Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Two

12/19

I realized that I never got to the ‘not feeling comfortable’ thing. Well, today was a good example. Most Saturdays I would hang with Scotty at his place or mine or the mall. But the last couple of weekends, he’s been busy. He said his mom was making him go to some club because she got a family membership. But it’s not like he’s avoiding me; he’s just not around so much.

It’s just that … we don’t seem to have any classes this year, besides PE, and the Coach is on us so much we don’t get to talk or anything.

I went to the mall anyway, just to have something to do. It was all so beautiful, ready for the holidays, and much noisier than usual because of all the people and all of the displays. I walked around and then got an Orange Julius and just sat and watched.

It’s like I said: Uncomfortable. I saw happy families with kids, and I knew I hadn’t had that kind of childhood. I think I may have blocked a lot of it out or something, so any good memories got lost, but mostly I remember the years and years of my father yelling drunkenly. Or maybe not always drunk but just angry. Definitely yelling, though, and throwing things and then the hitting.

There were clusters of boys and clusters of girls walking around, and by high-school age there were clusters of boys and girls together, or couples. Normally I wouldn’t be seeing any of this; I mean, I’d see it but not really look at it, because Scotty and I would be talking on the way to the videogame store. It was the only place we went in the mall. Now it dawned on me that except for Scotty, I basically had … zero friends. I’d never thought about it before and I was suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness. Looking at the clusters walking around, I wondered what it would be like to be in that cluster, or that group, to be among friends, and I sighed.

Along those lines, I started to consciously eavesdrop on the people as they passed. Not the families so much, but the teens. I tried to imagine being among them, laughing at the jokes, or ‘contributing to the conversation’, which was a pet phrase of Mom’s. And it was kind of weird. I don’t mean weird because of the ‘violating their privacy’ sort of thing, but …

For instance, a group of boys walked by all excited about a new videogame. I knew the game; Scotty and I had talked about it … weeks and weeks ago. I sort of remembered getting excited about it when it was first announced in early summer, but now … not so much. Come to think of it, I hadn’t played any computer or videogames since … October, maybe? In any case, I wasn’t feeling any great desire to play the thing. I had a feeling that even if Scotty was here and we were talking about it, the buzz about the videogame wouldn’t be there for me.

And boys walked by talking about sports, of course; about different teams’ chances for the Super Bowl and another bunch were talking about NASCAR, I thought. I never got into sports like that. Growing up, it’s inevitable that you learn the basics about football, baseball, and basketball, but I almost never played them. Being small I almost never got picked, or I’d be picked last, and nobody ever hit or threw the ball to me. Let’s just say that kind of dampened any childhood enthusiasm for the games. Plus, there were weekends when my father was screaming at the TV and sometimes throwing things when his team lost. So that wasn’t any fun, either.

I liked watching gymnastics and skating on TV; I thought they were well-suited to television. You could concentrate on the one competitor, not a mob running here and there. Swimming was nice, too. But NASCAR? It just seemed to me to be something like five hundred left turns. That’s supposed to be skillful driving? The skill came in not getting clobbered by some macho jerk in the car behind you. So it was like bumper cars at a hundred miles an hour, until there was an accident, and I secretly thought that a lot of people hoped for the accident for some excitement—otherwise they’d realize it was just five hundred left turns.

The other thing boys walked by talking about was girls. Girls at school, girls at the mall, girls they saw on the street … and they seemed to be louder when they talked about girls. ‘Man, did you see the rack on that blonde?’ one guy would crow, loudly. Another would say, ‘Check out the ass on that redhead!’ and parents with little kids would try to distract their kids or even cover their ears.

I also knew—being raised in the world of boys—that it was all about ranking, about being cooler than the other guy. About topping him. About not being thought ‘a pussy’. And so lying was a big part of it, justified by keeping your ranking high.

Did I really want to be in that cluster? In that group?

On the other hand … there were clusters of girls. Once you got through the giggles and the ‘Omigods!’ they were talking about people. About other girls. Yeah, a lot of gossip: ‘Can you believe she went out with him?’ or ‘She thinks she’s so cool!’. But I realized that the girls weren’t talking about sports or athletes that they saw on television. Well, yeah, teen heartthrobs like that new Disney guy. But mainly they were talking among themselves: that is, they were talking about their group intersecting with other girl groups. Inclusive and exclusive: ‘Oh, Jeannie, that skirt looks so cute on you!’ or ‘Heather kept my red jacket’ or ‘Brianna’s such a bitch!’

I knew that there were sharp knives in their conversations as well as warm, friendly smiles.

The thing was, the boys were trying to top one another and the girls were trying to share with one another. Between the two, I thought I’d prefer sharing.

Then I saw a cluster of girls I knew; Susan McMillan, Amanda Joiner, Karen Krugman and Natalie Condolini were walking out of Icing. They’d gotten jewelry and were showing off their new bracelets and rings and necklaces and earrings—sharing their new things with one another—as they laughed and chatted.

Susan saw me and turned to the others; they kind of paused and talked among themselves, looking at me. I saw Natalie shrug and Amanda nod and Susan left them and walked to me.

She said, “Hey” and I said, “Hey” and I thought that was about it. She asked if I was waiting for Scotty; I said no, I was just watching the festivities. Susan looked at me for a moment, frowning.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and there was something in her voice.

I said, “I’m fine” but choked on the last word as tears started. I turned away from her and mumbled, “Gotta go. Bye!” and that was it.

If Susan hadn’t been there with her friends I might have stayed and talked with her, even with the tears. But I knew she was just being nice—she’s always been nice to me—and wanted to be with her girlies.

And I can’t blame her. If I’d been one of her girlfriends, I’d want to hang with them, too.

If I’d been a girl …

12/30

Another gap. I re-read my last entry. Wow. Talk about Holiday Blues!

Not that they ended. I’m just not talking about them so much. Scotty’s family went off to visit grandparents so he’s gone until school starts. I got presents for Mom and Judy last week but that was the only other time I went to the mall—too depressing for me.

Christmas was like Thanksgiving, though. It was warm and loving and just the three of us—what I’m beginning to think of as my new family. There was a part of me that had thoughts of being ‘the odd man out’, with the emphasis on ‘man’. I guess I’m supposed to be proud of being ‘the man of the family’ but I had quite enough of my father as ‘the man of the family’, thank you, very much. No way did I want that position. I kind of felt like I did when I’d seen Susan and Amanda and the other girls at the mall.

I just don’t fit in anywhere.

We had a nice Christmas morning with presents; I got a videogame and had to work at being excited about it; for some reason it just didn’t thrill me. And the things I sleep in have been getting kind of ratty looking, so I got what would be new pajamas but instead was a ‘sleepshirt’, Mom proclaimed happily when I opened it. It was red and decorated with all these holiday images. Mom said I could put it on right away—I had my shorts and tee under a bathrobe—and I did and actually it was comfy and although I sort of looked old-timey in it, I also realized that it required me to sort of keep my legs together. I got on the couch next to Mom and Judy with my legs tucked under me and we had hot cocoa—Judy’s special recipe—and I fell asleep leaning against Mom and woke up in my bed the next morning.

Damn! That sleepshirt really works!

Mom laughed and said she’ll get me more since it went over so well.

They liked my presents; for Judy, I got a book and an old MGM musical DVD Mom said she liked. I got an illustrated book of Gilbert & Sullivan for Mom—she loves them—and a nice necklace with a green stone to match her eyes. My eyes, too; thank God I didn’t get his eyes.

Lots of hugs and kisses all around and then boring days again until school starts.

1/6

What made me think anything was going to be any different, just because it’s a new year?

1/31

Yesterday, Scotty called and I met him at the mall. Maybe because of my time at the mall during the holidays, but while we walked and Scotty was talking, I looked around this time. I saw Amanda Joyner and some girls I didn’t know—probably the dance group she’s in—by the Food Court. She had on a really cute Hollister top, and I suddenly realized that I’d just thought, ‘wow, really cute top’. I didn’t know what to make of that.

The new X-Box game was cool, I guess, but I didn’t get a real rush about it. Scotty said I was ‘off’. I apologized and faked being into the stuff at Electronics Boutique. At one point I was leaning against the display case while the salesman was telling us about some new games, and I noticed Scotty looking at me strangely. I said, “What?” and realized that I had pulled my hair over one shoulder and was sort of braiding the ends, and I had one leg balanced on a toe, my knees touching. I dropped the hair and shook my leg, pretending I had a cramp, and Scotty seemed okay with that. But it had really felt like a natural, comfortable way to stand.

So what?

When I got home, I was kind of out of sorts, and Mom suggested a bath, which I haven’t had in a long time. Sounded like a good idea, and she gave me a jar with some rocks and crystals and told me to put some in the bath—stress relief, she said.

God, it felt good! I must have stayed there nearly an hour, almost dozing. Smelled light and fresh, too, and my skin was moisturized when I got out. I gotta get me some more of that stuff!

2/5

At the start of the year I wrote that school wasn’t any different this year; but now school’s kinda different because Judy wrote a note—as my doctor—getting me out of PE and into Study Hall, starting next week. She told me she was still worried about my ‘endocrine imbalance’ and said that I could always do aerobics to a workout video at home for exercise. So that was as my doctor; and as my mom’s lover and sort-of aunt, she grinned and said I’d probably welcome the chance to not have to listen to the Coach do his ‘Miss Cunningham’ garbage anymore.

PE was the only class I shared with Scotty, but something happened today that makes me okay with Study Hall. The Coach had us running as usual, which meant that Scotty and I were walking in the back of the group like usual, but Scotty kept jogging in place, and then apologized and said he just had to run. Maybe he had too much coffee; maybe his exercises were taking over, whatever, but he took off and man, he left me in the dust!

Screw it.

Oh, yeah; the Coach called me ‘Miss Cunningham’, as usual. But then he got a kind of funny look on his face and walked away. At least he’s out of my face as of Monday.

Crap day.

2/19

Study Hall’s pretty good, actually. No showers, for one thing!

The downside is that I get all of my homework done—it’s the last period of the day—and then at home, I’ve got nothing to do. Well, that’s not true; there are chores and stuff. But there’s a lot of extra time. So I figured the least I could do is get dinner ready for Mom when she gets home from work, so I should learn how to cook. I went to the library after school and checked out some learn-to-cook books, and one of them was in a section for teens. I found a book about ‘what every boy should know about his body’ sort of thing, and there was one for girls, too. So I got them both.

