a paralegal. I have a lot of experience researching case law and preparing cases to go to trial. I believe that I would be an asset to your firm.” I briefly explained to him my goal to become emancipated, hoping that he would again be impressed by my initiative.

Mr. Vincent frowned deeply. He looked at a picture of his daughter, we were likely very close in age. “I am sorry, Abigail, but I can’t hire you as a paralegal. And from what you have explained, a job as a law clerk simply won’t meet the requirements of your emancipation. Paralegals in private firms need to have the education. You have the skills certainly, but I can’t hire you because you don’t have a diploma.”

My world crashed around me, if I hadn’t mouthed off to the police officer, I would be sitting in a college classroom moving one step closer to getting my paralegal accreditation.

“Beyond all that Abigail, I’m sorry to say, but you are too young.” He smiled sadly, “Do you understand what the word optics means?”

I nodded sadly.

He said, “I can’t have a high school girl representing our firm. It just doesn’t look right to our clients. They would ask too many questions.” This was exactly what Stephanie and Anthony had said.

I replied snidely, “But that’s ageism. It’s not fair. I can do the job.”

He said, “People in this profession expect you to have the credentials to back up your ability. It would be different if you worked retail or in the food industry, but that wouldn’t help your emancipation.”

He explained, “I really think that, unfortunately, you will have a lot of trouble getting hired at any firm as a paralegal, most of them require at least a college degree, but because it is becoming so competitive, some are even asking for at least some university. I would have a hard time convincing the other partners to hire a high school girl in a job where we are requiring individuals to have professional credentials. I am sorry, Abigail. Please don’t hesitate to contact me again if you need a reference. You should definitely go pre-law. That will be three to four years. And then law school will be another three years. You should forget paralegal and become a lawyer.”

He smiled, likely trying to raise my severely dampened spirits, “That’s where the action is. And look at it this way, if you come to our firm again in say ten years, and get a job here, it will be quite the story to tell, right?” He was waiting for a laugh probably, but when it didn’t come he said gently, “Sorry, Abigail but I really must get back to work. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Gail greeted me enthusiastically, “So? Was Mr. Vincent very nice? I think if you come back here in the summer, he would strongly consider you for an internship. As long as you have your high school diploma. That’s a prerequisite. You are graduating this year, right honey?”

I said nothing and trudged out the door defeated.

That night I was in a piss poor mood. Amélie knew that the interview had not gone well from my demeanour, as I stomped instead of walked around the house. Even Chloe’s unfailing cuteness could not pull me from my dark temperament. After Amélie went to sleep, I entered the band room and pulled the sleeping pills out of my guitar case, where I had hidden them all these months. I had kept my promise to Amélie that I would stop taking them, but tonight, I knew I wasn’t going to sleep if I didn’t return to my old crutch.

My dreams, after taking five of the pills, were bizarre, stranger than a gender transformation or being attacked by undergarments. I rode a unicorn that spoke in rainbows. I was Abigail in the dream, except I was both a giant and minuscule, tiny within a city of millions, but the only inhabitants were crickets. I was their queen. A massive burly arm pushed me into a funnel that was oddly shaped like a school bus. On the bus, were my childhood friends, and we were off to school, but I was still Abigail, but younger this time. I looked in the window of the bus and saw that I was missing my two front teeth. I wore a ball gown with glass slippers and a tiara. The arm scooped up the school bus and proceeded to shake it. That is when I awoke with Amélie practically screaming in my ear and shaking me as if she feared for my life.

Chapter 45

My dream, while stranger than the previous two, still lacked the feeling that I could act as a participant rather than an observer. It really was a random assembly of words and pictures. The others seemingly had a purpose, but this one was far more like an actual dream. Since my change, I had dreamt many times, usually a few times a week, but it was only more recently that I had actually seen myself as Abigail.

I muttered, still groggy from my sleeping pills, “I’m up…quit shaking me, Amélie.”

As I faded from a dream state to reality, I noticed two things: one, I could barely move. My limbs felt like my blood had been replaced with liquid metal and solidified, and the other- a debilitating depression. Even if I had been able to coax my limbs to life, I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to leave the bed. I had a hard time believing that my sleeping pills could have caused my mindset, but coupled with my thorough failure to secure emancipation, it was a powerful misery inducing cocktail that flowed into my brain. The sleeping pills were actually supposed to reduce anxiety, but that was in adults- for teens, they apparently had the opposite effect in some cases. Lucky me.

I turned away from Amélie to face the window, but she got right back into my face, “It’s almost nine, Darren. You are going to be late! Get up!”

When I turned back to her, I must have looked beyond defeated, because her mouth gaped, and her pretty features tightened into an angry, yet deeply concerned mask. She took a breath, to calm herself, “I’ve been trying to wake you up since seven thirty. You took your sleeping pills again, didn't you?”

I nodded my head and instead of the rage I expected, Amélie gently stroked my hair, “I’m sorry. I know how much emancipation meant to you, and how much you don’t want to go, but please Darren, you have to.” I pulled myself into the foetal position and shook my head.

From my vantage point, I could see that Amélie had laid out my clothes at the foot of the bed. She had ironed the white blouse, which I had thoughtlessly stuffed into my bag when I fled school on Wednesday. The red and black plaid skirt lay underneath it, along with a pair of long white socks. They were optional, but I guess she figured I would want to cover my legs. The cravat and blazer with the emblazoned ‘SJ’ was hanging in my closet next to my male and female work clothes.

Amélie spoke gently, but with a firmness that I noticed more and more. It was a tone similar to one she used with Chloe when she was misbehaving- firm and in control. “Get up now.” I shook my head. Even if I had wanted to rise, my legs would have refused to cooperate in their wooden state.

She said, “I really didn’t want to have to do this- to threaten you, but they are sending a social worker here next week. Judge Richter believes that I may be an unfit guardian. Darren, they could take you away from me, from Chloe. Please, you have to go today. Even if you go for just one class, please.” I could see tears forming in her eyes.

I said, “They are probably bluffing, and if not- then whatever. Do you really want me to go in this state?” It was like a parasite has sucked out all of my drive, ambition and confidence.

I said, “Do you want to know why I don’t want to go? Beyond the fact that I have to do it as a girl, or wear a skirt, or be surrounded by stupid kids all day? It’s because I’m changing, and I can’t stop it.”

Amélie looked at me up and down, taking in my form. She would have seen no physical change. She asked me, “Changing how, Darren?”

I sighed deeply and turned my head away from my wife. I couldn’t face her as I told her. “I-I’m starting to like boys- and…men in general. I can’t help it. I get these images in my head, and they won’t go away. I’m worried that if I go, and I’m surrounded by teenage boys all the time, I’ll become- a- a real teenage girl.”

Amélie said sadly as she gently stroked my hair again, “I know, Darren. I’ve known since the beginning of summer. The way you go out of your way to talk about how sexy girls are or how great I look in my bikini, but your eyes always return to the boys.” She turned my head so that I was facing her, “I would rather have you like that than not at all, though. It’s pretty clear that we aren’t married anymore. I still love you, but I was never attracted to you like that, and now, you don’t see me that way either.

I shook my head, tears brimming in my eyes, “No Amélie, listen- if I stay away from them I can beat this. We just need to get a stay of decision and-”

Amélie put her finger on my lip, “It’s too late for that, Darren. There’s a social worker coming here next week. If I can’t show that I am a suitable guardian for you, Judge Richter said that there is a real possibility you could end up in foster care.”

I shook my head repeatedly, but depression had sapped my drive. I couldn’t even begin to formulate an argument let alone write an entire request for a stay of decision. I buried myself under the covers as a clear indication that I wasn’t getting out of bed.

Amélie said firmly, “I'll phone St Jo's and tell them you're sick but this is the last time. You are going on Monday if I have to drag you through the door myself.”

She stared through me, “Now, where are those pills?”

I mumbled in reply, “My guitar case.”

Amélie said, “And you don’t have any hidden anywhere else?”

My voice under the blanket was muffled, yet angry, “No!”

Amélie replied “OK.”

I heard Amélie leave and close the door behind her. With the overdose of sleeping pills, this was not a battle she thought she could win. Even with the threat of the social worker, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. My limbs were starting to wake up, but my brain chained me to the soft confines of the mattress.

***

I awoke to the sound of furniture moving downstairs. I rubbed my eyes, ran a quick brush through my hair and moved toward the sound. Amélie was rearranging my man cave, moving boxes full of sports memorabilia and comic books into the storage area under the stairs.

I frowned as I watched her carry out a box of my old hockey trophies, trophies that had previously been on a shelf in the room. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Amélie replied, “Making ‘Abigail’s’ room. It doesn’t look like a teenage girl lives in this house at all. The social worker is probably going to want to see your bedroom.” I watched silently as Amélie threw my old video games in a box and took down my Montreal Canadiens flag and jersey.

I interrupted, “Hey, you know, Abigail can like hockey. If the social worker interviews my supposed peers, well they will say I like music too. You can keep my Nirvana box set and the ticket stubs. Abigail is a rock chick. She’s not going to have ponies or pictures of Justin Bieber or something. ”

Amélie nodded, “Fine, okay. Well then, why don’t you help me?”

I was willing to help, and I was actually feeling a lot better as the sleeping pills, which had seriously increased my anxiety, slowly left my system. I also understood the importance of showing that Amélie was providing Abigail with a proper bedroom. It needed to look like Abigail actually lived here. Unfortunately, neither Amélie nor I knew what a teenage girl’s bedroom actually looked like. So we did what we always did- checked the Internet.

The mismatched drapes were replaced with pink and black leopard print curtains. Once we realized that a beat-up futon would not suffice, we went out and bought a double bed. I was actually pleased to get a new bed because, as Darren, the futon played havoc with my back. Even as Abigail, the mattress sagged and I could feel the metal frame pressing into my back. I called my parents because Amélie and I lacked the skill to even put a simple bed frame together.

I took a beige teddy bear that had actually been mine as a kid and put it on the bed after it was built. My father made building the frame look easy. I usually struggled with anything that required more than a screwdriver. I knew that my parents had already been told about the social worker. They acted like it was necessary to create a room for Abigail with little explanation. Amélie was still going behind my back. I was surprised that my parents hadn't come into town to drag me to school, but I assumed it was because Amélie wanted to show that we could function without their help. I guess she was wrong.

The remodelling of the man cave continued well into Saturday, with my mother watching Chloe while we worked to turn the room into something inhabited by a normal teenage girl. Amélie had the great idea of using black cork board to spell out A-B-I-G-A-I-L in large flowery letters on the wall right above my new bed. While I didn’t like how feminine it was, it was a nice touch. It gave the room a more lived-in quality, and it was faster than painting. Painting would have been far too obvious because the smell would have been there well into next week. My father installed two guitar mounts, and I hung my old and new guitar on the wall.

Amélie insisted that we also hang a GIRLS ROCK poster with a pink background and a large white star on the other cork board that we hung on the opposite wall, which I felt was trite. Amélie felt it was empowering, and fit well with a girl who was in a band.

The real problem was the fact that we just didn’t have enough stuff to fill the room. My father pointed out that a fifteen year old girl would not read “Paris 1919”, “Hitler’s Willing Executioners”, “Teaching students with disabilities”. So, all of my books from university were boxed. The music books stayed- 'The History of Grunge', Dave Grohl’s book and a number of large photo books from my favourite bands. My sister donated her Harry Potter books.

Amélie said, “I’ll add my Twilight books too. There were so many teen girls at those movies, I felt like I was back in high school.”

I furrowed my thin brows, “Um, okay, there’s where I draw the line. Abigail has taste. She would not read something as embarrassing as Twilight. I think the music books are fine, really.”

Amélie shrugged her shoulders, “Suit yourself. The room still looks kind of empty.” She was right. The closet was empty except for my school uniform. The top of the dresser, which would usually have been covered with hair product, makeup, and perfume was barren. There were no pictures except for the one glow-in the dark peace sign poster hanging on the ceiling directly above my bed and the GIRLS ROCK.

Since Abigail was supposed to be a musician, I brought in some stuff from the band room. Music stands, my old two channel USB recorder and a mic stand. To me, this showed that someone was clearly living there. It wasn’t enough to actually put stuff in a room, you needed to place items that a person would actually use.

Amélie said, “Well Darren, what do you think?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I think it looks stupid. But then, I am not the target demographic, so, what do I know?”

Amélie smirked, “If that’s your response then it’s near perfect. The only thing you need is a vanity, which we can bring from our room. I do my makeup in the bathroom anyway.”

I shook my head, “I don’t wear any makeup. And I'm not planning on it.”

Amélie replied, “Yes, but there’s no mirror in here. Are you telling me a teenage girl doesn’t have a mirror in her room?

I shrugged again, “Well maybe one who isn’t conceited.”

Amélie shook her head and then asked my father to bring the vanity down.

The last items Amélie took down were my framed university diplomas, Bachelor of Arts and Education degrees. I knew they didn’t belong in Abigail’s room, but it was hard to see them put in a box. Their removal represented very well the reality of the situation. The degrees were worthless to a fifteen year old girl, and while the toil to obtain the degrees had provided me with a wealth of skills, I could not reap the benefits, and because of that I would start high school for the second time on Monday.

***

My father sighed deeply, “This isn’t going to be easy Darren, but we need to discuss your finances. We can cover your mortgage payments, but we should see how you can save some money.”

He continued, “Your biggest payment is probably your car, right?”

I narrowed my eyes, but I realized I didn’t have much of an argument. The car payments were the result of a bank loan with another 24 months left to go. I had no choice but to continue paying them. “I can’t forfeit on my payments, it would ruin my credit. Also, I’ll be able to drive the car in December. I don’t agree.” I positioned my folded arms underneath my chest.

Amélie said, “I guess it’s the same thing for your cell phone. You have a three year contract, right? They’d ruin your credit and send you to collections.”

I looked to my father, “What if you cover the cost of the rest of the car?”

My father said, “We looked at our finances. With our savings, we could cover your half of the mortgage for a while at least. I think you and Amélie staying in this house is a good thing, especially with the social worker coming. You need to show stability. Amélie can continue paying her portion. We also think that you should pull Chloe out of daycare. Pamela will watch her during the day. How much will that save?”

Amélie looked at my mother, “Are you really willing to do that? It’s a lot to ask, Pam. I don’t want to inconvenience you. It would certainly help though. It would save us about eight hundred dollars a month.”

I couldn’t help but think that it was also a way to combat my truancy. I couldn’t hide out at home if my mom was home with Chloe.

My mother shook her head, “I love Chloe, and if it means helping you out, then I'm happy do it.”

I said, “I still think I should be able to keep MY car. I’ve paid it off for three years now.”

My father said, “Darren, give your head a shake and think about this. You can’t even drive the car now, so it’s just sitting in your driveway costing you money every month. Maybe you could try and sell it.”

I hammered home my point, “It’s my car, and I want to keep it. Plus, I still have two years of payments.”

Amélie said gently, “I think your dad is right, Darren. Besides, you won’t even be able to drive it without me or one of your parents sitting next to you, at least for the first year. What use would it be? You already know how to drive. Why not just get your driving experience on my car?”

My father added, “Not only that, Darren, but do you have any idea how much the insurance would be for a new driver with two prior traffic offences? We are talking astronomically expensive, and, considering your other needs, a car that sits in your driveway for most of the next two years shouldn’t factor into your finances. I think the best thing is for me to pay off the loan, and then for you to sell it. That way I will get my money back, and you can put the rest into a joint account.”

I shouted, “Hold on a second here! That’s still my money.” I was starting to get emotional, “This isn’t fair at all.”

Amélie shook her head, “Darren, it’s our money. With your parents help we just might be able to do this. But, we need to cut more.” Amélie started drawing up a proper budget.

The discussion continued from there with me having little to no say. I was going to lose my car, a symbol of my independence and a link to adulthood. It was the first car I ever owned outright, except for what was still owed to the bank, but still- it was supposed to be mine. As for the budget, it was decided that we would cut the cable entirely, which meant that my sports and music package was gone. I saw this as entirely unfair because Amélie mostly watched Netflix, which we kept. Based on the figures, as long as Amélie kept working and my mother watched Chloe during the day, we could keep our collective heads above water. Amélie’s parents were willing to help us with unforeseen expenses, like unusually high electricity bills, but they could not help us on a monthly basis.

My fear that I would become a mere spectator in my life had seemingly come true. My parents and Amélie had made all the major decisions. I suppose I was less than cooperative, but it was because I felt left out of the whole process. Their lack of respect hurt more than losing the hockey channels I liked and even my car. I feared what might come next. Maybe an allowance?

***

The remodeling had kept me busy, and it had kept my depression at bay. However, Sunday night, the reality of my situation weighed on me heavily. It was easy to blame others for my predicament, but that is how a child would react. No, I knew that this sentence was in part my own design. If I hadn’t foolishly gone to see Brad alone, I wouldn’t have ended up being seen by Dr. Alberts, and Amélie would likely not have lost faith in my ability to make good decisions. Most importantly, she would have trusted me still. My week of playing hooky had breached that trust even more severely. My treatment of her through this whole ordeal was shameful, and I saw that. She had been put in the unenviable position of trying to be both my wife and my legal guardian, and I had been less than cooperative regarding the latter.

If I had simply accepted Officer Patterson’s ticket by acting like an adult and admitting my mistake, instead of mouthing off at him, I may never have ended up in Judge Richter’s courtroom. As for my emancipation, it may have still failed, but at least I could have gone to community college. Furthermore, my hissy fit at the Locke Agency had robbed me of a reference for an entire summer of work. I had burnt my bridge there with a flamethrower, and I had never done that before. Previously, when I was unhappy in a job, I did the work and received a reference while holding my tongue.

I saw how each of my decisions led me to my current path, and I began to seriously question going through with my plan, but considering what I had lost, I felt it was a necessary risk.

I took a kitchen knife and gently cut along the underside of each of my arms in a long even motion. It hurt less than I thought, but then I had frozen the area and applied rubbing alcohol prior to cutting to numb the nerves. Blood flowed from the paper thin wound, while I rapidly positioned my arms above the chalk circle I had drawn. I watched the blood drip gently into the circle, and carefully stepped into it, cautious not to wipe away any of the chalk with my socked feet.

Obtaining the spell from my parents had been too easy. While my father was handy, I was technologically savvy. My parents, who lived in a more rural area, did not have access to high-speed internet. They had missed their favourite shows while they toured the southern portion of the United States during the summer, so I offered to download and transfer these shows to their computer.

The spell, which was in simple .TXT format, had been deleted, but my father never deleted the items from his Recycle Bin, so it was child’s play to pluck it from there and print a copy for myself.

I couldn’t imagine the spirits punishing me for asking to have my life back. If magic worked as Wicca believed it did, my request would re-establish the balance. What vengeful, cruel force would take away someone’s husband, someone’s father and someone's son? As I conducted the ritual, I willed myself to believe that the spell would restore me to my rightful body. As I chanted the ancient script, uttered by Marie Laveau and the ancient court advisor, I pictured myself back in my body. I saw my firm stomach, short hair, my brown eyes, and my lean body.

Even though it was early September, it was still warm- a so-called Indian summer, but the air within the circle was bitterly cold. I reached my hand out of the circle for a moment, and I could feel the warm air, but inside, it was freezing. My teeth chattered, and I had trouble chanting. To me, this meant that it was working. Something was in the circle with me. I could feel the air on my body, almost like ghostly hands running down my legs and arms causing instant goose bumps.

Even as I pictured myself back in my body and remained focused on the success of the spell, I began to have second thoughts. What if I became younger, or even worse, died? Would that be fair to Chloe, to have her father, no matter what his form, taken from her permanently? I thought about how my parents would react, my mother losing her only son, first in body and now in soul. I clenched my hands, trying to force the images from my mind, as my heart thumped in my chest, a marching beat at triple time.

The chill intensified. I looked down and saw the small blood pool congealing and actually freezing to the floor as it dripped from the long open wounds. I was beginning to feel light headed. The spell said nothing of the actual effect the ritual would have on the caster beyond the simple warning uttered by the witch, ‘those who live in sin, will lose more than their lands’.

Amélie and I lived together for years before marriage, and we definitely fornicated. Chloe was born before we were married as a happy accident. To an ancient spirit, would that be considered sin? I imbibed alcohol; I was selfish, and I bore grudges. Were these sins? By this point, I was unable to stop shaking. I was shivering, and the tight t-shirt and Capri pajama pants I wore did nothing. It was a bone-chilling wind, but beyond that, I felt it within my heart and my mind. Like a massive and horrifying ice cream headache, I could feel ghostly skeletal fingers pulling apart my brain matter as if trying to find the secret that would doom me.

It was at this point that Amélie burst through the door. I saw her and immediately rolled out of the circle. I felt instant relief from the warm air on my skin. I closed my eyes, my heart still beating in my chest like an homage to speed metal.

Amélie screamed, “Oh my god Darren, what are you doing?!” I had conducted the ritual on the floor of my new room. I had been sent to sleep there tonight by Amélie who thought we could get into character more easily if we assumed proper sleeping arrangements. I was upset by it, but I understood that it was best not to lie to the social worker.

Amélie ran out of the room and returned with towels, which she proceeded to wrap around my arms. She had never taken a first aid course, and it showed, her makeshift tourniquets weren’t tight enough to stop the bleeding.

I said tiredly, “You need something thinner.”

She must have seen the pool of blood and thought I had slit my wrists. While I was getting a little lightheaded, I didn’t think it was a cause for concern- I felt the same way during blood tests. Amélie returned with two of my t-shirts, and finally, she was able to tie them tight enough to exert the pressure required to stop the bleeding.

“Darren, were you trying to kill yourself?! How could you even think that! You are so selfish! If I ...”

I stopped her there, “I was doing the spell Amélie, and it was working.”

Amélie sat me on the floor and propped my head up with one of the many pillows in the room. I pointed to the chalk circle and the print out of the spell.

Amélie’s face went from anguished rage to restrained hope, “Really …? You could feel yourself turning back?”

The poor woman’s voice was so strained it came out in startled gasps.

I frowned, “Not exactly, but there was something in the circle with me. I could feel it - it was probing my memories, digesting them and trying to find out what kind of person I am.” My eyes widened, “It was terrifying.”

Amélie asked with wide eyes herself, “Why did you roll out of the circle?”

I shook my head, “I was scared it was going to find something. The skeletons in my closet. I just ...”

A tear wet my cheek, “I just couldn’t do it. Not if there was a chance it could make me an even greater burden than I already am, or even kill me. I thought of what that would do to my family, and Chloe growing up without her Daddy, and you - I just couldn’t.”

Amélie hugged me so tightly that I had trouble breathing momentarily. She released her bear hug and said, “Darren, I thought you were trying to commit suicide. And y-you aren’t a burden. You are just a little - um, challenging.” She sighed, brushing the tangled bangs from my eyes, “You did the right thing, stopping the spell like that. Unless we find some instance of it working on someone like you, with no real sins - it’s just too risky. And from your description, it really sounds like whatever was in the circle with you was looking for an excuse to make you into something worse.”

I said, “Can you break the circle? I think it’s still here. Just use your foot to wipe away the chalk.

She walked near the circle and reached her hand out, “Wow, it’s cold. This is like when I used to play Ouija board with Laura. We summoned a spirit this one time, and my bedroom was freezing. Something blew all the candles out, and we couldn’t relight them. I was so scared to sleep in there. The spirit we had called - it was furious. It said it was trapped. It sounds like the one you called. It was malevolent too. I really think you did the right thing.” She kicked at the chalk and broke the circle.

I nodded grimly. Was I a coward for rolling out of the circle, when my freedom was potentially within my grasp? I wondered if Mama Khalia could shed some light on what I had experienced. My father said she looked to be about a thousand years old, so I assumed Skype was out of the question. I decided to tell Amélie about my idea, and she agreed that we should contact the wizened voodoo practitioner. I felt that this was a turning point for us. We were no longer man and wife, but we could co-exist, and I wanted to re-establish the lost trust, which meant I had to stop keeping secrets from Amélie.

A few minutes later, my wounds had stopped bleeding. From my own first aid training, I knew how to clean and dress the knife cuts that reached from just above my wrist to just below my biceps. I used gauze and tape to bind the cuts firmly.

Amélie said gently, “You can sleep upstairs if you want.”

I nodded, and Amélie carried my comforter and pillow upstairs. “Are you OK to walk?” I nodded again and slowly made my way upstairs to our bedroom.

After half an hour of tossing and turning, Amélie reached over and put her arm round me, as she had hundreds of times before. I was shivering, and I could almost feel the chill touch that had invaded my brain a short time ago. She moved up behind me, and I could feel her breasts pressing against my back. I felt no arousal as she gently ran her fingers through my hair, softly shushing me if my limbs went into terrified spasms. While there was no arousal on my part, I did feel comforted by her motherly touch, and as I was falling asleep finally, I heard her soft breath in my ear, “You did the right thing. I love you.”

Chapter 46

My cellphone blared obnoxiously, the alarm was a cacophony of clanging bells and hockey goal horns. I had changed the alarm because I had slept through it a few times and was almost late getting to work once or twice. The ringtone, called the ‘Monday Morning Alarm’, was well worth the two dollars ninety nine I had paid for it. I groaned and rolled over. While I hadn’t been sleeping well recently, on summer weekends I had actually slept in multiple times. Amélie actually had to wake me up a few times even without my sleeping pills. I really hoped it meant I was going through a growth spurt.

I dreaded Mondays when I was in the work force, but as I lay my head back down on my pillow in clear opposition to this hated day, I realized that I wasn’t going to work- I was going to St. Jo’s to attend the tenth grade for the second time. This was only the beginning of my new high school adventure. I had gone to high school in Ontario, but I understood that Quebec students graduated secondary school in eleventh grade, and afterwards were required to complete a year of either university or college prep courses. All I knew was that it meant I was stuck in high school for two years instead of three. Yay.

There was an appetizing smell when I stepped from the shower, and it was confirmed as I dried my hair. Amélie was making her world-famous waffles, on a Monday too - that was like finding the only air-conditioned room in Hell.

She'd laid out my clothes again. She was becoming very motherly towards me and I was undecided how to feel about that. I wondered if it was only because of the impending visit by the social worker but she appeared to be sincere. Had she prepared my packed lunch? My strange life looked to be getting even stranger.

I looked at the clothing that was going to be my weekday uniform for the next two years. I was still in disbelief that it had reached this point, despite all my efforts. I was going to wear the plaid skirt, white blouse, cravat and blazer every day, unless I could find a way to become Darren Lawrence again. I opted not to wear the stockings because it was too hot. The stockings were thick and better suited to colder weather. I had two blouses, a short-sleeved one and long-sleeved one, but I chose the long sleeves for obvious reasons. I didn’t need my new classmates thinking that I cut myself. My arms were still bandaged from the previous night’s ritual.

I didn’t understand the recent teenage fascination with cutting. When I was a teenager, we listened to loud and aggressive music, and that was enough. We turned up the volume on our stereos, or we cranked the radio to the point where everyone in the house could hear it. The rage and suffering evoked by the music told our parents we were unhappy that they wouldn’t let us go to the dance or extend our curfew. I guess because I wasn’t a teenager, I couldn’t understand it. I figured that Amélie was going to be relatively lenient considering I was her husband and not her child. She also knew I was an adult, and beyond the court order, she would be, as Ethan would say, ‘chill’.

Still, as I looked in the bedroom mirror, it was almost as if I was doing so for the first time. I had caught glimpses of myself in windows, but I had never taken a long hard look. The only difference was the expensive professional looking bag that I carried. The uniform told the world what I was, a fifteen year old school girl, even though I had yet to accept it. St. Jo’s was simply the place where I had to go, but it was not where I wanted to be - far from it. What adult male in their right mind would choose to return to high school? As a teacher, I had been challenged at times, but at the end of the day, I still had Amélie to return to, and I was still looked upon as a grownup - someone who could make their own decisions and choose their own path. Now, I had the choice of Drama or Music and whether I wanted to wear a long or short sleeved blouse. I couldn’t imagine any adult choosing such a life, unless theirs was terrible. My previous life had its share of difficulties, but it was a pleasant picnic in the park compared to the reality that was high school.

If I had enjoyed high school the first time, maybe I would have been more enthusiastic to attend. The whole situation was exacerbated by the fact that I knew both sides, and would choose adult teacher over student in an instant. I knew how little power student government possessed. I had supervised the student council, and I vetted all of their decisions. If I disagreed or if the principal disagreed with it, the idea died a quick death. Always with the understanding that the adult decisions were informed and came from experience. The easiest way was to simply say, “You’ll understand when you are older.” It was sure to result in a derisive sneer from the student, but it rarely brought further retort.

Also, I was nervous and scared.

I was terrified to lose myself in the confines of St. Jo’s, drowning within a sea of teenage angst, my own hormones adding to the mix, as I not only joined, but wallowed in it, in danger of throwing away caution, experience, tact and my entire adult self to a world of constant mood swings, lascivious behaviour and immaturity. At the same time, I could not throw off the shackles of the adolescent world entirely. I had both experienced and witnessed bullying firsthand and knew what happened to those who failed to find peers. They were labelled outcasts, and their lives were made miserable. I knew that I could not act that way because if I was miserable at school, the social worker might blame it on Amélie for creating an unstable home life. I needed at least to appear to join in, to be like my fellow students but, at the same time, try to keep a grasp on my true self. The continued existence of Darren Lawrence depended on it.

So, I would have to make friends, at least a few. Alyssa would be the obvious choice, but I feared that the girl’s immaturity would rub off on me. I had taught girls like her. She had the maturity level of a seventh grader. Maybe she had changed over the summer.

Amélie called to me, “Darren, your waffles are getting cold. What’s taking so long? You look ready to me.”

I nodded, “Oh sorry Amélie, going over strategy in my head.”

Amélie’s face showed amusement, but she was clearly trying to hide it. A little tiny smirk lifted her previously neutral lip, “It’s not war, Darren. It’s high school.”

I raised a brow, “Maybe not for you, but high school was not a fun time for me. You weren’t five feet tall and a boy, and worried you were going to get stuffed in a locker or pushed into a garbage can. You weren’t froshed in tenth grade.”

Amélie said, “I doubt anyone is going to do that to you, Darren. Yes, it sucks to have to go back to high school as an adult. I am not denying that, but to keep from going crazy- I think you need to look at teensy weensy positives. Remember all those times you said that if you were given the chance to take French classes again you would listen to the teachers more closely, learn all the rules? You know how you felt disadvantaged because you weren’t fully bilingual taking French immersion? Well, now you are going to an all-French high school. I think your French will improve immensely.”

I frowned, “You know that I meant government language training, Amélie.”

Amélie shrugged her shoulders, “Eat your waffles, Darren.”

***

After breakfast, I was brushing my teeth when I heard Amélie shout from the living room.

“Hey, there’s a cop out there! You think they are finally investigating the neighbours? It’s weird, there’s always college and high school kids there, and they don’t have any kids that age.”

I spit and then wiped my mouth, “I'm certain they are growing pot in their basement. The dad looks like he’s stoned, and the mother always yells at him when she picks up the kids for visitation or whatever.”

“Wait, no - they are coming here! Oh god, do you think something happened to your parents? Early morning calls like this - they are never good.”

The uniformed police officer, a young woman, rapped firmly and Amélie hurried to the door. My heart was racing as I considered all of the possibilities. Chloe who was finishing her breakfast in her highchair took this opportunity to start crying. Amélie was going to take her to daycare late this morning, so she could take me to school. She said I would have to take the bus on Tuesday, but I was glad for the ride today. I was still feeling fragile from the spell casting last night and the subsequent after effects. I still considered my decision to roll out of the circle to be a sound one, but the memory of the ghastly fingers performing some sort of ethereal brain biopsy stayed with me.

I heard the officer speak to Amélie in French, (Good morning, Madame Grenier, I am Constable Gagnon, St. Jo’s School Resource Officer. I am here to take Abigail to school. )

Amélie replied, (Mr. St-Valentin said nothing about this. I really don’t think this is the best way to convince a truant student to attend school. )

Constable Gagnon maintained her calm yet firm demeanour, (It was not Mr. St-Valentin that asked that I come this morning. It was Mr. Richter. I am fulfilling the requirements of Abigail’s court ordered supervision Madame Grenier. Something you failed to do. )

Amélie had never had contact with a police officer before except when I was stopped for speeding in Ontario. She sped, but she was never caught. I hoped Amélie would be able to hold her tongue. When prodded, she could release her claws. I had seen it on a handful of occasions, but this was different - this was an officer of the law. Any attempt to keep Constable Gagnon from completing her task could be considered obstruction.

Amélie turned her back to the officer, walked up the stairs and took Chloe from my arms. She then motioned for me to enter the kitchen.

Amélie was clearly angry. Her face was tight and her eyes wide. She blew air through her nose and sighed loudly. “Darren, you’d better go with her. I am going to call the principal and seriously chew him out. I’m sorry. I knew Richter was upset that you had disobeyed his order, but I didn’t think he would stoop to such tactics. The school should have told us in advance. I know that last night was traumatic for you, and I would have preferred to take you on your first day myself.”

I nodded slowly, “It’s alright, Amélie. I did ignore the court order for a whole week. I’ll go without a scene.”

Amélie smiled gently, “That’s really mature of you, Darren.”

While Amélie had meant for her words to be complimentary, I considered them insulting. It was something you tell a kid who had recently tested their limits and had returned to the straight and narrow. I narrowed my eyes at my wife and slung my bag over my shoulder. She looked confused at my annoyance, but I didn’t give her a chance to either apologize or ask for an explanation of my behaviour.

Chloe shouted and waved zealously just as I was leaving, “Bye bye Daddy!” I saw Constable Gagnon look at Amélie, and my wife played dumb, gently shrugging her shoulders before chiding Chloe in French, (That’s Abigail. Say goodbye Abby! )

I had finished tying my shoes and was heading out the door, but again, Chloe said, “Bye bye Daddy!” I was secretly pleased that Chloe was still calling me Daddy, but Amélie was nonplussed, or at least acted that way.

Constable Gagnon was tall for a woman. She had brown hair tied in a severe bun, which I suppose was mandatory for a female officer. While her face was pretty, it was also business-like, similar to Officer Patterson’s before the vein started throbbing in his head. I wondered if they taught face-making in police college because so many of them seemed to have similar expressions.

She motioned for me to take the seat beside her. I didn't think she would make me sit in the back like a criminal, so I was not surprised. I understood that she was following orders. I was surprised, however, when the officer’s tight lips formed into the barest definition of a smile.

(Your niece is really cute. That’s a funny game she plays, calling you Daddy, Abigail. )

I answered, (Yeah. She does it all the time. She’s at a silly age. ) I was comfortable with casual conversations in French. I searched for my words at times, but I usually had little difficulty. It was the higher level discussions involving complicated topics where I would struggle.

(Do you know the law, Abigail? Mr. St-Valentin, he wanted you to know that it was not his choice to do this. He wants you to come to St. Jo’s willingly, but I have to do this. We are going to be seeing each other every week during the first six months of your supervision. So, I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. We need to work together to make sure you do your best in school. Do you understand? )

I looked over at Constable Gagnon, and her smile had all but disappeared. Despite her firmness, there was a sincerity that I couldn’t ignore. She genuinely seemed to care about my welfare, in that, she wasn’t just doing her job to show her due diligence.

I nodded slowly.

( Are things OK at home? I want you to feel like you can trust me, Abigail. Mr. St-Valentin, your teachers and I, we want what’s best for you. I’ve heard that you are a very smart girl, why did you skip school for a week? Did your sister let you do that? )

I had a choice here. I could tell her the truth, that, yes - Amélie had allowed me to at least go on an interview on Thursday because I was trying to become emancipated, or I could play the tortured teen, who hates her parents, her sister and school. Since I was expected to have an extended professional relationship with this woman, I opted for the truth.

(I was trying to free myself from school. I was following the laws and - ) I stopped and sighed. I was butchering the French. I didn’t know what emancipation was in French, and I realized that what I had just told the officer sounded like the tortured teen route. I should have just tried to explain it to her in English.

Constable Gagnon shook her head, ( What you did was against the law, even if you hadn’t been ordered to be there. You have to be in school until you are eighteen. St. Jo’s is a great school, and I think you’ll like it there. What do you like to do for fun? I bet there’s a club or a sport for you. )

She continued, (I know it’s hard coming to a new school, Abigail. )

I was fidgeting in my seat. I was starting to get real anxiety. There was no leaving St. Jo’s today. I was going to be sitting in a student desk in under fifteen minutes. The whole trip by car would take just over twenty minutes. I crossed and uncrossed my arms multiple times, and I adjusted the bandage on my left arm. I put my book bag over it, to hide the attempt from Constable Gagnon, as I tried to push down a section that kept unsticking. I was still fighting with the bandage as the officer looked over at me while stopped at a red light. I saw her gaze and immediately stopped trying to fix the bandage. I quickly put on my blazer, which had previously been under my arm. It was too hot for it in areas without air conditioning, but now, I wanted to hide the evidence of the ritual.

Constable Gagnon’s face showed no sign that she had seen anything potentially incriminating, but that is likely what made her an excellent police officer, especially when dealing with adolescents. Her poker face hid the secrets she knew. She said, ( Mr. St-Valentin, he says that you are fascinated by the law. Well, you know what evidence is, right? )

I nodded. I knew exactly where she was going with this.

She continued, ( I want to help you, Abigail. Students like you, bright and with huge potential, but you need to help me too. I can’t understand what you are going through, what’s happened to you, unless you tell me. We always try and avoid this, but sometimes, we have to collect evidence where we aren’t wanted - to help a student. I don’t want to have to do that because it could make things with your sister more difficult. It will be easier if you tell me. )

I realized my mistake. I had bandaged the wound with too many layers. My paranoia at the wound starting to bleed again had made Constable Gagnon think that I was a cutter. Although considering the real reason for my injury, I suppose the only other explanation involved me joining a club I knew nothing about. I had too much respect for those who were in mental distress beyond my own to pretend to cut. From what I understood, the poor misguided teens cut for attention or as part of peer pressure, but again, that was only what adults said. I never asked any of the students I taught why they did it. I just gazed at them sadly and made certain the guidance counsellors knew.

I stayed silent, and like Dr. Alberts, the officer offered a similar phrase, but with more firmness:

( I know that it’s hard. You can tell me when you are ready. )

We had arrived at St. Jo’s ten minutes before nine. Constable Gagnon said, (Sorry to do this, Abigail, but I actually have to escort you inside.

She continued, (We can go through the custodial entrance if you want. )

Constable Gagnon likely did not want my classmates seeing a new student being escorted into school by a police officer. Since I wanted to keep a low profile, I followed the officer toward a set of large metal doors. As I waited for Constable Gagnon to fish for the key to the maintenance door in her pocket, I surveyed what was to become, in five minutes time, my new school.

As if to add insult to injury, it looked a lot like the school where I had been employed as a teacher. The campus was sprawling with an uncluttered post-war design. Because many schools of its type were built in fledgling suburbs after the Second World War, the schools took up a great deal of real estate. From what I could see, the school was only two floors.

Soon enough, we were inside, and I saw the pale yellow walls of St. Jo’s for the first time. I was amazed how similar schools from the post-war era looked. The constable wished me good luck and motioned me into the main office, and as I entered, I was surprised to see Alyssa sitting in one of the ‘naughty’ chairs. These were the chairs directly facing the long wooden counter that made up part of the secretaries’ work stations. I recall seeing the worst kids sitting in those chairs, so I was shocked to see Alyssa calmly sitting there.

Once Alyssa saw me, her eyes widened and she beamed a smile in my direction. ( Abby! Hi! Remember me? ) It was odd hearing her speak French, but she spoke very well, unlike the Quebecoise slang that Jacynthe and Véronique uttered. Alyssa’s French was pure and unfettered.

I nodded sheepishly. I still felt guilty for treating Alyssa so badly. I had rejected her friendship, never answered any of her e-mails, and still, she was happy to see me. I answered, ( Yes, of course. Um, sorry for not answering any of your e-mails. It’s been a crazy summer. ) As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how contrived and frankly insulting my response was.

Before Alyssa could answer, I heard the warning bell, a dull chime that signalled we had less than five minutes to get to class. Even the bell system was the same, although St. Jo’s bell was quieter.

Alyssa simply nodded and said, ( We can talk on the way to history. )

Alyssa handed me my school schedule, and then I followed her out of the office. No one had really paid me any attention. I got a few second glances as the new kid, but with my uniform, I didn’t exactly stand out. The only real difference between me and about 95% of the kids I saw was my professional bag and their backpacks.

Alyssa switched to English as we walked, “It’s fine Abby. I’m over it.” She smiled, “I’m St. Jo’s welcoming committee. Sorry, but your muffin basket got eaten. You are a week late.” Wow, Alyssa had a pretty wicked sense of humour. Maybe she had matured.

I nodded, “Uh yeah, I had some trouble at home. Listen, I feel really bad about what I did to you, Alyssa. I don’t want you to think that I’m anything like Véronique or her gang. I was just going through a lot of stuff at home during the summer. I didn’t want to bring anyone else into it. By the way, I met Véronique, and I can tell you, I don’t want anything to do with her.”

Alyssa nodded as we continued walking. She took me up to the second floor, past an atrium. “This is called the Pit. Only the seniors are allowed in there. You can eat in the cafeteria or outside, but not behind the portables. Not really sure why.”

I looked at Alyssa, and it was like a dark and cruel magic cloud had drained all of her spunk and peppiness. Where was the bombastic teen I had met at Chloe’s dance class? She was business-like in her explanations. I had really hurt her.

My shoulders slumped. I was hoping that Alyssa, and I would become fast friends, so I could show her off to the social worker this week. Even as the thought entered my mind, I knew it was wrong, but what was the alternative to using this innocent girl to create the illusion that Abigail Grenier was a perfectly normal teenage girl? Actually becoming her friend? It didn’t matter anyway because she seemingly wanted nothing to do with me.

We reached the history class, and I stepped inside. My first foray into the tenth grade was anticlimactic. I took the only seat available, which was at the very front of the class. The teacher, a Monsieur Landry, took attendance, and as my name was called, and I answered, I could hear chatter behind my back. I figured they were gossiping about the new girl who had missed the first week of school. Despite the fact I was a history major, I hardly paid attention at all in class. I was lost within my own world, worried what Officer Gagnon would say about my apparent self-harming and concerned that if I didn’t make at least one friend, the social worker, on top of my cutting, would recommend further action. Other than the hushed voices behind my back, my classmates, whose cliques and groups were already established paid as much attention to the new girl as I did to the lecture on Canadian aboriginals.

I breezed through the next two classes, math and science, in the same manner. Alyssa was in both of them as well, and I was surprised to see Ethan in them too. The lunch bell rang, and I saw Ethan approaching my desk from the corner of my eye. Again, I had been relegated to the front of the class, but as Ethan neared, I gathered my science textbook and notebook, which I had not written in all morning, and quickly fled the classroom.

I looked for a quiet place to eat my lunch. I would not brave the madness that was the high school lunch room today. I needed to complete some research on self-harming and learn what to expect during the social worker visit. I could have done it when school finished, but I needed time to compose myself. I told myself that I would try and reach out to someone tomorrow, maybe try and sit at a stranger’s lunch table.

I noticed that the girls travelled in packs, like wolves. I pondered how difficult it might be to breach their circles. I understood little of their species, and even having taught them, their customs were bizarre. I noticed in math, one girl ask to visit the washroom, and then another, five minutes later. Neither girl returned until nearly twenty minutes had passed, and when they finally did return, they entered the classroom together. Boys would be easier, but due to my confused sexuality, they were potentially deadly to Darren Lawrence’s existence.

I bit into a ham sandwich that acted only as sustenance. There was nothing appealing about the store bought meat, the splatter of margarine or the smatter of mustard. I only ate it because I was hungry. Alice in Chains’ ‘Down in a Hole’ blared in my ears, and it fit my mood perfectly. I had chosen a deserted portion of the upper atrium. The design of the atrium was unlike anything I had seen in a school before. It was circular, with the lower portion consisting of benches attached to the wall. In the centre of the so-called Pit, there were more benches, but they were attached in a circular pattern to a low half-wall that housed an indoor garden. A winding ramp allowed students to reach the upper portion, which had a few small lunch tables. I was in a corner, just to the left of the ramp entrance, which had a solid railing, virtually hidden.

Students who passed me ignored me, and I was pleased to have time to complete research on my phone. Twenty minutes into lunch, my respite was broken by a group of girls. They looked older than me. They looked down at me with surprise at first, and then disdain. Because of the noise-cancelling nature of my ear buds, when the blonde girl with a Jersey Shore ‘poof’ hairstyle spoke to me, I didn’t hear a word. I thought her hair looked stupid. It was combed back so as to create what looked like a bump covered by hair at the very top of her head. Considering her expression, a slight sneer, I figured she was trying to make trouble, so I did the mature thing and ignored her.

When it was clear that I was disregarding them entirely, the blonde girl, who towered over me in a pair of heels came over to me and popped one of my ear buds out. I stood up and took a step back from her, and then I popped it back in with narrowed eyes. She was a good four inches taller than me, but considering her heels, I wondered if she was actually shorter than I was without them. Another girl, a clear bottle blonde with dark roots showing, ripped the cord from my phone, halting my music entirely now.

The real blonde spoke angrily to me in French, « Minor niners don’t eat here. Get out of the Pit, connasse. » I sighed inwardly. My second high school experience was entirely too similar to my first. I was in the tenth grade, but these girls thought I was in ninth.

I remembered now what Alyssa had said. Only the seniors, or the eleventh graders, were allowed to eat here. I removed the planner from my bag and offered it to the blonde. I replied confidently in English, which seemed to make the girl even more upset, “Show me where it says in the planner, which I believe contains the school rules, that only you and your group of Jersey Shore wannabes can eat here.”

I hadn’t read the planner, but I would have grave concerns about a school administration that created a policy that spread such inequality amidst the student ranks. I was positive there was nothing in there about that.

The blonde took my planner and threw it over the railing of the ramp. She said, « This is a French school, Anglo. » The girls converged on me. The other one, a brunette, looked less enthused about this whole affair.

I shook my head and replied again in English, “It’s my prerogative to speak in the language of my choosing. French and English are Canada’s official languages. I choose English right now. By forcing me to speak French with intimidation, you are breaching my Charter Rights.”

By this point, we had gathered a small crowd. Apparently, the Pit was an ivory tower to the seniors of the school. This standoff threatened to upset the balance. Outside, the plebeians, the ninth and tenth graders, watched the exchange. I noticed Véronique and her crew among them.

The blonde looked at her compatriots. She gave the brunette a firm look, and she fell into line, looking more enthusiastic about bullying a tenth grader.

The blonde walked over to my lunch bag and proceeded to step all over it with her heels. I snatched it away, but the damage was already done. She had crushed my mother’s homemade cookies, turned my crackers into crumbs and skewered my apple to the point where it was leaning more toward being apple sauce than anything I could actually hold in my hands. She said, « Looks like you finished your lunch already. Get out. »

Now, I was angry. Angry and hungry. A thought jumped into my head, that I should take the remains of my apple and give the blonde some hair gel for her already greasy-looking poof. I forced it out, opting for a different solution.

I got in the blonde’s face and said, “Your behaviour is more like something you see in an elementary school yard. Sorry, am I on the senior swing? Oh no, sorry for using the senior slide. Could I get permission to use your SENIOR monkey bars? Look at how we have grown as a society. Don’t you see the parallels? By you doing this, you are reducing yourselves to the same level as people who created separate washrooms, movie theatres, even drinking fountains for African Americans. If you are supposed to be seniors, the so-called mature students in the school. Why don’t you start acting like it? True maturity is rejecting any sense of inequality or entitlement.”

By this point, we had gathered a larger crowd. Someone had opened the doors too, so our conversation was available now to the common people. I knew that I was laying it on a little thick, but I hated any sense of injustice. I disliked those who used their status to control and manipulate others, which is why I abhorred most politicians, especially our current government, who should have also heard my speech.

In response to my diatribe, the blonde told the fake blonde to grab my bag, which she did. The blonde took a thick silver sharpie and wrote NINER CUNT SLUT all over my bag, while the brunette and fake blonde blocked my way. If it was permanent marker, my bag was ruined. Still, I would not stoop to their level.

Even as I told myself this, my hands were balled into fists as adrenaline poured into my body, but before I could lash out, the blonde’s henchwomen took me by the arms, and I saw the blonde pull out another marker, this one clearly a black sharpie. I recognized it as a permanent marker. I was too shocked by their behaviour to put up a fight. Alyssa wasn’t kidding. St. Jo’s had a serious bullying problem. At the school where I taught, bullying of this nature would have resulted in severe punishments. Where were the teachers? There were supposed to be teachers patrolling the halls during lunch hour to stop events like this. I looked at the crowd helplessly, but no one moved. It was as if each one of them was a deer caught in the headlights. They looked on in the same shock, and no one moved to help. Some were even filming it, acting as innocent bystanders, but cowards all the same.

I was amazed by the scene because by sheer numbers alone, the assembled crowd could have easily repelled the assault on me. A few of them captured the event on their cell phones, which was smart, but the force of the mob could have stopped the blonde’s approach. To the casual observer, it may have seemed that an outrageous act was occurring, something that was unique to this place, but shameful memories filled my head- being shot by a super soaker full of jam, being sprayed by women’s perfume as I entered school, and being put in a full nelson while a larger boy tried to deposit me in the garbage. It seemed that no matter what my form, I was a magnet for bullies.

The blonde said, « Dites à vos amis enculés, que le Pit c’est pour nous seulement. »

I understood that she wanted me to tell my friends, likely in the ninth grade, to stay the hell out of the Pit, but I had no idea about the insult she had thrown my way.

The girl removed the cap and I flailed, much the same way I had done when bullies tried to put me in the garbage or stuff me in lockers. I hit the two henchwomen in the face with my haphazard fists, but they held me fast. They were able to restrain my short arms with relative ease, no matter how much I struggled.

The bottle blonde, who I kicked hard in the shin with the heel of my shoe, said, « Do it fast, she’s vicious! » Still, no one came to my aid. I elbowed the brunette in the stomach, and she wheezed, but the girls forced me down, one of them sitting on my legs, while the other pinned my arms down. The blonde was now inches away from my face with the marker. I tried to head-butt her in the chest. As for the marker, I knew that I could wash it off, but if I allowed this to happen to me, my reputation at the school would be forever tarnished. I would be a target of even the weakest bullies.

I heard the squeak of sneakers on a waxed floor, and a second later, Ethan was in the blonde’s face. He managed to wrest the marker from her. He threw it, and it shared the same fate as my planner.

He said, “OK, fun’s over. You guys are going too far. She’s new. She didn’t know about your stupid rules. It’s not like it’s in the welcome package that you guys own the Pit.”

Amazingly, the action of one person had halted the bullying. The two girls that held me down quickly got off me, and while the blonde sneered at me, she made no attempt to retrieve her marker. Meanwhile, the arrival of my white knight had stirred my dormant feelings for the boy. My heart thundered in my chest as that pleasant tingle passed through my body and into my brain like a powerful yet pleasant drug. As he helped me up, I practically melted into his arms.

The blonde said, « She knows now. Take your psycho friend and get out. »

She held her hand to her chest where I had head-butted her when she came close to me with the marker

Ethan retorted, “You are the one who tried to write on her face. She was just defending herself.”

A deep baritone voice said, « She can stay. »

The blonde said, « Alexandre, stop robbing the cradle. You know the rule, only seniors in the Pit. It was like that for us last year. »

I thought the girl’s comment was funny only because this Alexandre couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than me. I recall one young man in my graduating class who was called a cradle robber himself for going out with a minor niner, but apparently any grade mixing was a no-no. What a complicated yet ludicrous hierarchy.

This Alexandre stepped through the crowd of plebeians, and my eyes actually widened - he was gorgeous. I knew that I should have been repulsed by him - broad shouldered, practically no neck, thick arms straining his blazer. He had a jar head haircut and was a clear meathead, at least in my eyes. His face was clean shaven and perfectly symmetrical with a strong jaw and a set of pearly white teeth. He was tall, easily six foot four and as thick as a stay-at-home defensemen or a line backer. His eyes were green, and when I saw him looking at me, my knees nearly buckled. What was next? Was I going to twirl my long locks in front of him while gently tilting my head? A second later, this is exactly what I was doing. Oh my god. I was flirting hardcore with him. I was doing exactly what a painfully stereotypical teenage girl would do.

He pushed Ethan to the side, « Out of the way kid, before we see a repeat of last week. » and I didn’t care one iota.

The scraggily haired teen was like a distant memory. When I kissed Alexandre, I would stand on my tippy toes, he would laugh, and then he would scoop me up like some fairy tale princess. He was my Prince Charming, and I was his Cinderella come to save me from this terrible existence. It was like Ethan but a thousand times more powerful. He was like a powerful industrial strength Acme magnet, the kind you would see in Roadrunner cartoons, set up by the Coyote who had attached a metal plate to the Roadrunner. I was a collection of knives and other metal objects, from a nearby campsite, flying back at him at a hundred miles per hour. The attraction was so strong, that I almost couldn’t breathe. I smiled stupidly at him, and I forgot, momentarily, who I was.

He smiled back at me, undressing me with his eyes. He stared hard at me, practically owning me.
He said to the blonde, « Mercedes (pronounced in French Mère-ced), I can do what I want. »

So the blonde’s name was Mercedes. Were any nice girls actually named Mercedes and not absolute pretentious bitch queens? Did her parents name her thinking she would be a humanitarian?

Ethan nudged me, looking suddenly jealous, and said, “Hey, what’s with the goo-goo eyes? I thought you didn’t like guys like him.”

Ethan’s words reminded me that I didn’t. In fact, I hated guys like Alexandre. He was staring at my boobs more than my eyes. He was probably picturing me in a bikini, or lingerie. Or nothing. I had known only a few guys like him, and we never got along. So my sudden interest was both puzzling and alarming. Interest was a mild way of saying that if I somehow managed to suddenly jump out of my skin, my skeleton, organs, and even my blood would probably find a way toward him. I took a deep breath and nodded. Ethan was right, but I was powerless to stop it.

Alexandre stared down at me, his eyes darting to my boobs constantly. He clearly liked what he saw. I found myself licking my lips. He moved a stray lock of hair from my eyes. He said, « What’s your name? » Good lord, was I in some terribly written high school drama? It was like the scene was written by a Hollywood hack.

I giggled stupidly and blushed. “Um. It’s Abigail.”

He said, « If you want to stay, you have to speak French though. OK? »

I nodded again. Mmm. He could call me Fifi if he wanted.

Ethan nudged me again, and then he grabbed my hand and quickly pulled me into the crowd of students that had formed. The farther away I got from Alexandre, the more normal I felt. I could see the behemoth trying to follow us, but he was having a hard time wading through the students. Amazingly, they were blocking his path, or at least not moving as easily as they moved for Ethan. They weren’t exactly Ghandi with their non-violent resistance, but as I started to come to my senses, I appreciated that my stand against the seniors had seemingly not gone unnoticed.

Ethan dragged me through the corridors of St. Jo’s to a secluded spot under the stairs. In the hurried escape, I had forgotten to grab my potentially ruined bag, but it was the farthest thing from my mind, considering my most recent behaviour.

Ethan said, “Dude, what the hell was going on there? I’ve never seen you act like that. You might as well have been Véronique because she looks at him like that, but - well that asshole Alexandre doesn’t say much to her. Some guys in gym were talking about how he scored with her. He treats her like shit, but she’s always talking about him. It’s sick…I mean like disgusting. You know.”

Véronique’s behaviour toward Alyssa made sense now. Spurned by Alexandre, or at least mistreated by him, she treats Alyssa the same way, rejecting her and excluding her from the circle, no matter how hard she tries to be part of it.

I shook my head, still clearly dazed by the whole event, “I really don’t know. You are right, I hate guys like that. He was staring at my chest the whole time. But the way he spoke to me…it was ni-“

Ethan threw his hand in the air, “Gross. Dude, you can’t be that like that. I’ll lose all hope in humanity. I’m serious, Abby. It will make girls make even less sense. He’s such an asshole. I don’t know how anyone can like him.”

I asked, “What have you got against him exactly?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Nothing. OK?”

I frowned, “What did you mean when you said it makes girls make even less sense?”

Ethan sighed, his slim chest deflating noticeably, “Can we not talk about this? Look, I am really sorry that I kissed you. Really sorry. I deserve to be ignored and everything- I didn’t ask you. I should have asked you. But- I- well I got some bad advice. My dad said look for the signals, so I did, and that’s why I kissed you.”

I looked at Ethan with wide eyes. The advice wasn’t bad. I had given him all the right signals, and a real girl, I am sure, would have kissed him back without subsequently fleeing and ignoring him for weeks.

Ethan said, “I’ve gone through what happened in my head a million times. I wish I could take it all back, you know? I finally met a girl that I could be friends with and not be weird around, and I screw it up. And the band too, we were really writing sick stuff. I fucked it all up because I couldn’t keep it in my pants.”

I cleared my throat. I wanted to apologize for ignoring him, agree with him that we were moving along a good path with regard to the band, but it caught in my throat.

Ethan said, “I just don’t get it. I try and be a good guy. You know, respectful and stuff. Like I don’t stare at your boobs when I talk to you. I listen to you. And, I gave you a lot of space after we kissed, but then guys like Alexandre who are one step away from being the porn kings of the world, they get the attention. Why? I don’t get it. Why do girls go for guys that treat them like shit?”

I frowned, “There’s no manual for understanding girls, Ethan. Sometimes it is just how our brains work, you know? You’ve never had a crush on a girl you shouldn’t have liked? Like she was your exact opposite?”

Ethan shrugged, “Well I guess in ninth grade, I kind of had a crush on Véronique, but that was before I found out she was such a bitch. Those feelings are dead and buried. Believe me. What I saw between you and Alexandre was unreal. You were like a different person.”

I nodded, “Well crushes can make people do stupid things.”

While I was responding calmly to Ethan, I was still distressed concerning my behaviour toward Alexandre. It was unreal.

Ethan shook his head, “Yeah well I feel stupid for kissing you. Can I just ask you why, why don’t you like me? Did I do anything wrong?”

I responded, “It’s what I told you when I said I wanted to be friends originally. I’m not ready for that. And it’s worse now. I’m going through some really heavy stuff. Like my emancipation failed, and I am pissed about that. And now there’s a social worker coming to the house because I missed school last week. So they are going to ask Amélie a bunch of questions, and they might even interview you. It’s just - there’s too much going on. I have to take this on, and I can’t be thinking about stuff like that.”

He asked, “Like what?”

I frowned, “You know what I mean. The kiss, relationships, boys. It’s too much right now.”

He said, “I could help you through it. I’ll tell the social worker whatever you want.”

I shook my head, “You need to be honest. If they think you are lying, none of your statement will be used to create the profile. Just tell the truth, please.”

He sighed, “OK.”

He said quickly, “Can we just forget that it happened, you know, the kiss and try and be friends again? It sucks about the band too. I miss Andrew, and even Steven. And I miss playing with you. Can we just hit reset?”

The band was very important to me, but I also understood the need to appear normal. If I didn’t make up with Ethan, I would have zero friends my age. If Ethan told the story to the social worker about how he kissed me, and then we became friends again, I thought it would show my maturity and stability. It meant that I valued friendship. Still, was I using Ethan the same way I was planning on using Alyssa? Ethan became part of the band again, so he got that. I considered my decision, and it was less selfish at least. My crush on the boy would hopefully go dormant again once he entered friend mode. Would my body agree to enter the same mode though?

I said, “OK. Sure.”

Chapter 47

In the afternoon, I had to carry my textbooks from class to class. I couldn’t exactly bring my black bag, which had insults scrawled all over it. When Amélie picked up my uniform in late August, she also chose my non-mandatory courses. She guessed correctly that I would prefer music over drama, but I was less than impressed when I found out I was going to have to play the flute. I was hoping to become reacquainted with the trumpet, which I had played in middle school.

Surprisingly, I didn’t take a music class in high school, opting instead for drama. It is one of my bigger regrets. I would receive a musical education, learning how to read music, gaining practice playing with others and playing in time, so I looked forward to that. Because I had missed last week, my options were limited. I could play the tuba or the flute. I had accepted that I was not a very strong girl, and tubas were heavy. Plus, there was the fact that I felt the tuba was more of a prop comedy item than an instrument. The teacher, Monsieur Lafontaine, suggested the flute. He was concerned I would have difficulty handling the tuba, which I assumed had to do with my small stature and short arms. So, I joined the woodwind section and became a flautist, just like my mother.

Unfortunately, that afternoon, I also felt the repercussions of my decision to flee from school the previous Wednesday. My Career Studies teacher was the same teacher I had lied to about going to the dentist. Monsieur Blanchard asked to speak to me after class, and he looked annoyed.

He said, «Abigail, I am a little concerned with your progress in this course. You have to understand that Career Studies is entirely assignment based. That is why class work is so important. There are no tests. I noticed that you didn’t really do any of the Career Cruising assignment. Is there a reason for that? »

I shrugged my shoulders, “I want to be a lawyer. What’s the point in exploring this? I worked in a law firm all summer. I don’t see why I even need to take this course.”

Mr. Blanchard had been very snippy with me during class. He was irritated that I was on my cell phone, but Amélie had texted me, asking if I wanted a ride, which I readily accepted. He had also barked at me when he caught me flipping back and forth between the Career Cruising assignment and a few venues I was checking out for the band. I was confident that Andrew and Steven would come back when I told them about Ethan being back in the fold.

I would have rather taken a French grammar course than Career Studies. I would have learned more. Ironically, Careers was the first class I ever taught. In my first semester of teaching, I had only one course, and supplemented my income by supply teaching at the school. I remember being ecstatic that I had landed a job when so many of my colleagues from teacher’s college were out of work. Because I had taught the course, in my mind, it was hardly fair that I should have to take it, but Mr. Blanchard didn’t know that. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, too. I was optimistic but also realistic. My band would likely not reach the level where Andrew and Steven could comfortably quit their jobs, so law was my focus. If I was trapped as Abigail Grenier, then I was going pre-law, and I was going to be a lawyer.

M. Blanchard replied, « Please speak French, Abigail. I know you are new to St. Jo’s, but it’s something I must stress. I think it’s really impressive you worked in a firm during the summer. Did you photocopy and arrange case files? »

I shook my head, « I worked as a paralegal. I helped with cases, did research. Stuff like that. For a whole summer. »

I was handcuffed in French. I couldn’t be nearly as eloquent or as clear.

M. Blanchard raised a brow, « This isn’t like when you told me you were going to the dentist, is it, Abigail? You aren’t telling me that you, a high school girl, worked as a paralegal to get out of doing the work in this class? I know you’ve had some problems recently, but lying to your teachers isn’t going to help. You’d have to prove you had significant work experience to get out of taking this course. This job you had during the summer, did you get a reference? »

I frowned. Another of my immature decisions had come back to haunt me. Now, because I had burned my bridge at the Locke Agency, I had no proof of my work experience. I might as well have been lying.

I replied, «I- well, it’s complicated. I’ve got cheques that I cashed. I can show you that. I guess you could call them, but no- I- don’t have a reference. »

M. Blanchard shook his head, « How old are you, Abigail? »

I narrowed my eyes and said petulantly, « Fifteen. You should know that though. You’ve got the enrolment sheet. »

I knew that M. Blanchard had a list of student enrolled in his class with a list of their birthdates and parental contact information. It was a standard document. I was impressed that I had actually remembered the French word for enrolment. It was amazing what even one day at St. Jo’s had done for my French. I wondered if I would gain confidence to actually use my French outside of school. Even though I lived in a French-speaking city, I resorted to using English most of the time because it was easier. Plus, whenever I spoke French, Francophones switched to English when they saw me struggling. Now, I had no choice but to use it.

M. Blanchard frowned, « Abigail, have I done anything to disrespect you? »

I shrugged my shoulders, « I guess not. Just like, I said, I want to be a lawyer. Nothing else. That Career Cruising assignment, the mock interviews and the resume. I have it all figured out. I don’t need this class. It’s a lost of time for me. »

So much for my confidence in French, 'lost of time'? The correct phrase popped into my head a second later ‘perde de temps’.

M. Blanchard replied, « Tomorrow, I want you to bring me a resume and a cover letter for this paralegal job. I will speak to my department head, and see if we can’t make a deal. I can’t promise anything, and you will probably still have to take the class, but I am going to try and personalize it for you. How does that sound, Abigail? »

I had been expecting a further battle, but M. Blanchard’s compromise was a fair one. I was surprised that I hadn’t suggested a similar concession, but I was so annoyed with having to take the class, my vision was clouded. Now, all I had to do was translate my resume and cover letter.

I nodded, « It’s fair. I’ll bring you those tomorrow. »

He nodded. I turned to leave, and M. Blanchard said, « Oh and please stay off your phone, Abigail. I don’t want to have to confiscate it. »

I didn’t understand what the problem was. I was only on it for a minute. I was used to being able to go on my phone at work. I had never let it impact my work.

I turned around, « What’s the big problem? Why aren’t we allowed to use our phones? I was only on it for a minute. »

M. Blanchard frowned, « All you need to know is that it’s school policy. »

I rolled my eyes. What a line. I was supposed to just accept that? Here was this wet behind the ears teacher, probably fresh out of his practicum, and he was telling me what to do. He was teaching the easiest class, a veritable bird course, and he had trouble with classroom management. I wanted to lay into him, explain why he shouldn’t have had us complete Career Cruising so early in the semester. He had also given us too much time. He had devoted an entire seventy-five minute period to a fifteen minute questionnaire. It took me all of five minutes to complete the assignment, or what I felt was needed to meet the minimum requirements to pass. I wasn’t the only student who was ‘multi-tasking’. Instead, I said:

“Whatever.” I turned, my hair flipping inadvertently, and walked out of the room.

***

« It’s a standard uniform, Mademoiselle Grenier. No exceptions. »

My gym teacher, Madame Menard, held a red t-shirt and a pair of brown gym shorts in front of me. She looked down at my shoes, the grimy tennis shoes.

« You also need a proper pair of running shoes. I want you to bring a pair of proper indoor gym shoes tomorrow. Today, you can wear a pair of the extras we have. »

She handed me a pair of cross-trainers.

I sighed, « Can I speak to you in English? Please, Madame Ménard? » She nodded her head gently.

I unbuttoned the sleeves of my blouse and slowly rolled them up, revealing the long bandage that hid the remnants of the ritual. My heart beat hard in my chest and my lungs burned, like I was running, but I was standing completely still. I showed the P.E. teacher my bandaged arms. “I really don’t want the others to see this. I don’t want them to know.” I wondered if real cutters were proud of their work, as if it was decoration.

My teacher’s eyes widened, “Abigail, why do you do this? You are such a pretty girl.”

Her English was excellent. The young woman looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and sadness. Madame Ménard was only a few inches taller than me, but she was all business, at least according to my other classmates who talked behind her back. There was also the inevitable charges of lesbianism that are so often aimed at gym teachers. While her hair was short, from a cursory glance, there was a picture of her in a wedding dress kissing her husband. I couldn’t believe how unobservant kids could be.

I used to hate it when students talked about other teachers in front of me. While I did chide them, I was secretly interested in what they thought of us. I suppose it was a contradictory position, but I always stopped them before the really juicy stuff.

I answered, “I- it was a mistake. Can you please help me?”

I shouldn’t have cared as much as I did. So what if these kids knew that I had cut my arms? However, there was a part of me that wanted their respect, their accolades and most of all their acceptance. It was stupid, I know, but for nearly my entire life, I had yearned for acceptance. It meant that often as a child, to be accepted I adopted a different behaviour. I hid my comic books from my jock friends when I found out I would be ridiculed for them. I was concerned now that I actually cared because, when I became an adult, I suddenly stopped caring so much about it.

Once I had established friendships with genuine people, those who accepted my quirks and foibles, I was actually happy in a peer group for once in my life. The older I got, the more I distanced myself from the plastic smiles, the more I became a real person, and not just someone acting on the whim of another. I was actually more rebellious as an adult than I had been as a teenager, at least with respect to my views on politics and different social customs (like, why the hell, do you have to send someone a gift if you aren’t even going to their wedding? Because they sent you an invitation with fifty cents postage on it?). And, of course, there are my views on body shape issues and Hollywood’s obsession with thin is beautiful. As an adult, I didn’t give a fuck, and I wasn’t afraid to tell people why. Now, I was starting to care what others thought about me. It was scary.

The fact that I was falling into old patterns was more than a little disconcerting. What did I have to prove to these children?

Madame Ménard said, “I can’t excuse you from gym, but I can allow you to wear something that will cover your arms. The problem will be with the other students in the class. They will ask questions. They will think I am playing favourites if I let you wear something other than the uniform.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I really don’t want anyone to see.” It went beyond simple acceptance. I also didn’t want the sympathy of children.

The teacher nodded and then pulled a bright red zip-up sweater from her drawer. SJ was emblazoned over the breast. She said, “I am going to lend you this. It’s not the standard uniform, but I have allowed students to wear it before, particularly when the school’s air conditioning was malfunctioning.”

I said, “Thank you, but I can pay for it. I could give you my credit card number.”

Madame Ménard blinked and then looked at me suspiciously, “You have a credit card?”

I shook my head, “Um- I-I meant debit card.”

My credit card said Darren Lawrence on it, and my last name was supposed to be Grenier. Parents often do have different last names, but Amélie was my guardian, and was likely the only one on the enrolment form.

The teacher shook her head, “It’s not necessary, Abigail. Just give it back to me when you feel comfortable to show your arms. OK?”

I smiled, “Sure. Thanks Madame Ménard.” She was really nice. The next time a kid tried to bad mouth her, I would give them a tongue lashing.

No one said anything about the fact I was covering my arms, but they were curious about why I had chosen to pick a fight with the seniors. I said that it was not a school policy, and that the seniors had no legal claim to the area. When one girl pointed out that my black bag was probably ruined, I talked about the casualties of war. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have tried to explain it that way because I received a few odd looks. Teenage girls didn’t speak that way. I told myself that Darren Lawrence would explain it in that manner, and that is who I am. Despite the odd looks, I felt that I had gained a measure of respect from a handful of the students in my grade.

***

School finally ended. I was surprised how long it felt. When I taught, the days used to pass at the speed of light because I was so busy, either teaching, marking or preparing for the next day’s classes. As a student, today felt interminably long, and now I had an hour to kill before Amélie arrived. I looked down at my black bag, now covered with NINER CUNT SLUT in bright silver lettering. I had a feeling it was ruined, but I had to at least try and remove the offensive writing. I loved the bag. It had been a birthday gift from my sister and parents, and it was real leather.

I heard a familiar voice behind me, “Hey Abby! How was your first day?”

It was Ethan. I shared Math, Science, Music and Career Studies with him. He knew how it went, but I guessed he was simply making small talk. He sat down beside me on the curb just outside the entrance to the school.

I said, “Fine.”

Ethan laughed, “Dude, what am I? Your mother or Amélie? That’s what I tell my parents when they ask. How was it really? I mean besides the obvious. And how come you missed last week?”

I replied, “I was still trying to be emancipated. I was speaking to firms, trying to get interviews.”

The smile disappeared from Ethan’s face, “Oh. I thought you’d stopped that after it didn’t work out at the Locke Agency. Um, didn't you like being around kids your age though? I mean today kind of sucked, but tomorrow, you’ll eat with me and my friends, and it’ll be fine.”

I narrowed my eyes, “You think I am going to let that Mercedes bitch get away with what she did to me? There’s enough video evidence to get her suspended for a week. I just need to find someone who recorded it.”

The frown deepened on Ethan’s face, “I would just drop it, Abby. It’s not worth it. Plus, people will think you are a snitch. They already think you are kind of weird. If you go and tell the principal about what happened, you’ll be labelled. It’s just not how we do things here.”

I barked, “Ethan, she may have ruined a two-hundred dollar bag. She is not getting away with this. There’s nothing you can do to convince me otherwise. It’s pretty clear to me that Alexandre did something to you, too.”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah he did, and if he does anything like it again, I’ll challenge him to a fight. We don’t involve parents or teachers, ever. That’s like the golden rule. We settle things our way. That’s freedom.”

I shook my head, “What a load of shit, Ethan. That’s not freedom. That’s acting like children so you can play with your own rules. Instead of being mature and addressing issues like bullying in an intelligent manner, you resort to childish solutions that don’t really resolve the problems. Real freedom would be if those who are victimized actually felt like they had a chance for justice.”

Ethan frowned and formed a fist, “Yeah, well I’ll tell you that breaking Alexandre’s fucking nose would be justice.” He perked up, “And if you want yours, then you can fight Mercedes, or do something back to her to get even. But the fight would probably get you more respect. And girl fights- well they bring a crowd.” He smirked.

I sighed, “I want to go through adult channels to deal with this. I don’t want to fight anyone and neither should you. That’s how Neanderthals settle their problems. People like Alexandre.”

Ethan shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe. But I am telling you, no one is going to give you that footage. I don’t agree with what you said. It is freedom because we can choose how we want to handle it. We don’t have to go through our parents or teachers. We can settle it any way we want.”

I shook my head, “Let’s agree to disagree. You aren’t going to convince me. Tomorrow I am going to talk to people who saw the event and ask for the footage.”

Ethan lowered his head. He said, “Listen, kids who tell- they are treated really badly here. I heard one guy got stabbed because of what he said.”

I blinked. I was going to get a case of the stupids if I had to stay here for two years. “Don’t you see that by perpetuating a myth the ones who committed the crime can just continue to act that way, knowing that stories like the one you told, which is ridiculous by the way, will deter students from ‘snitching’. They are the ones who have the power, and the freedom. They can do what they want to us, and because everyone is so scared of breaking an asinine code, they continue to get away with it.”

Ethan looked at me and said, “Um, so Habs suck?” He was referring to my favourite team, the Montreal Canadiens.

I sighed heavily and put my hand to my forehead, clearly showing my frustration.

Ethan threw up his arms, “Look Abby, I am telling you as your friend. Don’t do this. Play within our rules.” His expression softened, “I-I don’t want to see something bad happen to you.”

I felt like Ethan’s teacher, trying to lecture him on how the adult world works, but I was beating my head against a brick wall.

Ethan continued, “St. Jo’s works like this, OK? The seniors are pricks, the French seniors like Alexandre are the biggest pricks. Next year that’ll be us. So you wade through the shit for two years, then you get the prize.”

I shook my head in disbelief, “Great, so you can treat the lower grades like trash. Lay claim to what should be a common area and teach the new students the same idiotic way of thinking. Great. How progressive. This is the exact reason why I wanted to be emancipated. I am better than this place.”

Ethan frowned, “See, that’s why kids don’t really like you, despite what happened during lunch. You act like you are better than everyone else.”

My eyes widened, “I am. Because I don’t think like I am brain damaged.”

Ethan got up, “Look, you are still free to sit with me and my friends at lunch tomorrow. But try not to be such a bitch.”

With that, Ethan left. I thought about what he said. A part of me cared that the other students didn’t really like me, but I couldn’t give in to peer pressure or my tiny desire to the accepted. Eventually, Amélie pulled up with Chloe in the back seat.

Amélie smiled at me as I climbed into the SUV. Chloe shouted “Daddy!” enthusiastically. Amélie looked over at me as I buckled my seatbelt but the smile disappeared from her face when she saw my bag. “Oh Darren, what happened there?”

I leaned back in my seat and waved at Chloe before answering, “Apparently, St. Jo’s is a school without logic or common sense. This girl and her gang of thugs didn’t like me eating in the seniors’ lunch area. When I refused to move, her thugs grabbed me and wrote all over my bag. Can we stop by Canadian Tire and get some turpentine or something?”

Amélie replied with concern, “Was it permanent marker? You might have trouble getting it out. Just in case, let’s pick up a backpack for you, too.”

I sighed, “Fine.” Great, now I was going to be like the other 95%, unless I decided to carry a big purse around all day, which is what the other 5% did.

Amélie looked puzzled at the writing on the bag, “Um, I thought you were in tenth grade.”

I nodded, “I am, but I guess because I am so short, and I didn’t know about their stupid made up rule, they figured I was a ninth grader.”

We arrived at Canadian Tire, and I bought some turpentine. Amélie took me to Zellers, a Canadian discount department store and bought me a pair of cheap indoor running shoes. I also bought a lime green backpack. Amélie questioned my purchase, “Are you sure? I mean I know you like green and everything, but this won’t match your uniform at all if you have to use it.” I shrugged my shoulders, indicative that I didn’t care.

Once home, I went right to work at trying to remove the offending marker from my expensive bag. Amélie cooked supper and took care of Chloe. Despite the fact that I didn’t have a job after my firing at the Locke Agency, I had stopped cooking dinner. I was even getting lax in my weekly chores, which involved cleaning the living room and washroom. Amélie, likely trying to carefully pick her battles at this point, had said nothing.

According to the Internet, turpentine was great at removing paint and dye from skin, but it would permanently damage the bag if applied. The problem with leather is that ink and dye tend to seep deeply into the fabric. Amélie called me for dinner, but I shouted that I wasn’t finished yet. I grew impatient, because I was famished (Mercedes had crushed half my lunch), and decided to use some of Amélie’s nail polish remover, and after that I tried hairspray. I couldn’t understand why other people had success with their do-it-yourself solutions. I grew discouraged when the areas I was rubbing became discoloured. The silver marker was smudged so the writing was less legible, but the bag was still not appropriate to bring to school. I trudged up the stairs defeated. Why was I having so little success? My rubbing had removed the finish from the leather. There were large splotches where the leather no longer matched, and a few stubborn insults refused to come off. The bag was ruined.

As I dug into my dinner, Amélie said, “Darren, is it possible those people who used hairspray and nail polish remover, were using it on pleather?”

My eyes widened, “Uh- yeah I guess it is.” Pleather is an artificial leather and since it is essentially plastic, it is much easier to remove stains from it. I shook my head at my own stupidity. Mercedes had scrawled on the bag, but I had dealt the death blow by applying the abrasive chemicals to it. It seemed like my ability to be patient was worsening by the day now, and it hadn’t been fantastic before.

Amélie said, “Sorry about your bag, Darren.” She narrowed her eyes, “Did you want me to call the school? As your guardian, I’d probably be expected to do that after you’d been bullied like that. This Mercedes girl you told me about should have to buy you a new bag, at the very least.”

I replied glumly, “I can handle it.” I wanted to gather the evidence myself to show Ethan that I could go against the established protocol, which I felt was brainless and immature.

Amélie sighed, “You don’t have to take this on alone you know, Darren. I know I’m not your mother, and I’m not exactly your wife anymore either, but I love you, and I want to support you. I really think I should phone the school and let Monsieur St-Valentin know you are being bullied like that.”

I frowned, “I told you. I want to do this myself. I don’t need any help.”

Amélie said brusquely, “Fine.” She cleared her throat, “Listen, I know that you kind of had a bad day, but we need to talk about the social worker. She’s actually going to be coming next week. M. St-Valentin managed to convince her that you should have at least one week at St. Jo’s before the interviews. You know- to get settled.”

“With that said, I got some calls from your teachers today. We have some problems, but the biggest one being, the school thinks that you are self-harming. They’ve suggested that you see a specialist. The Board has one they use on a rotating basis for cases like yours. They’d like you to see him next week.”

I blurted out angrily, “You know that I cut myself because of the spell.”

Amélie looked at me and took my hand gently, “I know, but they don’t. I think with everything that you’ve gone through, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to speak to someone, a professional.”

I pulled my hand away, “What, so they can put me on drugs to change my behaviour? No way, Amélie. I’m not going.”

Amélie replied, “You took sleeping pills that also acted as anti-anxiety medication. You said yourself that you were less anxious when you took them. Well, they are dangerous for you to take now. Maybe this specialist can suggest something else. Darren, I am worried about you. This social worker could make things very difficult for us. Do you really want to risk her putting you in foster care? I am not trying to be hard on you, but you are making this needlessly complicated. I can tell you that a foster parent is going to be a hell of a lot harder on you than I am. I know who you really are, they won't.”

I looked Amélie in the eye, and challenged, more than asked, “Then what do you suggest we do?”

Amélie replied firmly, “You need to start paying attention in class. Take notes and complete the assignments properly. Because you are at-risk, your teachers are going to be on you more. And there’s an expectation that I will check that your homework is done.”

I shook my head in defiance, “I’m not in third grade, Amélie. You don’t need to check my homework.”

Amélie nodded, “OK, Darren. I trust that you’ll get it done. I don’t want to have to look over your shoulder.”

She continued, “But I really think you need to see the specialist. We can figure out what you will tell him exactly, but M. St-Valentin said that the social worker will think I have better control over you if I can convince you to go.”

Logically, it made sense, and I was still capable of grasping adult logic. It only took a brief moment for me to realize that Amélie was right. I nodded, “OK. I’ll go.” I agreed but I did so with zero enthusiasm.

Amélie smiled, “Did you manage to make any friends? That’s important too.”

I replied, “Sort of. Ethan and I made up. I tried with Alyssa, too. She was Chloe’s dance instructor. She doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me though.”

Amélie frowned, “I notice that since you stopped being a teacher, you have a lot less respect for teens. I know you don’t really want to have kids as friends, but it’s all part of the profile that the social worker will create. You kind of have this attitude that you are better than them, which is fine if you looked like the adult you are inside but they see you as a teen, like them.”

I frowned, “Ethan said the same thing. You have no idea how stupid they can be. It’s infuriating. I am going to lose a gazillion brain cells if I am stuck there for two years.”

Amélie shook her head, “Ethan is right. Would you want to be friends with someone who thought they were better than you, smarter than you? Someone who thought you were stupid?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess not.”

Amélie said, “Can you change Chloe? I need to start the laundry downstairs.”

I frowned, “But I’ve got like two hours of homework, and I wanted some time to play guitar. I think the band is getting back together.”

Amélie’s reply was curt, “Just do it, Darren. It will take five minutes. I have to do something downstairs.”

She added, “Oh, and I think you should start a Facebook page for Abigail. All teens have some sort of net presence.”

I blinked, “Uh, okay. But we don’t have any pictures of Abigail.”

Amélie said, “Then we’ll have to take some.” I hated getting my picture taken as Darren, and this had not changed as Abigail. Amélie was an amateur photographer. She had taken a course to learn how to use her expensive camera, and her pictures had improved immeasurably. She learned how to properly set pictures and how to adjust for different light, but she wasn’t going to have a very cooperative subject.

***

After changing Chloe, putting on her pyjamas and giving her milk, I set her down in front of her new obsession, Dora the Explorer. I called downstairs to Amélie, but she told me five more minutes. I wasn’t actually going to play guitar after I finished my homework. Since Alyssa and I had absolutely nothing to talk about, I planned to watch “Katy Perry’s: Part of Me” movie. The girl was obsessed with the pop star, but I couldn’t exactly watch it on the TV upstairs- Amélie would think I had lost it, but I could watch it on my computer with headphones on.

Twenty minutes later, I was fuming. I had put another Dora episode on for Chloe and got started on my homework at the kitchen table. Finally, Amélie came upstairs. She said, “Before you say anything, take a look at your room.”

I gathered up my books with an incredulous expression. Chloe waved at me frantically from the couch, “Bye Daddy!” She blew me kisses, and I returned the gesture. Despite all that had happened, Chloe would still bring me from the darkest places.

I trudged down the steps, annoyed that I was behind on my homework. I opened the door to Abigail’s room, and I was pleasantly surprised. Amélie had cleaned up all remnants of last night’s failed ritual. The frozen blood pool, which had likely thawed, was gone. The chalk marks on the hardwood floor were gone too. On my desk, I noticed a brand new lamp. I had completed hundreds of hours of homework at that very desk, but my old desk lamp had broken in one of our numerous moves over the years. It was a simple gesture, along with cleaning up the evidence of my failure, but it was appreciated. It meant she was still thinking about me. That she still loved me.

An hour into my homework, Amélie knocked on my door. I smiled, “Um thanks for cleaning up, and for the lamp. When did you have time to get it?”

Amélie returned the smile, “On my lunch hour. I went over to the mall.”

I nodded, “Don’t you usually go to the gym at lunch?”

She nodded, “Yeah, but this was important. I knew you’d need one. How’s it going?”

I said, “History is beyond easy because I already took it in French, and I probably know more than the teacher. Science is challenging because I don’t recognize a lot of the terms, but it’s all memorization, so I’ll get it. Math kind of sucks, but then I haven’t taken a math course in over ten years, and it always sucked. Music I just have some fingering exercises to do. Can you help me with the translation of my resume and cover letter? I am not sure if the phrases are right in some places.”

Amélie smiled, “Sure.” I wasn’t ashamed or humiliated to ask Amélie for help. She was a Francophone, and while my French was improving, she was still the expert.

A half hour later, Amélie left, and my homework was done. I looked down at the textbooks in front of me, amazed at their presence. I wouldn’t have completed the homework if I thought there was a sure-fire way for me to be Darren Lawrence again. For now, I had to play the part of Abigail Grenier, so I loaded up Netflix, put on my headphones and immersed myself in Katy Perry’s: Part of Me.

As I was going to sleep that night, I thought about the movie, and the fact that it really wasn’t bad. The songs were surprisingly catchy, but more importantly, it was a story of her journey. As a musician, I felt like Katy’s story could be mine. It didn’t matter that she was a pop star- she could have succeeded in any genre because of her drive. I felt the same way. Plus, she was not plucked from obscurity because of her looks or her last name. She worked tremendously hard to reach her level of success. The young woman’s rise to fame was not reached by stepping on the backs of those around her, but with them- hand in hand. She made her sister part of her show, and while her parents didn’t agree with everything she did, they supported her.

I also respected the fact that she wrote her own music, and that her lyrics were heartfelt. There was a sincerity to them that was missing in so much pop music. There were certain songs where I just knew they were written to make a buck. After seeing the movie, I felt Katy wasn’t in it for the fame or the money, she was in it for the performances and to get her music out to as many people as possible- the same reason I was in it. After tonight, mixed amongst my playlist of Nirvana, Metallica, Alice in Chains, and other hard rock and metal, were a select few Katy Perry songs. Like two maybe. OK- four.

***

My trip on the bus the next morning was mostly uneventful. A few kids asked me about my bag and what I was going to do, but I was non-committal. I knew that I was going to start asking my classmates for their footage, so I had to be cautious. I was going against the grain with this approach. I planned my strategy as I listened to my music, the loud rock music, with the occasional Katy Perry song creating a natural barrier between myself and my classmates.

In Science, I arrived early to speak with my teacher, Monsieur Leblanc. Because I was a week late, I didn’t really have a lab partner. There was an odd number of students in the class, so I asked the teacher if I could group with Alyssa and her partner, Sarah. He readily agreed, stating that he was impressed with my initiative. Phase one of my plan was complete.

The group work started a few minutes later, and I joined Alyssa and Sarah at their station. Sarah was thin to the point of being scrawny. She had reddish brown hair, almost copper coloured. Her most distinguishing characteristic was her brains. In class yesterday, she had answered nearly all of M. Leblanc’s questions, some before he even finished. In my eyes, she was brilliant, so grouping with her and Alyssa was like killing two birds with one stone. A great mark on every lab assignment and Alyssa as a friend to show off to the social worker.

I waved sheepishly to Alyssa and Sarah, “Um, hi. I didn’t have a lab partner. So, Monsieur Leblanc said I could go with you guys. Is that cool?”

Alyssa looked at Sarah, and they exchanged unimpressed looks.

Sarah looked down at me, “You aren’t going to take off for a few days a week, are you? Let us do all the work?”

I shook my head, “Uh, no.”

Alyssa stared at me, but her expression softened, “As long as Sarah doesn’t mind.”

Monsieur Leblanc heard us with the super hearing that all teachers seemed to have, « En français, les filles. » During lunch and in between class, it was our choice, but in class, we were expected to speak French at all times.

Sarah said in French, « As long as she does her share of the work, I don’t mind. »

I smiled, « Great. So…what’s first? »

Although I had a little difficulty understanding because of the terminology used, I knew that today’s lesson involved physical and chemical changes. We would conduct a number of experiments and determine if a physical or chemical change had occurred. Once we began, I started trying to change the subject to the Katy Perry movie I had watched yesterday.

I stood next to Alyssa, “So I watched that Part of Me movie last night, you know the Katy Perry one? I really liked it.”

Alyssa raised a brow, “Really? I didn’t think it would be something you’d like.” Her tone was less than friendly.

I shrugged my shoulders, “The story really got me. You know I’m a musician, right? Well, her story is really inspiring.”

Alyssa’s expression softened again, “It really is. She worked so hard to be where she is.”

Sarah cleared her throat, « You aren’t paying attention. You missed the result of the first experiment. It was a physical change. The sodium chloride dissolved in the water after a few moments. Be careful with this one, it involves the Bunsen burner. »

I nodded slowly, « Sorry, Sarah. »

She handed me the flint to light the Bunsen burner and then turned on the gas. I read the instructions carefully and then brought the flint near the burner, preparing to light it.

Sarah said, « Pay attention. Before lighting that, get your goggles on. »

Thinking that Alyssa would think it was funny I said, “What are you the teacher, Sarah?”

Alyssa shook her head and put her goggles on, « Don’t be so immature, Abby. Sarah just wants us to be safe. And you really should speak French, our group will get in trouble. »

I pouted, « Fine. »

I pulled a pair of goggles over my head and proceeded to light the burner. I then turned my attention back to Alyssa, « So do you ever think about writing Katy a letter? »

Alyssa looked embarrassed momentarily, but when she saw my eagerness, she said, «I-I already did. This summer actually. I didn’t get a reply or anything. I just wanted to tell her how much I love her. She’s amazing-I think I’ve listened to Teenage Dream probably a million times. Hey Abby, what got you so interested in Katy Perry all of a sudden? You want to be a pop star? » She had a big smile on her face. This was the Alyssa I knew.

I shook my head, switching back to English, “Um not exactly. My sister got it for her birthday. The 3D version actually.”

Alyssa raised her voice, which caused it to raise in pitch, just like mine did when I got excited, “Wow, I haven’t seen it in 3D, was it good like that?”

I nodded, “Yeah, the show parts were fantastic.”

I saw a bright flash of light out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, I could feel M. Leblanc’s presence behind me. He was either trained like a ninja, or I was really distracted. Ironically, when I taught, I was often accused of the same thing, but I wore the ‘ninja teacher’ moniker proudly.

Sarah shook her head, « M. Leblanc, Alyssa and Abigail have done none of the work, and they just missed seeing the flame burning, so they will have to copy my description. I’ll do it by myself. All they talk about is Katy Perry. » She huffed, « They can partner together. They deserve each other. »

M. Leblanc frowned, « I’ve given you lots of chances here girls. It’s not fair that Sarah has done all the work. Were you just planning on copying her lab notes to do your report? You are supposed to witness the change, and I asked you several times to speak French. I want to see the two of you after class. »

There was no arguing with M. Leblanc. Alyssa and I had written nothing down, and we had done nothing but talk about Katy Perry for the first two experiments. I would have done the same thing as a teacher, so I couldn't fault him.

Alyssa and I were forced to restart the experiment and because of that, we didn’t get to the last two stations. Alyssa glared at me throughout most of it. I had urged her to talk, and she got in trouble because of it.

After class, M. Leblanc called us both to his desk, « Girls, I won’t tolerate misbehaviour in class. It’s especially important to pay attention because some of the chemicals we used today are dangerous. Alyssa, I’m especially surprised at you. You were never like this last year when I taught you. This is not a good way to start the year. » Alyssa hung her head.

He turned to me, «Abigail, you are new, but I doubt that behaviour was tolerated in your old school. I am willing to give you both another chance however. After school, I have to grade some papers. You can come back to the lab and finish the two stations you missed. »

We both thanked him and I went to my desk to retrieve my backpack. I turned to speak to Alyssa, but she had slipped out quickly. I assumed she was upset with me. I sighed and made my way to my next class. I would apologize to her later.

The lunch bell rang, and I was actually looking forward to sitting at Ethan’s table. I missed guy talk. Because I hadn’t spoken much to Andrew or Steven since the band broke up, I had missed out on a lot of important and stimulating conversations like- who was going to win the Stanley Cup this year. I was also eager for a distraction because my attempts at securing the footage of yesterday’s incident had met with little success. I had asked a half dozen students who I was sure had recorded the instance of bullying, but no one would give it to me.

I walked through the lunch room looking for Ethan and spotted him sitting alone. I quickly sat down.

Ethan invited me to sit, but did not address me with a smile as he usually did, “Hey Abby. Did M. Leblanc give you detention?”

I shook my head, “No, not exactly. We just have to do the stations we missed after school.”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah.” He was eating a pizza pocket, a chemical concoction that I had loved as a teenager but could not stomach as an adult. It was one step below actually being made of plastic.

I frowned, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I had a bad day. Um. I never thanked you for helping me.”

Ethan said, “Don’t worry about it. Anyone would have done it.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, I don’t think so. No one stopped my bag from being written on, and until you came, I was pretty sure I was going to have SLUT written all over my face. What’s with the kids here? They just stood there.”

Ethan shrugged his shoulders, “People don’t really like you. That’s why.”

I started eating my lunch, eating the same bland ham sandwich. Ethan’s pizza pocket actually looked really good. I looked at Ethan with a puzzled expression, twisting my brows upward and cocking my jaw to the side, “How is that possible? I haven’t even been here two days!”

Ethan frowned, “But, you spent an entire summer ignoring everyone except for me by the skate park. A bunch of times people said hey to you, and they said you ignored them. And this morning, kids said on the bus that you ignored everyone. Just listened to your music. People say you think you are better than everyone because you worked in a law firm. I tried sticking up for you and -”

I interjected, “Your friends got mad and ditched you.”

He nodded, “Yeah, something like that. It’s like this Abby, the girls think you are a stuck-up bitch and the guys think you are some untouchable ice queen. They think you are really hot, but they think like you’ll laugh in their face if they ask you out or even talk to you. That’s why no one wants to talk to you or hang out with you.”

I shook my head, “That’s not true. Alyssa talked to me in science today.”

Ethan frowned, “Because she’s the nicest girl in school. You have no idea what people are saying behind your back. Some of them are even saying that you deserved what you got yesterday. I got heat for helping you. They don’t understand why you got to take a week off school, or why you don’t have to wear the proper gym uniform.”

I finished my ham sandwich while Ethan started in on another pocket. Damn, it even smelled good. “Why did you help me?”

Ethan said, “Because I kind of know you, or at least I thought I did. I know you’ve been trying to get the footage, when I told you not to. One of the guys you asked is a friend of mine.” He tossed the pizza pocket to me and stood up, “Here, I’m not really hungry.”

He said, “See ya.”

I gobbled up the pizza pocket and then finished the rest of my lunch. I couldn’t believe how good it tasted, from the processed cheese, to the near molten sauce and the doughy sweet outside. It was like eating a doughnut full of tomato sauce, and as disgusting as that should have been- it wasn’t. It was comforting. I bought a chocolate bar from the vending machine and ate that while sitting in front of my locker. No one talked to me, and of those who looked at me, most glared, especially the girls.

Beyond all of that, I couldn’t get over how cute Ethan looked when he was mad. His eyes usually laughing, had a serious and powerful presence when he was angry. They drew me in, even if partially obscured by his hair. I was losing Ethan, though. He didn’t look at me the same way, and I was amazed that my heart actually felt like it was aching, even though it could have been indigestion from the pizza pocket. As Ethan was slipping away, I knew that I couldn’t lose Alyssa.

***

After school, I walked by the office on my way to the science classroom. I noticed Mercedes sitting in one of the ‘naughty’ chairs. I noticed her name had been called on the afternoon announcements, but thought nothing of it. Students were called to the office for reasons other than behavioural issues. Still, I was curious if someone had come forward about the bullying, and if so, why was I not being asked for my side of the story?

In the three minutes that it took me to walk to the science room, my name was not called, so I assumed that Mercedes was there for a different reason. When I entered, I could see that Alyssa was already standing at one of the missed stations with her goggles on. I had hoped we would do the experiments together, but the lit Bunsen burner told me otherwise.

I walked over to Alyssa and pulled a pair of goggles over my head. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. I said gently, “Hey, I’m really sorry about getting you in trouble.”

Alyssa shook her head, « Speak French, Abby. Now, let’s just do this so I can get out of here I already have the burner lit. »

I nodded slowly. I thought that I could still salvage things if I could get Alyssa talking about Katy Perry again or nails- something she liked- that I could pretend to like.

We worked quietly and quickly, completing the first station in five minutes. M. Leblanc sat at his desk marking assignments. Alyssa whispered harshly, « Why’d you even talk to me today, Abby? You didn’t answer any of my e-mails. No one else will talk to you. Was I your last choice? »

I frowned, « Sorry, I meant to answer them. »

Alyssa shook her head, while we moved to the second (and last) station, « Just like you meant to answer Ethan’s texts last week? He told me he was in your band, and then you just stopped talking to him. He’s a really nice guy, Abby. He’s talented too. »

I replied, « Well he’s back in now, I was just going through a lot of stuff. Same during the summer. I didn’t want to bring anyone else into it. » My French was surprisingly concise. All of my previous schooling was coming back to me seemingly.

Alyssa said, « You didn’t answer me. Was I your last choice? Do you even like Katy Perry? »

I replied, « Don’t be like that, Alyssa. It’s complicated. And yeah I like her. »

Alyssa said sadly, « When I first met you, I wanted us to be friends, Abby. But, I just think you are using me now, because you don’t have any friends. I think Véronique is right about you. You think you are better than everyone here. I think you are as mean as her. I bet you don’t even like Katy. »

I pulled out my phone and opened the music app, clicking on the artist icon. I showed her the four songs I had added.

Alyssa shook her head, « I went through some tough stuff during the summer too, you know, but I still e-mailed you a bunch of times. If you wanted to be my friend, don’t you think you would have come to the water park with me, and the beach when I asked? Don’t you think that would have helped you forget about the bad stuff? »

Alyssa sniffed, « You could have at least answered- said no. That would have been better than nothing, Abby. When you say that you actually saw the e-mails but didn’t answer…well that’s worse. »

My eyes burned, tears threatening. We finished the final station, and Alyssa said nothing as she walked out of the room. M. Leblanc saw me, but I quickly turned away, hiding a face that fought desperately to stop the tears from flowing. I swallowed the familiar lump in my throat and pushed my way into the girl’s washroom. I went into a stall and texted Amélie, asking her to come and get me. I couldn’t face the kids on the bus not after the supposed ‘nicest girl in school’ had rejected my friendship.

Chapter 48

The next day, I was called into M. St-Valentin’s office. He asked me for my side of the story concerning Mercedes. I was shocked when I was unable to tell him the truth. I told him that nothing happened, and that I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble. It went against everything that I stood for, but some insane thought was planted in my head that if I told the truth, that something terrible would happen. The ‘snitches get stitches’ mentality pervaded any rational thought I had.

It wasn’t only that. My first few days at school had been awful, worse than any day I had as an actual teenager. While assholes tried to stuff me in lockers, I still had real friends to whom I could turn. I had no one here, except for Alexandre, who had seen me in the hall this morning and invited me back to the Pit as his special guest. A part of me desperately wanted to go, but being in his presence did funny things to my brain. For one, I started having these images of us, going to Dairy Queen in his car, me joining the cheerleader squad, meeting his parents, and his father in particular. The images filtered through my brain, laughing and dancing their way, as the daggers they wore for shoes poked bloody holes in my remaining masculinity.

So, I couldn’t tell M. St-Valentin the truth, not if it meant it would push me into Alexandre’s arms. I realized afterward that I had told the truth through my body language, my posture with head lowered, shoulders slumped. I looked like a girl who had been bullied. I looked like Alyssa when I turned her down that first time - desperate and hurt.

I learned that Mercedes received a one week suspension for her actions, she was kicked off the senior cheerleading squad and removed from student’s council. That is when the taunts of ‘snitches get stitches’ started. Someone drew on my locker, ‘SNITCHES GET STITCHES’. The week felt like an eternity, and not even Ethan was speaking to me. I should have told them that they were acting completely counter to adult society but I kept my mouth shut. I thought it would make it worse. I really started thinking something was going to happen to me. My teachers must have noticed it too, because they were growing more concerned. Amélie was getting daily phone calls. Was it as bad as a marriage breaking up, losing one’s identity and gender, being treated differently by those who used to treat you as an equal? In my mind, it was, in fact, it was one hundred times worse. I filtered everything through the shallow body of the high school I was chained to.

When I told Amélie about my failure to secure any friendships, she tried to spin it by saying that at least I was attending school; the social worker would have to take that into account. I agreed with her in principle, and it wasn’t her fault I wasn’t making any friends after all. I would tell that to the social worker. I was more worried about what the specialist would recommend - medication. As I finished my first week at St. Jo’s, I must have looked the very spitting image of a self-harmer. Looking at the educational material on the net, I fit the profile perfectly. I really didn’t like myself. I saw the truth in Ethan's, Amélie's and even Alyssa’s statements- I thought I was better than my classmates, and admitting otherwise was lowering myself to their level, potentially becoming one of them. I also fit the profile because I continued wearing long sleeves, even as the Indian summer stretched into mid-September.

During my second week at St. Jo’s, I also realized I had taken on a new vice - overeating. This behaviour was not new, but its effects were. It started after my firing from the Locke Agency. I was still eating the same way I had as Darren, but I was also taking on added empty calories in the guise of cookies, soft-serve ice cream, potato chips, and even candy - something I hadn’t had in years.

As a guy, I wasn’t an emotional eater. I didn’t pack away fudge because something wasn’t going my way. Instead, I turned to video games and I did the same during the first few months after my change. I found that murdering innocent pixels was an excellent stress reliever. Now, however, pixelated blood did not have the same soothing effect as a freshly-baked chocolate chip cookie.
I didn't notice the effects of my overeating until I wore my school uniform for the first time. Amélie had used my size after my initial change, but the uniform was a tight squeeze, not wholly uncomfortable, but a few pounds more, and it would be.

The situation was exacerbated by my inability to make any friends at St. Jo’s, the looming social worker profile, my fallout with Ethan which threatened the existence of the band and my relationship with Amélie, who was more mother than wife now. The result- I consumed even more fattening food. I fell into a routine, going downstairs to complete my homework and bringing a few extra cookies, maybe a bag of chips, and at school, I bought junk from the vending machine. I was amazed how it dulled my worries. Poor score on my science lab? Chocolate was the answer. I had never sought the answer to my problems at the bottom of a bottle, pill or alcohol, except for my sleep anxiety, but a peanut butter cup dampened my concerns.

Inevitably, I gained more weight. I was actually eating more than I ever had as Darren Lawrence, and while I had a speedy teenage metabolism, the pizza pockets and pop I was consuming were taking their toll on my waistline. While I had been in the body for nearly six months, I hadn’t really noticed it change. When I first tried on my uniform, I noticed my skirt and blouse had been tight, but now, at the start of my second week, I had bona fide love handles peeking out over the sides of my skirt, and a little fat roll that oozed over the front. Another few pounds, and I would need a new uniform. My bras were a little tight, and the panties Amélie had bought me were cutting into my ass.

We didn’t actually have a scale in the house. I had convinced Amélie that the devices were the devil incarnate. I told her they were just numbers, they weren’t actually a reflection of how she looked or how others saw her. They didn’t see her walking around with the scale strapped to her feet, nor was there a massive neon sign above her obnoxiously blurting out my wife’s weight. I desperately wanted to weigh myself, even though it was against everything I stood for. It was hypocritical of me to say plumper women should be happy with their bodies when I wasn’t happy with mine. I didn’t think I was fat- well not really. OK, there was a part of me that scrutinized my body through the lens of a high-powered microscope. It was the part that said I was a blubber-filled whale. The part saw me fifty pounds overweight sometimes, when I was really only ten.

Before my gain, I hadn’t really thought much about my body. I knew I had boobs and an ass, and a nice face, but I hadn’t had any self-esteem issues concerning it. I also didn’t think I was hot or anything- that would have been too weird- a thirty-two year old man finding the fifteen year old body he was in, attractive. Now, these issues were front and centre. When I leaned over, I felt more of my stomach move downward than usual. It bunched up when I sat, and it was uncomfortable. I knew what Amélie felt like now. I knew what it felt to have your stomach push against your pants, to feel the fat squeeze together forming one unflattering roll that was visible through my blouse when sitting. Oh my god, I hated it. All day long in class, that little roll was there, stubbornly refusing to hide itself. I felt like everyone was staring at it.

Tuesday afternoon after gym class, I opened my locker to fetch my uniform, I noticed objects that weren’t there before class. My eyes widened as I saw a plastic pig nose with a thin string and a pair of pig ears held together like a hair band. Underneath that was a plate of cookies and a note that said, “Pour le cochon! Mange bien! OINK!”

Véronique, the likely mastermind of the insidious plot, said, « I’m pretty sure Alexandre doesn’t like fat girls, Abby. »

Her gang moved in beside me, grabbed my arms and forced the ears and the nose on my face, as Véronique grabbed a handful of cookies and tried stuffing them into my mouth. I choked as half-chewed pieces of chocolate chip cookie slid down my throat. My face was smeared with chocolate and crumbs. The fifteen and sixteen year old girls laughed at me. Here I was in my panties with my bra showing under the unzipped top the gym teacher had lent me. There was a little fat roll peeking over the top of the panties. I wanted to die. I must have looked odd, long sleeves and no pants but it hid the remnants of the spell. I no longer needed to wear a bandage, but the long slice mark was still visible. I should have shouted at them, told them they were acting like vicious dogs, told them that this was assault, and I could bring charges. But I didn’t.

Véronique said, « Awww look, piggy looks like she’s going to cry. Do you want more cookies piggy? » She grabbed the little roll of fat and squeezed it, and proceeded to stuff more cookies into my mouth.

Véronique taunted, « You probably wear that sweater to hide your fat, right Abby? Do you wait for everyone to leave and then take it off? You think Alexandre is going to want to go out with a fat pig like you? Pull it off her. Let’s see what she’s hiding underneath. »

So, I was unceremoniously stripped of the zip-up, and now my soft arms were completely visible and the long thin scars from my wrist up my forearm almost to my elbow. I had heard that girls were more vicious than boys. Even at a young age, girls could hurt far more with words than boys could with fists. I recall one afternoon at the park with Chloe, when an older child, probably five or six had called another girl ugly. The girl broke into tears and was inconsolable. I couldn’t believe how mean girls could be, but they were, and I was feeling the full brunt of it, and since Véronique had an audience, she relished in it.

She said, grabbing my arm, « So you are an emo cutter too? You going to come to school wearing clown makeup tomorrow? »

Even after seeing my arms, the girls continued to laugh. I don’t know if it was peer pressure or a mob mentality, but it was the single most humiliating moment of my life. Instead of elbowing them or fighting back in any way, physical or verbal, I started crying. Like seriously uncontrollably crying in front of all the girls in my class, and they continued to laugh, until one of them stood up. The only one who hadn’t been laughing.

Alyssa reached out and slapped Véronique in the face, hard. «That’s enough Véronique. No one deserves this, no one. Leave her alone. »

Véronique’s hand gingerly touched her cheek, which bore a red mark where Alyssa had struck her. The other girls stopped laughing and turned to see Alyssa, who was this stick of a girl, the supposed nicest girl in class, slapping one of the meanest - right in the face.

Véronique hissed, « Pute! You tell fatty, I will leave her alone if she stops hanging out with Alexandre. »

Alyssa shook her head, « I won’t say it. You’ve got no right to pick on anyone. None of us do. We all have flaws. » She looked at Véronique’s blonde junkyard dog who was holding my left arm, « You have a fat butt Samantha. »

She turned to the Latino girl who was holding my other arm, « Rachel, you have big ears. And weird looking toes. »

One girl who laughed at this also drew Alyssa’s ire, « Brianna, you have thin lips, and stringy hair. »

By this point, Samantha and Rachel had let go of my arms. I had stopped bawling, but my cries still came in spurts like hiccups. I tried to breathe gently to stop myself from hyperventilating.

Véronique sneered, « You have the body of a twelve year old boy, Alyssa. And you keep a pair of mosquitoes in your room, so every night you can at least wake up with bites that look like tits. »

Alyssa wasn’t fazed by Véronique’s insult; instead, she turned on the taller girl. « And you have scrawny chicken legs and a big nose. Your hair is thin. You have a bit of acne on your back. Oh, and you hide it, but everyone knows you have a little moustache. You just wax it every morning. »

Véronique covered her mouth with her hands, shouting, « Not every morning! » She realized her mistake, and the game was over.

Alyssa walked over to me and pulled off the pig nose and ears, tossing them into the garbage. The other girls went back to getting dressed, some of them whispering excitedly. Véronique had been bested, and while they were in her corner while she was on top, it was easy to hate one of the meanest girls in school. Since gym fell on the last period of the day, school was over, and Alyssa waited as I squeezed myself into my skirt. A few gasp cries still escaped from my mouth. I couldn’t believe how much Véronique’s taunts hurt.

Alyssa brushed cookie crumbs from my hair, and she brought a wet paper towel to clean my face, which had been smeared with chocolate. She asked gently, “Are you OK, Abby?”

I shook my head. I really wasn’t. I felt fat. I had no friends, my teachers were worried about me, Amélie was worried about me, and now everyone thought I was a cutter. To top things off, I was in this emotional state a day away from my appointment with the specialist. He was sure to suggest something- anti-depressants, which I heard could make you gain weight. Not to mention the social worker, who would paint me as some manic depressive teen cutter. I covered my face with my hands and started crying again. I had cried before, but not in front of children like this.

Alyssa spoke softly and rubbed my back, “It’s OK, Abby. Everyone’s gone.”

I said, although with some difficulty due to my crying, “I-I’m so sorry, Alyssa. I-I only watched that Katy Perry stuff because I thought it would make you like me. And I’m sorry about the s-summer too. I should have at least told you I didn’t- want to go. But I was- it’s just been so horrible. I have to see a specialist, for this…” I showed her my arms. “And there’s a social worker too. I’m so scared she’s going to take me away from my sister. None of this would have happened if I could have been e-emancipated.”

Alyssa blinked, “Wait, you really tried to get emancipated? When Ethan told me I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think stuff like that was even possible. And did you really work in a law office all summer? I guess considering what happened to you, it’s no wonder you don’t want to be here. I’m sorry I was so hard on you, Abby. It’s just, you know how it is, people start saying stuff about someone and well I believed it because you never replied to me. I thought you were just like Véronique.”

She gently rubbed my back, “You weren’t though. You were - well a lot like me last year, trying to get with Véronique and her stupid friends. I treated you the same way, and I am really sorry about that. I can see it now.” She turned her arms over, as I had done previously, and I could see the faint traces of self-harm. “I saw some kids do it on YouTube. My parents were getting a divorce, and I wanted some attention. I don’t do it anymore. I can help you. You know that doctor they want to send you to? I met with him last year. He’s really nice.”

I sniffed, “Really?”

I couldn’t have even imagined this scene in my head, it was so preposterous. A thirty-two year old man being consoled by a fifteen or sixteen year old girl. It was at this point, I realized that I didn’t need a friend to convince the social worker Amélie was competent - I needed one to survive this place. Amélie wasn’t sitting in class with me, and neither were my parents, but Alyssa was. The reason that I was in this position is because I viewed my classmates as children, but that is exactly as they saw me. I was one of them, and unlike the adult world that had pushed back at my attempts to enter it, the adolescent world was ready to embrace me with open arms, whispering, “You belong…”

Alyssa nodded, “I’ll help you, Abby. And I want to be your friend.”

I pulled back momentarily, away from her grasp. I raised my head, and saw myself in the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and my face still wet with fresh tears. “Because you think I’m sick? Is that why you want to help me? Or because you think I can’t take care of myself against people like Véronique? I don’t want the pity of - ”. I was going to say child, but I remembered that Alyssa thought I was her age. Calling her a child wouldn’t endear me to her.

Alyssa took my hand, “I want to meet the girl that Ethan talked about so much the first week of school, and the one from dance class. And the one that’ll go to the beach with me next summer. I want to help you as your friend, Abby - not like you are some science experiment or because I feel sorry for you. I’m sorry I believed all the mean things that the others were saying about you.”

She said, “Ethan set me straight.”

I walked out with Alyssa, thinking perhaps that the other students would treat me better if they saw me actually hanging out with one of their own. We walked to the bus stop together. A part of me couldn’t help but feel that I had made progress, but I was equally worried because of the earlier feelings I had when I first met the girl. Time spent with her threatened to change me irrevocably, to the point where I might actually enjoy the activities we would pursue. She talked excitedly about helping me with my hair, surprised that I wore the same style every day. Alyssa was potentially a path to real adolescence and genuine femininity, but she was also the only person talking to me at school, other than my teachers. I would have to walk the path carefully, cautious not to be pulled along it at light speed toward a world where even my own wife wouldn’t be able to tell me apart from any other girl my age.

***

“So how was school today?” Amélie looked at me expectantly as I picked at the food on my plate. I had taken a bird-sized portion of my wife’s pepperoni casserole.

“Fine.”

Amélie frowned, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. I’m really worried about you, Darren. I know you, there is something wrong, and you are hiding it from me.” Amélie looked at me sternly, as if trying to pry the secret from my lips. There was compassion in her gaze too, but the surprising seriousness of her expression caught me off guard.

“It’s embarrassing. I don’t think I can really talk to you about it.”

Amélie wore a confused expression, “Darren, I showed you how to use tampons. I figured out your bra size, and bought underwear for you. What else is left? Is it a boy?”

I shook my head repeatedly, “No, nothing like that. It’s just- well…do I look fat to you?”

I sighed, “I’m starting to notice myself more in the mirror now. More than before. I knew what I looked like, but I guess- well I’m getting critical. I think I am seeing things that aren’t there.”

Amélie shook her head gently, “No, you don’t look fat to me.”

I frowned, “That’s what I always told you, so you wouldn’t go on a diet. I feel fat. My clothes don’t fit the same way. I’ve got a serious muffin top, and this fat roll at the front- I can’t believe I am saying this, but I hate it. It goes against everything I have ever believed about healthy body image. It goes against everything I have ever told you. I don’t like it, but at the same time, if I give in to this dieting mentality, well that’s a huge change in me.”

Amélie nodded her head and said gently, “Well, most teenage girls have body image issues. Most women in general.”

I shook my head and said firmly, “Yeah, but I’m not a teenage girl.”

Amélie replied, “I know, but it’s clear that the change has done something to your brain. Are you still thinking about boys?”

I lowered my head, “Can we not talk about this?” Since Alyssa told me that Ethan convinced her I was worth saving, my crush had returned with increased intensity. I felt my cheeks redden as I thought about him, and then there was Alexandre, who made me actually want him to explore my anatomy.

Amélie said, “Because of this change, it is entirely possible that you will actually develop a body image problem. I can’t imagine what’s going on in your brain, but if you are seeing yourself larger than you actually are, that is really common, Darren.”

Amélie added, “And it’s hard not to notice that you’ve been eating more, turning to food to alleviate your stress. It’s OK once in a while to indulge, but you’ve seen me- I eat what I want, but in smaller portions. I do indulge, but I watch myself. You may have gained some weight, but it could be something else too. Because you eat such unhealthy food with high salt and fat content, it is possible that you are retaining a ridiculous amount of water. Is your period coming up?”

I sighed, “You know it is.”

Amazingly, our time of the month had synched. I couldn’t understand how it was possible, since we were two entirely different people, but it had. Amélie suggested it was normal, and that when she lived with a group of girls during college, the same thing happened.

Amélie nodded, “Well you retain water. That’s the bloated feeling. So, you probably did gain some weight, but at least part of it is water weight.”

I said, “So in a week, my skirt will fit?”

Amélie replied with some hesitation, “Well- I mean- it’s possible. But if you want you could always exercise. You know I go to the gym almost every day. You could go jogging or do one of my workout DVDs. That’s a lot more healthy than dieting.”

She pointed to my plate, “And you certainly shouldn’t crash diet like that. It’s dangerous first of all, and second, they don’t work. One girl at work, she got pregnant and gained about sixty pounds, well after she finished breastfeeding, she tried to crash diet, and the whole thing imploded. She lost weight at first, but because she hadn’t changed her lifestyle or anything- she gained it all back and more.

I blinked, “But you dieted successfully when we first moved in together. You lost almost fifteen pounds.”

Amélie nodded, “I was calorie counting. Eating only 1200 calories a day. But I was also tired and miserable- I couldn’t keep up with the diet, and I gained it back. I’ve accepted that I am never going to be thin, I would have to give too much up. I want to enjoy life, and that means eating the things I enjoy, but eating sensibly too. I don’t want to be much bigger than this.”

I shook my head, “I’m not sure I want to go down that road though. I would feel like such a hypocrite. I am so against the dieting industry, and the idea that if a woman has extra meat on her bones that there is something wrong with her. Hollywood makes it seem like fat is a disease. I never want to be one of those people that discusses the benefits of low-fat yogurt for fifteen minutes. Or one of those people who looks at a thin model or even a person on the street and says, I wish that was me. That goes against everything that I am.”

Amélie said, “It comes down to this, and it was the same way with me. Are you happy like that, Darren? I mean we could get you a larger uniform, and you would probably actually start to fit in some of my clothes when I was that size, but are you really happy that way?”

I looked deep within myself for the answer to Amélie’s question, and I realized that I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy either way, but I was even less so now that I was clearly heavier. I weighed more as a man, but I was also ten inches taller, so the weight was distributed. I didn’t want to become a fitness junkie, but I also didn’t want a fat roll oozing over my skirt.

I shook my head, “No, I’m not happy like this. I was always skinny- remember when you used to call me ‘Bones’? So, I really don’t like this feeling, but I also don’t want to get obsessed.”

Amélie nodded, “Well I’m afraid we can’t afford another gym membership. Is there a workout room at the high school?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I really don’t want to do that there. The girls- well they are really mean. They called me fat, and I couldn’t believe how much it hurt.”

I could tell that my words caught Amélie off guard because she raised her brow and pursed her lips. It was just another indication of how much her husband had changed since the initial transformation. She nodded gently, “Well you can start doing my workout DVDs, or like I said, you could go jogging.”

I nodded slowly, “Workout DVD I guess. I don’t really want people seeing me do this. It’s embarrassing.”

Amélie nodded, “Yeah, probably a good idea. There are a lot of creepers in the neighbourhood. Guys who actually slow down to get a good look at you. Ugh, it’s so gross. Always the scuzziest looking guys too. I can just imagine what kind of looks you’ll get.”

That night, after supper, I made a promise to myself that I would get down to my starting weight. I told myself that it wasn’t a rejection of my previous beliefs, it was just a matter of comfort.

***

The next day, I was to meet with the self-harm specialist, but in the meantime I had to attend class. I had history first, and M. Landry handed back our tests. I had, not surprisingly for a history major, aced the test. Alyssa, who had taken residence in a desk next to mine at the front of the class, was upset with her result. M. Landry had stepped out of the class, so the students were chattering about their test results in both French and English.

Alyssa frowned, “This sucks. I hate history. Just a bunch of stupid dates and people nobody cares about. I don’t get this stuff at all. And M. Landry is so old and mean. He hates me. I know it.” She looked at my test with wide eyes, “How do you do so well Abby? You almost got perfect!”

I nodded, “I guess I just understand it. I don’t see it as just dates and dead people either. I mean history, and this class in particular, it’s about the birth of a nation. We can see Canada grow from being a British colony to a near superpower at the end of the Second World War. In between, there’s prohibition, the Great Depression, and of course Confederation. There’s heroes and villains in history. It’s like a great story, but it really happened.”

Alyssa laughed, “Oh my god Abby, you sound like a teacher. And what did you do, read the whole textbook? How do you know all that stuff about history?”

I shrugged, “I find it interesting, so I did some more reading. You know you’ll find if you can link the dates together into a coherent pattern it can be easier, like if you look at the Great Depression. Well, you need to know the catalyst, in this case, the stock market crash. And then if you think about the ramifications, like people going to their bank and realizing that the banks have no money. People are starving and unemployment was high. So you see, if you look at it in that way, it’s easier to remember a date because it is linked to a series of events and consequences.”

Alyssa grinned, “Wow, you should teach the class! I bet you know more than M. Landry. And yeah like I get what you are saying- when you put it all together, it’s more than just a date. You explained it better than M. Landry. He’s so boring, like a big textbook full of dates.”

I nodded, “I agree. His teaching method is really outdated. He hardly uses any multi-media in his lessons. Just overheads with way too much information on them.”

Alyssa nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah exactly. You know a lot about teaching, Abby, is your sister a teacher? You probably learned all that stuff from her?”

I had to be careful here. Abigail would not know about pedagogy, which is the art of teaching essentially. It involves the study of instructional methods, including different teaching styles and delivery methods.

I shook my head, “She’s a lawyer. You can just see it. The younger teachers like M. Blanchard use a variety of delivery methods beyond just lecture style, right?”

Alyssa nodded, “I guess.” She laughed, “I know what Ethan meant when he said that he doesn’t understand some of what you say, Abby. You are really smart. You are lucky. I just don’t get a lot of this stuff.”

I heard an obnoxious voice behind us, « Failed another test, Alyssa? You going to be a teenage drop out? You know you can actually print applications for McDonalds from the net. I can give you the link. Then you could give Abigail a discount. »

Véronique was looking at Alyssa’s test result - a 49%.

Alyssa didn’t say anything, and neither did I, but I did snatch the test from Véronique’s hands. She did moderately better than Alyssa, but 51% wasn’t anything I would be proud of either.

I quickly scanned the test, noting the differences, and within five seconds, I had my ammunition. I noticed that the class had their eyes on me. Since my humiliation yesterday, some of my classmates treated me better, I assumed because now it was known that I was a cutter. I wondered also if a select few realized that Véronique’s behaviour had crossed the line from innocent teenage indiscretion to real world crime. Were the students, and the girls in particular, actually maturing before my eyes? There was an equal amount that still laughed behind me, snickering, no doubt pointing out my fat roll, or my arms, which at Alyssa’s insistence, I uncover. It was the first step, she explained. Everyone knew now, so there was no reason to hide them any longer.

I said, “You didn’t do much better Véronique. And in fact, I would say if not for the result, you did worse. You missed three of the easiest questions on the test. You did worse on the essay, which was the hardest part of the test. Alyssa did better than you there. You wrote that Confederation was in 1983, which couldn’t be more wrong. And you thought that it was the Dutch who settled in Quebec City, which considering you are French Canadian, is really sad and kind of insulting to your heritage.”

Véronique snatched her test back and cast devilish eyes in my direction. A few students laughed at the Queen Bee of the tenth grade whose stock was rapidly plummeting, and once two or three laughed, it spread like a wildfire. M. Landry returned to a class whose laughter was riotous. Véronique’s face was red. Normally, I wouldn’t have sunk to their level, because it was not usually constructive to battle bullying with an equal barrage, but if I could sufficiently cow Véronique I hoped she would turn her attention elsewhere. If I had been a real girl, I probably would have been permanently scarred by her fat taunts yesterday. It’s not like I was lingering in front of the mirror - much.

Alyssa was the last to stop giggling after M. Landry had told the class to be quiet. Even as the teacher began going over the test, I could see that Alyssa still had a case of the giggles. It had happened to me a few times in high school, and it was always embarrassing.

M. Landry walked over to the girl’s desk and said, « Mademoiselle Moore, considering your result on this test, I would hope you would pay very close attention to the answers as we go over them. Instead of tittering like a second grader. » The class was deathly silent.

Alyssa turned bright red and covered her mouth with her hands.

After class, Alyssa said, “Hey thanks, Abby. Um, do you think you could help me with history? You are really good with it. I would go to M. Landry, but he’s so mean. Did you see him picking on me? I bet he’s never laughed in his life. He’s probably a robot.” Alyssa proceeded to actually do the robot, which caused me to giggle, uncharacteristically, especially as she spoke in a robot voice, “I-am-M. Landry, I-am-programmed-to-hate-all-kids.”

After my brief giggling interlude, I nodded, “Sure, Alyssa. I will help you with history.”

Alyssa smiled, “Great! We should study together for the next test. OK? You could come to my place.”

I replied, “Um, yeah OK.”

On the way to science class, Alyssa spoke at a mile-a-minute, and I could see her old self emerging. She smiled at me knowingly, “So, what’s happening with you and Ethan? I mean I could totally see you guys together, he talks about you a lot. Even when he was mad at you, I could tell that you were on his mind. And I see the way you look at him, and this little smile you get. And the band, he played some stuff, and I love your voice, Abby! It’s so pretty. It’s angry, and I don’t like that usually, but I really think your voice is what makes it. I kind of picture this sad girl walking on top of knives when I hear it. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You know, it’s like your voice is the pretty thing that rises above.”

I blinked, unused to Alyssa’s machine-gun mouth, “I get a smile? Really, um- I didn’t think so. And thanks, yeah I like the band too, my voice fits with the music.”

Alyssa nodded, “You should totally try out for Canadian Idol, but I don’t think they have it anymore. There’s local competitions, I know Véronique goes to them. There’s one in Ottawa every year too. They talk about it on Hot 89.9 (local radio station). I think there’s two every year. There’s one coming up. Oh! And there’s the coffee house too. Your band could play there. Is it true you have thirty year olds in there? That’s kind of weird, but Ethan said they are nice. I know you probably really don’t like her, but I think your voice is amazing, would you think about doing a Katy Perry song for one of them? I think you could do such a good job!”

I replied, “I have a lot of respect for Katy Perry. She’s really talented. Um- I’m not sure about singing one of her songs though, it’s not really my style. I had talked about doing a hard rock version of “Fireworks” with the band, but our drummer wasn’t into the idea.” Again, I had to filter my responses, but to be honest, I couldn’t even remember all of the girl’s questions.

Alyssa scrunched up her nose, “I guess you could do that, but I mean, your voice, it’s incredible, Abby. And when I hear you sing the ballads, I just know you could do so well in a different style. I don’t want to pressure you or anything, would you think about it at least? You don’t have to tell me right away, but maybe when you come to my place, you could sing one. I would love to hear you sing any of them, but California Girls is my favourite! That wouldn’t really test your voice like “Who am I Living For.”

I nodded, “I’ll think about it - um and yeah I actually really like “Who am I Living for.”

Alyssa grinned, “Great! So when are you going to come over?”

I was backed into a corner. If I turned her down, I threatened to lose the progress I had made with her up to this point. I threatened also to lose the only friend I had in this madhouse. After yesterday, I was not eager to let her go, even if it meant playing along with what she had planned for me.

I replied, “Well, I am speaking to the specialist today after school. And my parents are coming for dinner. Tomorrow night, I need to watch my niece. But Friday night -” I knew the social worker was coming to interview me on Thursday.

Alyssa beamed from ear to ear, “Oh cool. We could have a sleepover! I know it is super middle school, but we could really get to know each other. And I could do a full makeover on you, Abby. Hey, how come you don’t wear any makeup ever, does your sister not let you? I think you are old enough. Is it because you think it is cruel? I did a project last year on animal cruelty, but you can get makeup that isn’t tested on animals. I think you are one of the only girls in our grade that doesn’t wear any.”

I put my hands up, not yet ready to spend an entire night with the girl, or be the Frankenstein Barbie doll I was to become at her whim. I said, “Um, let’s start with me just going over to your place to study.”

Alyssa shook her head, “Who studies on a Friday night? Come on, Abby. Let’s have some fun.”

I said firmly, “People who want to pass their next history test, that's who. We’ve got a quiz on Monday. I’ll help you prepare for that, and then I’ll take a look at your notes. We’ll probably have another history test in a few weeks. I want to see how you prepared for the last one.”

Alyssa laughed, “OK. Whatever. Are-you-sure-you-aren’t-related-to-M. Landry?”

I shook my head, wearing a little smile instead of a full-on giggle fest. Apparently, the robot voice wasn’t as funny the second time. “Positive.”

Alyssa replied, “OK, so you’ll ask your sister if you can come over Friday night?”

I assumed I wouldn’t need permission. I just had to let Amélie know where I was, and I had to be back by nine . I hadn’t told Ethan or Alyssa about my curfew. I was supposed to be fifteen years old, and I had a curfew of a much younger kid.

I said, “Nah, she won’t have a problem with it. I just have to let her know where I am going.”

Alyssa replied, “Really? My mom is annoying. I guess we kind of live in a bad neighbourhood. Well it looks that way, so she’s scared for me. I always have to ask, like I am a little kid. Your sister sounds really nice. My mom is really strict.”

I said, “Well she trusts me I guess.”

Alyssa nodded, “You are so lucky.”

***

After school ended, my name was called on the announcements. I was to report to the guidance office. Alyssa insisted on going with me, and she stayed with me right up until the administrative assistant called me in. I was extremely surprised how quickly Alyssa had warmed to me, since our initial fallout the week before. I felt awkward because she was so excited to involve me in her life. I made a point to ask Ethan what he said about me to Alyssa. A part of me also thought that Alyssa was being extra nice because of my perceived condition, even if she said it wasn’t because of the cuts on my arm. Alyssa wished me luck, and I entered a small office. Sitting across from me was a middle-aged man, balding and thin with kind eyes and a hooked nose. I thought he looked like a bird, and I had to suppress my desire to giggle.

“Hi, you must be Abigail. I’m happy you came. My name is Doctor Phillips.”

I said, “Um, hi.” I fidgeted in my chair. My left leg felt like it had sugar coursing through it, causing it to shake up and down.

Doctor Phillips said, “It’s OK to be nervous, Abigail. I know this can’t be easy for you. Do you know why I am here to speak to you today?”

I nodded, “Because I cut my arms.”

He nodded gently, “That’s one of the reasons, yes. But it’s also because your teachers and principal are worried about you in general. I understand that this is a new school for you, is that right?”

I nodded.

He crossed his legs and folded his hands over his left knee. It looked effeminate, but who was I to judge? He wasn’t the one wearing a skirt, bra and panties. “Did you like your last school?”

I nodded slowly.

Doctor Phillips had an inviting expression. He appeared very open to converse or to listen. I was the exact opposite, back pressed against my chair firmly with my feet on the floor and legs closed tightly. My arms were crossed underneath my chest.

He said patiently, “I want us to have as open a dialogue as possible, Abigail. I also want to help you get better, just like your teachers, your principal and the School Resource Officer. We all want to help you, but you need to give me more information.”

I raised a brow, “Then maybe you should ask more open-ended questions?”

The doctor’s expression soured momentarily, and I smirked. The smile returned to his face on cue with mine, “Your teachers say you are a very smart girl, Abigail. Why did you skip the first week of classes?”

I answered, “Because I was trying to become legally emancipated. I worked in a law office all summer, and they had promised to hire me, so I started the process to be emancipated. They backed out, so I tried other firms after that. I was looking for a job that week.”

Doctor Phillips said, “But you also knew you were court ordered to attend school, right?”

I nodded, “I had worked as a paralegal all summer, successfully. I thought if I could convince a firm to hire me, I could begin my career.”

I watched Doctor Phillips chew the inside of his lip as I spoke. I found it distracting, but I really shouldn’t have. “A fifteen year old girl working in a law firm? I’m sorry, Abigail, but I have a hard time believing that. Your Career Studies teacher said that you weren’t able to provide him with a reference. But you brought him a cover letter and a resume that had the Locke Agency on it. If I called them, they would say you worked there?”

I nodded, “I left under less than auspicious circumstances, but yes, they would.”

Doctor Phillips nodded, “Abigail, are you telling me the truth? It’s very important that we establish that we can trust each other. I could see you working a photocopier, but are you telling me that a law firm trusted a fifteen year old girl to prepare cases for them? Do you know what a paralegal does?” I couldn’t figure out why Alyssa liked this man. He was condescending, despite the fact that he was saying everything in a controlled yet gentle tone.

I narrowed my eyes and sneered at the doctor. I unzipped the back pocket of my pack sack and pulled out my cell phone. I deposited it on the desk. I said through clenched teeth, “Call the Locke Agency. Stephanie or Anthony will be there. They work until six usually.”

He didn’t touch the phone. “The only reason I am challenging you on this, is that it is clear that your failed emancipation has affected you greatly. I am wondering if this is all in your head though, Abigail. That you created this emancipation attempt to escape from a new school.”

I took my phone, dialled the Locke Agency and put it on speaker phone. I was hardly surprised when I did not hear Chantal’s voice on the line. A young woman said, “Locke Agency. Bonjour, good afternoon. How may I help you?”

I said, “Please tell Stephanie that Abigail Grenier is on the line. It’s very important.” Doctor Phillips allowed me to proceed.

The young woman replied, “Hold the line while I direct your call please.”

“H-hello?” I heard hesitation in Stephanie’s voice. I had not spoken to her since my firing.

Before I had a chance to speak, Doctor Phillips spoke firmly, “Miss Locke, I am very sorry to bother you, but I have a young woman here, Abigail Grenier, a tenth grade student here at St. Jo’s that says she worked with you over the summer. Did you hire a fifteen year old girl to as her resume states: prepare disclosure packages, complete legal research and” his tone changed to incredulous as he read the last task, “help senior lawyers with arguments? Were your clients aware of her age? ”

There was a brief pause, and Stephanie answered brusquely, “Absolutely not. I have never hired anyone under that name to complete tasks as you describe, Doctor Phillips. Now, if you will -”

I shouted into the phone. My hands were shaking and my leg shaking had gone into overdrive. “Stephanie, you are lying! What about the Sanderson case!?” I looked at Doctor Phillips, “I was hired as a student initially, but once they saw I could do the work, they gave it to me. They were too busy, so I helped them with their cases! The Sanderson case, I did the whole thing. She’s lying to you, and I can prove it.”

Stephanie spoke calmly, “Young lady, we do not hire high school students. The program you are speaking of is a post-secondary internship for pre-law students.”

Doctor Phillips said, “Miss Locke, I apologize profusely for Abigail’s outburst. Please understand that I am trying to help the girl. I will let you get back to your work.”

He moved to hit the red disconnect button on the phone, but I swatted his hand away. I took the phone into my hand and turned it off speaker. I said, “How dare you, Stephanie. I know that I didn’t leave under the best circumstances but you can’t do this to me- you bitch. I have proof.”

A second later, the line clicked. Stephanie had ended the call.

Doctor Phillips frowned and wrote hurriedly on a large yellow notepad.

I said, “I have proof. They paid me with cheques. I just have to go to the bank and ...”

Doctor Phillips shook his head. I did have proof in the form of the cheques. It was an account I had opened at the same bank that held Darren Lawrence’s chequing account. He said firmly as he interrupted me, “Abigail, that’s quite enough.” He softened his expression and continued. “Again, I want to help you, but it’s clear that you were never employed at the Locke Agency. You don’t realize it now, but this delusion- it’s making you sick. And it’s probably what made you hurt yourself.”

I said, “You don’t understand. I did work there. Just ask Ethan. He and I met for lunch almost every day from mid-July to mid-August.”

Doctor Phillips asked, “This Ethan, he was a co-worker of yours?”

I shook my head, “He’s in a lot of my classes. He’ll tell you that I worked there. Véronique will too, she’s a bitch, but she was there too. I ate lunch right outside the Locke Agency office every day. Stephanie made me because she thought I wasn’t associating enough with kids my age.”

Doctor Phillips frowned deeply. This was clearly not what he wanted to hear. “Your friends will be great for your support network, but I can’t really trust their opinion. You know what bias is, right?”

I leaned in close to the doctor, my stance becoming aggressive as I put my elbows on his desk, “Of course I do. I also understand it in the context of unbiased witnesses, also known as disinterested witnesses. I know that they aren’t disinterested, but that doesn’t mean they won’t tell you the truth. This isn’t a courtroom, Doctor Phillips.”

I was starting to breathe heavier. The shaking of my limbs had not ceased either. This man was calling me a liar, and my body was betraying me. I rattled off even more legal knowledge, facts about jurisprudence and an understanding of the common law defences.

