Mom bit her tongue, and said calmly, "Victor, listen to me. If you put on a boy's costume, one of your friends might notice you. But if you dress like a girl, they never will. Think about it."

"But do I have to dress like a little girl?" I asked.

---

 

1. No One Will Ever Know
 

Before I can tell you how I got into this whole crazy mess, first I have to tell you who I am, and the easiest way to do that is to explain my nickname.

Everyone calls me "Short Chapters." If they're in a hurry, they call me "Chapters" or "Chap" or "Shorty" or something else like that.

Honestly, I don't mind. I don't like being constantly reminded of my small stature, but I'd rather be called "Shorty" than "Victor," which is my real name.

Before I was born, my father was a heavy smoker. My mother didn't smoke at all — or drink, but as far as my time in her womb is concerned, my mother's good habits didn't matter.

When I was born, I was so small the nurses thought I was premature, even though I arrived exactly when expected.

Afterward, the doctor explained that my smallness was the effect of the second-hand smoke.

When my father heard the news, he was so horrified and felt so guilty that he quit cold-turkey on the spot. He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and chucked it in the doctor's trash can, and he's never had a puff since.

When Mom tells the story she always adds that she saw the doctor fish the discarded pack from the trash as they walked away. Dad gives her a funny look at that point. My Aunt Rose says she's trying to help him feel less guilty, but I don't know how she works that out.

My littleness followed me ever after: always first in line at school, always the smallest, always wearing everyone's hand-me-downs years after they've discarded them... Even now, at 14 years of age, I have to buy shoes and coats in the Children's Department.

Oh, well.

My nickname came one day in fourth grade, when I stood up to read in front of the class. "How much should I read, Miss?" I asked.

The teacher flipped a few pages and replied absently, "You have a nice voice, Victor. Why don't you read the whole thing? It's a short chapter."

A snigger was heard, and a voice repeated, "short chapter."

Then, another snigger, and someone called out, "Yeah, just like Victor: a short chapter!"

There was universal laughter at this, and even the teacher had trouble hiding her smile. My cheeks burned, I felt like an idiot, but I assure you, I was not permanently scarred.

I actually liked and welcomed the nickname. Why? Because my real name so richly and hugely sucks. "Victor Samson"? What sort of name is that? A heroic name, a Napoleonic name, but not a name for me. It was too much to live up to.

From the time I knew enough to ask, I pestered my parents about changing my name. I constantly suggested options, but none were accepted.

So "Short Chapters" was fine by me.

Okay, the other thing you need to know is that my favorite holiday has always been Halloween. It's the one holiday when everything goes right: everyone is happy, adults give you candy... how could that be bad?

I had to pause when I wrote that last line. Still, even with what follows, I still love Halloween, and I can't blame the holiday for what happened. I have to blame myself.

And I guess my mother.

Oh, and Mrs. Jameson, too.

---

Well! There I was, a freshman in high school, feeling all grown up but looking like a ten-year-old. A lot of my old friends were in my classes, but there were many new kids, who assumed I was some prodigy who'd skipped four or five grades.

My friends carried my nickname into high school for me, and soon the only ones who called me Victor were the teachers.

As Halloween approached, I was dismayed to discover that no one was going to get in costume! Not for school — it wasn't allowed. But NO ONE was even throwing a Halloween party, and above all, no one was going trick-or-treating.

I was very careful in verifying that last point. Since several people had pointed out that trick-or-treating was "for babies," I certainly didn't want to start any "baby" remarks going in my direction.

For that reason, when a friend of mine asked whether I would, I replied haughtily, "Of course not!" whereupon he said, "See? No one's going trick-or-treating! Not even Chapters. And he's the one person who could get away with it!"

---

He's the one person who could get away with it!

That phrase stuck with me. I kept turning it over in my mind, the way a cow chews its cud. Finally, Mom — who is extremely curious — asked, "What in the world are you thinking about, Victor? Every time I look at you, you're lost in thought."

"It's about Halloween..." I began, and I laid out the whole situation for her.

"See, I want to do Halloween. I want to go trick-or-treating, and I wish there was a Halloween party to go to. But everyone at school thinks it's childish."

My mother gave a thoughtful hmm, and said, "Do you want to throw your own party?"

"No," I said, feeling miserable. "No one would come!"

"Ah." She was silent for a bit, then said, "You know, I think something can be done. Just let your old Mom have a bit of a think, and we'll talk some more tomorrow."

I didn't put much stock into that... Mom likes to make promises... I have to admit that she is awfully clever, but what could she possibly do?

---

The stores were full of costumes, and kids were busy picking them out.

I saw a man and woman poking through the outfits, and watched until it was clear they were shopping for themselves. I plucked up my courage and asked if it was so.

"Sure, we're getting costumes! Why shouldn't we? Why should you kids have all the fun?"

That response plunged me into the pit of despair. Adults could dress up, little kids could dress up. Why was *I* stuck in the only age bracket that couldn't enjoy Halloween?

---

When I got home, Mom said, "Chin up, Victor. I've got some ideas."

I was skeptical, so she put a snack in front of me to help lighten my mood. After I'd taken a few bites of sandwich, she laid out her scheme.

"Victor, I've always wanted to go into Boston for Halloween. I've heard the people on Beacon Hill go all out when they decorate their houses, and you can trick-or-treat there."

I considered this. Halloween would be a Monday; it was unlikely that anyone I knew would be out — especially in Boston — on a school night, but you never knew.

"What if someone recognizes me?"

"I've thought of that, too," she said. "I've picked out three costumes that no one could ever know you in."

"Three?" I frowned. "Why three? I only need one!"

"Mmm," she replied, smiling. "It turns out that since Halloween is on a weeknight, there are lots of family Halloween events in Boston on the weekend! I've picked out one each for Saturday and Sunday, and then you can trick-or-treat on Monday."

I was so excited I could hardly stay in my chair. Mom smiled.

"So what are the costumes?" I asked, nearly jumping with glee.

"Oh, give me a little time with that," she said with an air of mystery. "On Saturday, I should have something to show you."

My repeated pleas did no good, so eventually I gave up asking. Mom has always sewn my Halloween costumes. They never fail to be striking and fun. People always give me huge compliments and often take pictures.

Last year, I even won a costume contest!

That night, Mom and I told Dad the plans, and he nodded in approval.

"Sounds great," he said. "Halloween's always been my favorite holiday, too."

He chewed a bit, thinking, then said, "You know, we could make a weekend of it. Get a hotel in the city... have a little fun."

"Really?" Mom said, delighted.

"Sure," he said. "In fact, I have vacation days I haven't taken, and if I don't use them soon, they'll be gone. I could take off on Monday, and we could keep Victor home from school. Just stay in Boston until, well, Monday night."

I howled with pleasure at the idea. Imagine! Missing school! PLUS three days of Halloween!

Mom asked, "What would we tell the school?"

Dad gave a sardonic grin and said, "We could say that his Uncle Mickey died."

"Jim!" Mom said, obviously shocked.

"Just wishful thinking," Dad replied. "Still one excuse is as good as another."

Mom gave him a severe look of disapproval, but he pretended not to notice.

---

Saturday morning, Mom still wasn't ready to show me the costumes. She said, "If you can make your own lunch, I should have something to show you after."

And so I did.

After I finished my lunch, Mom called me to her workroom. I looked around me, and it was clear that the costumes, or pieces of costume, were piled under a white sheet on a table near the sewing machine.

"Now," she said. "I'm sure you're going to be surprised and maybe a little shocked, but remember: the idea is that no one is supposed to recognize you. All right?" I nodded. "Ready?" She asked, grinning mischievously. I was dying from suspense, and actually jumped up and down.

She pulled off the sheet, and my jaw dropped in dismay.

Whaaat? I noiseless asked.

When I saw the first costume, I ran from the room, crying angry tears.

---

I fled to my bedroom and threw myself face down on my bed. Pounding the mattress with my fists, I cried and growled with rage and disapppointment. When I finally came to myself, I saw that Mom was standing in the doorway, waiting to talk with me.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded. "Is it supposed to be a joke?"

"Of course not," she said. "Listen to me — no, Victor, listen. The idea is for no one to recognize you. I understand that you don't like being, well, not tall–" I scoffed at the understatement "–but here's a chance to take advantage of it. You can go, dressed as a much younger... kid."

"But not a girl!" I said furiously. The top costume, the one I'd seen, was a short, shiny blue dress with white fur across the bottom of the skirt. "What was that thing, anyway? A kind of girl-elf?"

Mom smiled in spite of herself. "No, that was Rainbow Brite. She's sort of a... well, she's a cartoon character. But see, the idea was–"

"And what are the others? Are they girl costumes as well?"

"Yes," Mom admitted. She hesitated a moment, then said, "One is a princess, and the other a fairy."

"Oh, that's perfect!" I shouted. "What in the world were you thinking?"

My mother's mouth twisted for a moment, and I realized I may have gone just a bit too far in my protest. But Mom bit her tongue, and said calmly, "Victor, listen to me. If you put on a boy's costume, one of your friends might notice you. But if you dress like a girl, they never will. Think about it."

"But do I have to dress like a little girl?" I asked.

"Well, you don't want to wear a bra and lipstick, do you?"

"No," I said, blushing. I was beginning to see her point.

"Besides," she said. "You've never been a girl for Halloween. Give it a chance. It's only a costume. It isn't going to turn you into a girl, and no one will ever know."

"It's only a costume," she repeated. "It doesn't change who you are. It's a disguise."

I heaved a deep sigh.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Okay," I said.

"Will you try them on, then?"

I nodded.

We walked back to her workroom. I'd taken a bath that morning so I'd be clean for the costume fittings. I stripped to my underwear and draped my clothes over a chair.

"First the Rainbow Brite outfit," she said, looking around for something. "Oh! Here they are!" She picked up a pair of panties. They were a blue that nearly matched the dress. "Put these on in place of what you're wearing."

"What?" I responded. "No way."

She looked at me, and I realized she was a bit exasperated. "Victor, if anyone happens to see your underwear, they're going to wonder. Especially if they're a strong white like those. You might not want anyone to see these panties, but they're sure to see what you're wearing now."

I didn't move.

"Come on now," she coaxed. "It's only underwear. It goes with the outfit. Otherwise it will look silly."

"Okay," I said. With cheeks aflame, I exchanged my own underwear for the blue pair.

Mom carefully lowered the Rainbow Brite dress over my head. She pinned it here and there, where it was a bit loose. She showed me the rainbow knee socks and long-sleeved top that I'd wear with it. "I need to get some red sneakers, and make the rainbow belt, and then we'll be set."

Honestly, I liked the costume, although I was a little alarmed at how short it was.

"Don't worry about that," Mom said. "No one will be able to see — as long as you wear those dark panties."

Next came the princess costume. I was surprised by how elaborate it was. The skirt was very full, and had lots of pink draping over the basic white dress. A gold panel in the front suggested a bodice. The sleeves were short and puffy.

"Wow, Mom — I can't believe you made this!" I exclaimed. "This must have been a lot of work!"

"Mmm. I cheated a bit on that one. I found the dress in a thrift shop and altered it a bit." She adjusted the hem line three times before she was satisfied. "It looks best if it's long, but you have to be able to walk," she explained.

The last was a Tinkerbell outfit: a ballet-like dress colored in different shades of green. The skirt flared, just like the Rainbow Brite dress. "I cut them from the same pattern," Mom explained. "It's just different material, and the bottom hem finishes differently."

After a bit of sewing, and a second fitting, she said that the costumes were "basically ready." In the weeks ahead she'd pick up the shoes and accessories. "You'll need wings, a magic wand, a tiara, some stockings and some other things." She looked me in the face. I was still wearing the Tinkerbell dress, and she held me by the shoulders. "So are we good?" she asked. "Are you happy with your costumes?"

I blushed from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. "Yes, Mom. I'm happy with the costumes. I'm amazed at how nice they are. Thanks."

"You're welcome, honey. Now slip that off and put your own clothes back on."

---

SO! Up to that point, everything had been fairly simple. I went to school on Monday, nearly bursting with my secret, but of course I had to keep it to myself. A few people asked what was "up with me" and why I was grinning all the time.

In English class Mr. Pearl asked what I was smirking at, and told me to stop.

It was hard to keep from smiling.

---

Dad had been away at work the whole weekend, so he heard it all for the first time at dinner on Monday night. He thought the whole thing was a laugh-riot.

"How did you like those costumes?" he joked. "Do you feel like you've finally come into your own?"

"Dad!" I protested as he chuckled. "I don't want to dress like a girl. It's just a disguise."

"Ah, a disguise!" he said knowingly. "Do you have a name to go along with your disguise?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We can't be calling you Victor when you're out trick-or-treating, can we?"

"We?" I repeated. "What do you mean 'we'?" I demanded. "You're not coming with me."

"Are you kidding?" my mother put in. "We can't let you go alone! You're going to be dressed like a ten-year-old girl. There's no way anyone would let a ten-year-old girl wander the the streets of Boston by herself at night!"

"Is it dangerous?" I asked.

"No, not particularly. But if you go by yourself, people are going to wonder, and, well! There are people who prey on little girls, you know."

"But I'm not a little girl," I protested. "I'm a fourteen-year-old boy."

"I know that and you know that," Dad replied, "but appearances will be against you. Besides, your mother and I want to see Beacon Hill too."

"Even if you were dressed as a fourteen-year-old, I wouldn't want you out at night alone in Boston," Mom said.

I sighed. Another objection occurred to me. "Do you know what? If anybody sees me with you, they're going to recognize me. Then there goes my disguise, right out the window."

My mother opened her mouth, but had nothing to say. Even my father was quiet.

After a while, Dad said, "You know, he's right." He mulled something over, and said, "What if we follow at a distance?"

Mom shook her head. Dad thought some more, then shrugged. He was stumped.

Suddenly a light went on in Mom's head. "I've got it!" she smiled. "What if he goes with someone else?"

"Who?" Dad asked.

"Remember Macy Jameson?"

"Sure. Your college friend. What about her?"

"She lives right in Boston. Not far from Beacon Hill, and she has a little girl the same age as– I mean, her daughter is ten, too."

"What do you mean too?" I put in.

Mom ignored me. "If she takes Victor, it will be perfect! You and I can wander around alone together–"

"That sounds good!" Dad enthused.

"–and even if Victor ran into a friend of his, they wouldn't look twice at him!"

Dad nodded, approvingly. "Sounds like a plan! Do you think Macy will do it?"

"I can only ask," Mom said, raising a glass as if toasting herself. "I'll call her, right after dinner."

I had no way of knowing at the time, but that was when all my troubles began.

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"Cool," Louis said. "You know, Chapters, sometimes I think my mother likes you better than she does me."

"Really?" I said, and slid my heavy history book into my lap.

---

 

2. Halloween Wrapped Up In A Secret
 

"Macy would know that he's our son, right?" Dad asked.

"Of course," Mom said. "She's one of my best friends. I couldn't just pop up with a daughter out of nowhere."

I puzzled over this a bit, then asked, "So I'm going trick-or-treating with a ten-year-old girl?"

Mom's smile spread over her face, and Dad guffawed.

"Face it, Victor," he chuckled. "It would make your disguise perfect! One of your friends could look you right in the face and never know it was you."

I felt pretty uncomfortable. What Dad said was true, but... "It's just that the idea of spending the evening with a little girl doesn't exactly thrill me."

"You don't have to be friends with her, and I don't think you'll have much chance for conversation, even if you wanted to," Mom replied. "All you're going to do is walk from house to house and say trick or treat."

"Mmm," I muttered. "I guess that'll be okay."

My father laughed again. "What a hoot!" he cried. "I'm sorry kiddo, but it's such a riot!" I didn't respond, so he went on. "Oh, I wanted to ask! You didn't say: What name are you going to use?"

Again I didn't answer. He laughed to himself and suggested, "How about Gertrude?"

Mom stiffened. "That's my mother's name."

"Oh, sorry. Sorry, I forgot! Ah, well, there's Ermintrude. Do you like that name?"

"That's not even a real name!" I retorted.

"Sure it is," he said. "Just ask any girl named Ermintrude. Or Hortense. Hortense is a nice name, isn't it?" He stroked his chin, then went through a list of the most improbable, ridiculous names I'd ever heard. "Wilhelmina? Theodosia?" Naturally he didn't expect me to use any of them... it was just a long, elaborate tease. It put me in mind of Rumpelstiltskin.

I saw that Mom had tuned him out, but after a while it got so irritating that she finally cut in.

"How about Victoria?" Dad asked, drawing the name out. "It's the most obvious choice, I'm surprised I didn't think of it first!"

Mom let out an irritated huff. She clearly had had quite enough of Dad's name game.

"How about Juliette?" she said with some finality, and I — just to end the foolishness — agreed. I'd always liked that name anyway. I could be "Juliette" for a couple of hours.

Dad got the message and didn't go on.

---

Mom called her friend after dinner and stayed on the phone for an hour.

She came into the living room when she was done. I was reading my history homework; Dad was deep into Zane Grey.

"It's settled," she announced. "On Monday evening, Macy will pick up Victor at our hotel and drop him off there afterward. No one will see you with us," she assured me.

"Good," Dad commented. "Is there more?"

"Yes. I'm going to make an outfit for her daughter, too. She hasn't had time to look for anything, and I'm really on a tear. It'll be fun."

"Just don't tear the costumes," Dad punned.

"Ha, ha," Mom said.

"Um," I began, "and the girl?"

"What about her?"

"Will she know who I am? Or will she she think, ah–"

"Macy thought it would be best if she thought you were a girl too. Otherwise she could get all confused or even give you away. It could be weird for her if she knew, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess," I shrugged.

"Yes, it would," Mom concluded for me. "So you've got to be on your best behavior, and let her think you're just like her. Okay?"

"How do I do that?" I asked.

"Just do what she does," Mom said simply. "Follow her lead. Hmm..." she tapped her chin. "Probably Macy will have some ideas, but I wouldn't worry about it. You'll both be so busy with what you're doing, I don't think she'll even have a clear picture of what you looked like after."

"Great!" I said, and returned to my history book.

---

At school, everyone continued to talk about Halloween, but always with scorn.

I kept my mouth shut, or nodded as if I agreed.

---

"So what are these other events?" I asked my mother.

"Huh?"

"The Halloween things on Saturday and Sunday?"

"Oh, are you worried that someone might see you?"

I grinned ruefully. "That too, but mostly I wanted to know what they were."

"I can show you the websites later," she said, "and then you'll know as much as I do. On Saturday, there's a costume party–"

"Will you be there?"

"No, actually, I can't be. It's for children only, from ages 12 and under at um, at a modern art museum..."

I looked at her doubtfully. This business of pretending to be ten was starting to look pretty bad.

"No, no, it's really cool," she assured me. "Wait till you see the website. *I* would like to go myself, but it's only for kids."

I sighed. It sounded asinine, but I didn't say anything.

"Oh, I know that face," she said. "Come with me now. I don't want you moping over this."

She brought me to the computer and she was right: it did look cool. The museum was very modern. It looked like it was made for fun. There was a description of the activities, and the more I read, the more I wanted to do it.

"And Sunday?" I asked.

"Sunday, in one of the Boston neighborhoods... let's see, the South End, they're going to have Halloween parties in two of the parks, with lots of food and candy. It'll be like trick-or-treating before the fact."

That sounded like it could be okay.

"If that doesn't work, there's a mall near one of the parks, and the stores in the mall are having trick-or-treating as well. If you really have the energy, we could do all three, but if any one or two are bad, at least one of them must be good."

That sounded fine as well.

The web also had pictures of last year's Halloween on Beacon Hill, and that definitely looked worth doing.

I began to think that I wouldn't mind being ten years old. At least for those three days.

---

That night at dinner, Mom said to me, "Tomorrow after school, Macy is bringing Miranda here to talk about costumes. Do you think you could make yourself scarce until they're gone?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "I could probably go to Louis' house."

She nodded. "Can you stay there until I call and say that the coast is clear?"

"They aren't staying for supper, are they?"

"No, they won't. Miranda has some other thing to go to, so they can't stay long. I just don't want you two running into each other. Okay?"

I called Louis, who said, "Sure, Chapters. Any time. My mother would love to see you."

I laughed, and countered, "What about you, Louis? Will you love to see me, too?"

"In your dreams," he replied.

---

Louis was joking about his mother being glad to see me — he knew I had a huge crush on her. Plus, she always was particularly nice to me.

Lou and I were busy with a video game when his mother called me to the phone.

"It's your mother," she told me. "She wants to talk to her 'progeny'." She rolled her eyes.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

"Hi, Juliette," she said. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, is Mrs. Jameson there?"

"Right and right," she said. "I'm glad to hear it. Listen, honey: it turns out that you and Miranda are the same size exactly. Isn't that amazing?"

"I'm overjoyed," I replied.

"Yes, I thought so," she said. "Would you mind if she used one of your costumes for Halloween? Could you get by with only two?"

I hesitated. It was a strange moment. I wanted to say, Sure, let her take whichever one she wants, but I couldn't make myself say it.

"Juliette?"

"Ah, sorry, Mom. I was thinking."

"And?"

"Do I really have to give one up?" I asked, feeling abjectly foolish. "Couldn't I wear one on Saturday, and she could wear that one Monday?"

At that, Lou's mother's eyebrows shot up toward the ceiling. I stammered a bit into the phone, and tried to recover.

"I mean, they're only bowling shoes, right?" I said. Her eyebrows came back down.

"Oh, does Louise have something to say about it?" Mom said.

Louise? I silently echoed. Oh, she means Lou! "Close," I replied.

"Lou's mother?"

"Oh, yes," I said.

"I'll see what Miranda thinks. So, which one could you lend her for Monday?"

"Could you name them?" I asked.

"Tinkerbell, Rainbow Brite, Princess."

"The last one."

"Princess. Okay. Alright. Talk to you when you get home tonight. Oh, and Juliette?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"I'm glad you like them all so much." I could hear the smile in her voice.

I gave something between a cough and a laugh and hung up.

Lou's mother was frowning. "Did I hear your mother say Tinkerbell?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," I said, thinking fast. "It's our nickname for a friend of the family."

"Ah," she nodded. "Well, speaking of Tinkerbell reminds me: there was something I wanted to ask you."

I blushed at that, and she looked at me with curiosity. "What is it?" I stammered.

"Well," she said, drawing out the words and watching me, "It's about Halloween."

"What about it?" I could hear the game still going in the living room, and from the noises Lou was making, he was deep into it.

"Lou tells me that none of the kids at school want to do anything for Halloween. Is that true?"

"Yes," I said. "They all say it's for babies."

"So I've heard. What I want to know is: what do *you* say?"

"Huh?"

"Do *you* think Halloween is for babies? Are you too old for trick-or-treat or Halloween parties?"

"Ah, ah–"

"Don't worry. You can tell me. I won't tell Lou."

Blushing furiously, I said, "We are too big for trick-or-treating."

She shrugged and smiled, and I felt her resist the urge to make a crack about my height.

I went on. "But Halloween parties? I think they're a lot of fun."

"Costumes? Pumpkins? Candy?" she asked.

"All of the above," I said, smiling.

"I thought so," she said, returning my smile. "That's all I wanted to know."

Then something happened that happens every time I'm at Lou's house. She said, "Come here and let me give you a hug."

I took a deep breath as she folded her arms around me. Because of my height, my face went right into her soft, wonderful breasts. I put my arms around her, too, and she put one hand on my head and pressed it in there.

Lou's mother was pretty and young, and I always thought she was beautiful. And here I was, with my face as deep in her bosom as it could possibly go. I let my breath out into the soft pillowy mounds, and felt I was in heaven.

I never knew what to make of this. She did it every time, and always when Lou couldn't see. It always got me tremendously aroused, and she always let me go with a smile and didn't seem to notice.

I ran into the bathroom until my agitation passed, then went back to join Lou.

---

When I got home, Mom told me, "You don't need to give up any of your costumes. I'm making a new one for Miranda. I've never made costumes for girls before, and it's a lot of fun. She's going to be Supergirl."

"Great."

Mom crunched into a celery stick. "Miranda's pretty nice. I liked her. She's a smart girl and very pretty."

"You're not trying to fix me up with her, are you? For one thing, she's way too young–"

"She's only four years younger than you–"

"And for another, she's going to think I'm a girl."

"Yeah, there is that," Mom admitted. "Oh, well."

"And don't say you'll figure some way around it, Mom."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

But she kept crunching on the celery, looking thoughtful.

---

The next day in school, Louis asked me, "Hey, you want to come over tonight? My mom's making lasagna and she said to invite you."

"Nice," I said. "I have to ask." He handed me his cell phone and I got the okay from Mom.

"Cool," Louis said. "You know, Chapters, sometimes I think my mother likes you better than she does me."

"Really?" I said, and slid my heavy history book into my lap.

---

I was in a constant state of excitement. Not because of Lou's mother. And not because I'd be wearing girl's clothes. It was something else entirely.

It was Halloween that excited me, and this year was no ordinary Halloween. This year, since no one else was celebrating, it was my Halloween. And my Halloween was wrapped up in a secret.

It wasn't just *my* secret, either. Mom and Dad were in on it. And Mrs. Jameson, even if I didn't know her.

The prospect of sneaking off for a weekend — a weekend of being someone else — and getting out of school to do it — it was very nearly more than I could bear.

Add to that, the fact that I was doing something no one else in my class was doing. They would miss it all.

This year, I had Halloween all to myself.

I was aching to tell someone. I came very close to telling Lou, but I knew it would be social suicide. Could you imagine if the guys — no, forget about the guys! — if the girls knew that I was taking off to dress up like a ten-year-old girl and go trick-or-treating with a real ten-year-old girl?

I imagined myself, dolled up like Rainbow Brite or Tinkerbell, running into Carson or Tynan — or worse, Carson or Tynan with a camera. Or even worse than that, Kristie and Diana!

I'd never live it down. There'd be no hole deep enough. And with the internet, no place far enough away.

So, as difficult as it was not to tell, in the same way it wasn't difficult at all. (If that makes any sense.)

---

"Chapters, you've been acting pretty weird lately. Are you on something?" Lou joked.

"No," I said. "I'm fine." There was still one more weekend before Halloween. I wasn't sure I could last that long.

Lou looked uncomfortable. I could see something was eating him, but had no idea what.

"Look, I have a problem," he confided. "Here's the thing..." Then he hesitated. "You have to swear to not tell anyone. I don't know what to do. It's my mother..."

"What about her?" My heart sped up a few beats.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "She wants me to have a Halloween party. She's got it all organized." He opened his bag and showed me a pack of white envelopes. "She even made invitations. I'm supposed to give them out today."

My heart fell to my feet. A Halloween party? I tried to gulp, but my throat was suddenly dry. "When?" I managed to croak.

"The Saturday before," he muttered. He moved his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. "She says everybody will come, but I think everyone will laugh."

My mind raced. Did I want the party to come off, or not? If he was going to have a party, I wanted to be there. But how could I?

I opened my mouth, but in the same moment, his cell phone rang.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Mrs. Samson. No, Chapters is right here. Right. No, it's not a problem. Okay, thanks. Here he is," and he handed the phone to me.

"Victor?"

"Hi, Mom. What's up?"

"Nothing to worry about, but could you come straight home from school today? Don't stop at Lou's house or anywhere else. I need to talk to you about something. Something about Halloween. We need to figure something out, and the sooner the better."

"Okay," I said doubtfully. Truth to tell, I was a little scared.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's nothing bad."

"Okay," I repeated. "Anything else?"

"Nope. Oh noo, I take that back — there is something else I want to tell you."

"What?" I asked nervously. Mom was acting so mysterious, it really freaked me out. "What do you have to tell me, Mom?" I demanded.

"I love you," she said.

"Ah, um, okay," I said, caught off guard.

"Aren't you going to tell me that you love me too?"

"Yes, Mom. When I get home tonight."

She laughed and rang off.

"What was that about?" Lou asked.

I shrugged. "She wants to talk to me about something. I have to go right home after school."

He frowned. "Hope it's nothing bad."

"She says it's not, but that just—"

"— when they say it's not, it makes you feel like it is. I know." He chewed his lip. "So what am I going to do, man?"

"About what?"

"About the PARTY!" he hissed.

"You should have it," I said.

"Really? You think so."

"Yes," I replied. "You can tell everybody it's just a party. You can say that your mother wanted it to be a Halloween party and you couldn't stop her."

He nodded. "That could work. Yeah, that could work." He looked in his bag at the envelopes. "Okay, I can do it. I can go with that."

He shouldered the bag and said, "Of course, you know you're invited."

I didn't answer. He froze, then opened his hands as if to say what?. "Chapters, tell me that you're coming."

"I—" I faltered, not knowing what to say.

"Oh, that's perfect!" he said, heavy with sarcasm. "What was all that buildup, then, telling me I ought to have the party? My mother said that you wanted to go a party."

My face was white. My mind went blank. I had to say something, but what could I say? At last it came to me: "I have to ask my mother."

"Your mother? What are you, in kindergarten? You have to ask your mother if you can come to my party?"

"No, we're going away that weekend."

"Where?"

"Boston."

"Why?"

Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. My father's joking excuse was the only thing that came to mind. "My Uncle Mickey..."

"What — is he going to die that weekend, and you have to go to the funeral?"

I'd been worked up for weeks about my Halloween secret, and all that pressure had me ready to blow. My frustration was so intense that it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I felt a desperate need to find a good story, to tell a good lie, but nothing came. I should have been ready, in case someone asked. I should have had something ready to say.

And I wanted to go to Lou's party! But how could I? Could I? Was there a way?

Lou was staring at me, but his indignation faded as he watched the succession of tormented expressiones pass over my face. His mood quickly changed. With a look of alarm, he said, "Oh, crap! I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry. I was only joking. Really, I'm sorry! I didn't know. Is your uncle okay?"

"I don't know," I gasped.

"Is he in the hospital?"

I shook my head.

Lou drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry, man. I was only joking. You know that, right?" I nodded and ran my hand over my face. "Listen, you go do what you gotta do, alright?" His face fell. "Oh, crap! That's probably why your mother called! Something about your uncle. Oh, man."

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and gave me a soft punch on the arm. "I hope he's alright, man. Take care, buddy. Anything you need, okay?" and he walked off to hand out his invitations. "No hard feelings, right?"

I smiled, and he smiled back. We were good.

I felt a little bad about the whole thing, but later on, as I replayed the conversation in my memory, I realized that technically I hadn't lied. Lou had done all the talking, filling my silence with his own suppositions.

---

When I got home, I asked my mother who Uncle Mickey was.

"Was? You mean is. He's your father's oldest brother. Don't you remember him, at your Aunt Rose's wedding? That was the last time you would have seen him. No? Oh, that's right: you were too little.

"Well, your Uncle Mickey is the black sheep of the family, to hear your father tell it. All of his brothers... they want nothing to do with Mickey, which is a great shame.

"He's a handsome man. Very good looking, like Sean Connery in his prime." Mom actually blushed. I frowned, which made Mom laugh.

"Oh, you silly. He'd never even look at me. He always had eyes for–" here she glanced at me "–well, never mind."

"Anyway, I know I don't have the story straight, but it had something to do with losing your grandfather's money. According to your father's version, Mickey lost the money in some sort of fight."

"A fight? Really? Was it a lot of money?"

"I don't know. According to your father and his brothers, it was. According to his sisters, the story isn't true and can't be true. After that, your uncle disappeared for a long time, and none of us knew where he was. We all got married, children were born... and where was Mickey? He came back after a long time... your Aunt Mary says he lives somewhere in Boston, but no one sees him."

She sighed and looked at me. "Why the sudden interest?"

I blushed at first, then remembered to say, "Dad mentioned him the other night."

"Oh yes," she said. "Well, don't mention Mickey to your father, or we won't hear the end of it for days. Understand?"

I nodded, and took a bite of the sandwich Mom made for my snack. "So what did you want to talk to me about?" I asked.

"Don't talk with your mouth full!" she scolded. "Oh, it's not a big deal. We just have to figure something out. Miranda is going to call you and invite you to go to the movies with her."

I nearly choked on the sandwich, and gaped a whaa? at my mother.

"Close your mouth while you're eating!" she cried. "You don't think I want you to go, do you? We have to think of a reason why you can't. A plausible reason. I'm not saying we should lie..."

"Is she calling tonight?" I asked. It seemed like the world was closing in on me, and I felt an enormous sense of dread. First the problem of Lou's party, and now this!

"No, apparently she has a lot of after school activities, and she's going to call tomorrow after school. We have time to think. Your father can probably come up with a passable excuse — he seems to be good at that."

I nodded, a little relieved.

"We'll talk about it at dinner. See if you can come up with something in the meantime. We can say we're going somewhere as a family — that's probably the easiest thing, but she'll want to know where, so ..."

"I get it," I said, chewing slowly.

"And, uh, you might want to watch this before you talk to her," Mom said, handing me a DVD. "Macy dropped it off today."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

I wasn't sure how we were going to play it, but when Mom reached into the changing booth and rolled my boy clothes up into a tight roll, I got it: for the moment, I was Juliette.

---

 

3. Clarkina Kent
 

Mom handed me a DVD. The cover showed a teenage blonde with her finger to her lips and the title Hannah Montana: Living The Life of a Rock Star. "You can't be serious," I said.

"Miranda is nuts about this show," Mom said. "It'll give you something to talk about with her. If you don't know who she is..."

I sighed.

"Look, just watch one episode. It's only a half hour. It won't kill you," Mom said.

---

So... don't tell anyone, but I watched the whole thing. All four episodes. And it was pretty funny. Mom didn't come in and tease me at all, which was a relief.

I was sitting there laughing, in the middle of the last episode, when the phone rang.

In my house, we call it when we pick up the phone. Since I didn't hear Mom sing out, I hit MUTE on the TV control, yelled "I got it!" and picked up.

Guess who it was.

"Hi, is this Juliette?" a girl's voice asked.

I swore silently and (knowing full well who it was) asked, "Yes, who is this?"

"This is Miranda. My Mom says you're going trick-or-treating with us this year."

"Yes, I am. Do you mind?"

"No! I'm glad. It will be nice to have somebody to go with." She hesitated, then asked, "So what are you doing?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm watching a Hannah Montana DVD. It's pretty funny."

"Oh! That's my favorite show!" That was her cue to give me the blow-by-blow of her favorite episode (when Hannah has bed-head). Once Miranda started, I knew I'd have to hear the whole thing. I expected to be incredibly bored, but she actually had me laughing pretty hard.

She asked my favorite episode, so I picked one of the ones I'd just seen. Then she ran through her other favorite shows, none of which I'd heard of. I took the excuse that I didn't watch much TV. We asked each other what we did after school, what school was like, and wasn't there so much more homework in fifth grade than in fourth?

Luckily I remembered that I was supposed to be in fifth grade.

Mom was right: Miranda was nice. And smart. And easy to talk to. I nearly messed up a couple of times and gave myself away, but I caught myself in time.

"You seem pretty nice," she said to me.

"Thanks, you too," I said, and added sincerely, "I'm looking forward to meeting you."

"Me too!" she said. "Hey, have you ever been to an IMAX?"

"Maybe once," I said. In case you don't know, an IMAX is a movie theater where the screen is huge and wraps around you, so the picture fills your whole eye, even your peripheral vision.

"At the Museum of Science they have this IMAX film called Mystery of the Nile..." She tried to describe it, then gave up and told me a URL so we could watch the trailer on the web together. It looked pretty cool.

Now, I know this will sound stupid. Okay, it *is* stupid, but the whole time we were talking, I never for once connected this movie, the IMAX movie, with the movie she wanted to take me to. When I thought movie, I thought of movie theater, popcorn, coming attractions. Not a high-tech science-museum show.

In my mind, we were just talking. It wasn't leading anywhere.

The trailer blew my mind. When it was over, I couldn't say anything except, "Wow. I'd really like to see that."

"I have tickets!" she announced gleefully.

---

Later, at the dinner table, Mom said, "I don't understand. You *knew* she was going to invite you to a movie."

"I thought it was going to be a movie movie, not a thing at a science museum," I whined.

My father put his hand over his face and struggled not to laugh. "A thing at a science museum. Yes, I see how *that* makes it different! It's a whole 'nother animal!" He closed his eyes and winced with the effort.

"Why don't you just go ahead and laugh?" I said. "You can't make me feel any worse."

Paradoxically, that quieted my father down.

My mother kept gesturing with her hands, as if she was about to speak, but didn't say anything. At last she said, "I still can't see how you could... I mean, we were going to come up with an excuse, but now you've said you'll go..."

"I couldn't say I wouldn't go after I said I wanted to see it," I protested. "Besides, she caught me by surprise! I thought she was going to call tomorrow."

"Caught you by surprise?" Mom asked. "You were on the phone with her for 45 minutes!"

"I was!?" I said in amazement.

"He could get sick," Dad suggested.

Mom frowned disapprovingly. "That excuse is the lamest, least believable..."

I didn't feel inspired when I said it. I was just thinking out loud, but I said, "I think I should just tell her the truth about who I am. And then I could go with her as me."

"As you. As Victor-you, not Juliette-you."

"Right."

Mom and Dad looked at each other. Dad shrugged, "Makes sense. No loose ends."

"So you'd want to see a movie with a ten-year-old girl?" Mom asked, smiling.

"Oh, Mom," I groaned, turning red. "Don't make this into something that it's not."

She continued smiling, "She's a very nice girl."

I groaned. "She's not going to be my girlfriend or anything."

"*I* never used the word 'girlfriend'," Mom teased. "You did."

I shook my head and refused to be baited.

Mom looked at me, smiling, for a bit longer. I guess she couldn't come up with any more teases, and Dad was just eating. So Mom sighed and said, "All right. About your secret identity: Let me call Macy first. It does make the most sense, for her to know who you are, but before you call Miranda and drop the bomb, I'd like to let her mother know what's coming."

A huge weight rolled off my shoulders...

---

... until the damn glasses appeared.

The next day, Mom surprised me by picking me up at school. The back seat was filled with shopping bags, and I saw a pair of wings sticking out of one. Mom was all hyper-enthusiastic, smiling like crazy. She and the bags made me nervous.

She didn't even say hello — she just launched right into it: "I got ALL the accessories, even the shoes, for you and Miranda. Did I tell you I'm making three costumes for her, too? Now that I've gotten in the groove, they're coming out much faster."

One part of my mind was processing what she said. Another part was rearing back in horror at the implications, and a third part said, "Mom, can we get out of here? Do you have to talk about this stuff where someone could hear?"

As if on cue, Lou plunked his hands on the car and greeted my mother. I stiffened when he asked about the bags, but Mom just smiled and told him she'd "done a little shopping."

Lou said, "Can you give me a ride? I think I can squeeze in back there."

Mom surprised me by having an answer ready. "No, sorry, Lou, but today we're going in the opposite direction. I have to take Victor to Newton Village to look for winter clothes, and I want to be done before dinner.."

"Ugh," Lou replied. "Good luck with that, Chapters. May the Force be with you!" He hoisted his bag on his shoulder and started off. Then, remembering, he turned back and said, "Hope Chapters' uncle's feeling better!"

Then he disappeared. Mom gave me a questioning look. I squirmed a bit, then 'fessed up: saying "Uncle Mickey," as if that explained everything.

Her lips tightened, and she said, "You and your father! I don't even want to know what story you made up and why, but just remember that your uncle is real person, can you do that?"

With that, she put the car in gear and hung a sharp U turn that made the tires squeal. A group of kids jumped back on the curb in alarm, but I didn't say a word.

Mom didn't talk, either. She just drove.

I sat in quiet guilt-fed agony and knew she was right. For me, "Uncle Mickey" was just a name. I'd never even seen a picture of him. For Mom, he was someone she knew and liked... and missed.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

She loosened up and smiled. "It's okay, kiddo." She took a breath and started talking. She talked and talked, and told me everything she knew about Uncle Mickey: how she knew him, her memories of him, what his sisters (my aunts) had to say, and so on. I was fascinated. He was a part of my life too, a part hidden behind a secret door, and now I was catching a glimpse.

All the while, she drove. And drove. Until she stopped and shut the off the engine.

"Where are we?" I asked, bewildered.

"Newton Village," she replied. "I was just giving an excuse to Lou, but then I figured, what the heck? Besides, I had been thinking of bringing you here to this thrift shop, but I couldn't make up my mind.

"First, though, take a look at these. Try them on." She pulled a pair of glasses from her purse. The thin frames were a dark red, almost purple. When I put them on and looked around, I frowned. Everything looked the same.

"That's because they're plain glass," Mom explained. "They're stage glasses, for when an actor plays a part that needs glasses. It was a whim. I was thinking of how Miranda would be Supergirl, and with those and a suit she could be Clarkina Kent or something."

I laughed, and pulled down the sun visor so I could use the mirror on its back. I looked surprising different.

"Yes, you do," Mom agreed. "I always thought that Superman's disguise was silly, but that honestly makes you look like another person."

"Can I wear them for a while?" I asked.

"Sure," she said as we got out of the car.

"So why are we here?" I asked. "I hope this isn't for me?"

"No," she said. "It's for Miranda. I wanted to see if I could find another princess-like dress so I could make one of those for her, too."

Oh, right! "Mom, you said you're making *three* costumes for her... does that mean–"

"– that she'll be with you all weekend? Yes, it does. Do you mind?"

"No, not really."

"You like her, don't you?"

I hedged. "Um, I've never even met her..."

Mom smiled. "Well, if she's your friend, you won't mind trying something on for her, will you?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She just entered the store, leaving me gawking on the pavement.

---

When I caught up with Mom, she was already working her way through a rack of fluffy, girly, princessy dresses. She caught my look and said, "You don't have to stay with me while I do this. Have a look around. But, Victor–"

"What?"