That made for some interesting reading!

2/26

Based on the last lab results, Judy gave me some more shots and I’ve got a new pill. Still falling asleep—I almost did in Study Hall, too—but I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve been doing the aerobics video workouts (the library has those, too!) and checking out all sorts of books. I’m just not that interested in playing games, even the new one Mom got me for Christmas. But I can curl up with a good book and then go make dinner, and then Mom and I sit on the couch and watch TV after. And I curl up there, too, in one of my sleepshirts. The holiday one was such a hit it seemed a shame to put it away until next holiday season, so Mom got me two new ones. One has a blue-plaid pattern that kind of looks like a hospital gown so I didn’t care for it so much at first, but the other is like an oversized gray t-shirt and is super-comfortable and I love wearing it. I curl up next to Mom, my legs tucked under me and pull my shirt down and feel all snuggly and the fact that I’m pretty darned lonely kind of goes away.

3/5

End of a not great week. I feel like crud; think I got the flu or something.

3/10

First day back in the land of the living, sort of. Slept from Friday to Monday, practically. Showered Monday and back to bed. Lots of soup from Mom. Went to see Doctor Judy this afternoon; she gave me another shot and a new or different prescription; I’m not sure what. Kind of woozy; I think I fell asleep on her again but she didn’t say anything. It was weird; she was listening to my chest and the next thing I know Mom and I are hitting the freeway.

Going to sleep again now.

3/12

Damn, whatever Judy shot me with did the trick. I feel human again! Mom doesn’t want me to go to school today—although I’ve missed so much, it doesn’t make much sense just to go for Friday—so Scotty’s going to bring over my homework so far, then I’ll go tomorrow with most of it done. Besides, I want to catch up on the gossip.

* * *

There wasn’t any gossip from Scotty. I looked like crap. I almost didn’t want him seeing me this way; I’m basically wearing sweats and I’m swimming in them. I showered again before he came over, and felt like if I bumped into anything I’d break; just felt very fragile. That’s the only way to put it. I guess it’s all the time in bed.

It was weird seeing Scotty after … well, since the end of January, I guess. I’d seen him in the distance at school now and then, and I’d asked him about what he was eating, but that was pretty much it. Now he was here and kind of embarrassed and I was, too, so I kind of stared at the floor and I didn’t really see him. Scotty filled me in, told me to get better, gave me a strange look or two, and left. I guess I must look like death warmed over, but maybe it was just that my hair’s a mess.

4/2

School was a drag all week. The only weird thing was Scotty. You know how you see something every day but don’t notice it until something makes you look at it differently, and you wonder, whoa, when did that happen?

Okay, that was a confusing sentence. The point is, it was a usual week until Wednesday, when I was talking with Susan McMillan. Our lockers are close; I’d noticed she had a new hairstyle, so I said something like, ‘Great hairstyle’. She thanked me and we talked about History—there’s a project coming up and we were both complaining about it and she joked that ‘misery loves company’ and maybe we should work on it together—and a couple of her girlfriends came up to talk to her.

I turned back to my locker but overheard one of the girls talking about Scotty, so my ears perked up. They were saying he was looking pretty good! Scotty? What the heck?

So when it was lunch time, I looked at him—I mean, really looked at him—and, yeah, he looked different. I noticed that his lunch wasn’t his usual Ding Dongs and pork rinds; he had a small sandwich and carrot sticks. And he was drinking a protein shake! I went out of my usual way to class to catch him and asked if he’d been losing weight, and he laughed and said that all my talking over the months about Mom’s exercising and my exercises had got him to start an exercise regimen of his own. How long had this been going on?

Well, long enough for the girls to notice, I guess.

4/10

Getting dressed today (Saturday morning), I went through my drawers looking for something to wear. I found a t-shirt I’d forgotten I had, from the one and only state fair I went to—my father took us because he wanted to go to the demolition derby.

Then he’d yelled so loudly at one of the drivers, all red-faced and spitting, that a security guard asked him to tone it down. We would up being escorted out of the grandstand by three guards. And that was my day at the fair …

Anyway, it was a yellow shirt with the state fair poster airbrushed on the front. On a whim, I tried it on, and it was way too small for me, practically skin tight, but when I looked in the mirror, I really liked it. The sleeves were so short that they rode up on my arms—I can’t really call them my ‘muscles’—and it was too short to tuck in, so as I moved my tummy winked back, and it was really cool.

I wore shorts when I was younger, but hadn’t worn any for long time because any guys that saw me laughed at my ‘birdy legs’. I don’t remember what the groundhog predicted back in February but it’s gotten warm already. So it just felt like it was going to be a shorts kind of day, and no guys around, so—birdy legs and all—why not wear shorts? I looked for some old jean shorts I’d worn before but couldn’t find them. Then I remembered that I’d been coming back from the library and Jerry Deakins shoved me off the sidewalk and into the street; I’d fallen in some spilled motor oil so there went my shorts and underpants.

And my father had whipped me for ruining them: “I’ll teach you to take care of things!”

There had to be something, I thought as I rummaged around. In a bottom drawer I found my one and only pair of cargo shorts. They were from a few summers ago but I had to wiggle to get them on because they were as old as the t-shirt and I’d grown a little bit. I got them on and barely buttoned, and they were in good shape but seemed really long—almost down to my knees. I know they had to have room for the pockets, but geez, they called these shorts? They were so long that they’d never be cool, and I was never going to use those baggy pockets, so I took off the shorts, turned them inside-out, marked where the pockets ended, got a pair of scissors and chopped ‘em off.

When I pulled them on again, they went on easier and I rolled the little bit of hem up like cuffs, so they wouldn’t unravel, and it made them look nicer, more finished, but even shorter. I really liked the way they felt, and the way my legs looked. I never really thought about my legs other than something to walk on, but the thing with Scotty made me start to look at other things differently. Besides, all of my exercising had made my legs and stomach smoother and flatter. I found a pair of flip-flops and went to breakfast.

Mom gave me a funny look when I walked into the kitchen. I figured it was because of the old clothes, or maybe the association of a time when my father was still around. I just told her I liked the way they looked and wasn’t wearing them because of him.

Mom had some minor spring cleaning chores; her philosophy is to do a little each week instead of burning out by doing it all in a marathon. So we vacuumed the house to a fare-thee-well. I liked helping her, and we talked about school and stuff while we worked.

At one point I almost snapped a toe when one of the flip-flops caught on the rug. Mom suggested tennis shoes; all I have are the big black-and-silver Nikes that I wear in school and I just didn’t like how they looked with the shorts. Mom said she might have something for me and gave me a pair of white Keds, which looked great. I really liked seeing the whole length of my leg, from my shorts to the Keds.

The other frustration was my hair; it kept flopping in my face when I bent over. I kept it in a ponytail at school, tied low and back. It wasn’t in defiance to my father anymore, but still I kind of hid behind the long hair. But here at home, I pulled it back and snapped a rubber band around it as usual, and Mom clucked her tongue and told me the rubber band would wreck my hair. She took a short piece of white ribbon and tied it around my hair, but I thought it might be better if I could wear a scrunchie, like so many girls in my class. Then I could put it around my wrist when I fluffed out my hair. It just made sense to do it that way.

At one point I went to the bathroom, and when I was struggling to button up afterward, I had an idea. I pulled my pants down and tucked my penis between my legs and then pulled up the shorts, and they seemed to fit better. It felt strange, but I experimented with some moves in the bathroom, and actually things felt less constricted, so I decided to keep it like that.

I looked at myself while I washed my hands, and then tried something quickly (didn’t want Mom to think I’d fallen in!) I pulled the ribbon off my ponytail, fluffed the hair and then pulled it up onto the top of my head, the way I’ve seen Susan McMillan and Amanda Joyner wear it. I tied the ribbon around and turned my head from side to side. I loved the way my ponytail swung around.

Just then Mom let out a yelp, and I rushed out to help her. She’d bumped into a table and had caught the lamp, but also grabbed a vase with one hand. And her knee was keeping the table from falling! The thing was, she couldn’t really put things back without dropping one of them; she needed another hand. I helped her and she thanked me, looked at me for a moment, and then declared it tea time.

We had a lovely pitcher of ice tea on our patio, and I was leaning over pouring a second glass when I realized the ponytail was still on top of my head! Mom said, “No, leave it; it suits you.” And so I did.

We finished off the work and Mom made a light supper, just a salad and some soup. Afterward, I was searching through the TV channels when Mom came in with the newspaper and said we could just make the new Sandra Bullock movie if we left immediately. I was torn; we both wanted to see the movie but I didn’t feel like changing into long pants and it would take too long anyway.

I quickly went to pee; when I came out of the bathroom, Mom tossed me a sweater of hers, a white fisherman’s knit cardigan thing, and I followed her, putting on the sweater as we walked to the car.

The evening was a little bit chilly for shorts; I didn’t mind too much but I kept my legs together for warmth and pulled the sweater cuffs down around my fingers. Mom just smiled and I relaxed. It was good to be out with her.

The movie was great; when Sandy’s guy left her I thought I would burst out crying, but held it together until the end, when he came back to her. I could tell that Mom felt the same way. On the way out, she put her arm around me as we both said how much we liked the movie, and one of the ushers said, “G’night, ladies.” Mom and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. She didn’t talk about that on the way home—only talking about the movie—but I kind of wish she had.

End of Part Two

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Three

5/2

Mom went out with Judy Friday night, and I told her I would be fine and she could stay over. I mean, I know what they’re up to, right? And they’re in love, Mom’s happy, and that’s that.

I made a pasta-for-one thing in the microwave and watched some silly comedy show, but one of the commercials had a girl with hair about the same color and length as mine, and it got me thinking about my hair. I’d loved how the ponytail had felt, and Mom had been okay with it. More than okay—I’d been wearing the high ponytail and ribbon when we’d gone to the movies!