I realized as well, that this was not what Amélie and I had discussed for my session. I was supposed to play the one-time self-harmer, accept the treatment, and move on. Now, I had been pulled into a discussion that threatened to portray me not only as a self-harmer, but also delusional. In the doctor’s mind, I was some kid who thought she had worked in a law firm all summer. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been. This is exactly what Amélie had warned me about, but once he started challenging me, I bit- hard.

Doctor Phillips spoke gently, “Take deep breaths, Abigail.”

He said, “I am glad that your one incident was your last. But, I am very concerned about you still. So, I want to give you some tools you can use to channel those feelings. First, you need to talk to someone you trust about this, your sister, your friends or even a teacher. You can speak to me too, but your family and friends are best as your support network. Also, I understand that you love music. That can work too. Write songs or poetry about what you are feeling. That is healthy.”

He frowned, “I have upset you. I can see that. I’m very sorry. We’ll shorten today’s session, OK, Abigail? I’d like to see you next week, to see how you are doing. I’ll be speaking to your sister too. She’s your legal guardian, correct?”

I nodded. I took deep breaths and slowly my limbs stopped shaking.

I left the session furious, angry at myself for divulging so much, and irate with regard to Stephanie who had told the doctor a bold-faced lie.

I called her again, my hands shaking as I did. Instead of the receptionist, Stephanie picked up. “Hello, Abigail.”

I screamed into the phone like a bratty kid, “Stephanie, how dare you! That was a doctor who now thinks that I am very likely mentally ill. Do you have any idea what this could do to me?! They could force me to take medication. You have to call him back, tell him the truth. He’s going to speak to Amélie, and I know he’s going to suggest medication. He thinks I am crazy. Please Stephanie, please.” By the end of my tirade, I could feel the tears tickling my cheeks. God, I cried easily.

Stephanie said, “I can’t Abigail, the business is at stake. Your case is unique enough that the doctor may publish his work, if he finds out that you were really working as a paralegal. We can’t let this get out. It would ruin us. We would be the laughing stock of what is a relatively small legal community here. In fact, Anthony and I could even be disbarred because of such a revelation.”

I shook my head emotion entering my speech, causing the words to twist and turn on my tongue, “I-I don’t care about your fucking firm, Stephanie. If you have any decency, any morals at all, you will call the doctor and tell him I-I worked there because if you don’t I’m going to be a shell of a person...with a fake smile on my face. Is that what you want?”

There was a long pause, and then Stephanie said, “I-I’m sorry, Abigail. I can’t.” Click.

In a rage, I took my phone and threw it as hard as I could against a nearby brick wall, just outside the school. Despite the protective case, the smart phone’s body was cracked, and the screen had an angry looking scar across it where it impacted against the cement. When I got on the bus, I tried calling Amélie but I couldn’t hear anything. The speaker was cracked, and to make matters worse, the touch capability was gone. The phone was ruined.

***

As I arrived home, I noticed my parents’ car outside the house. I didn’t want my parents to see their son dressed like a school girl, so I planned to try and sneak downstairs and change. Unfortunately, as I entered, Chloe spotted me and shouted, “Daddy, Daddy!” This brought my mom and Amélie to the top of the stairs too. Chloe was trying to figure out the baby gate, so she could come down and see me.

I smiled at Chloe, “Hi Chloe, did you have a good day today?” The little girl nodded. I could see that she was wearing a party dress. With her second birthday near the end of September, Amélie had bought her a frilly pink party dress. I guess she was showing it off to my mom.

I said, “Wow, Chloe, you are so pretty in your dress.”

Chloe beamed and pointed at me, “Daddy’s pretty.”

She then cast a quizzical eye in Amélie’s direction, “How come Daddy’s dress?” She pointed at my school uniform.

I could smell my mom’s spaghetti sauce. It filled me with good memories of family dinners, my sister refusing to eat the delicious sauce unless it was separate from the noodles and me doing my best impression of a Hoover.

Amélie said, “Chloe, do you want to eat?” My wife was clearly trying to spare my feelings. Chloe was very curious about her world now. This was not the first time she asked why I wore a skirt, which she assumed was a dress, but it was the first time in front of my parents.

I said, “Um- I’m going to change.”

A few minutes later, I was upstairs in a pair of Capri sweats and a t-shirt. The sweats were Amélie’s, but they fit perfectly now.

Two minutes into dinner, and Chloe already needed a bath. Her face was covered with spaghetti sauce. A quick hand through her hair mussed the locks, and also added streaks of spaghetti sauce throughout. She still ate primarily with her hands, recognizing that forks were still too slow.

I looked down at my plate and saw the same portion I had always eaten. I wasn’t dieting, but I was controlling my portion sizes. I decided to eat half of it, and then take the other half to school for lunch. We made small talk at first, discussing the fact that my mother was going to be taking care of Chloe starting the first week of October. Amélie had spoken to the daycare director who suggested Chloe stay until month’s end because we had already paid. I had mixed feelings about Chloe leaving her daycare. I liked the fact that daycare allowed Chloe to socialize, but I was certain my mother would bring her to the park to meet other children. There was also the matter of cost. My savings were dwindling, down now to under a thousand dollars, so I wouldn’t have been able to afford another payment.

We also discussed my father buying out my car. He put an ad in an auto trader magazine, which also offered an online option. It was set to run the first two weeks of October. He was the contact person. As for the specialist appointment, I diverted all attempts at conversation with regard to my meeting with Doctor Phillips with the tried and true teen method of avoidance- I told them everything went fine. Soon after, the conversation turned to the social worker visit.

Amélie said, “I have thought this through. I don’t think that we can say that you guys are Darren’s parents. I am supposed to be her older sister, so Darren’s parents would be mine. I think it would look very suspicious to a social worker if we said that Darren, or in this case, Abigail, had two sets of parents. She could be adopted, but then where are her adoption papers?”

Amélie continued while my mother, unsurprisingly, grew emotional. “I think we will have to say that Abigail left home to live with her big sister because the education opportunities were better in a larger city, especially for a girl interested in law. This all fits with Abigail’s attempt at emancipation through working in a law office. If social services does any digging at all, they will realize that Abigail isn’t the daughter of Pam and Richard Lawrence.”

My father frowned and put a comforting hand on my mother’s knee, “Your parents are five hours away. Is the social worker going to believe that your parents let their youngest daughter come and live with her sister?”

Amélie said, “I come from a very small town, so it is possible that yes, based on the limited opportunities, like say a lack of law or music classes for a talented and intelligent girl like Abigail, they would have allowed her to go. I’m afraid it’s more believable than you being her parents. A lot of people don’t actually get birth certificates for their children in my hometown because they have home births, until they actually need to drive. People don’t bother. They don’t like the government getting involved in their lives. This is recognized, and, because of that, I think I could get a birth certificate for Abigail. My aunt is a midwife, and I’ve told her what happened. My parents are on board with this, and they are even willing to come in and validate the story. My aunt said she can begin the paper work required as soon as I get your blessing.”

Amélie added, “I’m sorry to have to do this, Pam, but I think it’s the only way.

Surprisingly, my mother nodded her head. “I understand Amélie. We don’t want social services taking Darren away. As much as it pains me, I know it’s the right thing. And it’s not like we won’t be in your life. I’ll be taking care of Chloe, and I will see Darren every day when he gets home from school.”

My father looked at my mother with equal surprise, “Pam, I thought you would be more upset. This is our son.”

She nodded, “I know, Richard, but I don’t see a way around it. We’ll still be his parents.”

My father said, “I still think there’s a hole in the story. There’s no way I would have wanted any of our children living five hours away from us, especially as teenagers. And what if the social worker decides that Darren should live with his parents again? He’s going to move back ‘home’?”

Amélie said, “To authenticate the story, my parents are willing to drive down, at the very least, once a month. And they will come in and speak to the social worker certainly.”

My father said, “That doesn’t address the issue I raised.”

Amélie replied, “It’s a necessary risk, Richard.”

My father looked at me, “Darren, what about school, is it going better for you now? Amélie said that things weren’t going well. The social worker will likely be more hesitant to remove you if things are better.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Things are fine.”

My mother asked, “Are you making any friends? Amélie said that she got a lot of calls your first week. She said some bullying was going on too.”

I shrugged again, “A girl named Alyssa. She’s in almost all my classes. And the bullying stopped, I was kind of - well I was acting like I was better and more mature than my classmates. I guess they didn’t like that.”

My mother frowned, “When I heard what had happened to you, and how they ruined your bag. I wanted to march down to that school and give them a piece of my mind.”

Amélie said, “Well things are going better now it seems. I called the school about the bullying incident, and the girl was suspended.”

I turned my head toward Amélie, eyes wide and mouth agape, “It was you? I thought one of the kids came forward.” I looked her straight in the eyes, “Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been at school for me because of that? I can’t believe you told the principal! The kids say stuff behind my back about it, and they wrote graffiti on my locker.”

My father said, “Listen to what you are saying, Darren. Amélie would have had to tell the principal about what happened to you. She wouldn’t have been doing her job otherwise. We did the same thing when you were bullied in high school.”

My mother nodded in agreement, “If the social worker somehow knew that you were being bullied, and Amélie kept it a secret, the social worker would probably think she was a poor guardian.”

My father said, “You have to look at the big picture.”

I realized that I was slowly losing the ability to do just that. My perspective was skewed. I was beginning to see and care only about the world within the yellow walls of St. Jo’s. The reaction of the social worker was not even on my mind. Instead, I saw how Amélie’s due diligence had caused nothing but hardship to me. My classmates hated me because she had told.

Ironically, I had explained to Alyssa about the links between historical events, but the ability to see links within my own life was slipping away. This meant that when making decisions, I would consider the ramifications even less than I did before. I would be unable to put the pieces together that something I was doing might be inherently dangerous or stupid- like throwing my phone against a wall. Was Amélie going to buy me another one? I would live more and more in the moment, seeing only what was right in front of me. I could fall victim to peer pressure, seeing the world only through the narrow scope of high school and the friends I had reluctantly chosen.

I replied, “I know. I can see it.”

But, I couldn’t.

Chapter 49

“I don’t like it, Amélie. I don’t want you to tell people that I just left you and Chloe. It’s something I would never do to you. Walking out like some dead-beat dad, it’s so dishonourable. Anyone who knows me, they’ll think - they’ll know it’s a lie.”

My parents had left a half hour ago. Since then, Amélie and I had been fencing back and forth, trying to determine the best way to tell the world that Darren Lawrence, for the purpose of the social worker’s visit, was no longer part of ours.

Amélie replied gently, “The alternative - that you went missing is far worse. It puts a strain on your parents because there will be a police investigation. And it brings the police here. I will have to file a missing person report. It’s an ugly and convoluted way to deal with your disappearance. And what if the police undercover something else? They uncover that you aren’t actually my sister? What then?”

I blinked in surprise, feeling suddenly under attack by my wife. I knew she was stressed with the visit tomorrow, but a courtroom atmosphere had invaded our former master bedroom. I paused to collect myself, trying desperately to block the tide of emotions that threatened to spill forth. I felt like a leaky faucet sometimes.

I frowned, “Amélie, I also really don’t like the plan of telling our friends that I took off either. And why did I leave? Because I couldn’t stand being married to you, that I wasn’t ready to be a father? Or some other hackneyed reason?”

Amélie looked at me seriously. I felt that it was a patronizing glance, so I glared at her. I really wasn’t sure. I was having more difficulty reading my wife’s more complex emotions. It didn’t help that in preparation for the social worker’s visit, she had been extra hard on me. At least, that’s how I felt.

“It’s believable. There are plenty of men and women who realize that they aren’t ready for parenthood. And plenty of marriages that break up. It also has fewer holes than your missing person idea. This way, you could even write me e-mails, telling me where you are.”

She continued, “Maybe, you set off to live out your dream of being a rock star, so you moved to Montreal, Toronto or Vancouver. Or maybe even to the US or overseas. You send what money you can. That should make you look less like a bad guy.”

I shook my head, “I think it’s a stupid idea. It sounds like a bad movie. And it still makes me look like an asshole. Just less of a colossal one. What kind of thirty year old leaves their family like that? I could see a teenager doing that or someone in their early twenties.

Amélie narrowed her eyes at me, “Then come up with your own.”

I nodded, “How about this? I am attending law school in a different city. I haven’t abandoned my wife and child, but instead, I am trying to get a professional education, so I can support them better. It would have to be somewhere far away enough that I couldn’t come home every weekend or anything.”

Amélie readily agreed, “It’s better, and it paints you in a better light at least. If you were gone to Vancouver then that’s a plane trip. We could say you connect by Skype every few days. Abigail came here to help me with Chloe, but also because of the educational opportunities. And Darren’s parents take care of Chloe during the week to help us save money. Actually, I think this could work. Since, you aren’t involved with Abigail at all, there’s no reason for you to be involved in the interview process.”

She added, “This plan might make your parents happier, at least they can tell people you are pursuing higher education. Your parents, and especially your dad, looked really sad tonight. I wonder if they think they are losing you because of the story involving my parents. This brings them back into the fold at least.”

I shook my head, “I don’t get it. What do you mean they are losing me? I’m right here. I’ll see my mom every day after school, just like when I was a kid.”

Amélie quickly changed the subject, “Yeah, I guess you will, Darren. Anyway, let’s hammer out the exact details. Do you have any homework though? Maybe I should work on them alone.”

I frowned, “Amélie, I think crafting this story properly is more important than my stupid algebra homework.”

Amélie shook her head, “You aren’t doing well in math, Darren, compared to your other classes. I think you should do it. Plus, I need the social worker to think that you listen to me, and that you do as you are told. If they interview your math teacher, and they learn your grade is low because you aren’t doing your homework that’s a strike against me as your guardian.”

I shrugged my shoulders, rolling my eyes slightly as I did, “Fine, I guess that makes sense. I hate math though, and I can actually say, that I never used 90% of what I learned.”

Amélie said nothing else, and I trudged downstairs to complete my homework. It was amazingly similar to how my own parents simply stopped acknowledging me when I tried to argue with nonsense. I really didn’t think it was prattle though, I just didn’t see the point in math. I wanted to be a lawyer. I would have my accountant do the math!

A few minutes into my algebra, I heard Chloe crying above my room. This crying turned into hysterical shrieking. I heard Amélie stomp into the room and shout at her. This was the second night in a row now that she hadn’t slept well. I put my ear buds in and allowed my music to blare, drowning out the cries of my daughter. The terrible twos were upon us. The behaviour during the summer was apparently the dry run.

***

After science class the next day, Alyssa leaned over and asked me, “So, what’s going on with Ethan and you? You think he’s going to ask you out?”

I shook my head, “No. I already told him that I just want to be friends. Plus, if we are going to play in the band together, we need to keep our relationship professional.”

Alyssa laughed loudly, “Abby, you are hilarious. What does that even mean? A professional relationship? You sound like my mom. I hear her talking sometimes to her friend Theresa, and she’s saying, she has to be platonic, professional with one of her co-workers. I think his name is Jaime. Well, anyway, she’s like going on and on about it. I want my mom and dad to get back together - she’s super annoying to have to listen to.”

She added, “Plus, my mom works in an office or something, you go to high school, why the heck would you have to be ‘professional’?”

I replied, “Relationships can break bands up. Bands themselves are already like families. Everyone has to be on the same page to make them work, so if the lead singer and the guitar player start fighting, well it brings the whole band down.”

Alyssa shook her head and smirked, “You think about stuff way too much. So this band doesn’t work? Well start another one. Ethan was in like three different bands last year. It’s not a big deal. You are super talented, Abby. You’d get in another band the next day.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “This band is special. We have something - real chemistry.”

Alyssa was unconvinced, “But you haven’t played for weeks.”

I said firmly, “We are playing this weekend.”

Alyssa shook her head, “Well then you should tell Ethan because he’s been asking me about it - and you.”

I raised a brow, “What’s he saying?”

Alyssa smiled, “That he wants you and me to eat lunch with him and his friends. And he was going to ask you, but you look - how did he put it? Um, pissed off like you are shitting apples.”

I blinked, “I do? And what does that even mean?”

Alyssa nodded, “Well- you don’t look very happy to be here. Lots of kids call you emo behind your back. And um, I don’t know what Ethan meant exactly - boys don’t make a lot of sense. I guess he means you look mad. What do I know? Well you did. I notice you smiling more since you and I started hanging out. I’m just that funny.”

I smirked, “Maybe I’m just humouring you.”

Alyssa looked at me with a puzzled expression, “Huh?”

My smirk disappeared. I had to explain words and phrases I used regularly because otherwise Alyssa would just stare at me and then laugh, thinking I was trying to be funny. I said, “It means that I am laughing at your jokes, but I don’t think they are funny.”

Alyssa frowned, “Really? Why would you pretend to do that? That doesn’t seem very nice.”

I shook my head, “I was being sarcastic. I’m not really humouring you, Alyssa. It was a joke.”

Alyssa grinned, “OK. You and Ethan both, sometimes I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. I’m going to start calling you the sarcasta-twins.”

I laughed, but this time, I really was humouring her.

Alyssa smiled, “So, are we going to eat lunch with him? Done being mad at him?”

I raised a brow, “Why are you so insistent we eat lunch with him and his friends?”

Alyssa said innocently, “No reason.”

I saw right through her. She was either trying to set Ethan and me up, or she had a crush on one of his friends. I could read Alyssa so well, she was practically see through.

We made our way to the lunchroom. I had not braved the Pit since my humiliation at the hands of Mercedes. During the walk there, I came face to face with Alexandre. Little beads of sweat tumbled down from his brow. He had likely just finished gym class. The red and brown uniform all St. Jo’s students were mandated to wear clung to his body. His muscular pecs pushed out obscenely against the front of the tight red t-shirt. My own nipples followed suit as I viewed the veritable Adonis. He filled out his gym clothes even better than his uniform. It was clear that he was juicing, as very few teenage boys had a body like his. He could have fit in well with the greased wrestlers from my youth who also took steroids. His biceps threatened the seams of the t-shirt, making it seem as if the garment was having difficulty containing the mass of muscle.

His shoulders, similarly built, had traps that extended upward removing any semblance of a neck. He stepped toward me, subtly flexing his biceps, knowing that my eyes were glued to them. The moment he looked at me I forgot that Alyssa even existed.

I felt a stupid smile appear on my face as I gently started twirling a strand of blonde hair around my finger. The instant attraction had returned. I was ready to ask him to suck my face, and he hadn’t even said a word.

Alexandre said, « Bonjour, Abigail. »

I swooned back and forth. I felt Alyssa push her body against mine to keep me up, but Alexandre’s hand was too fast. His hand in mine, I looked up at him as if he had saved my life. I licked my lips and replied, « B-Bonjour…A-Alexandre. »

Alexandre said, « You want to come and eat in the Pit, I’ll make sure everyone leaves you alone there. »

He put his hand on my hip, and I would have fallen into his arms, allowing him to carry my diminutive self, if it wasn’t for Alyssa, who quickly grabbed my hand and pulled me away. She was surprisingly strong, and the further away we moved from Alexandre, the less I fought her.

Outside the door to the lunchroom, Alyssa said, “Woah girl, what’s gotten into you? Since when have you liked Alexandre? I mean- you looked like you wanted him to do - stuff to you. I thought you liked Ethan?”

I shook my head, and the haze that surrounded me finally dissipated completely, “Uh- well, I’m not really interested in boys.”

Alyssa laughed, “Are you kidding me? You were practically panting. You’ve got it really bad- just for the wrong guy. Alexandre is a real jerk. He is mean to anyone he doesn’t want to have sex with. He had sex with Véronique apparently, and now she throws herself at him. And now you. What is it with girl musicians going for bad boys?”

I shrugged, “You mean like Whitney and Bobby Brown?”

Alyssa made a face. She scrunched her eyes, curled her lip slightly and said matter-of-factly, “Uh more like Rhianna and Chris Brown, or especially - Katy and Russell Brand. You know the second half Teenage Dream is written about him. And Circle the Drain is pretty much their life together. Ugh- what a dirt bag. Who’s Whitney and Bobby Brown?”

I shook my head, “Never mind. Ethan doesn’t like Alexandre either. What did he do to him?”

Alyssa said, “Ethan will tell you. It happened last year. Well he probably won’t. It was really, really bad.”

I said, “Alyssa, if I ever look at Alexandre like that again, slap me, drag me away. Do whatever you can. OK?”

Alyssa nodded, “Oh don’t worry, I will. I’m not going to let you go out with him. You know that he talks to his muscles, and they talk back?”

I emitted high-pitched giggle, which surprised me. Alyssa just smiled at me.

We entered the lunchroom, and Ethan waved us over. He was sitting at the table with two other boys, one of them I recognized as Eric, a tall gangly skater who I had initially asked for footage of my bullying incident, and the other, Ryan, who I had never spoken to but knew from Career Studies and Music. Ryan looked to be an athlete, but unlike Alexandre, he actually had a neck.

Ethan said, “Hey! So what’s wrong with your phone, Abby? I’ve been trying to text you.”

There was a measure of hurt in his eyes. I had unknowingly given him the silent treatment, although considering his behaviour after last week’s debacle regarding the footage, perhaps it was partially deserved. I was thankful that Alyssa had stood up to help, but apparently, it was Ethan who had told her the truth about me. He was the one who convinced her that I was worth saving.

I bit my lip gently, “Well, it’s kind of a long story. But basically, I had to see a specialist about my arms and he accused me of lying about working at the Locke Agency. Worst of all, Stephanie completely lied when I called her. Said I never worked there. So after, I kind of - well I smashed my phone. I was in this insane rage.”

Alyssa frowned, “Doctor Phillips really wouldn’t believe you? That’s weird. He was so nice to me.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes, “But you did work there. I’ll tell him.”

Eric and Ryan watched the exchange. I was surprised how easily Alyssa shared her story. Given how common it is for students to post their problems on Facebook and YouTube, I wondered if those digital media had actually altered the teenage mindset. Where teens would tell their best friends their secrets in the past, now they plastered them on a digital wall or made a video about it, seeking help from not only their peer group, but the entire Internet it seemed. Still, I couldn’t remember even one time when a student had come to me with such a problem, unless they wanted an extension on an assignment.

I sneered, “He said basically that your statement isn’t valid because it’s biased.”

Alyssa’s frown deepened, “That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, well if you just agree with what he says then he’s fine. He’s trying to convince me that I’m crazy. He says I’m delusional. I don’t want to go back.”

Eric spoke up, “Well they shouldn’t make you. It’s not right.”

Ryan nodded in agreement, “It’s like last year, M. Landry said I was cheating on a test. Well it wasn’t actually me - and he wouldn’t believe me. I even had a witness, but he said that we were both liars. That guy is a prick. It’s like teachers and doctors or whatever, they want to help us but then they don’t trust us. It’s - um - what’s the word?”

I said, “Hypocritical. They are hypocrites, but I guess it’s ageism mostly. They think just because they are older that they are right - well age doesn’t make you invulnerable to mistakes. Case in point, Alyssa - you should see M. Landry. He made a mistake on your test. When I looked it over yesterday, I realized that. You probably have five more marks. Sorry, I should have told you yesterday.”

Ethan laughed, “There’s Abby, the walking dictionary.”

Alyssa shot a dirty look Ethan’s way and replied to me, “Really?”

I nodded, “When I come over Friday, I’ll take a look at it again, but I’m pretty sure. He marked your essay really hard.” I added, “It’s always a good idea to check your answers and the calculations too. History teachers aren’t math teachers. But you should also check the addition on math tests too.”

The table laughed and between that and the shared stories, I felt a kinship - a near acceptance amongst my peers.

Eric turned to Ethan and Ryan. He showed them a video on his phone. “This is the trick I want to try next.”

Even though I couldn’t see the screen, I could hear the video.

Eric said, “Best way is to wait for a car to stop and then sneak on the back. Let it pull you for a bit, let go, and do it again with the next car. My older brother has done it a few times.”

I had seen Eric pull off impressive tricks with his skateboard. He could ride down a metal railing sideways, and he could get serious air on the half-pipe, but what he was proposing was not only idiotic - it was extremely dangerous too. Skitchin’ as it was called in the 90s, involves skateboarders, inline skaters and even cyclists hitching rides on cars by holding onto their back bumpers, door handles- anything that can be used to steady them. I had stupid friends as a kid, but none of them attempted anything that reckless and perilous.

Ethan nodded, “Yeah man, I want to see that. Do it on the bus or something.”

Ryan was also in agreement, “Dude, you definitely need to record it. Put it on YouTube.”

A quick look in Eric’s direction confirmed that the concurrence from his peers had steadied his resolve, but the smile he received from Alyssa took that resolve and turned it from brash confidence to a titanium-coated invulnerability.

Alyssa said, “I want to see it too.”

Eric grinned, full of teenage bravado, “Really?”

My suspicions were confirmed - Alyssa liked Eric. She may have talked about him before, but she spoke so rapidly and about multiple subjects that I usually chose one or two to reply to. Looking over her essay, she spoke the way she wrote - in constant run-on sentences. She was an English teacher’s nightmare. I was surprised that she was interested in watching the stunt. I assumed that most girls would consider Eric’s behaviour immature. From my experience as a teacher, high school girls were usually light years ahead of the boys, who still thought that fart jokes were funny.

I was beginning to realize that Alyssa not only looked younger than fifteen, with the pink butterfly clips she used to hold her hair and her mostly undeveloped figure, she also acted that way. She was the perfect dance instructor for kids because she seemed to genuinely enjoy playing with them even if it meant strapping on fairy wings and waving a magic wand. The girl wasn’t stupid, but she had fun on the brain. She was the type of kid who would have done better with regard to her school work if she applied herself and stopped obsessing about Katy Perry. I expected that my tutelage and companionship might help in that respect, unless it backfired, and I became like her. I couldn’t imagine myself ever changing to the point where I would think that Eric’s stunt was cool or sick, as Ethan would say. All I saw were potential lawsuits, skin grafts from major road rash, and the possibility of some, if not many, broken bones.

As the discussion continued, I said nothing. I ate my lunch as Eric spoke of the finer details of bumper holding. It was safer than car doors, apparently, because if the doors weren’t locked, they could fly open when the car turned.

Why wasn’t I saying anything? Why wasn’t I wagging my finger in front of Eric’s face, telling him how dangerous and stupid his idea was? I wanted to tell the whole table they were acting like kids, especially Ethan who I thought was more mature than the others, especially Eric, who had a serious case of stupid to even consider holding onto the back of a moving car at any speed, but I didn’t.

I didn’t say a word.

I should have been the mature one and told Eric he was being idiotic, lambasted Ethan and Ryan for enabling him, and lectured Alyssa for encouraging him with her smile. She was the worst offender because girls held the power in high school. At least that had been my experience during my first run through. Girls could control the fate of boys with subtle looks, like half smiles and furtive glances, but they could dominate them with their boobs. After nearly two weeks at St. Jo’s, I had learned that teenage boys were obsessed with breasts. OK- as a teenage boy, I really liked them- I mean really liked them, but I wasn’t worshipping at the feet of some mammary deity like this generation was. Maybe it was because I was bigger up top than a lot of girls, but I got a lot of stares, and some of them hardly subtle. I caught one kid watching my chest bounce up and down on the bus yesterday during a particularly rough patch of road.

Now that I was no longer the pariah I was last week, or even days ago, boys were starting to notice me. While Alyssa didn’t have the assets I had, Eric still clearly liked her, and I was positive that if she had come forward and said that she thought the idea was stupid, Eric would have realized there was no chance at boob and renege.

Ethan broke my train of thought, “Hey Abby, so what’s going on with the band? That’s what I was texting you about. Are we jamming this weekend?”

Ryan said, “Hey, if you guys are jamming this weekend, can we come over? I want to see you guys play.”

Eric and Alyssa nodded their heads. I was beginning to wonder if peer pressure turned teenagers into bobbleheads- agreeing with everything their friends said and did.

Ethan said, “Hey, uh- I don’t even have my answer yet.”

I said, “Well I’ll text the guys. I want to get back at it. I’ll go crazy if I don’t play soon. It’s been too long.”

I was glad that Ethan was still into the band. I was also pleased that I was not afflicted with insane lust in Ethan’s presence, the same way I was in Alexandre’s. With a complete lack of crush symptoms, I was beginning to think that maybe we really could be friends.

Ethan asked, “Isn’t your phone busted?”

I realized that it was, but it was such a part of my life that something in my brain refused to believe that it was gone, almost, and sadly, like a lost limb. I felt absolutely naked without the device, cut off from Amélie entirely and with nothing to listen to on the bus except for inane chatter and gossip. After less than day, I was already having serious withdrawal symptoms. My hand would go into my bag looking for it, and when I retrieved nothing, I felt a frown appear on my face.

I said, “I’ll just buy a new one. I made a lot of money this summer at the firm.”

With the exception of Ethan, the table gasped.

Ryan said, “Your parents would let you just buy a new phone like that? How much was your old one like four hundred dollars?”

Alyssa bobbed her head, “My mom would kill me if she found out I broke my crappy phone. And she wouldn’t let me buy a new one, even with my own money.”

Ethan said, “Hey Abby, you could have my old iPhone. It’s only an 8 gig and the screen is chipped, but it still works.”

With those words, the crush resurfaced. I lowered my head, and a little smile crept onto my face. He was so nice. And cute. Alyssa giggled beside me. I almost expected her to go “Oooooh!” I told myself that he was probably only interested in my boobs.

I composed myself and replied, “Nah, it’s alright. My sister is cool. She’ll let me. It’s my money.”

***

“Darren, I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’ve got the hydro bill coming up. And we just had to get the washing machine fixed. That was two hundred and fifty dollars. We need your savings for things like that. We shouldn’t have to rely on my parents and your parents.”

I shook my head, tossing my blonde locks in the process. Amélie gave me a strange look, as if she thought I had meant to toss my hair dismissively. I replied, “But I really need a phone. What if you need me to pick up Chloe, or if there’s an emergency?”

Amélie nodded, “I agree with that, but you don’t need one like your old one. Do you really think it’s a good idea to spend hundreds of dollars on a phone when your savings are down to under a thousand dollars? Your parents can only cover your half of the mortgage. What if something else breaks? What if we have to get the car fixed?”

I replied, “So, if your phone broke one day, you wouldn’t go out and buy a new one? I bet you couldn’t go even one day without your phone.”

Amélie shook her head, “I could, and I’d make do. Throughout everything that has happened to us over the last six months- I’ve had to make a lot of sacrifices, Darren. I’ve been really careful with my money. I haven’t bought any new clothes or anything for myself. I had to buy you a new bag, and we had to fill your closet in preparation for the social worker. We just can’t afford it.”

I narrowed my eyes, “So, I’m just going to go without a phone? That’s fair.”

Amélie offered what I am sure she thought was an olive branch, “You can use my old phone.”

I scrunched up my nose and lowered my jaw. I was disgusted with my wife’s offer. I raised my voice a few decibels, “That phone is five years old. It’s so slow…and it’s got no touch screen! And- it’s pink. Come on, Amélie, you can’t expect me to use that.”

Amélie’s phone was known as the Text-girl PRO, but there was nothing professional about it. It featured a full texting keyboard, but other than that, it was just a phone. Well, it surfed the Internet, but with painful mind-numbing slowness. It opened websites, but instead of links, it opened the entire site, and the user was forced to scroll through it like a never-ending text document. For someone who was used to the blazing fast speed of a newer smartphone, this was a serious downgrade.

Amélie nodded her head, “Darren, I’m not the one who broke my phone. I do expect you to use that phone. Maybe we could talk to your parents and make your birthday and Christmas present a new phone, but I really think you should stick with this one. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

I replied, “But-!” I was interrupted by the doorbell. The social worker.

A middle-aged woman stood expectantly at our doorway. Amélie opened the door for her, welcoming her with just a hint of insincerity in her voice. Neither of us wanted her here, but thankfully, Amélie’s acting classes from college had enabled her to play the part of the gracious hostess.

As she entered, I noticed that she had a bluster about her. She stepped into our house confidently with a leather-bound notebook and a small black purse. She was heavyset with dark curly hair and a stern disapproving manner. From the top of the stairs, I could see the woman’s eyes darting back and forth. I felt she was trying to intimidate us, but I just glowered at her. Chloe, meanwhile, wanted to greet our guest as she pulled fiercely on the baby gate, like some caged animal. Chloe had entered her terrible twos with a vengeance. I desperately hoped she would behave tonight. I thought that Amélie had been harsh with me earlier concerning the phone, but it was likely partially because she had been up with Chloe for three nights straight. She was having little tantrums over everything. She had awful timing. When I tried to pull her away from the gate, she started screaming like she was possessed- a horrifying guttural “Momma!” followed by hysterical crying. Not a good start.

As I continued trying to pry Chloe away from the gate, Amélie led the social worker up the stairs. She opened the baby gate and managed to pull the out of control toddler away from there, and then brought her to the kitchen.

The social worker greeted me with a slight nod, “Abigail, can you show me around your home while your sister tries to calm your niece? I am Mrs. Warner.”

I shrugged my shoulders and then took her on a tour of the house. At various intervals, she took notes, such as when she noticed the dirty dishes in the sink. I was supposed to have done them after dinner, but I didn’t. There were three days’ worth of dishes in the sink and on the counter. This was unusual for us, but with Amélie busy with Chloe and my stress-filled school days, I was in no mood to put on a pair of rubber gloves and scrub away grime.

She also took notes when she saw the spare bedroom downstairs that had become the junk room. It was where Amélie had stashed all of Darren’s- my things. Amélie had tried to tidy it, but we simply had no room to store it elsewhere.

I brought her to the band room.

Mrs. Warner said, “So this is where your band practices? The one with the thirty-year old men?”

My mouth opened in surprise, but I quickly shut it. I replied, “How did you know about that?”

She said, “Abigail, I don’t want you to be frightened. I’m not here to make trouble for you or your sister. I am just doing my job, and sometimes that means asking hard questions. The Big Gob Brewery owner, she thinks very highly of you, enough that she posted pictures from your two performances on the bar’s website.”

I blinked, “The Gob has a website?”

Mrs. Warner said, “Jacynthe said she got someone to design it after your second show. She wants to help promote your band. She also wants to attract other acts.” Wow, this woman had done her homework. I guess she Googled my name and found it on the Gob’s site.

Mrs. Warner continued, “I know from speaking to your teachers that you are a smart girl, Abigail. So, you probably know what a social worker does. I’m here to make sure that your sister can take care of you. I know that teenagers can be a handful - I’ve got two of my own. I need to make sure she can provide for you, give you a good stable home, and make sure she can control you. I understand that you missed the first week of school. Why is that?”

I said, “No offence Mrs. Warner, but that’s an example of faulty reasoning. Not all teenagers are like yours. That’s a personal bias. Do you not need to create a thorough profile of my home life and school life and judge Amélie’s competency based on that? You can’t base any of this on your own children.”

A little smile appeared on the woman’s face, breaking her stern demeanour, “That’s what I usually say, but you’ve seen through it. Your Career Studies teacher, he says you want to be a lawyer.”

The stern expression returned a second later, her face hardening and her brow furrowing, resetting into a tempered state. “Please answer my question, Abigail. Why did you skip your first week of classes?”

I replied evenly, “I was looking for a job. I was trying to become emancipated. I worked in a law firm all summer, and I wanted to keep doing that, instead of going to school.”

Unfazed, Mrs. Warner asked, “Did your sister know you were doing this?”

I shook my head, and chose not to say a word. Amélie and I had discussed how to approach the interview with the social worker during the tantrum reprieves. We decided that it would be best if I lied to her about Amélie giving me permission to go to interviews when I was supposed to be in school. If Amélie gave permission, she was knowingly going against Judge Richter’s order, but if I went behind her back, then I was just the reproachable, rebellious teen. This was behaviour that could be curbed. It was imperative that Mrs. Warner not see Amélie as soft or relaxed concerning rules and curfew, especially considering the court order.

Mrs. Warner frowned, “Your Career Studies teacher, he saw you in the parking lot during the first week of class. You said you were going to the dentist. Where did you go?”

I answered calmly, “To look for a job.” A hint of annoyance entered my voice, “Like I told you.”

My questioner nodded, “Did your sister drop you off at school that day?”

I nodded, “Yeah, she did.”

She asked, “Other than your emancipation, why else were you looking for a job? Does your sister have any money troubles?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “We do OK.” I could still hear Chloe shrieking upstairs.

Mrs. Warner pointed upstairs, “Does that happen often? How does your sister deal with it? Do you have any trouble concentrating on your school work?”

I said, “I just put music on to drown it out, if it’s really bad. From my experience, she waits a bit, usually forty minutes at most and then goes in. Chloe’s having temper tantrums and needs to learn that she isn’t going to get her way.”

Mrs. Warner quirked a suspicious brow in my direction. Was my answer beyond what would be expected from a fifteen year old? Did she think we rehearsed it? I had forgotten that Mrs. Warner did not see me as Chloe’s father. Amélie and I, a teenage girl, would not necessarily see eye-to-eye with regard to child rearing.

Mrs. Warner said, “Did your sister help you with your emancipation documents? I retrieved them from Judge Schuler.”

I shook my head, “No, I prepared them myself.”

Mrs. Warner said, “They say that a woman named Stephanie Locke had agreed to hire you, but when I spoke to her- she said she never hired you. That she doesn’t hire high school students- ever. Did you forge these documents, Abigail?”

I sneered, “Absolutely not. Stephanie is refusing to admit she hired me because she’s worried that if her clients or another firm finds out that they will blacklist her. It’s my understanding that she was actually being blackmailed by another firm.”

Mrs. Warner looked at me suspiciously. Her right brow was cocked, and it looked like she was trying to swallow her lower lip with the upper one. “That’s a fanciful story, Abigail. After speaking to Dr. Philips, I must say that he is very concerned about you. I understand that he also spoke to this Mrs. Locke- in your presence. She said she never hired you. Girls who make up stories like that often carry other secrets too.”

I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms underneath my chest, “Look, I don’t like what you are implying here. My sister takes very good care of me.”

Mrs. Warner said, “Your sister told Judge Richter that your documents were lost in a move, but I’ve been unable to find any record that the documents were ever issued.”

I nodded, “My parents never bothered to get a birth certificate for me. They are getting one now, and it will all be cleared up for your next visit. I am assu-ming you will be back?” I said my last words like an ill-mannered child.

Mrs. Warner wagged her finger, “Young lady, do not sass me. This is very serious. Your two sisters, they both have birth certificates that were issued shortly after their births. Why did they wait for you?” Amélie had another sister, but she didn’t live in town.

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Warner continued her line of questioning. There was a knowing look in her eyes. She thought she had me in a lie. “You were also never issued a health card. There’s no record of your immunizations, and there’s no school records either. What going on here, Abigail?”

She softened, but the disapproving creases in her forehead fought for supremacy. We hadn’t been able to get any of the documents yet. Apparently, it took time to create a false birth certificate.

I shrugged again, “I’m from a small town. I guess they were poor record keepers?”

Mrs. Warner shook her head again. I was convinced that she thought I was lying. “You aren’t making this easy on either of us, Abigail. I did not want to turn this into an inquisition. I will get to the bottom of this. Mark my words.”

I said snidely, “You are writing them all down. Why would I need to do that?”

I tossed her a highlighter. She didn’t catch it, and the marker struck her in the forehead.

The social worker’s face turned bright red, “You insolent ... !”

Due to her round head, she looked like a ripe tomato with curly hair. I giggled.

Amélie opened the door to the band room. I hadn’t heard Chloe crying, so she must have successfully put her down.

Amélie said, “Is everything alright in here?” She was looking at Mrs. Warner, who was gradually regaining her composure.

Mrs. Warner said curtly, “I am finished for tonight. Ms. Grenier, I would like you to come to my office next week. There are many things we must discuss.” She put emphasis on many.

I smirked at Mrs. Warner and then casually waved at her. The behaviour was similar to how I acted as a kid when playing hockey. I was a grinding, scrappy player and due to my small size and tenacious nature, I drew many penalties. I used to wave to the players who had taken a penalty against me. One young man, as I recall, punched me in the head and didn’t even wait for the referee to guide him to the penalty box.

Mrs. Warner gave Amélie her card and then climbed the stairs heavily. I heard the door close a few seconds later.

Amélie looked at me sternly, “Darren, what did you do?”

I explained to Amélie what had occurred, but I left out the parts where I had acted childishly. I told her what Mrs. Warner had said about Dr. Phillips.

Amélie’s face was an angry mask. It was amazing how much older she looked to me. These six months had aged her, putting creases in her forehead and beside her mouth. She had also not been sleeping well due to Chloe’s demon-spawn toddler behaviour, so that likely exacerbated her haggard look.

Amélie said, “You know I’m not sure what’s worse. You not telling me what happened at the session with the specialist or - the school. I am going to speak to M. St-Valentin about this. First though, I’m going pay Stephanie a visit. She needs to come clean about this. Her lies are just going to get you in deeper trouble.”

I shook my head, “I can handle it, Amélie. I’ll speak to Stephanie. I can convince her.”

Amélie looked at me with controlled anger, “I need to do this, Darren. Me. I’m supposed to be your guardian. I’m going to convince Stephanie to sign an Affidavit saying that she hired you for the summer. And that’s it.”

The look on Amélie’s face told me that the discussion was over. I didn’t really feel like starting another fight, and I had homework to do, so I went to my room.

***

“Oh my god! We are phone twins, Abby! This is great.”

Alyssa and I were now both owners of pink Text-girl PRO phones. Yay. It was the next day after school. Alyssa and I were on our way to her house. The night before, Amélie called my cellular provider and got my phone switched. My number was still the same, but now my phone was a pink dinosaur. Alyssa’s model was actually newer than mine. Hers was the Text-girl 2.

I cast a puzzled look in Alyssa’s direction, “Why is that great?”

Alyssa beamed a smile and shrugged her shoulders, “I dunno. It just is. Why do you always need an explanation for everything? I guess it makes us closer.”

I didn’t understand the girl’s logic.

Before I could reply, Alyssa said, “Hey! Let’s go to the mall.”

I said, “Why?”

Alyssa threw her arms up in mock frustration. “Do you really need a reason to go to the mall? I got my allowance last night. I want to go shopping for tops.”

Alyssa tugged on my arm and pulled me toward the mall. Over the next hour, Alyssa dragged me to four different clothing stores. She asked me if I thought she looked ‘hot’ in the clothing. I thought some of the tops made her look like a junior prostitute, but I didn’t say that. I mostly just nodded my head.

Alyssa said, “What’s wrong, Abby?” I shrugged my shoulders.

Alyssa frowned, “Are you bored? You don’t seem into this.” The smile reappeared on her face in seconds, “You’ve been hanging around boys too much.”

Again, I shrugged my shoulders. My mood drained some of Alyssa’s enthusiasm, and she trudged along beside me.

We passed a shoe store on our way out, and suddenly, my attention was drawn to a pair of pink Converse hi-tops. They were just like the ones in my dream. Beyond that fact, I needed them, desperately. Oh my god, what was wrong with me?

Alyssa’s enthusiasm was rekindled, “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to shop for shoes? Those would look super cute on you, Abby. You should go in and try and them on!”

I bit my lip. I really wanted to. I loved the look of the shoes, and I agreed, I thought they would look cute on me. Thankfully, reason prevailed.

I shook my head, “I- don’t think so. My sister is mad at me for breaking my phone, and we really need to watch our money. We had to get our washer fixed, and the hydro bill is coming up too.”

Alyssa said, “So? Your sister will pay those. That’s what adults do. What do you mean our money? What about the money you made during the summer? Isn’t that yours?”

I nodded, “Yeah, it’s my money.”

Alyssa replied, “Well at least try them on. You could call your sister and ask her if you can buy them.”

I hesitated, eyeing the shoes with increasing intensity. People saw me as a teenage girl, so there was no harm in wearing pink shoes, but I felt that it might be a slippery slope that could lead to makeup and- the type of clothing that Alyssa liked. My adult and adolescent sides fought back and forth for dominance. The kid in me wanted the shoes and thought nothing of the repercussions of buying a pair of sixty dollar shoes when Amélie was desperately trying to save money.

As a kid, I was terrible with money. Once I got it, it was basically burning a hole in my pocket, and I had a thousand dollars in the bank. I remember getting a savings bond from my grandmother and spending it all on comic books- two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth.

I looked at my dirty tennis shoes and put my left foot beyond the threshold of the store’s entrance. The salesgirl smiled and approached me, but I pulled a 180 and rapidly walked away. I couldn’t believe how hard it was to restrain myself.

Alyssa looked at me strangely, “What gives, Abby? Are you going to try them on? You said your sister was cool with you spending your money. What’s the problem? You have to save it?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I guess- for university.”

Alyssa shrugged, “Oh. Well for you I guess. I don’t think I want to go. I feel really stupid sometimes. Like I just don’t get school, you know? I think I want to be a hair dresser or do makeup, but my mom puts a lot of pressure on me. I’d love to do makeup or hair for Katy Perry.”

I shook my head, “You aren’t stupid, Alyssa. You just need to apply yourself.”

Alyssa giggled, “Are you reading the same book as all the parents? Or some kind of manual? That’s exactly what my mom says! What does that even mean?”

I replied, “It means you just need to try harder. I’ll help you. I’ll see how you study and how you learn. Mostly, it’s concentration. I can show you some tricks. You know if you didn’t think so much about Katy ... ”

She stopped me and then pulled open my mouth, putting her hand on my jaw and forcing it open wide. I swatted her hand away and glared. “What was that for?”

She said with a giggle “I was seeing if you swallowed my mom. You sound just like her.”

I smirked, “You are weird.”

She grinned wide, “Yup, I know.”

A few minutes later, we arrived at Alyssa’s place. She was right. It wasn’t a terrible neighbourhood, but there were multiple houses boarded up around it. The neighbourhood was also near the burnt church. It was literally burnt down, the result of arson, although the police had failed to catch anyone. All that was left of the two-hundred year old building was the stone husk, surrounded by layers of singed and blackened pieces of wood. It was bizarre because my house, which was in a suburban area with green lawns and multiple parks and schools, was only a ten minute walk from here.

Within five years, the whole block would likely be bulldozed, including the three storey apartment building that housed Alyssa and her mother, and replaced with condominiums. The building had a sunken porch and a rusted iron railing. The front door was in serious need of a paint job, and the lawn was overrun with weeds. The flower boxes along the window sill of the third story window brightened what was otherwise a dreary scene.

Alyssa said, “It’s really not as bad as it looks. It’s all my mom could afford after she and my dad separated.” She sighed heavily, an action I thought she was incapable of performing, considering her usual beaming smile.

I said, “I’m not going to judge you because you live here, Alyssa. It’s okay.”

Alyssa replied, “Véronique calls me poor. We really aren’t though.”

I shook my head, “Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. I’m not Véronique. She’s just cruel. She calls me fat, and you poor. She’s just a bitch who throws herself at a guy who doesn’t know she exists. She’s the sad one.”

Alyssa looked me over as she let us in the front door, “I don’t think you are fat at all, Abby. I think you are one of the prettiest girls in school. I’ve seen how the boys look at you. I wish they looked at me like that.”

I frowned, “It really isn’t all that great. They stare at my boobs. I feel their eyes on my ass. Uh- and Eric seems to like you.”

Alyssa shrugged, “Just because I said I wanted to see his stupid trick.”

I raised a brow, “So you thought it was stupid too?”

She nodded, “Yeah, definitely. It was dumb boys stuff, but I want him to like me.”

We reached the top of the stairs. The stairwell at least had been freshly painted. I frowned, “If you’d told him you didn’t like it, he wouldn’t have agreed to do the stunt. It’s pretty obvious he likes you. He wouldn’t do something you disapproved of. You should be yourself.”

Alyssa was unconvinced, “OK, so I should talk about Katy Perry with him, and how I like makeup and hair, and I want to do that for a job maybe? I really think you are wrong about that, Abby. Guys don’t think like that. They want a girl who likes the stuff they like.”

I waited for Alyssa to open the door to the apartment, but she just stood there, so I decided to respond. “You probably have things in common. Just talk to him. As for me being wrong, you’ll see one day that I’m not. People don’t want fakes, people who pretend to like something because they do.”

Alyssa raised a brow, “So you really like hockey? You weren’t pretending to like it just so they talked to you?” She sighed, “I felt so stupid at the table on Thursday, and today too. Can we sit somewhere else next week? Just me and you?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I love hockey. And there isn’t anything wrong with trying something new so you have something in common.” I shrugged, “And yeah I guess we could, but don’t expect me to be able to talk about girl stuff for an extended period of time.”

Alyssa nodded and smiled, “Keep hanging around me, and you will be able to, Abby.”

I shuddered, “Um- so are we going to stand here for hours or what? I need to be home by 9 PM.”

Alyssa blinked in confusion, “OK, your sister doesn’t sound chill at all. She’s stricter than my mom. I have to be home at ten on non-school nights. Why nine?”

I said quickly, “I have to help with my niece. Uh- my sister- she’s going out. I need to babysit.”

Alyssa said, “I’m waiting because my mom is really embarrassing. It’s not the right time yet. I don’t really- well…I don’t bring a lot of friends home. So my mom can really go overboard. I wanted to go in first and tell her we are going to my room, and just to call us for dinner.”

I shook my head, “That seems kind of rude, Alyssa.”

She said, “You don’t know my mom. I could have died last week when I saw Eric at the mall skateboarding. Well my mom asks me if that’s Eric. Right in front of him! I literally wanted to crawl in a hole and die. It was like the worst thing that could have happened.”

Just then, the door opened, and out stepped a woman in her late thirties, severely overweight, but with a bright beaming smile, which looked a lot like Alyssa’s. Other than the smile, the two were polar opposites, with Alyssa’s skinny body and her mother’s likely three-hundred pound frame. She said, “Alyssa, stop being so rude and invite Abigail inside. Dinner’s been ready for ten minutes. You should have texted me telling me you were going to be late. Oh, and that door isn’t exactly sound proof, young lady.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes, “Come on Mom, you said you weren’t going to do this.”

Mrs. Moore shook her head, “My own daughter, embarrassed to be seen with me. Oh woe is me,” she put a hand to her forehead dramatically, “What ever shall I do?”

This caused me to laugh, which elicited a glare from Alyssa. Alyssa was being a major drama queen.

We sat down to a meal of cheese and mushroom risotto, heavy on the cheese. Both Alyssa and her mother took healthy helpings, while I took a smaller one, followed by a larger one. I looked at Alyssa jealously. She never seemed to gain a pound, and she ate absolute trash for lunch, poutine, and those pizza pockets Ethan likes. Not to mention, a homemade dessert every day. Although, if her mother was any indication, it would catch up with her eventually.

Mrs. Moore said, “I’m happy to finally meet you, Abigail. Allie talks about you all the time.”

Alyssa shot daggers at her mother, “Mom! You are the worst. Don’t call me that.”

Mrs. Moore said, “I’m getting it out of my system now. You know, for when you bring that Eric home.”

Alyssa replied, “Oh my god Mom, just stop it. Seriously Mom, you are just embarrassing yourself. Abby doesn’t think you are funny.”

I quickly took another bite of risotto to hide the fact that I did, in fact, find her mother funny.

Mrs. Moore said, “All kidding aside, I’m happy you are here, Abigail. Alyssa needs someone like you, calm and mature. I hear you are also an excellent student.”

By this point, Alyssa had reached her boiling point. She snatched me from the table with my mouth still full. She pulled me into her bedroom and shut the door firmly, or at least she tried. It stuck halfway, and she was forced to push her lithe body against the frame to finally get it to close. The effect was lost as the door squeaked shut instead of slammed.

Alyssa looked mortified. Her eyes were bugging out, and she looked at me apologetically. “Oh my god, I hate my mom. She’s so annoying. Sometimes I wish I could live with my dad and my brother. She does it on purpose.”

I put my hand on Alyssa’s shoulder, “She’s really not that bad, Alyssa. She’s just having a bit of fun. I’m sure she won’t do anything like that when she meets Eric.”

Alyssa nodded her head rapidly, “She better not. So what do you think of my room?”

This was a tough question. Alyssa’s room was very similar to mine, except there were multiple Katy Perry posters. Her bed had a collection of stuffed animals over it, and like mine, there was a vanity, but it was actually used. I could see an assortment of nail polish bottles and makeup. The top of the vanity was stained with a rainbow of colours. I also noticed a shelf with a number of trophies. The miniature figures on the top of the awards were set in various dance poses.

Unlike mine, her room was also really messy. There were books and papers strewn about. Clothing that looked freshly washed lay on the floor. Her desk was buried under a pile of pop star and fashion magazines. I was amazed to see a few Tiger Beat magazines. I remember girls looking at New Kids on the Block pin-ups when I was a kid! Like a glitter-laden phoenix, pop never died. From Justin Bieber to the Backstreet Boys, and before them, I don’t know- WHAM? It never died, unlike rock which has apparently been dead since the late nineties. As for Tiger Beat itself, I couldn’t believe they still called it that. I thought it sounded stupid when I was in the fourth grade.

I said, “Um, it’s nice. So, we should study? Like I said, I have to be home by nine.”

Alyssa shrugged, “Yeah, fine.”

I started by cleaning off her desk. I pretended to throw the flashy but mindless magazines in the wastebasket, but Alyssa threw a pillow at me, striking me right in the face. This caused her to giggle. This turned into a laugh that had the girl red-faced and rolling on the floor. I stifled my own giggle. There was work to be done.

I looked over her last history test, “Hey, pay attention. Look, there’s five questions including the essay that you definitely deserve a higher mark on. You passed that test, Alyssa.”

She nodded her head rapidly, “I told you! M. Landry hates me. He’s trying to make me fail. Just ‘cause I can’t stop laughing in class sometimes. He’s the worst teacher. I think you should ask M. St-Valentin if you can teach the class.” A big grin appeared on her face, “You’d pass me, right?”

I looked at her seriously, “Only if you deserved it. Can’t play favourites. Now can we concentrate here? Show me how you study usually.”

Alyssa trudged over to her desk, “Oh my god, Abby, I don’t have to look for M. Landry in your mouth do I? Did you swallow him too?” She went over to my mouth and shouted in it, “Hello! M. Landry, can you breathe OK in there? Stop making Abby so…bo-RING!”

I frowned, “You know, you’d do better in school, if you were a little more serious.”

Alyssa looked at me with a smirk, “Yeah, and you’d be less like a forty two and half year old woman if you just had a bit of fun. Come on, Abby. You are fifteen not fifty! I can see it in you, there’s this giggly fun-filled girl just waiting to come out. I think working in that law place did something to your brain. You should totally sue them for sucking all the fun out of you!” She made vacuum cleaner suction noises.

I shrugged, “Look, I’m here to help you with history. Can we just do this? Show me how you study.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “Well, I sit there and stare at the book. I turn the pages sometimes. Oh, and music. Usually, I listen to music. Oh I also like to go on my favourite sites. Like Katy’s fan site.”

I scrunched my nose and frowned, “You know teens don’t multi-task as well as they think. I bet that if you didn’t have those distractions you’d be able to concentrate much better. Music is OK, but only if you can really focus.”

Alyssa actually stuck her tongue out at me, “No one likes a know-it-all, Abby. I just don’t care. I would do it if I did, but I don’t. School is boring to me. Well I like art class and gym is OK, depending on the sport.” I was getting frustrated. I felt like a teacher again, unable to reach a wayward teen. Alyssa could see this.

She said, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll study with you seriously, but after that, you have to try your very hardest to have some fun with me. Even if it means ... um ... ”

I interrupted, “Leaving my comfort zone?”

She smiled, “Yes. You really are a walking dictionary.”

I nodded, “OK.”

How bad could it be? I imagined that we would just watch a music video or listen to “Teenage Dreams”. I could handle that.

For an hour and a half, I went through study techniques with her. First, I gave her a lesson on taking proper notes, and after taking them, creating and answering questions based on the material to gain a full understanding of the lesson. Alyssa was a dutiful pupil, listening to my instructions, even though she had to tell herself at times to put on her ‘serious’ face, which she did like a mime. This caused a giggle to escape from me a few times, and with my small show of mirth, Alyssa took it on herself to erupt in laughter. Beyond that, I felt it was successful.

Alyssa looked at me with what looked like appreciation, not exactly awe, but a measure of pleased surprise. “Wow, you are a really good teacher, Abby. Like, I really got it. And you made it interesting too, like I’m not interested in the war, but I liked how you brought in how all the women took over for the men! I guess it helped me understand it all - everyone was doing their part.”

I nodded, “Exactly, so the essay question is easy now. You see how the home front changed because the men were at war.”

She nodded and then a big smile appeared on her face. I looked at my ‘new’ phone and saw that it was only just eight. I was going to have to follow through with my promise to Alyssa.

She walked over to a docking station and started flipping through songs on her iPod Nano. I heard “California Girls” thumping from the little speakers, but with the size of the Alyssa’s bedroom. It was plenty loud. She said, “Watch me, Abby.” Oh boy, a dance lesson.

Alyssa walked backward, with her right hand on her hip, while rolling her upper body. Then she moved forward and pretended to scratch the air. I thought she looked ridiculous, but it was in time to the music. Then she put her hands up in front of chest, bent her knees and brought her fists together in a sideways pump motion. She then restarted the song and said, “Now, you try.”

I gently bit my lip, “I don’t know about this.”

Alyssa said, “Hey, I studied and learned something. Now, it’s your turn. Come on. Get that stick out of your butt, Abby.”

She moved in behind me, and started yanking at the air, still in time to the music. She pretended to pull harder and then she fell into her closet, causing a bunch of plastic storage drawers to fall out. One of them, which held her unmentionables, landed upside down on her head and the contents spilled out- leaving a collection of thongs and panties on the girl’s head and shoulders. It started with no sound at all, but I felt a pressure in my chest and face, and then a tremendously girlish laugh escaped from my lips, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Alyssa joined me, and we both turned red. We laughed for a solid minute, and I started sucking in air. The laughter petered off with both of us sort of giggling now and then in remembrance of assault by thong and panties. I couldn’t believe how much I sounded like a real teenage girl when I laughed like that. My wife would have had a hard time seeing anything remotely ‘Darren’ in my behaviour over the last two minutes.

I had tears in my eyes from the laughing fit. I finally caught my breath, “You…totally did that on purpose didn’t you?”

Alyssa smirked, “Maaybeeee.”

Alyssa insisted that I learn the dance moves, even though I felt extremely awkward. These were not motions I ever saw myself doing, not as a straight male at least.

Alyssa said, “Loosen up. You are so tense. Just pretend your arms and legs are spaghetti noodles, you can do the moves one part at a time too. Start with just moving backward with your hand on your hip.” Alyssa was a very good teacher, and within a few minutes, I was adding the body rolls.

Alyssa said, “Ooh you look hot, Abby! You’ve got it.”

I said, “I feel silly doing the next part.” I was supposed to pretend I was scratching the air like a cat, all in time to the music.

Alyssa shook her head and looked at me with mock sternness, “Do it young lady. You can’t leave here until you can do part one.”

It took a few minutes, but I managed to learn the step. Once the next song came on, Alyssa asked me to sing it, and since I felt it would be a challenge, I accepted. “Who am I living for?” shows off Katy’s vocal range, and mine apparently. Alyssa watched me and gushed when I finished.

She hugged me, “Wow, I’m going to cry. That was so beautiful, Abby. I’m serious you should enter a singing competition, the local one. You could be famous!” I explained that if I was going to be famous, it would be for my band, not for some pop drivel. Well, I was nicer than that.

The conversations drifted from boys to Katy Perry, and back to boys. It was clear that Alyssa wanted me to go out with Ethan. When “Teenage Dreams” looped back to the first track, Alyssa jumped on her bed and invited me up. She shouted, “OK, freestyle!”

She danced silly, waving her arms about like one of the wildly flailing tube men you see at some used car dealerships. I danced like an Egyptian, jutting my head out like a chicken. Somewhere in the middle, we both collided and fell down in a giggling heap on the bed.

After the giggling fit ended, I heard my phone ringing in my backpack. I saw that I had missed two calls from Amélie. I also realized that it was twenty after nine. I texted her quickly, letting her know the address and asking her to pick me up.

Five minutes later, after saying goodbye to Mrs. Moore, who said I could come back anytime, I met Amélie outside. I was twenty five minutes past curfew now, but since I was with my guardian, I assumed I was safe.

Amélie barked as I climbed into the SUV, “You are lucky that Chloe is still awake because otherwise, you would have had to walk.”

I said, “I doubt there’s a cop looking out for me, Amélie. It’s not even that late.”

Amélie said, “With the social worker prying into our lives, we don’t need to make any mistakes. Mrs. Warner could have done a surprise visit at the house, and you wouldn’t have been there.”

Amélie said sardonically, “Did you have fun with your little friend?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “It was OK. I helped her with history. You know I am just acting as her friend so I look normal to the social worker right?” Amélie said nothing.

We sat in silence for the rest of the short trip back to the house. Amélie actually did go out, even though she hadn’t told me she was, and I was left dealing with Chloe who didn’t fall asleep until quarter after ten. At ten thirty, I got a text from Alyssa:

Alyssa: did u get in trouble 4 being late?
Me: Kind of
Alyssa: sorry mb i didnt see time (I assumed mb meant my bad)
Alyssa: i had panties on m head =)
Me: lol
Alyssa: =) my mom likes u she say u can b her anytime
Me: She didn’t think we were too loud?
Alyssa: no she amzd u got me to stdy
Alyssa: she wants us to stdy evry nitgt lol
Alyssa: we shld hve a sleepovr soon

I stared down at the screen. Alyssa thought of herself as my friend, and I was slowly coming to see her that way too, but the more time we spent together, the more I worried I would become like her - the prototypical teenage girl.

Alyssa: u still ther?
Me: Yeah. I was checking my calendar.
Alyssa: LMAO K u sure u arnt rlly 40 u look gud for 40
Me: Have I ever told you how weird you are?
Alyssa: prob once a day =)
Alyssa: did u have fun 2nite
Me: Yeah, I liked helping you.
Alyssa: did u lik dancing
Me: It was OK. I’m going to lose all my rock cred if my band hears that I danced to Katy Perry.
Alyssa: lol u r funny Abby so srious i wont tell any1
Alyssa: ur secret is safe don wrry
Alyssa: G2G have dance 2moro erly
Me: Bye
Alyssa: glad u had fun 2nite abby =) MWAH MWAH

If I was going to have more of these conversations with Alyssa, I realized that I was going to need a text speak dictionary. I also realized something else. As much as I told myself that I was only trying to be Alyssa’s friend because of the social worker, I did have fun tonight. Alyssa brought out something in me that had been buried since I left adolescence, and while I did have a good time at her place, I knew there was a real chance that Alyssa, as innocent and care free as she was, could bury Darren Lawrence.

Fearing that he will soon succumb not only to his forced adolescence but also to his blossoming feminine self, Darren writes a desperate plea to Mama Khalia. As this occurs, Darren is stripped of the last vestige of his former adult independence. Meanwhile, now fully entrenched within the high school experience, Abigail claims a victory over an incompetent tyrant. Finally, Abigail experiences not simply love, but an obsession so powerful that it threatens to erase Darren Lawrence from existence.
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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story is my thank you to a community that has provided me free fiction for years. It is also my first story (and probably my last), and I will warn you- it is long. My intrepid editor, Robyn Hoode, slaved through the drafts of the story, providing insightful and helpful commentary. His enthusiasm for the subject material kept me motivated. Honestly, without him and his constant feedback, this story wouldn’t exist. So, if you enjoy this story, you have him to thank, as much as me.

This story is very much a slow-burn, character-driven transformation. As I said, it is lengthy, but I hope you will stay for the entire ride.

Please feel free to leave a comment or to send feedback to the following e-mail: oneshot20XX [at] gmail.com

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 50 (Part 5)

Me: Hey Andrew, I’m really sorry about before, Ethan is back in the band, I was just going through some pretty heavy stuff.

Friday night, before I went to bed, I sent Andrew a text, hoping that we would be able to jam this weekend. It was very short notice, but if my band mates were still into the idea, they would find a way. Saturday morning, as I woke up in Abigail’s room just after ten AM, I noticed Andrew had written me back.

Andrew: It’s OK. Laura told me about some of it. So you really had to go back to school?

I rapidly texted him back:
Me: Yeah, 10th grade.
Me: You guys aren’t telling anyone else about what happened to me, are you? I don’t really like Amelie talking about that stuff with Laura
Andrew: Hey can we talk on the phone? I’m having trouble keeping up.

The difference between generations was startling. Where Alyssa would send me many screens of texts that comprised a whole conversation, Andrew preferred the telephone. I also preferred speaking on the phone because I could gauge Andrew’s tone far easier, even though I really disliked my voice over the phone. It was no wonder that law firms did not take me seriously- I sounded like a kid. I hadn’t fallen into the trap of ending every sentence as if it were a question, so-called up-talk used by many adolescents, but I sounded the same as I looked.

I asked Andrew to call me, since I hadn’t been able to transfer any of my numbers. My old phone was not salvageable, meaning I could not access my contact list. I realized that I didn’t even know my parents or even Amélie’s number off by heart. They were stored in my ruined phone, and I just used a single button to call, which removed the requirement to memorize numbers. Amazingly, I still knew the number of my childhood best friend, but I could not remember my wife’s number without looking at my phone.

I said, “Hello?” There was a pause on the other end.

Andrew replied, “Hi, Darren. Uh- sorry, never heard your voice over the phone before.”

I nodded, “It’s fine. Now you guys aren’t telling anyone else about what happened to me, are you? Also, I don’t really like Amelie talking about that stuff with Laura. She told Laura I had to go back to high school?”

Andrew said, “No way, we are going with the story you and Amelie came up with. You are in Vancouver in law school. Oh and about the talking, Laura and Amelie are best friends, they are going to talk.”

I sighed, “How come we never hang out like before? You know the new NHL is out. We always play it together when it comes out.” I was referring to a hockey video game that I had played for nearly twenty years. I had played it with Andrew for the last ten years.

Andrew replied, “Sorry, Darren. It’s tough with the baby, Laura is cool with the band, but I’d have a hard time leaving the house for a video game. What about online?”

I frowned, “I don’t have it anymore.” I didn’t have it anymore because Amélie and my parents had forced me to cancel it. We still had Internet, but online play for the game cost extra. It was only ten dollars a month, but my father called it an unnecessary expense. My father did not understand the allure of modern gaming, but then his only game experience fell within the realm of Windows games such as Minesweeper and Spider Solitaire.

I said, “Anyway, the reason I called is that I’d like to get the band back together. I spoke to Ethan, and he’s willing. I wanted to talk to you first because you are my best friend- you know I don’t want it to come between us. I want to hang out like we did before even if you aren’t into the band anymore.” There was a pause on the other end.

Andrew cleared his throat, “You know like I said, Darren, I can’t. Maybe after band we could all play. But yeah, I am definitely into it. I was mixing some of the tracks we recorded with Ethan, and your voice and all the parts. We’ve really got something here. I get chills when I hear you sing.”

I nodded, “It’s about the only positive thing that’s resulted from this change. What about Steven?”

Andrew said, “Steven’s been texting me, asking me what’s happening. He’s got another band interested in him.”

I replied, but in an anxious higher-pitched voice, “Oh. Damn. Well d-do you think he will come back?” My voice was uncertain.

Andrew said, “I think he will. I’ve been sending him some of the mixed tracks. We both figured you’d come around eventually, especially once the dust settled- you know with school. I heard school kind of sucks.”

I said, “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Andrew said evenly, “Fine. I think Steven will come back. Just be glad I didn’t leave.”

I grinned, “Yeah, bass players are hell to find.”

We laughed and after a little small talk, I hung up. Andrew could do Sunday afternoon, but I had to find out if Steven was even willing to come back. Even with the awkwardness in the discussion concerning my return to school, I still felt positive about how it had gone. I was hopeful that Andrew would accept my invitation to hang out because my home life had been altered to the point where my wife was no longer my wife. She acted more like my mother. I desperately needed my best friend to infuse a sense of normalcy. I also needed someone my own age, who didn’t give me homework or ask me to do my homework. I hoped Andrew’s friendship would halt my slide into complete adolescence.

I called Steven at home, but he was working, so I sent him a text identical to the one I sent Andrew. He called me back at noon.

I was going to have to change the ringtone. It was a Britney Spears song from the Blackout album. It reminded me of Amélie and I and what we used to do in the bedroom. I said, “Hello?”

Steven said, “Hey, Darren. So you want to get the band back together?”

I replied, “Yes, are you free tomorrow?”

Steven said, “Yeah, I can jam tomorrow afternoon.”

I asked, “What about the other band? Did you play with them yet? Andrew said there was another band.”

Steven laughed, “There wasn’t one. I wasn’t actively looking either. Andrew and I knew you’d come to your senses, but we needed a little incentive.”

I frowned, “That was pretty sneaky.”

Steven replied, “Yeah, well you need underhanded tactics when you are dealing with a level 5 diva. That’s like Barbara Streisand and Celine Dion level. Like not only does the whole room need to be white, everyone who serves you has to be wearing white. There’d be this machine too that sucked out the colour from their eyes so they’d have these white orbs.

I smirked, “Are you quite finished?”

Steven added, “Oh and everyone in the audience would have to wear white. If they didn’t, they’d be dyed white on entry.”

I said, “You’ve thought about this way too much.”

Steven said, “I’ve had a lot of spare time over the last few weeks.”

I replied heavily, “Sorry about that. I didn’t treat you guys very well.”

Steven said, “The person you really should be apologizing to is Ethan. Kid’s got it rough.”

I blinked, “What do you mean by that?”

Steven replied, “He’s into the band more than any of us. He texts me at least once a day to give me another song idea or something. I was really surprised you wanted to kick him out. Andrew said you were dealing with a lot of stuff, but it didn’t make sense why you wanted him out- you’ve always said that music is therapy.”

I couldn’t very well tell Steven that Ethan had a crush on me, but I wondered if Andrew and Steven actually saw it. They were adults, and that meant, they could see through the adolescent haze that had enveloped Ethan. Did they already know? For instance, Amélie met Ethan once and knew that he was head-over-heels for me. Steven had also noticed the clerk in the pizza place. I had noticed his little gestures toward me, such as offering to give me his old phone. He had also offered to help me with my math homework on a few occasions.

Were his gestures merely innocent attempts at gaining my friendship, or were they subtle actions to gain my affection? I knew that I had to take a stand against my hormones and my sexuality before they swallowed what remained of my masculine self. I was going to have to keep our relationship purely professional.

I replied, “I was just dealing with a lot of stuff at the time. I’m not sure how much Andrew told you, but it doesn’t matter. I am perfectly fine with having Ethan in the band. I’m also firmly committed to the band.”

Steven said, “Hey, that’s good enough for me. I gotta get some lunch, I’ll see you on Sunday. Oh hey, did you get your licence back yet?”

I sighed, “Not until December.”

Steven said apologetically, “Ooh sorry, man. I forgot- fifteen.”

I nodded, “Yeah, fifteen.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. I took a few minutes to load some music on my new phone. There wasn’t nearly as much room as before, so I had to select them carefully. I chose Alice in Chains “Them Bones” for my new ringtone. At ten thirty, I climbed the stairs, surprised when I didn’t smell Amélie’s waffles.

Amélie was in the kitchen doing the dishes. Chloe was colouring at her table. She shouted, “Daddy!” and then pointed to the little stool next to her. She continued shouting “Daddy! Sit Daddy! Daddy!”, as I walked to the cupboard to grab a cereal bowl. The cereal bowls were now a shelf lower, so I no longer needed a chair to reach them.

I said, “Not right now, Chloe. Daddy wants to eat first.”

I looked at Amélie, “Hey, how come no waffles this morning?”

Amélie said, “I figured with you trying to lose some weight, you wouldn’t want them. I’m trying to lose a few pounds too. You might not want to eat those sugared cereals. I had oatmeal.”

I stuck my tongue out, “Blech. Gross. Cereal is fine.” I frowned, “How come you are trying to lose weight?”

I couldn’t very well tell Amélie not to lose weight and embrace her feminine curves- not when I was having difficulty embracing my own. I was trying to lose weight, but my exercise regime lacked focus. Not only that, but all the work I had done since Wednesday was lost on Friday night with two helpings of risotto and two chocolate chip fudge brownies at Alyssa’s. That girl’s mother could cook, but she was going to make me fat.

Amélie said, “Just finding my clothes don’t fit that well. Probably the same feeling you have with your skirt.”

I nodded and asked, “Yeah, I guess. Where’d you go last night?”

Amélie replied, “Out with my friends from law school. Gina was in town, we celebrated her birthday.”

I nodded and then noticed a text from Ethan.

Ethan: so we rlly jamming 2moro?
Me: Yeah, definitely. Maybe we can get that show again
Ethan: that would b sick
Ethan: can eric a ryan come if alysa wants t come she can
Me: Maybe we should get some of the rust off before we go inviting a crowd
Ethan: lol k c u 2moro

Practice went well the next day. Despite having not played together for weeks, the songs were nearly seamless. Ethan didn’t miss a beat, and he had either been practicing, or he was a really quick study. As a three piece we had played most of the songs for nearly a year before Ethan came along, so I assumed that he was working on the songs at home. I had barely practiced singing, but my performance was as effortless as always. I did have some difficulty on the guitar however. I was out of practice, and I flubbed a few sections.

After finishing the set a second time, I felt a lot more comfortable, but there was still a lot of improvement required on my end. My school work was eating up a lot of my practice time, but as long as the threat of the social worker remained, I had to act the exemplary student.

During the tail end of practice, Ethan started playing a very sombre melody. It was beautifully finger picked with multiple arpeggios. A vocal melody instantly entered my head, and I started humming along. I got up to the microphone and started adlibbing words to feel out the direction I wanted to take the song.

Ethan stopped abruptly and said, “Oh. There’s lyrics actually.”

I stopped singing and replied, “Oh. Okay.” I wrote all the lyrics for the band. A little pang of jealousy stung my chest as I realized that Ethan was entering my territory. I did two things very well in the band- create vocal melodies and write thoughtful, dark and fitting lyrics to accompany the music. At least as lead singer, I was irreplaceable.

Ethan rummaged through his guitar case and handed me a lyrics sheet. I figured they wouldn’t be very good, only because I remember a lyric assignment I had given to my tenth grade English class. Only five percent of the lyrics were decent, and the other 95% were terrible. Raw adolescent emotion poured onto a page lacked the hindsight I believed was required to write excellent lyrics. Because adolescents lived within singular moments, their writing was often unfocused and one-dimensional. It took an adult or at least a mature mind to really craft meaningful lyrics because if you spewed recent anger on a page, it wasn’t a song- it was a tantrum. I believed in subtlety in lyrics and allowing the listener to determine their own meaning.

Imagine my surprise when I read the lyrics over, and they were not only heartfelt, meaningful and well written- they were clearly about me. The song’s title “The Girl I’ll Never Know” spoke of a young man absolutely smitten with a girl who clearly felt the same way, but who could not or would not reveal her feelings openly. The concept was complicated, in that, he knew the girl, but not the one he wanted to know.

I felt strange as I read the lyrics, and as I did, my crush on Ethan intensified. My face felt hot, and that traitorous little smile appeared on my face. I turned away from my band mates, hoping that they hadn’t seen my reaction. The feeling did not leave as easily as it had previously. Where before I could remove the thoughts from my mind, now, I could not ignore the fact that I was touched by his gesture. Did he write the lyrics knowingly?

Ethan started playing the song again, and Steven and Andrew attempted to join in, adding very subtle pieces to the already full-sounding arpeggios.

I remember Amélie’s reaction when I sang the song I had written for her on our wedding day. She cried, which was unusual. I could count the number of times I had seen her cry on one hand. She was moved by my words, tears glistening and then falling down her cheek in a gentle streak. Now I was the subject of a song, and I was similarly moved. Within my mind, I sent metaphorical dive bombers after the thoughts, then when that didn’t work- an atomic bomb, but the power of the blast was negated by Ethan’s playing and the way he played the song- with eyes closed. Was he thinking about me as he played? The traitorous smile appeared again, and I knew I had to put a stop to this. The song was making me act funny, not as bizarrely as I behaved in Alexandre’s presence, but a close second.

I said, “The lyrics are written from a guy’s point of view. It might sound weird with me singing these lyrics.” I had written other lyrics for the band that would sound similarly bizarre coming from a teenage girl, but no one had mentioned that as yet.

Ethan said, “Well you could teach Andrew and I some harmony parts for the verse, and then you could come in on the chorus. And sing something like 'I’m the girl you’ll never know'.”

I frowned, “Am I even playing guitar in this song?”

Ethan said, “There’s one guitar so far, but maybe on the chorus.”

Andrew added, “We should jam on it, and see where it goes.”

My band mates were all in agreement, and considering my previous hissy fit over Ethan’s membership in the band, I had some ground to make up. I had to choose my battles carefully. The first time I was expected to sing, I missed my cue because I was too busy noticing how Ethan’s tight band shirt- some band I didn’t even know- showed off his arms. His years of guitar playing had given him well defined biceps. I hadn’t really noticed before, but then I wasn’t really looking either. I also thought it was really cute how he kind of pursed his lips when he played. I even liked the way he held his pick. Was I going crazy? What a stupid thing to like about a person. There was sense of humour, intelligence, and even body, but I liked the way he held a stupid piece of plastic? What was wrong with me?

Although I am loathe to admit it, I also thought about him at night before bed and at school. The fantasy of him kissing me in the band room was ever present in my mind, but his song had stoked a fire in me by pouring gasoline on an already brightly burning flame. Once, I even thought about him in my bed, not in a sexual manner, but just holding me and caressing my hair. I couldn’t fathom a more girly thought than that one, and I was glad they were relatively rare. Why did he have to write a stupid song about me? I had a feeling that the images in my mind would become more fixed because of it.

Steven cleared his throat, “Uh- hey Abby, you missed your part.” Had he noticed me staring at Ethan? Oh god, I hope not. The last thing I wanted was for my adult male friends to think of me as some love struck teeny bopper. They had already taken to calling me Abby, instead of Abigail.

I said, “Yeah, you know I was listening to the song, and I’m not sure it works, you know with the sound of the band. It’s a bit um sappy, and it sounds really pop.”

My plan of attack was clear. I would use Steven’s hatred of anything pop and gain an ally, hopefully eventually Andrew would join us in denouncing the song.

Steven said, “But you haven’t even sung a word. I don’t think the verse sounds poppy.”

I turned to look at Ethan’s reaction, and I felt an instant pang of regret. There was clear hurt on his face. He quickly turned away, and I frowned. His song wasn’t poppy at all and neither were the lyrics.

Andrew acted the voice of reason, “Let’s just keep jamming on it. We’ll make the decision then, OK, Abby?”

I felt like Andrew might be patronizing me, but I had difficulty reading him exactly. Before my change I would have just thought he was playing peace maker, but now- I actually wondered if he was semi-lecturing me.

I nodded. They started the song again, and I told myself that Ethan wasn’t trying to kiss me or even hold my hand. I was letting my crush dictate my actions. After all, the song he wrote might have just been cathartic, knowing he couldn’t have me. That is what we agreed on. The end of the song left the couple’s story open, either for the young man to walk away, tired of being spurned or for the girl to let down her walls and embrace the mutual feelings.

As my part began, I burst forth, carrying the song through the chorus. A second time through the chorus brought us to the bridge where Ethan pined for the girl he would never know and all the things he wouldn’t get to do with her. As he sang, I imagined us doing them.

***

A few hours after band finished, I received a text from Alyssa:

Alyssa: h was band
Me: It was OK. We were a bit rusty.
Alyssa: k and h was Ethan ^_-
Me: He was fine. Played a new song, it was OK.
Alyssa: its so obvis u like him abby u told him b4 u want 2b friends
Alyssa: i know hes waiting for u to tell him hes too nice to make a move
Me: Does he ask you about me?
Alyssa: yeah
Alyssa: he asked if u were still having probs in math
Alyssa: he asked if u ever ask about him
Alyssa: how come u wont make a move he told me u kissed him back
Me: He told you about that in detail?
Alyssa: he jus said u guys kissed u didnt stop him
Alyssa: hes a rlly nice guy and youd be so CUTE together
Me: I told you, I don’t want a relationship, and I told him that too. I just want to be friends
Alyssa: OMG abby whats wrong w u y not admit u like him
Alyssa: every1 knows u get this little smile on yur face when he looks at u its so adorable
Alyssa: its just like from instant star u r jude and ethan is vincent
Alyssa: in the same band u will fall in love LOL

I actually knew what Alyssa was talking about- well sort of. I had caught a few episodes of Instant Star, a Canadian television show about a girl who gets a recording contract by winning a singing contest, but the incessant teen melodrama turned me off the show. The songs in the show were catchy and well-crafted, but the relationship squabbles made it unbearable to watch. I was surprised Alyssa had heard of it because it wasn’t a new show, but I guess MTV must have played reruns and Alyssa got hooked.

Me: Life isn’t a television show, Alyssa. It doesn’t really work out like that, especially when one person isn’t interested
Alyssa: same thing happened to jude she went crazy
Me: I am not going to go crazy just because I don’t act on some feelings. OK, I have a crush on him, but it’s manageable and it’ll go away
Alyssa: thats what jude said LOL
Alyssa: then one day u r working on a song he looks at u u smile and know its right u kiss MUAH
Me: You watch way too many of those shows. They are so formulaic, first she doesn’t like him or vice versa then they get together and all the little girls swoon and say, oh I wish that was me
Me: It’s not real. Love doesn’t work that way.
Alyssa: u r 15 how do u know abby u have a bf b4
Me: No, I just see it, you know I watch my sister and her husband and other couples
Alyssa: they r old abby its diff w adults like i know my mom likes this guy at work
Alyssa: she doesnt look like u do when u look at ethan lol
Alyssa: u r rite I watch a lot of shows but u can learn from them and heres what i know
Me: What?
Alyssa: u guys r perfect the cutest couple :) :) :)
Me: Alyssa, all you are doing is trying to live vicariously through me because you are too nervous or scared to ask Eric out. So you create this little fantasy in your mind about Ethan and I, and it helps you forget that you don’t have the courage to ask Eric out.
Alyssa: :( u can b pretty mean abby i just think u 2 belong together
Alyssa: u like him he likes u its just sad u know dont u want a bf I do
Me: No, I’m focusing on music and school
Alyssa: u need to come back to my place u got all boring again LOL

I sighed. Speaking to Alyssa was literally like speaking to a child. The shows she watched had no doubt filled her mind with this notion of the perfect smile on the perfect teen couple enjoying their perfect moment. Life did not function this way, and the sooner Alyssa understood that the better. She would be less disappointed when her first boyfriend, potentially Eric, turned out to be an asshole, was a terrible kisser or when their relationship burned out because Eric had no interest in discussing hair, makeup, Katy Perry or Instant Star.

Me: Look, I need your help with Dr. Phillips. I have to meet him again this coming week. You said he was nice to you. What did you do?
Alyssa: i told him i want to get better
Alyssa: dont know y u r having probs w him
Me: Because he doesn’t believe that I worked at a law firm. He thinks I am making it up and that I am delusional
Alyssa: well u r rlly young to b working there u said too that ur boss wont admit u work there
Alyssa: just tell doc phillips that u were lying
Me: But I’m not lying. My sister is going to talk to my boss and get her to admit I worked there
Alyssa: u make a lot of probs for urself abby like when u 8 in the pit this too jus tell him u were lying
Me: You can’t go through life running from your problems. Look how you stood up to Véronique
Alyssa: yeah but doc phillips is an adult if he thinks u r crazy u might have to go to the hospital
Me: Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve had one session.
Alyssa: im jus trying to help abby u cant fight against everything and expect to win
Alyssa: like my mom i know when shes in a mood no asking her nothing well doc phillips is nice he wants to help jus hes stubbern u know thinks hes right so if i wanted to leave early i jus agreed w everyth he said
Alyssa: u have to admit that its hard to believe u worked in job like that u r smart abby but dont u need to go to uni for that would people pay money for u to work on their stuff
Alyssa: doc phillips prob wont believe u ever i told him that i cut myself cause i wanted attention from my parents and i saw kids do it on youtube
Alyssa: he said that wasnt part of the tipical profile or whatever and he kept pushing me so i told him it was because i was bullyed by veronique and he was a lot nicer

Alyssa had a point, and with Stephanie’s refusal to admit that I worked at the Locke Agency, it would be nearly impossible to prove. I couldn’t believe that I was going to take advice from Alyssa of all people, but Amélie had been unsuccessful, although I wasn’t even certain if she had spoken to Stephanie yet. As for Doctor Phillips, his behaviour was also not completely unusual for a medical professional. Logically, if his thesis or main area of study was self-harm and he had argued in a paper published in medical journals then he might do everything he could to ensure his thesis was proven. It was highly unethical, but it explained his behaviour, and he wouldn’t be the first professional to skew results to support a theory.

Me: Okay, I will try it. My appointment is on Tuesday, so I have some time to think about it.
Alyssa: :)
Alyssa: g2g dont think bout ethan too much before bed dirty girl :) :) :)

I went to bed that night trying to think of anything but the reignited crush. I looked at my wedding ring, the object that had initially broken our brief but passionate kiss. I thought of Amélie, but it was getting harder and harder to see her as my wife and even more difficult to find her attractive. I felt almost nothing when I saw Amélie on Friday night, squeezed into a pair of skinny jeans that exaggerated the flare of her hips and tight blouse that while surprisingly conservative still accented the size of her full breasts. I literally had to force myself to look at her, and when I did, there was a teasing minute tingle. We hadn’t been intimate in months, and I was craving the closeness and something else.

My hormones took this opportunity to move into overdrive, replacing the image of my wife with Ethan. Months after my transformation, I had still not thoroughly explored my body. I was curious certainly, and there had been moments when I knew I was alone, when I put my hand on my breast and played with the nipples. I had never ventured to what I termed the nether regions, but with images of Ethan all over me, kissing my neck, playing with my boobs, in my very bed, my nipples weren’t enough, so my hand tenuously crawled down to what I knew was my most sensitive area.

I thought about what I was doing, but the pleasure quickly numbed my thoughts. Would this act make me a real girl? Was I losing a significant part of my old self? They were forgotten. I hid under the covers, fearing that Amélie might suddenly burst into the room. As I continued, I noticed a cold sensation. I pulled my hand away, realizing that it was my wedding ring. I wondered if it ever bothered Amélie. The object once again jolted me back to reality. I felt that my actions somehow betrayed my wife- my marriage vows.

It had been a few weeks since I had written Mama Khalia telling her about what I had felt within the circle, the presence that seemed to pick at my thoughts. That night, I sat at my desk, dressed only in my pyjamas, and penned another letter to her, pleading for her help, explaining that if she did not act soon there would be nothing left of Darren Lawrence to save. After writing, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep or to dismiss from my mind the image of Ethan or the temporary pleasure I had inflicted on myself.

On Tuesday, I took Alyssa’s advice to heart, agreeing with much of what Doctor Phillips said, and retracting my statements. He seemed pleased that I was able to make such progress in a week, noting that once I had told him the truth, he believed that I was no longer delusional. He told me that it was silly to think that he would believe a fifteen year old girl worked as a paralegal, and that a firm would even consider hiring someone my age on a full-time permanent basis. He told me that I had made up the story to act as a fantasy escape from a school where I was having difficulties. Again, I agreed with him, noting my problems with the girls in the Pit, Véronique, and how the kids treated me in general.

I couldn’t believe I was following advice from a teenage girl, but I was even more shocked when it worked. After my confession, Doctor Phillips told me that he had a treatment plan for me, and he laid it out- step by step. It was almost a carbon copy of the one he had discussed with Alyssa. I left there with my pride wounded, but with the realization that it was a necessary evil to avoid further difficulties. I hoped that the social worker would speak to Doctor Phillips and learn of my progress and admission. As I digested the session, I realized that while I had lessened my problems, I had seriously gone against my convictions. I was telling the truth, but the adult world refused to believe it. My confession had made my life easier, but at what ultimate cost?

Wednesday night, Amélie returned home looking worried. Her interview with Mrs. Warner, the social worker, had not gone well. The woman was still challenging the veracity of Amélie’s tale, and Amélie’s inability to produce any substantiating documents was not helping things. We had still not received the birth certificate for Abigail Grenier, and Amélie had indicated there were problems with the process. Her aunt was having trouble because Abigail Grenier had no medical records, no doctor visits and no immunizations. This was worsened by the lack of school records. The province tended not to grant birth certificates to people who didn’t exist.

Amélie explained that Mrs. Warner wanted to contact her parents, or rather our parents, to get their side of the story regarding the missing birth certificate. A small part of me wished that when I changed that the world changed around me, rewriting my existence. Darren Lawrence would perhaps have never been born, but we would not have faced all of these legal hurdles and the potential consequence- having to live in a group home away from my friends and family.

September ended, and the online ad for my car was posted. In the meantime, I found out from Andrew that the downtown show with Porcelain was back on. Another band had dropped out, so we were it. We started practicing twice a week in preparation- the show would take place in only two weeks. I had managed to keep my hormones in check, and while I still stared stupidly at Ethan at certain points during band and in class, I had not acted on anything, and thankfully neither had he. Also, over the last few weeks, Alyssa and I became better friends. Whenever I reverted to my old ways, putting up my walls and acting generally cool toward her, she would call herself the Panty Queen, in memory of her run-in with the undergarments, and this would almost always elicit a giggle from me. She had asked a few times if she could come over to my place, but I wasn’t ready for Amélie to see me with Alyssa outside of Chloe’s dance studio. I feared what she would think, considering Alyssa’s success, at times, in reviving the child in me. Also during that time, Alyssa continued to pressure me to try out for local singing competitions. On both fronts, I had managed to hold her at bay, but she was tremendously persistent. Mercifully, she stayed off the topic of Ethan, mostly.

As for my car, it had barely been driven since my change, although recently, my father had taken it for an oil change and a complete tune-up in preparation to sell it. It was officially for sale, and that meant prospective buyers coming to the house. In hindsight, my father should have driven it to his place to sell it, because I had a plan to keep it.

***
“So what you are saying is the car is a lemon. The sun roof is broken, and it needs a new clutch. Oh and it leaks oil. How do you know that? You don’t look old enough to drive.”

A middle-aged man, likely looking for something sportier than the ten year old mini-van he drove, looked at me suspiciously.

I frowned, “Look, I’m just telling you the truth. Don’t waste your time with it. My uh- sister drives it. She found all the problems. That’s why we are trying to sell it.”

My father and Amélie had agreed that it would be best to sell the car in town because there would be more potential buyers, but it meant that Amélie would have to do the test drives. My mother usually left when Amélie got home, and she would have been unable to do the test drives while watching Chloe. Thankfully, during the evening, Amélie was often occupied with Chloe, who was still having hell-raising exorcist-style tantrums. Chloe’s newest game was to make the biggest mess she could as many times as she could. This left Amélie conveniently occupied while I intercepted buyers and told them the car was worthless. This would be the fourth buyer I had turned away.

The man shook his head, “Why should I believe a kid? You probably want it for yourself.”

I wasn’t stupid, I knew that they wouldn’t believe me from words alone.

I said, “Take a look under the car and see for yourself.”

I had taped a two litre pop bottle to the underside of the car and filled it with water and soil. A quick shake and it looked like motor oil. My father always called Amélie when a buyer was coming to coordinate, but this also gave me plenty of time to prepare my ruse. It also wasn’t the type of car that attracted gear heads, so all the buyers saw was what looked like dripping oil.

The man shook his head, “I should report your dad, you know. It must be against the law to try and trick people into buying a car that has serious problems.”

I watched the frustrated man walk back to his car with a satisfied smile on my face. After he drove away, I crawled underneath the car to retrieve the bottle. I heard a car door slam, but figured it was the neighbours, so I quickly began ripping the duct tape off to free the bottle. Just as I was finishing, I saw shoes at the side of the car. They looked like my dad’s. The bottle slipped from my grasp and rolled right out from under the car. The shoe raised and stopped the bottle’s momentum.

“Darren, get out of there. Now.” It was a voice I had not heard in almost fifteen years. My father’s authoritative tone. I did as he said, and he took my arm and pulled me into the house.

Once inside, my father directed me downstairs to Abigail’s room and closed the door. He said, “I don’t want Amélie to hear this.”

He motioned for me to sit on the bed. He stood over me, shaking his head and frowning deeply, his mouth was tight and his whole demeanour screamed disappointment.

She would hear it because he raised his voice at me. “Just how long did you think you could get away with lying to people about the condition of the car?”

My head was lowered, my shoulders slumped and I swung my legs back and forth, “I don’t know.”

My father sighed, looking completely exasperated, “Did you not even think that we would find out? That people would call me, accusing me of being a thief?”

I frowned, “I don’t know.”

My father walked over to me and looked me right in the face, “What’s wrong with you, Darren? We need this money. By November, you are going to be broke. What were you thinking? Did you think you would be able to keep that car?” His face was getting red, “Do you think Amélie and I are stupid? I called her from a payphone, and I was just waiting for you to do exactly what you’ve been doing since the car went on sale.”

I raised my head, “What order would you like me to answer those questions?”

As Darren Lawrence, my father would have hit me for talking back to him that way. He hit me very rarely as a kid, and when I look back, I deserved it. I once threw away all of my newspapers, neglecting to deliver even one along the route. How did I think that was a good idea? It was clear that people were going to notice that they hadn’t received the papers they had paid for.

He raised his hand, but it didn’t come down.

My father’s expression softened, “Darren, this behaviour is extremely worrisome. You are regressing. Can you not see that? You are acting like you did when you were a kid.”

I narrowed my eyes, “What did you think was going to happen? I’m surrounded by kids all day. I have to have friends my age or the stupid social worker will think I’m not normal. And here you are selling my last vestige of adulthood, my car- my freedom. How did you want me to act? I’m losing myself in this body, Dad. I need to grab onto something, something that was- that is me.”

My father sighed, “I’m sorry, Darren, but we have to sell that car.”

I sniffed and said, “I know, Dad.” I reached out to hug him, and he looked as surprised as me, but he held me there for a few minutes, then he left quietly.

Two days later, my car was sold. The young man who bought it indicated that his girlfriend was expecting, and they needed something larger than the hatchback, but they didn’t want something bulky. I watched as he reversed it onto the street, and then turned toward the main road.

***

I heard my phone vibrating in my school bag. I knew it was a text message, so I ignored it. I knew that M. Landry confiscated cell phones, and while I didn’t like mine, I also didn’t want to lose it. Students who had their phones taken away had to get a parent come pick it up, which in my case meant Amélie. It was nearing the end of the week. My car had been sold a few days ago, and I was still reeling from the loss. The only piece of my adult life that I had left to lose was my mind itself.

The phone vibrated again. M. Landry was lecturing on the rise of Fascism in Germany and Italy, and despite the interesting topic, the class was, as usual, on life support. As I scanned the faces, I could see that my classmates were bored. M. Landry had a drone-like voice, it lacked emotion and that meant he was more textbook than man. It also didn’t help that to a high school student, he looked about a million years old- with big bushy grey eyebrows, mostly bald with just wisps of greyish-brown hair along his temples. His baldness revealed a vein in his forehead that pulsated when he became angry.

He was a bad teacher. I noticed that he didn’t try and gauge student reaction, he just continued to lecture without any concern for whether his students actually understood the material. He rarely checked for prior learning, and he never diverted from the lecture style to disseminate the information. This was further demonstrated by his announcement that we were going to have a test in two days. This was clearly against the three-day notice policy that was written in our student planners. It didn’t bother me, but I knew that for students who needed more time to study, it would be an issue.

M. Landry said, « The test will cover this week’s material. »

There were groans from the class, but no one spoke up. My phone vibrated again. Thinking it was Amélie texting me about a potential emergency, I quickly retrieved it from my school bag. I frowned. They were from Alyssa:

Alyssa: omg m landry is so booooooring
Alyssa: hes got really gross nose hairs
Alyssa: I hate him so much hes so mean to me
Alyssa: hey abby!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Alyssa: abby
Alyssa: pick
Alyssa: up
Alyssa: ur phone

I shook my head as I read the texts. Alyssa was doing better in the class, but she was still only just passing. I had worked with her, but she proved to be a challenging student. She was even giving me bad habits. During a previous study session at her place, I let her put music on, and then she managed to distract me for nearly twenty minutes with a discussion about Instant Star, which she then insisted we watch. So for the three hours that I was there, we got ten minutes of studying done! Still, the show was better than I remembered. Alyssa caught me up on the plot lines, and it made a lot more sense. She said we should watch it from the beginning, but I was hesitant. I was really there to help her study.

I made sure M. Landry wasn’t looking and texted her back:

Me: Why is he so mean
Alyssa: he never changed my grade
Alyssa: i told him what u told me about that stuff
Me: Did u tell him like that Or in detail

If I texted in class, I used short hand because you never knew when the teacher would appear behind you, forcing you to stash it away quickly to avoid being caught. You wanted to make sure you got your message out so short hand was handy.

Alyssa: yah i did he said it was still wrong
Alyssa: i told him exactly what u said abby
Alyssa: he hates me im going to fail history
Me: Thats not right at all u should stand up to him
Alyssa: i cant he jus stares at me and i feel stupid
Alyssa: thats how i felt when he told me the answers were wrong
Me: u need to be ur own advoc-

I was too engrossed in my conversation with Alyssa to notice that M. Landry was right behind me. I saw a hairy arm enter my line of sight and then my phone was snatched from my fingers.

M. Landry furrowed his bushy brows at me, « Mademoiselle Grenier, you may have the highest mark in this class, but that doesn’t mean you can ignore the lessons. You set a bad example for your peers. I expect better from you. »

He looked at my phone and his face hardened. He then went over to Alyssa, who had stopped texting and put out his hand, « Mademoiselle Moore, I will take yours as well. Your mother can pick it up after school. And your sister- Mademoiselle Grenier. »

Alyssa pleaded, « Please sir, I have a dentist appointment. I need to- um…»

M. Landry shook his head. He impatiently tapped his foot. « You need to what? »

Alyssa was turning red. Véronique smiled triumphantly at her, even though she had done nothing. Alyssa mumbled, « I need to know what time it is. »

M. Landry pointed at the clock on the wall, « This is a clock, Mademoiselle Moore. It has all the information you require. »

Alyssa was now bright red, « I can’t- um- I use my phone to check the time…like I know you took my phone once and then I could ask Abby, but if you take them both- »

Véronique blurted out, « Alyssa can’t read the clock! Did you miss that part of third grade? »

This caused laughter to erupt in the classroom. Alyssa looked like she was going to cry. What was it that caused perfectly normal teenagers to join together as a pack of hyenas, feasting on self-esteem?

I retorted, trying to stand up for Alyssa, « Can you read the clock, Véronique? »

M. Landry was the next to speak, « With a test in two days, we should be focusing on the material. Although, I do wonder. How many of you can read the clock? Should we really be learning about Fascism when half you probably can’t even read the clock? I want all of you to take out a fresh piece of paper and write the time on it by looking at the clock on the wall. Not at your phones. »

This is what was called a teachable moment. M. Landry could have briefly discussed the prominence of digital over analog devices and how it has changed our society. It could have tied in nicely to a lesson on how technology can change not only a civilian population, for instance the emergence of commercial flight, but also how it can alter military strategy, i.e. the use of aircraft to wage Blitzkrieg. Instead, M. Landry decided to be an asshole, and I had had enough.

After a month in an all-French school, my command of the language had improved immensely. I was no longer shy to participate in debates, where I had previously been at a disadvantage. I set narrowed eyes on M. Landry,

« You are one to talk. You use outdated teaching methods. Where all other teachers utilize multi-media to engage their students, you hit us every morning with overhead notes that have way too much information. Also, some of what you are teaching us is also out of date and in fact, has been discredited by prominent historians! Based on that, some of your overheads have to be over twenty years old. »

M. Landry made a beeline to my desk and stood over me menacingly. « Then, Mademoiselle Grenier, perhaps you would like to teach the class? »

The students watched the exchange in silence.

I smirked, « I would do it gladly, but then you’d be out of a job. Wouldn’t you? »

This caused laughter among my classmates, but M. Landry was an old soldier in the teaching ranks, his glare silenced them. I could see the vein in his forehead throbbing.

M. Landry said, « Young lady, that’s enough. Report to M. St-Valentin’s office. Now. »

I shook my head, « No. »

There was whispering going on behind my back, and this soon turned to excited chatter. With the eyes of my peers on me, I was filled with energy and immense bravado. I felt untouchable. M. Landry stared me down, but I wasn’t budging.

I continued, « Could this test that you are planning have anything to do with the fact that progress reports are due on Tuesday? It couldn’t have anything to do with your poor planning. So all of us have to suffer and worry over a test just because you can’t look at a calendar properly? »

I had plenty of ammunition, but I could see M. Landry wavering under my attack. The students caught onto this and now their eyes were primed on the teacher. We were steadfast in our resolve.

He said, « I assure you that is not the reason. »

He moved over to the phone. I could see his decision making process as he considered whether to call in his own big guns. My eyes scanned the classroom and I could see my classmates furiously texting. The whole tenth grade was going to know about this in seconds.

I said, « And what about your negativism? The fact that you mark certain students harder than others, and then when they come to you with clear evidence of your mistake, you tell them that they are wrong. Doesn’t that make you the worst teacher in the world? »

A few people were recording the event on their phones. M. Landry, in my mind, had lost complete control of the class.

I asked for Alyssa’s paper and she gladly handed it to me. I read her answers to specific questions and then mine. They were the same, but I received full marks. I was standing by this point, loading my gun for the final shot.

« You are a disgrace to your profession. A dinosaur. You don’t help out with anything around here either. You don’t coach any teams or supervise students’ council or any clubs, and you don’t even do your mandated supervision duty. »

I had learned that M. Landry was the teacher who was supposed to be on duty when I was assaulted in the Pit.

M. Landry was frantic. He picked up the phone, but the noise level caused him to have to shout into it. Because of the noise level, we didn’t hear the knocking and then banging on the door. Usually, M. Landry’s classroom was quiet- mostly because the students were comatose, but now it was like a circus and a stock market floor all rolled into one. A teacher I didn’t recognize came into the room, and a minute later, M. St-Valentin was there. M. Landry fled the classroom, his face a mask of shame and anger, and I proceeded to bow to him as he left. That fingered me as the culprit, and M. St-Valentin quickly took me out of the room. I saw our math teacher, who was on her prep period, enter the room, likely to try and calm the students down.

I wore a big smile on my face as M. St-Valentin escorted me to his office.

I didn’t have to sit in one of the naughty chairs in the office. No, my behaviour apparently warranted an immediate trip into M. St-Valentin’s office for a closed door meeting. The principal asked me what was going on, and I told him the truth. There was no use lying, especially considering the video evidence that would likely make its way to YouTube under the title “TEEN GIRL SCHOOLS TEACHER!”

M. St-Valentin frowned. I was unfazed by his expression. I still held myself like my shoulders were a million feet wide.

He said, « I am surprised by your behaviour, Abigail. For one, you are an excellent student. I never see you in here, and beyond your truancy at the beginning of the year, your teachers have nothing but good things to say about you. »

I replied, « M. Landry was disrespectful to the entire class. He basically called us stupid, and he is causing unnecessary stress by scheduling the test at short notice. What if someone can’t do the test on Friday, then they have to do it tomorrow with only one night of preparation? It is completely unfair. »

The frown never left M. St-Valentin’s face, « The classroom is not the right forum for such a discussion, Abigail. I wish you’d come to me with your concerns after class. I would have considered speaking to M. Landry to change the test date. As for the other things you said, don’t you realize that is a form of bullying? »

I shook my head raising my voice at the same time, « The truth is not bullying. It’s an eye for an eye. He was bullying the entire class. » I folded my arms underneath my chest.

He sighed and replied, « I thought you were more mature than that. When you represented yourself in the courtroom, I was very impressed with how you handled yourself. There you used the proper forum to discuss the faults of the police officer. If you are unhappy with the way a teacher is treating students, then you should to speak to me. »

He caught me off guard with his first statement. Was I being immature? I saw myself as calling out a person who masqueraded as a teacher, collecting a pay check for little work.

« I don’t think it’s immature to call someone out like that. Besides, if I had told you or any other adult in this school, you wouldn’t believe me. »

I said in English, “Teachers are like cops, they are all as thick as thieves with each other.”

I knew this to be the truth. In my teaching career, I had seen teachers like M. Landry receive the benefit of the doubt simply because of their seniority and stature. The administration backed the teachers in 99% of cases, unless parents complained. To a parent, M. Landry’s crimes were likely very minor, but to a person who lived it every day, I saw them as egregious. I really was living within the world known as high school.

The principal’s frown deepened. He also switched to English, “If a teacher saw another teacher doing something illegal or something that would jeopardize the safety of a student, they would definitely speak up. I’m afraid that teaching methods don’t apply. As for M. Landry’s behaviour prior to your outburst, I will speak to him about that.”

He continued, “I know how this place can really seem like its own world sometimes, Abigail. And students your age can see things a lot more seriously than they are. But just to be sure, M. Landry wasn’t doing anything inappropriate was he? Lewd gestures or sexual comments?”

I shook my head.

He said, “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to call your sister. I am suspending you for the rest of the day. As I said, your behaviour was inappropriate and disrespectful. I don’t condone bullying of teachers. Please wait outside. When your sister arrives, we’ll have another little chat.” Surprise, surprise, another teacher protecting their own.

Amélie would be pissed. She would have to take time off work to come and get me. Plus, this would give the social worker more evidence to argue that Amélie was raising an unruly child. I was pissed too though. I sat in one of the naughty chairs, glowering at anyone who happened to lock eyes with me, including one of the secretaries who reminded me of my dear departed grandmother. The woman, Madame Hillier, gave me a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie the first time I sat in one of these chairs after my bullying incident in the Pit. I was not offered such a delectable treat this time.

Twenty minutes passed, and I continued to stew in my seat. Madame Hillier looked at me through her thick bifocals with concern, « Abigail, what did you do? »

I met her gaze with intensity in my eyes, « I told off the worst teacher in the world. »

The woman frowned deeply, « A sweet girl like you? I have a hard time believing that. You are so polite usually. »

It was true. The previous times I had come to the office, either to pick up a letter or form for Amélie, I had been courteous and kind to the office staff. Now, I was giving them death looks.

I shrugged and turned away from her. I felt bad for even considering mistreating Madame Hillier, but I was angry. My rage was misplaced because the office staff had done nothing. They were not part of the collusion that occurred between teachers and principals. It was particularly difficult to swallow because I knew it happened. I had seen it as a teacher.

A few minutes later, the vice principal walked in with of all people, Ethan. The vice principal was petite, but she wore a padded suit jacket that gave her at least the appearance of being bigger than she was. I had heard stories from my classmates at lunch of her legendary temper. The kids said she once made a senior cry when he found out he was flunking English and would not graduate. They said she took pleasure in telling him. This after he allegedly dressed in a Spider-man costume as a senior prank and sprayed her with silly string. I thought the woman looked a little like a harpy, with a hooked nose and long, scraggily hair. I began to wonder if my perception was off because I hadn't seen her that way when I first arrived at St. Jo’s.

The vice principal said, « Have a seat, Mr. Rayner. Your parents can pick up your phone after school. » She made him sit three seats away from me.

He did as he was told, but as soon as she went into her office, Ethan slid down two seats. Madame Hillier was busy in the copy room.

He said quietly, “So, you’re a little rebel now? That’s pretty hot.”

Something about his hushed tones made me want to feel his hot breath against my ear. His behaviour was odd because I knew he was flirting with me, but with his own teenage rebellion, he was likely filled with much the same energy that had pushed me to rant against M. Landry.

I tried to brush off his attempt, but the way I positioned myself told a different story. I turned to face him and placed my hand down flat on the empty chair. He did the same.

I whispered and smiled at him “So what did you do, talk out of turn, forget to raise your hand or turn in your homework?”

He smirked, “Oh worse than that. Okay, so I’m in music class and everyone is talking about what you did, and I’m like talking about you, and how cool you are and everything. And I say that we are in a band and people want to hear it. So I turn my phone on super loud cause there’s like fifteen people or whatever, and Madame Morin comes over and she’s like turn it down.”

He continued, “So, we are getting through one of our heavier songs, and people are really into it. And I say to Madame Morin, this is music class, it’s music. Right? So she gets mad and asks for my phone and I refuse to give it to her. So she says give it to me now, and it’s at my solo and I’m saying after this. And she says NOW, so I put it down my shirt and say come get it. Everyone’s laughing and she gets on the phone to Ms. Harpy there.” He smiled as he edged closer. His scent, eau de teenage boy bathed in body spray, suffocated my senses and made me feel giddy. Ethan looked at me expectantly. He wanted my approval for his deed.

I found myself giggling lightly. Oh god, I thought his music class joke was funny. Was it because of the way he smelled or the way he smiled at me?

He looked me in the eyes as his fingers crept along the chair, until his hand was on mine. “Hey, did you, um, wanna come over sometime?” He saw the immediate conflict in my eyes, but what he did not realize was the fear I felt. I almost said yes without thinking.

He pulled his hand away and immediately added, “You know I heard you complaining about having no one to play NHL with. It’s cool that you and Andrew played, but I guess he’s busy with his son. You know, you could come over.” I still didn’t respond, and he added, “Uh Ryan and Eric will be there. You could bring Alyssa too.” Wow, what a retraction. At first, it sounded like he was asking me out, and to his house no less, but the boy went from bold stallion to gelding in seconds.

I mumbled, “Uh, sure. Sounds like fun.”

He smiled, but I could tell it was partially forced. This wasn’t what he wanted. It’s funny, but if he had kept his hand on mine even a few seconds longer, I probably would have said yes before he started babbling. He received a yes, but to a watered down proposal.

He said, “You can be the Habs, and you can try and beat my Bruins.”

I shrugged, “I prefer playing teams.”

He laughed quietly, his eyes lighting up and his mouth curling a little. It was really cute. I realized I was staring at his lips. He said, “You are such a girl. You don’t think you can beat me?”

I frowned. I suppose I must have looked doe-eyed to the boy. I always preferred playing teams, even when I was a kid. It gave me a sense of belonging, which is probably why I always preferred team sports. I was competitive in real hockey games, but with video game hockey, I favoured being teammates with my friends rather than playing them one-on-one. Ethan read my reaction, and he said, “Teams is fine. We could play two on two and alternate. Does Alyssa play?

I shook my head. “And I doubt she would want to watch either. She doesn’t have to come.”

Ethan said, “You sure? You guys are always together. I think she’s been a really good influence on you. You seem a lot happier since you started hanging out.”

I said, “No one wants to be alone.”

Ethan laughed, “Are you kidding? You are so emo sometimes, Abby. I’ve seen you two, laughing. You aren’t going through the motions. It’s okay, just don’t get the disease.”

I raised a brow, “Huh?”

Ethan grinned, “Whatever Alyssa has. I hope it’s not contagious, because I like you the way you are. You know, you can talk heavy music, and you love hockey. Like you seem to know more about past cup teams than any of us. I mean you can name every Stanley Cup winner back to 1986. I’ve heard Alyssa try and start those conversations about make-up or clothes or Katy with you. You seem to zone out, just like us.”

He added, “Except when she’s talking about that show uh-“

I interjected, “Instant Star?”

He nodded, “Yeah exactly. So-“

We were interrupted by Amélie marching into the office. She looked both disappointed and furious. Her nostrils actually flared in an unflattering manner. She gazed at me fiercely and then approached the front desk. She announced her arrival and a few moments later, we were ushered into the principal’s office. As I left, Ethan gave me the rock on sign and smiled. I felt a pleasant tingling in my head.

Amélie said, “M. St-Valentin, I’m really sorry about this. I know that Abigail didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. She’s very opinionated, but she doesn’t understand her place sometimes. I’m bringing her up to question, but not to do so in such a rude and public way.”

She turned to me, “You are going to apologize to your teacher, Abigail.” I sat there with my arms crossed and my head lowered.

M. St-Valentin smiled at my wife, “I admire that you are teaching Abigail to advocate for herself, but she needs to learn to do so in the proper forum.”

The principal’s expression and voice was far softer than before. I knew that he wasn’t an ogre, and when he spoke to me, it was polite but firm, but the way he spoke to Amélie was different. They were equals, and I was just a kid in trouble.

She turned to me again, trying to meet my eyes, but I constantly shifted them from her gaze. She said, “Abigail, you are going to apologize to your teacher. When you come back from your suspension, first thing in the morning. In front of the entire class.”

My eyes flashed with anger, and I gazed at my wife menacingly and then leaned in to whisper, “You are overdoing it.”

M. St-Valentin shook his head, “Ms. Grenier that really isn’t necessary. I think that might be embarrassing for Abigail. She can do it before class starts when she returns.”

I shook my head and said through clenched teeth, “I won’t do it. M. Landry gives his students no respect whatsoever. And I could teach the class better than he could. I’m serious.”

M. St-Valentin frowned, “Abigail, while your mark in the class is impressive. I doubt it. You don’t realize what teachers really have to do. They have to write tests, research details regarding their subject matter, but it goes beyond that too, they have to be disciplinarians and they have to correspond with parents. You don’t see what happens outside of the classroom. Teachers, like lawyers, are professionals. You need to understand teaching theory- which is called-”

I sneered, “I know- pedagogy. Listen, I see M. Landry tracing over the same overhead notes he has been using for the last twenty years. I guarantee that if you gave me a week in that class, everyone’s mark would improve and the students would actually learn something.”

M. St-Valentin shook his head and smiled at me, but I found it patronizing. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we really can’t do that. If you are interested in becoming a teacher, you need a degree and you need to be certified. As I said, teaching is a professional career.”

I said, “Right, I know, but here’s the thing. There isn’t anything remotely professional about M. Landry. He is the laziest teacher I have ever known. He also has no respect for his students or the profession. He's just sitting at his desk counting the days until he retires and collecting a paycheck. And you’ve got hundreds of young, smart and passionate teachers who are dying for a chance. But that fossil you have upstairs just plays the system, while you sit in your office happy to accept the status quo.”

Amélie interjected, “M. St-Valentin, I’m sorry- I uh, Abigail has an uncle who is a teacher in a similar boat. They’ve had a lot of discussions.”

M. St-Valentin was unfazed, “Not to worry, Ms. Grenier. I appreciate the girl’s candour. She is spirited. You know she should run for student government or join the environmental or debate club. That would be the proper outlet for such topics.”

M. St-Valentin looked at me, “Does that sound like something you’d like to do, Abigail?”

I narrowed my eyes, “Student government? I’m not interested in that puppet string program. As for the proper outlet, I believe the classroom is the proper place, maybe those students I informed today will take the issue to their parents. You certainly haven’t done a goddamn thing about the so-called professionals you hire. Are you scared of the unions, or are you just too much of a fucking coward to take on someone with seniority?”

As soon as I said the words, I knew I was wrong to speak that way. However, my time at St. Jo’s had reminded me how much I missed teaching, and also reminded me of the grudge I carried against do-nothing teachers who stayed, not for the challenge, not to shape young minds, nor to coach a team and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing students excel in areas outside of academia. No - they stayed because it was easy and for that pot of gold at the end of the shit rainbow- a fat teacher’s pension. Their seniority provided them the same subjects each year, and because they were basically tenured, they didn’t have to do anything but show up, while young teachers chomped at the bit just to land a single class or even supply teach. The cronyism in the profession even allowed principals to hire retired teachers (read: their friends) for temporary contracts and even supply teaching so they could pad their pension.

Amélie’s jaw dropped, and she quickly raised in her hands in apology, “Martin! I’m- really sorry! Abigail, she’s not usually like this. Please accept my apology.” Her hand was on his wrist and then it was quickly retracted.

I watched Amélie’s hand grip my principal’s sleeve, and then the two looked at each other and all of my rage drained. Amélie gently closed her eyes. I knew the look because it was one I had shared with Amélie early in our ten year relationship. I felt faint. Instead of showing anger at my outburst, my principal said gently, “Are you OK, Abigail? Do you need me to call the nurse?” He was stoic, completely in control. I was the exact opposite. My legs were shaking, followed by my left hand. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

A few minutes later, I was sitting in Amélie’s SUV, and I was still in disbelief. My wife is a beautiful woman, and I knew other men looked at her. I just had no idea they were actually pursuing her, or that she was letting them. I had walked to the car in a trance, Amélie forced to drag me along by the arm as students came up to me and asked me how many days suspension I received. Mostly, they wanted to speak to the girl who had boldly told off one of the most hated teachers in the school. I had ignored them all, and while that would certainly hurt my status among my peers, all I could think about was that Amélie had called him Martin and how my heart was severed cleanly in two.

Amélie said angrily as she drove, “You know, you are lucky that you didn’t get a week’s suspension for what you said to your principal, Darren.” She softened her face, but her words were still firm, “I really don’t know what’s going on with you these days. I really think your dad is right- you are regressing.”

I said with tears in my eyes, “Did he go easy on me because you are fucking him, Amélie?”

Amélie’s face hardened, and I could tell she was fighting her own tears, “We’ve had drinks a few times. That’s all.” She moved to wipe away my tears, but I pulled away.

I clenched my jaw and said sourly, “Does he know you are married?”

Amélie nodded, “He does. I’m sorry, Darren. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

I sighed and attacked, “And when were you planning on telling me? All those times you went out. You lied to me.”

Amélie frowned, “We’ve been out a few times. We are- we are dealing with similar tragedies. He lost his wife two years ago to a drunk driver, and I’m losing my husband. I told him you moved away.”

I took a deep breath, trying to rein in my emotions, “I’m not gone, Amélie. I’m right here. That’s so not fair.”

Amélie shook her head, “I saw the way you were looking at Ethan.”

I frowned, “Those are just hormones. I can control them. I’m still Darren on the inside. You have to believe me, Amélie. I still think you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Tears gently fell from my wife’s face. She said with some difficulty, “D-do you want to have sex with me, or even kiss m-me?”

I nodded fiercely, “Absolutely.”

Amélie wiped her eyes, “You are a terrible liar, Darren.”

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, “I’m- such a freak, Amélie. I hate these thoughts, but they just keep coming. It’s like a tape recorder playing over and over in my head every day. Sometimes it’s even hard to concentrate on what I’m doing- I just start thinking about him, and I get this stupid little smile and- I can’t believe I’m even telling you this!”

Amélie said softly, “You aren’t a freak, Darren. You know that I was a psychology major and I took adolescent behaviour courses, and you were a teacher. You probably saw it every day. It’s really very normal for a girl your age.”

I said seriously, “That’s the problem, Amélie. I don’t want to be a normal girl my age. You might as well consider Darren Lawrence deceased if that happens.”

I added, “You know I wrote Mama Khalia again, I sent her a letter- priority post. Maybe we should consider the spell again. I feel like if we don’t, I’m going to be begging you to go to Justin Bieber concerts, actually enjoy shopping for clothes, and taking a very, very active interest in boys.”

Amélie pulled into the parking lot of the McDonalds near our house. While we were both supposed to be dieting, the fast food was the perfect comfort food. I was glad when Amélie pulled up to the drive-through window and ordered my usual, a quarter pounder combo. I took the food on my lap, smelling it and feeling a calm pass over me.

On the way home, Amélie returned to the conversation, “Let’s see what Mama Khalia says before we go making any decisions we might regret. OK?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “K.”

Chapter 51

The next day at school, I found that I had become an overnight sensation- a cult hero. The reason for this? I had traded verbal blows with M. Landry, and fiercely kicked him off the hierarchical ladder to which he clung, but most importantly- I had driven him from the school. M. Landry did not return, and we had a substitute, a young woman exactly as I had described in my diatribe. She was eager, brimming with up-to-date ideas, and she utilized different teaching methods to reach out to all learners, not just those who managed to glean information from dusty overhead projectors.

What this meant was that I was respected at St. Jo’s, not exactly revered, but I certainly had clout. I had not intended to send M. Landry on long-term disability, but if he rode out his days watching Judge Judy on afternoon television while young teaching stars got their opportunity, I felt it was at least partially worth it. He would still be paid, and he had only a few years left until retirement. Why not spend them in the glow of morning and afternoon television? Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to go on long-term leave. Had I done him a favour?

This new adulation came with a price. I had boys hanging all over me. My lunch was spent surrounded by many of my male classmates. Where I had sat with only Ryan, Eric, Alyssa and Ethan for the first month of school, now I had admirers. It was made worse by Ethan playing our songs for them. Once they learned I was a rock chick, I had other musicians hanging around me, and because of my rebelliousness, some of the least reputable members of the school community chose to spend their lunch hours with me, instead of setting fires or other mischief, perhaps.

Neither Ethan nor Alyssa was happy with my new status because it meant that I was mostly unavailable during lunch hour. I became a sort of student preacher, although my gospel was rebellion against a faulty system. I told them about the ins and outs of the education system, again using my fake uncle as an example. I don’t know why I wanted to stir things up, but I realized I liked it, and I wanted to do more. I had never done anything like this as a teenager, and now I had a captive audience. OK, a lot of them just stared at me, or at certain parts of me, but I still felt I was reaching them.

After lunch on Friday, Ethan approached me. He had given dirty looks to the assembled male mass for the last two days. He was nervous, looking down at his feet. His confident grin had been replaced with a grim, yet determined expression.

He said anxiously, “So listen, tonight- do you- I mean, would you like to come over? Ryan and Eric will be there. I thought we could play NHL, you know- like we talked about?” He fidgeted and tried to meet my eyes.

I said calmly, “Yeah, sure Ethan. Sounds like fun.”

The moment I said the words, the young man before me was re-energized- reborn. I saw the light enter his eyes again, and he stood straighter, puffing out his chest like a gorilla searching out a mate. He didn’t have much to puff. He smiled at me, and I smiled back at him.

He added, “We could order pizza too. And uh, well Ryan might not be able to make it. His coach is trying to get some extra ice time for an upcoming tournament.”

I smirked, “Right, but Eric will be there? And I could bring Alyssa, if she wanted to come?”

Ethan’s extreme confidence deflated slightly, his shoulders sagging gently before he muttered, “Uh yeah, she can come too.”

He said, “I’ll text you the address, OK?”

I nodded. Despite returning his smile, I felt almost nothing for Ethan. Was it because of his desperation, or was my crush on him finally ending? When he had written the song about me and saved me from Alexandre and Chantal, I felt a powerful chemistry, but with this recent behaviour, the sad puppy dog eyes and slightly pouty lip, I was unimpressed. I was beginning to think that it wasn’t Ethan I was attracted to, but his behaviour.

I expected that Ethan would find a way for both Eric and Ryan to miss the gaming session, and Alyssa would find an excuse to be absent as well, knowing it was a setup. If I could manage to squelch any feelings I had for the boy and simply enjoy his company, then I figured we could actually turn this bizarre back and forth we had going into a real friendship.

***

I was waiting for Alyssa after school. She wanted to talk to me about my ‘date’ with Ethan. I told her that I was just going there to play video games. I had asked her to come, but she laughed and said that I was on my own. Alyssa was having problems in science, so she stayed after school to get help from Sarah. I listened to music on my phone, completely oblivious to the testosterone infused shadow that loomed over me.

A mountain of muscle stepped into my line of sight, and a thick meaty hand plucked out one of my ear buds. Alexandre wore a cock-sure grin. He ran his eyes up my body, lingering on my chest before meeting my eyes, « Bonjour, Abigail. »

I looked up at him, noticing that despite the chillier weather, he still wore his short sleeve dress shirt. If anything, his arms looked bigger, the biceps having nearly completely escaped from the sleeve, leaving the young man with something akin to a dressy tank top. My mouth immediately went dry, and I licked my lips, tasting Alyssa’s borrowed strawberry lip gloss. I usually used regular Chap Stick, but I had forgotten it, and Alyssa, who was always happy to feminize me, plastered the shiny gunk over my lips.

I smiled stupidly, « Um- hi. »

He also licked his lips, as he once again looked me up and down. « I’ve got my dad’s Mustang today. I can give you a ride home if you want. »

Oh god, where was Alyssa? Where was my knight in shining armor, Ethan? I needed one of them here desperately. Please! You have to come. Now. I looked at Alexandre, and he smiled at me, and I forgot my friends.

I saw Sarah walking out of the front doors, and I was filled with hope, but she walked right past us, and I saw no sign of Alyssa.

I shouted to her, “Sarah! Have you seen Alyssa?”

Sarah turned toward me and gave Alexandre the type of look she would give to the slimiest, wart-laden and puss-filled toad in existence. In fact, she would have been more sociable toward the toad. She looked at me firmly, with a measure of sympathy, “She had to go to her locker. She forgot her math book I think. Girl is always forgetting things.”

Alexandre looked at me expectantly, and it was not a pleasant face. It was a 'bitch, you better answer me' face. Then he turned on Sarah, curling his lip and narrowing his eyes as if he wanted the willowy girl to disappear or spontaneously combust.

I was trying stall, “Hey, uh Sarah, what did you think of today’s science class? I thought it was a little confusing. Do you have a minute to explain Bohr’s theory?”

Sarah blinked, “In the parking lot? Wouldn’t you rather go inside?”

I nodded rapidly, but even as I did, I knew that Sarah would have to drag me away, exactly as Ethan and Alyssa had done. Sarah started moving back toward the school, but Alexandre pointed toward the bus stop, « Get out of here, you fucking nerd. I’m trying to talk to my girl, Abby. »

Please, Sarah, just take my hand.

I held my hand out as Sarah approached, and she shook her head, looking supremely confused, “You are being weird, Abigail. Do you want my help or not?” The girl was not intimidated by Alexandre’s rude treatment of her, but she wasn’t taking my hand either.

The junior jazz band, having finished their Friday afternoon practice, started filing out of the front doors, and now we had an audience beyond Sarah.

Alexandre looked down at me and said through clenched teeth, « So do you want a ride or not? »

I could see his anger, the clenched jaw caused the purplish veins in his neck to pulsate. They were so thick, they looked like purple licorice. Beyond the anger, I also saw embarrassment, as I had up to this point resisted his ‘charms’.

Sarah said firmly to me, “You don’t have to do anything he wants you to do. Right, Abby? We’ll wait in the library for Alyssa.”

A few members of the jazz band stayed to watch, and they echoed Sarah’s sentiment. Alexandre was not well liked. I just needed one person to take me out of there, but I could see the boys feared Alexandre. They didn’t make a move, as he would have turned them into bloodied and broken punching bags.

The girls glared, except for Véronique, who walked right up to me and said to Alexandre, « What does she have that I don’t? She’s a fat pig. »

Alexandre sneered at Véronique, « Connase! You had your chance. You didn’t play by my rules. You got the fucking boot- give it up, bitch! »

Véronique poked him in the chest with her nail, « You wanted me to give you a blow job just to meet your dad? You made me feel like shit, all the names you called me. And I- I still can’t get you out of my mind! I fucking hate you! »

She was screeching at him, pounding on his chest and raking her nails over his forearms. He pushed her over, and she fell hard on the concrete. Her friends quickly came to her aid.

Alexandre brushed off his shirt, « Good riddance to fucking trash. Let’s go, Abby. »

Sarah stepped in between Alexandre and me, while Véronique wept, in between sobs muttering something about a lack of control and not being this way before. Was this to be my fate? Was I going to become a stereotypical mean girl like her?

Instead of Sarah grasping my hand, Alexandre’s meaty paw enveloped it. I immediately felt safe, and pulled myself closer, pressing against his rock-hard body. Standing next to him, I felt like a kid, but the way he put his hand on my ass made me feel like a woman- a real woman. Forget the tingle I experienced when Ethan spoke or smiled at me, or even the one I felt when we kissed. It seemed like all the nerves in my body were screaming in pleasure at once. My eyes closed and I fell gently into his chest. I was so much shorter than him, the top of my head barely reached his shoulders.

Sarah looked on helplessly as Véronique shouted obscenities at Alexandre, again, something about being different before she met Alexandre. Why was I willing to leave with him?

The young man smirked. I couldn’t see his face, but I was certain he was wearing the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. He put his hand on my butt and gently turned me around. To do so, he had to break the grip he had on my hand. I immediately sought it out again, desperately hoping that he would grip it firmly, and my heart and mind soared when he did. I wanted to be as close as possible to him. The few seconds that I wasn’t holding his hand felt like a tortured eternity. What the hell was wrong with me? If I was going to fall for a guy, Alexandre would have been my last choice, save for the male cast of Jersey Shore. Yet here I was, letting him touch my ass and acting like it was all cute.

He said with that same smile, « I guess you want to come for a ride. »

He then looked at the assembled mass of ninth and tenth graders but none of them, even the girls, took a step toward us. Sarah ran up to me and tried to grab my hand, but I actually pushed her away.

She said, “Fine, Abby! Ruin your life just like Véronique.”

I didn’t care, and in fact, I hardly saw or heard her. Alexandre’s presence and his touch, had robbed me of both sight and hearing. All that mattered was the muscle-bound he-man that held me close. This island of a man whose shore I had finally reached. He opened the door for me and then as I stepped into the car, he squeezed my ass, which caused me to giggle like some bubble-headed teen bimbo.

As I entered and sat my plush ass on the leather seats, I noticed a collection of bodybuilding magazines with covers that promised to PACK ON THE MASS, RAMP UP YOUR GAINS and showed how to get LOCKED AND LOADED biceps. Honestly, I would rather have read one of Alyssa’s Tiger Beat magazines. Still, the bodies on the covers reminded me of the warm body right beside me. This caused my nipples to play a game called puncture the bra cup.

My breathing was heavy as Alexandre pulled out of his parking spot. I was partly trying to calm myself, but also extremely turned on. He pulled out recklessly, not even looking as he backed out and then stopped at the front entrance to the school. As the stragglers approached the fire engine red Mustang, he slammed on the accelerator and I was thrown back against my seat from the force. The tires squealed, and the car did not simply pass over the speed bumps, it careened. All the while, I had the stupidest smile plastered on my face, which made Alexandre even more eager to impress me with his immature stunts.

Despite the fact that the Mustang was a manual transmission, he felt the need to put his hand on my thigh as he drove. I couldn’t believe, again, how I missed his touch each time he had to gear down in lieu of stop signs and lights. He sped through the suburban streets next to the school, treating every stop sign like a yield sign, and some like green lights. His brash and frankly idiotic defiance of the law had me wishing I knew his last name so I could scrawl his full name all over the walls of my room. I seethed when I saw that the arm rest that lay between. The hated object acted as an obstacle to our proximity.

I picked up one of the magazines at my feet and stared at it. It featured a young behemoth wearing what amounted to a g-string that only just covered his business. He encircled a blonde’s waspish waist with a massive forearm as she tilted her head and looked coquettishly to the side with a slight grin. She was his girl, and both of them knew it.

Alexandre grinned like the man on the cover, « Do you work out, Abby? »

I grimaced. « Um, well kinda. »

Alexandre nodded, « We should go to the gym sometime. I’ve got a private gym at my place too. If you wanted to go there. »

My eyes widened. If the two boys in my life were hot sauces, Ethan would be mild buffalo chicken, whereas Alexandre would be five alarm, sign a waiver before eating death sauce. He was bold and completely hot.

He added, « You know people think I juice, but this is all natural. They are just jealous, you know? »

He noticed I was still staring at the fit and trim blonde with the perfectly shaped legs, dazzling white teeth and bleach-blonde hair.

He said, « You could look like that, if you wanted. You are hot, but you could be way hotter if you firmed up. » He spoke candidly. If I had been a real girl, I would have thought he was calling me-

I raised a brow, « Do you think I’m fat, like Véronique says? I don’t really want you to see me- like a whale or something. »

I blinked. Was I even the same person anymore? I had to get out of this car, but the bizarre magnetism that I felt in his presence was more than just an attraction. I might as well have been bound to the plush leather seat.

Alexandre shook his head, « I just said you could firm up. Sure, losing maybe ten pounds, you’d be so fucking hot. I don’t think I’d be able to control myself.”

I giggled and asked coyly, «Really? Maybe we should work out together. »

He grinned, «Listen, I’m going to this bar tonight. My dad knows the owner, so no worries about getting in, but if you wear something sexy you probably won’t even have to pay cover. Wear some makeup too, come on, Abby this isn’t junior high. »

I nodded rapidly, « Yes! I’d love to go with you. And yeah, I’ll totally wear something that will blow you away. »

He said, « Maybe in more ways than one. »

I giggled again, but inside I knew that his joke was both crude and demeaning.

He laughed, “I’ll pick you up at about 8.”

I left the car, and realized I already missed him. My mom greeted me, I said a quick hello and quickly went to my room and closed the door. I texted Alyssa frantically:

Me: omg u will nver believe wat happened
Me: the hottest perfect guy asked me out!!!!!!! :)
Alyssa: u mean ethan is it tru u though u went w that creep Alex
Me: what hes the perfect guy for me hes going to help me lose weight
Me: tonite is going ta be amazing like totally cray cray im so happy :) :) :)
Alyssa: are u feelin ok abby
Me: omg u have to help me get ready can u do my hair in a cute poof
Alyssa: but what about ethan u were supposed to go to his place
Me: ive always told you that i loved alexander
Me: well he finally asked me out arent u happy for me
Alyssa: i guess but i could have sworn u never even liked alex
Me: what i told abot him all tha time
Alyssa: i guess maybe u said it a couple times
Alyssa: i thought u were talking bout ethan
Me: no way so can u come over will ur mom let u
Alyssa: yeah shes out on a date w jaimie blech
Me: aww so sorry allie i know u want to get ur parents back together
Alyssa: thks abby i can come after dinner still wat u going to tell ethan
Me: hell be fine i tell him next time im going out w a man i can play w a boy anytime
Alyssa: im coming over rite now u r talking crazy
Me: bring some of those tops u bought the other day
Alyssa: they wont fit u up top abby
Me: i know ;)

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang, and I jetted up the stairs to meet Alyssa. She came bearing the items that would turn me into Alexandre’s dream girl. I was so excited, I practically dragged her to my room and shut the door.

I said, “My sister didn’t ask you why you came over, did she?”

Alyssa, who was still mightily confused, shook her head, “No, but she did give me a weird look. She saw all the stuff I have I guess.” By stuff she meant makeup bag, three pairs of high-heeled shoes, dozens of tops, and a handful of mini-skirts.

Alyssa said, “If Alexandre is picking you up at eight, like that doesn’t give you much time with him? Do you have to come home and babysit? You said that’s why you had to leave my place the first time, and you were home before nine every night you came over to study. What’s going on with that, Abby? Is your sister just really mean, or are you on like probation or something? Some kids saw you in a police car on your first day. I didn’t believe them, but I mean why nine?”

I nodded, “I’ll tell you some other time. Tonight, I just don’t care. I’ll tell Amélie I’m sleeping over at your place. As long as Amélie knows where I am, it’s like she’s watching me, right? I’ve been there enough times that she knows that’s where I am.”

Alyssa considered my words with a pensive frown and then gently tilted her head, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But what if she calls my mom? I know this is important to you, but I don’t want to get in trouble, Abby.”

I shook my head, “Don’t worry about it. If it happens, I’ll take all the blame. Tonight is too important. Plus, your mom will be out on a date. She’ll turn her phone off probably. And then you can put music on and make a lot of noise, so it sounds like us when you answer your home line if Amélie calls. It’s not rocket surgery.”

Alyssa frowned, “I don’t like this, Abby. Alexandre has a bad reputation. I’m worried for you. You remember what I said about Véronique and how she was a lot nicer? Well, I didn’t tell you the whole story. She was- a lot like you I guess. Loved music and singing. And we were best friends, that’s why I’ve tried before to you know- reach out to her. See if she’s changed. Alexandre changed her- like really badly. She’s not the same person.”