"Take those glasses off first. You don't look bad, but you look too different." She hesitated, then said it: "They make you look like a girl."

That made it easy. I took them off and handed them to her. She dropped them in her purse.

There was nothing of interest in the store at all, until I discovered the book area. There were some historical novels that piqued my interest, so I opened one and started to read...

Mom had dresses in her arms when she found me. She looked a little embarrassed as she asked, "Would you mind?"

I thought for a moment.

She said, "The store is practically empty. No one will see you."

I sighed and shrugged and followed her to the dressing rooms, which were really just big booths with heavy curtains on the front. The entire back wall of each booth was a huge mirror that ran all the way from ceiling to floor.

Mom hung all the dresses on the left side. There were three "princess" dresses, two pairs of ballet-style shoes, and —

"Mom, what is that?" I knew what it was, but why was it here?

She blushed and showed it to me. "It's a silk skirt. I can't believe I found it. It's beautiful, and if it looks good on you, I think it would be a nice gift for Miranda."

I sighed.

"Please?" She pretended to beg. She even went so far as to make puppy-dog eyes.

I scoffed and pulled the curtain. The first dress was a bit hard to get into, but I managed. Once I zipped it up, I peeked out of the curtain.

"Mom?" I called. Where was she? A little louder: "Mom?"

Red-faced, she came running back, carrying more clothes. "Sorry!" she said. "Now let me look."

She pulled open the curtain, and dropped her bundle on the bench inside. Her mouth twisted to the side in dislike. "This one's a no," she declared, turning me one way and another. "It's too tight, and it's made funny, the way it pulls right here. And here." She kept turning me, stepping back, feeling different details. I resisted the urge to complain, but I didn't understand: if it was a 'no', why couldn't I just take it off and go on to the next one?

"No, no," Mom said finally. "Take it off, hand it out here, and try the next one."

The next one was pronounced "good enough" and the third was a close tie. To my chagrin, I had to try on numbers two and three twice more, and then number two "one last time" before two was declared the winner. She had me step out of the booth, which made me extremely nervous, but she insisted the light was better.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm watching the store. No one can see you."

Fine. The number three dress was taken away.

Now she wanted me to try on the skirt.

It turned out that the bundle of clothes was a selection of six tops, each of which "might go" with the skirt. I sighed.

"Come on, Victor, be brave. We'll be done soon, and then I'll take you to that pizzeria you like for dinner."

I grudgingly agreed. While the curtain was open, I tried the shoes, which fit well. "They'll go with yours and Miranda's fairy outfits — I can take back the other ones I bought, because these are better."

So: on to top number one! I put on the skirt, the green shoes, and a blue top with a ruffly whatnot near the shoulder. It looked stupid. I mean the top looked stupid. The skirt was actually quite nice: it was a creamy light brown, and there was some kind of subtle design in a slightly different color that made it interesting to look at.

"That skirt is beautiful," Mom agreed, "and you're right about the top, too. It does look stupid."

I grabbed the curtain, ready to go on to top number two, but Mom stopped my hand and held the curtain open. She pursed her lips and glanced around.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Her eye fell on a bin full of bathing suits, just a few feet away. She walked over, and after a quick look, pulled out a yellow two-piece. She felt the material with her fingers, then brought it over to me.

"Here," she said. "Put the bottom on in place of your underwear."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the y-front of your boy-underwear is showing. Put that on, and tuck yourself in —" she made gestures "— down there."

I looked at her a moment, and she said, "Please? It's not right. I mean, it looks weird."

The bathing suit bottom was a bit tight, which made it quite effective in hiding my equipment. It was also pretty thin, so it looked and felt like underwear. I couldn't imagine a girl wearing it in public. I mean as a bathing suit. It looked like the kind that turns transparent when wet.

"What are you doing in there?" Mom prompted. "What's taking so long?"

We went through a longer version of the dress-selection process: I tried on tops two through six. Two more were discarded. I tried on the remaining three in turn. One more was out. Mom wanted to see the two finalists twice each, again, and at long last she declared a winner: a cute crocheted thing with short sleeves. It was a very light yellow. Mom said it wasn't "yellow" — it was some other color, but who cares. It was yellow.

Count 'em. It made thirteen changes in all.

Once again, she wanted me to come out where the light was better, but I resisted. She pulled me just a foot out of the booth, then stopped.

"I can't look at you this way," she said.

"Fine," I said, "but it sounds like more people are here."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "Those little dots there are your your nipples, and it's very distracting. It ruins the effect."

She picked up the bathing suit top, ripped off the price tag, and said, "Put this on underneath."

A salesgirl saw this and said, "Ma'am? If you pull off the tag, you have to buy it."

"Fine," Mom said. "It's only five dollars anyway."

"Sorry," the girl said. "Store policy."

"No problem," Mom replied.

The bathing-suit top lay nearly flat against my chest. I put the crocheted top back on and opened the curtain.

"See?" I said. "Now we're done, right? I'm not going to step into the light."

The salesgirl came over. "Oh, so you got that skirt! We all wanted it, but you know..." she gestured to her hips, which were very nice, but larger than mine. "It looks like it was made for you. Come over to the big mirror and see." She took my hand, but I resisted. She smiled and gave a second tug, but I didn't budge.

Mom gave me a don't worry, I'll handle it look. "She's a little shy," Mom said, "and she can't see that well without her glasses." She opened her purse, took them out and put them on me. "And let's fix your hair, too, okay? All those tops have mussed it up." She ran her hands through my hair, moving my part to the middle, and combing through with her fingers.

"You really need a haircut," she said in a soft voice. "But this will do for now." She turned me around to see my reflection. "See? Your own brother wouldn't know you."

The salesgirl made a confused face at this remark, then recovered: "You look very pretty that way. Those are nice glasses. They really frame your eyes and light up your face. Are the shoes from out front?"

I was astonished at the change in my appearance. I could still see me underneath it all... and I didn't think I looked very girly... but I sure didn't look like Victor any more.

"Okay?" Mom said. "A quick look in the big mirror, then we're done."

"Okay," I agreed, and stepped out.

The salesgirl had me turn this way and that, showered me with compliments, and even made me laugh a little. She was good at her job, but I wished she'd go away. And what would she think when I put my Victor clothes back on? It didn't matter anyway, because I'd never come here again. Besides, I remembered, it was Halloween.

"We'll take it," I said, hoping that would send her away, and she did take a step back, but then suggested, "Do you want to wear it home?"

Mom and I were both about to say 'no' together, when suddenly Mom made a strange face at something behind me. She put on a forced smile and waved over my shoulder.

My face went white. "Who? What?" I asked in alarm. I was afraid to turn my head.

"You won't believe who's here," Mom said. She looked alarmed herself, and *that* was a very bad sign. "Believe me, I didn't know they'd be here. Just try to relax and go with it. We'll sort it all out later."

"But who is it?" I whispered in a desperate panic.

"Macy and Miranda Jameson," Mom replied. "And I haven't been able to talk to Macy yet, Juliette, so be careful what you say."

The salesgirl's glance bounced between Mom, me, and the approaching Jamesons. "Is everything alright?" she asked, with some concern. We weren't going to make a scene, were we?

"Everything's fine," Mom said. "Just unexpected. Everything's fine." She nervously patted my clothes here and there, as if she were tweaking them into place.

I wasn't sure how we were going to play it, but when Mom reached into the changing booth and rolled my boy clothes up into a tight roll, I got it: for the moment, I was Juliette.

The salesgirl gave a curious look at my clothes and asked Mom if she wanted a bag for them. Mom, distracted, said yes, and the girl took them from her and carried them to the checkout counter in front.

"Hello, Carly," Mrs. Jameson called. "What a surprise! And this lovely young girl must be Juliette!"

"Hi," I said weakly.

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

 

It wasn't just that she had me trying clothes on. She insisted that Miranda and I change at the same time, so we could open the curtains together. Miranda's face spoke volumes. I knew she felt pretty much the way I did. She was embarrassed by her mother's manner, but happy she wasn't suffering alone. Neither of us spoke, but it was a bonding experience. Like being in the Army together.
 

---

 

4. The Donut Tree
 

"Hi," a familiar voice said. "I'm Miranda."

Before I could answer her, Mrs. Jameson was all over me, oohing about the outfit and how it suited me. I was too shocked to react much, although it bugged me more than a little that she was so free about touching my hair and feeling the garments.

"I love this outfit!" she cried. "It's beautiful! Are you going to wear it Saturday to the IMAX? You have to wear it. It's too nice; it'll be perfect. It's decided then."

She turned to Miranda and looked her up and down. "And I know just the outfit for you, too, Miranda. You girls will be on the same page." She tapped her chin and said to me, "Don't disappoint me: you have to wear that outfit!" Then she gave me a wink that Miranda couldn't see, and somehow *that* alarmed me more than anything.

When she turned away to talk with Mom, Miranda said apologetically, "She's always that way. You can't shut her off."

"Oh," I said breathlessly and a little stupidly. I took Miranda in at that moment. She was wearing embroidered jeans, black and silver Geoxx sneakers, and a blue sweater with DKNY up one arm. Her hair was short, medium brown, and she had green eyes. I have to say, she looked very good, and had a pretty, symmetrical smile of small white teeth. I liked her right away, and I wanted to be her friend.

I said, "Uh, I'm, uh, Juliette. Hi."

"You don't sound too sure," she joked.

"Oh," I said, waking a bit to the danger I was in, "I'm a little foggy in the head from being here with my mother. So far I've only tried on ten things, but I feel like I've been here for ten days."

Miranda frowned. "How could it take so long?"

"Mom wanted to see the same dresses and tops over and over. Even when she didn't *like* one, she still had to spend half hour to go over it with a magnify glass."

Miranda studied my face, and somehow I knew that she knew that the magnifying glass was strictly metaphorical. I went on, unburdening myself. After all, there was literally no one else on earth that I could tell this to.

"I don't understand," I went on. "If she KNOWS it's bad, why couldn't she let me take it off and go on to the next one?"

"Oh, I get that," Miranda replied. "Sometimes you can learn a lot from looking at something that's badly made. You see what they tried to do, or you see how they skimped or cheated, and next time you might spot that bad stuff sooner, without even taking it off the rack."

We lapsed into silence, then she complimented me on my glasses. "Are you nearsighted or farsighted?"

"Me? Uh," I tried to remember which was which. "The one where you can't see far away."

"Nearsighted," she supplied. "How could you not know that?" Then, recognition flashed on her face and she tilted her head at different angles. "Those aren't real glasses, are they?"

I was taken aback. "Uh, no," I said, caught at a loss.

"Why are you wearing them, then?"

"Oh!" I searched myself for a reason, and luckily hit on one. "I want to look smarter."

"You do?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," I said, going with the lie. It seemed appropriate, because so far I must have struck her as fairly dimwitted. "I'm not smart like you," I said, a little abjectly. Immediately I regretted it, not just because it made me sound like a kiss-up, but also because she made a expression of strong distaste.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

She sighed. "Sorry. I hate being the 'smart girl'."

"Why?"

"People tease me. Don't they tease the smart girl in your class?"

Immediately Rebekkah Pierson came to mind. "Oh, yeah," I said. "We had a teacher who kept calling her a genius, and no one's let her forget it."

Miranda nodded, then shrugged her annoyance off with a smile. "Do they tease you about anything?"

"Well, yeah," I said, as if it were obvious. "They tease me about being short."

Miranda looked at me and blinked three times. Her lips trembled. I thought she was about to sneeze. "They tease you about being short?" she repeated.

I nodded.

She giggled, then tittered, and then she laughed outright. Finally, it hit me. Her eyes were on the same level as mine. We were the same height. While I was short for a high-school freshman, I was exactly the right size for fifth grade. So when Miranda burst into hysterics, I understood, and soon I was laughing too. Could I be any more of an idiot?

"Oh, you are too funny!" she exclaimed, wiping her eyes, and then she burst into another fit of laughter.

I laughed too, but I was kicking myself at the same time.

Right about then, I looked over to where my mother had been, but she was gone.

"She's off with my mother, picking out clothes," Miranda explained. "Does your mother let you pick out your clothes?"

"Well, yeah," I said. "Doesn't yours?"

"No. If I do, we have a huge fight. I've even tried putting on what I want at the last minute, but my mother would rather have me late for school than let me wear something she didn't pick."

"Whoa," I commented.

"Tell me about it," she agreed.

Right on cue, Mrs. Jameson appeared with my mother and the salesgirl in tow, all laden with clothes. "Here we go!" sighed Miranda. Then she caught my eye and — remembering my "short" remark — the two of us burst into laughter.

"I'm glad you girls are getting along," Mrs. Jameson said. She glanced into the booth I'd been using and asked, "Juliette, are you in here?"

"Uh, I guess," I replied, so she took the opposite booth for Miranda, who entered, rolling her eyes at me.

My mother gave me an I am so sorry look, to which I shrugged in response. Mrs. Jameson was looking into the booth I'd vacated. "Are you keeping any of this?" she asked my mother.

"Just the princess dress. Actually, it's for Miranda, so she could give it a try right now, and then I'll take it home."

Mrs. Jameson moved the dress to Miranda's booth and pulled the curtain. She took over a third booth to hang the as-yet untried clothes. What didn't fit on the hooks she dropped on the bench. The salesgirl took away the tops Mom rejected, and Miranda emerged in the princess dress.

It fit her like a dream. She was really cute, so I smiled at her and gave a thumbs up. Mom looked her over, all around, and was very pleased.

Miranda went back in the booth and took the dress off. Her mother handed in another outfit. I sat down on the bench in my booth to relax and watch the show. The store was still empty, and it was doubtful I'd get back into my own clothes with the Jamesons there, so the dressing rooms seemed a safe place to be.

"Why are you sitting down, young lady?" Mrs. Jameson asked me. I looked at her, uncomprehending, and a little offended by her take-charge manner.

"Don't gawk at me. You can try these on as well. If they don't work for Miranda, that doesn't mean they won't work for you. Your colors are different."

I looked to my mother to defend me, but she just shrugged. If I was going to fight this, I'd have to do it on my own. I was about to tell Mrs. Jameson — in a nice way — to mind her own business. Before I had a chance, she handed me a green dress and pulled the curtain shut.

It wasn't just that she had me trying clothes on. She insisted that Miranda and I change at the same time, so we could open the curtains together. Miranda's face spoke volumes. I knew she felt pretty much the way I did. She was embarrassed by her mother's manner, but happy she wasn't suffering alone. Neither of us spoke, but it was a bonding experience. Like being in the Army together.

Some of the things I tried on really suited me, and Mrs. Jameson insisted that we take them. Mom had no reasonable way of resisting, and Miranda was happy to see I'd found some nice clothes, as well.

For me, the experience was fairly flat. I didn't care about the clothes. Some, I had to admit, looked good on me. Some of the material felt incredibly nice, but in the end I knew I wasn't going to be wearing any of them.

Or so I thought. Mrs. Jameson picked out two outfits, one for me and one for Miranda, that we would wear home.

After the salesgirl had snipped the tags off us, I thought we were through, but then came the shoes. There was less of a selection, so it didn't last as long.

At that point, the mothers let us go. Miranda led me to a part of store I hadn't seen, off to the right, in the middle.

"This is my favorite part of coming here," she said, as we entered a small room full of shelves. "I never ever bought anything here," she cautioned, just so I wouldn't misunderstand, "but it's fun to look at this old stuff, and sometimes I find things I used to play with when I was a kid."

The room, if you haven't figured it out yet, was full of toys. Used toys, so it was a little funky, but she was right: it was fun. There were board games like Chutes and Ladders and Candy Land. Miranda picked up a Chinese Checkers set. "I've never understood how you play that game," I said. "I don't think anyone does."

She looked at me, and after fighting with her face for a moment, burst into giggling laughter. "You're so funny!" she said. "You're kidding, right?"

"Uh, no," I replied, feeling like a prize ass.

"You just try to get your pieces to the other side."

"Oh," I said. "Well, it sounds easy when you say it like that."

This threw her in a new fit of laughter, and I laughed too. "I haven't laughed this much in a long time," she said, and I agreed. I knew I was coming off as a bit slow, but Miranda was nice and it gave us some laughs.

At one point, I looked into Miranda's eyes, and realized that one reason I felt so comfortable was that she was the same height as me. I thought for a moment that if I could drop back to fifth grade, I might feel right at home. Of course, the absurdity and stupidity of that idea was immediately apparent, even to me: if I was now in Miranda's fifth grade, next year she'd grow, but I probably wouldn't. By the time we were freshman (me for the second time), she'd be taller than me, just like all the girls in my class.

Still, for now it was nice, and I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

The part about wearing a dress and pretending to be Juliette I could easily have done without, but right now I didn't care.

---

How quickly it all changed.

Miranda and I had very nearly finished working our way around the room when I heard a familiar female voice. Two familiar female voices. It was Kristie and Diana, two girls from my class.

Thank God I heard them before I saw them. At least I had time to prepare. Although inside I was in a panic, outside I tried to remain calm. I had to trust in my disguise, rely on my Clarkina Kent glasses, my ten-year-old's clothes, and my ten-year-old companion. I figured I had a good chance of passing, as long as I didn't run into them, didn't talk to them, and didn't stand next to my mother. For right now, my best chance was to stay in the toy room, because it wasn't likely that they'd come in here.

"... party, and only two weeks to come up with a costume!" Kristie was complaining.

"That's plenty of time," Diana replied. "My mother said we'd have a good chance of finding something here."

"Your mother," Kristie scoffed.

Kristie's manner surprised me. I'd always thought she was nice, but now she sounded like a spoiled brat.

The pair walked right into the toy room, standing in the doorway, blocking our only exit. Miranda was fiddling with a small metal puzzle, trying to make it go. I turned my back to the door and watched Miranda's fingers.

Kristie made a dismissive noise. "Why did you want to go in here? This room is full of old crappy toys! This whole store has nothing but junk! Why did your mother bring us here? And when's she coming back?"

Diana replied in a quiet voice, "We haven't looked around at all yet. We just got here! There are more rooms in the back. We could..."

Kristie interrupted. "The problem is, Diana, I don't even know what I want to be. Why did Lou wait until the last minute to throw his party?"

"I don't know," Diana responded. The two were silent for a moment, and I could hear them poking through the toys. "Hey," Diana suggested, "We could ask those girls what they're going to be. It might give us an idea."

Kristie scoffed. "They're little girls!" she said. "They just want to be princesses. What's the point?"

"Let's see," Diana said. "Girls? Hi. Do you mind telling me what you're going to be this Halloween?"

Miranda turned to them and said, "Supergirl."

In spite of herself, Kristie's eyebrows went up.

I turned and said, "Rainbow Brite."

Kristie frowned, so Diana explained, "She had a cartoon TV show."

During the questions, Miranda sized the two of them up. She looked at Kristie's big, bouncing breasts and long blonde hair and said, "You know, straight on through in the back there's a whole rack of cheerleader uniforms. They have the boots and pom-poms and everything."

Kristie nodded, smiling, but didn't bother to say thank you.

Diana's smile fell a little. She was not the cheerleader type. I suddenly knew what would work for her. "Right next to that, in the back on the left, there's a room full of wedding, uh, bridal gowns."

Diana's face lit up, and Kristie grabbed her sleeve. "Let's not hang around here any longer," she said. "We'll leave the babies to their toys."

Diana, as she was dragged off, mouthed a silent sorry and a thanks and gestured helplessly to her companion.

"Wow, that one girl was rude," was Miranda's only comment.

"Yeah," I said thoughtfully. I'd always thought that Kristie was nice, and I'd hardly noticed Diana at all. Now I could see I'd made a mistake.

After my close encounter with my two classmates, my heart was slamming away inside my chest, but it seemed that the worst that could happen was already over. With Kristie and Diana in the back of the store, *now* looked like a good time to get out the front.

"Miranda, do you mind if we go find our mothers? I need to get home soon."

"Oh, yeah: dinner time," she laughed, but before we left the room, Mom walked in. Mrs. Jameson stood outside the door, looking at us.

"Hi, girls," Mom said. "Juliette, can I have a word with you?" She took me to a corner of the toy room, and Mrs. Jameson gestured to Miranda to go out and give us some privacy.

"The store is filling up with kids from your class," she said.

I thought I had panicked before, but now my terror hit a whole new level.

"I'm sorry, honey. This is all my fault, and I wish I hadn't put you in this position."

I didn't say anything. I started shaking. Mom looked concerned.

"I think your best shot of getting out here unrecognized is for you to walk out with Miranda and Macy. We'll meet at the pizzeria parking lot and I'll take you home."

"I'm scared, Mom," I told her. "Really scared."

"I know," she said, "but I think there's only one way out of here. So go now. Okay? I'll stay here until you three are well gone."

I don't know what Mrs. Jameson told Miranda, but she was already outside when I left the toy room. Mrs. Jameson took my hand and led me through the store without a word.

Petrified, I could hardly believe I was able to walk. My knees refused to bend, and I didn't try. If they did bend, I might fall to the floor.

I understood what it was like to walk the plank off a pirate ship, to be the "dead man walking" on the way to the gas chamber, to be the guest of honor at a hanging.

My heart was beating so fast I was honestly afraid it would explode and I would die. Die, dressed as a little girl. I forced my self to keep breathing, slow and regular. I clung to Mrs. Jameson's hand as if it were my only hope of life.

I didn't look around, but I heard many voices I knew.

Mrs. Jameson whispered, "No one's even looking at you, hon."

It took forever to reach the street, and when we did, Miranda was standing proudly by the car. "I got it unlocked all by myself," she said. "I finally figured out these weird keys."

"That's good, honey," Mrs. Jameson said, dropping my hand and wiping my sweat off her palm. She smiled at me and opened the door so I could hop in the back seat. "Get in, Miranda," she said. "We're giving Juliette a ride to meet her mother."

"Why?" Miranda asked.

"So you two can be together a little longer," Mrs. Jameson replied.

Miranda liked that response.

I was so nervous and shaken that I couldn't manage the seat belt. I fumbled and struggled, but couldn't get it to click. Miranda watched me, smiling. I stopped, sighed, and tried some more.

Miranda took the clasp from my hand, turned it over, and said "Try it now."

It snapped shut.

"Thanks," I said, and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"Shopping is a stressful experience for you, isn't it?" Miranda asked.

"Huh? Maybe. I guess. Yes," I replied.

I was still recovering from my great escape, and Miranda filled in by telling me about her classmates, her room at home, and I don't know what else. I wasn't completely silent. I did answer her, and contributed my share of the conversation. By the time we reached the pizzeria, I had calmed down and was almost back to normal.

Mrs. Jameson pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. "Now we just wait for your mother," she said.

Miranda and I played rock-paper-scissors for a bit, and ran out of things to say. At that point, Mrs. Jameson's stomach rumbled.

"Excuse me, girls!" she said and sighed. "I don't know where your mother is, Juliette, and I for one am getting hungry."

"Can't you call her?" Miranda asked.

"I keep getting her voice mail," Mrs. Jameson answered. She added, "I hope nothing happened to her."

"Could we go back to the store?" I asked.

"No," Mrs. Jameson replied. "If I go there and she comes here, we'll never find each other. There are six ways to get from there to here." She took a deep breath and said, "It's decided. We're having dinner here." She unlocked her door, and got out. "Come on, girls."

I sighed to myself. I was hungry, too, and a little worried about Mom. I looked at the pizzeria and realized I'd have to trust in my Clarkina glasses. I opened the door and got out, too.

We had to wait a few moments for a table, and in that time, Mrs. Jameson left a new message on Mom's voicemail. "Your mother will expect us to wait here," she told me.

As we walked to our table, I was happy to see that Mrs. Jameson had requested an out-of-the-way table, where we could see without being seen. There was no one I knew in the place, so I relaxed. The only table that could see us was empty, but it was quickly filled by a family of four, all of them fairly chubby, noisy, and a little obnoxious.

"Oh, sugar," Miranda muttered. "It's Robert."

The boy in question turned at his whispered name. He waved to Miranda and squinted at me. Then he turned back to order his food.

"He's in my class," she explained. "He's such a pain."

My mother came in soon after, and sat with her back to the room. She looked a bit flustered and apologized for being late, but explained that two of my classmates' mothers wanted to know how Uncle Mickey was doing.

"Does *everybody* know him?" I asked.

Her silent answer was a glare of you are in so much trouble. Out loud she said, "I told them that he was better, but still can't get out of bed."

"What's he got?" Mrs. Jameson asked.

"Nothing," Mom said, forgetting who I was for a moment. "It's some silly story that Victor and his father invented."

"Who's Victor?" Miranda asked.

"My big brother," I told her. "He's kind of an idiot."

Miranda let out some quick sniffing laughs, and Mom shot me a look. I shrugged, as if to say, I'm trying to say I'm sorry! I don't know whether she got it.

All went well until we were waiting for dessert. Mom announced that she had to go to the bathroom, and Mrs. Jameson decided to go with her. As soon as they were out of sight, Robert came over and introduced himself.

"It's my birthday today," he told us, "and my dad says that all the girls have to kiss me."

Miranda shook her head. "Your birthday is in MARCH, Robert. Forget it."

He wasn't fazed. "Okay. You wanna see a magic trick?"

He had me stand to face him, then put his hands on my upper arms. "I don't know if I like this trick," I said.

"No, no, it's great!" he told me. "Watch this!"

He softly let his breath out, right in my face. "Yuck!" I said, as my glasses fogged up. I couldn't see a thing, which was exactly what he wanted. Holding my arms tighter, he began kissing me. On the mouth, the cheeks, wherever his lips could land. His lips were puckered up tight and dry, thank God, but he wouldn't let up. I heard Miranda scolding him and felt that she was punching his arms to make him stop.

"Quit!" I said. "Get off! Yuck! Gross! Stop! Stop! Uck!" He didn't stop, until at last, in exasperation and anger, I shouted, "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ROBERT! GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!"

The entire restaurant fell silent, and Robert, astonished, let go and backed away. I took off my glasses, and cleaned them with my napkin. As I did, I saw that my mother had arrived just in time to catch my outburst. Her expression was a mixture of shock, disappointment, embarrassment, and anger. "Whoo boy," I said softly. I was really in for it.

Robert's father came running over, and put his hands on his son's shoulders. "Wow!" he said, obviously impressed by my vocabulary. "Looks like you've got a little Tatum O'Neal here!"

About ten minutes later we were outside, heading for our respective cars.

"While I don't approve of your language, Juliette," Mom was saying, "I can't believe the father of that boy didn't apologize, or make the boy apologize. He was completely out of line."

"I know," Mrs. Jameson agreed. "You can see where the boy got his manners from — or his lack of manners. The donut didn't fall far from the tree."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"The only thing I want to change," I informed my parents, "is that I want to go to Lou's party on Saturday."

They glanced at each other for a moment, then Dad said, "As Tinkerbell, or Lite Brite?"

"It's Rainbow Brite," I corrected.
 

---

 

5. The Big Piehole
 

"Who's Tatum O'Neal?" Miranda asked.

"She was the foul-mouthed girl in The Bad News Bears," her mother replied.

"Maybe we should watch it together," Miranda told me.

"I don't think so!" My mother put in, rather testily.

"She was joking," I explained.

Miranda made a yeah-but-we-should-anyway face at me, and I nodded, grinning. A look from my mother wiped my grin away.

If you've ever been a child, you can probably imagine my ride home with my mother: full of scolding, apologies, promises, retractions...

When we arrived in our neighborhood, I slouched way down in the seat to avoid being seen. I blessed and thanked the technology gods that we have a garage door that opens and shuts by remote control. I was even more thankful for the door that leads from the garage directly into the kitchen. No one had seen me; no one would see me.

So far I'd been lucky, and I would have gotten to my room and changed back to my boy clothes in a flash, but I literally ran into my father, who was shocked into open-mouthed silence when he saw me. His hands closed on my shoulders, and he was too stunned to let go of me.

With a bit of shaking and dodging, I got out of his grip. I slid past him and had one foot on the stairs, when Mom called me back to help with the bags.

"Can't I change first?" I asked.

She said, "Victor, I am so angry right now that–"

I knew the routine all too well, and years of experience have taught me that it's better to cut off my mother's tirade before she really got going. "Coming!" I shouted, and dashed back to the garage. I picked up as many bags as I could and started hauling. I'd forgotten about the costume stuff in the back seat: there were things for me and Miranda, and all those bags went into Mom's workroom. Next came a huge, bulky bag with Miranda's princess dress, and last came the bags of my new clothes.

As the parade of clothes and bags and accessories flowed past him, my father began a faltering, "What the heh–" and stopped. He didn't know what to say. He was completely dumbfounded.

"It's not so funny any more, is it?" Mom demanded of him.

He stared open-mouthed from her to me, until finally he was able to ask what happened, and why she was so upset.

For some reason, Mom choose to begin her story with Robert's kiss-assault and my effing invocation.

If she wanted to convey her own offended, angry mood to my father, it was absolutely the wrong way to go. Soon he was reduced to tears — sitting in a chair, doubled over, clutching his sides, wheezing with pain, and asking, "Wha– Wha– Whadiddee say?" before spilling into a new cascade of hysterical laughter.

I would have slipped out of the room, but my mother's baleful look caught me each time I took a step toward the stairs. But I really needed to get away. In the first place, I was itching to get out of the dress. More importantly, it was painful to stand there, because I was fighting to not laugh along with Dad, and the battle was not going my way.

With inevitable timing, just when my father nearly regained his composure, the dam broke inside me, and I let off a shriek of laughter that got my father going all over again. He looked into my mother's face, helpless, tears streaming down, mutely protesting his innocence, and at last she broke down too and started laughing.

---

Once the laughter was exhausted, the three of us sat around the table, and Mom and I told the story of our evening.

Dad listened with a serious face, and in the end he said, "You know what I'm thinking? We have to call this whole thing off, right now. Call up Macy and tell it it's done. No more. Victor can still go to Boston and trick or treat with Miranda, but — like he said before — as Victor."

"There's still the problem of his being recognized," Mom countered. "Plus, I've already made the costumes."

"I don't want to call it off," I announced.

"You don't?" Dad asked incredulously. "But you said you were scared to death tonight! What if someone had recognized you in that getup?"

"But they didn't," I replied. "Not even Kristie and Diana, and I was as close to them as I am to you." I put the glasses on, and he reared back in surprise at the difference they made.

"The only thing I want to change," I informed my parents, "is that I want to go to Lou's party on Saturday."

They glanced at each other for a moment, then Dad said, "As Tinkerbell, or Lite Brite?"

"It's Rainbow Brite," I corrected, "but I could wear one of my old costumes, like from last year. It should still fit. I haven't grown."

"Yes, but..." Dad began, "We made a lot of special plans so you could do this. I look off Monday and a half-day Friday. We made hotel reservations."

"I know. We can still do Sunday and Monday in Boston."

Mom said, "We were going to leave on Friday, right after school. If you go to Lou's party, we'll miss a day and two nights there."

"You two could go!" I said. "I could probably for sure stay at Lou's house, and take the train in Sunday morning by myself. You'd have the weekend away, and I'd get to go to the party!"

Mom and Dad looked at each other. Dad shrugged. Mom thought a moment, then said, "Fine. But *you* have to explain to Miranda. She's expecting to do that Saturday thing with you."

"Okay!" I said. "I'll tell her tomorrow, after school!"

---

At dinner the next night, I was miserable.

Dad laughed. "No way! Are you kidding? How? Why?"

Mom shook her head. "I don't under–"

"She started talking about a Halloween party," I said. "About how the museum would be all little kids, and how it would be better to be with your own friends. I thought she was talking about my friends, *Lou's* party..."

"How could she possibly know about Lou's party?" Mom asked, incredulously.

"I thought maybe you told her mother, and her mother told Miranda."

"I didn't say a word."

"So we talked all around this party thing, and after we both said that going to a party was better, I realized that I'd agreed to go to a Halloween party with her friends on Saturday afternoon."

My father spat a mouthful of mashed potatoes across the table and broke down laughing. My mother scolded him, and the two of them got up to clean the mess away. Once that was done, I said, "Dad? Is your mouth empty? Because that isn't the worst part."

He quickly swallowed his drink and set the glass down. "Fire away," he said, grinning in expectation.

"It's at Robert's house," I sighed, and Dad literally fell out of his chair. A string of weak ee-ee-ee's and groans came from the floor. I felt ready to die, and then I saw my Mom's cheeks twitching. "Oh, go ahead and laugh," I huffed, feeling miserable, and she did.

---

Later, when we were clearing the table, Mom asked, "Do you think she tricked you into going?"

"No," I said. "She is smart — smarter than me — but she isn't devious. She just wanted to be sure I wanted to go before asking."

Mom took this in quietly. Then she asked, "You think she's smarter than you?"

"Way smarter," I said.

She pursed her lips. "You really like her, don't you?"

"Oh, Mom," I groaned. "Don't start with that again."

---

I didn't tell my parents the other worst part.

In school today, Diana had sat next to me in math, and when the class let out, she asked whether I was going to Lou's party. Thinking that I'd settle the issue with Miranda later on, I answered, "Definitely!"

She said, "I wanted to ask you... I got my costume last night, but I need a partner to make it really work, and I wondered whether you..."

I got it. She wanted me to be the groom. Diana likes me! She wants me to be her groom! I said, "Okay, I'll do it!"

She gave a light laugh, obviously pleased, and said, "But you don't even know what it is yet."

I smiled and kept my mouth shut. She told me. I agreed again. She touched my arm, and pushed her hair from her face. She thanked me and walked away.

It was the most romantic moment of my entire life so far.

And now I had to undo it all.

I called Diana and explained about my Uncle Mickey–

She interrupted, "If you didn't want to do it, you should have just said so right away."

I protested, "No, really, I–"

"It's alright," she said coolly. "I don't think I'll have a problem replacing you," and she hung up.

I felt like a heel.

---

The next day added insult to injury. I called Miranda to ask whether she'd given Robert my address.

"No, of course not. Why?"

"Because he sent me a DVD. In the mail!"

"Oh. What is it?"

"The Bad News Bears." I spat the title out, and Miranda started giggling like mad.

"It's old and used," I added, "and it even smells." I jerked the phone from my ear when she started shrieking.

---

That same day in school, Kristie had sat next to me in math. Before the class began, she said in a low voice, "I heard you blew off Diana when she asked you out."

"I didn't blow her off," I protested.

She gave me an arch look as if she didn't believe me, then asked, "Is it because you like someone else better?"

The bell rang before I had to answer.

A quarter of an hour later, the teacher asked us to do a word problem. As I read and worked over it, Kristie kept glancing at me.

"What?" I said.

"What what?" she answered.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" I whispered.

"I'm trying to figure out what you're humming." she said, and suddenly got it. "Hannah Montana? You're humming the theme to the Hannah Montana show!? Oh, Victor, are you a fan of hers?"

I blushed, and made a mistake on the page. I began erasing, then stopped. "That wasn't what I was humming, but even if it was, how would you know it? Are *you* a fan?"

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but after that she quit bothering me.

---

And so it went until Saturday morning, when Mom drove me into Boston. I had an appointment to have my hair cut and styled, but I'll tell you about that later.

It was almost eleven-thirty in the morning when Miranda and I entered the Museum of Science. We had a half hour before the IMAX show began, and my stomach gave out a loud roar.

"Are you hungry?" Miranda asked.

"Starving! I didn't have breakfast! Is there anything to eat here?"

Miranda led me to the food court, but cautioned me that we'd have to be quick. The shortest line was for pizza, and it was ready to go, so I took a small pepperoni pizza, a root beer, and — on a whim — a slice of Boston Cream Pie. It was near the cash register, and I heard it call out to me.

"Do you like Boston Cream Pie?" Miranda asked.

"I've never had it," I told her. "It looked interesting."

I wolfed down the pizza and gulped the fizzy drink, and then we had to run. I planned on taking the dessert into the movie, but a man stopped me at the door and said, "No food or drink allowed. You've got to throw it away or finish it before you go in."

I look at the trash can and the pie.

The man said, "You have five minutes, and then we close the doors."

Five minutes? I was sure I could do it. I opened my mouth as wide as it could go, and bit off half the pie. The remaining half took two more bites (because it was the wide end of the slice). As I licked my lips, I realized that Miranda was gaping at me, her eyes as big as saucers.

We walked quickly into the theater, which was a bit scary, because the room is very steep. We entered at the back, at the very top. We gingerly climbed down the steps. As we slid across the narrow row to our seats, I said, "Miranda, if we fall, we're going to roll over everybody's heads and end up on the floor in front of the first row!"

A middle-aged man and his wife in the row ahead of us glanced at me as I spoke. Miranda plunked down right behind them.

"Why did you sit right behind them?" I whispered.

"Oh great," the man muttered to his wife.

"Because these are the best seats," Miranda replied. "Exactly in the center."

The man turned around and said, "I hope you girls aren't going to talk during the movie." Neither of us said anything, so he turned back. We both stuck our tongues at the back of his head.

"Was that pie good?" Miranda asked.

As if in response, my stomach rumbled and the sound of many bubbles was heard. "Ooh," I said. "Must be the root beer."

"And the pizza and the pie," Miranda added. "So was it good?"

"Huh?"

The lights came down and the theater fell silent. I was taken completely by surprise when a huge, loud, frog-like burp shot out of me.

"I didn't know you were such a piggy," Miranda told me.

"I'm not!"

Smiling, she mimed shoving a huge piece of pie into her mouth.

"I so did not!" I protested.

"You shoved that pie — right into your piehole!"

"SSHH!" the man in front of us hissed.

"Stop that shushing!" someone else in the theater called.

"We're going to start a riot," Miranda whispered, giggling.

"Shhh!"

"Quiet!"

Then the film began. Have you ever been to an IMAX movie? The way it's different from a regular movie is that the screen surrounds you: it curves above and to the sides, so the movie fills your whole field of vision.

What that means is that if, for example, the film is shot from inside a moving car, you see the road rushing up before you, and the scenery flying by the corners of your eye. You really feel the movement.

The sound system is part of the effect: the sound comes from everywhere, so it's a more total experience than a regular film.

And if, for another example, the film starts with you flying in a helicopter, following the twists and turns of the Nile, you feel it. You really do. You find yourself leaning into the turns, and bracing your feet so you don't fall.

And if you have a hastily-eaten cream pie in your stomach, the cream pie feels it, too.

"Eeeeeee," I admitted, in what I thought was a soft moan. "Eeeeeee-oh."

The man in front of us bristled, and Miranda whispered, "What are you doing?"

"Ugh, I shouldn't have eaten that cream pie," I told her. "My stomach is churning and I'm afraid I might hurl."

"Hurl?"

"Throw up."

At that, the couple in front of us lost no time in changing seats. The man even whispered a warning to the people two rows ahead, but they stayed put.

"Ooooh," I said, staring at the screen and clutching my stomach. "Eeeee-hah."

"Close your eyes," Miranda suggested. "I'll tell you when we land."

I closed my eyes. She took my hand. It was a lot better that way.

---

We managed to get through the movie unscathed, using that system.

When the film was done, I finally exhaled. I stood up carefully, teetering over the rows of seats before me. "Whew! We survived!" I exclaimed. A wave of relief swept through me, and I felt myself relax. At that moment, I felt another rumble inside me, followed by a low buzz.

"What's that?" Miranda asked.

"Um, I'm farting," I admitted, redfaced. "I'm sorry."

She jumped up with a giggle, and made an oinking sound.

"I'm not a piggy, really," I protested, but my body was giving me the lie. This turned out to be the longest toot I ever tooted. The buzz attracted some attention, but when it was followed by a loud FAP! and a series of smaller, rhythmic claps, the adults looked away and the children giggled. Miranda did both.

"Sorry," I repeated, as it trailed off in a long hiss. "Well, thank God that's over."

But it wasn't over. The hiss signed off with a high pitched whee! just to complete the fun. I wanted to die.

Miranda fanned the air in front of her nose with her hand. In a voice that filled the theater, Miranda exclaimed, "That must have been some pie!"

Afterward, she told me she hadn't mean to be so loud. At that moment, she buried her nose in my shoulder and pushed me out of the row.

---

We spent the next two hours in the museum, which would have been fun (I mean, I liked it a lot more than I expected), but everywhere we went we seemed to run into kids who'd been in the IMAX.

I was looking into something like a fun-house mirror, when a little boy asked, "Aren't you the girl who farted in the movie?"

"No," I replied, and kept my eye on the mirror.

"Yes, she is!" another boy shouted. "That was the best part of the movie! Oh! Oh! What kind of pie was it?"

"Fart pie!" the first one exclaimed, and much hilarity ensued.

"Bean pie!" the second one shouted and I slunk off.

After this scene repeated itself (with small variations) I asked Miranda, "Is there any place in this museum where we could hide?"

"Don't worry," she said. "We're leaving soon." She giggled. "We do have time for more pie, if you want some."

"I'll pass," I said.

"I know!" she cried, laughing. "Whee!"

"How old are you, twelve?" I asked in what I thought was a withering tone.

"No, duh, I'm ten," she laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes. "How old are you?"

"Oh, man," I replied, "I wish I knew."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

When I was finally alone, lying in a huge bed in a huge dark room, I felt terrible. It wasn't just the residue of the waxy toy makeup. It was a crippling cosmic guilt like I've never felt before. I don't pray, but that night I slipped out of bed in my Hello Kitty nightgown and got on my knees.
 

---

 

6. The Most Interesting First-Kiss Story Of Anybody
 

Now, I want to back up and tell you about my haircut.

Before Mom dropped me at Miranda's house, she took me to the apartment of a friend of Mrs. Jameson, a woman who was going to cut my hair.