It got me to wondering about other things to do with my hair. I checked out Mom’s pile of magazines on the coffee table, expecting Cosmo or something and was surprised to find the current Seventeen. I curled up on the couch and went through it, and there was an article on hair styles and some looked really neat, so I took the magazine to the bathroom, propped it up, pulled out Mom’s drawer of hair things and went to work.

I really had fun, as much as I could without actually cutting anything. I tried some of the styles in the magazine, and then some variations—I really liked playing with the clips I’d found in the drawer—and then learned how to braid, more or less. Also how to do a chignon, or at least a how to do a not-very-good chignon.

I suppose it was weird to be doing this, but, hey! I figured it didn’t hurt anybody and it kept me off the streets, right? I also tried some ponytail styles and even pigtails; and I wondered, is it just me or are pigtails always cute? I thought I looked cute, anyway. I mean, I looked like a doofus, but a cute doofus. Finally, with a sigh, I styled my hair in what they call a ‘sleep braid’ and went to bed.

Saturday morning, Mom called to say she’d be home around noon. I took a shower and noticed that my chest was swollen. Actually, there was a swelling underneath my nipples. And kind of around my hips. I guess all the exercises I’ve been doing have been for legs and tummy and the rest of me is getting soft.

One very cool thing happened: Okay, first I gotta say something very weird, and then I’ll get to the cool part. I have learned to dislike my penis. And testicles. They’re not very big, not like on guys I’ve seen, but they make a lump in my clothes, and they get caught on stuff. They’re just in the way, dangling there, so ever since that day I wore the cargo shorts, I’ve been tucking them between my legs and everything fits better. However, I have to let them dangle to clean them in the shower, then dry really carefully before tucking them back.

But today, I was so warm from the shower, and so relaxed, that as I was drying them, the testicles slipped right back up inside me, where they came from! Well, one went up, but then I did it with the other and it went up quite easily. That’s it, I thought, you’re staying up there, out of sight and out of mind and out of my underwear. It made tucking so much easier, and the front looks so much better now! Walking and sitting and everything just feels a lot better, too.

I wrapped the towel around my chest, and had my hair wrapped up in a smaller towel. I had a half grapefruit and some yogurt, and went to get dressed.

I forgot to mention that Mom had gone shopping for me while I was sick, so I had some new things to choose from and I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a red tank top. I was going to blow-dry my hair the way I usually did, but decided to bend at the waist, blow-dry it and then flip it back, like I’d seen in the magazine. It was amazingly full, even when I brushed it out, so I let it just flow over my shoulders.

I was putting laundry in the wash when Mom came home, quite happy. She told me I looked really nice and I felt wonderful.

About an hour after Mom got home (and after telling me about her plans with Judy for a long vacation), the phone rang and it was Susan McMillan. She asked if she could drop by to talk about the History project. While I’d been sick, I’d been assigned to be her partner, because we’d been kind of joking about it so she thought it would be okay with me. She’d started some work on it while I’d been out of school, but I sure needed to get going on it. Susan’s always been nice to me and she’s smart and fun so of course I said, “Sure, come on over,” and she said she was nearly here; she’d been talking on her cell phone.

Three minutes later, Susan was at my door and there was a weird moment where she looked at me, her mouth open, and I invited her in, and she was slow to move. Then she kind of shook herself and came in. I offered her some Pepsi or water; she took the water and we went to the dining room table. She had a backpack and pulled out school stuff, showing me what she’d done so far, and we started outlining the next part of the project.

One thing stuck in my mind: Susan was pointing stuff out on this map she found on the internet, and I noticed how cool her fingernail polish was, kind of clear but kind of blue and sparkly if you looked at it just right. It was like it was there and wasn’t there, you know? It made her hands look so great. And I realized that her nails weren’t any longer than mine, really. I just figured she worked on keeping ‘em in great shape.

Mom came through and liked how hard we were working. After about two hours, we had caught everything up for next week. Susan called her mom and packed up and she asked if I usually was dressed like I was. She was wearing a light blue top and denim shorts, so what was she talking about? I told her it was comfortable because it had gotten warm so early, and Mom had bought these clothes for me. She thought a bit and then asked if I wanted to go to the mall sometime, or come over to her place to hang or something.

I said, “Cool” and she said, “Cool” and so I guess it’s cool.

Anyway, she left about twenty minutes ago and I’m wondering, why did she act that way?

5/9

I tried wearing the yellow state fair shirt yesterday, and my chest is so swollen it looked like I had boobs. I think the meds are messing with me; I hope Judy can adjust things. At least, I guess that’s what’s supposed to happen, what I’m supposed to want. But … I kind of like them. My little boobs, I mean. But I’m going to have to wear baggy things to school. I hated my stupid old clothes, anyway. Now I hate them more.

5/10

Both Scotty and Susan are acting weird. Whenever I saw either one, they’d keep asking, “Is there something you want to talk about?”

I said, “No” and they just nodded—at different times, of course. I mean, that’s what was weird; they both had the same question and didn’t know the other had asked it. And both gave me the same strange nod.

Maybe there is something to talk about. I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. I didn’t before my father died, either, but maybe I should just feel different.

I wonder if I should talk to Judy. They say you should have at least one grown-up you can talk to, that isn’t your parent. Well, she’s not my parent—yet!

5/12

I’m going to talk with Judy about everything that’s been happening; I phoned and she said to come over on Friday.

Susan McMillan wants to come over Saturday and work on the project. For some reason, that makes me really happy.

5/14

A lot to tell.

Well, I talked with Judy. I feel guilty because I didn’t talk to Mom about it, and that’s weird on so many levels, but I wasn’t doing the Doctor thing with Judy, or Mom’s Lover thing. Judy is just an adult I trust.

After school I took a bus to Judy’s office, only a buck and a half. Her receptionist looked at me strangely because I wasn’t in her appointment book and I guess this was break time for Judy, but she came out and told the girl she’d asked me to stop by, so it was cool.

All along I’ve been thinking about how much to tell Judy. I hadn’t really decided, but we got comfy in her office, she got me an orange juice and some water for herself, and I just told her everything.

Some of it she knew, some of it she’d guessed, whatever. She told me that I had an imbalance in my endocrine system, and had been undernourished for a long time and that either or both might account for physical things, like my size and other stuff. She said that science was divided on how much chemicals can affect thinking, about who you are, I mean. The inner, real you.

She asked me did I think I was homosexual, and I was so confused by the question that I choked up. I really, really, really never thought about it, so I said, “Probably not,” but she asked and then I thought of Scotty and that’s when I choked up. She asked me about Susan or other girls and I told her how cool Susan was, and pretty much all of the girls, I guess. Maybe not Gabrielle Stockton; she’s a Goth; or Yvonne Simon, who is just mean to everyone. Well, maybe she’s not a bitch, but she just seems angry all the time, and she—

Just as I wrote that, I was thinking that not too long ago, I was angry all the time, too. Oh, God! Does she have a father like I had? Poor Yvonne! Now I feel so sorry for her!

Judy asked me if I felt like the boys in school, if I identified myself as one of them. No way! Then she asked if I identified with the girls in school, and I started to automatically say ‘no way’, but felt a little tug or something, and I said, not really. I just felt more comfortable with them and thought they were cooler than the guys. I mean, duh, isn’t it obvious?

We even talked about different things, like maybe I should take up tennis or dancing or seriously get into swimming; Judy said they were all great exercise and a great way to get to know other people. They also weren’t the whole ‘team’ mindset that led to crazies like our Coach. Sure, there are tennis and swim teams, but they’re still kind of individual—although I pointed out that it took two to play tennis or dance. She nodded but pointed out that there was solo dance, too.

I guess I was tired from all the stress, because the sun was warm through her window and she was going on and on about chemicals and I just zoned out, but just for a moment, I think. I felt guilty about it because what she was talking about was important, but, hey, it happened, alright?

And her advice to me was to find my own way; don’t worry about what society or my peers think of me. “Find out who you are,” she said; everybody has to do it. She said not to worry about pigeonholes or stereotypes; just ‘be myself and discover myself’. I realized that it was what Judy and Mom had done, discovering themselves, and that they were much happier for having done so.

Needless to say, I felt great when she finished and asked her if I could call Mom before she left from work. I called Mom and told her I’d come to Judy to talk, and Mom was very cool with it and was going to come get me, but Judy said she was through for the day so she’d either take me home or we could meet somewhere.

We went to a big plaza I’d never been to before, with a Barnes & Noble, a sporting goods warehouse, and some smaller shops and restaurants. It was a pretty cool place. On the way over I told Judy that she could tell Mom what we’d talked about—any and all of it. She thanked me and said she’d think about it, but that I was very mature and honest.

Mom met us in front of Barnes & Noble. She and Judy did a great little hug; it looked like every other two women greeting each other but I knew there was more to it. Anyway, Mom said, “Shop, eat; or eat, shop?” and I realized they’d been planning this evening and I was in the way, so I told them I was going to BN but they said, no, no, come with us, it’ll be fun. Mom said she needed my ‘keen eye’, whatever that meant.

It meant ‘shop, eat’, and the shopping was at the sports place for a tennis outfit for Mom! She’d been getting healthier and stronger and had tried some tennis at her club, liked it, and was going on a ‘tennis date’ with Judy this weekend, so we were here to get her outfitted.

She’d pull things off the rack and turn to me, then to Judy; I’d yea it or nay it, always deferring to Judy. Mom looked down and her hair flopped over her face—she’s been letting it get long like mine—and I told her she needed a scrunchie.

Mom said, “Oh, no, they’re for younger women” but Judy and I ganged up on her. She turned to me and said, “Okay, I will if you will!” and tossed a white scrunchie to me. I told her it was too weird with my school clothes and gave it back to her, although I really liked it.

She said maybe we should all take up tennis. Judy looked at me strangely and said, “My treat; let’s get you some gear.” I protested that I’d never played; what if I hated it? Then she’d have spent money for nothing.

Scored a point, I thought, but Judy said, reasonably, to get the clothes and they can be worn anywhere; rent a racket and try it and if I didn’t like it, I still had new clothes. Couldn’t argue with that. Except … the idea of a white polo shirt and white shorts didn’t thrill me. Mom said I should look at the unisex racks and pulled out the nicest tops.