She continued, “Anyway, Véronique is a great singer- not as amazing as you, but she has a really nice voice. She didn’t want to work at it though, and she never got any better. Always came in third or fourth in the competitions. She’s not like you- I’ve never seen someone who wanted it more. Before tonight, you put music before boys, and even a guy like Ethan. And now you are going for Alexandre. What’s changed?”

I replied, “Can we not talk about Ethan? We really need to get started. The look has to be perfect. Just like my dream. There, the girls told me I was ready for him. It’s a sign. If I can look that way, he’ll be all over me.”

Alyssa raised a worried brow, “Abby, are you feeling OK? You didn’t hit your head or anything? You sound just like Véronique, it’s scary.”

I snapped at her, “Look, just do this for me. You know how long I’ve been waiting for this night. This is the start of my new life. I’ll be happy finally. You want me to be happy, right?”

Alyssa frowned deeply, “I do, I just- well- I-“

I pointed to the bag and said, “Get to work.”

***

Alyssa was carefully painting my eyelids with the electric blue eye shadow from my dream. She frowned through most of the makeup application, “Uh, don’t you think that colour is a little bold. It’s kind of- like well, it’s trashy, Abby.”

I shook my head, “I told you. Just like my dream. Every little tiny detail has to be right, or he won’t be into me.”

Alyssa shook her head, “You are really going overboard to impress a guy. And what about Ethan? He’s going to be really upset. He really likes you, Abby.” She curled my eye lashes with what looked like a medieval machine used by torturers to pluck out a victim’s eye. The contraption added volume to my lashes and then mascara added further depth.

I replied, “I like Ethan, too but as a friend. He’s never going to be anything more than that. Alexandre is the most important thing to me. I’m the lamb, who fell in love with a lion.” She drew my eyes to appear dark and smoky, a sexy contrast to my bright blue lids.

Alyssa blinked in confusion, “You’ve told me many times you hate Twilight. Now you are quoting it? Maybe it’s because I can’t remember that well, but- you owe me now. We have to watch all the movies. I still think this is a bad idea, my head though- it’s fuzzy.” She applied the ruby red lipstick, which I hoped would see a fair bit of action tonight.

I smiled at myself in the vanity as Alyssa continued what I felt was expert work, “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

Alyssa nodded, “I guess. You really do seem happy, Abby.”

I smiled, “You did an amazing job! I look incredible. You really could do Katy’s makeup one day.”

Alyssa beamed, “Really??”

Once we got to the clothing selection, Alyssa was sounding more and more like the girls in my dream. Her phrases made little to no sense, but I just nodded along as if everything was crystal clear. The entire scene read like terribly written teenage fan fiction from some inane drama.

Alyssa said, “That skirt looks super-hot on you, Abby! I mean I wore it as a Halloween costume with tights, but you should definitely show off your legs. Alex will love that.” Whatever had happened to me was apparently contagious. Poor Alyssa. She was letting me order her around just like Véronique did with her crew.

Next came the halter top. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a St. Jo’s cheerleading top like I had in the dream, but then, I doubted that the actual tops really looked like that. I chose a halter top that showed off my midriff, but unfortunately, unlike my dream, my midriff was pudgier than it had been. The micro-mini skirt squeezed my sides and created little love handles. I figured that I wouldn’t let myself leave the house that way, but I did. I was wearing something that was little more than a bra, and my boobs were fully on display. I looked like I was going to be standing on a street corner, but I was a carbon copy of my dream self, save for my top and the near ten extra pounds I was carrying.

I waited to put the heels on until after I left. I shouted a quick goodbye to Amélie, half hoping that she would stop me, but she was having difficulty with Chloe, who was putting on a blockbuster main event tantrum because she wanted to read a book twice. Amélie had read the book once, but she wanted it again, and again and again. It was stalling, and unfortunately, it acted as the perfect diversion. At nine, I would ask to sleep over at Alyssa’s, and Amélie who wouldn’t want two epic battles in one night would agree.

It looked like my date with Alexandre was going to happen, whether I liked it or not.

Alyssa and I waited in the park two doors down from my house. From the swings, we would be able to see Alexandre’s Mustang pull up.

Alyssa looked me over with a smile, “You look so hot, Abby!”

I grinned, “Really? You think he’ll like it?”

Alyssa nodded her head in agreement, and then urged me to step into the high heels. The heels were only three inches. I still wanted to Alexandre to feel massive next to me, so I opted for a lower heel.

Alyssa said, “Now you are ready for him.”

***

As we drove to the bar, Alexandre kept staring at me. He was taking in every inch of my flesh with his eyes. When I first stepped into the car, he leered at me and nodded his head with extreme approval. He liked what he saw. I felt giddy. Tonight was going to be the night my life finally started. I would throw away the shackles of my previous male existence, embracing my femininity while being crushed in the powerful embrace of the Adonis that was my dream man.

I looked over at him, noting his clean-shaven face, the gel applied liberally to his scalp to allow each strand of hair to stand in spiky perfection. He wore a muscle shirt, which was aptly named since it revealed his impressive and mouth-watering musculature. I wanted to skip the bar and just start making out in his car, but I knew I couldn’t, not yet. We had to get to know each other first, then we could play.

We pulled into the parking lot of a sports bar I had been to once as Darren. I had disliked it then because, like Hooters, it was demeaning toward women, but it was a bachelor party, so I stayed for the obligatory forty-five minutes and left. Bars like this were only one step above strip clubs. The waitress uniform was strikingly different compared to what the male servers wore. The shorts were cut to reveal just the hint of ass cheek, and the blouse, which many of the waitresses chose to wear as crop tops, accentuated already bulging breasts and revealed trim midriffs. The bar itself had a nondescript name- Flanagans.

I remember Amélie telling me a story about her interview at a local Hooters restaurant. She was in college and looking to make money as a server or bartender. She felt that she certainly had the assets to work in such a place, but her interviewer, who was as interested in her body as he was her resume, viewed her as too heavy. As we entered the bar, with Alexandre’s arm firmly wrapped round my shoulders, I found myself looking at the women with a hint of jealousy. They were all thinner than I was, and to me, they personified Alexandre’s perfect girl. I had a lot of work to do.

The hostess eyed Alexandre suspiciously, but the look she gave me was one of revulsion. The fit blonde with a belly ring stared through me, not at me, as if my existence were somehow an anathema to her own.

She said brusquely, «No minors. » She didn’t point, but the way her crystal blue eyes assaulted me, I knew she was talking about me.

Alexandre pulled me closely and glared at the girl, «Tell Josh that Alexandre is here. » The hostess turned and flipped her hair dismissively.

I muttered, « We can go somewhere else. I-I feel a bit um, uncomfortable in here. All the girls are so pretty and thin. » I frowned, « I feel fat in front of them. » It was true, but then I was squeezed into Alyssa’s clothes.

Alexandre smiled, « Don’t worry, Abby. You start working out with me, and you can look like that. »

I nodded, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. I hadn’t eaten anything for dinner, and I was famished, but I didn’t want to eat like a pig in front of Alexandre.

A minute later, the same hostess returned, but instead of being assertive, she was cowed. She muttered, «Please follow me. »

I was impressed with Alexandre, and as we made our way to the table, I clung to my date’s arm, as he strutted like every inch of the restaurant belonged to him. He insisted on a booth, and I soon knew why. The other patrons, some of them far too old to be sneaking peeks at a teenage girl, saw how I was dressed, and cast their own leering glances in my direction. Alexandre put his arm around me and didn’t say a word. His body language screamed that I was his, and I would have believed him if not for the way he stared at the boobs on our server. She was skinny as a rail, except for her excessively large chest. It was clear she had implants but Alexandre did not seem to mind. I threw a catty look in her direction, and she just smiled.

She asked with a smile, «What’ll you have, sweetie? »

I would usually have just ordered a beer, but I wanted Alexandre to see me as supremely feminine so I ordered the most girly looking drink on the menu- a Pink Long Island Iced Tea. It was just a normal Long Island Iced Tea with pink food colouring, but it looked like something a really girly girl would drink.

The waitress furrowed a brow. She looked at me with concern and said, «You sure that’s what you want, sweetie? There’s a lot of alcohol in that. »

Alexandre interjected, « If that’s what she wants, then give it to her. What’s the problem? »

The waitress shot Alexandre a dirty look and left. Alexandre had ordered a Coors Light, which compared to my drink was like downing a glass of water. I saw the alcohol content, but I didn’t care. I needed to have him see me drinking this.

The waitress returned and again gave Alexandre a dirty look. She looked at me and said, «Honey, you just sip this OK? And eat some of these, on the house. »

She brought us a plate of wings. Alexandre eyed the wings hungrily, and had eaten three before I even finished one. I tried to eat daintily taking small mincing bites. Normally, I would have torn into the meat and gnawed down to the bone.

I took one sip of my drink, and my eyes widened. I could taste the alcohol swirling around my mouth. I took a longer sip, and this pleased Alexandre because he squeezed me tighter. The waitress returned a few minutes later to ask for our food order. The service here was excellent, I had barely taken three sips of my drink!

I ordered a Caesar salad, which caused our server additional distress. Alexandre ordered the rib special, which is actually what I wanted to have. I had never ordered a salad in a restaurant before because I always thought it a waste of money. I had ordered a side salad but never as a main meal. I continued sipping my drink, and with Alexandre doing most of the talking, I was doing a lot of sipping. I started to feel really good. A warmth passed through my body, and I felt tingling in my fingertips. Alexandre discussed his weight routine, his hockey team, and I gave him my full attention. It turned out that Alexandre actually played for our local junior hockey team. He could be drafted one day.

Our food arrived, and the topic of conversation turned to me. Alexander said, « Have you ever thought about cheerleading, Abby? That would be a good way to stay in shape too. »

I nodded and lied, « Yes, I totally have. »

Alexander said, « If you toned up, I could definitely get you in. You could be one of the ice girls. You’d look so hot in one of the outfits. Can you skate? »

I nodded again, « Yes, I even played hockey for lots of years. I love it. »

Alexandre frowned as he took a big swig of beer, « Really? That’s kind of butch. Were there lots of dykes on your team? »

I took a big sip from my drink, and it made my lie so much easier, « That’s why I quit. They always stared at me in the shower after games. It was like so gross. »

I had actually coached a girls hockey team as a high school teacher, and most of them did not fit the stereotypical lesbian profile. Some of them could have been lesbians, but to me they were perfectly normal girls either way. I didn’t have a problem with homosexuality, but it was apparent that Alexandre did.

Alexandre looked reassured, « Good, I didn’t figure you for a carpet muncher, Abby. »

I actually flinched. Whatever was controlling my actions, or at least guiding them, did not have full dominion over me.

Alexandre asked, « Something wrong? » He wanted my approval regarding his far from enlightened mentality.

I took another sip and shook my head, smiling, «Nothing. So how come you took so long to ask me out? »

He laughed, « I don’t know really. I saw you in the halls, and I always thought you were hot, but you almost seemed to be avoiding me. You don’t really seem like a shy girl, Abby. »

I nodded, « I was at a new school. I really wasn’t myself. I feel like I can be myself around you. »

I snuggled up next to him in the booth, and we talked through dinner. I was starting to feel tipsy, and I was eyeing Alexandre’s French fries, but he didn’t offer me one.

Alexandre asked, « Are you going to have another? » He motioned to my drink, which was more ice than alcohol at this point.

Warning bells were going off in my head. The clanging broke through whatever power held me, and I moved my head in a clear NO. Whether it was what remained of my adult mind or simply a fight or flight instinct, it didn’t matter. I knew that a girl my size who rarely drank alcohol would be at the complete mercy of her date, and Alexandre did not seem the benevolent type. I noticed that as the situation grew more and more dire, I was gaining more control over my actions.

He called the waitress over and said, « She wants another. » The waitress looked at me with growing concern.

She said quietly, «Is that true, sweetie? Why don’t I bring you a coke? On the house. »

Alexandre narrowed his eyes and barked, « Listen, I go in there and speak to Josh and your ass is fired. Get my girl another drink. Now. »

The young woman stared at Alexandre, and if it were possible, I was certain flames would have shot from her eyes, incinerating my date. She looked at me, sighed heavily, and then brought me another Long Island Iced Tea, minus the pink colouring.

Alexandre took the drink before I had a chance and sipped it. I saw rage fill his eyes, and he clenched his fist, causing his biceps to ripple. He shouted, « You bitch, I’m paying for this, and you bring her fucking iced tea! »

I put my hand on his arm and gently rubbed it, then I ground my hips against his body. I didn’t want the young woman to be fired, so I became a thrall to the power again, losing myself and once again becoming a mere passenger in my body.

I whispered, «Just let her bring me another drink. And then we can go out to your car. »

I blew hot breath in his ear, and I noticed the young man’s body go rigid. I had a feeling that a certain part of him was going to stay rigid. I saw his eyes light up, and he ushered the waitress to fetch me another drink. His hand started kneading my ass. Thankfully, the action was hidden by the table.

I only got through half of my second drink before I started feeling really drunk. The world through my eyes was a spinning room of sports memorabilia.

The waitress came by again, and tried to give me more food on the house, but Alexandre just ended up eating it.

By the time I finished the drink, my eyes were half closed, and I had a stupid half grin on my face. I leaned forward and tried to stand and nearly hit my face on the table. Alexandre looked around with a measure of concern, but he was soon distracted by my boobs, which were on full display with me leaning over the table.

The waitress came again, and said to Alexandre, « That’s it kid. I know what you are going to do with her. She’s not at all aware what’s going on. I’m calling her parents. I don’t care if I get fired. I don’t want to work in a place that lets something like this happen. »

She walked over to me and put her hand out, « Honey, give me your phone. I’m going to call your parents. »

I handed the woman my phone with a smile and mumbled, « Shhhh, you’re making his muscles angry. »

Alexandre tried to grab it back, but the young woman was too nimble. He stood up and went to what I assumed was the manager’s office. It was where the bathrooms were. I imagined Josh balancing a laptop on a toilet seat with a printer next to the urinals. This caused me to giggle.

Our waitress said to me gently, « What’s your name, sweetie? »

I said quietly, « It’s Abigail tonight, but if I get a magic spell, it could be sum- thing else. Shhh, it’s a secret…only my sister and parents know. My sister used to be hot but now…it’s like not working down there. I think I-I’m broken. »

I watched as the eyes of my benevolent benefactor raised to the ceiling. She shook her head repeatedly, « Oh my god, did he put something in your drink? Did he give you drugs? Honey, you’ve gotta tell me. I can’t find your parents number in your phone. »

My parents had called my new phone, but I hadn’t made any contacts yet. The number was in there, but it wasn’t listed. It was in my received calls. The room was spinning so much that I would have had a hard time pointing out my own phone number, let alone my parents’ number.

I answered, « I drunk what you brought and then I drank that too. My boyfriend ate all the food you brought too. » I laughed and then whispered, « I’m still hungry. »

The waitress returned my phone and said, « Listen, I’m going to take you home OK? The other girls can cover my shift. Where do you live? »

I answered, « In a house with my wife, who is my sister, and my daughter. My wife is seeing my principal. I hate him. »

At this point, it was clear the woman thought I was drugged, but I didn’t really care because Alexander was coming back, and that meant it was time to make out in his car. He returned with Josh in tow. Josh was in his thirties, balding and slightly overweight. Alexandre had a triumphant smile on his face, while Josh looked concerned and grim.

Josh said firmly, « Alicia, you are going to have to let this one go. His dad owns fifty percent of the bar. »

Alicia, our server, muttered, «But Josh, he’s going to rape this poor girl. I’ve seen him bring girls her age to his car who were completely wasted. She’s clearly a minor. Don’t we have a responsibility? Isn’t the bar liable? »

Even through the alcoholic haze, I saw Alexandre as a man child. A little boy who went to Josh and said, “Meanie won’t let me play with my toy!” I still really, really wanted to make out with him though.

Josh replied, «I don’t know. We might be, but if we want to keep our jobs, we have to let this one slide. »

Alicia stared not daggers, but lava-infused needles at Josh, «I don’t care Josh. We need to help her. And I know who this kid’s father is, I’m not scared of him. »

At this point, Alexandre grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. He was the only thing allowing me to stand. He left two twenties on the table and then started moving toward the exit. The room was still spinning, and the lights were blurry, like an out of focus picture. As we left, I could have sworn I saw someone from the Big Gob Brewery, but I wasn’t certain. I had actually bumped into their table, causing their pitcher of beer to spill. I thought this was hilarious, but Alexandre grimaced and proceeded to drag me out of the bar. Alicia followed, but Alexandre quickly sped off in the Mustang. He had flung me in the back seat without even buckling my seatbelt. As he made his escape, he did a hairpin turn to exit the parking lot, which caused me to be thrown into the door. I hit my head, and I saw sparkling grey spots, which I tried to catch, unsuccessfully.

The Mustang roared down the main street, eliciting angry honks as it cut off other drivers and swerved at times into oncoming traffic. I heard the low rumbling of motorcycles behind us. After a few minutes, I managed to pull myself to a sitting position, and began fumbling with my seatbelt, trying to get it on.

Alexandre pulled into the parking lot of the marina, which at this time of year was almost deserted. He climbed into the back seat with a lecherous grin on his face. I had just managed to buckle my seatbelt as we stopped. My hand eye coordination was severely impaired, which had caused me to fumble with it for nearly five minutes. I peered out the window, and I could see the street lights, but in my drunken state, the blurriness gave them a ghostly shape. The low rumbling had followed us here, but I couldn’t see any of the motorcycles. I wondered if they were the same ones that had been parked outside Flanagans.

I could hear my phone ringing, but as I moved to answer it, Alexandre put his hands on my boobs and started rubbing them, which quickly made me forget I even had a phone. He was confident in his action, but completely lacking in tenderness. He insisted I lay there quietly. I quickly grew upset as he pawed at my boobs like a bear infiltrating a bee hive trying to dig out the sweet honey. This wasn’t like Abigail had imagined it when she discussed with Alyssa what might happen, and as I lay there with her, I felt no loving touch, and no gentleness. Furthermore, he only seemed interested in my boobs, whenever his hand brushed against my small love handles or my little belly, his hand would quickly jerk away as if the extra flesh were hot to the touch. To me, he avoided those areas because he was disgusted with them. He made me feel ugly- grotesque.

As my drunkenness started to slowly wear off, I started to feel less like a real woman and more like a blow-up doll whose only purpose was to sit there and take it. With Abigail’s annoyance and the level of apparent danger, I began to receive control again.

My phone kept ringing. Alexandre put on a CD to drown it out. It was Nickleback, and it fit perfectly with Alexandre’s personality, and the way he treated women. With songs like “Figured it Out” with the lyrics, “I like the pants around your feet” or “Animals” extremely misogynistic, “I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth” or the song with the literal title “Something in your Mouth” with the poetic “You’re so much cooler when you never pull it out/Cause you look so much cuter with something in your mouth.”, it was the perfect companion to a night of intimacy with someone you cared nothing for and just wanted to fuck.

I had previously had a conversation with Ethan about Nickleback, and it reminded me of the boy. I remembered everything that he had done to not only gain my friendship, but my companionship as well. The song he wrote about me, the serenading, his desire to help me with my school work, the cute way he moved his mouth when he made me laugh. His heroic acts, which one might argue were not hero-worthy because of their mundane nature, however; I saw them that way. He was the only one who stood up to Mercedes and her crew. He had saved me from Alexandre and Véronique. There was also the kiss. That one moment, with my rain drenched body pressed against his, his hand on my thigh. The moment I broke it he gently let me go and let me flee on the bus. I twice slapped Alexandre’s hand away as he tried to pull my panties down, but he continued to tell me that I wanted it, and while a part of me did- I didn’t want it to happen this way.

I felt like the real villain in this sordid tale, despite the fact that Alexandre was now forcibly trying to pull down my panties. If I had gone to Ethan’s tonight and played video games, this never would have happened. Still, from the moment that I agreed to the date, I had seemingly lost control of my body. I was saying and doing things that were completely out of character for me. I had treated Alyssa like a lackey, but I realized that I had treated Ethan far worse. I hadn’t even told him that I couldn’t come tonight.

With a modicum of foreplay, which consisted of him roughly squeezing my boobs, my ‘dream’ man was ready to take my virginity. He had managed to actually rip my panties, and the more I slapped him, the more determined he was to remove them. It was actually turning him on. I quickly realized that he was going to rape me.

I gained full control of my body at this point, and I let loose an ear-piercing shriek that seemed to actually sting Alexandre’s ears. His face was pained. He put his hand over my mouth, but with the size of it, it actually covered my nose too. I couldn’t breathe.

He shouted, « OK, OK, I get it. You don’t want it tonight. That’s what I get for taking out a tenth grader. Fucking virgins. You are lucky I took your fat ass out. »

I struggled against him, fighting for breath, flailing my arms. He was suffocating me, and I saw in his eyes the hint of a monster, the beginnings of an American Psycho. He allowed me to breathe again. It had only lasted a few seconds, but in that time, I had grown very afraid. I could see that a part of him enjoyed it, not only the domination, but the fear and pain he had inflicted. I couldn’t imagine what he had done to Véronique. He also called me fat, and that hurt me way more than it should have.

He climbed back into the driver’s seat. I watched him unzip his pants with wide eyes.

He said, «Here’s the deal. You get me off, and you can meet my dad. That’s why you are here isn’t it? That’s the only reason anyone wants to know me. Because of my fucking dad. »

I said through clenched teeth, «Why the hell would I want to meet your dad? I want you to take me home right now. You are a sick pervert. Who is he anyway? »

The threat of rape had sobered me up quickly. I grabbed my phone, and saw that I had over twenty messages from Alyssa, thirteen from Ethan, and thirty eight from Amélie, including twelve voice mails.

I sent a quick message to Amélie:

Me: in trouble @ marina plz come now

I knew she was at least ten minutes away. I didn’t call the police because as much as I feared what Alexandre might do, I was also concerned because I was over two hours past my court-ordered curfew now. I was worried that they would bring me right to juvenile hall.

Alexandre shook his head in disbelief, «My dad is a huge pop music producer. We stayed here because I have a much better chance being drafted in Canada, but my dad mostly works out of LA, and he flies back here every two weeks or so.»

I heard a slight hissing noise.

He continued, «Since everyone at school found out, I’ve had girls using me to get to him. Since fucking middle school. I thought you were the same way. »

I sighed, «So you’ve been mistreated since what? Seventh grade? So now you abuse the girls who you think are just interested in you because of your dad. That’s weak. You scared the hell out of me when you put your hand on my mouth. You know I couldn’t breathe, right? »

Alexandre said, « I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated. I hate my dad. I can never tell if a girl is legit, interested in me. You are the twelfth girl since seventh grade to do this to me. »

I shook my head, «I’m actually not the twelfth. »

Alexandre looked at me hopefully, «You mean you legitimately like me? »

I frowned, «Are you insane? You almost raped me! You’ll be lucky that I don’t bring charges against you. You know, I really think you should consider counselling for your father issues. It’s turned you into massive prick. I bet you weren’t always like that. »

Alexandre shook his head, «No, I was an awkward gangly kid, same height, but skinny. You know I’m really sorry, please don’t tell anyone about this. Please, I just- »

I heard a sudden bang on the front passenger side window, followed by another. Alexandre put the door light on, and I saw three men standing outside the car. One of them had a crowbar and was striking the passenger side window. After the third strike, the window shattered, spraying glass all over Alexandre and me. He threw the car into gear, but the tires were completely flat. He was literally driving on his rims and because of that he had great difficulty controlling the car. It skidded and hit a lamp post, which gave the three men time to break the back window. They reached in and hauled me out, as I screamed desperately for help, bleeding from multiple cuts on my hands and legs.

I looked up and saw the man from the Big Gob Brewery who I had struck with my guitar. The three were members of the notorious Rock Machine motorcycle gang, and were not happy to see me. I saw Alexandre poke his head out of the car.

I yelled at the top of my lungs, « Help! Help me, they are going to kill me! Alexandre! Oh god you tommphhphhhhhhhh! Mmmmpphhhhhhhhppmhh! Mmmmmppphhhpph mmmpmh mm..ph…mmm… »

The leader tied a rag over my face, and I felt light-headed. I fought to retain consciousness, as I saw Alexandre’s car, with sparks jumping from the rims, backup and then speed away, loping like some great wounded animal fleeing from the threat of predators.

The leader looked down at me, but I turned away from him, he grabbed my head and forced me to look at him. He said, « Looks like you are all dressed up for your new profession already. You are going to make us a lot of money bitch. Too bad your boyfriend is such a fucking coward eh? »

I screamed into my gag, but I was having trouble keeping conscious at this point. The rag smelled funny, kind of like paint thinner.

My eyes widened to the point where I wondered if they were going to roll back into my skull. My fear simply made the man laugh. Tears fell freely from my eyes as I pictured my fate, a teenage prostitute at the hands of the Rock Machine. I knew how it worked, only because I had seen a documentary on it. They would get me heavily addicted to drugs, likely heroin or crack cocaine, and I would beg them for more. In return, I would make them money, selling my body. I prayed at that moment, prayed for God to save me. Even though I wasn’t religious, the situation was dire enough that I would call out any name if it meant salvation. Would I ever see Amélie, my parents, or Chloe again? Or Alyssa? And what about Ethan? I now desperately wished I had called the police when I had the chance.

I heard sirens in the distance, but my world was cloudy. I thought I was only imagining them because I also heard bells ringing and heavenly trumpets. The sirens grew closer and within seconds, the low rumble of motorcycles announced that my would-be captors had fled without their prize.

Before I lost consciousness, I could have sworn I heard Ethan’s voice calling out to me.

The Sidereus Prophecy revealed...
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DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 52 (Part 6)

When I awoke, I was somewhere I had never been, and oddly enough, I woke while standing. I looked down at myself and noticed something wholly unexpected, something that caused joy to fill my heart. I was in Darren Lawrence’s body again. It seemed as real as the light wind on my skin, the slightly itchy feeling I felt on my face, (a consequence of a beard not yet fully grown), and hands no longer host to nails adorned with perfectly shaped stars. I wore a pair of ripped jeans, my green hoodie and my grungy Converse trainers. I felt like myself for the first time in six months, and now I looked that way too.

From the palm trees, I guessed that I was in Los Angeles, or at least California. I was pretty sure we had no palm trees in Canada. I stood in front of a massive concrete tower. It looked like an office building, but it was opulent beyond belief. The numerous gold-trimmed windows reflecting the morning sun made the building glow. The pathway toward the front door was lined with neatly trimmed shrubs and grass so green that it would have caused a golf course green keeper to seethe with envy. The front door even had an attendant. It was literally this person’s sole duty to greet guests and open the door for them. I had never ventured inside a building with this level of service, but the doorman’s welcoming wave, urged me to enter the lavish structure.

Once inside, I felt completely out of place. Dressed as I was, I did not blend well with the decor. A three-storey high fountain with multiple levels and Renaissance art dominated the foyer. The fountain was an engineering marvel because the water shot upward, but fell, as if in slow-motion. I could actually see the individual water droplets that made up the wonder. As I looked into the pool at the base of the fountain, I could have sworn for an instant that Abigail’s face stared back at me, but once the water became disturbed, the face dissolved.

The front desk was composed of one solid mahogany table with a tiny blonde woman sitting behind it. The blazer she wore made me think I had entered a hotel.

She smiled and said softly, “Mr. Lawrence. We are very pleased to have you here finally. Mr. Atwater will see you now.”

I thought it odd that the woman didn’t even have a computer. I found it even stranger that she was sitting behind an antique typewriter. She had a modern hairdo, one of the poofs so popular these days, but her office equipment would have been more appropriate on the desk of an early twentieth century secretary. Next to the desk sat a machine that looked a lot like Gutenberg’s original printing press. Alongside the typewriter was a leather-bound book, easily twice the size of any coffee table art book, with the words MASTER FILE written on it in gold leaf.

I looked at the woman in confusion and asked, “What are you talking about? What is this place? I don’t know about you, but I feel like I am burning money just standing here. You aren’t going to charge me a thousand dollars for looking at the fountain are you?”

She shook her head, “Absolutely not. We treat the talent very well here. Access to our facility here is just one of the perks of being signed to our agency.”

I blinked, looking embarrassed, “Talent? So this place, is like a talent agency? Well, I have a band. I’m sorry, I’m really not prepared for this. I don’t even remember coming here. Can I schedule another appointment?”

The woman shook her head, “I’m sorry Mr. Lawrence, but we’ve waited a long time for you to arrive. Mr. Atwater simply cannot be delayed any longer.”

I frowned, “But my band mates should be here. Let me call them.”

The prospect of being signed would hopefully convince Andrew and Steven to catch a flight to LA to meet me. However, if I was Darren Lawrence again, I doubted very much that Ethan would want to be part of the band if Abigail was out of the picture. It would be even more difficult to explain to him where Abigail had gone.

I added, “They could be here tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

The woman shook her head again. She reminded me of a librarian or a schoolmarm, especially sitting behind the antique typewriter. I couldn’t help but stare at the machine. It had a QWERTY keyboard, but the keys were iron wrought and each one was connected to a very thin piece of metal strip.

She said, “Mr. Lawrence, I’m sorry, but I must insist. Mr. Atwater is only interested in you.”

I was shocked. I knew that I was a talented singer and an OK guitar player. I could write songs and touching, angry and soulful verse, but I never thought of myself as someone who could strike out on their own.

She shooed me toward a gold-plated elevator, which also had an attendant. In the days of record companies taking people to court for illegally sharing music, when artists themselves who had once zealously followed the practice of tape trading at concerts were decrying their loss of revenue over music piracy, this place had a doorman and an elevator attendant. I worried that this was some type of scheme to extort money from me. Luckily, I didn’t have any.

The attendant didn’t say a word. He just pushed PH (for Penthouse?). The pit of my stomach entered my Converse trainers as the elevator rocketed upward. I reached out to grasp the railing, and the attendant caught me. He smiled, and thankfully the ride was over in seconds.

The door opened, and I was escorted to a scene that is difficult to describe. What lay before me was architecture, technology and furniture from every period of time, including the modern age. Stone pillars akin to the Parthenon supported the thirty foot ceiling. A massive two hundred inch television screen hung on the far wall, along with a multiple computer screens, which formed an impressive media centre. The walls seemed stolen from a medieval castle as thick pieces of interlocked stone created an imposing and formidable defense against catapults and trebuchets. Works from the Renaissance to modern art were alongside CD cases from well-known pop singers. Under glass next to the elevator I saw a play by Shakespeare I had never heard of- simply titled- the Sidereus Prophecy. I saw gold records for Elvis, and even images of lions tearing apart gladiators. It was like the person who inhabited this room had never ever thrown anything away from the beginning of civilization. They were the ultimate hoarder or perhaps the ultimate collector.

Sitting at a very simple wooden table was a man of indeterminate age. He had flecks of grey at his temples, but absolutely no wrinkles on his face. He had a trim, professional style haircut and wore a very expensive looking suit, perfectly tailored to his slim but muscular frame. His eyes spoke of a hundred lifetimes, more than simply an old soul, he looked wise to the point of omnipotence.

He walked up to me and firmly shook my hand, “Mr. Lawrence, so you’ve finally arrived. I am sorry for the way we brought you here, but our previous attempts to contact you regarding your contract have failed. I am Mr. Atwater.”

I said firmly but respectfully, “Sir, please, I know that you must be an extremely busy man, but can I ask that my band mates fly out to be part of this meeting? They are really the reason I am here. It was a combined effort. I mean, even Ethan- if he wants to. Not sure how I will explain this to him.”

Like his assistant, the man shook his head, “Actually, Mr. Lawrence you are solely responsible for this meeting.”

I frowned, “How is that even possible? My band has played only a few shows. I mean, I am flattered, but why are you interested in having me sign a contract? You know, I’m not a solo artist. And I’ve never heard of your agency. You never contacted me before.”

Mr. Atwater smiled, “We are interested in what makes you unique. In a sea of pretenders, those who say they want to be famous, you really have the drive to succeed in the industry.”

He continued, “You chose your house based on the fact it had a perfect music room. You left teaching because you wanted to devote more time to music. It’s also why you didn’t go to law school. You’ve driven hundreds and hundreds of kms just to jam. You’ve put friendships and even loved ones after music, even your own wife and daughter, numerous times. When your wife left town to pursue her career goals, you stayed in a failing band because you believed in the music. She returned, but let’s not forget your friends-” he grinned.

“You kicked your best friend out of your previous band because he wouldn’t commit at a high enough level. Because of that, you created a rift in a twenty year friendship, the one between Andrew’s wife and Amélie. Mr. Lawrence, you wake up thinking of music, and how you can better yourself, and, like others, you have vices that take you away from your craft, but you always return, more fervent than before.”

I gaped, listening to Mr. Atwater recite details of my life that no one outside of my immediate friends, family or even myself would know. I said, “But that’s every musician who wants to succeed. I’m really not any different. H-how do you know all those things about me?”

Mr. Atwater smiled, but it was the type of smile an alligator makes before devouring its prey, knowing that as it bobs just below the surface of the water, an easy meal awaits.

“Listen Darren, it doesn’t matter. What if I told you that you could have what you really wanted? You’ve always said you wished you had the time to record, to sit in a studio and really make music your life, your job. You’ve said that on multiple occasions. You’ve also said that you want to get your music out to as many people as possible. Say millions? How about hundreds of millions? What if I could grant you all that, with a simple signature on a contract?”

He continued, “This is how you are different. For as many people who say they want to be famous, to be successful, to be real musicians, there are thousands who simply don’t have the drive, the confidence, the perseverance and the willpower. When you wished to be a famous musician, unlike the common people, you actually wanted it, and you are willing to do anything it takes to reach that goal. That is why we’ve chosen you.” He produced a contract written on parchment and handed me a pen.

He smiled again with predatory eyes, “Sign and in an instant, it’s all yours.”

I stared at Mr. Atwater suspiciously. My eyes were narrowed, but as I peered into his orbs, I felt like a speck of dirt within a vast cosmos. I began to feel that if I didn’t sign, I would never succeed in anything, and even if I had my body back, my life would be altered irrevocably. My friends had seen another side of me, and my wife treated me more like her unruly daughter than her husband. I thought she would leave me for Mr. Principal, and my friends and parents would view me as a freak. I closed my eyes and instantly the feelings subsided.

Mr. Atwater continued smiling as he offered me the contract, “Sorry, I should have warned you about that. Feel free to read the contract thoroughly. I expect you to read it, considering your background. We have a literal eternity here, Mr. Lawrence.”

I looked at him and quickly turned away, fearful that the same feelings of despair would overwhelm me again. I asked, “What is this place? What are you?”

The man placed the contract in my hands and said, “You will know soon enough.”

I pored over the details of the contract. It was written in legalese, but with my legal experience, I was able to comprehend most of it. It looked pretty standard, but unfortunately I had no real knowledge of entertainment law. It offered me a two year contract with the Sidereus Agency. There were specific conditions that had to be met, but again, it looked standard. I had to tour, but considering the money they were going to sink into me, it wasn’t surprising. I had to give interviews, which really was part of the job. I couldn’t find anything in it that stood out as a red flag. I wished Amélie were here because, while I was a talented paralegal with a real affinity for the law, Amélie had actually gone to law school.

Then, just as I reached the very end of the contract the red flag flew high and was supported by a blaring high-pitched siren that threatened to destroy the ear drums of anyone who heard it.

I blinked, “There’s a mistake here. The name is wrong. It says Abigail Grenier.”

Sinister plots filled my mind, and I knew immediately that I could not put ink to the document. It could lock me as Abigail forever, perhaps even rewriting my history entirely. I wasn’t certain exactly what would happen, but my gut told me that it would bury Darren Lawrence deeper than one of Alyssa’s impromptu dance lessons.

Mr. Atwater maintained his smile. Although I could not look into his eyes for an extended period, I saw amusement there. He was toying with me. He replied, “It’s actually not. You are as much Abigail as you are Darren now, perhaps more so. We saw to that.” The smile never left his face.

I snarled, “So you were the ones who did this to me?! Why? You practically ruined my life!”

I approached the desk angrily and adopted an aggressive pose, clenching my fists, but trying to avoid the man’s eyes. I slammed my clenched fist on the table, but his expression never changed.

Mr. Atwater replied matter-of-factly, “Because of your wish, Mr. Lawrence. It has evoked the Sidereus Prophecy. There are millions of wishes spoken each day, but only a tiny minority actually want their wish to come true. Some are desperate pleas for help, while others are breathless whispers before death claims them, and some are innocent, but misplaced, wanton commercialism. Very, very few wishes are sincere. You should be honoured. Few are chosen by the Prophecy, and of those that are- even fewer reach this point. When you wished to start over for the sake of music and did so with genuine sentiment, it set in motion the events that have transpired.”

I shouted, “I never asked for this though! I just want my life back! I want to be a normal person, go to work, come home, spend time with my Amélie and Chloe, and do it all again and again. That’s what I want. I won’t sign that document!”

Mr. Atwater replied in voice that told me he held all the cards, it was triumphant but soft, like a poker player revealing a royal flush with nothing but a half-smile. “You will because they all have before you. The Prophecy is as old as civilization itself. You have lasted longer than most, but only because of the circumstances.”

I knew that lashing out physically against such a being was foolhardy, but his admission that I was among those who resisted the Prophecy longest strengthened my resolve. I understood the importance of knowledge, and while I was still fuming, I needed to know more about what I was up against.

I asked, “What is the Sidereus Prophecy?”

The smile grew on Mr. Atwater’s face, “Sometimes they sign, and I don’t even get to explain this part. The last time was to a Ms. Spears almost twenty years ago.” I made a note to ask Mr. Atwater about that.

He continued, “The Sidereus Prophecy is an ancient spell. It predates organized religion, and essentially, it birthed popular culture. Its true origins are unknown, and while I have been here almost a thousand years, even I don’t know. The one I replaced didn’t tell me. I do, however, know its purpose.

"The logic is as follows. For humanity to succeed it must toil, but it cannot toil endlessly without distraction. The belief is that if humans work mindlessly they become drones or they return to their animalistic natures. Distractions, such as the entertainment brought by popular culture, ritualize humanity; they forms bonds and links within societies. They actually humanize.”

I raised a brow, “It sounds more like some ancient magnate’s attempt to placate the lower classes with low brow entertainment to deter them from rising up. Distract them with raunchy jokes and titillating flesh and they’ll forget how poor and hungry they are.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “That is one of the interpretations for the reasoning behind the introduction of the Prophecy, Mr. Lawrence. I am giving you the ‘approved’ version. It’s funny Shakespeare said the same thing as you. Now, please let me continue.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not satisfied with the explanation, but eager to learn more to determine if any information could be used as weapons against the Prophecy.

I blinked, “Wait a second, Shakespeare was a victim of the Prophecy? William Shakespeare? His plays are timeless. His prose is some of the greatest in the English language. Certainly, they are ingrained in our culture, but they aren’t popular any more. I know. I was an English teacher.”

Mr. Atwater smirked, “Oh, but there was a time when Shakespeare’s plays were frowned upon by the cultural elite that now flock to see them at various summer festivals and visit Stratford upon Avon. You should know that most of his plays were written with the common people in mind. Many of his jokes were crude. The plays were filled with romance, death and destruction, intrigue, but the plots were rarely complex. Don’t forget that everyone spoke Elizabethan or Early Modern English. His plays were very much part of the popular culture.”

He added, “Shakespeare was the first real ‘pop star’ created by the Prophecy. There were others before him, but because of the lack of any form of mass communication, they are footnotes within the MASTER FILE. Once the telegraph, film, radio and finally television were invented, the Prophecy took on another form. One where it could influence not only a city, or a country, but the entire world. Television, helped by the internet, brought those chosen by the Prophecy to the masses in the form of pop stars.”

I nodded, “OK, so why not have me and others become politicians or prophets? You mentioned a Ms. Spears. I am going to assume that is Britney Spears. Why have her become a brainless pop icon, instead of an influential world or religious leader? What about a theorist who changes the way we think?”

Mr. Atwater replied, “We made that mistake with Hitler, and we won’t make it again. The reason why the Sidereus Prophecy creates pop stars now is because they are innocuous. Their fame eventually fades, and because of what they were- they would never be taken seriously in a political or religious role. Could you imagine Britney Spears as the leader of the free world? No, of course not.”

Mr. Atwater continued, “Part of the reason why the Prophecy is so successful in carrying out its purpose is because it gives the people exactly what they want. And for you, Mr. Lawrence, this world wants another pop princess. Another teen idol for girls to aspire to be, for boys to desire, and for the masses to fawn over. Your face, or rather Abigail’s face, will be plastered on every magazine cover, every billboard and music station throughout the world. You will become a phenomenon.”

I shouted, “And what if I don’t want to be any that!? I think the Sidereus Prophecy is just a way to addle the minds of the common people so they won’t riot, ruining what is the status quo. Perhaps it staves off anarchy, but if it continues it will also curb the growth of our minds. If there are only a few who can avoid the allure of popular culture, then we will forever be a race of the elite and the cowed.”

I pointed to an image of gladiators battling in a Roman coliseum, “This is the perfect example. While Rome bankrupted itself not only monetarily but also morally, the people were fed entertainment to distract them from the eventual decline of their Empire. When the barbarians came to the gates, the people were so caught up in their own world, they couldn’t feel the steel at their throats. It is the same today. The distractions brought on by popular culture regarding celebrity excess prevent the common people from realizing that their jobs are shit, that they will never climb the ladder, and that the people who rule them don’t care one iota about them. All it does is extend the few rule the many mentality.”

Mr. Atwater smiled, “That may be, but you still have little in the way of choice. The more you fight this, the harder it will be. The magic guiding the Prophecy has attached itself to you, Mr. Lawrence, and while it is imperfect, it is still powerful. The longer you battle against it, the less subtle the magic becomes. You risk erasing yourself entirely. It will continue to put you in situations where you have the potential to become the icon the world wants.”

I shook my head, “Let me guess, Alexandre’s father, the music producer. He was supposed to discover me.”

The man nodded, “You are very intelligent, Mr. Lawrence. I can see this from your analysis of the Prophecy. I do hope you submit soon, as it didn’t help Ms. Spears, who as your father would say, is dumb as a bag of hammers, or Elvis, who was a theoretical physicist before becoming a hip-shaking lip-curling music icon. You are correct of course. You were supposed to meet Alexandre’s father. He was going to produce your record and make you an international sensation. That would have fulfilled the Prophecy. However, we could not foretell how…unpleasant his son would become. There were many before you, and one girl who was close, but none had your drive. Before you made that wish ...”

I interrupted, “Véronique. It was supposed to be Véronique before I made the wish.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “No, Véronique lacks the passion. It was never going to be her or any of the eleven girls who preceded you. This is unfortunately one of the side effects of the imperfect magic. The Prophecy latches onto not only the chosen, but it also creates a scenario for the Prophecy to be fulfilled, and in your instance, it attached itself not only to Alexandre’s father, but also Alexandre himself. And while we are usually certain who will be chosen next, as a failsafe, the girls, all of whom were talented musicians, were allowed to ‘audition’ per se. Four years and not one of them impressed Alexandre’s father enough to warrant a contract.”

I asked, “Why did the girls…and even me? Why did we throw ourselves at Alexandre?”

He replied, “Because doing so meant that he would introduce you and the other girls to his father, and with it, the potential fulfilment of the Prophecy. Usually, we prefer more traditional methods to begin a pop star’s rise. It makes it easier when our marketing department sells their stories, but we are going to have to fudge yours significantly.”

I spit poison at Mr. Atwater, even staring in his eyes for almost three seconds before the depression weighed so heavily that I had to break my glance. “Oh really? So, teen girls wouldn’t want to hear about how their idol was almost raped in a car? And why the hell didn’t I have control throughout it? It would have been a lot easier to fight him off.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “The reason you lost control is because given the circumstances and your absolute hatred of Alexandre’s male archetype, you would never have agreed to meet his father. We forced you to make a date with him, knowing that it was the catalyst to fulfilling the Prophecy. Yes, it was a desperate measure, but we knew you would be less than receptive, so we moved things along.” He cleared his throat, “What happened to you, however, was –uh- regrettable.” He said the last words with a hint of emotion.

I shook my head, “Wait a second, the whole episode with Alexandre- you removed my control- my will power, and the very essence of who I am. Why not just do that now? I don’t understand why you don’t just force me to become Abigail in both mind and body. You clearly have the ability as is clear by how much I wanted to bear Alexandre’s muscle-bound children.”

Mr. Atwater merely smiled. I despised the look as I hoped my question would perhaps yield information about the Prophecy I could use- a weakness or a potential loophole. His stoic grin caused me to seethe internally. “Oh, Mr. Lawrence, I enjoy your humour. No, a teenage pregnancy would be scandalous with parent groups- and your career would be dead before it even began. Returning to your question, however, it is simple- the Prophecy could circumvent your will, but it would be an unfortunate double-edged sword.

“You see, the Prophecy requires those with an unparalleled drive to succeed. Turning you into a mindless tart, a thrall to the whims of the Prophecy would allow the contract to be signed, but it would make the Prophecy impossible to fulfill. Enslaving you to the same magic that made you desire Alexandre would rob you of your drive, your ambition. The Prophecy helps the chosen, but the chosen fulfills the Prophecy. Think of it like a symbiotic relationship. The Prophecy has given you the body required to succeed, the voice, but you will bring the talent, and your passion and determination. This would be snuffed out if you became a drone, Mr. Lawrence.”

I asked, feeling more confident as Mr. Atwater divulged more of the secrets of the Prophecy. Perhaps I could eke something useful from him. “So did the Prophecy do something to Alexandre to make him that way?”

He replied, “Alexandre did not start that way, as he told you. We knew that he would bring the girls to meet his father initially because he wanted to please both the girls and his father. But as he grew older, he realized that the girls really were using him. But that is how they were programmed. They had to meet the father to potentially fulfil the Prophecy. However, Alexandre eventually had the girls debasing themselves, only bringing them if they met his approval. With the last three, including yourself, we always pulled the plug before the girls were forced into something completely non-consensual.”

I frowned, “Yeah thanks. I really appreciate only being half raped. You are a real humanitarian. Why did you have me dress like a prostitute? Surely, his father wouldn’t approve of him bringing home a girl who looked like that.”

Mr. Atwater ignored my comment and added, “Eventually, Alexandre became more of an obstacle than simply a stepping stone to his father. As he grew more bitter and despondent, he also became twisted. He wanted to use the girls as much as they were using him. We had you dress that way because we had hoped it would appease the boy. Dressed that way you were his dream girl and maybe that would open the path to his father.”

He continued, “It is also why we did not allow you to cut your hair or your nails. You never would have caught his attention looking the way you wanted to look, even in your school uniform.”

I had a Eureka moment and quickly asked, “St. Jo’s. The letter. You sent the school registration letter didn’t you?”

Mr. Atwater smiled, “Since you were so set on emancipating yourself, we had to do something. If you had succeeded, we calculated that there was only a 0.03% chance you would ever meet Alexandre. And you would never seek out his father, a famous pop music producer. So, we had to get you to St. Jo’s, a place that Alexandre frequented ten months out of the year. You actually did an admirable job in avoiding him the first few weeks. Your friends, of course, helped.”

I narrowed my eyes, “You mean Alyssa isn’t a plant by you? One of your agents trying to turn me into some huge girly girl so I would accept my eventual role more easily. Or another catalyst for the Prophecy? She was trying to get me to enter a singing competition. I could be discovered there, couldn’t I?”

He grinned, “Absolutely not. Ms. Moore is wonderful serendipity for us. She adores Abigail, and she has no bad intentions for you. After all, she doesn’t even know who Darren Lawrence is. Perhaps she could help you accept your role given her love of pop music.”

I raised a brow, still unconvinced, “Speaking of which, are all pop stars created like this? Let me guess, Katy Perry was a truck driver named Saul, who wanted to be a country music star.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “No. The Katy Perry that Alyssa is so enamoured with is not part of the Sidereus Prophecy. Those are the anomalies. The Prophecy is only evoked when pop culture loses its sway with the general populace. When other issues take precedence, the Prophecy fabricates a scenario for the star’s discovery and the search begins for the next true sensation. Ms. Spears was the last.”

My eyebrows practically raised to the ceiling, “I would be as big as Britney Spears was?”

Something in me was lured by the thought of such adulation. Stepping out on stage in front of not tens, but tens of thousands, every night. Maybe I could fulfil the Prophecy, but I would do it my way.

Mr. Atwater was pleased, “You will as big as her and potentially bigger. The world will know you. Pop music that can truly master the conscience of the masses has been on the decline. Rock and metal music, and even some pop music that causes the masses to think, to plan and to question has been born again. Not since the mid-1990s, when rock was king, has there been such a resurgence of angry and potentially unbalancing music. This transcends into other media as well. Then films are made that question lifestyles, governments. You are the balance to this. This other music will exist, but once you arrive, it will be relegated to the fringe once again.”

I sneered, “You aren’t exactly giving me a lot of incentive to agree. That is exactly what I was saying, and it was what you seemingly chose to ignore.”

He replied, “Mr. Lawrence, I gave you the approved version of the Prophecy’s purpose. I believe, as you do, that it does create a world of the elite and common people, but this is a necessary evil. Would you rather have anarchy or a balanced, yet imperfect, civilization?”

I said brashly, “Even if I am eventually forced to sign, I won’t agree to any of this. I will lay my own path. I will write songs and lyrics that force those in my audience to question, and to think for themselves.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head amusedly, “You won’t, because if you do, you will be found in breach of contract, and you will be trapped that way. You will have to grow up again as Abigail Grenier. I guess you didn’t read the Annex A: Clause 4.5 Paragraph 37. Here, I know it off by heart.”

Mr. Atwater read aloud, “Pursuant to the fulfilment of the Sidereus Prophecy and all items contained therein, the chosen can, upon signature of an Affidavit to the fact, choose to return to his/her life. Such a return is contingent on the Prophecy being wholly fulfilled, subject to Clause 47 Paragraph 6 Subparagraph A. Which reads, if at any point during the two year period the chosen fails to meet a condition of this contract, she/he will be found in breach of the aforementioned contract. If the breach is determined to be in bad faith, the chosen will be eternally trapped within the body ascribed by the Prophecy. Breaches of contract in bad faith are also subject to additional discipline which is the prerogative of the associate.” He smiled, “That’s me.”

I raised a brow, “Wait a second, Britney Spears is still a pop star. Sort of. She’s pretty washed up, but she is still making music.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “She is. She chose to remain in that body after her contract expired. Fame is like a potent drug, Mr. Lawrence. Once it is in your system, you will crawl on your knees, begging for it, every night. The adulation you receive will sustain you, until the next night and the next.”

I shook my head, “Again, you aren’t making a great case for signing anything, Mr. Atwater. Why would I want to be anything like Britney? She went crazy. She shaved off all of her hair, lost custody of her children. I don’t want any part of that.”

Mr. Atwater said, “That was part of her punishment. Read Clause 4.8 Paragraph 89 Subparagraph E. She threatened to tell others about the Sidereus Prophecy. You can tell no one, not even your wife.”

I said matter-of-factly, “Yes, but I haven’t signed your contract. So, what is stopping me from telling the world?”

Mr. Atwater actually laughed openly, “It’s been too long since I have heard such brash words. There is nothing stopping you from telling the world about what you have seen here while not under contract, but who would believe you exactly? You will tell them that there is some cosmic power that turns men into pop stars. That it is done so that the masses will be broken by songs such as “Baby Hit Me One More Time? You’ll spend the rest of your adolescence in a rubber room heavily sedated. You will beg to sign the contract within a few weeks.”

I shook my head, “That makes no sense. I am barred from telling anyone about the Prophecy, but even if I did, no one would believe me. It’s a paradox.”

Mr. Atwater said, “It’s simple. There is a slight, minuscule possibility that you would tell someone who was actually affected by the magic, and they would believe you. And if that person was influential, it would create many problems. So, you are technically correct that if you are not under contract, you can tell others, but I don’t know how much good it would do you.”

The smile left Mr. Atwater’s face for the first time. I actually felt my hand shaking involuntarily. He said coldly, “Plus, if you create problems, I will need to step in and rectify those problems, and you will dislike my methods. That rubber room I discussed will seem like a stay at a five-star hotel. I will see to it that the Prophecy is fulfilled.” I shuddered, and the smile crept back onto his face.

He said amiably, but he might as well have spit in my face. “But you’ll be a good little girl, won’t you Mr. Lawrence?”

I said nothing and simply sneered at him. I was annoyed that my left hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

He said firmly but in a friendly manner, “Please sign, and we can put all this unpleasantness behind us.”

I asked, “So let me understand this correctly, if I sign, I become Abigail Grenier, international pop sensation for two years. And if I follow all of your conditions, then I can be Darren Lawrence again when my contract expires.” He nodded his head.

I took the pen from him and Mr. Atwater’s smile grew to a toothy, self-satisfied grin, until I wrote FUCK YOU on the first page of the document in massive bold letters. His face soured, and he ran his finger over my graffiti and instantly it was gone.

I said, “I’ll find a way to break the chain, Atwater. I’ll try find a spell. I am certain Mama Khalia is going to send me something. I’ll tell her all about this, and we’ll stop the Prophecy.”

He laughed again, but there was no humour to it. It was cold and unnerving, like a death rattle in the chest of a man dying from pneumonia, but also grating like the whining of a petulant child. It was disconcerting to say the least. He snapped his fingers, and instantly, I was no longer looking at him eye to eye. I was looking up at him. I looked down and my nails were once more adorned with the perfectly shaped little stars. Hair covered my eyes. I was Abigail again.

A hand gripped my throat and I was pulled into the air. I gurgled and fought for breath, kicking my legs and flailing my arms. Mr. Atwater maintained his smile even as he held me in a stranglehold staring into my face, “This is one of the reasons why Ms. Spears lost her mind eventually. She remembered what I did to her before she signed. As stupid as she became, she always remembered this. I made sure of it. You don’t want to be damaged goods like her, do you?” He threw me to the ground, and I choked as air suddenly filled my lungs again.

My body felt strange. I looked down, and I noticed my hands dematerializing and rematerializing. My whole body was in a state of flux, going from Darren to Abigail and back again, but, in my head, it felt like someone was trying to push my brain out through my nose and ears.

Mr. Atwater said, “How would you like to forget everything you learned in university? No, that would be like a full-frontal lobotomy. Maybe just one course? Poof. Everything gone in an instant. Just so you know how serious I am. I’ll even let you pick the course.”

He added, “Oh and that uncomfortable feeling you are experiencing, it’s literally your two selves fighting for dominance. I masked it before, but you’ve upset me. Even now, look at how your male self fades and Abigail gains prominence. It’s only a matter of time. You may not have fallen for Alexandre, but your friends could very well doom you as well. You realize you are in love with that boy, Ethan. Right?”

He said, “Time’s up. OK, second year Russian history from Ivan the Terrible to the Bolsheviks. Gone.”

I shook my head defiantly, “It’s just a crush. It’ll pass. I-…” A blank expression appeared on my face. I tried to drum up knowledge of the class, but I just couldn’t remember taking it. I thought the professor was balding. He sort of looked like Mr. Peabody from the Astro Boy cartoon I had watched as a kid, but now- it was a complete blank.

He said, “As for Mama Khalia, she will send you a spell, but you won’t have the balls to use it.” He laughed again. It sounded like rusty knives being raked across bone.

I blinked, “W-what do you mean?” I was unsteady, particularly because I was having difficulty maintaining Darren’s form. The instant I regained my masculinity, I was back as Abigail, and each time, it became more a challenge to bring him back.

Mr. Atwater explained, “It requires a second, and while that individual could be your saviour, they could also simply be a sacrifice. Even if you succeed, it cannot save you from the Prophecy. The spell that Mama Khalia found, it may return you to male form, but while you sleep, you are helpless. We will simply invade your dreams again, and you will wake up and be Abigail again. You cannot escape this, Mr. Lawrence. Sign now, before I truly grow angry.” The smile had fallen off his face again. His lip curled into a tiny sneer.

I narrowed my eyes, “I have no reason to believe you. You deceive me so that I will surrender to you. I won’t. I will find another way. There’s always another way. I'll find a loophole in your Prophecy. I’ll tell people. I will show the magic! I’ll cut my hair on YouTube and my nails. I’ll show the world that magic is real!”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, smiling amusedly again, “And you don’t think that people might question it? That they might think that you were simply trying to deceive them? It is easy enough to fake that using video editing, Mr. Lawrence. Already your intelligence is failing you, and your thoughts- they lack the logical consistency they once had. You are succumbing to your adolescence.”

He continued, “Soon enough, you and Alyssa will be impossible to tell apart. Each day that passes where you refuse to sign you will lose more of yourself.”

I shouted and pointed an accusatory finger, “You don’t think that I am going to lose myself playing the part of a pop princess puppet? So, what are you going to do, force me to like everything that Alyssa likes, control me like you did with Alexandre and compel me to throw myself at Ethan?”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “I don’t have to do a thing. At this point, I can just let nature run its course. Alyssa has claimed you as a best friend, and you’ve infused her with the confidence that Véronique stole, which may be your ruin, at least as far as your masculinity is concerned. As for Ethan, even now, you are thinking about the boy, aren’t you?”

I sighed gently. I looked down at myself and as Ethan’s image appeared in my mind, it became impossible to return to my masculine form. It was as if the boy’s shaggy hair and boyish looks were branded on my brain matter. I shook my head repeatedly, but it did nothing to detach the image.

My captor said, “I’ll make you a deal. When you sign, you can take him along with you. Imagine what the two of you will do cooped up on a tour bus day in and day out. I doubt you’ll only play video games.” He grinned lasciviously. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? I know what you do at night.”

I shouted, my voice raising an octave, sounding childlike, “I only did that one time! And I stopped.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I meant that you think about him before you go to sleep, dirty girl. If you’d like, you could even bring Alyssa along. It’s not like she’s going to pass high school without your help.”

I shook my head, but it was hard to disagree with my tormentor. I thought about Ethan more than Amélie- more than my own daughter.

Mr. Atwater made two changes to the contract, but when he handed me the pen, I was so disgusted by his presence, by what he had taken from me and still intended to take, that I spit in his face. He removed a handkerchief from his sleeve and shook his head. He sneered, “Fine, but you’ll be back. You’ll plead for me to let you sign it the next time you are here. We’ll see if I am feeling as generous as I am now.”

I smirked, “What and my little dog too? Didn’t you forget to say you would have gotten away with your master plan if it wasn’t for some meddling kids? I mean…” I was feeling brash in Abigail’s body. I knew that I was playing with fire, but the fact that Mr. Atwater told me that Mama Khalia was sending another spell filled me with hope. As for the sacrifice, I was certain he was trying to scare me.

I was stopped there. I continued to speak, but I was in a place with no sound or light. A few seconds passed, and I heard the dull beeping of a heart monitor. I opened my eyes to see Amélie looking worn, her eyes blood shot and her lip trembling. My room lacked any of the pink in my bedroom. It was a sterile white. She looked down at me with fear, a little revulsion and a deep sadness.

Maybe I should have signed the contract.

Chapter 53

I was in a hospital bed, and back in Abigail’s body. My head throbbed, and I could feel bandages on my legs and arms. Amélie looked down at me with sympathy, and she instantly reached out and grasped my hand, her previous expression a distant memory.

Her whisper was harsh, “Darren, don’t you ever scare me like that again. I thought you were dead.” As angry as she was, there was clear love in her eyes still. She cared deeply for me and through the spite, disgust and betrayal, I could see it.

Before I could respond, she continued, “What the hell is going on, Darren? Have you lost your mind? Did you really leave the house to meet a boy? Alyssa told me everything, but I c-can’t believe it. I mean I knew you were, you know, interested, but I just didn’t think you were so far gone.” She shook her head repeatedly as if the desperate action could somehow erase her memory. “Your underwear was torn. Did you- let him?” I knew she was searching for the words, she had them, but she couldn’t ask her husband if he had sex with a boy.

I shook my head fervently, but it increased the throbbing in my skull, so I stopped abruptly. “I was under a spell. I know everything now, Amélie, and I know how we can reverse it.”

I heard voices in the corridor. My parents. My father was having a passionate discussion about the state of education with my principal.

I turned and looked at Amélie viciously, “What the hell is he doing here?” Amélie wilted momentarily under my severe gaze, but she regained her composure quickly.

She replied evenly, “I called him. I thought he might know where you were. I went with Alyssa to Flanagans, but you had already left. I called him after that, asking him if he knew where else that boy might take you. We drove all over town looking for you. He insisted on coming to the hospital to make sure you were alright. Alyssa and her mom are waiting for you too. You know, Darren, for all the walls you put up, you sure have a lot of people who care about you.” Ethan wasn’t out there?

I sneered, “The only thing St. Valentin cares about is replacing me. He’s only here because you are vulnerable.”

Amélie closed her eyes momentarily and then said calmly, “Tell me- tell me about how you think we can reverse this. Because I’m looking at you, Darren, and every day I see less of you in her. It’s like that drop of water between us at the beginning of this, it’s turning into an ocean. I can’t reach you anymore. You don’t listen to me. You- missed curfew t-to fool around in a car. The doctor said that you were drinking too. You had a lot of alcohol in your system. Are you doing this to spite me because of Martin? Because of what’s happened to you? These aren’t decisions Darren Lawrence would ever make.”

I nodded, Amélie’s words striking my pride and rage like well-placed surface to air missiles hitting their target. “I told you, I was under a spell. This whole thing is because of this massive conspiracy to control the world’s population through popular culture. It’s called the Sidereus Prophecy, and I’ve been chosen to become this brainwashing pop star. I know it sounds like the worst excuse in the world, but it’s true. Please just let me explain.”

Amélie stared at me, her husband, with incredulity and sadness. She shook her head, “Look- Darren, I know you like boys. I’ve accepted this. You don’t need to make up this ridiculous story about a cure or this even more fantastical and frankly, insulting excuse. You made a mistake, and you got lucky, extremely lucky. I know you’ve been through a lot tonight, but please, just tell me the truth. Mrs. Warner is out there. She called the house and asked to speak to you, I said you were at Alyssa’s, and I now I look like a liar- that I am covering for you.”

She continued, “You need to just come clean to me. Don’t make up any excuses for it. Because if you don’t- I’m really worried what’s going to happen to you. She already thinks I am a terrible guardian, and now- I’ve let you out of the house, you got drunk and were nearly raped, and you were assaulted and drugged. I think everything is just a dream you had, Darren. It was probably the alcohol and the drugs. This Prophecy, forget it. We need to be grounded in reality here. I think I’m in real danger of losing you.”

I shook my head, “No, listen, it’s going to be alright. Mama Khalia, she’s sending another spell. You can be my second, Amélie.”

Amélie looked frustrated. She hung her head and wrung her hands, something I had never seen her do before. “How do you know that? The woman doesn’t even have a phone. You said you only wrote to her a few weeks ago.”

I replied gently, “From my dream, I know it. Listen please, everything that’s happened to me, it’s all for a reason. You know that school registration letter? Well how did the school know I even existed? I don’t have a birth certificate, school records or anything. Well the Sidereus Agency, they sent the letter so that I would have to go to St. Jo’s. They needed me to go there so I would meet this guy, Alexandre. Real douche bag creep. Well his father is a record producer, and he was supposed to have discovered me and offered me a contract. They made me like him and basically throw myself at him so I could meet his dad and fulfil the Prophecy. That’s why I let Alexandre do those things to me, I wasn’t in control of my body.”

Amélie sighed, “Martin thinks it was because of your hearing. When the Crown was gathering evidence, they went to all the area high schools and because you were in their district, St. Jo’s sent you- well me the registration letter. It’s really very simple, but we need to hurry here, you need to tell me the truth before Warner gets her claws into you.”

She continued, “Girls your age, they make mistakes with guys, especially older guys. They don’t see their flaws, and factor in the alcohol, well it was just a lot of wrong choices. That’s what we need to tell Warner. You can’t tell anyone the other story. Maybe we can revisit it when you aren’t on painkillers. We need to get our story straight here. She wanted to speak with you as soon as you woke up.”

Rage filled me. I felt it from my toes into my eyeballs as they boiled in my skull. “Maybe!? Maybe?! How else do you explain what happened to me? How, Amélie? So you believe this (I motioned at my body) happened to me, but not what I am telling you. It was real, and I need your support here, if you won’t give it to me, then get the hell out. Tell my parents to come in here. Stop treating me like a goddamn kid!”

Amélie said harshly, “Shhh! You’ll bring Warner in here. Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you Darren, just that for the social worker, you need something concrete. You need to just say that you were stupid, you liked this guy a lot, he had a really nice car, and you wanted to impress him, so you got your friend to help you get dressed and met him in a bar. You got drunk, another mistake you will fess up to. In the meantime, you need to tell her that I had absolutely no part in this. That this was entirely planned by you and your friend. And have you seen yourself, Darren? Your legs and arms are all bandaged. Warner threatened me with a court order for your removal. W-we are hanging on by a thread here.”

I felt like Amélie was simply humouring me to convince me to go along with her story. I really didn’t feel like Amélie believed me at all, but it was so far-fetched, even beyond a grown man becoming a teenage girl. It seemed that Mr. Atwater was right, I could tell anyone, but would they believe me? My own wife was looking at me like the painkillers were putting fanciful thoughts in my head.

Amélie asked, “So, will you stick to that story?” I shrugged but nodded nonetheless.

A doctor entered a few moments later. He took my vitals and then Mrs. Warner was allowed to enter. She rushed to my bedside and cast a withering glare at Amélie, “Ms. Grenier, you were supposed to call me in the moment Abigail woke up. This will not put you in a favourable light in the report, Ms. Grenier. Have you contacted the girl’s parents?”

Amélie nodded her head, “Yes, they are on their way, but they won’t be here for another few hours.”

Mrs. Warner nodded and said brusquely, “Out you go then. I will let you know when you can return.”

Mrs. Warner approached my bedside. She looked at me with great sympathy, her mouth drooped in a deep frown. “You poor girl. How are you feeling, Abigail?”

I replied, “Tired. My head hurts a lot, but I can’t feel much else.”

She nodded, “I spoke to your friend, Alyssa. She’s very worried about you. So tell me about your plans to meet this boy. Who had the idea?”

I replied, “It was mine.”

Mrs. Warner furrowed her brow and wrote in her notebook, “From what Alyssa said, you left the house and your sister was still home. Did she see how you were dressed?”

I shook my head, “I don’t think so.”

She asked, “When you go out, does your sister usually ask you where you are going?”

I nodded, “Always.”

Mrs. Warner raised a brow, “But this time, she didn’t? Why didn’t she ask you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know. Did you ask her?” My last words had a hint of sass to them.

Mrs. Warner shook her head, “This is very serious, young lady. And, you need to treat it that way. I can tell you that if you were my daughter, I would never allow you to leave the house as you did.” I was in a hospital gown, but my micro-mini skirt and halter top lay on a small bedside table, along with my ripped panties.

Mrs. Warner said, “Your friend, Alyssa, she told me that your sister was very busy with your niece. As you were sneaking out with her, you even said goodbye, but your sister didn’t seem to notice how you were dressed, and if she did, she ignored it.”

I shrugged, “I really don’t know. I admit that I did sneak out, and I told Amélie that I was going to Alyssa’s. At nine, I texted her to tell her that I was sleeping over at Alyssa’s. I asked Alyssa to lie for me, pretend I was at her place. Look, it was a really stupid mistake. I just really liked this guy, and I knew that he would think I was really lame if I asked him to take me home at nine. My sister didn’t know about any of this. If you look on my phone, as soon as she found out I wasn’t at home, she called my phone and texted me asking where I was.”

I added, “She even called my principal because she thought he might know where the kids hang out, you know?”

Mrs. Warner nodded slowly, “Yes, I can understand that. I would be beside myself with worry if my daughter did that. Those are all the questions I have for you, Abigail. I hope you start feeling better soon, and that you learn from your mistake.”

I asked with wide eyes, concern etched on my features, “Are you going to take me away from my sister, Mrs. Warner?”

She replied gently but firmly, “It’s not my decision to make, Abigail. I’ll take my report to my supervisor and he, along with a board of social workers, will discuss your case. Then they’ll decide what’s best for you.” She walked out of the room, and Amélie re-entered. I relayed my conversation with Mrs. Warner, and Amélie frowned.

She said, “From what I can tell, this profile she is creating, it paints you as an unruly child, and me as an incompetent guardian. Your friend Alyssa, she’s nice, but she told Warner that I was probably too busy trying to stop Chloe’s tantrums and that’s why you and her were able to leave without me really noticing. It’s not good, Darren. You need to be an angel in school until this profile is done. No more playing rebel.”

My parents came in, my mother hugging me like I had a terminal disease and would die tomorrow. I didn’t tell my parents about my dream. Not after the reception I received from Amélie. I would wait until my head was clearer, then my words would not be judged by the drugs flowing into me through the IV.

A few minutes later Alyssa came in, and she also hugged me tightly. I was actually happy to see her, but I was disappointed that Ethan hadn’t come. I figured he was still mad at me for breaking our ‘date’.

Alyssa said, “Oh my god, Abby, are you OK? I’m sorry I had to tell your sister where you were. I just didn’t trust Alexandre. Not after what happened with Véronique.”

I nodded and smiled gently, “Um- it’s OK Alyssa. I’m really glad you did. I wasn’t myself. And listen, I’m really sorry too. I treated you badly. I’ll never do that again. I’m done with Alexandre anyway.”

Alyssa leaned in and hugged me tightly again, “Really? That’s great! I guess I just let you treat me that way because it’s how Véronique did it. Fell into um…”

I smirked, “Old habits? Yeah, well I won’t do that to you again.” My expression grew more serious, I looked at Alyssa with anticipation, “What about Ethan? I looked at my phone, and he’s pretty mad. I texted to say sorry but he didn’t answer back.”

Alyssa nodded slowly, “Yeah, well you know, he’s the one who called the police? I was texting him back and forth. Um, I kinda told him that you had gone out with Alexandre. He didn’t text me back for a few minutes, and then he asked me where you guys went. I guess he rode his bike to Flanagans. He said that he saw Alexandre throw you in the back of his car and then drive off. Saw you pull into the marina. I told him to leave, you know give you some privacy. But he wouldn’t. He stayed. Um- he might have saved your life. When those bikers were trying to break into the car, he called the police.”

I sighed heavily, “He did- he did save it. I don’t want to tell you what those bikers had planned for me.”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, he probably did. The police caught the bikers though, and they stopped to question Alexandre. He was taken to the police station I think. Ethan said that he pulled this gross rag off your face and you were bleeding and had glass all over. He was trying to wake you up. He might be at the police station too. Not sure. He hasn’t answered any of my texts for a few hours.”

Alyssa smiled, “It’s really romantic, like he’s a real hero. I know he likes you. He’ll come around, Abby.”

I stayed quiet, but the knowledge of Ethan’s heroism threatened to turn my crush into legitimate lasting feelings. This boy cared so much for me, it was hard to ignore. I really wanted him there. Maybe Mr. Atwater was right. Nature wasn’t only running its course, it was crushing me like a monster truck over a line of soon-to-be demolished wrecks.

Alyssa asked, “Can you believe that Principal St-Valentin is here? He was in the car when we were looking for you. By the time we got to the marina, the ambulance was already there. He’s actually a really chill guy. He seemed really worried about you.”

I shrugged, “I just think he’s interested in my sister. Um, listen- did he, did he do anything to make you think that he likes Amélie?”

Alyssa frowned, “Well not really. I mean they weren’t holding hands or anything, but they looked at each other lots. I don’t know if it was because they were worried about you or what. I know you want Darren and sister to stay together. It must be hard with him in Vancouver?” I had previously told Alyssa about why ‘Darren’ didn’t live with Amélie.

Alyssa’s frown deepened, “I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know how much it can suck. You seem really close to Darren and your sister of course. I want my parents to get back together. Maybe you should tell him what’s happening. Like then he’ll come back home because he’s realizing what he’s losing. Sometimes I picture my dad doing that. You know, coming back and giving my mom flowers, and they are back together. My brother says I am being stupid.”

I shook my head, “You aren’t being stupid Alyssa. I think it’s a nice thought. It gives you hope. There’s always a chance they could get back together.”

Alyssa’s face brightened, “Yeah? I should tell my mom how I feel. Maybe then she’ll talk to my dad. I haven’t really actually talked to her about it since it happened. I was too mad.”

Alyssa left a few minutes later. I took my phone and texted Ethan:

Me: Hey, you still good for band tomorrow? Getting excited about the show?

Nothing. It was seven in the morning.

I texted him again a few minutes later:

Me: I’m really sorry I didn’t show up. I made a really stupid mistake with Alexandre. So I’ll see you tomorrow at band?

Once again nothing, fifteen minutes later, the nurse came into my room and replaced my IV, a few minutes later, I was sleeping.
***

I was released from the hospital late Saturday afternoon. I slept from the early morning to noon, and then again until about 4:30 PM. My parents and Amélie had stayed. I learned that my sister was staying with Chloe. I couldn’t believe how long I slept, but then the potent chemical that the Rock Machine combined with the alcohol in my system had caused a near comatose state. The after effects? The worst hangover of my life, and even with the painkillers, my head still throbbed. Thankfully, the ill effects had left, so the doctor felt comfortable releasing me. The shards of glass that punctured my skin left only small cuts along my arms and legs. The doctor explained that automotive glass, when shattered, breaks into tiny pieces to reduce the risk of injury. He said that I would likely still be picking little flecks of glass out of my skin for the next few days.

With the show next week, I knew that we had to practice, so I texted Andrew and Steven on the way home from the hospital. I had received worried texts from them. Amélie had told them I was missing.

Andrew called me after dinner. I had call display, so I knew it was him.

I said, “Hey, so you good for tomorrow?”

Andrew paused and then said, “I think it’s probably a good idea that we take a break this weekend. We’ll practice on Wednesday like we planned. You’ve been through a lot.”

I sighed, “How much did Amélie tell you?”

Andrew said, “Just that you were missing. They found you hurt.”

I nodded, “Yeah, well I’m OK now. We really need to practice. I want us to be seamless for the show.”

Andrew replied, “Alright, if you really think you are up for it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sunday morning, I slept in until noon, my body still exhausted. Amélie woke me up with a frown on her face, “Darren, when were you planning on doing your homework? You know parent teacher interviews are this week too right? I don’t want any of your teachers telling me you are getting lazy with your school work. With Warner watching us so closely, you have to be perfectly behaved, and you need to do your homework. Don’t give her anymore ammunition.” My body felt heavy and my limbs wooden.

I turned over again and groaned, “Uhh…after band. Just lemme sleep- fifteen more minutes…” I heard Amélie’s exasperated sigh.

She replied, “Isn’t it supposed to start at one? It’s after noon. I really think you should rest today. You aren’t a hundred percent. I’ll call the guys, you just rest, OK?”

I shot up in bed, “No way, listen- we need to practice. The show has to be perfect.”

Amélie frowned, “You put way too much pressure on yourself. All you can do is prepare and play the songs. Even the professionals, they don’t expect perfection. Remember when we saw Metallica? The drummer, he lost time in “Battery”. It happens to the best.”

I sighed and peered at my phone. Ethan still hadn’t called or texted back. We couldn’t have band without him either. From Friday night’s escapades, the alcohol and the chemicals, I was still exhausted, but the fact that Ethan hadn’t contacted me drained me further.

Amélie wore a concerned expression, her mouth tight and her brows gently furrowed, “Are you OK, Darren? Did you want to talk?”

I said, “It’s too embarrassing.”

I hid under my covers and lay there, hoping that my wife would go away. I couldn’t tell Amélie that I was actually pining for Ethan, and now that he was ignoring me, I wanted him even more. I was developing feelings for Ethan that went beyond exchanging awkward glances, feeling my heart flutter at the sight of him or wanting him to hold my hand. I was beginning to see him not only as a crush, but as a whole person, and I liked that person- a lot. I remained conflicted, fearing that if I acted on such impulses I would permanently lose my wife to my principal. I knew that I had to attempt the spell soon or I would be permanently lost within a teenage dream that was quickly becoming a reality. Once again, Mr. Atwater’s words had rung true. Was he still controlling me?

The feeling lacked the obsessive flavour of my union with Alexandre. With Ethan, I didn’t feel like I needed to be anything but myself. I also didn’t have the desire to deface my body with his name. During our date, it had crossed my mind. If Alexandre had suggested I get a tattoo, and specifically, his name on my ass, like some type of prized heifer, I would have allowed it. My bond with Alexandre was completely artificial. With Ethan, I felt like I had the choice, and I was making it freely.

Eventually, Amélie left, but not before saying, “Don’t forget to do your homework.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon penning a letter to Mama Khalia, telling her of the Sidereus Prophecy, my dream, Mr. Atwater, and again, my feeling that if she didn’t help me soon, my adult existence would be completely undone. That evening, as I did my homework, I found myself checking my phone. The little pink device vibrated, but it was only Alyssa, asking me for an update. I went to sleep that night saddened at the lack of contact, and annoyed that I couldn’t get the boy off my mind. I looked at the gold band on my ring finger, the object that ended the disease known as the ‘boy crazies’ on many occasions, but it didn’t work anymore.

Before I considered my wife and I ‘estranged’, and it was fitting considering we were separated by a phenomenon that had previously been impossible to explain. Now, I knew that my marriage was really over, with Amélie slowly moving on, and me unable to stop thinking about a boy. It should have bothered me more, it should have pierced my core, filling me with dread and extreme sadness, but Ethan’s silence weighed more heavily. As I finally drifted off to sleep, I could have sworn I saw Mr. Atwater wearing that sardonic smile. He whispered, “I told you so, Abby. Didn’t I?”
***

I woke up grumpy on Monday, Alyssa’s incessant prattle at our lockers was driving me crazy. She said, “Can you believe the way Adriana left Miles? It was brutal. She’s like such a bitch. I can’t stand her. She says all these nice things about him and then goes and sleeps with his best friend. And she like totally knows that Miles is crazy about her. And she posts T.J. and her making out on Facebook. Hey, Abby- Earth to Abby. Are you listening to me?”

I was beginning to think that Mr. Atwater had lied and that the girl really was a plant, she unknowingly worked toward fulfilling the Sidereus Prophecy by turning my grey matter into a pop culture saturated paste.

I barked, “Can’t we talk about something intelligent? Must you always go on and on about those shows all the time? You know if you actually sat down and worked on your homework, you would be doing a lot better in school. I wouldn’t need to help you so much.”

Alyssa’s bottom lip stuck way out and trembled, like a child. I huffed, “You can’t just do that every time and expect that I’m going to stop being mad at you. Come on. Can’t you be serious for one second?”

Alyssa frowned, “Ethan still isn’t talking to you?”

I felt a presence behind me, and when I turned around, I saw a towering yet apologetic Alexandre. His eyes were downcast, and his shoulders slumped. The moment Alyssa saw him, she gave him a venomous glare. It was clear that she felt protective of me. I hadn’t told her the specifics, but I assumed she saw my torn panties when she visited me in the hospital. She also knew what had happened to Véronique.

Alyssa’s normally bright smile was replaced with a slightly curled lip and heavily furrowed brows. She said, “Get lost you creep. Nothing you can say will make up for what you did. You had your chance to be a hero, but you ran.”

He mumbled, «I know, I feel terrible about this. I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. I know nothing I say will change your mind about me, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. »

Alyssa raised her voice, “You are right about that. Just leave us alone, Alexandre.”

He replied, «I know, I just wanted to tell you that I’m…going to start seeing a counsellor. I’m taking your advice. You helped me see that. »

I raised a brow and narrowed my eyes, “I’m glad that you almost raping me let you realize that.” My statement, dripping with sarcasm, wounded the towering figure. His shoulders slumped further and he closed his eyes momentarily. He sighed deeply.

He replied, «Look if you still wanted to meet my dad, you can. No strings attached or anything. I know that you are in that band, he might be able to help you guys. »

Alyssa said, “She doesn’t want your help, Alexandre.”

I was surprised how aggressive Alyssa was being. She was speaking for me. Was it really possible that I felt bad for Alexandre? He still had the choice to become a misogynistic prick, but the Prophecy had certainly helped shape him. Like me, he was a victim of the Sidereus Prophecy, but he had chosen a twisted path, and without the intense attraction that practically drew me to him like a magnet, he was nothing but a pathetic man-child trapped within a hulking frame.

I said, “No thanks, Alexandre. Um, I’m glad you are getting help.”

I should have been screaming at the boy, pounding his chest with my fists and shouting obscenities, but I realized that I did have sympathy for the wounded giant. Alexandre plodded away pathetically as if his sneakers were filled with lead.

Alyssa looked at me in shock, “Abby, how come you were being so nice to him? Oh my god, you don’t still like him, do you?”

I shook my head repeatedly and threw up my hands, “No, no way! It’s just he’s got another side beyond caveman. I guess a lot of girls used him in the past when they found out who his dad was.”

Alyssa shook her head, “I know what he did to Véronique, Abby. And it sounds like the same thing he did to you. I don’t feel bad for him at all. I can’t believe that you do. So what if he was used by those girls, so he gets to do those things without being punished? Come on, Abby. Just forget him.”

I nodded, “Yeah. I guess you are right.”

Alyssa smiled, “Good. Now for your show on Saturday night, will you let me do your hair and make-up? Pleeeeeease?”

I shook my head, “I think I’ve got it covered.”

Alyssa pushed out her lower lip again and forced it to tremble, “Are you sure? I’ll make it so that Ethan can’t keep his eyes off you.” The warning bell went off, indicating we had five minutes to get to class.

I rolled my eyes, “Very sure. Now, we should head to class.”

I was starting to think I should try and distance myself from Alyssa, considering her attempts to fully feminize me, but even as I tried throughout the day, she returned to my side faithfully. I was outright rude to her at lunch when I told her I didn’t want to talk about Instant Star anymore, that it was an insipid and inane show, and she just blamed it on the fact that Ethan still wasn’t talking to me. I pushed her away, but she shot back at me like a boomerang I wasn’t ready to catch.

Again, Mr. Atwater’s words were prophetic. The confidence that I had instilled in Alyssa was beginning to change the dynamics in our relationship. She was taking a more active role in determining what we talked about, listened to and watched. I doubted that if I made a concerted effort to detach Alyssa from my hip that I would be successful. She said that I really needed a friend, and she wouldn’t let me push her away, especially in light of what happened with Alexandre.

All day, I had also done my best to make contact with Ethan, but he dodged all my attempts. The only time I managed even eye contact was in science class, but he quickly looked away. I saw the hurt on his face and in his eyes. As much as I knew the fate of the band hung in the balance, I was equally concerned for my relationship with Ethan, even though I would have admitted that to no one.

Finally, I managed to corner him at the end of the day by his locker.

I said sheepishly, “Hey, um- could we talk?” I hid my hands behind my back because I kept fidgeting nervously.

Ethan turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. His silence wasn’t heartening, but he hadn’t fled, so I viewed that as a positive. He looked down at me with a mixture of sadness and anger, his mouth and jaw were tight, unflinching.

I said, “Look, I’m really, really sorry. I just want to let you know that Alexandre means nothing to me.”

He shook his head, “I don’t understand you, Abby. Sometimes I think you really like me, but then when you are around Alexandre, it’s like you are a different person. You say that you hate Alexandre, but you let him touch you. I’m fed up with it. I’m tired of being your second choice.”

I frowned deeply, my chest tightening, I felt that lump in my throat. Oh god, I cannot cry in front of him. I muttered, “You aren’t my second choice. I just made a really big mistake. I hear what you did for me too, it was amazing. Thank you.”

He asked, “Why didn’t you come to my place on Friday?”

I said, “I d-don’t really know. I wanted to, but-”

Ethan said, “But, you were too busy getting felt up by Alexandre. I know what happened. Like, you said, I was there. I didn’t look in the window or anything, but I knew- I knew what you were doing in his car.”

Ethan sighed, “Just like Véronique.”

I narrowed my eyes and tightened my jaw, “I’m nothing like her.”

Ethan said, pain clearly gracing his boyish features, “You are exactly like her. Alyssa told me how you bossed her around and asked for her help getting ready for your date with that asshole. You are like her because when someone better came along, you chose him. Anyway, this is turning into a shitty teen drama. So, I’m just going to say, I can’t do it anymore.”

He said, “Go to the guy that treats you like shit. That treats you like a fucking prostitute. I hope you choke on it.” With those words, Ethan walked away from me, but he turned back momentarily, and my heart filled with hope.

He said, “I’m out of the band too.”

I pleaded with him, “But- but you know how important this is! It’s a big show with great downtown exposure. You know how important it is to me. I thought you felt that way too, you know I hoped that even if it didn’t work out between us that we could- you know still be band mates.”

He said, “Guess you thought wrong.”

If there had been no previous evidence of my regression and loss of masculinity, the next few minutes produced copious amounts. I fled to the washroom and silently wept, and when I was steady enough to avoid a public outburst, I waited for the bus while listening to Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away” on loop, and then all the way home. The song spoke of a romance, which was something Ethan and I never had, but it did nothing to lessen the pain. It discussed a blossoming teenage love that died, with the girl in the song realizing only too late what she had lost. While Ethan hadn’t moved on yet, it still hurt, and I held onto the lyrics for comfort like a child clutches a teddy bear as she peers into the unknown dark.

There was no one in the world that could have denied that my actions were those of a fifteen year old girl.
***

School on Tuesday was tortuous. I silently wished that Ethan would be transferred out of all my classes, so I wouldn’t have to look at the boy that was causing me such pain. I was wholly unprepared for the feelings associated with teenage heart ache. I was beginning to think that Alyssa’s adolescent dramas were not too far from the truth. He was all I could think about, and it seemed like he was all that mattered. Something was seriously wrong with me, and again, I started to think that it was Mr. Atwater subtly pulling my strings.

Tuesday evening brought a priority post letter from Mama Khalia, and my potential salvation. Its existence managed to divert my mind away from its obsession, and I quickly called my parents to discuss the results. Ethan did not leave my mind entirely, but he was relegated to the second tier of my thoughts.

My parents arrived after dinner, and we all settled around the table to discuss Mama Khalia’s letter. I explained the letter, which I had read immediately upon my return home.

I said, “According to Mama Khalia, there is another way that I might succeed in returning to as she called it my “proper mortal form”. The ritual that I previously sent can be completed with a second. Simply place the chosen second within the circle and the spirit will focus the assault on them. She says, “Be warned, that the second is only safe from the spirit if they do not live in sin.”

My father said, “So, we are dealing with the same issue. The second has to be completely innocent. But are we looking at ancient Biblical sin or some other type of religious sin? If we consider that all of us in our adult lives have probably done something that we are not proud of, the only individual who is completely without sin is Chloe.”

Amélie looked at my father with shock, “Richard, I hope you are not considering making Chloe the second. I won’t allow it, it’s too much of a risk. What if something goes wrong? Then I will have lost my husband and my daughter.” Amélie looked at everyone around the table fiercely. Chloe broke the tension by cutely announcing her name was in fact Chloe. She smiled as we said her name.

My father shook his head, “Absolutely not. I would never suggest that we put Chloe in such danger. The risk is too great, and we still have no evidence that suggests the spell was ever cast successfully.”

My mother said, “I’ll do it. I can’t stand to see my son this way.”

My father looked on in disbelief, “N-no, Pam. You can’t. I think-“

My mother interrupted, “You don’t understand. I see Darren come home from school every day. I am starting not to recognize him. When I picked him up for that dentist appointment last week, he was talking to Alyssa and some other girls in the school yard. I couldn’t tell them apart. We have to help him, or we are going to lose him.”

She continued, “I’m willing to volunteer.”

I considered my mother a very good person. She was loving, and she deeply cared about others. I think my change was particularly hard for her because I was a momma’s boy and likely her favourite. When she brought me to pre-school, I used to cry in her absence. She made such a fuss though, hugging me tightly and looking despondent and terribly guilty for leaving me there. I obviously fed off of this, which annoyed the childcare workers to no end.

Even into adulthood, I think I was her favourite. I don’t know if my mother still had emotional scars from her battles with my sister through her adolescence, but she always seemed happier to see me, and she still doted on me, baking me chocolate chip cookies and bringing her homemade spaghetti sauce that I loved.

I was tremendously conflicted. Amélie looked at me expectantly, looking for me to side with her and my father. I hated the idea of putting my mother in any danger. Fear crept into me, tightening my chest and making it hard to swallow. The woman who had given birth to me was willing to be my salvation, but I didn’t think she was completely without sin. My father was right, none of us, save Chloe, were absolute saints.

We had all had moments of wrath, my father kicking in the headlight of a car that nearly hit him. Amélie swearing at a meter maid, or throwing her glass in a drunken rage at a bartender when he refused to fill it. My mother herself had screamed at the phone company on several occasions, so much so they our file was red flagged. I had a customer service representative actually ask me not to put her back on the phone during a particularly heated support call.

As desperate as I was, I realized that I wasn’t willing to let any family member act as a potential sacrifice. I took my mother’s hand and said gently, “No, Mom. I won’t let you do that. We don’t know what it will do to you. The last time I tried the spell, the spirit felt around in my head. I think it was trying to access my memories. I know that you are a really good person Mom, but we’ve all had our moments. Anything could happen to you. I just- I can’t do it. I’d never forgive myself.”

The adults around the table looked at me with reverence, but also, a melancholic understanding. If I was unwilling to sacrifice anyone, then I was going to be Abigail for the rest of my life.

Chloe watched those assembled at the table with curiosity. I peered down at her, and she ambled into my lap. She looked up at me with big hazel eyes, Darren’s eyes, and asked, “Daddy’s sad?” I hugged her fiercely, and she returned it.

Amélie broke the silence, “So, what do we do about this so-called Prophecy? Even if you are trapped like that, Darren- you- you should be able to choose what you want to be.

I stared at Amélie in disbelief, “You mean you believe me now? You don’t think I’m crazy or that it was the medication they had me on?

Amélie shook her head, “I don’t think you are crazy, Darren. You predicted exactly what Mama Khalia was going to send. I believe you now. I’m sorry, I didn’t before.”

I nodded, “Yeah, well it’s pretty unbelievable. I admit that even I had a hard time accepting that what I was seeing wasn’t a drug addled dream at first.”

My father said, “I believe you too. If this can happen to my son, then anything is possible. How can we break the chain of the Prophecy though? From what you told us, this Mr. Atwater means business. Maybe you should quit music altogether. Then there’s no chance you’ll ever be ‘discovered’.”

I replied, “It goes beyond that, Dad. Eventually, I’m going to be called back to that place, but in the meantime, he said he is going to give me reasons to sign the contract. I don’t have to be discovered, I just have to sign.”

My mother asked with a frown, “What happens if you refuse to sign?”

I sighed, “Those are the reasons I was talking about. He threatened to take away all my knowledge, like all my university courses. He did something to me after that, but I can’t really remember what exactly. It’s really fuzzy.”

My mother said, “Do you think you could make a deal with him, what if you agreed to sign, but only if he turned you back?”

I shook my head, “Apparently, the world wants a pop princess. I can’t imagine why. There are an abundance of them as far as I’m concerned. So no, that’s not going to work. I really wish I could get my hands on that contract.” I looked to Amélie, “I’d have you read it to see if there are any loopholes in it.”

I said, “For now, I say we find out as much as we can about the Sidereus Prophecy. I’ve already sent a letter to Mama Khalia, but we can’t be the only ones who have ever tried to break the chain. I’m sure there’s information somewhere on it.”

Later that night, after my parents had left, Amélie came into my room and sat on the bed.

She asked, “Are you really okay with this, Darren? You have no idea how much respect I have for you because of that. You know, I’ve been really hard on you lately. I was just worried that I was losing you in more than just body. That decision you made- it was really mature. It’s the decision the Darren Lawrence I know would have made. I’m proud of you.”

I nodded slowly, “Thanks, Amélie.”

Amélie left, and I was alone with my thoughts. The ramifications of my decision to forgo casting the spell had not fully sunk in yet, and my mind turned to the upcoming show and Ethan. I texted Andrew and Steven telling them I wasn’t sure if Ethan would be able to make it tomorrow. Steven texted back, citing his concern that the show was on Saturday, and we hadn’t practiced in more than a week. I told them nothing about Ethan’s actual departure. A few minutes later, Ethan texted me, my heart rose, lifted by winds to rest atop a wonderful dream, but as I read the words, I lay on my bed, clutching my beige teddy bear close to my chest.

Ethan: coming to get gear 2morrow

I needed advice, and instead of turning to my parents or Amélie, I texted Alyssa.

Me: hey, do you have a few minutes?
Alyssa: hey girl! =) yah i do
Me: I need some advice
Alyssa: oooh rlly? k so miss advise wants some k k i dont know if i can help but ill try
Me: What do you mean Miss Advice?
Alyssa: u r always giving people advice like last week u were explain to ryan how he should think about being a carpenter or whatever cus hes good with his hands his parents want him to go to uni
Alyssa: lol u said something like the BA is the same as HS diluted cus every1 has 1 now
Alyssa: how do u know about all that stuff abby u sound like a guidence counseller
Me: Because I actually went to university, I understand how a BA is only a stepping stone, didn’t you know I’m really in my thirties?
Alyssa: rofl jus cus i say u act 30 doesnt make it tru
Alyssa: so what do u need to ask me i bet i know
Alyssa: its bout ethan isnt it
Me: Maybe
Alyssa: lol i knew it im sichic
Me: Has he talked to you at all? You know, about me?
Alyssa: srry no girl =(
Alyssa: we r so close now i guess he mad at me like thru ?
Me: Association. Anyway, you know about the show. I need to get him back in the band.
Alyssa: u sure its for that reason and not a different 1 ^_-
Alyssa: jus admit it abby u like him a lot if u didnt then youd jus get some1 else to be in the band
Alyssa: u act rlly tough all the time like stuff doesnt bother u but i know this does
Alyssa: have u cried
Me: Yeah I guess
Me: I guess I almost did again a few minutes ago, he’s coming for his stuff tomorrow, he really wants out of the band
Alyssa: have u cried when any1 else left a band u were in
Me: No
Alyssa: its ok to cry abby u r really strong strongsest girl i know but this is gonna be hard rlly hard
Alyssa: i think u want him in ur life not only band hes special to u
Me: Maybe I do, but he saw Alexandre and me in the car, he’s never going to forgive me
Alyssa: u remember in instant star when vincent saw tommy kissing jude in the recording booth
Alyssa: and no matter what jude said vincent wouldnt forgive her told him that tommy was the 1 who kissed her
Alyssa: u remember what she did
Me: She kissed him, but come on Alyssa, this is real life. That’s just a TV show. You can’t expect stuff like that really happens. I’m not going to kiss him
Alyssa: u want to show him u care about him that he was the 1 u wanted not alexandre pervert boy
Alyssa: then kiss him i know its just a show but it might work
Alyssa: crying in ur room wont do anything i know ethan he wont jus forgive out of the blue he stubbern u need to really show him kiss him girl =)
Alyssa: if u dont then youll never know

As I read Alyssa’s words, I was reminded of the lyrics from “The One That Got Away”, which my stupid music player showed that I had played twenty two times since that fateful Monday afternoon. The chorus played over and over in my head, “And in another life, I would make you stay/So I don’t have to say you were the one that got away”, and I started to actually buy into Alyssa’s advice. What if this was my last chance with Ethan? As I considered following the advice, a part of me realized that if I did so, I was relinquishing my reason and logic by living within the teenage moment. Fearing that the boy would disappear into thin air or that he would move to Peru. Still, what if it really was my last chance?

Reason screamed in my mind, reminding me that we still went to the same school. We would still see each other every day. Reason told me to take my time, and when the time was right, try again and explain my side of the story. The thought of Véronique or any other pretty girl getting his attention caused a shadow to appear over my heart, filling me with despair, and at the same time- rage, bloody murderous. I looked down at my phone and took a deep breath. I was losing it.

Alyssa: u there still abby
Me: Yeah
Alyssa: thought u feel asleep or something lol
Me: No just thinking
Alyssa: lol u think too much jus do it dont think
Alyssa: ethan is a grate guy u know i saw him talking to rachel at his locker
Alyssa: u r going to lose him by the time u figure it out ull b 30 lol
Me: He and Rachel are in a group for Career Studies that’s probably why
Me: What if I kiss him and he pushes me away?
Alyssa: then at least ull know
Alyssa: so are u going to do it?????????????? =)
Me: I’ll think about him
Alyssa: lol =) ull think about him? K k
Me: I mean I’ll think about it!
Alyssa: lol sure sure i know what u meant
Alyssa: ugh PLOS (* I later learned this meant Parent Looking Over Shoulder)
Me: Huh?
Alyssa: srry mom was trying to see what I was typing ugh she wants me to gtb
Alyssa: i told her that it was an emergency so i could stay up l8
Alyssa: hey we should totally have a sleepover fri night then i can get you ready sat for the show!
Me: I’ll think about it
Alyssa: guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh u r killing me abby
Alyssa: im thinking about dragging u over here anyway lol
Alyssa: now im thinking about the ice cream we will eat and thinking instant star marathon!!!!!
Alyssa: ugh mom is such a pian!!!!!1!1 gtg love you MUAH MUAH

Before I went to sleep, the “One That Got Away” got its twenty-third play as I hugged the teddy bear tightly.
***

“Hi Mrs. Grenier, um- I-I’m here to get my stuff.” I had been dreading this moment all day. Alyssa had needled me for a good part of the day in person and in text, wondering if I had made up my mind. I went through what I was going to say to him, whether I would just let him go without even saying goodbye. I was reminded again that we shared four classes together, but if he left the band and screwed us over for the show on Saturday, I doubted that I would ever be able to forgive him.

My bandmates would be furious with me. I was the one who suggested Ethan join the band in the first place. I figured that Steven would leave the band, fed up with the teenage drama. Andrew would likely stay with me, but we would always have difficulty finding members that weren’t in my peer group. I hated the idea of the band breaking up because it meant failure. All the work we had done, the lyrics, the melodies, the year we had spent crafting the songs before my transformation, it was all a waste.

Amélie said, “Oh okay, Ethan. You can go right down. I think Abigail is downstairs.” I hid just underneath the stairs in the storage closet. It allowed me to hear everything.

Ethan replied, “Um- it’s okay. I don’t need to talk to her. I mean I don’t need to bother her. Just need to grab my stuff.” His voice wavered, and it made me think I would be able to convince him to at least stay for this show.

Amélie asked, “Everything okay? Getting excited for the show on Saturday?”

Ethan said, “Sure yeah. Sorry, I’m kind of in a hurry.” I heard footsteps, and then a creaking as the band doors opened.

I slipped into the band room as quietly as possible, but my ninja-like movement would have been far more successful if I hadn’t tripped on a loose quarter inch cable. Andrew insisted we tape all of the cables down, but with our gear in flux due to the show on Saturday, there were a lot of loose cables. I snaked my arm out and caught my mic stand, but it wasn’t steady enough to stop my momentum completely. Any attempt at a graceful landing was out of the question as my hand slid down the base of the mic stand, and I landed in an awkward, tangled heap. My fall was broken partially by my guitar case, which was thankfully (for my guitar) a hard shell.

Ethan, who had been fiddling with his guitar amp, turned around and asked, “Are you OK?”

I covered my face, which at this point, was bright red, and nodded my head, “Yeah.” My fall had apparently lightened his mood enough that I saw a tiny smirk appear on his face for an instant before being replaced with a determined and almost grim expression.

I said, “Um, listen- I know you are still really mad at me. But I’m asking you to reconsider- you know- your decision to leave the band. ”

Ethan shook his head, “I don’t think so. Look, I’m just here to get my stuff and go. You aren’t going to convince me.”

I frowned, “You said that the band was really important to you. We talked lots of times about all the shows we would do. You had all these ideas about logos and merch. We said we were going to try and go as far as we could with it.”

I added, “You made us so much better, and your song, it’s really beautiful. Please don’t leave, just because of my stupid mistake. Don’t punish the guys just because I’m the stupidest person in existence. Alexandre is an asshole, I see that now.”

Ethan shook his head, “I told you that from the start. It’s too late now anyway. I’m tired of being in a band with a bunch of thirty-year olds. The music we made- was OK. But I’m really into this new band right now, I think I’d like to get some people who are into my music. You know?”

I replied, “That’s not how really great music is made though. It’s all the different influences that really make it you. You know, I really like grunge, Andrew likes more modern rock, and Steven he listens to a lot of indie, and you- well you like lot of those nu-metal bands, hardcore thrash. Mix it all together, and you’ve got a unique sound. If you get in a band with a bunch of people who only like what you like- you’ll sound exactly like that band.”

I added, “Might as well be a cover band.”

Ethan looked at me severely, “Abby, what the hell do you know? You walk around like you know everything, and expect us all to buy into what you are saying. You’re just a kid, like us. Just shut up. You seriously piss me off when you go off like that.”

Ethan said, “Just get out of here, Abby. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m just going to grab my stuff and go.”

I shook my head, “You are mad for a different reason. I know how you feel about Alexandre.”

Ethan moved from his amp to his guitar and started winding his quarter inch cables. “Alyssa calls you Miss Advice. I think it should be Miss Shut the Fuck Up No One Cares What You Think.”

Tears threatened, and while I knew that Ethan wasn’t heartless, I doubted that the waterworks would soften his demeanour, which might as well have been made from impervious Adamantium and covered in skin-shredding barbed wire.

I walked out of the room defeated, too distraught to even consider following through on Alyssa’s advice. I wouldn’t have been able to take his rejection. I trudged to my room and cried into my pillow to stifle the sobbing. Because of my muffled crying, I was able to clearly hear the conversation Ethan was having with his father.

“What do you mean you can’t come and get me? This is so weak. I can’t take all my gear home on my bike. Come on Dad. I don’t want to come back here again.” With those words, the knife was twisted within a heart that was already seriously haemorrhaging. He hated me so much, and it actually made my chest hurt. I even thought about signing Mr. Atwater’s contract, if it meant Ethan and I could be together, but only momentarily.

“Mom won’t pick up. So you have to go back to the office again?”

“How long?”

“Fine.”

I heard the door slam, and moments later, Amélie knocked on my door. “Darren, is everything okay? I heard shouting downstairs. Ethan sounded upset.”

I replied with some difficulty, “Y-yes, just a little a-argument. It’s n-nothing.”

Amélie said, “You really don’t sound fine. Do you want to talk?”

I said, “No, p-please go away.” I was one step away from the embarrassing hiccup sobbing I had succumbed too during my locker room humiliation.

Amélie replied, “OK, but please talk to me if you need help.”

Seconds later, I was texting Alyssa.

Me: :(
Alyssa: oh im so srry abby
Alyssa: things didnt go well w ethan
Me: I can’t stop crying. I want to, but I can’t it’s like it hurts so much
Alyssa: aww abby =(
Alyssa: so sorry for u
Alyssa: did u kiss him
Me: No, he was so mad at me
Me: Do you find me annoying? When I give advice
Alyssa: no way girl u helped me so much in history
Alyssa: i guess u do kinda tell people what they should be doing a lot
Alyssa: i know ryan said it was kind of annoying
Alyssa: u r rlly smart abby but sometimes ppl need to make their own decisions
Alyssa: its weird u rlly sound like u know what u talking about tho
Me: Maybe I should stop doing that
Alyssa: or maybe do it less
Alyssa: i like u how u r
Me: Really? You don’t find me annoying ever?
Alyssa: sometimes like u need to let loose sometimes
Alyssa: we totally need to have a sleep over now
Alyssa: u need the alyssa special treatment
Me: what do u mean?
Alyssa: makeover completely nu-u i think u look totally hot w pink bangs
Alyssa: nails cuz come on u had the same design 4ever!
Alyssa: bowls of fudge brownie ice cream and complete season 1 of instant star
Alyssa: YES YES YES u will come or i will drag u i am stronger thn i look
Me: I don’t know...
Alyssa: i will kidnap u abby lol come on it will be so much fun
Alyssa: it will get ur mind off everything
Me: Can I let you know tomorrow night? Not sure my sister will let me if I get bad reports from my teachers
Alyssa: hah if that’s all then u r trapped u r coming cuz m landry is gone u r a grate student
Alyssa: so if she says yes will u promise to come
Me: Yeah. Ok.
Alyssa: muhahhhahhahhhaaah u will be my special project
Me: You are so weird.
Alyssa: yup its contagius watch out =)

Amazingly, I felt better after the text session with Alyssa. The girl’s positivity was her most appealing trait. While my mood had lightened from QUEEN SUPER EMO, I was less enthusiastic about the possible sleepover. A part of me really believed that she was working for the Sidereus Agency, endearing herself to me but at the same time, working to mold me into the perfect pop star in training. I was coming to accept that I was going to be Abigail, but I wasn’t prepared to throw myself wholeheartedly into Teenage Girl 101, especially if it meant a potential makeover.

A few minutes later, I heard the front door open again, and the heavy thud of an amp being dragged up the stairs.

Chapter 54

Myriad thoughts ran through my head as I waited for Amélie to return home from parent teacher interview night. As a teacher, I had usually enjoyed it. There was always one parent who would question your teaching methods, discuss the merits of a grade-based system or simply believe that you had it in for their son or daughter. They would sharpen their claws before coming, bringing evidence from their child only and leave thoroughly browbeaten when they realized the student fabricated the stories. I provided my own evidence, usually a list of incomplete assignments with the missed due dates.

I assumed that Amélie would return with rave reviews regarding my conduct as a second-time high school student. My teachers would say that I was diligent, organized and extremely mature for my age, and that I always finished my homework. I completed my homework more out of fear than any desire to be a good student, especially after the recent run-in with Mrs. Warner, who brought with her the spectre of being ripped from my family. I also did so because of my begrudging acceptance that I was going to be Abigail for the foreseeable future. In moments of weakness, I considered signing Mr. Atwater’s contract and becoming what the world seemingly wanted, but that simply wasn’t me. I wasn’t going to ingratiate myself to a world that had stolen my life through the Sidereus Prophecy.

Yes, if I signed, I could potentially be Darren Lawrence again, but Britney was still Britney, and as far as I knew- Elvis died as Elvis, and according to my prep notes for a beginner unit on Shakespeare, he also died as himself. I questioned whether the Prophecy could have supplanted any of them with a double. It was after all a master conspiracy theory- a plot to control the world through pop culture. Either way, I trusted Mr. Atwater as much I would a pack of ravenous wolves bent on my destruction. I had no evidence that the Sidereus Prophecy allowed even one individual their freedom and returned them to their original bodies.

The other reason I was a conscientious student was because if this was going to be my life, then I had to start building it. If I was trapped this way, then I would go pre-law and become a lawyer. The Sidereus Prophecy had also soured me on music at least slightly, especially because I realized that music had pushed me away from my family. I also knew that it was best to have a backup plan. Music couldn’t be the only thing. The Offspring had engineering degrees. I would get a law degree and continue with music. This is what I told myself because it helped me ignore the fact that I was still seriously OCDing with my phone.

Left to my thoughts, I really began to hear and feel my phone vibrate when it hadn’t. I was checking it every few minutes. Parent teacher interviews usually ended around 8 PM. It was now 9:30 PM, and I had heard nothing from Amélie. I was also hoping and praying that Ethan would text or call me. He would say, “Hey! Sorry I didn’t understand that you were actually forced to throw yourself at Alexandre. That changes everything. Oh, and I agree with everything you’ve ever said.”

I sighed. Again, I was losing it. My thoughts vacillated from Amélie’s tardiness, to Ethan’s non-contact, to my potential future as Abigail. I thought about calling Ethan, but instead, I texted Amélie asking her when she would be home. I was glad that the interviews were tonight because I hadn’t done my homework. I was a basket case, unable to keep my mind on anything for long.

Amélie texted back, “Sorry going to be late.”

I sighed and then browsed through my contacts, until I found Ethan. I thought about deleting his number, but instead I called it. When it went to voice mail, I quickly hung up. Now he would know I tried to call. Maybe he would call back?

My thoughts then moved to Alyssa. I was beginning to think more and more that she was a Sidereus Agency operative. Her presence at the dance class, and her attempt to befriend me. It could have all been a ploy. Her saving me in the locker room. Although, she had saved me from Alexandre, but then, that could have been to make me think that she wasn’t an operative- when she actually was. I blinked and looked down at my phone again. It was only two minutes later. Should I write an e-mail to Ethan? I had always been better putting my thoughts down. It was how I convinced Amélie that our relationship was worth it amidst the triangle that had developed. That no matter what happened, all that mattered was what we wanted. I knew I could still write very persuasively, but I worried that it would come off as desperate.

Two minutes later, I called Ethan again, hung up after two rings, and then threw my phone on my bed.

A minute later, I picked it up and texted Amélie back:

Me: How late are you going to be?

My thoughts immediately flew to Martin St-Valentin. He had invited her out afterwards. I would come up first in the conversation, how I was doing and so on, and then he would change the subject and discuss her favourite movies and food. They would inevitably have some commonality, and he would use that to springboard into a date. I looked down at my wedding ring. I started playing with it, jiggling it and then tugging it. I had done this when I first started wearing it. I had never worn a ring before, so it was new and honestly, a little uncomfortable. I remembered that I had to adjust my guitar playing to accommodate it at first.

I had the mad thought that I would take off the ring and put it on the kitchen table, where she would undoubtedly see it. That would show her. I never followed through with it because Alyssa texted me, making me believe more and more that she was an operative.

Alyssa: hey u know if the band doesnt work out theres a singing compitition in town ud win for sure! its next week u should sing a katy perry song maybe firewrks
Alyssa: guessing u r coming to my place 2morrow since u didnt cause a scene in class today to avoid it lol =)
Alyssa: i was serious about dragging u here >=) lol

When Amélie finally did arrive home at 10:30 PM, with the hint of cologne on her, my weakened adult mind coupled with my teenage paranoia hatched a plan to win my wife back and test Alyssa’s loyalty to her potential Sidereus masters.

***

“So he’s still not talking to you? That really sucks, Abby. Do you want me to try and talk to him for you?” It was lunch time on Friday, and I was mere hours away from my first sleepover with Alyssa.

I shook my head, “No, and it’s really annoying. I can’t concentrate on anything. And I think Amelie went out with M. St-Valentin last night. Who stays for parent teacher interviews past 8 PM?”

Alyssa asked, “Did you talk to Darren? Tell him about what’s happening?”

I frowned, “Yeah, he knows.”

I realized that I was painfully jealous of the flourishing union between my principal and my wife, and while I knew that Amélie would never accept me as her husband in this body, I didn’t want her to have anyone else. It was completely unreasonable to expect Amélie to remain unattached, but I didn’t care. Also, other than Amélie’s tardiness, the smell of cologne, and her admission that she and my principal had gone for drinks ‘a few times’, there was no proof that the two were having an affair. My mind still happily created situations for them to copulate. Just as it tortured me with the image of Rachel and Ethan in front of his locker again. I had spotted them earlier that morning. It looked like they were just talking, but as I watched my crush’s body language, the little smile, he had once reserved for me, and the confident stance, I started to believe it was more than just an innocent discussion regarding their Career Studies project. It was possible that he was trying to make me jealous, right?

While the crush itself had moments where it felt like I was riding an emotional tidal wave, the knowledge that it was unrequited had transformed me into a painful pining stereotype. I felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into my heart every time I saw Ethan speaking to another girl. I had always thought that Alyssa’s teen shows portrayed adolescents unrealistically, but I was experiencing being spurned, and there was a realism to the characters that I had not seen previously. It had been fifteen years since I had suffered from the after effects of a teenage crush. In twelfth grade, I had asked out a tall, leggy blonde, an absolute social butterfly to my wallflower self. After three dates, I was ready for a long-term relationship, and even though we had never even kissed, I was convinced she was the one.

I couldn’t have been more wrong, and I only came to this slow, agonizing realization after calling her house for a straight week. I spoke to her brother, sister, and her parents, while the object of my affection dodged my attempts at contact. Sunday, I called the girl once every hour. Last night alone, I had called Ethan four times, the fourth time, I left a message.

“Listen man. You are really screwing us over. The show is on Saturday, and you’ve given us no notice at all. You need to man up and be professional about this. Just stomp all over your feelings and play guitar for us on Saturday, then you can leave and we’ll find another player. You are ruining our band's chances just because of a hissy fit over Alexandre.”

I instantly regretted leaving the message. It was unreasonably harsh. Ethan was the one who invited me to his place first, and I believed that he had every intention of treating that time as a date. Could I load all of the blame onto Mr. Atwater, or was I also guilty for not moving our relationship out of the so-called friend zone once I knew the feelings were legitimate?

I was being completely irrational. I knew that I was in the wrong, but I refused to admit to anything. I was being childish. It was the same with Amélie. I wanted her, couldn’t have her, so I wanted no one else of the male persuasion to pay any attention to her. If I could have made her invisible to their eyes, I would have.

Alyssa said, “It’ll get better, Abby- I promise. The first week- maybe two, you might be a little crazy. I’ve been there. I really liked Ryan last year, and Véronique found out and told him. He said he wasn’t really interested. I thought- I thought I was going to die. It was so intense. Is that how you feel? Like you can’t see straight, it’s all you think about, and it seems like it’s never going to feel any different.”

I blinked. She had described it perfectly. I nodded slowly. It was made worse by the fact that if I lost my wife, I really had finally lost everything, my adult privileges, my status in the world, my masculinity and finally- the woman I loved, the mother of my child. I feared that M. St-Valentin would usurp my position entirely, taking over as a father figure for Chloe. Would she call him Daddy? Worse still, would he become my father figure? For a second, I thought I couldn’t breathe. My forced adolescence was rearing its ugly pimply head, filling me with paranoia and making me again believe that something had to be done.

Alyssa smiled, “I’ll make you forget all about it at the sleepover tonight! It’s going to be cray cray!” I had no doubt that it would be ‘cray cray’, but not the way she expected.

***

“Come on, Abby! Let’s go to the mall before we go to your place and get your stuff.” I trudged along behind her, the walking dead. I had seen Rachel talking to Ethan at his locker AGAIN. As much as I wanted to ignore it, to use an acid wash on my memories and painfully burn the boy away, I couldn’t. I desperately wanted what I couldn’t have. I continually replayed his vaunted heroism, his smile, the kiss. My brain was like Ethan on-demand.

Also, my money situation was worsening. We had been reassessed by the tax man, and the government decided that Amélie and I owed more money. I received nothing from the sale of my car, the difference going to my father who had used his line of credit to pay off what remained. He was using that money to pay off my half of the mortgage.

I had $286.56 left to my name. Beyond my cell phone, I no longer had any bills, and even that was paid by my parents. Amélie treated my money like a safety net, a fund to be used for unscheduled repairs like the broken washing machine, but even that was running out after the latest government tax grab. I knew I wasn’t going to go on a shopping spree, and I didn’t want to risk blowing money on frivolous purchases.

Alyssa dragged me along from store to store, as she had before. Urging me to try on clothing, and I ambled behind her completely uninterested. The girl was like a hummingbird, flitting from one shop to another, excitedly gushing over tops, jeans and shoes and then moving to the next. She only bought two articles of clothing, but she seemed to enjoy the simple process of trying on clothing. This bug had not yet bitten me.

She looked at me with a frown, “Abby, are you OK? Do you need to talk? I thought you were more interested in this kind of thing, you know- since I helped you get ready for your date with that asshole. If you aren’t into it, I don’t want to push you. This is supposed to be really fun for you.”

Her eyes widened and a massive smile split her face, “I have the perfect idea. I know what will make you feel like a thousand times better! It always works for me.”

She took my hand and pulled me along until we arrived at a familiar shoe store. The pink Converse hi-tops were no longer in the window, but Alyssa pulled me in nevertheless. She said, “I know you want those shoes, Abby. See if they have your size. And try them on. They will look super hot on you!”

I said glumly, “I really shouldn’t. Almost all my money is gone from the summer. I won’t be able to get any Christmas presents. Plus, I don’t really think they are me.”

Alyssa said with a look of bafflement on her face, “Last time you saw them, you were drooling over them. Come on. Your shoes are so BO-ring, Abby! And they’ll match great with what I plan to do with your hair! You said it’s your money isn’t it. So use it.”

I shook my head, “What about Christmas? I won’t be able to buy any presents for anyone.”

Alyssa said excitedly, “Do what I do. I get a job working at the mall as one of the Santa’s elves. We could be elves together! I did it last year, and it was so much fun! I love all the kids who come. They are so happy to see Santa. You would make a super cute elf, Abby. You are short enough!”

I raised a brow and said, “Hey! Um, wait, don’t you make money as a dance instructor?”

She shook her head, “I do that as a volunteer. I get a huge discount on my dance classes. My mom wouldn’t be able to afford it if not. Anyway, you’ll feel so much better if you buy those. I mean- at least try them on, Abby!”

A salesgirl approached us with a patient smile. I assumed many girls my age came into the store and tried on a multitude of shoes, only to leave a mess of unbought shoes and discarded tissue paper. She said, “Can I help you girls?”

Alyssa said, “Yes, can you get size four for my friend, those ones over there?” She pointed to the display model. The girl looked at us, seemingly trying to determine if we were serious buyers. Since becoming a teenager again, I noticed that sales staff treated me with indifference and sometimes outright disrespect. I was eyed suspiciously when entering a large box electronic store last week with Amélie. As a thirty-year old male, I was held in high esteem, mostly because I had a full-time job, and I could afford the big ticket sales items that gave the clerks the highest commission. Now, I was a fifteen year old girl who didn’t even have a part-time job.

The clerk disappeared in the back of the store, but another college-aged woman eyed us from behind the cash. She wore a pleasant smile, but her eyes still screamed “buy something or get out”. I noticed the same look in almost all the stores we stopped in during our mall jaunt, especially when Alyssa chose not to buy anything. She left a pile of unfolded clothing in the change rooms. I spotted an angry glare from the salesgirl in the last store. Not only had we wasted her time, we had left a mess, but Alyssa didn’t seem to care or didn’t realize that her fun was creating extra work for the staff.

Two minutes later, the clerk returned with the box that presumably held the size four pink hi-tops. She knelt down next to me and pulled them out of the box. My eyes lit up as I saw them, and the clerk smiled, “Try them on, sweetie.”

I looked to Alyssa and frowned. I knew that I shouldn’t. My dwindling savings would be further reduced if I bought them. Plus, I feared that if I brought them home, Amélie would be upset, and would begin to distrust me with my money. Alyssa smiled with encouragement and sat down next to me. “Come on, Abby. After what happened to you last weekend, you really deserve this. I can tell you like them. Your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree!” She smiled and pulled one of the shoes from the box and placed it in my hands.

I reached down and pulled off my grungy tennis shoes. Alyssa grinned, “I mean what kind of girl only has one pair of shoes?” She looked to the clerk, who, sensing a sale, quickly chimed in, “Yeah, they’ll revoke your membership.” Alyssa and the clerk laughed, while I looked at them like they were of one body, a two-headed slavering beast spewing sparkles and fairy dust trying to convince me that I NEEDED the pink shoes.

Alyssa raised a brow at me, “What’s wrong, Abby? Just try them on. If you don’t like them, or if you are worried about your money, you don’t need to buy them. Still, I think you and I should be elves. I made enough last year to buy some nice presents for everyone in my family.”

The salesgirl loosened the shoes and placed them by my feet. Alyssa said, “Sorry, Abby is a bit shy. She just needs a bit of convincing!” Alyssa then slipped the hi-tops on my socked feet and tied them, and then urged me to stand up and look in the mirror.

I took a quick peek in the mirror and then another longer glance. The shoes fit perfectly, and I had to admit that I liked their look. I smiled at myself in the mirror and even put my hand on my hip and gently pushed my right foot out, striking an immensely feminine pose. I halted the stance quickly once I realized that I had aped Alyssa in the dance routine she had shown me. She had adopted the exact same pose while trying on a pair of leather boots she could not afford, even if Santa’s village went up immediately after Thanksgiving (which is the second Sunday in October in Canada). I needed something that was more me, and I had the salesgirl bring out a pair of green and a pair black hi-tops in the same style. I tried both pairs on and struck a more neutral pose.

Alyssa said, “You sure about those? The pink ones were way cuter. They seemed more you. Still, it’s up to you. It’s your money, right?”

In reading between the lines of Alyssa’s words, it was clear that she expected me to get the pink ones.

She added, “I think Ethan will really like the pink ones on you.”

With those words, it was like a switch was flicked in my head. I had to have the pink ones. The green and black hi-tops might as well have never existed, they were so far removed from my mind.

Alyssa smiled at me as she recognized that I planned to buy the shoes. How did she know? I had said nothing.

Alyssa said, “You should wear them out. Maybe we’ll run into Ethan.”

I nodded and then moved to the cash to pay for my new pink shoes. Beyond the school girl outfit, they were now the most girly thing I owned. I thought nothing of the consequences of my purchase. Amélie, who had worked so hard to save money, foregoing lunches out, not buying any new clothes for months, would be unimpressed with my impulse purchase. If I had been more forward thinking I would have realized that winter was coming, and I would need a new jacket and boots. The sixty dollars I paid for the hi-tops would eat into that, but Alyssa had said the magic word- Ethan.

As I looked down at my brand new shoes, I quickly understood that Alyssa had again taken the lead. Her subtle disapproval of the other two choices and my subsequent surrender demonstrated clearly that Alyssa’s confidence was growing, while I was simply falling into line. I shuddered at the thought of what she had planned for me with regard to the makeover.

***

“I –um, need to talk to Amélie. It’s kind of important.”

Alyssa frowned, “Didn’t she say it was OK? I thought you already asked your sister, Abby.” She looked at me pleadingly, and once again, I held the reins. Still, we were far from the browbeaten girl who months ago had assumed that my initial silence meant that I didn’t want to be her friend.

I walked into the house wearing my new shoes. I asked Alyssa to wait outside. Amélie was feeding Chloe who was strapped to her booster seat. My daughter chimed, “Daddy!” I kissed her on the cheek and tasted tomato sauce.

Chloe looked down at my shoes and said excitedly, “Daddy’s pretty shoes! Pretty!” She reached out to touch the rubber soles, while my wife looked at me impatiently.

She said, “Darren, when were you planning on cleaning the upstairs bathroom? And the downstairs one. It was barely used before you moved down there, but you know- that’s part of your chores. You haven’t cleaned the living room or swept the entryway in a month.”

I said to Amélie snidely, “Are you going to give me an allowance?”

Amélie shook her head, “That’s not fair, Darren. I go to work all day and you go to school.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah, but I have homework.”

Amélie frowned, “You barely take care of Chloe too. You give her attention and play with her, but you don’t change her, get her milk ready, get her dressed. I’m fed up with it.”

I said, “Why don’t you just get Martin to help you?”

While Amélie and I had fought before in front of Chloe, the little girl was becoming more and more aware. She understood that the angry looks we exchanged meant that we were upset with each other. The toddler’s lower lip stood out, trembled for a moment, and then, she proceeded to cry. As she came to understand more of the world, I feared also that she would see that other children her age didn’t have a daddy that looked like me.

I realized that Amélie was correct, I had been neglecting my parental responsibilities, and had retreated into my own world. An accusation I had levelled before at adolescents I had taught. Amazingly, the pending difficulties with my monetary situation were so overshadowed by the Ethan drama that they barely registered with me on a daily basis. That is why I pushed for the sleepover.

“Listen, I’m going to stay over at Alyssa’s tonight. I have-“

Amélie interrupted, “Is Alyssa’s mother going to be there? You know you can’t stay over anywhere without parental supervision. And considering what happened last Friday, we really need to stay below the radar.”

I was going to share my plan with Amélie, but instead, I lashed out at her. Since last Friday’s infamous date, Amélie had treated me more and more like a child. I nodded, “Yes, of course. I know how it works, Amélie. I’m not a kid.” My wife furrowed her brow gently and then turned her attention to the crying Chloe.

Amélie said, “Then show me, Darren. Show me you aren’t. I’m going to trust you in this instance, but if Mrs. Moore isn’t there, and Mrs. Warner calls, that could be the end. Believe me, I don’t want to treat you how you look, but when you act like it, I have no choice.”

She added, “I don’t want to have to contact Mrs. Moore and ask her if she’s going to be there. I’d like you to check with Alyssa though.”

I shrugged and rolled my eyes, “Fine.” Amélie pulled Chloe out of her booster seat and began comforting the teary-eyed toddler.

I let a worried looking Alyssa into the house and asked awkwardly, “Um, look- is your mom going to be home? I can’t stay over otherwise.”

Alyssa frowned and scrunched up her nose, “Um- well- I think she might be going out with Jaimie again.” The girl looked at me sadly, “That sucks, Abby. How come my mom needs to be there? We aren’t like ten or something.”

Amélie looked at us from the top of the stairs, “Alyssa is welcome to stay here, Abigail.”

Alyssa reddened, realizing Amélie had heard everything, and said, “Sorry Mrs. Grenier, I don’t want to make trouble for Abby. Um- if Abby is OK with it. I’m happy to stay here.”

The two of them turned to me. This would actually make my plot easier to pull off, so I readily agreed.

Alyssa beamed, “OK! Abby, we can go to my place, and you can help me pack my stuff. Bring a backpack too, because we need to get some stuff from the store.”

I raised a brow, “Like what? I have chips and snack food here.”

Alyssa grinned, “You’ll see. Oh! And remind me to bring Instant Star. I want to finish the first season tonight!” To describe Alyssa as excited would have been an understatement. As we exited the house, she practically walked on air, at times bouncing and twirling- a powder keg of pent up youthful energy, waiting to be released in an explosion of silly laughter and faces. She took my hand and spun me around, nearly spinning me into the path of an elderly man and his dog. It was only the last minute intervention of the bush in my front yard that stopped me from careening into him.

The powder keg burst and Alyssa’s face and body exploded into laughter. She hastily pulled me to my feet and brushed the stray twigs from my hair, amidst incessant high-pitched tittering on her part. The elderly man grumbled, and his dog, a Scottish terrier did the same.

We left, and Alyssa set a frantic pace, making it difficult to keep up with her. She said, “Did you notice that the dog looked just like that old guy?” This brought a fresh burst of laughter from her. The girl laughed as easily as she breathed, while I was her near perpetual straight man, except this time, a little smile appeared on my face.

She said, “Like they had the same beard!” She pretended to be the man, and then the dog, stroking his beard while making mock grumbling noises. This caused the little smile on my face to break into a wide grin, which was followed by a brief giggle fit. Alyssa pointed a finger in my direction and pronounced, “Gotcha!” She did this whenever she made me laugh, wearing my giggle like a badge of honour.

As Alyssa discussed the plan for tonight, I couldn’t help but remember Amélie’s reaction, or rather, non-reaction to the sleepover. I thought that worry lines would wrinkle her face, her brow furrowing heavily as she watched her husband engage in the timeless teenage girl past time, but she was surprisingly neutral, concerned more for the absence of Mrs. Moore than her husband’s desire to spend the night with someone less than half his age.

***

On the way back to my place, we stopped at a convenience store. Alyssa picked up bags of candy, Swedish berries, Sour patch kids, Skittles. She stuffed them all into my arms and then proceeded to the Slurpee machine. I had not had a Slurpee, what amounted to a frozen concoction of many different varieties of carbonated drinks, in over fifteen years. Alyssa took down two mega 64 ounce cups and quickly filled one.

She turned to me, “Abby, which one do you want?” The last one I ever had was called Swamp Water, a melange of all the Crush products. I didn’t see anything that shared a similar name.

I raised a brow, “Alyssa, I have a show tomorrow. I have to get a good night’s sleep. I can’t be up all night. There’s so much sugar in there. I’m going to be bouncing off the walls.”

Alyssa stuck out her tongue, “So? You can sleep in, can’t you? The show is at 8 PM. What flavour do you want? You don’t have to drink it all. Come on, Abby. Haven’t you ever had a sleepover? Stop living like you are thirty.”

She giggled, “Cause you never know, you might wake up one day and be old! Tonight, you and me are twelve again. Don’t worry about homework, the show, even Ethan- it’s about Abby and Alyssa. K?”

I sighed and pointed to the one called Green Cherry Blast. The Slurpee oozed out of the machine, a toxic waste green as it quickly filled the massive container. I had to hold the cup with two hands. I couldn’t help but think what all this candy and pop was going to do to my diet. I had actually managed to lose three pounds, but since the debacle with Ethan, I had been eating more and been too depressed to work out. Tonight was going to seriously test my metabolism.

We quickly returned home, where I found that Amélie had ordered us a pizza. She smiled and then deposited the box in my hands, “So what are you girls going to do?”

Alyssa said excitedly, “First season of Instant Star, and the toughest job in the world. Fixing Abby’s hair and nails for the show. Cause she won’t do it herself! I’ve got lots of ideas for it.”

The girl pulled a magazine from her backpack that was entirely devoted to nails. I would have been surprised by it, but there were magazines for everything. There was probably even one for eyelash curling techniques.

She continued, “For some reason, Abby won’t do anything different with them. So I’m going to help her.” She laughed and ran her fingers through my blonde tresses, “She has the same hairstyle every day. And she’s had the same nails since I first met her. How is that even possible? I always have to redo my nails. Why would you keep the same ones for months and months? I spend a lot of time with her too, and I never see her filing or painting her nails. I thought they were fakes, but I guess not! I’m gonna do her hair for the show tomorrow. Um- thanks for letting me stay, Mrs. Grenier.”

Amélie smiled gently and said, “Sounds like fun. Have a good time girls. And you are always welcome here, Abigail is lucky to have a friend like you.” Alyssa beamed, and I shot a puzzled look in Amélie’s direction.

I brought the pizza into the living room and invited Alyssa to get Instant Star started. I walked into the kitchen to speak to Amélie who was doing the dishes. I closed the door.

“This isn’t how it looks, Amélie. I swear. I don’t want to do any of that stuff. I actually have a plan to- well I’m going to use the spell on Alyssa. I just- I don’t want you to think that, you know, I’ve gone off the deep end. Because I haven’t.”

Amélie dropped the large baking dish she was washing, causing the water to splash and drench her shirt, “Are you crazy, Darren? Why Alyssa?”

I said quietly, “Because I think she’s a Sidereus Agency operative. It’s all too convenient. She wants to feminize me. She’s obsessed with nails and hair- and she wants me to enter all these singing contests. I think she’s working for them, trying to groom me for a pop star life.”

Amélie sighed, “She’s a teenage girl, Darren. Girls are interested in things like that. I mean I wasn’t to the degree Alyssa is, but you said she wants to do makeup and hair for a living. She’s passionate about it. I think this is a really bad idea.”

I said, “Here’s the thing- if Alyssa is completely innocent, then the spell will work. If she does have bad intentions for me, then the spirit will punish her. Remember that- the second will feel the wrath of spirit. That is what Mama Khalia said.”

I added, “Mr. Atwater said that I wouldn’t have the guts to do the spell, well I do. I know you were out with Martin after the parent teacher interviews. Well, I’m not going to lose you, Amélie. Not to him, not to anyone.”

Amélie turned around and stared down at me, “And what if she’s not a Sidereus Agency operative, but she’s not innocent? What then? You’ve taken someone who has only wanted to be your friend and sacrificed them to save yourself. What about the girl’s mother, her family? Are you prepared to have her sacrifice on your conscience, Darren?”

I nodded and looked at my wife with deadly severity, “I am. I won’t let them win, Amélie. This Prophecy is as old as civilization. I’m going to be the last one.”

Amélie shook her head sadly, “How are you going to convince Alyssa to allow you to cut her arms? Both of you are recovering cutters. I just can’t help but think about how all of this is going to look to the social worker. You're encouraging a past self-harmer to harm again.” She sighed, “I don’t think it’s worth it, Darren. Not to have this hanging over you if you are wrong.”

I replied, “You said that you were willing to do whatever it takes to help me stop the Prophecy. Even if I was trapped like this, you said that you wanted me to be able to choose what I want to do with my life. This is a war of attrition, Amélie. There are going to be casualties.” By this point in the conversation, I was raising my voice.

Amélie put her hand on my shoulder, “I know you are desperate, but she’s just a girl. You’d never forgive yourself if you are wrong.”

I said, “And what if she’s not just a girl? What if everything she has done to this point has been systematic, a ploy to gain my trust and smother me in her world to serve her masters.”

“I don’t know, Darren. I’m just- I thought we were done talking about that spell. I thought you weren’t going to use it. I thought- you’d-“

I frowned, “Accepted this? Maybe I had before I realized you were out with my principal AGAIN. And I really thought about what I am losing. I-.“ The kitchen door crept open, and Alyssa slid into the room.

She said sheepishly, “Um, I’m really sorry. I-I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just wondering when we could start watching the show. Plus, Abby- your pizza is getting cold.” I had no idea how much she heard. I shared a frantic glance with Amélie, but my wife quickly regained her composure.

“Sorry, Alyssa. I was just discussing with Abigail the plan for tomorrow night. Why don’t you girls eat your pizza and I’ll get your bed ready. Sound good?”

Alyssa beamed, “Sounds great! Thanks for everything. You are so chill, Mrs. Grenier. It’s really no problem though. I brought my sleeping bag. Abby and I will just sleep on the floor.”

I raised a brow, “I will? But I have a bed.”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, number one rule of sleepovers is everyone sleeps on the floor! It’s more fun that way! And it’s fairer. You are always talking about how things should be fair. You were complaining the other day about us not being able to vote. Like, how kids who are aware and care about stuff should be allowed.”

I shook my head, “Uh- that’s not really the same-“

Amélie smiled as she interrupted me, “OK, I’ll pull your sleeping bag out of the storage closet, Abigail. I’ve got an old mattress cover you girls can use to make the floor softer.” Alyssa smiled wide again and then grabbed my hand, pulling me excitedly into the living room to begin our Instant Star marathon.

Three hours later, we had finished watching the first six episodes of season one. I was becoming engrossed in the plot and characters. I knew exactly why too. I could actually relate to the show now. Before, I thought it was a poorly written teenage melodrama with decently composed music. Now, I was fully invested in the relationship between Instant Star winner, Jude and Vincent, the lead guitarist in her backing band. I couldn’t help but see myself in the character of Jude.

Alyssa and I watched as Jude won the Instant Star competition, rocketing from high school obscurity to mini-celebrity overnight. The Sidereus Prophecy contract burrowed into my head like a parasite, leaving me vulnerable to the idea that signing it, like Jude winning the competition, would do the same for me. Véronique’s eyes would blaze in hateful jealousy as Ethan stood by my side. The idea that I was lucky to have been chosen planted within my mind.

I could be famous tomorrow. A megastar, adored by millions, and all it took was a signature. A simple signature. It just meant giving up everything I had ever stood for.

Two hours later, I found myself not only interested in the show, but enraptured by it. I was enthralled by the love (cube?) between the older, but way cute, music producer Tommy, the brash, smouldering Vincent, and the quiet studious Jaime, Jude’s best guy friend from high school. I desperately wanted to watch more. Jude was returning from Europe where her feelings for Vincent had developed. He reminded me painfully of Ethan, even down to his lopsided grin. The boy was loyal, even helping to defuse a situation that could have broken up the band and sabotage Jude’s overseas tour. She could have replaced her backing band, but it would have taken weeks of rehearsal with a new band. Vincent had stepped in and saved the day.

The show’s producer was well known for the teenage drama, Degrassi High, which was lauded for its realistic portrayal of adolescents not only in regard to story but appearance too. The kids dealt with real problems like drinking and driving, drug abuse, body image issues, and they did it without looking thirty years old (cough! Dawson’s Creek) or looking like they were plucked from the cover of Teen People. I watched the show with nostalgic glasses, having enjoyed it as a kid, but Instant Star was different. It was so clearly aimed at girls, and in fact, pre-teen girls that it should have carried a label, but I loved the show. Normally, a show like this was absolutely translucent to me because of the formula they followed. I actually found myself turning off my brain so I would be surprised as each episode unfolded.

I really wanted to find out what happened next, especially with Jude and Vincent’s burgeoning relationship. I think that I was so enamoured with it because I was living it. Plus, I could have had Jude’s life in an instant.