I don't know how it was all arranged, but this lady, Ms. Legno, knew that I'm boy. She was going to give me a unisex cut and make me look nice for the IMAX show.

I arrived wearing my boy clothes, carrying my Juliette outfit in a hanging bag.

Mom dropped me there and left. I wasn't very comfortable with that, because I was all alone with a woman who was both strange and a complete stranger to me. I never warmed to her, the whole time I was there.

The first thing that put me off was her house. I'm not sure that I really saw her house, because it was so full of... full of... well, stuff. She had stuff EVERYWHERE! I don't think it was junk, and it wasn't clutter (because it was obvious arranged, like on purpose). But the place was jam-packed, from wall to wall and from ceiling to floor.

There was so much furniture that you couldn't walk in a straight line for more than two feet. She had little couches, big coffee tables, sideboards, chairs, bookcases, and tiny tables full of fragile-looking knickknacks. I was afraid to move, especially with the hanging bag.

Then there was Ms. Legno herself. I thought she was one of those ancient, bird-like women you often see tottering about. Mom had told me she was "very young... in her thirties." I didn't point out the contradiction in what Mom said, or in the way Ms. Legno looked. As far as I could see, she had to be at least sixty. She didn't smile, and I wasn't really sure what she looked like. I mean, she had these big, really thick glasses that made her eyes seem huge and misshapen. She looked like a cartoon character: a big pair of glasses with a tiny mouth and chin. Her hair was a yellow blonde with a dry, electrified, superteased look. It didn't give me any confidence in her ability to style hair. She was thin as a scarecrow, and her clothes looked as if they were chosen at random.

Usually I could care less what I looked like. Even today, when I was pretending to be a girl. But I didn't want her touching me. I was pretty sure she'd butcher my hair, to a degree that would horrify even me. Luckily, it turned out I was wrong about that.

In any case, I didn't see that I had a choice in the matter.

We wove our way to her tiny kitchen, where there was a small patch of bare floor. She set up a high chair, then had me bend over the sink. After she'd shampooed my head and conditioned it twice, she sat me down and combed through my hair for a long time.

"So you're a boy," she said.

"Yes."

"... who wants to dress like a girl."

"No. This is just for a Halloween."

"Halloween is next week."

After a few more questions and a little prompting, I told Ms. Legno the whole story. She didn't interrupt, she didn't ask any questions, and she didn't laugh at any of it. A couple of times I actually asked whether she was listening.

"Yes, I'm listening," she'd reply. "Go on."

When I was all done, she asked, "So you don't want to be a girl?"

"No."

"The day after Halloween you're just going to put your pants back on and go play football?"

"Well, not exactly, but something like that."

"Seems like a lot of effort, just for Halloween."

I didn't answer.

"So what's going to happen, the day after Halloween, when Miranda calls and asks for Juliette?"

"I don't know."

She snipped in silence.

"Do you like this girl?"

"Yes," I replied.

"You care what happens to her?"

"Yes."

"And if someone hurt her feelings, would that matter to you?"

"Of course!"

"How do you think she's going to feel when she finds out who you really are? Do you think she'll like the fact that you played a trick on her? Are you still going to hang out with her, go places with her, talk to her on the phone? Will you invite her to your house and introduce her to your friends?"

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Ms. Legno put me off when I first saw her. Now that we'd talked a bit, I really didn't like her. No one, not even a principal or teacher, had ever made me squirm the way she did.

"I kinda figured her mother and my mother had that part figured out."

"Maybe you better check on that. It doesn't sound like they do."

"I ought to tell her," I concluded.

"The sooner the better," she said, and snapped on the hair drier. Then she shut it off again. "But don't tell her on Halloween. Don't screw up the holiday for her. It could devastate her, and you don't want her to remember it all her life, every time the holiday comes around."

---

Amazingly, Ms. Legno did a nice job on my hair, and when she was done, I went into her bathroom to change into my Juliette clothes. I was going to wear the outfit Mrs. Jameson had chosen: the brown silk skirt and the yellow top.

Ms. Legno's bathroom was as tight as her apartment. It wasn't dirty — it was just full. It was so full, I couldn't even tell what it was full of. There was cloth draped from ceiling to floor in every direction. Behind the drapes were shelves. The shelves were full of towels, toilet paper, shampoos and other things. It was all very organized, but there was hardly enough room to turn around. I don't know how anyone could live this way. There was so little room that I felt like a contortionist as I worked my way out of one set of clothes and into another.

Luckily the tub was dry. It was the only place I could set things down.

While I was struggling into my skirt, and had it halfway up, I spotted a miniature mug on a shelf above the toilet. It was a small bearded face with a tiny handle on the side, and the face was upside down. Since it was just about the only thing in the room that had any empty space around it, I found my eyes continually coming back to it. Why was it so tiny? The mug was too small for any human to drink from. Why in the world was it upside down? It got to bothering me. And so, after looking at it half a dozen times, I turned it over.

For some weird reason that I still don't understand, it turned out that the mug wasn't upside down. It was supposed to be that way! So when I turned it to make the face right side up, I really turned it upside down, and the silly thing was full of buttons. Buttons poured out of the mug and went everywhere. Little buttons, all kinds of buttons, that fell and bounced and rolled in all directions. The toilet was open, and a dozen or more fell in there. I had to flush three times before they all went away. I hunted up the others as best I could.

"You took a long time in there," Ms. Legno told me.

"It happens," I said.

---

When my mother finally came back, I was almost desperate to get out of that awful place.

I did ask Mom whether she or Mrs. Jameson knew what would happen with Miranda and me after Halloween, and Mom said, "Don't worry. We'll come up with something."

*That* didn't make me feel any better.

---

When Mrs. Jameson picked us up after the IMAX/museum visit, she asked what we wanted for dinner.

"Why isn't my mother with you?" I asked.

"She's busy," Mrs. Jameson said. "You'll be having dinner with Miranda and me."

---

I kept wondering where my mother was, and after dinner Mrs. Jameson got a phone call.

"That was your mother," she said. "She asked if you could stay over tonight."

"Oh," I replied, startled.

Miranda smiled and said, "Yay!"

"So you're staying over," Mrs. Jameson concluded.

"I am?" I asked, utterly confused. "Why didn't my mother talk to me?"

"She was in a hurry," Mrs. Jameson said. "Apparently there's something wrong with your Uncle Mickey."

"Something wrong?" I repeated in alarm. "What does that mean? Is he sick?"

"She didn't say, and I'm not sure that she even knew. And as I told you, she was in a hurry. Don't worry. I'm sure everything is fine. We have an extra room, and Miranda can lend you a nightgown and something to wear tomorrow."

I could have cared less what I was going to wear tomorrow. I wanted to talk to my mother.

"Feel free to try and call her," Mrs. Jameson said, "now and later, but I don't think you'll find her. She and your father are somewhere in Boston, probably with your mysterious uncle."

I did try, then and later, but didn't find my parents. Each time I dialed my mother's cell I got her voice mail, and I don't know my father's number by memory, so I was stuck.

It wasn't that I missed my parents, or needed to sleep in my own bed or anything like that. It was just that I wanted some reassurance: I'd used Uncle Mickey as an excuse, pretending he was deathly ill, and now something was really wrong with him! In my head I knew that it wasn't my fault... I mean, if he was sick or hurt, but it sure felt like I was to blame!

I tried to lose myself in playing with Miranda. I'm no expert on the games that ten-year-old girls play, but I did think by that age they'd have outgrown dolls and dress up and toy makeup. Neither Mom nor Mrs. Jameson had given me any tips on how to make Miranda think I was ten years old, so I simply agreed to whatever Miranda proposed, and tried to enjoy it.

And so, for the first time in my life I played with dolls. We dressed and redressed Barbies. We acted out a trip to the mall using the dolls as proxies. It wasn't much different than playing with toy soldiers, except that Barbies don't shoot guns or throw bombs.

We played dress up by draping outselves in huge pieces of colored cloth, wrapping it round our heads and bodies. We danced in our improvised saris, and tried on some of Mrs. Jameson's wardrobe discards.

We watched some episodes of Darcy's Wild Life, which is another TV show I'd never heard of. I actually liked it, and Miranda and I sang and danced to the show's theme song each time it played.

Honestly it wasn't fun. I mean, I laughed some times, but the problem was Uncle Mickey. When I walked my Barbie into an imaginary Body Shop, I pictured my uncle lying in a coma. While I sang, "Darcy used to hang out and go dancin' / Go to parties and make important plans and," I picture my mother weeping and my father putting on a stony face.

And though (my morbid preoccupation with Uncle Mickey aside) it might sound as if Miranda and I did a lot already, we managed to fit in "makeovers" with toy makeup, painting our lips, faces, and nails with this thick, waxy, highly colored stuff that I couldn't wait to wash off.

When I was finally alone, lying in a huge bed in a huge dark room, I felt terrible. It wasn't just the residue of the waxy toy makeup. It was a crippling cosmic guilt like I've never felt before. I don't pray, but that night I slipped out of bed in my Hello Kitty nightgown and got on my knees.

"God, I'm sorry that I never pray. And I'm SO sorry for joking about Uncle Mickey being sick and dying. I don't know him at all, but I don't want him to die. I especially don't want him to die because of what I've done. I don't want him to be sick. Make me sick if you want to, but please spare Uncle Mickey.

"And I'm sorry for deceiving Miranda. She's a nice person, and I like her a lot. Please help me tell her who I am without making her hate me.

"I don't know what I can offer if you do those things. I can try to be a better person, but aside from lying about Uncle Mickey and lying to Miranda, I don't think I'm bad. Maybe you can give me an idea of what I could do better. If you do, I'll do it. I promise."

---

I don't remember crawling back into bed, but I woke at sunrise in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Somehow today I had to tell Miranda. I couldn't stand it any more. The guilt was killing me.

Okay, it wasn't killing me, but it wasn't a good situation. The Uncle Mickey situation, on the other hand, *was* killing me. I had to know what was going on, and soon.

While I was going over all this in my mind, Miranda slipped into the room.

"Hi," she said softly. "Don't talk too loud, or you'll wake my mother, okay?"

I forgot to mention that Miranda had asked her mother why the two of us couldn't sleep together. I didn't know what to say, but Mrs. Jameson had an answer ready.

"Her mother says that Juliette kicks in her sleep. If you share a bed with her, your legs will be black and blue in the morning."

That, of course, sent Miranda into a gale of giggles.

Miranda asked how I slept and whether I'd kicked enough. She hoped that everything was fine with my Uncle Mickey, and said she could see how worried I was.

She also told me that the Hello Kitty nightgown was cute on me and that I should keep it.

"Thanks," I said.

"Oh, get ready for today," she said. "Brace yourself, because my mother's going to pick your outfits. There isn't any point in fighting. Just go with it."

"Outfits?" I repeated. "Plural? As in, more than one outfit?"

"Yeah," she replied as if were obvious. "One for church and one for after."

"Oh, I don't go to church," I said.

She laughed. "Today you will."

While I mulled over this and looked for some way to object, Miranda asked, "Do you like Victor?"

"Victor?"

"Your brother?"

"Oh, I know who Victor is. Yeah, he's alright."

"How old is he?"

"Fourteen. He's a freshman."

"Freshman? What year is that?"

"Ninth grade."

"When you and your parents are here in Boston next weekend, what's Victor going to do? Do they let him stay home by himself?"

"No, he's staying at his friend Lou's house. Lou is having a Halloween party."

"Is Lou his best friend?"

I hesitated. "I guess. I don't know. Um, why are you asking about Victor?"

"I'm just interested in your life. You, your classmates, your family, you know? I'm an only child. I don't know what it's like to have family. You know?"

I nodded. I knew what that was like.

She asked, "Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to have a brother or sister?"

"Yeah," I said. I have often thought about that.

And then I realized what I'd said.

Miranda's face lit up. In a whisper, half-afraid she might be wrong, she asked, "You're Victor, aren't you?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I was lying here trying to think of a way to tell you. Are you mad?"

"I don't know yet. Do you want to be my friend?"

"Yes," I replied. "I like you a lot. That's why it was hard to pretend like this."

"Were you really trying to think of how to tell me?"

"Yes." I scratched my head. "How did you figure it out?"

"Wait," she said. "Does my mother know?"

"Yes," I said. "I don't know what she thought was going to happen after Halloween. Or my mother, either, for that matter."

Miranda shrugged.

"So how did you know?"

"Well," she said, "after I met you, I looked to see whether you were on My Space. A lot of girls in my class are, but you aren't. That was one thing, even if it wasn't so strange. But when your mother mentioned 'Victor' that night in the pizzeria, I googled your name and found some pictures of you."

"There are pictures of me on the internet?"

"Yes, there's a family picture: it has your father, your mother, and you. But Victor-you. Plus there was a picture of you winning a costume contest last year, and I could see your face very clearly."

"Oh, yeah."

"Plus the glass glasses, and that thing you said about being short. Are you really fourteen?"

"Yes," I admitted. "Do you mind?"

She shrugged and smiled.

I thought it over. "So all the time we were together yesterday, you knew?"

"I was pretty sure, but not 100 percent. Pretty close, but not sure-sure."

"Huh." I fell back against my pillow. "And last night–?"

She smiled and almost laughed. "I was teasing you a little. Also, I didn't know what to do. You were moping so much about your uncle." She paused. "That *is* what you were moping about, right?"

I nodded. "You're so smart."

"Hmmm," she said. "That reminds me... I wanted to ask you. Don't be offended... but, when you're Victor, are you ditzy as when you're Juliette?"

"Ditzy?"

She hesitated. "I mean, I know you're smart and everything, but sometimes you come off like a dumb blonde. Is that an act?"

"Oh!" I said. "No, no. I'm not as dopey when I'm Victor. I don't know why, but when I'm with you I always feel kind of slow."

She smiled.

"I'm not in love with you or anything!" I quickly added.

"I know," she said softly.

Then I told Miranda the whole story. It didn't take long, because she knew most of it already, she just didn't know the Victor parts of the story.

She said, "So... I understand that you might get dressed up for Halloween, but why dress up for the whole weekend?"

"Oh," I said simply, "So I could be with you."

She smiled. She even glowed a bit.

"So, we'll still be friends after Halloween?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I want to. Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"So do we tell your mother that you know?"

She thought for a minute then said no. "If we're going to be friends, we need to share a secret. For now, the secret is Victor. After Halloween, the secret will be Juliette."

I blushed and agreed. "I'm so relieved!" I said. "I was afraid you were going to freak out or be hurt. I'm so glad you figured it out."

"So," she said, "when you come over, after Halloween is over, are you going to want to dress up?"

"You mean girls clothes? No."

"Okay," she said. "But if you ever want to, you can. You look nice."

At that we fell silent. Then she looked at me and said, "And you don't kick at night, do you?"

"No."

She nodded. "Can we do one thing?" She blushed. "If you don't want to, I understand. But could we kiss? I've never kissed a boy, and if I kiss you now I'll have probably the most interesting first-kiss story of anybody."

"Oh," I said, a little alarmed.

"Don't worry," she said. "I mean a story for when I'm older. When I tell, I'll make sure nobody knows it's you."

We kissed. It was nice, just one kiss. But there was no fire, no excitement. It was like kissing my sister. If I had a sister.

And then I realized that it was *my* first kiss, too.

"Oh!" I said afterward, scrabbling for some way to change the subject. "What do I have to do in church? I've never been."

"Never?" she asked, incredulously. When I shook my head, she smiled. "I think it's better if you find out for yourself. It'll be more, uh, interesting that way." She grinned wickedly. "But I will tell you this: whenever they say amen, they expect you to let out a fart."

"Oh, get out!" I cried as my cheeks flushed. I grabbed a pillow and gave her a whack!

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

I'm glad to say that nothing wild happened in church. No one recognized me; there were no slapstick moments. I think Miranda was a little disappointed, until we ran into the odious Robert outside.

"Hey, baby," he said to me. "Did you get my little gift?"

"Don't call me 'baby'," I told him, "and yes, I did get it."
 

---

 

7. Washed, Burnt, And Buried
 

It wasn't until after breakfast, when Miranda and I were standing in matching slips in front of her closet, waiting for Mrs. Jameson to choose our dresses, that I finally came up with an excuse.

"Mrs. Jameson," I said, "I'm not sure that my parents would want me to go to church. They might object." As an afterthought, I added, "They might even be offended." And then, "They might not approve."

Mrs. Jameson stopped what she was doing and pretended to consider what I said. Her lips twitched slightly, then she told me, "That's a good point, Juliette. A very good point."

I smiled, thinking I'd dodged a bullet.

Unfortunately, she continued. "I certainly wouldn't want to risk offending your parents." She looked me in the face and smiled. "That's why, when I talked to your mother last night, I specifically asked. And do you know what she told me? She said she thought that church might be a good thing for you."

I actually gasped at the... perfidity came to mind, although I had no idea what the word meant.

Later on Miranda told me, "That was a good try. But when it comes to clever, Mom's pretty much got it covered."

---

I'm glad to say that nothing wild or out of the ordinary happened in church. No one recognized me; there were no slapstick moments. I think Miranda was a little disappointed... until we ran into the odious Robert outside.

"Hey, baby," he said to me. "Did you get my little gift?"

"Don't call me 'baby'," I told him, "and yes, I did get it."

"Did you like it?"

"It smelled bad, Robert. I had to wash it. Then I burned it and buried it. Under a bridge by the river."

His mouth fell open. "Did you really?"

"No! but it did smell bad. Where did you find it, in a dumpster?"

He shook his head. "Naw, it was in my closet, under my shoes. It must have been in there a good long while, getting ripe. I really had to dig to get it out."

"Ugh!" I said, shuddering in disgust.

He grinned.

"Hey, baby, you want to see my magic trick again?"

"If you call me 'baby' one more time, I'm going to p–" Mrs. Jameson pulled me away before I could finish the sentence.

---

We met my parents outside a restaurant. Dad was visibly shocked when he saw me, and he had a hard time getting used to my appearance. Mom smiled, stroked my hair and put her hand on my shoulder as she chatted with Mrs. Jameson.

As soon as I possibly could, I asked my parents about Uncle Mickey.

"Who?" my father asked.

"Uncle Mickey," I repeated. "Weren't you two with him yesterday? Is he alright?"

My father looked confused, and glanced at my mother.

She said airily, "I just made that up."

"What!?" I cried. "I was so worried. I prayed for him!"

"Did you?" she asked, obviously amused.

"Yes, I did! How could you make something like that up?"

"When Macy offered to keep you overnight, I thought you might need a reason. I figured that if you two can use Mickey as an excuse, well, so can I!"

My father was obvious disturbed by this, and so was I, but we carried our inarticulate discomfort into the restaurant.

---

We had to wait forever for the food to arrive. It looked like a good time to go to the bathroom, and when I announced my intention, Miranda said she'd come with me.

The adults looked at each other, a little alarmed.

"Nothing's going to happen," I said.

Mrs. Jameson told us, "Alright, but you girls behave yourselves, and come right back."

Miranda took my hand as we walked toward the back of the building, but when we got into the bathroom we both felt a little shy. We took the stalls at opposite ends so we wouldn't be near each other. It was much weirder than I expected it to be. I was quiet, waiting for her to start first, and I guess she was doing the same. Then, she started humming something: when I recognized it as the Hannah Montana theme song, I began humming too, and then we both started singing, which covered the sound of what we were really doing.

When we joined each other at the sinks, we were a little giddy and silly.

Miranda pretended to put on lipstick, and I mimed using a powderpuff. We goofed around and laughed until a woman came in and glared at us. As soon as she entered a stall, we dashed out. Miranda giggled, "She might launch a gas attack!"

"We don't want that!" I agreed, laughing. Still chuckling, I saw a woman approaching from the opposite direction. The light was behind her, so I couldn't see her face, but she somehow looked familiar. The next moment, she moved under a light. I saw her face clearly, and I knew her!

"Hey, Mrs. Mossert!" I sang out.

"Hello, girls," she said, frowning. "Do I know you?"

Then I froze. What a colossal idiot I am!

"Uh, uh," I said. Miranda looked at me, not sure what to do. When I didn't go on, she said, "I'm Miranda Jameson," and shook Mrs. Mossert's hand.

Who is Mrs. Mossert? She's Lou's mother. The mother of my best friend Lou.

She absent-mindedly shook Miranda's hand, but didn't take her eyes off my face.

"Who–?" she murmured, and then I saw the light dawn in her eyes. She reached down and took off my glasses. "Chapters?" she whispered.

"Yes, it's me," I said, wishing I could sink through the floor. Lou's mother looked from Miranda's face to mine, and told me, "If you hadn't called to me, I never would have known it's you."

Nothing like underlining my stupidity.

"Lou's not here, is he?"

"No. It's just my husband and me. What are you up to?"

"It's for Halloween," I said. "This is my friend Miranda," I said a little uselessly.

Mrs. Mossert studied Miranda's face. "You're a real girl, though." Miranda smiled and nodded.

Lou's mother put my glasses back on and laughed. "You have a way of getting yourself into things, don't you?"

"You won't tell Lou, will you?"

"Not if you don't want me to. But you'll tell me the story sometime soon, won't you?"

"Yes," I said glumly.

"Hey, don't feel bad. You're awfully cute. Both of you are, in those matching dresses." She smiled mischievously. "I wish I had my camera."

Miranda and Mrs. Mossert smiled at each other.

"It's really just for Halloween," Miranda said.

"If you say–" she stopped, realizing something: "This is why you're not coming to Lou's party!"

"Right," I said. "I'm going to a party with Miranda."

"Oh," she said. "I get it."

"No," I said. "She's not my girlfriend. She's just my friend."

"Right," Miranda said. "We're friends."

"Okay," Mrs. Mossert agreed. "But I want to hear the whole story. Soon." She turned to go, then, as an afterthought, "Oh, one question: I know your outfit's a secret, but Miranda's not, is she?"

"No," I said. "Miranda's my friend. She's not a secret."

"Thanks!" Miranda said brightly, and gave my arm a squeeze.

As we walked back to the table, she asked, "Did you really give up a party at Lou's to come with me?"

"Yes," I said, feeling miserable.

"And all your friends will be at Lou's party?"

"All of them except you," I answered.

"You are too sweet," she told me, and gave me a hug.

I know this sounds stupid, but that hug made it all worthwhile.

---

The Mosserts left just as our food arrived, so I wasn't completely surprised when Lou called the minute I got home.

"I saw your car go by," he explained. "Hey, who is this Miranda chick? Is she your girlfriend?"

"No, she's just a friend."

"But you're blowing off my party to go with her? Sounds like more than a friend to me."

"Look, I like her a lot, but not that way."

"Uh-huh."

Clearly he didn't believe me, so I told him, "She's ten years old. She's in fifth grade."

"What!? Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm not."

"How can you hang out with a ten-year-old?"

"For one thing, she's really nice, and she's really smart."

"Oh, yeah, I'm so sure."

"She's smarter than me."

"Doesn't take a lot."

"AND — she's as tall as I am."

He had no answer for that at first. I let the awkward silence hang. He's my friend, but I wasn't going to take crap from him about Miranda.

After the silence, Lou said, "Listen, Chapters. Everybody teases you about your height, but nobody really cares about it."

"I know," I said. "But my height bothers me. I always have to literally look up to everyone. It sucks. When I talk to Miranda, her eyes are on my level. The first time I mentioned I was short, she laughed. To her, I'm normal size."

"You found your Thumbelina," he laughed. "So are you going to go back to fifth grade?"

"I honestly thought about it," I said. "But I'd have to stay in fifth grade forever, or until I start growing."

"My mom says puberty will make you grow."

I sighed. "I'm already pubertized. It didn't work."

"Hmm. I don't know what to say, then," Lou replied. "So why don't you come over and we'll drown our sorrows in a video game?"

"I'm on my way!"

I hung up and called to my mother, "I'm going to Lou's house!" as I opened the front door.

From the kitchen she called, "Don't you want to get changed first?"

"Oh!" I looked down at the church dress Mrs. Jameson had chosen for me. "Good catch, Mom!"

---

As we shot and jumped our way through the video game, Lou asked me about Miranda. I answered as well as I could, considering how my attention was divided: I was trying to do well in the game and not give away the fact that with Miranda I dressed like a girl.

"I'm killing you, dude!" Lou told me. "You're playing badly because you're in love."

"I'm not," I protested, but he got the drop on my player, and won again.

"How many does that make?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'm not counting."

"That's 'cause you're in love!" he crowed.

"Give it a rest!" I told him, and went to the kitchen for drinks.

---

Of course, Lou's mother was waiting for me in the kitchen. Lou is used to me talking to his Mom. I heard him switch the game to single-user mode in the living room.

I gave her a fairly abbreviated version of my story, leaving out Robert, the cream pie, and other nonessential details.

I don't know how I expected her to react, but I sure didn't expect a stone face. She didn't laugh. She didn't ask questions. She didn't even smile or nod.

It was unnerving, and when I was done talking, I anxiously asked her, "So, what do you think?"

She drew a breath and said, "You went through all this trouble, and you never considered that anyone would break down and have a party?"

"It didn't look that way," I said.

"Why did you think I asked you about parties?" she continued.

"I don't know." She was making me feel terribly guilty. "I'm really sorry that I'm not coming to Lou's party."

"No," she said. "That's not it. It's not about the party."

I was confused. Then what was she upset about?

"That story you told Lou about your uncle –"

"Huh?"

"He's not really sick, is he?" Her voice caught as she spoke. For the first time, she seemed emotional. "I was so worried, I almost called your mother."

Now I understood. For some reason, Lou's mother and mine can't stand each other. They avoid each other. They never speak. So if Mrs. Mossert was going to call Mom, it had to be something serious.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You just made it up, didn't you?" she accused. She looked so angry, I was frightened.

"I don't even know him," I lamely protested.

"Does that make it right?" she asked, her eyes flashing. "Suppose someone who didn't know you made up a story. Suppose they said that you like to go to Boston so you can dress like a girl. If they didn't know you, would that make it alright?"

My mouth worked, but no words came out. I was completely bewildered. They wouldn't have to make up a story about me — it was something that happened. And who would do that, anyway? Was she threatening me?

At the same time, she seemed to be waiting for an answer, and I wracked my brain for moment before I saw that no was the right answer. She fell silent, and in that awkward silence I timidly asked, "Why do you and my mother hate each other?"

Her shoulders, which had been tense up to that point, suddenly fell, and she gaped at me. "Hate each other? That's a little strong. We don't hate each other."

"Don't like each other, then."

"Ah," she sighed, and thought for a moment. "I know your mother is a lovely person. I am, too, for that matter. But we have some history."

"What kind of history?"

She twisted her mouth. "I can't say. I mean, I could say, but I —" She sighed again. "I will tell you that it had something to do with your Uncle Mickey. Your uncle is kind of a sore spot for a lot of people, me and your mother in particular."

"Oh," I said, not understanding at all. It was unnerving, this business about adults having once been young. They had all these stories, all these things that happened before I even existed, and now whatever in the world they did back then was complicating my life.

She looked at me and laughed, but in a kind way. The consternation on my face must have activated her maternal instinct.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when she walked over and gave me one of her famous hugs. Since I was sitting, my excitement was not as evident as usual. She let me go and sat down opposite me.

"You know– did anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like your uncle?"

"Mickey?" I asked.

She nodded, smiling.

I shook my head no.

"Now," she said, now that her mood was brighter, "I want to know about this Juliette business. Do you want to be a girl?"

"No!" I said.

"You just like the clothes?"

"No! No, it's just for Halloween."

"You looked awfully comfortable at that restaurant. You looked right at home in that outfit."

I shrugged. "I got used to it."

She nodded. "Hmm. And you said your mother bought a pile of dresses and shoes and outfits for you? What's going to happen to all those clothes, and that cute dress you were wearing today?"

"Oh, that dress is Miranda's. The other stuff, I guess we'll throw out."

"You should at least give it to Goodwill, but don't do that, Chapters."

"Why not?"

"If you're going to get rid of those clothes, bring them over here. Don't toss them, don't give them to Goodwill. I'll keep them for you."

"Why?" I asked, astonished.

She smiled and cocked her head. "You might want to –"

"I won't," I said.

"– AND it might be handy to have an alter-ego, a secret identity. You never know."

I didn't answer, so she went on: "And, you could just come and dress up for me."

My mouth fell open.

"I could take you and Miranda places. Places like Story Land."

I scoffed. "That's for little kids!"

"Miranda is only ten."

"But I'm not!"

"I know that Chapters isn't, but how old is Juliette?"

Before I could answer, Lou appeared in the door and asked, "Who's Juliette?"

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"Look, Diana," I said, "I'm sorry I had to tell you no. I wanted to go with you, and I thought that I could." She started to say something, but I put up my hand. "Wait. The thing is, Miranda is smart. She's fun to be with, and she's the same size as me —"

"Come on, Chapters!" she scolded, "Nobody gives a bleep about your bleeping height!" (Yes, she really did say "bleep" and "bleeping"!)
 

---

 

8. Diana Turns The Page
 

My blood froze within me and I didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell him that Juliette was my sister. Lou of all people would know it was a lie.

Mrs. Mossert came to the rescue. "Juliette is a friend of Miranda's. She's really cute. If you're nice, maybe Chapters can set you up with her."

"Another ten year old?" he scoffed. I nodded.

"No thanks! No offense, Chapters, but no thanks. I prefer girls my own age. Or older."

"Really?" his mother asked. "Anyone in particular?"

Lou blushed but didn't answer.

---

Later, when it was time for me to go home, Lou walked with me. Almost immediately, he got into it.

"What is going on with you?" he demanded.

"What are you talking about?" I retorted.

"What you and my mother were talking about," he insisted.

"How much did you hear?"

"I heard the end part, where she talked about your uncle, and then the stuff about the clothes. It sounds like you're dressing up like a girl and calling yourself Juliette."

"It's just for Halloween," I told him.

"Yeah, I heard that too." He fumed. "And this is why you're not coming to my party?" It sounded like a question, but it wasn't a question. "So it isn't about your uncle. It's about Miranda and Juliette."

"Look," I said, "NOBODY was going to do Halloween. I didn't want to miss it."

"Why do you have to be a girl?"

I told him the whole story, the business about not being recognized. I told him a few of the details I hadn't told his mother. The Boston Cream Pie story won him over in the end, I think.

"Jeely Cry," he said. "You really are an expert in getting into a mess, aren't you? You don't do it halfway — you just throw yourself in headfirst."

I shrugged.

"You realize you could have just waited a couple of days? If you had, you wouldn't have to do any of this!"

"I guess," I said.

"You don't have to guess," he said. "It's a fact!"

Our footsteps crunched loudly through the dry leaves underfoot. "You won't tell anybody will you?"

"Are you kidding?" he cried. "I'm your best friend! Anybody hears about this would think there was something wrong with me, too!"

After a pause, he added, "Just don't let me see it. Don't come over my house in your little-girl clothes. Okay? Do me the favor."

---

The next day in school, Lou was out sick. I sat down to lunch by myself, until Diana came over to sit with me.

"When I asked you to Lou's party, why didn't you tell me you have a girlfriend?" she asked.

"What girlfriend?" I asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Miranda? That's her name, right?"

I almost choked. "She's not my girlfriend," I said.

"But you're missing Lou's party to be with her, right?"

"I guess you could say that," I replied, coloring.

"So," Diana insisted, "If she's 'just a friend', she must be a pretty special friend if you're going to blow off everybody you know just to be with her."

"Umm," I said, not sure how to respond.

"Is she really only ten years old?"

"Man!" I protested. "Where did you hear all this?"

"Lou's mother told my mother," she replied simply. "So is it true?"

"Look, Diana," I said, "I'm sorry I had to tell you no. I wanted to go with you, and I thought that I could." She started to say something, but I put up my hand. "Wait. The thing is, Miranda is smart. She's fun to be with, and she's the same size as me —"

"Come on, Chapters!" she scolded, "Nobody gives a bleep about your bleeping height!" (Yes, she really did say "bleep" and "bleeping"!)

"Oh!" I retorted hotly, "Well *I* give a bleep! Do you realize that every time I talk to you — or anybody else in this class — that I have to look UP at you, like I'm your little brother?"

"I don't care!" she replied.

"I do!" I told her.

We fell into silence, not looking at each other, until at last she pushed her hair from her face and said, "You know, your Uncle Mickey was short like you, but all the girls wanted him."

"What?" I said. I'd never heard *that* before. "Does everybody know my Uncle Mickey except me?"

"What are you talking about?" she replied. "The point is, your height is all in your head."

"I wish," I replied.

"AND –" she concluded, as she stood up to leave, "When you and Miranda break up, you should ask me out."

"Oh!" I said, surprised at the abrupt change in the conversation, but very pleased. "And when I ask you, will you say yes?"

She drew a deep breath and said, "You'll have to ask me to find out. Maybe I will... or maybe I just want the pleasure of telling you no."

With that, she walked away.

My head hurt. Were people always this complicated?

---

What made it even more confusing was that Diana came to walk home with me. She had never done that before, and didn't really live in my direction... it didn't take her far out of her way, but it was still unusual. She'd never walked me home before. It didn't take long to find out why.

"So... this Miranda," she began. "Do you have a picture of her?"

I did. Miranda had given me a wallet size version of her school picture, so I dug it out and handed it to Diana. I was determined to not be embarrassed about Miranda; to not be ashamed of having so young a friend. That determination kept me from seeing what a mistake I was making in showing Diana the picture.

At first she said, "Oh, she's cute!" and then she frowned. "Wait... I know this girl." (Pause.) "No, I don't know her, but... I'm sure I've seen her... or met her..."

Diana glanced from me to the photo, from the photo to me. To say I was alarmed is an understatement. I felt as though three fire trucks, two ambulances, and five motorcycle police were tearing through my soul, lights flashing, sirens blazing.

She sucked in her lower lip. If I wasn't so frightened, I would have been charmed by how cute she looked when she frowned that way.

"I know!" she said. "She was at the thrift store that night! Kristie and I were trying to find Halloween costumes, and she gave us the best ideas!"

"Oh," I said in a shaky voice. "How about that?"

"You're right," she said brightly as she handed back the picture. "She *is* smart."

It took me several tries to slide the photo back into my wallet. My hands were too unsteady and my fingers refused to bend.

Still, the good news was that Diana didn't seem to connect me with the other girl at the thrift store, or even remember me, which was both disconcerting and a great relief at the same time.

We talked about... well, *she* talked about something or other the rest of the way to my house. I was having trouble paying attention. My heart was pounding in my ears, and my feet suddenly weighed fifty pounds a piece.

Once we were in front of my house, I hoped that my troubles were over, but she glanced at my driveway and asked, "Chapters, do you mind if I come in for a glass of water? I am SO thirsty."

How could I say no? I led her to the kitchen door, and as I pulled out my key realized that Mom wasn't home. Diana knew that too — that's why she looked at the driveway. Clever girl!

We stood by the sink. She held the tumbler with both hands as she drank. It took forever. She took a sip, brought down the glass, and swallowed. Then a second sip. And a third. I'd never seen someone make a glass of water last so long.

"Oh! I just remembered," she said. "What's *your* Halloween costume?"

"It's a secret," I said.

"Oh, come on!" she said. "Nobody's going to see it anyway. I promise not to tell."

"I'll show you a photo after," I lied.

She wheedled and begged and demanded, but I was firm. I refused to tell her, until finally I said, "Give it up, Diana. There's nothing you can do or say that will make me tell you."

Her eyebrows went up. "Nothing?" she asked. "Nothing?"

"No," I said. Frankly, the way she said nothing made me a little uncomfortable, and I was quite right to feel that way.

She set her glass down and started tickling me.

"Hey!" I protested, clamping my arms down at my sides.

"Nothing?" she repeated, "Nothing? NOTHING? Tell me, Chapters, tell me."

"Whoa, no," I wheezed, and lamely tried to tickle her back.

"I'm not ticklish!" she laughed. And it was true, she wasn't. But I am, and she was merciless. Soon she had me on the floor, helpless, almost ready to pee in my pants.

"Stop! Stop!" I gasped. "Stop! Ow ow ow!"

"Will you tell me?" I nodded. "Will you show me?"

"No," I said. She wiggled her fingers with a menacing grin, and I said, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

I sat up and leaned against the stove to catch my breath. "You are wicked," I said.

"I'm not so bad once you get to know me," she replied with a smile.

"Okay," I said. "I have to tell you a story, and you have to SWEAR that you won't tell." Cutting the story to its barest essentials, I explained: Everyone scoffed at Halloween. I wanted to celebrate but not be recognized. Hence, a girl costume.

To my relief, she understood.

"A lot of guys dress up as girls for Halloween," she commented.

"Right," I agreed, and brought her upstairs. My plan was to sit her down in my room, and I'd bring her one costume. But she didn't. She did sit on my bed, and she was still sitting there as I went to get the costume, but when I lifted the first outfit off the rack and turned, there she was, standing in my mother's workroom.

"Rainbow Brite?" she said, and I suddenly had a flash of memory: the scene in the thrift store, when Diana asked me and Miranda what we were going to be.

Diana took the outfit from me and said, "I remember her from TV."

She took the costume and turned it over, admiring the work.

"Your mother made this? You are so lucky!"

"I guess," I said.

Then she saw the other costumes. "Who are these for?"

"Oh, Miranda and some other girls," I said.

"Huh," she said, and looked them over. "Wow. Two girls are going as princesses, and two are going as fairies. Won't they mind being the same thing?"

I shrugged. "How would *I* know?"

Diana looked at the seams, and said, "Your mother is amazing. Some of this stuff is really hard to do. Do you think she might give me lessons? I mean, I can sew, but not like this."

"I don't know," I said. "I can ask her. I know she likes sewing."

"Huh," Diana said, frowning. She pushed the six costumes back and forth along the rack. "Wait a minute. I just noticed something. All these costumes are the same size." She looked at me. "You said you're going trick-or-treating. Are you wearing the same costume to the party on Saturday?"

"Uh, yes," I said, blushing deeply.

"Oh, no you're not!" she said, seeing the lie written on my face. "With all these to choose from, how could you? Some of these are for you!" She slid them back and forth, looking them over once again. "Two for you and two for Miranda?"

I sighed.

Diana shook her head. "Oooh, ooh," she cooed. "You *have* to show me pictures. If you don't show me pictures I'll tell. Of BOTH costumes."

"Oh, come on, Diana."

"You can trust me," she said. "I won't tell. But I want to see pictures, lots of pictures." She laughed. "I'm sure you'll look oh-so cute!"

"Let's get out of this room," I said, and pushed her gently into the hall.

"Wow," she said. "Now I know a secret. I know your secret, Chapters. Or one of your secrets, maybe."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, pushing her back toward my room. "Just let's *keep* it a secret, please?"

"Does Lou know?" she asked as she plopped onto my bed.

"Yes."

"What does he think?"

"He thinks I'm nuts."

"Hmmph. Oh! Whose idea was it?"

"My mother's," I said. "I wouldn't have thought of it. I didn't want to do it at first."

"But then you got to like the idea," she teased.

"No."

She smiled and looked around my room. Her eye fell on my alarm clock, and she leapt to her feet. "Oh, is that what time it is? I got to go."

We rushed downstairs. She drank a hurried sip of water and started choking. There wasn't much I could do but pat her on the back. After a couple of minutes it passed. Then she grabbed her backpack and ran off.

I put my face in my hands and groaned.

Now Lou and Diana knew. Lou seemed to want to cancel it from his brain, which was fine.

But Diana? I've known her all my life, but how much did I really know her? I felt that I could trust her, but now she had a little bomb inside her head that could go off at any time, and if it did, what would happen to me?

By the "bomb in her head" I mean the fact that she is just one tiny step away from connecting me with the girl in the thrift shop. Right now for some reason, she didn't even seem to remember that girl, the girl who was with Miranda. But what if she did remember?

There were so many connections or coincidences: That girl in the store was the same size as Miranda (just like me). That girl in the store said she was going to be Rainbow Brite for Halloween (just like me). That girl in the store had suggested the wedding dress as a costume, and Diana had asked me to be her partner.

If just one stray spark were to fire inside her brain, any of those things could connect.

I just had to hope that none of it clicked for Diana.

I went upstairs to change my clothes, and found yet another connection: my Clarkina glasses were sitting in plain view on my desk. Did Diana see them? Maybe she unconsciously took them in.

I flopped on the bed, sank within myself, and tried to figure my chances. Maybe Diana wasn't that bright. No — that's mean and not really true. She isn't stupid, but she doesn't seem very reflective. She lives more in the present moment than in her memory. I had to hope she stays there, in the here-and-now, and doesn't drift back to the then-and-thrift-store.

I had to make sure she'd never see me and Miranda side by side. It might remind her. And I would NEVER go to the thrift store again. That might make her remember. Anything else?

Oh, yeah. I couldn't possibly show her a picture of me as Rainbow Brite — or any other costume. She might do that whole business again of Wait... I know this girl...

---

I was in agony until the next day in school. Diana didn't seem any different. She didn't greet me differently from any other day, or look at me funny, or sit next to me in math class.

But you know, there was something I forgot about Diana: I forgot about her amazing artistic ability. She can draw something — anything — with a pencil and it looks like a photograph. It's mind-boggling.

So when she sat down next to me at lunch and said, "Look at this!" I was not all that surprised when she showed me a drawing of Miranda. Yes, I was a little surprised, but I've seen a lot of Diana's drawings. I ooh'd and aah'd over it, but then I realized that there was something wrong: this wasn't Miranda's head from the little wallet picture I'd shown Diana yesterday. This was Miranda all the way down to her waist, and she was wearing the top she'd worn in the thrift store.