I okayed a light blue and a light lime green for Mom, and she okayed the same for me. The only weird thing is that the blue one had a scoop neck and what Mom called ‘cap sleeves’ and the lime green was sleeveless. They also had tennis skirts, which weren’t for me, of course, but Judy said, “What about this skort?” and held up something. Mom tried it on and it was like shorts in the back with a panel in front so it looked like a skirt, and she looked great. Her legs have really toned up with her exercising, but she was still really pale. I told her to not forget the sunblock, and she told Judy that I was the one in the family with great legs! I almost died of embarrassment, but Judy didn’t laugh; she said she’d like to see them sometime and there was this strange silence.

Suddenly I knew how to fix things, so I took the light blue top to the rack, pulled out a darker blue skort that looked like my waist size and went into the changing room. Part of my mind was screaming ‘What are you doing?’ and part was excited and wanting to try the thing on. It was really simple, just shorts and this front panel thing, and looking at my legs under it, I told myself that they were shorts, after all, and from the front it didn’t look any different than a short apron.

I came out and went ‘Ta-dah!’ and threw my hands up and cocked a knee forward, and Mom kind of went ‘whoa’ and even Judy was shocked. Then she shocked me when she said, “Sen-sa-tional legs!”

Then I felt embarrassed and quickly pulled my hands down and stood behind a rack, blushing, I’m sure. Mom rushed over and hugged me and told me I looked fantastic, she was so proud of me, and she loved me.

A bit of overkill for the moment, I thought, but I was reassured and stepped out again.

The weird thing was, well, my chest. Nobody said anything, and I couldn’t tell if Mom and Judy had been concentrating on my legs, or were just being polite, but I have, well, some development.

I’ve been hiding it at school by wearing baggy shirts, and since it’s been getting hotter, I found some of my old t-shirts that I stopped wearing because they were too tight. But now they’re tight enough that they keep ‘my development’ flattened.

In the reading I’ve been doing recently, I’ve run across the word ‘gynecomastia’. A perfectly normal condition that hits some boys and leaves them as well. So maybe my development, my … two developments … are normal and would leave at some point.

But I’ve been kind of feeling that I don’t want them to leave. At night I’ve kind of cradled them in my palms, and the feeling is so nice but so weird. Judy doesn’t do the stethoscope test every time I see her, so from whenever the last one was until now, I’ve got enlarged nipples and, well, little mounds. That’s all I call them; all I can call them, until Judy thoroughly checks me out.

So standing there going ‘Ta-dah!’ with Mom and Judy smiling at my legs, nothing was said about the fact that I had little mounds under the blue top. Did they see and decide not to comment? Or were they just accepting it as a matter of course?

Judy said nothing about my top but focused higher, saying that now I could wear the scrunchie, and I quickly put on the white one, deciding ‘what the hell’ and pulled my hair up on the top back of my head. There was a three-way mirror behind me, so I turned this way and that and I looked, well, I looked ‘sen-sa-tional’ and told my screaming mind to shut the hell up. Mom looked a little misty; I guess she was happy to be with Judy and me. And that was more important to me than any old voice screaming in my head!

Judy took Mom over to look at rackets and I went to find shoes. I really liked the Keds that Mom had loaned me, but I knew they weren’t really good for tennis. The men and boys’ shoes all looked huge and chunky. One of the things about being 5'2" was that nothing really fits very well. I looked over at the women’s department, and aside from obvious pink things, the shoes were mostly white.

I had a sudden surge of determination, a strange sense that I was somehow taking control. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but I felt weirdly confident that this was the way I had to go.

I got one of those black and chrome gadgets, flipped it to the women’s and girls’ sizes, stepped on it, slid the thingie and got my size, and went looking. I found two pair that I liked, and tried them both. I was barefoot, but there was a basket with little stocking things and short socks. I figured they were for sanitary reasons so I put on a pair and tried the shoes, and decided. I took the shoebox and went to find Mom and Judy.

They were getting accessories, sweatbands and stuff, and smiled hugely when they saw me. I showed Mom the shoes and she agreed. Judy suggested some of the socklet things, and Mom handed me several. I was going to go change, but Mom asked if I wanted to wear my new things. What the heck, I thought, they were comfortable and new, and I liked them a lot better than my school clothes. I wasn’t going to play tennis right now, but they said they looked fine for regular wear, and I guess Judy had been right about that—we’d find out later if I liked to play tennis!

The clerk scanned my tags and cut them off; we paid for everything, dumped all the bags in the car and went to a restaurant with a huge salad bar. We had a wonderful meal, like we always did, mostly talking about tennis and when Mom asked me if my school offered tennis, Judy and I looked at each other. I nodded, and we both told Mom about our talk.

Mom’s face went through all these strange changes as we told her, and when we were done she tilted her head and asked what I wanted to do. I smiled and said, “I’m doing it.”

Judy smiled and nodded, but Mom didn’t get it. I told Mom I was finding out who I was. Mom seemed to understand, and squeezed my hand and smiled. I think she was close to tears; her eyes glistened.

We said goodbye to Judy—more hugs all around—and on the way home Mom stopped at a grocery store. She told me what produce to get, and we met up at the check stand. Only paying half attention, I gazed at our stuff going by on the conveyor and snapped awake and looked at Mom. She smiled and nodded, and I saw the teen girl magazines and moisturizers and stuff, and a small bottle of the same nail polish Susan had been wearing.

All Mom said on the way home was, she knew I’d liked it—Susan’s polish. Then she said that we should both find out who I was.

I swear to God, it wasn’t until I walked in our house that I realized that I was in the blue top, skort, and shoes. And I’d been to the grocery dressed like this? And wearing a scrunchie? On a high ponytail!

Mom chuckled and said something about ‘the cow’s already out of the barn’. The point being that I’d been mostly dressed like a girl, and not one person saw anything wrong with it.

Hmm …

Later, Mom taught me how to put on nail polish. My nails are in great shape thanks to the manicure kit, and I’ve been letting them grow a bit. I just like how they look; I don’t know why. Anyway, I put on two coats of the blue polish, and although there was no sunlight to catch the sparkle, I loved the look. I couldn’t resist—I put two coats on my toenails, too! I watched a little TV while they dried, and I put my feet up on the edge of the coffee table, so I could look at my toes. They looked so cute!

I got ready for bed, in my usual soft gray sleepshirt—I love it so much I practically wear it every night—and Mom took me to the bathroom and showed me the things she’d bought. She showed me how to wash and moisturize. She gave me a white hairband to hold my hair back, and asked if I wanted her to sleep braid it, so she quickly did that while she was giving me some tips on hair.

Then, my face all shiny and clean, I looked at us in the mirror, and oh my God—we looked like mother and daughter! Much more than we ever had as mother and son! I think Mom saw it too, because her hand flew up to her mouth and her eyes widened. All I could say was, “Oh, Mom.” We hugged and she led me back to my bedroom.

It was the sweetest goodnight I can remember since I was very little.

End of Part Three

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Four

5/15

Oh, God, what am I going to do? I have to go back to school Monday and I absolutely do not want to go. I mean, I like school but I don’t want to go back to being Alan. Stupid Alan. Stupid boy Alan.

What a day.

Saturday morning I woke up and showered. Nothing unusual there, except I felt so different than I had before, for some reason. I got out of the shower and was toweling off, I studied my legs, and something in me snapped. No other word for it; it was a breaking of sorts, between then and now. I grabbed a disposable razor from the medicine chest and Mom’s shaving cream. Not that I had anything growing, really, but I stepped back in the shower and shaved my legs. After all, I thought, if I was going to wear things like the skort and all my shorts since it was going to be a hot summer, I might as well make my legs look as nice as possible.

And to the little voice screaming ‘What are you doing?’ I said swimmers and bicyclists did it, too.

Of course, swimmers and bicyclists didn’t also shave under their arms. I did.

Afterwards, I knew enough to put on baby oil and to not put on deodorant right away. I wrapped my robe around me and went for breakfast.

I was having some yogurt, and Mom came in for coffee. She held my sleepshirt and kind of tsk-tsked at me. I said, “What?” and she pointed out that I’d worn and washed it so much that the hem was coming off and that the fabric was kind of balling up. Yuk! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed. My only excuse was being groggy with sleep when I put it on at night and never noticed. She said she’d have to get better quality next time, and more of them … and her face did something and she nodded like she’d made a decision. Then she announced that she had time before her tennis date, so I put on some blue-and-green Madras short-shorts, a sleeveless yellow tank top and my new Keds and we headed to a mini plaza I’d never been to.

Mom told me it was sleepwear time. There was a lingerie shop I’d never seen; Mom said that they had good quality, low prices, without the whole sexy emphasis of Victoria’s Secret or Fredericks. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even hesitate—I was going to buy some lingerie. And I was going to wear it. And it didn’t feel strange.

Actually, the strangest thing was that the saleslady didn’t bat an eyelash. I know I wasn’t dressed like a macho guy, but I wasn’t dressed all girly, either. I mean, I wasn’t in a dress or anything. Anyway, Mom showed me some sleepwear and talked about the pros and cons of each style. We settled on three, two white and one ivory, each of three lengths. Walking across the store, I noticed some really neat underwear. Mom told me my life would be easier if I just used the actual names. So, I had three nighties and was thinking about buying panties.

I turned to Mom, who had a knowing smile, and something just sort of … slid into place between us and I smiled back at her. We both looked at the rack, and without saying anything we picked out six pairs. Mom had something else in her hands, and showed me some camisoles, she called them, and I really wanted to wear them. They just looked so … nice.

So we went back to the car with my new underthings. My new lingerie. Although I wanted to shop for more and more, I knew that Mom had the tennis date. We were just getting out of the car at home when we saw someone on our doorstep—Susan was here.

The History thing! I’d forgotten she was coming over!

There I was, in Madras short-shorts and the yellow tank and my hair up in a ponytail, holding bags with the name of the lingerie store, and Susan saying hi and then her face going through a zillion changes. She had on a green shell and some blue plaid Capris.

I told Mom I’d forgotten about Susan, and I knew she had her tennis date, and did she want me to cancel. Mom asked Susan if it would be possible for us to study at her house. Susan called her mom who was away from the house; the mothers talked, and it was decided that we’d start at my house while my mom got ready, then she’d take us to Susan’s house, allowing time for Susan’s mom to get home. Whew!