Alyssa and I excitedly discussed the show, as I realized that I had drank half of the 64 ounce mega Slurpee.

Alyssa said, “So you really like the show? You aren’t pretending like you did when you said you liked Katy Perry?”

The first few times we had watched at her place, Alyssa grew annoyed because I pointed out the inaccurate portrayal of adolescents, the errors made with regard to how songs were played on the show, musicians hitting the wrong chords, and the general lameness of the plots. I explained to Alyssa that Degrassi was infinitely better, but she refused to admit the show was terrible. Now, she was preaching to a member of the choir.

I nodded, “Yeah, I really do. I thought it was really insipid and shallow at first, but I really do want to continue watching it. And- um- Katy Perry is good. She’s really talented.”

Alyssa giggled, “You know Andrew and Steven aren’t here. You can admit stuff like that. You won’t lose your precious rock cred! Degrassi is OK. But you know not everything has to be real. It’s fun just to like follow the stories. Do you see that now? I know that it probably couldn’t happen in real life, that’s why it’s so totally amazing. You can watch a story you wouldn’t be able to live, you know?”

I smirked, “Wow, Alyssa the savant.”

Alyssa threw a package of gummy bears at me, “You know what I mean. The world sucks, you know- it’s nice to just live in a different one sometimes. That’s why I don’t like Degrassi. It’s so real it's scary. I know Instant Star, it’s like a soap opera, but it doesn’t bother me.”

I looked at the girl who was gradually becoming my best friend in the world. Her light brown hair was done methodically for the sleepover in pigtails and her bangs moved off her face by dual butterfly clips. Her face was brushed lightly with freckles on the bridge of her nose and underneath her eyes that gave her the same innocence I possessed. The girl had a style all her own, choosing vibrant colours for eye shadow and eye liner, but not what I considered whorish. She had still not filled out, but I swore, she was an inch taller than she was a month ago. There was a liveliness in her wide green eyes that brought me into her world. Her smile was infectious, and her manner made me feel instantly welcome in everything we did.

As much as I liked watching Instant Star, I liked watching it with her even more. She was also fiercely loyal, protecting me from Alexandre and supporting me, even after how I treated Ethan, who was also her friend. In the face of my crumbling marriage, Alyssa held her hand out for me to grasp, and I had taken it, firmly.

She sat with her back to the couch and her legs pulled up against her still very modest chest, “So, if you were Jude, would you accept the contract? Like wouldn’t it be amazing to just be a star tomorrow? Promise me that I can do your hair and makeup, OK?” She grinned and took a big sip of her Slurpee.

I watched Alyssa’s actions carefully, and specifically her eyes. I thought I saw something malevolent there. A spark of acknowledgement as to her place. It broke the innocence of her face, like shadows cast over a smiling china doll. We discussed it for a few minutes, but from the moment she had asked her question, I was convinced I knew why she asked it. She was planting the seed.

My hand was shaking, so I placed a death grip on the side of the couch, my knuckles turning white. I said, “Hey, Alyssa. Um- listen, I have something really cool to show you in my room. We can watch the rest of Instant Star on my computer if you want. Or Amélie’s laptop. I really want to show it to you.”

Alyssa beamed and took my hand, “Why so nervous, Abby? Is it a new song? Did you write one for Ethan or something? Sure, you can show me!”

I took Alyssa’s hand as we slowly walked down to my bedroom. I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking. I felt sick to my stomach and flush. My head swam as sugar and fear ran through my body.

Alyssa looked at me, concern painted on her youthful features. She gripped my shaking hand tightly. “Abby, are you OK? You look pale.”

I nodded and opened the door to my bedroom.

***

“Have you ever heard of a Ouija board?”

Alyssa, who sat across from me on my bed, nodded her head gently. “Sure. Never used one before. Stuff like that has always scared me. Ghosts, vampire- monsters. Anything like that creeps me out. It’s one reason I don’t really like Halloween.”

I said, “It’s cool though. Amélie told me that she used to do it during sleepovers. You just ask the spirit questions, and it answers. Aren’t you a bit curious about how it works?”

I continued, “Listen, I want to tell you the truth. I didn’t cut myself because I was upset, because I wanted attention or any other reason. I did it because I was casting a spell to speak to a spirit. It’s kind of like magic I guess.”

Alyssa raised a curious brow, “Really? So it’s not a scary ghost?”

I shook my head, “No, it’s one that wants to help. It can answer our questions about anything. Want to know who you will marry? Or when you will have a baby? The ghost will know.”

Alyssa’s eyes widened, and her mouth hung open, “Really? It can do all that? So, when you did the spell the last time, did it work?”

I frowned, “No, because I needed a second- you. Amélie’s too old. She doesn’t believe in ghosts or magic anymore. I wanted to share this with you.”

Alyssa beamed and joined me next to the chalk circle I had drawn. “Okay, I’m willing to try it.” She hesitated, “Um, I don’t have to cut my arm, do I? I don’t really want to do that, Abby. Plus, my mom will really worry if she finds out I was cutting again.”

I shook my head, “I can prick your fingers, but I have to do it right now or else not enough blood will drip. Here.” I took a sewing needle, and Alyssa gave me her hand with uncertainty. I had cut my arms because I feared Amélie would barge in on me. Amélie had checked on us a number of times before she went to bed, but it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. She had also opened a bottle of wine, and from what I could see in the kitchen, three quarters of it was gone. We used to drink a bottle between the two of us. I expected that she would sleep soundly.

Alyssa pulled her hand away as I brought the needle toward her thumb, “I don’t know about this, Abby. It seems kinda bad. Like dark, you know? How come we need blood?”

I explained, “It means we are serious. And if we want the spirit to be able to answer our questions, we need a link to it. Through our blood, the spirit will connect with us, understand us and as a result, it will be able to answer our questions.”

Alyssa nodded, “Wow, so it’s like truth or dare, without the dare.”

I nodded, “Um- something like that. Look, if you don’t want to, we can just go back to watching Instant Star. I just thought it would be something fun we could do together. I’m not sure if it will work, but it’s exciting you know. We could ask if we’ll still be friends when we are forty.”

Alyssa’s smile grew, “Yeah, OK. I’ll just close my eyes though, K? I hate blood!”

I took Alyssa’s hand and gently guided her into the centre of the chalk circle. She squirmed as I pricked each of her fingers, allowing tiny droplets of blood to slowly drip down. I positioned her hand so that it was within the circle. Not one drop was permitted to leave the circle once it began to flow. The stipulations for the second were much stricter than for a single target.

I said, “You need to try and keep your hand as steady as possible. Don’t move it around much or the spell won’t work.” Alyssa nodded her head slowly.

She said excitedly, “I’m going to ask it if we are both going to have boyfriends soon!”

I said, “Sure, you can ask it anything you like. This next part, you need to be quiet though. You can’t disturb me while I am chanting.”

I swallowed hard. I looked down at myself, clad in a pair of SpongeBob Square Pants PJs (borrowed from Amélie), and Alyssa, wearing Power Puff Girls PJs that likely fit her much better when she was ten. Beyond the twin candles, one for each of us, and the blood that would gradually form a pool in front of Alyssa, we looked like two best friends enjoying their first sleepover together.

I could kill her.

My hands refused to stop shaking. My throat was dry, so I took a quick sip from my Slurpee. I felt the sugar rush again, but it made the shaking worse. I cleared my throat several times trying to start the chant, but unable to speak because my throat was so dry.

Alyssa said quietly, “Are you scared, Abby?” I could see that the girl still had her eyes shut tight, the blood speckling the floor.

I replied, “A little.” I bit my lip, but seconds later it felt like I was chewing through it. I felt blood on my tongue. I was losing my nerve.

Alyssa smiled with her eyes closed, “I think even if it doesn’t work, it’s really sweet. You know, you inviting me here. I thought that you were embarrassed by me, like because we never went to your house. And now you’ve told me the truth about your cutting, and I get it- magic. It’s not something you tell everyone.”

She added with a bigger smile, “I’m really happy you wanted me and you to do this. Even if it doesn’t work. It means a lot to me.”

I dug my nails in my arm, watching as they made little indentations in my skin and then watching as they drew blood. I took a deep breath, feeling my entire body shake. I felt like a would-be murderer, staring down at their victim, tied up and gagged, and pondering whether they had the resolve to pull the trigger. Not only the resolve, but the monstrous instinct, the ability to shun their humanity in the face of helplessness.

I held my stomach so tightly, I thought I was going to tear my abdominals. It allowed me to maintain my control as I began to chant. I heard Alyssa giggling excitedly.

After I finished the first part of the spell, the air went chill, just as it had the first time. I could hear Alyssa’s teeth chattering, and as I looked over, she was holding herself for warmth, but only with one hand, gripping her shoulder as she sat there shivering. She obediently kept her bleeding fingers in the circle. My own teeth were clattering, so I threw my comforter over my shoulders. The spell stated that only the second needed to be within the circle, so I was free to move about.

Alyssa said, “A-Abby, i-is, it w-working?” The poor girl was freezing. I draped a blanket over her shoulders, careful not to disturb the chalk circle.

Alyssa said, “I-I’m k-kinda scared. I t-think I want to s-stop.”

I said, “We’ve reached the second part. And that cold means it is working, the spirit is being summoned. In a minute or so, you’ll be able to ask it a question. Think about what you want to ask very carefully. Just focus on the question.”

Alyssa frowned, “Um OK, Abby. I just, I’m not sure I l-like this. I’m f-freezing. I-It feels like winter. S-so c-c-cold. It’s like the blanket you gave me- it’s not even t-there.”

I lowered my head. It had been the end of summer when I cast the spell, but it was an Indian summer, so the temperatures were warmer than usual. October had reversed the pattern, bringing below average temperatures. This apparently affected the spell, and it was seemingly worse inside the circle.

I continued chanting and then I heard a shriek from Alyssa. Her eyes popped open like death itself was giving her a physical. She said, “Abby, I-I-I c-can’t move. Help me. P-please. S-something’s wrong-”

She started crying, her tears freezing on impact with the floor. I was beginning to have second thoughts, which birthed tertiary thoughts, which formed a veritable army of doubt.

She screamed in fear, her hands now moving to her skull as she began tearing at her hair. It looked like she was trying to dig something out of her head. I saw her pull a clump of hair right out and hold it in her bloodied fingers.

It was at this point that I began to glow softly. I felt a shifting underneath the blanket, and a sensation that I was being pushed upward. I wasn’t though, I was growing. I could feel my bra begin tightening over my back, but at the front it was slowly losing support. My breasts felt like they were deflating.

Alyssa turned toward me, her face a mask of fear and pain. She stared at me desperately, as strands of hair stuck firmly to her bloody palm.

I rolled into the circle myself, feeling like I had entered the Arctic Circle during winter. Alyssa’s hands and feet were turning blue. I pushed Alyssa out of the circle, the girl tumbling toward my bed. In the meantime, I began to feel my breasts growing again, and I quickly dwindled as I lost the height I had gained. I was ready to face the wrath of the spirit for my misdeed. It didn’t matter if Alyssa was a Sidereus operative or just a normal girl, I couldn’t do that to another person. Even if she was simply a composite, she was more human than me, a monster who had been willing to sacrifice a person just to be a man again. In that moment, I was neither woman nor man- a mere animal ready to tear at the neck and feed.

Mama Khalia had said nothing about the spell and the Sidereus Prophecy. She had been working off the assumption that I had been cursed like the warlord. I was beyond selfish in my actions. Now I knew that the spell worked, but the cost was too great- Alyssa’s innocence. I could not put another human being through what Alyssa had gone through. Plus, there was no guarantee that Mr. Atwater’s words weren’t prophetic. Even if the spell was successful, I could potentially be changed again, which would likely require yet another sacrifice. If I chose such a path, I would be like a remorseless vampire, sacrificing the innocence of others to sustain myself.

Amazingly though, the chill ceased, and I knew the spirit had left. I moved over to Alyssa who was crying uncontrollably. I put my arms around her and held her there, muttering “I’m so sorry, Alyssa. Please be okay, please. I should never have tried that- I’m just- I was so desperate. I was losing everything.” She couldn’t hear me over her hysterical crying. Amélie burst into the room. She slapped me hard on the cheek, and then she pushed me away from Alyssa and brought the crying girl upstairs.

I moved to my bed, burying my face in my pillow and cried, feeling like I had lost my best friend.

Chapter 55

“Abby! Abby! H-hellooooo! Abby! Are you listening to me? Are you gonna ask your mom if you can come for dinner?”

I looked at Alyssa, but my vision was distorted, like peering through a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription. Everything around me was massive and out of focus.

I blinked, thinking that everything I had done, my betrayal and shocking behaviour had simply been a dream. I felt around on my face for a pair of glasses but found none.

I replied, “Really? You aren’t mad at me? For what I did?”

Alyssa shook her head, “Nuh uh! You were scared. I woulda done the same thing.”

She added, “I shouldn’ve been on the higher balance beam. I knew it. I wanted to try it, just cause, you know?”

I noticed that Alyssa’s speech, while not normally at the level of a Harvard professor, was now even more childish. She mashed words together like a first grader.

I said, “Wait, you said my mom? I live with my sister, Amélie. Right?”

Alyssa replied, “That’s your mommy’s name, but my mom says it’s not nice to say it. It’s not ‘spectful.”

I frowned, “What are you talking about, the balance beam?” Alyssa wasn’t the only one to have changed. My own voice sounded like I belonged in the early grades of elementary school rather than high school, it was high-pitched and lilting.

Alyssa said, “Is’not important. I’m not mad at you cause you told. You wanna swing at recess? We have to get there fast! The boys always get there first. They hog them. They always jump off too, I bet you an’ me, we can jump way more far than them! ” I could have sworn I smelled paste, but the objects in front of me were still blurry. I rubbed my eyes, but it did nothing.

Seconds later, the bell rung, and everything around me became crystal clear. I looked around the room and saw pictures of poorly drawn pumpkins, construction paper witches above a blackboard that had simple math equations written in chalk. I looked at Alyssa, or who I assumed was her, and saw a very young girl with light brown hair, likely no older than six. I recognized the dual butterfly clips, which were far more age-appropriate than they were when she was a teen. I couldn’t see myself, with the complete absence of mirrors in the classroom, but considering I was looking UP at Alyssa, I knew I was her age or younger.

Seconds later, the girl was dragging me out to the play structure, where we were just in time to each get a swing. I knew by now that this was a dream, but my mind fell into childlike excitement so easily, that I soon forgot. We jumped farther than any of the boys, and then we played tag. A few minutes later, we grew tired of that and joined some other girls in a game of skip rope where Alyssa and I did double-dutch expertly. Then the bell rang, and it was back to school. I figured whatever we were learning would have been super easy, but it wasn’t. All I could think of was lunch recess where Alyssa and I would break our swing record.

I knew that this dream was the result of my guilt-ridden mind. The innocence of two childhood friends was an easy panacea to my horrendous actions. I had created a world where forgiveness came as easily as breath. In this existence, Alyssa and I were best friends, and no matter what I did, she would always forgive and forget.

I could feel myself being shaken as the dream world slowly faded away. The shaking grew more persistent. I turned over and came face to face with a furious Amélie. Her eyes were zeroed in on my own, and when mine tried to flee, they were chased down like a routed army.

My wife took a deep breath and said through clenched teeth, “Care to explain yourself, or should I let the near catatonic girl upstairs try and explain what happened?”

I frowned deeply, “Is she OK?

Amélie’ face softened momentarily, but the hard lines returned with a vengeance, turning Amélie’s forehead into valleys of creases. “Now she is. It took a lot to calm her down. I can’t believe you did this, Darren. You had no idea how the spell was going to work with a second person. You could have killed that poor girl. How could you do this?”

I sniffed, “I didn’t want to lose you- to him.”

Amélie’s slow head shake and half closed eyes revealed her extreme disappointment, “So all that stuff about saving the world, and trying to stop the Prophecy, it was all a lie? Alyssa was going to be a casualty in your quest to have a dick between your legs? Congratulations, Darren- you aren’t a woman, but you aren’t a man either. I don’t know what you are, beyond a conniving selfish brat. Certainly not the man I married.”

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I replied, “You don’t understand I-“

Amélie nodded, “You are right, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone who claims to be in their thirties can act like such a self-absorbed child. What would have happened if you’d killed her, Darren? What then?”

I dropped my head to the floor trying to flee from Amélie’s eyes, “I- I don’t know.”

Amélie gripped my chin with her hand and forced me to look at her, “No, you don’t get to play that game. You can’t just say that. Not with what you did. What do you have to say for yourself?”

I replied weakly, “I-I did it because I’ve lost everything, except for you. I also did it because I feel like I am losing myself, everything that I am- in this body. I’m becoming a completely different person, Amélie. I’m becoming Abigail inside and out.”

I added, my voice gaining strength, “I want everything back, everything I’ve lost. I want you, and I want Chloe, my parents, my friends. I want them to look at me like they used to. I want them to see Darren. It’s not fair, Amélie- I didn’t ask for this. All I was trying to do was get back what was taken from me.”

Amélie grimaced, “What you did was selfish, and- completely unforgivable.” She pulled me to my feet and sat me down at the vanity. She held my head up and made me look at myself in the mirror. “I know that it has been extremely challenging for you, Darren. But you need to accept that you are going to be Abigail because I forbid you from ever casting that spell again. And I think it’s time- it’s time I started calling you by that name.”

She brushed away the bangs from my eyes as I started to cry gently. I said, “N-no. Please don’t.”

Amélie replied, “You are never to cast that spell again. Ever. Is that clear, Abigail?”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, “W-why are you being so mean?”

Amélie narrowed her eyes, “Because nothing else has worked. I tried asking you not to cast it. I explained why I thought it was dangerous. I think I need to start treating you like a fifteen year old girl who makes really stupid and dangerous decisions. Because you just keep making them. Over and over again. I can’t trust you.”

I raised my voice to my wife, “You c-can’t do that! I won’t stand for it, Amélie. I’m not a kid!” The image reflected in the mirror said otherwise.

Amélie nodded her head, “Yes, you are. I see that now, I’ve given you way too much leeway. Too much trust. This all started when I let you drive the car without a licence, just so we could save twenty minutes and then the emancipation, it made you think you could still live in an adult world. I think I need to be a lot harder on you from now on. Because as much as you want to deny it, you are a kid, and everything you’ve done tonight- it just proves my point.”

She added, “We need to set boundaries and rules. You need to understand your place here, Abigail. Because I’m worried if you don’t, I am going to lose you. No more being late for curfew. No more back talking to your teachers or Principal St-Valentin. I want you to complete your chores every week. You clean your bathroom, your room and the downstairs, and sweep the entry way. No questions asked. And I want your help with Chloe. Every night, I want you home for dinner, you do your homework and show it to me before any TV, computer or video games.”

I muttered, “S-stop, stop treating me this way.”

Amélie asked, “How would you like me to treat you then?”

I squeaked, “Like an adult.”

Amélie said, “Then start acting like one.” With those words, she left.

I retreated back to my bed, pulling the covers over my head, but the simple gesture, meant to comfort myself, couldn’t keep away the ceaseless guilt, nor the idea that the relationship with my wife was irreparably damaged. I had done nothing to show her that I was a mature adult.

Now, I worried that my friendship with Alyssa would suffer the same fate. Would she ever trust me again?

I looked at my phone and saw that it was a little past 2 AM. I was exhausted, and I started worrying about the show. If I didn’t sleep, I might be sick, and if so, I wouldn’t be able to sing well. I wondered too if Amélie would even allow me to go, considering what I had done.

My thoughts turned to Ethan, and I snatched my phone, and in desperation, I sent him a quick text message:

Me: I’m really sorry about the message I left. It was really unfair of me to do that. You have a right to be mad. Furious even. Even if you don’t play, it would be amazing to see you at the show.”

I felt instantly better, the text message acting as a wonderful catharsis, but the message kept only one cloud at bay. I got out of bed and grabbed an old beach towel from the linen closet. Then, I plugged in my hair dryer, turned it on the highest setting and started melting the frozen blood on the floor. I didn’t want any evidence of my misdeeds, and I certainly didn’t want Alyssa waking and finding her frozen blood still on the floor.

A few minutes later, I sopped up the blood, wiped away the chalk and then dumped the towel in a garbage bag, along with the candles and my paper copy of the spell. Then, I booted up my computer and deleted the electronic version.

I picked up my sleeping bag and carried it upstairs. I saw Alyssa sleeping peacefully on the couch, a far cry from the panicky screams and wide terror-filled eyes I had witnessed just a few hours before. Despite the spell, Amélie’s speech and what was now a tentative show, I was exhausted. My worry and the night’s events had drained my body and even my brain, the usual insomnia culprit. I lay my sleeping bag on the floor next to her and gradually fell back asleep.

***

“Abby, are you OK? Abby?” Again, I heard Alyssa’s voice, but this time I knew it wasn’t a dream. As my eyes opened with the pace of a delinquent Venetian blind, I could see the outline of the couch, Chloe’s big girl Princess Chair, and a dangling foot with multi-coloured painted toe nails.
She patted me on the shoulder, “You were screaming in your sleep.” She smiled gently, “You even have a powerful voice when you are sleeping.” I had been dreaming again, but I couldn’t remember anything except that I was being chased.

Without any hesitation, I stood up and threw my arms around Alyssa, hugging her tightly as tears glistened in my eyes, “I’m so sorry! I-I was so stupid. Amélie warned me about that spell, I should have listened to her. P-please forgive me. I ruined our sleepover.”

Alyssa hugged me back just as tightly, “It’s OK, Abby. I admit that I was really scared, probably the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. I never want to mess around with stuff like that again. Amélie explained that her and Laura, I think that’s Andrew’s wife, right? Anyway, she said that they used to call spirits too. Sometimes they were nice and answered the questions through the Ouija board. Sometimes though- they were mean, like one, she said that the spirit died in a fire, and it was trapped, so it was very angry. It turned the lights on and off, and the room- Amélie said it was freezing. Like yours. Still when you got in the circle it got warmer - I guess the spirit is gone. ”

I nodded and she continued, “I guess I mean, it’s still really scary, but I-I don’t blame you for it. You didn’t know it was going to be a mean spirit. I hope what happened showed you that you shouldn’t mess with ghosts and stuff. And um, I don’t really want to go in your room for a while.”

I nodded rapidly, “Yes, yes of course. I threw the spell out, and I deleted it from my computer. I’m done with magic. Still, I really want to make it up to you, I still feel terrible for what I did. Our night was wrecked by my stupidity. I’ll do anything.”

Alyssa raised a brow and a little smile appeared on her face, “Anything?

I nodded my head again, and a wide grin appeared on Alyssa’s face. She said, “I want you to sing a Katy Perry song at the Coffeehouse in November. And I want to do your hair and makeup, your whole outfit. You have to wear what I say, no questions asked, K?”

I shuddered at the thought of how she would dress me, but it was a tiny drop in the deep bucket that held my guilt. I nodded my head, “OK, no questions asked. Do I get to pick the song at least?”

Alyssa said, “Maaaaybe. But you’ll probably pick something depressing, I think it would be fun to have you do Last Friday Night or even California Girls.”

I blinked, “I wouldn’t have to do the dance moves, would I?”

Alyssa shook her head, “No, but I could teach them to you if you wanted to. You had fun when I showed you the moves in California Girls, didn’t you?”

I nodded begrudgingly, “Yeah, I guess.”

Alyssa laughed, “It wasn’t a math test, Abby. Have you thought about taking a dance class maybe? It’d be so fun, if we could take one together.”

I said, “I’ll have to think about it. I’m not really sure it’s me.”

Alyssa nodded, “Sure, it’s OK, if you don’t want to. I was kinda worried we wouldn’t have a lot in common, cause you like a lot of stuff I don’t like, but I can tell, you love Instant Star. You want to watch it right now, don’t you?” There was a big inviting smile on her face.

A little smile formed on my face, but it quickly left. My guilt would not allow me to enjoy this moment. “Yeah, but how come- I just don’t get it. How come you aren’t still scared about what happened, how come you aren’t mad at me?

Alyssa sighed, “Look, Abby. I was scared. It's over. I’m not a little kid. Look, you don’t have to sing at the Coffeehouse if you don’t want to. I kinda feel like I’m making you do it cause you feel bad. I don’t like that.”

I had a feeling that Alyssa was hiding her fear, playing big girl because she didn’t want to seem childish around me, even though she bore multi-coloured toe-nails, butterfly clips and Power Puff Girls pyjamas.

I shook my head, “No, Alyssa. I want to do it. Please. I want to do it for you, not because I feel bad about what happened. I want to do it because you asked me, and I’m your friend, right?”

Alyssa nodded and then her face turned deadly serious, “I think we are more than that, Abby. Aren’t we BFFs?”

I was surprised to hear the acronym for ‘Best Friends Forever’, only because I thought it was a term used by girls in elementary school or at most, junior high. Although, considering Alyssa’s behaviour at times and her dress, maybe it wasn’t too shocking.

I nodded my head slowly, assuming that it was true. I didn’t know if there was an expected ritual, or if girls after their first slumber party became BFFs. I decided to go along with what she wanted and with my quick nod, the girl’s face lit up again.

Alyssa brought her sleeping bag next to mine on the floor, and we were soon enjoying the second season of Instant Star. Eventually, my eyelids grew too heavy, and I fell asleep. Anyone peeking in the window who knew my true identity could have used the image of me and my newly minted BFF in our sleeping bags for serious blackmail.

I woke to the smell of waffles and rolled over to look at the clock- 10:28 AM. I still felt tired because of the events of last night, but thankfully, I hadn’t woken up with the dreaded sore throat- the bane of singers. The day of a show, the first thing I always did when I woke up was swallow. If I felt any tenderness or soreness, I immediately started drinking water with lemon in it and gargling with salt water.

I saw that Alyssa was already up, and I could hear her speaking to Amélie in the kitchen. They were discussing hair and highlights, something to do with foil. I quickly tuned it out as hunger gripped me.

I yawned, rubbed my head, staggered into the kitchen and sat down at the table, where Amélie had set a plate of waffles for me. I looked at Amélie, but she refused to meet my gaze. Alyssa beamed, “Morning Abby! Your sister’s waffles are amazing. Hey, so I have a lot of ideas for your hair and nails tonight. And do you have an outfit? Cause I have ideas for that too.”

I groaned, which caused Alyssa to giggle. She was a morning person, and I was not. I shook my head, “I was just going to wear my normal stuff. Green hoodie, band shirt and torn jeans.”

Alyssa made a face that made me think she was going to vomit, “Come on, Abby. That’s so boring. You wear that hoodie all the time when we are out of school, and it’s not going to match your new shoes. I was talking to your sister too, and she was saying that you guys don’t even have band picture on your website. I talked her into taking some pictures tonight! You need to wear something to be noticed, you know?”

Alyssa smirked, “Why do you wear that hoodie anyway? It doesn’t even fit.”

I shrugged my shoulders as I took a huge bite of waffle and then washed it down with orange juice, “Darren gave it to me. It’s special.”

Amélie glanced at me and then turned away. I almost thought I saw her face soften, but the hard lines returned.

My phone vibrated, and I picked it up anxiously, hoping that Ethan had texted me back. It was Andrew.

Andrew: Hey any idea why Ethan won’t answer his texts?

I peered down at my phone with a sinking feeling. I hadn’t told my band mates that Ethan was out of the band, and we had a show tonight. Under normal circumstances, we would have cancelled, but it was the day of the show. We had no choice but to play. Ottawa was a town of a million people, but a very small music scene. We had already dropped out of the show once. We would be blacklisted, forced to take ‘pay to play’ shows.

I texted back:

Me: He’s really mad at me. I think he’s out of the band.

Andrew: WTF Are you serious? What the hell happened? We are screwed for tonight. You can’t play his parts. I’m calling you.”

Andrew rarely swore, even in texts. My shoulders drooped, and I sighed deeply. My phone rang, and I took the call in my bedroom.

I accepted the call and said immediately, “We need to play either way.”

Andrew replied, “Yeah no kidding. What happened between you and him?” I had never heard Andrew like this before. I felt that he was really talking down to me.

I said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Andrew sighed, “We’ve got a right to know. Did you fight with him about that song he wrote?”

I replied, “It’s personal, OK? Just forget it. We will play the show tonight, skipping all the solos.”

Andrew said, “I don’t see another way around it. We’ve already sold tickets. How come you didn’t tell me before? Maybe we could have found someone else.”

I replied, “It happened last weekend. There wasn’t time. I’ve been trying to convince him all week. He won’t even answer my calls.”

Andrew said, “Laura said they found you unconscious at the marina. Did Ethan do that to you?”

I frowned, “No, absolutely not. Look, you guys are coming here to get the stuff around two right? We can talk more about it then.”

Andrew was clearly frustrated from his exasperated sigh, “I wish you’d just told us sooner. I would have talked to the kid, explained how important this is- how important he is to the band. We are going to sound real thin tonight.”

I nodded, “I know. I’m sorry OK? I’ll see you at two.” I ended the call and sighed deeply. I should have told my band mates that Ethan had left the band. He was furious with me, not them. They might have been able to convince him. This only added to the mounting evidence that I was losing the ability to reason properly. I had been too embarrassed to tell Andrew and Steven the truth, and I feared if I had involved them, that Ethan would have told them every micro-mini skirt, whore makeup, Mustang make-out session, detail. I had selfishly put myself above the interest of the band.

I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

Alyssa said, “Abby? Um, if we are going to do something with your hair. We need to start soon.”

I opened the door and stared at my friend with massive confusion, “Uh. You know it’s just a rock concert, right? Not the prom at the Queen of England’s house?”

Alyssa grinned, “It takes time to do what I have planned. I think you are really going to love it though!”

I trudged upstairs, scared that Alyssa was going to do something drastic to my hair. Mostly, I feared that if she decided to cut my hair that she would see the magic in action, ditto for my nails. The guilt associated with my actions last night forced me to indulge Alyssa, so when she asked me to close my eyes as she took items out of a shopping bag, I didn’t peek.

She said, “You can open them now.” I looked at the table and saw a package of tinfoil, a strange comb, and an equally strange looking brush. Next to the items, I saw a box of hair dye which said, “Bubble gum Pink”. She was going to put highlights in my hair. Pink highlights.

I looked at Alyssa with a frown, “Um, I’m really not sure about this. You know, I like my hair as it is. Plus, what if it’s ruined, then I’ll have weird hair for tonight. Everyone will be staring at me.”

Alyssa smiled, “I watched lots of videos on it. And I’ve got a DIY video here. I’m going to follow along. It’ll be fine. You are going to look amazing!”

This was like the shoes all over again, and she took my half-hearted protest as a sign of shyness. She was opening me up to the world- with pink hair. I couldn’t say no, especially since she had likely gone to a lot of trouble and expense. Not to mention, I had a tremendously guilty conscience. Alyssa took the comb and wrapped it with tinfoil. She then put on a pair of disposable gloves and proceeded to firmly set the comb in my hair while she painted over it with the noxious looking pink dye. The hair dye smelled like chemicals we used in science class. She did this numerous times with my long tresses in various places.

As she worked, we listened to the radio, and I was soon humming along to the music. These were all songs that Alyssa listened to on a daily basis because she knew them off by heart. The station, HOT 89.9 the pop music bastion, once the bane of my existence, was actually palatable now.

Alyssa folded over the tinfoil in each section before moving onto the next. Throughout the process, Alyssa and I talked, mostly about Instant Star, but also about the Coffeehouse, and the possible song I would sing, and Ethan, although that part of the conversation was monosyllabic.

When she had finished massaging in the hair dye (she told me that this is why she folded the tinfoil), she took me downstairs to the shower and rinsed my hair under the tap. I looked in the mirror in horror at first because when I saw my hair, it looked like someone had taken a wet mop and poured hair dye over it. Alyssa assured me that it would be turn out fine.

While we waited for my hair to dry, Alyssa did my makeup, choosing very thick eyeliner and that same electric blue eye shadow (but this time used sparingly). My guilt, again, weakened any protest. Eventually, once it dried, my new pink bangs and highlights were clearly visible against my usual golden locks. She parted my hair and then brushed it down over my chest in two equal parts to really accentuate the pink throughout.

Alyssa looked at me eagerly, but with serious trepidation in her eyes, “So- um, do you like it? It’s semi-permanent. So it’s gonna wash out eventually. It’ll last about a month though!”

I looked at myself in the mirror, sighing gently, worried that I was going to look like a pink-haired freak or worse, a bubble gum pop princess, but the way Alyssa had done my makeup, I looked like a smoking hot rock chick. I looked like Jude!

Alyssa lent me this black and red leather jacket she had, which perfectly complimented the image. I wasn’t going to lose any rock credibility dressed like this. Originally, I had been worried that my hair was going to be overly pink because of the way it looked before it dried, but the highlights mingled with my blonde locks without overpowering them.

As I stared at myself, a little smile appeared on my face. For certain, as I grew more comfortable in Abigail’s body, I took more lingering looks at myself in the mirror, but I had never really been happy with what I saw, mostly since it wasn’t Darren Lawrence staring back at me. I suddenly knew what Amélie meant when she said she felt better after going to the hair dresser. Was I developing a sort of vanity or was this just part of the happiness high associated with a new hair-do?

Alyssa gushed, “You like it! I know you do. Everyone’s going to be looking at you tonight!” We hugged, which I suppose was also an integral part of the BFF experience.

I looked at Alyssa curiously, “Do - do you think Ethan will come?”

Alyssa’s face grew darker, “No - I’m sorry. I don’t think so, Abby. Last night I was texting with him. He’s still too mad. I tried. I told him how important it is.”

I smiled sadly, “Well, for what it’s worth, thanks.”

The doorbell rang, and I fell into band mode, reprising my role as cable winder girl. They looked at me strangely when they first saw me. I almost expected them to rub their eyes like cartoon characters their surprise was so great. Was it the makeup? My pink highlights? Steven and Andrew were also both clearly upset with me, but with Alyssa insisting she help, I was saved from any angry words. I wasn’t so lucky in the car on the way to the sound check.

Andrew said, “You can’t keep stuff like this from us.” Steven followed behind us in Amélie’s SUV, now our only car. Normally, we would have packed the drums in my sport wagon.

Andrew said, “Now we are stuck playing this show without a second guitar player.

I shrugged my shoulders, “It’s not the end of the world. We were a three piece before. We can get by.”

Andrew replied, “We can’t even play some of the songs because you can’t do anything but drop D power chords. What happened between you two?”

I raised a brow and narrowed my eyes at Andrew, “I told you- nothing. Just drop it.”

Andrew shook his head, “It’s so obvious that he likes you, Darren. Painfully obvious. I knew this was a bad idea from the start. So you are interested in another guy, and he gets jealous and quits the band.”

I stared at the person who was now likely my former best friend with my mouth agape. I quickly composed myself, hoping that Andrew hadn’t seen my shock. “I don’t like guys, Andrew. Really ...”

Andrew interrupted, “Look, Darren, you don’t have to hide that fact, Steven and I both know. I’ve seen how you look at Ethan, and I’ve seen how he looks at you. We’d be stupid to have missed it. You guys are textbook.”

I sighed, “It’s been like that since the summer. It’s so embarrassing, I can’t believe I’m even talking to you about this.”

Andrew replied, “I guess it was just a matter of time, the longer you stayed in that body. Steven and I don’t judge you for it. Yes, it’s a bit weird, but I mean- it must be hard for you. I still think of you as Darren inside.”

I smiled, “Thanks, I really needed to hear that.”

Andrew said, “Anyway, next time something big happens with the band, you need to let us know. OK?”

I nodded my head dutifully.

We arrived at our destination, a downtown rock venue called Club Saw. It was a two-storey brick building, and like much of the ageing architecture in downtown Ottawa, it had a ramshackle appearance that was a strange contrast to the mega condos, ultra-modern monoliths that housed hipsters, yuppies and retired public servants who still wanted a taste of the downtown core.

The sidewalk in front of the club was littered with cigarette butts, but a more permanent fixture were the thousands of tar stains that marked the sidewalk. The door, like that of the Ivory Tower, was worn, but it appeared even sturdier, likely double insulated against the sound that threatened to escape into the streets. I had played here before and also attended shows. At the last show, during an intermission, Amélie and I walked to a nearby McDonalds for a snack, only to find ourselves in close proximity to a stabbing.

Ottawa’s streets, like any major city, are littered with homeless people, begging for money for food, drugs or alcohol. Some happily accepted food, and I had donated leftovers before, but I refused to give any money. They often stood outside the two prominent liquor stores, so it was clear what they wanted. Was I judging them by not offering to indulge their habit? Maybe. We were also near a methadone clinic and a men’s shelter. This was not the safest part of the nation’s capital.

I was surprised to feel a measure of fear as we started unloading the gear. As Darren, I walked some of the city’s darkest alleys, always with the knowledge that if someone wanted to rob me, they would have to catch me first. Having lost my sprinter’s frame as well as changing gender gave me a seemingly built-in fear, especially after nearly being kidnapped by the Rock Machine. I had become a lot more wary since that incident. Even in broad daylight, I felt my heart beating faster.

Club Saw was known mostly for heavy metal, scream-core and hard rock. It had a notorious history through the grunge days of the nineties, packing hundreds into a pressure cooker of flailing fists, angry screams and multiple fire code violations. Since then rock had waned and the club was no longer a hot spot, but I was still excited to play here. We would play without our lead guitar player (i.e. walking wounded) which was more admirable than dropping out. The show must always go on.

***

“OK Rock N’ Roll Barbie. Let’s get your fucking guitar checked.”

The sound check wasn’t going well. Steven hadn’t been able to find any parking, and another band was loading in from the back already, so we were stuck carrying all our gear in through the front doors, which meant our sound check was late. We were on first, so we were supposed to check our gear first. Despite the disparaging remark from the sound guy, I simply nodded, flicked on my amp, and played a few power chords. The tone sounded terrible, booming and far too bassy. Because of this, my guitar had no place within the mix, it was on a frequency too close to the bass. Minus a second guitar player, we would sound even thinner if I kept my current tone.

The sound guy had a sour look on his face as I started fiddling with the knobs on my amp. He walked up to me, raised a brow at my guitar and especially my nails and said, “Look kid, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got three other fucking bands to check. Why not let someone else fucking dial it in for you. You don’t look like you know what you are doing.”

I actually did, but the sound person was the last person you wanted to argue with. He controlled how you sounded, and he could make you sound like a chorus of mewling cats being thumped with jack hammers. I had been to shows before, even professional ones, where one band sounded horrible to the point where the bass drum was actually jarring. The mix on stage was fantastic from the performance, but the audience heard what amounted to painful noise.

I said, “OK, sorry about this. Um, here-.” I handed him my guitar, the one with the ode to the Queen of Metal painted on it, and he sighed. He muttered, “Did your daddy do this for you?” Steven and Andrew glared at the man, but I motioned for them to stay quiet.

I replied, “A local guitar maker actually. He’s going to be here tonight.”

He looked down at me again and laughed, “And how are you expecting to play guitar with nails like that?”

I said, “Well I just play power chords. Drop D.”

He shook his head and laughed, “Fuckin’ A, are you serious? Christ, chick musicians, they want respect and then they come in here late for the fucking sound check like some shitty ass pop diva. And then she tells me she can’t play anything but Drop D because of her pretty nails.” A few people laughed, likely members of the other bands.

He looked at me, “Kid, I’m going to give you some advice. You want to be a musician, a legit fucking rock star. You ditch the fucking nails, cut your hair and get a guitar that doesn’t look like it was the prize for fucking GIRLZ ROCK 2009.”

“Wouldn’t that mean you’d have to throw out your prize from last year, you fat sack of shit?”

I turned to look at the speaker and was surprised to see Jeremy, the young man who had been the object of my very first boy crush. He was still slim, almost waiflike, wearing the same pair of red drainpipe skinny jeans. His hair, which was parted over one eye, was an unnatural almost crimson red, but it was suitable for his band- This Bloody Life. He had a number of tattoos over his forearms, a so-called sleeve that was a mixture of skulls, bleeding hearts and barbed wire.

The sound guy replied, “Fuck any guys lately you fag?”

Both men had smiles on their face, and having spent a great deal of time in locker rooms with men, I knew immediately that the men were engaging in bro-sults, the male equivalent to girls calling each other bitches, lovingly. Steven, Andrew and I ribbed each other, but never in such a crude or personal manner. Our hockey teams were fair game, but not our sexuality or weight, especially since my change.

The sound guy reached his hand out and Jeremy took it firmly, he said, “So your fag band is playing tonight? You still paying people to come to your shows fuck head?”

Jeremy smirked, “Yeah we are. You going to make us sound like shit like you do every other band that comes in here?”

To me, Jeremy was questioning the sound guy’s competence, and in turn, the man was questioning Jeremy’s sexuality and the popularity of his band. None of it was pleasant, but amazingly, both of them seemed happy to play the nasty game.

The sound guy turned away from Jeremy and started fiddling with my amp, he turned the bass down and raised my highs, and then he returned to the board and asked me to play again. The tone was much improved, now a full sound that would stand out against Andrew’s bass, my guitar was a cackling, piercing spear of sound that would be clearly heard in the mix now. The sound guy, whose name I learned was Leo, was fully competent. He was just a sexist asshole.

We played a portion of a mid-set song and Leo took note of all the levels, ensuring that nothing was clipping. After soundcheck, as I was leaving Club Saw, I saw Jeremy smoking a cigarette. Andrew and Steven had already left to get their respective cars, having been forced to park many blocks away after unloading the gear.

“Don’t let Leo get to you, he’s a prick, but he’s fucking good at his job. I’ve never had any problems with him.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah, well I didn’t appreciate what he said. But I know how it is with sound guys, you play by their rules or they make you sound like shit.”

Jeremy smiled, and the Ethan stupor that had descended on me was suddenly lifted. My crush on Jeremy, long since extinguished, returned like a fire reduced to embers suddenly flaring up. I smiled back at him, and the young man’s smile grew confident, “If you’d done what I did, he would have left you alone. I guess guys are just like that. It’s a stupid thing we do.”

Andrew pulled up in the SUV, and just as I was leaving, Jeremy said, “Don’t listen to Leo either, I think you look really rock dressed like that. Looking forward to hearing you guys play tonight. I liked what I’ve heard so far during sound check.”

I lowered my head and a little smile appeared on my face. I gently brushed the bangs from my eyes, “Um- thanks. I’m looking forward to hearing you guys again. I really liked you in Montreal.”

I quickly added, “Your band. Your band was really good.” I could feel my face turning red, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Jeremy put a gentle hand on my shoulder, “See you tonight, Abigail.”

I walked toward the SUV and slipped in beside Andrew. He asked, “Are you OK? That sound guy was a real asshole.”

I couldn’t get the smile off my face. I felt giddy, bursting with energy at the prospect that Jeremy liked me. He remembered my name too from when I saw him in Montreal. I nodded my head, “Yeah, I’m fine.” Jeremy was similar to Ethan, in that, he was a musician, but he was far more assertive. I knew that his little gesture, the hand on my shoulder, was meant to plant his image in my mind, so that our brief contact would not be a fleeting memory. It was the type of thing he may have read in a men’s magazine, but it worked. I felt closer to him because of his subtle touch, and I wanted more.

***
“So, he touched your shoulder?” Alyssa was busy removing my nail polish, with a toxic smelling clear liquid. I thought it smelled like turpentine and hand sanitizer.

“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about it.” I noticed that the nail polish remover wasn’t taking off any of the colour, but it did remove the white stars.

Alyssa blinked, “Did you do the fill coat with permanent marker or something? I can’t get the pink off at all.” I was afraid of this. I had never actually tried anything with my nails beyond cutting them off. I figured that I could just clip them and my hair now that Alexandre was out of the picture, but when I tried to hack off my long tresses in a vain attempt to remove any likeness to his dream girl, they grew back rapidly. I assumed that there would be other opportunities to meet record producers, and that the Prophecy would want me to be as feminine looking as possible. Either that, or it was a punishment devised by Mr. Atwater for my misbehaviour in the Sidereus Agency building.

I replied quickly, “Yeah, something like that. You can leave them if you want.”

Alyssa shook her head rapidly, “Well, I was planning on doing something a little different, but this works better actually! I guess you have your base coat on already.” She started painting my nails, using the same colour pink, and then she removed a bizarre tool from her backpack, it was wooden but on each end was a very thin, long metal spike. Alyssa took a jar of tiny steel balls and placed them on the vanity next to me, and then used the tool like a magnet to pick up one of the steel balls. She carefully placed one of the balls on my still wet nails and repeated the process ten times per nail.

As she worked, we continued discussing Jeremy, “So how old is he?”

I replied, “I think he’s probably eighteen. It’s hard to say.”

Alyssa smiled, “Ooh! Older guys are great. They know what they are doing.”

I shook my head, “Not always. What about Alexandre?”

Alyssa frowned, “OK, yeah. Well, Jeremy seems really nice. I’ll see if he’s looking at you while you sing.”

I smirked, “Uh- I’m the lead singer. Everyone is going to be looking at me.”

Alyssa smiled, “Yeah, but they don’t stare. It’s like the way Ethan-“ The smile disappeared from her face.

She frowned, “Sorry. It’s just, it’s obvious, you know? Like if he looked at you that way then we’d know for sure.”

Alyssa finished close to dinner time, and the whole time, we discussed boys, and I did it as naturally as a real girl. This fact should have bothered me more, but I couldn’t help but remember Jeremy’s smile, his touch, but also how easy it was to replace Jeremy with Ethan’s image. It was clear in my mind who I really wanted. I had done the same thing when I replayed the night with Alexandre over and over in my head. What would have happened if I’d gone to Ethan’s that night?

Alyssa shouted triumphantly, “Done!” I looked down and a smile quickly grew to a wide grin as I saw what Alyssa had done to my nails. The tiny metal balls stood out against the pink nails like the studs on a leather jacket. I was surprised how much I liked them, but like my hair, the simple change to my nails had also infused me with a giddiness. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I felt a measure of pride. Alyssa smile at me, as it was clear I liked her handiwork.

Something about looking good filled my brain with all sorts of happy thoughts. I felt less concern at missing Ethan, both as a romantic partner and a band member, and that somehow because my hair and nails looked good, I thought the night would pass without any hiccups.

***

“Hey man, why are you dressed like that?” I was sitting in the backseat of Andrew’s SUV. Steven, who was sitting in the front seat, had shifted his body in order to speak with me.

“Well it’s a show, right? It’ll help the band get noticed.” I was still wearing makeup, but beyond that I felt I was dressed normally- my usual pair of torn jeans, the pink Converse hi-tops and Alyssa's red and black leather jacket with one of Amélie’s band shirts underneath.

Steven frowned, “Well I’ve never seen you wear makeup for other shows. I think you are hanging around Alyssa too much. She’s turning you into a real girl, Darren.”

I narrowed my eyes, “Oh really? Well maybe if you guys agreed to hang out once and a while outside of band practice, I wouldn’t have to resort to hanging out with girls.”

Steven’s frown deepened, “Look man, my wife- she just thinks it’s a bit weird is all. Me hanging out with a teenage girl.”

I replied, “She’s met me though. She knows who I really am.”

Steven shrugged his shoulders, “I know. I know- it’s just that well you know that BBQ we had at my house in July? She saw you checking out my cousin when he was in the pool. She saw you looking at me too actually. It just makes her uncomfortable. I mean come on man, you are fifteen.”

I shook my head, “I can’t help that. But, you guys are my friends. I’m not going to put any moves on you.” I was laughing by this point.

Steven nodded, “I know, but I gotta keep the peace you know? We just have to consider how it looks if I go to your place, and you are home alone or something. It’s just- it would feel weird, especially if, like you say, you can’t help it.”

“Andrew, how do you feel about this? Does Laura feel the same way? You’ve turned down all my offers to hang out too.”

Andrew replied, “I’ve just been really busy with the baby, Darren.”

I raised my voice slightly, “That’s bullshit, Andrew. No one is that busy with a baby.”

Andrew sighed, “You can believe what you want, Darren. We are also trying to sell the house, so I’ve been doing a lot of renovations. I devote all my spare time to the band. I’m sorry that I don’t have time to come over anymore.”

I nodded my head sadly, “It’s OK. I understand. I guess I know what that’s like- with my stupid homework. It takes up a lot of time that I’d rather spend on making music.

Andrew replied, “Yeah.”

I felt that Andrew’s tone was slightly condescending. I knew that my school work did not have the same importance as child rearing duties or home renovations, but considering how the social worker would react to failing grades- I had to complete it.

We arrived at Club Saw having not said a word to each other for fifteen minutes. We were not seasoned enough to hide the growing rift in the band, a gaping hole caused by Ethan’s departure. Thirty minutes from show time, and we weren’t even speaking. I felt a gnawing in my stomach, the result of not eating enough for supper and serious anxiety. If we didn’t focus on our performance and musicianship, we would crash and burn. I desperately hoped that once the first note was struck, we would forget all of the current issues, putting on an enviable show, but I had severe doubts.

I began going over the lyrics in my head, ensuring that I didn’t forget any. I stumbled over the words for the first song in my head, and my anxiety increased to the point where it felt like someone had put my stomach in a vice and was slowly turning, increasing the pressure as the clock ticked down to show time.

Fifteen minutes later, I was a wreck. I was positive that I had forgotten the words to a handful of verses. I walked into the club, after completing my warm-up CD, and saw a crowd of at least a hundred people. I knew most of them were here to see Porcelain and This Bloody Life, but they would have to sit through us first- the train wreck. The vice tightened on my stomach, and I ran to the bathroom.

“Abby, are you OK?” It was Alyssa. I was bent over the sink. The same adolescent hormones that made me brave at times, now undermined my self-confidence. I looked up, and not only did I fear that I would forget the lyrics for entire songs, I worried I would be unable to support notes due to the tightness of my stomach. As great as my hair and nails looked, I also thought I looked chunky in Amélie’s t-shirt- one she had bought when she lost weight. Tiny love handles peeked out at times unless I held the t-shirt down, and my belly pushed against it, forming a round indentation in the fabric and distorting the logo slightly. I kept pulling the shirt down, but it kept inching its way upward, trying to uncover what I felt were definite flaws.

Alyssa put her hand on my shoulder, “It’s gonna be OK, Abby. You’ll be amazing.”

I sniffed and shook my head, feeling tears threaten. “I don’t know, Alyssa. I don’t think I can do it. It’s too much pressure. There’s too many people out there. I forgot all the lyrics for the first song. It’s going to be a disaster. Oh god, what do I do if I start crying up there?”

Alyssa put her arms around me gently, “Come on, Abby. Remember when I said you were the strongest girl I know? Well it’s true. Show me I’m right.”

I hugged Alyssa back tightly, “I’m so sorry again about what happened last night. We’ll have another sleepover soon to make up for it.”

Alyssa smiled, “Instant Star season 3. Right?” I nodded, and Alyssa beamed. The knot in my stomach started to gently unravel.

Amélie entered the bathroom with a worried look on her face, “Abigail, there’s a problem with your sound system. The sound guy can’t get them to work. He needs you to come test it.” I hadn’t seen Amélie since the morning. She spent the day at Laura’s. She looked at me much the same way Steven and Andrew looked at me- shock and a measure of discomfort. Again, I assumed it was the makeup and my hair.

The knot in my stomach returned. It wound by a multitude of fluttering butterflies, tighter and tighter, until my anxiety resurfaced. I peered at Amélie with wild eyes, “I don’t get it. It worked fine this afternoon. I’m not going to be able to hear myself without that!”

Amélie frowned, “Well maybe you can fix it. Just come, you guys are supposed to go on in ten minutes.” I raced out of the washroom and approached Leo, the sound person, with those same wild eyes.

“What do you mean you can’t get it to work? I need that. Wedges are never enough, especially in a place like this.”

I was speaking about my wireless in-ear monitor system. Unlike floor monitors, which could be rendered ineffective due to poor placement or competing noise (mostly Steven probably the loudest drummer in Ottawa), in-ears were always present. I had bought an inexpensive system, but the difference was like night and day, I no longer had to sing over the music to hear myself.

Leo glared at me, “Your system is shit. I keep getting a radio station on them. You need a stronger signal.”

I didn’t understand the specifics of how the system worked, but I remembered that wireless technology on the same frequency could be overpowered. I recalled the hilarious scene from “This is Spinal Tap” where the lead guitar player found himself broadcasting air traffic control reports instead of thrashing solos. My system had warned that competing signals could cause the system to pick up stronger signals that shared the same frequency. I sniffed, and once again, tears threatened.

Leo maintained his glare, “Hey, this is a fucking rock show, kid. There’s nothing I can do. Don’t fucking cry.” Leo’s expression softened for an instant, and then he said, “Look, you need to go on in five minutes. I’ve got powered monitors up there. No one else has a system like yours. You’ll be able to hear yourself.”

I shook my head, “Have you heard how hard our drummer hits? I will barely be able to hear my guitar up there.”

Leo smirked, “Then have him play with fucking brushes.” I flipped him off and then joined my bandmates, Amélie and Alyssa at the side of the stage.

I sighed, now on the verge of tears, “In-ears won’t work. I’m going to have to use the floor monitors.”

Steven frowned, “Really? That sucks! So the sound guy couldn’t do anything?”

I replied, “He told me you should play with brushes.” Steven swore and shot dirty looks toward Leo.

I sat down on the edge of the stage and sighed deeply, lowering my head and feeling my shoulders slump in the process.

“Hey guys. Um- I’m here to play. Can you give me a hand with my amp? My dad’s got it outside.”

I looked up to see Ethan as my heart and my stomach took turns reacting, my heart, practically leaping out of my chest, pattering as it had the first and only time we kissed, and the knot in my stomach immediately unwinding. Ethan’s presence had turned my stomach into a fluttering butterfly massacre. I felt like I could sing to the Devil, and like a crotchety old man, he would hit the ceiling of Hell and yell, “Keep it down!”

I waited for Ethan to put down his guitar case and flew into him, wrapping my arms around him. I said excitedly, “I’m so glad to see you. We were so screwed without you. Does this mean you are staying in the band for now? Because that would be amazing, we really need you. I’m really sorry about everything. That mean message I left. You had a right to be mad.”

I heard Amélie mutter that she was going to go and find Laura, while Andrew and Steven said they would go and help Ethan’s dad with the amp. I saw Alyssa slink away, but not before she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Ethan broke the hug and said, “Um- I’m not sure yet. Depends how the show goes, how into it I am. I’ve started jamming with some guys from school. Thursday night actually. They are our age, and they like a lot of different stuff. I was there for like three hours.”

He said, “I just felt like an ass for leaving you guys like this. You were right, I needed to just forget everything that happened and just play. I’ll decide what I want to do, but I’ll give you time to find a replacement.”

I frowned, “I thought my message was really mean.”

Ethan shrugged, “Maybe the bit about Alexandre, but it just made me realize you know- if I want to do this for a job- I need to start acting like it. How would you say…it’s like the- um.”

I replied, “The professional thing to do.”

Ethan smirked, and I realized how much I loved that expression, so full of adolescent bravado, but also a sincerity. It was how he looked at me before I screwed everything up with Alexandre. “Sure Abby, that’s what I meant.” I smiled at him, and when he smiled back, I felt like I could play for not only a hundred, but a hundred thousand people.

A few minutes later, Steven and Andrew had lugged Ethan’s amp on stage, but as they made their way through the crowd, Leo stomped toward us with murder in his eyes.

He shouted, “No! NO way is this happening. What kind of fucking amateur hour are we dealing with here? You aren’t at sound check. You don’t play. You want me to fucking sound check an amp now two minutes before you are supposed to go on? That fucks all the other levels up. You guys said fucking-three-piece. Three piece!”

Leo added, “So not only do I gotta deal with Miss Fucking Princess of Rock N’ Roll here, but her faggy boyfriend too.” He looked toward Andrew and Steven, “Is there a fucking reason why you are in a band with high schoolers? You like ‘em young or something?”

Jeremy interrupted, “Hey you fat sack of shit, you are just jealous because Lolita herself turned you down. This isn’t your failed attempt to be a roadie for White Snake either, it’s just a friendly show. So stop throwing around amateur hour.”

He added, “And there’s nothing stopping you from adjusting the levels during the first song. Right? Just let the kids play.”

It was bizarre to hear Jeremy call Ethan and I kids, because he couldn’t have been older than nineteen or eighteen, but I recall as a first-time high school student, the grade twelve students razzing the grade nines for being so immature and tiny. One of them in particular was bullied because his backpack was apparently larger than he was. Considering my height and young face, I could have passed for a ninth grader.

Leo glared at Jeremy and then replied, “I’m going to make you sound like shit tonight.”

Jeremy smirked, “You always do.” Leo, the apparent loser of the bro-sult contest, stepped onto the stage and carefully positioned a microphone in front of Ethan’s amp. I approached Jeremy.

“Hey, thanks a lot. He was being a real dick to us. Our uh- guitar player was late.”

Jeremy smiled at me, and I felt what I assumed were reanimated butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “No worries. And shit happens. I guess he couldn’t get a ride from his dad or something?” The comment was snarky, but I didn’t care- I was too busy looking into his eyes.

Ethan interrupted, “Hey man, that’s not it at all. Not cool.”

Jeremy put his hand on my left shoulder, “You staying for our set, Abby? You know the code, right?”

“Yeah, you don’t leave until the last band f-finishes” I wanted to sound confident, but my voice wavered, actually cracking on finishes and causing me to blush deeply. I proceeded to drop my pick, which Ethan dutifully picked up and placed in my now shaking hands.

Jeremy smiled again, and the part of me that wasn’t gushing over another boy realized that I was again becoming a painful stereotype of a teenage girl. I wasn’t sure if I was boy crazy or not. It’s not like I was developing crushes on every boy I met. OK, maybe the student teacher who was doing his practicum in my music class. Maybe. I definitely felt good when I was around him, not like I wanted to kiss him, but just the way he looked at me- it made me feel special. Alyssa quickly pulled me away, thankfully stopping me from embarrassing myself further.

She said, “Abby! What are you doing? You are making Ethan really mad.”

I shook my head, “I was just thanking Jeremy.”

Alyssa shook her head vehemently, “No way. You were flirting with him. Hardcore. Totally flirting. Admit it, and stop it.”

I frowned, “I really don’t think I was. And even if I was, I can’t help it. It’s like the same thing with the student teacher we have for music. I just start feeling giddy, and I smile at him, and he smiles back, and I just-“

Alyssa stopped me there, “I get it. You are falling for all these guys because you aren’t getting the one you want. You have to think about how others see you, you are going to get a bad image at school. Especially after Alexandre.”

Alyssa frowned, “Some of the girls have already started calling you a slut.”

I replied indignantly, “And what do you say?”

Alyssa’s eyes showed surrender, “Whoa girl, I stick up for you. I know nothing happened between you and that asshole. But the others they say stuff, especially Véronique. Just um, like try and control it. And if you can’t then avoid the crush if you can.”

I said, “How do I ignore a teacher though?”

Alyssa scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue, “He’s so much older than you, Abby. Like ten years. Gross! He’s gonna be gone in a month anyway.” She grinned, “Anyway, you better get on stage. Andrew and Steven don’t seem to like our girl talk!” I could see that Andrew and Steven were aggressively motioning for me to step on the stage.

I quickly did as they asked, slinging my guitar over my shoulder as Steven hit his loop pad and the near deafening sound of an approaching helicopter filled Club Saw. Twenty seconds later, we hit our first note, and the cacophony of noise- cymbals, gritty, distorted angry guitars and thumping bass announced our opening song. I could see from the first note I sung, I had the crowd too, we had the crowd. I felt a measure of concern that it was potentially the Sidereus Prophecy controlling the concert goers, but I was supposed to be a pop princess not a rock front woman, so my worry fled easily.

As we powered through the set, I found my parents in the audience. I loved to lock eyes with them, as if I was singing only to them; although, obviously not when I wore my “murder” face, as my sister called it. My attempts to gain their attention, always made my mother smile. As for my sister, she was again babysitting Chloe. I also found myself casting curious looks in Ethan’s direction. This show was my chance to demonstrate that the band was worth it- that he would have no other choice but to stay with me, or rather- the band. As a result of his presence, I had no issue hearing myself over the music, particularly Steven’s thundering drums.

However, during one of his solos, Ethan began seriously showing off to a group of girls wearing brightly-coloured skinny jeans. Not only was I jealous of the attention he was giving them, I was doubly annoyed because I could never squeeze into a pair of jeans that tight- not without looking like a sausage leaking out of a defective casing. They were likely waiting for Jeremy’s band to start, but Ethan had caught their attention. He strutted in front of them, playing his guitar very low, well past his knees, smiling, with the girls casting what I felt were wanton looks. As his solo finished, I not only powered through the chorus to the song’s final scream, I released a piercing, desperate cry as I saw one of the girls, a bottle blonde with a less than modest chest reach out and touch Ethan’s hand.

I cast venom, hellfire, battery acid and deadly plague in her direction with my eyes. As I held the scream, well past the end of the music, I realized that I was looking at the girl with controlled hatred. She blanched and slowly stepped away from Ethan. I am not certain if the audience thought it was part of the show or not, but they cheered wildly when I finally released the note, ending the painful burning in my lungs. I stood there, breathing heavily as the crowd poured adulation on us- on me. Along with Ethan’s groupies, throughout our set, I had also gained admirers, most notably a very impressed looking Jeremy, who had pushed his way up to the front, now mere inches from me.

Despite that fact, I went out of my way to be close to Ethan through the second half of our one hour set. Whenever I wasn’t singing, I would move over toward him. As a result, he stopped showing off to his fan club. During “The Girl I’ll Never Know”, I took the microphone off the stand and stood next to him for the whole song, essentially singing to him. I saw Alyssa in the audience, and I could have sworn she was crying. I caught Amélie’s reaction a few times during the song, and she looked sad, but more than that- she was dejected. I hated to see her so miserable, but my feelings had grown for Ethan beyond a little crush. I wasn’t about to call it love, but his very presence made me better, as Amélie’s had once done. I was singing my heart out for him tonight, beyond anyone else- to convince him to stay. I peered down at my wedding ring, and then returned to Ethan.

We reached the last note in the set, and like the show at the Gob, the crowd was in a frenzy. Ethan and I crashed our bodies and our guitars together, creating massive feedback, as Steven pounded away like a maniac. Andrew was more composed, simply playing his bass low and nodding his head to the music. When it was done, and the final screech of feedback ended, there was raucous applause. I was on my back next to Ethan, the ultimate grunge end (short of destroying our instruments), and he smiled at me. I smiled back.

I was giddy when the set ended. I knew that Ethan would stay in the band. The lead singer of Porcelain, a twenty-something woman with raven hair and oddly enough, china doll-like skin, approached us as we were putting away our gear.

She smiled, the piercing in her bottom lip glistening under the hot stage lights, “Amazing set. Love the songs. And you two- I heard you are in high school?” She looked to Ethan and me.

I nodded, “Yeah, we go to St. Jo’s.”

She said, “You have a really mature sound. I’m blown away really. You can sound like that and be so young.” She laughed, “It’s not fair. Listen though, I know it might be a problem considering your ages, but I want you guys to open for us in a few out of town shows. Montreal, Toronto. And a bunch of shows along the 416. They are all weekend dates, so hopefully that’s not an issue. You don’t have to let us know now. The dates are all in November and December though, so it needs to be soon.” She congratulated us again and then walked away.

I beamed and looked at my band mates, “Amazing show guys. We killed it. So those shows, we are in, right?”

Andrew said, “I want to. I’ll need to speak to Laura. I agree it would be a lot of fun. We could rent a van.”

Steven said, “I am so in. I’ll book off work.” All three of us turned our attention to Ethan, who had a wide grin on his face. He nodded.

After I finished my duties as cable winder girl, Jeremy approached me. He grinned, “Sick set. Hey, I heard that you guys are going to be opening for Porcelain. They are a super nice band. They gave us a lot of exposure when we were starting out.” He touched me on the shoulder, and I smiled at him. I felt that I was simply being friendly. I was still on an emotional high from the show, and I wanted to seem approachable to anyone, so I maintained a very welcoming posture.

I said, “Um- thanks. I think we did OK.”

Jeremy laughed and then touched my hip, “I even saw Leo moving his head to the music. I told you he’d do a good job though, you guys sounded great. The mix was perfect.” He moved to touch my other hip, and said, “Are you going to come right up to the front like I-,” but Alyssa intercepted him.

She said, “Sorry!” I wasn’t sure what the female equivalent to a cock block was, but Alyssa had completed one expertly.

Alyssa pulled me aside and frowned, “Abby, you’ve gotta talk to Ethan. He saw you flirting with Jeremy AGAIN. What’s wrong with you? It’s so obvious you and Ethan like each other. You guys are as annoying as Jude and Vincent!”

She added, “You were being a major flirt, Abby.”

I shook my head, “No way, I’m just being friendly. I was just really excited from the show too.”

Alyssa pushed me out the door into smoker’s alley, “You let him touch you a bunch of times and Ethan saw it, he went out there. Go talk to him and fix it.”

I wasn’t sure why I let Jeremy touch me in front of Ethan. Was it to make him jealous? I wanted Ethan to touch me like that- well more than that actually.

I saw Ethan sulking in the corner. Dust from the gravel alleyway coated the sides of his shoes, which likely meant he had been kicking gravel. He was acting like such a child, throwing a tantrum, just because I had spoken to Jeremy. I tried to think of what I would have done if I were him. At his age, I lacked the ability to speak to girls in any romantic context. I needed friends to drag me along on double dates to even have a chance. It wasn’t until my last year of high school that I even asked a girl out. Ethan was light years ahead of me.

Ethan was a kid, so his behaviour wasn’t really that unusual. I had seen him go from lion to puppy dog before in the span of a brief conversation. He was fiery, but he was also highly emotional, wearing his heart on his sleeve, much like I did.

I said softly, “Hey.”

Ethan turned to me, his face a mask of hurt and betrayal. “Did you like talking to that jerk?” His words were spiteful, biting. My chest tightened as he watched me with angry eyes.

Logic had to reign if Ethan and I were going to have any type of romantic or even professional relationship. I said, “I’m not allowed to talk to guys? Because it sure looks like you are having a hissy fit over that.” I needed to show Ethan that he was being unreasonable and possessive.

Ethan said with narrowed eyes, “So if I went over to that blonde girl right now and she started touching me, playing with my hair. Touching my shoulder. You’d have no problem with that? I was pretty sure you wanted to scratch her eyes out when she was close to me during the set.”

I said, “That’s different. You were showing off for her, trying to make me jealous.”

Ethan shook his head, “It’s not different at all, Abby.” He threw his hands in the air, “You make me so mad. You are still acting like you know everything. Like you are something more than just a teenager, like me. It’s so annoying! What makes you so much smarter than everyone? Because you are guilty of the same things, Abby.”

He pointed a finger at me, “I think you were trying to make me jealous, letting him touch you like that. I think you did the same thing with Alexandre too, but it got out of hand. See? How does that feel? Because that’s how you sound, Abby. Every time you open your mouth.”

He added, “From the very first time I met you, you were like that. Acting like an adult, but it just makes you seem more like an immature child, playing dress up.”

I shot back, “I told you that I was almost emancipated. I worked a whole summer in a law office, successfully. I am different, Ethan. Can you do that, can Alyssa do that?”

Ethan shook his head, “No, of course not. But just because you’ve done that, doesn’t mean you are better than any one of us. It doesn’t mean you know any better about stuff. You make the same stupid mistakes any girl your age makes.”

I was unconvinced, but curious, “How so?”

He said, “Well for one, you tried to play hero in the Pit, and you got burned. You tried to tackle Chantal. How did that work out for you? You got suspended for what you did to M. Landry. You go on a date with Alexandre, where you get drunk and let him do whatever the hell he wants to you. I mean I don’t know everything my parents do, but I can’t remember the last time they did anything so stupid.”

He stated matter-of-factly, “You aren’t any different than the rest of us. You just think you are.”

I looked at Ethan with sad eyes, and my lower lip fell into a pout. Ethan simply shook his head, “As much as I like you, Abby, I just don’t think it’s worth it. As for the band, I’m not really looking forward to seeing you flirt with a bunch of guys and lie to my face and say you weren’t. There’s too much drama in this band. I don’t want to deal with this shit anymore. I think I just need to cut the fucking cord.”

I said, “Come on, Ethan- don’t do this. You know this band is good. We are starting to get traction. We need you.”

I heard a frantic scream, followed by intense double-bass pedal thumping and angry duelling guitars. This Bloody Life had taken the stage.

Ethan said, “Shouldn’t you head inside? Didn’t you promise what’s-his-name you’d be up front?”

I watched Ethan, shoulders slumped, defeated but still furious with me. We had only a few feet between us. I stood my ground, hoping that I could convince him further.

I said, “Please let’s talk about this, Ethan. I care about you.”

The boy started moving toward the door, but I intercepted him, blocking his path.

Ethan said, “Abby, just move- I- wait what are you, mmmphhhmmmm,” my lips halted his words, and within an instant, he was kissing me back- hard. He put his tongue down my throat, clumsily at first, but eventually he found mine, and we were duelling back and forth. He put his hand on my ass, firmly packed in the slightly too-tight jeans, and squeezed, then he leaned me up against the cement wall. We were like a vicious storm bottled for months released suddenly upon the world, a torrential downpour, lightning crackling, deafening thunder and raging hurricane-strength winds.

It was a natural fury, his months of pent up sexual frustration, and my understanding and sudden willingness to accept that if I was going to be Abigail, if I was going to live her life, then Ethan had to be in it.

The sensations were hard to describe, in that, it wasn’t the fireworks or sparks that I had felt when Ethan and I first kissed. There was passion and a clear end to the frustration on both our parts, but it was a sense that what I was doing felt not only very good, amazing in fact, but also very right. It was right because it made me forget about the others, the student teacher in my music class, Jeremy, even Justin Bieber- I never ever wanted to admit it, and I still despised his music, but with his recent police run-ins, I saw a picture of him in one of the tabloid magazines with his shirt off, tight abs, just looking pissed at the world…and hot, and it didn’t matter if he yodeled, I found him very attractive, but I would murder the first person who said anything.

Beyond the obvious ones, it also made me forget about the wedding ring on my finger, about Amélie and even Chloe. I felt like I did when I first kissed Amélie in her apartment. Of course, she had gone for the kiss, and I had gone for the hug, thinking it prudent to take things at a snail-like pace, but she initiated the kiss, and I accepted, but this time, I had initiated it.

I came up for air, and in the process, I broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Ethan now had his hand on my chest and was sort of roughly squeezing my left boob, while still rubbing my ass. I fell into the exercise like an inexperienced teenage girl, and while I knew in general what to do to make him feel very good, I lost myself in the new experience and simply put my arms around his waist, waiting for his next move. It was clear he wanted to be the dominant one, which suited me fine, as I really wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with what was in his pants.

Just as I caught my breath, Ethan was back on my lips, kissing me fiercely, and then I felt something poking me as the boy started pushing, and then thrusting his crotch into my leg. My eyes flew open, and I was filled with fear. I told myself I wasn’t ready for this. We were in a public place too. The alley was empty now with the next band having started, but it likely wouldn’t be for long.

“Abigail! Abigail! Are you- oh! I was- . “ It was Amélie. I immediately broke the kiss, but I knew it was too late. She had seen everything. My wife, who I had once referred to as a robot, was anything but- her lips were tight, and her eyes tearing up. Her hands were trembling as she said, “I- Oh- I-I’m really sorry, but I have to take Abigail home now. There’s been a- there’s a family emergency.”

She cleared her throat, “I’ll let you two say goodbye. I want you in the car in two minutes though, Abigail.”

My wife left, and I looked at Ethan sheepishly, “Um- sorry about that. I guess I have to go.”

Ethan looked at me kindly, “It’s OK, Abby. I understand. I’ll make sure all your gear gets packed up. And I’ll tell the others you had to go. Family emergency, right? I hope everything is alright. I’ll- um- text you tonight.” He kissed me on the lips and then wrapped his arms around me. I just stood there like a statue. Amélie had seen everything.

Ethan looked at me with sudden worry, “Hey, Abby, are you OK? You- look kind of lost. It’s not something I did?”

I shook my head and then kissed him softly on the lips, “No, I’m just worried about what it might be. You know- the emergency.”

Ethan’s confidence, previously shattered, returned in full force. He grinned, “So, if I were to invite you to my place to play NHL, and Ryan, Eric and even Alyssa weren’t there. Just you and me. That’d be OK?”

I smiled and then gently said, “Yeah. It’s OK.”

The boy’s expression was one of tremendous relief and then joy. He smiled, “Great show, Abby. You were amazing.”

I grinned, “So were you.” I turned my back to him. I tried to move toward the exit, but it was like bungee cables held me firmly in place, and the more pressure I applied in attempting my exit the harder the cables snapped back. I turned around and kissed Ethan hard the lips and then I wrapped my arms around him, and he did the same, and once again, we were entangled. My imminent departure made the kiss bittersweet, but not lacking in passion. I knew there wasn’t a family emergency. It had to be my stupid curfew. I figured that because of Amélie’s decision to be stricter that she would want me home at a decent hour.

I don’t know how long we stood there and kissed, but when I heard Amélie’s voice again- I knew it had been too long. I quickly broke the embrace, feeling myself torn away from Ethan, and very much looking forward to seeing him on Monday.

Ethan shouted to my retreating form, “I’ll text you tonight, Abby!”

Amélie took my hand and pulled me into Club Saw. I knew that the car ride home was going to be less than pleasant.

Chapter 56

“It’s not how it looked, Amélie- really.”

My wife shook her head and replied, “It looked like Ethan was getting to second base. Listen, Abigail, I’m not really surprised that it happened. I know that you two like each other, and you were going through a rough patch. This was inevitable.” I was amazed by how calm and collected she was. The kiss she had viewed basically sounded the death knell on our marriage. Before, it was a feeble, haggard husk, nearly dead, but now, it was in a pine box six-feet under.

I frowned, “I asked you not to call me that. What’s the emergency by the way? Why did we have to leave?”

Amélie replied, “Because we have to have a talk.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Whatever. And what about Alyssa, didn’t she come with you?”

Amélie nodded, “She’s getting a ride with Ethan’s dad.”

There was an awkward silence in the car for ten minutes, and while it was clear Amélie wanted to talk, she was having difficulty. I played on my phone, texting Alyssa and Ethan, asking them about Porcelain’s set.

Finally, Amélie broke the silence, “Do you remember that conversation we had about Chloe? You know when she’s a teenager and she’s got a serious boyfriend?”

I nodded, “Yeah. So what?”

Amélie said gently, “And you remember how we said, that our parents, they never had the talk with us.”

I shrugged, “Yeah. But what does that matter? Neither of us started dating seriously until we were in our twenties. What are you getting at, Amélie?” I was getting impatient, and I already missed Ethan.

Amélie replied, “When I was your age, well let’s just say I never let a guy touch me like you did tonight. And the thing with Alexandre, it’s got me a bit scared for you, Abigail. I think…,” she cleared her throat, and then pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot. She turned into the drive-thru lane.

Amélie finally blurted out, “I think you should go on the pill.”

If Amélie thought she would be free from my ire, outright disgust and embarrassment because she had reached the drive-thru window, she was wrong.

The garbled speaker said, “Can I *static crackle* please.”

Amélie saw my face, which bore a striking resemblance to my murder face, and frowned, she turned to the face the microphone, but I blurted out, “I would order, but I’m not sure I should have the responsibility. You know, because apparently I can’t be trusted with my own body.”

The garbled speaker said, “Please *static crackle*.”

Amélie sighed, “Sorry, about that I’ll have a nugget meal, and a quarter pounder meal.”

I said, “I want a salad. Just a Caesar salad.”

Amélie looked at me with great confusion, “You never order a salad. You say it’s a waste of money. Are you worried about your weight again?”

The garbled speaker replied, “Repeat your *static crackle* please.”

I said, “Can I just get a salad without it being the Spanish Inquisition? You remember the sleepover don’t you? I had a Slurpee. That’s really all that needs to be said.”

The car behind us honked, and the speaker said, “Come into the *static crackle* complicated orders. Please.”

A minute later an exasperated Amélie drove up to the pay window, while I sat with her chicken Mcnuggets and a very unappetizing Caesar salad on my lap. It had likely been made this afternoon or even this morning, and the lettuce was wilting.

Amélie took her meal from my lap, “I think you should really consider going on the pill, Abigail. And before you bite my head off, let me explain why.” I dug into my salad, the tomatoes were overly mushy, the cucumbers almost gel-like- I took one bite and closed the lid.

Amélie said, “I’m going inside to take that back and get you a proper meal. You hardly ate anything for dinner.”

I said, “I’m detoxing after last night. Don’t bother. I’ll eat something when we get home. Can we just get going? Why are we just sitting in the parking lot?”

Amélie replied, “Because I want to talk.”

I shook my head, “I’m not going on the pill. I’m not stupid, Amélie. I’m not like those girls on 16 and Pregnant or Teen Mom or whatever. It’s not going to happen to me. You know who I am. I like Ethan, sure- but I’m not ready for anything like that. And even if we were considering it, which I am definitely NOT, I’d make him use protection.”

I said firmly, “Again, I want to make very clear, I am not thinking about that.”

Amélie frowned, “But that’s how it happens. You’ve never been on the other end like that, Abigail. Condoms are inconvenient, they ruin the mood because they don’t feel as good. I’ve heard all the excuses for not using them. I’ve even heard them from you- and how you were almost expecting me to go on the pill, just so you wouldn’t have to use a condom. Well the pill, it’s like your fail safe, yes- you can still get pregnant on the pill, but it greatly reduces the chances.”

I narrowed my eyes at Amélie, “You think I’m as stupid as the girls on those shows. I told you I’m not interested in doing that with Ethan or any guy. I like boys, but that’s just too much.”

Amélie shook her head, “I’m sorry if you thought I was calling you stupid earlier. I was just trying to explain that, you know, a lot of your choices since your change- they haven’t been great. I was just mad about what happened with Alyssa. I don’t think you are stupid. I think you are a very intelligent girl, but in the heat of the moment, and with how inexperienced you are- well, anything can happen.”

I crossed my arms underneath my chest, nearly entering full pout mode, “You don’t understand. I need to prove to myself that I still have control. That I can still make the adult choice.”

Amélie said, “But contraception is the adult choice. I’ve been on the pill since I moved out of my parents’ place. It’s just well- I didn’t want to remind you about this, but what about the Sidereus Prophecy, what if it forces you to throw yourself at another man, what then?”

Amélie said softly, “What would you do if you got pregnant?”

I replied, “It won’t happen. Ethan and I were just kissing.”

Amélie sighed, “This, this is why you need to go on the pill. You are crazy about that boy. You aren’t thinking straight. I wasn’t talking about him, I was talking about Alexandre. You can use the pill to protect yourself, at least from getting pregnant.”

I turned away from Amélie and said, “So what, are you my mom now, is that it?”

Amélie frowned, “Please at least consider it. I think it might be a good idea to speak to Dr. Alberts.”

I ignored Amélie and went back to playing on my phone. Eventually, Amélie backed out of the parking lot and drove us home. When we arrived, I went straight to my room without even saying hello to my sister.

I got up in the middle of the night to go to the washroom, an annoying side effect of my smaller bladder. As I entered the washroom, I could have sworn I heard crying upstairs, but it didn’t sound like Chloe. After I finished and flushed the toilet, the crying had stopped.

***

“Mr. Lawrence, it’s really very good to see you again. Or is it simply Abigail now?”

Mr. Atwater was sitting in his desk chair, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Please have a seat, Abigail.” He motioned to the seat in front of his desk.

I looked down at myself, and saw that I was still Abigail. I thought of Darren’s image, and felt myself shift back, regaining my maleness, but only for a moment. When I tried it a few seconds later, I couldn’t shift back. All I could think about was Ethan.

I did as he asked, although I had a sour look on my face. While the office had a museum-like atmosphere with some of history’s most recognizable masterpieces on display, I couldn’t help but notice the framed copy of “Baby Hit Me One More Time”, Britney’s debut album.

Mr. Atwater said, “She argued with me for weeks about that title. She thought it was hypersexual, and completely inappropriate for her young fans, many of them not yet in their teens. She lost that battle, as she did many others.”

I sneered, “Why did you bring me here? I’m still not signing your contract.”

Mr. Atwater smiled, but it was the look a famished wolf gives to the lame deer, “To offer a fair warning to you. If you do not sign by Christmas, your life will become very, very unpleasant, Abigail.”

He added, “And speaking of Christmas, I am really looking forward to seeing you in elf ears. You and Alyssa will have a really wonderful time. You are very lucky to have her. She is a true friend.”

While I remained silent and indignant, Mr. Atwater kept blabbing on and on, “I have to admit that I was shocked when you cast the spell on her. I didn’t think you had it in you, but this confirms my opinion of you. Not only are you willing to neglect your friends and family to succeed, you are willing to sacrifice them too. By casting the spell, you revealed yourself to be the perfect choice for the Sidereus Prophecy. The magic will aid you, but you will still need to work to reach the top. Yes, you will be an overnight sensation, but there will be others who will vie for your position.”

He added, “Your deceit regarding the spell and Alyssa speaks volumes as to your nature, Abigail. There is a very bad girl hiding behind that sweet face. The perfect girl to massacre her competition.”

I shook my head furiously, “No! I’m not like that! I was desperate. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan, and Alyssa- she’s turning me into a real girl. It was a mistake. I will never try it again! Ever. Even if it means I am trapped this way.”

Mr. Atwater smirked, “It’s really very simple though, Abigail. Sign the contract, and in two years, you can be Darren Lawrence again. If you like, I will have one of our agents provide you with a copy of the contract. You can have your darling Amélie look it over.”

Mr. Atwater added with levity, “By the way, when are you going to take that ridiculous ring off? You know we’ll airbrush it off your finger either way. Are you wearing it in some pathetic attempt to prolong your marriage? You know Amélie has taken hers off. A few times. Last night when she was crying, she took it off. Do you think she’ll keep it off this time?”

I shouted, “I don’t believe you! I don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”

Mr. Atwater tsked-tsked softly, “You are delusional. You think that she’s going to forget that you were lip-locked with your lead guitar player last night?”

I sighed, “So what happens if I sign, and I follow all of your ridiculous rules for two years, then I get to be married to Amélie again? My friends won’t treat me like a freak show? What about Mr. Principal, can you get him to leave my wife alone?”

Mr. Atwater replied, “The Sidereus Prophecy is far reaching, but once it is fulfilled, the magic becomes inactive. I cannot promise you that your life will be the same as it was before you became Abigail.”

He added, “Do you see, I could have lied to you and told you otherwise? Told you what you wanted to hear. I am telling you the truth, Abigail.”

I rolled my eyes, “Whatever. So if you can’t promise me any of that, why should I sign? What’s my incentive?”

Mr. Atwater wore a devilish grin, “Again, this is simplicity. I know you are a strong girl, Abigail. Alyssa is right about that. You know how I said that your life after Christmas will become unpleasant? What if that also meant the same for your loved ones? Amélie is a given, and your parents, and what about Ethan? And Chloe-“

I slammed my fist on the desk, “You don’t touch her! I’ll kill you if you touch her, I will find a way!”

It was true. Amélie and I had at times discussed what we would do if someone threatened Chloe’s life. The scenario we used involved a home intruder with a knife. I would bash the intruder’s brains in with a bat before letting them touch my daughter. The same went for Mr. Atwater if he tried anything with her.

I woke suddenly, desperate for breath. I was back in my room. My hands went to my throat as I fought for air. I felt myself actually losing consciousness before it finally stopped, and I was able to breathe again. I didn’t think about my wife consoling me, or even my mother. I cried softly in my bed, wishing that Ethan was there to hold me, until I eventually fell back asleep.

***

The next morning, I was awakened by a series of vibrations on my end table- text messages. I quickly flipped my phone open, hoping it was Ethan.

Alyssa: abby
Alyssa: abby
Alyssa: wake up
Alyssa: tell me whats going on
Alyssa: so r u guys going out or what
Me: I’m not sure. He invited me to his place probably sometime during the week.
Alyssa: so what was it like the kiss =)
Me: It was nice
Alyssa: awww cute u 2 r so good 2gether
Alyssa: he talked lots about u after u left
Alyssa: he was rlly happy big grin on his face
Alyssa: did u guys do more than kiss
Me: Kind of
Alyssa: tell me tell me tell me tell me =)
Me: Maybe another time

I wasn’t ready to tell another soul how much I liked how Ethan touched me, beyond simply the kissing. I didn’t really understand this practice. I had never shared my romantic escapades with my guy friends. They knew in general who I was dating, but nothing beyond that.

Alyssa: awww come on we are bffs we are supposed to share everythng
Alyssa: did he touch u anywhere did u like it
Alyssa: come on what did it feel like

As I fought the urge to tell Alyssa, the memory of the event, Ethan gently pushing me against the alley wall, and then rubbing my ass, all the while kissing me fiercely, it rose to prominence, and suddenly, I desperately wanted to tell Alyssa- so I could relive it.

Me: He touched my butt, rubbed it a bit, then he kind of grabbed my boob but we were kissing so it didnt really matter
Alyssa: did he hurt ur boob
Me: Kind of I guess he was into it I didn’t really notice until he started really squeezing it
Alyssa: lol guys r so clueless
Alyssa: but did it feel good like when he was rubbing ur butt
Me: Yeah
Alyssa: u think something will happen when u go to his place
Me: Maaaaaybe
Alyssa: lol im rubbing off on u abby
Alyssa: im so happy u took my advice
Me: me too

I put my phone down, focused on the task at hand. I had a great deal of ground to make up with Amélie in regard to her treating me like an adult. The easiest way to return to her good graces was to do as she asked me, so I put on a pair of sweats, ate a quick bowl of cereal and armed with a duster, I began cleaning the living room.

Amélie had taken Chloe to Laura’s for a playdate, so not only did I clean the living room and the downstairs, I did her laundry, and Chloe’s laundry, and I also swept and mopped the kitchen floor. After I finished, it was well past noon, so I made a light lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich and vegetable soup.

In keeping with the theme of extreme productivity, I completed an aerobic workout, took a shower and then got started on my homework.

Ethan told me that he was going to text me last night, but I received nothing. I assumed it was silly advice he received from his friends or even Alyssa. There was nothing wrong with saying that you had a great time. It wasn’t creepy or stalkerish. I had once called a girl immediately after a date, to tell her how much of a good time I had, and then I attempted to strike up a long conversation. She was rightfully turned off, but a simple goodnight, it set fears to rest. After our reconciliation last night, however, I did not doubt Ethan’s interest. Still, it would have been nice if he had at least said good night.

I looked down at my phone and realized that twenty minutes had passed, and I was still on the same math problem. Even math reminded me of Ethan, because he had offered to help me before. I thought about calling him for help. It was the perfect excuse, but I fought the urge. I had to also show Amélie that I wasn’t obsessed with the boy, or she would likely drill me with the safe sex speech again. Still, maybe we could study in a park and… I took a deep breath, remembering a young couple that made us actually switch parks because their make-out session was so heated. That could very easily be Ethan and I.

I sighed, struggling through the math problems, until eventually I finished, but half of my answers were wrong as confirmed by my textbook. I closed the textbook, thinking about going in early tomorrow for extra help, as I had done in high school my first time around. I just wasn’t getting it, and to make matters worse, I was becoming frustrated. The odd thing was that my first time around, I managed to get a B+ in 10th grade math, helped greatly by my teacher, a young woman that I had a serious crush on. Everything she said made perfect sense. In her class, I achieved my first and only 100% on a math test. I still had the test, stowed away in a mouldy box somewhere in the spare room, the room that held the remnants of Darren Lawrence’s life.

The front door opened, announcing Amélie and Chloe’s return. I heard Chloe’s lilting voice, “Daddy? Daddy?” I trudged upstairs and Chloe’s infectious grin instantly brightened my mood. She asked, “On the Bed?” This was her favourite game with me, and I quickly joined her in my former master bedroom. I picked her up and threw her on the bed and then jumped up myself, laying my head down on one of Amélie’s pillows. Chloe did the same, and we were both soon pretend sleeping with me making loud, exaggerated snoring sounds. I then picked her up and exclaimed, “Bouncy train!” I lay her on my body, her head resting on my breasts, and I proceeded to jiggle and flail my entire body while Chloe held on for dear life.

Chloe was soon expelled from the ‘Bouncy Train’, but she reached out and firmly grabbed my right breast, causing me to yelp. This brought Amélie. “Are you OK?”

I nodded, “Yeah, Chloe just grabbed my boob. She’s rough. Like you know when she grabs your face and squeezes? It really hurts.”

Amélie nodded, “We need to be clear that behaviour like that isn’t acceptable. She does the same thing to the daycare providers and even the kids sometimes. Do you think that maybe because you play rough with her a lot that she might be doing that?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t want her to be a little princess. That’s how my dad played with my sister. Rough and tumble. In fact, he used to hit her with pillows.”

Amélie quirked a brow, “Yes, I have seen you do that.” Amélie sat down on the bed, and Chloe jumped at her, propelling herself into Amélie’s bosom.

Amélie was unprepared for the attack, and Chloe managed to grab her boob and squeeze it in much the same way she had done to me. Amélie didn’t yelp, but she did scold the child.

Chloe peered at both of us and then looked at herself, and then back to us, paying particular attention to our chests. “Mommy and Daddy same!” From her wide eyes and grin, it was clear Chloe had had a Eureka moment- Mommy and Daddy had the same parts. I looked over at Amélie who was frowning.

Amélie said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I’m worried that Chloe is going to be gender confused, if she thinks daddies are the same as mommies. As she gets older, she is only going to get more and more confused. Also, you know- I’d like to throw Chloe a birthday party. I’m starting to talk more with the other parents, and Chloe is making friends. I thought it might be nice to have them over.”

I sighed, “And it would be weird for her to call a teenage girl daddy, is that it?” I shook my head, “I don’t like this, Amélie. I don’t want to be pushed out of her life. I’m her Daddy, and I’m always going to be her Daddy.”

Amélie replied, “I need to start being social again. This is part of who I am. I really enjoyed planning Chloe’s party last year. I feel like outside of Laura, I can’t talk to anyone. You know because I have to lie about why there’s a fifteen year old girl here. And then I have to lie about why she calls you Daddy.”

I shrugged, “Can’t you hold one somewhere else with the other parents? And another here with our friends who know about the change?”

Amélie sighed, “I suppose so. This doesn’t really fix anything. What if we want to have people here who don’t know about your change?”

I raised a brow, “Like who?”

Amélie replied, “Well, your friends, or our friends who don’t know about the change. Alyssa and Ethan are going to wonder why Chloe calls you that.”

I shrugged, “I’ll just tell them it’s because I play with her the same way.”

Amélie said, “That doesn’t fix things though. I think you are going to have to tell our other friends who you really are. Some of them grew up with me, there’s no way they will believe you are my sister. A secret like that would have lasted two seconds in my home town.”

Amélie added, “Even though I said I wasn’t going to, I’ve been stuck lying. I haven’t gone out to anything because then I have to lie about you in Vancouver. It’s just, I don’t think it’s fair.”

I rolled my eyes, “So am I Abigail, or am I Darren? Because it seems like I can be neither.”

Amélie sighed, “I’m sorry for calling you Abigail. And thanks for cleaning the house.” I looked down to see if Amélie was still wearing her wedding ring. She was.

I said, “If we tell more people, then we risk the wrong person finding out. What if I become a story for some hungry journalist, one who is desperate enough to break such an unbelievable story?”

Amélie replied, “I don’t know. I agree that it’s a risk. But think about what Mr. Atwater said too, who would believe you? Well, so far your family and friends. Right?”

I said, “Fine, we’ll tell our friends, and my other family members at Chloe’s birthday party. But not those parents I don’t know. And not Alyssa and definitely not Ethan.” I couldn’t mix and match parts of Darren’s life with Abigail’s.

I asked, “Are you going to tell him?”

Amélie raised a brow, “Who?

I rolled my eyes, “You know who I’m talking about. Mr. Principal.”

Amélie shook her head, “He doesn’t need to know.”

I replied firmly, “Good.”

Later that night, as I was lying in bed, my phone buzzed, indicating another text message. I flipped my phone open, and I felt a burst of happiness.

Ethan: hey
Me: hey (I fought the urge to put a smiley face)
Ethan: sorry i didnt text u last night
Me: it’s OK
Ethan: alyssa told me not to and i kind of got it but then i thought i couldnt ask u about the emergency
Me: False alarm, thanks for asking though.
Ethan: hey abby how come u text in full words and sentences
Ethan: text is supposed to be fast
Ethan: i always laugh when you send me texts like full paragraphs w punctuation
Me: Do you think it’s weird?
Ethan: nah it’s not just different
Ethan: i didnt mean it like that its cool :)
Ethan: so do you want to come over wed?
Me: Why Wednesday?
Ethan: my mom’s gone and my dad’s working
Me: 0_ 0 aren’t we playing games?
Ethan: yeah yeah but my mom is annoying she wants to meet u
Ethan: she is embarrassing i hate her sometimes
Ethan: u r lucky u live with ur sister
Me: She can humiliate me with the best of them, kind of like when she caught us
Ethan: lol yeah the look on ur face
Ethan: so u think u can come wed?
Me: Yeah :)
Ethan: see u in school 2morrow abby
Ethan: good night
Me: good night :)

I put my phone down, feeling warmth in my chest and in my cheeks, and a pleasant buzzing in my head. I couldn’t wait to see Ethan at school tomorrow.

***

“I’m going over to Ethan’s tonight.” We were in the middle of dinner, despite my concerns over my weight, I was shovelling in Amélie’s stuffed pepper casserole in heaping mouthfuls. I wanted to get to Ethan’s so we’d have plenty of time to play.

Amélie raised a brow, “Are his parents going to be home?”

I scoffed, “I’m going there to play video games. I don’t know if his parents are going to be home. I think he said that they might not be. Why does it matter?”

Amélie frowned, “I don’t really like you going there if his parents aren’t going to be home.”

I replied, “Come on, Amélie. You said you were going to stop doing this. Stop acting like my mom.”

Amélie shook her head, “I’m supposed to be your legal guardian. Do you really think this is a good idea? Considering what happened on Saturday night? What if Ethan wants to go farther?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I told you that I’m not remotely ready for that. Besides, Ethan’s not like that. He’s not Alexandre.”

Amélie was unconvinced, “Can’t you two come here? And what about your curfew? What if you lose track of time? I’d prefer Ethan’s parents were there so they could drive you home at the very least.”

I haughtily flipped my hair, “I can’t believe we are having this conversation. I want you to trust me, Amélie. Just let me show you that nothing is going to happen, and that I can be home on time.”

Amélie asked, “Is your homework done?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I worked on it until you got home. Just ask my mom.”

Amélie sighed, “I don’t like this, but I’m going to trust you. Don’t make me regret it. Be home at nine pm sharp.”

I nodded my head rapidly and quickly finished my dinner, gulping down the last bites, and then left for Ethan’s. It was a twenty minute walk, but it gave me time to go over the events of the last two days. I found myself paying less attention in class, focusing more and more on Ethan, looking forward to seeing him when we shared classes together and missing him when we were apart. We sat together at lunch (as always), but instead of sitting next to Alyssa, I sat next to Ethan. My school work would likely suffer eventually, because I had serious tunnel vision. Everything except for Ethan had been moved to the periphery, even Chloe.

Amélie had set to work on planning Chloe’s birthday party, which was going to be Elmo themed. I wasn’t looking forward to telling my aunts, uncles and cousins about my change, but at the same time, I missed going to family gatherings. Amélie and I had lied about Chloe being ill so we could skip Thanksgiving. I knew that they would all treat me differently, but at least I could still exist. At least, I wouldn’t have to pretend that I was in Vancouver, and as long as I didn’t sign Mr. Atwater’s contract, I could tell as many people as I wanted what had happened to me.

I had dressed like I would for band, wearing my green hoodie, pink Converse shoes and a pair of my torn jeans. I didn’t really view tonight like a date, but if Ethan wanted to make out, I certainly wouldn’t say no. I hadn’t worn any makeup since Saturday, and while I did like how it accentuated my eyes, I wasn’t really sure it was me. If I was going to be Abigail, I was going to be a tomboy rock girl.

I walked quickly, and I arrived in under twenty minutes. I was familiar with the neighbourhood. Amélie and I had looked at houses there, but realized that the new builds were far too expensive for us. I had looked for the house on Google maps, even bringing it down to street view, so I would be able to recognize it. It was a three-storey brick house with an immaculately groomed lawn. Even though it was nearly November, the lawn was still lush. I usually didn’t bother to mow the lawn past Labour Day in September, so either Ethan’s father was Hank Hill, from King of the Hill, or they paid a landscaping company. From the winding stone path that led me from the edge of the property to the front door, I assumed the latter.

Ethan greeted me at the door with a smile and quickly ushered me into the house. He said, “Hey, thanks for dressing up.”

I smirked, “You are such an ass. How did you want me to dress exactly? I’m here to beat you in NHL.”

Ethan had been talking up his abilities, trash talking me for the last two days. It was friendly, but there were times when his words crossed the line into the typical girls can’t play video games stereotype. I always gave him a sharp look when he was treading onto dangerous ground, and he would quickly retreat.

Ethan smiled, “I liked how you were dressed on Saturday night.” His smile broadened into a grin.

I raised a brow, “You mean the makeup and stuff? That was Alyssa’s.”

Ethan looked disappointed momentarily, but then he led me into the family room. From what I could see, the house was tastefully decorated. It was also very clean. The carpets were white throughout, and the whole main floor was very open concept- I could see an ultra-modern sleek kitchen from the entry way. The house reeked of the upper middle class, and again, either Ethan’s family had a maid or his mother, the Housewives of Beverly Hills reject, was an extremely diligent housekeeper- somehow I doubted it. I had made a snap judgement about the woman from meeting her only once, but she seemed artificial beyond belief. I desperately hoped she wouldn’t engage me in some insipid girl talk. I had Alyssa for that, and Alyssa was genuine, a person who didn’t hide behind a mask of plastic surgery.

Ethan’s television was massive, so was mine, but his was literally one-hundred inches of HD goodness. He leaned down and picked up a PS3 controller and turned the system on. “Since my parents are out, we can play on this one. The one in the basement is smaller. Pretty sick though, right?”

I was concerned momentarily. I figured that Ethan would try and make a move, but if we were in the living room, we were more likely to be caught. Was he not interested beyond our brief foray last Saturday? I feared that I was falling far deeper than he was. If I initiated again, I was also worried that he would assume that I wanted to move beyond just kissing and a little bit of touching.

The opening video assaulted my ears. Ethan had the surround sound blaring, and the bodycheck actually rattled the chinaware in the cabinet on the far wall. He laughed, “The look on your face is really funny, Abby. You never felt speakers like that?”

I nodded, “Yeah, at the movies.”

The boy grinned wide and invited me to sit on the couch. Like the rest of the house, it was white. Considering how messy teenage boys could be, Ethan’s presence likely rarely graced this pristine room.

Ethan said, “Last chance to back out. We can play on the same team if you want.” I stared at the boy, narrowing my eyes, and he immediately shut his mouth.

I said, “Best of seven series. Montreal against the Big Bad Bruins.”

Ethan laughed, “Let me get the broom ready. It’s going to be a sweep.”

It was clear that Ethan had underestimated my skill. I won the first two games handily. The fast moving Canadiens forwards easily cut through the slower skating Bruins defence, and even the 7-foot tall monster known as Zdeno Chara was turned into a massive pylon. Ethan wasn’t scoring with his skilled forwards, and he wasn’t intimidating with his goons. He wasn’t playing like the Big Bad Bruins- more like the Big Bad Ice Capades.

Ethan muttered, “I let you win.”

This elicited my new and improved death look. In six months, I had perfected the pissed off teenage girl face. I would curl my lip slightly and simply stare at the object of my anger, my narrowed piercing blue eyes did the rest.

Ethan threw his hands up in the air, “OK! OK! I didn’t. How are you so good at this game? I don’t get it. You don’t even own it.”

I smirked, “I played the last one against Darren, a lot. And it’s basically the same game every year. This one has a new intimidation feature, improved fighting and an updated roster. As for why I’m beating you specifically. You always do the same move. Centre passes to winger who crosses into my zone. Then you drop for your defensemen, and I collapse in front.”

I added, “You are playing like a pussy too. You haven’t intimidated any of my players.”

After beating him handily the last two games, I was growing overconfident, and this caused me to engage in rare trash talking. Also, his deprecation of my own abilities due to my gender made my wins all the sweeter.

Ethan frowned, “Hey, that’s not cool. How come you can say that, and I can’t?”

I grinned, “Because I won.”

Ethan played with an intensity absent from the first two games, and he also started to intimidate my players. I started to make mistakes, attempting suicide passes that got one of my best players seriously injured and out for the series. Eventually, the series was tied 3-3, and it was no longer a friendly game. Ethan was show boating after scoring, another new feature in this year’s game. He also purposely started fights with my best players to get them off the ice. In my book, it was dirty pool, but it was an effective strategy. When the final buzzer of the seventh game sounded, once again rattling the chinaware, Ethan had beaten me 4-3.

Instead of rubbing it in my face, he stared at me with a new-found respect. “Abby, you are really good at this game. You pulled off some sick moves. Um- sorry, I’m just surprised.” He could see my eyes narrowing again and he quickly added, “Hey, you want something to eat? I was gonna get a pizza pop. You want one?”

My annoyance at his compliment surprised even me. Considering Amélie who had stated once, “I can’t play Super Mario World, there’s too many buttons,”

I didn’t have a lot of experience with girl gamers. Amélie was terrible at anything that didn’t have two buttons or the word Sims in the title. Still, I couldn’t figure out why I was annoyed by his compliment. It didn’t sound patronizing.

I shook my head, “Nah, I’m still kind of on detox from the weekend.”

Ethan raised a brow, “You aren’t one of those girls always worried about dieting, are you? I’ve known you for like six months, Abby- and you don’t seem like that. My mom is like that. She tries every new fad diet. She’s really annoying. Talking about her nutritionist or whatever all the time. I think she’s probably the most boring person in the world.

“My dad and me, we tune her out when she gets like that. I mean who needs to pay someone to tell them how to eat? You just eat. If you get fat, you eat less. Right?”

I frowned, “Well sort of. It’s more complicated than that. And nutritionists help people who have allergies to certain foods or people who are diabetic, or who are just trying to eat healthier.”

Ethan laughed, “There’s Abby again- the walking Wikipedia.”

He walked into the kitchen, leaving me alone. I checked my phone and noticed that it was close to 8 PM. I had been checking my phone after every two games.

I left the couch and checked out Ethan’s collection of games. A little grin appeared on my face as I realized that they were very much the choices a teenage boy would make. First, there was Lollipop Chainsaw where the protagonist slays zombies in a post-apocalyptic world wearing only a cheerleader uniform with a skirt so short it never would have passed St. Jo’s school dress code. He also had Tomb Raider- Legends starring the eponymous sexualized video game character, Lara Croft. If I was her, I would at least wear long pants when raiding tombs.

Even more embarrassing, there was Dead or Alive: Extreme Beach Volleyball. The cover had a collection of scantily clad young women with impossible bodies, thin frame with breasts that would be at home on Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch days. I flipped the box over and saw PUT YOUR FAVOURITE GIRL INTO ONE OF HUNDREDS OF BIKINIS, REAL-LIFE NEXT GENERATION PHYSICS, and then far at the bottom in lowercase, play beach volleyball on four different beaches. I assumed that the physics weren’t for the beach volleyball either. Ethan came back into the room with a pizza pocket, which smelled heavenly. I watched him set the plate on the unsoiled white couch. Ethan’s eyes widened as he saw me going through his collection. He grabbed the Dead or Alive box from my hands.

“I never played this. I swear, I got it for a joke to play with some guys. We just watched the intro to laugh at it.” Ethan had a horrified look on his face. His boyish good looks were marred by a deep frown. He pointed to the used game sticker, “See, I got it for ten dollars. Ryan was like, dude you need to get this game.”

His expression of absolute dread was in marked contrast to my little grin which became a massive smile, and within seconds I giggling madly at the boy. Ethan’s face went from extreme worry to confusion as my face turned red, and my sides began to hurt. I started sucking in air, and by this point, Ethan looked less than impressed.

I giggled and said, “You are a guy. And a teenage boy. I don’t care if you play these games, or this one.” I held up Lollipop Chainsaw. “I heard this one was hilarious. Like a total spoof on the zombie genre and with fun combos. And look I get it, you like boobies. Whatever man. It comes with the territory.”

I couldn’t fault Ethan for liking what I did at his age. At fifteen, without the Internet at home, I had to sate my adolescent lust with the Sunshine Girl, an insert in the daily paper. The girls weren’t even usually very attractive, but they had boobs, and that was all that mattered.

Ethan blinked, “Um, really? You don’t mind that I look at stuff like this? I’m telling the truth about Dead or Alive. I’ve never played it. You can check. I’ve got zero achievements.”

I shook my head, “I don’t care. In fact, let’s play Dead or Alive. Just to see how bad it is.”

Ethan grinned, “I know I’ve said this before, but you are the sickest girl! I was just worried cause you are really, well you have a lot of opinions and I thought you might think it was…sexist?”

I smirked, “OK, stop talking now. Yes, I am opinionated, but this is a game. These games are aimed at guys your age. I mean maybe they might create these unrealistic expectations, you know because no girl with boobs that big is skinny like that.”

As I started to think about it, I realized that I didn’t think it was sexist, but I was worried that it had burned images of these completely artificial girls into Ethan’s brain. I hated the fact that the thought existed, but a part of me was jealous of the girls with their vacuous smiles, lithe and perfectly shaped-

Ethan interrupted my train of thought, “Hey, let’s play.”

Five minutes later, we were laughing at the ridiculousness of the boob physics engine. The way the breasts jostled within the too-tight and barely-there bikini tops, and how the girls modelled the swimsuits by bending over, it was all hilarious. Also, underneath all the obvious silicone, it was actually a decent volleyball game. I made a girl named Candi, who was a fiery red head with breasts the size of cantaloupes. I chose a string bikini that had less fabric than most dish rags.

Ethan said with a grin, “You’d look crazy hot in a bikini like that.”

I raised a brow, “Are you serious? I’d be charged with indecent exposure.”

Ethan cleared his throat, “I was just joking. I know it’s not really you. I actually,” he inched closer to me on the expansive four person couch. He put his hand on my thigh and started to rub it gently, “I think you look amazing right now.” I knew it was a line, but I felt my heart begin to race as he put his hand on my thigh. I leaned in, and in seconds, his lips were on mine.

We were in plain sight, but something about that set me off, the thrill of being caught, it excited me and I pressed my boobs against Ethan’s slim frame. He gently lay me down on the couch, and then he got on top of me. The music from the game, a mixture of nineties J-Pop and North American Top forty, acted as the accompaniment to our make-out session. We mostly just kissed, our tongues dancing in and out of our mouths. He moved to my neck a few times, but I led him back to my lips. I didn’t need Amélie seeing any hickeys on my body.

I quickly lost track of time, especially as Ethan started rubbing my boobs again. He got excited again and started pawing me, but I quickly corrected him. As all of this was happening, the boy kept thrusting his crotch into my hip. Ethan’s hands never left my boobs, but at least he alternated this time.

What I assumed were a few minutes later, Ethan got off me and said, “Um, would you- would you maybe, we could go downstairs to my room-“”

I said, “Let’s stay up here. I kind of promised Amélie I’d be careful, you know?”

Ethan looked absolutely forlorn, he muttered, “Oh.” He asked, “Can we um, take this off?” He motioned to my t-shirt. I had already taken off my hoodie during the seven-game series.

I added, “Sorry, I’m probably going to have to go soon. I have to be home by nine.”

I realized then that Ethan wanted to go far, and I was worried that if we went downstairs, that I would fall into the moment and simply release my inhibitions. An image flashed in my mind, me heavily pregnant, with Ethan by my side, but there were television cameras everywhere. Oh god, it was Teen Mom, or 16 and Pregnant. My eyes flashed with fear, “I should really go.” The bungee cords from Saturday night were back. I had great difficulty leaving the couch.

Ethan blinked, “Wow, your sister is really strict. I don’t think I really have a curfew. I guess I got home from Ryan’s once at around two. My mom was pretty pissed. She said I could have been dead in a ditch. Just because I forgot to tell her I was staying there late.”

I said, “It’s not my sister. You know how there was rumour that I showed up in a police car? You know too how I say that I have to go see the School Resource Officer. It’s not for a project. I’ve got a court-ordered curfew.”

Ethan’s eyes widened in surprise but also wonder, “Whoa, did you like stab someone at your old school? Alyssa said you used to go to Grande Rivère.”

I shook my head, “Nothing like that. I’ll tell you some other day. I should really go. Amélie will be mad if I am late.”

Ethan said, “Hey, I could walk you home, if you want? If you want to, you could tell me.” He picked up my hoodie and handed it to me.

I smiled and nodded, “Um, sure, but it’s really not that exciting.”

We walked side by side. I wondered if he was going to reach out and hold my hand. While Ethan did remind me of my male self at his age in some respects, he made decisions without full forensic analysis. When I first started dating in my late teens, I needed girls who were assertive because otherwise, nothing would happen. I remember one fateful date in my last year of high school where I debated the pros and cons of holding my date’s hand. By the time I decided that the pros outweighed the cons, the movie was over, and my date looked disappointed. I used to joke that I needed a girl’s permission to hold her hand, but at that point in my life, it might as well have been true. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have the confidence to ask because if I had, based on what I know now, they would have agreed, in most situations.

Ethan looked over at me, “So, are you going to tell me? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t laugh, if it’s something embarrassing.” We had been walking in silence for two minutes.

I nodded, “I was driving without a licence. Speeding too. The cop charged me with evading an officer. If I was convicted, I could have ended up in juvenile incarceration.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, “Whoa, you don’t seem like the type of girl to do that. Was it Amélie’s car? Were you joyriding?”

I nodded, “We were on our way back from seeing our parents, and Chloe was crying. She let me take over, so we could keep driving. We both agreed it was pretty stupid, but it was really serious because the cop, meathead asshole, he tacked on the evasion charge. I had to fight it in court. I represented myself and won.”

Ethan grinned, “I’m not surprised. Every time I’ve seen you debate anyone, you destroy them. Hey, did you know your video, the one where you destroy M. Landry? It’s got like two thousand hits. So, do you still wanna be a lawyer, or would you settle for being a rock star?”

I laughed, “I am so psyched for those weekend shows with Porcelain. This is the farthest I’ve ever gotten in a band. It really seems people like the music. It’s taking off. But yeah, I mean I want to go as far as I can with the band. I’ll probably still go to law school, you know if I’m not touring Europe.”

I smiled, and Ethan smiled back, he reached over and touched the palm of my hand with his fingers, seemingly testing the waters. When he went back for a second attempt, my hand was slightly outstretched and ready to meet his own. He held my hand firmly. His palms were sweaty, but despite this, I felt the little shocks of electricity between us, and again, the pleasant buzzing in my head.

He broke the hold and then wiped his hands on his pants, “Um, sorry.” My hand was again outstretched, and the boy took it readily.

I said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ethan said, “So your curfew, how long is it? A few months?”

I frowned, “It’s a year. I have to be home by nine every night. If I breach it, there’s a chance that I could be sent to juvenile detention. Which would really suck.”

Ethan looked puzzled, “Wait though, you were at the show on Saturday past nine. How come?”

I replied, “Because Amélie was there. I don’t live with my parents, so she’s my legal guardian. I can be out later if she’s there, or if she knows where I am and trusts the parents. Like Alyssa, I can sleep over at her place because Amélie has met her mom, talked to her and stuff.” They had met and spoken during my hospital stay after my run-in with the Rock Machine.

Ethan nodded, “So, you could stay later at my place, if you and your sister met my parents. Right?”

I nodded, “Well yeah, but they’d have to be home too when I came over.”

I could see a little frown appear on the boy’s face. He did his best to hide his disappointment, but it was clear, even in the occasional glow provided by a nearly dead blinking street light. As we continued walking and holding hands, my head maintained a constant stream of pleasant buzzing, which kept a gentle smile on my face.

We reached my street, and my body tensed. Again, I didn’t want to leave Ethan’s side, but I was also worried about being late. Ethan moved in to kiss me as we stepped up to the front door, but I quickly dragged him to the side of the house. Using Amélie’s SUV as cover, I pulled Ethan into the laneway and initiated a kiss that took the boy by surprise. His eyes opened wide momentarily, and then, he leaned in and returned it, wrapping his arms around me in a tight embrace.

Within a minute of beginning the kiss, I heard an immensely obnoxious and juvenile, “Woo!” Another voice joined in, equally immature, “Hey, can I get sloppy seconds?”

The first voice, I could see now belonged to an abhorrent teenage boy. He was riding a bicycle, and he and his friend had clearly been watching us. “Yeah, does she give head?”

I whispered to Ethan, “Just ignore them.” I resumed kissing him, but Ethan wasn’t into it. His tongue was dead in my mouth and was quickly retracted.

He broke the kiss and said, “Fuck off.” He struck a menacing stance, placing his body in front of mine and then leaning forward slightly, as if daring one of the boys to come at him.

The boy on the bicycle had about twenty pounds on Ethan, but much of it looked like fat. He got off his bike, and slowly approached, like it was an armed standoff. “And if we don’t want to leave? What are you going to do kid?”

I recognized the boys. They were in grade 11 at St. Jo’s, but their attitude and behaviour made me seriously doubt their maturity.

Once he stepped off his bike, I could also see that the boy was taller than Ethan, probably a little over six feet, which meant he was a full foot taller than me. Ethan stood his ground, but didn’t say another word. The older boy reached Ethan and the two were only a few inches apart. I could almost smell the testosterone in the air as the two would-be combatants glared at each other.

I rolled my eyes and moved from behind Ethan to stand at the side of the two boys. I turned to the older boy glaring at Ethan, “Why don’t you two gene pool rejects leave us alone? I think the two of you are just jealous because the only thing waiting for you at home is your hand. Left or right?”

The other boy, who had made the joke about sloppy seconds said, “Hey, that’s not true. There’s a girl I’m kind of seeing. Her name’s Danielle.”

I quickly rebutted, “And does she know that you speak to other girls that way? I’ve got a tip for the two of you, girls don’t like disgusting immature losers. Don’t act like that, and you might have a chance.”

The other boy, in the quasi relationship with Danielle, looked to his friend, “Hey man, I recognize this girl from school. I don’t want her telling Danielle that I said that stuff. She might be mad.”

Ethan’s almost sparring partner glared at his friend, “You fucking pussy. You haven’t even touched boob and she’s got you whipped.” The boy turned and got back on his bike without saying another word.

Ethan grinned, “Damn, you are good at that Abby. Just like M. Landry.” He laughed awkwardly, “I had those guys though. If that asshole tried anything, I would have broken his fucking nose. Just like Alexandre, I mean- I couldn’t see what was going on in the car, but if I heard you scream or something, I would have come.”

I said, “Um thanks, I don’t really think that’s necessary though.”

Ethan’s puppy dog expression came back with a vengeance, he looked at me with such a look of disappointment that I felt my chest tighten. “Oh.”

I replied, “But, it’s um, it’s really amazing what you did. You were really brave when you saved me from those bikers. You did the right thing just calling 9-1-1. Instead of fighting. I mean they would have killed you.”

The confident grin grew back on the boy’s face, despite my scepticism concerning his fighting ability, “What happened to them by the way?”

I said, “They were charged. I’ll probably be a Crown witness. My understanding is they got them on a lot of other charges too. Human trafficking being one.”

Ethan said, “You aren’t freaked about seeing those guys again? I asked my dad about them. They are hardcore. They did some crazy shit, like blow up buildings, start fires, murder people. The nineties were nuts. They almost kidnapped you!”

I replied, “No, not really. I want to see them get what they deserve.” There was a deadly calm to my voice.

“Abigail! Abigail, are you out here?” It was Amélie. She rounded the corner and found Ethan and I in the laneway.

She looked concerned, “Abigail, are you OK? I saw those boys from the window. Did they touch you? They looked sketchy.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, I’m fine. They were just immature idiots.”

Amélie gave Ethan a sharp look and then turned the severe look on me, “It’s past nine. You should get inside, Abigail.”

I shrugged my shoulders and turned to Ethan, “Hey um, I had a good time tonight. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

I desperately wanted to kiss him goodnight, but I couldn’t do it in front of Amélie. Amélie didn’t move an inch, and while she wasn’t blocking Ethan’s path to me, her very presence had turned the boy into a statue.

He waved to me woodenly and said, “Me too, Abby. Bye. See you tomorrow.”

The boy took off at a rapid pace, and as I watched his fleeing form, I felt unsatisfied. I wanted to feel his lips again, or to have him hug me tightly at the very least.

I trudged back into the house, annoyed at what I felt was Amélie’s overprotective behaviour. I looked at the clock on the microwave and saw that it was only ten after nine. I wasn’t hugely late.

Amélie said, “I want to talk to you.”

I replied, “I’m not sure I want to talk to you. You embarrassed me. You treated me like a child. I just wanted to-“

Amélie interrupted, “Suck his face? Did anything happen tonight? Did he pressure you to go farther than you wanted?”

I sighed, “Nothing happened. He wanted me to take my shirt off, I said I had to go. We mostly just played video games.”

Amélie looked at me sternly, “He sounds like a little pervert. Abigail, you aren’t going to his place again if his parents aren’t home. Understood?”

I raised a brow, “Oh really? And how are you planning on stopping me? I told you, nothing happened. And Ethan’s a nice guy. He’s actually really considerate. He walked me home and everything.”

Amélie shook her head, and I sneered at her, “Listen, I got home on time, and nothing happened. I was in control. And you said you weren’t going to call me that. This isn’t fair!”

Amélie sighed, “All I see is a fifteen year old girl in front of me throwing a tantrum because she can’t go to her boyfriend’s place when his parents aren’t home. Would you let Chloe do that? Can you honestly tell me that you would let Chloe do that?”

Before my change, the very thought of some teenage dirtbag touching my daughter would have been enough to throw me into a violent rage. OK, maybe that was an exaggeration, but I joked, as many fathers did, that I would not allow her to date until she was thirty five years old. Now, my view was skewed. I thought it was incredibly unfair that I couldn’t go to Ethan’s without his parents being there. Certainly, I still disliked the idea of Chloe going out with some wispy moustached teenage rebel, but I was more concerned about me, and it was at this point that I realized that I was really unable to look at things as if I were Chloe’s father.

I saw the similar situations and painted myself the victim immediately. I had done nothing to hurt the trust that Amélie had put in me. Nothing had happened!

I said, “We aren’t talking about Chloe. We are talking about me. It’s not the same thing.”

Amélie looked at me incredulously, but also with a measure of sadness, “I see.”

She added, “Remember what I said, no parents- no Ethan.”

I let out an exasperated sigh and fled to my room, slamming the door in the process. Despite everything that happened, one thought came piercing to the forefront of my mind, and it wasn’t my extremely adolescent and immature behaviour.

Was Ethan my boyfriend now?

Chapter 57

Alyssa said, “You guys are definitely going out.” She added, “You should ask Ethan if you can change your Facebook status to in a relationship.”

Alyssa and I were walking to our lockers after science class, and I was debriefing her on the events of last night.

I shrugged, “Uh, I’m not sure about that. We held hands and kissed, but I don’t know. I think we should just see it through. You know?”

Alyssa shook her head, “Abby, you know I was right about you kissing Ethan. Well listen to me, you need to change your status. Then other girls will know Ethan and you are together. It’s like official only when it’s on Facebook.”

I shook my head, “Facebook is really played out though. It’s mostly about advertising now and commercialism, more than social networking. I honestly ignore it. It’s mostly just people complaining. And sometimes it’s way too personal. People post stuff on Facebook that they really shouldn’t. Things that should be discussed in private.”

Alyssa frowned, “But that’s the whole point. Facebook is like a helper, you can get so much more advice from people. Is that why you only have four friends on Facebook? Ethan isn’t even in your friend list.”

I looked indifferent, “I bet he’s not even on Facebook.”

Alyssa shook her head and then showed me her phone, “Look at his status.” It said: Sick time with ‘Abigail Grenier’ last night, girl’s got mad skillz!

I took the phone from her, and then I opened my Facebook up on her phone (my phone still had only a very rudimentary browser, while hers was the newer model). I browsed through it, and I saw a friend request from Ethan from the early summer that I had completely ignored. I clicked on ‘Accept Friend Request’. I hadn’t really touched my Facebook since Amélie took some very artsy looking pictures of me in our backyard and around town. They were all black and white, and I was wearing my favourite band tees.

Beyond Ethan’s request, there were at least forty others. I looked on in surprise as I went through the list of friend requests. I thought Facebook was dead, but apparently, it was alive and well. Most of the requests came after my diatribe against M. Landry. Were the kids who sent these requests actually upset that I never became their ‘friend’?

I looked at Alyssa and shook my head, “I- I don’t really think I want to do the whole Facebook thing. It’s too public.”

I had Amélie, Andrew and Steven on my friend list. I didn’t want them seeing that I was in a relationship with a high schooler.

Alyssa semi-whined, “But you have to! And there’s all this stuff you can do now, like to make it more private. So only certain people see a post.”

I raised a brow, “And what about a relationship status?”

Alyssa frowned, “Don’t you want people to know you are going out with Ethan?”

I replied, “What if he doesn’t agree? Maybe it should just be something we agree together.”

Alyssa sighed, “You are clueless, Abby. You don’t get the point of Facebook.”

I said, “I told you what I thought of it. Can’t you just respect that?”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, sure Abby. But you didn’t answer my question. Don’t you want people to know you are going out with him?”

I shook my head, “I don’t care what other people think. Really. They can see us, can’t they?”

Alyssa stared at me with extreme confusion, “Don’t you want Samantha to know you and Ethan are going out? Come on, Abby.”

I sighed, “Can we just drop this?”

Alyssa nodded, “Sorry, Abby.”
***

What I wanted more than anything was just to be alone with Ethan, and Thursday after school, we got our chance, although in the less than romantic setting of the secluded corner behind the portables. There was a reason why we weren’t allowed to eat lunch there. We made out until we were caught by Principal St-Valentin, who told us to leave the school grounds. I worried that he might tell Amélie.

We held hands as we walked to the bus stop, but there were other students there when we arrived, so we couldn’t continue our amorous behaviour

Ethan whispered to me, “Hey, wouldn’t it be funny to French in front of them?”

Our burgeoning relationship was not a secret to anyone who watched us for more than five minutes together, but it wasn’t official either, until it was posted on Facebook, at least according to Alyssa.

Alyssa suggested I ask Ethan if we were going out, but I was worried he would say we were just fooling around. I knew adult men that had difficulty committing, so I had difficulty believing a teenage boy would allow himself to be tied down after a few make out sessions.

I looked at him, and I thought that, for a moment, it would be funny to really go at it in front of the kids waiting for the bus. I whispered back, “Not in front of them. It’s kind of rude.” I believed this. Amélie and I had had some drunken make out sessions in bars, but when we were sober, we were considerate.

Ethan smirked and blew in my ear, the gentle air caused my head to start buzzing. “So what? It’s funny.”

Even though I had somewhat emasculated Ethan in front of the two older boys last night by not allowing him to use his fists, his confidence had seemingly grown overnight. Was he trying to show that I was his girlfriend? Thankfully, there was no opportunity for a childish argument over the French kissing because the bus arrived.

The afternoon bus was different from the morning one. We shared it with people on their way home from work, unlike the morning bus which was specifically chartered for St. Jo’s.

Ethan moved to the very back of the bus and sat next to an older gentleman wearing a three-piece suit. He was busy reading something on his tablet. I sat next to Ethan, but Ethan sat in very close proximity to the older gentleman. Only two inches separated them.

The backseat consisted of a long bench seat with place for four or maybe five individuals depending on size. There was plenty of room on the other side for Ethan and I to sit very close together. I couldn’t understand why the boy had chosen to sit so closely to a perfect stranger.

Ethan sat perfectly still next to the man, and two minutes later, I heard the man clear his throat gently. I watched the exchange. The man in the suit shifted uncomfortably in his seat, moving his legs and moving from side to side to reassert what was his lost personal space. I realized that Ethan was doing it on purpose, and I found it hilarious. Oh god, what was wrong with me? I had hated kids like that when I taught. Ethan was being obnoxious, but it was like he could do no wrong.

I changed seats and sat next to a man who looked to be about my mental age. Clad in my school girl uniform, I sat within an inch or two of the man, when there was plenty of space on the seat next to me. I sat there silently, trying to retain my composure. The man, who was playing a game on his phone, also shifted uncomfortably. He pressed his body against the window, trying desperately to avoid touching my hip. Eventually, I couldn’t keep it in and I giggled, which caused Ethan to laugh, and we both quickly moved seats, sitting on the back bench again, but this time on the other side next to the window.

Both men looked unimpressed with our antics. The older gentleman even muttered under his breath, “Goddamn kids these days. No respect.”

I turned to him and said, “Okay, Rodney Dangerfield.”

Ethan laughed and then gently put his arm around my shoulder, and while this was something Alexandre had done to claim me, I didn’t really mind when Ethan did it. He whispered in my ear, “Sickest girl ever.” I grinned and lay my head on his chest. He asked, “Who’s Rodney Dangerfield?”

I smirked, “The king of self-deprecation humour.”

Ethan looked confused, so I quickly filled in the blanks for him, “It means he makes fun of himself through his jokes.” I noticed that Ethan wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. He looked completely spaced out, until this cute little lopsided grin appeared on his face. I lightly punched him in the arm.

“Hey, what’s up? You look like you were off in a fun place.”

The grin never left his face, “Yeah, just thinking about, well you know what happened last Saturday night. I feel like I’ve had this crazy energy in me since then. Do you kind of feel like that too?” I smiled and nodded.

A moment later, the grin grew on Ethan’s face. I blinked, “What are you thinking about now?”

Ethan kissed me on the cheek, and then he blew in my ear. “Thinking about how you looked on Saturday night again.”

Someone must have told him to do that, or he had read it somewhere, but it was like he had a manual for how my body worked. It had never particularly excited Amélie, but the hot breath ignited me, and we were soon making out in the back of the bus, eliciting another comment from the man in the three-piece suit. “Here comes teenage pregnancy.” He scoffed and went back to his tablet. I also overheard an adult couple discussing our behaviour.

The woman asked, “Do you ever remember being like that?”

The man replied, “Never, it’s like every generation just gets worse.”

My eyes opened now and then to scan the bus and determine if anyone was gawking at us. I liked the fact that people were staring at us, or at least trying not to stare, and apparently Ethan did too because his tongue darted in and out of my mouth, and he moved his hand and started rubbing my ass, lifting my skirt in the process.

An older woman was staring at us with contempt, she said loudly, “That’s completely inappropriate.”

Her friend, also an older woman, said, “Stop giving them attention. That’s why they are doing it. They are children, ignore them and they’ll stop the behaviour. My Emily went through the same thing when she was that age.”

As the bus continued, more and more people got on, and as we reached a major station, it filled up completely. Ethan and I were lost in ourselves completely, until even the voices were simply background noise.

My behaviour was completely out of the ordinary. My eyes kept scanning for the reactions of the passengers. Normally, I sat quietly on the bus and listened to music, or if Alyssa and I caught the same bus, we would usually talk, but with Ethan, it was an entirely different ride. His brash behaviour was driving me toward more and more daring actions. Ethan even started making incredibly obnoxious smacking sounds as we kissed, and again, I found it funny. It caused the passengers around us, who were already relatively grumpy looking, to sigh and likely fear for the future of the world in the hands of such juvenile delinquents.

Our actions were not so funny when my still scanning eyes found Steven’s. His face was a mixture of disgust and disapproval. He shook his head and turned away. He likely boarded when the bus stopped at the major station. I immediately broke the kiss, also realizing that I had missed my stop- we were well on our way to Ethan’s.

Ethan blinked, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I said, “I missed my stop. Amélie will be mad if I’m late.”

Ethan replied, “I’ll walk you home.”

I shook my head, “No, it’s OK.”

A worried expression removed Ethan’s bold grin, “Is it something I did?”

I replied, “I think we went a bit too far. Listen, I’ll text you tonight, OK?”

Ethan replied glumly, “OK.”

I pulled the cord to request a stop, and I started the shameful slink toward the exit. Many of the people on the bus were looking at me with contempt as I manoeuvred past them. I looked down and noticed that my skirt was still hiked up and quickly pulled it down.

I exited the bus feeling deeply embarrassed at being caught by Steven. After all, he knew who I really was. I also trusted and respected Steven, and I felt terrible not only because it was disrespectful to do that in front of him, but I also feared that he would think that I was truly lost, and he would simply be the drummer in my band, instead of my friend.

***

«Mademoiselle Moore! Wake up Mademoiselle Moore! » Alyssa jolted awake. I had been trying to wake her for a few minutes, but she proved a surprisingly deep sleeper. We were in the middle of class, and our History teacher, Madame Pelletier was standing over Alyssa with a disapproving frown.

Alyssa’s eyes widened in surprise. I could see her beginning to process the situation. All eyes in the classroom were on her, and she soon turned a deep shade of red. This brought laughter, and snide comments, «Were you at your night job, Alyssa? Maybe you should just quit school. Aren’t you failing anyway?” I cast an angry look in Véronique’s direction, quickly rebutting.

«Alyssa just doesn’t apply herself. What’s your excuse? » Some of the eyes shifted to Véronique, as did the laughter.

Véronique turned on me, «Shut up piggy. It’s almost lunch time, but let me guess, you already ate your lunch right? »

Madame Pelletier quickly interjected, «Les filles, that’s enough! I won’t tolerate this in my classroom. I want to see the three of you after class. »

We were supposed to be working on our independent study projects. I had chosen the ‘challenging’ subject of Canada’s role in the creation of the United Nations. I had wanted to study the socio-economic effect of the Second World War on Canada’s growth as a nation, but Madame Pelletier wanted me to choose one of the pre-determined topics. She didn’t like me, mostly because I tended to correct her, much to the amusement of the class. She wasn’t a bad teacher, but I knew that history wasn’t her major. She was better than M. Landry, but only because she wasn’t M. Landry.

I was mostly worried about what Steven would say about my make out session with Ethan, and I was growing concerned that there was something wrong with Alyssa. She had fallen asleep in science class on Tuesday. The bell rang, and the students, who weren’t required to stay, beat a hasty exit. When I was a teacher, I used to joke that a student might be trampled one day because they were in such a rush to leave, but I would have done the same thing if I had been allowed to leave. I was hungry, and I wanted to know what was wrong with my best friend but most of all, I wanted to see Ethan.

Madame Pelletier made us sit in the first row desks. She lectured us on being respectful, and warned us that we should not try and emulate what we see on television. It was lame teacher lecture 101 in my opinion, but I kept my mouth shut because I wanted to leave and see Ethan.

We were finally let go, but the second we left the classroom, Véronique made a snorting noise. Her little entourage laughed, but I ignored them, even though my first impulse was to punch her in the mouth because that would also have delayed me in seeing Ethan.

Alyssa yawed next to me, breaking me suddenly from my Ethan reverie. I looked at her with concern, “Are you OK, Alyssa? You’ve been really tired all week.”

Alyssa yawned again and replied, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

I replied, “How come? I mean even after what happened at the sleepover, you managed to get back to sleep.”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, I know. It’s kinda embarrassing, but I guess I can tell you, Abby. I-I keep having the same nightmare, every night. I’m back inside the circle, and I’m really scared. The blood is dripping from my hands, and I-I’m so cold. I start ripping out my hair, and it hurts so much, and then I wake up screaming, and it takes me hours to get back to sleep”

She continued, “I swear that I really wasn’t that scared, but it keeps happening, and I’m so tired. My mom wants me to see a doctor. Like a special sleep doctor or something.”

A deep frown crossed my face, “I’m so sorry, Alyssa. It’s all my fault. I should never have tried that with you.”

Alyssa looked ready to cry, “Problem is that we can’t afford it. Véronique is right. We are poor. I’ve thought about getting a job after school to help my mom, but she’s worried that I will fail all my classes.” I leaned in and hugged her gently, she sighed and hugged me back.

I said, “What if I gave you some money? I have some left from the summer. It’s my fault this happened to you. Please, I want to help you.”

Alyssa said, “That’s nice of you, Abby, but I can’t take it. My mom is really proud. She wouldn't let me take it. She said that you should always work for your money.”

“Sounds like Amélie. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

I said, “Listen, can you bring some stuff tomorrow when you come to band? Like…makeup? I want to try some. The stuff you used to do my face last Saturday.”

Ryan and Eric had been asking to come to practice since they found out about the band, and I had finally agreed. I didn’t think Steven and Andrew would mind. It was always nice to have people to play for.

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah. I can.”

I expected her to be more excited like 'OMG this is so amazing, I want to help you put it on. We are going to be face twins.' or some such nonsense, but she just stood at her locker, looking sad and perpetually exhausted. I uttered a quick thanks.

I stopped, realizing that I had forgotten to meet her after school yesterday as I had promised. I had met up with Ethan, and that led to a great deal of kissing. I also realized that I had been paying less attention to her and spending far less time with her. While she had put on a brave face up until today, I assumed her exhaustion had finally chipped away at her energetic and effervescent self, and it was all my fault. Despite this, I didn’t return to her but left in search of Ethan.

***

After school, Ethan and I were once again riding the bus together, but I had managed to convince him that we had gone too far yesterday, so he accepted that I only wanted to hold hands today with only a slight use of his sad puppy dog face. I hated when he used it because it tended to crumble my resolve, but today, it had no effect.

Ethan said, “So, my parents aren’t going to be home tonight. They are going to some boring dinner. I used to go when I was a kid, but anyway… You think you can come over?” He looked at me expectantly. More than likely, he was expecting to see what was under my shirt.

I replied, “Amélie won’t let me come over unless your parents are there. She’s worried something will happen.”

Ethan scoffed, “Whatever. It’s just fooling around. Nothing’s going to happen.”

I nodded, “That’s what I told her. She doesn’t get it. And she doesn’t trust me, even though nothing happened. And you were, you know, really nice in walking me home.”

Ethan frowned, “You know your sister looks at me different now. Like I did something wrong. I mean I don’t really care. But she used to be a lot nicer when I’d come over for practice or whatever.”

I sighed, “I noticed it too. She’s worried you are going to make me go farther, than just fooling around.” I had started to use the teenage lingo. I wasn’t about to call it being intimate after all.

Ethan shrugged his shoulders, “This sucks, but maybe you can come over after band tomorrow. My parents will be there. My stupid mom really wants to meet you. She wants you to come for dinner or something.”

I said, “She can’t be that bad.”

Ethan shook his head, “Last time this happened, she had my baby books out, and Véronique was gushing over them. You know it’s really weird what happened to Véronique. She used to be so nice, and now she’s such a bitch! She’s like a totally different person.”

I nodded, and even though I knew the truth, I replied, “People change. I guess maybe something happened between her and Alexandre.”

Ethan regarded me with scepticism, “Yeah, but you were with him too. You didn’t turn into a bitch. Some guys said Alexandre was bragging that he banged- err I mean, they did it.”

I shrugged, “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Ethan nodded, “Can you just promise me that if my mom takes out the books that you will just come downstairs? It’s really embarrassing.”

I smirked, noting the deadly seriousness of Ethan’s tone, “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid gushing over pictures of your one-year old ass. You know who I am right? I don’t exactly like ponies, faeries or sparkly vampires.” I was more a hockey, hard rock and heavy metal kind of girl.

Ethan grinned, “Just checking.”

***

“You look really hot when you do that, you know that right?”