Alarm bells began to ring in my head. If I was a submarine, the order would be SUBMERGE! SUBMERGE! ALL DIVE! ALL DIVE!

Unfortunately, I was not a submarine that could submerge, or a ghost who could fade to invisibility, or a piece of ice that could melt and slip though a crack in the floor. I was an adolescent boy with a secret, and I was afraid that as Diana turned the page, that my secret would be drawn there, in lifelike pencil marks.

And so it was.

Diana said, "Once I knew it was Miranda that night in the thrift store, I remembered her face. Then I remembered what she was wearing. Well, I don't remember the skirt..."

She glanced at me. She didn't have a mean face, or an unkind face, or even an uncertain face. There was a kind of almost clinical curiosity there, and I knew she was going to go all the way to wherever she was going to go. And I knew she would take me with her. She couldn't go there (wherever "there" was) without me, and I sure as hell was not going if I didn't have to.

It looked like I was going to have to.

Diana turned the page.

As she did, she said, "I remembered there was another girl there. The one who suggested my costume." My throat was dry. Very dry. On the page I saw a picture of a girl. A girl who looked about ten years old. She was wearing glasses. Glasses that were supposed to hide a secret identity, but at the moment those glasses weren't doing their job.

Diana said, "Sometimes drawing is a way for me to remember things, and while I drew this girl I kept remembering more and more about her. And she kept feeling so *familiar* to me."

She picked up her pencil and continued: "At first I thought this." She wrote YOU? next to the girl.

"And then I realized this." She scribbled out the YOU? and wrote YOU! Then she added two more exclamation points.

"I was going to make more exclamation points, but I think you're not supposed to have more than three," she commented.

My face was ashen and I don't think I was breathing at all.

"I don't want to scare you," she said. "I didn't tell anybody, and I won't. And if you don't want to talk about it, I'll try to forget. I won't ask you again, but I'm really curious and I want to talk."

She paused and looked at me. I felt a little better, because now I was breathing at least. My forehead was covered with sweat, but I could live with that.

Diana waited, but I didn't say anything, so she finished by telling me, "I'll look for you after school. If you tell me to leave you alone, I will. But I hope we can be friends and talk about this."

She closed her book, squeezed my hand, pushed the hair back from her face, smiled at me, and walked away.

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"It was pale yellow," she recalled. "I could sort of see it through the dress."

"Uh, it wasn't a bra," I replied. "It was a bathing suit."

"Oh," she laughed. "A bathing suit?"

I sighed. How much was I going to have to admit to?
 

---

 

9. The Situation Is Contained
 

When I left school that day, Diana was outside waiting. I glanced at her, but said nothing. She silently fell in alongside me, and we walked for several blocks without saying a word.

After we'd left the sounds of school children behind, and after the car traffic dwindled away, when there was nothing and no one anywhere nearby, Diana finally spoke.

"Do you remember that boy Billy, who moved away in the middle of sixth grade?"

I thought for a moment. "Yeah, kinda."

"He used to come over my house and play dress up–"

"Diana," I interrupted, "I–"

"Wait," she said. "Let me tell you this, and then you can talk. Anyway, one time I told my mother that his name was Marie and she took us to a park in Wellesley..."

"Diana," I interrupted again, "I don't–"

"No, wait," she said. "I'm almost done. This story's not about him, it's about me. So listen. When she found out he was a boy she was SO MAD. I mean, boiling mad. I couldn't sit for a week, and he couldn't come over to play any more." She fell silent.

"Is that the story?" I asked, a little rudely. "Are you done?" I didn't see the point of the story, and I didn't care. All I wanted was to tell her that I didn't like wearing girls clothes; that I didn't want to be a girl.

"No," she said. "This is the end: he moved away. I don't know why. I always thought that it was my fault, because I tricked my mother. I always felt bad about it. I *still* feel bad about it. I feel guilty. And I always wondered..."

"Wondered what?" I asked in spite of myself.

"I wondered about him. I wondered why. Why did he want to wear dresses? Does he still want to? Did he want to be a girl? And what ever happened to him? Did he get in trouble, too? And was it really so bad, what I did?"

I stole a glance at her as we walked, the two of us dragging our feet through the fallen leaves.

"But, Diana," I said, "that story doesn't have anything to do with me. I don't want to be a girl, and I don't like to wear girls clothes."

She turned to me with a confused look. "But I *saw* you!" she retorted. "You *were* dressed like a girl!"

"Right," I said. "That was for Halloween."

"No," she said. "Halloween is *next* week. I saw you *last* week."

"Right," I said. "We were getting ready."

She smiled a little and said, "I understand: you had to get a running start."

"No. The thing is, Miranda doesn't know that I'm a guy." (Of course, that wasn't true any more, but there was no need to tell Diana.)

"She doesn't?"

"No."

"Oh! So she really isn't your girlfriend?"

"No," I said.

She pondered this. "So every time you've seen her, you had to pretend to be a girl?"

"Pretty much," I answered with a sigh. The situation was so uncomfortable! Was there a quick way to end this conversation?

At that moment, Diana made a face and did a funny skip-step.

"What are you doing?" I asked her.

She looked embarrassed. "I drank a whole lot of water just before I saw you, and now I... I have to go to the bathroom!"

We hurried the rest of the way to my house, and she ran to the toilet on the first floor. I couldn't help but recall her long, slow drink yesterday. If she drank a lot of water, it must have taken at least an hour. Or more.

Finally she emerged from the bathroom, and went right back to the questions. "So, how many times have you seen Miranda?"

I squirmed a bit and said, "Could you quit asking me questions, Diana?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "I should go now, anyway."

With a great sense of relief, I started toward the door.

She stepped through the door, stopped and turned back. "Hey, there's just one thing: if you went to the thrift store with Miranda, where did you get the first dress?"

"The first dress?" I repeated, not understanding.

"Yeah, the one you wore to the store."

"I didn't. I wore my own clothes to the store."

She frowned. "But if Miranda doesn't know..."

I groaned. "Look: Miranda and her mother showed up there when I was trying on a dress for Miranda."

"Huh?"

"We're the same size," I explained blushing.

"Oh," she said, but she didn't look quite convinced.

I huffed, "My mother needed a dress for Miranda's costume. She wanted me to try it on so Miranda wouldn't have to come. But then she showed up anyway. While I had the dress on. Since she thinks I'm a girl, I had to go with it."

"Oh." She frowned. "And all of that–" she waved her hand in a circle "–it was just a big coincidence."

"Yeah."

I had my hand on the door. She was only partway outside, so I couldn't close it. Diana didn't move, so I waggled the door to give a subtle hint.

It was a hint she didn't take. She was thinking. Well, not thinking. She was picturing that night, calling up the visual image of the two little girls in the toy room, seeing their faces, their hair, how they were dressed... and one odd detail popped out at her.

"But..." she began, uncertainly, "but... you were wearing underwear..."

"Of course I was," I laughed. "I never leave home without it."

"No, I mean, you had on, like, a training bra. Didn't you?"

I blushed, which she took for a yes.

"It was pale yellow," she recalled. "I could sort of see it through the top."

"Uh, it wasn't a bra," I replied. "It was a bathing suit."

"Oh," she laughed. "A bathing suit?"

I sighed. How much was I going to have to admit to? "My mother made me put it on because my nipples showed."

Diana started giggling. She put her hand to her mouth. Her hair fell across her face, and the giggles came bubbling out. Even in the midst of my distress I had to admit she looked awfully cute.

"Can we stop here?" I asked her. "I don't think I can be any more embarrassed."

"Can I see the bathing suit?" she asked. "Then I'll go. I don't really believe you, because bathing suit tops have big seams that would have shown through."

"Why is it important?" I asked. I didn't want to show it to her.

"Because I think it was underwear for girls."

"Well, it wasn't, but what if it was? What difference would it make?"

"It would mean that you brought it with you, that you wore it to the store."

I looked at her in disbelief. "Well, it wasn't and I didn't."

She turned her face slightly to the side and smirked. "So show me."

"Fine!" I said. "Please come in!" She entered. I shut the door with a bang. We went upstairs to my room, where I made a great show of opening my underwear drawer. I picked up the yellow bathing suit, and gestured with my hand at the rest of my underwear. "See, Diana? All for boys. It's all boy underwear."

She took the bathing suit top and felt the material with her fingers. "Whoo," she said. "This is nice, but nobody could ever wear it in public. You're right: it is a bathing suit, but it really looks like underwear." She fingered the straps, and shrugged. "So I was wrong."

"Okay, good," I said. "I'm glad we settled that very important point."

"Do you still have that outfit?" she asked.

"Ah, no," I said in a decisive tone. "I threw it out." But I couldn't stop my eyes from darting toward the right end of my closet, where the clothes, plural, were hanging. I knew that my closet door was closed, but something in me had to check.

I saw that she saw. I knew that she knew, and she knew that I knew she knew. She smiled, and made a sudden leap toward the closet. I jumped, too, and quickly caught her around the waist. Unfortunately, she had one hand on the sliding door, and when it opened she saw the dresses.

She breathed out a soft "Oh!" She'd only expected one dress, but instead found a cache.

Now I have to tell you that something strange and new was happening to me. Today was the first time in my life that I ever felt a good thing and a bad thing happen at the same time... AND the bad thing didn't completely ruin the good one.

The bad thing, of course, was having Diana discover all those feminine clothes. There were three dresses, two skirts, and three tops. I know it sounds like a lot, but they hardly cost anything, and at the time it helped make Juliette seem real to Miranda.

The good thing was that my left arm was wrapped around Diana's waist. She has a nice waist, I discovered. My fingertips rested on her right side, and the base of my hand was over her belly button. My right hand was on her back. When I first grabbed her, she was crouching over, but now she straightened up. Her hair smelled like peaches or something... and my pinky touched the top of her hip bone. I didn't want to let go, and she wasn't trying to get away.

She moved, and her left butt cheek pressed against my stomach for a moment. It was like a revelation, an illumination. At that moment I wished the wish I've had so many times before: that I was taller.

"Oh, Diana," I groaned as she slipped forward, out of my embrace.

"Why do you have all these?" she asked, her voice full of wonder.

"Because they didn't cost that much, and they helped make Miranda think I was a girl."

Diana stopped. "You know, you always say that Miranda is your friend. Isn't she going to be upset when she finds out who you really are?"

"Ah," I began uncertainly. The fact that Miranda knew the truth was supposed to be a secret, but I could see that my secrets were not fairing so well lately.

"Are you going to go on being— what does she call you?"

"Juliette," I said, blushing deeply and wishing I could die.

Diana sucked in her lower lip and nodded. She went back to the clothes in my closet. "All these clothes still have tags on them," she observed.

"Tags?"

"Price tags. You never wore these?"

"No," I said, grateful for a ray of hope. "I told you. They're just props."

"Props?" she didn't seem to understand the word. "Oh, all of them have tags except these two," she said. "This is the one you were wearing at the shop, and this one — wow!"

She pulled the silk skirt out of the closet. "This is so cool!" Holding it away from her, she felt the material and turned it over several times, to see it front and back.

Then she held it against herself. "Darn! It's way too small!"

I smiled ruefully.

"You're so lucky," she said, "There are so many really nice clothes for girls your size."

"Oh, yeah, I'm so lucky," I agreed sarcastically.

"Sorry!" she said. "But honestly, I wish I was your size." She took the skirt off the hanger, and draped it against herself, as if in some way she could make it work.

A light went off in my head. I'd always been so busy wishing I was as tall as everyone else. I never thought of wishing that everyone else was *my* size. If just Diana was short like me, that would fix everything.

"So, could you?" Diana was saying.

"Could I what? Oh, no, no. No way. I'm not trying anything on. I won't even hold it up against me. No, I told you, I don't–"

In the end I gave up. After a little bit of wheedling and pleading, but above all after the promise that she'd leave right after, I put on the outfit. I even used the pale yellow bathing suit as underwear. I put on the Clarkina glasses for her, but just for a moment. I was a little angry at the glasses; they hadn't protected me after all.

True to her word, Diana let me walk her to the door after she'd seen me in the museum outfit. I shut the door behind her, plopped into a chair, and tried to figure it all out.

I took an inventory: who knew about Juliette?

At this point, Lou knew what I was doing, but he didn't want to know. Good so far.

Lou's mother knew what I was doing, and wanted me to keep at it. Bad, but not awful: all I had to do was NOT keep at it. Simple.

Miranda knows who I am, so once Halloween is past, there won't be any problem. That was the best situation so far.

Diana, on the other hand... what was Diana's thing? She was curious about boys who wear dresses. She thought I was that kind of boy. None of my protests or denials meant anything to her. I had to admit, the circumstantial evidence was against me.

At the same time, she knew the danger I was in: if other people thought I was the way she thought it was, well... She thought it was her fault that Billy had moved away. Maybe it was. She wouldn't want that to happen again, so I was pretty confident she'd keep my secret.

I shifted around in the chair. Everything seemed okay, but... it was aggravating to have such a good plan get out of control like this. It wasn't too far out of control. The situation was contained. I liked that phrase, so I repeated it to myself, and felt much better: The situation is contained.

My mother walked in just as a smile broke on my face. The situation is contained. It could be my mantra.

"Well, don't you look happy," Mom commented, as her eyes swept over me.

"I'm okay," I said smugly.

"I see," she said, and tilted her head to study me.

"What?" I asked.

"You, ah, really like that outfit, don't you?"

I looked down and suddenly saw what I was wearing: when Diana left, I was so concerned with figuring things out that I'd forgotten to change my clothes! I had on the whole museum outfit, shoes included.

"Oh, no," I said, "It was just, ah–" I didn't want to tell her about Diana. It was bad enough that it had happened; if Mom knew about it, it would only make it worse. "I was only–"

"It's okay," she said.

"But I don't–" I began.

"It's okay," she insisted. "In fact, I was going to ask you whether Miranda could come over tomorrow after school, and then stay for dinner."

"Oh, sure," I said. "That would be nice."

"You understand," she said, looking me in the eye, "that you'll have to wear one of the dresses we got at the thrift. But it doesn't look like that will be a problem."

"Uh, no, no problem," I croaked.

"Fine," she said. "You'll have to come straight home from school, so you get here before she does. I'll lay out the clothes for you, and we'll tell your father tonight, so he doesn't have a heart attack when he walks in the door.

"Speaking of which, it might be a good idea if you change back to Victor before he gets home."

"Right, right," I agreed. "I'll go change now."

"Okay," she said, her eyes fixed on my face.

I smiled a toothy smile that was meant to be reassuring, but it didn't look like it helped anything.

---

Dad did most of the talking at dinner: he told us about his job, his co-workers, his boss, some trip that was coming up. He was pretty animated; it seemed like things were going exceptionally well. He hoped that a promotion or a raise was coming his way in the next few months.

When he was done, Mom told him that Miranda would be coming over. He nodded as he chewed some salad.

"She'll be here for dinner, too," Mom went on.

"Fine," he joked. "We have plenty of food."

"The thing is," Mom reminded him, "Victor will have to d–"

"Oh," he said, and stopped chewing. "Oh, I see." He set his fork down and thought for a bit.

"Do you want to work late tomorrow, or have dinner out somewhere?" Mom asked.

"No, no," he said. "I'll be here. It's just the uh–" He didn't look at me, as he searched for something to say.

"Why don't you work a little late," Mom suggested. "It's not a problem."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she said. "In a few days this will all be over."

"Okay," he said. "It's a — It's just a —"

"It's fine," Mom said. "Don't worry about it."

---

Lou was back in school the next day, much to everyone's relief. Since I wasn't going, I hadn't thought about it, but the party was a much bigger deal that I would have guessed. Everybody was going to be there, including all the guys who scoffed at Halloween as something for little kids.

Lou was right. If only I'd waited, I wouldn't have had to do anything out of the ordinary.

At lunch, he invited me to come to his house after school.

"Sorry, I'd like to, but I can't. Miranda's coming over today."

"Oh, a hot date, huh?" he laughed.

"Come on," I said.

"It's okay, Chapters. I'm just yanking your chain."

I shrugged, as if to say it's okay.

Lou's face was still pale. He'd been out with the flu or a virus or something, and he still seemed a little weak and washed out. But he smiled and told me, "You know, I might have a girlfriend, too, this weekend."

"Oh, yeah?" I said, interested. "Who?"

"Oh, I'm not saying yet," he said with an air of mystery. "And don't bother guessing, because I won't say."

Honestly, I didn't know who I could guess. I didn't have the slightest idea. I mean, I knew which girls he liked to look at, but they were the same girls we all liked to look at. There wasn't one in particular that he seemed to favor, and there wasn't any girl I knew who had eyes for him.

We walked home together, but he was moving so slowly it was hard to keep pace with him. "Lou, I'm sorry, but I got to get home..."

"It's cool," he said. "You go. I'm still a little low from being sick." He smiled. "Say hello to your girlfriend for me."

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I just barfed my guts out for a day and a half, that's all. I'm feeling better, really. Don't worry."

"Okay," I said, and took off running.

My mother waved me upstairs as soon as I was in the door, and I found an outfit laid out on my bed. It was a ruffly denim skirt, a green tee shirt with short, gathered sleeves, and a turquoise cardigan with green stitching that matched the shirt. I hadn't seen any of the clothes before.

There was also a pair of gray and white sneakers with pink trim, a pair of ankle socks with images of tiny puppies, and a pair of panties decorated with blue flowers.

"MOM!" I called out loudly, but she could hear me just fine. She was standing in the doorway.

"I didn't mean to buy all that," she told me. "I just went to get you some underwear, socks, and sneakers, but when I saw the outfit, I thought you might like it." She didn't smile when she said it. She looked kind of... serious. I realized later that she wanted to see my reaction.

I gaped, "I, uh... it's, uh, great."

"You better get changed right now, because Miranda's going to be here any minute. You two will have to play downstairs, because this is obviously not a young girl's room.

"I took out some card games and board games you two can play, and I got you a doll, in case that comes up. Her name is Madison. Got it?"

"Yeah," I said. "Got it. Madison. Oh my God."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"So," Miranda asked, grinning, "Is that your doll?"

"Yes," I replied. "Her name is Madison. I named her myself."

"That was very clever of you," she replied, "especially since her name is already Madison when you buy her in the store."
 

---

 

10. Madison And The Half-Cardigan
 

"Victor, are you feeling alright? You look pale."

"Mom, it's just... so much, all at once. It's, like, all out of control. Why did you buy these clothes? I already have all that stuff in the closet."

She sat me down on my bed and took a seat next to me. "I didn't think you'd mind," she said. "Especially after I saw you all dressed up yesterday."

I sighed. "That doesn't count. I just needed to think."

"Ah," she said.

I saw that what I'd said made no sense, but it was too complicated to explain.

She ran her hands through my hair. "Do you know why I bought this for you? You're my only child. I doubt I'll have any more children. I'm glad that you're a boy. I was never sorry about that, but I also never realized how much fun girls' clothes are. Do you know what I mean? I like shopping for myself, but I *love* shopping for a young girl. Girls your age get to wear all sorts of things — colors and styles and combinations — that a woman my age could never get away with.

"That's part of it.

"The other part is that *Macy* picked all the tops and skirts that are hanging in your closet. We just have this tiny window to do all these girly things, and I didn't want to miss the chance to pick something nice for you to wear. Okay?"

"Okay," I said grudgingly. "I just hope you understand that I'm *not* a girl, I don't want to *be* a girl, and I don't want to *dress* like a girl."

"All right, hon."

"After Halloween, it all goes away."

"Fine."

"No more Juliette. Just Victor."

"Okay," Mom agreed. "I get it. But for right now, Miranda's coming, so Juliette had better get ready."

She walked into the hall to give me some privacy, and soon I had the whole business on me. I took a look in the mirror and said, "Mom, I look like a dork."

"Oh, no, I can't believe that," she said, coming back into my room. "What do you mean? You look adorable!"

I sighed. I didn't want to look adorable, but I didn't want to look like an idiot, either. "Look at this crazy sweater! It's made for a baby!" It only came halfway down my back, and the sleeves ended just above my elbows. "This looks ridiculous: it only covers my chest."

"It's not a sweater," Mom replied. "It's called a half cardigan, and it's supposed to be that way. Do you see how the stitching matches the color of the tee shirt? Isn't that nice?"

"Yeah," I grunted.

"Yes," she corrected.

"Yes," I repeated (as if it mattered!). "Mom, I still look like a dork."

"No," she repeated. "You look like a stylish young lady. I just need to do something with your hair."

She gave my head some quick brushstrokes and stuck a barrette on one side. "There! Much better!" she declared, but I wasn't convinced. In the mirror, all I saw was bare legs and bony knees. A dorky boy in a dorky dress with a dorky "half cardigan."

---

When Miranda and her mother arrived, Mom led us to the family room, where she'd put the board games. I noticed that, along along my new Barbie-like doll Madison, she'd picked up a pair of hula hoops and two jump ropes.

The mothers went off to the kitchen and left Miranda and me to our own devices.

"So," Miranda asked, grinning, "Is that your doll?"

"Yes," I replied. "Her name is Madison. I named her myself."

"That was very clever of you," she replied, "especially since her name is already Madison when you buy her in the store."

We both laughed, and she said, "You're better off playing dumb. If you pretend you know, it's not going to work."

I shrugged. "I'm not going to make a career of this." Then I asked her, "Hey, do I look like a dork in these clothes?"

"No," she said, "You look really nice. I wish I had an outfit like that. My mother liked it too."

"How do you know?"

"I know all her looks," Miranda replied, with a cute one-shoulder shrug, as if reading her mother's mind were the easiest thing on earth.

She picked up a hula hoop and said, "Can we play outside, or is that too dangerous for you?"

"Dangerous? Oh, you mean that somebody might see me? No, I think we're fine, as long as we stay in the back yard."

We picked up the hoops and the jump ropes, and started for the kitchen. Miranda stopped me and said, "Here, you forgot this," and slipped the doll into my hand. "I think Madison wants to come with us." She kept giggling and wouldn't let me put it down. "Take it," she laughed. "She wants to go with you!"

I wanted to be angry and irritated, but Miranda was too infectiously funny, so the two of us were giggling as we passed through the kitchen on our way to the back yard.

"Girls," Mom said, stopping us, "are you going outside?"

"Yes," Miranda replied, "Madison needs some air."

That set the two of us giggling again.

Mrs. Jameson asked who Madison was, so I waggled the doll at her.

Mom said, "I don't know about playing outside, let me just see..." She walked outside, stepping backwards from the house, looking right and left at the houses on either side of us. When she got to end of our patio, where the grass begins, she stopped.

"Okay, girls," she said. "You can play on the patio, but stay off the grass. Do you understand?"

I understood; as long as we stayed on the patio, the neighbors wouldn't see me. Miranda understood this too, but she decided to be a smartass, and asked my mother why.

"Oh," Mom said, at a loss, "there's something wrong with the grass, and you might..."

"We might get our shoes dirty," I finished for her.

"Right!" Mom said, and headed inside. "Remember: stay on the patio."

I looked at Miranda pointedly, and she replied with a soundless, what? who-me? sort of face, so I let it go.

We hula-hooped and jumped rope, and sat and talked, and made Madison talk. It was nice to be with Miranda, although it was weird to sit on the ground, or kneel on the ground, in a dress. I couldn't find a way to get comfortable. I tried to copy the way Miranda was sitting, but but it didn't work for me. My knees were getting a little chafed.

Miranda told me, "Hey, I figured out a way to tell my mother that I know who you are."

"How?"

"In your living room, there are a bunch of family pictures, but Juliette isn't in any of them. Only Victor is. There's one picture of you standing with your parents, so you can see how tall you are. I can tell Mom that I saw it and figured it out.

"The day after Halloween, I can tell her all that, and say that while we were out trick-or-treating I called you Victor and you didn't notice."

"Very clever," I said. "And then we can still be friends."

She smiled and picked up Madison. Miranda made Madison dance and sing and say silly things. I had my eyes down, laughing and watching what she was doing. Out of the blue, Miranda said in a low voice, "Listen, you're my sister. We don't live here. Victor is our cousin. Got it?"

"Huh? Is this some kind of game?"

"Just play along," she replied.

What Miranda had seen — and I'd missed — was the girl who'd appeared at the end of my yard. In one moment there was no one; in the next, she was there, standing in front of the bushes. When she spoke, my heart stopped.

"Hi," she called. "Can I play with you?"

"Oh, sure," I said, in a funny voice. I meant exactly the opposite, but it came out sounding like an invitation.

She walked toward us, but stopped short of the patio.

"Why don't you play on the grass?" she asked. "It's softer."

I almost told her that there was something wrong with the grass, but Miranda answered first. "Our mother says we'll get our clothes dirty."

"Oh," she replied, and came up to join us. "My name is Steffy, and I'm nine. What are your names?" She picked up a hula hoop, and started it going. "I didn't know that any girls lived here."

"We don't live here," Miranda replied. "We're visiting our aunt."

"Are you sisters?"

"Yes."

She studied us for a few moments. I expected her to say that we didn't look like sisters, because we don't. I still didn't understand why Miranda wanted to say we were...

"So who's older?" Steffy asked.

"I am," we both said together. I looked chagrined. Miranda laughed.

"Are you making fun of me?" Steffy asked.

"No," Miranda told her. "I'm older. I'm ten, and Juliette is nine."

My mouth gaped in a silent What!?

"Like me!" the girl exclaimed happily.

Miranda continued, "Juliette likes to *pretend* she's the oldest, but she's my baby sister. I remember the day Mom brought her home from the hospital."

"That's impossible," I countered, but Miranda smiled in a superior, big-sisterly way.

"I'm nine, too," Steffy confided to me, as the hula hoop gyrated around her. "We're the same age," she explained, as if I hadn't understood.

"That makes me feel a lot better," I replied drily, but Steffy missed my sarcasm; she only smiled.

"This is Juliette's doll," Miranda explained. "I'm showing Juliette how to make her dance."

I didn't like this business of playing the little sister, and Miranda seemed to enjoy being the big sister a bit more than I liked, which is to say, not at all.

I tried to communicate this by making shocked and (what I thought were) threatening faces at Miranda. Steffy started laughing. "Juliette, you make the goofiest faces!"

"Thanks," I said.

I stood up. If I could have gone back into the house, I would have, but it would have been rude. My eye fell on my rusty old swing set. I hadn't used it since I was little, but now seemed like a good time to go for a swing. I didn't really want to leave Miranda; I just wanted to be a little bit alone, without going away.

Miranda waited until I was at the end of the patio. Just before my foot hit the grass, she said in a sing-song voice, "Juliette, Mom told us to stay off the grass."

I sighed. Miranda looked over Steffy's head at me, and gave me a smile and wink. I rolled my eyes, but I smiled back.

We played with Steffy for about a half hour, when Mrs. Jameson signalled Miranda that she was leaving. "We've got to go inside, Steffy," Miranda told her. "It was fun playing with you."

---

Apart from the embarrassment of being the "little sister," I discovered something interesting while playing with Steffy. Even though she and Miranda were only a year apart in age, they were a world apart as people.

Steffy was still a little girl. She didn't (at least as far as I could see) have the inner life or maturity that Miranda has. Miranda has opinions. Miranda is self-aware. Steffy just played, and lost herself in play.

---

Mrs. Jameson left. Miranda and I played Scrabble and talked. Since Mom had gotten Madison a few changes of clothes, we took turns dressing her, an activity Miranda seemed to like, but I found rather mechanical. I only did it because I was supposed to.

We had dinner, and played Uno until Mrs. Jameson picked up Miranda and left me and my mother alone.

"I saw you two playing with a little blonde girl," Mom commented.

"Yeah — yes, her name's Steffy. I guess she lives in the house behind us."

"Hmm. Aren't you concerned that she might come over again, looking to play with you? And what do I tell her mother, when she asks who Steffy was playing with today?"

"Tell her I'm Miranda's sister, and I don't live here."

"Oh! Is that what you told her?"

"Yes," I said. "It won't be a problem."

"If you say so," she said. "But you realize: things get more complicated if more people see you as Juliette."

"Yes, I get that," I said.

"I hope you do," she replied. She looked at me for a bit, and ran her fingers through my hair. "Do you still think you look like a dork?"

"No, I guess not," I said.

"You sound surprised."

"I guess I forgot what I was wearing."

"Yeah," she said, with a smile. "You better go change before your father comes home. And put those things in the wash. You were sitting on the ground in them."

"Oh, yeah," I replied. "I better get Madison out of sight, too."

I ran to the family room. The Uno cards were lying where we'd left them. I didn't bother with those; I could clean them up later. For now, I had to gather all of Madison's little shoes and clothes and shove them into the clear plastic bag Mom had left for just that purpose.

As soon as I was done — and doubled checked to be sure I got it all — I had to use the bathroom. When I came out, I grabbed Madison and her bag, and ran to the living room, so I could get upstairs before Dad came home.

I knew he didn't like the whole Juliette business. I couldn't blame him. His brain seemed to short-circuit every time he saw me in a skirt, and it took him hours to recover.

Unfortunately, he was due for another short-circuit.

If I hadn't made my detour to the bathroom, I'd be walking into my bedroom when Dad arrived home. Instead, precisely when he was halfway through the front door, I came bursting into the living room, directly in front of him.

"Wha–" he said. "I thought I was supposed to have missed all this."

"Sorry, Dad," I apologized, growing very red. I could see his eyes scan me and come to rest on Madison, clutched in my left hand.

"Oh, this," I said. "It's just... it's just a prop."

He spread his open palms toward me, as if to say, I don't want to know.

I moved toward the stairs, and would have gone up, but Mom came in from the kitchen. She looked from my father to me and back to my father. I looked at both of them. Dad stood still as a statue, one foot in the house and one foot out.

Mom asked, "Aren't you going to come in?" When he didn't reply, she walked over, gently pulled him by the arm until he was all the way inside, then shut the door behind him.

"Is there something I should know?" Dad asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"What do I mean?" he repeated. "Here you are, dressed like a ten-year-old girl, with a barrette in your hair, holding a doll."

"Miranda just left," I told him, stretching the truth just a tad. "I'm sorry." I lifted my foot toward the stairs, but he gestured for me to stop.

"Can we all sit down?" he asked, and to my mother, "Will you get me a beer? We need to talk about this."

I sat in the loveseat near the fireplace. He lowered himself into his chair, and put his feet on the ottoman. He regarded me in silence, then said, "Could you put that thing behind you? Or at least put it down?"

I hid Madison behind my back. Mom came in with the beer, set it on a coaster, and eased Dad's shoes off. He took a deep sip and sighed.

"That's better," he said, and looked at me. "Victor, all I want to know is this: all this dressing up, playing with dolls, and everything else — it's going to stop at Halloween. Am I right? Is that the idea? Or is some lifestyle change going on this house?" He fixed his gaze on Mom's face, then mine, and continued, "If there is, I need to know. I don't want to be blindsided later on. I've got to make adjustments."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "What lifestyle changes?" I also wondered what "adjustments" he meant.

Mom said, "He means, are you going to be dressing this way from now on? He wants to know if you–"

"Oh, no," I said. "No, no. I don't want to be a girl."

"But you keep dressing up," Dad said.

"It wasn't my idea," I said, glancing at Mom.

Mom raised her eyebrows at that. "Don't go blaming me. You agreed. If you want to be friends with Miranda..."

"That's another thing," Dad interrupted. "I don't understand why she can't know that Victor is a boy."

"She can," Mom said.

"She will," I said. "The day after Halloween, I'll tell her."

"Why not tell her now?"

"Her mother thinks Miranda would think that it's weird for a boy my age to dress like this for Halloween."

Dad nodded. "Miranda would be right on the money with that one," he said. "But the day after, she won't think it's weird? Explain that one to me. Isn't it going to be even weirder when she finds out she was deceived?"

He looked me in the eye and added, "What kind of boy is she going to think you are?"

I thought about what he said. One thing was clear: This was all Mrs. Jameson's fault. She was the one who didn't want Miranda to know. Maybe she figured we wouldn't end up being friends; that it would end with Halloween.

Still, it wasn't going to be a problem. Miranda already knew. It was our secret — mine and Miranda's — but it was probably best to let my parents know. So I asked, "If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Miranda's mother?"

Both parents tensed, and took on a guarded look.

"It's nothing bad," I said. "It's just a secret. Do you promise? You can't let Miranda know that you know, either."

Grudgingly, they promised.

"Miranda knows that I'm Victor. She figured it out."

They glanced at each other.

"When did she figure it out? Today?" Mom asked.

"No, um, the night I stayed over her house," I replied.

Both faces blanched at the same time. "Why? What happened?" Mom asked in a fearful tone.

"Nothing," I said. "Oh, it wasn't then, it was before, that night we ate at the pizzeria."

"A week ago?" Mom asked.

"I guess. Anyway, you mentioned 'Victor', so she googled it and found pictures of me."

"On the internet?"

"Yes."

They both took deep breaths, so I added, "They were from the costume contest last year. Anyway, she recognized me. Plus, the family pictures." I gestured around the room.

"Oh, I should have thought–" Mom began.

Dad cut her off. "So, for a week, she's known who you are."

"Yes."

He stopped for a moment, as though lining the ideas up in his head. Then: "Okay. Let me get this straight. She knows you're a boy. She's known for a week. Her mother knows you're a boy. Your mother and I know you're a boy. And you, I hope to God! I hope that you know you're a boy."

"Yes," I said, "of course." It was obvious, wasn't it?

"It was my understanding that you were dressing like this to fool Miranda."

"Right."

"... who knows you're a girl. I mean boy."

"Right." Didn't we just go over this?

"So who are you fooling now, by dressing this way?"

I felt a weird tingling all over my body. Everything was right, wasn't it? But somehow it was all turning wrong. It was like mud sliding down a hill. All at once it started, and you didn't know it was sliding until it was too late.

"Her mother," I replied.

"... who knows you're a girl. Argh! A boy!"

"Yes," I agreed.

I still didn't get it, so Dad spelled it out. "If everyone knows you're a boy, why do you have to dress up?"

Now I got it.

Dad continued, "You and Miranda kept this secret so you could keep wearing a dress. Isn't that it?"

"Oh, no," I protested. "No, no, no, no, no."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"Madison, you bitch!" I whispered. "I should bury you in the back yard!"

Instead, I found a more humane solution: I hid her and her clothes in my sock drawer.

---

 

11. Madison Betrays Me
 

Dad said, "You and Miranda kept this secret so you could keep wearing a dress. Isn't that it?"

"No," I said, "It isn't like that."

"Then what is it?"

"Okay," I said, wracking my brain. Miranda knows I'm a boy, and it was her idea to keep that fact a secret. Why was it supposed to be a secret?

"Oh-kay," I repeated slowly. It was coming to me now. "Right. See, Mrs. Jameson didn't want Miranda to know, but I was worried about how she — Miranda — would react once she found out. I like her, and I want to be friends, so it wasn't a very good beginning..."

I looked at my audience. Neither Mom nor Dad said anything. They just listened.

I scratched my head. "So... Sunday morning I was at her house, lying in bed, trying to think of how to tell her, and then she came in and told me that she knew."

"You were in bed?" Mom asked. It sounded like she was asking, You were playing with dynamite?

"Nothing happened!" I snapped. Then, remembering that I was talking to my parents, apologized.

"Anyway, we were wondering why her mother wanted to fool Miranda, and we decided to keep it secret, to, uh, to, like, to play a trick on her mother."

My parents sat in silence. It didn't look as though I'd convinced them, so I asked, "Do you see?"

At that, my parents glanced at each other. It was one of those glances that carry information between two people... a look that confirms that they're both on the same page.

But what page were they on?

"I see," Dad said, "but I might not see what you want me to see."

I noticed that his beer sat next to him, untouched since the first sip.

"But you believe me, right?" I asked.

They glanced at each other again, and Mom said, "Of course we believe you, hon. Come here and give me a hug, and then go change out of those clothes."

I went over and hugged her. It was something I don't do as Victor, but I liked doing right now. It sure made me feel better. As we let go of each other, I turned to my father. Not because I wanted a hug, but just because he was there.

But he smiled and said, "How about a hug for me, too?" And we did. It was a shorter hug than my mother's. I smelled my father's scent. It's a lot stronger and (obviously) more manly than my Mom's. He didn't squeeze me the way Mom did, but when I put my hands on his back I was surprised by how muscular he is.

After that, I headed for the stairs, but before I got that far, Dad said, "You forgot your little friend."

"Huh?"

He pointed at Madison, who was lying on the couch.

Blushing, I picked up the doll and the bag of her clothes, and brought them upstairs.

At the door of my room I tossed Madison and her things onto my bed, and — using an old trick of mine — closed my bedroom door from the outside. Quietly, I lay on my stomach at the top of the stairs so I could eavesdrop.

"What do you think?" Dad asked.

"I don't know," Mom answered. "He keeps insisting that he doesn't want to wear these clothes, but... I didn't tell you... Yesterday when I came home, he had on that outfit — you know, the one with the brown skirt–"

"No," Dad interrupted, "I don't know the one with the brown skirt, and I don't want to know. He was home alone and he put on a dress?"

"Yes," Mom replied. "When I asked him why, he said it helped him think."

That's not what I said! I silently protested.

I heard my father exhale loudly. "We have to put a stop to this."

Mom replied, "Let's see how he reacts the day after Halloween, when it all disappears."

Fine by me, I thought, and quietly entered my room, silently shutting the door behind me. I sat on the bed and picked up Madison. "What do you think, Madison?" I asked.

Moving her back and forth as she spoke, I made Madison say, "I think everything's going to be fine!"

Then, realizing what I'd done, I dropped the doll like a hot potato.

---

The next day in math, I sat down next to Diana. "Hey, uh," I said uncertainly. "Can you walk home with me today? I want to talk about something."

"Sure, Chapters!" she said brightly, "any time!" and she smiled.

At lunch I told Lou, "Lou, today after school, I'm going to be walking home with Diana, and–"

He paused mid-chew and put up his hands. "Say no more, Romeo. I get the picture. Three's a crowd."

"It's not exactly that," I replied needlessly. "I just want to talk to her."

He shook his head. "You are so stupid, Chapters. Can't you see that girl is dying for you? And you want to hang around with a ten-year-old. Trade up, man! Trade up!"

I tried to think of a comeback — something, anything to say, but I drew an utter blank.

Then I remembered something: "Hey, Lou, how are things going with that girl you were talking about?"

"Oh," he nodded happily. "Pretty well, I think. We talk, we talk. She's going to be at my party, so you can meet her there." He paused, pretending to remember. "Oh, I'm sorry! *You* won't be there! You'll be at a more exclusive party. Excuse me!"

"Oh, come on, man! Nobody was going to do Halloween–"

"I'm just playing with you, man, no harm," Lou laughed. "Don't get so wound up. But seriously, you should go for Diana. Make a move. Don't get left behind."

---

I was wondering exactly what sort of "move" I could make with Diana, especially when she saw me as some sort of sociology experiment, as a boy who likes to wear dresses.

In any case, on the way home I unburdened myself. I told her everything I hadn't told her before. Except — after my experience with my parents — I was careful to not mention the fact that Miranda knows I'm a boy. Diana was sure to draw the same wrong conclusion that my father had: that I liked dressing like a girl.

By the time we were sitting in my kitchen and she was ever-so-slowly sipping some iced tea, I'd covered pretty much everything else, up to and including my eavesdropping last night.

She nodded.

"And, uh, that outfit you were wearing yesterday..." she began.

My mouth fell open. "No, come on, Diana," I protested. "I'm in trouble here. My parents think I like to wear girls clothes and you want to ask me what I was wearing? I need your help! I have to figure out what to do!"

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I just never heard of a half-cardigan."

"Oh, jeez!" I said. "It's an idiotic thing! Just imagine you were wearing a sweater that was made for a baby! The sleeves don't even reach your elbows, and the rest of it only comes down to here!" I indicated a point on the side of my chest. "It doesn't even cover your rib cage! It's SO stupid."

"Oh," she said, and I thought the subject was closed. Then she asked, "Can I see it?"

"No," I replied firmly. "The last time I showed you something, I ended up getting caught by mother."

"What are you talking about?" she asked with a frown.

"You wanted to see me in that outfit last time, and then when my mother came home, she caught me wearing it."

Diana looked askance at me. "When I left, I didn't see your mother anywhere."

"No," I said. "She came, like, a half hour later."

"And you still had it on?" she asked. "Why were you still wearing it? Why didn't you just get changed the minute I left?"

I sighed. "Don't ask it like that," I said. "I was kind of overwhelmed. I just sat down to think, and next thing I knew my mother was standing in front of me."

"Oh," Diana said. I realized it was a noncommittal sound; she wasn't agreeing or even saying I see. It was just a meaningless conversational noise.

"Why were you overwhelmed?" she asked. "Nobody's forcing you to wear those clothes, are they?"

"No."

"Or tricking you or blackmailing you?"

"No, it isn't that. Each tiny step was fine in itself, but now I suddenly find myself in this pickle."

She giggled.

"Okay," she said. "I better go home now. But first can I see the half cardigan? And then I'll run."

I took a deep breath and was about to speak, but Diana continued:

"I won't ask you to put it on. I swear."

We went upstairs, and I showed her the half cardigan. To my relief, she thought it was as strange as I did. Then she asked to see the whole outfit. As I gave her the pieces, she laid them out on my bed.

"It's cute!" she said. "I wouldn't mind having an outfit like that myself."

"I looked like a dork in it," I lamented, and I could see she was about to ask me to try it on. She saw that I saw, and she stopped herself. Then her eye fell on something behind me, something on my desk.

"Oh," she cooed in a teasing tone, "does she have a name?"

I turned to where she was pointing and saw Madison lying on my desk.