Which just delayed the inevitable questions about my bags. There was no point in saying they were Mom’s. I just looked at Susan and thought, Aw, the heck with it. I asked her if she wanted to see; I know that girls love shopping, talking about shopping, and sharing shopping stories.

I told her my sleep things were getting ratty, and Mom suggested these, and I showed her the nighties. She also saw the camisoles, and I said, again, Mom’s suggestion. Susan didn’t see the panties, or maybe she did. She must have noticed my smooth, shaved legs. I know she noticed my nails, and I told her I’d admired her polish so much Mom got me some. Then I realized it sounded like everything was Mom’s doing, which it isn’t, so I said it wasn’t her, it was me.

I’d said it offhand, just to stop blaming Mom, but there was that snapping, breaking, ‘then-and-now’ thing and I knew it was absolute truth and said it again to Susan: It was all me; it was all my choice.

Susan asked if she could know what was going on. I thought for a moment, and simply told her that, on one hand, I had an imbalance of my endocrine system, and also that I really didn’t fit in with the guys, did I? She said no. She was nice enough to ask gently, was I gay?

The weird thing is, at no point had I thought about sex. That’s what I’d told Judy, and it was true. I mean, if being gay involves sexual interest, and I guess it does—or at least part of it—then it’s been the farthest thing from my mind.

I told all that to Susan, and had to honestly say I didn’t know because I wasn’t thinking about sex. She asked how long I’d been dressing in girls’ clothing.

I laughed and said I never had; I dressed in my clothing! But I knew what she meant, so I told her it had been about three weeks. She didn’t believe it, but Mom passed by, overheard, and confirmed it.

Then the big question: Susan asked where will I go from here. I told her what Judy had said—calling her ‘my doctor’ and not ‘Mom’s girlfriend’, of course—that I should find out who I am. And all I know is that this is the way I am, and I’m exploring it.

Susan thought for a moment and then nodded, smiling, thank God!

Mom was ready to go, so I quickly put the things back in the bag and put it in my room, and we left for Susan’s—we really didn’t have to pack up because we’d never unpacked. I just grabbed my school backpack and off we went.

I knew things would be strange with Susan’s mom; I told Mom to wait because I might be leaving immediately if Susan’s mom freaked out. I had debated changing, but I guess my key phrase for the day was ‘Aw, the heck with it.’

Her mom was cool. Although I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, she’s known me since I was about three. Before I’d been short and nondescript, but obviously a boy. Now I was in high-cut, blue-and-green Madras shorts, a yellow, scoop neck, sleeveless top, shaved legs, socklets and white Keds, with my hair past my shoulders and loosely held with a white scrunchie, and blue nail polish like her daughter wore.

I had, uh, changed from the last time she’d seen me. She handled it well. She had the same look that Susan had—I guess it was genetic—and Susan said, “An endocrine imbalance.”

Her mom just said, “Of course” and let us in. We unloaded our stuff on the table, and through the living room window I could see that Susan’s mom had gone out to talk with Mom.

Then Mom took off and Susan and I got to work.

There was one of those crazy moments when, about an hour into it, we were stretching and Susan’s mom came through and asked, “Can I get you girls anything to drink?”

The look on her face was priceless; she genuinely hadn’t thought about what she was saying. Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We said yes and stretched while her mom brought us Diet Pepsis, apologizing profusely.

I told her to relax; it was an obvious mistake. As we sipped, her mom asked the same question Susan had. I told her that for whatever reasons, medical or otherwise, I was happier this way. It was me. And no, I didn’t have a master plan and didn’t know where I was headed.

Susan’s mom asked if I wore dresses. I blushed and said no, I hadn’t. “Pity,” she said. “With those great legs, you should show ‘em off.”

That freaked me, because … well, just because.

We got back to work and got on a roll. This whole project thing is to come at a historical event in a roundabout way, not just a straight ‘he did this and they did that’ thing. It meant researching the culture and what the people were like, what they were thinking, and other things, too. We were doing the Norman Invasion and the Battle of Hastings in 1066.

Susan had a computer with a fast internet hookup, and we kept coming up with things to add to the mix. “Weather!” I’d say, and we were off, trying to find out the weather of the period. “Food!” she’d say, and we’d find out the diet of the average Englishman of the 11th century. Yuck, by the way.

The most amazing thing was finding out about the Viking invasion in the north that happened just before the Norman invasion in the south …

Anyway, that’s why it was such a big project. The thing is, Susan’s really smart and interested in lots of things, and we were a good team.

Finally, finally … we knocked it off for the day. We had all the primary research and had divided up the sections each of us was going to write. Mom had called around four and I told her we were on a roll and I’d call her back.

Mrs. McMillan asked if I’d like to stay to dinner. I could tell Susan wanted it, and I liked the idea. I called Mom and everything was settled. Susan said her dad and brother were at a double-header baseball game and wouldn’t be back until ten or so, so I wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with them. Mom would pick me up at nine.

We put everything away and I asked if I could help Mrs. McMillan; she laughed and said her cooking was ‘therapy’ and for us to get out of the kitchen and relax. Susan asked if she could show me something in her room, and there was an awkward moment while her mom weighed it, and then she smiled and said go ahead.

Susan’s room was a dream. Everything matched, and there was kind of a time-line flow to it. I could see her little-girl years in some of the dolls, and her gymnastics and dance awards as she got older. I didn’t know she’d won so many, and I didn’t know she loved horses, judging from the pictures. She told me she thought about really competing in dressage, but as much as she liked horses she loved gymnastics and dance too much to give them up.

She flopped on the bed and I sat politely on her vanity bench. I complimented her room and there was a moment after and then she started bouncing with excitement. It turned out she really wanted to ask if I was going to dress like this at school. I told her I hadn’t thought about it; it was something that was happening to me a bit at a time and so far I was okay at school.

She surprised me by snorting and saying that if I showed up at school looking like I did right now, I’d have guys following me asking for a date! I blushed and stammered and didn’t know what to say.

Then she asked if I really truly didn’t wear dresses. I told her I didn’t have dresses or skirts or anything like that. I had only gotten the nighties this morning and hadn’t worn them yet. It was all so new.

She asked if I knew that girls always shared clothes, and makeup—even though they knew they shouldn’t—and did each other’s hair, and all that. Yeah, I knew, but what did that have to do with anything?

Susan went to her closet and pulled out a denim skirt. “Here’s your first skirt,” she said.

Oh God.

My mouth went dry. I had a tight throat.

And an intense desire to try it on the skirt.

I slowly reached for the offered skirt and … things just happened naturally. Susan thoughtfully turned her back to look in her closet, and I slipped out of my shorts and pulled up the skirt.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was wonderful; it felt right. I looked down at my legs, and thought, ‘So that’s how they should look’. I know that’s silly; my shorts showed more of my legs but there was just … something about the hem of the skirt … Susan turned around and stared, then said, “My oh my, I think we’re onto something!” She had me turn around, then walk around in her room. She snapped her fingers and said, “Shoes!”

It felt like I was falling; I felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Part of my mind registered that Alice and Alan both started with the same letters. I didn’t feel like an Alan at all anymore. Besides; it was my father’s name and I didn’t want anything of his.

Susan had a whole section of her closet devoted to shoes; not as many as some girls I’d heard about, but a lot more than Mom and me put together. She said “Aha!” and handed me a pair of strappy sandals with a small heel. I took off my Keds and she gasped, giggled, and hugged me when she saw that my toenails were wearing her color of nail polish.

I sat on the bed and put on the sandals and immediately knew I had to have some! My feet looked so good in them, but could I walk? I got up and took a few tentative steps, and other than a slight pressure from my calf muscles because of the heel, I could walk. And my legs looked so much better—I never realized that standing on tiptoe could make my legs look so good!

Susan said, “God, you’re a natural!”

I started crying. It was that ‘cry-for-happy’ thing, but still, she hugged me and sat me down on the bench in front of her vanity. While I got it together, she held me and went ‘there-there’ and I calmed down. She started brushing my hair out of my face, and then picked up a brush and really started brushing.

All the time she was talking about other things, about what some girl in school bought, or a new song she liked … instinctively, she knew what to avoid; she didn’t talk about what I was experiencing. She began playing with my hair, brushing it this way and that, piling it up and over and fooling around with it, while I dabbed my eyes with tissue.

Then she frowned slightly and got serious, brushing and pulling sections and she basically put my hair up, with cute wisps hanging down by my ears because the hair wasn’t long enough to be caught up completely. When she was done putting my hair up, she handed me a gold necklace and told me that with my neck, I should wear my hair up more often. I giggled and pointed out that I’d never worn it up and she smiled and said, “You will!” and sounded really confident. To cover my embarrassment I tried to put on the necklace; I had a little trouble with it, as I’d never worn one before, so she fixed it behind me.

Then she let out a whoop of frustration and told me to sit still, close my eyes and not move. I had a trembling hunch what she was going to do—and she did it. I could feel her begin applying makeup to my face, the foundation, blusher, eye shadow and liner and mascara and finally drawing on my lips and a spritz of some fantastic perfume.

She waved the spray away from my face and said to open up and look.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

In the mirror was a really pretty girl. Not movie star-fashion model gorgeous, but definitely not plain.

Definitely pretty.

And definitely not a boy.

I stared—I think we both did—and I’ll never forget this; Susan said, “You know how you told me that your doctor said to find yourself, to discover yourself? I think you just did.”

Wow.

There were this period where time stood still as we both realized the world had changed. I knew those were both clichés, but they’re the absolute truth for how it felt. We both knew this wasn’t a one-time thing; we both knew I had truly found myself.

Susan softly said, “I don’t think I can call you Alan anymore.”

I told her that was funny, because I had just thought the same thing, and that I sort of felt like Alice in Wonderland. We both agreed that I needed a new name, and Alice was just too old-fashioned. Susan suggested Alana or Alannah, keeping my original name, but I told her that I had been named after my father and that I didn’t want anything to do with him or his name.

She pointed out that if I was going to truly change, to become a full-time girl—and looking at myself in the mirror, and enjoying the time spent with Susan, how could I not?—then having a feminine version of my name might make it easier to persuade people (like school administrators) that I’d always been Alana; somehow the computer dropped an A.