I blinked, looking up from my guitar, which I was restringing. Ethan had his cute lopsided grin. His bangs were dangling in his eyes. I liked the long hair on him. He had re-dyed his bangs orange and green. His hair was still mostly dark brown throughout, except for a few blonde strands, remnants from a failed dye job a la Alyssa. It suited his rebellious laissez-faire attitude.

“Why? I’m just putting strings on my guitar.”

He had arrived early for practice. Andrew would likely be a half hour late, as usual. Plus, he had to pick up Steven. I assumed Alyssa and the others would arrive soon after, since I had told them to come after 1:30, when we would be ready to start the jam. I didn’t want our potential fans to hear our embarrassing warm-up routine. There was a reason why I used to lock myself in the car before shows.

“Because it’s you. It’s like everything you do, like when you are thinking about something, your eyes do this cute thing. And when you scream, you look like this super pissed off rock chick, but it’s really nice.” He nodded his head and the lopsided grin grew.

I threw the towel I was using to clean my guitar at Ethan and smirked, “I know what you want to do, but let me finish this first.”

Ethan looked wounded momentarily, and then the self-assured grin grew back onto his face, “I thought we could you know,” he walked over and slipped behind me, moving my hair from my neck, he started to kiss it, hard. Hard enough that if he continued, I knew that he was going to give me a hickey. I pushed him away, and the puppy dog face made a reappearance.

I said, “Hey, look we need to be mature here. Andrew and Steven are going to be here soon. And you know Steven saw us messing around on the bus. I want them to think we are mature. I’m worried they’ll get annoyed and leave the band. We’ve got a really good thing going here. These shows with Porcelain could be big. You told Ryan that he needs to be cool, right? No stupid jokes or messing around. We don’t need a repeat of the fence incident.”

Ryan, Ethan and Eric had broken a public fence during the summer. It was Ryan’s idea to tie a rope to an RV and a fence post, record it and then post it on YouTube on a popular ‘fail’ channel. The video titled, “RV takes fence for a ride” had over ten thousand hits. Unfortunately, it also got the boys ninety hours of community service.

Ethan frowned, “Are you embarrassed or something? We were just having fun on the bus. The people on there have got sticks rammed so far up their asses they can taste bamboo. And so what if we were making out in front of Steven? If he wants to be a downer then whatever.”

He added, “I don’t like you telling my friends what to do, Abby. Don’t you like them? And you know you act all high and mighty but I saw you laughing. And you liked doing it to those losers on the bus. I know you did, so don’t lie.”

I said, “It was a mistake. I’m serious about this. I’m sorry about saying that about your friends. I do like Ryan and Eric. We just need to be cool around the guys, though. Andrew’s thirty and Steven is in his twenties. They won’t want to be in a band with a bunch of kids, so we can’t act like it.”

Ethan rolled his eyes, “Andrew makes the same ‘everybody dance now’ joke before the last song in this really bad Mexican accent. And you are calling me immature? Come on, Abby. You are over thinking this.” He smirked, “Your eyes, they are doing that thing.”

He added, “Don’t worry about it. Just let whatever happens, happen. OK?”

I nodded, “OK.”

I couldn’t stay mad at him, not with the way he was looking at me, and how inviting his lips looked. Within seconds, we were kissing. Ethan leaned me up against the wall, and his hand travelled down my body to rest on my ass cheeks. I noticed something tickling my upper lip. I broke the kiss and stared at Ethan’s face. It took some investigation, but I saw that he was growing a wispy teenage moustache. I heard some of the girls talking about it in the change room. Not his in particular, but the so-called trash-stache. There was a general consensus that moustaches were gross, but on teenage boys, they were repellent. He even had a little tuft of hair on his chin that would have been at home on the head of a new-born baby.

I couldn’t even grow proper facial hair until I was well into my twenties, so I never had an awkward tuft of hair like the one on Ethan’s upper lip that tried to pass for a moustache.

Ethan blinked and ran a finger over his upper lip, “You don’t like it?”

I muttered, “Well, it’s different. I didn’t really notice it before.”

Ethan said confidently, “I think it makes me look older. Like I could maybe buy some beer or something.”

Ethan was flying in a WWI biplane, and the comment on the tip of my tongue was a surface-to-air missile. Still, I knew I had to handle this delicately.

Ethan added, “My dad said I should shave it. My mom too.”

I nodded, “Well, it’ll grow in faster that way. Keep shaving it and it’ll come in fuller probably.”

Ethan raised a brow, “How the heck do you know that, Abby?”

I replied quickly, “Uh, Darren told me.”

Ethan shook his head, “Never mind, I don’t need to know.”

We were spared any additional awkwardness by the arrival of Steven and Andrew. Steven looked at the two of us with conserved disapproval. His glance lingered on me, and I quickly went back to restringing my guitar. Steven was the one who had been the most vocal concerning Ethan’s joining the band in the first place. He said he didn’t want to be in a band with a bunch of kids, and while I did not previously fit into that category, it was clear, from my latest actions, that I did probably belong there now.

I finished stringing my guitar, tuned it quickly and then plugged it into my effects pedal. I turned my attention to Andrew, who looked exhausted and irritable. Deep bags hung under his eyes.

I said, “You OK?”

Andrew replied tiredly, “Baby’s been up since one. Also found out some news. I don’t think we are going to be able to accept those shows with Porcelain. I’m going to be on-call for the next two weekends. They cut my department again. I’m doing the job of four guys right now. The last time I was on-call like that, I was doing twelve-hour days.”

Despair struck my mind, fuelling an instant depression. I was finally in a band that was taking off. We were opening for a band that had played European tours, and now real life was pushing back hard, crushing our opportunity.

I asked, “Can you just sit in the back of the van with a laptop?”

Andrew shook his head, “If the server goes down, then I won’t be able to remote. I don’t control when it goes for maintenance, so I might be screwed. If it goes down, I’ll have to go into work. The third show, we actually have a wedding to go to.”

Steven sighed, “We actually have a wedding to go to that I completely forgot about too.”

My eyes widened, “Are you guys serious? This band is starting to take off. We need to make some sacrifices here. Fuck the weddings. And Andrew, can’t you talk to your boss, tell her how important this is?”

I added, “Ottawa has a small scene. We are going to get a bad reputation. Like we are unreliable.” I looked over at Ethan, and he looked to be in full agreement.

Andrew shot back, “And have you even talked to Amélie about going to Toronto or even Montreal? It’ll be well past your curfew, Abigail.” He put unnecessary emphasis on my name.

I said, “Amélie’s probably going to come, and my parents or sister can watch Chloe.”

Steven shook his head, “So you didn’t even check with her yet? You don’t even know if you can go.”

I narrowed my eyes, “I don’t care what she says. I’m going to go anyway. This is too big an opportunity.”

Andrew replied, “It’s really not though, and there'll be others. We’ve got a really good thing going with this band. Let’s not ruin it with in-fighting. I say we build our online fanbase. We should record that video we talked about too. The one for the “Girl I’ll Never Know”. We should post that on YouTube and get some interest there too.”

Andrew added, “I can still jam next weekend. Or we can record. Just try and put it in perspective, you two.” He was looking at Ethan and me like one of our teachers.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess. I still don’t like this though. I think we have to make more sacrifices in this band to succeed.”

Steven narrowed his eyes at me, “And what would that be for you exactly, not doing your social studies homework? Not studying for a math test? Can you really compare that to Andrew keeping his job?”

I rolled my eyes, “No.”

Ethan shot a dark look at Steven, “Hey man, lay off her. She’s just thinking about what’s best for the band.”

The doorbell rang announcing the arrival of either Eric, Alyssa or Ryan.

I said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you guys, but Eric and Ryan have been asking to come for the longest time. I thought it’d be cool to have some fans here. And Alyssa is going to hang out too.”

Steven and Andrew exchanged surprised looks, and then both looked mildly irritated.

Eventually, the others arrived, and we started into the set. I hadn’t had a chance to warm-up properly because of the argument over the show with Porcelain, so I took it easy during the first song, meaning no screams. Alyssa sat next to Eric, but it was way too loud in there for them to have a conversation. Once the set picked up, Eric and Ryan got up and started dancing, although it looked more like they were fighting each other. They slammed into each other and flailed their limbs, nearly punching each other in the face multiple times. In the meantime, Alyssa looked miserable. She couldn’t speak to Eric, and while she liked the ballads, I don’t think she liked the thrashing dueling guitars, or the thundering drums, and especially not my screams. She had often tried to convince me to try singing something less angry, explaining that I had such a beautiful voice. We finished the set, and Steven and Andrew went outside. Alyssa grabbed my hand and pulled me into my bedroom.

Alyssa still looked tired, likely another night of interrupted sleep. “This sucks, Abby. I think I’m going to go home. It’s too loud in there to talk.”

I frowned, “Yeah, it’s pretty loud. I guess you are having trouble with Eric?”

Alyssa nodded, “He’s not even looking at me. He thinks I’m here for you or something. I don’t think he likes me anymore.”

I replied, “Well, I could ask Ethan, you know if he ever talks about you. I think it’s tough because you are both shy. Neither wants to make a move.”

Alyssa nodded sadly, “Yeah, I don’t want to though. If he doesn’t like me, it’s just FML.” I knew that stood for ‘fuck my life’ which people were using more and more for the most mundane disappointments, although to Alyssa, I suppose her long standing crush on Eric not leading to anything would be seen as a disaster, at least in her eyes.

I said, “I’ll talk to Ethan, and I’ll get him to ask Eric if he likes you. OK?”

Alyssa sighed, “I just don’t think we have anything in common. We don’t like the same stuff. It’s hopeless. You and Ethan are perfect together. You like all the same things. I can’t think of anything to say to Eric, and then I just stare at him and it’s like the most embarrassing thing ever.”

I heard the drums starting up again. Either Steven had come back early, or one of the boys was on his drums. The straight punk beat, hard and blazingly fast, wasn’t Steven’s style. I thought about going to tell them to get off the drums, but I had promised Ethan I wouldn’t tell his friends what to do.

I looked at Alyssa, “Start simple. From talking to him, he probably doesn’t like pop music, or dance. Talk about school first and then see where it goes. You’ll never know unless you try. And if it doesn’t work out, well then you can move on. Remember in Instant Star when Jude’s friend asked out Jaime?”

Alyssa laughed, “I think you like that show more than me. But yeah I do.”

I nodded, “Well it looked like they didn’t have anything in common, but they really did. I mean, you want to be yourself, but be open to trying new things too. If he tells you about a band he likes, listen to it, and then if you like it, you’ve got something. Make sense?”

Alyssa smiled, “Yeah. Thanks, Abby.”

I added, “And Alyssa, I’m really sorry about ditching you on Thursday after school. I know I was supposed to go to your place. I’ve just kind of-“

Alyssa raised a brow and smirked, “Got Ethan on the brain? Yeah, I know.”

I said, “I know that Ethan and I have been together a lot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have fun with you. I still want to hang out.”

Alyssa smiled, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if I went out with Eric and then we could all hang out all the time? Wouldn’t that be the best thing ever?”

I nodded and smiled, “Yeah.”

I asked, “Um, can you help me, I want to look decent tonight. I’m supposed to have dinner at Ethan’s tonight.”

Alyssa nodded happily, “So you guys are going out? So cute! Yeah, I can totally help you, Abby. Did Ethan send you a request to change your Facebook status?”

I shook my head, “No, and like I said, I don’t care about Facebook.”

Alyssa said seriously, “If he does send you a relationship request, you will. Trust me.” The drums stopped abruptly, but the end of the crashing and thumping was followed by yelling. I quickly returned to the band room.

“Kid, what the hell were you doing on there? You broke my fucking snare!” Steven, who towered over everyone in the room, approached Ryan, who was trying to slink away from the drum throne.

Ethan said, “Hey man, it was an accident. You said that you were going to have to replace that head soon anyway. He just hit it a bit too hard.”

Steven cast a menacing look at Ethan, “Stay out of this man. Your idiot friend is the one I’m pissed at.”

Steven said, “Now I need to go out and get another one.”

Andrew frowned, “I was only going to have time to run the set once more. I can take you to get another head, but I’ll have to bring you home after. Laura’s sister is in town, and they are going out for supper. I need to watch the baby.”

I whined, surprised at how childish my voice sounded, “Come on guys, it’s only 3 now. We’ve got time to go out and get a snare head and finish jamming.”

Steven shook his head, “I forgot that I’ve got a thing. My wife needs me to do some stuff around the house.”

I glared at Steven and crossed my arms underneath my chest, “Weak man, super weak.”

Steven returned the look, “We can’t all just do what we want all the time. Like on the bus, right?” He shook his head and walked upstairs.

Andrew said, “Things will be OK. I’ll talk to him. We’ll talk more about the video. Don’t worry about the shows with Porcelain. There’ll be others.” Andrew left to join Steven outside.

Ryan said, “What a dick that guy is. His snare was in really bad shape. Come on Eric, let’s go to the skate park.”

I took Ethan aside and whispered to him, “Can you go somewhere with Ryan? I’m trying to see if Alyssa and Eric have anything in common. She likes him.” Ethan nodded.

Ethan said, “Hey man, why not come to my place instead? We can play your favourite game, Dead or Alive- Extreme Beach Volleyball.”

Ryan looked at Alyssa and I, and reddened, “Hey, it wasn’t my idea for you to buy that. It was yours, but whatever. Let’s play NHL. You coming Eric?”

I said, “Eric, why not walk Alyssa home? You’ve got your bike, you can make it to Ethan’s after that.”

Ryan said, “Why does Alyssa need someone to walk her home, it’s like 3 PM.”

I shot a semi-frantic look at Ethan and he quickly said, “Come on, man. Let’s go.” See you tonight, Abby.”

He smiled, and I smiled back at him, and then he and a confused Ryan left. Eric, meanwhile, stood dumbfounded. None of this had been his decision, but I figured since he didn’t complain, he actually did have at least a slight interest in spending time with Alyssa. I was providing the gentle yet extremely transparent push.

Alyssa walked over to me and whispered, “Thanks, Abby. I’ll get my mom to drive me back so I can help you pick your outfit, do your hair, and makeup and stuff for tonight.”

Eric, who still didn’t realize that he was a pawn in an elaborate plot, continued to stand by silently. Alyssa walked over to him and asked, “Ready to go? Um, so what bands do you like?”

A few seconds later, I was left alone. Since Alyssa was my friend, I wanted to help her with Eric, but I had gone the extra step partly because of the guilt I felt, and not only because I had been neglecting her. I feared that the ritual I had put her through had scarred her permanently, and that the nightmares she suffered from were entirely my fault, but since she had refused the money I offered for therapy, I didn’t know how else to help her.

***

Alyssa returned an hour later as promised with an absolute beaming smile on her face.

I grinned, “So I guess it went well?”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, he’s a really nice guy. Once he opened up, we had this like amazing talk. I couldn’t believe it, he just kept talking and talking. We liked some of the same bands, and he even admitted to liking a Katy Perry song. He just would never admit it in front of Ryan.”

Alyssa frowned gently, “I-I still don’t know how to get him to ask me out though. He opened up, but he’s so shy. And I-I don’t think I can do it either.”

I replied, “I’ll help you, Alyssa. Ethan and I will figure something out.”

Alyssa grinned, “Thanks, Abby. Let’s get started!”

As Alyssa worked on my face, my hair and my clothing, we listened to her favourite radio station, which played only top forty hits. We also discussed Ethan, Eric, Halloween (which was less than a week away), and Coffeehouse, which was in late November. I had opened up slightly to the idea of learning a few moves for the show, but we agreed that I would sing both of Katy’s albums and then choose the one which suited my voice the best. I knew that I would probably end up singing “Fireworks”, which was still my favourite, but I was willing to indulge Alyssa. It was hard to say no when she constantly fawned over my voice.

Alyssa finished my makeup. My eyes widened as I marvelled at her work. I said, “You, you are really good at this, Alyssa! It’s perfect.”

Since I was going to be meeting Ethan’s parents, the rocked out pissed at the world angry eyes I had for the show wouldn’t work. Alyssa did my eyes so that the eyeliner would make them ‘pop’ but without the electric blue eye shadow that characterized Abigail, rock chick. She put a little bit of foundation and cover-up to conceal a few very minor blemishes.

My hair was her masterpiece. She called it a half up-do. She had taken two long strands of hair and tied them together at the back using a hair elastic, then she repeated the process with smaller strands, allowing them to flow freely through the portion she had already tied. A very thin strand of hair was left to dangle over the left side of my face, adding a coquettish look to a mostly formal style.

While the hair and makeup was fine, we disagreed on the outfit. I wanted to wear my green hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans. Alyssa chose a simple, sensible skirt that was actually slightly longer than my school uniform skirt, and one of my work blouses. With my kitten heels, it would not look overly dressy, but she felt it would be appropriate. It was ironic that Alyssa herself had prepared me so well, and yet, she couldn’t muster the courage to even ask out a boy.

I wasn’t sure it was me. I frowned gently, and Alyssa said, “What’s wrong, Abby?”

I said, “I’m just worried, this is a bit much. And, what if he doesn’t dress like this? What if he’s just in jeans? I’m not really sure this is me. It’s really girly.”

Alyssa smiled and shook her head, “What’s wrong with dressing like a girl, Abby? I bet Ethan will like it.”

I said, “I don’t know about that. I think Ethan likes the fact that I’m kind of like a guy. I like guy stuff. I’m low maintenance, right?”

Alyssa smirked, “Didn’t you tell me that he also really liked how you looked last Saturday. Like REALLY liked it. I know he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

Alyssa replied, “I’ve heard you call yourself a tomboy, but when you come to my place, you look in my closet. You want to try on my clothes. And I bet you probably want me to show you how to put on makeup. Right? I can’t come here every morning!”

I replied, “Well it wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn some stuff about it. I guess he did like it. We were on the bus, and he had this big grin, and he said he was picturing me on Saturday night.”

Alyssa said, “I think it’s fine to be both, Abby. You can still like the stuff Ethan likes and like clothes and makeup.”

I raised a brow, “How do you know all this stuff?”

Alyssa smiled, “Because I’ve known Ethan for a long time. Since we were little kids.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, but people change, especially teenagers in their formative years. I still think this might be a little much. Maybe, I should just switch to jeans.”

Alyssa giggled, “You sound like Dr. Phil. Stop thinking so much about this, Abby! Just go and have fun. Remember, Véronique was my best friend, she went out with Ethan last year before Alexandre. Trust me, he’s going to be dressed nice too. I know his mom. She’ll make him!”

I smirked, “OK, I’ll trust you.”

Alyssa approached me with a flower clip, similar to the dual butterfly clips she wore in her hair. She smiled, “Before you argue, look at it in the mirror. Please?” I grumbled, but allowed her to proceed. She carefully pinned the artificial flower, which I assumed was a lily, in my hair and then she brought me back to the vanity. My clothing was a little old for my age, but the flower placed me firmly back into adolescence. Again, I was very impressed with Alyssa. She had a talent for dressing people and doing hair and makeup.

I said, “If I’m ever famous, you are going to do my hair, makeup and wardrobe.”

Alyssa grinned, “I’ll hold you to that, Abby.”

Before I left for Ethan’s, I texted Amélie, letting her know where I was going. I would have done it as her husband, so this was no big change. Amélie was out shopping with Chloe, and I was thankful she didn’t see me dressed in such a feminine way.

Me: Hey, I’m going to Ethan’s
Amélie: Are his parents going to be there?
Me: Yes (I rolled my eyes and sighed as I responded)
Amélie: Are you sure they are going to be there?
Me: Actually no, they aren’t going to be there, and we are going to have lots of the sex
Amélie: Just make sure you are home by 9
Me: Why can’t I stay later, you know Ethan
Amélie: I’m calling you, I can’t keep up

Amélie called and immediately said, “Because I don’t know his parents, I want to meet them before I let you stay later. I need to trust the parents. That was the way Judge Richter explained it when I asked him about the sleepover.”

Amélie added, “I want to make sure we are on the same page.”

I said with mounting frustration in my voice, “You are being way too strict. You are willing to let me stay overnight at Alyssa’s if her mom is there.”

I said petulantly, “Ethan can stay out until 2 AM.”

Amélie sighed, “You aren’t making a good case for yourself. His parents don’t sound like they are very good parents. Be home at nine or you don’t go out at all.”

I sighed again loudly, “Are you really going that route? I mean seriously?”

Amélie replied, “Yes.”

I said snidely, “And what if I don’t want to come home at nine?”

Amélie said, “I’ll come get you, and I’ll make a big scene to embarrass you.”

I frowned, “Come on, that’s not fair. Nine sucks. I want to challenge that court order.”

Amélie said firmly, “Before you do that you should focus on your school work. Your history teacher e-mailed me and told me you’ve done nothing on your essay, and you haven’t handed anything in recently. Same with your math teacher. You are falling behind. ”

I sighed heavily, “I hate her. She’s so annoying. I know way more than she does about the subject. What’s the point? And math, I just don’t get it sometimes. And why do teachers need to snitch like that?”

Amélie sighed with her own growing frustration, “Because you’ve been labelled an at-risk student. I’ve asked your teachers to let me know whenever you start to slack. Remember the social worker? Come on, you know this. What happened to everything you knew about teaching, the theory behind it? Why do I need to explain it to you?”

I replied, “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t thinking. It just feels like you and my teachers don’t trust me, you have to send these little e-mails back and forth checking up on me. It’s not a big deal. I’m still getting the best grade in the class. Stop being such a helicopter parent, Amélie. You are harder on me than my actual parents were when I was a teenager.”

Amélie sighed again, “Tomorrow, I want you to get started on your essay. I know you aren’t happy about not being able to choose your own topic, but that’s the way it is. You remember that right? The classroom isn’t a democracy.”

I replied, “Yeah, well it sucks to be on the other side. Her topics were all really boring and easy.”

Amélie said, “It’s tenth grade history, not a fourth year university seminar. Don’t you remember why you need to do well, beyond just the social worker? Law school right? And next year, you’ll be able to take law classes for the first time. Aren’t you excited about that?”

I replied, “I guess. It seems so far away.”

Amélie asked, “Really? It’s almost November.”

I said, “It’s felt like an eternity.”

Amélie said, “Anyway, we can talk about where you think you’d like to go for pre-law soon. Start checking out schools. Yes, there’s time, but you need to be in the mindset.”

Amélie said, “Promise me you’ll be home by nine OK? If you start showing you can make your curfew, I’ll consider meeting Ethan’s parents. Does that sound fair?”

I said, “Yeah, I guess. Bye.”

***

Ethan was clearly surprised as he opened the door to let me in. He stared at me without moving. I fidgeted with the flower in my hair and looked down, feeling my cheeks redden. He hated it. I knew it.

Ethan reached down and took my hand, gently guiding me into the hallway, “You look amazing, Abby.” My heart leapt, and my worries fled instantly.

I said, “Really? You don’t think it’s too much? I mean the flower.”

I looked at Ethan, and he was dressed in a pair of khakis and a dress shirt. His bangs, which usually dangled in his eyes, were neatly combed and gelled.

The boy shook his head, “Nah. You look perfect. Like really nice.” He kissed me gently on the cheek. This was a different side of Ethan, but I had to admit, I liked it.

“Ethan, is Abigail here? Bring her into the kitchen.”

It was Ethan’s mother. Ethan took my hand and guided me into the kitchen. Candice Rayner, Ethan’s mom, looked far better than she did when I first met her. Her swollen forehead and cheeks were gone, replaced with smooth, wrinkle-free skin. However, her lips still looked like they had been stung by bees. She was dressed far more conservatively, opting for an outfit similar to mine, although her skirt was actually a little shorter. Next to her stood a tall man with a trim physique and brown hair smattered with streaks of grey throughout. He had a distinguished look with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. He wore a polo shirt with a pair of khakis, much like his son. I noted with slight chagrin that we looked like we had stepped out a Gap catalogue page titled, “Meeting the Parents.”

Mrs. Rayner beamed and then gently took my hand, “It’s good to finally meet you in a place other than a parking lot, Abigail. This is my husband Mark.”

He reached a hand out and I gripped it firmly, shaking his hand as a man would, he squeezed mine back. Mr. Rayner said, “Pleased to meet you, Abigail.” There was amusement in his eyes.

I replied, “Um, nice to meet you too. Dinner smells good.”

I was famished. I would not have been surprised to see a personal chef or a maid preparing dinner, but the apron around Mr. Rayner’s waist told a different story. I hadn’t noticed it at first because his gaze was so steely. It captured my eyes.

Mrs. Rayner smiled, “Yes, Mark isn’t home for dinner most nights, but when he is, he cooks. He’s a much better cook than me.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “Why don’t we chat while the boys finish dinner? Would you like something to drink, Abigail?”

Ethan said firmly, “Mom, remember what I said. No photo albums. You promised!”

I blinked, “Um, OK.”

I was about to ask for a glass of red wine, but I decided against it. I knew that Ethan’s parents had a relatively liberal approach to parenting, but asking for alcohol would be a major faux pas. I said, “Do you have Orange Crush?”

Mrs. Rayner smiled, “Yes, Ethan said it’s your favourite. I don’t touch pop anymore. You’ll understand when you don’t fit in your clothes anymore that it’s probably best to avoid stuff like that. Happened to me five years ago. That’s when I started seeing my nutritionist. Mind you, it’s fine for you now, I’m sure, but it’s never too early to-“

Ethan interjected, “Mom, seriously. I asked you not to bring that up! Can we have one dinner where you don’t talk about your stupid nutritionist?”

I wasn’t exactly bulging out of my skirt, and the blouse concealed my love handles, but I still had that persistent little roll that just loved to explore beyond the top of the waistband of mostly anything I wore. Mercifully, Alyssa had chosen one of my larger-sized outfits, my school uniform, on the other hand, was so tight around the waist that I was starting to get these angry little red marks along my belly. The roll was really only there when I sat down, but with Mrs. Rayner’s mini-lecture, I was acutely aware that Ethan’s mother was skinnier than I was, and for some reason, it bothered me. She was also six inches taller than me, but I failed to consider that.

We went into the living room, where Ethan and I had previously made out. I popped open my drink and took long swig. Mrs. Rayner, who had a glass of red wine, looked at me with interest, “So Ethan tells me that you live with your older sister and her daughter. How do you like that?”

I replied, “It’s OK. She’s pretty strict. She worries about me more than she should.”

Mrs. Rayner smiled, “That’s how it is with girls I’m afraid. Mark never worries about Ethan the way he worried about Valerie, our oldest. She’s off in university now, but when she was living at home and dating, well my husband was a wreck some nights. He waited for her to come home, and gave the boys she dated a very hard time.”

Mrs. Rayner added, “I don’t think that your sister needs to worry about Ethan though. He’s a good boy.”

I smiled, “Yeah, he’s nice. He walked me home the other night.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “Ethan has played your music for me. You have a beautiful singing voice, Abigail.” She regarded me curiously, “Is there a reason you sing such angry songs? You seem like such a polite and well-mannered girl. I’ll never understand why Ethan likes that music. It is catchy though.”

I smirked, “It’s cathartic. I write about what bothers me, and it’s actually like a form of therapy.”

Mrs. Rayner regarded my expression with a quizzical brow and then replied, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I have to admit I don’t really listen to music for the words. I would like to go to one of your gigs with Mark though. Is that what you still call them, gigs?”

I acted the know-it-all teen, “It’s actually called a show now. You say booking a show.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “And you are in this group with two other boys. What is that like for you, as the only girl?”

I said, “Well one of the boys is my sister’s best friend’s husband. I’ve known him my whole life. We are really good friends.”

Mrs. Rayner blinked, “Wait, you said husband. I assumed Ethan meant that the other boys were his age. How old are they?”

I said, “One is in his early thirties, and the other in his late twenties.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “And what does your sister think about this?”

I replied, “She is fine with it. She knows them both really well, and she trusts them totally.”

Mrs. Rayner smiled, “You are a very well-spoken young woman, Abigail.” She added, “I don’t know how I would feel about Valerie spending so much time with boys way older than her, but it’s not my place to say.”

I nodded, “Thank you. These guys are like older brothers to me. They worry about me, stare down skeezy guys who check me out. I trust them completely.”

Mrs. Rayner nodded and took a sip of her wine, “They do sound like nice guys.”

I was honestly surprised with how well the two of us were getting along, especially because initially I thought the woman was a little dim. She was likely having a little fun at her son’s expense when I first met her in the parking lot, and perhaps she was even trying to push the boy to invite me over, having apparently heard so much about me.

Mrs. Rayner was actually as well-spoken as I was, and my worry that our conversation was going to turn to her nutritionist or her advice concerning a weight loss regime was baseless. She was not the Barbie doll I had envisioned her to be. Perhaps it was the expectations put on women to retain their youth, while their husband’s wrinkles and grey simply added to their dignified and regal look, which forced them to seek out measures to turn back the clock. Maybe it was her husband who had convinced her to get the Botox and the face lift? I didn’t know, and I realized that it was unfair of me to judge.

“Supper!” It was Mr. Rayner’s voice. Ethan entered the room, casting suspicious glances in his mother’s direction. He looked on the couch, and then on the floor.

Mrs. Rayner furrowed a brow, “Ethan, what are you looking for? Your phone is on the kitchen table.”

Ethan said, “You know exactly what I’m looking for.”

I said with a grin, “There was no nudity, first grade pictures with bad haircuts or embarrassing fashion trends. I bet you had Pokémon pjs, right? Don’t worry your secrets are safe.” Mrs. Rayner laughed, nearly spitting out her wine on the pristine white carpet.

Ethan smirked, “If you saw them, then I get to see yours.” Abigail Grenier, of course, had no baby pictures. Up until last March, she didn’t even exist.

I replied, “I saw nothing.”

Ethan eyed his mother suspiciously, and then he left the room. Mrs. Rayner said with a mischievous grin, “If you want to, you can see them, but don’t tell him I let you.”

I shook my head, “That’s OK. We promised, right?”

Mrs. Rayner smiled, “You are an angel.” She added, “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, but your outfit is lovely, especially the flower. It really suits you, Abigail.”

I muttered timidly, “Um, thanks.”

I still wasn’t ready to accept that the outfit was me, but as Alyssa suggested, was it possible that ultra-feminine and bad ass rock chick Abigail could co-exist? I had to admit that I actually liked the flower, even though it was really girly. It made me feel pretty, and that sense of confidence was a powerful stimulant to my changing self, driving thoughts of lingering in front of the mirror, experimenting with makeup and different hairstyles.

I walked to the kitchen. Ethan was already sitting at the table, and he invited me to sit next to him. We sat down to a dinner of roast chicken parmesan, crisp green beans and scallop potatoes. I took a bite of the chicken, and my eyes lit up. It was delicious. The chicken was succulent, likely because it was slow-roasted.

I said, “This is delicious, Mr. Rayner.”

He smiled and said, “Thank you, Abigail. So, do I remember Ethan telling me that you worked in a law firm this summer? For someone your age, I have to say that’s very impressive. Did Ethan tell you that I am an attorney?”

I shook my head, “No, he didn’t. What kind of law do you practice?”

I assumed when Mr. Rayner said that I worked in a law office, he meant photocopying, basically Chantal’s job. I didn’t want to get into an argument about how it would be impossible for a teenager to be hired full-time.

Ethan interrupted excitedly, “Did you know that Abby was almost working for that place full-time? I can’t remember if I told you. She almost got emancipated. Almost didn’t have to go to school. That would have been sick!”

Mr. Rayner blinked and turned his attention back to me, “Really? But why would you want to work in firm during your high school years, I’m guessing as a copy girl? If you have an interest in law, you should go to law school. You need a university degree for that.”

I said timidly, “I guess I had a really hard time at my old school. And I figured I could work there for a few years and then when I was old enough apply as a mature student and go pre-law.

Mrs. Rayner said, “Why would you want to skip high school like that? You’ve got a beautiful voice, why not try out for school musicals, or join a sport or a club? I was senior varsity cheer captain back in Boston. I still talk to some of those girls.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I’m not really into any of that.”

Despite my words, a part of me desperately wanted to do everything I hadn’t done in high school the first time. I had tried out for a school musical in tenth grade, but I was so nervous, I didn’t sing a word- I just read the words. I obviously didn’t get the part. I played on the school’s hockey team, but other than that I hung out in the computer lab with the other misfits. I only ever went to one dance. I knew the Winter formal was coming up, and Alyssa would probably be bugging me to go dress shopping soon enough.

Ethan said, “She probably doesn’t want to go because it’s so boring. The teachers are lame, and the only good thing is the Coffeehouse, and it’s not for a while.”

Mr. Rayner said, “Well I can’t imagine a bright girl like you being a copy girl for years. I have to say I’m glad you are going the traditional route.”

Ethan said, “She wasn’t a copy girl. She was helping with the cases, doing research and stuff.”

Mr. Rayner stared at me in a way that made me feel like a hostile witness that he was about to badger. His expression softened, “Is that true, Abigail?”

I nodded, “It was a student internship, usually for university students. They gave me administrative stuff, but they learned I could do more, and they were short staffed, so they let me do research with Quicklaw.”

Mr. Rayner asked with absolute wonder on his face, “And, what was the name of this firm?”

I sighed, “I don’t know if I should say. They won’t admit to hiring me for my emancipation, not even the summer internship. I guess some other lawyers found out. It was a mess.”

Mr. Rayner said, “I can easily deduce where it was Abigail. Ethan told us that he hung out at the skate park a lot over the summer. There’s a fledgling firm there called the Locke Agency, correct?” I nodded timidly. He said, “I can understand their position. We wouldn’t do that.”

He softened, “But you are clearly a very intelligent young woman, and the firm saw something in you obviously. I hope it won’t sour you on the law.”

I shrugged, “I guess that it has a little. I think it’s just really frustrating because I was working at a high level, and it’s going to take so many years to get back there.”

Mr. Rayner smiled, “Enjoy your time. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Because when you are missing your kids and your family because there’s additional disclosure and you are missing dinner for the third time that week, you’ll remember these times fondly, and you’ll wish for them again. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoy my job, but it’s not easy.”

I nodded, “What kind of law do you practice?”

Mr. Rayner said, “Mostly commercial property, although when we first arrived in Canada, I worked at the Human Rights Tribunal.”

My attention was piqued, “What made you go to private practice?”

Mr. Rayner nodded, “It was a number of things. Mostly, with private practice, you can continue to climb the ladder. In government, you peak and then you get pigeon-holed, so you either stay, or you leave early enough to carve a different path.”

I was amazed with Ethan’s parents. Both of them spoke to me with far more respect than Amélie had in the past few weeks. Mr. Rayner and I were having a very adult conversation. They weren’t like my teachers, Dr. Alberts, my band mates (at times) and even Amélie.

I replied, “My sister is facing the same problem. She is worried if she stays in government too long, she will get stuck there, doing the same job until retirement.”

Ethan sighed, “Dad, can we talk about something else? Like how the Bruins killed the Habs last week.” Ethan emphasized his point by jabbing his fork at an imaginary target.

I said with a wry smile, “You know I wasn’t sure about coming here. I thought I would get whatever disease afflicts Bruins fans. What’s it called? Cavemanitis?”

Ethan smirked, “Haters gonna hate the winners, right?”

I loved the fact that Ethan and I could still talk trash, even though we were sort of seeing each other? To be honest, I really wasn’t sure what we were.

Mr. Rayner said, “To be fair, Abigail, I grew up watching the Bruins in the golden age of Bobby Orr. They aren’t the same team now. I have to shake my head at some of what they do now. I can understand how some fans of other teams can hate them. You have to admit that they are a strong and deep team despite that.”

I nodded, “Absolutely. I think now maybe I won’t boo so hard when the Bruins play Montreal.”

Mr. Rayner replied with a grin, “Now see I’ve ruined the rivalry.”

Ethan said, “Come on, Abby, let’s go downstairs.”

I said, “Thank you, dinner was delicious.”

Mr. Rayner said, “It was very nice meeting you, Abigail. I’d love to discuss the law with you again sometime.” I expected one of the parents to order Ethan to keep his door open , but it never happened. I was allowed to leave the table with him, and enter his bedroom.

Ethan said, “Sorry! My parents are really lame. Always talking about their jobs and stuff. It was worse when my sister was home though because all we ever heard was what she did during the day. I really like that you aren’t like that.”

I raised a brow, “Like what?”

Ethan said, “Well like Alyssa. She’s always talking.”

I smirked, “She’s like a machine gun.”

He nodded and grinned, “Exactly.”

Ethan said, “So I remember you like zombies and stuff, right? Do you want to watch Walking Dead? It’s gory, and kind of gross, but you like that stuff, right? It’s a TV show, but I’ve got it on Netflix.”

I was familiar with the show, after Buffy the Vampire, which we never finished, the Walking Dead was going to be the next show Amélie and I watched together. I was actually looking forward to seeing it, even though horror movies and I had never agreed. I still remember being twelve and watching “Nightmare on Elm Street” on an old black and white TV at my cottage. I was scared for a week. Not the best movie for a kid who already had sleep issues.

I nodded, “Sure, yeah I’ve been wanting to see it actually.”

We lay on his bed, but beyond our hips brushing there wasn’t any contact. Because I didn’t watch horror movies as a kid, I was not desensitized to the violence in them, so within fifteen minutes of the start, I was already pulling my shirt over half of my face, leaving only my nose and eyes visible. It was something I did, even as an adult, during a particularly scary part of a movie or when something incredibly awkward happened. Like Amélie’s nervous laughter, this was my way of dealing with something I found unsettling. Ethan thought it was hilarious, and he joked about rewinding certain very gruesome parts before I lightly punched him on the arm indicating my distaste for the idea.

Jump scares are written into scripts for people like me, and within half an hour, I had twice jumped, which elicited laughter from Ethan, a quick scolding from me, and then an apology from him. Gradually, Ethan worked up the courage to put his arm around me, but other than that this was no different than watching television with Amélie. I snuggled against Ethan, surprised that he wasn’t going further, but the show was so gripping that we were completely hooked. It was like a zombie apocalypse, mixed with a daytime soap opera with action movie effects and full-length feature production values. We watched three episodes without even checking the clock. Ethan’s parents never once came to check on us either.

As Ethan started up the fourth episode, I checked my phone, noticing that it was 8 PM. I asked, “Hey, can your dad drive me home? I have to be home at nine.”

Ethan whined, “Really? That sucks, Abby. I thought it would be fine cause your sister knows you are here.”

I said, “She wants to meet your parents first. It’s really old school, I know. And it’s embarrassing, but she wants to make sure they are on the same page. I guess because I’m at risk and because of my curfew or whatever.”

Ethan nodded, “OK, but we can watch one more, right?” I nodded and smiled.

As the fourth episode neared the end, one of the main characters lost someone very close to them. Before my change, I would have felt the urge to cry, but it never manifested. I cried, but not over imaginary people. I saw in these characters the growing divide between Amélie and me, but I was also riveted by the drama, the loss of someone that the show did an excellent job of fleshing out for three episodes and then ripping them away, throwing them to the hungry maws of the walkers.

I desperately tried to stop it, but the first tears fell as the character said goodbye, gently brushing away hair that was matted with blood, looking into a face they would never see again. The first ones fell silently, but as the character took on the grim task of killing someone they loved, I started gently sobbing. I covered my face with my hands, but this just made it more obvious.

Ethan asked anxiously, “A-are you OK, Abby?”

I sniffed, “Y-Yeah.”

I brushed away the tears, but I could feel more streaming down my face. I couldn’t remove the image from my mind. The character kneeling next to the loved one, hand shaking, seemingly unable to pull the trigger, and then with a grotesque pop, it was all over.

Ethan said, “You don’t sound OK. What’s wrong?”

WARNING FULL WALKING DEAD SEASON 1 SPOILER

I sniffed, “Well, don’t you think it’s just heartbreaking how Amy was killed? I mean Andrea and her were getting along so well. And I really liked-”

END OF SPOILER

Ethan raised a brow, and then a smirk, then a fully-formed grin took over his face, followed by absolutely raucous laughter interrupted by taunting. “Y-You…you’re…crying…because of that?”

He said, “You are such a girl!”

I could see him looking at my face, trying to judge my expression. This was part of our trash talk- the friendly banter that we had back and forth about our hockey teams or video game skills, or was it? Ethan’s words actually caused more tears to flow, as I found myself sobbing, but also turning away from him, pulling myself off the bed and standing in the corner. I put my arms underneath my chest and entered full pout mode.

Ethan’s accusation rocked my core because it was becoming painfully clear that I wasn’t going to be the rough and tumble tomboy that I wanted to be. No, I was going to be a girly girl supreme, the kind that cried during the sad parts- every time. I had always been an emotional person, but I was able to express those emotions in many ways, now it just seemed like I cried. Before my change, I cried when it was appropriate, when real life was too much and the well was overflowing. I had wept in this body many times, but never for a character, a figment of someone’s imagination.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned on Ethan. From his expression, I must have looked furious. I felt like there must be lava spewing from my eyes. It was like I had lost the last piece of my masculinity. His hang dog expression and slightly protruding lip lowered my defences enough for my expression to soften, which seemingly gave the boy permission to speak, “I’m really sorry, Abby.”

He said, “It’s just, you try so hard to be tough. And you are a really strong girl, like you don’t put up with shit. And what you did with those assholes in your laneway. That was sick. And you do all this guy stuff, so I was just surprised you were crying over a show. Like my mom does that, and you are so not like my mom! I was just teasing.”

He added, “I shouldn’t have. But, why are you so mad? I’m sorry I don’t really get it.” The boy looked genuinely confused.

I said, “Because it’s not me. I don’t cry during movies, or stuff like that. I cry when people die, real people. I cried when I thought you were going to leave the band. Not for a stupid show! It’s not fair. I don’t want to be this way. My head, it’s all messed up.”

Ethan said, “I kind of feel that way too, not the crying though. Like I can’t think straight. I think about you, and everything else just kinda goes away, boring teachers or whatever. And sometimes, like tonight, like I wanted to kiss you and stuff, but I couldn’t do it. I thought you were going to say no and want to leave. I know we made out before, but I just don’t want to mess stuff up between us.”

I blinked, “You think about me at school?”

Ethan says, “Yeah, and when I’m not in a class with you, and sometimes when I am. Like I’ll think about you when you are talking to me. I guess that’s kinda weird.” He grinned awkwardly.

Ethan says, “Listen, I don’t care if you act like a girl, Abby. I know you like a lot of the same stuff Alyssa likes, but it’s sick that you like stuff I like too.”

He added, “I actually, um, really like that side of you. The girly one. I don’t really care that you cry during movies or whatever. I think it’s cute.”

My eyes widened and my features softened completely, changing from stone-like to inviting and open. “Really?”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah, it’s like you are the toughest girl I know, but you’ve got this like soft side of you. I really like both parts. Like that flower, I was surprised, I bet it was Alyssa’s idea, right?”

I nodded, “Yeah. How did you know?”

Ethan smirked, “Because, I didn’t think you’d pick it for yourself, but it’s perfect for you.”

I said, “Um, thanks.” The pleasant buzzing entered my head, and I desperately wanted to stay. I said, “I have to go though. I want your parents to meet Amélie soon though. K?”

Ethan looked saddened at first because from the look on my face, he was likely preparing for a kiss. I know I was. He reached out and took my hand and led me upstairs. A minute later, I was in the back seat, my head resting gently on Ethan’s shoulder. I could see on the dashboard that it was 8:52 PM.

Ethan’s father made small talk with me during the short ride back, and eventually we arrived in front of my house, a minute before nine. Ethan got up and walked me to the door, holding my hand the entire time. We kissed on the doorstep, and then we hugged, neither of us wanting to let go. I would see him at school on Monday, but it seemed like a week away, instead of a day. I saw the light go on in the entryway, so I gave Ethan a quick peck on the cheek, and then rushed into the house.

I saw Amélie at the top of the stairs. She was hard to read. To me, she just looked sad and tired, but it could have been something else. My ability to recognize expressions was getting worse. I could see her scrutinizing my appearance, her eyes rolling over me like a computer scanner, perhaps permanently imprinting the sight of her husband’s outfit and accessories, the flower likely being what she remembered most.

She asked woodenly, “Did you have a good time?”

I nodded, “Yeah. It was OK. His parents are really nice.”

I asked timidly, “W-would it be okay, if you, um, you met them? Soon?”

Amélie nodded as if her neck was feeling resistance from some unseen puppet master. The action was clearly difficult for her.

I took off the kitten heels and then slowly moved toward my room.

Amélie said, “Good night.”

I said, “Good night.”

Without a thought to what had transpired, I made my way to my room, smiling as I caught a glimpse of myself in the closet mirror. I took out my phone, which had only 23 texts from Alyssa all saying, “abby deets”, which meant of course, she wanted me to give her everything in exhaustive detail.

Before I could text Alyssa, she texted me:

Alyssa: check ur fb

I logged onto Facebook, still seeing the over forty outstanding friend requests, but there was a new one. One I had only ever accepted one time.

It said: Ethan Rayner is requesting a relationship status change with you. Do you accept? Ethan was requesting to be in a relationship with me. I didn’t know what that meant for two fifteen year old kids, but I guess that meant if I accepted, I was Ethan’s girlfriend. The thought brought an instant smile to my face. I knew that if I accepted, it would be broadcast to all of my friends, and all of Ethan’s friends.

I clicked ACCEPT.

Is the Prophecy a great humanizing force keeping us from returning to our ritualistic animal nature, or is it a source of injustice, a power that ultimately maintains a corrupt status quo by limiting human evolution? Abigail, now accepting her fate as both an adolescent and a young woman, deliberates with her family on these questions. Despite this acceptance, Abigail continues to struggle with her identity as she tries to find her true feminine self and avoid regressing to a state where even her teenage friends would question her behaviour.

I said, “It is a disease. A disease of the mind. You remember what Mr. Atwater said about the Sidereus Prophecy. It is meant to keep humanity distracted, sated in a pop culture mash that turns us away from issues that matter, from those who steal from us and control us. Without the Prophecy, we could have a world where we aren’t controlled by images and advertisements. Imagine a world where little girls grow up without being inundated with pictures of the perfect body.”

“It goes beyond that, too. Without the wash of celebrity culture, our world could be a utopia. What if instead of discussing which Kardashian they like more or watching the child exploitation that is Toddlers in Tiaras, people actually discussed issues that mattered? You say that it is the status quo, but what if it isn’t? What if we are meant for more? This is an ancient prophecy. What if it wasn’t fulfilled? What kind of world would we have?”
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DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Part 7

Chapter 58

The screen said, “Ethan Rayner and Abigail Grenier are now in a relationship!

Two seconds later, a comment appeared from Alyssa, “FINALLY! YAY 4 U 2 LOVE U XD!

Ryan’s comment was congratulatory, but hardly appropriate, “Congratz man, Abby’s super hot.”

The significance of my action did not strike me until a few moments later. I had forgotten to see if there was a way to change a relationship status secretly. Samantha, who had thankfully stopped hanging around Ethan once I was firmly in the picture would see that Ethan was my boyfriend, but unfortunately so would Amélie, Steven and Andrew. I filled Alyssa in on all the details via text, and then I used Amélie’s makeup remover on my face.

I sat at the computer and clicked on accept for every single friend request, bringing my total from five to forty-five in under two minutes. I told myself that I wasn’t going to go on it beyond answering messages about the band or chatting with Alyssa or Ethan, but I did have the urge to snoop. Facebook was as much a time-vampire as any Massively Multiplayer Online game. It would take me from my studies, which I had been rather lax in recently.

I found myself looking through Ethan’s entire timeline, from the time he created his page, seven years ago to his recent relationship change. There was no need for me to see his physical photo albums. There were no embarrassing baby pictures, but I was able to see his entire life from age eight to now. I commented on a few pictures and teased him about the Pokémon PJs I found him wearing Christmas 08. A few minutes later, Alyssa sent me a request to help her in Farmville, which was a time waster built into Facebook. Before I knew it, it was past eleven. I dragged myself into bed. I texted Ethan a smiley face, and a few minutes later, he texted one back. That little action, as insignificant as it was, kept a smile on my face as I gently fell asleep.

***

“When are you going to do those dishes?”

I said, “After breakfast.”

Amélie said, “They’ve been sitting there for two days.”

I said, “Why don’t you do them?”

Amélie looked at me sternly, “Because we agreed that you would do them. I do enough around here. After breakfast, no excuses.”

I rolled my eyes, “Fine.” It was Sunday morning, and I was eating my cereal and toast at a snail’s pace. I took tiny insignificant bites of the toast and ate the cereal in slow motion.

Amélie huffed, but she didn’t bite, at least not at first. If I ate breakfast this way, it was going to take me over half an hour to finish. I continued my antics, and Amélie’s patience, already worn thin by the fact that Chloe didn’t eat her breakfast, was cleanly severed by my shenanigans.
Amélie sighed heavily, “Would you just eat your breakfast normally, Abigail? I get that you are pretending to act like a kid, but it won’t be very funny when you start acting like that without realizing it.”

I put down my toast and raised a brow, “What do you mean?”

Amélie said, “You are playing a kid. I get it, testing your boundaries, and you are doing it consciously now, but what if it changes and you don’t even realize you are doing it?”

I blinked, “Cut it out. That’s not funny.”

Amélie said, “Did you even realize you were doing that?”

I said firmly, “Stop it.”

Amélie narrowed her eyes, “Then smarten up.”

I asked, “So when can you meet Ethan’s parents?” I flitted from one topic to another now, much like Alyssa, and it always seemed to return to Ethan.

Amélie sighed, eyeing the wedding band on her finger. She looked at mine and said, “I think it’s time we had a talk.” She started to firmly yank on her wedding band, until it came off. I stared at her absolutely aghast as the ring I had placed on her finger lay in the middle of the kitchen table.

Amélie said, “Our marriage has been over for a while now, Darren.” She tended to alternate names, calling me Darren when I behaved and invoking Abigail’s name when I didn't. I could hear Chloe playing with her toys in the TV room, completely oblivious to what was really the end of her parents’ union.

She continued, “And you’ve made official, what everyone knew. What I desperately tried to stop. I knew that the stricter I was with you, the more you’d rebel, and it would throw you right back into his arms, but I had to try for everything we’ve built together. I was fooling myself. The way you look at him, the way you smile when it’s clear you are thinking about him.”

She said brokenly, “Y-you used to look at me like that, when we first met.” She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. It was amazing to watch her because I could already feel the tears rolling down my face, my emotions were overcoming me while Amélie swallowed hers.

I muttered sadly, “I-I’m sorry, Amélie.”

Amélie sniffed, “It’s OK, I understand that you like boys, and now you’ve even got a boyfriend. It’s all very normal for a girl your age. As much as it tears me up inside, I need to accept this. Not only that, but I’m your guardian too, and you know me. I don’t allow myself to fail. I need to start being a much better guardian.” As much as Amélie’s words said she accepted this situation, the way she said boyfriend sounded like she was trying to remove some horrible taste from her mouth. She wanted to spit the word out.

Amélie continued, “It’s time too, that I come clean with you. We both have to move on here. You’ve been able to, and I think I should have the same choice.”

She cleared her throat, “I’ve been seeing Martin for a month now.”

My eyes filled with red hot coals, and my crying ceased. My face felt hot, and I wiped away the remains of my tears with a quick swipe of my sleeve. “A month? That means you were seeing him in September! That was back before I’d even accepted I was going to be Abigail forever. Back before we found out the only way I could get back to normal was to sacrifice Alyssa!”

I yanked at the ring on my finger and managed to force it off, slamming it down on the table.

“There you go. Now you can go fuck his brains out for all I care.”

Amélie said calmly, “I know you don’t mean that. It’s just your emotions. I know it’s hard to hear now, but it’ll get easier. You can’t think that it would be fair for you to have a boyfriend and for me to have nothing.”

I said through clenched teeth, “You were dating him back when I still had a chance to be normal. You were cheating on me. And what the hell do you know about my emotions or what I’m feeling? You can read all the websites or adolescent psychology books you want, but none of them have any idea what I’m feeling.”

I said, “You don’t know how I’m feeling. Nobody does.” As much as I said my behaviour wasn’t textbook, it was- but I was losing the ability to see that.

Amélie said, “None of this has been easy on me. Seeing my husband turn into a fifteen year old girl before my eyes. To be honest, when we found out about Mama Khalia’s spell, the one requiring the second. I never thought you’d use it. Your unwillingness to use the spell told me that you had chosen to be Abigail, forever.”

She continued, “We haven’t slept together or anything, but we are dating.”

I said, “Thanks- that makes me feel so much better.”

Amélie said, “If I’d let you in that alley way, I’m pretty sure you and Ethan would have gone pretty far, and then at his place. You aren’t blameless in this. I don’t feel great about what I did, but I have a right to be happy.

I asked, “What did you tell him about your husband? You know, the one in Vancouver?”

Amélie said, “That you wanted a divorce.”

I asked with fury in my eyes, “When were you going to talk to me about this exactly?”

Amélie said, “You’ve been so caught up in your Ethan drama that I doubt you would have cared. Think about things here, Darren. When was the last time you really felt our marriage had a chance?”

I said, “Before you rejected me in bed that one time.”

Amélie shook her head dismissively, “Stop being such a child.”

I retorted petulantly, “I’m not! It’s true. You-“ I caught myself. My thoughts made no sense, was I really arguing that Amélie had ruined our marriage because she wouldn’t become a lesbian? Realization struck and I managed to reply, “Sorry.”

Amélie said, “Look, this guardianship was thrown on me, and I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted that you are going to be a whiny, emotional brat sometimes, and other times, a sweet girl. Think about it this way. You really like Ethan, right?” I nodded.

She continued, “Well Ethan’s going to be coming to dinner here probably, hanging out. You want things to be as normal as possible, right? I think that’s what we have to do now because this is what you’ve chosen. You are his girlfriend now. Am I right?” I nodded again.

She said, “Just like I’d like to have Martin over for dinner. You understand that that’s only fair, right? This is what we’ve both chosen, so let’s make the best of it.”

I said, “I don’t want him to boss me around. And if I’m really mature and everything, I want you to treat me that way. I don’t want you to treat me like a kid in front of him.”

Amélie sighed gently, “But to him, that’s what you are. He’s not going to try and be your father.”

I got up from the table, completely uninterested in eating a bowl of soggy cereal and now cold toast. I looked at Amélie firmly and said, “He better not. And he better not try to do the same with Chloe. I’m still her father.”

I walked out before Amélie could answer. As much as I was overjoyed that Ethan and I were going out, I was much less pleased that that allowed Amélie to bring men into our home. I went down to my room and plunked down on my bed. I grabbed my lyric book and started furiously penning the words to a song I titled, “Thief”. I was amazed how quickly the words were spilling out onto the page, but when I read them back, I was unhappy with the result.

“Hate your face/don’t want you coming round my place/leave her alone/don’t even call her on the phone”. The verse was awful, sounding like textbook teen angst. I couldn’t believe I had written something so lyrically bad.

The chorus was worse, but not for the same reason. “Hate you, burn you, fucking flay you, thief that stole my life, hope fucking dogs will rape you!”

I stared at the words, amazed that I had written something so vile, so grotesque. I had written songs about paedophiles and child kidnappers getting their due, but nothing this graphic, and this was my principal, an alright guy who just happened to be dating my…former wife. I put down my pen, feeling my anger sated by the lyrical outburst, but still astonished at what had sprung forth from my addled mind.

I was very opinionated, but I had never wished such horrible things on a person. I wondered if something was wrong with me, beyond the obvious. How could I ever last through a single meal without staring burning, disease-ridden, acid-dripping razor sharp daggers at Martin St-Valentin? I wanted to take those metaphorical daggers and stab him through the skull.

***

At school on Monday, Ethan and I walked from class to class holding hands. For the classes we didn’t have together, Ethan would walk me to class and then he would kiss me softly on the lips. I never thought I would want that sort of attention. I should have found him clingy, but I didn’t. I found myself drifting away from the lectures and my school work. As an adult, I was able to keep my mind on a task, even the most boring and tedious work, but with my adult self squeezed inside a teenage brain, I was having greater difficulty staying focused.

The science lecture on the chemical properties of something never even had a chance to stick. All I could think of was being free from the confines of the classroom, a space that used to be my soapbox, but was now my prison. Anything that kept Ethan and I apart from talking, laughing- kissing, was all an annoyance. My teachers were starting to notice it too. I wasn’t doing my school work. I wasn’t even on the same plane of existence with them any longer. I assumed I had the glassy-eyed stare I had seen in many of the students I taught who wanted to be anywhere but here.

Ethan and I spent the entire Career Studies class designing a logo and website for the band, completely ignoring the resume and cover letter we were asked to complete in preparation for the mock interviews on Friday. When M. Blanchard tried to tell us to get back to work, we ignored him. He kept me and Ethan after class.

«Mademoiselle Grenier, I thought we had an understanding. »

«Yeah, I finished my cover letter and resume in the first week of school. Why should I have to do another one? »

M. Blanchard’s expression was stern, but he remained calm. «The purpose of the exercise is to have you apply for a job you wouldn’t normally want so you can learn about another field. »

I said, «It’s a stupid exercise. » This brought laughter from Ethan. I continued, «I want to be a lawyer. Or in the music industry. What’s the point of this class? We are supposed to explore what we want to be, and it’s expected to be practical. The way you are teaching it is counterintuitive. Why would I write a cover letter for a field I have no interest in? I don’t want to be a stupid nurse »

M. Blanchard’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. He cleared his throat, «You’ll do the assignment, or you’ll get a zero. The point of the exercise is that it’s random. You aren’t supposed to get something you like. You think you’ll always have jobs you like? »

I rolled my eyes, «No. But I can tell you I’m not going to be a stupid nurse. »

M. Blanchard shook his head, «I want you to stop wasting class time. Just do the assignment that I’ve asked you to complete. The same goes for you M. Rayner. »

I looked him right in the eyes and said, «No. It’s a nonsensical assignment. Ethan and I were designing logos and a website for our band. This is Career Studies. What we were doing is relevant. »

M. Blanchard said, «Another outburst like that Mademoiselle Grenier, and I’ll send you to the vice-principal’s office. »

I smirked, «What, so she can see how poor your classroom management is? You sent Ryan to the office for looking at ‘porn’ today. And yesterday you sent Justin because he mouthed off to you. Just be happy even half the kids in here are doing your stupid assignment. » This again elicited laughter from Ethan.

I said, «We are going to be late for our next class. »

M. Blanchard dismissed Ethan, and then he stood over me. My elbow was on the desk with my hand propping up my head. I sighed heavily and then tilted my head, leaning my elbow out further. I was splayed out over my desk like a stereotypical delinquent teen.

M. Blanchard said, «I know I’m not the school counsellor, but I know what’s going on here, Abigail. You say you want to be a lawyer, but you’ve been really slacking lately. I haven’t received any work from you in weeks. I know this isn’t your favourite class, but if you don’t start doing the work, you are going to fail. »

I smirked, «I think I have an argument there. I worked in a law firm over the summer. This class is a joke compared to that. I got real, practical experience. I think I could argue that my experience there is worth a Career Studies credit. »

M. Blanchard said, «That’s not how high school works, Abigail. Just because you photocopy some documents and get coffee for some lawyers does not excuse you from this class. »

I could tell that I had struck a nerve with him. His expression had lost the calm resolve, his tight lips formed into a slight sneer.

He regained his composure, «Look, I’m worried about you, Abigail. All your teachers are. These last few weeks, we’ve all noticed a distinct lack of effort on your part. I know we had a deal where you could work on band stuff in class when we are doing aptitude tests, but this isn’t that kind of assignment. I don’t want to have to tell your sister about this, but your grades are slipping. Myself- all your teachers, we want to help you, but we need to see some effort on your part. »

I said, «I don’t care if you tell Amélie. »

M. Blanchard frowned, but he dismissed me a few moments later. Ethan was waiting for me, “That was sick, Abby! How’d you know all that stuff though? Like the teacher stuff.”

I replied, “Darren was a teacher. He told me how it works.”

Ethan nodded, “Darren sounds really chill. I wish we had him for Careers or anything. Does he like Vancouver?”

I nodded, “Yeah, he thinks it’s OK. He really misses Amélie and Chloe.”

Ethan grinned, “I’ll bet. Your sister is a total MILF.”

I raised a brow, “You know what that stands for, right?”

Ethan nodded, “Relax, Abby. It was just a joke. You wanna skip gym? We are doing lame track and field, and it’s freezing outside!”

I was willing to skip gym. We were playing basketball, and while I was never a pro dunker as Darren, I was insanely quick, having the ability to easily steal the ball from all but the most talented dribblers. I had played against a guy who eventually went on to win championships in university, and I used to be able to steal the ball from him 50% of the time. I also had a decent shot. I was a natural athlete, excelling in anything that required speed, accuracy and coordination.

Playing basketball when you are 5 feet tall and uncoordinated is torture. First of all, the ball was massive in my hands, so protecting the ball by dribbling was nearly impossible. Even if I managed to reach the basket, the taller girls (100% in my class) were able to easily block my shots. Any attempted jump shots were stuffed, as we called it back when I was in high school the first time. I also missed easy layups because I couldn’t seem to get my feet and hands to cooperate.

It was last period, so we left school early. I knew that my mom would be home with Chloe, so we went to Ethan’s place. His mom wasn’t home, but for the sake of privacy, we went down to his room, where we made out for a few hours. Ethan seemed content just to put his hand in my shirt and feel around in there, squeezing my boobs. I was fine with this because I was honestly still nervous about going any further. I definitely wasn’t ready to see what was in Ethan’s pants.

We did the same thing the next day, but this time we skipped two classes. When there were no repercussions from yesterday’s truancy, it was an easy decision to make. Amélie hadn’t said a thing, nor had she made a peep about the growing pile of dishes on the kitchen counter. Ethan held my hand as we walked back to my place, after another marathon make out session.

Ethan said, “How come you wear that leather jacket? It’s Darren’s, isn’t it?”

It was getting colder by the day. I had taken to wearing the long stockings as part of my school uniform, but I also wore my leather jacket, a wedding present from my father. It was aviator style.

I nodded, “How’d you know that?”

Ethan said, “It doesn’t fit you, like that hoodie you wear all the time. What was with you two, how come you were so close?”

I said, “He turned me onto all the best music in the world. We played video games together. He was like my big brother.”

Ethan said, “And he doesn’t mind you wearing all his stuff?”

I shook my head, “No way. It’s warm in Vancouver. He’s probably at the beach, while we are freezing our asses off.”

Ethan smirked, “I’d like to meet Darren one day. He sounds like the chillest adult. I bet he let you do whatever and now that it’s just you and your sister, she’s way harder on you.”

I said, “Something like that.”

Ethan asked, “You know, you don’t have to tell me, but is there a reason you don’t live with your parents? Did something happen?”

I sighed, “It’s complicated. I lived in a town with a smaller population than our school. My parents thought because I love music and law, that I’d be better off. There are way more opportunities here. I still see them every few months.” It was true, my ‘parents’ did come and visit, and in fact, they were coming down for Chloe’s second birthday next week.

Ethan replied, “Oh. Hey, um, so Halloween is coming up. There’s a dance at school, but it plays all this shitty dance music. We usually score some candy and then mess around. Do pranks and shit. Last year we scared the hell out of these two kids. I think one of them pissed his pants!”

I frowned, “That’s mean.”

As a jumpy person, I was used to being the butt of jokes. My father took full advantage of this. He used to creep behind me during scary television shows, and as the music reached its crescendo, and the killer or villain neared his prey, he would shout or put his hand on my shoulder suddenly. One time, I was so frightened, I threw a cup of milk in my face.

Ethan said, “Well, we could do something else. I agree that it was kind of mean, the kid was really scared. He cried and stuff. Ryan wanted to take his candy, but I didn’t let him.”

I said, “I wouldn’t mind going trick or treating. I haven’t been in years.”

Ethan looked at me strangely, “Huh? Like how long ago?”

I quickly backpedaled, “Oh, since I was twelve.” Three years to a kid Ethan’s age was a long time.

I said, “Oh I forgot that Alyssa wanted to go out with me. She could come with us.”

Ethan sighed gently, “Yeah, I guess.”

I added, “And Eric too. Maybe not Ryan though, if he’s going to do stupid stuff.”

Ethan sighed again, “I guess. I think I could convince Ryan to be cool though.”

We had reached my block. As we turned down my street, I could see that my parents’ SUV was still out front. We reached the house, just as my mother, my real mother, was leaving. I thought about pushing Ethan into a bush to hide him from her, but that would have been too hard to explain. After all, they were Darren’s parents. He didn’t know that, but what if he met my fake parents? I sighed, realizing that this lie was getting more complicated by the minute.

My mother spotted us, and I said awkwardly, “Uh, hello- Mrs. Lawrence.”

My mother’s eyes widened as she saw me holding hands with Ethan. It wasn’t the same expression of disgust and contempt that Steven had for us when he caught us obnoxiously making out, but it was still shocked. Her mouth followed suit with her eyes, opening in surprise, but she shut it rapidly. My mother replied evenly, “Hello Abigail. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

I nodded uncomfortably, “Bye, Mrs. Lawrence.”

My mother unlocked the SUV and sped off. I didn’t have time to dissect the brief interaction with my mother because Ethan pulled me behind Amélie’s SUV, and then he opened the gate and led me inside the backyard. Our backyard was sizable, having once had an above-ground pool that we removed when we moved in. Ethan’s lips were on mine as he crushed his lean but lightly muscled body into my softness. After a few minutes of passionate making out, Ethan broke the kiss.

I asked, “What was that for?”

Ethan grinned, “Just cause. So Halloween, we on?”

I nodded, “Yeah, but I’ll have to be back by nine.”

Ethan nodded, “K. See ya tomorrow, Abby.”

He took off through the gate, leaving me standing there wondering what had happened. Was Ethan playing games with me? He had certainly left me wanting more. Was he taking advice from his dad, or a men’s magazine? Did he just do it because he wanted to? I slunk into the house, and upon entering, I immediately heard Chloe shrieking. Even though she was still a week away from being two, she had entered the terrible-twos a few months ago.

I took off my shoes and entered the kitchen. I noticed that there was no plate at my usual place setting. I turned to Amélie, “Hey, what gives? Did you guys get McDonalds or something?”

Amélie, who was trying to calm a crying Chloe, said firmly, “I’m not making dinner for you until you do those dishes, Abigail.”

I shot back, “I can just make my own dinner.” I got a pot out of the cupboard, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Pasta was quick and easy.

Amélie sighed, “Why are you fighting me on this so much? It’s just dishes. If you do them every night there won’t be a huge pile like that. I need your help around here.”

I replied, “I don’t have time for them. I have a lot of homework.”

Amélie shook her head, “You are such a liar. Your Career Studies, Science and Math teacher called me worried about you, and the automated system called my cell. You skipped class again today. What are you doing if you aren’t in class?”

I said, “None of your business. And what does it matter? You are sleeping with the principal.”

Amélie narrowed her eyes, “I told you we haven’t done anything like that.” She sighed, “Do you not understand how important it is that you do your homework and behave in school? I got a call from the social worker, she’s going to be finalizing her report and her recommendation in mid-November. Aren’t you scared what could happen?”

I put the spaghetti noodles in the pot and then put on another burner to heat the sauce. I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t really care. I don’t think anything will happen.”

Amélie shook her head, “You are so frustrating. I think you are getting worse by the day. What are you doing downstairs if you aren’t doing your homework?”

I replied, “Just talking to people.”

Amélie replied, “One thing you’ve been doing is going on Facebook, a lot. I can see from the updates on your page.”

I said, “It’s band stuff. That’s all.”

Amélie shook her head, looking furious as Chloe continued to wail, “I know it’s not. You lied to me again!”

Amélie said, “What if the social worker recommends that you go and live with my parents? No band and no Ethan.” Now, she had my attention.

I replied, “I still don’t think anything will happen. I’ve been good, and it was only three classes. I hate Careers, and gym sucks too. So what does it matter?”

Amélie shook her head, “You can’t choose what classes you go to. Let me guess, you’ve been seeing Ethan. Did he convince you to skip class and go to his place? Don’t lie to me.”

I turned away from Amélie, choosing to say nothing to avoid incriminating myself or Ethan.

Amélie said, “No more Facebook or Internet before you finish your homework. In fact, I think I’m going to cancel our Internet for a month. Then you can just concentrate on your studies. If you keep this up, I’ll take away your phone. And as for your skipping, your mom is going to pick you up after school, so you’d better be there.”

Amélie shook her head, “That boy is a really bad influence on you. I know you’ve fallen for him, Abigail, but you can’t ignore everything else. It doesn’t go away.”

I smirked, regarding Amélie derisively, “You’ve been talking to my parents haven’t you? My mom tried that no dinner thing and at the time, I couldn’t cook anything. I’m pretty self-sufficient now. As for the no-Internet, that might have worked when I lived with my parents, but do you really think you can go a month without Netflix? And if you think you can just take my cord or do something to my Internet. We share it, right? I’m also the only one who knows anything about it, so good luck there.”

For a minute, as I wore an overconfident smirk, I thought that Amélie was going to hit me or swear at me until she was red faced, but she eventually took a deep breath followed by a long sigh. She gave Chloe her milk and then she went into the bedroom. I sat down to eat my dinner, content that I had been victorious, and the dirty dishes stayed there, while Chloe watched her shows in the living room.

Thirty minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. I was downstairs in my room chatting with Alyssa. We were talking about Halloween costumes. After buying a winter jacket and boots, I now had twenty dollars to my name, so I couldn’t exactly buy one. I heard my father’s voice, “Abigail, come upstairs.” It was firm, and much like the voice I remember from my childhood when I misbehaved. I quickly moved upstairs.

My father was standing next to Amélie who was sitting at her usual place at the table. Amélie said, “Abigail, why won’t you do the dishes every night like I asked you?”

I said, “Because it’s not fair. I go to school and you go to work, it’s not that different. I want to only do them every second day.”

I wasn’t sure why my father was here. Was he going to act as a mediator between the two combatants in the argument that had turned into World War III?

Amélie said, “I think that’s-“ My father interrupted, “Don’t negotiate with her, state what you want her to do, and state the consequence for disobeying.”

Amélie nodded and said, “Abigail, you’ll do the dishes every night, or you’ll lose your phone privileges for the next day.”

The thought of losing my phone for a day was like losing an appendage for a day. Alyssa, Ethan and I probably sent a hundred texts to one another in a given day, many of them in class.

I shot back petulantly, “You- can’t take my phone away. I need it! Could you get through one day without your phone at work? We always used to text back and forth.”

My father looked at Amélie and said, “Don’t get drawn into an argument with her. Just restate the consequence.”

Amélie nodded, “Do the dishes every night or I’ll take your phone away.”

I stared daggers at my father, “Hey, what are you doing, mentoring her? And stop calling me Abigail, you know that’s not my name, Dad!”

My father looked to Amélie, “If she’s rude, do your best to be calm. Don’t use empty threats on her, unless you are ready to see them through. Don’t yell at her either, if you feel yourself getting upset then stop, just tell her you’ll talk to her about it later.”

I shouted at my father, “Stop it! This isn’t funny.”

Amélie looked at me, “Abigail, are you going to do the dishes? I will take your phone away if you don’t.”

I rolled my eyes, “Fine. I still think it’s unfair you don’t have to do the dishes too.”

My father acknowledged Amélie’s success with a head nod. “Now establish the rules.”

Amélie looked at me firmly and said, “Abigail, you will clean your room, the downstairs bathroom and sweep the entryway every week. You will be home every night, no matter if it is a school night or not at nine pm. You will do your homework before any TV, video games, Facebook, or texting with your friends. I’m going to be talking with your teachers regularly to ensure you are doing your homework. You will also attend all classes no questions asked.”

Amélie confidently and calmly continued to lay out my fate, “You will not have Ethan in the house at any point if I’m not home. You will not go to his place if his parents aren’t home. I will be talking to his parents to make sure they are aware of this too. Finally, you will wait by the school doors for your mom to pick you up at three thirty every day.”

I said, “That nine pm curfew is totally unfair! None of my friends have a curfew like that. I want to fight the court order. Amélie, you said you’d help me with that.”

My father said to Amélie, “Don’t negotiate, but be willing to have discussions. What we used to do is set a certain amount of time for the behaviour to improve before we budged. A month is usually a good amount of time. If she can show she’s responsible and follow the rules, then you can have a dialogue with her about some of the rules. It’s always up to you which ones change, even if she brings up a good argument. Now the consequences.”

Amélie said calmly, “If you break any of those rules, you’ll be grounded for a week.”

I shot back, “I don’t care. I’ll just go on my computer if you ground me.”

Amélie looked at my father, and he nodded, she replied, “When you are grounded, you can’t have any friends over.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “So what. I’ll see Ethan and Alyssa at school.”

Amélie replied, “That includes Steven and Andrew.”

I blinked, “What? You can’t keep me from having band practice! Band practice is different. It’s more serious. We are a legit band. You can’t do this.”

Amélie said, “Just so you know I’m serious, because you skipped class and didn’t do your cleaning. You are grounded for a week, starting tomorrow. “

Rage blinded me as I regarded Amélie, not as my ex-wife, or as a woman I had any respect for, but as an obstacle to everything I wanted to do. “And what the hell am I supposed to tell Andrew and Steven? Sorry guys, I can’t jam this weekend, I’m grounded? They are grown men, they won’t understand. And we were supposed to record and start planning the video. And it’s Halloween on Friday night, this is totally unfair. You just told me the rules, and now you say I broke them!” To be fair, those were always the rules- they just didn’t have any consequences.

I shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Amélie, and as I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to hang out with Ethan on Halloween or have band practice this weekend, I sneered, “You fucking fat bitch! I-I hate you!”

I stomped out of there, leaving a shocked and hurt looking Amélie to receive consolation from my father. Once I reached my room, I cranked my stereo, the same one that had been bought for me when I was seventeen, and put on the loudest, angriest music I could find, which was Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People” from his album Antichrist Superstar. It was actually Amélie’s album, but it didn’t matter. It was so loud that it hurt my ears, but I didn’t stop. I knew that it would needle Amélie and my father.

I listened to the entire album at that volume. Amélie and my father never came to tell me to stop. Eventually, I just turned it off because my ears were ringing. The next morning, I was still feeling angry, and because I was already grounded, what did it matter? If Amélie was going to keep me in the house, I was going to make her regret it. Last night was only the prelude to what I had planned.

***

I was trying to put eyeliner on, and I knew that I had to catch the bus. I had watched a video last night while Marilyn Manson’s shrieking vocals expressed my rage, but I was having difficulty. I had twice removed it because I had given myself racoon eyes.

I heard my mother’s voice, “Abigail, you are going to be late for school! Hurry up! What are you doing down there?” I heard footsteps. I grabbed a cloth and dabbed some makeup remover on, desperately trying to hide the evidence of my experimentation.”

My mother opened my door and again, her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. I had only managed to wipe it off one eye, and looking in the vanity, it looked like I had an impressive shiner.

I sniffed, “Can you please not call me Abigail? You have no idea how much it hurts when you and dad do that.”

My mother said, “I’m sorry, Darren. I promised Amélie I would make sure you got to school on time. Listen, I’ll help you with your makeup and then I’ll drive you. .”

I shook my head and proceeded to remove the other eyeliner, “It’s OK. I don’t want you to.”

My mother nodded, “Join me in the car when you are ready. I shouldn’t leave Chloe up there by herself for too long.”

A few minutes later, I was sitting next to my mother in Amélie’s SUV. Chloe said, “Daddy’s school!”

I looked back at her and nodded, “Yes, we are going to Daddy’s school.”

She was starting to ask more questions. Mommy went to work and Daddy went to school, which was true if people continued to believe that Darren was enrolled in law school in another province.

My mother pulled out of the driveway and said, “I told her we were going to see your school. She remembers it, I guess from when I picked you up for the dentist.” She smiled.

She asked, “How have things been, Darren?”

I sighed, “Terrible. I feel like I’m going crazy every day now. There’s so much going on in my head, and I’m getting pulled in all these different directions, so I can’t focus nearly as well I used to. I think worst of all, I was awful to Amélie last night. Like I have never called her names like that before. I just couldn’t believe how mad I was. Like I couldn’t control it.”

My mother frowned, “Yes, Dad told me what you said to her. Look at it this way, you’ve realized you made a mistake. That’s the first important thing. The second is that you start to build your bridges back with Amélie. She loves you, and I know you love her.”

I sighed, “It doesn’t feel that way. Every time we talk it’s a fight. But what can I do? It feels like I’ve ruined everything.”

My mother nodded, “Well the obvious thing is tonight, when you get home, do the dishes right away. It might take you over an hour, but that’s a start. Apologize to her and start following her rules.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, but I still think it’s unfair that I’m grounded. She can’t keep me in the house anyway. What’s she going to do, put a lock on my door?”

My mother frowned deeply. She shook her head, and I could see her eyes tearing up.

I blinked, “What’s wrong, Mom?”

She sniffed, “Nothing, sorry. I think that you need to look at it differently. You want to go out for Halloween right? With your friends?” I nodded.

She continued, “You might be able to compromise. Your father mentioned that Amélie is planning on going to a Halloween party, so you might be able to convince her to let you take Chloe out trick or treating. I’m sure Chloe would love to go with you, and then you could see your friends for an hour or so, and go back in.”

I nodded eagerly, “Thanks Mom! Yeah, that’s a really good idea. Um, thanks for the help.” Why hadn’t I thought of that?

My mother leaned over and hugged me tightly, she said, “I love you so much, Darren.”

I hugged her back, but I noticed a few kids from my grade watching the exchange, so I broke it. I said, “Love you too, Mom. I-I, um, thanks again for the help.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. I couldn’t understand why because she had given me the perfect plan. I was already planning my costume.

***

Alyssa asked, “So, Abby what are you going as?” She was standing at our lockers, still looking absolutely exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes gave her an unintended gothic look.

I said, “Well I can’t afford to buy anything, but Amélie has this dark angel costume that I could probably fit into. I was kind of hoping you could help with my makeup for it.”

Alyssa grinned, “Ooh, I bet Ethan will love that! Super-hot, Abby! And yeah, sure I’d love to!” Alyssa bubbled with excitement.

I asked, “Are you OK, Alyssa? You still don’t look like you are sleeping well.”

Alyssa sighed, “I’m not. I feel like such a little kid, but I have the same nightmare no matter what.”

I said, “I have some sleeping pills you could take. They are Darren’s, but I’ve taken them before. They really work.”

Alyssa furrowed a brow, “But if they are Darren’s, should we be taking them?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe not. Still, I want to help you. I just can’t give you money anymore. I had to buy a new winter coat and boots.”

Alyssa blinked, “Well aren’t you getting an allowance now that you aren’t working? I get twenty bucks a week.”

I shook my head, “No, not yet. Amélie and I haven’t really figured that out. With Darren not working, she’s paying for everything. Money is getting pretty tight. Darren’s parents are great though, they are really helping us out, especially because we don’t have to pay for daycare.”

I said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

Alyssa said tiredly, “I will, Abby.”

***

For the next few days, I was an absolute angel at home. Wednesday after school, I took my mother’s advice and did the dishes, even though it took me well over an hour to complete them. I actually had to stop halfway through and dry the larger pots and pans because the dish drainer was full. I also apologized to Amélie for my behaviour. I continued with my good conduct on Thursday, doing the dishes right after dinner.

I met my mom every day at 3:30 PM. I also completed all my homework and studying. I didn’t even talk back to any of my teachers, even though M. Blanchard really pushed it sometimes. I even said hello to M. St-Valentin, acting as cordial as possible and trying to avoid imagining dogs doing terrible things to him.

Friday after school, I raced home to do my homework. I didn’t want to give Amélie any ammunition whatsoever. It had been three days, and I had clearly demonstrated that I could be responsible. I had followed all her rules, and I had even cleaned the entire house on Thursday night.

I was excited. I had always enjoyed Halloween, and I used to go all out with costumes, even well into adulthood. While I was teaching, I dressed as a Second World War Canadian paratrooper. I went overboard on detail, buying a used helmet from a military surplus store, and using netting to set branches and bits of twig. I even printed off an authentic badge from the actual battalion. In recent years, I had lost some of my spirit for the holiday, but without the burdens of adulthood, that spirit was restored.

Amélie said, “You are in a good mood tonight. Planning on watching some Halloween specials on TV?”

I said, “Well I was thinking that with you going to that Halloween party I could take Chloe out trick or treating. It would be a shame for her to miss out, you know? I know you said I was grounded, but I think that I’ve shown by my behaviour recently that Tuesday night was simple a lapse, and not how I will behave normally.” I had been practicing what I was going to say all day.

I continued, “I think Chloe would have a lot of fun.”

Amélie regarded me seriously at first. Was she trying to remember everything that my father had tried to instil in her during their quasi-mentoring session? Her eyes softened, and at that point, I knew I had her, “I guess that would be OK. I think you’ve really got the message. But we’ll have to set some rules, OK?”

I nodded eagerly. “Um, and what about band?”

Amélie said, “I’ll think about it. We’ll see how tonight goes. As for the rules, I don’t want Chloe out past nine. She’s got dance in the morning, and she’ll be cranky if you keep her out late. Plus, you need to be home for curfew anyway. Don’t give her any candy. And don’t let anyone into the house, except for Alyssa. She can stay with you, and I’ll drive her home after.”

I didn’t really hear everything that Amélie said because once she said yes, my brain focused almost entirely on how I was going to put my costume together, and how I was going to make the most of my short time with Ethan.

***

“Daddy pretty! Pretty!” Chloe reached out and touched the gossamer wings that extended from my back. She stroked the soft black feathers that lined the edges of the artificial appendages with wonder in her eyes.

Alyssa said, “She’s so cute, Abby! How come she calls you that though? That’s what she called you when you brought her to dance last week too.”

I said, “It’s just a phase she’s in I think. I think she misses Darren, and I guess I play with her like he does.”

Alyssa grinned, “It’s so adorable.” She looked down at the little girl and said, “Who am I?”

Chloe said enthusiastically, “Alssa!” Alyssa beamed and hugged the little girl tightly, “How old are you going to be next week?” Again, Chloe replied with the same youthful exuberance, “Two!”

Alyssa asked, “Hey, do you know if I’m invited to her party? I’d love to go!”

I shook my head, “It’s family only, actually. My cousins and aunts and uncles. You won’t really know anyone.”

Alyssa frowned, “But I know the birthday girl! Come on, Abby, can you talk to Amélie about letting me come? I’d love to help out. Like I could do face painting or something!” Alyssa’s exuberance almost matched Chloe’s. She added, “Plus, we have this really cute thing we do. Watch this!”

Alyssa traced a circle with her hand in the air, and Chloe proceeded to complete a pirouette, or the equivalent for a child who was not even two. She mostly turned in a circle, but she did put her hands in the “flower basket” position as she had learned.

I smiled, “Good job, Chloe!” I looked to Alyssa, “You are a great teacher, Alyssa. She learned that quickly.”

We were in my room. It was a place that Chloe rarely went, since she couldn’t climb down the stairs by herself, but since she had restarted dance, she had become enamoured with Alyssa, and she had to go everywhere her teacher went. Alyssa seemingly forgot about the party because after Chloe’s dance move, she returned to applying her artistry to my face.

Alyssa looked at her handiwork with a smile, “You look amazing, Abby.” I looked at myself in the mirror, noting the dark eye makeup, but also the elaborate silver tears that lay just below both of my eyes. Alyssa also painted my lips black. She added, “The costume itself is totally sick, so you don’t need much. Do you like it?” I nodded.

Alyssa was already in her costume. She was dressed like an 80s popstar, with massive hair, jean shorts with leggings and a painted jean jacket. Her makeup was elaborate with vibrant, bold colours throughout. She even used neon eye shadow, which I thought looked a lot like yellow highlighter.

We took Chloe back upstairs, preparing to dress her in the staple adorable child Halloween costume, the little pumpkin. It was both cute and safe because the green on the stem was glow-in-the-dark and the pumpkin body provided cushioning for any unfortunate falls. Ethan, Ryan and Eric stood at the doorway, Alyssa might as well have been invisible because the boys had their full attention on me. I felt a little tingle in my head, and a little smile appeared on my face. I realized I liked the attention.

Ethan blinked, “Woah, Abby! You look sick!”

Ryan said with a grin, “Way to keep the Slut-to-ween tradition alive, Abby.”

I walked slowly up the stairs, enjoying all the male attention, and since the guys were occupying the entryway, I had to slip past them, but in the process my boobs brushed up against Ethan’s chin.

Amélie’s eyes widened as she saw me. She said, “Uh, Alyssa, can you watch Chloe? I need to speak to Abigail for a minute. Maybe you could help her into her costume.” Alyssa readily agreed, and Amélie whisked me into my former master bedroom.

Amélie said, “Are you sure that’s how you want to leave the house? It’s a bit much. I’m worried about the kind of attention you are going to get.”

I raised a brow, “What’s the problem? I’m only going out for an hour. I’m going in a big group too. Alyssa, Ethan, Eric and Ryan will be with me.” I stood there with a slight frown on my face, arms crossed underneath my chest. I was actually taller than Amélie, but only because I had borrowed a pair of Alyssa’s black boots, which had a six-inch chunky platform heel, so thankfully walking wouldn’t be an issue.

Amélie frowned, “When you dress that way, you have to be ready to get some looks. I’m not sure you are. Guys can be real assholes, too. Look at how your guy friends reacted. They were staring at your boobs and your ass. And that Ryan kid, is a pervert.”

I shook my head, starting to get frustrated, “But you wore this costume, what’s the big deal?”

Amélie sighed, “But I was an adult when I did, and I wore tights, I don’t like you dressing this way. There’s a lot of creepers on Halloween. Girls your age, they shouldn’t put themselves on display. Like this corset, you are showing way too much cleavage. Don’t you remember too, when you were a teacher and you said how uncomfortable you were when teenage girls dressed provocatively in class? Now you are doing the same thing.”

Amélie asked, “Do you think it’s appropriate for a fifteen year old girl to dress that way? In an adult costume? Are you dressing this way for Ethan?”

I shook my head, “No. I wasn’t even sure you were going to let me go out, so it was all last minute. That’s why I chose it.”

Amélie said, “And what about the neighbours? Chloe’s been on a few playdates with the boy across the street. You aren’t going trick-or-treating there are you? I’ve told most of the neighbours you are my sister. And they all know Chloe. That reflects really poorly on me if I let you leave the house that way.”

I rolled my eyes, “So? It’s Halloween. And why do you care so much what people think about you?”

Amélie looked at me knowingly, as if victory was assured, “By dressing this way, you are following blindly. You are acting exactly like a teenage girl would. You’ve written all these songs about not bowing to celebrity culture, rejecting what is shallow and vacuous, and standing out from the crowd. Well, now you are a part of the crowd. Is that what you want?” My eyes widened as I realized that Amélie was one-hundred percent right. I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw the costume for what it was- slutty but worst of all, it was conformist.

I was dressed like a very promiscuous dark angel. The ebony corset I wore had a built-in push-up bra that thrust my breasts upwards, completely revealing more than just the top part of my boobs. A few more inches, and it would be nipple city. It also squeezed the orbs together, making me look larger than I was, and I didn’t exactly have a modest chest before. The skirt, if it could be called that, was more like a black tutu, and it was made of the same gossamer material as the wings. My fleshy ass hung out, bound only by the black panties that I wore. To add a meagre sense of modesty, the costume included fish net stockings, but I realized they made me look more like a prostitute than anything else. I didn’t want to be the girl in this costume.

Amélie could clearly see the cogs working my brain. I realized I was dressed like a teenage streetwalker.

She said with a smile, “It’s cold too. Here let me help you.”

She replaced the fishnet stockings with a pair of black tights, which still suited the costume, but also, covered my ass. She undid the tightly bound corset, lowering my breasts to an appropriate level where only just the top could be seen, but barely. Amélie took a half leather jacket from her closet and put it over my shoulders, “You can wear this too, if you still find it too much.” I rummaged in the closet and found a gun belt from a cowboy costume I had worn. I drew the six-shooter and then aimed it at the mirror. I liked what I saw- it was more me. It was sexy, but it wasn’t slutty, I looked like Lara Croft, if she entered a goth phase and dyed her hair blonde.

Before I left the room, I turned to Amélie, “Um, thanks. I guess I, um, wasn’t thinking.”

Amélie smiled, “It’s alright. Now go have fun with your friends.”

I left the room, and we began our trick-or-treat adventure, armed with pillow cases and voluminous plastic bags, ready for oodles of candy. Chloe had a little plastic jack-o-lantern, which matched her pumpkin costume perfectly. It was overkill, but she was toddler so it was absolutely adorable. I was excited. I hadn’t gone door to door begging for candy in seventeen years. I bounced along beside Alyssa, all the while holding Chloe’s hand. The little girl stared at all of us in wonder. Ethan was a vampire, but not the sparkly variety as witnessed by the fake blood lining his mouth. Eric was a zombie, wearing shabby clothing, with a very realistic looking knife wound in his back. Ryan’s costume was the laziest. He said he was supposed to be the Incredible Hulk, but he only had a pair of toy hulk hands. He didn’t even paint his face green.

Ryan laughed, “That’s weak, Abby! Your sister is such a buzzkill. It was a lot better before.” He looked to his friends, “You are with me, right guys? Ethan, man- you’ve gotta be disappointed!”

Alyssa frowned, “Maybe Abby wanted to change her costume herself. Right, Abby?”

I nodded, “It was too cold. She just suggested I make a few changes. That’s all.”

Ryan shook his head and laughed, “Face it, Abby. Your sister’s got you on a tight leash. Bark for us.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes, stepped toward Ryan and said, “Watch it, man.”

Ryan smirked, “Your girlfriend has the same curfew as my little brother. He’s eleven. Oh, except he can stay out later on the weekend.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, “Uh, come on, we are going so slow. Abby, your fucking niece is soooo slow! Let’s go. We’ve only hit three houses.” In the time since I had started dating Ethan, and Eric and Alyssa had become chattier and Ryan’s behaviour had changed. He had always been the ‘bad boy’ of the group, goading Eric to complete dangerous stunts, urging Ethan to buy racy video games, looking at porn in class, and he had been the one who suggested they do the prank with the RV and the fence. He had become progressively worse as his two male friends got female companionship, and he became the obnoxious fifth wheel.

I wasn’t sure if he liked me, but he often looked at me in class, and when he saw me come up the stairs dressed like a street-walking fallen angel, he had one eye glued to my boobs and one glued to my ass. Was he jealous of Ethan or just a pervert?

Ethan said, “Stop being a dick, Ryan. If you want, you can go by yourself.”

Ryan moved to the back to stand next to Eric, who had been gradually working up the confidence to stand next to Alyssa. But once Ryan was near, Eric’s movement toward Alyssa ceased. Alyssa seemed unaware that Eric had been making the slowest move in the history of almost dating. Ethan, meanwhile, was relegated to the periphery because Alyssa stuck close to me, and I was already holding Chloe’s hand. After a few more houses, he moved back to walk with Eric and Ryan. I could hear Ryan muttering something to them. I definitely heard the words 'ditch' and 'party'.

I tried to ignore the plotting that was going on behind my back, doing my best to enjoy Chloe’s first trick-or-treating experience, but I really hoped Ryan would fail in convincing Ethan to ditch us.

We walked up to the next house, ringing the doorbell and holding out our bags, all the while shouting, “Trick-or-treat!”, although Chloe’s chant sounded like “Tic Teet!”

A tall young man opened the door. He was dressed in a Batman costume, although he didn’t have a mask. He was probably in his early thirties. He smiled and turned his attention on me, “What are you supposed to be?”

I replied, “Uh, I’m like a dark angel assassin. Yeah.” I wasn’t really sure what I was exactly, and I had answered differently depending on who asked. All I knew was that I was getting an awful lot of candy. The costume with the little touches, like the six-shooter and belt and the way Alyssa had made up my face seemed to get a lot of attention. Chloe and I were cleaning up. She was cute, and I was- something else. I noticed that Alyssa tended to get more candy from those who said, “Oh I remember when I dressed like that!” Ethan and Eric were doing okay too. Ryan, on the other hand, wasn’t getting much. Most people who took an even passing glance at our costumes gave him two pieces of candy at the most.

Ryan sighed heavily, “We should just head to Véronique’s party. She’ll have tons of stuff we can raid. Come on, let’s get out of here, and let Abby get home before her fourth grade curfew. We can scare some little shits out of their stashes too.”

Ethan and Eric looked at each other, and it seemed they were considering it. I had barely spent any time with Ethan since we started, and I knew I would have to return home soon because Chloe was getting cranky. I wanted at least another twenty minutes.

I blurted out, “We’ve got three whole boxes of candy and lots of chip bags at home. My sister went to a party, so there’s no one giving anything out at our place. Uh, you guys can have it. If you want.”

My desperate plea seemed to work. I managed to eke out another fifteen minutes before Chloe entered full meltdown mode, which meant hanging off my arm like a twenty-four pound dead weight. Thankfully, when she got upset, she tended to want Amélie, so her cries of “Mama,” didn’t blow my cover- not that anyone would have believed I was her father.

We returned to my house, where I quickly unlocked the door. Before I could say a word, everyone followed me into the house. I turned around, surprised to see Ryan standing right behind me. “Uh, hey, you guys could wait outside for the candy. I, um, I’m not supposed to have anyone in the house if Amélie isn’t here. Except Alyssa.” Alyssa pushed her way to the front, clearly trying to block Ryan from climbing the stairs. By this point though, Chloe was bawling. She was fighting to free herself from my arms, screaming for her milk and Amélie.

I rapidly pulled her into the kitchen and poured her milk. The second I gave her the sippy cup, she took off on me, sprinting back into the living room. I yelled, “Chloe, get back here!”

The toddler jumped up and down shouting, “Elmo! Elmo!” I knew exactly what this meant. She wanted to watch an episode of Elmo’s World, which was the toddler version of Sesame Street. Unless you were Chloe’s age, the high-pitched Muppet warbling mixed with psychedelic crayon drawings was a painful torture of sights and sounds. I said firmly, “Only one.” I took a look at the stairs, and the boys were still there with Alyssa standing at the top. I could hear them muttering, but I couldn’t make out exactly what was said. I didn’t get a chance to spend any time with Ethan, but I knew I needed to get rid of them before Amélie arrived home.

I put on Netflix, which was a godsend to parents who didn’t have a PVR, and Chloe was soon enjoying her show and guzzling her milk. I went into the kitchen and returned with three full boxes of Halloween candy.

I said, “OK guys, here’s your candy. Sorry, but you have to leave. I’ll get in trouble if Amélie gets home and you are still here.”

Ethan sighed sadly, “Even me? We hardly got any time together tonight, Abby.”

I saw a glint in Ryan’s eyes. It was the same look I had seen as a teacher when a student had mischievous intent. Ryan said, “Come on, Abby. She’s never going to know we’ve been here. As soon as we hear the car, we’ll take off out the back door.” Suddenly, my house, completely free of parents or guardians was the potential site of a raucous teen party, but I didn’t want Ethan going to Véronique’s party either, where he would certainly see Samantha.

I shook my head, “You aren’t going to convince me. My sister’s already been kind of mad at me this week. If she catches you guys in here, there’s no way I’ll be able to have band tomorrow.”

Ryan said, “Stop being a fucking coward, Abby. Are you going to let your sister run your life? Tell you when you have to be home? Telling you who you can have over? Stop being a little pussy.”

Alyssa frowned, “Maybe you guys should just leave.” She looked sadly at Eric. She had spent as much time with him as I had with Ethan tonight.

Ryan, who had been playing bad cop, moved to good cop, “Don’t you want to hang out with us? You’re our friend, right?”

Ryan added, “Don’t you want to hang out with Ethan?”

I faltered, lowering my head to the floor and sighing, “Yeah. Of course.”

Ryan said, “And what about you Alyssa, don’t you want to hang out with Eric? Cause we’ll go to Véronique’s party if we can’t make one here.”

I blinked. I felt my shoulders lower as I gradually bowed to peer pressure. “Party? I mean, you guys can stay, but no party. Just you guys.”

Alyssa frowned again, “Are you sure about this, Abby?”

I really wasn’t, but everyone was looking at me. Eric, Ethan, Ryan, and even Alyssa- their gaze bore into me, eating away at any remaining resistance. Tomorrow seemed like such a long time away when Ethan was right here. Technically, Amélie had said I couldn’t have Ethan over if we were alone, but in this case- we weren’t.

I felt excitement well within me, creating a bubbly sensation in my head, but there was also fear at the prospect of being caught. The guys moved into the house like scavengers, Ryan ripping open the box of Halloween candy and shooting back an entire pack of M&Ms in one go. Eric did the same with another box, tearing open candy bar wrappers at a frantic pace. Ethan wasn’t interested in any of this as he quickly moved next to me on the loveseat, putting his hand on my thigh. Within seconds, we were making out hardcore- with tongues and everything. I could see from the corner of my eye that Chloe was approaching us.

Ryan had turned off her show and put on a slasher flick in its place, and while she had protested initially, she seemed far more interested in what Ethan and I were doing. Chloe looked up at us and with a massive grin, she said, “Daddy kissing!” She pointed at me.

Ethan broke the kiss and looked down at the little girl in bewilderment, “Huh? What did she say, Abby?”

I said, “Because I’m her father. Really. We have a special link, and she just knows who I really am.”

Ethan raised a brow at me, he looked me over, and then he, along with Eric and Ryan, burst out laughing. Even Alyssa, who seemed to have mixed feelings over allowing the boys into the house was laughing.

Eric said matter-of-factly, “You don’t really act like her father. Like you were sitting there making out with Ethan and completely ignoring her.”

I shook my head, “I was not. I could see her still.”

Alyssa laughed, “I know that I’ve joked you act like you are in your thirties, Abby, but there’s no way. I mean beyond the obvious, and that was when we were first hanging out. You act more immature than I do sometimes. Like when we were in the mall the other day and you thought it would be funny to crawl into a big thing of pillows. Like totally randomly!”

Ethan looked at me with a wide grin, “So, is there something I should know about you?”

Ryan smirked, “Yeah, do you have a dick or something?”

Ethan glared at his friend, “Not cool, man.”

Ryan threw up his hands, “Hey man, I don’t have a problem with you liking herms.”

Ethan raised his fist, “Shut the hell up man. I think I’d know.”

Ryan shook his head, “Yeah right. I bet you haven’t even seen her tits.”

I had meant to make a joke, but the result was not at all what I had intended. I blushed fiercely, realizing not only that my friends saw me wholly as one of them, but also because- well I couldn’t really explain it. I didn’t like Ryan speaking that way. I guess it was because I wanted to keep any talk of my body parts between Ethan and me. I really hoped he didn’t talk about me in front of the guys in the locker room.

Ethan got up off the couch and pushed Ryan, “Fuck you man, why don’t just you screw off? Nobody wants you here.”

Ryan pushed Ethan back and then stormed into the kitchen. I could hear him rifling through the boxes of Halloween candy.

Ethan took my hand, “Hey, you want to go downstairs?”

I blinked, surprised by Ethan’s boldness, but I soon found myself saying, “Um, yeah- sure.”

My heart leapt as Ethan and I stood together. He gripped my hand firmly, confidently. We walked down the stairs, and quickly entered my bedroom.

Chapter 59

The moment we entered the room, Ethan took off his cape and spit out his vampire fangs. He closed the door, leaving the room pitch black. He then proceeded to lead me to my bed. I didn’t resist as he lay me down and started kissing my neck, his hands roaming all over my body, squeezing my ass and boobs. He lay on top of me, and I knew he was turned on. He started to slowly rub his crotch against my thigh. He was kissing me hard on the neck, hard enough to leave ‘love bites’ but the intensity of his kissing, or rather sucking made me forget about the consequences. I put my arms around him, pulling him tightly into my body, leaning my neck to the side, to provide easier access.

I thought about Chloe momentarily, but figured that Alyssa could handle putting her to bed. It was amazing to think that Alyssa was behaving more responsibly than I, but Ethan’s ministrations clouded my mind to what I had become. I could feel him playing with the strings on my corset. I wasn’t wearing a bra because the corset had a built-in push up, but the boy was still having difficulty kissing me and undoing the corset. Eventually, he stopped kissing and focused all his attention on removing the corset. He fumbled in the dim light, managing to untie it, but then he started yanking on it, trying to pull it down so he could see my boobs.

Ethan stopped and reached behind me to open the blinds a smidgen, allowing just enough moonlight into the room to allow him to finish his task. I could see the anticipation on his face as he unwrapped me like a Christmas present. His eyes lit up like fireworks when he saw the first glimpse of completely naked boob. He grinned widely and pulled the corset away from my body entirely, then his hands moved to my boobs and began kneading, tugging and squeezing them. He experimented playing with the nipples, watching for my reaction. He played with my boobs for what felt like a solid ten minutes, marvelling at them. He was like a child with a new toy. There is a reason why some men called them ‘fun bags”. He eventually moved back to my face, kissing me hard on the lips and trying to bury his tongue in my throat, while he played with my left boob.

All of his attention was arousing me, and my hips started to move gently, in rhythm with his own as he thrust his crotch against my thigh. He stopped and began frantically tugging at my tights, pulling them down my legs and ripping them in the process. It was at this point that I realized our make out session was becoming something else entirely. I was naked, except for my panties. Ethan took the opportunity to remove his pants, and his shirt. He lay back down on me, but instead of thrusting his crotch against my thigh, he positioned himself directly over my crotch and resumed thrusting. Even through the panties, it felt incredible. I knew I likely wouldn’t be able to go that way, but it still felt amazing, like tiny pleasurable pin-pricks throughout my body, all of which in combination could bring about a crashing wave.

I took this opportunity to explore Ethan’s body with my hands- something I hadn’t done yet. I felt along his ropy arms, thick with muscle but not at the level of a body builder like Alexandre. I traced my nail along his stomach, feeling his abs and then rubbed his shoulders. The feel and smell of him caused the movement of my hips to quicken.

The boy himself was incredibly turned on. He was madly thrusting against me, almost as if he were trying to puncture my panties. I could see it in his eyes, in his touch. He was so enamoured with my boobs that I doubt he could have cared less about my little love handles and my stomach roll. I did notice that his hand didn’t spend much time in those places, but then, he had my boobs, right? His hand moved down to his boxer briefs, and in a moment, they were gone, revealing a now completely naked Ethan. I thought I would be frightened, disgusted by what I saw, but he moved quickly to put his hand on my hips, slowly pulling down my panties, and I felt no revulsion or fear.

Completely lost within our own world, I ignored the sudden banging and yelling upstairs . I also thought I heard the doorbell, even though it must have been too late for trick-or-treaters. Maybe Ryan had called some other kids, intending to try and have a real party, but I didn’t care. As Ethan approached me, seemingly intent on taking my virginity, I heard him say, “Oh…shit!” Two seconds later, I felt something warm on my thigh.

Ethan backed away from me, “Oh…shit! Sorry, Abby. Oh man, I- I was trying, and it was, well you-, and everything. D-do you want me to get a towel? Fuck!” He frantically looked around my room. I stared at the wetness on my thigh, and on my bed with wide eyes, but that wasn’t what worried me most. Ethan hadn’t even mentioned a condom, and I hadn’t even thought to bring it up. Everything I said about those girls on the teen pregnancy shows were the words of a massive hypocrite. Just as Amélie had predicted, I was lost within the moment, a moment that had nearly taken my virginity.

Ethan grabbed a bath towel from my desk chair and tried his best to clean the wetness on my bed. It wiped away easily from my thigh, but there was still a noticeable spot on my bed spread. Ethan kept looking at me, but I just stared off into space, still in disbelief at what I had almost let happen.

Ethan said, “I was- I was just trying so hard not to think about it, but you- you are so hot, Abby. And your boobs, your ass, I was trying to think about anything else- anything! I couldn’t though, and everything just felt so good. I’m really sorry. I fucked it up.”

Eventually I was broken from my trance, I looked back to Ethan, looking like a- well like a teenage boy who was mortally embarrassed. I smiled, “It’s, um, OK. It still felt nice.” I grew more serious, “Uh- do you think we were ready for it though?”

Ethan lay beside me on the bed, still completely naked. His arousal hadn’t completely gone away either. He said, “I dunna, I mean, it felt like we were. You seemed really into it. I know I was.”

I said, “Well it’s just- I didn’t even think to have you use a condom. I mean I could get pregnant.”

Ethan grinned, “Well if you did, you could be on that show on MTV. My sister liked watching it sometimes. We could be on the Celebrity Edition, you know cause we are going to be famous.”

I said, “This isn’t something to joke about.”

Ethan put his arm around me, “What do you want me to say? I don’t know what makes people ready. I guess I wasn’t thinking about condoms, I was thinking about us and just how good it felt or whatever.”

I raised a brow, “Do you have any condoms?”

Ethan shook his head, “Uh, no- I don’t- but I mean, I-I can, I could get some. If you want.”

I nodded, “I think it’s a good idea.”

We lay there just looking at each other and smiling. He pulled me close to him, and then I pulled the covers over us. Ethan looked into my eyes and smiled, “You are really beautiful, Abby. I mean I k-know- you probably real-“ I stopped him there, hugging him fiercely and then passionately kissing his mouth. I couldn’t believe how good he made me feel. I wasn’t sure, but I think I loved him.

A few minutes later, the door thrust open and the light was turned on. Everything after that happened in a blur. Mrs. Warner, the social worker, burst into the room and pulled the covers off us, sending a frantic Ethan running for his clothing. Amélie also pushed her way into the room past Mrs. Warner. She looked at the stain on the bed, and then at my nudity, an expression of absolute horror lining her face. Ethan eventually managed to grab his clothing and then shut himself in the bathroom.

I was told to get dressed and then come upstairs. The scene that greeted me there made me realize that I was likely not going to see the light of day for a long time, except when I went to school. I knew teenagers could be messy, but teenage boys are absolute filthy animals. There were candy wrappers and chip bags all over the floor. As I entered the kitchen, I saw the milk had been left out, as it was clear our fridge had been completely raided. There were also various spills that hadn’t been cleaned up, along with broken pieces of potato chip all over the floor. I saw a very sick looking Alyssa. The girl was swaying back and forth, then suddenly she darted toward the washroom. I saw a few empty beer bottles on the kitchen table, and more on the counter. The once full case that Amélie had bought in anticipation of the party next week was half empty.

Eric and Ryan were nowhere to be seen. Ethan retreated hastily from the house, offering only a quick goodbye to me. I could see him running down the street. Mrs. Warner didn’t bother saying anything to me.

She addressed Amélie before she left, “First thing Monday morning, I am going to get a court order to have Abigail removed from your care. You are a wholly incompetent guardian, Ms. Grenier. Based on my interview with your parents next week, I will determine if Abigail would be better off with them or in foster care. What were you thinking leaving alcohol in the house with unsupervised teenagers? I think beyond your incompetence as a guardian, you are a profoundly stupid woman. Abigail is clearly not safe in your care. Good night, Ms. Grenier.”

After Mrs. Warner left, Amélie took a still very sick looking Alyssa home. When she returned to the house, I had done my best to clean up, sweeping the wrappers and chips, and wiping the spills. I collected the empty beer bottles. Instead of yelling at me, Amélie just told me to go to bed, with a sorrow-filled look on her face.

***

I crept my way up the stairs from my room. I could hear my parents and Amélie discussing my fate in the aftermath of last night’s disaster. Amélie had told me to stay in my room, but I wanted to know what was being said. I moved on my hands and knees, hoping that my weight would be more equally distributed, reducing any noise. I was pleased that the baby gate was open, as opening that would have certainly given away my presence.

I heard my father’s voice, “Amélie, I know that you mean well, that you want to give Abigail a lot of leeway because of who she was, but you can’t. We have to accept that Darren isn’t in there anymore. Just a teenaged girl who needs serious and consistent discipline.”

My mother’s voice sounded strained, “But- I still think Darren’s in there. I can see him in Abigail’s eyes. Maybe we need to take a different approach. She’s fighting so much against these rules because she had so much freedom as an adult.”

My father said, “No, Pamela. I see Darren in there too, but Darren when he was a kid.” He added, “Amélie, you said that Abigail was really helpful. She did everything you asked her to do since the blow up on Tuesday night, right? She was basically an angel?”

Amélie replied, “Yes, that’s exactly it. I thought she’d changed completely, that she’d learned her lesson.”

My father said firmly, “That was one of Darren’s tactics to get his way, and then once he got it, the bad behaviour would return. Just like it has in this case.”

I could hear Amélie sighing, “So what am I supposed to do?”

My father replied, “I am going to suggest a two week grounding. No phone or video games. No band practice, even if she begs you to let her, and even if her behaviour improves to the point where you think you are living with Mother Theresa, don’t give in. You need to be consistent with the punishment, even if she’s good, she’s still grounded. When she realizes you are serious, she’ll smarten up. ”

Amélie said, “And what about Ethan? Should I tell her she can’t see him?”

My mother sounded like someone was trying to choke her. She was having great difficulty getting the words out. “I-Is it true, y-you found them together- naked??”

Amélie replied, “Yes. And there was a stain on the bed. Abigail told me nothing happened, but they were naked, so it’s hard to believe.”

My father said, “You will have a lot of trouble with that-”

I had heard enough. I stomped into the kitchen and shouted, “You can’t make me! I’ll see Ethan whenever I want!”

My father ignored me stoically. He turned to Amélie, “You can’t forbid her from seeing him. I learned that with Allison. I think you should have a talk with his parents with both Abigail and Ethan present. You can calmly discuss what appropriate and inappropriate behaviour is, and hopefully, his parents are on board.”

Amélie looked at me sternly, “Abigail, I thought I told you to stay in your room.”

I sighed, “I’m supposed to have band practice today. You know that the Coffeehouse is in three weeks, right?”

Amélie nodded, “I never said you could have band today. I made it very clear that the only person allowed in the house last night was Alyssa. You disobeyed me. I already told Andrew you are grounded. He’s going to tell Steven.”

I looked at Amélie and sneered, “But it’s Saturday, and my homework is done. You took away my phone, and I don’t have any Internet. I’m bored!”

Amélie said, “I want you to do all the assignments that you missed over the last two weeks. I know you have a History test and a Science test coming up, so prepare for those first.”

I stared at Amélie, my eyes narrowed in hatred, “No. I’m going to have band today, whether you like it or not. I don’t care what you say. Give me my phone back, now. ”

My father looked at Amélie anxiously, and he and my mother exchanged worried looks. Amélie stood her ground, “Abigail, you are grounded for two weeks. No negotiation and no argument. Now go back to your room.”

I approached Amélie and said firmly, “No. I won’t. I can’t believe you are treating me this way. It’s totally unfair!” I looked to my mother, who had always been the soft one compared to my father, “Mom, don’t you think what they are doing is unfair? I mean you know who I am, Dad and Amélie seem to have forgotten.”

My mother looked at me sadly, “Listen to Amélie, Abigail- she knows best.”

I shrieked and looked at those assembled at the table, “I hate you! You have no idea what this is like. If you did, you wouldn’t be doing this to me.”

Amélie stood up and said, “Not another word from you. You go down to your room now and do as you were told. Or it’ll be three weeks, and you’ll miss Coffeehouse completely.”

I looked at my mother again and shook my head dismissively. She had betrayed me. As I slowly trudged down the stairs to my room, I thought about the events that brought me to this point. No matter how I looked at it, it was somehow Amélie’s fault, and the fault of my parents. I wasn’t sure what they had done exactly, but whatever it was, it was all their fault that I was grounded for the next two weeks.

***

“Abigail, I’m very pleased to see you.”

Mr. Atwater wore his typical smile, the knowing grin. It was Saturday night, and I was fast asleep, except it was apparent that Mr. Atwater had returned me to his realm.

I sneered, “What do you want?” I crossed my arms underneath my chest and stared at the man who had murdered Darren Lawrence.

Mr. Atwater said amiably, “To offer you a warning. I know that Amélie wants you to tell your entire family and the rest of your friends about the Sidereus Prophecy and your role in it, but I must advise against it. If you go ahead with your revelation, I will have to play a very unpleasant card. I will not relish playing it, but it will have to be done to maintain the subterfuge concerning the Prophecy.”

I replied angrily, “And why would it make a difference this time? Steven and Andrew know. And so do their wives. Amélie, her parents, my parents and my sister. They all know. What changes if I tell my whole family?”

Mr. Atwater replied, “I am not at liberty to tell you, all I can do is offer you a warning. Besides, do you really think your family will believe you are Darren Lawrence?”

I nodded, “Of course! Why wouldn’t they?”

Despite my apparent confidence in the face of my tormentor, my words lacked the usual punch. Would my cousins, aunts and uncles really believe it was me? I was starting to have my doubts.

Mr. Atwater smiled inhumanly, looking like a hyena about to tear into a fresh carcass, “You are lying to yourself, Abigail. You know they won’t. Don’t force my hand here.”

I turned my back to him as I felt tears gently roll down my cheek. He was right. There was no way they would believe who I was, I had changed too much. Mr. Atwater put his hand on my shoulder, “I have seen what they did to you, Abigail. And you are right, it’s not fair. You are a wonderful girl, and you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

He looked at me with compassion in his eyes, “They are the ones who took everything from you. They made you go to school, do your homework and study, when you already have two university degrees. They sold your car. They make you follow that ridiculous curfew. They want to keep you and Ethan apart. They are the ones that treat you like a child, Abigail. Don’t you see that now?”

I sniffed, and Mr. Atwater gently took my hand. “I want to help you. I can make this all go away, everything, if you just sign the contract. Then you and Ethan can be together, and you’ll be rich and famous, and you won’t have to listen to anyone. No more homework, or stupid, pointless rules, and no grounding. You will be free, Abigail! Don’t you want that?”

Despite Mr. Atwater’s apparent warmth, his touch was ice cold. I shivered and pulled my hand away. I looked into his eyes, and his fearsome presence was gone, but I still had grave doubts that I could trust him. I said weakly, “I-I don’t know.”

The longer I looked in his eyes, the easier it was to see his malevolence, the darkness drew me in, filling me with fear. The horror inside the man overwhelmed any notion of trust. More than that, the strange power he had to reveal my greatest fears remained. Before when I looked in his eyes, even when I occupied Darren’s body in his realm, I always saw an image of Abigail staring back at me. The girl would laugh at me, giggle and preen, but since I had essentially become her, I stared at different horrors now. I started screaming.

Now, I saw Ethan and me breaking up for a multitude of reasons, each time a different one, sometimes believable and sometimes not, but either way, the images struck at my core. In one, I was severely overweight, in another skin and bones, and amazingly, in the last one- I was Darren Lawrence. I broke my stare, immediately turning away.

Mr. Atwater said, “I’m sorry you had to see all that, Abigail. Please consider my offer, and remember my warning. I don’t want to have to act, like I did when you invoked that spell. You won’t like the consequences.”

I blinked, “Wait, what do you mean? What did you do?”

Mr. Atwater simply smiled, “Why don’t you ask Alyssa?”

I woke up crying. I fumbled in the dark for my phone, but I soon remembered that Amélie had taken it. I heard a gentle knock on my door. “Are you OK, Abigail? I heard you screaming.” It was Amélie.

I said, “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.” A minute later, I heard her leave.

***

“My mom was so mad when I got home. I was sick all over our family quilt.”

It was Monday morning, and Alyssa looked terrible- hung over and exhausted. The perkiness and happiness that I had seen on Halloween night was gone. She looked like she was ready for the joyless profession of a paper-pushing bureaucrat, and it was all my fault. I knew what Mr. Atwater meant. The nightmare she had every time she closed her eyes was his doing, but it was my fault for involving her. I knew I could stop them if I signed Mr. Atwater’s contract, but that would mean fulfilling the Prophecy and becoming everything I hated, a puppet that sung without a voice. Not only that but by signing, I knew that I would play my part in the dumbing down of society, and the influence I would have would scar millions of girls too. Was it worth it to save my best friend from sleepless nights?

I asked, “What happened when Ethan and I went downstairs?”

Alyssa sighed, “After I put Chloe to bed, I sat with Eric on the couch and we just talked, it was nice. But Ryan kept acting like a jerk, trying to get Eric to leave and go to Véronique’s party. And then Ryan found the beer, and he gave one to Eric.”

Alyssa continued, “I didn’t really want one, but Eric offered me one, and I saw that he was kind of acting different, like less shy. And I thought it would do the same for me. It kind of did, for a bit. We kept talking, and it looked like he was going to kiss me. But then I started feeling sick. That’s when I heard the doorbell.”

I nodded, and Alyssa continued, “Well we wouldn’t answer the door. Obviously. That would have been really stupid. I thought about getting you, but your door was closed. So we let it ring, and ring. And ring. Then this crazy woman comes in, saying that we have to let her in or whatever, then she saw the beer and freaked out, like totally bat-shit crazy as Ethan would say. She starts yelling, where’s Amélie. I tell her I don’t know. Then I guess she called your sister.”

It sighed. “She’s the social worker. She wants to put me in foster care I think.”

Alyssa frowned, “That sucks, Abby. I really hope that doesn’t happen. I’ll miss you so much.”

I frowned too, “Me too.”

I thought though, maybe it would be for the best? How could I tell her that my selfishness was slowly ruining her life? The girl would lose her mind eventually, haunted forever by that night.

***
On Thursday night, during my first week of grounding, Amélie came to my room. She knocked and then immediately entered, giving me no chance to bar her entry. I was sitting at my desk, doing my homework. As angry as I was at Amélie and my parents, I didn’t want to miss Coffeehouse, so I dutifully abided by their rules, completing my homework and chores over the past week.

Amélie said, “There’s a couple things I want to talk to you about, Abigail.”

I shrugged and put my pencil down, at least I had received a reprieve from my math homework, which I continued to struggle with. “I don’t really want to talk with you, but whatever, it’s not like I can go anywhere.”

Amélie sighed, her expression tightening. She took a deep breath and said, “I first wanted to say that your behaviour has really improved. I think you understand how important it is that you continue to do well in school, and that you follow my rules. I also have some good news.”

She smiled, “I managed to get a stay of decision on Mrs. Warner’s court ordered removal. There'll be a hearing, but you won’t be taken to immediate foster care, which is what was going to happen.”

I blinked, “When did you have time to do that?”

Amélie said, “I worked on it when Chloe went to sleep.”

It made sense now. Amélie was looking more tired lately, and she had heard me scream the other night. She must have been up working on the stay of decision.

I was flabbergasted, “Why did you do that? I thought you hated me. I thought you’d be happy to get rid of me. That’s why you are treating me so badly, isn’t it?”

Amélie put her hand on my shoulder and gently rubbed it, “That couldn’t be further from the truth. I love you, Abigail, and while it might be hard to believe - because I am hard on you. I just want what’s best for you.”

My mood improved as did my body language, which had been hostile when Amélie initially entered the room. “So you’ll think about ungrounding me?”

Amélie shook her head, “A little more than one week to go. You can come up for Chloe’s party of course. I still want you to tell everyone who you really are. Oh, and Alyssa can come to the party. We’ll just have her come a little later. Do you know what’s wrong with her though? Every time I see her, she looks sick. Has she seen a doctor?”

I frowned, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. She’s been having these nightmares. Every night. That person, the one who did this to me, he did that to her because of the spell I cast. And he said something bad will happen if I tell everyone at the party.”

I turned away from Amélie, “Besides, no one will believe that I’m really Darren anyway.”

Amélie squeezed my shoulder, “I think they will. You’ve changed, but I still see him in you.”

I looked at Amélie hopefully, “Really?”

Amélie nodded, “Yes. And as for Mr. Atwater, I don’t believe it. He’s probably just trying to scare you, to convince you to sign the contract. I’m sure Alyssa will be better soon. She’s probably just staying up too late.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess. I’m still not sure I want to tell everyone. What if something terrible happens? I’ll never forgive myself.”

Amélie shook her head, “It’ll be alright, and you’ll feel better when we don’t have to lie to our friends and family.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. Not only that but I was certain that once my friends knew who I was they would have no interest in being friends with a fifteen-year old girl. To be honest, I didn’t really want to hang around with them either.

Amélie asked with a measure of difficulty, “There’s one other thing. I-I want to know. How do you feel about Ethan?”

I lowered my head, and a little smile grew on my face. I spun in my desk chair, but Amélie put a stop to my childishness with her foot. Amélie said, “You can tell me. I understand that you like him, Abigail, and that you want him to be part of your life.”

I looked at Amélie’s face, and sighed gently as happy thoughts pierced my brain. “I-I think I love him.”

Amélie lowered her head momentarily. She took another deep breath and then looked at me calmly, “I think that it would be best, and especially with what happened on Halloween, if you went on the pill.”

I shook my head, “It was stupid, I know, but next time he’ll have condoms. I told him to get some.”

This time, Amélie visibly flinched. She cleared her throat and replied, “I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Alberts for you. I want you to speak to her. I’m not going to force the pills down your throat. I just want you to be informed. Does that sound OK?”

I sighed and swung my feet, trying to spin my chair again, but Amélie’s foot was still on it. “Yeah, I guess.”

Amélie smiled gently, “Good. Your appointment is tomorrow afternoon at two. I’ll ask your mom to-”

I interrupted Amélie as my face turned bright red, “Oh god, please don’t ask my mother to take me there! I’ll take the bus. I’ll come home after. You can trust me.”

Amélie raised a brow and said, “Alright, I’ll trust you, Abigail.”

***

“Hey sweet, you got an absence pass! I love getting out early on Fridays.”

Ethan was looking at the little pink print out in my hand. It was lunch time, and I had just returned from the office. I had given the office staff a note that Amélie had written. It excused me from afternoon classes.

Ethan said, “You got a dentist appointment or something?”

I said, “Uh, no- it’s a doctor’s appointment.”

Ethan said, “I could blow off the afternoon and come with you, then we could go to my place after.” He lowered his voice, “I got them. Um, the…uh condoms.”

I frowned, “I’m still grounded. I mean Amélie doesn’t know we’ve been going to the park off school grounds at lunch to make out, but I have to be home. Or I won’t be able to play Coffeehouse.”

We were heading to the very park I had mentioned. Alyssa wasn’t upset that I hadn’t spent lunch hour with her in a few days. This was mostly because she and Eric were spending lunch together, away from Ryan. That, and she knew I was grounded, so I couldn’t see Ethan outside of school hours.

Ethan shook his head, “Amélie is acting seriously weak. She’s like your grandmother now or something. I wish you had my parents. I could still come with you though. I’ll walk you home.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “It’s, um, girl stuff too. You wouldn’t want to come to the appointment.”

Ethan looked at me curiously and then he made a face, “Gross like your period or something? Oh nasty. I still remember my sister one time leaving her bloody ass disgusting tampon on the bathroom floor. She said it fell out of the garbage, but I think she was trying to make me barf.” He laughed, but I didn’t.

He looked at me apologetically, “Shit, Abby. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just being stupid. I mean, you aren’t sick, are you?”

I shook my head, “No, I- well I guess I’m thinking about going on the pill.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, “Damn, well that’s sick. One of the guys in the locker room said that you don’t have to worry at all. You can just have sex whenever you want.”

Ethan looked worried momentarily, “I-I guess I heard it can make girls super bitchy too, and I, um, would you get fat? My sister seemed to worry about that a lot.”

Did that mean he didn’t think I was fat now? Because I certainly felt like it in my school uniform.

I blinked, surprised by Ethan’s candour, “I-I don’t know. Would you be grossed out if I got fat?” I had just put a loaded gun to Ethan’s head, but I wanted to know his answer.

Ethan looked at me carefully, like he was navigating a mine field where every step meant certain death. He said, “I don’t know, I mean probably not. I mean, I liked Véronique, but that was cause she was nice, and I had known her since junior high, but I guess she was a bit skinny. I don’t feel the same way that I did with her that I do with you. I think you are the hottest girl in the school. I thought that from the first time I saw you throw your shoes in that bush before your job interview. I was like, this is a girl I need to get to know.”

I blushed and smiled, feeling my head wavering, “Really? I was kind of mean to you then.”

Ethan grinned and shook his head, “You just didn’t know how funny I was then! Or how cool.”

I smirked, “I am still waiting for evidence of this coolness, but you do make me laugh, so I’ll give you that.”

Ethan put his hand behind his head, “So, uh, do you think you’ll go on the pill? Like I said, I don’t care. You make me feel incredible, Abby. Like I-I really…care about you. Whatever you decide, I’ll support you. Although that promise is breakable if you become a three-hundred pound bitch-a-saurus-rex.”

Despite Ethan’s crude words, I laughed, saying, “You are such an ass.”

He grinned, and then I kissed him. He kissed me back, and our make out session began, ending only when I frantically ran to the bus, realizing that I had only a minute to make it. Thankfully, I caught it. The entire time on the bus, I kept thinking about how our conversation had gone. Did Ethan like chubbier girls, the same way I had? Or did he just like boobs? I assumed it was the latter. It had taken me a long time to realize my preference.

I also thought about telling Ethan that I loved him, for all it was worth. Would he say it back? For a moment, I thought he was going to say it. Was he thinking it? Most importantly, what would it even mean if we were in love? I knew that Amélie didn’t believe that teenagers could be in love, real love, and I would have agreed with her before, but not now. I knew the truth.

***

“Abigail! It’s so good to see you.” Dr. Alberts smiled happily as she entered the room. I looked up at her and gave her a little smile. She asked, “How is school going?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “It’s OK.”

Dr. Alberts asked, “What grade are you in?” I saw that she was taking notes as we spoke.

I replied, “Tenth.”

Dr. Alberts said, “And do you like it? Your sister tells me you are in a new school. Have you made a lot of friends?”

I shrugged again, “Yeah, it’s OK.”

Dr. Alberts said, “Fair enough, Abigail.” She smiled wryly, “I understand the international sign for get to the point. You aren’t here for small talk. I knew it from the second I walked in.” She smiled, “Your sister asked if I could be your regular doctor, so I wanted to get to know you a little better. I see a lot of young ladies your age.”

She added, “In any case, you don’t need to decide right away. Even if I’m not going to be your regular doctor, I still need to do a routine checkup. If that’s OK?”

I nodded, and then the doctor asked me to disrobe and put on a gown. Dr. Alberts then gave me a physical, testing my lungs, which she said were very healthy, and my blood pressure, which despite my recent meltdowns, was perfectly normal. She weighed and measured me, noting that I had gained seven pounds since she had seen me last, and even more depressingly, I hadn’t grown an inch, not even a centimetre. So I was still 5 feet tall, and now, 133 pounds. It was no wonder my school uniform didn’t fit properly, but if I asked for a larger one, or had mine altered it was like giving up. Oh god, I sounded like Amélie when she was trying to lose her baby weight!

It made sense to me now though. I just wanted to fit in my clothing. I was tired of the waistband on my skirt digging into my skin. At the same time, my gross aversion to the whole diet industry as Darren had made it more difficult to accept that I really needed to at least start watching what I ate. I clearly didn’t have the same metabolism, and my workouts, which were sporadic, probably needed to be more consistent. I sighed inwardly. What was next, a twenty-minute discussion on the yoghurt that claims to taste like cheese cake but would actually help me lose weight? I bet Mrs. Rayner ate them. I hated the idea of becoming a girl like that, but I also wanted to fit in my clothes comfortably.

Dr. Alberts said, “OK, Abigail, if you could just get up onto the table. We’ll do your smear.”

I did as she asked, but my eyes widened as I saw the doctor pull a pair of thin metal bars from underneath the examining table. I could see that the bars were actually attached to the table, and at the end of each was a small padded stirrup. The doctor gently guided my legs into the stirrups, as I felt myself stretch- down there. I was wide open to the world. I instantly wanted off the table, and the doctor could see it.

She raised a brow, “Are you OK, Abigail? You’ve had a pap smear before, haven’t you?”

I shook my head, “Uh, I don’t really remember. Does it hurt?”

I started trying to pull my legs out of the stirrups, but the doctor held me there firmly. Despite the resistance she offered, Dr. Alberts said kindly, “No, Abigail. It doesn’t. It’s necessary to make sure you are healthy. It’ll be over quickly.”

I saw the doctor remove a piece of surgical tubing from a drawer and then she applied some kind of oil. At that point, I closed my eyes, desperately trying to think of something else. I had been a girl for eight months, but nothing made me feel more like a member of the fairer sex than the invasive exam I was receiving.

The doctor shook her head, “Even in a small town, I would expect a girl to get regular checkups. You did didn’t you?”

I nodded, “Yeah, sorry. I guess I don’t really like them.”

Dr. Alberts smiled gently, “No one does, Abigail! I’d be concerned if you did actually. I’m nearly done. I just thought it was odd, you were acting like you’d never had one before. I know when I have mine, I joke about going horseback riding. It just takes your mind off of it, right?”

I nodded and tried to think about hockey, Ethan, music, and eventually, I settled on Ethan.
Dr. Alberts managed to get me to open up during the exam. We talked about my friends, the band, and some of my problems with Amélie. I even opened up to her about Ethan. She had such a compassionate and caring face that I felt like I could trust her. I actually did want her to be my doctor. I got dressed and Dr. Alberts asked me to sit down.

She said, “So this Ethan, he’s your boyfriend I take it?” I nodded happily.

She asked, “Please don’t feel compelled to answer any of these questions, Abigail, but in order to help you make some difficult choices, I may have to ask you some embarrassing questions, is that OK?” Again, I nodded.

She said gently, “Are you sexually active?”

I said, “Well, um, I guess. Almost.” Didn’t she know I was still virgin from staring down there for half the appointment?

The doctor nodded, “That’s alright. I don’t need to know specifics. Were you using protection? Did the boy have a condom?”

I shook my head, “We didn’t really know it was going to happen like that. He didn’t have any. Nothing happened though. You know that right?” I pointed down toward my crotch.

Dr. Alberts smiled, “Of course, Abigail. Are you planning on becoming sexually active?”

I nodded, “Uh, I think so. I know he wants it. He was excited that I might be going on the pill.”

The doctor frowned, “Let me guess, he said he couldn’t wait to get you on the pill because it meant that you could have all the sex you wanted, any time- am I right?” I raised a brow and nodded.

She said with a grin, “I’ve been doing this for many years, and one thing never changes. Teenage boys are always horn dogs. That’s what we called them when I was your age.” She grew serious, “Now, I understand your sister wants you to start taking birth control pills. How do you feel about that?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. I know she thinks it’s safer, but I think Ethan and I are mature. I know condoms protect you from more than just getting pregnant. Like diseases or whatever.”

Dr. Alberts said, “I’m not here to tell you how to proceed one way or the other, Abigail. You are right about condoms, but they can also break. And you can even get pregnant while taking the pill. It’s just a much lower percentage. Sex isn’t something to take lightly. If you are mature enough to have sex, you are mature enough to realize the consequences. Would you agree?”

I nodded, “Yeah, it makes sense.”

Dr. Alberts said, “I don’t want you to make a decision today. I have some websites I want you to go on. They do a good job of explaining your different options. I don’t prescribe things willy nilly, Abigail, and I explained that to your sister. I prefer my patients to make informed decisions. So you can come back, if you’d like, and we can have another chat based on what you learned. OK?”

I smiled and nodded, “Um, I think I’d like you to be my regular doctor.”

If I had to have an oily tube stuck in me once a year, I wanted it done by Dr. Alberts over anyone else. I genuinely liked her, and her approach. She didn’t treat me like a kid, unlike Amélie who thought I was sex-crazed and stupid or something. Amélie probably envisioned fathers locking up their sons, shouting, “Oh no, Abigail is loose!”

The doctor beamed, “Wonderful, Abigail. Speak to Phyllis out front and she’ll make another appointment. How about in two weeks? Oh, and please bring your health card. I don’t like having to make you pay upfront.”

My health card had still not arrived. Amélie had submitted the forms soon after I told her and my parents that I was going to be Abigail for the foreseeable future. Without it, as an out-of-province patient, I had to pay the doctor’s fee.

As I rode the bus home, I wasn’t thinking about birth control or even Ethan. I was worried about Mr. Atwater’s warning. If he hurt Chloe though, I would kill him, without hesitation. While I hadn’t been the best father to Chloe recently, I loved my little girl. I was determined to show her and Amélie that I could still be her father. Halloween night was my wake up call, making me realize that while Chloe still called me Daddy, I hadn’t earned it, and unfortunately, like my exercise regimen, my fathering was sporadic.

My concern about Chloe also surfaced because Amélie had completely stopped calling me Daddy in front of Chloe. She always referred to me as Abigail or Abby, and I needed to put a stop to it before Chloe started doing the same thing. Most of all, I wanted to prove that Amélie was wrong. That victory, considering all she had put me through lately, would be sweet.

When I got home, Amélie was already there. She had taken a half day off work to prepare for Chloe’s party. I smiled as I entered, smelling freshly baked cupcakes. There were red, yellow and orange crepe paper streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a huge banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHLOE. Amélie and I discussed my appointment briefly, but I told her simply that I hadn’t made a decision yet.

Even though it was Friday, I was still grounded, but I was allowed to come upstairs and help with the party preparations. With my strong lungs, I was able to blow up all the balloons, while Amélie iced the cupcakes. Eventually, it was Chloe’s bedtime, and I volunteered to read her a story. Chloe said exuberantly, “Daddy!” and pointed to the book she wanted. Halfway through, the little girl’s head started to droop, and I gently lay her in the crib. I said, “Good night, Chloe. Daddy loves you.” Chloe muttered gently, “Love too, Daddy.” I stroked her head and left the room.

I joined Amélie in the kitchen where she was putting the finishing touches on the cupcakes. She said, “Thanks for putting Chloe to bed, Abigail. It was a big help.”

I sighed, “You’re welcome. Look, can you just talk to me the way you used to? I don’t need all this positive reinforcement.”

Amélie blinked, looking surprised. She nodded, “Sorry, you’ve just been so…well I guess- well you’ve just been acting like a kid a lot lately. I’m glad that you are starting to take some responsibility. I hope I never have to ground you again. I don't enjoy it. I haven’t forgotten who you are, but it seemed like you had.”

I nodded, “It’s really easy to just focus on one thing. It’s like I have no peripheral vision sometimes. All I can see is what is right in front of me, and I just obsess about that.”

I said, “I want to talk to you about Chloe, and me being her father. I know that we can’t tell anyone outside of those who already know, but I’m really serious about this. I’m going to totally focus on this. I want to help you with her more. I’ve been so caught up with Ethan and everything, I couldn’t see that I was neglecting her.”

I added, “I want you to call me Daddy in front of her.”

Amélie frowned gently. She went back to icing the cupcakes, but I moved into her line of sight and said, “Please, Amélie. This is the last thing I have. Everything else has been taken from me. For some reason that little girl thinks I am her Daddy, despite how I look and sound. She knows it.”

Amélie said gently, “I-I just don’t think it’s a good idea, D-Darren.”

I shook my head and said petulantly, “I’m going to show you how wrong you are. That I can still do it.”

Amélie looked at me sternly, but her expression slowly softened. There was compassion in her eyes, “Parents have to make sacrifices for their children. Do you want me to call you Daddy in front of her for your sake, or for hers?”

Words fell from my lips multiple times, but I was unable to answer Amélie’s question. She had rendered me speechless. I walked out of the kitchen and moved downstairs to my room, still absolutely lost in thought.

***

I woke up to the sound of hysterical crying. I moved upstairs, ready to help as I had promised. Chloe’s bedroom door was already open, and I could see Amélie trying to comfort the wailing toddler. My eyes widened, “W-What’s wrong with her? I’ve never heard her cry like that before.”

Amélie looked at me, and I could see instant worry in her eyes. There was only one other time I saw that look. Chloe was only a few months old, and Amélie decided to try using a bottle for the first time. Chloe, who was used to controlling the flow of milk from the nipple, began choking on the fast-flowing milk from the bottle. Amélie started to pat Chloe’s back, but it did nothing, so she applied even more force. I called 9-1-1, and the paramedics soon arrived. In the end, she was fine, but it was a huge scare for us.