I reached over and picked the doll up. I *meant* to hand her to Diana, but I never got that far. "My mother bought that," I said. "It's just a prop, like in a play, you know?"

"Oh," she said again, scratching her eyebrow. "I guess. So, does she have a name?"

"Yeah," I said, blushing, "Madison."

"Did you name her after anyone in particular, or did you just like the name?"

I was about to reply, when I heard a sound at the door. It was my mother.

"Hello," Mom said in a cautious voice. "I'm Victor's mother. You're... Diana, aren't you?"

"Yes, hello," Diana replied, smiling and pushing her hair back from her face in that gesture I love so well.

I saw my mother's eyes take everything in: the outfit on the bed, the doll in my hand... "Oh, Mom," I said. "This is not what you think..."

"I wasn't thinking anything," my mother replied. "I would prefer, though, that you two play or do homework, or do whatever it is you're doing, downstairs."

"Chapters was just showing me the half cardigan," Diana ventured, watching my mother's face closely. "I never heard of such a thing before."

"Yes, well," my mother said, walking over to the bed and picking it up, "You don't see them very often. And it's not like I went looking for it."

"It's nice." Diana commented. "I like the whole outfit."

Mom didn't answer. She didn't look very happy.

"Okay," Diana said. "Well, I have to go now, anyway. Nice to meet you again, Mrs. Samson!"

I walked Diana downstairs, helped her with her backpack and said goodbye. It was at that point that I realized I still had Madison in my hand, and rather than risk Dad finding my "little friend" again, I carried her back up to my room, where my mother was waiting.

"Oh, Mom, oh, Mom, you have to believe me..." I said.

"Victor, you're my son and I love you, but what in the world were you thinking?"

I sighed.

"Does Diana know that you like to wear these clothes?"

"Mom I don't like to wear them. Just because you keep catching me with them, doesn't —" I sighed and began again. "Look, Diana has this thing..."

My mother frowned. "She doesn't like boys who dress like girls, does she?"

"Oh," I said, taken aback. "I hadn't thought of that." So I thought about it. "Maybe she does." Seeing the look of alarm on my mother's face, I hastily added, "Maybe she wishes that I was like that. I don't know. Maybe. See, she had this friend who used to dress up–"

Mom sighed. "I don't think I want to know, Victor. I'm sorry. This is not the world I grew up in. I'm trying to adjust. But you can't go around telling people about this. They're going to think there's —" she stopped, unsure of which way to go.

I knew what she was going to say: she was going to say They're going to think there's something wrong with you, but then she stopped. She stopped because she was afraid that there really *was* something wrong with me, and she was afraid of hurting my feelings, or something like that.

"I didn't tell her," I said. "She figured it out. She remembered me from the thrift store."

"I see," Mom replied, and suddenly she looked very tired. "This is getting out of hand, Victor. It is just so, so far out of hand."

She left the room, shaking her head, and I realized that I'd been holding Madison the whole time.

"Madison, you bitch!" I whispered. "I should bury you in the back yard!"

Instead, I found a more humane solution: I hid her and her clothes in my sock drawer.

---

Nothing was going right. The only reason I wanted to talk to Diana was to figure a way OUT of my mess. Instead I'd dug myself in deeper. Now Mom thought I had a girlfriend who liked me to dress up, and that *I* liked showing off my girl clothes.

... and my doll, of course!

After a moment of panic, I realized there was only one thing to do: call the whole thing off.

At this point, I'd rather miss Halloween entirely than have everyone think I wanted to be a girl. It seemed that each day another person learned about my, uh, my new hobby. I had to quit before everyone in school knew.

We could get rid of the clothes.

I could wear my old costume from last year.

We could still go to Boston. I could still hang with Miranda, but as Victor, not as Juliette.

I took the half-cardigan and the other clothes off my bed and put them all away. I looked around the room and didn't see any other girl stuff lying around, except the Clarkina glasses. I shoved those into my bedside table.

Then I went downstairs, to give my mother the news.

I heard the phone ring when I was halfway down.

Mom picked it up in the kitchen. I could hear her talking, and although I couldn't make out the words, I knew she was talking to Dad. She didn't sound happy. She sounded upset.

I sat down on the stairs to wait out the call. There was no point walking into a fire. Wait till the fire stops, then go.

After a minute or two I heard Mom say, "Fine, then! Fine! No, I said it's fine!" and she hung up the phone, a bit forcefully.

She walked out of the kitchen and looked up at me. "Are you hiding?" she asked.

"Sort of," I said. "Was that Dad?"

"Yes," she said. "He's not going to be home tonight, or tomorrow night, either."

"So is the Boston trip off?" I asked.

"No," Mom said tersely. She seemed quite angry. "You and I will drive in after school tomorrow, and your father will meet us in the city Saturday."

"Why?" I asked. "Is because of all this stuff with the girl-clothes?"

"No," she said, drawing a tight breath. "It's because of his god-damned job."

I was shocked because Mom never swore.

"That stupid job!" she said. "His stupid boss! He can never plan beyond a day! These idiotic trips that come out of nowhere, that could have been scheduled weeks ago, for some reason must always be a complete surprise!" She let out an angry huff of air and said, "I am SO angry! I'm just beside myself!"

"Oh, ah, Mom?" I asked, with that incredible naive bad timing of youth. "I have to tell you something."

"What?" she asked, trying to contain herself.

"I don't want to do all this girl stuff this weekend. I just want to be Victor, and wear my costume from last year. We can tell Miranda's mother that Miranda knows that I'm a boy."

"Oh!" she shouted. "I've had enough of this back and forth! I don't want to hear it any more! You want to wear a dress, then you don't want to wear a dress! I've had enough! After Halloween, it's over!"

"But I don't," I whispered. I was actually frightened of her, and I gripped the bars that held the handrail. "I really don't."

She caught the look on my face and stopped herself. She drew in a long breath, held it in a moment, then let it go.

In a calmer, quieter voice, she said, "Come here, Victor. Come here to me. Don't be afraid. Come on. Come to your mother. Come here."

I slowly walked down the stairs and into her open arms. "Oh, Victor," she said. "I'm not mad at you. I'm not even mad at your father. I'm mad about that idiotic job of his that takes him away from us.

"Listen to me: you and I will go into Boston tomorrow, right after school. Maybe I'll even come and pick you up early. Would you like that?

"We'll have dinner in town, and stay in our nice hotel. And then on Saturday morning your father will come, and we'll all be together. We'll have a good time. Okay?

"And you'll have your three-day Halloween, just like we planned, alright?"

"Okay," I said. I wasn't sure where we stood on the girl-clothes issue, but it clearly was not the time to ask.

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

The mothers of Kristie and Diana arrived together, and I found myself giving the most craven, self-abasing apologies I could muster. I was sure that both women would have been quite happy to claw me to bits and roast me over a barbecue, but the principal wisely kept me out of striking distance.

The girls returned to class, their mothers returned home, and I wondered whether their fathers owned any firearms. They certainly knew where I lived.

---

 

12. Not Exactly
 

While I was on my way to school on Friday, Lou came running up to me. "Hang on, Chapters. I got something for you, and I want to give it to you before we get to school." He fished in his backpack and pulled out a thin, square box wrapped in white paper. For some reason, he didn't look too happy about it.

"It's actually from my Mom," he said. "She says it's for this weekend, and not to open it until you get home."

"Okay," I said. "What is it?"

He huffed impatiently and said (with heavy sarcasm), "I guess she wrapped it up so you could SEE what it was."

"Sorry!" I said. "Did I touch a nerve?"

"Yes, asshole, you did," he said. "It's bad enough you're blowing off my party to be with some ten-year-old, but beyond that, you're dressing up as a ten-year-old girl to do it."

I looked around us in alarm. No on seemed to have heard. Lou looked even more irritated.

"Do you think I'd say something like that if anybody could hear?" he said. "You're my friend. Doesn't mean I have to like everything you do, but I'm not going to mess up your life. You have to do that all by yourself."

"Okay," I said uncertainly. "I'm sorry! And thanks."

"Yeah," he replied, softening and smiling a little. "Don't worry about it. Have fun this weekend. You idiot. And DON'T tell me about it."

We both laughed and went off to class.

In math, I sat by the window so I could look outside. I really wished my mother had agreed to take me out early today. I wanted to get on the road, see the hotel. I'd been to Boston before, but didn't remember a whole lot. It was going to be a great weekend, I was sure.

Just then, I heard some scuffling, and looked up to see Kristie and Diana jammed against each other in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. They looked daggers at each other, and then, as if at a signal, the two broke free and scurried across the front of the classroom. All of which was weird enough, but it soon became alarming when I realized that they were heading directly toward me!

Kristie zoomed down the second row, the row on my right. Diana had cut into the third row. She was moving slightly faster. Both girls arrived at about the same time, and just before Kristie could turn and drop her cute little butt into the seat next to mine, Diana yanked it aside and twisted into it first.

Kristie gave a scornful hmmph! at Diana, and sat down in front of me. She immediately turned around and asked, "What is this I hear about you skipping the big party? Are you really going somewhere else? With your ten-year-old girlfriend?"

"Where did you hear that?" I demanded. "And by the way, she is *not* my girlfriend! She's just a friend. That's all!"

"Told you!" Diana crowed, and stuck out her tongue at Kristie.

"So what?" Kristie shot back. "You're not his girlfriend either!"

Diana flushed scarlet, and her eyes shot fire. She leaned forward, opened her hand and gave Kristie a loud slap in the face.

Kristie was astonished, then angry. She gave a quick push with her feet to turn her desk sideways, and gave Diana's slap right back to her.

My jaw fell open. Where did all this aggression come from? I thought Kristie and Diana were best friends!

The math teacher hadn't arrived yet — not that either of the girls would have noticed. There was a low buzz of interest around the room.

Diana inched her desk closer, and grabbed a handful of Kristie's hair. She gave it a twisting tug. It hurt just to look at it.

There were a few exclamations from the class. Pretty soon the noise would bring a teacher, if not our teacher, into the room.

Kristie gave a little yelp. As Diana pulled Kristie's head down to Kristie's left, Kristie reached up to do the same.

Neither would let go, and they rose to their feet, whining and yelping and growling.

"Let go of each other!" I told them. They didn't seem to hear, and as they struggled, they began leaning over my desk.

"Hey, stop!" I told them, and put up my hands.

Unfortunately, each hand landed on a breast. Without meaning to — I swear! — without meaning to at all, I grabbed a breast on each girl and gave it a squeeze.

Without letting go of each other, the two glared down at me. With their free hands they started swatting and slapping my head and arms.

"Hey! Hey!" I yelled, "I was only trying to help!"

To make a long story short, the three of us ended up in the principal's office. All three mothers were called, and we were rather closely questioned.

As you can probably imagine, no one wanted to say what had really started the fight, but the girls had no problem explaining what *I* had done.

The principal, looking for the simplest explanation, figured that the girls were minding their own business when I suddenly reached out and fondled them. The girls, in his mind, simply reacted out of offended modesty.

"No, that isn't how it was!" I protested. "They came to me, and Kristie said–"

The principal gave a dismissive hand wave. "It's a bit late to cook up a story, Mr. Samson," he said. "I think you'd better work on your most sincere and abject apologies before these girls' mothers arrive."

The girls were embarrassed and still angry. I had no idea whether they were angry with me or each other or both.

At the same time, I had the tactile memory on my hands. It was an amazing memory, of the softness and the form, and the two of them...

The mothers of Kristie and Diana arrived together, and I found myself giving the most craven, self-abasing apologies I could muster. I was sure that both women would have been quite happy to claw me to bits and roast me over a barbecue, but the principal wisely kept me out of striking distance.

The girls returned to class, their mothers returned home, and I wondered whether their fathers owned any firearms. They certainly knew where I lived.

When my mother finally arrived, the principal explained my great sins to her and suspended me for the rest of the day.

And so, at great cost, my wish to get out of school early was granted.

In the car on the way home I explained what happened, and was surprised to find that my mother believed me. She actually laughed.

"You know the strange thing is, that something very similar happened to your Uncle Mickey when we were all in high school." She laughed at the memory of it.

"You mean that he touched some–"

"No, no," she interrupted. "Not *that* part! That's pure Victor, apparently. No, two girls fought over him and he got the blame."

"Oh," I said, more than a little surprised.

---

It was only eleven-thirty when we arrived home.

Mom said, "Let's have lunch. Then you can go shower and change, and as soon as you're ready we can leave."

"Great!" I said. I sat at the kitchen table, and opened my backpack.

"Do you have any homework this weekend?"

"No," I laughed. "I wasn't there long enough to get any." I was looking for my lunch. Instead, I found the white-wrapped package Lou had given me. With all the commotion, I'd forgotten it. I took the lunch and the package and set them on the kitchen table.

Mom poured me some orange juice. "What's that?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "It's something from Mrs. Mossert. Something for this weekend."

Mom looked askance at it. I shrugged.

"Go wash your hands," she said. "Then you can eat."

"Oh!" I said, suddenly realizing. "I didn't pack yet!"

"I took care of it," Mom said. "Everything's in the car already."

"Thanks," I said, and ran from the room. I had a terrible suspicion about what clothes she might have packed. So I ran upstairs, into my room, and pulled open the closet.

Thank God! There were all the girl clothes, the ones we'd bought at the thrift shop, all hanging neatly, including the one I'd worn to the museum. She hadn't packed any of them.

"Whew!" I said out loud. I shut the closet, washed my hands, and went back downstairs.

Mom was sitting at the table, shaking the white box gently.

"Open it," she told me.

I did. Under the white tissue was a square box. It was rather nice for a cardboard box. Inside the box — "Oh my God!" — was a pearl necklace.

"It's not real pearl," Mom said, "It's just costume jewelry, but still... did you tell Mrs. Mossert about dressing like a girl?"

"Oh," I said. "Not exactly."

My mother's arm dropped heavily to the kitchen table. "Victor, please don't tell me that you dressed up for her to see?"

"Ah," I sighed, "Not exactly."

I told her of our weekend in Boston: how we'd been in the restaurant with the Jamesons.

"She was walking by, she didn't see you, and you called out to her?"

"Yes," I said. "I kind of forgot who I was."

She sighed heavily. "Victor, exactly how many people know about your dressing up?"

I licked my lips anxiously. "Let's see: you, Dad, me, Mrs. Jameson, Miranda, Diana, Lou, Lou's mother... I guess that's everybody."

"What about the little girl who lives in back of us?"

"Oh, yeah... her. She thinks that Juliette is somebody else who doesn't live here."

Mom looked at the pearl necklace. "This would go well with the princess costume," she said, twisting her mouth.

Then she scooped up the necklace. "Eat your lunch," she said. "I have to do a few things. Then take your shower."

She got up and walked out of the room.

---

I had a hard time eating. I didn't have an appetite, and it was hard to swallow. I knew it was simply nerves, or fear.

I was in the grip of a feeling I'd never felt before in my entire life: I couldn't wait until Halloween is over!

There wasn't any point in struggling with my food. I decided to pack it up and bring it with me so I could eat when I was less agitated.

Mom was in the living room with a small suitcase open. I could see it was full of my clothes — boy clothes. She took out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and sweater, and handed them to me.

"Put these on when you get out of the shower," she said. She didn't look at me as she talked.

I wanted to ask whether I was in trouble, but I didn't dare.

Soon we were off. Mom didn't talk, so I didn't, either. I noticed we weren't heading for the turnpike, though.

We were heading for Newton Village. My mouth went dry. I had a feeling I knew where we were going, but for sure I wasn't going to ask.

When at last we pulled into the parking lot next to the thrift store, I couldn't stand it any more and said, "Mom, what are we doing here?"

She turned to me and said, in a very serious voice, "Victor, I had a surprise for you, but I'm going to tell you now. Macy Jameson very kindly offered to let you stay all weekend at her house with Miranda. We both thought it would be fun for you, but it would also be a nice thing for your father and me.

"The two of us haven't been away alone together since you were eight years old, and we're long overdue. Macy and Miranda are coming to pick you up after breakfast tomorrow, and your father and I were going to pick you up on Monday night after trick-or-treating."

She took a deep breath. I noticed she wasn't asking me what I thought, so I kept quiet.

"I *had* packed two bags for you. One for tonight and breakfast tomorrow: boy clothes. The other was to take to the Jamesons' house: girl clothes.

"Here's the thing: I left your boy clothes at home. On purpose. You keep telling me that you don't like wearing girls clothes, and yet you keep doing things... you keep telling people... so that you can keep on doing it."

She paused. I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn't, but she stopped me with a gesture.

"Don't," she said. "Don't tell me that again. It's hard for me, knowing that you like to dress up like this, but what is even harder is that you think you can't talk to me about it."

"Mom?"

"Wait. I understand that Lou is your best friend. But his mother? And how in the world did you and Diana find out you had this common interest?" She shook her head. "I don't understand this whole... business. But I don't want to lose my only son. I've decided that you can be Juliette all weekend. All we need is an outfit for tonight, and maybe one for tomorrow morning, and you'll be set."

"Oh, Mom," I began, but she was already getting out of the car.

---

About a hour later we were on our way. I was wearing a twill skirt, a red and white striped cami, and a geranium-colored hoodie. We didn't get them at the thrift shop, but at a mall nearby. We also picked up a camouflage skirt and top and a matching green cardigan. Plus some new underwear, socks, and some beige sneakers with flowers on them.

Not only that, I was wearing a pink hairband, had some metal bangles on my left wrist, and a little heart necklace around my neck. The necklace was under the hoodie, but I knew it was there.

I felt that Mom had gone a little overboard... but it seemed like she was buying all this stuff to reassure herself (and me) in some weird way. Or to connect with me or something... me... not Victor-me, but Juliette-me.

"How do you feel, Juliette?" Mom asked.

"Fine, Mom," I replied. Honestly, I didn't feel bad at all. The clothes were so new and comfortable, and — unlike the time with the dorky half-cardigan, I knew I looked good.

Madison looked good, too. Mom had brought her along and insisted that I hold her in my hands or on my lap. I turned her over and almost started talking to her. Since I had nothing else to do, I changed her clothes.

That seemed to make Mom feel better somehow.

---

Having a doll was strange. A nice kind of strange. It was like having a pet, or a little friend. If Mom wasn't there, I honestly would have talked to Madison. Since we couldn't talk, I held her up so she could see out the window.

Don't tell me it's stupid. I know it is. But it made me feel better.

As Madison and I silently communed, looking at the trees along the Pike, a realization quietly hit me. It was just a guess, but it made so much sense!

"Hey, Mom," I said. "Those girls who were fighting over Uncle Mickey: that was you and Lou's Mom, wasn't it?"

Mom cleared her throat. After a pause she asked, "What? What ever gave you that idea?" in a tone that told me I'd gotten it right.

I kept looking out the window and said nothing. Mom didn't either, hoping I'd forgotten, I guess, or at least not wanting to tell me the story.

Good thinking, Madison, I silently said. I can ask Mrs. Mossert next time I see her!

---

It was about four in the afternoon when we pulled up in front of our hotel. A doorman in a long coat with brass buttons opened the door for me, and I stepped out, still holding Madison.

"Good afternoon, young lady," he said. "Welcome."

"Thanks," I said. "Welcome to you, too."

Some other men from the hotel loaded all our suitcases and hanging bags onto a little hand trolley, and we entered the hotel lobby. The doorman gave the revolving door a push before I stepped inside, so I didn't even have to do that!

This was one part of being a girl that I didn't mind at all: having people do things for me. To tell the truth, I didn't mind the clothes, either. What I was wearing felt so comfortable!

"I have a reservation," Mom said at the desk. "Carly Samson?"

While she checked in, I looked around the lobby. There were a few people sitting in armchairs, reading newspapers or just waiting.

One man, who was hidden behind a paper, caught my eye, because it looked like he wasn't much taller than me. All I could see of him was his legs and feet — the rest was behind the newspaper — but his feet didn't reach the ground.

As if sensing my interest, he dropped the paper and looked directly at me.

My jaw dropped, because his face looked very familiar, but at the same time I was sure I'd never met him.

He frowned in displeasure at my staring, and rattled his newspaper.

At that moment, Mom turned to me to say, "Come on, Juliette, we'll drop our things in our room. Then we'll go for a walk." As she spoke, her eyes followed my gaze to the man in the chair.

The flash of recognition was immediate and mutual.

"Carly?" the man said, with great surprise. He leapt to his feet, and dropped his paper on a nearby table. He ran across the room.

"I can't believe it!" Mom gasped, and bent to embrace him. He was only an inch or so taller than me — a handsome, dark-haired man with a well-kept goatee and a moustache.

"Oh, my goodness," Mom said, blushing like a schoolgirl and smiling with delight. "How are you, Mickey?"

"Never better," he declared, and turned his attention to me.

"So," he said, smiling with kind interest, "Are you a niece of mine I've somehow never heard about?"

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way

She rushed over with a gleam in her eye and what my uncle later described as a "murderous smile."

Uncle Mickey muttered, "Lord help us, we're in for it now!"

---

 

13. The Long-Lost Uncle
 

"Why did you introduce yourself as Juliette?" Mom demanded as soon as the bellhop left our room.

"What else was I supposed to say?" I replied. "I sure wasn't going to tell him that I'm Victor — not with all those people around."

Mom sighed heavily and ran her hands across her face. She sat on the edge of her bed.

"Is it really a problem?" I asked. "He never sees us. For all he knows, you really could have a daughter Juliette."

"Stop, Victor," Mom told me. "You don't know what you're talking about. It really *is* a problem. You may not know him, but that's the fault of your father and his brothers. Your uncle is very close to his sisters, and to pretty much all the adults you know, including Lou's mother."

"Okay," I said. "Still, it's not a big deal. As soon as we get back downstairs, I'll tell him that I'm Victor."

Mom let it go at that. Then she "freshened up" in the bathroom and touched up her makeup. She studied herself in the mirror from every angle, until I finally told her, "Dahling, you look mahvallous."

She gave me a cautionary look and grabbed her handbag.
 

Back in the lobby, we found Uncle Mickey in a small sitting area. He smiled at me and patted the couch next to him, so I obediently sat down.

Before Mom could take a seat, her cell phone went off. She looked at it and blushed. "Sorry," she said, "I have to take this. It's Jim." And she went off to a more private corner of the lobby. (In case you don't know, Jim is my father, and my mother's name is Carly.)

"So," Uncle Mickey began, "You must think of me as your long-lost uncle."

I smiled and shrugged.

"I'm not *so* lost, you see. I live right here in Boston, up that street, in Beacon Hill."

"Oh, that's where I'm going trick-or-treating!"

"You couldn't have picked a better place! My neighborhood is famous for pulling out all the stops, year after year. It's a wonderful place already, and when you add all the decorations, the costumes, the lights and sounds... it's unforgettable."

"Great!" I enthused. "I love Halloween. It's my favorite holiday."

"Good for you. Why don't we see whether we can make tonight special, as well. Not as special as your Halloween, I'm sure, but I hope I can take advantage of our accidental meeting. I'd like to take you and Carly to dinner."

"I'd love to, but we'll have to see what Mom says when she comes back."

"Yes, Mom," he repeated. "You know, Juliette, you may not have seen me much, but that doesn't mean I'm not around. And I have a little question... which I hope is not indelicate. However... just to be sure, while you were upstairs, I called my sister Mary to see how all my nieces are doing. Don't worry, I didn't give anything away. I didn't say that I'd seen Carly, and I didn't mention any Juliettes. Oddly enough, my sister didn't mention any either!"

"Yes," I agreed.

He frowned. "Yes, what? The point is, I didn't want to embarrass myself by not remembering one of my nieces. And now that I'm quite sure who you're not, I'd like to know who you are." He studied my face as he spoke, he finished by saying, "You *do* look like a Samson, though. Are you?"

"Yes, I am," I said. "In fact, I was just going to tell you who I am. I'm Victor Samson. Mom– Carly *is* my mother. She got all nervous when I told you I'm Juliette, but I couldn't tell you the truth back there."

"Ah," he said, stroking his beard. "You're Victor, but you prefer to be called Juliette. I see."

"No," I countered. "This is just for Halloween. I don't want to be a girl or dress like a girl."

"I understand," he said, and his eyes twinkled. "Halloween makes a fine excuse, doesn't it. You look quite natural, I must say. I was utterly confused when I met you. Knowing that there was no Juliette, and yet here you are. How long has this been going on?"

Without thinking, I replied, "A couple of weeks." And then, "Oh, no, no. I didn't mean–"

He interrupted me by putting up his hand in a grand, magnanimous gesture. "Please," he said. "Don't trouble yourself. I don't judge; I don't assume anything. If this is the life you've chosen, God bless you, and good luck with it. I'll always be your uncle, child. It's good that you're doing this now, while you're young."

"Oh," I groaned, crumbling. Now I could add yet another name to my list of people who thought I liked doing this. Clearly, I wasn't going to convince him that I didn't like wearing dresses while I was wearing one, so I gave it up. I'd have to wait until I went back to being Victor. In time it would all work out. Once this endless Halloween was over.

"So," Uncle Mickey asked, in a confidential tone, "How does your father feel about all this?"

I blushed. "It upsets him. He gets all confused and stuff when he sees me this way. He doesn't like it much."

"Of course not! He's a small-minded lout. He's a bumpkin. Look here — take comfort in this: in a few short years, you'll be out of that house, and you can do whatever you like. Nothing he can say or do can stop you. Do you understand?"

"I guess," I said, uncertainly.

"In the meantime, you've got to stand up and do what's right for you."

"Okay," I said, "but I want you to know that I don't want to be a girl, okay?"

"It's not important," he replied. "What's important is to be yourself. Whatever that means. Full steam ahead, damn the torpedoes."

"Alright," I said, hoping to get off the subject. "Uncle Mickey, can I ask you something?"

"Of course! Anything!"

"What happened between you and your family? Why don't you and my Dad speak to each other?"

"Ah," he breathed with an irritated frown. "I said you could ask me anything, didn't I. Well, you can ask me anything but that. It's a long, unpleasant story, and in the interest of time and my feelings, I'll simply say that whatever your father's told you about me is completely wrong."

He pulled out a handkerchief and, turning his head away from me, soundlessly blew his nose. Then he refolded the handkerchief with extraordinary care. As he did, I took him in. I don't know much about clothes, but I'm sure that everything he wore was expensive. His shoes were black and they were so shiny, they looked as though he'd just bought them five minutes ago. His suit was of light wool, black in color, and fit him perfectly. His shirt was a tailored, starched white, and his tie was red silk with tiny blue triangles. He glanced at his watch, and I noticed it had no numbers on its black, gold-rimmed face. Even his haircut was elegant, every hair in place, and his facial hair was trimmed into a neat circle beard.

Uncle Mickey looked away from me for a bit, and his eyes wandered around the lobby, until they came to rest on my mother, who was still on the phone. He looked at her for a few moments, then jerked his head away, to look behind him. There was nothing there, but he kept his eyes in that direction for several seconds. Then he turned back to me, and in a low voice said, "Listen. Let's play a little joke on your mother. She wanted to straighten out this Juliette business, to tell me that you're really Victor, am I right? Good. Let's pretend, you and I, that we didn't get to talk: that I believe you really are my niece Juliette; that I'm completely clueless and fooled. Can we do that?"

"I don't think so," I said, feeling uncomfortable. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"If she begins to explain to me about Victor and Juliette, one of us has to change the subject ... to make it impossible for her to explain. I'll steer her off the subject any time she brings it up. It'll keep her on her toes the entire night."

He chuckled to himself, but I made a look of disapproval. I couldn't agree.

My uncle frowned in a strange, distressed way and asked in a softer, almost pleading voice, "But ... it's just a game, a joke. It would be our little secret. You can keep a secret, can't you? You can tell her after. There won't be any harm done."

"Look," he went on. His face had a pained, almost desperate expression. "I need to know that you can keep a secret, because I need your help with something. Something that your mother cannot know. It would upset her greatly." He broke off talking and turned his head abruptly toward the front desk. He stared intently at ... nothing that I could see.

"Listen to me," he commanded in a low voice, and took one of my hands in his. "Do you see the red-headed man at the front desk? Go ahead. It's fine, just turn your head and look at him."

I turned but there was no one with red hair in the room at all, as far as I could see.

"You don't see him, do you?"

I shook my head.

"No, of course, not. Because he's not there. But *I* see him. And that, in a nutshell, is my great difficulty. You see, I have what our ancestors would call the second sight. In plain English, we'd say I'm off my trolley. Not that far off, mind you. I'm a few bushels short of hen house, in other words."

"Oh," I commented. There was nothing else I could say.

"But I'm lucky, and do you know why? If I take a certain pill, it makes all the imaginary people go away. I don't know where they go, but they're gone. Unfortunately, I've let my supply lapse, and I desperately need them. That's why I'm sitting here. I'm waiting for the pharmacy to call so I can pick up my medicine. It's not some anti-reflux nonsense, as I told your mother before. It's a head-shrinking pill."

"And you don't want Mom to know?"

"I don't want anyone to know," he replied. "See, once I take one of those pills, it will be an hour or two before it kicks in. Until then, I'll be vulnerable to all the tricks and japes and foolishness of those imaginary folk. You'd think that if they're not real, they couldn't do me any harm, but oh, no! They're always trying to lead me down some primrose path. They live to humiliate and embarrass me."

"What I can I do?"

"Good girl! I knew I could count on you!" He smiled conspiratorially, and glanced at my mother, who seemed to be wrapping up her call. "See this? This will be our signal." Uncle Mickey pointed his left index finger toward the floor and moved it in a small circle, as if he were stirring a drink with his finger. "When I do that, I'll point in some direction and you tell me a number, from zero on up, so I know how many people you see. I can almost tell when someone's imaginary, but if you can tell me for sure, it'll save me from a mountain of embarrassment in the next few hours."

We practiced for a bit, and when Uncle Mickey was satisfied that we understood each other, Mom came back to sit with us. She had a huge smile on her face.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "Jim's getting in at about ten, tomorrow morning."

"Good for you," Mickey said. "Listen, I have to stop at the pharmacy, but would you like to take a walk with me around the nearby sights? Afterward, I'd love to take the two of you to dinner. It's been quite a while since I've had *two* lovely ladies on my arm."

"Yes, about that," Mom began, coloring slightly, "I–"

"Please don't say no," Mickey cut in, and he turned on the charm. "For old times sake! I never see you, Carly. I often think of you and wonder how you are. You and I can catch up, and I can get to know my lovely niece here, who's just the cutest child imaginable."

Mom glanced at me and took a breath. "Look, Mickey, there's something you should know ..."

"Fine, fine. I want you to tell me all about it, whatever it is ... over dinner. Can we do that?"

---

And so we did. We followed Uncle Mickey to the King's Chapel, the Old State House, and the Customs House.

Every so often, my uncle would jerk his head in one direction or another, then make our secret signal. I'd look and tell him a number. Mom caught these exchanges, and gave me a quizzical frown a few times, but she didn't say anything.

We went on to Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, which was full of people. There was a "living statue," a girl with (painted) golden skin. She wore a golden dress full of ripples and folds. Across the square from her was a man who escaped from a straitjacket while hanging upside down by a chain. Around the corner from them a contortionist/juggler/comedian tried to pull me into his act, but we moved on.

Uncle Mickey was about to make some observation about the street performers, when Mom burst out, "Durgin Park! I forgot that it was over here! Oh, we have to go to dinner there! Do you know it, Mick?"

"No," he replied with a frown. "Never heard of it."

She gestured to a red sign with yellow letters, reading DURGIN PARK. It hung over a dark doorway. "It's one of the oldest restaurants in Boston, and it's SO famous! Jim and I went there when we were seniors in high school. It's such a hoot!"

"A hoot?" my uncle asked in a suspicious tone. "Should a restaurant *be* a hoot?"

Mom laughed. "It's home cooking. You sit at long tables with people you don't know, and the waitresses are very rude* — that's what it's known for!"

"And how could any of that be considered good?" Mickey asked. Clearly, the more he heard of Durgin Park, the less he liked it.

I have to admit, Mom's description didn't make it sound attractive at all. But she was so enthusiastic and insistent, my uncle finally agreed to go.
 

The entrance is small, and leads to a dark anteroom. One open door leads to the bar, and another leads upstairs to the dining room.

My mother pointed us up the stairs while she went off to find the "little girl's room."

I think I've mentioned that my uncle is short, like me. He's actually an inch or so taller, but by anyone's estimation, that still makes him short. As the two of us stood side by side at the top of the stairs, a waitress caught sight of us. She rushed over with a gleam in her eye and what my uncle later described as a "murderous smile."

Uncle Mickey muttered, "Lord help us, we're in for it now!"

"Oh, my, will you look at the pair of you!" she gushed, and to me she asked, "Where's your white dress, darling?"

Confused, I could only think of my princess costume, so I blurted out, "In the hotel room."

"Oh, and what's it doing there? You should have worn it, you dear little thing!"

"Why?" I asked.

"So we could put you two on top of the wedding cake!"

Like any good comic, she didn't laugh at her own joke, but everyone else in earshot did.

When the laughter died down, she asked, "Now where's Mommy and Daddy? They didn't leave you on your own, did they?"

"There are three of us," my uncle replied, ignoring her remark. "My sister-in-law will be up in a moment."

"Umm, she'll be up, will she?" the waitress repeated, but not finding an opening for a sharp remark, she led us to a table.

She sat us between two ladies who were obviously deep in gossip, and two middle aged men, who were talking quietly. Then she left without a word, only to return a moment later. She dropped knives and forks at our places with a loud, careless clatter, and tossed an unfolded napkin in front of me and at my mother's place. She threw one at my uncle. It landed on his head and covered his face. She didn't apologize or even seem to notice.

He pulled it into his lap with look of long-suffering patience.

The waitress then produced a huge red-and-white checked cloth, which she proceeded to tie around the neck of the man next to me. Then she went around the table to do the same to his friend. Once that was done, she straightened up and admired her handiwork.

"Well, don't you two look cute!" she laughed. "I'll be right back with the side dishes — I mean, your pacifiers and bottles — just give me a minute."

"Does everybody have to wear those bibs?" I asked.

"Only if you order lobster," the man next to me replied.

The waitress cut in, speaking as if to a little child, "If baby wants a wittle bibby-wibby, I can bring baby a wittle bibby-wibby. Oooh!"

"No, thanks," I replied, as she left again.

The two men chuckled, and one said, "You've gotta brace yourselves. She's been riding us ever since we sat down."

Mom came at that point, and we took a look at the menu. Although my uncle didn't say anything, I could tell he found the choices uninspiring. It was definitely not his kind of place. His clothes, his grooming, his bearing, were all a cut above the rest of the room. He would have fit in better at a quiet, elegant restaurant, not at a noisy, bare-wood floor, working-class place like this.

While I was marveling at the contrast between my uncle and the environment, the waitress suddenly appeared behind me with one of the enormous red-and-white cloths, which she quickly tied around my neck. "There you go, snookums!" she cooed. "And if you need your diaper changed, just take that off to let me know. I'll have the manager do it."

My face turned an deep, intense red. The woman on my left gave me a quick glance, and looked as if she was about to cry. Then she let out a high-pitched eep! and sputtered briefly before grabbing her glass of water.

"Are you okay there, dear?" the waitress asked theatrically. "You all right? Are you sure? Do we need to call 911?"

"No, I'm fine," the woman said, smiling and coughing, "I just — whew! You made me laugh, and I swallowed a whole scallop!"

"Aw, geez," the waitress said. "And here I was, hoping to do the Heimlich maneuver! Imagine my disappointment! Come on, try swallowing two scallops, and maybe we'll have better luck. It that doesn't work, try three. If at first you don't succeed..."

---

* Durgin Park is a real restaurant in Boston's Quincy Market, and Carly's description is fairly standard. However, the rudeness of the waitresses, which is fairly comic when you're seated at a long table with strangers, seems to be a thing of the past. A few weeks ago, I went to refresh my memory and found the waitresses uniformly polite and attentive. A man at my table asked why she wasn't abusing us, and she replied, "I can't do it. It's not in me."

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"It's a secret," I blurted out, rather stupidly.

Uncle Mickey looked at me with mild disapproval. "Juliette, the first rule in keeping secrets is: never admit there's a secret. There is no secret. There never is any secret."

---

 

14. The Perils Of Eating For Nostalgia
 

With all the confusion and mockery and near-choking, it was difficult to look at the menu at all, but my eye fell on an item I couldn't pass up.

"I'd like corned beef and cabbage," I informed the waitress.

"One boiled dinner," the waitress said as she wrote.

"Make that two," Mom put in.

"Two boiled dinners."

"You know, I haven't had corned beef and cabbage, well, since... since I was a boy."

The waitress eyed him for a few moments, her eyes twinkling, then finally dropped it on him: "So, yesterday?"

My uncle sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward as the waitress walked off, once again victorious.

He turned to my mother and said, "I hope that at least you're enjoying this."

"Oh, Mickey!" she smiled. "I'm sorry, but this is what people come here for."

"To be abused? Comically abused? I'm sorry, I don't like being the butt of every joke, and I'd love to give as well as I get, but–"

"Mmm, speaking of jokes," Mom cut in, "what is this thing you two have going?" As she asked, my mother made Mickey's signal of twirling his index finger.

"It's a secret," I blurted out, rather stupidly.

Uncle Mickey looked at me with mild disapproval. "Juliette, the first rule in keeping secrets is: never admit there's a secret. There is no secret. There never is any secret."

"So?" Mom gently demanded.

"Eh. It's just a little joke," he admitted.

I was astonished and a little offended. Mom glanced at me.

I told her, "He said he saw imaginary people, and so when he did that thing..."

"Oh, I know," Mom said.

"You do?" I asked.

"Yes, you have to count the people you see? He's pulled that one before."

My uncle shrugged at me. "No hard feelings?"

"Juliette, your uncle does this sort of thing all the time. He loves to trick people. One time, he played a very mean trick on Denise."

"Who's Denise?"

"Lou's mother. Anyway, the Samsons had a family picnic, and your uncle invited Denise. Now, she had never met his parents, and of course she was a little nervous. So your uncle–" Uncle Mickey was chuckling to himself a bit here "–he told Denise that his father was deaf, very deaf, and that she needed to yell when she spoke to him or he wouldn't hear her at all."

"But Grandpa isn't deaf. Did he used to be deaf?" I asked. "I don't see the joke yet."

"Oh, it's the way you tell it, Carly," my uncle cut in. "You make it sound like an encyclopedia article! No, of course not, Juliette. My father wasn't deaf at all.

"Look, I told Denise that my parents were deaf. Then I told my parents that Denise was deaf — that they had to speak up if they wanted her to hear. Well, it was the grandest thing. She walked over to introduce herself, and the three of them were bawling and bellowing at each other to beat the band! You could hear 'em a mile away. They kept at it for a good ten minutes. I thought I'd die or wet myself. They went on a bit here and there, until we all sat down at table, and little Mary asked what all the yelling was about. At that point, the game was up."

The two men on my right laughed so hard, they had to put down their food, but the women on my left were scandalized.

Mom, who began the story to show how awful teasing can be, tried to draw the moral. "Poor Denise!" she began, but she broke up laughing herself.

"See that?" Uncle Mickey said to me. "Not a bit of harm in it."

"Did she ever go out with you again?" one of the women asked.

"Well, no," my uncle admitted, "there was that."

"I'm not surprised," the other woman added, and my uncle sighed.

"Yes, she was one of the one or two that got away," he said, a bit more soberly, with a glance at my mother, who blushed.
 

The next time the waitress came by, my uncle pointed out that she hadn't taken our drink orders.

She actually apologized, and asked, "What'll you have, Mom?"

"Diet Coke."

"And you, young lady?"

"The same."

"We don't have that, so I'll bring you a Diet Coke. And you, Sonny Jim?"

"I'd like a Sam Adams."

"Ooh, a beer!" she said. "What does Mom say about that?"

"He can have whatever he likes," Mom said.

"Your Mom says it's okay," the waitress said, "but I need to see some identification."

Huffing impatiently, my uncle reached for his wallet. "Miss," he told her, "a joke is a joke, but I'm a grown man–"

"Oh, I can see that," she interjected drily.

"Really," he continued, "could an underaged boy have fulsome facial hair, like mine?"

"Well, it is near Halloween," she offered, not backing down.

"My point is that I don't appreciate being belittled."

The smile disappeared from her face. She was silent as he slid his license out and offered it for her to see.

"You can understand," he continued, as she scanned for his birthdate, "that my small stature is rather a sore point for me."

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she said in a sincere tone. "It's all in fun... at least, it's meant to be."

"I understand," he replied. "No hard feelings. I'm quite a tease myself. Feel free to have at me, just not on that one point, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, and the two smiled.

"You got under my skin, that's all," he said.

"Under your skin?" she cried. "Oh, no! Let me out! Let me out! Yuck!"

"You know what I mean," he said, still chuckling.

"Sure, I understand," she retorted. By now, she'd fully recovered. "The problem is, you can't resist my womanly charms. It's my high cheekbones, I know. Sometimes I have to walk around like this–" she put her elbows out and covered her cheekbones with her fingers "–just to keep the boys away. Especially the ones with fulsome facial hair."

My uncle laughed. The waitress patted him on the shoulder, and all was well.

After she left us, Mom said to him, "You never used to be so touchy about your height."

"I'm not, usually," he admitted. "But then again, I'm not usually subjected to a non-stop barrage of height-related insults."

I watched, quite interested, since this would probably be my fate, as well.

My uncle caught my look, and said, "I expect you understand this very well, although it's not as difficult for a girl as it is for a man."

I opened my mouth to object, and Mom turned to say something as well... obviously wanting to straighten out the Victor/Juliette business, but it wasn't the moment. My uncle had a black look as he put his license away.
 