There was a lot to that, and I didn’t want to let hatred for my father color things. But then Susan got on the internet and we were looking at baby-naming sites, and we suddenly shouted “Alyssa!” at the same time! It was a much cooler name than Alice, but paid tribute to that original idea. It had the same start as Alan, as I had with my father, but then went in a different direction, the way I did. And the fact that out of all the names, we both said it at the same time—it was official. I just hoped Mom liked it.

Susan turned to me and said, “Hello, Alyssa” and it was so sweet that my eyes teared up. Susan rushed a tissue to me and told me to gently dab, and when I pulled the tissue away and saw my mascara marks, we both laughed at the natural, feminine moment.

Susan frowned again, and said something wasn’t quite right; something was off. I felt a cold grip of fear, wondering, and then her face brightened. I went from fear to embarrassment when she asked why I wasn’t wearing a bra.

I told her I didn’t have any; she found that hard to believe. She said with my long hair and a kind of slump when I walked in, she hadn’t really noticed, but with my hair up (and I guess I was standing straighter with the heels—and with a new pride) she said she could really see my boobs.

That’s what she called ‘em—my boobs. And as embarrassing as it was, I was thrilled.

And confused.

She really couldn’t believe that I didn’t have any bras, but she said her mom was a stickler for propriety, and as long as I was staying for dinner, I really should be properly dressed. She giggled when she said it, and I kind of giggled back, and then she got serious.

She said it was hard to say what she was going to say, because she’d known me—or Alan—for so long, but she always had kind of wished that ‘Alan’ had been a girl, because we always got along so well. She had friends like Amanda Joyner and Natalie Condolini, and she was friendly with some boys, but she said she always felt different with me. Maybe, she said, she was somehow sensing Alyssa, hiding inside of Alan.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Thank you; you’ve always been so special to me.”

Susan said she didn’t know what the future would bring, but she would really, really like it if she could be friends with Alyssa. I felt choked up but I said, are you kidding? Of course, and I was so grateful to her for letting me try on the clothes and she cut me off.

“Girlfriends are always lending each other clothes, remember?”

I laughed and gulped a happy sob at the same time, and managed to say that I’d heard something like that, but never really knew for sure; I had a lot to learn and I’d love to learn with her. And I’d love to be her girlfriend!

She seemed to be weighing something in her head, making a decision, then nodded and said, “Cool—first lesson: girlfriends don’t have any modesty, and we tell each other everything.”

I said, “Agreed,” but I didn’t say anything more out of shock, because she had pulled off her top and stood there with only her bra, a pretty light blue.

“Well?” she said, daring me, sort of. I eased out of my yellow top and for some reason held the top over my chest. Susan made a face and unhooked the back of her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, revealing her breasts, which made me gasp slightly.

But not like a boy seeing a girl’s breasts for the first time. This was pure envy; she was more developed than I was, of course, and her skin was creamy. She just looked incredible.

“What?” she asked, and I told her that I wished my breasts could look as nice as hers. She made me so happy by saying she thought that mine would be, and in the very near future. She said that mine looked better than hers did when they were that size, and I could have hugged her with thanks, except that would be too weird.

She went to her bureau and pulled out two bras, telling me that she took off her bra to help me relax, but it was also digging in and she wanted to change it, anyway. She laughed and told me that I’d find out soon enough that wearing bras wasn’t nearly as sexy as boys thought it was!

Susan decided to give me a quick lesson in Bra 101, pointing out some of the features from the ones she had in her drawer. She handed me a creamy, stretchy one and then she put on a white one, showing me how to attach it around the waist, turn it and pull it up. The one she handed me fastened in front, so I put it on and clasped it together. Susan pulled it this way and that, pulling the cups down a bit and adjusting the straps, because I was bigger than she’d been when she started developing.

We were just two girls, standing there in our bras, and it felt like the most natural thing …

I put my yellow top back on while she put on a pinkish camp shirt. She told me about adjusting a bra after the top was on, and how to deal with falling straps. God, I’m going to have to deal with bra straps! I told her this was all incredibly exciting, but not sexy-exciting, just new-exciting, and how strange it was that everything seemed so normal; it all seemed so regular, and she said that’s what she was feeling, too.

She changed out of the capris without any warning; one minute she had them on and the next minute she stood there in panties, white with small red flowers. She pulled a black skirt from her closet and wriggled into it, giving me instructions about skirts as she did. Slipping her feet into Dr. Scholl sandals, she bent at the waist and flipped her hair, then straightened and looked in her vanity mirror while she fluffed her hair, and then said, “Let’s go.”

Go? I freaked. But I timidly followed her downstairs; she told me to wait and that she was going to ‘present me to society’ like a debutante. I could smell that dinner was almost ready; her mom was in the living room, and I heard Susan announce, “May I present Miss Alyssa Cunningham!” and I marveled at how nice my new, whole name sounded.

There was a pause where my feet didn’t want to move, and then I carefully walked into the living room and stood with my hands in front of me, holding my fingers.

Mrs. McMillan stared, and then said, “Oh my God, what have you done?” to Susan.

I jumped in and said, “No, it’s not her fault, Mrs. McMillan, it’s mine.” I thought it was a disaster and was ready to run away.

Mrs. McMillan waved her hand in the air and quickly said, “No, no, no, you misunderstand. I was just amazed to finally meet you.”

‘Finally?’

“Oh, let me get a good look at you,” she said as she stood and walked around me. “Amazing! If I didn’t know Alan … but then, none of us really did, did we?”

I was amazed at how accurate her observation was, and also wondered, has it always been that obvious?

And what was that ‘finally’?

Mrs. McMillan ‘A-hemmed’ and gestured to my chest. Susan and I looked at each other, and I quickly said, “I’ve got some … ah … development, and Susan was nice enough to lend me something.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding; you don’t have … does your mother know?”

I told her, well, sort of; but I’d never dressed this much before. I’d never worn a skirt or heels or makeup or … anything like this. Mrs. McMillan couldn’t believe it, just like Susan couldn’t. I told her that she could ask Mom herself, and she thought for a moment, nodded and announced dinner was ready.

I was glad for the release from scrutiny. Susan and I helped set the table, and I felt this wonderful feeling of shared womanhood that I hope is going to be my future. It was really strange—well, everything about this was strange!—but more than putting on a bra or skirt, more than my new name, it was the moment of the simple act of setting the table that I had the absolute realization that I wanted to be a girl for the rest of my life. Maybe it was the combination of things, but the sense that there were three females in the room—and I had no idea how I thought that—was the clincher. It was also bending and stretching while wearing the bra; I could feel it as I reached to put down plates. I liked the support that I hadn’t even known I was missing. And, certainly, things like Mrs. McMillan casually saying, “Put those over there, Alyssa” and Susan saying things like, “Isn’t that a pretty color on her?” that helped put me at ease.

Anyway, it was a delicious pot roast with crisp seasonal vegetables, and ice tea. We helped clear up afterward, too, and I saw that it was nearly eight; Mom would be here in an hour but I decided to do something before I chickened out. I tried her on her cell phone, and she chuckled at my call, telling me that she’d found what she needed and was just going to kill an hour at the bookstore, so of course she could come over now.

I figured I had to show Mom what I looked like before giving the clothes back to Susan.

During dinner, we hadn’t talked about me; we’d talked about the food and some social stuff—Mrs. McMillan was angry at some legislation and wanted to know what we as teenagers thought about it. It just all felt natural and normal and pleasant. So I wasn’t on the spot until after dinner, when I sat down in the living room with Susan and her mother.

Mrs. McMillan wanted to know my plans. I told her I didn’t have any; everything was all so new and I had to talk things over with my mother. She asked how I came about the name Alyssa—she’d been very good calling me Alyssa all through dinner, saying, “Try these carrots, Alyssa,” or “Susan, would you pass Alyssa the gravy boat?” and it was amazing how fast I adapted. There wasn’t any hesitation in my brain—nothing like ‘But I’m Alan!’ bouncing around inside me.

We told her my reasons for the name choice, and she was surprised that this new me was … so new. She said I looked, acted, and moved so completely natural and normal that she figured that I must have been living as a girl for years. Nope, I said, ask Mom. Mrs. McMillan did have a point when she said that traditionally, parents name their children, so before I get used to Alyssa, I should get Mom’s input, and I agreed—other than hoping Mom liked the name, I hadn’t thought about Mrs. McMillan’s point about my parent naming me; everything was moving so fast.

Right on cue, Mom rang the doorbell. Susan and I had decided to do the debutante thing again, so I quickly went into the kitchen. Mom was greeted by Mrs. McMillan, who told her “The kids have something to show you.” I’m sure Mom thought it was related to the History project.

Susan was nervous; I’d told her to do this and it kind of put her on center stage. She said to Mom, “Mrs. Cunningham, you know how things are … changing for Alan?”

There was a long pause as Mom considered her response. I knew that Mom knew that Susan knew; Mom had heard it when Susan quizzed me on the lingerie earlier at our house.

Finally, Mom said, “Yes they are, and we don’t know how things are going to go.”

Susan said, “Well, maybe we all have a clearer idea after today. May I present to you … your daughter, Miss Alyssa Cunningham!”

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

It was only remembering the red-dress scene from She’s All That that I could find the courage to move.

Heart in throat, stomach in knots, my insides all topsy-turvy, I took the steps out of the kitchen into the living room and stood as I had earlier.

Mom’s hand flew to her open mouth; she’d said, ‘Oh, my God’ when she got the first glimpse of me. She looked me up and down, from my painted toenails in the heeled sandals, my shaved legs, denim miniskirt, a bra under the sleeveless yellow top she’d seen earlier, my hair pinned up in a feminine style, a delicate gold necklace at my throat and subtle makeup.

“Oh God,” she said, and I thought, ‘Funny, that’s what I said’.

Then Mom was rushing off the couch to me, flinging her arms around me in a swooping hug, sobbing, “Oh, my beautiful, oh, my love!” and I was hugging her back, loving her and crying too, but hoping she’d say it, say the word, hoping she’d make it real, make it official.

Then she said it: “Oh, my beautiful girl!” and I hugged her even harder, sobbing.

“Mom,” I cried, “please, is it okay? Can I be your daughter? Please?”