Amélie said, “She’s been throwing up constantly. Now there’s nothing in her stomach, but she keeps dry heaving.” Amélie sounded distraught, “I just don’t know what to do. Should we take her to the hospital? I’m worried she’s going to dehydrate.”

Amélie was almost in tears now, “What about her party? Oh god, what if it’s the stomach flu?”

My eyes widened in horror at the prospect of the stomach flu entering our house again. I had been hospitalized before my change last winter. I immediately took a step back and put my hand over my mouth. Amélie cradled Chloe in her arms as the little girl starting to vomit. As Amélie had predicted, there was nothing left in the toddler’s system to throw up, so she painfully started dry heaving, as her face turned red from the constant crying. The poor thing was miserable.

I fled downstairs, away from the microscopic germs and my crying daughter. I closed my door and started pacing the room. I did this for an hour, and then I just lay in bed, terrified to go upstairs. I desperately did not want to catch the stomach flu. Eventually, I grew too tired and fell back asleep.

When I woke up, it was early morning. I crept upstairs, ashamed at my cowardice, but still fearful of the bugs that Chloe carried. I saw a bleary-eyed Amélie on the couch still cradling Chloe in her arms as she had when the girl was an infant.

I said, “I’m so sorry, I just didn’t want to get sick. I really wanted to help.”

I mustered my courage and said, “I want to help now. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll take care of her.” I was ready to make a sacrifice, even if it meant getting sick again.

Amélie, who had regarded me angrily at first, quickly softened. I held out my arms and Amélie deposited the little girl in my waiting embrace, then she stumbled off to sleep. Before opening the door to her room, she said, “I’ve been giving her water for the last hour, and she’s kept it down. Just a teaspoon every five minutes. I already sent the message to call off the party. I don’t want anyone to get what Chloe has.”

I nodded and gently rocked Chloe. I looked down at her, her blonde hair was matted with sweat, cheeks red and eyes bloodshot from a night of crying. She feebly held onto my hand as I fed her a spoonful of tap water. I did this for two hours, and thankfully, she kept everything down. She had also wet her diaper, which was a welcome sign.

The more I looked down at her, the more I started to think about her growing up. I tried to place myself within the future memories as Abigail, but I found it difficult. It wasn’t because I was missing from them, I just didn’t fit where I wanted to fit.

As Darren, I used to think all the time about her growing up, and how she might be. Would she think I was a cool dad or a lame one? Would she be embarrassed to bring her friends by to meet me? Would she be rebellious? Would she be a Daddy’s girl? All of this came flooding back to me, thoughts seemingly long since buried. The connections that I had failed to make before were clear before my eyes now. These memories would never be mine, not if I stayed as Abigail.
I would never be able to meet her first elementary school teacher, or attend parent-teacher interviews. I wouldn’t be able to meet her first boyfriend and introduce myself as her father. I wouldn’t be able to tell the other parents I was her father, not without embarrassing her. So she would call me Daddy at home, and then go off to school and tell the other kids about her Daddy who looks like her Mommy? I didn’t want that for her, and the ridicule that would follow. I could see that I was being selfish, and that I insisted that Amélie call me Daddy because I wanted it, not because it would benefit my daughter. No, I did it to hold onto the last vestige of my former life, while twisting the mind of my daughter to think that someone who looked like me could be her Daddy.

I knew what Amélie meant now about sacrifice. I gently stroked Chloe’s head, hoping that the little girl would eventually fall asleep, while tears softly fell from my eyes.

***

Chloe’s recovery was slow, but by Sunday she was back to eating solid food. Amélie and I were getting along, and when she called me Abby in front of Chloe, I didn’t correct her. Would I tell her the truth as she grew older, that her father was actually her young aunt? I wasn’t sure. At what age would she actually be old enough to understand what happened?

Monday at school I almost ran to my locker, hopeful that I would meet Alyssa there. I couldn’t believe how hard it was to go without a phone. We didn’t have a home telephone, just my cell and Amélie’s, so without my phone, I was completely cut off from the outside world. I was disappointed when Alyssa never came, but I learned from Ethan that she was sick. Apparently, she had bronchitis. Speaking of Ethan, we went off to the park and picked up where we left off on Friday. We talked as we walked back to class.

Ethan said, “So you’ve got one more week of grounding left right? Oh man, I was thinking about you Saturday night. It sucks that you don’t even have your phone!”

I nodded, “Yeah, and then it’s Coffeehouse. We should try and get two practices in next week.”

Ethan asked, “What do you think about those shows we couldn’t do? Those excuses Andrew and Steven gave were lame, don’t you think?”

I nodded, “Definitely. People put way too much importance into weddings. I guess I could see where Andrew was coming from with his job. He couldn’t leave. Man, if I won the lottery, I would pay all you guys to be in the band, and I’d just do music all the time. Think about it. We would get an album done in a few weeks that way!”

Ethan grinned, clearly sharing my enthusiasm, “Yeah, I’d do the same thing! That’s a sick idea. I wish we could do that. We could do it if we got signed, then no more school or teachers or anything.”

I said, “Well I’d probably suggest maybe a tutor. You’d want to get your high school at least if the music thing doesn’t work out.”

Ethan laughed, “You know it’s funny, Abby. Sometimes you act a lot like a kid. Like before our last show, and I showed up, and you started bouncing all around and making these faces. You were so excited and happy. And then other times, you get these ideas and it’s like oh yeah, that’s a really smart and good idea. Like something my mom would probably say.”

I raised a brow, “What’s your point?”

Ethan smiled, “I like both parts. That’s all I meant. I know some people don’t, like when you lecture or whatever. It just kind of makes you, I don’t know, um, different? But in a good way. ”

I reached out my hand, and Ethan took it. He walked me to gym class, and we kissed just outside the girl’s change room.

Ethan said, “Oh yeah, like I was saying. So about the shows with Porcelain? Are we just gonna let Steven and Andrew do that? Like those could have been sick shows with them. What if they do it again?”

I replied, “I guess. I mean it’s the same thing, right? I was grounded this week, and I couldn’t practice at all. We’ve all got shit in our lives. They are really good guys. We need to trust them.”

Ethan said, “Okay, but they are adults, they have the choice. You couldn’t do it cause you wouldn’t be allowed to play Coffeehouse. So what, they skip a wedding and they can’t play Coffeehouse or practice for a week cause their wives say they can’t? I wouldn’t let my wife talk to me like that. Those guys are so whipped.”

He grinned, “I’d be like, get back in the kitchen and make me a damn sandwich.”

I recognized this type of humour as it was prevalent on YouTube. It usually involved YouTube comedians commenting on a video and then stating that the girl in it should return to the kitchen and prepare food, usually a sandwich. It was somewhat dated, but because videos could go ‘viral’ multiple times, meaning they could gain incredible popularity, the humour often returned to popular culture.

I smirked, “Why not try some fresh material? Maybe yo mama jokes?”

Ethan said, “Be honest, if we were married, would you want to play a show or go to a stupid wedding? Same weekend. We can’t do both.”

I said, “Oh definitely the wedding. I’d make you come shopping with me for hours until we found the perfect dress, one with sequins and doilies. Then the perfect shoes, and then the clutch. Can’t forget that. It’s like a purse. Why isn’t it called a small purse? I don’t know.” By this point, Ethan was laughing uncontrollably.

I said, “Of course the show. Unless, it was my sister’s wedding, I mean I’d probably be in the bridal party if that was the case.”

Ethan asked, “Isn’t your sister already married to Darren? When’s he coming back?”

I shrugged, “I don’t think he is. And I think they are getting a divorce.”

Ethan frowned, “Sucks. Poor Darren. I really wanted to meet him, you know talk music with him. That would have been sick. I hope things work out.” The warning bell rung, indicating that I had two minutes to get into my gym clothes.

I nodded, “I better go.” Ethan kissed me softly on the lips, and I walked into the change room with a smile on my face.

***

A day later, when I arrived home from school, I noticed a large legal-sized envelope in the mailbox. It was addressed to Amélie. The sender was unclear, and despite the weight of the package, there were no stamps. Had someone in the neighbourhood just put it in our mailbox? It was impossible to tell. Despite the strangeness of the envelope, I brought it inside. My mother started supper, and I played with Chloe, helping her put together a plastic train set.

Twenty minutes later, Amélie arrived home in a dismal mood. She burst through the door, sighing heavily as she did, and then she shut the door with enough force to knock one of the pictures in the hallway off the wall. My mother rushed to the top of the stairs, and I followed. Chloe peered at her mother anxiously.

My mother said, “Amélie, what’s wrong? Are you OK?”

Amélie threw her purse down and shook her head, “I got fired today.”

I blinked, “How is that even possible? You work for the government. When I worked there, I knew a guy who read three newspapers a day. He used to give me all his research. And isn’t there a process, like you can grieve it and everything, right?”

Amélie said, “They said that I gave some bad legal advice. It’s going to end up costing the government millions of dollars after the litigation is over. Oh god, it’s going to be in the papers tomorrow. I had a bunch of journalists in my face when they escorted me out. Someone leaked the story.”

She walked into the kitchen and set her phone down on the kitchen table. I picked up the phone and browsed to the web-page of Ottawa’s most-read newspaper. The main article said, “Disgraced public servant costs taxpayers millions.” Not surprisingly, in this day and age, the story would easily beat the morning paper.

Amélie was close to tears, “I don’t know how this happened. My manager always looks over my work, and she’s usually meticulous. My rulings are always backed up with precedents or at least sound interpretation. And I can’t grieve because I allegedly breached the terms and conditions of my contract. They say that I gave the advice negligently.”

My mother gently patted Amélie’s back. “It’ll be alright, you’ll get another job.”

Amélie put her hands over her face and took a deep breath, “No, it won’t. My law career is ruined. No private firm is going to want to hire me. I might as well go and apply at McDonalds.”

On a hunch, I tore open the large envelope. My eyes widened, but I was not surprised by the contents. I threw it on the table where Amélie was sitting.

Amélie’s eyes widened, “Is this w-what I think it is?”

I nodded. It was the Sidereus Agency contract. Mr. Atwater had even supplied a pen in the package.

***

A few nights later, Amélie, myself and my parents crowded around the dining room table to discuss the contract. The time had given Amélie the chance to go over the contract thoroughly, searching desperately for any loopholes. We all knew that it was Mr. Atwater’s doing. Chloe’s illness, Amélie’s career and, of course, Alyssa’s nightmares.

I stared at the contract, noting the little SIGN HERE stickers. They pointed out each place I needed to sign throughout the document.

My father said, “We can support you two for three months at the most. We are willing to do it of course, while Amélie tries to find another job. Are you eligible for employment insurance?”

Amélie shook her head, “It can’t be in law. I’m going to have go back and be an administrative assistant or something. And no, I’m not. You aren’t eligible if you were fired. I could appeal it, but we know it’s Atwater’s work.”

My father replied, “You should also apply for a childcare benefit for Abigail. It’s not a lot, but it’s extra money that you are entitled to as her guardian.”

I shook my head, “Is that really necessary? We have that for Chloe, but she’s a toddler. That’s what it’s for.”

My father said, “You are a dependant. Amélie should claim you on her taxes as such this year as well.”

I hated the idea of being a dependant again. At least when I worked at the law firm, I had my own money. Now, I wasn’t anything more than just another mouth to feed. I contributed nothing financially, and in fact, I was probably more of a drain than Chloe.

I sighed, “Amélie, what did you find out about the contract? Is there a way to avoid signing it and avoid additional punishment? Do you see anything in there at all we can use against Atwater?”

Amélie said, “It’s a really well-written contract, probably one of the best I’ve ever seen. It was drafted by an entertainment lawyer probably, so I’m not familiar with some of the terminology, but I guess I’ve got plenty of time now to look it over.”

She added, “One thing that is very clear is, that after signing, if you don’t breach the contract, you can return to your old life in two years time. I couldn’t find any catches to that.”

I shook my head, “I don’t get it though. Atwater said that Britney had a very similar contract. Why would she choose to stay that way?”

Amélie replied, “Exactly the reason Atwater told you I’d imagine. Two years into her career, Britney was the biggest thing in the world. She was headlining the Superbowl, she had multi-million dollar endorsements- she was an international megastar. She probably had a hard time going back.”

My father nodded, “The allure of fame was probably too much for her. It is arguable, too, that her effect on society at large was relatively minor, beyond little girls wanting to show their bellies. It’s not like she razed cities in some horrible bloody war.”

My mother snapped, “I hope you aren’t trying to encourage Abigail to sign that contract.”

My father looked pensive at first. He was carefully considering his words, “I’m not suggesting that Abigail sign the contract. Not now at least, but there might come a time when she has no choice. Atwater is going after our family, and it may come to a point where Abigail will have to choose to become what she views as a blight on the world, or allow her family to be seriously harmed.”

My mother looked at my father angrily, “Richard, that’s enough! This is always going to be Abigail’s decision. No matter what happens. She should be able to choose what she wants to be in this life.”

My father said, “We must be realistic here, Pam. There’s an entity out there playing with us. We are casualties in this. I don’t want the contract signed either, but we have to think about this. We are dealing with the status quo. A signed contract doesn’t start a war, it creates something that our son will hate, but it’s not a disease, a plague that will wipe out millions.”

I said, “It is a disease. A disease of the mind. You remember what Mr. Atwater said about the Sidereus Prophecy. It is meant to keep humanity distracted, sated in a pop culture mash that turns us away from issues that matter, from those who steal from us and control us. Without the Prophecy, we could have a world where we aren’t controlled by images and advertisements. Imagine a world where little girls grow up without being inundated with pictures of the perfect body.”

“It goes beyond that, too. Without the wash of celebrity culture, our world could be a utopia. What if instead of discussing which Kardashian they like more or watching the child exploitation that is Toddlers in Tiaras, people actually discussed issues that mattered? You say that it is the status quo, but what if it isn’t? What if we are meant for more? This is an ancient prophecy. What if it wasn’t fulfilled? What kind of world would we have?”

My father sighed gently, “Your optimism is admirable but when faced with the possibility of someone you love being hurt, would you sacrifice them for the world? Again, we are talking about the status quo here. I know how you feel about celebrity excess and the superficiality of their existence, but let’s say you sign the document. What’s stopping you from being different from the others? You write your own music. What’s stopping you from having a voice?”

I shook my head, “The Prophecy. The whole point is that the music is inane and meaningless, but popular, insanely popular. It’s not supposed to evoke complex thought. Look at “Baby Hit me One More Time” or “Oops I Did it Again.” Britney’s songs, most of them are completely shallow, not only that, but there is innuendo that Britney herself had a problem with. We all know how she ended up.”

My father looked at me evenly. I could see the respect in his eyes, and a measure of surprise. I was a little surprised myself. I could still debate with the best, but my focus tended to wane over time. This wasn’t a high school class discussion about the pros and cons of school uniforms. This was my life, and what I felt was also the fate of the world. Was I overreacting to being possibly thrust into a life of superstardom where I would have my dream of being a famous artist fulfilled, but also live a life where I knew that I was contributing to everything I hated?

My father said matter-of-factly, “That boy, Ethan. What would you do if Mr. Atwater went after him? He’s already gone after your daughter, and Amélie. He’s ruined her. What’s next? What if it was him? Would you sign?”

I turned away from my father, “That’s not fair. I don’t want to think about that.” I sniffed, and then crossed my arms underneath my chest.

My father looked at me sternly, “Life’s not fair. You know that. Look, I can’t imagine what you are going through. I know that this is against everything you stand for. Everything you care for. But look at what has happened to your family so far, is it really so terrible for you to be what they want? I can’t imagine how Mr. Atwater is going to take further defiance on your part.”

I sighed, looking down at the contract, “I-I don’t know. I just don’t want to be that. Mom’s right, I should be allowed to choose. I don’t want what Britney had, again- look at what happened to her! She went crazy.”

Amélie, who had simply been watching the exchange, said, “I agree. She should be allowed to choose. It’s not fair of us to force her to sign. What we should do is keep looking over the contract, searching for a loophole. Something- anything that will get Abigail out of this.”

My father shook his head, “And so Alyssa continues to have nightmares? Never enjoying a good night’s sleep. The poor girl will be driven mad. Just so you can moralize? It’s pop music, not incurable cancer. I’m worried what is going to happen next. Will he cut our brakes? Do you think it’s fair that your mother sits up at night, and has since doubled her sleeping aid dosage, worried constantly that something is going to happen to you, or Amélie and especially Chloe now that she knows these horrible things aren’t just coincidences?”

I looked at my mother with tears threatening, “Is that true Mom? Are you worried that much about this?”

My mother replied, “You know I can’t help it. I worry when your father is at the store too long. I still think that we need to give Amélie more time, though. This Mr. Atwater is smart, but I think giving us the contract is a mistake because it just gives Amélie the chance to poke holes in it.”

My father sighed, “Fine, but you know how I feel about this.” He looked at me, “I think you are putting all of us in danger.”

The tension between my father and me was palpable, but, thankfully, my mother made an excuse for them to leave. As Amélie was putting Chloe to bed, I flicked on the television in the living room. I quickly tuned into an episode of Instant Star. I had seen it, but I was nearly two weeks without television! Instant Star was harmless, right? It was just a show about a girl trying to make it in the music business.

As part of the bedtime routine, Amélie brought Chloe to me. She still called me Daddy, but we agreed not to correct her. We figured she would eventually autocorrect when everyone else called me Abigail or Abby. Amélie put Chloe to bed. When she returned, she frowned as she saw what I was doing, “You are supposed to be grounded. No TV until next Monday night.”

I looked at Amélie and shook my head, “Okay, I just made a life affirming decision, which both you and my mother agreed with. And you are still treating me like a kid? I’m sorry to play the broken record here, but this isn’t fair. I act mature, do the dishes every night, and I do my homework every night. You still won’t give me back my phone. What do I need to do to show that I am mature? Get a job as a banker?”

Amélie said, “I may have seen a lot of Darren in that discussion we had, but I see a whole of Abigail right now. The mature thing is to accept the rules as they are, now it’s time for you to go downstairs and do your homework. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Or it’s no Coffeehouse.”

My eyes widened, “You can’t do that! There’s been posters up for weeks at school. And on the announcements too. And didn’t my Dad say to you not to yell or get upset. Calm down.”

Amélie narrowed her eyes and said, “You are an ungrateful little brat. Your Dad was 100% right about you too. You act all nice, and you suck up, and then when you think you’ve got your way you start acting like a brat again. I lost my job because of you, and you don’t have the decency or respect for me to just do as you are told? I’ve spent hours looking over that contract for you. And you can’t do this one simple thing?”

This was the most angry I had seen Amélie in a long time. Maybe ever. I withered under her wrath. For a moment, I thought she was going to hit me.

I said timidly, “I’m sorry. I’ll go downstairs.”

Amélie said nothing as she watched me quickly leave the room.

***

The following week we managed to get two practices in before Coffeehouse. I got my phone back, and Amélie even managed to locate a small loophole in the contract. According to her, I could sign any contract. It didn’t have to be the one sent by Mr. Atwater. This made sense because during an earlier conversation, I remember Mr. Atwater stating that I could have signed the contract that would have likely been offered by Alexandre’s father. I could have signed with his label. The Prophecy itself was only fulfilled once my status reached a point where I could influence the masses. While I thought that my band was certainly starting to take off, we didn’t have any interest from labels, so my only option was the Sidereus Agency contract. Still, it was fantastic news during a time that was filled with unpleasantness. There was growing tension between my father and me. He called me a few times during the week leading up to Coffeehouse to explain his side again, but I would have none of it, especially after Amélie found the loophole.

Nothing else had happened either. Amélie was still out of a job, and unfortunately, she had become a social pariah. She was accosted by journalists at the supermarket who nearly caused an accident as they chased her through the parking lot. I could sense too, that despite Amélie’s willingness to help, a part of her wanted me to sign if it meant getting the press to leave her alone.

Alyssa had missed a full week of school due to bronchitis, and along with Chloe’s sudden illness, I was tempted to sign the contract. I felt terrible for Amélie obviously, but Chloe was just a little girl, and Alyssa was a kid. She also didn’t know what had caused her ailment either. That left me feeling tremendously guilty. Alyssa only returned to school on Thursday, a day before Coffeehouse. I met her at her locker, and she looked sickly. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot, and her gait slightly wobbly. She walked a lot like one of the zombies from Walking Dead. Okay, maybe that was pushing it, but I was guilt-ridden.

I said, “Hey, uh, are you feeling any better?”

If an artist were painting the scene before us and trying to capture the atmosphere in the school hallway, the multi-coloured lockers would have juxtaposed greatly with the girl painted all in grey. It was clear that Alyssa’s bright light was gone. Again, I thought about signing the contract.

She mumbled, “Um, sort of I guess. I probably could have stayed home again today. My mom’s worried I’ve been missing too much school, though. I’m going to fail everything, anyway.”

I said, “Don’t say that. I’ll help you. We can study together.”

Alyssa sighed, “I’m just stupid, Abby. I hate school. And don’t say I don’t apply myself. I’m just dumb.”

I shook my head, “You aren’t at all. You are too hard on yourself.”

Alyssa said, “It’s more than that. I’m just so tired all the time. I can’t stay awake long enough to study. D-Do you still have those sleeping pills? You said they were Darren’s.”

My eyes widened, “Yeah, but I don’t- I just don’t know about you taking them. My doctor said they can make you depressed. They have a different effect on teens.”

Alyssa shook her head, “I’m desperate. Can you just bring me some tomorrow?”
I said reluctantly, “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alyssa smiled weakly and said, “Even though everything sucks right now, I’m so excited for Coffeehouse tomorrow. So are you still going to sing Fireworks? You’ll let me do your hair and makeup, outfit? Everything, right?”

I nodded, “Yeah, of course.”

When I answered, I could see the light dancing within the girl’s eyes, a vibrant spirit that threatened to break through murkiness placed there by Mr. Atwater. Even though I had been less than enthusiastic about singing a pop song, I realized that I could bring a little bit of happiness back into Alyssa’s life. I promised myself that I would sing the hell out of the song for her.

***
“Amélie, maybe you should take a break? You’ve been staring at that thing since Chloe went to bed.” It was Thursday night.

Amélie said, “I think I’m onto something. If you sign the contract, but do so in bad faith, I think there’s a chance it could nullify it. There’s a clause in here that says... ”

I shook my head, “That makes no sense. If I sign a contract in bad faith, then I automatically breach it. It means I had no intention, from the very beginning, of adhering to the stipulations. It’s duplicitous.”

Amélie sighed heavily, looking at me with surprise again, “Damn, you are right.”

I said, “Hey, don’t sound so shocked. I did work at a law firm for most of the summer. I’m good at this stuff. It just takes a bit more concentration than it used to.”

Amélie nodded, “That’s why I’m doing this. I want you to have the choice. You’d be an amazing lawyer, you just need to have the chance. No one would take you seriously in a courtroom if they knew you’d been a popstar.”

I sat down at the table across from Amélie, “That’s kind of what I want to talk to you about. I’m thinking about signing the contract.”

Amélie’s eyes widened, “What? Why? I feel like I am so close to getting you out of this.”

I said, “Alyssa. She’s still sick. She’s missing school, and she’s too tired to study. That’s all my fault. I was the one that involved her. Maybe- maybe I should just sign it, do my two years and try and rebuild my life. I think that my dad is right. Anyone close to me is in danger.”

Amélie regarded me sternly, “No, it’s not time to give up. I am going to figure this out and then shove it in Atwater’s face. I really think I’m close to another break through.”

I said, “She wants me to bring her my old sleeping pills. She’s getting desperate, Amélie. She hates school, and it’s just getting worse with her missing so much class. I’m super grounded, and I’m the last person to get taken in by celebrity culture. I’ll shun it.”

Amélie frowned, “Here’s the problem. If you sign this contract, you’ll be thrust into that life. Not only that, but there are stipulations in the contract that state you must “be the very essence of a pop princess”. I know you’ll want to fight it, but to avoid being in breach of the contract, you need to act like you are enjoying it. What happens if you start enjoying it, for real?”

I blinked, “It says that, really? Essence of a pop princess?”

Amélie nodded, “It says you need to give interviews when asked, attend award shows. There’s even one in here that states “under no circumstances can the signee shirk her duties in attention to her fans, the media, and other known celebrities. She must always act in expectation of the Sidereus Prophecy, and failure to do so, as determined by her ward, will be considered breach of contract.”

She added, “If Selena Gomez or Miley Cyrus want to have sushi with you, and it is within the expectation of the Prophecy that you would, then that’s what you have to do. I’m trying to add some levity here, but if you sign this contract, you sign your life away basically. You have free will, but you can’t exercise it.”

Amélie flipped to a section of the contract with many highlighted portions. “Give me a few more days with it at least.”

I nodded, “Okay.” I still wasn’t convinced I had made the right decision. On Friday morning, I put the sleeping pills in my book bag.

***

School was a blur on Friday. I couldn’t remember one thing that I learned that whole day. I was energized, counting down the hours until Coffeehouse. The students had heard some of our recorded material as part of the announcements for Coffeehouse, and they were eager to hear more. They came up to Ethan and me in the hallway, asking us when we were going on. No one asked me about the other song I was set to sing. In fact, the only people who knew that I was going to sing “Fireworks” was the teacher supervisor, and Alyssa.

I had always loved Coffeehouse, and it was one of the reasons I got back into music after teacher’s college. The night was meant to showcase student musical talent. It wasn’t a competition with prizes or anything. It was open to all students with an interest in music. For some of the students, it was their opportunity to show talent in an area outside academics. Bands and solo artists were encouraged to perform. I knew we were on the bill with other student bands, but there would be singer-songwriters who played guitar, and also performers who used backing tracks, like I would for my solo performance.

The performer order was released on Friday afternoon. My band had twenty minutes, and apparently, I was closing the show with “Fireworks”. The twenty-minute set was not unusual for a Coffeehouse because it was about showcasing as many student acts as possible. I knew that Andrew and Steven wouldn’t be impressed with such a short set. We were also in the middle of the pack too, which was unusual because we were probably the only band that had played a real show.

Ethan asked, “Hey, what gives, you are closing the show? By yourself? How come you didn’t tell me? We could have done a guitar thing or something. You know like we did during the summer. Still, I thought our band would close the show.”

I said, “Well, I guess I thought you’d make fun of me. I know Steven will, and I agree, I think that we should close out the show. I really thought they were going to put me in the middle. I should speak to Madame Soucier.”

Ethan said, “What are you singing anyway?”

I said, “Something for Alyssa.”

Ethan smirked, “Okay, so that narrows it down to a Katy Perry song.”

I said, “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. You are already making fun of me. I think it might be embarrassing a bit too. Alyssa wants to dress me, do my makeup and everything. Anyway, I’ll ask if we can get switched.”

Ethan said, “Alyssa’s got good taste. And she’s been making her own clothes and stuff since junior high. I think you’ll look really hot.”

I smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Ethan met my lips, and a few of the students around us, mostly grade nines, obnoxiously cheered. They were such little kids. It was amazing that I considered the students in my grade sophisticated compared to the ‘minor niners’, but they really did seem more immature. Still, most of them were still taller than I was. I had heard of girls wishing for the boob fairy to come and visit them, and as ridiculous as it sounded, I secretly hoped the fairy that made basketball players would have a little excess height for me.

Véronique walked up to us, looking like she was ready to start a fight. “So, how much sucking up did it take for you to get the closing spot tonight?”

Véronique was one of the first performers, which meant she would set the bar for the show. However, I knew that my band would shatter that bar once we took to the stage.

I said, “None, I’m as surprised as you. I’m going to go and speak to Madame Soucier about it. I want to get switched. I want my band to finish the show.”

Véronique said angrily, “Well I’m going to talk to her too! I know I’m a better singer than you, Abifail.”

Véronique’s insulting nickname for me hadn’t really caught on. I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid in school, but my stock had risen when I started dating Ethan. Véronique and her posse were the only ones who called me ‘Abifail’.

Véronique took off toward Madame Soucier, who was speaking to a group of students. Maybe we weren’t the only ones surprised about the performance order. I rolled my eyes and walked after her. Ethan smirked as he followed me, and I gave him a look. He said, “What?”

Ethan said, “You two are hilarious. She’s like your arch enemy. The looks you give her. Do you really hate her?”

I nodded, “Did Alyssa tell you what she did in the locker room? She’s a snarky bitch.” Although, compared to Mr. Atwater, she was like my best friend in the world.

Ethan nodded, “Yeah. I agree. I just find it kind of funny though.”

I raised a brow, “Oh yeah, like you and Alexandre? Are you ever going to tell me what he did to you? I won’t tell anyone else. Everyone already knows what happened to me.”

Ethan sighed, “I don’t want you to know. I don’t want you to picture me like that. Think that was ever me.”

I could hear Véronique arguing with Madame Soucier. I looked at Ethan seriously, “Why? Because it makes you look vulnerable or weak? You know that there’s nothing wrong with showing emotion, or showing a little vulnerability. You did it with that song you wrote. It’s beautiful. I want you to contribute more to the band like that.”

Ethan said, “I’ll tell you another time, OK? Let’s see if we can get the last slot.”

I nodded, and we made our way to the circle of discontent that surrounded Madame Soucier. She was one of the oldest teachers at the school, but she had a reputation as a caring and benevolent educator. She respected her students, and despite the age difference, she did her best to understand the problems of adolescence. Apparently, she had been volunteering to help out with Coffeehouse for the last twenty years at St. Jo’s.

She said, (Listen to me all of you. The performance order is staying the same. I know some of you are unhappy, but that’s the way it’s going to be. I realize that bands used to finish out the show, but we’ve found in recent years that the bands sort of take over the second half, so we are mixing it up this time to give everyone a fair shot and to encourage everyone to stay. That’s why we have two stages this year too. This is a like it or lump scenario folks.) Véronique continued to complain, but Madame Soucier told her to leave.

The crowd dispersed. Madame Soucier turned to leave, but I acted quickly, (Wait, Madame Soucier, could I speak to you, please?)

The older woman nodded and smiled, (Of course, Abigail. I assume you aren’t here to complain about closing the show? I know that senior bands usually finish the show, but we wanted to change things up.)

Ethan said, (We were kind of hoping our band could get the last slot.)

Madame Soucier shook her head, (We’ve arranged it this way for a reason. Your band still has a great slot. And, you are getting five more minutes than the others. I know that you guys are serious, and your stuff is great.)

I blinked, (Really? I didn’t expect you to like it.)

Madame Soucier sighed, but then a little smile appeared on her face, (I hope you aren’t calling me old, Abigail. From what I’ve heard on the announcements, and what M. Blanchard played in the videos he had, it’s really good. Great rhythm, hot solos and fantastic vocals. There’s such maturity in your voice too, Abigail. I’m very impressed.)

I said, trying to hide the shock that likely appeared on my face, (Wait, videos? How’d he get those?)

Madame Soucier smiled, (He was at your last show at Club Saw I believe.)

Again, I tried to hide the shock on my face, but I actually felt my mouth widen slightly, so I had likely failed in the attempt. I said, (Really? I thought he hated us. Ethan and me always kind of mess around in his class.) Ethan confirmed my statement with a quick head nod.

Madame Soucier said, (Teachers are people too. We don’t just go back on a shelf every night.)

I said, (So there’s no way I can switch spots with someone? I don’t really want to finish the show.)

Madame Soucier said, (But don’t you want the show to end with a bang?) Ethan and I groaned, and Madame Soucier just grinned. (Break a leg tonight, kids.)

***

I raised my arm, counting 1-2-3-4, and then I attacked my guitar strings. Sound exploded from the stage, drums pounding, angry wailing guitars and chest rattling bass. The students at the front of the stage formed an immediate mosh pit, throwing their bodies against each other. We fed off this, with Ethan and me slamming into each other as we thrashed through a chorus. Teachers left the periphery of the cafeteria turned concert hall. I recognized Ethan’s gym teacher and M. Perreault, the burly physics teacher. They gave warnings to the students, but there simply weren’t enough teachers to control all those who were slam dancing, throwing their fists out. The teachers allowed the mosh pit, as long as the students inside, who were flailing their limbs, gave a wide berth to each other. One student was removed when he continually came too close to hitting another student inside the pit. Teachers could be such buzzkills. I didn’t see anything wrong with the pit the students had formed.

It continued like this, until we played the ballad, “The girl I’ll never know”, and calmed the crowd down. We finished the set with a raucous song featuring dirty guitars and haunting lyrics, which again woke the mosh pits. We drew frenetic applause and shouts of “Encore! Encore!” as we finished. We obviously couldn’t play another song, and unfortunately, it left a poor girl trying to sing some lame pop song very unpopular. Our performance and our energy were the reason why we should have been the last act. Amongst the student bands, we were wholly professional and polished. We were far and away the best band there. When I got off the stage, there was a buzz around us. Students started asking me for CDs, t-shirts, any kind of merchandise available. We didn’t have anything, except for a website. I blamed this partly on Andrew and Steven. We should have had at least a demo recorded by now. I guess my two-week grounding didn’t help either.

I went backstage to help wind cables. I bounced around with a massive smile on my face. The four songs we had played had left the crowd wanting more. I knew that we were going to get way more traffic on the site. We would be able to post some videos too, probably. We worked quickly to remove our gear as the next band was scheduled to begin in under ten minutes. I then helped carry the cable bags and the guitars out to the cars. Ethan, Steven and Andrew were stuck with all the heavy lifting.

When we finished, we talked in the school parking lot. Ethan shouted, “Fuck yeah! Sick show! Like, they wanted to tear the place down! I felt kinda of bad for the girl who had to go after us. I even heard people booing.”

I said, “Not cool. Well we should head back in. You guys are staying, right? We should live it up, everyone in there was talking about us. We need some t-shirts!”

Ethan said, “Some people were saying they’d buy a shirt with you in a bikini, Abby.” I punched Ethan in the arm, but I maintained a grin.

Ethan got in behind me and squeezed my ass through my jeans. He had an air of ultra-confidence about him. He put his hands about my waist, while Andrew and Steven ceased to exist.

Andrew said, “We were thinking of heading off.”

Ethan replied, “Fuck guys, you’ve gotta stay. This is it. Like, maybe you could get some beers for us? That’d be sick! We could just drink out here and chill, until it’s time for Abby to sing.”

Andrew frowned, “I don’t really think that’s a good idea. I don’t think your parents would like that, Ethan.”

I said, “It’s one beer guys. Just to celebrate. Come on, don’t be lame. There’s a convenience store around the corner. Get a six-pack.” I really didn’t see the problem. It was one beer for Ethan and me. I was actually really hoping Andrew would agree because I was worried about what sort of costume Alyssa had planned for me to wear. I might need something to take the edge off.

Steven said, “You guys shouldn’t be drinking in the parking lot of the school. It’s stupid.”

I said, “Fine. Whatever. Then we’ll drink outside the store and come back. Don’t be so lame. Ethan and me can handle it. I’ve had beer lots of times.”

Ethan raised a brow, “Really? Your sister lets you have beer? My parents let me have a glass of wine at Thanksgiving or whatever. Tastes like shit, but it’s still booze.”

Andrew said, “Sorry guys, we really should head out.”

I said, “At least get us each a tall boy can.”

Andrew said, “Guys, let me put it this way. If we get you beer, and Amélie or Ethan’s parents find out. Do you really think they’ll let you go on an out of town show, ever?”

I sighed, “I guess I didn’t really think about that, but I wasn’t planning on getting caught.”

Steven added, “And Abby, you are just getting off a two-week grounding. You know how you complain about us not being able to jam? Well if you get caught, I doubt we’ll be recording the demo any time soon.”

Ethan said, “Damn, you guys are worse than my parents. So screw the beer, just stay and hang out. Come on. We hardly ever just chill anymore. You guys are always in such a rush to leave all the time.”

Andrew said, “The baby’s sick. That’s all you need to know. Be thankful I could come tonight. Anyway, we’ll talk about the demo and the video we want to shoot. We’ll do it soon, I promise.” Again, I felt like Andrew was speaking to me like a child, trying to reassure my adolescent impatience.

I sighed, “Okay. See you guys.” Andrew and Steven piled into the car and drove off.

Ethan said, “That was lame. Why do you think they took off?”

I said, “Maybe because they didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of kids?” Ethan shrugged. He took my hand, and we walked back inside.

***

“I don’t know about this Alyssa. I think it’s a bit much. I don’t really feel comfortable showing my stomach like this. And I don’t think I’m really made to wear skinny jeans.”

Alyssa shook her head as she carefully placed a light purple wig over my head, “You look amazing, Abby! Just like Katy! Besides, you promised me! It’s just a costume. Think of it like Halloween again.”

I said, “Yeah, but I wasn’t trick-or-treating in front of the entire school. What if they laugh at me?”

Alyssa looked confused, “What happened to the Abby that didn’t care what idiots thought about her? They aren’t going to laugh. They’ll think you look totally hot. Trust me.”

I looked down at myself, stuffed into a pair of Alyssa’s navy blue skinny jeans. I thought my legs looked like sausages, the jeans acting as the casing. The girl also had me wearing a crop top that showed my midriff, and with it, my slight love handles. The top actually only covered my chest, leaving my entire midsection exposed, except for a row of multi-coloured tassels that Alyssa glued to the bottom of the top. Each tassel had a small purple bead at the end.

Alyssa held up her phone next to me, comparing it with a picture that she had of Katy Perry. She then proceeded to paint my lips bubble gum pink, and then carefully placed three flowers in my purple wig, they looked like daffodils, but I wasn’t sure because they were pink. The wig itself had short bangs that ended just above my eyebrows. The purple locks curled slightly at the ends, long enough to gently rest on my shoulders. I had to admit that Alyssa had done an admirable job in turning me into the picture on her phone. I was glad she hadn’t opted for the hot pants, because I likely would have fought her to death if she had tried to make me wear the short shorts. Still, I was actually kind of glad that Steven and Andrew hadn’t stayed to see me close out the show.

Alyssa beamed at her handiwork, quickly ushering me out of the room and into the backstage area. A scream-core band was finishing up, and I was put in the unenviable position of having to follow them. Scream-core involved absolutely a bare minimum of lyrics, as the vocals were primarily primordial grunts and growls. This was mixed with blazing fast tempos and thrashing guitars. I tended to dislike it because the vocals usually lacked any melody.

As the music started, I gazed out at the crowd. I was surprised to see that the cafeteria was still packed. When I supervised coffee house, a lot of people left when the bands started to play, so maybe Madame Soucier was onto something. The spotlight gently covered me, bathing me in soft pastels. There were cheers as many in the audience recognized the song. Most of those cheering were teenage girls. The boys were hooting, and some were whistling in appreciation, likely to how I was dressed.

By the time I reached the first chorus, it was clear I had a captive audience. The cheering grew louder as I pumped out the chorus effortlessly. I never moved, and neither did most of the eyes in the audience. It was obvious that the teenage girls adored the cover I was doing, but I grew confused when I saw members of the scream-core band bobbing their heads in appreciation to the music. Even the boys in the audience, who had been making obnoxious comments regarding the removal of my top, stood there mesmerised by my voice.

I didn’t feel that I was doing anything differently. I liked the song, it was catchy, and it had a great message, which was simply, be yourself, accept yourself, and you will be happy. I caught sight of Alyssa in the audience, and she looked so joyful that I thought she was going to cry. I felt my heart lift, as I moved out of the bridge and into the final chorus of the song. As I sung the last few lines of the song, the chants for “Encore! Encore!” had already started. The audience had enjoyed my band, but they venerated my cover. The cheering was unbelievable!

I looked out into the audience, seeing hundreds of cell phone and camera flashes go off. I basked in the attention I was receiving. The audience was frantically clapping and shouting, the requests for encore nearly deafening. I felt the emotion, the energy and power of the crowd, and it filled me with an intense feeling of satisfaction. I downed their praise and devotion like sweet ambrosia as every muscle in my body felt like it was charged with electricity. Again and again, I drank from the fount of their worship.

I loved every second of it, and I realized that I desperately wanted more. It was intoxicating.

Chapter 60

It was Monday evening, and I was in bed, thinking about the day's events. The high from Friday night’s performance had worn off. I couldn’t understand what had happened to the audience during my solo performance, but once I took time to analyze it I started to suspect Mr. Atwater. The audience certainly didn’t react that way when my band played, and while I had sung my heart out for Alyssa, I didn’t think my performance was anything special.

At school on Monday, I was discouraged when no one mentioned anything about the band’s performance. I thought it had been our best show to date, but all anyone wanted to talk about was my solo performance. My teachers found ways to bring it up in their lessons, and students who I had never spoken to before came up and congratulated me, saying they enjoyed it. Some even saying it was the best thing they had ever seen. To me, the only really positive result from my solo performance was Alyssa’s reaction. She hadn’t asked me for the sleeping pills, and she was overjoyed to the point where she wept openly in front of me, thanking me profusely for singing the song.

My phone kept vibrating. I figured it was a phone call, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. It was probably my father trying to convince me to sign the stupid contract. Amélie hadn’t reached any further breakthroughs with regard to the contract, but nothing bad had happened either, so I was willing to give her a few more days at least. I sighed as the phone continued to vibrate. Whoever was calling, wasn’t giving up. I thought about putting the phone on silent, but before I did, I checked to see who was calling. I feared it was my parents and something terrible had happened to them.

I could see no calls, but it was clear that Alyssa was trying to contact me. She had sent me twenty text message in rapid succession:

Alyssa: abby u need to look at ur fb OMG OMG OMG
Alyssa: abby r u there abby abby OMG OMG
Alyssa: look at ur fb!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Alyssa: abby
Alyssa: abby
Alyssa: abby

Me: k whats so important
Alyssa: ull c just check ur fb
Alyssa: check it
Alyssa: OMG check it!!!!!!

I sighed, but I was pleased that Alyssa was still in such a good mood. I rolled out of bed and turned on my computer. What greeted me was absolutely shocking. I had over six hundred e-mails in my inbox. As I opened my e-mail for Abigail, I noticed that most of the e-mails were friend requests from perfect strangers. Most of them were teenage girls, but as I scrolled through them, I could see at least 50 guys.

After my performance on Friday, I got fifty friend requests on Facebook, but this was beyond comprehension. What could have caused strangers to reach out to me on Facebook? My answer lay on the wall of my Facebook page, where there was a comment that had over three thousand likes, and two-hundred and fifty comments. It was from Katy Perry herself. It read simply:

Katy Perry: “Saw this girl’s (Abigail Grenier) cover of Fireworks, best one I’ve ever seen. This girl is going far! Check out the crowd reaction, unreal!”

I knew someone had posted the video of my performance because I was getting comments from Facebook as early as Saturday morning, but it was clear that Katy Perry, or at least someone in her camp, had posted a link to the video on her page. Everyone who frequented her page saw my video, and considering her page had more than 50 MILLION likes, a lot of people were going to see the link. Every person who had LIKED her site, would see the link for my video in their Facebook news update. Even as I was sitting there trying to go through the e-mail, more and more messages were coming in. In two minutes, I received forty additional messages, all Facebook friend requests. People also started to message me on Facebook. I couldn’t keep up, so I closed the Facebook page tab. My phone continued vibrating, and I grabbed it. Not surprisingly, it was Alyssa.

Alyssa: did u c it OMG katy!!!!!!!!!
Me: y i did its unbelievable i got 600 emails

I had started to use more and more abbreviations in my texts, for two reasons, one: I had trouble keeping up with Alyssa and two: because if I was texting in class, I wanted to do it as fast as possible, using abbreviations meant you could get your message out sooner and reduce your chance of being caught by the teacher.

Alyssa: wow!!!!!!!!! :) :) :)
Alyssa: abby this incredable i looked at ur video yesturdy it had 700 view
Alyssa: its got 100 000 now katy posted that link at 7 PM

I logged into YouTube and searched for the video, and just as Alyssa had described, the video, which was posted on Saturday morning, had over 100 000 views, and now 200 comments. Curious to see what others were saying, I dipped into the abyss that was a YouTube comment thread.

Most of the comments were flattering, although some were inappropriate:

LilyFlower13 said, “This girl’s voice is so beautiful. And she’s so pretty! OMG I want her outfit too.”

n00bkillah1390 said, “she’s fucking hot i would do her in my dorm room doggy style wat sweet ass.”

KittyPurry said, “@n00bkillah u know it says on her fb she’s only 15, u r desgusting :P :P :P

Some of the comments were cruel, and at one point the whole thread just devolved into a debate about whether I was too fat to wear an outfit like that, some of the meanest comments were from girls:

Sassyjess said, “Nice voice but she should consider wearing something else. She’s about ten pounds too big for that crop top.”

Bieberfever24 said, “u know they call them skinny jeans 4 a reason rite????”

TeamJacobYES said, “consider bulimia.”

Thankfully, there were those who defended me and my choice of outfit:

SmarterThanU said, “@TeamJacobYES this girl is super talented, as for her outfit choice and your comments, it’s people like you that kill normal looking girls like her

CuteyBunnyMDK said, “@SmarterThanU This ^^

By Friday, the video had over one million views, and I was getting so many e-mails that I got a special message from Microsoft asking if I wanted to invest in a premium business account, which would double the size of my inbox. The video had officially gone viral, and with that, my privacy at school was gone. At lunch, there were at least twenty people hanging around me at all times. Ethan and I even tried to go the park despite the fact that it was getting colder by the day, and people even followed us there.

YouTube had made me an instant celebrity at St. Jo’s. I was officially cool, and that meant everyone wanted a piece of me. There were those who shunned me because of my sudden celebrity, the truly cynical teens who hated me because I was cool.

Incredibly, I also got Facebook posts on my wall directly from the talk show circuit. As was the norm nowadays, YouTube sensations were brought onto talk shows for their so-called fifteen minutes of fame. I got requests from The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and even a few late night talk shows. The Ellen DeGeneres Show was even willing to fly me and my entire family out to California for the taping. There was apparently talk of having me on the show with Katy Perry.

Because my Internet celebrity was achieved through my solo performance, the music industry also started calling, or rather sending me Facebook messages. Five labels, including Britney’s former Jive/Zomba label (now under Sony BMG) also contacted me. They said I had to get my parents’ permission, but they wanted to fly me out to California for an audition. Did none of them know that I was in a band? I was pleased to see that Geffen was one of the labels interested in me. They were the ones who signed Nirvana to their first corporate rock deal.

I used my new-found Internet celebrity to constantly plug my band too, hoping that I could garner interest and more fans. Despite the fact that my celebrity was attached to Katy Perry, the band’s Facebook page quickly gained fans or in Facebook language- likes. The band videos posted on YouTube also gained a few thousand views, but it was nothing compared to the original video, which steadily climbed to two million views.

As for the auditions, Amélie didn’t like the idea of me going to California. She was worried it would look poorly on her as my guardian, especially because my school work would suffer. Because she wasn’t working, and during the time she wasn’t trying to find loopholes in the Sidereus Agency contract, she acted as my official representation. In between trying to spend as much time with Ethan as possible, hanging out with Alyssa and Eric, and trying to do my homework, I didn’t have time to deal with my inbox, which had become inundated with nearly a thousand e-mails.

Instead of trying to sift through the hundreds of friend requests and legitimate business opportunities, Amélie had the idea of creating a separate artist page for me, so labels would be able to contact her directly. After poring over the contract for weeks, she felt confident she could be both my legal guardian and my legal representation. I was fine with this because it freed up a lot of time. I stopped checking my e-mail, and I proceeded to accept all the friend requests from my personal Facebook page.

It all happened so quickly, that neither of us had time to really sit down and process it. Amélie managed to convince the representatives from Geffen to fly to Ottawa, where I would audition in a local studio. By Sunday night, I had three other auditions lined up. To me it made perfect sense to pursue my options. If I actually signed a contract, I would just pay Amélie to be my lawyer. Not only that, but I would be able to pay for Alyssa to see a sleep therapist. I would only sign a contract that gave me complete creative control, meaning I would be able to write my own songs, lyrics and arrangements, and I would be able to choose who would be in my band. I also wanted to be in control of my image, meaning the PR department would spin for me, not for the label. Was I getting a little full of myself? The labels stated they were only interested in me, so this certainly worked to stroke my ego.

***

Tuesday night, my parents came over for dinner, and the discussion centred on what was likely an inevitable contract signing. It seemed that Ms. Perry’s endorsement carried a great deal of weight, so the audition was merely a formality. Tuesday afternoon, she had posted another message on my Facebook page, which caused the video to jump to over five million views.

Katy Perry: Good luck, Abigail! A little birdie told me you are really close. Keep working hard, and hey, maybe you can sit with me at the Grammy awards? #katyandabby

I wrote her back:

Abigail Grenier: My BFF Alyssa Moore convinced me to sing your song. She’s probably your biggest fan. I want to say thank you for all you’ve done. You really are a genuine person. Check out my band too, not the same style, but you might like it. Let me know what you think. And please say hi to Alyssa on her page! She’s the reason I’m even talking to you.

I proceeded to post the link for my band, which Katy allowed. People tried post their band links on Facebook artist pages all the time, but those that were closely monitored quickly removed the links. Katy wrote back:

Katy Perry: Abigail, rock chick! I love it. Sweet tunes. #thisgirlcansinganything (for the uninitiated, the hashtags were references to tweets that would appear on Twitter, which was like Facebook except it was all about status updates, and mostly just celebrities using 140 characters to sound ridiculously stupid. Paris Hilton once famously tweeted, “No, no, I didn’t go to England. I went to London.”) If I ever engaged in the idiocy that was celebrity tweeting, I hoped it was only after a full-frontal lobotomy.

I showed my parents all the conversations after dinner. My mother said excitedly, “So, do you think you’ll really get to go on Ellen with Katy? The whole family would be able to come too? That’s incredible!”

I said, “That’s not in the plan Mom. Katy gave me her endorsement, but I’m going to use it to get my band signed. The further I move away from pop music, the further away I am to fulfilling the Prophecy. Sorry Mom, no Ellen Show.”

My mother sighed gently, “Oh, well that makes sense.”

Amélie nodded, “If we can get Abigail signed to a label that allows her full creative control, then we won’t have to worry about the Prophecy. Abigail and I talked, and she’s going to hire me as her lawyer, so we won’t have to worry about money.”

My father said matter-of-factly, “And what stops Mr. Atwater from hurting one of us if you go that route? That solves your monetary issues, but it doesn’t protect your family. How are you planning on dealing with that?”

I said, “The nature of a contract. I can only be signed to one label at a time, right? The Sidereus Agency contract states very clearly that I can sign any contract.”

Amélie said, “I also found this passage here that says, “Should the signee choose an agency other than the Sidereus Agency, the signee is bound to that contract for the duration of said contract.” I don’t know why it’s in there, but it is, and it gives us leverage. Most importantly, it seems to absolve Abigail of any signing requirement regarding the Sidereus Agency.”

I nodded, “Exactly, I am going to use this against them. The Prophecy may find it easier to control the populace now because of mass media, Facebook and Twitter, but it also gives us a fighting chance too. I’ve got three auditions this week, and an international mega star is in my corner. I’m going to get one of them. I will sign, and Mr. Atwater can’t do a thing about it until my contract expires!”

My father said, “I suggest that Amélie continue looking through that contract, and don’t sign anything until she gives the OK.”

I replied, “Of course. She’ll be there at my audition. I have to have my parents or legal guardian there.”

My mother smiled at Amélie, and then back to me, “You are lucky you married such a bright girl. I agree that Amélie should keep looking over the contract. I don’t mind at all coming into town and taking care of Chloe!”

She added, “By the way, what do you want for your birthday? With all the craziness in the past few weeks, I forgot to ask you.”

My birthday was next week, and to be honest, I had completely forgotten. I was turning sixteen, although technically, I would be thirty three.

I said, “Well guitar strings are always good. There’s a re-issue of In Utero with 70 new tracks. That would be pretty sweet. I know you guys are really supporting us right now. I’ll understand if you can’t really afford anything. It’s really not a big deal.”

I had never really put much thought into my birthdays. I never had parties, and as I got older and hit the big 30, they started to mean even less. Not only that, but I struggled to think of gifts for myself.

I added with a small smile, “I could always use a new phone.”

My father raised a brow, “We’ll get you something nice.”

***

I cancelled band that week, but with good reason. I needed to preserve my voice for the auditions. I had kept Ethan, Steven, and Andrew in the loop. I let them know that my intention was to sign with a record label and take them along as my band, paying them as full-time members. Steven disliked the idea of signing with a major label, but I explained to him if we went the indie route, I wouldn’t be able to pay Amélie as my lawyer. He seemed to understand. Overall, they were ecstatic at the opportunity, even if they weren’t directly involved.

Thursday, I had an audition with Capitol records, which was Katy Perry’s label. I had tried to keep it a secret, but Alyssa, who was not the kind of person I usually trusted with secrets, had practically told the entire school. Honestly, I was as excited as she was. It didn’t take a lot for her to pry it out of me. This was literally the chance for my dream to come true, and truth be told, even before I had become Abigail, I was a princess when it came to roughing it. I probably never could have done the whole sleeping on floors getting paid peanuts to play music thing.

My teachers all wished me luck, and I even had an amazing conversation about music with M. Blanchard, who hoped I would sign with Geffen. The Geffen audition was Sunday afternoon, while Sony BMG was Saturday night.

Thursday night, I blew the record executives away with an a cappella rendition of Nirvana’s “Heart-shaped Box”. Even Amélie, who had heard me sing hundreds of times before, stood there staring at me in awe when it was over. While I was practically walking on air, once we got down to discussing business, my eagerness was quickly drained. They were looking for a young artist they could turn into the next Katy Perry. They were willing to let me write half of the songs on the album, but they were going to groom me to become a pop star. They even asked if I could dance, to which I replied, not very well. Still, they were very nice, but I feared that signing with them would lead to fulfilling the Prophecy.

Saturday afternoon, I went with Amélie to meet the Geffen executives at a small local studio. When we arrived, we were greeted by a man and a woman in their mid-thirties. Both were dressed in jeans, and the man wore an Alice in Chains t-shirt. These were not the ‘suits’ I expected. The woman extended her hand and smiled, “Hi, you must be Abigail! I’m Sandra, and this is Greg. I’m guessing this is your sister?”

I nodded, and took her hand, shaking it firmly, which caused the woman to laugh gently. Greg invited Amélie and me to have a seat. We were meeting in the studio’s mixing booth. My eyes lit up as I saw the mixing console and the seemingly endless collection of knobs, buttons and faders.

Amélie said, “Thank you for agreeing to fly into town. Abigail has school work, and a strict curfew.”

I frowned at Amélie, and I was about to snap at her, but Greg beat me to the punch. Both he and Sandra exuded confidence, but also had a very friendly air about them. Greg said, “We are aware that Abigail is only fifteen. That’s why we were happy to fly into town. Far easier for us than for you obviously.”

Sandra smiled, “Now, let’s talk music, Abigail. We already know you can sing, and you have a really mature tone to your voice. We aren’t here to put you through some American Idol golden ticket shit. We just want to know what drives you in music. Tell us about your passion.”

I was pleasantly surprised with the structure of the audition. It seemed to be more about my philosophy regarding a potential music career. I couldn’t tell if they were testing my maturity level, but I appreciated the opportunity to show that I wasn’t a typical teenage girl. I said, “I write music to tell stories, to influence, educate and sometimes shock, but most of all to evoke emotion from a listener.”

Greg nodded, “And what do you like to write about?”

I replied, “Mostly events that bother me. I want people to think when they listen to my music. I don’t want them to turn off their brain. I want to engage them at a deeper level, to have them question the world around them. I want them to find the deeper meaning in lyrics. It’s very important to me that the music I produce be meaningful.”

Sandra and Greg exchanged surprised looks and then Sandra continued with the audition, “You are a precocious young woman, Abigail. I’m very impressed. I have listened to your lyrics, and they definitely reflect a young woman who is aware of the world around her. Honestly, the way you skewer some of your subjects, there are traces of political discourse in your lyrics too. This is refreshing, and we think it makes you original. And I’ll use a dirty word here, marketable.”

Greg added, “There is a business side to this, Abigail. We have to know we will make our money back. Do you know how it works with a record label?”

I nodded, “Bands sign, usually for a certain number of albums. The record company advances the band the money in order to record the album, and they help out with publicity, advertising and stuff like that. It’s one of the reasons why artists only get between 15-20% on all CD sales because they are paying back the record company.”

I added firmly, “I know there’s a business side to it, but I’m not scared to get involved in that. I know it comes with the territory.”

Sandra smiled, “Yes, that’s part of it, but because CDs don’t sell as well anymore, the record company also makes its money back from digital downloads.

I said, “And artists make their money by touring and through merchandise.”

Greg said, “Incredible, yes- you definitely have a firm grasp on all of this. I’m amazed really that someone so young can have their head together like this. I certainly wasn’t like you at fifteen.”

Sandra said, “It’s really very simple, Abigail. Geffen is interested in having you sign a one-album deal. We really think there’s something truly unique about you. I know you may think of us as suits, just in it for the money, or whatever, but we aren’t interested in turning you into something you aren’t. With the way you write your songs, your intelligence, and most of all your talent, you could really be the voice of your generation.”

I was ready to put pen to paper immediately, but Amélie interjected, “Let’s talk terms then.”

Sandra smiled, “We can discuss the terms, and then we’ll have a contract written up.” I nodded.

I said, “Well first thing I want to make sure is that I’m still with my band. I want the guys to record the album with me.”

Greg said, “Of course. We definitely want you to stay in your band. That’s part of the appeal.”

I raised a brow, “You don’t think it’s weird that I’m in a band with two grown men?”

Sandra said, “Well it is a little unusual, but again, that’s how you will stand out. Sonically, we definitely want you guys together, especially that guitar player. He added a lot to your band’s sound when he joined.”

I asked, “And I can keep playing guitar?” I knew that I wasn’t the greatest guitar player in the world. I was willing to work to improve my skills.

Greg replied, “Yes, we definitely want you to stick with it. There are so many female musicians who just stand there with a microphone, or they dance. Again, we want you to do what is comfortable for you, but we think this will really add to the appeal of your band.”

I used to think that girl guitar players were hot, girls playing any instrument actually, with the possible exception of the French horn or tuba. Now, it was far easier to picture a shirtless Ethan blazing through a solo, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Mmm hmm.

Sandra said, “Did you hear what I said, Abigail?”

I blinked, realizing that my fantasy had me somewhere else entirely. I shook my head and a little grin appeared on my face. I lowered my head, trying to hide the redness I could feel in my cheeks. Sandra smiled, “I asked you where you got your guitar.”

I replied quickly, “A man named John, he’s a local guitar maker. It’s the best sounding guitar I’ve ever played. Could I have him as my guitar tech?”

Sandra said, “For an artist as young as yourself we would usually provide that, but if you have your own crew that’s fine. If you want to have him in the studio with you, we can do that. And then when you go on the road, you could hire him permanently.”

Greg nodded, “It’s a sweet guitar. We definitely want you to play that in the video.”

Amélie said, “You are already thinking about a video for Abigail? She hasn’t even recorded her album yet.”

Greg replied, “Yes, like I said, we expect her to be a massive success. We’ve certainly got a plan for her.”

I frowned gently, “What kind of plan? You don’t want me to wear weird outfits? And what about creative control? I don’t really want people messing with my songs.”

Sandra put her hand on my leg and said softly, “That’s not our aim at all, but we do want you to be open to at least some changes. We are going to have you work with Sam Jacobs-”

I blurted out, my eyes widening and my heart racing, “A-Are you kidding me? He’s the one who produced all of Alice in Chains’ albums. Soundgarden, Pearl Jam. He single-handedly resurrected the rock genre from hair metal stagnation. I would love to work with him!”

Amélie leaned in and whispered, “Hey, try not to act too excited. They’ll think you will take any amount of money. We don’t want to necessarily bargain hard, but we want to bargain. I know this sounds really good right now, but let’s read the contract first, OK?” I nodded.

I nodded. Greg and Sandra exchanged amused grins, and Sandra continued, “We’ll have you work with Sam. Now he’s the kind of producer who will want a band to really sound like they want. He’s not going to have a lot to say about your style or anything, but he’s going to offer suggestions to improve things.”

I raised my hands and said, “I would be a world-class Diva if I didn’t at least listen to his suggestions. I mean come on, he’s produced some of the greatest albums of all time!”

I asked, “What about creative control though? Are you guys happy with the songs we’ve written? Do you want us to write more?”

Greg answered, “Ideally, we’d get you guys into a rehearsal place for a few weeks before going into the recording studio. That would give you a chance to try out newer material and hopefully come up with some new stuff. You should have between 20-25 songs before you go into the studio. We are happy with what you have, but this is an opportunity to improve and perhaps add to them.”

I looked at Greg and Sandra, and I blurted out excitedly, “Oh my god that sounds incredible! I would love to do that. I’ve always wanted to just be able to play music, see how far it takes me. It would be amazing to really work and craft the songs. Just me and the guys in a room jamming and basically writing the album!”

Apparently, my excitement was infectious because Greg and Sandra smiled wide, almost in unison. I looked over at Amélie and even she was smiling.

Sandra said, “From your reaction, this only cements our faith in you, Abigail. To have someone at your age so driven and focused, it’s rare. And that’s why you could be very successful in this business.”

Greg said, “So we were thinking of a $250,000 advance for the album to cover recording costs, studio time and producer and $250,000 for expenses, and paying your band members and guitar tech for their time.” Amélie got out her phone. I looked over, and she was using the calculator.

My eyes widened, “That’s probably more than we’d need. What if we don’t use it all?”

Greg smiled, “We’d just transfer it into promotion and you won’t owe us. The advance is only for the recording of the album. The way it works is this. Until we’ve recouped the money paid for your advance, we take all the money you make from the album. I’m sorry but that’s the way it goes. We are putting you in the best position to record the album, hence the advance. Geffen will also want 50% royalties from the album, after you’ve paid us back, digital and physical copies.”

Greg continued speaking, saying something about recoupable expenses, but I had tuned him out. I was picturing my band writing our album, getting to meet Sam Jacobs, the absolute master of the rock album.

Sandra said, “I can tell you are excited, Abigail, but we want to be fair here. Have your sister look over the contract we’ll send you, and then say in a week’s time, you give us an answer?”

I nodded eagerly. Sandra and Greg both shook my hand, and a minute later I was in the car with Amélie.

Amélie said, “From the entertainment law I’ve been studying, 50% royalties on an album is almost unheard of. You’d be lucky to get 10% as a newly-signed band. It’s like they think there’s going to be a bidding war for you or something. And the fact that they aren’t charging us recoupable expenses on promotion or the video. That’s rare too.”

I said, “It sounds like an amazing deal. Sandra and Greg were nothing like I expected. Even if that’s just the advance, it means that I can pay Andrew and Steven for their time. I can pay you too. Once we start touring, they can quit their jobs. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, Amélie. It’s incredible to think that-“

Amélie interrupted, “That you had to be Abigail for all of it to happen.”

I sighed softly, “Yeah. I guess I never thought I’d get to this point. We were a talented band before, but my voice, it’s just unbelievable now. I remember when I first sang, it was the only thing keeping me sane throughout those first few months. That inside me I had such power.”

Amélie asked, “If you could be Darren again, would you? Be back to being underemployed, and in a band that was spinning its wheels? Like none of this ever happened.”

I nodded, “Of course. I loved being your husband, and I enjoyed the life we built together.”

Amélie cleared her throat, “And what about Ethan? Would you be able to leave him, if you had the choice?”

I said, “Why are you asking me this, Amélie?”

Amélie said with a measure of difficulty, “I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Amélie asked, “I’ve been avoiding this for a while, but would you be OK, you know if Martin came to the house? I’d like to try and get some normalcy in my life again. I don’t like lying to him, making up excuses for why he can’t come over.”

I asked with a slight frown, “Do I have to be there?”

Amélie shook her head, “Not necessarily. You can if you want though. He’s been asking about you.”

I said, “Then I don’t care.”
***

The Sony BMG audition on Sunday went fine, but I already had my heart set on signing with Geffen, so while my performance wasn’t mediocre, it wasn’t mind-blowing either. My head was clearly elsewhere. Sony BMG had their sights set on making me the next Avril Lavigne, a former pop punk princess (before she completely sold out and married Chad Kroeger of Nickleback infamy) but to do that, I would have to give up my band. Not entirely, but only Ethan would be able to stay. They wanted to surround me with me with kids my age. I didn’t say no, but I wasn’t enthused at the prospect of becoming an Avril clone. She was rebellious, but it was meaningless rebellion, like showing her ass at the video awards or giving the finger to some of her fans.

Sunday evening, the band arrived at my place to discuss our future together. Both Andrew and Steven had texted me before my auditions, saying they would understand if I had to leave the band to pursue my dream, but I made it clear that they were in my grand plan. Ethan had arrived early, likely for an impromptu make out session.

Ethan said excitedly, but with a hint of irritation, “So what happened, how come you didn’t text me about the auditions? Did you tell Alyssa?”

I shook my head, “No, because if I’d told her, you’d know already. The reason I haven’t told you guys yet is because I want to do this as a band. We need to start thinking that way. We make decisions as a band. OK?”

Ethan sighed gently, “Yeah I guess, but I’m your boyfriend. Shouldn’t I know before anyone? I tell you everything.”

I raised a brow, “You still haven’t told me what happened with you and Alexandre.”

Ethan shrugged, “OK, almost everything. Can’t you just tell me how the Geffen one went? Please?”

He moved beside me and nuzzled his face against my cheek, then he started kissing my neck hard. His action took me completely by surprise, and I leaned against the wall for support. He slipped his arm around my waist, but it soon found its way to my ass. By the time he took his face away from my neck, my cheeks and chest were flushed. I pulled him closer, running my nails along his arm, and our lips soon met. I lost track of what we were talking about, and apparently, so had Ethan.

“Ahem.” It was Andrew.

Steven said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I guess you have some news for us, Abby?” He was thoroughly sarcastic in his tone.

I adjusted my t-shirt, which Ethan had started to pull up to gain access to my bra. I was shocked how easily we had fallen back into our adolescent fervour. If we’d been in the same position on my bed…I was starting to think that maybe going on the pill would be a good idea. When I was with Ethan and we were intimate, it was like I had worse than tunnel vision. It was like I was blind and deaf to everything else, especially reasoned thought. Plus, a teenage pregnancy could really slow down my blossoming music career, or in the case of some young musicians like Michelle Branch, completely derail it.

I looked in the mirror and carefully fixed my hair. I stared at myself momentarily, realizing what I was doing, but I didn’t stop either. I felt mostly comfortable being a girl in front of Ethan, but much less so in front of Steven and Andrew. Oddly, they didn’t look at me strangely.

Once we were over the initial awkwardness, I could see that Steven and Andrew were as excited as Ethan, maybe more so. They had been chasing this dream longer than him. Their eyes were bright with hope. There was an electricity in the air too, an anticipation similar to moments before puck drop at game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals. I wore a big smile on my face, and I waited a few seconds, and then a few seconds more.

Andrew, the one who usually showed the most patience, blurted out, “Tell us, Abby!!”

I grinned, “Geffen wants to sign us to a one-album deal. They want to give us an advance of $500,000 to record the album. I don’t think we’ll need that much, but I don’t know how expensive Sam Jacobs is per hour.”

I looked at Steven and Andrew who peered at me in stunned silence. Steven eventually exclaimed, “Are you shitting me? Sam Jacobs?! He wants to work with us? You aren’t joking about this, are you, Abby?”

I shook my head repeatedly, “No way would I joke about something like this. Geffen wants us all. Sony BMG wanted only me and Ethan, and Capitol wanted only me. You can guess who I want to sign with.”

Ethan said, “This is so sick, Abby! Who’s Sam Jacobs?”

Andrew said, “He’s the god of rock albums. He hasn’t produced a single bad one in thirty years. If he wants to work with us, he must think we are good enough for him. Oh man, I don’t know if I can do it. I only learned bass to play in this band. Last time I played was high school. I’m worried I’m going to be really nervous playing in front of him.”

I put my hand on Andrew’s shoulder, “You are an amazing bass player. The rhythms you come up with really carry the songs. Your lines are super catchy. You’ll do fine. They want to put us in a rehearsal hall for the first few weeks, so we can really get ready to record. They want us to have 20-25 songs ready to go.”

Ethan said, “Yeah man, you are great. When I joined, I had no idea you’d only been playing like a year or whatever. Remember? I said your beats were sick.” Despite our encouragement, I could still see fear in Andrew’s eyes.

I said, “Look guys, go home, talk it over with your wives. But this is it, we’ve got our chance here. Geffen is willing to give us 50% royalties too. Don’t worry about work either, with the advance I’ll pay you for your time. Hopefully, you’ve got some vacation days saved!”

Steven said, “Yeah, I’ve got some time. And, I think our wives will understand. I’ve been chasing this for a long time. I can’t believe it’s finally happening. It’s just unbelievable. Last week- we were playing a fucking high school show!”

Andrew said, “What about Ethan’s parents, and Amélie? Is she going to let you go, Abby?”

I said, “Given the circumstances, definitely. She trusts you guys completely.”

Steven frowned, “What about your curfew though? Do you really think that dick judge is going to let you fly to another city and be away from Amélie for weeks?”

I said, “Well we can try. I’m going no matter what. I don’t give a fuck what he says.”

Ethan grinned, “Yeah, Abby! Fuck him. Even if he says no, just go. This is our chance. Screw that asshole!”

I nodded eagerly, “Yeah exactly. Hey, what would you guys think about recording in Seattle?”

Andrew said, “Hold on here. Maybe it would be a better idea to rehearse and record closer to home. That way we could go home and be with our families at the end of the day. Not only that but it’d be cheaper. The less money we use from the advance, the less we have to pay back. Am I right?”

I said, “No way, come on guys. That’s boring! Let’s do it the fun way. We should be away from home, so we can really focus on getting the songs done. Besides, it’s my signature on the contract. It’s my choice, right?”

Steven said, “Despite Abby acting like a level-four diva, I agree. If we are close to home, we can get interrupted. Andrew, you could get called into work if they know you are in town. I think we should go where Sam Jacobs wants to record. He is like a freaking producing savant.”

Ethan nodded, “Yeah, we should definitely do the recording away from here. Like maybe LA or something! When do they want us to start?”

I said, “After Christmas I think.”

Ethan grinned, “Sick! We are going to miss our stupid exams.”

Andrew said, “Hey guys, let’s calm down here. Look at things logically. Don’t you guys have to be in school, by law? I know you tried to emancipate yourself, Abby, but the advance from the label probably won’t be enough. And you shouldn’t miss your exams.”

Ethan shook his head, “Stop being such a pussy, Andrew! We can do whatever the fuck we want, we are going to be fucking rock stars!”

I nodded, “Yeah come on, man. Lighten up. This is our dream. It’s time to just say screw it and take a fucking chance. The label is ready to take a chance with us, but I’m worried you aren’t. We need to be on the same page here. Are you with us?”

I said, “Picture it. We’ll be playing music all the time. Hanging out and writing our album, and then we’ll get to work with Sam Jacobs! Get excited for this man, stop thinking about how you are going to explain it to your boss or to Laura. Just let it go. The only responsibility you are going to have is to write wicked bass lines. We need you.”

Gradually, a little smile appeared on Andrew’s face. The expression brought a boyish look to the man’s lightly bearded face. The smile grew and the brightness returned to his eyes, “Alright, I’m in.”

***

The school week was a blur again. Between the imminent contract signing Saturday and my sixteenth birthday on Thursday, there was little room for any thought of school work. Despite the ‘stale’ nature of my YouTube video, it continued to gain hits, and the calls kept coming. Amélie handled them, acting as both my legal representation and quasi manager. I was convinced that I would sign with Geffen, and while Amélie tried to convince me to at least consider other options, my mind was made up. I wanted to be on the same label that signed my favourite band in the world.

Turning sixteen was momentous. It meant I was closer to adulthood, but most importantly, it meant I could legally drive a car again. I missed the freedom of being able to sit behind the wheel and just take off. Not that I ever went on any wild road trips, but I wanted the option at least, and now I would have it.

Thursday when I arrived at school, I was surprised to see that my locker was decorated. I recalled the practice from my first trip through high school. I thought the custom had gone out of fashion, but Alyssa, my cemented BFF, had seemingly brought it back. Pink balloons were taped to the sides of the locker with thin pink streamers covering the surface. A glitter-laden sign which read: “Happy SWEET SIXTEEN ABBY!!!” was prominently featured in the centre of the locker, completely blocking access to my lock, but it wasn’t like I brought books to class these days anyway. Despite the sea of pink that met my eyes, a little smile appeared on my face. Taped underneath the sign was a birthday card made from construction paper. It was signed by the entire tenth grade class, even Véronique, who wrote: “Good luck, Abby! I have to admit, you are a pretty amazing singer. Sorry for being so mean to you this year.” This brought an even bigger smile to my face. It was obvious that Véronique was jealous of the attention I was getting, and she was trying to suck up because I was so popular.

While I was thoroughly engrossed in reading the card, someone came up behind me and put their hands over my eyes, or at least they tried. Before they could, I spazzed and flew toward them, slamming into their chest and knocking them down. The motion threw me off balance, and I fell on top of my would-be ‘assailant’. I was completely incapable of controlling my limbs when I was surprised, and I was thankful that Véronique wasn’t here to see it because it was a true Abifail. I knew it couldn’t be Ethan because he had received an inadvertent elbow when he frightened me after a particularly terrifying episode of the Walking Dead.

I heard a feminine groan, then desperate breathing, and as I turned around, I saw Alyssa who was looking at me with such mirth that I barely noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes. Seconds later she burst out into an uncontrollable high-pitched giggle, and I joined her a second later. Eventually, my face turned red, and we both struggled to breathe as a group of senior girls walked past us muttering “kids”.

I said, “You do remember me warning you about that, right?”

Alyssa nodded with a massive grin on her face, “Yeah. People like don’t really do 'Guess who?' on you then?”

I smirked, “Never. I almost broke Ethan’s nose when he scared me coming out of the bathroom last time I was at his place!”

Alyssa nodded, “Yeah, he told me about that. I wanted to see if it was really that bad. Um, yeah it was. You totally freaked out! Anyway, happy sweet sixteen, Abby! You finally joined the club! It’s crazy to think that like you are the youngest one out of all of us. I mean you are usually the most mature. Well maybe not lately.”

She grinned. It was true, Ethan had turned sixteen in July, and Alyssa, who acted at times like she was back in sixth grade, was actually the oldest. She celebrated her sweet sixteen in February. Considering what happened on Halloween night, there was also some truth to her latter statement.

Alyssa asked excitedly, while still wearing a wide grin, “So when’s your party? I bet all the kids in our grade will want to be there. Véronique was even nice to me yesterday when I asked her to sign the card. Can you believe that?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I can. Mercedes invited me to eat in the Pit yesterday. As for the party, it’s just going to be family. My parents, Amélie. That’s it.”

Alyssa yawned and slowly slid down a locker adjacent to mine as if struck by narcolepsy. She quickly rose again, practically bouncing to her feet, “Come on, Abby! You only turn sixteen once. It’s supposed to be the best day of your life! You should have a big party!”

I shook my head, “I’ve never made a big deal about my birthday. I didn’t even have any parties when I was a kid.”

Alyssa’s face grew sad, but I could tell she was still pretending. I knew the look of amusement in her eyes, “That’s the saddest story I ever heard. You never got to wear cute party dresses and have your friends over to eat cake and stuff? I still remember my sixth birthday! It was the best. We got to have princess makeovers.”

I smirked, “I can say that I never did any of that stuff. I did eat cake with my family.”

Alyssa imitated an announcer, “It is my new job in life to make sure you have the best sweet sixteen ever. EVA!”

I regarded Alyssa with growing dread, but at the same time, she did seem genuinely happy. Perhaps I could indulge her? I sighed, “What are you going to do?”

Alyssa grinned maniacally and said, “Oh, you’ll see.”

***

Ethan walked me home that night. My mother didn’t need to pick me up any longer because I was trusted not to go to Ethan’s, but I was still expected home to help take care of Chloe while my mother and Amélie prepared supper.

We held hands as we walked, both of us clad in leather jackets, and me with my skirt and long socks. Ethan said, “How come you wear that ugly toque?” I was the only one wearing a toque (or beanie), despite the frigid temperatures.

I shot back with slight amusement in my eyes, “Because it’s cold?”

Ethan said, “Yeah, but I mostly meant cause it’s a Habs toque. I’m surprised you still wear one, you know cause the Bruins destroyed them last game. What was the score?”

I mumbled unintelligibly and shook my head. Ethan said with an obnoxious smirk plastered on his face, “Can’t hear you.”

I sighed, “It was 6-1.”

Ethan said, “You should just start cheering for the Bruins. It’ll be easier during the playoffs.”

I said, “Hey, be nice to me. It’s my birthday.”

Ethan nodded, “Sure, but your team still sucks.”

I turned away from him, “You are such an ass.”

Ethan grinned sheepishly, “OK, OK, I get the message. Um, so listen, I got you something. You know- uh, for your birthday.”

He stopped walking and let go of my hand. He knelt on the sidewalk and started rummaging through his backpack. He pulled out a small present. It looked hastily wrapped, or at least poorly wrapped. The corners stuck out on one side, and there was an abundance of tape. In fact, tape covered almost the entire surface of the present. He handed it to me, and I smiled nervously. What if it was the most hideous gift in the world? I wouldn’t be able to hide my distaste for the object. From the size of it, it was likely jewellery.

I struggled to unwrap the present, and Ethan rocked on his feet nervously. He snatched it back from me and started to pull the tape away with gusto, “Uh- oh, um sorry about that.” Well at least it was clear his mother hadn’t wrapped it for him. He handed it back to me after he had pulled half the tape off, leaving an open corner for me to tear. He wore the same sheepish, yet nervous grin on his face. I took a moment to look at him, finding his concern over my potential reaction humorous but also endearing.

I managed to remove the last bit of wrapping, revealing a small jewellery box. I unhinged the small latch and pulled open the box. The second I opened it, Ethan started babbling, “Uh, I know you don’t wear much jewellery or anything. But I saw this and I was like, Abby will like this I think.”

He looked at me expectantly, as I peered down at a small necklace. It had a thin silver chain, but instead of a stereotypical heart pendant, there were two crossed guitars. One was a fender and the other a Gibson model.

Ethan continued babbling, “If you don’t like it, I can take it back or whatever. I mean you used to wear that ring, and you, um, don’t anymore. I know you said that-“

I interrupted him, “I love it. Um- thank you.”

I saw the boy beam, and he reached out for my hands. He asked eagerly, “So you’ll wear it?”

I nodded firmly, “Of course. It’s definitely me.”

And it was. It struck the balance between my two selves. It wasn’t insanely girly, with unicorns frolicking with faeries in pink rose gardens or anything like that, but it was a piece of feminine jewellery. I never would have worn something like that as a man. I leaned in to kiss Ethan, and he met me halfway. He wrapped his arms around me, and I savoured the instant warmth it brought. We stayed like that for a few minutes, but soon broke the embrace, continuing on toward my place. Instead of holding hands, Ethan wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. It was awkward walking in that manner, but I was glad for the warmth. I realized that I had fallen into a common adolescent trap of dressing for looks rather than warmth.

I remember driving by the same bus stop every day. Amélie and I used to point out how the teens there were dressed inappropriately for the weather conditions, and while I was wearing a toque, I really should have been wearing my winter coat. The first snows had already fallen just before my birthday, and it looked like it was here to stay with the temperatures below freezing. Why hadn’t I started wearing my winter clothing? Because I liked the look of the leather jacket, even though I stood at the bus stop shivering. At least I wore a toque.

Ethan said, “So my parents want to meet Steven and Andrew. They are willing to let me go and record, but it has to be after exams. Either that or we write them before. Like right after New Year's.”

Ethan added, “They actually want to discuss it with everybody. So Amélie too. I said that you’d said we’d get a tutor or something too. For school.”

I smiled, “Oh, and what did they say?”

Ethan grinned, “They said I was going out with a really smart girl. They really like you. I don’t know if it’s her missing my sister but my mom is always talking about you. My dad wants to watch the next Habs-Bruins game with you too.”

Ethan added, “It just sucks because I think your sister hates me. What if she doesn’t let you go record because I’m going to be there? It’s like she doesn’t trust me or something.”

I replied firmly, “Doesn’t matter. If she causes problems, I’ll just ignore her. She knows how long I’ve waited for this, how hard we’ve worked. She keeps me out, she blows it for all of you. She won’t do it.”

Ethan nodded, “I hope you’re right. Anyway, uh, the guys are coming to my place tomorrow night. Can you and Amélie come?”

I nodded, “Yeah definitely. And don’t worry about it. By Saturday afternoon, we’ll officially be rock stars!” Ethan grinned and nodded excitedly. I couldn’t wait for Saturday.

***

As I walked in the door, I half expected to be assaulted by a chorus of “Surprise!” from my entire class, but it never happened. Alyssa had been quiet about the party for the rest of the school day, so I figured she had lost interest in it. She hadn’t mentioned it even once, which was uncharacteristic of her, especially considering the zeal she had shown in the morning. Before our sleepover, it was all she could talk about, what we would do, what we would eat, and especially what we would talk about. Now, it was like she had taken a vow of silence

Maybe Alyssa could have planned something quickly with Amélie, but as the night wore on, and I opened my gifts and ate cake, it seemed less and less likely that I was going to get the party that Alyssa had ‘threatened’. I was both pleased and disappointed. To be honest, I didn’t want that level of attention at a birthday party. It would have been wholly embarrassing to have a girly sweet sixteen party in front of my wife and parents too. It was bad enough that my own mother bought me new bras! A part of me did want a fraction of the attention, even if it was just a surprise party with Ethan, Alyssa, the band and my family.

I didn’t get the phone I wanted, but I did get some new band shirts that actually fit my body. I turned my mind to Saturday afternoon and the inevitable signing. I didn’t foresee any issues with the conversation on Friday night. Plus, Amélie had also gone over the contract that Geffen sent over. Even though she wasn’t an entertainment lawyer, she felt confident that we were getting the best deal possible, especially considering the 50% royalty allotment for the band on digital and physical copies of the CD.

I looked at myself in the mirror on Friday morning as I got ready for school, and I smiled. I gently brushed back my hair and carefully closed the tiny clasps together on the necklace Ethan gave me for my birthday. We were supposed to keep our blouses completely buttoned, but in order to show off the necklace, I was going to have to show a little cleavage. A lot of the girls did it, and it was rarely enforced, but I had chosen not to because I was grossed out by the stares I received even with the blouse fully buttoned! Dr. Alberts was 100% correct about teenage boys. They are horn dogs. It didn’t help that I was far more developed than most of the girls in my class.

As for Dr. Alberts, after browsing the sites she suggested, and even talking it over with Alyssa, I decided I would go on the pill. I hadn’t told Amélie yet, since I was still sort of mad at her for how she was treating Ethan, though I didn’t really have any proof of her misdeeds toward him.

In any case, I figured that birth control was the best option mostly because of my career, but also because I was terrified at the thought of this alien being growing inside of me. I knew that I would have great difficulty aborting a baby. After Chloe was born, I realized that she was a wonderful gift. I was pro-choice still, but for me, it was a harder decision because I knew there were so many who would never experience the wonderful gift and challenge of children. I prided myself on what I felt was a very adult decision.

I waited for the bus, still wearing my leather jacket, and this morning, I even left it unzipped at the top, allowing anyone who gazed at my cleavage to also see the crossed-guitar necklace. The girls in class noticed the necklace, while the boys, well it was obvious what they noticed. My teachers didn’t say a thing to me either. Ethan was overjoyed that I had chosen to wear his gift.

Friday night, Amélie and I drove over to Ethan’s place. Throughout the trip, Amélie kept peering over at me. I had chosen to wear one of my new band shirts. The shirt, cut in a feminine style, had a plunging neckline that revealed significant cleavage, something my parents probably didn’t realize when they ordered it. A few months ago, I probably would have worn something underneath, but now I wanted to show off the necklace. Not only that, but I knew Ethan would love it.

At a red light, Amélie asked, “Did Ethan get you that necklace for your birthday?”

I nodded, “Yeah, do you like it?”

Amélie smiled gently, “Yes. It suits you.”

I said, “You don’t think it’s too feminine?”

Amélie shook her head. I quickly asked, “How come you don’t like Ethan?”

Amélie pulled away from the light, keeping her eyes on the road as she responded. She said, “Do you want the honest answer? I expect it’s the same reason you hate Martin. Every time I bring him up, you make a face. This isn’t going to be easy for either of us, but we’ve gotta suck it up.”

She added, “I’ll admit that I get annoyed with Ethan sometimes. I think he might push you to do things you aren’t ready for, but he’s generally a good kid. He’s just a teenage boy, and that’s mostly what worries me.”

I said, “I can handle him. I’m making mature decisions, Amélie. I’ve decided to go on the pill. And I don’t like Martin because I feel like you are going to try and replace me with him. That he’ll become Chloe’s father. I don’t want that.”

Amélie sighed gently, “You know that Chloe will always love you in some capacity if not as her father then in some other way, just like I do. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you, but I have a right to be happy too.”

I shook my head, “Last Sunday, I snuck out to watch you guys at the park. It sure seems like he’s trying to take over as Chloe’s father. How am I supposed to react to that? You three looked like the perfect little family. You going to tie the knot soon?” I put emphasis on the final words of my statement, so it was clear to Amélie how hurt I was by her actions.

Amélie said, “You don’t think I hate seeing you and Ethan together? I do, but I can hold it in. Sure, I’m a bit passive aggressive with him, but you are downright hostile to Martin. He asked you if you wanted to come with us to the park, and you practically bit his head off.”

Amélie took a calming breath. We had arrived in front of Ethan’s house. She said, “We need to move on from this. It’s not healthy. Martin’s an important part of my life, just like Ethan is an essential part of yours. We need to stop being jealous and realize that these people make us happy, and that’s really what matters. We have to respect that.”

I nodded, “You’re right. I can see he makes you happy.” Amélie stared at me wide-eyed, in clear shock. I rolled my eyes. “What?”

Amélie said gently, “I-I guess I was expecting more of a fight. Sorry, sometimes I forget it’s you and I think I’m talking to a kid, especially the way you answer me sometimes.”

I said sardonically, “Well I’m sixteen now. I’m all grown up.”

Amélie smirked, “Now I know who I am talking to.”

***

I pushed the doorbell, hearing the familiar chime of Ethan’s bell. Ethan opened the door uncharacteristically fast. He grinned as he saw me, giving me the up-and-down, but lingering on my new and improved boobs, now with visible cleavage. However, as soon as he saw Amélie, he quickly brought his eyes back to my own. He said, “Uh, hi- um. Andrew and Steven are in the living room.” Amélie looked at Ethan with a disapproving glare, but as our eyes met, her face softened.

I removed my shoes, and Amélie did the same. I said, “Has Valerie finished her exams already? I saw a car in the drive-”

“SURPRISE!!!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY ABBY!” Almost every girl from my class jumped out from behind the couches in the living room, and at the head, peeking out from behind the massive ficus plant was Alyssa, the clear mastermind of this plot. I knew this from the almost maniacal grin on her face. They all had something in common too. They were dressed like princesses. Most girls would have covered their mouth with their hands, perhaps overcome with the emotion, the pure happiness of a surprise sweet sixteen princess party. I, however, reacted in shock at being surprised, flying backward, but at the same time twisting my body like a circus performer and nearly knocking Amélie over in the process.

The chant of happy birthday soon turned to chorus of laughter. With Samantha, the so-called pudgy bottomed blonde (according to Alyssa) that made up Véronique’s crew, saying, “Abifail!” Instead of getting angry, I brushed it off, righted myself and strode confidently into the room. They were laughing with me, right? One of the girls said, “Too bad we didn’t record it.” Another girl said, “I did!” I sighed. Still, I was mature enough to let it pass. Tomorrow, I was signing up to be a rock star. Nothing could faze me.

That was until I saw Ethan’s mother, and what was in her hands- a pink ball gown, a pair of slippers, and white satin gloves. Alyssa exclaimed, “Time for Princess Abigail to get dressed!”

Alyssa ushered me into the downstairs bathroom, still wearing an unbreakable grin. Ethan’s mother had handed her my party outfit. I stared at her like she was a complicated near unsolvable math problem. The grin never left her face. I said, “How’d you put all of this together so quickly?”

Alyssa said, “Well I told Ethan about how you never had any parties as a kid. And he told his mom, who was like, 'OK let’s throw her a real sweet sixteen party!' So I came over last night, and we planned the whole thing! I guess cause of Amélie’s job and whatever, you guys couldn’t have a big party. That’s what Mrs. Rayner thought anyway.”

I blinked, “But, why- why would you go to all this trouble? And I do mean trouble.” I motioned to what was supposed to be my party ensemble.

Alyssa smirked, “You are going to be around guys all the time when you start recording and touring! Time for a little girls only fun. Now let’s get you dressed! We have to crown Princess Abigail, now don’t we?” She added, “Oh and don’t think you can get away with not taking me along. I’m coming, right? I’m kinda surprised that you didn’t tell me you were gonna go with Geffen.”

I looked at Alyssa, and once again, I could see the supreme joy in her eyes. Her posture, no longer stooped and her head high. “Alright, but if anyone laughs at me. I’m changing back. This is going to ruin my rock cred.”

Alyssa beamed and started helping me into the dress. It had massively poufy pink sleeves with a white sash that tied into a little bow at the back. The dress flowed outward from my waist in all directions. I thought it made my hips look huge, but the other girls were wearing similar gowns, so I wouldn’t stand out.

I said, “My promise. Yeah, I remember. I said I was going to bring you along as my stylist if I made it big. I’ll keep that promise, but do you think your mom will let you go? We are talking about getting a tutor. I mean we were supposed to, before you dropped this on me.”

Alyssa grinned, “I think you’ll like it, Abby. You can go out there and just be six again. No one’s gonna say anything because we are all gonna do it. You never got a chance to do it, and now you will! And I don’t know if my mom will let me. I didn’t talk to her about it yet, but I really wanna go. I’ll miss you so much.”

I said, “Even if you can’t go, I still want to help you. I want to pay for that sleep therapist to help you with your nightmares. And I won’t take no for an answer. That’s the deal. I let you dress me like this, and you accept my help.”

Alyssa cinched the corset and tied the bow at the back of the dress, she then handed me the white gloves. The girl bowed and said, “Yes, Milady, of course Milady.”

She giggled, and I joined her effortlessly. I even put my hand over my mouth, the archetypal girlish pose. I peered at myself in the mirror, but I didn’t see shock in my eyes, only a measure of amusement. Maybe I could play princess for a few hours. Plus, it seemed to make Alyssa so happy. Her laughter and manner, as always, was infectious. I slipped the white satin gloves on, pulling them up my arms, while Alyssa placed the slippers on my feet.

I said, “You aren’t mad at me for wanting to sign with Geffen over Katy’s label?”

Alyssa shook her head, “No way. It was always going to be your choice, Abby. Would that have been the most amazing, super awesomest thing ever? Yes, yes it would, but it wasn’t what you’d want.” I nodded, and Alyssa steered me toward the door, giving me a gentle push out.

The dress was, unsurprisingly, too long. I hiked up the dress from the front, gripping it firmly and then made my way back to the living room. I caught a glimpse Ethan out of the corner of my eye. He was red-faced, and it looked like he was having trouble breathing. I hurried over to him, only to hear the boy burst out laughing. Alyssa stomped over to him. She put her hands on her hips, “No boys allowed!” I felt instantly self-conscious. I peered back at the doorway to the bathroom and potential escape.

Mrs. Rayner arrived and said, “Ethan, go down with your friends and play your video games.” She pointed to the basement door, “No boys allowed!”

She and Alyssa shared amused grins. Ethan opened the door, and I could hear the sound of a bone-jarring hit. I knew exactly what they were playing. I looked out at the living room, to the sea of pink decorations, and to the princesses beckoning me for my coronation.

Alyssa reached out and took my hand gently, guiding me toward the waiting group of adolescent girls. She said softly, “It’s OK, Abby. No one’s gonna laugh at you.”

I peered back toward the retreating Ethan, whose mother quickly closed the basement door behind him. Alyssa was right, once we were on the road, it would be video games, hockey and heavy music. Alyssa brought me to a chair and had me sit down. The chair was covered in pink velvet with a number of white felt stars carefully pinned to the fabric. I recognized the chair as part of the Rayner’s dining room set, but I suppose for tonight, it was my princess throne.

Mrs. Rayner brought out a bejewelled plastic tiara and gently placed it on my head. She smiled at me. “Enjoy yourself tonight, Abby.”

I said, “Thanks for doing all of this. It wasn’t really necessary.”

Mrs. Rayner shook her head, “You are a very special girl, Abby. Ethan is very lucky to have you. I hope you’ll join us on Christmas morning in a few weeks. I know Valerie is looking forward to meeting you.”

I nodded, “I’d like that.” Normally, we would go and see Amélie’s parents at Christmas, but this year was different obviously.

Mrs. Rayner smiled and said, “OK girls, Princess Abigail is crowned! Let’s party!”

I looked around the living room and saw a number of stations. There was a makeup station with an oversized (or what I assumed was an oversized) powder applicator. Three child-sized vanities were set up with a collection of long beaded necklaces and heavy-looking metal bracelets in open jewellery boxes. Next to the jewellery boxes was a small Tupperware container of glitter. The second station featured a plethora of colouring books, all princess themed. The last station was pulled straight from the pages of the Cinderella fairy tale. A glass slipper (which I assumed was plastic) rested on a red velvet pillow.

The assembled girls quickly made their way to the various stations. I saw teenage girls laying on their stomachs with their legs dangling in the air, each with a colouring book and pack of crayons.

Alyssa said, “What are you waiting for Milady?” She giggled. I smiled at her, and joined the girls who were busy colouring, adopting their position on the floor.

During the party, and despite the embarrassment of dressing like a six-year old, I came to a startling realization. I was happy. For the first time, in a very long time, I was actually genuinely happy. As Darren Lawrence, I was in a happy marriage, and I did have a beautiful bright baby girl, but I was still unhappy. I was underemployed, feeling like my skills were going to waste in dead-end jobs. I was also musically stagnant, constantly spinning my wheels in a band that never left the basement. Would it have remained that way? Doubtful. I would have moved on to another band, one that wanted to be more serious, ones that wouldn’t let family or work infringe on practice or recording time.

What happened to me was not a gift, nor was it serendipity that I had been thrust into this body, despite my burgeoning musical success. I could not ignore, however, my uplifted spirit, the smiles on my face, and the sheer excitement I had to see my dream come true. Thanks to Ethan, I had also become comfortable as Abigail, living within her skin, I felt like it was now my flesh. While I was still not enamoured with my body, which teenage girl felt absolutely at ease in her body? During our make-out sessions, Ethan had even started to touch me in the places where I was self-conscious, and he didn’t shy away. He was still completely obsessed with my boobs, but that was a given.

I had come to the conclusion that this was going to be my life from now on, with Ethan and our blossoming relationship, and the pending contract signature, it really wasn’t going to be half bad, even with Martin St-Valentin usurping my position in the family. Amélie was right, we did need to move on. Being happy also meant leaving the cocoon that I had built as Darren Lawrence. Darren had a great deal of hate in his heart, anger with the dissatisfaction in his life, the feeling that he had chosen wrong regarding his education, and building walls a hundred feet high keeping anyone out without his absolute trust, even his own wife at times. It was like I was viewing the world with new optimistic eyes. I was opening up to the world, and the world was taking notice.

I moved from station to station, ending at the Cinderella display. The girls all gathered around me. I noticed that Mrs. Rayner was gone, but Alyssa took her place, holding the glass slipper below my foot. She slipped it on, and it fit perfectly. I put the other one on, and proceeded to take mincing steps around the room. I was amazed at how much fun I was having, not only that, but I was the centre of attention the entire time. The girls asked me about the contract I was going to sign, they told me how talented and beautiful I was, and how they hoped I would get tickets for them to my first concert in my hometown. I revelled in the attention, like some media-obsessed starlet. The party carried on for hours, and it was only when it was time to leave that I realized I hadn’t been part of the band conversation.

***

Me: did u get 2 talk 2 ur parents about band yesterday
Ethan: n
Ethan: Andrew steven played video games w me while then left w my parents and amelie dont know where they went
Me: i cant believe they didnt talk 2 us we r going 2 be there 2 we have a say
Ethan: so now i donna if they let me go
Me: u r coming either way we need u
Ethan: thks abby
Ethan: srry 4 laughing @ u
Ethan: i actually thought u lookd hot like that
Me: yeah?
Ethan: definitely just first time it was funny cuz you arent like that
Ethan: when r u signing contract
Me: meeting Geffen ppl @ 230
Ethan: gonna be rock stars!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: :)
***

“What? What do you mean you’re going to be late? We are supposed to meet Sandra and Greg in like less than an hour!”

Amélie’s answered, “They’ll wait for us, Abigail. They will understand.”

I heard an angry male voice, “Hey, fuck you lady! It was my turn.”

Amélie shouted back, “It’s not a 4-way stop anymore asshole. Just back up!” I could hear Chloe crying in the background.

Amélie said, “Look, Chloe and me are OK, just take a taxi there. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” We were meeting at the same studio to sign the deal.

I sighed, “Fine. I just don’t want to be late. What if they leave?”

Amélie replied, “They are signing you to a half a million dollar contract, they aren’t going to care if I am a little late. Don’t sign anything until I get there.”

I said, “Fine. Just hurry please.” I thought about asking one of Ethan’s parents for a ride, but I knew they were out of town. They had gone to see Valerie for the weekend in Montreal. I opted for the taxi, and soon enough I was out front of the studio with a few minutes to spare. I would stall until Amélie arrived. I was both excited and frightened out of my mind, as if the very prospect of Amélie being late could ruin the deal. I knew I had to be patient- Amélie wanted to read the contract over again before I signed. The taxi driver waited outside while I went to find Greg, who promptly paid the driver.

“Where’s Sandra? I thought you were both coming down.”

Greg shook his head, “She’ll meet us later.”

I said, “Sorry about the taxi, but I don’t have any money. My sister got into a car accident, but she’s going to be here as soon as she can.”

Greg said, “It’s OK, why not look over the contract while we wait?”

I raised a brow, “Really? You think I’ll understand it?”

He smiled and nodded, “Sure, you worked in a law office, didn’t you? Your sister mentioned it when we spoke on the phone last week.”

I nodded my head eagerly, and then sat down to read through the agreement. From first glance, it looked like the same contract they had e-mailed to us last week. As I was reading, I lost concentration multiple times, my mind turning to how Amélie had neglected to include me in the discussion concerning my own band. I skimmed a page, and then realizing that I had, I quickly returned to it. Again, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Halfway through, I started thinking about Ethan, and us kissing, and then hardcore making out. I pictured us on a tour bus together, sleeping in the same bed. My thoughts screamed back toward Amélie again. There was no way she would let us do that. She didn’t trust us. Worse still, she thought I was a stupid kid that couldn’t make her own decisions. Rage boiled within me, and as a result, I wasn’t reading the contract as thoroughly. I looked down at my phone, noticing that Amélie had texted me, she said she would be another twenty-five minutes. Impatience started tugging at my mind, loosening my resolve, and making me think that the blank signature lines on half of the pages needed to be urgently filled.

I had worked in a law office, and while I had forgotten some of what I learned, I still felt confident enough to thoroughly absorb the meaning of the contract. I took another ten minutes and took it to Greg, who was listening to music on his phone.

I tapped him on the shoulder, “I’m ready to sign this.”

Greg furrowed a brow, “But what about your sister? She’s your legal guardian. I’ll admit, I haven’t done a lot of these signatures with minors, but that’s what you are, right? You just turned sixteen.”

I said, “I worked in a law office. The assumption is that minors are not competent, that is why they need a parent or guardian to sign for them. They don’t have the mental capacity. I do. I represented myself in a court of law too.”

Greg frowned gently, and then looked at me with new found respect, “I can tell we definitely didn’t make a mistake with you choosing you, Abigail. Alright, I’ll let you sign.” He handed me a pen.

The second I finished signing my name on the final page, I watched in horror-filled fascination as the ink, other than my signatures, disappeared from the page. My jaw dropped as I saw the contract literally rewrite itself in seconds, the ink changing from dark blue to deep red. I looked up at Greg, and he had a familiar grin on his face. It was the Cheshire cat mixed with the Joker. Grey began lining his temples as his jeans quickly darkened and thinned, becoming a well-made pair of cotton dress pants. The zipper on his leather jacket faded away, leaving three distinct buttons, for what was appeared to be a blazer. It was clear that his clothing was morphing into a three-piece suit. Within a few moments, Mr. Atwater was standing before me.

He said, “Congratulations, Abigail. Of course, Abigail isn’t really a very good name for a star, but I’m sure that our creative team can come up with something much better. Something with a lot more POP.”

I stared at him with such hatred, that I barely felt my body lunge toward him, brandishing the pen menacingly. I tried to stab him in the eye, but he caught my hand and easily forced the makeshift weapon from me. He threw me to the floor.

I picked myself up and blinked, “Wait? Are we still in Canada? What’s happening? Did I fall asleep?”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “Absolutely not. Now that you have signed. The Prophecy gives me the ability to take physical form, so that I can see that it is fulfilled. What better way, than by your side, Abigail? When it’s time, you’ll go with me to Los Angeles to record your album. Then you’ll tour, and you’ll become a sensation, thus fulfilling the Prophecy. And by then, you’ll be begging me to go out on stage each night.”

I shook my head vehemently, “I won’t go with you! And you can’t make me!” Mr. Atwater, still with the triumphant smile, flipped to page 17 of the contract. He read, “Pursuant to subparagraph a) of clause 23.4, this agreement revokes all paternal or guardianship rights on the signee. The signee is the property of the Sidereus Agency. As such the signee becomes the ward of the associate.” Mr. Atwater viewed me with amusement, “Remember, that’s me. I’m your legal guardian now, Abigail.”

The very thought of Mr. Atwater being my legal guardian was enough to turn my stomach. I felt faint momentarily, but the rage soon boiled within me, filling me with energy, “But the contract I signed, it was from Geffen. There was even a clause in the Sidereus Agency contract that said I could sign with another label with no penalty.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Yes, but you failed to read the clause in the Geffen contract that indicates that the Sidereus agreement supersedes the Geffen one, and that upon signing, it immediately invokes the Sidereus agreement.”

I screamed, “That wasn’t in Geffen contract! Not the one that was sent to the house. Amélie would have caught it.”

Mr. Atwater put his finger to his lip, indicating for me to be quiet, “No, but it was in the one you signed. You just missed it. I guess you have a bit of trouble concentrating. Thinking about that boy I bet?”

I asked frantically, “How’d you know that? Are you controlling me?”

Mr. Atwater shook his head and smiled, “You are a sixteen year old girl, and you have a boyfriend. It’s safe to assume you would have at least some difficulty reading a fifty-five page contract written mostly in legalese.”

I raised a finger and narrowed my eyes, “There you said it. I’m sixteen. Your contract is void. Before I signed that, Amélie was my guardian. She needed to be here for me to sign it.”

Mr. Atwater said matter-of-factly, “I’m going to miss your preciousness, Abigail. The Sidereus agreement falls outside regular legal boundaries.”

I pointed my finger at Mr. Atwater again, “Well if that’s the case then I can just breach the terms of the agreement immediately. If it isn’t an ironclad contract, then what’s to stop me from doing that?”

The smile momentarily disappeared from the man’s face. “The magic that binds you to the Prophecy is only expended when you fulfil the Prophecy. You’ve signed, but if you interfere with the fulfilment. Well, that behaviour could make life…unpleasant for your friends and family. Chloe’s illness, Amélie’s career problems. Her little fender bender today. Alyssa’s mental fitness. It can all get much, much worse, Abigail. Alyssa could wake up schizophrenic. Or what if Amélie has another little accident? Maybe she forgot to buckle Chloe in properly.” The smile reappeared.

I grabbed a letter opener and threw myself at the man again. I managed to stab his thigh, before he threw me off like a rag doll. I screamed, “You leave them alone you sadistic prick! I’ll fucking kill you if you touch Chloe again!”

The man stumbled for a moment, and I could see his pants stained with blood. I was insane with rage. This man had taken everything from me, and he intended to hurt my family. Adrenaline poured through me as I looked for my fallen weapon. Could I really kill a man? I could if he was going to hurt Chloe.

Mr. Atwater said through clenched teeth, “You’ll pay for that, Abigail. I won’t accept any insolence from those under my charge.”

I bared my teeth, slowly pulling myself off the floor as I moved to pick up the letter opener, but before I could, Mr. Atwater stepped on my hand, and as I tried to move away, he applied more pressure. The pressure started to hurt, and I cried out, still desperately trying to pull my hand away. I managed to grasp the letter opener with my other hand, and I stabbed the man in the ankle. He let out a cry of pain, but in the process, he stomped down hard. I felt a snap and then sharp, tingling pains all throughout my hand.

Fresh blood darkened the man’s pants where I had stabbed him. He grimaced and pulled the letter opener from his ankle. Once he released my hand, I peered at it, I could see that two of my fingers were crushed, clearly broken.

My left hand throbbed, and the sharp pains returned each time I moved my fingers. I saw him rummaging through the first aid kit. I looked down at my hand again, cradling it, unable to keep the pain tears at bay. Mr. Atwater gripped me by the hair, and pulled my head up so I could see his eyes. I shut my eyes to avoid his gaze.

He said menacingly, but with an air of amusement, “I realize that this cannot be easy for you, but if you behave that way again, you will be made to suffer. As for your current punishment, well I guess you can’t play guitar. So, you’ll just have to dance now. Am I right?”

He let go of my hair, even as the tears were still streaming down my cheeks. He said, “I will come for you soon, Abigail. And when I do, you had best come along without incident. For the sake of your family, and especially the boy.”

Mr. Atwater left me crying on the floor.

With the Sidereus contract signed, Abigail is forced to acquiesce to the demands of her new legal guardian- Mr. Atwater. While a twisted Hollywood adventure looms before her, Abigail resigns herself to spend every waking hour with Ethan- including her first Christmas. Finally, with the end of Abigail’s belligerence, her rise to pop stardom and the fulfillment of the Prophecy is all but guaranteed, however; a stranger reveals a weakness that could overturn the Prophecy, potentially ushering in a new age.
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From the author: Thanks so much for sticking around through what amounts to three medium-length novels. The outpouring of support for the story and most importantly the enjoyment I received in writing it has encouraged me to write again. I can’t say it will be as long as the Sidereus Prophecy, but this won’t be my last TG-themed story. Thank you again for reading.

This is the second last part. Next week, I will post part 9 and the epilogue.

DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Part 8

Chapter 61

“Oh my god! Abigail, what happened?”

I lay on the floor, still cradling my left hand. I had stopped crying openly before Amélie’s arrival. However, my body was still wracked by silent sobs. Chloe walked over to me and put her hand on my head, gently petting my hair. Then she stretched her arms out and hugged my body.

She looked down at my hand and said, “Daddy bobo?” I nodded, and she proceeded to kiss my hand. She smiled at me, “All better?” I nodded, but I couldn’t hide the grimace of pain.

Amélie moved to help me to my feet. She said, “We should get you to the hospital.”

Amélie picked Chloe up and took her out to the car. I followed her, but with my shoulders slumped, and still cradling my left hand.

Amélie asked worriedly, “So, what happened in there? Where’s Greg and Sandra?”

I said, “I signed it, Amélie. It’s all over. Now I’m going to have to go with him and fulfil the Prophecy.”

Amélie shook her head in disbelief, “What are you talking about? Signed what? I told you to wait for me.”

I covered my face with my good hand, trying to hide the tears that I knew would come. “Greg, he was Mr. Atwater, or he took him over. I’m not really sure. I told him I knew about the law, and contracts and stuff. He agreed to let me sign. I read through the contract, but there was extra stuff in it. A clause that invoked the Sidereus agreement.”

Amélie frowned, “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

I said, “Because I’m a fucking stupid kid. That’s why. And my dad was right about all of this. Your accident today, it was the Prophecy. It's obvious it was keeping you there on purpose, so I would sign and it caused your accident. Atwater even admitted it, and it’s just going to get worse.”

Amélie shook her head, “But you signed? And you aren’t stupid, Abigail. This is an ancient prophecy, you have to expect that they are going to try some dirty tricks.”

Amélie added, “Plus, I’m your legal guardian. That contract is void. In the eyes of the law, you are a minor. You had to sign in my presence.”

I cleared my throat, “He said it doesn’t matter. Plus, if you consider how old I actually am, I signed that contract knowingly.”

Amélie said, “I’m your guardian, Abigail. I’m not going to let him take you.”

I sniffed, “H-He is.”

Amélie hit the brakes hard, dead stopping in the middle of a busy Ottawa street. Motorists honked at her angrily. She looked over at me, and said with difficulty, “He’s w-what?”

I frowned, “Mr. Atwater is my legal guardian now. I’m so sorry. I should have waited.”

Amélie slumped down and lay her head on the steering wheel. “We’ll stop him. He’s not taking you. I’ll get a court order to gain custody of you again.”

I shook my head, “No, Amélie. I’m going with him when he comes for me. I’ve put all of you in danger for long enough. My dad was right. It’s just the status quo. So I become a vapid popstar for two years. The Sidereus Prophecy is fulfilled, and no one I care about gets hurt. Then I try to put my life back together when it’s all over, and the cycle continues.”

I said, “It’s what has to happen.”

Amélie said, “N-no! I don’t accept this. I’m not going to lose you that way. Mama Khalia, we’ll get her to help. You can’t give in. Because the second you do, you’ve lost everything that Darren Lawrence was. He would tell you to fight, Abigail.”

I held my hand up with my crushed and broken fingers. I said, “This is what happened when I fought. He basically said he was going to hurt Chloe if I disobeyed him again. I can’t risk it. I’m going to do as he says. I’m going to be his perfect little pop princess.” Amélie started the car up again and continued to the hospital. She didn’t say another word to me until we were in the waiting room.

Amélie said, “Even if you’ve given up, I won’t. You know that right?”

A tiny smile appeared on my face, “I know. You’re so stubborn.”

She smirked, “And don’t forget that. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

The smile disappeared. I replied, “Yeah.”

***

My parents met us at the hospital, and my mom left to take Chloe home. My phone had been ringing and vibrating like crazy. I knew I had messages from Ethan. Amélie eventually took the phone from me and turned it off. I hadn’t told Ethan, Alyssa or my band mates yet that I had essentially signed with a different label. I wasn’t even sure what to tell them. Maybe I could convince Mr. Atwater to let my band mates join in some capacity? Would they even want to though?

It was past ten PM when we finally left the hospital. After six hours of waiting, and then twenty minutes of medical treatment, my broken fingers were carefully splinted. I was told that it would take between four to six weeks to heal.

I looked over at Amélie as she drove home. She looked exhausted, and old. I couldn’t believe it, but I couldn’t fight that fact. The creases underneath her eyes had grown deeper, and she had put on more weight through this whole ordeal. God, I really was sixteen, thinking that thirty is old.

I asked, “Um, why did you guys leave Ethan’s last night? I know you came back to get me, but I just thought it was weird. I guess. I was kind of mad at you for not including me. I kept thinking about it today.” Yeah, and it made it hard to concentrate as I read the contract.

Amélie replied, “We were talking about rules. I was planning on going along. I still am. But mostly we talked about making sure you and Ethan were safe.”

I raised a brow, “What kind of rules?”

Amélie said, “Well just stuff we were thinking might happen away from home. The assumption was that you would be touring too, so we talked about the future.”

I asked, “How come you didn’t include me? That really hurt. You left me out of the discussion about my future.”

Amélie said, “Because we thought it would be best if the adults discuss things. Ethan’s parents don’t know who you really are. So we couldn’t include you. I’m sorry.”

I sighed, “I guess I understand.”

Amélie asked, “What are you going to tell Andrew and Steven?”

I shook my head, “I don’t know. I guess, the truth?”

Amélie nodded, “We’ll all get together, and you can explain it. We can talk about what we are going to do next.”

I said, “When he comes, I’m going. That’s it.”

***

Monday marked the beginning of the last week of school before Christmas break, but I didn’t go. Ethan and Alyssa showed up at my door Monday after school, but I stayed in my bedroom. I never even left my bed, simply waiting for the inevitable. I also hadn’t even turned on my phone.

Amélie knocked and said, “Abigail, everyone’s here. You should be part of this.” Amélie had called Steven, Andrew, and my parents to the house for a discussion on next steps.

I snapped back, “Yeah, just like you included me in the last one.”

Amélie knocked again and opened the door. She frowned as she saw me laying on my bed, holding my beige teddy bear tightly against my chest. “You’ve got a right to be there. These are your friends and family, Abigail. They want to help you. I still think we should contact Mama Khalia for instance. That’s what this is for. Throwing ideas back and forth.”

I shook my head, “You already know my decision.” Amélie sighed heavily and walked out of the room. Ten minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring. I figured it was probably Ethan or Alyssa again, then I heard yelling coming from upstairs.

“No! Absolutely not. Get out of my house before I call the police you fucking asshole!”

“Mrs. Grenier that’s terrible language to use in front of your daughter. I understand she just turned two. She’s a beautiful little girl.” My eyes widened as my heart started to pound in my chest like it was trying to escape. It was Mr. Atwater. I jumped out of bed, still clad in my pyjamas and ran upstairs.

Amélie screamed, “Get the fuck out! You have no right to be in here. There see, I’m calling the police.”

Mr. Atwater said, “In fact I do, I have the legal right to see the child that is in my custody.” He saw me, and a wide smile crossed his face, “And there she is.” I saw Amélie put down her phone. Steven, Andrew and my parents stared at Mr. Atwater in shock.

Mr. Atwater said, “I came here to discuss some arrangements with Abigail, but I’m thankful I got to meet all of you.” The smile never left.

He reached out to shake my father’s hand. “Let me shake the hand of the smartest man in the room. Abigail, you should have listened to your father. We could have avoided all this.” He motioned to my hand. I noticed that as he limped slightly as he stepped toward my father.

My father shook his head and stared menacingly at my tormentor, “You have some nerve coming here after all you’ve done. You should listen to Amélie. I’ll kick your teeth in for what your Prophecy has done to my son.”

Mr. Atwater raised his hands, looking momentarily disappointed, and said, “Fine, but it was his wish that enacted the Sidereus Prophecy. I only encouraged him to sign to fulfil the Prophecy.”

I yelled, “Right! By making Chloe sick for her birthday, causing Amélie to lose her job, and causing a car accident. Not to mention what you did to Alyssa.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “Young lady, you will not raise your voice to me. Understand?” I backed down, but I was still seething. I stomped up the stairs to stand next to Amélie.

Mr. Atwater said, “Good girl. Now, as I was saying. The Prophecy chose Darren Lawrence. I am simply the instrument that ensures the Prophecy is fulfilled. I do what I must, as I have done for nearly a thousand years.”

Andrew, always the voice of reason, chimed in, “But can’t you just stop it? Can’t you break the cycle here? What’s stopping you from ignoring the Prophecy? You said you weren’t the one who started this.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “An astute question. Put very simply. My time as the associate is nearing its end. Abigail will be the last, and then I can finally rest. Another will take my place, and the circle will continue. If the Prophecy is not fulfilled, I will never have my respite. Selfish perhaps, but I am bound to the Prophecy as much as Abigail is now, having signed the contract. I think after nearly one-thousand years of carefully monitoring the influence of popular culture on the world that I deserve a little vacation.”

We all stared angrily at Mr. Atwater, but it only caused him to smile. I shook my head, “If you aren’t here to take me, then can you just say whatever you have to say and leave?”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “I wanted to have a discussion concerning Abigail’s career.”

I said, “You say that like I have a choice in the matter. Are we really going to have a discussion? Because I have some things I’d like to see happen if I agree to go with you.” Mr. Atwater nodded, seemingly eager to hear what I had to say.

I said firmly, “I want you to leave Alyssa alone. Fix what’s wrong in her head. Stop those nightmares. Amélie’s job too. I want you to fix that. And anything else that was affected by the Prophecy. Véronique and Alexandre. I want you to help them. Make Véronique and Alexandre how they were before the Prophecy got hold of them.” Those around me nodded their heads in agreement, while Mr. Atwater simply said, “Anything else?”

I nodded, “I want Steven and Andrew to still be in my band. And Ethan too.” Despite my strong words of support, Steven and Andrew looked conflicted.

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “I apologize for the confusion. You seem to think you have bargaining power here, Abigail. You have nothing. But, I can say that once the Prophecy is fulfilled and the magic is completely expended, those changes caused by the Prophecy will be reversed. As for these two.” He looked at Steven and Andrew and shook his head, “Absolutely not.”

He motioned to Andrew, “This one is fifty pounds overweight and nearly bald. And while the other is more aesthetically pleasing, well he’s too old. Teenage girls aren’t going to be screaming for them. They have very little marketability. The optics are just all wrong. Grown men in a band with a teenage girl? It’s frankly disturbing. Ethan, however, is an option. He is part of the Sidereus agreement you signed, but it’s your choice if you want to include him in this.”

Amélie shook her head, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Amélie took a step towards Mr. Atwater, but he didn’t relent.

Mr. Atwater said, “I need to have a five minute discussion with Abigail. I have the legal right to see her as her guardian.”

Amélie replied, “See that’s the thing. We may not see Abigail as a sixteen year old, but in the eyes of the law, she’s a child. You cannot be her guardian because she can’t legally sign away her rights like that. We will fight you in court over this. There’s no way that you can take her to Los Angeles. You’d have to get permission from Judge Richter, and I highly doubt he will grant it, especially when he finds out that you’ve harmed the person you are supposed to protect. Not only that, but while Mrs. Warner didn’t like me, I’d imagine she’ll like you even less. I’d rather Abigail become a ward of the state than have her to go anywhere with you!”

Mr. Atwater adjusted his suit jacket, “Are you quite finished Mrs. Grenier? Remember that the magic is not expended until the Prophecy is fulfilled. Anyone who interferes with the fulfilment of the Prophecy will suffer a similar fate as yourself, your daughter and Miss Moore. Now, are you going to let me say my piece to Abigail? I promise you, it will be no longer than five minutes.”

I said, “Just let him say whatever he’s going to say so he can leave. I’m sick of him opening his arrogant mouth.”

Mr. Atwater narrowed his eyes, and again, the smile disappeared, “Abigail, if we are to get on amiably, you must respect me. Now, I want to speak to you privately. In your bedroom.”

I rolled my eyes, “Whatever. You’ve got five minutes.” There was no opposition from my friends or family, but as I scanned their faces, it was clear each one of them wanted Mr. Atwater out, possibly bloodied and beaten.

I returned to my room and sat on my desk chair. I crossed my arms underneath my chest. Mr. Atwater said, “I want you to begin studying the press conferences of Ms. Spears. The ones very early in her career. Forgo all other study. Focus specifically on her responses to the media, and the type of questions that are asked. Memorize her answers.”

I rolled by eyes again, “Why? So I can spout pop star gibberish? Is this really the way you want to end your tenure? You’ve done this for one-thousand years. Don’t you feel bad for what you did to society during all that time? Don’t you have any remorse for all the lives you’ve ruined? What if there’s more to life than the status quo that the Prophecy brings? Help me stop it.”

Mr. Atwater smiled, but there was a measure of humanity to his expression. “I was forced into this position. I once lived a proper mortal life, but it was so long ago, I barely remember it. Now, I have the chance to finally be free of this burden, and to have my final rest- and you want me to shirk my duty?” I nodded my head sternly.

He laughed, but the usual grating and obnoxious tone was absent. “It’s a shame that the Third Reich turned out so poorly, because you would have made a very influential and idealistic leader, Abigail. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Even if I did want to help you, the Prophecy itself was designed to be independent of the associate. It would stop me, just as easily as it would stop anyone else.”

He added, “There’s nothing we can do but go along for the mad ride. Plus, I must admit to my own selfishness. I really do want to finally rest. I’m sure you would do the same in my position. For now, this isn’t going to be terrible, Abigail. It doesn’t have to be. Just go along with what I say. You might even come to enjoy yourself. Ms. Spears eventually did. That’s why she chose to remain that way. Look at it this way too, the Sidereus Agency takes no royalties. Everything you make is yours. You will be able to provide for your family in a way no teacher or lawyer could.”

He added, “You’ll be loved by millions.”

I sighed, “And hated by just as many.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “Possibly. You may well be a polarizing figure.”

He asked, “Will you do as I say?”

I shrugged my shoulders and started spinning in my desk chair. “I guess. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “Good girl. The Prophecy’s magic will do what it takes to ensure it is fulfilled. You don’t want to stand in opposition to the Prophecy. You’d be wise to warn Amélie to avoid meddling also.”

I nodded slowly, “She kind of does what she wants. I don’t have a lot of control over it.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I had hoped that my last run through the gauntlet that is the Sidereus Prophecy would be smoother, but the Prophecy does not choose those who are weak.” The human smile appeared again.

He asked, “Before I go, do you want Ethan to come along with you? And Alyssa? I can certainly make this happen, even without the magic at my disposal.”

I shook my head, “Why the hell are being so nice now? I’m not sure why I should trust anything you say.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “Because you’ve surrendered to me. There’s no reason for me to use a heavy hand in dealing with you. If I asked you to go now, would you go with me, Abigail?”

I nodded, “Yes, but only because of the Prophecy, and the fact that it might hurt Chloe or someone else I care about if I didn't. I’ll never forget what you did to ‘encourage’ me to sign the contract. And you- almost broke my hand! Now I’m just supposed to pretend none of that ever happened? No fucking way!”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “I had hoped that by explaining the unenviable position both of us share with regard to the Sidereus Prophecy that we might- find some commonalities. However, I see that I’m speaking to a young girl again, instead of the young woman I thought you were.”

I shook my head angrily, “Just get out. Now.” Mr. Atwater raised his hands in surrender and slowly turned to exit my room. Before leaving he said, “Remember what I asked. Study the press conferences. I want you to have the answers rehearsed. I’ll be very cross if you don’t.” I watched him exit the room, and then I heard the front door open and close.

I was amazed at the humanity that Mr. Atwater had shown during our conversation, but as he warned me about disobeying, I also saw glimpses of his old self. While his eyes did not possess the fear-inducing power any longer, he was still a frightfully dominant force. Still, with the modicum of humanity he had shown, it was clear we did have commonalities, as he had suggested, and perhaps, I could use that to my advantage.

***

“Man, that guy who came to my place last night was super chill. Was that the rock god you were talking about? Said his name was Atwater though.”

Ethan added with a slight frown, “What’s going on too? Why have you been avoiding me? And what happened to your hand? Can you still play? ”

It was Tuesday at lunch. It was time to come clean with Ethan- sort of. I wasn’t surprised that Mr. Atwater had visited Ethan’s last night. He was still trying to show me he wasn’t the devil incarnate, and simply a man bound by the burden of the Sidereus Prophecy.

I said, “I didn’t really know how to tell you. I decided to go with someone other than Geffen.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, “Really? But the other options kind of sucked. It’s weird, that Atwater guy, he said he was from some agency. So that’s who you signed with? I think you made the right choice, guy is really cool.”

I blinked, “Really? Because I think I made a huge mistake. I think I completely sold out.”

The snow crunched under my boots. We were headed to our old make out place in the park. I had opted for my winter jacket, but Ethan still wore his leather one. Ethan reached over and tried to grasp my hand, but I pulled away. He frowned, “What do you mean you sold out?”

I said, “The deal I signed, it doesn’t include Andrew or Stephen. Only you. I completely sold out, just because it meant getting the music out to more people.”

Ethan’s frown remained, “So the band, it’s done?”

I nodded sadly, “Yeah. I’m sorry. All the work we did, all the songs. I don’t think they’ll let us play them in this new arrangement.”

Ethan shook his head. He turned away from me and sighed deeply. “I’m really surprised. You said you were gonna get the deal you wanted, not only for you, but the band too. Why’d you do it, Abby?”

I said, “Because this agency has had on their artist roster some of the biggest names in history. They are also taking no royalties, meaning everything I make, it’s mine. I can support my family, help Amélie. Well ours actually- if you decide to come along.” I reached out and put my hand on Ethan’s thigh, “You don’t have to. I can’t promise that it’ll be the kind of music you’ll like.”

Ethan didn’t pull away, but he didn’t take my hand either. Eventually, I retracted it. “But I don’t get it, Abby. You’ve always said that the message is the most important thing in music. So now you can’t play the songs you wrote, with messages you care about. Why?”

I said, “I told you. I made a mistake. I guess- I guess I got greedy or I just wasn’t thinking. I signed and now I’m stuck with this contract for two years. I know that I did what I said I’d never do, but they just gave me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

Ethan said, “This Atwater guy, he said I’d be playing guitar in your band. So I guess it’s your new band then?”

I nodded sadly. Ethan said, “What about like side projects? Could we still write together? I feel like you guys wrote most of the songs without me. It’d be sick to see what you and me could come up with. Like we could still write on the road. That’d be sweet.”

I blinked, “Wait, you mean, you’d think about coming, um, even if I’m kind of likeapopstar.”

Ethan said, “Huh?”

I sighed, “A pop star. They want to make me a pop star. This agency, it thinks I can be the next Britney Spears. That’s how I’m going to be marketed.”

Ethan looked at me in shock momentarily. “Like, you’d wear outfits and stuff? And sing shitty pop music? Would you dance?”

I replied, feeling like I must be displaying absolutely mortification on my face, “Yeah, um, probably. All that stuff.”

I said, “I’ve always wanted to get my music out to as many as people as possible. I guess that factored in my decision too.”

Ethan said, “But it’s really not your music. Pop music shit doesn’t have the kind of lyrics you usually write- you know deep stuff. Pop’s all garbage.”

I shook my head, “Katy Perry and Lady Gaga write their own lyrics. Most of their songs are really heartfelt and meaningful. And even if I can’t sing my own lyrics, I can still put my personality into them. You know scream a chorus. I’ll sing it my way.” I was trying to convince Ethan as much as trying to convince myself.

Ethan said, “Britney’s stuff isn’t though. It’s all mindless dance crap.”

I nodded, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to come. I mean- it’s you selling out too.”

Ethan looked at me seriously, and with a maturity that I saw rarely. He looked deeply into my eyes. I felt my right hand begin to tremble, but dressed as I was, it wasn’t because of the chill in the air. He said, “I’m not like Stephen- I don’t think pop music is like a disease or something. It’s still some of the worst stuff out there though.” I felt my heart drop into my stomach.

He said, “But, I mean, I don’t think I can be away from you for two years. I think I’d like explode or something. Like not all blood and guts, but in the head, you know? It sucks that we can’t play the music we want, but, um, I- well- I love you, Abby. I think I’d probably go with you if you were singing in a polka band or something. Hardcore gangster polka rap.”

Before Ethan’s admission, I felt a constriction in my chest, almost like my air was cut off. My fingers tingled in my gloves, but as he said the ‘L’ word, I felt like two massive cinder blocks had fallen from my shoulders. I immediately reached out for him, pressing my body against his, as I whispered back, “I love you too.”

We kissed, our hot breath once again warming our chilled lips, and then the boy just held me there. We stayed well past the lunch hour and into the afternoon. I knew this was love, no matter what Amélie or anyone else said.

***
It was Friday morning before school, and I was on Amélie’s laptop. I opened her internet browser to complete some research on Britney’s press conferences. Amélie’s homepage was the website for a local newspaper. Before leaving the page, I noticed a sensational headline, “Social worker accused of falsifying hundreds of reports- faces ten years in prison if found guilty” I immediately clicked on the article, and a video opened showing a reporter standing in front of a court house.

“Allegations like this are very rare, but another case, in 1993, involved Celina Gaston, a social worker who was charged with fraud. The accused, Mrs. Gina Warner, is charged with fourteen counts of fraud. She is alleged to have falsified hundreds of family profiles over her fifteen year career. These profiles are used by members of the child protection board to decide if a child requires protective custody, becoming a ward of the state. Court documents show that the accused used “exaggerated” or “misleading” statements to lead board members to remove dozens of children from their homes and place them in protective custody.”

I yelled, “Amélie! Get in here!” Amélie hurried in and sat next to me on the couch. The video continued playing.

“The accused volunteers for a number of different community outreach programs, including an adolescent substance abuse program. Mrs. Warner’s co-workers describe her as stern but wholly professional. Due to the nature of the charges, all of the accused’s open files will be reassigned and the profiles will be redone. The director of children’s aid has already stated that a full investigation into all of the accused’s files will take place immediately. She was not willing to say whether previous board member decisions would be overturned. This, however, could potentially return dozens of children to their parents.”

“This is the first allegation of the kind against the accused. If found guilty of the charges, the accused could be sentenced to ten years in prison and face a lifetime ban from the profession. Jeremy Stevens, CTC news.” I stared at the screen in astonishment. I turned to Amélie, and she wore an expression of disbelief.

I said sternly, “What did you do?”

Amélie ignored me, continuing to stare at the screen. I put my fingers in front of her face and snapped. I asked again, “What did you DO?”

Amélie, who still looked dumbfounded, replied, “I went to Mrs. Warner’s office on Tuesday morning. I told her what happened, that you had signed your rights away, and that this Mr. Atwater had tricked you. I basically spun it like he was going to offer you a record deal, and he lured you there. I also told her about the abuse you suffered, your broken fingers. She was understandably shocked. She said she was going to speak to her director about it, and possibly involve the police.”

I sighed and looked at Amélie disapprovingly. She said, “What? You think this is Atwater? I thought he lost those funky powers he had. I’m not surprised that Mrs. Warner falsified reports. She was a power-tripping bitch.”

I said, “It’s the Prophecy. It’s protecting Mr. Atwater’s guardianship over me, and it continues without Mr. Atwater and his ‘funky powers’. He explained that he is just a tool, and the Prophecy can act independently from him. Amélie, you ruined this woman’s career, and possibly her life.”

Whatever words were on Amélie’s lips tumbled away. She tried to form them again, but failed.

I said, “Now do you see why I have to go with him? There’s no winning here, only a long line of broken lives. I told you not to try anything! Don’t fuck with the Prophecy! It’s going to go after you, or my parents, or even Chloe if you keep meddling. It’s too strong. Now I really need to fulfil it because even Mrs. Warner doesn’t deserve that! I need to fix it all.”

Amélie said, “I-I was just trying to help. I thought we could use real world law to-”

I said, “You guessed wrong.”

Amélie said, “Look, I just- I was trying to help you. So you wouldn’t have to go. I know all about Britney, and how she started out, and where she ended up. I was a huge fan. You remember I saw her in concert? She’s not the same person she was when she started out. She’s like a shell. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. She almost died before her breakdown.”

I said, “I’m grounded though. I’m not going to get caught up in this celebrity excess or anything. I’m the last person to say I hung out with a Kardashian or some other brain dead socialite drain on society.”

Amélie reached out and hugged me, “I-I’m sorry. I just- I was trying to help. I don’t want to lose you.”

I hugged her back, “Same here. Look, we’ll figure out an arrangement where I can come and visit a lot. And I mean, I’ll be making a lot of money too. So I can fly you guys out to see me. It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

Amélie smiled softly, looking to be on the verge of tears, “I-I love you, Abigail. Never forget that. I always will.”

I nodded, “Me too.” All I could think about was Ethan, and how much I wanted to be with him.

***

Teenage love- it seemed an impossibility before I met Ethan. Initially, I had seen the boy as a long-haired slacker, much like the kids I used to teach. He was immature, brash and sometimes vulgar, especially with his guy friends. As a teacher, I thought cynically that the couples in my class would barely last a month. They acted cutesy, walking each other to class, kissing and then casting fleeting glances, as if the seventy-five minute class was a never-ending torture. One boy I remember used to ask to go to the washroom at the same time, five minutes before the bell. I knew he didn’t go to the bathroom because I saw him waiting outside his girlfriend’s classroom.

I remember being annoyed by teenage couples on the bus, clearly flaunting their love, or rather their lust. That is what it was. Teenagers were incapable of falling in love, they didn’t have the mental capacity for it. They were just children with mutual attractions that wanted to mess around when their parents weren’t home. And maybe, that’s what I had become, because I wanted to kiss his lips, feel his chest, and look deeply into his eyes until one of us laughed. I wanted him to take my virginity, even though I still had some apprehension about it. What we had was lust because love was responsibility, and love was sacrifice.

However, I felt that Ethan had sacrificed in choosing to come with me. He wasn’t as hardcore as Steven was with the idea of ‘rock credibility’, but I doubted he would have agreed to be in just any pop star’s band. To me, this was love. This was proof that we loved each other because he was willing to compromise. Sure, he would get to play music for millions, but it wasn’t his music. I relished the idea of us writing together on the road, growing together, falling deeper in love. Basically, since that moment, he was all I could think of, other than the axe that loomed over my artistic freedom. I knew that Mr. Atwater would come for me, but until that day, I enjoyed every waking minute of my freedom, with Ethan by my side.

“I don’t like you staying here by yourself. What if Mr. Atwater comes for you?” Amélie looked at me across the dinner table. We were discussing the arrangements for Christmas.

Amélie added, “What about your family? Don’t you want to see them on Christmas day? We were supposed to drive to my parents’ place after that. You won’t see Chloe open her gifts from Santa.”

I said, “The Rayners invited me to their place for Christmas day. They said I can sleep over, and we can open presents and everything. I want to be with Ethan on Christmas. It’s important to me.”

Amélie frowned, “Your family is here. And it’s my family too. They want to see you. I’m sure your parents do too. I know you think you’ve fallen in love with that boy, but you can’t just forget about everything else. I want to spend time with you before Mr. Atwater comes. Are you still planning on going with him, without a fight?”

I nodded my head, “Yeah, I am. It’s the way I have to do it.”

Amélie sighed, “I don’t like you sleeping over there. I know you said that you’d be sleeping in separate rooms, but what’s to stop him from getting into bed with you?”

I replied, “I’m on the pill now.”

Amélie frowned, “Didn’t Dr. Alberts explains how it works, Abigail? It doesn’t work right away. It takes some time. At least a month.”

I said, “I know that. Anyway, we aren’t going to have sex. His sister’s going to be there too. I’m sure she’ll tell Ethan to behave.” I smirked.

Amélie said, “How about this? You can do Christmas morning at Ethan’s. And then we’ll go to your parents’ place after that. Then we’ll see my parents for about a week.”

I said, “Could Ethan come with us?”

Amélie said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. My parents will have to do a lot of lying. We’ll have to make up all these stories about you and everything. It’s going to be tough on them. You can go without seeing him for a week.”

I said, “My phone won’t have any service though. And their internet is so slow! We won’t be able to Skype or anything.” They lived in a small town, so if you weren’t with the provider who owned the town’s lone cell phone tower, you were out of luck.

Amélie replied, “You are going to be on the road with him for two years probably. I think you can last a week being apart.”

I knew that Amélie wasn’t going to budge, and I didn’t want to cause a lot of stress at Christmas, so I accepted her conditions, even though I started dreading the time we would be apart, even more than Mr. Atwater’s imminent reappearance.

***

While Ethan and I had admitted our love for each other, Alyssa and Eric’s relationship fizzled. Eric’s inability to move beyond awkward conversation, and his attempts to entice Alyssa to play video games with him all failed. She sucked, and Eric was a pretty hardcore gamer. They had gone out a few more times, hung out, and nothing materialized beyond the drunken hand holding and near kiss on Halloween night. The poor girl was devastated, having carried the flame for the boy for nearly a year. Unfortunately, I was too caught up in an Ethan love fog to pay her much attention. So, I was surprised when I received an enthusiastic text from her on Sunday night, a day before Christmas Eve.