The rest of the meal was fairly quiet. The corned beef was pretty tasty, but the cabbage was very bland. I only had a few bites, and so did Mom. My uncle, on the other hand, cleaned his plate and had a second beer.

"That was excellent!" Mickey exclaimed. "It certainly brought me back. I'm sure it's been literal decades since I've eaten a corned-beef dinner."

"Did you like that cabbage?" Mom asked him.

"Eh. I ate it all, but it required a heavy dose of salt. I ate it more from nostalgia than anything else."

My uncle paid, and left a generous tip. He and the waitress, who was a heavy-set, older woman, actually hugged each other before we descended the stairs.

He had an enormous smile on his face, but the instant we walked outside, it changed to a look of alarm.

"Oh, lord!" he cried. "I feel as if a boulder has formed in my stomach. I'm almost afraid to walk; I'll upset the balance."

I thought he was fooling, so I started giggling.

"Stop that! Stop!" he told me. "I'm not joking. I'm afraid I'll upchuck."

Unfortunately, his choice of words set me off giggling again, so I stepped a few yards away and tried to stifle it.

"Oh, Mick!" Mom said. "It's all that cabbage that you packed in there."

"Yes," he agreed. "It must have expanded, or solidified, or both. Don't you? Ah! Don't you feel any intestinal distress?" he asked, in a frightened tone.

"No, but I didn't eat the cabbage. Neither did Juliette."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," he said. "I think I'd better find a toilet, or a bucket, or a fire station. Lord!"

He began to gingerly turn around, to head back into the restaurant, when, with a grand whoosh!, he let off a copious fart.

"Oh, oh," he gasped. "Well, that's done it. Sorry, Carly. Don't mean to be indelicate, but ooh..." He straightened up and took a few tentative steps. "Oh, oh, yes, that's done it. I've still got the stone in my belly, but it's a good deal smaller. Diminished by half, I'd say. Perhaps with a bit of walking the whole thing will pass."

By this time I was laughing and snorting so hard that I couldn't stop.

"Juliette, stop that," Mom commanded. "Control yourself."

"I can't," I cried, clutching my sides.

"Hooof!" my uncle exclaimed, as another whoosh! burst forth.

"Oh, Mickey!" my mother scolded. "Some things never change!"

"What? What!?" he exclaimed. "I never!"

"Yes," she countered. "You always!"

"No, no," he contradicted. "I never — hah!" and another sound gave him the lie.

"I'm sorry and embarrassed," he continued, "but I have never made a habit of airing my grievances in public like this. I'm sure that you're mixing me up with my brother James."

"Dad?" I managed to gasp between giggles.

"Oh," said Mom, turning red.

"Mmm," Mickey agreed, vindicated. "He was always proud of his ability in that area."

"Oh, my," I sighed, contented, though it seemed that the humor and the outgassing were at an end.

We continued through the brick-paved Market past a large greenhouse, and crossed the street.

"What's up those steps?" I asked.

"Government Center. It's a huge empty plaza for public events. The Big Apple Circus sets its tent there when it's in town. Sometimes concerts are held there. I don't think a week goes by that there isn't one sort of gathering or another here."

He climbed to the first step and turned to face my mother.

"Carly, it's been wonderful to see you. I'm sorry that I ended in such an undignified manner. Next time, let's not go anywhere where cabbage is served. In fact, to preserve whatever dignity I have left, I think I'd better leave you two and take a long walk by myself... to be alone with my cabbage." He smiled. "Let's not let so much time pass before we see each other again."

Then he took her by the shoulders, and kissed her.

I don't know how long they kissed, but it seemed like a long time. I was astonished, and couldn't take my eyes away. My eyebrows were nearly on top of my head. He didn't move his hands from her shoulders, and her hands were clasped in front of her, so it wasn't a real hug. Her head didn't move at all. It wasn't a kiss like you see in the movies, but still, it was a kiss.

I thought, He's kissing her. She's not kissing him. She's *letting* him kiss her, but she's not kissing back.

He let her go, and I could see his face. He looked... well, not sad... maybe disappointed? Clearly it wasn't what he hoped or expected it to be.

"Sorry," he told her softly.

"It's okay," she said. "For old times' sake."

"Yeah," he said. "Old times' sake."

Then, smiling a bit ruefully, he stepped down to where I was standing.

"And you, young lady, remember what I said: Damn the torpedoes! Remember your uncle!" He gave me a hug and turned to go.

"Mick, wait," my mother called. "About Juliette–"

He shook his head. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. I know." Then he turned and walked, a bit gingerly, away from us, along the high stone wall.

"I already told him," I said.

She nodded. "Vic– Juliette, there's no need to tell your father about what just happened."

"Okay," I agreed.

"It was just a kiss, but your father might think–"

"It's okay," I repeated. "It never happened. There is no secret."

She looked at me, a mite conflicted, until at last she said, "Fine. Let's leave it at that."

We walked up the steps to Government Center, and crossed the empty, brick-paved plaza.

"Is this the way to our hotel?"

"Yes, it's up that way and over."

"Oh."

"Your father and I used to spend a lot of time in Boston when we were younger," she explained. "I know this area pretty well, but I pretended I didn't, so Mick could have the fun of playing tour guide."

I nodded.

"Do you feel like walking a bit more?"

"I didn't have any cabbage," I joked, but she frowned. So I said, "No, I don't mind walking. Is there something we can see?"

"We could keep going this way to the Common," and so we did, but there was nothing to see, not really. Mom pointed out the new State House with its gold dome, and then we headed back to the hotel.

I didn't feel like talking, although a tune kept running through my head, so I hummed it, over and over.

"Will you stop that, Juliette?"

"Okay."

But soon I'd forget and be back at it.

When I'd notice her staring at me, I'd stop. But after a few steps, I'd automatically start humming again. I was stuck with it, the thing kept playing like a tape loop inside of me.

At last, when we were a block from the hotel, she said, "Are you doing that on purpose? To tease me?"

"What?" I asked.

"That song!"

"What song?"

"The one you've been humming!"

"What song is it?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Oh, Miss Innocent! Never mind!"

What song was it? I ran the tune through my head, and then I got it. Ever since we left my uncle, I'd been humming I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.

---

A short while later, the two of us were sitting on our respective beds in our respective pajamas. Mine, which of course Mom had bought, were a pair of long pajama pants and a short t-shirt with half-sleeves. The pants were light violet, and the top was pink. They were decorated with horses, hearts, and stars — some pink, some pale blue. They were cute, and they were very soft.

Mom was busy putting lotion on her legs. I just sat and watched.

"Do you want some?" she offered.

"No, thanks."

"My legs get so dry," she explained. "I have to do this every night."

"Hmmph," I said. "Hey, is Dad going to have breakfast with us tomorrow?"

"No, hon, he won't get here until ten. And that means you probably won't see him."

"Oh, bummer."

"I know, but it's probably better, what with you in a skirt and all."

"Yeah, I guess," I admitted glumly.

"So, can we talk about it?"

"About what? About dresses? Mom, I told you: it's just for Halloween."

"Yes, I know you keep saying that. But what about after, when Halloween is over? Are you going to miss it? Will you miss being Juliette?"

"I don't know," I mumbled. "It's not like I want... I mean, okay, sometimes it's fun to be somebody else, to have a secret identity. And the clothes are... I don't know. Sometimes I feel dorky, like a boy in a dress, but other times I feel really good. Boys clothes are... they don't have the, uh..."

Mom sucked on her lower lip and listened. She didn't try to finish my sentence. She just waited to see what I'd say.

I drew a deep breath. "Okay. So. Sometimes the clothes are fun. They have more colors, and cuter designs. They fit a lot better and feel good..."

"Do you like being cute?"

"Oooh," I moaned. "I don't know. I don't always feel cute. Like now. I mean, I know these are supposed to be cute, and I don't mind wearing them, but once I put them on, aside from being really soft, they just feel like regular pajamas."

"Yeah," Mom said. "I know what you mean. Sometimes it's all about how others see you. You don't get the same effect; you just give it to others. It's like perfume. After you put it on, you don't smell it any more. Some older women, they just keep spraying it on and spraying it on until they can smell it themselves, and by that time, they've put on 20 or 30 times than anyone ever should."

"I guess," I said.

"They do," she confirmed, and came over to sit next to me. Putting her arm around me, she looked me in the eyes and said, "Will you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"I told your father that after Halloween, all this will disappear: the costumes, the clothes, everything. But I'm not going to get rid of it. I'll pack it all away, just in case. And if you want to be Juliette for an hour or a day or a weekend, I want you to tell me, and I'll help you. Okay? Can you do that?"

"I guess," I said, "But I won't–"

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "If it never happens, then it doesn't matter. Right? But I want you to promise that if it does, you'll come to me. I want to know when you're doing this. Will you promise?"

"But I don't–"

"I want you to promise me, Victor. I don't want Diana's mother to call and tell me that you're at her house in a skirt and pigtails. I don't want to come home to find you and the girl who lives behind us playing hopscotch or dressing dolls."

"I won't–"

"Don't promise me that you won't or you don't. I want you to promise me that you will come to me first if you ever want to dress like a girl. Will you promise me that?"

"Yes," I said. "I promise. But–"

"No buts! If you do this behind my back, I'll be very angry, and your father will go through the roof. If you come to me, I'll help you. But mainly, I want to know."

"Okay, Mom, I get it. Don't worry."

"Worry?" she repeated. "Of course I'll worry. That's what mothers do!"

She hugged me and tousled my hair. Then she went to her bed and turned off the light.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"Do you want a snack?"

"No," I said, putting my hand on my rather full stomach. "I had the hugest breakfast."

"Oh, yes, I forgot what a little pig-lotta you are!" she teased.

---

 

15. Standard Princess Gear
 

Well! Last night I didn't feel cute, but Saturday morning, I was absolutely fierce!

Mom surprised me with a really slick outfit. Most of the clothes she'd gotten me up till now were cute or nice or colorful, but this was the first one that really ROCKED.

As soon as I saw it, I shouted, "Wow!"

When I put it on, I felt like a character in a video game. It was too cool to be real!

There was a gray skirt that hung to maybe two inches above my knees. It was pleated, and each pleat somehow gathered at the bottom, so they were sort of oval. The top was teal, and fit like skin. But the sleeves! It had raglan sleeves in the same gray color as the skirt, and they were crocheted, all the way down to my wrist. The cuffs were teal. Then, teal tights that matched the shirt, and a pair of soft black boots.

Way cool. Way, way cool.

And a hat. I usually think hats are stupid, but this one was a big black, beret-like thing that topped it off perfectly.

It wasn't goth, but it suggested goth, if you know what I mean.

"So, you like it?" Mom asked with a grin.

"Mom, these clothes are kick ass!" I crowed. "Ooops! Sorry!"

"It's okay," she said, playing with the pleats. "It *is* a kick-ass outfit. I'm glad you like it. Later I have to figure out how they did these pleats."
 

Breakfast was also kick-ass. They had EVERYTHING. Pancakes, waffles, two kinds of sausage, bacon, omelets, hash-browned potatoes, eggs Benedict, huevos rancheros, regular toast, French toast, bagels, and a whole lot more. It was breakfast heaven. Best of all, it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. I took several trips, but even so, I didn't try everything. I couldn't. Mom didn't eat that much, but she did like their coffee.

While I was making my third trip, a tall, white-haired man complimented me on my outfit. "You look like a superhero or a spy in that get-up. What will you be tackling today, dressed like that?"

"For now, breakfast," I joked. "After that–"

"–the world?" he finished, laughing. "Good luck with it! You look amazing. Top notch. Just seeing you has made my day, young lady."

While we were talking, I saw a girl listening and watching from the corner of her eye. She looked like she was about twelve, which was two years older than my apparent age of ten. She was wearing a black dress with white highlights and black shoes. Her dark-brown hair was short and tied with a thin dark-brown ribbon, about as wide as a thick shoelace. Even though her outfit was simple, it looked super-elegant and expensive, and — in spite of the obvious coolness of my outfit — I felt a little intimidated. Suddenly, I felt as if I was showing off.

She let the man walk out of earshot and then asked, "Who are you supposed to be?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, that's a costume, right? I mean, you're dressed for a party today, right?"

"No," I countered. "These are just my regular clothes."

"Really? You call that regular?"

I didn't want to be rude with her, even if she'd started off being rude with me. Still, I thought I might turn the tables with a compliment. "Yes. Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you that I really like your dress."

She turned away and picked up a plate. "Do you? Thanks. It means so much, coming from you."

Of course, she meant exactly the opposite of what she said. I felt my temper rising, so I walked away before I bit her head off.

"What's eating you?" Mom asked me. "Did that man say something to upset you?"

"Him? No. He was really nice. He gave me all kinds of compliments on my outfit. It was that girl in the black dress. She was... well, she wasn't nasty, but she had a way of saying things that was so... so... I don't know. Everything she said was a put-down."

"I see." Mom sucked in her cheeks as she studied the girl. "Juliette, some girls are just that way. They're very catty. They build themselves up by putting other people down. They don't feel good unless they make every other girl feel insecure. Girls don't compete the way boys do. They're a lot more sly and psychological. Don't let it bother you."

"I won't," I said angrily, and shoved my fork into a sausage with such force, it flew off my plate and into the middle of the table. I stopped, took a breath, and put the sausage on an empty plate. "Oh, brother! She really made me mad!"

"What did she say?"

"She talked about my clothes as they were some kind of costume. And when I tried to say something nice about *her* dress, she said Ooh, that means so much coming from you. I'd like to smack her!"

Mom smiled gently and said, "It's typical. You've got to shrug it off, or shake it off, because it doesn't mean anything. I know it's hard. But just think how good she'll be at putting people down by the time she gets to be MY age!

"Anyway, you look great. You know you do, so you have to hold on to that, and realize that she's just saying things to throw you off. She wouldn't have bothered if you didn't look good."

"Okay," I said, feeling somewhat better.

---

After breakfast, we brought my luggage downstairs to the lobby. I had a small suitcase and a little hanging bag. Luckily, all the costumes were already at Miranda's house.

We sat in the lobby for fifteen minutes, when Miranda appeared. I waved, and she rushed over.

Miranda and I hugged each other, then took each other's hands and jumped up and down a few times in excitement. I know, it's weird. Nobody had to tell me to do it; it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I guess I've seen girls do it, and just got into the part I was playing.

"I'm SO excited!" Miranda told me.

"I know, me too!" I agreed.

Over my head, I heard my mother's voice. "Miranda, you're not here alone, are you? Where's your mother?"

"She's coming," Miranda said, looking over her shoulder. "She doesn't feel too good. So she's moving slow."

A few seconds later, Mrs. Jameson appeared in the doorway. She wore a pair of the biggest, darkest sunglasses I've ever seen. They wrapped around the sides of her face, as if she didn't want a single photon to reach her eyes. When she turned her head to scan the room, she did it very, very slowly. Miranda helped her by waving with both arms, and soon her mother was making her way across the lobby, threading her way through the tables and chairs. The way she walked, you could tell she wasn't feeling well. It looked as though she was making her way through a minefield.

She came to a stop when she was close enough to talk. "Migraine," she said, in a low, strained voice. "It's one of the worst I've had."

"Oh, Macy! I'm so sorry! Do you want to leave the girls with me?"

"No."

"Are you sure you're up to it? Can you even drive?"

"We came in a cab," she whispered. "We'll go home in a cab."

"Good lord!" Mom said, a bit loudly, and Macy winced. "Sorry! Listen, you go back home, leave Miranda with me..."

"No, that's too complicated. I'll take them now. They'll go to the party. Lex will watch them tonight. Tomorrow, I'll be fine."

"Who's Lex?" I asked Miranda.

"My Dad, duh!" she laughed.

"Macy, are you sure?" Mom asked. "I feel terrible about this. Let them stay with me."

"No," Mrs. Jameson told her in a monotone. "It's all arranged. It's not a big deal. I don't have the energy to argue about it. Like I said, Lex will be home tonight. He'll watch the girls. Today, they'll be at the party anyway. Tomorrow, I'll be fine. I don't want to talk any more. Let's go, girls."

My mother gave in, but she was not comfortable with the arrangement at all. Mrs. Jameson silently insisted by walking toward the front door of the hotel. We all followed her.

As we walked, Miranda told my mother, "Don't worry. She gets these a lot. She'll be okay."

When we reached the front door, Mrs. Jameson stopped. "Carly, can you do me a favor? Tell the doorman not to whistle for the taxi?"

---

As soon as we reached the Jameson's house, Mrs. Jameson went to her room and closed the door.

"We won't see her until tomorrow morning," Miranda informed me.

"So, where's your Dad?" I asked.

"He's playing golf," she replied. "He'll be back this afternoon."

"So how will we get to the party?"

"We'll just walk. Robert's house is only like a block away."

"You live that close to him?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal. He doesn't bother me. Usually. You're the one he's in love with." She giggled wildly.

"Oh, please," I groaned.

"He's been talking all week at school about the party and you..."

"Is he telling everyone I'm his girlfriend?"

She laughed loudly in response, then stopped and covered her mouth. "We've got to be really quiet. My mother is super-sensitive to noise when she gets this way."

"Okay," I answered in a soft voice. "So, what are we going to do until the party? We have two hours."

"Do you want a snack?"

"No," I said, putting my hand on my rather full stomach. "I had the hugest breakfast."

"Oh, yes, I forgot what a little pig-lotta you are!" she teased.

I rolled my eyes. "Do *you* want a snack?"

"No, I'm good." She thought for a moment, then said, "Okay, let's do this: first, we'll bring your stuff to the guest room. I can help you unpack. Then we can put our costumes on, and get completely, perfectly ready. After that, I guess we could watch TV until we have to go."
 

What with procrastination and goofing around, and Miranda wanting to see the clothes I'd brought, it was an hour and a half before we were "completely, perfectly ready" in our costumes. Our tiaras had comb-like things to dig into our hair, but it took a bit of doing to get them to work. Miranda fiddled with mine, digging it painfully into my scalp a few times before she finally got it solidly in place, and then I did the same for her.

Well, not the painful part. It was easier to get hers set, because she has a lot more hair to work with.

While we were accessorizing, Miranda reminded me to wear the necklace that Lou's mother had given me. Miranda had seen and admired it while I was unpacking, and I told her the story behind it.

"Do you think it's weird that she wants to help me dress like a girl?" I asked Miranda.

She sucked on her lower lip for a moment before responding. "If I didn't *know* you, and only heard about it, yes, I would think it was weird. But... you know, I never met Victor." She blushed a bit. "I don't know him at all. I only know Juliette. For me, it's like, there is no Victor. Whenever I think about you, I just think of Juliette, and the whole Victor thing is just, like... like an idea... that doesn't even seem true.

"Most of the time I forget that you're a girl. I mean, not a girl. So... no, it doesn't seem weird that she gave you a necklace. It's really nice."

For some reason, what Miranda said embarrassed and bothered me a bit.

While she was looking down, fiddling with a bracelet, I took her in... she was just adorable! The princess costume really suited her, and made her face look even prettier than usual, with her tiny chin, high cheekbones, her easy, even smile... I found myself wishing that she were my age, or I was her age. I suppose when we get older, the age difference won't matter... when I'm, like, 22, she'll be 18...

"Earth to Juliette! Earth to Juliette!"

"Oh, sorry!"

"What were you daydreaming about?"

I blushed and didn't answer. She shook her head in mock-irritation, then smiled and told me, "What I said was: there's a park on the next block. We can go there in our costumes and swing on the swings until the party starts. Is that okay?"

"Is it far from Robert's house?"

"No, he lives right next to the park. Really." She gestured with her hands, "Here's the park, and here's his house. So we can see when the other kids start to come, so we won't be the first ones."

It sounded like a good plan. The best part of it was doing my absolute favorite thing: being out in public in a costume. In a way, that's what I'd been doing since we left the house yesterday, but nobody knew. A real costume is different, and there's nothing like having strangers ooh and aah over your outfit. Mom always made the best costumes, so as far back as I can remember...

"Hello! Anybody home? Are you off in the clouds again? What, are you dreaming of Robert and his passionate kisses?" She began to giggle loudly, but remembered her mother's headache and stopped. "Come on, let's get out of here!"
 

In case you're not familiar with Boston's South End, most of its streets are narrow, lined with red-brick row houses with bow fronts, from one end of a block to the other. It's pretty, and old-timey, and lots of people are usually out walking... or walking their dog, or just walking.

Even though Miranda and I were both princesses, our costumes weren't that much alike. My dress was basically white, with pink draping, and a gold panel that looked like a bodice. And it had short, puffy sleeves. Mom had made mine first, so it was simpler than Miranda's, but it was still nice, and I liked wearing mine better. I'd tried Miranda's on several times for fittings while Mom was making it.

And oh, by the way, don't think that I actually know all these words for clothes and all the colors — like teal or whatever — that I mention. Mom tells them to me, and they stick in my head for a little while. That's all.

But anyway, while my dress was very... I don't know... standard princess gear, I guess, Miranda's was more like a storybook princess. It was made of pale-blue shiny material, and had long sleeves. Instead of just having a front panel like a bodice, hers had a front panel the whole length of the dress, and it was a white brocade. The bodice was laced with pink... well, I know that it was a really just a long shoe-lace, but it looked like it belonged on the dress. Nobody would guess.

Mom had woven a blue ribbon through Miranda's tiara and a pink one through mine.

During our short walk — it was only, like, a block and a half — SO many people stopped to look us over, and to give extravagant compliments. It was nice. Two people even took our pictures, and a group of older boys called us "your highnesses" and kept adding "esses" on the end. I loved it.

When we got to the park there were a few little kids playing in the sand. One girl, who must have been five, stood and stared at us for about five minutes. We smiled at her and talked to her, but all she did was stare. Then she started crying for no reason, and her mother took her away.

Which left Miranda and me alone in the play area with the swings and the teeter-totter. All the other kids, the little kids, were in the other play area, on the jungle gym. Each of the two play areas were full of sand and were fenced in. The fences kept the little kids in and the dogs out. And, by the way, one of the first things you notice in the South End is that there are about half as many dogs as people.

While we sat on the swings, side by side... talking, not really swinging... just dandling... pushing the swing around with our feet on the ground, a dog came to see us. It was a big, black rottweiler.

"He looks just like the dog in Good Dog, Carl," Miranda said.

"I've never read that book," I replied.

"You can't read it," she laughed. "It's a picture book! Hello, Carl! Hello, good boy! Hello, Carl! Hi!"

Carl sat there, looking at us, much as the little girl had done earlier. But...

"Miranda, is it my imagination, or is that dog staring at me? It's kind of creeping me out."

"No, he's looking at both of us. Aren't you, Carl? Aren't you? Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?"

A woman came walking into the park, and as she approached the dog, she kept glancing from the dog to me. When she got right up next to the gate, where Carl was sitting, she fixed her eyes on me and said, "There is a leash law, you know, little girl. You have to keep your dog on a leash!"

"It's not my dog!" I protested, but she kept on walking. "And I'm not a little girl!"

"Why did she think it was *my* dog?" I asked Miranda. "You're the one who was talking to him!"

Miranda smiled and shrugged. "You know who that lady was? She's Jackie Como's Mom. She must have dropped Jackie off at the party." Then she glanced over her shoulder.

I looked over, too, and saw three kids in costume walk up to Robert's front door. "Yeah, I guess we can go now," I agreed. "But watch out that this dog doesn't jump up on us and leave paw prints."

"Stay, Carl, stay," Miranda commanded as she opened the gate a crack and slipped out. I followed, and Carl obediently sat still.

But when Miranda reached down to pet him, he jumped to his feet and let out a single bark. It startled us, but he wagged his tail and hung out his tongue, panting. He seemed like a good dog, but for some reason, I just didn't trust him.

"Let's go, Miranda," I said.

"Okay. Bye, Carl. Stay! Stay, Carl, stay!"

After we walked about two yards, Carl came running after us. No, not us. Me. He made to jump up and plant his dirty paws on my shoulders, so I quickly grabbed his collar and pushed him back down. Strangely, he didn't resist. While I held his collar, he was docile, even obedient. He went wherever I led him.

I pointed him away from Robert's house, and gave him a little push. "Shoo!" I told him. "Shoo! Shoo! Beat it, Carl!"

We went through the same exercise maybe five times. Each time, he'd turn and try to jump on me. Once I tried to run, but that only made it worse, and I very nearly missed getting dirtied by those big paws. Miranda tried holding him, and he'd let her, and be led by her, but the instant she let go, the dog would try to jump on me.

"What is it with this dog?" I wondered aloud.

"Maybe it's Robert in disguise," Miranda quipped.

"No, it can't be," I countered. "He hasn't tried to kiss me."

I tried running with him, and then letting go once he got some momentum, but the result was the same. He'd turn and try to plant his paws on me. I began to feel a bit desperate.

"What are we going to do, Miranda? He's fine as long as I hold him, but as soon as I let go, he's going to get me all dirty."

She shrugged.

Carl stood there, calm and still while I gripped his collar. "What am I going to do with you, Carl? Where's your owner?"

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"Hello, girls," she said, smiling, but she didn't move aside to let us in. "Miranda, I know you, from school. Your friend... you're the little girl who swears! Tatum, isn't it?"

"No, I'm Juliette," I corrected. "Can we–"

---

 

16. The Original Macho Man
 

Miranda rubbed her nose to help her think. "Maybe if we get close to Robert's front door, I can hold the dog and you can go inside. Then I'll let go and come in."

"He might run into the house after me," I countered. "How about if you go in first, and get ready to slam the door shut. Then, I slip inside, still holding the dog–"

Miranda got it, and finished my sentence: "— and when you say GO, you push Carl away, pull your arm inside, and I slam the door! Right?"

"Right," I agreed.

"It's a good plan," Miranda said, nodding.

The three of us (counting Carl) made our way out of the park, through the gate, and followed the park fence to Robert's front door.

Miranda rang the doorbell, and as we waited, I marvelled at Carl's calmness. As long as I held his collar, he was the best dog on earth.

The door was opened by Mrs. Murdoch, Robert's mother. I'd seen her a couple of times already: at the pizzeria and at church... She was a short, heavy-set woman, wearing a peasant skirt and a plain black top.

"Hello, girls," she said, smiling, but she didn't move aside to let us in. "Miranda, I know you, from school. And your friend... you're the little girl who swears! Tatum, isn't it?"

"No, I'm Juliette," I corrected. "Can we–"

"I'm sorry, hon, but you can't bring your dog inside. You really shouldn't have brought him."

"He isn't my dog," I protested.

Her eyes twinkled. "Then you really shouldn't have brought him."

"He keeps trying to jump on me! He's behaves while I hold him, but the minute I let go, he's all over me."

"Honey, why don't you lead him into the park? You can put him through the gate and close him inside. Come on, I'll help you."

She stepped out of the doorway and walked with us along the fence, toward the gate. She was a heavy woman with short legs, and she didn't move very quickly. I didn't mind, though. I wasn't in a hurry. I just wanted to get rid of the dog.

"Aren't you going to close your door?" I asked.

"I don't have the key with me," she explained. "Besides, we'll be right here. It'll only take a minute. We'll get you free and pop back inside." When we reached the park gate, she opened it and had me guide Carl inside. Then, as I held his collar with my right hand, she told me to reach through the gate with my left and grip the collar.

"Now let go with your right," she instructed. "See? He's inside, you're outside! All we have to do is close the gate!" And so saying, she pulled it shut and slid the bolt.

"Now, you just let go. See?"

I let go, and... problem solved! Carl was now inside the park while I was outside, with a nice solid fence between us. I doubted he could jump over it.

Mrs. Murdoch rubbed her hands and said, "Ladies, I think we have a party to go to!" With that, she started toward her door. She wasn't moving any faster than she had before.

Carl, on the other hand, sized up the situation in a moment, and bounded across the little park to a second gate, which was open.

"Uh oh," Miranda observed.

"We better get a move on!" I urged.

"This is my top speed," Robert's mother said as she shuffled along. "Don't worry, we'll make it."

But we didn't make it. Out of politeness and lack of a better idea, Miranda and I kept the agonizingly slow pace set by Mrs. Murdoch. We were only halfway to the door when Carl came loping past us — ignoring me for once — and dashed inside the Murdoch's house.

"Hoo, boy!" I gasped, and very nearly shouted at Robert's mother to hurry up. I had to fight with myself to not run ahead.

Mrs. Murdoch did go up a gear, though, and moved a wee bit faster, but not much. It was like the difference between cold molasses and warm molasses. She waved her arm, and said, "You go on ahead, girls. See what you can do. Get Robert, he's good with dogs!"

In the next moment, pandemonium broke loose inside the house. We heard screams and shouts punctuated by bangs and crashes. Miranda and I took off like twin rockets. I got there first, and didn't notice that Miranda, without thinking, pushed the door shut behind her.

We came through an entryway into a big living room, but no one was there. One set of stairs led up and another set led down. All the noise came from below, so the two of us dove down the stairs.

The narrow steps led to something like a family room, with a tiny kitchen at one end. The other end had french doors that opened onto a deep backyard. The dog was out there, chasing a screaming boy.

"Carl!" I shouted, without thinking. "Heel!"

At the sound of my voice, his head jerked around. Once he saw me, he came running. At the speed he was coming, there was no way I could catch his collar and remain standing, so I took off behind the counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the room. As quick as I could, I jumped onto the counter, gathered my skirt to me, and rested my feet in the sink.

Carl, slowed a bit by the turns, came scrabbling into the kitchen. After slipping and sliding on the smooth floor, he got up on back legs and planted his paws on the edge of the sink. The moment he did, I grabbed his collar, and he stopped moving, except for his tongue, which hung from his mouth as he panted.

"Carl, you are a bad, bad dog," I informed him, but I could see he paid no attention. He seemed perfectly happy, lacking nothing, as long as I gripped his collar.

From the corner of my eye I saw a small, pudgy figure push past Miranda and walk toward me. It was Robert. He was dressed in biker's leathers, and wore a leather cap. He was clearly aiming for a Hell's Angels look, but ended up looking like one of the Village People.

"I'm sorry, Robert," I told him, "but this dog won't leave me alone."

"Can you blame him?" he replied as he swaggered over. "You're a total babe!"

"Oh, brother!" I sighed.

He reached for the tag on Carl's collar, and after studying it for a moment, picked up a phone.

"Hello? Mr. Raleigh? My name's Robert Murdoch. Could you come pick up your dog? Yes, he's in my house, wrecking my birthday party... No, this isn't a joke... No, I didn't... No... No..."

As Robert patiently denied whatever Mr. Raleigh was accusing him of, the doorbell was ringing nonstop. Miranda, after exclaiming Oh! ran off to let Mrs. Murdoch back inside the house.

About a minute later, Robert said into the phone, "Oh, hi, Mom! ... Okay, bye!"

"What happened?" I asked, as he hung up the phone.

He replied, "Nothin' to worry your pretty head about, babe. My mother got on the line. She'll straighten out that Raleigh character."

"Maybe I should take the dog outside."

He shrugged, then ran his eye slowly over me, from my toes to my head.

Then, after nodding a few times, he said, "Nice outfit."

"Thanks," I said, "You, too." (I lied.)

"Yeah," he said, widening his stance and spreading his arms as if he were a peacock showing all his finery. "This is how I roll. The original macho man."

"Okay, sure," I said in a noncommittal voice.

"How about I give you a lift down from there?" he asked.

"I don't think you could, Robert."

"Yeah, well, you ought to come down anyway. My Mom will flip out if she sees you with your feet in the sink."

I'd forgotten how I was sitting! I lifted my feet to look, and there was a tiny bit of sand in the sink. Hardly anything. Still, I swung my legs over the side of the counter, and ran a bit of water to wash the sand down the drain.

All this time I'd been holding Carl's collar with one hand. I looked down, figuring I could probably jump to the floor without letting go of the dog.

Robert held out his arms to me. "Jump," he said.

"Um, you know what would really help? If you hold the dog's collar while I jump down."

Robert willingly took hold of the dog, and backed up a bit to give me room. I slid off the counter and felt a little breeze behind me.

"Something wrong?" Robert asked.

"I think I caught my dress on something."

"Let me help you," he said. "Don't worry, I'll be the perfect gentleman."

"Where do you get all these cornball lines, Robert?" I asked.

"Old movies, baby, old movies. I'm going with the sure thing: tried and tested smoothness." He reached behind me. "Yeah, you're hooked on a drawer handle." I felt my skirt fluttering into place behind me. "There you go. All better?"

I was in kind of awkward position. We were standing at the far end of the kitchenette, so there was a counter behind and a counter to the left of me. Carl was to my right, and Robert stood in front of me. He was holding Carl with one hand, and his other hand was behind me, resting on the counter. I couldn't really move or get away, so I opened my mouth to thank him and to ask him to back off a bit, when he moved in and planted his lips on mine. I pulled my head back as far as I could — which wasn't very far — but he followed, lips following lips.

By the way, he was NOT a good kisser. Not at all. His lips were puckered up all tight and dry, and he was actually sucking — in fact when he finally did break off from my lips, there was a loud SWACK! But that didn't happen yet.

Pulling a deep breath of air through my nostrils, I planted my hands on his chest to push him off me. Unfortunately, I didn't have any leverage, because I was leaning back and he was leaning into me.

At the same time, I became aware of our audience: a roomful of ten-year-olds, all eyes, who let out a unanimous and rising oooOOOH!

I couldn't get away! I couldn't push him off, I couldn't move my arms to hit him, and I couldn't move my legs to kick him.

Finally, I heard his mother's voice scolding, "Robert! Get offa that girl! Right NOW!"

He backed away, smiling, and said, "How'd ya like that, kiddo?"

With eyes afire, I was about to reply with a smack up the side of his head, but his mother spoke first. "Robert, take that dog and put him outside the front door!"

He led the dog off with a self-satisfied swagger. After he disappeared up the stairs, his mother smiled at me and said, "Don't wipe your mouth with your sleeve. Take one of those napkins."

Miranda's eyes were big as saucers.

---

The rest of the party was pretty tame compared to the beginning. We played Pass The Pumpkin, where we sat in the circle, handing a small pumpkin to the person on our left. The idea was not be stuck with the pumpkin when the music stopped. Mrs. Murdoch didn't let Robert sit near me.

We also broke into groups of four and made scarecrows, which was a lot of fun. I ended up in a group with Jackie Como (whose mother had scolded me about the leash law), a girl named Laura, and a boy named Matt. They were nice, and pretty clever about putting together the scarecrow. They also worked very well together, and when I commented on it, Jackie told me, "We're the only table of three," as if that explained something. I had no idea what she was talking about.

In any case, I thought our scarecrow was best, but Miranda's group had the funniest one.

There was a balloon-sandwich race, and Miranda and I were partners. We had to stand back to back with a helium balloon between us. Then all the pairs of balloon holders had to run sideways to the end of the backyard and back without losing the balloon. Miranda and I worked out a strategy of keeping our heads touching, and we were the only ones who didn't have to stop and catch the balloon. Jackie and Laura made it to the end of the yard, but Robert bumped into them and made them lose their balloon.

The last game was a lot more interesting than it sounds. A friend of Mrs. Murdoch took one child at a time, had them sit in profile, and drew their silhouette. Then she showed us the silhouettes one at a time and we had to guess whose profile it was.

The party was a lot of fun; a lot more fun than I expected. One thing I didn't expect at all was that I met every girl at the party. Every single one. I mean, I had some conversation with each one. It almost seemed like they took turns, in ones, twos, or threes, to come over and chat about who I was, where I lived, who they were, who was friends with whom, and what an idiot Robert was for kissing me... and yuck! by the way.

None of them thought I was Robert's girlfriend, which was a great relief.

Almost everyone at the party was from Miranda's fifth-grade class, and nearly the whole class was there.

"You have a nice class," I told Miranda as we walked home.

"Yes, I like pretty much everybody," she said, as she looked down and kicked a pebble, "but I don't want to talk about that..."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Can't you guess?" she guffawed.

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes! You and Robert!" She broke off into gales of laughter, and sang K-I-S-S-I-N-G. "So tell me... is he a good kisser?"

"No, he most definitely is NOT!" I told her.

"Ooh," she said. She was silent for a few paces, then quietly asked, "Am I?"

"You?" I was taken by surprise, and honestly I'd had forgotten our kiss in that moment. "Yes, you're a good kisser. A very good kisser."

"For real?"

"Yes, you are," I assured her. "I really liked kissing you."

"Oh, good," she said, smiling. "It would be embarrassing not to be..."

"You don't have to worry about it," I told her. "You're a natural."

She blushed and was quiet for a few moments. Then, to break the silence, she said, "Wasn't that crazy, about that dog?"

"Do you mean Carl, or Robert?" I asked, and the two of us cracked up, giggling like mad.

An older fellow passed us, walking his dog, and commented, "The Laughing Princesses," which set us off again.

---

When we got back to Miranda's house, her father was sitting on the steps outside, smoking a cigarette.

"Da-ad!" Miranda scolded in a shocked tone.

"Oops! Sorry, Miranda, it's only one. A friend of mine gave it to me, and uh... I was tempted. He led me astray." He took a last draw off it, and with a flick of his forefinger sent the butt flying in a high arc. It landed in the gutter. "No more!" he announced.

"Who was your friend?" she demanded.

"Oh, someone you don't know," he replied.

"Uh-huh," she said in a suspicious tone, as she crossed her arms.

"Okay," her father said, "his name is Philippe Oustermaan... O'Reilly-Davis. Happy now?"

I burst out in a giggle. Miranda shot me a look, then burst out laughing herself.

"Dad, you just made that name up!"

"No, no, I didn't," he protested, smiling. "Let me show you his business card..." He patted his pockets, and pretended to look for it. "I have it here somewhere..."

"Dad," Miranda said between giggles, "You don't have his business card."

"Sure I do," he retorted. "It's in one of my pockets. It's really long... I can't believe I'm having trouble finding it."

"Philippe Ouster..." I began.

"Philippe Oustermaan O'Reilly-Davis," he said. "He's my oldest and best friend. But no more! Him and his damned cigarettes! You'll never see him in our house ever again!"

"Oh, Dad... Smoking is bad for your health!" she told him. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Nothing!" he told her, smiling. "I'm reformed! So this is Juliette? Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I said. "Is Mrs. Jameson feeling better?"

"No," he said. "She is out for the count. I'm afraid we won't see her before tomorrow. Have you girls eaten? Are you hungry?"
 

In spite of all the candy and junk food we'd eaten, we were both quite hungry.

So Mr. Jameson took us to a little neighborhood place, where the three of us sat at a round table on the sidewalk, eating really good pizza. It tasted more like good nutritional food than just regular pizza, and it had a very thin crust.

Miranda and I were still in costume. Everyone we passed had something nice to say to us.

All in all, even considering the dog and the kiss, it was a very good day.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

"I'm sorry I missed it," he went on, "but I figured it was just going to be a kids' party, you know? I should have thought... I should have known that Tatum here would carry destruction in her wake."

"My name is Juliette," I corrected. Not that it mattered, because Robert's father just went on talking.

---

 

17. Boy Legs
 

The next morning was Sunday, and Mrs. Jameson was still closed in her room with a headache.

Mr. Jameson had to cancel his golf game to stay with us. He offered to cook us a full breakfast — which was very nice of him — but we decided to grab a quick bowl of cereal each, and took some toast and juice back to Miranda's room.

"I am SO excited!" she declared. "This is the first Sunday in FOREVER that *I* get to decide what I'm wearing to church!"

Her happiness was infectious, and I smiled, even though I was afraid that we'd spend a long time looking at dresses.

Luckily, it didn't turn out that way. Her eye fell on a bright yellow dress, which she pulled from the closet, exclaiming, "Oooh!"

"I *love* this dress," she crowed, "but my mother hates it. She never lets me wear it! Well, today... I'm wearing it!" She held it against herself and looked in the mirror. "So, do you like it?"

"I guess," I said. "It's an awfully bright yellow, though, isn't it?"

Miranda wasn't fazed by my lack of enthusiasm. "It's not yellow. It's pumpkin colored."

"Aside from that, it's a nice dress."

"Well, I'm going to wear it! You go get ready and and then we'll head downstairs."

My outfit was a chocolate-brown boatneck dress. The hem ended in the middle of my thigh, the sleeves ended just above my elbows, and the waist was way up under my breasts, if I had any breasts. It was idiotic.

I was still studying myself in the mirror when Miranda came knocking at my door.

"Aren't we the vain one?" she teased.

"I feel so dorky in this getup," I told her. "I'm all knees and boy-legs. Can you take a picture of me for my mother, and let me wear something of yours instead?"

She laughed with childish abandon, as if I'd said the most outrageously funny thing.

"You look nice!" she countered, "Really nice! You ought to wear it!" Then she added, "I'm sure Robert will love it."

"That clown!" I muttered. "Maybe we could bring Carl to the church and set him on Robert."

"You're forgetting that Carl has the hots for you, too."

I sighed. Miranda wasn't going to save me from my dorky dress, so I gave up on my bony boy-knees, and took a better look at her outfit. "That actually is a nice dress!" I declared. "I don't know why your mother doesn't like it."

"I know!" Miranda agreed.

"It has, uh, nice draping."

"Draping?"

"It hangs well on you."

Miranda's eyes twinkled. "Thank you, Juliette. It's nice to have a friend who's such a fashionista."

I blushed. "You know I'm not, and anyway..."

"I know, I know," she said, rolling her eyes. "After tomorrow it all goes away."

"Well, yeah."
 

We went downstairs to find Mr. Jameson on the couch in front of the TV, flipping channels, pausing on various sports shows.