And she said, “Yes, oh yes; my beautiful, darling daughter!” and I just kind of went away for awhile, standing there hugging my mother and loving her so much; so grateful to Susan and her mother, and so wanting that moment to never end.

Mrs. McMillan and Susan had quietly left us, and I sort of came to and we broke the hug when they came in with cups and a pot of tea. I was so emotionally drained and gratefully accepted the box of tissues Susan handed me. Both Mom and I stood, dabbing at our eyes, checking our tissues for mascara and laughing at the similarity of our actions, and then we all sat down to tea.

Susan and I took turns telling about how things had reached this point. I was so grateful to have a friend like Susan, and she said such nice things about me, and of course I retaliated with wonderful things about her. Finally, the subject of my name came up.

Mom surprised me by saying that she loved the name Alyssa. I asked if she had a name picked out for me; she didn’t. I asked if she had a name picked out if I had been born a girl; she laughed and said my father wanted to name me after his mother, Monica.

“I guess even with that show Friends …” Mom trailed off.

Susan and I looked at each other, and Susan said, “Not even Phoebe!” and we both laughed.

Mom said “Alyssa” to herself several times, and smiled warmly. “Alyssa Cunningham is a wonderful name, honey!” and that settled that.

So now I’m Alyssa Cunningham.

So what am I going to do about Alan Cunningham?

End of Part Four

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Five

5/16

Remember the first thing I wrote in yesterday’s entry? About not wanting to be Alan anymore? Now, even more so. Even more so! A lot of stuff happened, but I’ll try to keep it shorter than yesterday’s, which was as long as War and Peace.

I’ll start with last night: Mom and I left Susan and her mom before the male McMillans got home, thank God. And, true to being girlfriends, Susan told me to wear the clothes home; she’d be over the next day and maybe we could do something and maybe she could borrow something of mine.

Yeah, like I have anything much.

On the ride home last night, it really struck me how I’d have to start from Zero and go on from there. Well, maybe not Zero, because I had the nighties and Mom had picked up some things like shorts and tops. But I knew that I wanted to start building Alyssa’s wardrobe, but I didn’t want Mom to go broke doing it.

We were both so happy when we got home that she hugged me before I went to get ready for bed. I washed and moisturized and came to show Mom how I looked in one of my new nighties.

Okay, I chose the short one. I had to!

I loved the way it floated around me, and I loved seeing my bare shoulders in reflections; I just loved being Alyssa, but I knew that reality would crash in.

Not yet, though.

Mom told me she loved me and that Judy would be delighted, and that we’d see how the world could handle two Cunningham women.

I was still chuckling at that as I got into bed, remembering the twinkle in my mother’s eyes when she’d said it. God, I love her, and other than her choice of husband, I want to be just like her. For the meantime, though, I’m overjoyed just to be her daughter—

Wait-wait-wait …

What the hell has happened to me? What is happening to me?

That’s what ran through my head as I lay back, stunned, and stared at the ceiling. I knew that I had been a boy named Alan. Yeah, I was small and unhappy and got teased a lot and then came home and got hit a lot, but I was a small boy named Alan.

Now I was a girl named Alyssa and becoming even more so, every minute. It didn’t seem like a then and now or a before-and-after, like stepping over a state line: Step there, you’re a boy. Step there, and you’re a girl. Instead, there was a flow, a blending, and I couldn’t say where me-as-a-boy ended and me-as-a-girl started—but I knew, absolutely, that I wanted to be a girl. That in some ways I already was a girl. There had been no conscious decision to it, no reasoning. Things … happened, like shopping for tennis things for Mom, and then things were different afterwards. Or maybe it had begun before that? In any case, little by little, change by change, moment by moment … I’d changed, and now I was overjoyed to be my mother’s daughter.

I’d have to talk about this with Mom and with Judy, and maybe someone else, although I didn’t want to. But just as I’d thought the words ‘overjoyed to be my mother’s daughter’, I’d felt the joy. I’d felt the happiness and warmth and the rightness that whether Alan-to-Alyssa had been little steps or a smooth flow or all at once, I was where I should be in my life. I was who I should be.

I felt another surge of happiness at that thought, and fell asleep quickly. When I woke up this morning, there was a confidence in my decision, in my life, that I’d never felt before—that Alan had never felt before—as well as a sense that the world had tilted, had slid; that I was in another dimension, an alternate reality … But it was the proper reality. The world had slid into place. Getting out of bed and feeling the nightie about me—even though it was wrinkled from sleep—made me more than ever determined that Alyssa was what and who I was meant to be. I don’t know how it happened, but it is right.

Judy came over around noon. I was in the denim skirt again, with a blue top and the bra, but the day was heating up so much I didn’t know what to wear, especially after Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t wear things two days in a row.

“So I’ll just have to go topless,” I said.

“Don’t be flippant, young lady,” Mom said, and all three of us cracked up at how automatically she’d responded, and how good it was to hear and say those words.

Judy was amazed at me all over again, and we hugged, and I felt wonderful. Susan called and we talked about her coming over, and she asked if I wanted to come back over to her house, because they have a pool.

Yeah, I thought, but what would I swim in?

She read my mind and told me don’t worry at all. Because they had a pool and she swam all the time, she had lots of swimsuits. I put her on hold and talked with Mom, and this is what we did …

We went shopping!

I can see why women love it; as Alan I never cared, but Alyssa loves to shop—of course, maybe because I don’t have very much right now. But it’s more than just getting stuff; it’s a bonding thing with women, and a learning thing, and so much more than just picking up something to wear.

Mom and Judy were going to some art exhibit in the afternoon, and it didn’t matter what time they got there, so the three of us piled in and went to a mall near Susan’s house, one that I hadn’t been to since a couple of Christmases ago.

On the way over, Judy complimented me up one side and down the other about how well I was ‘adapting’ to being Alyssa (she likes the name, too). Being methodical, she proposed that we go just three places in one department store since we had limited time, and could mega-shop later. First, we’d pick up some extra tops and skirts—‘functional day wear’ she called it—and second we’d pick up a swimsuit, although she admitted that swimsuit shopping can take weeks to do right!

In the Juniors section we picked up skirts in tan, black, and denim; an assortment of tops, and some capris, which I was dying to try for some reason. I think it’s because they’re pants that boys don’t wear. In the shoe department I got a pair of shoes like Mom’s Keds, brown and white flats, new flip-flops, and my own pair of strappy sandals! I was dying to try heels, but knew that would be rushing things. Still …!

On to swimsuits, and I was dazzled and overwhelmed by the selection. On the recommendation of Mom and Judy, I got two, a royal blue with white trim two-piece, and a black maillot. The time waster was trying on three different pairs of the two-piece to find a top and bottom that fit me well. I didn’t even have time to think about what it felt like to wear these things; it was just ‘into the changing room, off with this, on with that, off with that, on with this, back out and repeat’.

Whew!

We started out of the store, and Judy called out as we passed the jewelry cases. She and Mom murmured, and I suddenly found myself the proud owner of a thin gold chain, a bracelet, and the prettiest ring!

I couldn’t believe we’d only taken an hour—I said Judy’s efficient!—and yet I had a pile of things to put away when I got home. More to the immediate point, I had suits, flip-flops (and a towel courtesy of Mom’s detour), and some casual wear for after the swim. I put everything I’d need in one bag as we drove to the McMillans’ house.

Susan and I assumed it would be just the two of us lounging by the pool.

We were very wrong.

They dropped me off at two; Mrs. McMillan was going to take me home later. The day was getting summery hot and I thought the pool would be great. I should have realized things weren’t going to be so peaceful when I noticed all the cars parked on the street. Maybe someone on the block’s having a party, I thought in passing. Before I rang the bell, Susan opened the door. She was wearing a day-glow orange bikini top and had a towel wrapped around her waist.

The first thing she did was apologize; she said the thing wrong with having only one pool for two kids is that each kid might have separate plans for it. Susan said that just after we’d talked, her older brother Patrick had told her he’d invited ‘a few friends’ to use the pool this afternoon. Susan had tried calling me to alert me or cancel, but I was out shopping with Mom and Judy and she didn’t know our cell phone numbers.

So the pool deck was filled with teenage boys, a situation that would not be unbearable for a typical teenage girl, but might stress me out. But that wasn’t the worst … some of Patrick’s friends brought girls, including Amanda Joyner and some other girls from our class! Right now by the pool, there were three girls and maybe six guys who all knew Alan—and maybe more were arriving, because guys always invited guys who brought their guy friends along. And guys would bring girls, and the chances of people being there who knew Alan Cunningham skyrocketed.

I couldn’t very well ask Mrs. McMillan to take me home right now (Mr. McMillan was nowhere in sight). I couldn’t very well hide in Susan’s room all day. I mean, I could, but the other girls would probably come in and discover me. I couldn’t very well go out to the pool like I was a real girl, with the kids I knew from school.

Or could I?

I was thinking all of this while Susan walked me up to her room. I could hear the buzz from outside; it was inviting and terrifying all at once. Susan kept apologizing; I kept telling her to forget it. We got to her room (with a locking door, because of her brother) and Susan leaned against the door after locking it, and asked what I wanted to do.

My options came down to call Mom, call a cab, beg a ride from the McMillans, hide, run away, and what?

Face it. Ride it out. Go among ‘em.

Geez.

Well, Susan had asked what I wanted to do … and I knew, instantly: I wanted to be me. I want to be me, from now on. I was going to do it!

God help me!

I told Susan that she’d invited Alyssa over to go swimming, so … Susan and Alyssa were going swimming!

She jumped up and hugged me, and then asked what I was going to wear. I showed her my suits, which she said were very cool, and although I don’t think I have the curves for it, Susan was pushing for me to wear the two-piece. I tried it on—carefully making sure I was better tucked than ever before—and I reluctantly agreed with her (although my tummy is nice and flat from exercising). Susan said it really qualified as a bikini, the way it looked on me.

Incredible! I’m wearing a bikini—and it’s mine—and Susan says I look good in it!

There was an awkward moment when she looked at my chest. I’m not being evasive and refusing to say ‘boobs’; she looked there, of course, but also at the sides of the top and frowned.

“Um … Alyssa? You need to, um … well, some girls I know call it ‘fluff’. You need to fluff yourself.”