Alyssa: is it tru abby cause if yea im going
Alyssa: i thought he was messing w me but he said he had a tutor a everything
Alyssa: my mom is gonna let me go!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: w r u talking about
Alyssa: mr atwaters philip was his name
Alyssa: he said i can go w u on the road be ur stylist a help w outfits n stuff
Alyssa: i know u said u signed a diff contract but it sounds like u r gonna be in a diff band
Me: yeah kinda still w ethan though
Alyssa: he said u might need my help w dancing!!!!
Me: uh yeah maybe
Alyssa: lol sounds like u r going 2 b like katy!!!!!!!!
Me: something like that
Alyssa: how come u didnt tell me u r going to be a pop star abby
Alyssa: biggest news in the history of tha world!!! :) :) :)
Alyssa: how come u picked that contract a how come we didnt tell me!!!!
Me: i was kind of embarrassed i wasnt sure it was a good decision
Me: im still not but i signed so i gotta do it
Alyssa: its going to be amazing!!!!!!! im going to make u look so pretty every night
Alyssa: ill help u w dance too i cant believe its true im so happy abby
Alyssa: my BFF is gonna be as big as katy perry!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: how did atwater convince ur mom to let you go
Alyssa: talked to her said i have skillz as a stylist and makeup girl its good experience plus i can b w my bff i dunna really he talked to her for while
Alyssa: i still cant blief its tru abby I cant stop smiling!!!!!!!!
Me: aren’t u going to miss ur mom
Alyssa: yeah! but philip said we could all fly bak ethan me you so much fun!!! :) my mom too she said it was good oppertunity
Alyssa: philip was super nice! :) ney way gotta go mom wants me to go to bed still having stupid nightmars
Me: yeah philip is a gem
Alyssa: MUAH MUAH :)

***

Christmas day came and with it, a wealth of snow. I disliked snow and the frigid temperatures that accompanied a Canadian winter, but I was always happy when it snowed on Christmas, especially if it looked like we were going to have a green Christmas. This year we received snow in early December, but I was still pleased to see the freshly fallen snow as I peeked out of the curtains in the Rayner’s guest bedroom.

I heard a knock on my door. “Good morning, Abby! Everyone is heading downstairs in a few minutes.”

It was Valerie, Ethan’s older sister. I opened the door and replied, “I’ll be there.” She smiled and left. I really liked Valerie. She was in her first year of university, and her mind was opening to new concepts and experiences. She was a diligent student who aced her first semester. When we first met, she was discussing the ethics of stealing for survival with her father. She seemed thoroughly impressed when I joined the discussion, offering my point of view and even quoting some of the literature that she was reading. I got the feeling that Valerie liked me too. I guess I was more a conversationalist than Véronique had been.

I was pleased that I could still maintain an adult conversation. All of the knowledge that Mr. Atwater had threatened to strip from me, remained. I could still laugh at Ethan’s stupid jokes, and I didn’t always make the right decisions (read: Halloween night without a condom) but I felt I was in a good place, a world that lay between adolescence and adulthood. I had come to expect complete strangers to think I was nothing more than a kid, and some of them treated me that way. Thankfully, Valerie was different, even though I was in high school, and she was in an institute of higher learning.

I came downstairs, but even before I reached the main floor of the house, I could smell the wonderful aroma of fresh pancakes and bacon. Like the cartoon Fruit Loops bird, the heavenly smell pulled me quickly down the stairs.

Mrs. Rayner greeted me with a smile. “Good morning, Abigail. Did you sleep well?”

I replied, “Not really. I’m always excited for Christmas, so it took a while to get to sleep.” I grinned sheepishly.

Mrs. Rayner nodded, “Well once you have children, Christmas can be pretty exhausting. The gifts, the meals and all the visits. I still remember Mark trying to assemble Ethan’s bike. He was probably up half the night! It’s a funny story because with all the noise, Ethan really thought it was Santa!”

Ethan groaned. He had a serious case of bedhead, but it suited him. I had it bad- I thought he looked hot in a pair of pajama pants and a semi-tight t-shirt! Well, he would have looked better without the t-shirt. The boy groaned again, “Come on, Mom. Don’t tell that story. It’s embarrassing.”

Valerie walked up behind her brother and ruffled his hair, “Oh but it’s a cute story. I’m sure Abby wants to hear it.”

I actually did. I felt like the more I knew about Ethan, the more I liked him. Every new piece of information filled him out further. It gave him quirks and personality. I wasn’t at a point where I wanted to see his naked baby ass, but I did want to hear the cute Santa story. I said, “Well, as long as it’s not too embarrassing.”

Mrs. Rayner grinned and Ethan shot me a dirty look. She said, “So Mark was down there trying to put the bike together, and I can hear him swearing. Ethan asks me, and he’s only three and a half, Mommy why is Santa saying bad words? Well I tell him that it’s because the elves didn’t put one of his toys together right, so Santa was fixing it.”

“Ethan asks me where Daddy is, and I say he’s downstairs helping Santa. Well Ethan wanted to see, but I said that Santa would leave him with a broken toy if he did. I said, Ethan- you need to go back to bed, because Santa won’t leave any presents. So he runs back to bed!”

The smile on Mrs. Rayner’s face widened, “Ethan pretended to sleep, and then he goes into his sister’s room. And they both sneak downstairs to the play room. Ethan puts on his play tool belt, and then runs into the room just as Mark is finishing saying I want to help Santa! It was probably four in the morning.” Valerie giggled, and I followed suit.

Mrs. Rayner said, “Ethan was disappointed he didn’t get to meet Santa. Next year when we saw Santa at the mall, Ethan insisted on bringing his tool belt so he could fix any broken toys at the North Pole. The Santa at the mall was confused, and he says to Ethan that the elves do a good job.”

I could tell that the story was reaching its crescendo. Mrs. Rayner’s voice was growing more excited. She continued, “So Ethan says in front of about twenty other kids, “No they don’t! They brought me a broken bike! Santa and my Daddy had to fix it.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “So Ethan takes out his plastic hammer and says, “I’m gonna do gooder than those elves!” I had to pull Ethan away as he is trying to fix this slightly crooked plastic pole with a plastic hammer. At this point all the parents are laughing, and Santa can’t keep it together either.”

I gushed slightly said, “Aww, that’s a cute story.” I looked to Ethan, “Did you ever get to fix any toys at the North Pole?”

Ethan rolled his eyes, “It’s a stupid story. Dumb kids stuff.”

I said, “It wasn’t even that bad. My parents could tell some really embarrassing ones about me.”

Ethan said, “How come you never tell me any stories about when you were a kid? You’ve heard one of mine, so I should get to hear a really embarrassing one about you. That’s only fair. And how come you won’t tell me exactly what happened to your hand?”

I hadn’t told Ethan the truth about my hand. I suspected he thought I was lying when I said I was helping Amélie move a heavy dresser. I had worse upper body strength than Amélie, so it made little sense that I would be helping her carry anything. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

Mrs. Rayner said, “I have worse ones than that. Let’s not bombard Abigail with questions. You kids eat breakfast, and then you can open your stockings.”

Ethan’s eyes lit up, and honestly, so did mine. I loved Christmas, though some of the lustre was gone from it, especially since becoming an adult, but the Rayners and my forced rejuvenation breathed new life into the holiday. We ate a delicious breakfast, and then pulled our stockings down. I was amazed to see that the stocking was embroidered with my name. A warm feeling passed through me. This family had wholeheartedly accepted me. As I went through the stocking, I pulled out a plethora of candies and chocolate, a few oranges, and some fuzzy pink unicorn stickers. There were also hair clips and elastics. My stocking was similar to Valerie’s, but I also got guitar strings and a package of picks.

Then came the presents, there were shirts, yoga pants, and a new sparkly guitar strap. I looked over at Mr. and Mrs. Rayner with surprise as each round of presents included one for me. After it was all over, I approached Ethan’s parents. “This is all too much. I can’t accept all of this. And I didn’t get you guys anything.”

Mr. Rayner said, “We understand your financial situation. Your sister is having some difficulty right now with her career. We are just happy you could spend this time with us.”

Mrs. Rayner added, “You are a special girl, Abigail. We want you to feel welcome. I know what you mean to Ethan, and you mean a lot to us too.” Again, that warm fuzzy feeling passed through me, and I felt beyond welcomed, I felt like a part of the family.

Christmas at my parents was odd. We shared stories of the person I was and watched old family movies. It felt like a life I was moving away from, that didn’t exist any longer. Despite our financial situation, we exchanged a few gifts, but we mostly just spent time together. A day later, we drove to my former in-laws and while they were happy with my company, I desperately missed Ethan. I mostly moped around the house, looking for things to do to make me forget how much I missed him.

On the fourth day, I was missing Ethan so much, I took a long walk by myself. When I returned, I saw an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. I opened the front door, taking off my boots and hat, but as I did, I could hear voices in the kitchen. It was Mr. Atwater.

“She won’t be harmed while she is in my care.”

Amélie retorted angrily, “Yeah, like when you broke her fingers? The only way I am letting you take her, is if I go too.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “I’m afraid that’s impossible. You are free to visit her after, but while the album is recorded, I must have no interruptions from her family or friends. It is important that we remain on schedule.”

I walked into the kitchen, eyes narrowing as I saw Mr. Atwater. However, I also turned to Amélie, regarding her with disapproval. She wasn’t supposed to make trouble.

I said, “Why can’t Amélie come? I’m not going to be distracted singing your inane pop drivel. I’ll probably do each song in one take.”

Mr. Atwater replied simply, “Abigail, it’s time to go.”

I replied, “Wait, does that mean Ethan can’t come either? That’s not fair! You aren’t holding up your end of the bargain.”

Mr. Atwater sighed, “You failed to read the contract properly. Your friends can join you after you complete the album. Consider it encouragement to finish as quickly as possible. You will focus more if you are away from them.”

I shook my head, “I don’t think you understand teenagers very well. He is practically all I think about. If I’m missing him, I’m not going to be very motivated to record music I don’t even like.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “It’s a risk I am willing to take.”

I noticed that he was nervous. He lacked his usual shit-eating grin and his bravado. He was not unhinged, but clearly, he lacked the confidence he had previously. Had mortal existence done something to him, or was it something else? His suit was not pressed, and he had a full beard. He fidgeted, seemingly unsure of how to hold himself.

I looked closely at him and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

Mr. Atwater said, “Nothing, if you leave with me immediately. We have a plane to catch, Abigail. It is unnecessary to pack anything. All of the clothing you will need is in the studio living quarters. Now come.”

Amélie said, “I’m coming. I’m still her guardian. Even if that piece of paper says otherwise.”

Amélie’s parents watched from the periphery. They weren’t forceful people, but I could tell they disliked Mr. Atwater. It was the first time I had seen them cast a mean look toward anyone. I sighed gently, “Amélie, we talked about this. I am going with him. You promised you weren’t going to make a big deal about it.” I walked over to Chloe.

The little girl smiled at me, and I held my arms out. She ran into them and gave me a huge hug, laying her head on my shoulder. She said excitedly, “Abby!” She pointed to her colouring book, this one featuring the Disney princesses. “Abby, with me!”

I said, “Abby has to go.” She had started calling me Abby a week ago. Chloe looked at me confused.

We didn’t make a big deal about goodbyes with her, especially when we dropped her off to daycare. The parents who did were often met with frustrated daycare workers who asked them politely but firmly not to make leaving such a production. So, the fact that I hugged her tightly, not letting her go, ultimately confused the little girl.

I said, “Yes, but I’ll see you soon. You be good for Mommy.”

Chloe replied, “Daddy? Mommy said Daddy not here. Abby not here?”

The poor child looked at me with growing confusion, but there was also concern in her eyes. We had told her that her Daddy was gone, which she proceeded to repeat every time she asked the question. I didn’t think toddlers understood the concept of leaving for longer than a day, which is likely why she continued to ask when Daddy would be back.

Amélie said, “Abby will be back soon. We’ll see her again. Maybe on the computer. Like when grandma and grandpa went away on a trip, we saw them on the computer. Don’t worry Chloe.”

While the girl didn’t seem to understand the concept of leaving for extended periods of time, the emotion in my hug caused her lower lip to tremble. She moved into full pout mode, “No want Abby to go. Not like Daddy.” I blinked. The child was smarter than we thought. Maybe she did understand that Daddy was gone?

Mr. Atwater cleared his throat, “Abigail, it’s time to go.”

Amélie said, “You don’t have to go with him, Abigail. We’ll figure this out. We can take whatever happens.”

I shook my head and moved toward the door. I leaned down to tie my boots, and within a few minutes, I was on the road with Mr. Atwater. I thought I saw Amélie’s car behind us, but with the blowing snow reducing visibility, all I saw were headlights.

***

Mr. Atwater was silent during the trip to the airport. He drove the car directly onto the tarmac where there was a small chartered plane waiting for us. We boarded without any issue, and we were soon in the air. I had only been on an airplane once, and it was much larger than this one. The inside was spacious with room to sit comfortably. It looked like the kind of plane a celebrity would take to avoid the masses.

“Why did we have to leave so quickly? I don’t get it.”

Mr. Atwater replied flippantly, “All you need to know is that we have to get your album done in under two weeks. Have you been studying the press conferences as I asked you?”

I shrugged, “I’ve looked at a few. It’s not exactly high culture.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “No, it’s not, but it will suit our purposes. I want you to have Ms. Spears’ responses memorized. Secondly, you need to start dressing like a normal teenage girl.” He reached out and wrenched the green hoodie from my body. “No more wearing any of Darren’s clothes.”

I rolled my eyes and snatched it back from him. “This is me though. I know how you want me to dress on stage and everything, but I should be allowed to dress however I want when I’m not performing.”

He handed me a pair of large sunglasses- the type that celebrities wore to hide their face. He said, “Do as I say, Abigail. I also want you to wear these whenever you go out in public.”

I put my hands up and said, “Hold on here, what happened to Philip? What happened to the person who was so nice to my friends? You aren’t treating me well at all. Tell me why I need to do all this stuff.”

Mr. Atwater stood and stared down at me, “Do as you are told. You don’t need to know why. Put these on.”

He handed me a massive butterfly ring, a pair of hoop earrings, and a little black purse with a thin, spaghetti strap. My ears were pierced, but they only ever had little studs in them. I had experimented with some of Amélie’s earrings, but I wasn’t really an ‘earrings’ girl. Now, it appeared I had no choice. He took the hoodie away from me again.

I furrowed my brow, “Look, I can probably get used to dressing like a pop star on stage, but this isn’t right. And it’s not in the contract.”

Mr. Atwater snapped open his briefcase and said, “I want you to read the contract thoroughly, so you understand your obligations.”

He handed me the thick document, and my eyes practically bugged out of my skull as I read through the stipulations. Mr. Atwater was right. It was all in there. I remembered the clauses concerning being the “very essence of a pop princess”, but there were others too, ones I had seemingly overlooked. I had to dress like this. I had to wear big goofy sunglasses, even if I was just walking to the supermarket. I had to be presentable at all times. Now it made perfect sense why Alyssa was going to be brought after the album was recorded. She would be happy to make me up. I also wasn’t allowed the scream sing any longer. Worst of all, I had to pretend that I liked everything I was doing.

Mr. Atwater said, “I want you to start watching what you eat too. Read up on this diet here.” He handed me a pamphlet. He added, “Once we are established, you’ll have a personal chef, but for now, I want you to follow this diet.” I looked at the pamphlet, which set up a method for losing weight quickly, and apparently safely with modest exercise. It was a no sugar and no carbohydrate diet.

I narrowed my eyes and cast a dark look in Mr. Atwater’s direction. If it were possible, I would have shot lightning from my eyes. I said, “Are you saying I’m fat? Because if you are saying that, we are going to have a problem.” Despite my furious onslaught, the man didn’t flinch.

Mr. Atwater said, “You are about fifteen pounds overweight. Which is fine for now, we can air brush your problem areas for the album cover and the liner, but when you start touring, we will have a problem. Simply put, you are too fat to be a pop star. Yes, some parents will love the fact that you are a little larger than the average teenage celebrity. Thinking that you will be a better role model because of your ‘healthy’ body weight, but just as many teenage girls will slander you. You’ll never reach the heights you need to reach at that weight, so it’s gotta come off.”

He added, “It will be part of your story. You were unhappy at that weight and that is what you will tell all the reporters who ask. Or the fans. You will tell them that you wanted to lose the weight, so you could be truly beautiful.”

I said, “That’s sick. This whole thing is sick! You know how many girls end up hurting themselves because of this constant ‘thin is in’ mentality? Did you know it has passed to boys too? Even boys are becoming anorexic, or they are doing what Alexandre did and becoming roided no-necks. Look, I know I’m not perfect, and I’m willing to get in shape for the dancing or whatever, but I’m not going on this diet. And I’m not saying those things. It’s damaging to young people.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “You will say all I have instructed you to say. When you lose the weight, you will also say that you are only happy now because you are thinner, and that you worked hard at it, losing the weight by yourself.”

I said angrily, “But that’s not right! You said I am going to have a personal chef. And I am probably going to have a personal trainer too. None of the girls I will be influencing will have that. It gives them false hope, and it makes them think if they don’t look like me, that they are ugly. This is why I wanted nothing to do with this. I can’t just go up there and sing songs. No, I have to be inducted in the cult of celebrity stupid. What’s next, you want me to start posting inane garbage on Twitter?”

Mr. Atwater said, “We’ll have people strictly controlling your Facebook and Twitter page. Any tweets or posts to Facebook must be vetted first.” He handed me a pair of high-heel shoes, but they weren’t the chunky type. The six-inch stilettos were bright silver with a thin, sparkly strap across them. He said, “Practice walking in those. By the end of the week, I want you to be able to walk gracefully in them. Eventually, you’ll have to dance in them.” I looked out the window of the plane, not thinking of escape, but simply looking for something to take my mind off of wanting to stab Mr. Atwater in the eyes until I felt brain. I knew I had to do this. If I didn’t more people would be hurt by the Prophecy- most likely my family. Still, if I went through with the ridiculous charade, I could also influence a generation of young girls to be think that being skinny meant being beautiful. Girls would starve themselves to look like me.

I looked out the window again and saw the Hollywood sign. I shuddered.

***

“Miss, would you remove your sunglasses please.” We were going through US customs. Mr. Atwater handed the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) official our passports. He frowned slightly as he looked them over.

I quickly removed my sunglasses. Mr. Atwater scowled at the man as he handed the passports back. The official asked, “What is the purpose of your trip, miss?”

I sighed and responded, “We are here to record an album.”

The official looked at me closely, and then he got on the phone. The line behind us grumbled in unison. Mr. Atwater leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Look happier. You look like I am kidnapping you, Abigail.”

I crossed my arms underneath my chest and said, “That’s exactly what you’ve done.” Additional TSA officials came, along with a uniformed police officer. The original agent continued to look at Mr. Atwater suspiciously, “We have a problem here. There is documentation required when you are travelling with minors into the United States. We need a signed letter from her parents to allow you to take her into the country. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we can’t be too careful. If we could just speak to the girl’s parents-“

I said, “H-He’s my legal guardian.”

A female TSA officer pulled me gently out of the line, while a group of male officers surrounded Mr. Atwater. The officer said softly, “Abigail, is he really your legal guardian? You can tell me the truth. We can help you if you are in trouble.”

I sighed and nodded, “Yes. Um, I am here to record a pop album. I’m just tired from the flight. Mr. Atwater is my guardian and my manager.”

A frown appeared on the woman’s face, and she said gently, “OK, Abigail.”

I saw her take out a small leather-bound notebook. She wrote in it for a few minutes, and then let me go back to the main customs area. Meanwhile, I could see a rattled looking Mr. Atwater walking back with the group of male officers. They hadn’t roughed him up, but they had likely put him through the psychological wringer with a barrage of questions.

The original agent who had questioned Mr. Atwater said, “Your client’s story matches yours. And we also contacted a Miss Sandra Walker. She also verified your story, Mr. Atwater. We contacted Miss Grenier’s parents, and they too confirmed that you are supposed to be with her. Next time please bring the proper documentation.” Sandra? The woman from Geffen?

A few minutes later, we were outside the airport, waiting for a cab. Mr. Atwater said, “It was not that difficult nor as intrusive when I was with Miss Spears fifteen years ago. Why didn’t you tell them the truth? You could have had me jailed.”

I said matter-of-factly, “Thank 911 for that. It’s made all the air security people really paranoid, especially in the US.” I shrugged as Mr. Atwater hailed a cab, “I didn’t make trouble because of the Prophecy. I know what it can do. I don’t want anyone else impacted. You and me though, we are going to have problems if you force me to adhere to all the stipulations of that contract. I know all of that stuff about my weight and how I have to act is in there, but it’s against my nature, my morals and my values. People are going to know I’m not happy.”

The cab ignored Mr. Atwater, instead speeding toward a group of tourists. The man sighed, “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t write the contract. And I will remind you that I am simply an instrument of the Prophecy.”

I replied caustically, “A tool- of the Prophecy. And it says specifically in the contract that the punishment for breaching is at the “behest of the associate.” That means you have a choice to enforce the stipulations.”

Mr. Atwater ignored me as he finally managed to hail a cab. He said to the cabbie, “Rainbow Studios.” After that, however, he was silent in the car. I turned to look at him a few times, but he looked deep in thought. All I could think about was how much I missed Ethan.

I asked, “When can Ethan come? You’ll need him for the recording, won’t you?”

Mr. Atwater replied, “No, the tracks have all been recorded. We just need your vocal over top. Ethan will be on your tour. So consider that incentive to finish your vocal takes as quickly as possible.”

I sighed, “Two weeks? That’s a long time. Come on, I’m not going to be distracted by him. I can’t even use my phone here to text him. This isn’t fair.”

He replied with a hint of exasperation in his tone, “Fine. I will see what I can do.” He told the driver, “Take us to a cellular phone store.” The cabbie did as he was told. We went inside and Mr. Atwater told me to pick any phone I wanted. I chose fanciest smart phone I could find, the one with the most features, and the ability to video chat. He insisted that I also get a pink glitter-laden protector for it.

As we were discussing the plan with the salesman, Mr. Atwater grew frustrated. There were a number of different options. I wanted Canada-US unlimited calling, but then that raised the price of the data plan. He started by impatiently tapping his fingers on the counter, then he went to look at phones, trying some out for himself. It had only been about five minutes, but Mr. Atwater stomped back to the main sales counter. I knew that the meter was still running outside, so it was going to be a very expensive cab ride, but wouldn’t he want me to get the best deal possible?

He slammed a gold credit card down on the counter and said, “Give her unlimited everything.” He looked at me sternly. The salesman rang up the phone and completed the plan.

He asked, “Hey man, did you want to get a warranty plan for the phone? You know we suggest it for kids her age. This is a seven-hundred dollar phone. There’s also the try before you buy, so if she-“

Mr. Atwater shook his head and once again pushed the credit card toward the clerk. “Put it all on there. Whatever you have. Just hurry.”

The clerk looked outside and saw the waiting taxi. He said, “Oh sorry man, I’ll do it fast. There it’s all activated, and she’s got a three-year warranty.”

We were back in the car within a minute. I looked over at Mr. Atwater disapprovingly, “You were really rude to him. Will you tell me why you are in such a big hurry to get to the studio? What’s going on?”

Mr. Atwater said nothing, and eventually, I decided to play with my new phone. I sent Ethan a text, letting him know where I was, and the same with Alyssa. Fifteen minutes later, I remembered that I should also text Amélie with my new number. The ride took about forty-five minutes, with much of it spent in silence. I texted back and forth with Ethan, Alyssa and Amélie. Understandably, Amélie was concerned, but I assured her that I was safe.

Eventually, we stopped in front of an ultra-modern building in what I recognized was the Hollywood Hills portion of Los Angeles. I had seen it enough times in movies and on TV that it was very familiar. My jaw dropped as I saw the ‘recording studio’. It was a three-storey mansion with wide bay windows. We exited the taxi, and Mr. Atwater led me to the front door, which required us to travel along a wide cement staircase which was lined with glass panels, allowing me an excellent view of the Hills. The backyard featured a massive swimming pool, likely Olympic-sized, and a terrace with patio furniture. It was certain that one piece cost more than my entire living room set. The highlight of the entire backyard was the waterfall that pushed a steady stream of water into the pool. My mouth hung open for much of the tour.

The inside was just as impressive. Mr. Atwater walked me to my room. It featured a king-sized bed, and even a built-in fireplace. There were nine bedrooms in the house, and five bathrooms. My room connected to a walk-in closet and a private bathroom. I felt a little pang of pleasure pass through my body. A tiny smile appeared on my face as I walked up the spiral staircase that connected all of the floors. This place was amazing, and I hadn’t even seen the recording studio.

After the brief tour, Mr. Atwater told me to prepare for bed, indicating that he wanted me in excellent shape tomorrow to begin recording. I retired to my room, getting back onto my phone and texting Ethan good night, even though it was a three hour time difference, and I assumed he had gone to bed. Alyssa asked me to text her pictures of the mansion and my room. She texted back, saying how lucky I was, and how much she missed me. I asked her why she was up at 3 AM, but I knew the answer before she responded. It was the nightmares again.

I sighed gently, putting my phone down and once again looking out at the vista. I went to sleep that night under silk sheets and probably the most comfortable bed in existence. During the night, I could have sworn I heard my phone vibrate, but I ignored it, still exhausted from the day’s events.

***

“I’m not singing this shit.” I walked out of the recording booth.

Mr. Atwater sighed, “Sorry Julian. I need to have a talk with Abigail. Go ahead and take a swim if you like.”

The Julian that Mr. Atwater was speaking of was the producer for my album. He looked at Mr. Atwater with a hint of irritation, and then turned to me with a look of understanding. He didn’t want to be here either, and I doubted he wanted his name associated with a song titled “Like Wow”. Julian left the room.

Mr. Atwater shut the door and pointed to a chair. I sat down dutifully. Mr. Atwater furrowed his brow and paced the room. “This is going to be the first single, Abigail. We need to finish it in the first few days here.”

I crossed my arms underneath my chest, “Or what? So I’m in breach of the contract. What are you going to do, break some of the fingers on my other hand? That’ll look great on the album cover.”

When I woke up that morning, I saw that I had received a text on my new phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but it had a Los Angeles area code. It said one word: STALL.

I said, “Let me rewrite the lyrics for that song. A few of them. I have some ideas that will let it resonate better with kids my age. It’s so clear it was written by an adult. I doubt the Prophecy will mind, as long as I am equally influential. I’m not going to make it about current events or politics. Just put some of my own experiences in it. It’s about liking a boy, right?”

Mr. Atwater seemed to mull the idea, but eventually I saw his features harden, “Sing the song as it is. Or Ethan won’t be coming on the tour with you.” I sighed, feeling immediately defeated.

Julian returned fifteen minutes later with his hair looking damp. He was an African-American man in his mid-thirties. I didn’t recognize him, but Mr. Atwater told me he had worked on some of the most successful pop albums in recent history, including Katy Perry’s first album.

I went back into the recording booth, and we restarted recording. I sung the first two verses as Mr. Atwater had instructed:

“I saw him in class my hands shaking brain flaking
Got my girls around me saying
He’s the one, He’s the one
I can’t talk to him, cause teacher’s no fun”

“He’s with his friends is he talking about me
Got my girls around me saying
Be the girl he wants you to be
Then he’ll be staying”

While the verses were relatively tame, the pre-chorus changed the tone of the song entirely:

“Short skirt ass hanging out
His eyes gonna pop out
Perfect face show him your lace
Losing grip he’ll be”

And then came the chorus:

“Like WOW girl you got me needing
You know how to dress (I’m impressed)
You gotta know that I must confess
Like WOW girl you got my heart beating”

“Like WOW girl you kiss so hot
Your body so fine like a sweet rhyme
I’ll pull it off, piece by piece
Like WOW girl you gotta be mine”.

I felt sick to my stomach as I sang the lyrics. It was clear that the song was suggesting that to get boys, girls had to dress like sluts, and be promiscuous as well. It couldn’t just be a simple pop hit, like The Beatles completely innocuous “I want to hold your hand”. No, it had to be a song that oozed sex, even though the girl singing it was only sixteen years old. I was further annoyed by the lyrics because that was not at all how I got Ethan. I attracted him by being myself. If I had acted like the girl in the song, he would have been turned off.

We moved to the next verses, but I had a plan. I only got to the second line of the verse before Julian stopped me. I could hear his voice in my headphones. “Are you feeling okay, Abigail? You were a little pitchy there.”

I replied, “My throat’s a bit scratchy.”

I saw Mr. Atwater lean down to speak into the microphone in front of Julian. “You sang the first part of the song flawlessly, Abigail. What’s going on?” Julian glared at Mr. Atwater and spoke into the microphone, “We can take a break if you like.”

I said, “No, that’s OK. I’ll keep going.” I purposely sang the song out of key in places, acting like I was struggling to hit the notes. I could see Julian and Mr. Atwater discussing the issue, and once I reached the chorus a second time, the music cut out and I heard Julian’s voice again. “That’s it for today.”

Mr. Atwater took me to see an ear-nose-throat and doctor. He didn’t even need to call for an appointment. He just gave his credit card number over the phone, and they told us to come right in. The doctor inspected my vocal chords, saying that she did notice a little inflammation, but nothing serious, like nodules, which would have required surgery. She told me not to sing for a few days, but Mr. Atwater wasn’t happy with this, so he took me to another doctor, which we also saw immediately. I was amazed and disgusted with the health care system in the United States. We were seen, but only because we had the money, in this case, a card with an unlimited credit limit. The second doctor said that he also noticed some inflammation. He suggested a hot spa therapy. Mr. Atwater dropped me off at the spa just after lunch, a lunch where he insisted I eat only a Caesar salad, with low-fat dressing.

Before leaving, Mr. Atwater asked, “Have you been scream singing?”

I shook my head, “No, I wasn’t. I guess it’s just this weather. Coming from Canada. It’s probably a shock to the system. I was fighting a bit of a cold too”

Mr. Atwater nodded, and thankfully he had bought the lie. I had been scream singing in the shower, hoping that it would help me stall the process. I didn’t want to damage my vocal chords permanently, but I wasn’t scream singing safely. That was the reason for the inflammation. The text message I received had given me hope that someone out there was actually working against the Prophecy. This is why I risked being caught by Mr. Atwater in clear breach of the contract.

Mr. Atwater said, “You’ll get used to LA. You know you can wear shorts most days. Don’t tell me you miss the snow.”

I shook my head, “Not for a second.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I’ll be back at five.”

I had never been to a spa before, and while the prospect of sitting in a steaming bath for hours with cucumber on my eyes wasn’t alluring, I was pleasantly surprised. The level of service I received surpassed anything I had experienced. Young women were at my beck and call throughout the entire day, fetching me towels and drinks. They clipped my toe nails, filed my nails and applied a new coat of the bubble gum pink polish to my fingernails. Without asking, they did the same to my toes. I showered and then they brushed my hair. I was given a Swedish massage that made my body feel malleable, it was uncomfortable in places, but the masseuse removed all the kinks in my shoulders, where apparently I still carried all my stress. I sighed happily as the day ended with a soak in the hot tub with an avocado mask and cucumbers on my eyes.

I could really get used to this.
***

That night, I received another text from the mystery LA number:

Anonymous: good job today
Me: who r u w do u know about ws happening here
Anonymous: I can’t tell you but just keep doing what you are doing
Anonymous: Atwater is smart but you’ve done a great job so far Abigail
Me: how do u know who i am how did u get this number
Anonymous: I’ll text you in a few days keep stalling the recording
Me: w do u know about the prophecy comeon tell me

I received nothing else from the anonymous text messenger. From that point on, every morning, I scream sang in the shower, hoping that it would make my voice sore enough to avoid recording. The powerful shower jets hid my subterfuge. I texted Amélie about my plan, and she thought it was a good idea. She didn’t like the fact that some random person was texting me, but she assumed, as I did, that it was someone working against the Prophecy. Mr. Atwater grew more upset as the recording process continued to drag on. I thought that I had the perfect plot. I expected too that eventually, I would damage my vocal chords, then I wouldn’t be able to record at all, making fulfilment of the Prophecy impossible.

I knew of singers who had multiple vocal surgeries, and they were able to sing still, some even better than before, but someone wanted me to stall this process. There was clearly something going on behind the scenes, something that could potentially thwart the Prophecy, ending its legacy.

Every day, Mr. Atwater sent me to the spa for special intensive vocal chord therapy. I worked with a voice coach who instructed me not to yell and to limit the amount of time I spoke on the phone. She even showed me how to complete a yawn-sigh to eliminate any unnecessary stress on my vocal chords. After four days of this, my vocal chords showed a marked improvement, but I was still scream singing incorrectly every morning, with a wide open mouth, and therefore, damaging them on a daily basis.

At night, on the fourth day, I got a call from Amélie.

She said, “You’d better stop what you are doing. I think the Prophecy knows, the same way when I tried to get you away from Mr. Atwater using the social worker.”

I replied, “What are you talking about? I’m not refusing to do anything. I can’t sing because I have a sore throat. That’s all.” I thought it was the perfect plan because Mr. Atwater didn’t know, and I wasn’t really circumventing the Prophecy, was I? I knew that I was playing with fire, but the anonymous text message I received had given me hope that the Prophecy could be defeated. That the little stalling tactics I was using would somehow make a difference.

She said sadly, “Your parents, their savings were wiped out completely. And the company your dad used to work for can’t provide him a pension any longer. Something about fraud with one of the executives, he cleaned out the pension funds. Your parents are basically broke. Not only that, but they are being audited. Apparently, they owe thousands of dollars in back taxes! They might lose their house. At the time, I thought your plan was good, but you should stop it, like right now. It’s going to get worse.”

She added, “I’m sorry. I should have told you to stop it right away. I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice. You are going to have to record the album. Do everything he tells you.”

I said, “But Amélie, the songs he has me singing are so terrible. If he wants me to be as popular and as influential as Britney, and these girls and even boys are going to see me as a role model, then I am going to do some serious damage to them.”

I heard a knock on the door. Mr. Atwater entered my room and looked at me sternly, “Abigail, I thought you were supposed to limit your time on the phone. You already had a thirty-minute video chat with Ethan. Tell who ever it is on the line that you have to go.”

I sighed, “I have to go. I’ll text you though.” I put my phone down and then slid underneath the covers. I felt the bed shift slightly, as Mr. Atwater sat on the edge.

He said, “I told you to do as you were told. Now I think that I’ve proven my point.”

I sniffed sadly, while still underneath the covers. I pulled them off my head and replied, “What are you talking about?”

Mr. Atwater said, “You must think I am supremely stupid. Three out of four doctors that I brought you to explained to me afterward that it was clear you were scream singing incorrectly or at least yelling unnecessarily. So I’ve known all along what you were doing, Abigail.”

I narrowed my eyes, “So what?”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “Not ready to come clean? It’s inconsequential if you do, I know you were lying to me. This little exercise was to prove to you that even if I do nothing, the Prophecy soldiers on. I expect something bad happened. I hope it wasn’t Chloe.” The concern in his face looked real.

I scowled and said, “My parents are broke. They might lose their house. You are saying the Prophecy did this?”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “Absolutely. I wanted you to think it was easy to fool me, and now look at the consequences. I did nothing except try and help you get better, sincerely I might add. And now it’s you that will likely decide that it is in your best interest to do as you are told. I don’t have to lift a finger to convince you now I’m sure.”

He added, “Am I right, Abigail?”

I nodded sadly. I asked with anger rising, “Why-Why didn’t you warn me about it? Tell me you knew I was lying?”

Mr. Atwater replied, “Because girls your age sometimes need to make mistakes, test their boundaries. I understand this. I let you follow through on your little plan to allow you to learn from your mistakes, and to see that there are real consequences associated with disobeying. Now, are you going to be a good girl and sing tomorrow?

I nodded sadly again, feeling the stress enter my shoulders again. My whole body tightened as I considered the consequences of my actions. I asked, “Can I go to the spa afterward?”

I saw a glint in Mr. Atwater’s eyes as a smile crossed his features. I noticed that since he had become mortal, he smiled less, and even less after going through TSA security. He replied, “Of course.”

Chapter 62

The next day, we finished three songs. My improved work ethic was based on the fact that the sooner I started bringing in serious money, the sooner I could begin providing for my parents and Amélie. I knew that without the support of my parents, that Amélie would be unable to pay our mortgage. The Prophecy had given me a hard choice, but I chose my family over the world, and the next generation of young women.

After our session, Mr. Atwater praised my behaviour, “Well done, Abigail. You’ve certainly earned a few hours at the spa.”

He added, “I also want you to have this. To show my appreciation for all your hard work.” He took from his wallet a gold credit card. Like his own, it said UNLIMITED, and it actually had my name emblazoned on it. I took it from him hesitantly, placing it in my designer purse, which I was expected to carry in public at all times.

He smiled, “Buy anything you like with it. It’s yours to keep.”

I blinked, “Really? Anything? Like I could- maybe buy a next gen game system, or like a brand new TV?”

The smile stayed on his face, “Anything. You might find you enjoy shopping on Rodeo Drive. All the top designers are there.”

I made a face. “I don’t really like shopping for clothes.”

The man sighed, but the smile, which was more calculating than warm, remained, “This was not a problem I had with Britney. I want you to at least browse in a few stores. Your single is going on iTunes tonight. We need the paparazzi to get a few nice shots of you living a celebrity life. That will create some buzz for you.”

I shook my head, “I never went by myself. I don’t know how to do it. It- it feels weird. I told you, it’s really not me. What’s wrong with me getting my picture taken in some big box electronic store?”

Mr. Atwater smirked, “Because girls your age don’t go in those stores, and even if they wanted something in there, they’d just order it online with their credit card and have it delivered. I only want to see you in stores that sell designer clothes.”

I retorted, “You need to stop reading Tiger Beat magazine. How you do on that quiz to see if you are girlfriend material for Justin Bieber? Anyway, I always went with Alyssa. The only time I ever kind of enjoyed myself is when I got some new hi-tops. You know, I like band shirts, jeans or whatever. I’m not a chic fashionista.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Then we’ll fly her here. You two can go shopping on Rodeo Drive, go to the spa. And she can help you dress less like a girl who should be sleeping on someone’s floor and more like a real, teenage celebrity. Someone that girls will want to emulate.”

I said, “Fine.”

To be honest, I missed human contact, and while Julian was cool, he wasn’t my age. Mr. Atwater, while clearly mortal, was obsessed with the Prophecy. Plus, he was old! I couldn’t talk to him about what I was going through. If I couldn’t have Ethan, then Alyssa was a good secondary choice. She could make shopping for clothes at least partially bearable. I just hoped I wouldn’t run into any Hollywood types, the ones with the big sunglasses and the even bigger egos.

***

After a relaxing few hours at the spa, where I received another Swedish massage, I returned home to the mansion in a cab. Mr. Atwater scolded me and asked that I take the on-call limousine service. He stated that it was safer too.

As I prepared for bed, I noticed my phone vibrate. I hoped it was Ethan, but I had already spoken to him on video chat after dinner. He usually sent me cute little messages right before bed like the simple “luv u” with a smiley face, but there were times too where he would joke about how hot I would look in an outfit that some pop star had worn. It excited me that he was picturing me that way, less so that those outfits were soon going to be my working clothes.

I looked down at the phone and saw that it was the anonymous number again.

Anonymous: you did good up to now Abigail but you need to keep it up
Anonymous: stall anyway you can
Me: but i cant the prophecy knows somehow its doing terrible thing to my family
Anonymous: not as bad as what you are going to do to a generation of little girls who will look up to you
Anonymous: Atwater is going to start trying to distract get you lost in the lifestyle you need to fight it stop going to the spa so much! It’s going to start changing you
Me: who the hell are you are you watching me
Anonymous: i cant tell you we will meet eventually when the time is right
Me: what can i do though the album is going to be done next week
Anonymous: anything you can
Me: but i dont want my family hurt i was stupid to make trouble last time look what happened to my parents
Anonymous: what happened to them?
Me: they r broke gonna lose their house
Anonymous: give me their phone number ill see what i can do
Me: no way i dont know if i can trust you
Anonymous: I’m the only person you should trust i know about the prophecy i know what it does to people and to the world
Anonymous: when you are ready to stop being a scared little girl text me back Darren

***

“So why’d you sign? You know, if you weren’t sure? You could have gone with anyone. I saw your video on YouTube.”

Tony, my limousine driver, had just asked a very pertinent question. During the forty-five minute drive to the airport to pick up Alyssa, I had opened up to him. He was initially surprised when I lowered the glass that separated us.

I said, “Cause I was stupid. I went for the easiest deal, the one that would pay the most, the one that would promote me the best, and the one that would get my music out to the most people possible. But now I find out that I can’t even make my music anymore.”

Tony said, “You are real young, Abigail. How come your parents weren’t more into the process, you know?”

I replied, “They trusted me to make the right decision I guess. My sister is a lawyer. She looked over the contract. I kind of knew what I was getting into but it was- you know attractive.”

Tony said, “You sound like a real smart girl. I’m sure you’ll do fine, even if the music ain’t your thing. You just gotta do what you like, you know? My daughter wants to actually leave LA. I’m so proud.” He laughed.

I smiled, “I’ve only been here a week, and I can smell the phony in the air.”

Tony replied with a grin, “That’s the bullshit. You’ll smell that a lot, especially during pitch season.”

I said, “I’m just worried this place is going to swallow me up and spit out this tanned, bleached blond, bubblehead that doesn’t care how her music shapes young minds, how it shapes culture even.”

He added, “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders kid. The ones that happens to, they were like that before.”

He pulled into the airport parking lot and entered the lane for destinations. I said, “If I start acting like a diva of any level you let me know. Just so you know, the scale works like this- Katy Perry is a 1, and Celine Dion, Barbara Streisand and Kanye West are all level 5.”

Tony laughed openly, a massive throaty gurgle that turned into a smoker’s cough, “I think you’ll be fine.”

“Abby!” Alyssa ran toward the limousine, but her excitement level was so elevated, it might just as well have been a pure ball of energy approaching the car. Her eyes were wild with delight, although I suppose she had a good reason, her BFF was becoming a pop star. A young woman accompanied Alyssa. She looked to be in her early twenties, brown hair neatly styled and fashionable clothing.

Alyssa crushed my soft body in a hug, which I returned earnestly. I was genuinely happy to see the girl, even though I would have preferred Ethan. I would have given him a much different welcome. I grinned and said, “Good to see you. How’s your exam studying going?”

Alyssa wrinkled her nose and half stuck out her tongue, “Abby, I’m with you in LA for the next three days, and that’s what you want to talk about?” She laughed, “Are we going to study or something?”

I said, “If you want. I could help you with history. We could do it a bit. The only thing I’m allowed to study are old press conferences.” I shook my head, “They are all the same.” I raised a brow at the unfamiliar young woman who approached the car. Alyssa sidled in next to me in the limo, while the unknown woman leaned her head in the open window.

She smiled at me, “Hi, Abigail. I’m Lauren from the label’s Canadian office. I needed to make sure that Alyssa got here safely. I’ll see you on the way back Lyss!”

Alyssa grinned widely and giggled, “Bye Laur!” Lauren giggled and then left, hopefully she had fallen into an abyss. Her personality and her mannerisms seemed contrite, and the way her body was formed made me think of moulded plastic. I instantly disliked her.

Alyssa beamed as she looked around the limousine. She started pulling out all the different compartments, locating the mini-fridge, which was supplied only with water, as per my diet. She also located the snack cabinet, which consisted of low-fat crackers and regular rice cakes, not even caramel-flavoured! “So, we aren’t seriously going to study are we?”

I sighed gently, “Well I wouldn’t mind it to be honest. I need something to help me stay grounded. I don’t want to get swept away in this world. I mean this spa I go to, the girls there they wait on me like I’m royalty. I’m worried it’s going to start going to my head. Like I am going to walk around one day with an ego so inflated people will think I’m a bobble-head.”

Alyssa grinned, “But it sounds like so much fun, Abby! Can we go to the spa? Please? Please?” She fluttered her eyelashes, pushed out her lower lip, and said in a terrible British accent, “Oh please Miss Abigail, can we- can we go? Pretty, pretty please?”

My defenses slowly broke down as she spoke, her awful accent always managing to elicit a giggle from me.

I sighed gently, “Yeah, we can, but I want to help you study a bit.”

Alyssa blinked, “So you don’t even have to write your exams? That’s incredible, Abby! You are so lucky. How come you don’t have to write them? Like you think you’ll ever come back to school?”

I replied, “Mr. Atwater promised a world-class tutor for me, so apparently that was acceptable. I still don’t know how he convinced Judge Richter to let me go. I’m sure he got some high-priced lawyer to argue something ridiculous I’m still supposed to have a nine pm curfew as part of my supervised probation. I don’t really go out after nine anyway. I don’t really feel completely safe here.”

Alyssa said, “Why do you even care, Abby!? No tests, no exams. And you get to record an album! I heard your first song last night, Abby. It was amazing. I literally cried when I was listening to it- I was just so happy for you. Like I know you said you made a mistake, but it sounds amazing. Like you are going to be such a big star! I’m so happy that when exams are over, I’ll be able to join you full time!”

I replied, “It’s OK. I mean Mr. Atwater is really bossy. He tells me what to do way more than Amélie ever did. I’m just worried he’s making me into something I’m not.”

Alyssa, ever the optimist, said excitedly, “Yeah, but if you don’t like it, you can just go and do what you want when your contract is done. Like you can try out being a pop star, how many girls our age can say they did that! Probably none! You’re so lucky, Abby. You don’t even realize it.”

The limousine had since driven from the airport, on its way to Rodeo drive, the Mecca of Hollywood fashion. Mr. Atwater had given Tony explicit instruction to take us there, but I had other ideas. I kept the window separating the driver and me permanently open. I just didn’t like the idea that I was being driven around, plus, Tony listened to me.

I asked, “Hey Tony, are the Kings playing a matinee this afternoon?”

The instant I asked, I remembered my brand new phone. Alyssa oohed at the device, while I looked up the Kings’ schedule.

Tony said, “I’m not sure. I’m just supposed to take you girls shopping. Mr. Atwater didn’t say anything about a hockey game. Figures you’d be a hockey fan, being from Canada.”

I laughed, “Yeah, instead of the pledge of allegiance, we devote ourselves to the Stanley Cup.”

Tony said, “Sorry Abby, our cars are tracked by GPS. I can only take you to destinations programmed by Mr. No Fun.”

I sighed, “K, well, it’s not like we have to stay there for hours. Right?”

Tony said, “According to the itinerary, at least three hours, and then you have the option to go to the spa or back home.”

Alyssa leaned over and hugged me, “Don’t worry, Abby. I know you don’t really like shopping for clothes, but I’m sure you’ll find something you like! You found those shoes, right?”

I shrugged and munched on a rice cake. Alyssa enthusiastically asked question after question during the ride. I answered her to the best of my ability, but with far less zeal. Soon enough, we arrived on Rodeo Drive, a street lined with palm trees and stunning architecture that made anything I had seen in Canada look like a Wal-Mart. For years, Amélie had carried around a knock-off Louis Vuitton purse, and now, I could buy a real one. In fact, I could buy ten if I wanted. I had no interest in buying a three thousand dollar purse. If I was going to spend that kind of money, then it would be on a vintage guitar.

I looked over and as soon as the limousine stopped, Alyssa opened the door and sprinted toward the first store like a dog fleeing the confines of the car after a three hour ride, ecstatic at the prospect of a walk. She bounded toward the first store, which sold designer- something. I didn’t really care. I followed her with difficulty, nearly falling in the silver stiletto heels I had to wear. I wanted desperately to switch to flats, but if I had my picture taken, then Mr. Atwater would know that I had disobeyed. I couldn’t exactly ask the paparazzi to crop out my feet.

Alyssa, who was peering at the window display, turned to look at me with surprise, “Oh my god, Abby, are you wearing heels? Like real ones?” She grinned, while I treated her to a glare, as I attempted to balance on pencil-thin daggers. “Sorry, I can go a bit slower. Not too much though, there’s just so much to see! This place is amazing, Abby! I mean it’s just. I want to go in every store! Let’s start with this one!”

I shook my head and pointed to the window display, “This store sells designer clothing for dogs.”

I kind of understood the idea of clothing for dogs, but only in climates where it was necessary. In Canada, it made perfect sense for little dogs to have to wear coats, since they were skin and bones, and Canadian winters would freeze a Chihuahua within seconds. The idea of designer clothing for dogs just reeked of excess. It was supposedly winter in Hollywood, but I was hot in a pair of jeans. Chihuahuas certainly didn’t need to wear hoodies.

Alyssa moved to the next store, her eyes still as wide as saucers. She looked like she had been to the eye doctor recently. She dragged me into store after store after store- all of which sold clothing. There wasn’t an electronics store, except for a store specializing in designer cell phone protectors! Because it is necessary to have a protector that costs as much as the phone. I sighed, all my fears about this place coming true within only thirty minutes. The salesgirls were snotty to us, one of them even suggesting that we should shop elsewhere. I was dressed exactly as Mr. Atwater wanted- big sunglasses, heels, jeans and this weird top that ruffled outward. I thought it made me look fat. I think Alyssa had called it a peon top or something. After an hour, I had had enough, I hadn’t bought anything, and my feet were starting to hurt. I thought about finding a pair of heels that didn’t actually hurt my feet.

Alyssa trudged along next to me, my negativity seemingly counteracting her perkiness. She said, “This kind of sucks. Nothing even has price tags! And then when you ask, it’s like they are so rude!”

I nodded, “Exactly. We should just go somewhere else. Maybe I can convince Tony to take us to a music store.”

Alyssa sighed, “Or maybe somewhere else? How can, anyone normal afford stuff like this?”

I replied, “They can’t.”

I heard my phone ringing in my purse, so I quickly retrieved it. I was hoping it was Tony telling me that the shopping trip was near its end. I heard something fall on the sidewalk, and Alyssa bent down to pick it up. I saw that it was a text message from the anonymous number. It said: Rodeo sucks doesn’t it.

I blinked, fear suddenly gripping me. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone staring at me. Everyone was dressed in a similar fashion, but most wore skirts or shorts, everyone wore the massive sunglasses. I frowned and put the phone back in my purse.

Alyssa looked at me with wild eyes as she held the fallen object in her hand- my unlimited credit card. She said, “Is this- Is this for real, Abby? Like it’s…totally- completely?”

I nodded, “Yeah. It’s unlimited. Mr. Atwater said buy whatever I wanted. We-“

Alyssa stopped me there, she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the nearest store. The one where we had been asked to shop elsewhere. She waved my credit card in the face of the rude salesgirl, who immediately changed her tune. Within a few seconds, three girls had surrounded us, taking us by the hand and asking us questions about our style preference. I knew that Alyssa and I were about to become Barbie dolls at the hands of these girls, unless I put a stop to it.

I said, “I’m kinda shopped out. My friend, though, she can have whatever she wants, put it all on my credit card.”

A willowy blond girl came over to me and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to try anything on?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

The girl looked at me like I had two heads, and one of those heads was growing a wart the size of a softball. Alyssa spent forty-five minutes in the store. In the meantime, I texted the anonymous number.

Me: yeah it does
Anonymous: I sent some money to your parents
Me: rlly plz tell me who u r we need to meet
Anonymous: not yet
Anonymous: I have another way for you to stall the recordings
Me: but isnt the prophecy going to know it knew when i was stalling last time
Me: i am afraid what will happen next what if the prophecy hurts my daughter
Me: im sorry i dont think i can do it

I received no other texts after that. Just as we were leaving the store, I noticed the most gorgeous leather jacket I had ever seen, even nicer than my old aviator. It had tapered sleeves, unlike my old leather jacket that made me look a little bulky in the arms. Each sleeve had a zipper extending from the cuff, all the way to the elbow. Along the arms there was a small leather belt with a thick silver belt buckle. These belts served no purpose except for adding to the motorcycle gang motif. The jacket itself was barely a jacket, reaching only a few inches below my boobs. It tied with a studded leather belt in the back. The leather was glossy, almost pleather, but from the feel of it, it was real leather. I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on it, and the way it fit, hugging my curves, I had to have it. Like most of the items in the store, it lacked a price tag.

Alyssa’s eyes widened with delight, “I love that on you, Abby! You look so hot! You should send Ethan a pic of you wearing it!”

Alyssa handed me the credit card. Her purchases were already in multiple bags. I approached the cash, and the willowy blond from before, smiled at me and jumped on the machine. “Great look girl. I helped you out, right?”

I shrugged, but she eagerly took the card from me.

She said, “Come back anytime, Abigail!”

I slipped on my new leather jacket and felt instant confidence as I strode out of the store. I entered the limousine with Alyssa, and curiously looked down at the receipt for the jacket. I figured it would cost a few hundred dollars. My aviator was bought on sale. My eyes widened as I spied the total amount I had paid. The jacket was nearly four thousand dollars, and it was barely a jacket!

Tony started to pull out of his parking spot, but I quickly said, “Wait! I- think- I think I need to take this back. It’s ridiculous how much this cost. I can probably find a knock-off of it somewhere.”

Alyssa said, “But it looks incredible on you, Abby! Come on, Tony. Tell her she looks amazing.”

Tony looked back at us. He was clearly uncomfortable. “Uh- she looks nice. You look nice, Abby.”

I said, “It cost almost four grand. This is insane.”

Alyssa said, “Just wear it a bit, and if you still feel like you should take it back, then yeah you should. But come on, Abby. This is how you are supposed to dress. You are gonna be a celebrity. It’s how they all dress.”

I shook my head, “But I don’t really deserve it. I could think of much better things to spend my money on.”

Alyssa said, sounding exasperated “Abby, you make things so complicated! It’s a great jacket. Now how about this spa you were telling me about?”

I did kind of feel like I needed to relax after a hectic day of shopping, plus my feet were killing me. Maybe a nice scalp massage would ease my guilt too. I sighed gently, “Yeah, OK- let’s go to the spa.”

We went to the spa and spent another few hours there. I managed to convince Tony to take us through the McDonalds drive-thru, even though the fast food was strictly against my diet. Something about two famished teens whining for food likely changed his mind. When we returned to the house, it was nearly nine. I said goodnight to Tony, as I pondered the astronomical cost of riding in a limousine for an entire day. I remembered the MTV show Cribs, where celebrities were able to show off their excess, some with champagne fountains in the kitchen or some rare piece of artwork that was worth thousands of dollars. Most, however, demonstrated their love of cars. I remember one celebrity had seven cars- one for every day of the week!

I was exhausted, and was actually happy to be home, despite the fact that I shared a living space with Mr. Atwater. I noticed, however, that my guardian wasn’t home. Alyssa and I stayed in the living room and had a quasi-sleepover. It was not a real one because the house didn’t have any junk food. We had polished off the McDonalds. I remembered the credit card and quickly called for a pizza. We also got wings and the devil’s drink- according to my diet- soda pop. I got my favourite, Orange Crush. Now, we could have a proper sleepover.

The pizza delivery guy said nothing about my credit card. I assumed it was common practice in the Hills, for teenagers to have credit cards. I only got one in university, and even then, I probably shouldn’t have had any. Alyssa and I fell into our old patterns, giggling, gossiping and watching music videos on YouTube. My video from Coffee House now had over sixty million views.

I looked over at Alyssa with what was likely a pensive gaze. “So, you like the song? The one you heard.”

Alyssa said, “Yes! Abby, you have no idea how much I love it. You can dance to it, and it’s got your amazing voice. I told you- I cried when I heard it.”

I sighed gently, “You don’t think it’s too much? A lot of the imagery. It’s a bit over the top. That line about lace. Like is that supposed to be my bra or something?”

Alyssa grinned, “Maybe it’s your panties. But I will steal them, because I am the PANTY queen!” The old memory of Alyssa fallen in her closet with panties on her head caused me to giggle, although I didn’t remember her doing the Mexican accent before.

She said, “You think about stuff too much, Abby. It’s just music to dance to. No one thinks about what it means or anything. So are you gonna have a video for it? Can I be in it?”

I said, “Um, I think so. Mr. Atwater said it’s going to be the first single. So- yeah it’s definitely going to have a video. And yeah, you can be in it. Of course.”

The moment I gave my OK, Alyssa emitted a high-pitched screech that would have caused Darren’s ears to bleed. I was pretty used to Alyssa’s sonic attack by this point. Alyssa reached over and hugged me tightly, “Oh my god, Abby! This is just- I can’t even- it’s going to be so amazing!!! You are so lucky! And I’m lucky to have you as a BFF!”

***

“It looks like you two had fun last night.” Mr. Atwater wore a disapproving frown as he pointed to the empty pizza box. Alyssa was still sleeping beside me. She had one of her nightmares, and we watched a few episodes of Instant Star. I was still tired, but it appeared as if Mr. Atwater wanted me up.

He said, “It’s time for your workout. I’m still serious about you losing that weight, and what you ate last night wasn’t on your diet. Let me hire you a personal trainer. In fact, I can probably even get that woman who yells all the time. What’s her name?”

I sighed, “Jillian Michaels. I don’t need some celebrity trainer, OK? I can handle my own workout. And like I said, I’ll get in shape for the tour, but I’m not interested in losing weight. Maybe a few pounds to fit in some of my older clothes, but that’s it.”

Mr. Atwater furrowed his brow, but the explosion I expected never came. “Very well, Abigail. I’ll trust you to complete your own workouts then. When it is time to begin learning the dance steps, I expect you to be able to keep up.”

He pointed to the new leather jacket that I slung over the back of the couch. “Is that what you bought yesterday? It’s nice.”

I replied, with clear surprise in my tone, “Y-You like it? I thought you would have wanted me to get something pink with frills or something. Like ultra-feminine. I thought I was supposed to be a bubble gum pop princess? That jacket is pretty rock.”

Mr. Atwater smiled, “When I gave you that credit card, I said you could buy whatever you wanted. I was serious about that.” He motioned for me to come with him into the other room, and I followed. He continued, “I was more concerned with you dressing like Darren,” he grinned, “I doubt Darren would have worn anything like that.”

I glared at him and replied, “What’s your point? I’m thinking of taking it back.”

Mr. Atwater said, “That you are free to use that credit card for anything at all. Even late night meals if you so choose. If you want to take the jacket back, that is your prerogative, Abigail.”

I was preparing a stirring argument, but all of my potential rage left me like a furious river suddenly dammed.

Mr. Atwater said, “Unfortunately, I saw no pictures of you on any celebrity websites this morning. The shopping trip was a bit of a bust in that respect, but Alyssa seems to have enjoyed herself. Tonight, I managed to get you invited to an absolutely exclusive Hollywood party. A sweet sixteen party actually. It’s for a young woman you might have heard of named Harmony Sweet.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “She sounds like a porn star. And I told you that I don’t follow that stuff. I couldn’t care less what celebrities are doing.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I want you to go to this party tonight and mingle, get your picture taken with some celebrities. And if you can with Harmony herself. Her family is one of the richest in Hollywood, her father is a television producer and her mother a famous actress. If you get in with them, everyone will know your name. And if you go there, you could end up on television yourself. The whole family is part of a reality TV series you might have heard called, “It’s a Sweet Life”.”

I sighed, “Just give me a gun right now, I’ll blow my brains out. Because I won’t need any after spending time with those people. I’m going to leave there smelling like polyurethane.”

Mr. Atwater cast a disapproving glance in my direction, “You’ve been studying with Alyssa, haven’t you?”

I nodded, “She needed help with Science, and History. You know her exams are next week, right?”

Mr. Atwater said, “Have you memorized your responses for any upcoming press conferences?”

I nodded, “Yes, you’ll be happy to know that I am now well versed in extreme banality.”

Mr. Atwater said, “There will be many celebrities at the girl’s party. You might even meet one you like. As I said, do your best to endear yourself to Harmony. She is our ticket to real influence.”

I rolled my eyes, “Whatever. I’ll take a few pictures and then I’m out of there.”

***

The sonic screech that Alyssa emitted in the backseat of the limousine actually hurt my ears. Her excitement level was like a pot of boiling water that had suddenly burned off the water and ejected molten lava. She bounced in her seat gleefully. Even though she hadn’t been allowed to do my makeup or my hair for the party, once Alyssa learned where we were going, it was like it didn’t matter. It was like I didn’t matter. Mr. Atwater had called in professionals to absolutely glamorize me in preparation for any pictures. God, I hated pictures. The stylists, three of them, who toiled over my face and hair for two hours had taken my innocent charm and round, childish cheeks and transformed me into a true Hollywood beauty, even down to the hair extensions and fake eyelashes. What was wrong with my real eyelashes? They had also used spray tan on me, which smelled like sun screen and chemicals. One of them made jokes about there being an absence of sun in Canada. They did my hair in a pristine up-do, with dangling little strands on my neck. The final part was the outfit, which was a little black dress, to match my little black purse. Alyssa insisted that we take pictures in the car with my new phone, which she soon uploaded to her Facebook and Twitter with the title, “Going to a SWEET party w bestie! #LOVELA”.

Alyssa yammered incessantly, “Oh my god, Abby! Do you realize whose party we are going to? She’s on the second best show in the world, next to Instant Star. It’s called Midnight Sun. She plays this super popular girl named Jennifer. She’s a cheerleader, but she meets a super-hot guy, and it turns out he’s like a werewolf vampire. But the werewolf is evil. Get it? Come on, Abby. I talk about it all the time! Anyway, I can’t believe we are going to meet Jennifer! I wonder if Even will be there.”

I blinked, “Alyssa, you are hurting my brain. This is why I tune you out when you talk about it. It’s got the most ridiculous plot. And the only reason you like it is probably because that Even guy, which by the way, is the stupidest name in the world, takes his shirt off. I bet there’s this whole plot where there’s a love triangle between the werewolf and the vampire, even though it’s the same person. And even though Jennifer is a bitch (I’m guessing), both guys still want her. You know because there’s no other girls in the world. I’m actually amazed that I’m saying it, but I’d rather watch Twilight.”

Tony said, “My daughter likes that show. Sorry, Alyssa- Abby is right. It’s fifteen shades of awful.”

Alyssa glared at both of us and said, “You guys just don’t understand it. It’s cool because like Even fights against himself because he loves her so much. I bet you’d like it if you got into it, Abby. I can’t wait to ask Jennifer about what it’s like to kiss Even! Oh god, I have so many questions. Like I wanna know too if they were really dating. Cause there were a lot of rumours that said they were.”

I formed my finger into a pretend gun, pointed at my head and made a loud BAM as I pulled the imaginary trigger.

***

The party was everything to be expected from Hollywood royalty. My sweet sixteen was like a party thrown for the Paper Bag Princess (for the uninitiated, the story revolves around a princess who has had all her dresses burnt and her castle ruined by a mean dragon, the only item left is a paper bag, which she wears as a dress!) compared to the lavish extravaganza laid out before me.

I was certain that if there was a coronation for a new Princess of Wales, this party would have suited the British royal family just fine. The Sweet property sat on the very top of the Hollywood Hills, with an expansive yard that was more like a football field than an actual yard. I was certain they employed a legion of gardeners to keep the property clean. There were a number of pavilions, each with a different princess theme. Where I had construction paper crowns, there were actual tiaras. Alyssa made a beeline toward the tent and snatched two for us. I carefully slid the tiara over my hair. Each one had a tiny diamond in the centre, and while they were small, there had to be at least three hundred people at the party, over half of them women.

We had passes that Mr. Atwater had somehow procured for us. As I moved to sample what looked like a crab puff, I could see that the catering was all done by the Beverly Hills Hotel. There was loud somewhat obnoxious rap music, and as we entered the gardens, which required us to show our passes again, I could see that it wasn’t a live DJ. There was actually a live band playing, and the closer I got, I realized that it was actually the extreme diva himself, Kanye West. I recognized other celebrities too, the Kardashians, and other Hollywood elite. More and more, I realized that there were hardly any teenagers at the party, the party was supposed to be for a sixteen-year old girl, right?

Alyssa left me alone in search of Even. Was that even his real name? I figured I would try and get a few pictures with some celebrities that I recognized. I tried to speak to a few people, but they were exactly like the salesgirls on Rodeo Drive, and I knew if I flashed my unlimited credit card, the beautifully made up people would just show me theirs. Some of them asked me what I did, a few of them had heard of me, but they weren’t at all interested in speaking to a teenage girl who wasn’t as famous as them apparently.

To be honest, I wasn’t interested in speaking with them either. Besides, the rumbling bass and overproduced autotuned vocals would have drowned out all conversation. I quickly left the garden, returning to the pavilion area where Alyssa had obtained our tiaras. I went to the dessert tent and popped a cream puff into my mouth, and then another- and another. I was miserable at the party. I desperately wished for Ethan’s presence. We would just sit back and roast every single person at the party, then we would run off into a bush and make out for a few hours. I texted him a quick, “miss u :( ”, sighed lightly and popped another cream puff into my mouth.

“Hey you, save some for the other guests.”

I turned around to see a girl, about my age, with a sardonic smirk plastered on her heavily-painted face. She wore a full-length sequined pink ball gown, long white gloves, and an actual crown. Not a tiara- a jewel-encrusted crown. Her chestnut hair tumbled down her slender shoulders in thick ringlets. Like me, she was tanned, but it was hard to tell if it was real or spray. She was about my height, but the comparisons ended there. While my body had a serious curves, and as Mr. Atwater had called them: trouble areas, hers was much like Alyssa’s- but not nearly as boyish, with a more fully-developed bust. She was, essentially, the Hollywood normal. She was what Mr. Atwater wanted me to be. Her eyes were a striking contrast to her outfit and jewellery. It looked like she had taken a black magic marker and carefully traced around her eyes. She was seemingly trying to be Goth, but had gone for the racoon look instead.

I meant to reply to her wit with some of my own, but I forgot I had a mouthful of cream puff, which I proceeded to spit in her direction. This caused the girl to laugh, “This party sucks, right?”

I quickly swallowed the mouthful of cream puff and nodded, “Yeah. I mean it’s supposed to be for a sixteen-year old girl. All I see are limelight hogging celebrities.”

The girl grinned, “You know what’s funny? You act exactly like I thought you would, Abigail.”

I blinked, “Hey- how do you know who I am?”

The girl replied with a laugh, “You were linked on Katy Perry’s page, girl. Half the world knows who you are. Well Facebook world.”

I said with frustration, “Then- why…why won’t they talk to me?”

She replied, “Because you scare them. The ones with no talent anyway. It just means you are gonna shorten their fifteen minutes.”

She extended her hand with a smile, “I’m Harmony by the way.” I took the offered hand.

She said, “You know I like your old stuff more than your new stuff. I love the name of the band too Eyes Wide Open. Makes sense that they’d turn you into a popstar- still it sucks. I checked it out after you linked those videos. I like that one song where you are like having a seizure on the floor with your guitar player.”

I replied, “Why does it make sense? I almost signed with Geffen you know.”

Harmony shrugged, “It just does. You have the look, and when they realize that, that’s when they sink their hooks in. They know they can make more money on you shaking your ass than strumming a chord. I’ve seen it happen lots of times.” I regarded the girl before me curiously. She was only sixteen and yet seemed to have a thorough understanding of the ‘business’. According to Mr. Atwater, she had lived her entire life in the spotlight.

This was not the Harmony Sweet that played the insufferable Jennifer character on Alyssa’s second favourite show. The girl said excitedly, “You know I want to be in a band. Just like you, Abby. But my stupid dad won’t let me. He says it’s not good for my ‘good girl’ image, or some bullshit. Like I wanna scream and jump and smash into things. And break stuff. I wanna throw a guitar in a speaker. I wanna do the stuff- all the stuff you got to do!”

I said, “Well talk to your dad. Tell him it’s important to you. Tell him you want to learn guitar or drums or bass.”

Harmony laughed bitterly, “You haven’t been here very long, Abby. That’s not how it works. I have to be on my dad’s stupid show because that’s what they decided would be the “best use of my talents.” Which means, how can I make money off you? Not only that but no one thinks I’m any good, well people who don’t like the show I mean, you know cause my dad is the producer.”

I replied, “You still get to do something that very few people do. You are famous, and people do love you. My best friend, Alyssa- she thinks you are incredible. But I get what you are saying- I don’t want to be a pop star. But I signed this contract and now I’m stuck. I’d much rather be in my old band. Now, I’m trapped in plasticville for the next two years.”

Harmony said, “You know not everyone is like completely fake here. Some nice people are at the party. Not just people trying to climb over each other to the top, Abby.”

I raised a brow, “Like who?”

Harmony replied, “Well you like hockey, right?”

I frowned and regarded Harmony sternly, “Hey, you know not all Canadians like hockey. OK? We also don’t live in igloos and- we don’t all say ‘Aboot’ or ‘Eh’.”

Harmony giggled and shook her head, “Relax, Abby. I checked out your Facebook page. I know you like hockey.”

I shrugged, still not convinced that Americans knew anything about Canadians, but my expression softened slightly. “Yeah, I do. So what?”

Harmony replied, “Well Wayne Gretzky was here before. He had—“

I interrupted the girl with wide eyes, “Wait- are you telling me the Great One was here? Really? And I could have met him?”

Harmony smirked, “Yup. You could’ve. You are an LA girl now Abby. You gotta understand that we aren’t all like stuck-up bitches. Some people yeah. Anyway, yeah you could’ve met him. He’s a friend of my uncle’s.”

I sighed, feeling my shoulders fall, my entire body seemingly about to melt into the expertly mowed lawn. “Oh.”

Harmony said, “Relax, he’s not going anywhere. He’s got a place near here in the Hills. Or we could go to a Kings game. He’s got a box there. My brother’s been in it.”

My jaw dropped and my eyes bugged out. I grasped Harmony by the shoulders. “Are you serious?! I could- I could sit in a luxury box with Wayne freaking Gretzky and watch a hockey game?!” I shook her less than gently. An amused grin appeared on the girl’s face.

She said, “Canadians.”

She said, “There’s one thing I want to ask you though. You don’t have to- but it’d be amazing if you would.”

I was still getting over the realization that I could have met the Great One, probably the best hockey player to ever lace up a pair of skates, if I hadn’t been so focused on hating all the people around me. Not everyone in LA was a social-climbing parasite, and Harmony, was actually proof of this.

I nodded, and Harmony said, “I want you to teach me to play guitar. Like you. Heavy and crazy, and like banging your head and everything.”

I regarded Harmony with a measure of confusion, “I’m not really very good. I can mostly just show you power chords. Some strumming patterns.”

Harmony looked at me with excitement in her eyes, “Yes! That’s what I want to learn. And I think you are amazing at guitar, Abby. You’re the reason why I want to play!”

My brain tingled as warm feelings passed through my body. I had influenced Harmony, a star in her own right, to want to learn guitar. How many other girls had I inspired to pick up the instrument? Harmony looked at me expectantly, “So? Will you do it?”

I nodded, “When my fingers heal up, yeah definitely. I’ll show you what I know.”

Harmony smiled and reached out to hug me. What was with girls and hugging? I returned the hug, and then I saw a few flashes. Harmony, put her arm over my shoulder, and adopted an instant smile. She effortlessly went from the hug to the pose as the cameras flashed.

She looked over at me as the cameras continued to flash, “Hey, how come you aren’t smiling?”

I replied, “I don’t like getting my picture taken.”

This caused Harmony to burst out laughing, which in turn caused me to break into a smile. The cameras continued to flash.

Harmony said, “Get used to it. And when you get bored. Do some of these.” She stuck her tongue out and proceeded to do the sign of the devil (THE HORNS!). I followed suit, and our quasi-photo shoot became more playful.

Harmony said, “When you’ve had enough, just walk away. Most of ‘em will be happy with a few pics. Some are assholes and won’t leave you alone until they get the right one. I give them the finger sometimes.”

I loved this girl. She was exactly what I wanted to be when I became a celebrity, which was inevitable.

“Pumpkin! Time for presents!”

A man in his forties put his hand on Harmony’s shoulder. He was wearing a very expensive looking three-piece suit, had tanned skin and a tight head of hair. The hair moved like it had been glued to his head, or maybe it was the way the skin moved on his face and near the hairline. Either way, something was off about him. It was clear he had had some work done. I almost expected Harmony to reply, “Okay Daddy-kins!”, but thankfully, it was nothing like that.

Instead, she said, “Yeah, OK Dad.”

She trudged along toward a table that could have sat 60 people. Instead, it was piled high with presents, all wrapped with the same pale pink paper. When all the presents were unwrapped, Harmony’s father made an announcement, “Everyone come out to the parking lot to see the very special gift Amber and I got for our little girl on her big day!”

All the guests moved out to the parking lot quickly. What I saw there, didn’t surprise me. I knew that it was a tradition amongst the rich, and particularly celebrities to provide their offspring with brand new cars on their sixteenth birthday. Harmony’s sweet sixteen was no exception. A cherry red BMW convertible sat in the laneway with a massive pink bow stuck to the hood. She leaned over to me and sighed gently, “I was kinda hoping for the electric blue instead.”

I stared at the girl in confusion, but I tried to act partially sympathetic. I replied, “Hey, at least it’s not old man beige.”

Still, this was a girl who had just received a brand new sixty-thousand dollar car, when she likely didn’t even have her licence yet.

With Alyssa on her way back tomorrow, I was pleased that Harmony and I were seemingly on our way to becoming friends. I knew I would need someone who had seen it all to help me along the road to celebrity. OK, so maybe she was a teensy bit spoiled, but she was still the most real celebrity I had met during my brief Hollywood adventure.

***

“Did you have fun with Alyssa while she was here, Abigail?”

Alyssa had left that morning, after staying three days. The rest of the time was spent recording, during which Alyssa desperately tried not to scream in jubilation after every take. After every song, she told me once again, that she loved my voice and that again, I was going to be as big as Katy. I nodded in reply to Mr. Atwater.

Mr. Atwater and I were eating in a hoity-toity restaurant on the patio. I could have sworn I saw camera flashes. Ever since I had been photographed with Harmony, the paparazzi had taken an interest in me. I didn’t like it. It gave me a creepy feeling, like I was being watched. I kept looking around for the paparazzi, but it was they were ninjas, or more like snipers with thousand dollar zoom lens that could probably see up my nose.

Mr. Atwater said, “You’ll get used to them. Eventually, it will be like they aren’t even there.”

I said, “I’ve always hated getting my picture taken. And we are trying to eat here.”

Mr. Atwater replied, “Every picture taken of you means more buzz, more influence. And like I said, you’ll get used to it. Britney didn’t like it at first, but you just feel like they are part of the scenery. Your popularity is increasing, especially since you were seen with Harmony Sweet. Do you think you two will become friends? That would work very well in our favour.”

I nodded, “Yeah, I think so. She’s cool. And she’s nice too. Not at all what I was expecting.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Would you like to see some pictures of you and Harmony from the party?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah, OK.”

Mr. Atwater handed me a tablet computer. He was on a site called Celebritydirt.com, a site that made Perez Hilton look like Mother Theresa. It found celebrities at their worst. I scrolled through the pictures. I looked awkward, like I didn’t want to be there, and Harmony looked like a pure natural. I scrolled up to the top of the page, where I saw the headline “SWEET sixteen for Harmony.” I rolled my eyes, and proceeded to skim the article. The second paragraph caught my eye, where it highlighted the best and worst dressed guests at the party.

“Harmony and soon-to-be star, Abigail Grenier were practically already best friends after their first meeting. Abigail, a future pop star from Canada, wore a daring little black dress. Unfortunately, the dress did nothing to hide her little belly or her love handles. This FLABBY Abby needs to lay off the cream puffs!” There were multiple pictures of me stuffing my face with the cream puffs prior to meeting Harmony. I frowned deeply and scrutinized the pictures, and it was clear that I should have worn the spanx as the stylists had suggested. I refused, feeling that I had nothing to hide, but I hated a lot of the pictures of myself, especially one where I was bending over with Harmony, and you could even see a little belly roll. I also thought my thighs looked huge.

I took a breath and glared at Mr. Atwater. I pushed a half-eaten plate of fettuccini Alfredo toward him. “What the hell? Why would you show me this?”

Mr. Atwater played innocent. “I bookmarked a number of other sites too.”

I maintained my glare, “But, you chose to show me this one.”

Mr. Atwater clears his throat and said gently, “Let’s be serious here, Abigail. The paparazzi are going to take pictures of you daily. And then the celebrity media will tear you apart. There are expectations in Hollywood, and you will fit into those expectations, however, whether you do it kicking and screaming- is up to you.”

I replied, “Fuck you. If I have to be a pop star, then I’m going to do it my way. I’ll show you that the world will accept me as I am.”

A tiny smile appeared on Mr. Atwater’s face, “Yes, but can you- accept yourself like this?”

Chapter 63

My phone vibrated in my purse. I pulled it out, and noticed that I had received a message from the anonymous texter. It had been a week since Harmony’s party, and since then we had become friends. We had gone to a Kings game together, and I actually got to sit in THE Great One’s special reserved box. Numerous celebrity websites were already calling us BFFs. Alyssa, who had been insanely jealous that I got to hang out with Harmony at the party, texted me repeatedly, asking if I could introduce her to Harmony. I was willing to do so, but only if Alyssa promised she wouldn’t go all psycho-fan. There had been numerous complaints about some star-struck teenager accosting the celebrities at the sweet sixteen party.

The message said simply: “Leave the house this afternoon.”

I texted back, but I received no response. The album was nearly complete, and Mr. Atwater had given me the afternoon off, suggesting that I go shopping or to the spa, but I wasn’t interested in that. Still, maybe I could see what Harmony was doing. I texted her, and she suggested we go guitar shopping for her. I texted her back with a resounding YES and as much enthusiasm as my smart phone would allow- a total of fourteen exclamation points.

We went to a few stores in the Hills, but I didn’t like the vibe. They catered to the rich and famous, and while the guitars sounded great, I didn’t think it was necessary for Harmony’s first guitar to be Bruce Springsteen’s first guitar. I wanted Harmony to have an organic guitar store experience, even if that included know-it-all guitar geeks, a musty old carpet, and the general public. We were going into a place that spurned popular culture, so I figured we wouldn’t be bothered.

“Girls, let me come in with you.”

Tony clearly did not like the idea of us going into a place called METAL HEAVEN. There were metal bars on the windows, the sign was only partially lit up, with the M, T and N all burnt out and the street outside was littered with cigarette butts. Two boys about our age were standing outside the shop and giving us the eye. They were dressed in leather jackets. One had a Mohawk, while the other had pink, green, and orange dyed hair. It wasn’t even clear what his natural colour was. They were kind of cute, and the one with the multi-coloured hair reminded me of Ethan. Both of them were smoking marijuana. I could smell it the second I rolled down the window.

Harmony was dressed posh, wearing a pencil thin-skirt and a tube top that showed off her tight stomach. She was fully made up, although I suppose I was too. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house without makeup. Despite it being ‘winter’, I was wearing a pair of shorts, and one of my band tees, which to be honest, was a little tight on my chest. OK- a lot tight. It was the one I had worn to meet Jacynthe, and it was boy style. My boobs pressed against the top of the logo, distorting it slightly.

I said, “Don’t worry about us, Tony. We’ll be fine.”

Tony replied worriedly, “I’m supposed to protect you, Abigail. And as for Harmony- I don’t know what her dad would do to me if I let something happen to her. Can we just go back to the other store? Come on, Abby. You said Nirvana is your favourite band, right? They had a Kurt Cobain guitar. One he had actually broken! I was actually at the show here where he broke it. Tiny club on the strip.”

I shook my head, “If Harmony’s going to be a genuine musician, we need to do this right. She needs to feel the guitar, hear it. Choose it for herself. She shouldn’t pick a guitar just because it was played by someone famous. That’s not the point. As for Kurt’s guitar- that guitar was broken by him for a reason, it was a piece of shit. He never busted guitars he liked. He’s rolling in his grave at the price they are charging.”

Harmony flipped her hair dismissively, “Come on, Abby. Why are you letting your driver boss you around? Let’s go in. These guys- they are kinda freaking me out.”

She looked warily at the two boys. One of the guys, reached his hand out and said, “Hey Princess, you want a hit?”

His buddy, Mohawk laughed obnoxiously. The boy with the multi-coloured hair tried to hand Harmony the joint, but she took a step back and moved next to me. I had to admit, if we had come at night, I wouldn’t have stuck around. This looked like one of the seedier parts of LA.

Tony said, “I know Mr. Atwater won’t like this.”

I said, “Give it a rest, Tony. We’ll be fine inside.”

We moved past the two boys and entered the guitar store. I loved the look of the place. It wasn’t one of the big box places with wall upon wall of instruments. It was the kind of place that disappeared with gentrification, a mom and pop store that was willing to bargain, had rare and sometimes otherwise impossible to find merchandise, and one where the employees genuinely loved to talk music.

A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, looked at us from behind the counter. He was heavily tattooed and pierced, with a full sleeve on his left arm, and an eyebrow and lip ring. He looked us over with a judgmental smirk. Clearly, we should have dressed differently, less Hollywood. “Can I help you girls?”

I said, “Yeah, we are looking for a guitar for my friend.”

I looked at Harmony with a frown. No wonder he had looked at us with such disdain- Harmony was still wearing her sunglasses! I leaned over and whispered to her, “Take off your sunglasses. This guy thinks we are Paris Hilton-wannabes.” Harmony dutifully removed her shades.

I said, “We want something with a lot of edge. Definitely active pickups- and a really crunchy rhythm, no matter what amp we plug in. Do you guys have a practice room?”

The young man said, “You are looking at it. Plug in to any of the amps on the wall.” I pointed to a Les Paul, a real one, not like my Epiphone knock-off.

He took it down and handed it to Harmony, who proceeded to hand it to me. I sighed. My fingers were feeling better, but they were still splinted, at least until next week, but I could play drop D. I quickly plugged in the guitar and then re-tuned it to drop D. I handed the guitar back to Harmony, “Here I’ll show you some really easy drop D power chords. You’ll have to, um, cut your nails if you want to play standard.”

Harmony frowned, “Really?” Like me, she had immaculate nails. My near daily trips to the spa meant that my nails were in excellent shape. Harmony had French tips (it was amazing what I picked up from a three-hour spa visit). She looked down at her nails and frowned again.

I slowly placed Harmony’s fingers in position on the guitar, and had her strum a chord. I said, “You need to press down harder on the strings.”

Harmony replied, “But it hurts my fingers. Gross, look I have these lines on my fingers now.” She was referring to the indentations left by the strings on her fingers.

I nodded, “And eventually you’ll get calluses, and it won’t hurt anymore.” I could hear snickering behind us. I shot the clerk a death stare, and he quickly relented.

Harmony reached out and grasped my index finger. She felt underneath and tapped at the calluses with her nail. “Gross, it’s really hard, Abby. I don’t like that. Doesn’t your boyfriend think it’s nasty when you are like touching him and your fingers are all hard like that?” Again, the clerk started to laugh.

I stomped over to him, “Have you got a problem with us? Because it sounds like you do.”

He pulled a pink butterfly-shaped guitar from underneath the counter and handed it to me, “Here, give her that. It’s got silk strings.” The other patrons joined the clerk.

One of the customers said, “I bet the blonde gives fucking brutal sandpaper hand jobs.”

I could see rage building in Harmony’s eyes. I was angry, but Harmony was furious. She had been so excited to start learning guitar, to become a musician, write songs and play shows, just like me. I hoped she wouldn’t be discouraged by the experience. I felt bad for bringing her here, even though the nastiest joke had been directed at me.

Harmony poked her French-tip fingernail into the clerk’s chest, “Do you know who I am?” She looked around the room. “Do any of you know who I am?”

One of the customers said, “Yeah, you’re a porn star! A Hills whore. Right? I loved you in the one with the pizza delivery guy.” More laughing ensued.

She spoke before any of the men could respond, “I’m Harmony Sweet, and I could buy and sell all your asses. You know I could probably convince my dad to buy this whole block and put up a bunch of condos. Then you and your lowlife friends can sell your stupid guitars on the street!” I looked over at one of the customers, and I could see that he was recording the entire incident on his phone.

I leaned over to Harmony and whispered, “Maybe you should calm down? That guy over there. He’s recording this.” Harmony walked over to the man, who looked to be in his late twenties, and grabbed the phone from him. She threw it on the floor and proceeded to stab her stiletto through the phone’s display. The man hadn’t even moved to retrieve his phone when it was first taken, looking on in disbelief at Harmony’s behaviour.

She stormed out of the store. As she did, she was accosted by the two teens, who were still smoking their joints. They tried to make conversation with her, and as one of them grabbed her arm, she took something out of her purse and proceeded to spray both of them in the eyes. She pepper sprayed them. Tony turned the car on as Harmony and I quickly escaped into the limousine. We heard shouting behind us. Even with the limousine’s supposed sound blocking technology, we could still hear, “Hollywood whores!”

Tony yelled, “What the hell happened in there, girls? Are you OK?”

I looked over at Harmony, who was still shaking with rage. I said, “I’m so sorry about that, Harm. I didn’t think- I didn’t think they would be such assholes.”

Tony said, “I knew I shouldn’t have let you two go in there alone. Are you two hurt? Why didn’t you listen to me, Abigail?” He sounded hurt. I considered Tony a friend, and I was about to apologize when Harmony pressed the button to close the glass divide between the driver and the passengers.

Harmony said, “I know you haven’t been here that long, Abby, but there’s one thing you are gonna learn. We aren’t the same as them. They will never understand what we go through. The sooner you understand that the better off you’ll be.”

I shook my head, “I don’t believe it. You just don’t know any better because you haven’t had any friends who weren’t famous. I think it’s possible. And I think it’s possible to live a normal life too.”

Harmony shook her head sadly, “It’s not, Abby. And you’ll see it one day. This is why we go shopping on Rodeo Drive. Because those dickheads would never get in the door. It’s why we hire people to do our shopping- our groceries. We can’t go out in public. Every time we do, we get mobbed by fans, or by people who hate us. It’s why I only have friends who are famous. Because other people just don’t get it. You’ll see, Abby. You’ll see what it’s like to walk into a store and realize that everyone knows who you are. And everyone wants a piece of you.”

I looked at Harmony sternly, “That’s not how I’m going to end up. I’m not going to hide away from the world.

I asked, “Why did you even agree to go in the guitar store, if you knew you’d be recognized?”

Harmony shrugged and replied, “I thought maybe it would be different. Like they wouldn’t recognize me. I know they did, even before I said who I was.”

Harmony added, “You are gonna have to deal with that soon enough anyway. When does your album drop?”

I said, “A week or two I think. I have two vocal tracks left to do. Some harmony bits, and then they’ll mix it.”

Harmony said, “Say goodbye to your old life, Abby. Cause it’s never gonna be the same.”

***

Tony dropped Harmony off. I lowered the glass divider a minute afterward, “Sorry, Tony. Harmony was just- she was upset. She’s not usually like that.”

Tony waited a few moments before answering. I thought he was ignoring me at first. Eventually, he said, “I asked you not to go in the store without me, Abigail. You could have gotten in a lot of trouble. I know that you probably feel pretty safe up there in Canada, but that part of town you were in- girls your age- or any age really- they shouldn’t be dressing like that. And Harmony- that was stupid what she did.”

I glared at Tony, as he peered at me in the rear view mirror. “That she was protecting herself? One of them had grabbed her. She did what she needed to do.”

Tony said, “That she went into the store in the first place. That she walked around that part of town without a bodyguard. One of those kids she sprayed could have had a knife or a gun.”

I said, “There’s nothing wrong with her trying to act normal.”

Tony said, “Yeah there is. She put herself and you in a lot of danger. You know just as many people hate her family as love it. And your friend isn’t helping it. She can be a real diva sometimes.”

I asked, “So if I wanted to say walk into a grocery store in that same part of town and buy a stick of gum, you’d have a problem with that?”

Tony said, “Now, no. In a few weeks- when everyone knows who you are. Yeah. I’d have a problem with it. I’d worry about you. A lot.”

I replied with my lip slightly upturned, “You aren’t my father you know. Or Mr. Atwater. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Tony sighed and said, “Abigail, you are a real smart kid, but you’ve got blinders on. I don’t want to scare you- but things are gonna change. They’ll change with your friends, the ones you have now. Your family. Everything. You need to realize you won’t be able to do the same things. There’s a price to celebrity.”

I said, “You sound exactly like Harmony. What is it with you LA people?”

Tony smiled sadly, “We’ve seen it before.”

Tony added, “I don’t want to discourage you, I mean- would I want to be rich? Yeah, probably. And you’ll get to do something you love. You know if I could drive NASCARs, that’s what I’d do for a living. It’ll be OK.”

I lowered my head and put my hands over my head .I felt like I was balancing a massive rock on my head, and it was slowly caving in my skull.

***

When we arrived back at the house, I could see police cars out front. It was near dinner time, and I had fought the urge to stop at the drive-thru again, but now I was famished. I exited the car quickly, and Tony did the same- standing beside me protectively. I saw a police officer, and he waved us over.

He asked, “Miss, are you Abigail Grenier?” I nodded.

The officer asked, “And you are the other occupant of the home? You live with a Mr. Philip Atwater, is that correct?” I nodded again.

I asked, “What’s going on?”

A part of me hoped that Mr. Atwater had been the victim of some heinous crime, so he would be out of my life forever, but I knew the Prophecy would continue without him. Still, maybe it would find someone nicer?

The officer said, “There’s been a break-in.”

I asked, “What was taken?”

The officer replied, “I’m not at liberty to say, but, Mr. Atwater should be able to fill you in. He’s down at the police station.”

I was scared. I didn’t want to sleep in the mansion anymore. What if whoever broke in came back? What if they were armed? I hated this crime-ridden city!

Tony said, “Do you want me to take you to a hotel or something, or to the police station to meet up with Mr. Atwater?”

I shook my head, “No, maybe Harm will let me sleep over.”

I saw Tony frown, and then I watched him trudge back to the limousine. I texted Harmony with the details, and she said that she would be happy to have me over. She texted back, “SLEEPOVER!” Alyssa would, no doubt, die of jealousy.

I got into the backseat of the limousine.

Tony had been really quiet for the first ten minutes of the ride, but he spoke up eventually, “You know I’m not sure that Harmony girl is a good influence on you, Abby. She’s kind of-“

I wrinkled my brow and again, my upper light turned up slightly, “She’s kind of what?”

Tony replied, “She’s a huge diva. Like I read this article where it said she’s always late for the taping of her show. I mean her dad is the producer- they couldn’t car pool? And that she one time yelled at one of her co-stars because they were flubbing their lines. She said she had plans or something. You said- you said you wanted me to let you know, if you were in dangerous waters. Well you are. Big time.”

I narrowed my eyes and asked, “How do you know if any of that is true? You probably read it on Celebritydirt.com.”

Tony shook his head, “Came from her co-star in an interview.”

I shook my head, “Mind your business, Tony. I’ll hang out with whoever I want. Harmony is my friend.”

Tony said, “But Abby, she’s-“

I cut him off by closing the glass divider. When we arrived at Harmony’s, I got out of the car without saying a word.

***

The sleepover wasn’t what I expected. It was, in fact, a lot like the sleepovers Alyssa and I had, except she wasn’t worth millions of dollars. We talked about Ethan, and boys Harmony had dated. She said that Ethan and I had a chance of working because he would know what I went through on a daily basis, even having to deal with his own celebrity potentially. Despite the disastrous trip to the guitar store, I managed to convince Harmony to watch one of my favourite music DVDs, the notorious Nirvana Halloween show. As I looked over at her, she seemed to be fully enjoying the mayhem that ensued, the broken guitars, punctured speakers and the thrashing. Oh yes, and lots of junk food, even though it was on neither of our diets.

The next morning, I received a text from Mr. Atwater telling me to return home to the mansion as soon possible. Through the haze of my initial fear over the break-in, I had forgotten about the text I received from the anonymous messenger. Could the break-in have had something to do with that? The more I thought about, the more I realized that the two must be linked.

“Hey, Abby! I’ll drive you! I have to pick something up on Rodeo anyway.”

I raised a brow, “Uh, did you even get your learner’s permit yet? I’m not sure that’s a good idea. What if you get stopped by the police, or we get into an accident?”

Harmony shook her head and laughed, “Everyone does it in the Hills.”

I remained firm, “That’s a horrifying notion.”

I pictured hundreds of unlicensed adolescent drivers talking on cell phones, all careening toward each other.

Harmony stuck her tongue out at me, “You’re no fun, Abby. You’re as boring as your driver. He’s so bossy! I don’t know how you put up with him.”

I frowned, “Hey, Tony is a good guy. He was just worried about us yesterday. By the way, why didn’t you have your bodyguard with you when we left Rodeo Drive?”

Harmony replied, “Cause, like I said. I wanted to try and be normal. So that was a massive fail. So now I wanna drive you in my brand new car. Come on, Abby. Stop being so Janet Reno!”

I blinked, “Stop being the former Attorney General during the Clinton presidency?”

Harmony rolled her eyes, “Oh my god, Abby. How do you know all this stuff? I go to school too, and I never learned any of the stuff you talk about sometimes.”

Harmony said, “Anyway, Miley tweeted it to Selena, and it’s like this thing now. It means lame and boring.” I think in that moment, I lost two-hundred eighty-eight brain cells.

I said, “I already texted, Tony. He’s coming to get me. And I know how to have fun.”

Harmony said, “Prove it. Have you ever been in a club? You know if those assholes hadn’t grabbed me, and that Tony guy wasn’t staring at us, I would have smoked with them. I’ve done it before. What about you?”

I said, “I like crossword puzzles. A quiet night of crossword puzzles by the fire listening to the crickets. Oh and warm milk.” I couldn’t say the last bit with a straight face. Harmony burst out laughing.

She said, “OK- JANET RENO. When your album drops, we are going to celebrate. Whether you like it or not. Comprendé?” I nodded slowly.

***

I apologized to Tony for my behaviour the night before, and he accepted it. He asked me never to put him in a similar situation again. He said in hindsight, he should have called Mr. Atwater and Harmony’s parents the second we went into the guitar store outside of the Hollywood Hills.

We arrived at the mansion, and I met Mr. Atwater and Julian in the recording studio.

Mr. Atwater looked exhausted. His hair was mussed, and his usually pristine clothing was wrinkled. He looked like he had slept at the police station. He snapped at me, “I told you to be here an hour ago. What took you so long?”

I yawned, “It’s eleven in the morning. I only got your text at ten. I was sleeping.” I never usually started recording until ten thirty, so I was used to sleeping in every morning.

Mr. Atwater said, “Do as you are told, Abigail. Get in the booth.”

I said, “But I haven’t even warmed up. What’s going on here? The cop that was here yesterday- he said something was stolen, but he wouldn’t say what.”

Julian, who was watching the exchange with growing concern said, “Philip, calm down. It’s not her fault. She’s just a kid- cut her some slack man.”

Mr. Atwater narrowed his eyes and grabbed me by the arm. He looked to Julian, “Start mixing the tracks we can salvage.” He took me upstairs, and we went to my room. “Did you know about this?”

I pulled my arm away from him angrily. The pressure he was applying had really started to hurt. “Know about what? I don’t know what you are talking about. What are you talking about salvage? I thought the stupid album was done except for two small vocal tracks. The chorus in “Girl Talk” and the bridge in “Your Angel Kiss”. Right?”

Mr. Atwater said furiously, “Right, but yesterday. Someone came in and messed with all the tracks! All your vocals were replaced with goat sounds. Julian had only started mixing half the album. The other masters on the laptop were tampered with, and the external hard drive with the backups was stolen.”

I saw the fire in his eyes. There was no smile on his face, only unresolved fury in the form of a snarl and maddened eyes. He grabbed my arm and threw me on the bed, then he advanced on me, his hands moving perilously close to my neck.

He said, “You did it didn’t you? Your ethics and your fractured misplaced morals, well you fat little bitch, if I find out you did this, you can say goodbye to any chance of Ethan ever being in your band. Not to mention how the Prophecy will punish you!”

Out of fear and perhaps anger over being accused of something I hadn’t done and the fact that it looked like Mr. Atwater wanted to strangle me, I kicked my leg forward and planted my heeled foot right in Mr. Atwater’s genitals. He collapsed like, well a man who had been kicked with a stiletto heel in the balls. His eyes bulged out of his skull as he writhed on the floor in agony, his breaths coming out in strangled gasps.

I shot back angrily, “I told you that I didn’t do anything! I’m not stupid enough to risk my daughter’s life or my family. Or Ethan. Besides, I wasn’t even here yesterday afternoon when the break-in happened. I was out shopping with Harmony you asshole!”

Nothing remotely human sounding came from him as Mr. Atwater gurgled on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. I yelled, “Just get the hell out of here! I hate you!”

Mr. Atwater barely moved, and when he did, his eyes looked like they were ready to leave his skull. I huffed and left the room, returning with a bag of frozen green beans, which I threw directly at the man’s head. My aim was off, and the bag skittered off the side of the bed. Mr. Atwater took the bag of frozen vegetables and applied them to his genitals. Words finally escaped from his mouth, “Go…Julian…record.”

***

Amazingly, with Mr. Atwater literally nursing his wounds, the recording went much smoother. Julian and I already got along, and with Mr. Atwater’s absence, the negativity was drained from the room entirely. We made fun of the songs and the lyrics, but I still got down to business. I knew it was foolish to attempt to thwart the Prophecy. Perhaps when it was finished with me, I could mount some form of opposition against it, but for now, it pulled my strings. I wasn’t ready to deal with Chloe, Amélie, my family, and especially Ethan being hurt. Alyssa was already suffering. My parents had been the latest victim, and I had a feeling, that the Prophecy was simply offering that as a warning. The next time I disobeyed- it was for real.

We finished three songs that afternoon, leaving only four outstanding. There were the versions with the goat vocals, and while it could have been as revolutionary as the first use of distortion or the blending of different styles of music, I wasn’t sure the world was ready for Goat Step. It was still better than autotuned vocals, because at least the goat wasn’t overproduced. I actually felt a little bit bad for injury I had given Mr. Atwater. Near dinner time, I brought him an actual ice pack. I knocked and opened the door, just as he did to me, even if I wasn’t decent sometimes.

“Then it has to happen in the next two days. Yes, I know. Well you better find out!”

I walked toward the man, to whom I had done grievous harm and held out an olive branch in the form of the ice pack. He took it from me.

I asked, “What was that about?”

Mr. Atwater said, “It’s none of your concern, Abigail. How did it go with Julian?”

He was sitting up in bed. He removed the green beans and proceeded to toss them in the garbage. He placed the ice pack and winced, bringing his teeth together tightly as he briefly cried out in pain.

I replied, “We managed to finish three songs. So there’s still four goat songs I am going to have to re-record.” Mr. Atwater looked impressed.

He said, “I’m sorry, Abigail. I shouldn’t have blamed you. You know your place is with the Prophecy, you know the consequences for opposing what is inevitable. I- I am still getting used to my mortality again, and with that- a range of emotions, none of which I have felt since I last guided Ms. Spears to mega-stardom.”

I sat down on the edge of his bed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I kind of understand what you mean. When I first changed, I was an emotional wreck. All the crying I did when Amélie wasn’t there. Some days it felt like I was seriously bipolar because I’d wake up OK, and by the end of the day, I’d be crying, like non-stop bawling my eyes out. Well I’m sure you saw it all. Not to mention being a teenager again and everything that comes along with that. I was like a flailing, uncontrollable mass of hormones. I still feel like I am sometimes.”

Mr. Atwater said, “I wasn’t always watching you, Abigail. I also have to monitor the popular culture within the world. I have to know what is in so that I can ensure you will be successful.”

He added, “The chosen that have to undergo physical transformations to become what is desired by the world often have the most difficulty adapting to the needs of the Prophecy. I’m not surprised by what you went through. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you couldn’t simply fulfil the Prophecy as Darren. I had no control over that.”

I shrugged, “Whatever. You had your chance to help me. I still consider you a sellout to the Prophecy. I asked you to help me break the circle. You refused. Don’t think just because you apologize for the shit you do that I’m suddenly going to be like, Oh my god Philip, please be my new Daddy.”

A pained smile appeared on Mr. Atwater’s face, “You certainly haven’t lost your spirit through all this, Abigail.”

I said, “Anyway, I wanted to kind of apologize for kicking you in the junk- I guess- I mean you were so mad. Maybe blame it on those teenage hormones kicking in.”

Mr. Atwater nodded, “I was going to strangle you, Abigail. I had lost control completely.”

I smirked, “OK, so I retract my apology then.”

Mr. Atwater said, “Do you think you can get the other tracks done without me? In the next two days? I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk for a few days.” I nodded, and he offered another pained smile.

***

Julian had gone home a little after nine. We had attacked another song, leaving only three left. Julian and I worked magic together. I already knew the tone Mr. Atwater wanted, and the songs weren’t vocally challenging, and to be honest- I had sung them so many times, the original vitriol I had for them had worn off a little. A little. I still thought they were mind-numbing, brain cell destroying abominations, but it was like that awful smell that you eventually get used to- the dead racoon lodged somewhere underneath your house. Eventually, you don’t notice it.

I was getting ready for a Skype session with Ethan in my room, when my phone rang. It was the same number that had called me before, the same one attached to the mysterious text messages. I had tried calling the number before, but there wasn’t any option for voicemail. I hadn’t heard from the number since I was told to leave the house.

A female voice with a hint of Southern drawl asked, “Abigail?”

I said, “Yes? Who is this?”

The voice said, “It’s not important. I’m going to be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes. I’m going to bring you somewhere safe. Don’t worry.”

I raised a brow, “What the hell are you talking about? I mean you know about the Prophecy, right? You know what it does to people who try to stop it?”

The voice replied, “Yes, but you just need to trust me, Abigail. I know what you’ve been through. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. But it’s time. You and me- we can stop the Prophecy dead.”

I shook my head, “It’s about a gazillion years old. And no one has come close yet.”

The voice replied, “Yes they have- I’m sure of it. I just can’t really remember how.”

I said, “Solid argument there. Make sure you write your thesis using that.”

The voice laughed softly, but there was a hint of bitterness there, “I used to be smart like you. Well maybe not as smart as you. I never went to a college or nothing like that. Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time here. Can you leave the house? Is he there, watching you, right now?”

I said, “No- Mr. Atwater is indisposed tonight.”

The voice said, “Good- pack a bag.”

I asked, “Britney? Is that you?”

There was a pause, and then the voice replied, “Smart girl. Now, will you come with me?”

I said, “Look, I’ve seen what the Prophecy can do. I’ve seen how it hurts people, destroys their lives. I can’t go with you. My daughter could be hurt. She’s- just- I don’t know what I would do if something happened to her. Or Ethan. If I disobey again, even slightly, then Ethan won’t be able to come on my tour.”

Ms. Spears barked into the phone, “Abigail, stop acting like a kid. This is grownup stuff. I need you focused here. This isn’t about your boyfriend. Darren wouldn’t act that way.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Darren wouldn’t sacrifice his daughter. Even if it would save a million minds. Why should I believe you? What makes you so sure the Prophecy can be beaten?”

Britney said, “Listen to me, Abigail. We are close to stopping the Prophecy. There’s a band, called funnily enough Rebellion’s Mask. They brought out their first album, and it is getting A LOT people thinking for themselves, which is weakening the Prophecy. It knocked Miley, Katy- everyone out of the top. Three songs that aren’t even being called singles are in the top 10 on the singles chart. It’s already sold a million copies in two days! This is how I think it can be done.

“If we can stall your album, even just a few more days. A week at most. Rebellion’s Mask will have enough influence to completely destroy any chance of the Prophecy being fulfilled. That will break the chain. There’s already been riots in Europe.”

Britney said finally, “Trust me, Abigail. We can do this. Come with me, and we’ll break the chain.”

Britney added, “I’m worried that he might be listening in on the call, Abigail. I noticed he put a bunch of features on there when I got the info on your phone from the cell place. GPS tracking and stuff. Leave the phone in your room.”

I shook my head, “I’m not sure I should go with you. What if it doesn’t work?”

Britney said, “We don’t know if it will. But we have to try. By giving into the Prophecy, I failed- I just wasn’t strong enough. You’ve fought it longer than me, and now it’s come to a point where it’s do or die for the Prophecy. Mr. Atwater explained to you how it works, right?”

I nodded, “When a form of media starts to influence the populace, taking their minds away from popular culture, forcing them to think- and most importantly to question, then the Prophecy has to be fulfilled. I don’t believe the bullshit about anarchy and the end of humanity- I think it’s to keep the white tower status quo. Mr. Atwater even seemed to believe that interpretation.”

Britney said, “That’s what I think too. How can I convince you to come with me, Abigail?”

I replied, “I-I’m willing to meet with you, to work out a plan. But I’m not about to let you drive me to Mexico or something.”

Britney laughed, “Come on, girl- don’t be silly. There’s this spa- it caters to only the best- it’s super exclusive. It’s away from the paparazzi, and the public. And it’s about three hours out of Hollywood. I went there after my…incident. You know the one. Bald city. Anyway, I’m OK with meeting you and talking, but you are sure Mr. Atwater can’t follow you or anything?”

I nodded, “Positive.” I had been hit in the groin with a puck in high school, and I remember hobbling around the house for a few days after. I doubted that Mr. Atwater would be too far away from an ice pack.

Britney said, “I’ll see you in fifteen, Abigail. Pack a bag, just in case you do decide to leave.”

I didn’t have a duffel bag, but I did have a massive Valentino purse that Harmony had encouraged me to buy. I stuffed a bunch of bras and panties in there, my toothbrush, and some clothes. I even threw the makeup bag in there, out of habit.

I went down to the main level, glancing at the stairs and perking my ears for any hint of the hobbled mass that was Mr. Atwater. My heart pounded. Thankfully, the mansion was not old, and it did not have the creaky joints of a house that has stood for decades. Finally, I saw lights, and a car pulled into the circular driveway. I crept toward the door, carefully opened it, and then slid through, closing it softly behind me. I got into a black sports car, sliding in next to my potential saviour.

Britney drove off slowly at first, and then as she reached the edge of the driveway, she hit the gas, and I quickly buckled my seat belt. She looked over to me and smiled, “Nice to you meet you, Abigail.”

I blinked, staring at the woman who had admittedly once lined the walls of my adolescent room, “Uh- hi. So where are we going to go to talk?”

I had to admit too, that she looked old to me. Maybe it was the life she had lived, but the poor woman probably looked forty, with deep bags under her eyes and a bloated face. I couldn’t help it. It was the same with Amélie- even though she was only thirty. Britney wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she was dressed in a pair of loose fitting sweat pants. Her dyed blonde hair was tied in a loose ponytail. Beyond her slovenly appearance, there was a zeal in her eyes that frightened me at first. She drove carefully, but faster than I would have liked.

Britney replied, “A place just at the edge of town. I need to make sure we weren’t followed. Mr. Atwater- does he know you’re gone?”

I shook my head, “No, and I left my phone. So he can’t track us.”

Britney smiled, “Good girl.”

She said, “You- are gorgeous. You know that, right?” She kept looking over at me, a discernible sadness in her features. Her mouth drooped gently. “Like- I know- I mean I know that you weren’t always like this, but I’d kill to have your body now.”

I frowned, “Mr. Atwater is pressuring me to lose weight though. And I really hate the pictures of me. I look fat.”

Britney raised a brow at me and sighed. I shrugged, “What?”

Britney said, “I guess- I guess I thought you were still playing the part sort of. The Prophecy has really done a number on you. I mean do you even consider yourself- I mean- do you think as Darren anymore?”

I said, “It depends on what you mean think like Darren. I have his memories, most of his intelligence- his drive. But it’s all in this teenage girl’s brain- so you can’t blame me for changing. But- well you know I like boys. I miss Ethan so much. I know it’s stupid, but I’ve started crying right after we Skype.”

Britney said, “It’s not stupid. You’re in love, right? And he’s so far away. And I don’t blame you for changing, it’s- I just can’t imagine what you went through. I’ve known about you for a while- I can’t even think how hard it would be to lose everything you were, Abigail.”

I asked, “How did you find out about me? I mean, not a lot of people know who I really am. Ethan doesn’t. Only my family and some of my friends- well they used to be my friends. I’d never tell Ethan, or Alyssa. It’s just embarrassing now. I’m not the same person. I’m not Darren, I’d accepted that before Mr. Atwater brought me here.”

Britney smiled gently, “When did you know you weren’t Darren anymore, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I shrugged, “Well when Ethan put his tongue down my throat, and I didn’t gag. Maybe it was before. I don’t really know. During the summer, I really started to think about boys. And then all the kid stuff I did. Stupid stuff- but I wasn’t thinking, you know? It was just so easy to act that way, because that’s how everyone treated me.” I was getting emotional.

Britney nodded softly, “It’s OK, I kinda went through the same thing you did- I was a teenage girl after all. But I wasn’t born a man like you. I was just a little girl with a big voice and a lot of dreams. And very naïve. Mr. Atwater posed as a talent agent, and I was hooked. I actually didn’t start rebelling until I found out about how they were gonna make me dress so sexy. I’m not a prude, Abigail- but I was brought up a good Christian woman. It is just wrong to sell sex to kids, which is exactly what they did. And what they plan to do with you.”

Britney added, “As for how I knew about you, I’ve been trying to stop the Prophecy for the last ten years. I’ve probably spent millions of dollars trying to track down Atwater, or any sign of the Prophecy. But to be honest, people who are affected by the Prophecy, there’s like this leftover magic, so people who know about it- can tell others who have been too.” Britney turned onto the expressway, but I said nothing.

I nodded, “Mr. Atwater mentioned something about that. Like there was a small chance that if I told someone they’d know what I was talking about- but he also said most people would think I was crazy.”

Britney nodded, “Exactly. That is exactly what happened to me. I told people- and they thought I was nuts. They took my kids away, my dad managed my money- I spent a month in a mental hospital. But you know what happened? When everyone told me I was crazy, that I was just a girl who had become an international pop star, and that there was no crazy Prophecy controlling the spread of pop culture? Michael Jackson of all people, the King of Pop. He called me up- told me that he believed every word I said.”

She added as she gunned the car, throwing it into sixth gear, “He was the one before me.” Guard rails buzzed past us, a mere blur hundreds of times. “And you are going to be the last, Abigail. The last victim of the Sidereus Prophecy.”

She said, “When I saw your video on YouTube, I knew the same thing happened to you. I could just feel something from you. I sent private investigators to track you down, and when they couldn’t find a trace of you, outside the school you went to. I knew something was up. They told me you didn’t exist before March of this year.”

She added, “Before Michael died, he told me what had happened to him. He was actually originally a forty-two year old woman, a piano teacher from St. Louis, and a mother of three. He had been transformed by the Prophecy into the youngest of the Jackson family. It’s why he had all that plastic surgery later to start to look white. Why he wore his hair so long.” I looked at Britney in absolute shock, but eventually, I came to an understanding. It all made sense, even though it was insane.

Britney sighed gently “Poor Michael- I guess they kind of perfected it by the time your change happened. The more I talk to you, you honestly seem to be a pretty normal teenage girl, Abigail. Be thankful for that. I think maybe it’s good you don’t think like Darren- because I think it tore Michael apart.”

I noticed the exit sign. We were leaving Hollywood. Britney blew past the off ramp that likely would have placed us at the edge of town. Again, I didn’t say a thing to her.

***

Britney said, “You’ll like this place I think, Abby. There’s never any paparazzi. Have they started taking pictures of you?”

I nodded slowly, “Yeah, I don’t like it at all.”

Britney replied, “Well, if the Prophecy is defeated you can go back to your other band. You are talented either way. You can do what you want. The paparazzi aren’t as interested in rock bands.”

I smiled, “Yeah, I miss playing with the guys.” My head started nodding forward gently.

Britney rustled my hair softly, “You can sleep if you want. It’ll still be a few hours before we get there.”

I nodded and closed my eyes. As a kid, and a veritable terror (as my parents would say), taking me for a ride in the car was one of the only ways they could put me to sleep. I felt my eyes getting heavy, and I gradually fell asleep. I dreamt that I was on stage with my old band, a guitar slung over my shoulder, deafening drums thundering with angry guitars and thumping bass.

I woke with a start, my body suddenly jerked forward. My eyes flew open, as I witnessed the black sports car I was in hug the guard rail on the passenger side. I looked over at Britney, who was desperately trying to regain control of the car, turning the wheel erratically. I saw that the road before us was slicked with rain, the wipers working like mad trying to clear away the rain. We were travelling far too quickly for the wipers to be effective.

I could hear the plastic bumper cracking and see sparks flying on my side of the car as it glanced the guard rail. Britney managed to pull away from the rail, and she immediately hit the brakes, but the car seemed to be floating. Britney shouted, “Shit, I can’t see with all this rain!”

I screamed, “Oh my god! What happened?! Just steer through it, you are hydroplaning!”

Britney said, “I don’t really know! This guy bumped me, and I slammed against the guard rail!” Once we started hydroplaning, Britney lost complete control of the car, she turned the wheel, applied the brakes excessively, but the car was eventually thrown into a deadly skid, which forced us directly into the concrete median. The last thing I remember was my face flying into an air bag.

My dreams were manic as I drifted in and out. In one, I was back stage again, but my clothing turned into what could only be described as a sexy bee costume. The microphone attached itself to my head, shrinking, until it resembled a headset. I realized I had strings attached to my body, and I looked up to see Alyssa pulling them, forcing me to dance, by thrusting my hips forward promiscuously. In between dreams, I could hear a dull beeping. The last dream involved Harmony and I vigorously washing our hands, and then our entire body, until the skin came off. Once the skin came off, we literally scooped all the fat from our bodies, and then we left to go outside, to show our skeleton bodies, to the delight of the paparazzi. I even posed like a natural.

“She’s waking up!” It was Tony’s voice.

“Shh! The doctor said to speak quietly. She might have a concussion.” And that was clearly Harmony’s voice.

Tony said, “Abby, can you hear me? Abby?” I heard shuffling, and I felt someone with soft hands grip my hand. “Abby, it’s me Harmony.”

My eyes opened slowly. The morning sun invaded my eye sockets, and I rapidly closed them. I heard the blinds closing, and gradually the room was dimmed. Once my eyes finally opened, I could see Harmony, Tony- and Sandra, from ‘Geffen’.

I pointed an accusatory finger toward her and said, “You! It’s all your fault. You and Mr. Atwater. You did this! You and your goddamn Prophecy! Is she dead? Did you kill her? So you think I’ll be your little puppet?”

Harmony gripped my hand firmly and said, “Shh. Shh. Abby, it’s OK. This is Sandra. She’s here from your label. Which is pretty amazing because the company that produces my show didn’t even send me a fruit basket when I got my tonsils out.”

Tony said, “It’s OK, Abby. I’m going to get the doctor.”

I frowned deeply, and looked at Harmony, “What about…I mean is she alive? Please tell me she’s alive.”

Harmony frowned, “Why would you care what happened to her? She kidnapped you, Abby. Britney- her doctor said she got off her meds. Been like that for a few days. Her doctor said she’s been suffering from like this insane jealousy. Like she was jealous of you, and wanted to take you away, bring you somewhere and hurt you so you couldn’t be a bigger star than her. She apparently tried the same thing with someone else recently. She’s crazy!”

I shook my head, “How the hell do you know that?”

Tony said, “It’s all over the news. Britney’s doctor- she said that the woman is delusional. She thinks she’s competing with everyone. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Abby. I wish you’d called me before you went with her.”

Harmony answered haughtily, “Why would she call you? She’s my friend. You are just her lame, bossy driver.”

I said, “I have to see her. I have to talk to her!”

I started to get up, but Tony held onto my arms. He said, “Calm down, Abby. Wait until you see the doctor. Don’t try and get up, you might fall!”

I screamed, “Let me up!”

Sandra said, “She’s stable. You can’t see her now though, Abby. The police won’t let you.”

I screamed at Sandra and fought against Tony, trying to force myself up. Harmony looked on in fear. Tony held me down firmly.

He shouted, “Get the doctor! She’s going to hurt herself.”

I thrashed against Tony, but as I did, I didn’t see the doctor move behind me. I felt a prick, and then seconds later, I was unconscious again. Just before drifting off, I could hear shouting, but I wasn’t certain who it was.

When I woke up, I was surprised to see Sandra sitting on a chair by my bedside. We were alone. “Please don’t try and get up yet, you are still going to be groggy from the medication you were given, Abigail. You could fall and hurt yourself.”

I said through clenched teeth, “Fuck off and die. I can’t believe you- you work for him don’t you? You bitch. Well do you know about the Prophecy, and what it does to people? What it did to Britney?”

Sandra nodded, “Yes, I do. I’m sorry you had to go through all that, but you have to know, that you can’t win. And you are responsible for Britney being hurt. You could have said no.”

I was near tears by this point. Her words cut at me, driving deep into my psyche and rending my mind. She removed a tablet computer from her purse and showed me the headline from the morning paper, “Aspiring singer kidnapped by psychotic former pop star, survives horrific car accident.” My eyes widened in fear. I could see that the front of the black sports car was completely totalled. The windshield was shattered. The hood of the car and the bumper were non-existent, simply forming part of the scraps of metal, even engine parts lay strewn about as part of the wreckage. The front axle was mangled with the wheels warped beyond repair, entirely crushed by the front section of the car.

She added, “You could have stayed in the mansion. And she’d be perfectly fine. Now she’s been ruined. With full knowledge of what the Prophecy was capable of, you went with her. She’s- just like Alyssa, your daughter, Amélie. All of them- they are your victims. You did this to them.”

I was crying, sobs wracking my body like a vicious illness. I shook my head repeatedly, “Oh my god- you’re worse than him. Why are you saying this? I didn’t mean to hurt any of them.”

Sandra replied, “So you understand the consequences of your actions. Philip has been cowed by his humanity. He’s incapable of doing something as simple as getting a little girl to sing a few stupid songs. His emotion clouds his judgement- something I am not burdened with.”

I stared at the woman, the hard lines of her face forming a vicious mask. She was all angular, high cheekbones, boyish hips and non-existent breasts. She was a terrifying heroin chic. “W-What are you?”

Sandra gripped my face, seemingly drinking in my fear, which caused a deadly smile to appear on her face. “I’m the associate supervisor.”

Even metaphysical music agencies were mired in bureaucracy. I would have rolled my eyes, if I hadn’t been so scared.

My body trembled as the woman gripped my face. “Now, we are going to finish your album. Aren’t, we sweetie?”

I stared at the woman, who in my eyes represented pure malevolence. My lip curled into a little sneer, as the door to my private hospital room opened.

A smiling doctor entered, and the anger slowly drained out of me. I had just been in a terrifying car accident, there was no way the doctor would allow me to leave! Still, I didn’t feel like I had any broken bones, but if I was concussed, maybe I would be kept for observation. If that was the case, it was possible that Rebellion’s Mask would weaken the Prophecy enough to overtake it, breaking the chain. I couldn’t lie to the doctor, for fear of retribution from the Prophecy, but again, he wasn’t letting me go, right?

The doctor said cheerfully, “You are amazingly lucky, Abigail. You only suffered very minor bruising to your face from the impact of the air bag.” She added, “A little cover up, and no one will know you’ve been in an accident.”

I said, “But, what about my head? I was feeling woozy earlier. Do I have a concussion?”

The doctor shook her head, “No- thankfully you didn’t suffer any head trauma. Or even whiplash. It’s incredible. I think you’ve got your own guardian angel, young lady! I spoke to your guardian Mr. Atwater, and he felt it would be best for you to rest at home. Of course, he and Sandra will look after you, and if your condition worsens, they’ll bring you back.”

I sighed heavily, “Oh.”

The doctor shook her head, and smiled gently, “You wanted to stay at the hospital? Well that’s a first!” She grew more serious, “Your guardian felt it better for you to rest at home. Also because in your home, you can keep out the prying eyes. If you know what I mean.”

The doctor slowly opened the blinds, allowing me to peek through. Directly outside my hospital room were an absolute horde of reporters, camera operators and worst of all- paparazzi. As soon as they saw my face peek from behind the blinds, hundreds of cameras were pointed at me. My heart pounded, and I looked at the mass in fear. All of them staring- wanting a piece of me.

The doctor nodded, “This is why I agree with Mr. Atwater. Normally, we would keep you overnight, but having reporters constantly trying to interview you, might cause your condition to worsen. It will definitely cause you a lot of stress.”

I shook my head, “I don’t live in a gated community or anything- they can still follow me home. Plus, wasn’t there just a break-in? I’m not sure I feel safe.”

Sandra said, “The agency has hired additional security around the house. Abigail will be able to rest in peace.” I also wouldn’t be able to leave.

The doctor smiled, “I understand you are a singer. What kind of music do you sing?”

I said, “Uh- I don’t know. It’s- um.”

Sandra smiled at the doctor, “Abigail is too modest. She is a pop singer. Extremely talented. We are so pleased she is OK. She’ll be able to finish her album now.”

The doctor looked at me, “Well that’s exciting! Now- the police. They will want to take your statement before you leave Abigail. Can I tell them to come in?”

Sandra said, “I just need a few minutes with her. I want to make sure she is OK. She’s been through a lot.”

The doctor smiled, “You are lucky to have such caring people in your life, Abigail. Good luck with your album! Maybe you’ll be famous!”

I shrugged, “Maybe.” The doctor left the room, and Sandra returned to my bedside.

She said firmly, “Tell the police that Britney asked to meet you. That she said she wanted to meet and give you some advice, from someone who had been there before. And then she drove away from your intended meeting spot, taking you onto the highway and out of Hollywood. Tell them that you were terrified for your life, that she said she was going to do awful things to you. Make her seem crazy, Abigail.”

I narrowed my eyes, “S-She could go to jail for this though. I don’t want to say that she kidnapped me! Can’t we just say it was a misunderstanding? She was bringing me somewhere I didn’t agree- or something. Please. Don’t make me do this.” She reached out and slapped me full in the face, right where my bruise would form from the accident.

Sandra said, “What are you going to do, you little bitch?” She slapped me again.

I said, “No! I won’t tell them that! You can hurt me all you want. I’m not disobeying the Prophecy by doing that. My influence has likely risen because of the accident. There’s no reason to hurt Britney any more. Look, I’ll- I’ll finish the album. I’ll finish it tonight if you want even.”

Sandra said, “No, you misunderstand me, little girl. I tell you to do something, and you do it. No compromise. You’ll finish the album tonight either way.”

I crossed my arms underneath my chest, entering full pout/resistance mode.

Sandra said, “Fine, then I’ll throw you to the paparazzi and the reporters out there.”

I said, “So what? I don’t care. I’ll tell them the same thing I tell the police. That she didn’t kidnap me. I’ll clear her name. I’ll be in the news either way! So the Prophecy can’t do anything.”

I got up and started getting dressed. I went behind the privacy curtain, I put my bra on and leaned down to pull my panties up. As I did, I noticed that they didn’t sit on my butt properly. They were tighter than I remember. I leaned down again, and I stared in shock as the panties slowly became a thong. I looked behind me, and I would have easily fit in Sir Mix-a-lot’s “Baby Got Back” video, except they had lost all firmness, drooping down. Thinking that I must be hallucinating, I leaned down to pull up my jeans, and I started yanking them up my legs, with some difficulty. I quickly grew red-faced as I forced them past my thighs, but was immediately halted by my suddenly very round middle.

My muffin top had grown, with two full handfuls of flesh now peeking out over the side of the jeans that I couldn’t even button. They had friends too, in the form of a pot belly that soon hung a few inches over the still unzipped jeans. I huffed and pulled roughly at the jeans, desperately trying to button them. After some serious effort, I managed to button them, but my belly now overflowed, spilling out in all directions. I could even feel the flesh piling up on my back, as my ass sagged downwards in my panties. Fat started to invade my back, causing my bra straps to tighten against my shoulders. I could literally feel the rolls forming back there, as I knew I was rocketing from curvy, to chubby, to plain fat. My breasts engulfed the cups of my bra, straining and then sagging downward, losing firmness. Angry red marks appeared on my thickening thighs, and the area where my belly was rubbing up against my pants. It was like I had been this way for months, but unfortunately none of my clothes grew with me!

I looked at my upper arms, which soon became husky- beefy looking. My belly deepened as it gained further mass, not staying in step with my butt and boobs, which had seemingly stopped growing, even though my panties were wedged in my ass crack. My thighs widened again, starting to now really dig into my jeans. I rocketed into plus-size territory, as my hands flew to my face. My slightly chubby cheeks grew, my chin deepened, forming another, leaving me with a discernible double chin. Frustrated beyond belief with the state of my jeans, I leaned down to try to extricate them from my tubby body, only to find my stomach forming a thick double roll as I bent down.

I managed to get the pants off my thighs, but I was shocked to see my belly actually starting to hang over my panties, gaining more of the angry red stretch marks. Sandra pulled away the privacy curtain, and pulled me in front of a full-length mirror. A bonafide fat girl stared back in the mirror. I still had pretty features, but they were encased in a soft cocoon of fat. I was less the girl next door and more the girl next door’s fat friend.

For all of my speeches about being size-positive, my belief that girls could be beautiful at any size, my fights with Amélie over her weight, I had never been so disgusted. I wanted to die. I couldn’t face myself, let alone an army of reporters, and cameras. Oh god the cameras. I ripped myself from the mirror, feeling my belly jiggling, my ass bobbling and my boobs, mostly unrestrained in the mangled wire bra. What would Ethan think if he saw me?

Sandra smiled, “Ready for your close-up, Abby?”

I shook my head repeatedly, and Sandra laughed, sounding both musical, but grating also. I pulled at the flesh around my stomach, still in disbelief that this was my body. I found myself back at the mirror. I critiqued every inch of my body, from my now wobbly upper arms, to my massive cumbersome chest, and my thick, now cellulite laden ass. I viewed myself from every angle, and something inside me snapped. It was impossible that I could be beautiful this way, that Ethan would ever accept me. I was a massive, unattractive fat whale. My lower lip trembled as I stared, like a rubber necked driver peering at an accident scene, I couldn’t look away.

In a moment, all of my resolve, my beliefs regarding the concept of size acceptance, it was all thrown like bloody meat to a pack of mangy wild dogs. My eyes devoured my body, seeing imperfection in every millimetre of skin. I sighed deeply, feeling tears starting to fall. How, could I let myself be defeated by my own vanity? Darren would tell me that I was still beautiful, it was how I wore it and how I acted. If I was confident, then I was beautiful. Lies! All of it lies.

I swore I would never eat again, or at least anything that would potentially cause me to blow up even more.

I asked Sandra pitifully, “How…w-what did you do to me?”

Sandra nodded, “It’s not real, but you think it is. No one will actually see you like that. But with every step you take, it will seem to you like your real body.”

She smiled, “Think of it like an instant eating disorder. Every picture you see of yourself, you’ll be like this too. I bet you’ll be begging Philip to get you a personal trainer by the end of the day. You’ll start eating right. But it will never change. No matter how hard you work. You’ll always feel and see yourself like that.”

I lashed out, “Y-You’re a monster! You- are going to turn me into an anorexic! Why does it matter if Britney kidnapped me or not?”

Sandra nodded, “Because your press will be bigger, and therefore, your influence more pronounced. And the second reason, because I told you to.” She looked deadly serious. “Are you ready to do as you are told?”

I sneered, “I can face them. You won’t convince me. So right now, these clothes I’m wearing they actually fit? Well, then it’s just mind over matter. I know the truth.”

A tiny smile crept onto Sandra’s face, “Well then I think it’s time that we introduced Ethan to Hollywood then. And your new body? Do you really think you’ll be able to kiss him, with you feeling like that? If you feel disgusted with yourself, do you really think- you’ll even let him touch you? Feeling like he’s poking and prodding your rolls.”

The tiny smile remained, “It’ll be such a healthy relationship. Then maybe after that we’ll get you a real celebrity boyfriend.”

Again, Sandra’s words stabbed at my mind, cutting swathes of destruction to my resolve. I tore myself away from the mirror again and moved toward the door. Every inch of my body went with me, jiggling, swaying, wobbling, and up and down- side to side. I felt like my body occupied the whole room. I grasped the door handle, and gently turned, but I never opened the door. I closed my eyes, realizing that Sandra had won. I couldn’t go on like this. As much as I hated to admit it, as much as I wanted to ignore the cries of protest from my belief system, that size acceptance was a valid concept, I couldn’t live like this.

I sunk to my knees, releasing my grip on the door handle.

***

Chapter 64

“Ms. Spears, how did she convince you to come with her?”

I nodded slowly to the female LAPD officer. I replied, “She said she had some advice for me. I loved her as a little girl. She’s one of my idols. I was really looking forward to meeting her.”

Next to me, sat Sandra. She didn’t say a word, but I could see in her eyes that she was pleased with my answer. She had released the spell on me, but the feeling of having my belly overflow my pants, the way the jeans had encased my thighs like sausages, lingered.

The officer nodded, another officer was taking down what was said in a notebook, “And when it was clear she wasn’t taking you to where she said. What happened then?”

I replied, “I asked her to turn around. I told her I was scared, but she looked at me, with like these crazy eyes. She said she wished she could have my body, and then she sped up.”

The officer asked, “And you said you fell asleep? You only remember seeing the accident. Did she drug you?”

I shrugged, “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I’ve always fallen asleep in cars.”

I looked over at Sandra who was frowning. The female officer turned to look at her too.

She cleared her throat, “Now, Abigail- you are telling me you fell asleep during a kidnapping? Weren’t you scared?”

I said, “Um- I-I was yes. Sorry, I don’t remember everything.”

The officer smiled gently, “It’s OK, Abigail- you’ve been through a lot. I don’t expect you to remember everything. I think that’s enough for now.”

The other officer closed the notebook, and both left the hospital room.

Sandra said, “Well done, Abigail. You were convincing. You came off as a frightened victim, and since you’ve been through a traumatic experience- you can’t be expected to remember everything.”

***

“I really do not need your help on this, Miss Walker. I had things under control.”

Mr. Atwater had greeted us at the doorway. Sandra had us flee the hospital out a side entrance, and hop into a cab, since Tony’s limousine would have made an attractive target to the media waiting for my statement. I noticed two security officers patrolling the grounds as we pulled into the driveway, and then two more at the front door. They stood in silent vigil. All of them were armed.

Sandra said, “Do your vocal exercises and be down in twenty minutes, Abigail. You will finish recording the album tonight.”

I did as I was told, hearing the beginning of an argument between Mr. Atwater and Sandra.

Sandra said calmly, “Philip, she kicked you in the testicles, and was on her way to a remote location, all the while, that band is causing us major problems. So now, I’ve had to come and do your job and halt all my work on Rebellion’s Mask. You had nothing under control! Nothing.”

Instead of immediately going to my room, I stayed to watch the argument, peeking my head out at the top of the stairs.

Mr. Atwater said firmly, “But Miss Walker, we still have a week before Rebellion’s Mask fully usurps the Prophecy. I knew the Prophecy would bring Abigail back. She won’t disobey me again, she saw what happened.”

Sandra raised her voice, “Philip, your humanity is impeding your task. You are gaining affection for the girl, just as you did for your last charge. I have no choice but to remain here and ensure the album is completed.”

They left the room, and I went to my room to begin my vocal warm-ups. Under Sandra, the last two songs were completed before dinner Mr. Atwater didn’t even come into the studio. There was no joking under Sandra. She was humourless- which was odd because the bubble gum pop I was singing was lively, jovial and in parts excruciatingly happy- like an ode to Alyssa. Julian left to mix them in a larger studio, saying they would be done in under two days as per Sandra’s request.

***

“Are you certain that you want to eat that, Abigail?” I was peering down at a piece of pie that was looking less and less appetizing. Mr. Atwater regarded me sternly. “It’s not on your diet. And you haven’t been sticking to it recently.”

After hearing about my accident, and miraculous survival, Julian’s wife had baked a peach pie for me. Sandra watched the exchange quietly.

I said, “It would be rude not to eat it. I’ll just eat half.”

I had a thing about wasting homemade food. Even if Julian’s wife would never know, it just wouldn’t be right.

Mr. Atwater shrugged his shoulders and nodded, “I suppose that’s fair.”

Sandra immediately interjected, “Philip, this is why you need me here. She needs to fit into a size 2. We need her weight loss to be part of her appeal in the media.”

She snatched the pie from me and threw it in the garbage, “Abigail, you need to learn willpower. Or you’ll just get fatter and fatter.”

I blinked, looking down at myself. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I also wasn’t the overweight fat girl I had been in my hospital room either. “Y-You think I’m fat?”

Sandra nodded, “Yes. You are. You have fat thighs. And your upper arms, look at them. You haven’t been exercising. There’s hardly any tone. And your muffin top- your ass too. It’s fat.”

Mr. Atwater’s subtle manipulations to convince me to lose weight, the tabloid pictures and comments about the expectations of Hollywood, it was nothing compared to Sandra blunt trauma. She was like Véronique in that respect. I frowned deeply, and Sandra continued, “You want to look like Miley, Selena- and Britney in her prime, don’t you? Think of all the boys who will find you attractive. All the girls that will envy you- want your body. You want that, don’t you? I’m sure it’s what Ethan would want.”

I stared at Sandra as her words permeated my brain.

I managed to squeak out, “N-No.”

Sandra looked to Mr. Atwater, who had a worried look on his face. “Philip, I have to admit, she’s got a very powerful will. One of the strongest, and definitely one of the most stubborn. I can see why you had trouble with her.”

She looked at me, as I reached out to cut myself another piece of pie, and said, “Abigail, let me explain this in words you can understand. If you are fat in Hollywood, you are ugly. Eventually Ethan’s going to see through it, he’s going to come here and fall in love with a thinner girl, one way prettier than you. And you’ll be sitting here eating pie.”

I left the table crying, dropping the cutting knife on the floor in the process. Just before I left, I could see Mr. Atwater glaring at Sandra.

***

I flipped open my laptop, and even though it was late, I desperately hoped that Ethan was online. I had left my phone in my room, as Sandra didn’t want me playing on it during recording. I sent him a quick text. I had multiple messages from Amélie, Alyssa, and my parents. At least thirty from Ethan. When I returned home from the hospital, I had spent time answering them, telling them I was OK, but that I needed to record.

Amélie was disgusted by the whole thing, threatening to fly down and stir up trouble, stating that Sandra’s treatment of me bordered on criminal neglect. She said I should be resting because of the trauma I had been through. She asked me if Britney had really meant to kidnap me, and I told her I didn’t really know. Ethan and Alyssa were concerned for my health, with Ethan even saying in one text, “luv u so much abby plz be OK.”

A few minutes later, I was on Skype with Ethan.

Ethan smiled wide, “Abby! I’m- um, I’m really glad you are OK. I saw the news and stuff- the car looked so bad.”

I nodded, “I’m feeling OK. I’m back home now, which is good- cause I don’t really like hospitals.”

The smile never left Ethan’s face, “I miss you so much, Abby. When am I gonna be able to come? I miss the- well you know the stuff we did together. Not just hanging out- but kissing- and other stuff.” I actually saw his cheeks redden slightly, which caused instant joy in my heart.

I replied, “The recording is done. The songs just need to be mixed and mastered. And then rehearsal for the tour I guess. I’ll ask, but I guess probably in like under two weeks.”

Ethan frowned gently, “That’s a long time. Damn. Um- maybe you could convince Mr. Atwater to let me come down now? Cause if the album is recorded, then you don’t mix it, right?”

I said, “I can ask. But there’s this really bitchy lady here now. She’s mad the album has taken so long.”

Ethan smirked, “I can’t wait to get there. I’ll give her the ketchup mustard treatment, right?”

I shook my head, “I wouldn’t. She’s not very nice. She called me fat today. And she makes me feel ugly. They are really pressuring me to lose weight.”

Ethan shook his head repeatedly, “What a fucking bitch! Come on, Abby. You are so hot. You are not ugly at all. That bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” He grinned sheepishly, “Remember Halloween night, it was- um, well if you were ugly, I don’t think I would have had that problem!”

I said, “Um…can you? Well, just close your door. I want to- here. I don’t want anyone else to see. I want you to tell me the truth.”

I lifted my shirt off, and pulled down my jeans, and when Ethan returned, a wide grin appeared on his face. He immediately pulled the shirt over his head, and his eyes were laser-guided toward my body, drinking him my form, his intent obvious. If he could have jumped into his computer screen to reach me, he would have done it in an instant.