"Dad," Miranda asked, "is that what you're wearing to church?"

"Church?" he echoed, in a startled tone. "I kind of figured with your mother down, that we'd kind of skip it today–" Miranda's mouth began to open in protest, so he quickly changed gears "–but then I realized, What!? Not go to church!? So, ah..." he glanced at his watch. "We can leave in fifteen minutes. I just have to go cut myself shaving and gargle a bit."

"Are you going to change clothes?" Miranda demanded.

He looked down at himself. "No, I don't think I will," he replied. "For once, I'll go casual. You two look *very* nice, by the way. If you're embarrassed by the way I look, you can sit up front together, and I'll sit in the back, in the shadows."

Miranda laughed. "No, Daddy, we'll sit with you."

He smiled. "Okay. I'll go try to look and smell a little less barbaric."

---

The church ceremony, or whatever you call it, passed without incident. There weren't any dogs, or miniature would-be bikers, or anyone else that I didn't want to see.

At least, until we got outside.

The good news was that Robert hadn't come to church. The bad news was that his father had come, and on top of that, Robert's father was good friends with Miranda's father.

The two men started yukking it up on the church steps. The minister pretty quickly asked them to move down to the lawn.

"Where's your better half?" Mr. Jameson asked Mr. Murdoch.

"She's at home, cleaning. She made Robert stay and help."

"Why aren't *you* home helping?" Mr. Jameson teased.

"Yeah, right! Why do think I'm here? This way at least I get some points for watching the little one."

The little one was Robert's little brother, who was running around the lawn with arms outstretched, pretending he was a plane.

"Anyway," Mr. Murdoch went on, "She's going to be cleaning all day. It was a hell of a party yesterday. The kids trashed the place!"

Mr. Jameson turned to Miranda and me and asked, "You did?" in a tone of awe and approval.

"No," I said, "It was this dog..."

"Yeah," Mr. Murdoch scoffed. "Tatum here caught a wild dog in an alley somewhere, dragged it to my house, and let it loose. The thing was a beast! It tore up the place! It almost chased the McCleary boy up a tree."

The two men laughed loudly. Miranda and I glanced at each other, but kept silent.

"What a hoot!" Mr. Murdoch continued. "I thought I'd have to wait till they were teenagers before the wild parties started, but, my God! You should have seen it! It looked like a tornado cut through in a monster truck!"

"It wasn't that bad," I protested, but they didn't listen.

"I'm sorry I missed it," he went on, "but I figured it was just going to be a kids' party, you know? I should have thought... I should have known that Tatum here would carry destruction in her wake."

"Who's Tatum?" Mr. Jameson asked.

"This one here," Mr. Murdoch said, pointing at me.

"My name is Juliette," I corrected. Not that it mattered, because Robert's father just went on talking.

"... which is funny, because she's like that girl in the Bad News Bears, you know, the one who swears?" The two men chuckled as they recalled the movie, and repeated some of the lines in a low voice to each other, which kept them snorting and hooting for a bit. The minister glanced at them several times, but he was busy talking to some people, and couldn't come down.

Miranda whispered to me, "If my Mom or Mrs. Murdoch was here, they wouldn't carry on like this. Pretty soon the minister or somebody will say something." Then she put her arm through mine and the two of us stood side by side waiting for the two fathers to either finish or be scolded.

Mr. Jameson, wiping some tears of laughter from his eyes, turned to me. "You don't swear, do you, Juliette?"

"No," I replied firmly.

"Oh, come on, sure you do," Mr. Murdoch said. "What was it you said to Robert there in the pizzeria?" He nudged Mr. Jameson with his elbow. "Wait till you hear this. Come on, Tatum, you can say it. Just not too loud."

I looked toward the minister, and caught his eye. A moment of understanding passed between us, and he excused himself for a moment from the couple he was speaking to, and hurried over to our little group.

"Now, boys," the minister said in a businesslike tone, "You're getting a bit carried away. I'm glad that you feel at home enough here to—"

"Sorry, rev'end," Mr. Murdoch interrupted. "Say no more. We get the picture. You know me: no brakes. Getting carried away is my way of life."

"I know," the minister said, with a friendly smile. "Now, excuse me, I have to get back..." and he quickly returned to the young couple on the stairs.

"I guess I'd better shove off now," Mr. Murdoch said, rubbing his chin, "though I don't know where I'll go..."

Horrified, I realized that Robert's father was hinting to Miranda's father that he wanted to be invited over. Mr. Jameson understood that, too.

"Sorry," he told his friend. "I'd ask you over, but Macy's got one of her migraines. If she—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Mr. Murdoch said quickly. "I guess I can hang out in a diner someplace. If I could just dump the little one, I could go watch the game in a bar someplace."

"Which game?" Mr. Jameson asked.

"Doesn't matter," the other replied. He scooped up Robert's little brother and left. What a relief!

---

Mr. Jameson took Miranda and me to brunch at a restaurant where we sat in deep chairs by the window and watched the people walking by.

"This is like watching TV," I said.

"Except that sometimes they look back at you," Mr. Jameson laughed, "and sometimes they even say things to you!"

However, Mr. Jameson wasn't watching the people out the window at all. His eyes were glued to a television in the bar area, where a football game was playing.

I ate some of my eggs and hashbrowns, and looked down at my bare legs sticking out from under my skirt. Sitting down, they looked more like girl's legs. Standing up, they looked like boy's legs.

"What are you looking at?" Miranda asked. "Did you drop some food on your dress?"

"No," I replied. "I'm just thinking about whether I have boy legs or girl legs."

She barely suppressed a smile. "I guess it depends on who you are at the moment. Right now, you're a girl, so you have girl legs."

"I'm serious," I told her. "I think I look dorky when I stand up, because then I have boy legs. But when I sit down it looks like I have girl legs."

She looked at my legs, and I could tell by the way her mouth was working that she was trying to not laugh or smirk.

"Well?" I demanded.

"Well, what?" she responded. "Your legs are fine. Don't overthink it. You look fine in that dress. You don't look dorky. You're just not used to seeing yourself wearing dresses."

"Okay," I said.

"Honestly!" she chided, shaking her head.

"Hey, sorry! I just don't want to look stupid."

"Oh," she said. "Well that's not looking stupid. *This* is looking stupid." She crossed her eyes, sucked in her cheeks, and pulled her mouth into big open pucker. Then she dropped her jaw and assumed a vacant look. "I'm stupid, I'm stupid. I'm so stupid that I have boy-legs. And girl legs. When I sit down, I'm a girl, but when I stand up, I'm a boy." Then she burst into giggles, and I had to laugh as well.

"Okay," I said. "Now I know never to ask *you* how I look!" — which set us off laughing again.

I looked at Mr. Jameson, who was hypnotized by the football game.

"Miranda?" I said in a low voice. "Does your father know who I really am?"

"I think he expects *you* to know that," she replied, grinning.

"Why are you such a tease this morning?"

"I dunno. Why are you so insecure? That dress looks fine. Just forget about it."

"Okay," I said, whispering again, "but does your father know about Juliette? — I mean, Victor?"

"I don't know," she said, a little crossly, "You realize that *I* supposedly don't know about Victor. But no — I don't think he knows. It doesn't seem like he knows."

"Okay," I said.

"Listen," she said. "Can you do me a favor and just be Juliette? It's kind of weird for me when you keep talking about Victor and boy legs and stuff."

I didn't realized I'd been irritating her. In some ways, I felt like I was looking toward the finish line, when I could quit dressing like a girl. Soon I'd be Victor all the time, even with Miranda, and I was looking forward to it. It never occurred to me that Miranda might not feel the same way.

"Okay," I agreed. "No more what's-his-name. Just Juliette."

"Good," she said, and smiled.
 

When we got back home, Mr. Jameson pulled a little notebook off a shelf in the kitchen and started making phone calls. In a few moments, it was clear that he was looking for a babysitter. Someone who could follow us around the Halloween parties in the park this afternoon.

"A babysitter for us?" I asked Miranda.

"We don't need a babysitter," Miranda told her father. "Juliette and I will be fine by ourselves."

"I'll feel better if someone's there with you," he said. "If I can't find someone, I'll go with you, but in any case I don't want you wandering around alone. Especially if you're going to be dressed as... what is it you're going to be dressed as?"

"We're both going to be fairies," I replied.
 

Our costumes were virtually identical, except for the colors. Mine was Tinkerbell: soft shades of green. Miranda's costume was of soft pinks. They resembled something a ballerina would wear, except that the hem had a jagged edge. Our wings were white, and our wands matched our outfits. So did our shoes, which were slip-on sneakers: mine green, hers pink.

And, since it was a little cool out, we each wore tights and a long-sleeved body. That last item was the strangest to me: a long-sleeved, tight-fitting shirt that fastened between my legs. I had a bit of time getting the snaps to close, but finally I figured it out. Of course, once I was all dressed, I had to pee, which meant undoing three layers of clothes and being careful with the wispy, light skirt.

Mr. Jameson managed to find a teenage girl named Courtney. When we met her, I almost said, "Nice costume!" before I realized that she probably dressed that way every day. ("I know, I thought that, too!" Miranda said, when we discussed it later.) Courtney had the whole Goth look: her hair was black with a violet streak. She wore a black stretchy miniskirt, torn black tights, and high, laced boots with huge heels. She had a long-sleeved beige cotton top, with a black lingerie camisole over it, and — in spite of wearing two tops — managed to make her belly button show. Her fingernail polish and lipstick were dark red, and her eye makeup was several shades of gray and silver.

AND YET, she was very nice! If you just looked at her, she was scary, but if you talked to her, she was sweet.

I'm pretty sure Mr. Jameson assumed she was wearing a costume, so he wasn't fazed by her. I did see him give her the once-over, and she was kind of cute, in a waif-like way. She was super thin and had small breasts... but on her, it looked good! *I* (I mean, I-Victor) wouldn't mind going out with her. It turned out that she was my age (14), which was kind of ironic.

But anyway... even though she was my real age, and only four years older than Miranda, she talked to us as if were five years old, and insisted on holding our hands whenever we crossed the street.

When were about to cross our third intersection, I held my hand back and I told her, "We do know how to cross a street by ourselves, you know!"

She said, "Maybe you do, sweetie, but your daddy hired me to take care of you two. If *he* thought you could go by yourself, he would have let you go by yourself, right?"

"Yeah, but–"

"So be a good little girl and hold my hand while we cross the street. If you don't, we'll have to turn around and tell Daddy that you were a bad little girl." She crouched down so her face was even with mine. "You're not going to be a bad little girl are, you, sweetie? Look how cute you are, in that cute little costume! You look like a good little girl. Are you a good little girl?"

Behind Courtney, Miranda was silently laughing. While Courtney talked to me, Miranda moved her mouth to the words and made faces like a mother makes to her baby. I would have rolled my eyes at her, but Courtney's eyes were locked on mine.

"Yes," I agreed. It was the only way to go on.

"Yes, what?" Courtney asked.

"Yes, I'm a good little girl."

"Good! Now come give me a big hug — and you, too, Miranda! — and then we'll all hold hands and cross the busy street!"
 

Aside from all her syrup and baby talk, Courtney was actually a good babysitter. She never let us out of her sight, she didn't talk on her cell phone, and she brought us from one park to the next and then to the mall.

Everyone wanted to take our picture, and at both parks they gathered all the girls in fairy costumes and took a group shot. Some of the parents wore costumes, and one mother dressed as Tinkerbell, but her curves made the costume look a lot different from mine. And *she* definitely didn't have boy-legs.

It was fun, but all the walking was exhausting, so we didn't stay all the way to the end. Still, we gathered an enormous quantity of candy. It was a bit heavy by the time we headed for home. Courtney helped us carry it, and we let her take all the ones with peanut butter in them.

Miranda told me that we could separate out the ones we really liked, and donate the rest to children in hospitals. Her mother would take care of bringing it.

---

When we got home, Mrs. Jameson was in the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe. Her face was alarmingly pale, but she said she was fine.

She paid Courtney, who left. She asked us what we thought of Courtney as a babysitter, and she poured us each a glass of milk.

"I'll make dinner in a moment," she said, "but first, Juliette, you need to call your mother. Your grandfather is sick. He's in the hospital."

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

"I'm sorry we didn't talk to you first, Victor, but we had to make a quick decision. Your father didn't have his car, and there wasn't any point in taking you. You would have had to hang around the hospital, and you wouldn't have had time to change."

"Oh," I said, seeing myself sitting in a hospital hallway, dressed as Tinkerbell, complete with wings and wand.

---

 

18. Home, Sick
 

"Do you have the number?" I asked Mrs. Jameson.

"What number?" she asked in a soft voice. I could see that her energy was still very low.

"The number where my mother is."

She frowned slightly. "She's at home. You know your own number, don't you?"

"Sure," I said, but I was alarmed. What was my mother doing at home? She was supposed to be here in Boston, so she and Dad could pick me up in the morning.

"Why don't you use the phone in the living room," Mrs. Jameson suggested, "so you can have some privacy. Miranda and I can stay in here."

I walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. As I picked up the phone and began punching in the numbers for home, I was suddenly aware that I was still dressed as Tinkerbell. I hope my father doesn't answer, I told myself, as though he could somehow see me over the phone line.

It was my mother who answered. "Hello, Victor. Are you having a good time?"

"A good time? Well, yeah, but what's happening now? Are you still coming to get me in the morning?"

"No, hon. Something's happened to your grandfather, Grandpa Samson. He's in the hospital, and he's pretty sick."

I can't say I was surprised. My grandfather had always looked frail, as if he were made of sticks and rice paper. You'd expect him to fly off on the slightest breeze. He trembled when he walked, and I couldn't imagine how old he must be. "Is grandpa going to die?" I asked, surprised at how fearful my voice sounded.

My mother was silent for a few moments, weighing what to tell me. Then she said, "Yes, he might die. He had a seizure this morning—"

"What does that mean? A seizure?"

She took a long breath. "I don't know, exactly. Your grandmother said he passed out, and he didn't wake up. So they took him to the hospital."

"Why did you go back?" I asked. "Why did you leave me here?"

"We had to leave in a hurry," she said. "Your father has power of attorney for your grandfather, so he has to deal with the hospital."

"Couldn't Dad go by himself?"

Again Mom paused, then she said. "I'm sorry we didn't talk to you first, Victor, but we had to make a quick decision. Your father didn't have his car, and there wasn't any point in taking you. You would have had to hang around the hospital, and you wouldn't have had time to change."

"Oh," I said, seeing myself sitting in a hospital hallway, dressed as Tinkerbell, complete with wings and wand.

"Well, I suppose you could have," Mom said, correcting herself, "but the point is, your father and I are busy with your grandparents. You'd have to take care of yourself. Plus, you'd miss Halloween entirely. That would be a shame, after all the trouble we've gone to this year."

"Yeah," I said, a little sadly. We were both silent for a space. "Will Grandpa be okay?"

"Honey, I don't think so. I don't know. We can talk about it when you come home."

"Oh! How will I get home? Do I have to take the train by myself?"

"No, your uncle will bring you. It's a good thing that you met him Friday, isn't it? He lives on Beacon Hill, so once you're done trick-or-treating, Macy will drop you off at his house, and he'll drive you right here."

"Will Dad mind that?"

My mother drew a sharp breath. "At this point, your father's family has to pull together. And if they can't or won't, then I swear, I'll knock their heads together."

I was a little shocked, and maybe she felt my reaction, because she immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Victor. You know that I don't mean that literally. But I am so fed up with this stupid grudge between your uncle and your father. It's time they put it behind them."

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

"Victor? Are you still there?"

"Yes, Mom."

"About tomorrow: both Macy and your uncle offered to take care of you, but your uncle would have to take off work, and Macy wanted you to stay. She said it would be more complicated if you had to go and come back, and all that..."

"Okay," I said.

"Listen to me, Victor. You know she's still not feeling well, so just go along with whatever she wants to do, okay? If she wants to lie in her bed all day, then let her rest. Read a book quietly or something."

"I will."

"And if she wants to go shopping or has to run errands, go along and be a good sport. Okay? Try to help her if you can."

"I get it, Mom. I will."

"Good. Try to make it easy for her. Whatever you have to do tomorrow, just remember: you were supposed to be in school, so whatever you end up doing–"

"–it will have to be better than that," I said, finishing her sentence for her.

"Well, I wasn't going to say *that*," she countered, "but if you want to take it that way... The important thing is how you behave. That's all that counts."

"I get it, Mom, I get it!"

"Okay. Your father is having a very hard time, Victor. Think about him. Your grandfather is *his* father, and now your Dad has to make all the decisions about what the hospital can and can't do."

I made a noncommittal noise. I didn't really know what she meant, but I didn't want to talk about it any more. I sighed.

"All right, hon." Mom said. "Have fun tomorrow. Call me when you're on the way home. Use your uncle's cell phone when you get on the Pike.* I love you!"

"Love you, too," I replied, almost automatically. I did mean it, though.
 

When I returned to the kitchen, I found Miranda sitting alone, waiting for me, still wearing her pink fairy outfit.

"Hey, you know what I was thinking?" she said. "You should be reading The Green Fairy Book and I should be reading The Pink Fairy Book."

"Oh, yeah, I guess so," I replied.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, with real concern.

"No, I don't think so. My mother said my grandfather might die." I heaved a heavy sigh.

"Is he very old?"

"Yes." Unimaginably old. "He's all frail and thin and rickety." Suddenly the world seemed to have come loose from its moorings... everything was adrift. Mrs. Jameson was sick, Mr. Jameson was out somewhere, Grandpa was sick, maybe dying, and my Dad was... well, all wrapped up in that. Mom was trying to help Dad. My crazy uncle was off doing whatever he does.

Who did that leave? Just me and Miranda.

"Do you have to go home now?" she asked me.

"No, they want me to stay and do trick-or-treating. There isn't anything I can do anyway." Then something my mother said came back to me. "Miranda, do you know what power of attorney means?"

"No, but I suppose it means the things an attorney can do. You know, like lawyers?"

"Yeah, except my Dad's not a lawyer, but he has power of attorney for my grandfather. So it can't be that."

Miranda looked as if she wanted to hazard another guess, but instead she told me, "Let's look it up."

She jumped softly down from her stool and walked toward me. I lifted my head and looked into her face. Suddenly my sadness swept up from behind me and overwhelmed me in a wave. The weight of my grandfather's impending death came down from the sky and pressed its weight upon me. Miranda somehow saw all that and opened her arms. I put my head on her shoulder and cried, not knowing why I cried or who I was crying for.

My body shook, and my face seemed to pour with tears. I was cut wide open, vulnerable, and unashamed. I didn't know whether Miranda minded my crying, but the fact that she didn't let go was all the encouragement I needed to go on. She held me gently, her hands on my shoulders. And while I wept I was aware of the light pink cloth of Miranda's fairy costume, and the wings on her back that she hadn't taken off.

She moved her hands slightly, just under my wings, and I realized that I hadn't taken mine off, either. That thought was enough to break the momentum of my sobbing, and gradually I went down from sobs to cries, to weeps, to tears, and finally to sighs. As I caught my breath and began to think about tissues and cleaning my face and nose, the heavy moment passed.

"Thanks, Miranda," I said.

"It's okay," she told me as she held out a box of tissues. "So what are you going to do tomorrow?"

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I'm going to spend the day with your mother."

She gave me a doubtful frown. "Really?"

"Well, I wasn't going to school anyway," I said. "I was going to spend the day with my parents." I shrugged. "I guess I'll just wait for you to get home."

"Hmmph," Miranda said, full of envy.

"Where is your mother, anyway?"

"She went to bed. She left us some dinner, though. Are you hungry?"

---

It was a strange, subdued evening — but I don't mean that in a bad way. We were two little girls alone in a big house. We kept our costumes on until it was time for bed. We ate the quiche and salad that Mrs. Jameson had left for us, and we sat in the living room and talked in low voices. I don't think I've ever had a more quiet evening with a person my age, and I realized yet again what an amazing and wonderful person Miranda is.

We didn't talk about my grandfather or the Juliette/Victor question. At first, Miranda did all of the talking. She told me about her life, her hopes and aspirations, and I listened, absorbed. I think it helped me... it took me out of myself, away from my own life with its fears and uncertainties.

Then I talked too, maybe even more than she had, but I hardly remember anything I said.

At one point we looked at a clock and realized, to our surprise, that it was ten o'clock.

"I've got to get to bed," Miranda said. "It's late for me."

She gave me a hug, and off we went to our separate rooms.

I feel asleep right away.

---

I woke with the sun, and lay there about a half an hour, just looking at the ceiling.

Mrs. Jameson knocked lightly and came in. She looked a little better than yesterday, but still pale. "Have you picked out your clothes for today, Juliette?" she asked.

"My mother did," I told her.

"Good," she said, "Can you be washed and dressed in a half hour?"

"Yes," I said, sitting up. I remembered how my mother had asked me to cooperate, to go along, with Mrs. Jameson.

"Good," she repeated. "Breakfast will be ready in a half hour. See you downstairs." Then she left the room and I heard her descend the stairs.

My mother had given me a list of which outfit to wear when, so that Mrs. Jameson wouldn't have a chance to choose my clothes. For today, I had a denim skirt, a long-sleeved cornflower-blue top, and light-blue ribbed tights.

I washed and dressed quickly and was downstairs in 25 minutes. Miranda was already there, dressed for school in a dark skirt and white top. Her hair was pulled back in a white hairband. She smiled when she saw me. I returned her smile as I slid into the chair next to hers.

"Mom? Can I stay home with you and Juliette today?"

Mrs. Jameson had her back to us as she made herself a cup of tea. "Who said Juliette was staying home with me?"

Uh-oh. "Um, then where *will* I be today?" I asked, afraid that I might already know the answer.

"You're going to school with Miranda. Didn't I tell you last night?"

"No," I said. "I can't go to school with Miranda!"

Mrs. Jameson chuckled, not unkindly, and turned to look at us. "Yes, I guess I couldn't have told you last night. It was Lex's idea. He's on the board of Miranda's school, and he talked to the principal. We've told a little fib that you'll have to go along with, which is that your family may relocate to Boston, and while your parents look at houses, you're going to try the school."

"But... but... but...," I said.

Miranda grinned, happy that I was coming with her, and happy that she wasn't being left out of a day off from school.

"But what?" Mrs. Jameson asked, with a mischievous smile. "What would you normally do today?"

"Oh!" I let out, as I felt myself deflating.

"You would have gone to school, right?"

"Right."

"I'm sorry, Juliette. I know you were hoping to spend the day with your parents, sightseeing and having fun. But I don't have the energy... I need to rest today, and Lex is at work. Which reminds me... I was thinking of asking Courtney to take you girls trick-or-treating tonight. How do you feel about that?"

Miranda and I looked at each other, then back to Mrs. Jameson. We shrugged at the same moment. I said, "She's okay," as Miranda said, "We like her."

"Good." Mrs. Jameson replied. "All right then. We leave in fifteen minutes." She left the room and went upstairs.

As soon as her mother was out of earshot, Miranda erupted in a screech of laughter. "You have to go to school!" she sang in a sing-song voice.

"Oh, jeez," I said, blushing to my roots. "I don't think I'll ever celebrate Halloween, ever again!"

"It's not so bad!" Miranda teased. "You might even get to sit next to Robert!"

I let out a low groan as she fell off her chair, giggling and clutching her sides.

---

On the drive to school, Miranda said, "I wonder whether Courtney will wear a costume tonight?"

The two of us glanced at each other and started giggling.

"Do you mean, like, like... regular clothes?" I gasped.

"Maybe she could dress like an Amish girl," Miranda offered.

"No, no. For her, a costume would be, like, jeans and a t-shirt."

Miranda guffawed and I sniggered. Mrs. Jameson looked at us in the rear-view mirror.

"Is there something about Courtney that I should know?" she asked.

"No," we sang out together, and began giggling all over again.

---

Miranda's mother parked her car and walked into the school with us. She sent Miranda off to class, and accompanied me to the office. She wanted to introduce me to the principal, and apparently we had to check whether my mother had signed and faxed some sort of release or permission or something. She had, and so the principal took me in hand. Mrs. Jameson left for home.

Next, an eighth-grader named Jenny gave me a tour of the school, which was not all that interesting. Everything was nice, but it had nothing to do with me. Still, as I'd told my mother last night, it beat going to class, so I went along willingly and didn't try to rush her. Jenny seemed to have the same idea as me, so we took our time looking the school over, and I asked as many questions as I could manage. I even took a long visit to the girls room to try to delay the inevitable.

With all that, it was still only 10:05 when we finally arrived at Miranda's classroom. All the students had their heads down. They were busy with Math worksheets (as I soon found out). The teacher, Ms. Rosenstern, had her back to the door, as she bent down to help someone.

The room had six small, low tables, and the children sat in groups of three or four around them.

Jenny cleared her throat, and one of the boys in the class raised his head.

"Juliette!" he called.

The other students raised their heads, and smiling, waving, called, "Juliette's here! Hi, Juliette! Ms. Rosenstern, Juliette's here!"

I took a few steps into the room, and Ms. Rosenstern turned. She was a young, pretty teacher, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. She smiled and said, "Hello, Juliette. I'd introduce you to the class, but it seems that everybody knows you already."

I smiled and waved at the class. "Thank you for letting me come here today," I said.

One boy, Ike McCleary, asked in a fearful voice, "You didn't bring your dog, did you?"

The class erupted with laughter, hoots, and barking noises.

I suppressed my smile, remembering that Ike was the boy who Carl had chased around the yard.

"No, I didn't bring any dog. That wasn't my dog, anyway."

Everyone in the room began talking at once. It was a low-level hubbub that Ms. Rosenstern quickly nipped in the bud. She clapped her hands and called everyone to order.

While the room quieted down, I mouthed a thanks! to Jenny, who smiled and left.

Ms. Rosenstern pointed me to an empty chair, and asked everyone to hand in their Math worksheets.

Where I was sitting, I had my back to Miranda, but I found myself in good company: Jackie, Laura, and Matt, the three children with which I'd built a scarecrow.

"We're glad to have you as our table-neighbor," Matt said, with a slightly formal touch.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm glad, too."

Jackie touched my arm and whispered, with a conspiratorial smile, "Robert's in the bathroom. Maybe you were hoping he was home, sick?"

"That would have been nice," I replied, and she gave a cute smirk.

Ms. Rosenberg, with the sheaf of papers in her hand, stopped behind an empty chair. "Is Robert still in the bathroom?" she asked, incredulous.

No one answered, but everyone knew.

"Matt, will you go and fetch him?" the teacher requested.

"I went last time!" he replied.

"Ike?" she began, but before she said another word, Robert, the original macho man himself, came swaggering through the door.

When his eye fell on me, he shouted, "Baby!"

"Lord help us!" I muttered, and Jackie snickered.

---

* The "Pike" is the Massachusetts Turnpike.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

I don't know how those little stories strike you, but... as I listened... at first I felt like a fish out of water. My first impulse was to laugh or to mock, but I was the only one. Everyone else in the room took each story as it was: a candid offering. I'm not saying they were all good; they weren't. But they were all sincere, without guile.

---

 

19. The Brains Of The Fifth-Grade Girl-World
 

Poor Robert's enthusiasm was short-lived. Ms. Rosenstern shut him down quickly and decisively. She scolded him for being so long in the bathroom. She pointed out that everyone had done their Math worksheets but him. And now that everyone was going on to descriptive writing, what was he supposed to do?

It wasn't a brief scolding either. She ripped him up and down. The way she did it was shocking; she'd been so nice until now.

I actually felt sorry for the boy, and if it would have done any good, I would have said something. I had forgotten how mean teachers can be in the lower grades, when children are more vulnerable. Until now I'd liked Ms. Rosenstern, but now I wasn't so sure.

She sent Robert to sit at the one empty table with his back to the rest of us, to do his Math worksheet.

I looked at his sad little shoulders and — against my better judgement — felt partly responsible.

"Now," Ms. Rosenstern said, "I've been hearing about this party all last week and all this morning. Class, I want each of you to write two or three paragraphs about something you remember from the party."

"Do we write two paragraphs, or three?" one boy asked.

"Write enough to make it clear," she replied. "If it takes three paragraphs, write three paragraphs. If it takes two, write two."

"How will we know?" one voice cried in a desperate tone, and another asked, "What if it only takes *one* paragraph? Or one sentence?"

The teacher ignored the questions and said, "First write your notes. Set down the points you need to make. Then, write your paragraphs."

Soon, all heads were bowed, and pencils were scratching paper.

I looked over at Robert. Ms. Rosenstern stood over him, the figure of punishing authority. Without any warning, she swept his Math sheet away from him, just as he was about to write. I could see it wasn't complete, and he looked up at her in pale-faced helplessness. Then she walked away, leaving him at a loss, until she returned and gave him two sheets of paper for the writing assignment.

As I watched her interaction with Robert, one word came to my mind: bully. She was bullying Robert, and there was nothing he could do about it.
 

Ike McCleary was the first to read his piece. He went to the front of the classroom, clutching his paper with both hands. He announced, "My composition is titled THE MAD DOG." His eyes opened like two lanterns, and he fixed them on me for a moment before continuing.

I was very happy when I went to Robert's Halloween party. I was the Unshreddable Hulk. My mother bought my costume in a store, but I picked it out. Robert's party was very nice, even though the apple juice tasted like it had a funny taste.

Everything was going great until a girl named Juliette brought her MAD DOG. She sat in the sink and watched her dog try to bite me. If I didn't know how to run so fast, her dog would have bit me. I think that being the Unshreddable Hulk also made me run faster.

I opened my mouth to laugh, but there was silence around me: respectful silence. I was expecting — maybe even hoping — for more of a response from the listeners: groans of denial, laughter... Instead, everyone sat quietly and listened.

Next came a girl whose name I forget. "My composition is titled The Butcher Boy And The Princess."

One thing I didn't expect to see at the Halloween Party was a real-life fairy tale. Just like Cinderella, after the party was already started, two princesses came down the stairs, and everything stopped. One of the princesses was Miranda, and she was quite beautiful. But the other princess was very mysterious, and everyone whispered, "Who could she be?"

There were no princes at the party, but Robert, who was dressed as a butcher's boy, said, "I must know who she is," and he helped her down from her throne. Then he gave her a sweet, passionate kiss until the queen saw him and told him to stop. It's wrong for a butcher's boy to kiss a princess, but he would always treasure that moment when the butcher's boy felt like a prince.

I don't know how those little stories strike you, but... as I listened... I felt like a fish out of water. My first impulse was to laugh or to mock, but I was the only one. Everyone else in the room took each story as it was: a candid offering. I'm not saying they were all good; they weren't. But they were all sincere, without guile.

To stay there and listen I had to take a step outside myself. I had to sort of turn off the critical, scoffing part of me... the part that had to have something to say.

I won't say I became more child-like in those moments, but I did see how much attitude I'd acquired in four years — an attitude that would be abrasive to kids this age.

Oddly, Ms. Rosenstern had both: she could do the respectful-listening thing, and she could be abrasive, although she seemed to save the latter all for Robert.

Miranda's composition was called "Misunderstandings" and the point of it was that the dog wasn't mine and that I hadn't let it into the house. She told the story of how it latched onto us, and how Mrs. Murdoch left the door open.

What was my composition about? I called it "Being Responsible." In it I played up all the good things Robert had done: how he took hold of the dog, how he telephoned the owner, how he ignored the owner's rudeness, and how he put the dog outside. Then, after mentioning how the dog had trashed his house, I pointed out that he stayed home on Sunday to help his mother clean up.

Of course, I didn't mention that his mother *made* him help clean, and of course I left out the kiss. All I wanted to do was make it clear — in stark contrast to the way the teacher treated him — that Robert wasn't a complete schmuck.

The class heard my composition with the same respectful silence that they gave to every other piece. There was no reaction: no knowing looks, no smirks or smiles. Robert took what I wrote with a sort of beaten-down meekness.

I was really beginning to hate Ms. Rosenstern.

Robert's composition described everyone's costumes. I think he was too frightened of Ms. Rosenstern to single me out for compliments, but he managed to say that Miranda and I were "two lovely princesses" and left it at that.

---

It was much like that the rest of the day. Except for the teacher's treatment of Robert, it wasn't bad. It was kind of fun. Miranda smiled at me a lot, and Jackie clearly wanted to be my friend. She and Miranda sat on either side of me at lunch.

"Does Ms. Rosenstern always pick on Robert?" I asked them.

"Yeah," said Jackie as she examined the contents of her sandwich. "Pretty much."

"Every day," agreed Miranda.

"Is he bad? Does he do anything to, ah..."

"No," Miranda answered. "He's good. I mean, he behaves like everybody else. Once in a while–"

Jackie cut in, "–he just bursts out and says something, like today."

"He forgets himself," Miranda explained. "He's exuberant."

I raised my eyebrows. "Impressive word," I said, by way of compliment.

"She's the brains of the fifth-grade girl-world," Jackie told me.

---

At about 2:30, Jenny, the eighth-grader who'd given me the tour, came to our class with a message: "The principal wants to see Juliette Samson before she goes home."

"I'll go with you," Miranda said. And so she did.

I glanced at Robert, still sitting alone with his back to us, and suddenly I had an idea. Maybe there *was* something I could do.

I asked myself, How would a ten-year-old girl say it...
 

As I suspected, the principal wanted to know how I liked the school.

"It's nice," I said in a noncommittal tone. "I like the girls in my class — I mean Miranda's class."

The principal smiled. "Well, it could be your class, if you come to school here. Would you like that?"

I took a deep breath, and made the face I've seen kids make... the face that they make when there's something to say, but it's not safe to say it. "Um... maybe," I said. I managed to get the tone just right: as if I hoped my answer would be enough, so the grown-up wouldn't ask for more.

The principal frowned slightly. "You don't sound so sure. Was there something you didn't like?"

I hesitated, and looked up at her with what I hoped was an innocent look (which I guess is no look at all), and asked her, "Will I get in trouble if I say?"

Miranda was electrified. She had no idea what I was playing at.

The principal glanced back and forth between the two of us. "No, of course not," she said. "I'd like to know."

"Well...," I began. "At my school the teachers are nice..."

"Isn't Ms. Rosenstern nice?"

"To most of us," I replied. "But not to everyone."

"Oh?"

"She was... she was... really... mean to one boy, Robert."

"Was she mean to you?"

"No! Not at all! But still... I didn't like the way she treated him, and I wouldn't like to see that..." I felt like a ten-year-old girl gathering her courage, and declared firmly, "I wouldn't like her to be my teacher."

The principal was shocked. I'm pretty sure she was wondering what I'd tell my parents, how they'd take what I'd said... She turned to Miranda. "Is this true, Miranda?"

Miranda twisted her mouth to the side but didn't say anything.

The principal was silent for a moment, then said, "Miranda, you won't get in trouble. I just want to know. I need to know."

"Yes, it's true," Miranda agreed. "She's mean to Robert. Every day. She's nice to everyone else, but not to him. And he's not a bad kid."

The principal looked in our faces as she took it in. Then she said, "Thank you, girls, for telling me. Juliette, I'm sorry that you had an unpleasant experience here, but I want to tell you that I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to speak to Ms. Rosenstern and to Robert." She looked grim for a moment. "It looks like *I* will have to be mean to Ms. Rosenstern for a bit."

I smiled at that, which was what she was aiming at.

"I want to talk to your parents about this, Juliette, so they understand that we don't tolerate that sort of mistreatment here.

"And remember: Ms. Rosenstern's not the only fifth-grade teacher here. Okay?"

With the look of one who'd lost a battle but hadn't given up the war, she gently ushered us out to the hallway, where Miranda's mother was waiting.

---

As we walked to the car, Miranda looked like she was ready to burst.

"I can't believe you did that!" she whispered to me. "Don't say anything about it until we get home!"

I looked at her to gauge her mood. She was clearly delighted: she was smiling, her eyebrows were dancing, and she couldn't stand still.

"Miranda, do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?" her mother asked. "We can wait for you."

"No, Mom," Miranda replied, a little offended. "I'm just excited."

"Alright," Mrs. Jameson said. "No harm in asking!"

When we got the car and did up our seat belts, Miranda quipped, "I wonder whether Courtney will wear a costume?"

"I wonder whether we'll be able to tell!" I retorted, and the two of us burst into laughter.

Mrs. Jameson looked at us in the rear-view mirror. "Is this about the way Courtney dresses?" she asked.

"Yes," Miranda replied. "She's very goth."

"She doesn't have any piercings, though," I added.

"Thank goodness for that," Mrs. Jameson said. "I talked to some of the other mothers she babysits for, and they told me how she dresses. But they all said that she's very responsible, and a very nice girl."

"Oh, she is," Miranda and I sang out together. Then we both said "Jinx!" at the same moment, and gave up, laughing.

"I'm glad you girls are having fun," Mrs. Jameson commented. And somehow, what she said sobered us up.
 

In spite of my reservations about the costume, I couldn't wait to get into it. In case you don't remember, my third and last costume, the one for Halloween itself, was Rainbow Brite.

If you don't know Rainbow Brite, well, neither did I. She's a cartoon character for kids, and she has something to do with rainbows.

So, I had to wear a shiny blue dress with cap sleeves. The hem, which was very high, was trimmed in white fur. When I say "the hem was very high" I mean that if the dress was any shorter, it would be a long shirt. Plus, the skirt kind of belled out, so pretty much my entire legs were visible.

On the other hand, I had a lot of other stuff to wear underneath. First, the long-sleeved body, with horizontal rainbow stripes. I had to wear a pair of ordinary panties under it so the snaps wouldn't chafe. Over the body, I wore a pair of blue panties that matched the dress.

All of that made me feel rather covered up below, so I didn't feel so exposed or self-conscious. Plus, as Mom pointed out, short girls can wear shorter skirts than tall girls.

The costume was finished off with a rainbow belt, rainbow knee socks, red sneakers, and a blue hairband for my hair. (The "real" Rainbow Brite has a blue scrunchie and a pony tail, but I don't have enough hair for that.)

When I was done dressing, I was pretty happy with the way I looked.

Miranda knocked on my door, and she was ready, too.

I think I mentioned that Mom made a Supergirl costume for her. I'd tried it on for the fittings, but it looked very different on Miranda.

Miranda's hair isn't as long or as blonde as Supergirl's, but it didn't matter. She looked so outrageously cool in that costume! Mom had found a pair of red boots, and the colors of the costume were perfect. Miranda was Supergirl.

"Wow!" I said. "Can you fly in that outfit?"

"I don't know," she laughed, "I can try when we get to the top of Beacon Hill."

"If you end up rolling down the hill, I'll roll down after you," I promised.

"Okay," she agreed.

After we'd admired each other's costumes, and agreed that we'd left the best for last, the doorbell rang.

"That'll be Courtney," Miranda said.

"Dressed as..."

"A regular girl..."

"As Snow White!"

"Or Little Bo Peep!"

We were giggling and snorting our way down the stairs, but the fact of the matter was... we weren't far off.

Near the front door, next to Mrs. Jameson, was a young blonde teenage girl, dressed quite demurely.

"Courtney?" we gasped in unison.

"Your hair!" I exclaimed. "Where... how..."

"It's a wig," she laughed. "Tonight, I'm a fifties teenybopper."

She had the costume down pat: the poodle skirt, white top, sash belt, ascot, bobby socks, and saddle shoes.

"We were... we were joking about what you'd wear tonight," I told her.

Her eyes twinkled. "I know," she told me. "I've been hearing it all year, from everybody. I just tried to think of the scariest thing I could be... and voilà!"

Next came the photographs. One of Miranda, one of me, one of Courtney. One of Miranda and me, one of the three of us together. With Mrs. Jameson's camera, with Mom's camera, with Courtney's camera. Do the math: fifteen shots. Plus some extras. Still, I'd be glad to have the photos afterward.

Before we left, Miranda's mother and Courtney called each other's cell phones to be sure they had each other's number. Then Mrs. Jameson drove us across town and dropped us off on Charles Street.

"Listen to me," Courtney said. "I want you two to stay together. Always make sure you're standing next to each other. After every house, look to make sure you know where I am. Okay?"

"Yes," we agreed, but we were itching to go.

"I'm serious," she said. "If I lose either of you, that's the end of me. If you don't do those two things, we're going to be holding hands all night long."

"Okay," we agreed.

It wasn't hard to do as she asked. Miranda and I had gotten so much candy yesterday that we didn't need any more, even after culling out the ones we didn't like. We weren't greedy. We walked slowly from house to house, taking in all the decorations, the sound effects, the costumes, the atmosphere.

It was amazing. I was used to Halloween in the suburbs, where you spent most of your time walking from house to house. There, you race to make up all distance you have to cover. Here in the city, one front door was just few yards from the next, and the whole place, the whole space you could see, was totally given over to Halloween. It was a Halloween village: Halloween in every inch of it. Everyone who said it was right: Beacon Hill had to be the best place on earth to go trick-or-treating. If this was going to be my last time, well, I was doing it up right. In every way, this was going to be the Halloween that I'd remember.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

In this whole adventure I was never so conscious of looking girly as at this moment. Maybe it was because we were standing in near darkness on the shoulder of a busy highway, and I could see my little twill skirt flutter in the wake from the passing cars. Maybe the fact that my uncle, who was only slightly taller than me, was on his knees before me, and for once, now that I was looking down into someone's face, I felt a stab of pity mixed with the joy of feeling (for once!) taller.

---

 

20. Getting There
 

I said — and will probably continue to say for the rest of my life — that Beacon Hill is the absolute best place to trick-or-treat on Halloween.

Of course, I'm just a kid, and I haven't been everywhere, but I do know that Beacon Hill would be hard to beat.

To begin with, the place itself is very cool, apart from Halloween. Its streets are narrow, lit by gas streetlamps, and lined with old brick row houses. Tight alleyways run through the hill, and they're paved with round, irregular cobblestones. In some spots the houses are so close, you feel you're in a dark brick maze. Then suddenly it opens up to a pretty square with grass and trees, fenced in by a wrought-iron fence.

And even if it's wrong to say that *everyone* on the hill is rich, well, a lot of them must be, with their over-the-top decorations and the amount of candy they hand out.

A lot of adults were in costume. I saw a Wicked Witch of the West who had the cackle exactly right. There was a Wicked Queen (from Snow White) who was honestly quite frightening to look at.

The sun went down at about 5:30, so it got dark pretty quickly, making the whole scene much more Halloweeny.

Courtney was great. She looked so cute that the fathers who were out with their children just had to chat her up. Courtney was cool — I mean, she spoke to them; she was very polite — but she didn't give an atom of warmth, and she never took her eyes off us.

I had to respect her: her priorities were clear. She was responsible. At the same time, she let Miranda and me have fun.

It was absolutely the best Halloween ever: the most memorable, the most fantastic!

And, God! The houses were just incredible... with their fake spiderwebs, lights, music, spooky sounds, exotically carved pumpkins. Some people even set up little scenes, little tableaux. One house had a fake graveyard out front, complete with a coffin for a mannequin vampire that sat up and gave and laughed evilly.

A huge rubber spider climbed up and down the front of another house, while smaller spiders bounced on cords from a tree.

At one point, Miranda and I came to an undecorated, unlit door. It was obvious that no one was home — at least no one who would answer — so we sat down on the stoop. Neither of us realized how tired we were until that moment. Walking up and down the hill was a chore. And lord! Our bags had gotten pretty heavy.

Courtney leaned against a tree and smiled at us. She looked so cute in that blonde wig. I wished for a moment that she knew I was a boy... a boy her age, in fact! Still, it would never work... she lived so far away from me... and there was as always the problem of my height... but anyway... I could dream.

Miranda and I dug into our bags and started pulling out the candies we didn't want. We had a LOT of candy, but we each had candy we didn't want. Soon we had a big pile of discards on the ground between us.

Our idea was to trade: Miranda might like the ones I didn't, and vice versa. But before we'd exchanged a single piece, two little girls came and stood before us, saying, "Trick or treat!"

We dropped some of our unwanted candy into their bags. Courtney laughed, and I smiled at her.

More children followed, and we kept handing out candy until all our discards were gone. Then we stood up and walked around some more.

By 7:30 we were tired and hungry, and our bags had gotten heavy again. Courtney took us to a pizzeria on Charles Street, but just as we stepped inside, her cell phone rang.

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Jameson. [pause] Yes, we just finished. We were just about to get something to eat. [pause] Really?" Her eyes fell on me, and my heart stepped up a few beats. From her expression, she was hearing something serious. She twisted up her mouth and turned her back to me so I couldn't see her face. "Uh huh... uh huh," she said. Then she put her hand over her mouth and said in a low voice, "Should I tell her?"

My heart flew into my throat.

"Okay... [pause] yes, I understand. No, I know where that is. [pause] Right. I'll meet you there. Goodbye, Mrs. Jameson."

When she turned back to face us, my eyes were enormous, and my hands were clutching each other. "What is it?" I asked.

"Your grandfather is... very sick," she said.

"I know that!" I told her, interrupting.

"Well, he's gotten worse. Your uncle wants to leave now, and I have to take you to his house. It isn't far. Just a few blocks—" she looked over her shoulder in both directions, then "—that way."

All the way there I kept asking Courtney questions. Had something happened? What was the news? I looked for different ways to ask the same question, to try to squeeze more information out of the little that she knew.

But all Courtney would say was, "I don't know, Juliette. Mrs. Jameson didn't say."

Miranda held my hand, and the two of us walked that way, one hand clutching a heavy bag of candy and the other holding on to a friend.

 

---

 

Uncle Mick was wringing his hands when he saw me. "Oh, there you are!" he cried in relief. "I've gone mad waiting!" To Courtney he said, "Do you need money, girl? What do I need to pay you?"

She started back and gave him an offended look. "I work for Mrs. Jameson," she replied. "I don't need anything from you."

"Fine, good, fine!" he said in a distracted tone. "Get in the car then, Juliette."

"I need to go to the bathroom," I said.

"So do I," Miranda put in.

Courtney crossed her arms and pursed her lips. She looked at my uncle in silence. She was the very picture of feminine disapproval. I had the idea that she needed the bathroom as well, but she wasn't going to say so.

My uncle looked at the three of us, his eyes darting from one girl to the next. His face wore a hunted, harrassed expression, and it tore my heart.

"Then come in, girls," he said, in a beaten tone, and we followed him inside.

I understood, if Courtney didn't, that Uncle Mick was anxious to get underway. I ran to the bathroom and tried to be as quick as I could possibly be. Then, as Miranda ducked inside, I asked my uncle, "Can I quick get changed?"

His face paled, and he said, "Oh, must you?"

Courtney frowned. "You can't bring her to the hospital dressed like that! She'll—"

He put up his hand and went to retrieve my suitcase from the car.

 

---

 

Uncle Mick didn't say a word as he negotiated the streets of Boston, but once we got onto the Turnpike, he said, "Your friend is quite the little harridan. And for a girl her age! I pity the man who ends up wedding her."

I opened my mouth to defend Courtney, but thought better of it. My uncle was upset... I just let it go.

"The reason...," he said, and then he stopped with a sniff. He took a breath, sighed, and began again. "The reason I was so anxious to leave..." his voice came close to breaking, but he mastered it and went on. "... It's my father... your grandad. Tonight may be his last night on earth." He sniffed loudly and coughed away a sob. "At least that's what the doctors say."

When he said the word father, it caught in his throat and came out with a strangled hiss.

I was watching his face closely, but he didn't turn to look at me. His eyes were fixed on the road.

For some reason I thought of Madison, lying in my suitcase in the trunk. I was surprised to find myself wishing I had her in my hands. But I didn't have her, so I put my hands in my lap and looked out the window. We passed a train station, then a street full of shops.

I had to wonder, as I looked beyond the scenery into the dark sky... was my grandfather really going to die? On the one hand, he was old, so old. He was shaky and fragile and papery thin. It was a wonder he was still alive at all.

On the other hand...

Could my uncle be fooling me? He did have a history of playing awful, terrible pranks. I'd seen him prank me and my mother already, and some of the stories I heard made me wonder whether he understood other people's feelings at all.

So I turned to him and asked, "Uncle Mick?"

"Yes, child?"

"Is this real?"

Startled, he looked at me for an instant, then brought his eyes back to the road ahead. "Is what real?"

"Grandpa," I replied. "Is he really going to die?"

"I don't know," he said. "I hope not. The doctors say he will. Your mother told me to hurry, or I may miss him."

"Yes, but...," I drew up my courage in a big breath. "This isn't one of your pranks, is it? Because if it is, it's not funny."

He began sniffing and gasping. With a quick look over his shoulder, he turned the wheel sharply and brought us across two lanes of traffic into the breakdown lane. My eyes opened their widest, but it happened so quickly that I didn't have time to cry out in alarm.

My uncle put the car into park, shut off the engine, and hit the emergency flashers. Then he opened the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone inside. He walked around the back of the car, onto the gravel at the side of the road, and fell to his knees.

Startled and frightened, I pressed my face and hands against the car window and watched his back and shoulders as he sobbed. I could hear him crying out, but couldn't make out the words.

Somewhere a long time ago, I picked up a book and saw a little phrase I never forgot: "The loudest cry is that of a man alone." I remember picturing of an astronaut floating in space... I thought of the last man alive on a space station... things like that, but when I saw my uncle on his knees on the side of the road, praying and crying and screaming with a desperation I was seeing for the first time in my life, I knew what that quote was really about.

I kept my hands and face pressed against the glass. I was both frightened and fascinated, and there was nothing I could do but wait. I didn't dare step out to try to talk to him, any more than I would have stepped out to pet a wild snarling dog.

At last the cold of the glass began to hurt, so I sat back in my seat and looked around the car. Just as my eye fell on my uncle's cell phone, the thing began to ring. I picked it up. The caller ID told me that my mother was calling.

"Hi, Mom?"

"Victor? Where are you? Is your uncle there?"

I gave her a quick picture of the situation. She took it in and asked, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," I replied. "He's still outside, crying and stuff."

"Are you scared?"

"No," I scoffed, though I was. "But I don't know what to do."

"Okay, listen to me," she said. "Go out there, where he is, and go stand where he can see you. Try to give him the phone and tell him that it's me. Okay? If he won't talk to me, then get back on the phone, and tell me, and I'll come and get you, okay?"

"Okay," I replied. "Hang on."

I undid my seat belt and got out of the car. Three cars whizzed past in rapid succession, shaking my uncle's car. I'd felt those shakes while I was inside, but it was quite different to see the thing moving while I was standing next to it. The air seemed colder than in the city, and the traffic was a constant rush of whip-like sounds.

A car honked as it whooshed by, and for some reason I blushed in the semi-darkness, and for some reason I felt very exposed and vulnerable. The gravel crunched under my pink and white Skechers as I made my way around my uncle. When I got in front of him he looked at me. His face was riven by tears. Even in that dim light I could see the redness in his eyes and the tortured, beaten expression on his face. He sniffed and let out a long sigh. Then his eyes took me in from head to foot. I blushed again.

In this whole adventure I was never so conscious of looking girly as at this moment. Maybe it was because we were standing in near darkness on the shoulder of a busy highway, and I could see my little twill skirt flutter in the wake from the passing cars. Maybe the fact that my uncle, who was only slightly taller than me, was on his knees before me, and for once, now that I was looking down into someone's face, I felt a stab of pity mixed with the joy of feeling (for once!) taller.

He swallowed and looked at his phone in my hand. "Who is it?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"My mother."

Without moving off his knees he reached out his hand for the phone. "Carly?" he said, and burst into tears again.

I couldn't help it, I ran into the car and locked the door. I couldn't watch him. I couldn't listen. It was all too much. I hunched over and covered my face with my hands.

After several minutes, I heard my uncle knocking on the window. I unlocked the doors and let him.

"What did you lock it for?" he asked, then added, "Oh, never mind. I'm sorry, child, I really am." He took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. "Are you alright now?"

Me? I thought. Am *I* alright? I'm not the one who ran from the car to scream and cry in the dark. But aloud I only said, "Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

"Good," he said. "Then let's get going."

"Your mother is one clever woman," he said. "One of the great regrets of my life is that I let her slip away and marry that ass of your father."

I glanced at him, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead, and I had the feeling he wouldn't hear a word I said. So I said nothing.

"Look, I deserved that question you asked about this being a joke. But this is not a joke. It's deadly serious. As far as the doctors can tell, your grandfather's going to die tonight. I just hope to God I get there in time."

Get there in time... I echoed mentally. Get there... "There" of course is the hospital. My grandfather is at the hospital. My parents are there.

A sudden thought hit me and stopped me cold.

"Uncle Mick?"

"Yes, Juliette?"

"Uh... my parents are at the hospital, right?"

"Oh, yes," he confirmed. "Everybody's at the hospital. All your aunts and uncles, many of your cousins..." His mouth tightened, and so did his grip on the steering wheel. "It'll be an informal family reunion, of sorts." His eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. "Yes. We'll all be together for once."

My jaw dropped open. Whatever this meant for my uncle, it was the end for me. Pretty much every relative I had — at least on my father's side — was going to see me dressed as Juliette, in my neat little Aeropostale outfit!

I looked down at myself: I was wearing a straw-colored twill skirt, a blue top, and a milk-color hoodie. My legs were bare, and on my feet was a cute pair of pink and white Skechers. There was no way I could pretend these were boy clothes, or that my hair didn't look like girl's hair.

"My God, Uncle Mick!" I cried out. "There's no way I can go to the hospital dressed like this!"

He glanced over at me, ran his eyes over my outfit, and replied, "Why not? You look fine. You look adorable, in fact. Don't worry. I'm sure no one will be looking at you, and if they do, you'll get a lot of compliments."

Compliments? I repeated silently. I don't want compliments! I want a way out!

© 2008, 2009 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

I could see her, smiling — no, smirking! — holding out that damn cell phone. One click! flash! and I would never hear the end of it.

---

 

21. Needing Company
 

After my uncle returned to the car and got back behind the wheel, fly became the operative word.

Uncle Mick drives a BMW 6-series, and I had to quit looking at the speedometer. It was too scary. I don't know where the police were, but Mick didn't seem to care. He laid a heavy foot on the gas and kept it there.

"Thank God there's no traffic," he said, as he cut across three lanes full of cars to get into the fast lane. "Ordinarily this stretch of road is a parking lot."

In comparison to us, the other cars seemed to be crawling. Some looked as if they were standing still, but they had to be going at least fifty.

"Yeah, that's great," I gulped. Would be better, I wondered, if I shut my eyes?

My uncle kept changing lanes, cutting off other drivers, passing on the right... I don't know how to drive, but I knew that pretty much everything he was doing was wrong.

"I don't usually drive like this," he commented, "but time is of the essence. We have to get to that hospital as quickly as we can. Quicker, even."

The hospital...

Where my family would be waiting for me. My family...

My mother wouldn't mind how I was dressed, but Dad's brain always had a short-circuit when he saw me in a skirt.

To say nothing of my aunts and uncles... my cousins... and oh, my God! Auralee! For sure Auralee would be there. And if she was, I was dead.

Auralee is the oldest of the Samson cousins, my grandparent's first grandchild, and my grandfather's favorite. There was no way she could miss being there. Auralee was also the tallest of my cousins, and she never lost a chance to pick on me about my height. Never, of course, when any adults were around to see or hear. She's older and bigger than me, and the worst bully I know, boy or girl.

She's always on her cell phone, too, talking bad about somebody...

When I thought of her and her cell phone, I suddenly got the mental picture of her snapping a picture of me in my cute Aeropostale outfit. I could see her, smiling — no, smirking! — holding out that damn cell phone. One click! flash! and I would never hear the end of it.

I had to talk to my uncle, figure out a way...

But as I came out of my reverie, I realized that my uncle had been talking for some time. He was caught in a reverie of his own.

"This is the first time I'll see my father in twenty years. Can you imagine that, Juliette? Twenty years without seeing your own Dad. And dear God, it's nothing but my own stupid fault."

With a few quick turns of the wheel, he moved to the rightmost lane, pulled ahead of three cars, slid over to the leftmost lane, pulled ahead of another car, and settled back in the middle lane.

"No one in front of us now," he said. "I guess I'd better go easy on the speed, now that I'm the front runner."

I didn't check the speedometer. His idea of "going easy" still seemed dangerously past.

"You asked me once about the fight with my family. I wouldn't tell you. Well, I'll tell you now." His sentences came out in choppy, terse blocks. I could feel the waves of emotion roiling inside him. He gripped the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver — his knuckles were white. He took a deep, slow breath.

"Well, listen now. I was the oldest son. I was to have the family business. My father was handing responsibilities over to me. I have to admit I was an ass about it, lording it over my brothers, telling them that they'd all be working under me. I must have been insufferable.

"Yet the whole time my responsibilities grew, I never left off playing pranks and jokes, mainly on my poor stupid brothers." He let out a bark of a laugh that sounded bitter and sad. "I was merciless, and many's the time I went too far."

"Well, one day, one terrible day, they got theirs back. I had to take a cash deposit to the bank. It happened to be a large one. Well, your father and your uncle Glen cooked up quite the plan." He sighed. "It was well done, I'll say that much."

"Here is what they did: They got three fellows, men I didn't know, to make some confusion in front of the bank. Two of them pretended to fight, and they bumped me as I tried to get around. They knocked me down in a patch of mud and got my clothes dirty. Well, I saw red. I lept to my feet, threw down the money bag, and lord! I wailed on the pair of them, I did. I gave them the thumping of a lifetime."

He sucked on his lip for a moment, then said, "It wasn't until they ran off that I remembered the bag of money."

His eyes scanned the road ahead, and his jaw shifted as if it was grinding wheat. "Imagine my relief when I saw the bag still there at my feet. Or what I thought was the bag. When I took it inside the bank, I found it held nothing but sheafs of cut-up newspaper." He nodded and gave me a grim look. "A third man made the switch while I was busy fighting. What a fool I was! What an utter fool!"

"The fellow took the money to my brother Jim, your father, and he brought the money to the bank himself. But I didn't know that, mind! I went home with my tail between my legs, and my Dad let loose a flood of anger on me. I bore it as well as I could. Dad took all my responsibilities away and passed them to your uncle Glen. I was disgraced."

A wave of anger struck him and he thumped the wheel three times violently with his palm. Then he calmed himself. "Still... still and all, I deserved it."

When my uncle lapsed into silence, a question came up in my mind. "But Uncle Mickey, if my father deposited the money, then your father must have..."

"Yes, girl, yes, my father got the statement from the bank, and there was the money, safe and sound. At that point, your father owned up. He kept quiet about Glen's part, and everyone laughed. They laughed! Can you imagine? My mortification, my sense of having let my family down, the responsibility for losing all that money... it all was just a joke! A practical joke!"

I licked my lips, which were very dry. "So did your father give you your responsibilities back?"

"No, Juliette, he didn't. He came to like working with Glen better. You know your uncle Glen, with his easy-going ways. And so he left things as they were... and I just left. I didn't speak a word to anyone. I was so angry! I moved to San Diego, as far away as I could get. I didn't write, I didn't call, I didn't tell anyone where I was. Finally it was your Aunt Mary who hunted me down and found me out." He looked at me, chagrined.

"At long last, I moved back to Massachusetts. I had business in Boston, and I did very well. But I was so angry and hurt that I never spoke a word to my brothers or my father for more than twenty years."

"And now I hope I can get there in time to say goodbye."

We sat in silence as the miles flew by. Fine, so now I understood Uncle Mickey's story. I knew why he was driving like a crazy man. He had a problem, an unresolved dispute. But I had a problem too.

"Uncle Mickey?" I said. "I have a problem."

"Oh, yes?" he said, sounded distracted. "What is it, love?"

Love? I repeated mentally. Out loud I said, "I can't go to the hospital dressed like this."

He looked over at me. His eyes scanned me up and down. "You look fine," he said. "You were right to change out of your Halloween costume."

"No," I said, "This is a costume, too!"

He looked at me again, and blinked twice. I had the distinct impression that he didn't hear me at all.

After he turned his head back to the road, he began speaking again.

"I lost so much by running away," he said. "Not the family business. I don't care about that. And not even my family... except for my father. But you know what I lost, Juliette?" His voice fell to a soft near-whisper. "I lost the love of my life." After a pause, he added a correction: "Both the loves of my life."

I eyed him suspiciously. I didn't think I wanted to hear what he was going to say.

"I mean your mother, girl. Carly."

I let out an irritated huff. "And the other?" I asked.

"Denise," he said. "The one married your father and the other married that idiot Mossert."

Mossert? Then I remembered: Lou's mother was named Denise.

"You loved them both?" I asked, but it sounded like an accusation.

"Yes, and I never could make up my mind. I loved them both. Your mother — God! Sharp as a whip! And beautiful! Lord, you should have seen her in her day!"

"Denise, on the other hand, soft and sensual, and oh so tender..."

I was getting pretty uncomfortable by now. "Uncle Mickey, I don't think I want to hear this," I warned him.

"What's that?" he asked, as if I woke him from a dream.

"I don't want to hear about the loves of your life!" I repeated.

He looked confused. "Girl, I'm just telling you... giving you an idea of all I've lost."

"I still have a problem," I told him. "I am not a girl. I can't go to the hospital like this." His face had a blank look, so I repeated with emphasis: "I AM NOT A GIRL," with a big pause between each word.

"Alright," he said, "alright." He thought for a moment. "What shall we do? What shall we do?" He blew out a breath and glanced around the car, as if the answer was tucked in some corner.

At last he said, "I know. We'll call your mother. She'll know what to do."

With one hand he picked up his cell phone, punched up the number and handed me the phone.

My mother answered softly, "Hello?"

"Mom?" I said.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Still on the turnpike. I don't think we're far."

"Tell her it's another ten or fifteen minutes," Uncle Mickey put in. "Ask her if we'll make it."

"I heard that," she replied, "tell him yes, but hurry."

I repeated the message to my uncle, who responded by giving it more gas. Then I told my mother my problem. She sighed.

"I'm not sure what to do, Victor. I can't leave, and we can't ask your uncle to take you home."

"Is Auralee there?" I asked.

"Yes, why?"

I took a deep breath. "Look," I said, "I know you think she's a wonderful girl, but if she sees me like this, she will ruin my life."

My mother was silent. I was afraid the line dropped, so I said, "Mom?"

"I'm thinking," she said. A long silence followed. Then she said, "Lou's mother knows about you, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she'd come and pick you up?"

"I guess so," I said. "I think so. I can call her and ask."

"No, I'll call her," she said. "Call you right back."

"Okay," I said, vastly relieved.

---

Mom called back a moment later to tell me that Mrs. Mossert was on her way. The hospital wasn't too far from school, so she might even arrive before Uncle Mickey and me.

She also said she'd wait at the hospital entrance until she knew I was safe and away with Lou's mother.

The rest of the trip was passed in silence. My uncle concentrated on the road. I wondered whether Lou would come with his mother.

---

As we approached the hospital, I saw Lou's mother walking toward the hospital. Uncle Mickey didn't see her and I didn't say anything.

I also didn't say anything when he pulled into a parking space next to Lou's mother's car, either.

Lou wasn't in the car. I thought I'd feel relieved, but to tell the truth it would have been good to see him right now. Then I realized that I would see Lou. Mrs. Mossert would take me home — to her home.

But that was okay. I wanted to see Lou. I needed company.

My uncle and I got out of the car. Everything was dark and quiet. No one was around, and my uncle's heels sounded loudly on the paving.

He surprised me by taking my hand, but I let him hold it and trotted quietly along next to him.

We turned the corner, walked along the front of the huge hospital building, the same way Mrs. Mossert had gone.

Then we walked in the front door, and my uncle stopped dead in his tracks.

He let out a kind of backward gasp, then said, "Look at the pair of you! Here and now!"

The pair, of course, were my mother and Lou's mother. The two of them stood side by side, my mother blonde and Lou's mother dark. They were both wearing jeans and Lou's mother was wearing a long light coat.

I couldn't help but think of salt and pepper shakers when I saw them, and I almost smiled.

Instead, I looked up and caught my uncle's expression. It was a strange moment. It was a time warp. I could feel him being pulled back to high school, seeing him and the two women standing at school just as me, Diana, and Kristie might stand: looking at each other, a certain kind of tension in the air, electrical, magnetic, chemical, whatever.

Mrs. Mossert didn't smile. She scoffed and repeated, "The pair of us!"

My mother said, "Mick, you need to get upstairs."

For the two women, there was no romance in the moment. No bittersweet sense of loss or what-might-have-been. They had lives; they'd made choices. Mick had cut and run. He was like a man who'd been lost at sea, given up for dead, and now washed up on the beach expecting to pick up where he'd left off.

Of course, he couldn't.

"Nice to see you again, Mickey," Mrs. Mossert said. I couldn't tell what she really meant. Was she glad to see him? "Vic— uh, Juliette, are you coming with me?"

"Mick, you've got to get going," my mother urged again.

I looked up at my uncle's face again. He was paralyzed. So much of his life had gone, never to come again. He'd lost two women he loved, and it looked like neither loved him any more. He'd lost his family, his father...

Mrs. Mossert looked at me and her expression softened. "Are you coming with me?" she repeated.

My uncle still held my hand. He stood there, uncertainty and pain in every expression.

I gave his hand a squeeze.

There was no response.

I squeezed it harder, and he looked at me, startled.

"Do you want me to come with you, Uncle Mickey?" I asked him.

He looked like he needed company more than I did.

© 2009 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

"I've been such an ass!" Mickey exclaimed.

After a moment, Mom told him, "If it's any consolation, you come from a family of asses."

---

 

22. Don't You Know Me?
 

"Uncle Mickey, do you want me to come with you?" I repeated.

He glanced at me and nodded. I gave his hand another squeeze.

My mother drew in her breath. She frowned. "Vict—" she began.

At the same moment Mrs. Mossert clicked her tongue and said, "That's not a good idea, hon."

Mom shot Mrs. Mossert a sideways look. A don't interfere look. Then she said to me, in a warning tone, "Everyone is upstairs, Victor. Everyone. All your aunts and uncles from your father's side, and some of your cousins."

"I know," I said. "But it's okay. It's Halloween."

My uncle didn't speak. He simply held onto me; his dry, strong hand on mine.

I cleared my throat and repeated, "It's Halloween, Mom. Everybody will know that it's just a costume."

Mom looked doubtful. "Auralee is up there," she cautioned. I could tell from her tone that she still didn't believe that Auralee was a bully, but she knew that *I* did. Maybe reminding me of Auralee's presence would be enough to keep from going up there?

I nodded. "I'm sorry you came all the way out here, Mrs. Mossert," I said. "All this way for nothing."

"It's okay, hon," she said. "It wasn't for nothing. At least I got to see the ghost of Christmas past." She gave a wry smile at my Uncle Mickey, who returned it with some uncertainty. "You're sure now? You're sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure," I said.

---

In the elevator up, I didn't feel so sure. I knew Auralee would give me grief; there was no way around that fact. I had to rely on Halloween to protect me.

"Mick, I have to warn you," my mother said. "Your father is very disoriented. He might not know who you are."

"Perfect," Mickey replied in a desolate tone. "Why the hell did I wait so long?"

Mom didn't answer.

"I've been such an ass!" Mickey exclaimed.

After a moment, Mom told him, "If it's any consolation, you come from a family of asses."

Then she looked down at me and smiled. It was a tender smile, and she ran her hand over my head. "You look so nice," she told me. "Don't worry. Everyone knows you've been trick-or-treating. They'll assume this is your costume."

"I guess it is," I stammered, surprised by how hard it was to speak. Suddenly I seemed to be losing my nerve. "And Dad..."

"Your father's not there. He's downstairs, talking to the hospital administration. He'll be spared the heart attack this time." She chuckled lightly.

At least Dad wouldn't see me like this. At least there was that! Still, I was nervous. I'd never been so nervous in all of my life. My legs turned into rubber bands. They shook and wobbled like two thin blocks of jello. My palms were sweating. Even the soles of my feet were sweating! I tried to pull my left hand out of Uncle Mickey's grip, but he wouldn't let go. After I wiped my right hand on my skirt Mom reached down and took that hand.

So I couldn't get away. Not that there was anywhere that I could go. Unless I hit some random elevator button and ran off.

My misgivings nearly overwhelmed me. It almost made me dizzy, as if the elevator floor was cut away from under me, and the only thing keeping me from falling were my uncle and my mother, who each held my hand.

I could have thrown up, I was so nervous.

Then at last, after what seemed like a half an hour, the elevator stopped. I braced myself as the doors opened, but they opened to an empty hallway.

We walked the bare corridor, our footsteps echoing, and turned down a second hallway. This one was carpeted, and there was nothing in it but a wheelchair and an empty gurney. We entered a door at the end, and after two more turns we came upon a big waiting room. There were people everywhere, standing, leaning, draped over chairs, lying sideways. Some were sound asleep. I knew them, all of them, of course. They were my relatives, my father's side. They occupied every available space in the room. They all looked exhausted, as if they'd been there for days.

Thankfully, (as Mom had said) my father wasn't there, and neither was my cousin Auralee. What a relief!

My uncle Glen was the first to look up. As his glance passed over me he looked momentarily confused, but when his eyes moved to Mick, his tired face lit up in astonishment.

"Mick!" he cried, and jumped to his feet.

At Glen's cry, my other aunts and uncles got to their feet and shuffled forward for a hug and a greeting.

Mom cut them short. "Mick, you've got to get in there and see your Dad. You need to go now."

Mick looked around the room, taking in his siblings in a slow sweep. His facial expression was heartbreaking.

"Go, Mick," Uncle Glen told him. "There'll be plenty of time for us after. He's been waiting for you. He's been holding on for you."

Glen glanced down at me, a question dying on his lips.

Mom pulled on my hand, and I tugged Uncle Mick behind me. As we left the waiting area and passed into a darkened hall, I heard voices behind me asking, "Who was the girl? She can't be his? Can she?"

---

My grandfather looked small in the bed. He was a little bird-like bundle, a shriveled little thing in the midst of wrinkled white sheets and crumpled wheat-colored blankets. He had a tube in his nose and an IV in his arm. There were a short green machines on each side of the bed, but neither one was plugged in or turned on. A heart monitor above his bed showed an even, regular series of peaks. A soft beep sounded at irregular intervals, and the air smelled of antiseptic. That strange smell of clean sickness.

I felt very small and out of place. Grandpa was the only patient in the room, and his eyes were closed.

I knew he was alive because I could see him taking breaths — a shallow, jerky breath, a long pause, then a shallow, jerky breath.

Mick cleared his throat. When he got no response, he called, "Dad?" in a soft voice.

Grandpa's eyes didn't open, so Mick called more loudly, "DAD?"

Grandpa's eyes snapped up. He blinked twice. He looked at Mick, then Mom, then me. He blinked twice more.

His eyes returned to Mick, but his expression didn't change. It was a neutral face.

Oh, no, I thought. He doesn't know who any of us are! Poor Uncle Mick!

But I was wrong.

An instant later, Grandpa's wrinkled face burst into even more wrinkles than ever before. He smiled with everything that was left in him. "Mick!" he called, in a soft chirping voice. "Mickey boy, thank God you've come! It's good to see you, son!"

Uncle Mick sniffed loudly, but he didn't cry. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, "I'm sorry I've been away so long."

"Nonsense," his father told him. "You're here now; that's all that matters."

Mick let go of my hand and took his father's hand instead. Grandpa set his hand over Mick's and Mick put his hand on top, so their four hands clasped each other. And they talked.

They talked and talked. It was wonderful. The pain and uncertainty left Mick's face and the tension rolled off of his shoulders. Grandpa focused all his attention on Mick, asked him questions, nodded approval at the answers. I could see the life flowing back into my uncle. He stood up straighter, he relaxed.

I was so glad that I'd come to see it. It was like a Hallmark movie, you know? The moment when everybody cries, when it was all so bad, so hard before, but now you know that everything's going to be all right.

And then, something happened to ruin it all.

At least for me.

Someone else slipped into the room: it was my cousin Auralee. As it turned out, she had been in the bathroom when Uncle Mick and I arrived. She'd never laid eyes on our uncle, and she was curious to see the girl who no one knew.

My mother, Mick, and I were standing on the right side of the bed. Auralee came around to the left side so she could take a good look at us.

I think that if I could have controlled my expression, if I hadn't reacted on seeing her, she wouldn't have recognized me. But I couldn't stop my face from showing my alarm. It was a look that Auralee knew well. A look that bullies love to see.

Her jaw opened slowly in surprise and glee. Her eyebrows raised. Silently she mouthed my name: Victor?

It wasn't a question. She knew it was me.

I hated myself for it, but I almost nodded yes. I didn't, but I came awful close.

Then came the moment I'd imagined, the moment I dreaded: Auralee reached in her pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. She held it toward me and was about to snap a picture, when...

I felt my mother's hand tighten around mine. I looked up at her and saw her glaring at Auralee.

Auralee followed my gaze. My mother's angry look struck her like an electric shock.

Mom held her with a fierce glare. Her eyes bored into Auralee, and the girl swallowed hard.

"Do you know where you are, Auralee?" Mom asked, in a low tone so Grandpa couldn't hear. "Is there something wrong with you? Do you understand that your Grandfather is dying?"

Auralee took a step backward. With both hands, she quietly closed her phone and slipped it back into her jeans.

Then she looked down. She was uncomfortable, but only for a moment. Auralee was never at a loss for long. She moved up, along the side of the bed, toward grandpa's head. She was always grandpa's favorite grandchild. She was his first grandchild, the oldest child of his oldest child. I never understood how a man as nice as Uncle Glen could have such a mean daughter.

She reached for grandpa's hand, but she couldn't have it. Grandpa was still holding Uncle Mick's hands.

She tried to catch grandpa's eye, but she couldn't do that, either. Grandpa was focused on his son, his oldest son.

"Leave it," Mom told her, but Auralee didn't. She tugged at Grandpa's hospital gown. She tugged hard, until she got his attention.

Grandpa and Uncle Glen turned as one to look at Auralee. It was an empty look, a look from another world. They looked at her as if they didn't have the slightest idea who she was.

Auralee was confused. "Grandpa, why are you looking at me like that? Don't you know me?"

"Know you?" he repeated. "Know you?"

"Yes," she replied, impatiently. "Don't you know me?"

"No," he said, and turned back to Uncle Mick. I was bewildered. He always treated Auralee like a princess. He'd always given her more attention that the rest of us put together. How could he not know her?

Then I remembered what Mom had said to Uncle Mick in the elevator: Mick, I have to warn you: he's very disoriented. He might not know who you are.

He's disoriented. He doesn't know who Auralee is.

If I was bewildered, Auralee was angry. She was beyond angry. She was furious. Her face twisted up and she bared her teeth. She grabbed the bedrail and shook it, hard. She shook it again. Then she barked, "Grandpa! Look at ME!"

"Auralee!" my mother shouted, shocked.

Grandpa's head snapped left, then right, following the two outbursts. He looked at Mom, his mouth hanging open, as if he'd never seen her before. Then his eyes moved laterally, to Mick, then back to Mom, then down to me. A broad smile filled his face and he reached a hand toward me. I thought he wanted to shake my hand, but instead he took my hand in his and held it. His skin felt like dry old paper, very dry and very rough, but there was something magical in his touch. I smiled back at him.

"Oh, my lovely girl!" he crooned. "Look at what a beauty you grew up to me! I always knew! I always knew you'd be a little heartbreaker, and look at you! Look at you!"

He looked up at Mick, his face full of pride and happiness. "Oh, Mick, my boy, I remember the day she was born. My first granddaughter, my best. I know I shouldn't say, but no one's hear to listen, so I'll tell you: she's always been my favorite grandchild. Is that awful of me? But Mick and Carly, you did well with this one."

Mom chuckled. Mick cleared his throat and started to say, "Well, Dad, to tell the truth..." but Mom cut him off.

"Thanks, Dad," she told him. "She's our pride and joy."

Auralee had been speechless up to that point, but when Mom said that and ran her fingers through my hair, my awful cousin shot me look. I knew that look, and what it meant. You'll pay for this, is what she silently said. I took a deep breath and found myself smiling at my grandfather, who smiled and cooed at me.

Auralee fled from the room.

© 2009 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

In my head I heard Mrs. Legno's voice: "The day after Halloween you're just going to put your pants back on and go play football?"

and my reply: Not exactly, but something like that.

---

 

23. The Playboy of the Western World
 

The next day at school was one embarrassment after another.

To start with, I arrived in homeroom as the last bell was ringing. Another few moments, and I'd be late. Then, Mrs. Pearl asked me for my "slip."

"My what?" I asked in disbelief. In my sleepy brain I saw an image of Mrs. Jameson handing me a slip to wear under my dress last Sunday.

"Your slip, Mr. Samson, your slip," she repeated.

I still didn't get it. Puzzled and cautious I said, "I don't know what you're getting at, Mrs. Pearl."

"What I'm getting at?" she repeated, her eyebrows rising above her glasses. She shook her head in disapproval. "I *know* where you were on Friday." There were a few snickers from my classmates. "But where were you yesterday?"

"I... uh... uh..." I stammered, unsure what my parents had told the school about my absence.

"You uh uh," she repeated. "Go to the office, Mr. Samson, and see if you can explain yourself better. AND bring me back the excuse slip."

 

---

 

That pretty much set the theme for the day. I was in a fog from lack of sleep. Plus, I felt as if I'd been gone a month, not a long weekend. So much had happened!

The teachers looked at me in a bad way. They knew I'd been suspended on Friday, and they knew why. A few of them gave me a little warning about "going down a bad road" and things like that. The girls looked at me as if I was a creep. A lot of the boys, including many I didn't know, treated me as if I were some kind of hero.

As I walked through the halls between classes, I'd get dirty looks and pats on the back. Playful punches and judgmental disdain.

Kristie really milked it for all the attention she could get. Every time I glanced at her, even by accident, she toss her head with a scornful hmmph! She'd also gathered a group of girls around her, girls I didn't know, who eyed me malevolently. I got the definite message that if I came anywhere near Kristie, they would claw me to pieces.

Diana, on the other hand, was obviously as embarrassed as I was. Several times, our eyes locked, then dropped and we blushed together. I wanted to talk to her, to apologize, to make some kind of positive contact, but it wasn't going to be possible today. At least not at school.

When lunch time arrived, I sat at an empty table. I didn't want to put anyone on the spot.

Lou — my best friend, Lou — soon dropped into the chair opposite mine, and said, "You missed a great party, man!" He popped a french fry into his mouth and chewing said, "I hope it was worth it for you."

"Yeah, it was fun," I said, and sighed heavily.

"Doesn't sound like it. I mean, spare me the details, but are you okay?"

"Oh, it isn't Halloween," I replied. "It's my grandfather..." my voice trailed off, so I cleared my throat and started again. "He died this morning." Tears wanted to come, but I drew them back inside.

"Wow, sorry, man!" Lou said. "That really sucks! Was he in the hospital?"

"Yeah, he went in over the weekend. I got to go see grandpa with my Uncle Mickey."

He stopped, considering something. "Last night... when my mother went out..." then he stopped himself. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"She came to pick me up at the hospital," I said. "She saw my Uncle Mickey. Did you know they used to date?"

"Whoa," Lou said. "Chapters, please. Don't start with the revelations and stuff. Really, I don't want to know."

"Okay," I said, and poked my sandwich with my finger. I couldn't decide whether I was hungry.

From the corner of my eye I saw a girl approach the other side of the table. Dark gray skirt, dark green top, medium brown hair. She rested her hand on Lou's shoulder. I liked her face.

"Hey, babe," she said to Lou. He smiled up at her.

"Chapters, this is my girlfriend Serena," he said. "Serena, Chapters."

"Ahhh," she said knowingly, and she nodded her head. "I've heard about you. You're the playboy of the western world, aren't you?" And she laughed a warm, throaty laugh.

I blushed deeply.

"Ah, no," she corrected herself. "Playboys don't blush. That's good."

I tried to smile at her, but felt a little tongue-tied.

"Nice to meet you, Chapters," she said. "See ya around. I'm gonna get some lunch, Lou. See ya after school!"

After she left, I told him, "She seems nice."

"Yeah," he said, smiling.

"You look like a dog," I told him, laughing.

"Yeah? Wait till you and Diana hook up," he retorted. "Then you'll look like a dog, too."

 

---

 

That night I was home alone. Mom and Dad were busy, and I was sick at heart. After I finished my homework there was nothing on TV, so I got a box, went to my room, and packed up all my clean Juliette clothes. The dirty ones and the costumes I put in the laundry.

Into the box went the Clarkina glasses, all my girly shoes and sneakers... Madison's clothes in their little plastic bag... and then...

I hesitated on dropping her into the box. It felt a little like a funeral. I thought about keeping her in my room, but it would be like the one red thread hanging out that could pull the whole story behind it, so in she went.

After folding the top closed, I put the box in Mom's sewing room. Goodbye, Juliette.

In my head I heard Mrs. Legno's voice: "The day after Halloween you're just going to put your pants back on and go play football?" and my reply: Not exactly, but something like that.

Was I going to miss Juliette? I don't know. I really did like some of those clothes... the cloth, the colors, the patterns. I don't know if a guy can get away with some of those things. But being a girl? No. It was fun being with Miranda, but all the rest of it? No. It was all just an extension of Halloween.

There was only one loose end to tie up, and that was Auralee.

I knew I'd see her at the funeral. How would she behave? What could she do that she didn't already do to me? She was a bully. She was mean. Been there, done that. Was she going to mock me about wearing a dress? So what. She was always mocking me already.

Was there some way I could finally put my foot down? Make her stop? Probably not.

In the end, the whole Auralee thing was anticlimactic. She was all broken up at Grandpa's funeral. All she did was cry. I've never seen anyone cry so hard. Even afterward, when we had a little reception at the Sons of Hibernia Hall, she just sat in a chair and cried.

That was it for Auralee.
 

Miranda told her mother that she'd figured out I was Victor, and came for a visit the week after the funeral. We played Scrabble and Clue, talked about things... but at the end of the day she told me, "Victor, you're a nice guy, but I prefer Juliette." And that was that.

 

---

 

So, done. All done. Juliette was in a box in my attic. I started walking home from school with Diana, and my mother was both relieved and alarmed when she caught the two of us making out in my living room one day.

I was back to being Victor, nothing but Victor, and glad to be me.

But of course there was a little postscript.

A letter arrived for me. In a clumsy, childish handwriting, it was addressed to "Juliette Samson." The return address was illegible.

I opened it and found a note from, of all people, Robert Murdoch. This is what it said:
 

Dear Juliette,

Please read this letter and don't be mad. I know I been a pest to you. You were always nice to me.

Miranda told me what you said about Mrs. Rosenstern. She got in big trouble and now she teaches the other fifth grade. My father went to school and yelled at her. We have Mrs. Lucas now. She is really nice.

I owe it all to you. I always knew you were an angel. I hope we can be friends.

Robert

 

"Oh, jeez," I said. The poor kid!

I fumbled with the letter for a bit, and read it two more times.

Then I went into the attic and slipped it into the Juliette box, for safekeeping.

 

[ The End ]
 

© 2009, 2010 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]