I sat on my bed, my little tummy forming a pooch. My love handles were also visible. I sighed and turned off my own image on the screen, allowing Ethan’s bare chest to fill my entire view. OK- so his face was there too.

I said simply, “Do you think I look fat? And be truthful, compare me to Véronique if you want, any girls you know. It’s OK. Even celebrities.”

Ethan shook his head rapidly, “No way, Abby. Like I said, you are hot. Like you are beautiful. You’re the only girl I notice, the only one I care about. You aren’t fat. You are perfect.”

I could tell Ethan was being sincere, but I couldn’t convince myself. Ethan wanted to do stuff on camera, but I was feeling really self-conscious still. We talked for a bit longer, but I couldn’t shake the feeling, the lingering shadow of self-doubt that crept into my mind. Memories of Véronique’s pig-insult, the cookie crumbs lining my face, the unflattering pictures from Harmony’s party, the comments on my video regarding my weight, and my complete lack of willpower when it came to food, flooded my mind.

I spent the next twenty minutes solidly critiquing my body, pulling at my love handles, squeezing my soft tummy, and gripping my thighs. I moved to my ass, hefting it, squeezing each cheek. I almost took two hands to hold one cheek, or did it? I wasn’t sure. Was my image distorted? Was Sandra doing something to me? I even focused on my face, looking upward and pulling at the skin on my neck, frowning as I could have sworn I saw a double chin.

I knew that something was wrong, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that when I looked in the mirror, I saw a fat girl staring back at me.

***

I hoped that my new found disgust for my body would only last a few hours. After all, Véronique had often called me ‘fat’ or ‘piggy’, and I got over it. I would usually wake the next day, feeling better about myself, having received kind words from either Alyssa or Ethan.

When I had initially spoken to Amélie about my body image concerns, she told me a story about her and Laura as teenagers. They used to go on little diets, avoiding certain food, and then ultimately cheating. They were based on perceived imperfections, a tight pair of pants or a bloated middle, and being supportive friends, they would diet together. The diets never lasted very long, and while I hoped that my feelings were simple teenage anxiety, I was starting to look at food differently, less as something to enjoy and more as something to fear. Something that would make me bigger, and eventually undesirable to Ethan. Even though he had told me otherwise, I just couldn’t believe him. Not when I didn’t feel good about myself.

That morning, Sandra didn’t help things. She critiqued my breakfast, saying that cereal bars were empty calories. They were the equivalent of eating a chocolate bar. I knew the statement was ridiculous because I could read on the box that the bars had far more nutrients than their chocolate cousins, but I still looked at the bar with an arrested appetite. Then, I barely ate any lunch.

I peeked through the curtains, and I could see the media circus was still waiting for me to exit the house. They had descended on the house shortly after our escape yesterday, and I was actually thankful for the armed security guards. They kept the more aggressive reporters, the tabloid-style journalists at bay. There were at least fifty people waiting outside for my statement.

I asked Sandra, “When- when am I going to be able to go outside? I need to give my statement to them. When I do, they’ll leave. I should just agree to give an exclusive and then be done with it. They’ll have no reason to be there.”

Sandra shook her head, “The longer we wait, the more interest in the story. It’s the fact that you haven’t said anything that is causing the story to get so much press. Everyone wants to know what America’s new sweetheart has to say. And because of that, people are talking about you. Look.”

She pointed to her tablet computer screen, where it showed clearly that I was trending on every single social media site.

Sandra added, “When your album comes out, you’ll go on all the talk shows and give your story. It will create absolutely unprecedented influence. A top selling album, and an incredible life or death story. Abigail- you are going to bigger than the Beatles, Britney Spears and Jesus Christ put together.”

I shook my head, “And how do you know I will have a top selling album? What if people don’t want to swallow the shit you are choking them with?”

Sandra said, “I’ll tell you a secret, Abigail. Pop music doesn’t really have to be good, it just has to be played excessively, and eventually- it will be accepted by the masses. Have you ever wondered why pop music stations play the same five songs all day long? Ever heard of Payolla?

I nodded, “Yes, it was a scheme used by record companies to get their artists’ songs played. They basically paid the radio stations, and they played the songs.”

Sandra smiled, “The Sidereus Agency engineered Payolla. We have done the same thing with iTunes. All of the artists you see on the main page, it is meant to distract- notice that none of the artists listed there are controversial or thought provoking. It’s all distracting fluff.”

I pointed to the screen, “What about this one? She’s humping a sledge hammer in the video. That’s controversial.”

Sandra nodded, “Yes, but it’s not thought provoking, and it’s not politically controversial. It’s actual a wonderful distraction. If people are talking about that, they aren’t discussing how their chosen leaders are failing them.”

I took the tablet from her and flipped through the choices on iTunes. Sandra was partially correct. There was an abundance of pop filler, but one artist caught my eye. The logo was comprised of two black flags each depicting the anarchy symbol. Between the two flags, there was a grinning, flaming skull. Underneath the skull, was the band’s name, REBELLION’S MASK, emblazoned in bold type face. I tapped my fingernail on the screen to view their album, and I could see that the popularity of every song on the album was nearly maxed. I handed the tablet back to her. The woman’s face showed actual worry for the first time. I smirked at her.

Sandra smiled, “They might be trending, but you still have the spotlight with your story of survival. Your album will be released in the next few days. There’s just the photo shoot now. After that, that rabble rousing band will be a footnote. They’ll tumble off the charts as you usher in a new age of pop music.”

I rolled my eyes, “You know you aren’t a villain in a Saturday morning cartoon, right? Someone has told you this.”

Sandra gripped my chin firmly, “This routine might have worked on Philip. But I will accept nothing but absolute submission from you, Abigail. You already know the consequences for disobeying me. I think you and I understand each other though. You’ve already started eating less. Once we start the dance rehearsals, the weight will fall off of you, providing another storyline to add to your influence.”

Sandra added, “Now, you should complete your workout. I want you to do the sixty minute dance cardio DVD that I gave you.”

I replied, “But I’m still hungry from lunch. I’ll faint if I do that workout without eating something.”

Sandra said, “By all means. Eat something.”

I went into the cupboard and pulled out a box of store-bought brownies. As I unwrapped the delectable treat, Sandra stared at me disapprovingly. She removed a bag of chips from the top of the fridge. She searched the cupboard and pulled out another bag of chips, followed by a bag of Oreo cookies. As I bit into the brownie, she ripped open all of the junk food bags and dumped them into a bucket. I put the brownie down on the table as I watched her in grim fascination. She then removed two bottles of Orange Crush from the fridge, and then poured the bottles in the bucket. She snatched my brownie and threw it in the bucket, and then she grabbed a massive serving spoon, stirring up the concoction.

She picked up the bucket and set it on the kitchen floor. “Oh Abigail, that little brownie won’t do. Don’t you want a real snack?”

I peered into the bucket, seeing pieces of potato chip, and brownie floating in an orange stew. Suddenly, she took me by the hair, her action catching me off guard and preventing any defense on my part. She held my head over the bucket and proceeded to dunk my head into the concoction, thoroughly soaking my face and dirtying my hair and skin with bits of soggy brownie and potato chip. I coughed, spitting out pieces of crushed Oreo cookie.

Sandra said, “Go ahead you fat disgusting pig, eat it. Eat all of it. Right now.”

I shook my head vehemently, but she forced my head into the bucket again. I clenched my jaw shut, preventing any from getting into my mouth, but the pop got into my nose and burned my sinuses. Within seconds, I could feel my belly hang down, my ass grow out again- until I was once again the fat girl in the mirror.

Sandra took her other hand and squeezed my belly rolls roughly, “You revolting slob. I bet you still want to eat it though. Right?” I shook my head again, now feeling the tears fall down my fattened cheeks.

I shouted, “I’m sorry- please- just, I want to be back to myself again. I won’t eat this stuff please! Please!! I don’t want to be like this!”

I lay on the floor crying. Sandra had released her grip on my hair. I felt like myself again within seconds, still imperfect, but at least I wasn’t a fat, disgusting… My eyes widened as I realized how effective Sandra’s psychological torture had been.

Sandra said, “If you cheat on your diet again. I’ll make you finish this entire bucket. Do you understand?”

The ‘gourmet’ feast would fill me with a massive amount of calories, but I would undoubtedly be sick also. Bile mixed with junk food and my favourite pop wouldn’t exactly make me want to eat anything remotely sweet for a long time. Not to mention, I wasn’t sure I could take Sandra’s abuse throughout the entire process and remain mentally unscathed. I was already starting to see fat as something to be reviled. At least on my own body.

I nodded rapidly, and Sandra said, “Go clean up. And then what are you going to do?”

I replied timidly, still half-crying, “M-My workout.”

Sandra smiled, “Good girl.”

I couldn’t believe it, but I actually missed Mr. Atwater.

***

“Abigail, what happened to you?” Mr. Atwater had met me in the upstairs hallway. My face was still covered with junk food, and my hair was sopping wet, as evidenced by the driblets of soda pop that had followed me from the kitchen. I frowned and look back at the mess I had made, but I was eager to wash up. I would clean it after.

I said, “Sorry, I-I’ll clean it after my shower.”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “It’s not necessary, Abigail. I’ll just have the cleaning service come. It’s part of the rental perk for this place. You’ve been pretty good about picking up after yourself.”

I said, “Yeah because I don’t want to be seen as one of those brain dead starlets that can’t do laundry or simple every day stuff. It’s just some spilt pop. I could get a paper towel and-”

Mr. Atwater shook his head, “Abigail, I’m calling the cleaning service. We need the house cleaned anyway.”

He looked down at me with actual concern, “Now- what happened to you?”

I said, “Ms. Psycho decided that she didn’t like me cheating on my diet. That woman is insane. She scares the hell out of me. She keeps doing this thing to me- she makes me think I’m like grossly overweight. She’s making me hate my body.”

Mr. Atwater said, “You’ve a reason to fear her, Abigail. She is the Sidereus Prophecy incarnate. She is essentially as old as humanity. She taught me everything I know about the associate position I occupy. She only manifests into human form when the associate has failed in their duty. As I have.”

He added, “Do not under any circumstances disobey her. I see that I am a little late with this advice.” He rubbed some chocolate from my cheek.

I said, “I heard you talking to her about Rebellion’s Mask. If she’s focusing so much on me, what’s stopping them from defeating the Prophecy? You seem to like her as much I do. If we stall her, maybe Rebellion’s Mask pushes the Prophecy to the brink.”

Mr. Atwater looked at me sternly, “If you want to get through this intact, Abigail, and I am not talking about your body parts- you had best do exactly as Ms. Walker asks. She has only involved herself one other time, and it wasn’t pretty.”

The man cleared his throat, “You’ve been a handful certainly, but I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

I frowned, “And what about Britney, don’t you care about her? Sandra made me lie to the police. She could go to jail! She was hurt really badly in that accident too. Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”

Mr. Atwater lowered his voice, “Quiet down. If she hears you, you will be in real trouble. Aren’t you supposed to be doing your workout anyway?”

He added, “As for Britney, when you fulfil the Prophecy, everything will go back to normal. You know, some piece of evidence will go missing. She’ll go free. As for her injuries, I understand that they are not life-threatening.”

I sneered and pointed at the man, “I don’t know what Sandra was talking about. That statement didn’t have a shred of humanity. You are still an unfeeling monster.”

Mr. Atwater sighed gently and replied, “Abigail, don’t dawdle. And- know this- if you disobey, Ms. Walker…she’ll erase you. She will do anything to ensure the Prophecy is fulfilled. Because obviously if it isn’t, she ceases to exist. There is far more at stake for her, than for you. After two years, you can move on from this- if you so choose. Just live this life- and maybe, you’ll even have a little fun sometimes. Don’t you miss being out on stage, the exhilaration, the energy and the power it gives you?”

I nodded, “To a certain degree yes, I miss doing shows, but I’m not in a big hurry to dress like a prostitute every night.”

Mr. Atwater said with a hint of tenderness, “Remember what I said, Abigail. She has far more to lose than you.”

***

“Are you kidding? You want me to wear that? For the album cover? Please just shoot me now. Shoot me in the head.”

Sandra handed me a pair of black and yellow stockings. She then proceeded to give me a black and yellow dress with a halter top built into it, which would ensure plenty of cleavage. Attached to the dress was a nearly translucent black tutu. Amazingly, I found the silly looking glitter-laden antennae headpiece the least objectionable part of the costume. Atop the antennae sat two shiny yellow balls.

Sandra said, “This is your outfit for the album cover, Abigail. Get dressed.” She handed me a pair of shiny black heels. “Don’t forget these.”

I had been in hair and makeup for nearly two hours, my hair was teased and then placed in ringlets, which flowed down over my shoulder, partially obscuring my chest. Only partially. Once I slipped into the outfit, it was clear that my most impressive assets were going to be front and centre. The halter top pushed my boobs up, forming cavernous cleavage. I was more concerned about my thighs, however, which looked chunky and flabby. As I dressed in the bathroom, I continued to evaluate my body. My arms looked flabby too. I moved them up and down and there was a discernible jiggle. Was I getting even bigger? My eyes widened. It definitely seemed that way. But I was eating less, and less. It made no sense.

Not only did I hate the outfit- I hated how I looked in it too. I knew they would air brush my imperfections, but I would still know the truth. Oh god, what was wrong with me? Ethan had told me I looked amazing- hot. He didn’t flinch when he touched me- didn’t turn away in disgust. I shook my head repeatedly, pulling at my love handles, which formed clearly due to the tightness of the dress. I couldn’t believe that I wanted to be air brushed! I was so against the practice- the idea that a computer creates perfection, and unrealistic standards. Why was I so disgusted with myself?

I exited the bathroom slowly, and I knew all eyes in the room were on me. I felt like they were judging me- the Hollywood types. Their eyes burnt into me, as if each individual orb were choosing a specific part of my body to critique. Once the photo shoot started, it wasn’t any easier. Now there would be photographic evidence of how fat I was. I seriously wanted to cry at certain parts of the shoot, as I looked at the slim makeup girls- I envied them. Despite my melancholy mood, the photographer kept shooting, and the image they decided to use for the album didn’t even feature a smile. The picture told the story of a girl who was innocent, crawling amongst a plethora of enormous multi-coloured flowers. She stared wide-eyed at the massive world before her. I thought it represented well the idea that this was an adventure, a first album, and a journey into the unknown. Sandra, however, explained that the image was chosen because it would appeal to men, and in particular adult men. She wanted me to appear weak, submissive- conquerable. I was so hungry, I couldn’t begin to tell her how much I disagreed with her methodology. She was selling me, selling my sixteen-year old body, and all I could think of was how much I wanted a cheese burger.

The liner art featured more playful images, and actual smiles with a few gratuitous boob shots. One particular risqué shot involved me with a licorice whip about to swat the bottoms of some naughty looking boy bees. I learned as well that my stage name would not be Abigail- it would be Abeille, which was French for bee. Despite the powerless album cover, the album title itself was “Queen Bee”. I understood this. I would ride my innocence and my sex appeal, just as Britney did, to the very top of the charts and take my place as a newly-crowned pop princess. I didn’t need Sandra to explain to me that my album title was prophetic. The critics would say initially, that the title was presumptuous, and then they would be proven wrong.

A few days later, my album was released. The single “Like Wow” broke a single day download record on iTunes, and the album itself knocked Rebellion’s Mask off the top spot. The media circus left the next day, after a press release stated that the queen of daytime TV, Oprah Winfrey, was coming out of retirement for a single reason- to interview me. This was to be the exclusive that I had suggested to Sandra earlier.

I was given a standing ovation from the audience of mostly women. Oprah asked some poignant questions, but Sandra had prepared me very well. She had made me rehearse my responses to the expected questions. In the end, I came off as the innocent victim, a poor naïve girl, who idolized her kidnapper, and who ultimately felt sorry for her. I was deemed a “good girl” by the entertainment press, however, despite all of this, and my success- people still wanted to talk about my weight.

One article asked, “Is Abeille (a.k.a. Abigail Grenier) too fat to be a mega star?” It wasn’t the only one either. Another asked, “Will Abigail reach the heights of her kidnapper idol at size 8?” A tabloid style rag said, “Flabby Abby hates her body, has started starvation diet!” Another suggested that I was hooked on diet pills, and soon to lose the weight. It was like Hollywood couldn’t accept that their culture of thin had been subverted. Here I was, not a size 2, with clear physical flaws, and an apparent success at least in regard to album sales. I knew too that the articles were rubbish, there was little truth to them, but they still hurt. I watched the Oprah interview multiple times, not for the interview content, but more because I hated how I looked in it. The skirt they made me wear again made my thighs look fat.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and the more I obsessed about it, the worse I felt, and the more I wanted to lose weight. I weighed myself every morning, and despite doing the 60-minute cardio dance DVD every day, I couldn’t seem to lose any weight. I was sticking to my diet too! Every time Ethan and I would Skype, I would ask him if he thought I looked fatter. I could tell he was getting annoyed by how obsessed I was becoming, but maybe it was because he didn’t think I was attractive anymore? The girl in the mirror seemed to get fatter every day.

Harmony had managed to convince me to go out for a spa day, but the paparazzi managed to photograph us from a goddamn helicopter as we were moving from the outdoor spa in bikinis! The spa was supposed to be paparazzi proof, but apparently not from the air. Or was it from the air? I wasn’t sure. I had also become increasingly paranoid, now that the paparazzi had turned their full attention on me. They had scared me a few times with sudden flashes. The result of the impromptu bikini photo shoot had my body on the list of worst celebrity bikini bodies. In half a dozen different magazines, and then numerous celebrity gossip sites and blogs, my body parts were circled, my problem areas identified, such as the slight cellulite on the back of my legs, and my flabby arms, fat thighs, double chin. A picture of me bending over to pick up my cell phone showed off a noticeable fat roll around my stomach. One magazine even said I had cankles. For two days afterward, I scoured the web, reading all the articles I could find, inundating my brain with comment threads saying horrible things about my body. I didn’t read the nice ones. They were lying, probably wanting to feel better about themselves. They were fat girls too.

I tried on my stilettos, and I realized the website was right. I pinched the skin around my ankle, noticing that it wasn’t as visible as it had been previously. I had cankles. Nasty!

I looked in the mirror and shook my head. I was a disgusting, fat pig. I knew that once Ethan saw the pictures, he would be grossed out. I had let myself go- even though the scale said I had lost a few pounds, three- maybe four.

It seemed impossible because the image staring back at me- it was fatter than it had been this morning.

***

“Come in.” Mr. Atwater had seemingly been banished to his room. I had barely seen him since I had neutered him with my stiletto. He wasn’t present at the photo shoot, and he wasn’t backstage during the taping of the talk show. The voice that allowed me entrance sounded tired.
As I entered, I saw a peculiar sight. Mr. Atwater was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, leaning back on his bed and watching television. It seemed impossible that the man who was usually impeccably dressed, and perfectly coiffed would allow himself to be seen as a common man. I looked at the television screen, but the man quickly flicked it off. Before he did, I could see clearly that he had been watching a 24-hour news channel, which continued to follow the story of Britney Spears, ex-pop star kidnapper. Britney was released on a two-hundred and fifty thousand dollar bond. She was charged with the unauthorized removal of a minor, which amounted to child abduction, a far more serious crime because of the age of the victim. She faced up to five years in prison.
I watched Mr. Atwater carefully. He actually seemed happy to see me. “Abigail, how are you doing?”
He had to know. I had barely slept the night before, continuing to wrestle what was a significant departure from my usual thinking. I had always criticized celebrities for submitting to the ‘thin is in’ culture that permeated Hollywood, but now that I was a part of it- and my body weight was seemingly more important than the upcoming presidential election (I was trending higher than the two challengers), it was hard to ignore.
Lady Gaga, who herself had been criticized for a meagre weight gain, sent me a tweet, “Love yourself, Abigail- and don’t listen to the haters. Do what I did…actually don’t do what I did! LOL u are beautiful #BEWHOUWANNABE” She had posted pictures of herself in skimpy underwear, showing that she was comfortable with her body. Katy Perry sent me a similar tweet with the hashtag, #ABBYBEAUTIFUL. And while the sentiment was lovely, it didn’t fix what I saw in the mirror every day.
I said, “How did Britney do it? How did she deal with the constant talk about her body? People criticizing her body. The comments- everything. I feel like I never want to eat again with some of the pictures that I’ve seen of myself.”
Mr. Atwater replied, “Much the same way you are coping I’m afraid. She was quite a bit slimmer than you when she started, and she gained weight on her first tour. Once she had fulfilled the Prophecy, she hit the craft service tables with reckless abandon. Within a few weeks, she was busting out of her outfits. And in a few months- they were making adjustments to all the costumes.”
I shook my head, “But she lost the weight- didn’t she? How did she do it?”
Mr. Atwater said, “I got her a personal trainer who worked with her every single day. Three hour workouts to tone and sculpt her body. And proper diet.”
I said, “I- um, well I was thinking that it might be easier-,” I sighed, and continued, “If I had a personal trainer. I just. I hate my body. I feel gross in everything I wear. I want to look better- so that the stupid vultures who wait to take the worst picture possible of me- that they don’t have any more fodder. You know?”
I added, “I don’t want to be stick thin, but I just want to tone, you know? My legs, my stomach- my arms. Everything. I’ve gained more than ten pounds since I became Abigail, and even if I just toned up some. I think it would be better.”
Mr. Atwater smiled gently, “I can help you with that, Abigail. There’s a young woman, Stacy Rex, she is not as aggressive as someone like Jillian Michaels, who individuals pay to yell at them, but she’s still excellent- and she gets results. Both Jessica Simpson and Kim Kardashian lost over fifty pounds working with her. Stacy has a celebrity-quick-fix program. She guarantees a ten pound loss in two weeks.”
I raised a brow, still debating whether or not I wanted to enter the world of celebrity fitness trainers. A year ago, the concept would have been alien to me, but then Darren had never struggled with weight gain, and his body had never been featured in pictures seen by millions of people!
I sighed heavily and said, “Alright, let’s give her a call.”

***
Stacy Rex was only a few inches taller than me, however, despite her stature, she controlled the room. I stared at her body in jealous admiration, knowing that she never looked at herself in the mirror and thought, “I look hideous today.” Her body was absolute perfection, a lean stomach with not a trace of fat, a firm buttocks, and sleek- sculpted legs. She wasn’t remotely musclebound, maintaining her feminine curves, but she was toned. I looked away from her, feeling both envy and a sense of deep revulsion. I wanted to look like her, desperately, but I hated myself for succumbing to such a Hollywood trope.
The young woman smiled, “OK, Abby- I’ve got three rules for my last ten pounds boot camp. You stick to the diet I give you, you follow all my exercises, even ones that seem too hard at first- and last- you have fun! I’m really looking forward to helping you reach your weight loss goals.”
I said, “I-I just want to tone up. I’m not really that interested in losing weight.”
Stacy looked at me like I was speaking Swahili. She blinked and then the smile reappeared on her face, “That’s a first! Um- sorry, I’ve just never heard that before. Usually my clients want to lose like a specific amount of weight- but you- you are sure- you just want to tone?”
I nodded my head affirmatively, “Yes- I am.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Stacy’s body. She must have thought I was a lesbian, but she didn’t say anything. She maintained the same pleasant, but firm smile.
She shouted, “Alright! Let’s get started!”
***
Stacy was a taskmaster, but she was rarely unpleasant. I struggled with the workouts at first, leaving them red faced and drenched in sweat, but the woman got results. Within a few days, I had already lost a few pounds just from the intensity of the workouts. The first thing I noticed was that my arms didn’t jiggle any longer. She didn’t have me lifting heavy weights, but the rubber exercise bands did wonders to tone my arms. Our three hour sessions were intense, a mixture of cardio, toning and firming, yoga to improve the core and strengthen the back and what Stacy called the suicide drill.

I remember a version of the drill from hockey. During practice, we were forced to skate to centre ice and back, then to the blue line and back, and finally- we had to skate the length of the ice. All of this was done at a sprint. Thankfully, Stacy’s drill wasn’t as hardcore (she didn’t need to provide a puke bucket), but it was still difficult for a body that only exercised now and then. She only had me running the length of the small gymnasium, but she had me repeat the drill multiple times.

We also started working on the dance routines. My choreographer, Jaimie spent some of the three hour session showing me different dance moves I would have to complete. Jaimie was the first of a list of many people that would be introduced to me- my hair stylist, makeup person, costume designer, the tour producer, but to be honest the only ones I was really interested in speaking to were the sound people, most of them either musicians or audio experts.

As for my weight, I had to admit that the first time I stepped on the scale and noticed that my weight was lower, I felt a small burst of joy in my heart. I knew that I shouldn’t focus on the numbers, but it meant that I wasn’t getting any larger. The girl in the mirror was actually starting to look like me again too. A few days later, I realized that I had lost a total of five pounds. The only downside to this was that I was frequently hungry, but Sandra kept the now foetid bucket of junk food stew on the patio as a reminder of my disobedience, so I dared not cheat again. Sandra had me eating under 1200 calories a day, which not only caused my stomach to growl, it often made me weak due to the amount of cardio I was doing.

A few days later, half way through the suicide drill, Stacy stopped me, “Abby, are you OK? You look a little unsteady. Take a break if you need to.”

Just as she said those words, I fell forward, the taller girl caught me and gently lay me on a gym mat. “Abby, what did you eat for lunch?”

My head throbbed and my stomach ached. Little black and grey spots danced before my eyes. I muttered, “Uh- I had half a sandwich- on this like veggie bread. And some soda crackers.”

Stacy frowned, “Abby, you are supposed to be eating a normal amount. You can’t do this kind of exercise without eating right. And what did you have for breakfast?”

I sighed, “It was- well low-fat oatmeal with a glass of orange juice.”

Stacy shook her head, “I said specifically when we started that you aren’t supposed to be dieting when you are doing my exercise program. You should be eating a normal amount. You’ve probably taken in only 500 calories. Maybe. That’s not enough. I’m worried about you, Abby. You are losing a lot of weight too. Is that what you want?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know.”

The frown never left Stacy’s pretty face, “Are you getting pressured to diet on top of the workouts we are doing? Because if that’s the case- we need to change your routine. What you are doing to your body isn’t healthy.”

I replied, “Says the girl who is perfect. What would you know? You’ve probably always been like that.”

Stacy shook her head, “I’m going to ignore that because you are really hungry. Look- I think I need to speak to Ms. Walker. She was the one who asked that I do the cardio with you, and the suicide. I don’t support starvation diets.”

I shook my head, “Please don’t make trouble for me. You’ll be making trouble for yourself too.”

Stacy frowned, “You are a beautiful girl, Abigail. And so talented. I love your songs! I get that you are young, but you have a say in this- and what about your parents? What do you think about their daughter hurting herself like this?”

I said, “Please don’t make trouble.”

Stacy said, “I’m going to speak to your parents and that’s that. You are going to put yourself in the hospital.” Stacy cut the workout short, telling me to shower. I heard arguing upstairs and then a car speed away.

***

“You look really good, Abby! Wow!” I was sitting across from Harmony at a posh Beverly Hills restaurant. I raised a brow at her admission, a slight frown crossing my features.

Harmony quickly backpedaled, “You were really pretty before, but come on, Abby- you’ve gotta admit, you were a little chunky.”

By this point, I had lost about ten pounds. I was back to my initial weight. Stacy had returned as my instructor, even after voicing her opinion concerning the danger of the diet Sandra had me following. I thought she would have been removed and replaced, but Mr. Atwater had actually spoken up on my behalf. I heard Sandra and him arguing, and it resulted in Stacy returning and my calorie intake being increased. I was pushed to 1500 a day, and during the workout sessions, Stacy insisted that we break frequently so I could take in water.

I said, “But I didn’t really care about that.”

Harmony sipped her diet cola, “Sure, Abby- sure you didn’t.” She laughed, “That’s a lie and you know it.”

I said, “I’m serious- I was OK with my weight before. Ethan didn’t mind. And I’ll bet he won’t like the fact I’ve lost in my boobs.”

The recent Skype sessions with Ethan were face-to-face literally. Since the pictures of my bikini body were published, I had only done face cam with Ethan- I was too embarrassed about how I looked- too worried he would think I was ugly.

Harmony shook her head, “You are lying, Abby. Just admit it.”

Harmony remained steadfast in her resolve. She added, “I went through the same thing last year after Christmas, I swear I gained like ten pounds. I hated how I looked, how I fit in my clothes. You can admit that you didn’t like it, I’m not gonna judge you. Believe me I’ve been there.”

I sighed gently, “OK, fine. I wasn’t happy with how I looked. I thought I looked fat in every picture, especially the ones at your party. And people online, they are so mean! Especially the girls.”

Harmony said, “Abby, you are new to this whole thing, so I’ll tell you what I know. Don’t look online for stuff about you- ever. Because as many good comments you find, you’ll find a lot of stuff the opposite. For one simple reason, people are jealous of us. They want what we have, so they attack us.”

I replied, “Some of them have legitimate reasons, especially lifestyle. Some people here, they live better than they should. Is it really necessary to have a car for every day of the week? Have a private masseuse come at 3 AM because you have a neck cramp, people have all this money and they squander it on nothing- why?”

Harmony smirked, “Says the girl who practically lived at the spa her first two weeks here. And the one wearing the thousand dollar shoes. Come on, Abby- you are just as bad.”

I shook my head vehemently, “I am not. Sandra made me buy all this stuff. The stupid sunglasses. The limo rides. All that stuff. None of it was my choice.”

Harmony pointed to the leather jacket which I had come to adore, as I had my old green hoodie, “And that, did they make you buy that? That’s a Lorenzo D’Silva original. Even my dad looks at me funny when I buy anything from that line.”

I cleared my throat, “OK, that was an impulse buy with Alyssa.”

Harmony grinned, “OK, so now that you’ve lost weight- well you need to shop right. Look, your shorts- they are falling off you! So let’s go shopping this afternoon! We’ll get you a whole new wardrobe. Unless you think you’ll lose more?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s tough to say.” The waiter came by and brought our meals- mine was a roasted chicken breast with side salad, low-fat dressing and Harmony’s was a small chicken Caesar salad, also with low-fat dressing. Unfortunately, I didn’t get what I ordered. I stared down at a steak that covered half the plate, potatoes dripping with butter and a small pasta salad. None of the items were on my diet, except for the steak, but I would only be allowed to eat ¼, and I would not be permitted to eat the caramelized onions or fried mushrooms.

The waiter smiled and said, “Bon appétit, girls!” I watched the waiter leave as I stared down at the delectable offering in front of me.

Harmony smirked, “You are drooling, Abby.”

I retorted, “Am not! Harm, I haven’t seen food like this for weeks. It’s not- it’s not what I ordered.”

Harmony said, “So ask for what you ordered. I thought you got the chicken.”

I said, “I never return stuff at restaurants. It’s not a big deal, I’ll just eat a little bit of the steak.”

Harmony shook her head, “They screwed up your order. Get the waiter back here. And you’ve never returned anything?”

I said, “No. I just find it’s annoying, you know they have to cook my meal, you’ll be sitting here with your meal, and you’ll eat, and I’ll be waiting. I’ll just eat this.” Truth be told, I was famished. I didn’t think I could wait.

Harmony snapped her fingers multiple times, trying to get the attention of a server. A young woman arrived at our table. She asked, “Is everything alright, girls?”

Harmony shook her head and pointed to my food, “No- it’s not. My friend ordered the chicken, and you gave her the steak. I want you to get her what she ordered right now.”

The server, who was at least five years older than us, stuttered, “The lunch rush, it was- well we had many before that, but we will have- I’m sorry, it will be another twenty five minutes.” She smiled gently and said, “You know, good food- it takes time to prepare. I’m really very sorry for the inconvenience.”

Harmony glared at the young woman, “Manager. Now.”

I shook my head repeatedly. We were getting a lot of attention from the other diners, and I was worried that someone was going to pull a cell phone out and document Harmony’s misbehaviour.

I said, “Listen, Harm, it’s OK. I’ll just eat the steak. It’s not a big deal.” The young woman left, and amazingly, she maintained her composure.

I said, “Harm, OK- just let it go. They are going to spit in our food. When the manager gets here, we’ll just say it’s OK, and I’ll eat the damn steak. Stop making such a big deal about this.” Harmony shook her head, and a minute later, a tall forty-something man with a goatee and stylish, yet thick glasses arrived at our table.

He said, “Girls, I understand that there’s been a problem with your order. I first want to apologize. Why don’t the two of you go shopping across the street? We’ll have your meals ready in under twenty-five minutes.”

He added with a nervous smile, “On the house.”

Harmony nodded, “That’s more like it. OK, we’ll be back. Come on, Abby.”

The other patrons, some of whom were clearly not regulars glared at us. Harmony got up, and I moved to follow her. I waited for Harmony to leave earshot and then intercepted the manager before he could leave. I said, “I’m really sorry about my friend. Look, I want to pay for both meals. OK? You don’t need to give it to me for free. I can afford it.” I pulled my unlimited credit card out of my purse.

The man shook his head, and proceeded to apologize profusely, “Miss Grenier, this was our mistake. Your friend is right- we should absolutely have gotten your order right. We want to fix this.”

He was a grown man kowtowing to a teenage girl. His stature was pitiful, sagging- with his hands clasped as he made an apologetic plea.

I shook my head, “This is sick. Why are you so worried about this? She’s just a girl.”

The man shook head again, “Miss Grenier, please just let us do this for you. Her father is one of the most powerful and influential men in Hollywood. You- have to understand. A bad word from him could ruin us.”

I shook my head, “You’re all crazy.”

Chapter 65

“You’ve done very well, Abigail. I’m impressed. How much have you lost so far?”

I replied to Sandra, “Over ten pounds now.”

Sandra asked, “And how did you do it?”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, “You know how I did it. With Stacy’s help. Three hour sessions.”

Sandra frowned, “That’s not what I asked you to memorize. Are we going to have a problem here, Abigail?”

I replied, “No, but people are going to know I’m not telling the truth. They are going to know I’m insincere. No one loses weight as quickly as I did just by exercising. The tabloids already assume I’m on some kind of diet pills.”

Sandra said, “You will say that you went jogging every morning, and that you did the dance cardio DVD. We want the girls listening to you to think you are like them, they do that too.”

I said with a sneer, “Yeah, but it’s not true. You starved me for the first two weeks. Are we going to tell them that? Are we going to tell them that I fainted three times in those two weeks?”

Sandra said matter-of-factly, “During your pre-tour press conference, you will tell them exactly what I instruct you tell them. Any deviation from the script, and no Ethan.”

I whined and stomped my foot, “But that’s not fair! They aren’t going to believe me! The press will eat me alive. I watched those press conferences with Britney, and they asked her a lot of questions- some that aren’t on your list.”

Sandra replied, “Answer as you would be expected to answer them. Do not deviate from the script. Am I making myself clear, young lady? As for the press, you don’t need to convince them. You just need to convince your teeny bopper legion. The others will follow.”

I sighed, “Yes. I don’t see why Ethan can’t come now anyway, aren’t we starting tour rehearsal soon?”

Sandra said, “You are going to hit all the talk shows first, tell your inspiring weight loss story, your story of life and death at the hands of a jealous psychopath, and you’ll perform. In between that will be album signings at malls. Oh and of course, your music video. By then, you’ll be so influential, Rebellion’s Mask will be back in their garage getting noise complaints again.”

I muttered under my breath, “Youarethepsychopath.”

Sandra narrowed her eyes at me, “What did you say?”

I shook my head, “Nothing.”

***

“This really isn’t necessary.” I looked at the ridiculous gift basket that was left in my dressing room. It was full of body lotions, moisturizers, hair accessories, expensive headphones, and equally expensive makeup. We were in North Carolina at a morning talk show. I had to get up at 5 AM for makeup and hair. We were two weeks into the talk show circuit, and everywhere we went, we were thanked profusely. When I say ‘we’, I meant the army of individuals who followed me from city to city, fulfilling my every wish, and making me look perfect.

I looked across at my personal assistant, Lauren, the girl who had initially brought Alyssa to LA. She had received a promotion. She was originally from LA, and she was very happy to be back in the United States. She constantly complained to me about the Canadian winter. She looked at me impatiently, “Is there anything I can get you Miss Grenier? Bottled water, fresh squeezed orange juice?” She was terribly bored because I rarely asked for anything. After all, I could just get it myself. Here was another adult practically grovelling before me.

I said, “No, I keep telling Sandra that I don’t need a personal assistant. And for god’s sake, call me Abigail or Abby. You’ve got to be almost ten years older than me.”

Lauren sighed gently, “Ms. Walker insists that I accompany you. She wants to make sure you have everything you need.”

I said, “Okay, here’s what I want. Stimulating conversation- I want to talk about the news. What’s happening in the world, you know?”

Lauren nodded, “Well Katy and Lady Gaga are apparently feuding. And I think Justin Bieber, he got hit with another bottle. Ended up in another ... ”

I dismissed her with a wave of my hand, “The news. The news that matters. I don’t care about that garbage. I want to talk about the election here. Who are you thinking of voting for? Who do you think will win?”

Lauren shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know. I like how the guy, I think his name is Sampson, I like his voice. It’s real powerful. I think he’d be a good president.”

I shook my head, “Never mind.”

***

“Oh my god!!!!!!! Abigail! Or do you like- um, Abby! I—I, oh my god!!! I can’t believe I’m meeting you! You are so amazing! I love your voice! It’s like way better than everyone out there. You are way skinnier than I thought you’d be too! I mean- I saw pictures of you, you look really good, Abby! Like so pretty! I wish I had your hair. Is it real or do you have extensions?”

The album signings were like dealing with a thousand Alyssas, one after the other. I tried to be gracious, but honestly- they annoyed me. They were excited to meet someone who was completely fabricated. I hated the message that my music sent, especially the sexual undertones, and the way I dressed. None of it was me.

I replied to the questions the same way I did with Alyssa, choosing the least offensive to my sensibilities, and hoping the girl forgot what they asked. I said, “I’m going to wear extensions on stage. And yeah, um, I guess I lost some weight.”

The girl, who was about my size, asked, “I’ve been trying to lose weight too. I heard you took like diet pills or something? I-I was thinking of getting some.”

Sandra, who stood next to me, cleared her throat. I replied, “You can do what I did. Just jogging, eating right, and a lot of cardio dance.”

I said, “But I don’t think you need to lose any weight. I think you look pretty the way you are. Why do you want to lose weight?”

The girl replied, “Well cause you did. I wanna be just like you. I saw you dancing on MTV, you are so good, and your singing too! I want to be a singer like you.”

I said, “Why? You should do things because you want to, not because I do something.”

Sandra cleared her throat and said, “Next!”

The girl never got to reply, and Sandra looked down at me sternly. She pulled me aside, “We aren’t selling individuality here, Abigail. We want them to emulate you, to love you, to want to be you in every aspect of their lives. If they tell you they want to do something because you did it, encourage them.”

I glared at Sandra and said firmly, “Fuck you. I know exactly what Britney meant now. I am selling out a generation. These girls have no idea how they are being manipulated.”

Sandra said simply, “Shall I bring out the three-hundred pound sow, or are you going to behave and get back to the table?”

I glumly returned to the table, but as the next girl approached, I slapped on a fake smile as if my lips were a Mrs. Potato Head accessory.

***

I groaned, “Lauren, um, could you- get me some cold medication, and some chicken soup?”

During a rough trip through Pennsylvania, I caught a brutal cold. I had been spoiled by the warm California weather, and Pennsylvania offered a blast of winter which reminded me of home, and not in a good way. I was in a hotel room beneath two thick wool blankets. My nose was stuffy, my throat sore, and it felt like someone had poured an entire fish bowl into my sinuses. Then when this left my system, I caught the flu.

Lauren smiled, “Sure, Abby.”

I had managed to convince her to call me Abby or Abigail. I had a problem with adults calling me Ms. Grenier. To me, it was unacceptable. I sneezed and then reached for a tissue, which Lauren was quick to provide. I had the cold for a solid week, and during that time, Lauren took care of me. She was at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day, and when she caught my cold, she soldiered on. As a result of my nasty and lingering cold, I started asking for things to be provided in my dressing rooms. For one, it was often too cold. I wanted the heat at 21.5 Celsius, or warmer. I wanted a hot-cold humidifier for my vocal cords, and finally, I didn’t want anyone around me who was sick or who had flu-like or cold symptoms.

I had always been a bit of a germaphobe, OK- I was a major germaphobe. This was due to my bout with two stomach flus the previous year, one of which required hospitalization. It had been particularly bad when my daughter went to daycare, she brought home all sorts of nasty viruses. Planes, however, were by far the worst. The vacuum seal on airplanes locks in all the germs. During multiple flights, I cringed as I listened to the passengers in coach hacking up their lungs. In business class, where I was seated, there were still a few people coughing. It was obvious where I got my cold, and then the flu- the disgusting people who didn’t cover their mouths, or that didn’t stay home when they should have! I wanted them away from me- them and their microscopic germs.

“Sandra, um, I know this might- be, well it’s asking a lot. But I just figure that it makes sense for me to be healthy, right? Would you mind if I only took private planes now? You know, like chartered planes.”

Sandra answered with a glint in her eye, “Not at all, Abigail. A star of your calibre absolutely deserves the best. I’ll make sure that the planes you take are always chartered.”

I said, “And it’s not going to cost too much?”

Sandra said, “Don’t worry about it. From now on, you decide who you want on the plane with you. The other members of the crew, they can take a public flight. OK?”

I smiled gently, “Yeah- OK.” I actually did feel better, knowing that the only germs I would be exposed to would be my own.

***

Hundreds of cameras flashed as I entered the room. I was in New York City in front of a mass of press, all staring at a sixteen year old girl who looked less and less like Abigail Grenier. My hair was dyed platinum blonde, my skin was tanned, and my body- it was reformed. My workouts with Stacy had continued through the gauntlet of media appearances and album signings, and on top of the stomach flu I picked up along the way, I had lost another ten pounds, bringing me well under 120 pounds for the first time in my short existence as Abigail.

I wore a pair of short shorts, revealing my sleek tanned legs. My ass was firm, losing its jiggle and the back of my thighs no longer showed any cellulite. The halter top I wore, revealed my now modestly sized chest. I was down to a B cup, which meant I had to go shopping for new bras- new everything pretty much. I was gaining such fame, that I couldn’t exactly go shopping in public, so I was relegated to shopping online. My love handles were a thing of the past, and while I didn’t have tight abs like Stacy, my stomach had completely lost its little pooch. I was actually down to a size 4. None of my old clothes fit. I was still feminine looking and curvy, but my body was tight, smooth. When I searched for stories and pictures of myself, all the tabloids were talking about my dramatic weight loss like it was inevitable. I was now on the list of best celebrity bikini bodies.

I faced the press with a smile. It was the day of my pre-tour press conference, and it was the first time I had sat in a room with real journalists, not talk show hosts given talking points or music hosts discussing the catchy nature of one of my inane songs. Sandra had hammered my expected responses into my head. She stood off to the side of the podium with a neutral expression.

“Abigail, to what do you attribute your dramatic weight loss? Some are speculating you are taking diet pills or that you’ve gone on a starvation diet. How do you cope with the idea that your young fans might emulate your dangerous weight loss method?”

I answered, “I did not take diet pills or starve myself. I jog every day, and obviously I’m preparing for my tour so I’m dancing over one hour a day. I guess I’m young- I’ve got a fast metabolism.”

The reporter asked a follow-up question, “And how do you respond to rumours of you fainting? Sources say that you were hospitalized. That you were malnourished.”

I answered, “It’s not true.”

Another reporter asked, “In speaking to some of your teachers, they said you were an excellent student with an interest in going pre-law, are you getting tutored while you are on the road? Will the tutor accompany you on the tour?”

I shook my head, “I was an OK student. I was more interested in cheerleading, dance, hanging out with my friends. Law is boring. Yeah I’ve got a tutor, but she annoys me sometimes.”

The reporter frowned, and I couldn’t blame her. The reporters had clearly done their homework, but I wasn’t confirming anything. I actually didn’t have a tutor.

A question came from the back, “You were in a band before this one called Eyes Wide Open. What made you want to go into pop music? As I understand it, you wrote all the lyrics for the band, and did some of the arrangements. Did you have any input into your album, other than your vocals?”

I replied evenly, “That band was fun, but this is what I’ve always wanted to do. I love pop music. Um, I just sang on this album. And I didn’t write any of the lyrics. It was never really my band, I just did the vocals.”

I added, “My songs- well they are kind of dumb. I’d like to be able to write a good one one day. This one song I wrote just ended up really stupid. I could never write anything as good as Like Wow.”

I inwardly cringed, trying my best to maintain my composure. I knew Sandra would be extremely unhappy with me if I left the script. So far, they had asked questions we expected. I hated answering like some bimbo, but I had no choice.

“Did you idolize anyone growing up?”

I nodded, “I loved listening to Britney. I still remember singing one of her songs in the mirror into a hairbrush, wishing I could be like her. I was probably four or five.”

The reporter asked gently, “Given what happened with your idol recently, do you see her differently?”

I sighed softly, “S-She needs help. I don’t hate her for what she did. I hope she gets the help she needs.” The reporters, who looked rather ornery, softened noticeably.

The last question came, “Millions of young girls consider you a role model. Someone to emulate. Given some of the celebrity scandals plaguing young stars these days, do you think that celebrities should be considered role models, especially for impressionable young girls?”

I said, “I don’t consider myself a role model. I’m just a girl who loves to sing and dance. If my fans want to copy me that’s OK. I just want to make music.”

A follow-up question came, “You understand though Abigail that even if you don’t think that, girls will still see you as a role model. Parents have had concerns for instance that you dress too sexy. Especially on the album cover. Your lyrics too are highly suggestive. Do you have any concerns about this?”

I shook my head, “The album cover is just fun. It’s like Halloween. I don’t think too much about lyrics- it’s just fun dance music. It’s harmless.”

Off to the side, Sandra grinned knowingly.

***

“Abby, what the hell was that? I knew you were going down this path, but this is like- against everything you’ve ever believed. What the hell?”

I was back at hotel after the press conference, Skyping with Ethan. The boy stared, aghast at my behaviour. I had completed a similar call with Amélie a few minutes before, but at least she knew the circumstances behind my complete ethical lapse. Amélie and I spoke every few days. She wanted to know how I was doing, and I always asked her for updates on Chloe, which she was happy to provide. My daughter was talking up a storm, and she would often join us on our Skype session. Martin was there sometimes, but I was still cold toward him, often making excuses that I had to go when he tried to engage me in conversation. I asked Amélie how often he was there, but she said it was none of my business.

Amélie said Chloe loved to watch me perform. She would try and copy my dance moves, which was cute, but worrisome considering the suggestive nature of some of the moves.

I looked at Ethan mournfully, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Ethan shook his head, “What is that supposed to mean? What happened to the girl who fought against this, who like- wrote songs about it? Why did you lie about writing the lyrics in the band? And the role model too. I remember we had a talk about that once, and you said celebrities have to watch what they do- you know? Cause there are kids watching them.”

I frowned, “That’s just the way it works here. I-I don’t think you understand.”

Ethan frowned too, “That place is changing you. You- you look really different.”

I said, “You don’t like it?”

Ethan said, “You look like one- one of them- like a Barbie doll princess. One of the girls we used to make fun of. You know the type- super high maintenance. Why do you let them do that do you?”

I replied, “I like it. It- makes me feel beautiful.”

Ethan glared at me, “They are brainwashing you. You never liked cheerleading. You said it was stupid. And I’d never seen you dance before- except with Alyssa. Tell me what’s going on. Are they making you do all this stuff?”

I shook my head repeatedly, “No- no they aren’t. It’s my choice. It’s my choice how I dress, and how much weight I lost, and what I want to say. Can you handle that?”

I was growing impatient. I loved the boy, and I desperately wanted him at my side, but it was easier to push him away, so he wouldn’t have to see me this way.

Ethan bared his teeth, “I think they are. And you’ve just bought into it cause it’s easy. It’s easy to just be their little product. Well fuck that, I’m not losing you to this. I’m coming down there. We are gonna start practicing for your shitty tour soon. I’ve been talking to Atwater. He’s going to fly me down. I’m going to talk some sense into you.”

I nodded softly, and closed the Skype session. I didn’t want Ethan to see that I had become a complete corporate stooge, but I was selling out for the Prophecy- not for fame or fortune. Rebellion’s Mask had tumbled out of the top 10, and my single “Like Wow” had remained number one on the chart for weeks. My next single was due to be released in a few weeks, and I knew it would rocket to the top spot too. Not because it was good- but because it was sung by me.

***

“That’s bullshit! You said he was going to be my lead guitarist for the tour. And now you say, he’s only joining us on the Canadian part of the tour? Mr. Atwater said he could fly down.”

Sandra said, “Philip is no longer in charge of this operation, Abigail. He lost that privilege. Your tour will start in California, and you can see him a month later in Toronto.”

I asked petulantly, “But that’s not fair. Why can’t he come down now?”

Sandra replied, “He’s an unnecessary distraction at this time. You need to continue getting ready for your tour. Your boyfriend will not help you focus on that. You’ve also got that performance on Letterman tonight.”

I said, “And what about Alyssa? She was supposed to come down too. Well we shot the video a week ago, and she never came. She was supposed to be in it! I-I don’t really like Harmony anymore- she’s a diva. I don’t have any friends. And you won’t let me go anywhere without Tony and like three bodyguards now.”

Sandra said, “The only thing you need to concern yourself with is remembering your lyrics, your dance moves, and making it look like you are having a good time. Understood?” I nodded and trudged up to my room.

That night, I fled the hotel room and went out into the streets. I wasn’t dressed as Sandra would want. Since it was still winter, I wore my winter jacket, a hat and mittens, but I left the obnoxiously large sunglasses in the room, along with my expensive purse. I also wasn’t extensively made up. I was sick and tired of being cooped up in hotel rooms. I left without my bodyguards, who Sandra insisted follow me around wherever I went. I had been so obedient before, I just assumed that Sandra trusted me to stay put. The desk clerk didn’t say a thing as I went through the revolving door and into the night.

I would miss my performance on a late night talk show, but I didn’t care. I needed to get away from my handlers, from this life. I felt suffocated and chained to this existence, especially with regard to how phony I had to act. I walked for a while, eventually stopping in front of a music club. I could hear a cacophony of buzzing chainsaws- it was glorious feedback. I had smartly brought a few bucks with me, just in case I needed to cab back to the hotel, but I used it to pay the cover charge. The bouncer didn’t ask to see any I.D, so I assumed it was an all-ages show. The club was tightly packed with moshing teens, and I grinned widely as I joined the fray. It was dark, so I figured that no one would recognize me. I flailed with them, the angry music acting as the perfect therapy to my battered conscience. After four songs, I wandered out of the club, hoping that I could still get to my performance on time. I had wanted to stay, but I knew the longer I did, the greater chance I would be recognized. I had left my phone in the hotel, but the bouncer was kind enough to give me the time. I still had forty-five minutes to get to the television studio.

I reached out my arm to flag down a cab, when I noticed a group of girls exiting a movie theatre. I looked up at what was playing, “Twilight 3D re-release”. I swore and watched as more girls exited the theatre, their incessant chattering filling the night air. I waved my arm again and again for a cab as the girls approached. I edged my way off the curb, hoping it would give them enough room to move past me. I saw a cab approach, and I waved my arm again. I had no idea how to signal a New York cab. One of the girls stopped and said, “Hey, those ones are already carrying people. Look for ones that are lit up. The sign needs to flash.”

I didn’t look at the girl, instead turning away, but offering a quick, “Um- thanks.” Her group had stopped walking entirely, and the girls leaned over, trying to get a look at my face. I hadn’t brought a scarf because it was a mild night, just above freezing. One of the girls, a tall brunette, moved right in front of me. Her eyes widened, and like a wolf, calling her pack for the hunt, she shrieked, “Oh- are you? Are you? Abeille!!!!?” This immediately got the attention of the twenty other girls exiting the theatre, and they ran over. I was suddenly surrounded by close to twenty-five adolescent girls.

The brunette, who had seen me first, said, “Can-I have- could I have your autograph?”

Most of the girls just stood dumbstruck at the celebrity before them. The girls on the periphery were pushing the original group, trying to get near to me, all the while, I was edging dangerously close to falling off the curb into on-coming traffic. I teetered on the stilettos, cursing my decision to wear them, and said, “Um- sure. Sorry, I don’t have a pen though.” I saw flashes as ten or so girls had taken out their cell phones. The girls wanted to take pictures with me, and I fell into my routine. I was so used to taking pictures with fans, I formed the necessary smile subconsciously.

The original group of girls formed a protective seal around me, and slowly, I was pushed back onto the sidewalk, but I was also completely surrounded now. The original group kept the others at bay, but the crowd had attracted other girls too. And other people. I quickly realized that I was in trouble. The girls who had been kept in the periphery to this point were growing impatient. They started to push their way toward me. The brunette returned with a pen and managed to elbow her way back into the circle. I signed everything from toques, to shirts, to shoes. I also signed ticket stubs from the movie the girls had just seen.

“Hey, quit hogging her! We want our turn too!” Some girls just screamed at the top of their lungs, which brought more and more people. Soon enough, there was a hundred people, all snapping pics of me with their phones. Inside the circle of fans, it was bedlam. Questions were asked, and the second I tried to answer it, another girl would interrupt. I looked desperately for my escape.

“Come on! We want to meet her too!”

“Yeah you bitches! Let us through! “Wow, she’s a lot shorter than I thought she’d be.”

“Abby, did you really take diet pills? Tell us about your diet! Are you still mad at Britney? How much do you weigh now? I love your hat! What part of Canada are you from? Can we have some free tickets for your first concert here? I wanna go with my sister! You are so pretty, Abby! How do I get hair your hair like that? My favourite song is “Your Angel Kiss”, can you do more like that on the next album?? Do you have a boyfriend? Cause I heard you did, but he’s not with you right now, what’s he look like? No way! She’s going out with Justin Bieber, that’s what HotSpot 109 says. And Gossiptree! Tiger Beat says she’s going out both of the guys from Twilight! No way! They are too old for her, right, Abby? Right? Right?”

My head started spinning with the multitude of questions. This was nothing like the organized meet-and-greet sessions. It was pure chaos. I heard girls screaming into their cell phones, and no doubt, they were calling their friends to come to this very spot. I was trapped.

Eventually, the girls, who apparently never learned how to share, were physically removed, but an equally excited and erratic group took their place. One girl shrieked, “I’m your biggest fan, Abby! You are so amazing.” At this point, I wasn’t flattered, I was just scared. The management from the movie theatre and the bouncer from the club were trying to coral the girls, but they were all over me, touching me, pulling my clothes, continually asking me questions. They were like some terrifying hive-mind super fan. I could hear a few of them questioning their behaviour, but the original group of girls had started the whole mess by not sharing me. Some of the girls were just crazed.

I started to push my way out of the fray, and I noticed that on top of all the cell phone flashes, there were a number of other much brighter flashes- the paparazzi were now descending on the scene. Suddenly, I saw a video camera, and then another one. Now TMZ, the celebrity-gotcha show, were approaching the scene. I threw my body against one of the girls, and she fell backwards into the throng. I saw a beefy male hand appear in the mass of adolescent girls, and I immediately grabbed it. The bouncer from the club pulled me out, and the second I was free, I started running. Amazingly, some of the girls gave chase. I peered back a few seconds later and saw that my fans had stopped their pursuit, but the paparazzi were running after me now- grown men chasing a sixteen year old girl, running from them in high heels. I saw flashes of light. There were at least three or four of them. One man ran across the street into oncoming traffic, taking pictures as he dodged angry motorists who were forced to stop.

I noticed a beacon of light amidst the anarchy that had descended on the Manhattan street- a cab with a flashing yellow light. I sprinted toward it, losing my shoe in the process. Thankfully, the driver saw me, and he stopped. I frantically threw open the door and jumped inside. The cab pulled away, screeching its tires and cutting off numerous still angry motorists.

I breathed heavily, letting out a long sigh of relief as I settled in the cab, my foot half-frozen from running along the hard-packed snow. I said, “Oh god! Thank you. Thanks for stopping. I-I didn’t know what I was going to do. Um- I dropped my money though.”

The cabbie smiled back at me and said, “I know you’re good for it sweetie.”

I frowned, “Oh- so you know who I am too?”

The cabbie nodded, “Yeah, course I do. You wouldn’t mind signing a little autograph for my daughter, would you? She’s a huge fan.”

I said with a slight frown, “No, I don’t mind.”

I said, “Uh- I think that car, and that one too.” I pointed to a red sedan and a black sports car that pulled up next to us at the light. “They are following us!”

The cab driver gunned it through the intersection the second the light turned green. He weaved through traffic expertly, and soon enough, our pursuers were gone. He dropped me off in front of my hotel, but I could have sworn I saw flashes.

I threw open the door of the cab, eager to escape back into the confines of my posh hotel. The driver said, “Sweetie, what about that autograph?”

I stepped out of the cab, my naked foot exposed directly to the snow-covered sidewalk. The driver handed me a pen, and my receipt, which I used to write the autograph. He said, “I’ll send the bill for the ride to your record company, sweetie.”

I limped into the hotel, crying and frozen.

***

“I told you that’s how it was gonna be, Abby. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Harm, I-I just wanted to get away. I was going crazy cooped up in hotels all the time. I can’t go out without bodyguards now. It’s like everyone recognizes me.”

Harmony replied gently, “Abby, you have to accept it. What you did was stupid.”

I retorted, “You did the same thing in the music store!”

Harmony sighed, “Yeah, and I said it was dumb. We are different from them. They’ll never understand what we go through. Never.”

I replied, “But Harm, I-“

Harmony said firmly, “We aren’t like them. The sooner you realize that the sooner it all starts to make sense.” We chatted for a bit after that, mostly about the upcoming tour, and then I hung up the phone.

Sandra admonished me for my escape, but nothing beyond that. She also reminded me not to leave the hotel room without my bodyguards. I acknowledged that what I did was foolish, even dangerous. If my bodyguards had been there, they would have been able to control the mass of fan girls. In general, the incident was seen a perfect example of what not to do when meeting a celebrity. Many celebrities took to Twitter to offer their support of my actions, some even giving their own examples of crazy fan encounters. The entertainment media reported that I was “assaulted” by fans, and while that wasn’t entirely true, many of my fans also jumped into the Twitter debate, arguing the actions of the New York fan base were not acceptable.

The encounter had left me feeling a little more than paranoid. A star should never fear her fans, but within the assembled mass of teen girls, I was terrified. The incident acted as a wake-up call for me. From that day on, I never went anywhere, save the women’s washroom, without my bodyguards.

***

“Are you ready, Abigail?”

I nodded sullenly. I looked down at myself, the nightmare that turned me into Abigail had come true. I was wearing the red-sequined bra, the pink and black sailor suit that was similar to the bee costume I had worn for the album cover. Pink and black stockings fit firmly on my sleek legs. My skirt consisted of the ratty remains of a pair of jeans. The only thing covering the panties I wore was a set of carefully placed vinyl slats sewn into the barely there jean shorts. I wore the pink Converse hi-tops for the first two songs, but I would change shoes fifteen times, and costumes more than that.

Sandra looked at me expectantly. “I asked you if you were ready, Abigail.”

She handed me a headset microphone, which I dutifully slipped on. I again nodded sullenly. The crowd was chanting my name. Sandra gave me a little push toward the stage and said, “Have fun.”

I looked out at the crowd, and was amazed. I had filled a baseball stadium, like the Beatles in Shea. There were sixty thousand people here- to see me. Still, the first few performances, I went through the motions. I tried to ignore the adulation heaped on me, the requests for encores, and the constant screaming. After selling out every single venue in the first two weeks, I started to see things a little differently.

Yes, I was already flying in private planes, no longer forced to share the stale air of the great unwashed masses. I also had a staff of thirty around me, ensuring I always looked my best. They waited on me, but I asked them to treat me normally. Like looking me in the eye. None of them would ever look me in the eyes.

Things exacerbated when I made a small complaint about how much my feet hurt after a particularly tough performance. Immediately, four people offered to massage my feet, and before I had a chance to protest, someone had my stilettos off and started massaging my left foot expertly. I didn’t even know their name. Then, they prepared a foot bath, where I soaked for nearly half an hour.

A week later, I said that my voice hurt a little, and within five minutes, a girl brought me an herbal tea, and thirty minutes later, I had an ear nose and throat specialist checking me out, stating that I was healthy enough to continue the tour.

With the performances and the rapid costume changes, I didn’t even dress myself. When I ventured outside after performances, or walked around in a mall, I was surrounded by my now four bodyguards. I fell into the routine of being a celebrity to the point where I allowed my stylist to choose my clothing. I still dressed myself, but that was probably the only thing I did for myself. If I had asked Lauren to wipe my ass, she probably would have done it.

I was blissfully unaware that by choosing to submit to the Prophecy it was slowly changing me. I still had my memories, my concerns, but they were easily muddled by the celebrity lifestyle I had fallen into. Along with the perks, I had also started to believe my own hype. The adoration that my fans showed, their excitement to see me perform fed my ego. This ego was expanded and grew with my fear of the outside world, the world that I had seen while nearly suffocated by my fans. I never saw that world. I never saw the poverty, the corruption in politics- I didn’t watch the news any longer. My publicist, stylist- they were all concerned with my image. If a TV was on, it was tuned to a twenty-four hour entertainment network. It didn’t bother me because I, like those I affected with my music, was constantly distracted. When I wasn’t getting my hair, makeup or nails done, I was receiving a massage, or I was encouraged to send inane tweets to other celebrities, or I was working out with Stacy. Sandra made certain that I had very little in the way of down time. I was treated like pop royalty, and it was gradually turning my brain into subservient mush.

When my influence wasn’t building at the speed that Sandra wanted, she plotted with my stylist to concoct a fashion trend based on a lyrics from Like Wow. The line “Perfect face show him your lace” came to mean show him your panties, and soon enough girls were wearing their panties and thongs so that the underwear was always visible. They hiked them up, just as I had done in my Like Wow video and in the publicity photos. Like Britney Spears and her belly-baring tops, girls in the thousands posted pictures of themselves wearing their underwear like late 90s rappers. Parents groups complained, but teen culture was an all-encompassing force, it drove fashion trends. The few voices that spoke out against the blatant sexualizing soon found there was no one listening. I let it all happen, lost within a celebrity stupor.

A typical day began with a shower, after which, my handlers would provide me with a towel. Then, I would be seated in a chair where a team of hair stylists and makeup artists would turn me into every boy’s teenage dream. All the while, they would natter on about nothing for hours. I didn’t go anywhere without being absolutely flawless, no visible pimple or mole, and never a hair out of place. Sandra ordered that I always be surrounded by mirrors, and with the mind-numbingly boring conversation, I had nothing to do but stare at myself for hours or play on my phone. The more I stared at myself in the mirror, the more I realized that I was happy with how I looked. I was gorgeous, and it was true, because everyone told me that. The mirrors wouldn’t lie to me, and neither would my handlers.

***

“I don’t really want to cause problems- it’s just-“

Sandra smiled gently, “What is it, Abigail?”

I replied, clear hesitation in my voice, “I-I don’t like how I look in a lot of the video clips. My face looks bloated. Kind of- um, puffy.” There were certain days, where I felt less than perfect, even with a small army to make me look good. During a Pepsi commercial shoot, I felt that I looked bloated, especially in the face. I was near my period, so that likely contributed to some of the imperfection, but I knew the commercial would be seen by millions, potentially billions, considering Pepsi was a global brand.

Sandra asked, “Have you been sticking to your diet? You know that salty food can make you bloated.”

I nodded, “Yes, I have. I mean- would it be too much trouble, you know for them to reshoot some of the scenes? I just- I don’t like how I look in it. This is a huge commercial.” I said the three magic words, “I look fat.”

Sandra said, “Oh of course, Abigail. I’ll speak to the director on your behalf. We’ll reshoot your scenes.”

I frowned, “But, won’t everyone have to come back, and they’ll have to do the scene with the flowers, won’t that be really expensive? And to bring all the actors back?”

Sandra replied, “Money is no longer something you need to concern yourself with, Abigail.”

My commercial was reshot on a day where I wasn’t puffy looking. The director was snippy, but the Pepsi people said nothing. It was possible they had the same concerns I did. The commercial was featured during that year’s Super Bowl, which meant that if people didn’t know who I was before- they did now. In the United States alone, over one-hundred million people watched the game, which featured some of the most expensive advertisements. This was not only because of the cost to produce the commercials- advertising time during the Super Bowl was a hot commodity with thirty-seconds of air time often costing more one million dollars.

The commercial itself, as much as I hated to admit it, was actually fun to shoot. I was actually starting to enjoy dancing, even challenging myself to pull off more complicated maneuvers during performances. I had always been like that as a person. Once I had learned a job, I was ready for another, and music- if I had perfected a rhythm or a vocal, I still strove to improve. I suppose it was one of the reasons why I was chosen by the Prophecy.

I had to do a series of back flips, and then end in the splits. At first, I sucked- hardcore, but working with Stacy and my choreographer, I eventually managed to nail the flip, and I was actually really proud of myself. It was like figuring out a new solo or vocal melody.

Like Britney’s “Pepsi Generation” commercial, mine was equally grandiose, perhaps more so, as mine featured more backing dancers, a cutie in a bee suit, and then, there was my voice. I was the voice of a new generation of cola consumers, and if I hadn’t been so obsessed with learning the dance moves, my bloated face, I might have complained that having me profess my love for sugary a soft drink might entice little girls to want the drink. Ironically, as part of my diet, I wasn’t even allowed to consume the beverage.

***

We were descending at Pearson International Airport. I peered out at the city below from the comfort of a plush chair, the late morning sunshine belied the frigid temperature outside. It was February, which meant eastern Canada was still in the grips of winter. A 60-inch big screen TV was suspended from the ceiling of the private cabin (which also featured three leather couches, a surround sound speaker system and a full dining area), showing an episode of “Keeping up with the Kardashians”. Any television I watched was always tuned to the ‘E!’ entertainment network, and I was hopelessly hooked on the show. It wasn’t because the characters were inspiring, or intelligent- or even interesting- it was because I understood what they were going through. They too fled from the paparazzi. They dealt with overzealous fans and the ramifications of fame- hatred and love spewed toward them.

I turned away from the frosted window and tweeted to Kim Kardashian: “I know what you are going through. Just saw episode 5, season 2.”

Kim tweeted back: “Love your music, Abby! And thanks, it’s the price of fame! I love my fans of course but they can get a little too excited sometimes!”

Kim tweeted: “When you are back in LA, you should come by the house! We need to talk girl- my little sis- she wants you to play her sweet sixteen! She loves you.”

I tweeted back: “That’s sweet! OK, sure.”

I looked down at my phone, raising a brow at my actions. I had just had a Twitter conversation with a celebrity who was famous because of her big ass, her plastic surgery- and her husband, the biggest diva in the world. The man who stole the spotlight from established divas- Kanye West.

Still, Kim seemed so nice though! She wasn’t at all like she was at Harmony’s sweet sixteen. I looked back at that time and realized that I wasn’t happy with my body, and that likely translated into a distinct lack of confidence. Most Hollywood types were alphas, male or female- they were stars for a reason. I didn’t project that at the party, and so I was ignored.

I texted Ethan, who was driving up to Toronto with his parents. I had offered to send a limousine to take them, but Ethan refused. I hadn’t seen his parents since I had travelled to LA, but I had spoken to them a few times over Skype. I was ecstatic to see Ethan finally. I had our whole night planned. I couldn’t wait! I pictured us kissing, him holding me tightly, feeling how firm and tight my body was, then planting kisses all over my neck. We would enter the hot tub together, me in a string bikini, that would slowly and teasingly disappear beneath the bubbles. I was going to lose my virginity to Ethan tonight. It was going to be perfect.

Our first stop in Toronto was the MuchMusic studio for an afternoon interview. A staple of my youth, the music station used to play music videos- now, it played mostly reality television shows, but I was still excited to enter a space once shared by my favourite bands of the mid to late 90s. Sandra insisted on a police escort to avoid the infamous Toronto traffic. Once we reached the studio, it was absolute pandemonium. The two police cars that paved the way for us could no longer complete their task because of the sea of humanity that covered a full city block. The limousine simply stopped moving. The police officers exited their vehicles and attempted to gain control of the crowd, but there were too many screaming fan girls. There were also boys, and grown men and women- some with homemade t-shirts that said, “I LUV U ABBY!” Many people carried signs professing their love for me. It was like Beatlemania all over again. I didn’t like comparing myself to one of the greatest rock bands of all time, but I couldn’t argue with the size of the crowd that greeted me.

One of the MuchMusic VJs (video jockey) had to use a bull horn to inform the crowd that if they didn’t let the limousine through then the interview and performance would be cancelled. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the humanity that blocked the limousine slowly moved to the side, allowing the car to drive through. I watched from the safety of the limo as hundreds of people crammed next to each other in the February cold. The limo crawled toward the stage where I was set to perform after my interview.

***

“So, Abigail, there’s a lot of really cold guys out there all wondering the same thing. Do you have a boyfriend?” The VJ smiled. She was blonde, but more of a honey blonde to my platinum.

I smiled and nodded, “Yeah. I do.”

There were a lot of disappointed groans from the males outside. There were probably about a hundred lucky fans inside, although most of them girls who had special bracelets. They were the lucky ones because the temperature outside was probably -5 or -10 Celsius. That wasn’t as cold as it got though, as there were days in January, especially in Ottawa, that could dip below -25, and even -30 with the wind chill factor. It meant that if you went outside without being covered up, you quickly suffered from frostbite.

The VJ gushed, “How did you guys meet? Is he someone we would know? A lot of people have been saying that you’ve been going out with Justin Bieber. Are you a Belieber, Abby?”

I shook my head, “I met Justin on the set of the video for Like Wow. We kiss in it, but we are just friends. He’s super nice, and really talented.”

Sandra had beaten into my brain that you never disparage other celebrities. Always speak highly of their work, even if you believe the opposite. Unless, of course, your publicist thinks it would help your career. I was expected to have a feud with Miley Cyrus, the music industry’s resident bad girl. Her publicist spoke to mine, thinking the good girl versus bad girl angle would work very well for both of us.

I continued, “I met my boyfriend in high school. We were in the same band.”

The VJ asked, “And, how has a long-distance relationship worked for you guys? Do you find it hard not seeing him for months at a time? I know I couldn’t do it!”

I said, “I love him. We Skype a lot, but yeah it’s hard. Last time I saw him was Christmas! I’m seeing him tonight though, I’m- so excited!”

The VJ grinned and then she grew more serious , “With teenage pregnancy becoming more of an issue these days, and a lot of parent groups talking about not only safe sex but no sex, as a teen yourself, what do you think of this? When is it OK for teens to have sex?”

I knew this question was coming. My publicist had been given the questions prior to the interview and Sandra had carefully prepared me.

I replied with a smile, “That’s a tough one. I think it’s really important for teens to make the right decision about sex. It can affect their whole lives. I believe that teens shouldn’t have sex before they are married, or until they are promised to each other. Sex is something you do with someone you love and trust. It’s like- mutual, you know?”

Ironically, my suggestive dancing and lyrics, the way I dressed, it all ran counter to my professed views on teen sexuality. However, good girls didn’t have sex before marriage. I didn’t really think about the response because it was so rehearsed- that, and I had Ethan on the brain. I couldn’t wait to see him. I also failed to see the hypocrisy of selling abstinence and sex in the same breath. Britney had been packaged the exact same way.

The VJ, who was probably in her early twenties, said, “That’s a really mature view, Abigail. I’m sure your fans appreciate your point of view.”

Read: I’m sure your fans will do exactly as you say. I couldn’t wait to see Ethan’s face as he looked at my new body.

The VJ asked, “You’ve become an overnight sensation, Abigail. It’s freezing outside and there’s gotta be like thousands of people out there, just to see you! How do you deal with your fame, how do you stay grounded?”

I answered again with a smile, “I do normal stuff. You know that any teenage girl would do. I text, talk to my friends, hang out at the mall, talk about my boyfriend.” Again, I flashed a smile. “I think the most important thing is to be around people I trust and love. I Skype with my family a lot. I’m really looking forward to my boyfriend playing on the Canadian part of my tour too.”

The VJ grinned, “What’s his name?”

I smiled, “Ethan Rayner.”

The VJ said, “He’s probably the luckiest boy in the world. Am I right?” The crowd cheered.

After the interview portion, I bundled up and greeted the fans outside, offering them a wave and then preparing for my performance. I coughed gently, and four of my handlers ran over, showing immediate concern. I shivered and coughed again, and this brought Sandra over, showing the same worry.

Sandra’ eyes widened in fear, “Abigail- what’s wrong?”

I said, “I guess I’m too used to LA. It wasn’t this cold out in the mid-west when we went in January. Maybe if I wore a warmer jacket? This little one I’m wearing looks nice, but it’s- well it’s too thin.”

Sandra shook her head, “We can’t risk you getting sick. We’ll move everything inside.”

My eyebrows practically raised to the ceiling, “Are you crazy, it will take hours to re-cable everything, not to mention the people. They’ll be freezing out there.”

Sandra said, “I want you to go inside and get warmed up. Go inside your dressing room, have a hot tea and soak.”

The sound engineer for the show and the VJ walked over. The VJ smiled as she said, “Thanks for the great interview, Abigail. Are you just about ready to go on?”

Sandra said firmly, “It’s a lot colder than what was forecast today. We are going to move the entire performance inside.”

The sound guy reacted with vitriol. “Are you fucking nuts? It took us an hour just to get the cabling in place here. It’s all ready to go. We even trucked in special speakers knowing how big the crowd would be.”

Sandra replied calmly, but with deadly seriousness “You’ll do it in thirty minutes. I don’t care if people miss lunch breaks or smoke breaks. We will tell the crowd there is a technical problem. Set up a big screen outside for them so they can see. Get going, now.”

The sound guy stared at Sandra with hatred in his eyes. He was literally spitting mad. “I don’t know who you think you are, but that’s bullshit! The girl’s from Canada. Near Ottawa. She can handle this. It’s not even that cold out. If you were concerned about this, why didn’t you just have it indoors? I’m not calling my crew back.”

Sandra laughed and then poked the sound guy in the chest with her fingernail. He was a burly man, likely over two-hundred pounds. He had a paunch, but he also had muscular arms, likely from hauling stage gear his entire career. “I’m the manager of the most popular pop star in the world. Do you really think a peon like you matters in the grand scheme of things? Anyone can do your monkey work. You work for this station, correct? If I said, Abeille isn’t performing, what do you think your boss would say?”

I interjected, “Please, let’s not make such a big deal out of this. I’ll just sing outside.” Sandra proceeded to shush me.

He replied aggressively, “Look, she’s performing outside or not at all. And what would my boss say? He’d say nothing because I’m an independent contractor. You people are all the same, coming in here making these outrageous demands, and outside, there’s all these people, freezing their fucking asses off, and you want me make them wait longer, just to hear some shitty pop songs. You are out of your fucking mind, bitch!”

Sandra again replied calmly, “Who is your next employer? Your next contract.” She stared into the man. I had withered before under that gaze.

The man replied, “None of your goddam business.” Sandra maintained her scornful glare, and the man relented slightly “Fine, not that it will make any difference. I got a contract to do the sound at the Raptors and Maple Leaf games for the rest of the season. And unlike you, their management is professional.” He looked at me with a measure of concern, “Get yourself a lawyer to detach this circus bitch from your caboose, kid.” I frowned.

Sandra removed her cell phone from her pocket. I leaned over, and I could see her going through her contacts. She brought the phone to her ear. She said, “Yes, hello. I am Sandra Walker. I understand that you have employed Garrioch Sound and Lighting. I want you to break your agreement with them immediately. Why? Because I said so. Excellent. Thank you.”

The sound guy said nothing as he received a call on his cell phone. He looked at the number, and his jaw dropped. The shocked VJ said, “I-I’ll tell everyone that they’ll have to wait a little longer.” The sound guy stared dumbstruck at Sandra. She said, “You get it done in thirty minutes, and I’ll make sure you are rehired.” The two-hundred pound man sprinted toward the stage. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket.

Sandra said, “I want the police here to cordon off the area. Also find some people and put them on the gates. If anyone tries to leave do whatever is necessary to keep them here.”

She added with a smile, “Oh and I think it would be nice to setup hot chocolate and coffee stations. Let’s keep those people here.” The VJ responded timidly, “I-I—Our interns could go on the gates. We’ll make sure it’s done.” I watched Sandra with horror, but also a growing sense of amazement. She could have whatever she wanted, and maybe, so could I.

***
I returned to the comfort of my dressing room, putting my face in the cool mist moisturizer ensuring that my vocal cords stayed nicely hydrated. I texted Ethan, while also receiving a relaxing leg massage, telling him that I would be late getting to the restaurant. We had reservations for 5:00 at a posh downtown restaurant called La Blue Yen. It was usually full of bay street lawyers, and young professionals with too much money, but tonight it was hosting my entourage- oh and Ethan and his family. Ethan and I texted back and forth:

Ethan: sucks ill tell my parents u will b late
Ethan: rlly looking forward to seeing u
Me: :)
Me: what do u want to do after ive got 2nite planned ^_- but not right after dinner
Ethan: I dunna rlly
Me: i could prob get us into a club
Ethan: come on shitty dance music no way
Ethan: i know its prob impossible but leafs playing bruins 2nite
Me: i can try and get tix
Ethan: yah right its been sold out 4 months
Me: ill try
Ethan: if not then its cool if we can just chill and watch it in ur hotel room or mine
Ethan: my parents want to see u but i kinda want u all 4 me
Me: i think ull like what i got planned k k i will let u know about tix

I called the box office. “Hi. Um, do you have any tickets left for tonight’s game?” There was laughter in the background, which caused me to frown slightly.

A male voice responded, “Maybe if you were the Pope. Come on, kid. It’s been like this since Christ was a cowboy. You gotta know someone, or you gotta have a lot of money to rent a private box. Guess you’ll have to give your daddy something else for father’s day this year.”

I asked tentatively, “How much for a private box?”

Again, I heard laughter. “Kid, you owe me a burrito. I spit mine all over the floor. Now quit wasting my time. Just for shits and giggles though, they start at $8000 a game. But those ones are all sold out. Corporations buy up the tickets or they have actually bought the box. The only ones we actually have are the ultra-premium variety. So unless you’ve got $21000 dollars lying around, well you are up shits creek with a paddle”

I cleared my throat, “I-I’ve got a credit card.”

The man replied with mirth, “Oh, Daddy’s credit card buying daddy a present. Cute. Well I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize that big a sale without your daddy, sweetheart. Go get him, and we’ll talk.”

I was starting to get angry. I knew that tickets to Maple Leafs’ game were notoriously hard to find, and that they sold out faster than even Canadiens’ games, but I had the money, and the salesclerk was acting like a jackass. I said firmly, “It’s my credit card. And it’s unlimited.”

The man’s voice grew more serious, “Okay, honey. Time to come clean. What’s your name?”

I replied, “Abigail Grenier. I don’t appreciate your tone or your treatment of me. If you run my card, I assure that it will-“

The man interrupted me, “W-Wait, you’re the girl from the Super Bowl commercial. Really? Goddamn it, why didn’t you say so? My daughter loves your music. She’s so cute, only seven years old. She says she wants to be just like you when she grows up. Hey, would you mind giving me an autograph for her?”

I said impatiently, “What about the tickets?”

He replied, “Yeah, no problem. I don’t need to run your card or nothing. Truth is hardly anyone ever gets the ultra-premium boxes, so I wasn’t sure if you were joshing me or whatever. If I bring my daughter to tonight’s game, can she meet you?”

I sighed gently, “Yeah, it’s alright. It’s a private box though, right? There won’t be a bunch of people out there waiting to meet me, will there? I just want to enjoy the game with my boyfriend.”

The man replied, “Not to worry Miss Grenier. Your box is only accessible with a special elevator key carried by yours truly. And a few other ushers. I won’t tell anyone you are there.”

He added, “If I bring her around 6:30, is that good for you? I’ll make sure no one bothers you or your party. I know how it works with you types.”

I frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man’s tone was apologetic, “I-I just meant- you know you like your privacy. That’s all.”

I nodded, “Okay, well I’ll see you tonight then.”

He replied, “See you tonight Miss Grenier!”

***

The indoor performance was completed without a hitch. The crowd, despite the frigid temperatures, had stayed, and according to Sandra, the sound guy had worked feverishly and managed get the whole production moved inside under forty minutes. Thankfully, the studio was already equipped with all the necessary equipment, so it was just a matter of re-cabling everything. Despite not meeting the thirty minute deadline set by Sandra, I convinced her to give the man his job back. She called the Air Canada Centre and complied with my request.

Unfortunately, even with a police escort, we were forty-five minutes late for dinner. My entourage and I entered in a flurry. We were immediately seated, much to the chagrin of the well-dressed adults that were waiting in the lobby. Two of my bodyguards walked me to my table, while the other two waited outside the door to the men’s and women’s washrooms. I hadn’t brought everyone with me, figuring that it wasn’t necessary to have my stylist, publicist or hair and makeup team join us for dinner, even though I was used to eating with them while I was on tour.

A group of girls, who had become a standard accessory during my tour, did come with me. In the group of eight, I probably only knew half of their names, and Lauren was one of them. All of them were pretty, thin, and in their early twenties. It seemed like it was their prime objective to distract me. I had grown tired of just staring at myself in mirrors and playing on my phone during the long makeup and hair sessions, and subsequently, I had started to question some of Sandra’s methods, especially with regard to how I was to answer certain questions. That was when one of the girls turned on “Keeping up with the Kardashians”. The girls gossiped about it, and they got me involved in the conversations. Initially, I was skeptical, but Kim, I realized was a lot like me. She was dealing with a lot of the same stuff.

Then there was “Total Divas”, a reality show about female wrestlers who liked to talk trash about each other. The mindless drivel was the only thing on the television, so like some bizarre Stockholm Syndrome, I became enamoured with my captor. All the girls ever talked about was celebrity news, who was dating whom, who had broken up- and who was dissing whom. Could I be blamed for succumbing to the pitfalls of fame when there was a constant and deliberate attack on my brain matter? The problem was, I didn’t even realize there was an issue. I had become so accustomed to these girls being around me that if they weren’t there, I kind of missed them.

I missed them because they were the ultimate sycophants, my yes-girls. They told me I looked amazing. Beautiful, gorgeous, thin- perfect. Instead of Ethan or Alyssa, I now relied on them to console me and solve any body issues. Ethan didn’t have a chance to react to my entourage because the second I saw him, I sprinted over in my stilettos and threw my arms around him. One of my yes-girls said, “Aww, how cute!” I kissed him on the lips, and then remembering his parents were there, I backed off. The gaggle of girls with me giggled.

I realized that I was practically sitting on Ethan’s lap. His mother managed to stifle a giggle while his father grinned. I kissed him again, but this time on the cheek. I was fully made up for my dinner with Ethan’s parents, my hair and makeup were redone on the way over, and I changed into a black chiffon dress that left one of my shoulders exposed. A large black belt cinched my trim waist. My yes-girls said I looked incredible.

Still sitting in Ethan’s lap, I grinned at him and waved, “Hi. Um, sorry we are so late. Traffic. Even with the escort.”

He replied, “You’re so weird, Abby.” I pouted and the boy smirked, kissing me on the lips which elicited a collective “ooh!” from my girls. I slid off Ethan’s lap into the booth next to him.

Ethan’s father raised a brow, “Escort?”

I nodded and said matter-of-factly, “Sandra asks that I always have a police escort, mostly for traffic, and I guess protection. She didn’t really explain it.”

Ethan’s father frowned gently, “So, the police use their sirens to move traffic, is that it? It doesn’t seem like a very good use of taxpayer dollars.”

Ethan added, “I hate that Sandra! She’s such a bitch. I was supposed to play on the tour from the start.”

Ethan’s mother glared at her son, “Ethan! Hush! That’s very rude. I’m sure they had a good reason. I told you not to let your school work slide.”

I looked to Ethan’s father, “Well they are paid I’m assuming. I guess that does take them away from other things they could be doing.”

I frowned. I felt like Ethan’s father was judging me. I peered over at Lauren, who was rapidly texting something. I was thankful that my yes-girls were sitting at a separate table, but they were close enough to overhear everything. All of the girls, in fact, were looking down at their phones, frantically texting. None of them were even looking at menus.

I said enthusiastically, “So, what looks good? I’m famished! I haven’t eaten all day.”

Sandra insisted that I wait until after the performance to eat. My head was spinning with hunger, my stomach protesting the lack of food.

Ethan mother’s asked, “Are you on a diet, Abigail?”

I nodded slowly, “Yeah, but it seems like everyone in Hollywood is on one. I’m only allowed to eat about 1200 calories a day. Then I do a workout with Stacy, usually about an hour or three if it’s a non-performance day.”

Ethan’s mother smiled, “You are in phenomenal shape. You are gorgeous, not that you weren’t before but you were ... ”

I interrupted her, “I was unhappy with how I looked. Yeah. I was fat.”

Ethan sighed loudly and started drumming on the table. We had a brief discussion about what foods I was allowed as part of the diet, how Mrs. Rayner was still trying to lose her Christmas weight, until we were interrupted by Ethan.

He said, “So are we gonna eat this century or whatever? I’m hungry too. Told me not to eat much for lunch because we were having an early dinner. Well it’s six. I’m ready to order. Come on, Abby. Pick something.”

Mrs. Rayner frowned, “Ethan, you have to understand that Abigail has obligations. I’m sure that’s why she’s late.” She looked to me, “Right?”

I nodded, “Yeah, there was an equipment malfunction. They had to move my whole performance back inside. I’m kind of glad because it was freezing!”

Mr. Rayner grinned, “You’ve been in LA too long. So Ethan tells me that you were trying to get tickets for the hockey game tonight? I heard that it was next to impossible unless you know someone with season tickets or a corporate box.”

I said, “Yeah, it’s no problem. I got us a private box.”

Mr. Rayner, who was certainly a wealthy individual, not rich but definitely not hard pressed for cash, stared at me mouth agape. He replied, “Uh, Abigail. That’s not necessary. I know that when we lived in Boston, a few of us tried to pool our money together during the playoffs for one of those boxes. All of these guys were successful lawyers, one of them a partner. I was just a junior at that time. We couldn’t afford it- well we wouldn’t pay the exorbitant price that is.”

I smiled, “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Rayner. It’s all on me. Dinner- everything.”

I removed the credit card from my purse and handed it to him. The grown man stared at the gold credit card like it was the Holy Grail.

Ethan blinked in surprise, “Since when do you carry a purse?”

I smirked, “Since I got tired of carrying my lipstick, makeup, and um, tampons in my hands. I didn’t have one usually because I had my school bag.”

Mrs. Rayner and I shared a knowing look.

Mr. Rayner handed the card back to me and asked, “I’m sorry, Abigail- but, I really feel we should pay our way. How much was the box itself? I’ll pay for my ticket and Ethan’s.”

I frowned gently, “It’s, um, $21000-“

Mr. Rayner’s eyes bugged out of his skull. He shook his head, “Abigail- no, we can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

I replied, “Please Mr. Rayner, think of it as just a small thanks for all you and your family has done for me. The birthday party, Christmas, how nice you guys are to me. I can afford it. I want to do this for you. It’s a gift.”

Ethan exclaimed, “Holy shit, those tickets are expensive. Damn. You need to take me to a guitar store after this. She’s right though dad. When Alyssa came to visit Abby, she left with like thousands of dollars of clothes. Abby, can totally afford it.”

I was pleased that Ethan didn’t think I was a ‘diva’ for throwing my money around, but I genuinely liked Ethan’s parents. I wanted to do this them.

I said with a smile, “Please, it’ll make me really happy to do this for you guys. I’m not sure when I’ll see you again.”

Mr. Rayner said with a slight frown, “I-I suppose, just this one time. But I am paying for our dinners.”

I reached out my hand and said, “You drive a hard bargain, but I accept.” Mr. Rayner laughed and shook my hand.

Ethan smirked, “You’re still a weirdo, Abby.”

I grinned and leaned in to whisper in the boy’s ear, “Just you wait until tonight.” I put my hand on his thigh and rubbed it gently.

I said, “I think I’m going to have the chicken parmesan with asparagus.” Oh my god was I ever hungry! I could have eaten a steak the size of a dinner plate. I peered over at my yes-girls who were still texting. The menus lay untouched on the table.

***

The conversation flitted back and forth between my new celebrity life and my old life. Like the restaurant in LA I had gone to with Harmony, la Blue Yen specialized in fine cuisine, which meant it took a while to prepare. Finally, as if someone had read my mind, a mouth-watering steak was placed in front of me, along with a half-lobster and a small butter dish. Neither of the items were on my diet. Sandra had removed red meat entirely from my diet, and while lobster is considered a healthy food, it was drenched in butter, and that was a no-no. I was so hungry, having eaten nothing since the plane ride, and even then, my meal was sparse- low-fat oatmeal and a grapefruit.

I looked at the server and frowned, “Um, this isn’t what I ordered. I’m supposed to have the chicken parmesan.”

The young man replied, “I remember specifically what your order was. The chicken parmesan, but someone came to the kitchen to tell the cooks there was a mistake. They said specifically that it was to be the teriyaki steak and the lobster, with the exact words, drenched in butter.”

I looked at my yes-girls, but I hadn’t seen any of them actually get up. They were currently discussing Miley Cyrus’ latest antics, apparently- she yelled at a maid for looking her in the eye. Ethan and his parents hadn’t left the table either, except for his mother who had gone to the washroom.

I shook my head, “No, I’m sorry that’s wrong. No one in my party did that. I think you made a mistake. What did the person look like who said they wanted to change my meal? Are you sure you have the right table?”

Mrs. Rayner had also ordered the chicken parmesan. I saw the exact same dish being served to a woman across from me who had arrived after me and my entourage.

The waiter bowed his head, “Miss Grenier, I’m sorry if there’s been a mistake. I’ll have the chef prepare your meal immediately. It should be ready in under twenty minutes.”

Ethan said, “Come on, Abby, just eat it. You can skip your diet for tonight. We are going to a hockey game, you know that, right? I hope you aren’t just going to sit there and watch me eat nachos while you complain you can’t eat them. And if we don’t leave soon, we’ll miss the opening faceoff.”

I narrowed my eyes, anger beginning to build within. I snapped at Ethan, “It’s not on my diet. I-I can’t!”

If I cheated, I knew that Sandra would punish me into thinking I was that obese cow. The last time, she didn’t release the illusion for a whole day, and by the end, I was begging her to release her hold on me. The next day, I barely ate anything.

Mr. and Mrs. Rayner shared worried looks. I turned back to the waiter, “I want what I ordered, and I want it right now. That’s my food, right there!” I got up from the table and headed over to the offending table to retrieve my chicken. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat a thing at the hockey game. Beer, soda pop, nachos, hot dogs, candy- none of it was on my diet.

Before I could regain my wayward chicken parmesan, I felt an arm grab hold of me. Mrs. Rayner said, “Abby, please, if this is really such a problem with your diet, then you can have mine. I’ll indulge tonight.”

I shook my head vehemently, “That’s not the point, Mrs. Rayner. They are calling me a liar, they said someone came and said I wanted something else. Did any of you go back there and tell them I wanted the steak and lobster?” I looked at my yes-girls and they nonchalantly shook their heads. I continued, “See? Those people too, they were here after us. How come she gets my meal? How come?” By this point, I had started to raise my voice. The other diners had taken notice of my behaviour and a few showed their disdain with slow head shakes.

I said, “How come you can’t get a simple thing, right? There isn’t even fifteen people in here.” I motioned to my wayward meal, sitting untouched in front of a woman who was quickly growing embarrassed. “Just take it from her! It’s mine!” She looked like the type who didn’t like a lot of attention. She was speaking to her server and motioning to her food, while I engaged in a hissy fit.

Mrs. Rayner said softly, “It’s going to be OK, Abby. Just calm down. I’ve been there. You are starved- I get that. Take a deep breath. You can have my meal, and then you can go to the hockey game, and you’ll have a great time. The longer you spend arguing, the later you’ll be for the game.”

I sighed gently and did as Mrs. Rayner asked. I sat back down and she slid her plate toward me. I dug into the chicken like a ravenous beast. I did not eat in a ladylike manner. I stuffed three stalks of asparagus into my mouth at a time, and tore the chicken apart with my hands.

Mr. Rayner frowned gently, “I have to say I am a little concerned about this diet you are on, Abigail. Who did you say is making you eat this way?”

I replied curtly, “No one. It’s my choice.” Mr. and Mrs. Rayner again shared worried glances.

Ethan said, “Damn, Abby, what are they feeding you for breakfast, like a single grape or something? And do they peel it so it looks like there’s more.” He laughed, but when I didn’t he said. “Lighten up, Abby- it was a joke.”

Dinner was rushed due to the hockey game. I couldn’t take the subway, which is what any normal person would have done, so we were forced to chance it with traffic in the limo. Ethan rode with me and my yes-girls in the limo, while his parents took mass transit.

When we arrived, the driver used the special underground parking reserved for the ultimate-premium box owners. It was the same one used by the owner of the team. Not even the players were allowed to use it. As we walked through the parking lot, Ethan detached me from the yes-girls.

He asked, “What the hell is the problem with those girls? They’ve got to be the stupidest and most annoying people on the planet. What are they part of your little entourage, Abby? Do you have the choice with them too? Like you said you do with your diet, how you dress and how you act.”

I glared at him, “OK, maybe I don’t have all the choices I said I did. But- you have to understand, I’m doing this for a reason.”

He said, “What you did at the restaurant was kind of funny, like I wanted to see you actually go over there and take that chicken. I would have been like whatever. But the fact you let the plastic fantastic octagons hang around with you, it makes me worried about you, Abby. Like you are letting them take over your life.”

I said, “I think you mean octuplets.”

Ethan said, “See, that’s what I didn’t see from you at all tonight. You are a really smart girl, Abby. You sound stupid in all your interviews. I didn’t want to tell you that, but it’s true. You sound like someone is feeding you fucking lines.” I lowered my head.

Ethan shook his head, “What happened to the girl who used to raise her middle finger to stuff like this? Who used to care about stuff? We started talking about school, and science class, and Barbie number seven there starts talking about some shit, I don’t know even- like reality TV stuff. Stuff you hate.”

I said, “It’s really not that bad. And the girls are fine, yeah they aren’t intellectual dynamos, but they are nice.”

Ethan said, “Says the person who got a total of nine compliments while we were in the car.” Ethan mimicked (I think her name was Amber?), “Ooh, Abby you look great in that dress!” Then he aped a girl whose name I didn’t know, “Your hair is just gorgeous, Abby! I wish mine was as nice as yours.” He shook his head, “The real Abby would tell those girls where to shove it, then she’d explain to them in great detail why they are pretentious uppity bitches.”

I frowned deeply, “Are they really that bad?”

Ethan nodded firmly, “I don’t know what’s going on exactly, but- we need to stop it. I’m going to be around for this part of your tour, and we are going turn this whole thing on its side and then poke it with a sharp stick until it bleeds.”

He took my hand, “Are you with me?”

I nodded. I could have sworn I saw whatshersface or maybe Amber?- it could have been Lauren too- they did look alike, either way, I saw someone slip out from behind one of the cement poles that supported the underground parking garage. I heard the distinct clicking of heels, but when I turned to look, there was no one there.

***
Chapter 66

“Let’s go Bruins, let’s go! Let’s go Bruins, let’s go!”

I smirked, “You know that no one can hear you up here, right?”

Ethan glared at me, which only caused my smile to widen. He and his father had been chanting loudly for most of the first period. I wasn’t annoyed by it, because it was part of coming to a hockey game. You paid for your seat, and you could be vocal about what you were seeing in the game. I was certain that there was a part of every die-hard hockey fan’s brain that believed that cheering louder meant their team would win. When asked whether they paid attention to the crowd, most hockey players would say that they were focused on the game, and not the crowd. However, teams often played with more energy before a home crowd, so maybe there was some truth to it.

The cheering had quickly driven the yes-girls from the suite, which pleased Ethan. Twenty-one thousand dollars bought us theatre-style seating, a sixty-inch television (which allowed us to view all the replays), and a gourmet food service. If I had known that, I wouldn’t have made such a fuss over my chicken parmesan. Ethan took full advantage of our personal server, but he wasn’t interested in pâté or haut-cuisine. He had the server bring him two hotdogs, a package of candy corn, a colossal soda, and that was only what he ate just before the end of the second period.

I managed to resist temptation as my boyfriend stuffed his face with junk food in front of me. Mr. Rayner had a few beers and nachos, but Mrs. Rayner, like myself, had nothing. She had stuffed herself on lobster and steak, and with the chicken parmesan, I was at my caloric limit for the day. As the third period started, our personal server brought Ethan freshly-baked soft pretzels, and I actually salivated. They were my favourite. He returned with two of them and a new pop.

I glared at him, “Why did you get those? You know they are my favourite.”

Ethan shrugged, “You never told me that. And if you like them, then have one.”

I said, “Yes, I did. I remember it. We were in music class and you asked me my favourite arena food. We were talking about going to see a game in Montreal back when we thought we were playing with Porcelain. Anyway, I said soft pretzel, and then Madame Morin said to be quiet because some other kids were studying for a test. And you said, with mustard or without. And then I laughed at your stupid joke.”

Ethan grinned widely, “Okay, tell me what happened on August 8, 2013 at 8:48 PM, and 45 seconds.” He held the pretzel over my nose, forcing me to sniff the delectable doughy goodness.

I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms underneath my chest, “It’s not on my diet. I can’t eat it.”

Mrs. Rayner said, “Stop teasing Abby, Ethan. And I think you’ve had enough junk. You eat one of those and that’s it.”

Ethan leaned in and whispered to me, “You know what I was saying in the parking garage? Well this is a perfect example. You used to eat pizza and drink pop. You didn’t worry about shit like that. We aren’t going to have a chance to go to another hockey game probably for a long time. Just eat it. I know you want to. You aren’t going to suddenly turn into a three-hundred pound pig. It’s one pretzel.”

Ethan was right. Sandra would never know that I had cheated, and I wanted the pretzel almost as much as I wanted to be alone with Ethan at that very moment. I took it from his waiting hands and said, “With mustard.”

It was an excellent hockey game, full of bone-crushing hits, incredible saves and break-neck speed back and forth. However, with five minutes left in the game, one of the Toronto players checked a Boston player into the boards. This caused a full-ice brawl that involved two of the game’s heavyweights. The crowd was livid that their heavyweight was sucker punched. I wanted to be with them. I looked down from the ultimate-premium box at the fans in their hundred dollar seats and felt a sense of longing.

Ethan asked, “What’s wrong, Abby? Pretzel no good?”

I shook my head, “It was amazing. I haven’t had food like that in a while. I guess- well I guess I was just thinking how I’d much rather be down there. You know? This private box is nice and all. But I’ve never sat right next to the glass, or behind the players’ bench.”

Ethan replied, “So? Next time- let’s do that.”

I frowned, “I can’t. I’m too recognizable now. There’d have to be police, and I just wouldn’t enjoy it. As many people love me as hate me. Some asshole would probably think it funny to pour a drink on me or something. Or I’d get a whole crowd of people asking me for autographs, and I’m just- well I’m just trying to watch the game, you know?”

Mrs. Rayner asked softly, in a clearly worried tone, “Is there anything about your fame that you like, Abigail?”

I said, “Well- I got to meet Wayne Gretzky. That was pretty amazing. He was super nice. I got to ask him about his time with the Oilers. It was incredible.”

Ethan grinned, “I would kill to meet him. I was so jealous when you told me about that. And the picture you took with him! Damn. Or Bobby Orr. Right, Dad? Hey Abby, do you think you think you could call his people? Like your people. Is that how it works?”

I frowned, “I don’t know. I mean I guess.”

Mrs. Rayner shook her head, “Ethan, I don’t think that’s right. Don’t use your girlfriend like that.”

I said, “I mean I really don’t mind. I guess I just want to do normal stuff when I’m with you, just hang out- talk. Like we used to. Not meet a bunch of celebrities or whatever. I’d like this life to be kind of separate.” Mrs. Rayner smiled knowingly.

Ethan relented, perhaps realizing that his request to meet Bobby Orr ran counter to his request to spend time with the real Abigail. He nodded, “Sorry, Abby.” I smiled and kissed him on the cheek, “It’s OK.”

Mr. Rayner said with surprise, “Smile and wave everyone.” He pointed at the television screen.

I blinked, “Huh?” I looked at the television screen, and I could see that the camera was focused on our supposedly private premium box. The one that cost $21000. Apparently, privacy was extra. Just as I always did when faced with cameras, I wore my trademark smile. I waved excitedly, but the second the camera left the booth, my face drooped into an instant frown. “Damn it, how did they know we were here? The guy I spoke to in the box office- he said we would have privacy.”

Mr. Rayner said, “We have a private entrance though. And I’m assuming that means exit too. That Bert fellow who let us up in the elevator, could he have told someone you were here?”

I sighed, “It’s possible. He might be mad because I didn’t, well I promised him that I’d sign an autograph for his daughter. I feel really bad about it. I doubt it was him. Maybe she’s still here.”

Ethan handed me his phone, which showed my Twitter page, it read: “@ Leafs game tonight with BF! Say hi if you see me!”

I said, “What the hell. I didn’t write that! I’m really sorry- I know there’s some time left still, but I think we should leave.”

Ethan groaned loudly, which elicited a disappointed mom face from Mrs. Rayner. It was the kind where the eyebrows sort of furrow and the mouth isn’t exactly a frown, but more of a grimace. Mr. Rayner said, “Of course, Abigail. We understand.”

***

“What’s your name, honey?”

The little girl looked up at me with godlike reverence. She smiled, showing one missing front tooth. “I’m Tawny.” She looked down at her shoes, shyness gripping her. The little girl was completed decked out in Maple Leaf fan apparel, a pink jersey and a blue and white toque all featuring Toronto’s logo.

I said softly, “You know you’re special, Tawny.”

The little girl brightened as her timid behaviour morphed into supreme confidence. She asked excitedly, “Really?”

I nodded and grinned, “Yeah, I don’t usually give autographs to Leaf fans. I’m making a special exception for you!” Her father laughed. “What are you a Bruins fans?”

I shook my head, “Habs fan till death.” Bert made a cross with his index fingers, he said with a grin, “That’s even worse.”

Tawny failed to understand, choosing to peer at her father and then me with a puzzled expression. She looked at me, at the brink of an emotional meltdown. Her lip trembled gently, “Can I have an autograph, please?”

I smiled and said, “Of course! I’m sorry, Tawny. Your dad and I were just having some fun.”

Bert said, “You are one of the good ones, Miss Grenier. Not a lot of celebrities would come looking for a fan like that. I’ve seen a lot come through here over the years. You should have heard some of the demands they made. One guy, he wanted Versace towels to wipe his sweaty face. And he’d accept only Versace! So we had to cut these $400 towels up into these stupid sweat wipes.”

Ethan’s parents smiled, and even Ethan, who had been upset about leaving the game early, seemed pleased with this turn of events.

I replied, “I promised I would come. And I meant it. What would you like me to sign, Tawny?”

The little girl said, “Um, could you- please, could you sign my jersey? I know that it will be lucky then! You are my favourite singer, Abby.”

I looked at the girl with a measure of seriousness, “Can I ask you a question?” The little girl bobbed her head eagerly. I asked, “Why do you like me?”

The question caught the girl off guard. I could see it in her eyes, and the way her mouth crinkled gently. She was clearly formulating her response. She replied enthusiastically, “Cause I love your voice, and your songs. And you are really pretty, Abby! The outfits you wear too, I love them! Oh- oh and your dancing! That’s my favourite. I-I wanna learn how to do flips and stuff, like you. I asked my daddy if I can take dance and he said yes!”

I smiled gently and took hold of the girl’s jersey. I signed my name as I always did, in a flowery way with a heart on the first ‘I’. It’s how Sandra had instructed me, and I had done it so many times, I didn’t even think about it. The little girl reached out her arms, and I hugged her. Mrs. Rayner said, “Oh, that’s so sweet!” Bert took a picture with his cell phone. I waved goodbye to Tawny as Bert led us to the elevator.

The moment we stepped off the elevator, a microphone was pushed in my face. I stared in shock as a veritable media mob awaited us in the supposedly private parking garage. The reporter asked, “Is there any truth to the rumour that you fainted during one of your exercise sessions?” Another reporter asked, “Did you faint as a result of a starvation diet?” A sneer appeared on my face. We were facing journalistic dregs, entertainment reporters.

Another microphone was pushed into my face, “Is there any truth to the rumour that you cheated on your boyfriend with both of the stars of Twilight?” Then, a microphone was pushed into Ethan’s face, and a question asked, “Are you worried about your girlfriend’s health problems? Is she taking diet pills? Did she cheat on you?” As all of this was happening twenty or so paparazzi took hundreds of pictures of us. We were essentially trapped in the elevator, facing a barrage of questions from people of questionable integrity.

Instead of reacting as I expected, Ethan looked terrified. I thought he would swear and push the cameras and microphones away, but he was almost in shock. He answered a few questions by mumbling into the microphone. I refused to answer anything, but I knew I couldn’t play lawyer- I wasn’t allowed to show any of my prior knowledge. Apparently, pop stars are better liked when people think they are stupid.

Thankfully, Mr. Rayner stepped in. He shielded us from the paparazzi and addressed the entertainment vultures fiercely, “What you are doing is criminal. You are harassing two sixteen year olds, basically children! I-I’m Miss Grenier’s lawyer, and I will see to it that all of you are slapped with restraining orders. Act with some decorum, these are teenagers, not seasoned celebrities. Just back off all of you! Miss Grenier will not answer any questions if you use such aggressive tactics!”

Amazingly, Mr. Rayner’s bluster worked, and we were able to run to the limousine with the narrow path carved by journalists with a shred of humanity. I didn’t see the yes-girls anywhere, but I knew we needed to leave, especially given the fact that the paparazzi were swayed by Mr. Rayner’s words. They shot us running to the limousine, a hundred flashes as we threw open the door. The Rayners had parked their car here, but the limousine with the tinted windows offered protection. I didn’t say anything as they jumped into the limo with their son, who still looked to be in shock.

Without saying a word, the limo driver pulled out of the parking spot, squealing the tires in the process. I could see some of the paparazzi chasing us, but the driver, who had clearly been trained to deal with the photo seekers, pulled away rapidly. I could see a greater number of cars in the parking garage than before and considering they never sold the ultimate-premium boxes, it was clear someone had given entry to the entertainment media.

We reached the ticket gate, and the limo driver placed the stub from the premium box in the dispenser, which lifted the thin yellow gate and opened the large metal door. I stared in complete shock as just outside the door, stood hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. I could hear them chanting my name. I looked over at Ethan, who had a deer in the headlights look as if an eighteen wheeler packed with cinder blocks was bearing down on him. I reached out to hold his hand, but he pulled away.

I couldn’t blame my boyfriend for his less than heroic action in the face of the ravenous entertainment press. It was his first encounter with them. In fact, it was similar to mine. Days after my album had dropped, I was surprised by a large group of them camping just outside the spa that I frequented on a regular basis. I was almost knocked down in the fray, with nearly twenty reporters trying to shove microphones in my face. I was without my bodyguards at the time, as the event itself spurred Sandra to hire protection. I found it bizarre that my bodyguards were not waiting for me in the parking garage. They usually shielded me from the hungry lenses and quick trigger fingers. Sandra expressly said that I was not to go anywhere without them, especially after the incident in New York City. So where were they? They tended to follow the limousine in a black SUV.

Mrs. Rayner asked, “Abigail, do you go through that every day? I can’t imagine the strain it puts on you.”

I shrugged, “I’m kind of used to it now. Most of the time they are OK. Like I’ve stopped to talk to them, but they are like sharks with blood in the water tonight. I don’t know what’s got them acting so aggressive.” I looked to Mr. Rayner, “Um, thanks- you know for what you did. It was smart. Uh- but you are a corporate real estate lawyer,” I smirked. “Have you ever filed a restraining order against anyone?”

Mr. Rayner nodded his head, “Yes, back when I was in Boston. I worked for a firm that dealt with a lot of domestic abuse cases.”

I reached out and put my hand on Ethan’s knee. I said softly, “It’s alright. You’ll get used to it. It just takes some time. We can talk about it tonight. I want you to come back to my hotel room.”

A little smile appeared on the boy’s face as he realized what that likely entailed. The limousine plodded through the mass of people.

He said eagerly, “OK. Sure Abby.”

Mr. Rayner said, “I’m really not sure that’s appropriate, Abigail. We really need to speak to Sandra about this, but we’ve talked about it with your sister, and if we are going to let Ethan go on this tour, we want you and him to sleep in separate rooms. It’s not appropriate for two sixteen year olds to share a room on a daily basis.”

Mrs. Rayner added, “We’ve also heard nothing about the tutor that Mr. Atwater promised. Do you have a tutor, Abigail?”

My eyes darted back and forth as I considered my response. Sandra had said nothing of a tutor for me, but then, I already had two university degrees. I said, “I didn’t have time for a tutor with all the media appearances I was doing, but I think she’s planning on getting one for us soon.”

I said, “I don’t see what the big problem is with Ethan coming back to my hotel room. We love each other, and I want him to.”

My mouth stood open for a moment, seemingly stunning myself with my own words. Honestly, I was used to getting my way. Yes, I obeyed Sandra, but in all other facets of my life, people did as I told them. Mr. and Mrs. Rayner looked equally shocked by my words. Even Ethan, who had previously been gung-ho at the prospect of us sleeping in the same bed together, looked surprised at my behaviour.

No one treated me like a kid anymore. Celebrities spoke to me in Twitter feeds like a grown woman. My yes-girls certainly didn’t treat me like a sixteen year old either. None of my staff referred to me as a child, and in fact, most of them referred to me as Miss Grenier, which I had to admit, I kind of liked.

Mr. Rayner said, “Amélie specifically said that you were not to share a room with Ethan. And we agree. It’s just not proper.”

I rebutted, “Amélie isn’t my legal guardian anymore.”

With the way I answered, I might have just stuck out my tongue. I wasn’t treated like a sixteen year old anymore, but I was certainly acting like it.

Mrs. Rayner frowned gently, “We know you are living this really different life now, Abigail, and that you are probably used to getting your way.”

Mr. Rayner added, “Amélie may not be your legal guardian anymore, but she still wants to make sure you aren’t getting swallowed up by this world. She just wants what is best for you, and a sixteen year old girl should not be allowed to have her boyfriend sleep in her room on a regular basis. I never would have allowed Valerie to do that at your age.”

I was growing increasingly angry. The fans were starting to jostle the car, some of them refusing to move. I could see police sirens in the distance, which hopefully meant a quick crowd dispersal. I didn’t throw tantrums with Sandra, there was no use. If I did, I was soundly punished. Other than Sandra, everyone did as I said, so there was no reason to get upset usually. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Amélie’s number. It was after 11 PM, and I knew she was probably sleeping, but I was enraged. I clicked the Skype video option.

After three rings, Amélie answered, “H-Hello? Abigail?” I could hear rustling in the bed next to Amélie, and then a gruff, definitely male voice asked, “Who is it?” I saw red, blood-streaked murderous red.

Forgetting there was anyone else in the car with me, I screamed into the phone, “So he’s sleeping in OUR bed now? You couldn’t fuck at his place?”

The video screen showed Amélie narrowing her eyes as she spoke into the phone, “Young lady, apologize immediately or I’m hanging the phone up.”

I shouted, “I will not apologize! You screw around with my life, and I’ll screw around with yours! How dare you put your nose in my business! I’ll do whatever I want with MY boyfriend. You don’t have a say in anything I do anymore.”

My behaviour surprised me, but it felt so good. I was tipping the scale as a level five diva, in fact, I had probably entered an entirely new category. Ethan’s parents sat quietly while I shrieked at my ex-wife. Ethan looked concerned.

Amélie said calmly, “Ethan’s parents came to me, concerned about their son’s welfare. We talked about the tutor that Sandra still hasn’t hired. And they asked my opinion on the sleeping arrangement between you and Ethan. I just gave my opinion. That’s all. I’m not trying to dictate your life, Abigail.”

I said, “Liar! You still don’t trust me. That’s what it is, right?”

Amélie replied evenly, “When you are ready to have a grown up conversation about this, you can call me back. Until then, goodnight, Abigail.” I looked down at my phone and stared at the “call ended” message.

By this point, the limo had managed to crawl its way through the mass of people. Soon enough we were on the express way, but no one had said a word. Ethan’s parents wore a perpetual look of worry. Ethan was on his phone, barely paying attention to me. It looked like he was texting with someone.

I asked, “Who are you talking to?”

I hadn’t meant for my tone to sound accusatory, but from Ethan’s glare it was clear what he thought. He answered, “Alyssa.”

I cleared my throat, “Oh. How’s she doing?”

Ethan said, “Isn’t she supposed to be your best friend? Or is it that Harmony girl? Don’t you guys talk anymore?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah, we do. Probably not as much as I’d like. I-Is she still having those nightmares?”

Ethan said, “What nightmares?”

I replied, “Never mind.”

Ethan said, “She talks all the time about you. How proud she is or whatever, and how you said that she’d get to do your hair- your makeup and stuff. When is she coming out?”

I said, “I guess when Sandra says it’s OK.”

***

“Young man, do you not understand simple instructions?” Sandra’s angry gaze zeroed in on Ethan who returned her look with a sneer. It was dress rehearsal the next day. The first performance of the Canadian tour was tonight, and Ethan was going to be my lead guitarist. Ethan wore the same tight white pants and vest that all my male musicians were expected to wear. There were times during the rehearsal where I found myself staring at him. I loved the way the vest showed off his well-built arms and firm abs. My backing dancers giggled as they caught me checking out his butt whenever I got the chance. I also vowed that tonight was going to be different. I wouldn’t enter diva mode. I would show Ethan that I was the same girl that he had kissed outside Club Saw.

Despite playing pop songs, Ethan had maintained the same aggressive style, blazing through solos with bravado and playing accented, powerful rhythm. His guitar playing made the songs sound more like rock songs basically, and Sandra seemed displeased by this fact. Ethan replied to Sandra, “Yeah. I played them. I followed the tabs you sent me. I played along with the songs, just like I am now. What’s the problem?”

Sandra said firmly, “Yes, note for note. But not with the established pattern in the tablature. Your style is too aggressive. You are grandstanding, taking away from what is a solo act.”

Ethan said, “I could hear Abby just fine. And she seemed to like it. Did you hear the last chorus? It was sick.”

I had actually screamed the last chorus, which caught everyone off guard, but as it built toward the final held note, the drummer hit harder, the bassist plucked the strings with greater force. Even my backing dancers, adorned in ridiculous red, green and white crop tops and mini-skirts (they looked like slutty candy canes), danced with increased vigour.

The other musicians were in agreement with Ethan, but Sandra held firm. She said, “People come to performances to hear what is on the MP3, but live. I know that you were in a band with Abigail before this, young man, but if you want to maintain your status, you will do as I say.”

Ethan replied snidely, “Come on! Everyone seemed to like it. What’s wrong with mixing things up? It’s boring when bands do the same thing. I hate it when they sound just like the CD. It’s lame.”

I nodded, “It shows another level of creativity too. Like, it’s easy to play something the same way, but to play it in a new way, add new tones to it, a new energy. Get them thinking differently about the song too. I think we should do it that way from now on.”

Sandra maintained her composure and said, “Abigail, I’d like to speak with you in your dressing room.” Sandra started walking toward the backstage area, and when I didn’t immediately follow her, she looked back, and said, “Now, Abigail.”

I followed her with a sigh. I could see Ethan slowly shaking his head as I obeyed. My dressing room was not what you would expect from an international pop star. I had a massage table, a small bowl of healthy snacks, including fresh apples, oranges and bananas, my cool mist humidifier and a small vanity. It was nothing compared to other stars who requested specific flowers cut to a specific length, all-white décor or animal-print décor.

Sandra said, “You cheated on your diet last night. Didn’t you?”

I lowered my head, avoiding her oppressive gaze. I muttered, “No, I had the chicken. Even though they screwed up at restaurant.”

Sandra asked, “And at the hockey game, you didn’t have any junk food? None at all?”

I slowly raised my head, looking Sandra in the eyes, desperately trying not to tremble. I shook my head.

Sandra said, “How then do you explain the mustard stain on your face, when you were seen on television?” Damn. My eyes widened as the woman approached me. She put her hand on my firm stomach. Her hand gradually started to push into my stomach as it lost its firmness, and gradually, the hand was fully enveloped by a massive pot belly that surged into two distinct belly rolls. My jean skirt hung on for dear life, but it eventually gave up, actually snapping and leaving me in a thong that was only visible from the front. She grabbed the fat around my waist and said, “Do you enjoy being a fat, disgusting ugly pig? You are repulsive. Do you want to lay around in shit all day and stuff your face? Is that what you want? This isn’t the first time you’ve cheated since the tour started, is it?” I shook my head rapidly, tears beginning to form.

She wiped a tear away from my eye, and said softly, “Now, there’s no need to cry. You don’t want to ruin your makeup. You know it’s not real right?”

To me, it was. I wanted every pound of revolting flesh off of me. In that moment, I would have burnt it, sliced it off, if given the means. Within an instant, I was back, but my hands still traced my body, searching desperately for any offending flab. I felt along my side, and when I looked in the mirror, I could see that I had a hint of love handle again. How was it possible, considering I had only cheated a handful of times? I vowed I would work with Stacy for four hours on non-performance days.

Sandra said, “I see we understand each other. Now, about your boyfriend. If you want him to stay, get him in line. If he pulls anything like he did this afternoon during tonight’s performance, he’s not coming with us. Have I made myself clear, Abigail?”

I whimpered, still staring at myself in the mirror and pulling at my taught stomach, and what basically amounted to skin, and finding fat there. I sniffed and nodded.

Sandra smiled, “Now, let’s finish the set.” I walked out of the room and took my place centre stage.

I said, “OK, let’s try that one again. We should do it the same way we always have though.”

Ethan glared at Sandra and then regarded me with a look of supreme disappointment. There were slight groans from the backing band, but they fell into line, the drummer returning to his simple 4/4 beat, the bassist back to plucking one string, but Ethan- he did the same thing again.

***

I sighed, “Ethan, you need- you need to just play it the way Sandra wants. You don’t want to mess with her. Tonight, I want you to do it the way we practiced.”

I was sitting on the plush couch in my dressing room, receiving a foot rub. Rehearsal was over, and I had a few hours before what would likely be a very sparse dinner. Sandra’s illusion always played havoc with my appetite.

Ethan said, “You always said to just play what feels right. Well that’s what I’m doing. This is bullshit, Abby- and you know it. I know you don’t like doing it like that. But you put this big smile on, and it’s just- it’s not you. What the hell did she do to you?”

I shook my head, telling the girl who was rubbing my feet to leave, “Nothing. I’m under contract though. I can’t-“

Ethan replied derisively, “Ooh! Okay, well then let a stupid piece of paper tell you what to do. That’s smart. Just break the contract. Tell them you don’t want to do this anymore. Tell them you want to give it up.”

I lowered my head, “It’s not that simple. There’s too much invested in this. Too much money. I mean they’d sue for breach of contract, and I would be destitute. I’d owe them millions of dollars that I don’t have.”

Ethan shook his head, “The Abby I know wouldn’t give up. Why not ask my dad to represent you? He would help. I know he would.”

I bit my lip, “E-Even after last night, and my behaviour- I don’t really know what to say to them.”

Ethan shrugged, “They got it. You were pissed cause your sister is with this new guy, and you want her to be with Darren. Don’t worry about it- I explained it to my parents. I know you really like Darren. You were just- well you weren’t you.”

I nodded and smiled gently, “Yeah, that’s really what it is.” The smile soon sagged into a frown, “I have to make the best of this though. But I want you with me. OK? Look, we can do this- just suck it up and play pretend pop star couple, and we can write. We can write music that we like. I want you with me on this. You’re the only one that can help me get through this craziness.”

Ethan’s expression matched my own, “Is it- I mean, is it always going to be like this? With the cameras and everything?”

I replied gently, “You’ll get used to it. I promise.” Ethan looked unconvinced. I leaned in to whisper in his ear, “We’ve got a few hours before I need to be back for hair and makeup, do you- do you want to- well,” a little smile appeared on my face. “Do you want to go back to my hotel room?”

Ethan’s eyebrows raised slightly and then a boyish grin formed.

***

Ethan said, “Do those guys really have to follow you wherever you go?”

Ethan pointed at the black SUV following behind the limo. The limo stopped in front of the hotel, and the group of four hulking men stepped out of the SUV. Two of them entered the lobby, presumably to secure it, while the other two stood next to the limo. I opened the door, and they immediately stood in front of me.

I shrugged as I exited the limo, “Yeah. After what happened in New York, and- especially last night- Sandra doesn’t want to take any chances. It was assumed that the private box entrance was private. The only difference is the hotel. I’m allowed to walk around by myself on my floor because we rented every single room. Even if some of them are empty.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, “Woah, that’s crazy. But I mean, I guess it makes sense.”

I nodded, “It’s safer.”

We walked through the lobby and entered the elevator. Ethan looked up at the four imposing men, who rarely said anything except for “all-clear” or “perimeter breach”. It was like they played too much Call of Duty multi-player, or they were ex-military.

Ethan said, “Hey, so you guys aren’t going to come with us right, I mean- unless you want to watch?” The boy grinned widely. The four men remained silent.

Ethan smirked, “Tough crowd. So what do you guys like to do for fun? I’m going to say knitting. Am I right? No?” He pointed to the towering man on his right and said, “Dude, you look like you enjoy a good game of Pinochle.”

I said, “They never say anything. I think it’s because Sandra was worried they would get to know me and like me, and because of that, I’d be able to manipulate them. It was like that with Britney, she befriended her bodyguard, and she got away with a lot.” I added with a slight smirk, “How the hell do you know about Pinochle.”

Ethan replied, “What does any of this have to do with Britney? You mean Britney Spears? Anyway, dudes are lame. And Pinochle. I know it because of my grandma. Apparently I am the best at it.”

We reached the twenty-second floor and my bodyguard exited first, one of them holding the elevator, while the other three established the ‘perimeter’. Once the all-clear was given, Ethan and I were allowed to step out of the elevator. The bodyguards then stepped back into the elevator. I eagerly fumbled around for the hotel key in my purse.

As I rummaged around in my purse, I heard the door next to my room open. I finally removed the key, and moved it toward the unlocking mechanism. I heard the door click as the mechanism emitted a green light. Just as I was reaching for the door handle, I heard, “Oh my god. So the rumour is true, you are staying here! Um- Miss Grenier, could I- could I please have your autograph?” A young woman, probably my age, and another woman, likely her mother walked toward me excitedly. The girl was, in my estimation, overweight. She wore a homemade ‘Abeille’ t-shirt that clung to her thick belly. A picture of my face was glued onto a bee’s body with the words, “Sweet like Honey” written underneath. Her round face was framed by a pair of thick glasses that made her eyes look humungous.

I sighed gently, and then turned on my smile. I said, “Sure, no problem. Um, nice t-shirt. And please call me Abby.” She handed me a pen and an autograph book.

The girl gushed, “Thanks! Is this the new guitar guy everyone is talking about, Abby??” She pointed excitedly to Ethan. I nodded slowly, and she said, “I’m so excited that I got to meet you! Can I- can I ask you a question?” I smiled robotically and nodded.

The girl looked down at herself and then said timidly, “Well- I am- I’m trying to lose some weight. Kids at school are really mean to me. But I just can’t seem to do it. How did you do it?” I said nothing about the soft drink in her hand or the mega-sized bag of chips her overweight mother was carrying.

I said, “No big secret really. I just jog every day. And you know I dance. So that helps.”

The girl looked at me with a puzzled expression, “You lost a lot of weight though. I saw pictures of you at Harmony Sweet’s birthday party, and you were- way bigger. Are you on like a specific diet or something?”

I shook my head and smiled, “Nope! It’s just exercise. I’m just a normal kid. Like you. We probably eat a lot of the same things.” I motioned to the Pepsi in her hand, and she smiled, “I loved your commercial.”

The girl’s mother said, “Come on Amanda, it’s time to go. I think we’ve taken enough of Miss Grenier’s time.”

I smiled and said, “Nice to have met you, Amanda. Enjoy the show tonight!”

I entered my hotel room, turning off my smile, and picked up the phone, immediately dialing the lobby. Ethan followed in behind me. “Yes. This is Ms. Grenier. Manager. Now.”

A few seconds later, the manager was on the line, sounding distressed, “Ms. Grenier, I am the manager, Mr. Williams. Is there a problem with your room?”

I shouted into the room, “Yes! This entire floor was supposed to be private. No one except for people attached to my group. That’s it. There’s someone in the room right next to mine! What the hell is going on?”

Mr. Williams sounded regretful, “Very, very sorry about this Miss Grenier, but you see your concert has brought a lot of out of town guests. Many hotels in the area are booked. We didn’t want to turn people away- and your requests had been so minor, I thought that ... ”

I yelled, “You thought what? That I wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the fact that I need to walk around this floor with my bodyguards now? Because our demands were minor, we don’t deserve privacy, is that it? So some super bitch would get her privacy then?”

Ethan put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Woah, chill out, Abby.”

I turned toward him with what must have been hellfire in my eyes because he blanched and immediately turned away.

The manager said nervously, “Not- exactly. It is certainly not our intent to inconvenience you. We will rectify this as soon possible. What would you like done, Miss Grenier?”

I said firmly, “Move them. Move that girl and her mother to another floor and give us what we asked for.”

The manager said, “But there’s only the penthouse, and that- that is far and above the price range of the guests you mentioned.”

I shouted, “Then move me to the penthouse! I don’t care.”

The manager actually trembled, “M-Miss Walker, she asked that you be placed on this floor with everyone else from your group.”

I said, speaking to the man as if he were a sniveling worm, “OK, here’s what you are going to do. Move the girl and her mother to penthouse. I’ll pay for it. OK? OK?!”

I held the phone tightly, and if I possessed the strength, I would have crushed it in my grip. I slammed it down, feeling my eyes bugging out and my heart racing.

I said, “I cannot believe how stupid some people are. They need a freaking teenager to figure out something that simple. And what the hell is their problem? I mean, don’t I deserve privacy? I’m sure we paid enough to buy out a whole goddamn floor! And why can’t I have the penthouse? That would have made more sense. It’s got a private elevator! ”

I looked to Ethan for support, but found none. He was laying on the bed watching some rerun of the Simpsons. He rolled his eyes at me.

I was determined to salvage this moment, despite Ethan’s clear disapproval of my behaviour, I knew that once he saw me in the red bikini, all would be right in the world. I slipped into the bathroom and quickly undressed. I turned on the hot tub, watching the jets surge, the bubbles rising, imagining Ethan and I beneath the warm waters, passionately exploring each other’s bodies. I put on a pair of high heels and strutted out of the bathroom. I stopped to lean up against the corner, exposing first my silky smooth and slender left leg, and then my entire body, putting it in full view of Ethan whose eyes were still frozen to the television. Undeterred, I sauntered over to the bed, crawling on it like a jungle cat, where I proceeded to fully block Ethan’s view of the television. Now that I was closer, the boy seemed far more interested in what I had to offer.

I lay on top of him, and then lunged for his neck, planting my lips on it and then running my tongue leisurely over the surface. I was playing with him. I felt the boy stiffen underneath me as I kicked off my heels. I grinned and then moved to his face. His hands began exploring my perfect body. In the bathroom mirror, I didn’t see the love handles any longer. I figured it was just a side effect of Sandra’s illusion. He ran his hands over my taught, lean stomach, and then he moved to his favourite part- my boobs. Certainly, they weren’t the squeezable mounds that once formed impressive cleavage in anything I wore, but I still liked them. I would have liked them to have stayed a similar size, but honestly, it was easier to dance without them jiggling and trying to escape my sports bras.

I reached behind and undid my bikini top, letting it fall in teasing slow-motion. Ethan reached up and grabbed my left boob, squeezing it roughly. His action wouldn’t have hurt previously, but because I had less boob to grab, it felt like he was trying to wrench the appendage from my body. I cried out in pain, and Ethan softened his touch. He stayed on my boobs for barely two minutes before moving to my toned ass, which he spent even less time on. I figured that he was just anxious to actually have sex, so I quickly removed my bikini bottoms. I wore a grin, as I pulled the boy out of his pants, which widened when I saw the tent in his boxers. He seemed surprised by my aggressiveness, but he said nothing. When I actually put my hand on the tent, it was soft, and it quickly flattened in his boxers. I frowned gently, but I figured that it would return to its rigid state with a few easy moves. I lay on top of Ethan again, rubbing my crotch into his, and I put his hands on my slender waist, while I dangled my boobs in his face. I moved back to kissing his neck, but when I came back to meet his lips, I noticed that he was still trying to watch TV.

I got off the boy and stared bloody poison-filled daggers at him, “What the hell? Are you seriously trying to watch TV, when we are about to have sex? What the fuck is your problem?”

I said, “You’ve got perfection staring you in the face. Every guy with a pulse wants to get with me. I’ve read the comment sections on some of my videos- the commercial. I know.” I stood up on the bed and put a hand on my slender hip, “And you- you want to watch a repeat of the Simpsons! Look at me. Look at this!” I pointed to my stomach and ran my fingers over it gently, then I turned around and showed the boy my toned ass.

I said, “Here I thought all teenage boys were horny to the end. Well there’s thousands of them with my picture on the wall, my face.” I pointed to his crotch, “Are you broken down there?”

Ethan glared at me, “No. I just-,” he softened and added, “I don’t, this doesn’t feel right. You’re really- I don’t know, you’re different, Abby. It’s weird.”

I shouted, “The only weird thing about this is you. I see how you look at me. I don’t think you’re broken in there.” I pointed to his crotch again, and then moved to his head, “You’re busted in there. Like I used to be.”

Ethan replied, “Your boobs, your body- even the way you smell, Abby. It’s just weird, OK? I can’t really explain it. The way you act too. I liked you how you were before.”

I said, “So, what? You want me to get breast implants so you can have your fun bags back? Would that make you happy, hmm? How about triple J, would you like that? Why not make them bigger than my head?”

I added, “You don’t see it, but you are damaged. Normal people, they wouldn’t look at pictures of me before and say, oh she’s pretty, no they’d say, she’d be pretty if she lost some weight. So what you like the fatties, eh? You want a fucking threesome with Amanda and her mom?”

Ethan shook his head repeatedly. He pulled his shirt back on and quickly slipped on his jeans. “That’s not it. Not exactly. I mean, I was really attracted to you, Abby, and I mean, you have a nice body, but I mean, just listen to how you are talking to me. That’s why it feels wrong.”

I rolled my eyes, “Oh sorry you feel that way, I thought I was going to fuck a man. I see now that I’m mistaken. You’re a menopausal woman.”

Ethan shouted at me, “You want to know why? You want to know why I don’t even want to look at you, Abby?! Because you’re a fucking bitch. A spoiled, entitled, bitch. And you’re a liar. You lie about everything because of some goddamn contract. You won’t stand up to a woman who is turning you into everything you always hated.”

He counted off on his fingers, “You lied to Amanda today. You told her you ate the stuff she eats. Well, no you don’t, only when you cheat on your diet. Which you didn’t tell her you were on. And you have a personal trainer. You pretend to be this normal girl, but you aren’t- you’re like all the rest of them. Harmony, Miley- all bitches for attention.”

He continued, “You lie all the time during your interviews. You say you don’t want to have sex before being married or some bullshit like this, and then you come at me like some crazy cat in heat. You lie about who you are, who you were, everything. There’s nothing about you that’s real anymore. Nothing. And, you stink like spray tan all the time.”

Tears fell from my eyes as my boyfriend stabbed knife after knife into my wounded heart. I crumpled on the bed, still naked, as Ethan quickly made his way to the door. I had lost complete control of the situation. Anger built its way back into me, as I realized what Ethan was doing. “You’re just leaving because you can’t accept that you’re a pervert! You like something only perverts like. Admit it, you like fat cows. That’s the reason. The only reason. Because you’re broken.”

He turned back, “I was attracted to you, Abby. I really liked your body, but I also thought Véronique was hot too when I was going out with her, and she was a lot skinnier than you. Now I don’t like either of you.”

My heart climbed into my throat, “W-What are you saying?”

He sneered, “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to have a girlfriend who is a bitchy, lying Barbie doll.”

I threw on a robe and moved toward the door, which Ethan had now opened. “You don’t get that choice! We are together whether you like it or not. I’m going to convince you how wrong you are. And I know that you are lying, you liked me when I was fat. I get it.”

Ethan shook his head, “I liked you when you were nice.” He moved toward the elevator, but I grabbed his arm, desperately trying to pull him back into the room. I shouted petulantly, “I’m supposed to get whatever I want! Sandra promised! Get back here! You are mine!”

Ethan pried my hand off his arm and hit the button for the elevator. I jumped at him pathetically, but he pushed me away. He gave me the middle-finger salute as the doors closed. I lay crying on the floor for a few minutes. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and as I looked up, I could see the yes-girls.

Lauren said gently, “We saw Ethan in the lobby- I guess things didn’t go well with him?” One of the girls rubbed my shoulder and said, “Tell us about it, Abby.” They helped me to my feet, and we entered my room.

I said trying to hold back tears, “Ethan- he- I guess we aren’t going out anymore.” I added sadly, “He thinks I’ve changed too much.”

Lauren said, “But you’ve changed for the better, Abby! Look at you, you’re gorgeous now!”

I nodded rapidly, “Yes, exactly! And that’s what I told him. He’s got this perfect body in front of him, and he didn’t even want to touch it!”

One of the girls (I think her name was Traci?) said, “He’s broken, Abby. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get what he’s missing. Before, you were just nice, but now, you are so, so hot!” The girls quickly brought me into the bathroom, one of them continuing to rub my shoulders. Lauren said, “Look at yourself, Abby. You are perfect. He doesn’t see that. It’s his loss.”

Another one said, “Any guy would be lucky to have you, Abby. And now that they know you are available, they’ll be knocking down your door.” Lauren added with a smile, “You and Justin seemed to get along really well at the video shoot. Maybe him?” I grinned. Maybe.

I frowned slightly, “Y-You don’t think it’s how I’ve been acting, maybe? He said I was a Barbie doll bitch. And he said I was lying about everything!”

The girls shook their head in unison. One replied, “No way. You are super nice, Abby. It’s definitely something he did.”

Another added, “You never lie about anything. You always tell us the truth, right girls?” Again, they nodded in unison.

I replied with a smile, “Wow, I-I actually feel better. Um- thanks.” It was the first time I had actually shown gratitude toward the girls. They were my instant distraction, turning my attention toward an article about myself or trying to pull me into a discussion about some reality television show. In that moment, I didn’t see them as my yes-girls or just some peroxide, heeled, eight-headed distraction beast- no, I saw them as my friends. My girls.

They nodded their heads in unison and said, “That’s why we’re here, Abby!”

The girls convinced me to put the bikini back on, and Lauren took a picture of me wearing it. They encouraged me to post it on my Twitter page with the following tweet: “Here’s what you are missing!” The bikini picture would become one of the most viewed images in the short history of the Internet, and the message would encourage thousands of spurned women and girls to post similar pictures, along with some men.

Throughout the next few weeks, I still pined for Ethan at times, but my girls were always there to comfort me. They offered a shoulder to cry on, and they supported me by consoling me, and affirming that I was right in thinking that it was all Ethan’s fault. I saw them as my friends. I confided in the girls, told them my fears about being swallowed by the industry, becoming something else, and all the while, they told me I was the same person- and I believed them.