I had a glimmer of what she might mean, but teased her in a haughty voice. “I only fluff myself on alternate Tuesdays!”

Susan giggled. “You nut! No, I mean, um …”

“Something involving my boobs,” I said, even as I marveled at how easy it had been to say the word.

To test it further, I said, “Fluffing is doing something with my breasts?”

A thrill went through me; it was the first time I’d said ‘my breasts’ and it was right and it was proper and—and what did she want to do?

Susan was tentatively reaching her hands out towards me. “Um … Since you’re new to, well, everything … is it okay if I help?”

“Fluff away,” I grinned, even as I was almost shaking with nerves.

She locked eyes with me, then slowly reached into one cup and slid her hand under my breast and pulled it up and in, then tightened the strap slightly. I nodded and she did the other side, faster.

“Properly fluffed, are we?” I teased again.

“Yeah. No—we aren’t. Watch so you’ll know what to do next time,” she said, and quickly scooped her breasts to the top of her bikini cups and had much more cleavage than before.

So that’s how it’s done!

“Check it out,” she nodded to her mirror.

Omigod! I could see the round tops of my boobs above my bikini top! I had cleavage!

I was shocked by this but she just nodded—job done—and all that, and turned to her vanity. Fortunately, she’s a swimming pro, so she had lots of waterproof makeup. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to share mascara, but she had this waterproof kind, and a kind of waterproof blush, and some combination lip gloss and sunblock, and then a spray sunblock on top of everything else. Then she tossed a tube of sunblock in a tote bag; she said if we got lucky, we could have it applied later by cute boys—a thought that thrilled me and made me choke both at the same time. She also asked what to do about Amanda and anybody else I knew.

Geez again.

I did have to face them at school, and even if I ran away right now, I didn’t think there would be any way to get the Alyssa-genie back in the bottle. Trying to deal with my new femininity would be extra-hard at school. It had to be now. So, a cover story …

“Well, it’s a medical thing. You could say …” I trailed off, then made up my mind. “Just tell ‘em you’re helping me become the girl I really am,” I said.

God bless her; Susan just nodded and said, “And always was. Cool.”

I fluffed my hair up and out; it now fans out way past my shoulders. Armed with flip-flops, towel, tote (from Susan), sunglasses, and magazines (CosmoGirl for me, TeenVogue for Susan) we headed out.

It was a madhouse; loud rock from a boom box down by the deep end, guys jumping and screaming off the diving board, guys walking around with cans of soda pretending they were beer (and maybe some of them were), and a couple of guys sitting with girls. The McMillans have a huge backyard; to the side of the pool is a gazebo, with a little pool house behind that. Grass all around.

Susan led the way; guys stopped and stared, some whistled, and I was so glad I had sunglasses, because I’m sure my eyes would have shown my terror! Susan walked up to Patrick, pointed to some grass in the sun, and told him to keep his goons away from us. Patrick nodded, belched and his buddies cracked up. Susan did the cutest nose-in-the-air turn, all snooty, and I followed her to the patch of sunlit grass.

We laid out the towels and stuff, and I watched how she got down by swiveling with her knees together and lowering gracefully. I copied her, just a little bit behind her, and hopefully it looked like I’d been sitting down in a bikini all of my life.

Once we were set, I whispered, “Are we gonna swim?” and she said, “In time.”

I had to agree with her, actually; I’d probably look like a drowned rat.

Of course, Amanda Joyner came over with a kind of snippy way of asking, “And so who’s your friend?”

Susan leaned up on one elbow and told Amanda to bend down. Amanda’s eyes widened as she was told about how my ‘endocrinological imbalance’ was permanent, and I was not becoming a girl; my body was finally allowing me to be the girl I always was. Way to go, Susan!

Amanda’s not a bad sort; she was just so amazed at it all that she forgot to be snippy and said, “That must be so hard for you—and so weird!” and I agreed it was, and then the awkward moment passed, she sat down next to me and somehow I knew—in Amanda’s mind I was now a girl. Even better, I’d been reclassified as always having been a girl.

I wondered, God, is it all going to be that easy?

Susan told Amanda not to say anything to the other girls; they didn’t go to our school and wouldn’t know Alan. As far as they were concerned, I was Susan’s friend and probably competition for the boys’ attention. Amanda agreed, but every so often she’d point out this guy or that guy and we’d all do the girly giggle thing, looking but not looking.

I was getting into it, playing along, when I realized that one of the cute guys Amanda pointed to was Scotty.

What the hell was Scotty doing here?

Only it was a Scotty I almost didn’t recognize. For one thing, familiarity blinded me, I’m sure, but over the months I had noticed that he seemed like he was getting in better shape. Since I didn’t have PE anymore, or seen him in the showers, I didn’t know just how much his body had been changing, even as mine was—well, not the same way, of course—and now … now he looked like the other guys. And better than some; he was a good-looking guy, an actual dude. Not fat little Scotty anymore; I bet he’s Scott now. When did this happen? Was I that wrapped up in my own life that I missed it?

Susan told me that Scott had helped Patrick on a test or report or something, and Patrick invited him. She looked at me over the top of her sunglasses and asked what I wanted to do?

“Disappear,” I said.

Amanda was kind of oblivious and was getting impatient and bouncy, and finally got up to walk towards the other girls (who were talking with some guys) when all of a sudden some guy swooped her up and dumped her in the pool! She shrieked going in and came up spouting water and bawling out the guy who’d dunked her.

“See how it’s done?” Susan asked. “Now watch what’s next—the hair move.”

Sure enough; just as Susan said that, Amanda bent at the knees and submerged, then came up with her face up, her hair streaming behind her. Then she reached up with both hands and kneaded the water out of her hair.

“And push the chest out—good, good,” Susan commented as Amanda did it. Susan giggled. “She probably hooked half-a-dozen guys with that toss. Look,” she nodded around the pool and sure enough; I could see at least six or seven guys staring hungrily at Amanda—and I also saw daggers from some girls.

I had no idea it was so much a formula, so predictable. I realized—again—how little I know, and was again grateful that I had such a knowledgeable and fun mentor as Susan.

Susan asked if I was ready to play. I stammered something, and she said we’d go get drinks and maybe make it back. And if I hit the water, she said, grab my top and keep it down!

I was so nervous that I forgot everything, except to follow Susan’s lead. We got up with a reverse of the knee-roll thing, and walked towards the house. I found that I unconsciously did the thing girls do with their fingers, sliding them under the bottom edge of their swimsuit and pulling it down.

Suddenly, the world shifted in an instant. I had the sense of falling sideways and then rising in the air, but Susan and I had been swept up by the Benson brothers, two blond giants with a future in pro football. Susan started her shriek, kicking her legs, so I joined her, as the two guys tossed us in.

I remembered to grab hold of the bottom of my top; if I hadn’t, it might very well have been knocked up by the force of the splash. I held it in place as I emerged, thinking quickly, what was the routine? Oh yeah, spout water, hair streaming down the face, and yell at them. I did; Susan did, and the Bensons were laughing and high-fiving each other, shouting, “Doubles!”

The next bit was to bend underwater and come up face first, my hair streaming. Then the biggie—arms up, hands to the back of the head to pull the hair back. I came up and was in my stretch, thinking that even my small boobs looked bigger this way. I could see (without appearing to notice) more than half-a-dozen guys staring at us. The Bensons had tossed Susan ten feet away from me, and she was walking toward me, a question on her face. I just smiled, and she smiled back and knew I was okay, but she was nearby if I needed her. Then I heard an “A-hem” behind me.

And, of course, it was Scotty, so there I was, my arms raised behind my head, my boobs sticking out, water dripping from my waterproof, mascaraed lashes, and all I could think was, ‘I hope I look good’. His face was doing all sorts of things; I think he guessed it was me but hadn’t committed to it.

Either way, he was diplomatic and said, “I gotta apologize for them. Not all guys do that,” meaning the pool toss. Part of me realized that, yeah, guys do it and girls let it be done and it’s all part of the flirting game, and I further realized that he didn’t know that, and it dawned on me that he’d only just joined this kind of crowd so it was all new to him—as it was to me, but I had Susan coaching me.

All this flashed in my head in an instant. All I could say was, “It wasn’t so bad, it was pretty hot out and we needed to cool off.”

Of course, my voice further confused him. Judy has commented occasionally that when I’m with Mom and her, my speech pattern changes to more feminine, softer and more musical, and that’s how I was talking. I guess it was also my concentrated time with Susan and Amanda.

Scotty said, “You’re … uh … do you know Alan Cunningham?”

I was already in a pool, but it was time to dive into the deep end …

I swallowed my lump of fear and said, “Yes, I do; I used to be him.”

Scotty’s mouth dropped, but it also had a strange smile to it. “Alan?”

“No,” I said, “Alyssa.” I swallowed again. “Hi, Scotty.”

He did the typical stunned, “Wha … how …?”

I stood closer to him and said quietly, “The endocrine problem I had earlier? That medical thing? It’s kind of sorted out now.”

I knew he wanted—and deserved—more information, but this was definitely not the place. I also knew that by standing closer to him, he couldn’t help but see my boobs up close. My cleavage! Then one of the Bensons—I think it was the one who tossed me—jumped in screaming, “Cannonball!” and splashed us both, to a roar from the crowd. Susan waded over and said, “Hi, Scotty. Let’s get those drinks, Alyssa.”

I smiled at the bewildered Scotty as Susan and I waded out with that left-hip-forward, right-hip-forward way you have to walk in pools. We got out—to wolf whistles and a pouty look from one of the girls—only to see Amanda get tossed in again, and we were temporarily forgotten. We crossed our arms under our chests and quick-stepped to the pool house refrigerator. Inside were a few cans of Diet Pepsi left. Susan said with some glee, “Beer’s gone—Dad’s gonna kill Patrick!”

We were standing to the side of the pool house, sipping our Pepsis, when Scotty came up to us. I must say, out of the water and only wearing jams, he looked surprisingly muscular. He was all embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. Susan offered him a Pepsi, which he took gratefully because it gave him something to do, I think.

I decided to grab the bull by the horns. I told him that he was lucky; this was the world premiere of Alyssa Cunningham. He was astounded. I told him I’d been out in public over the last few weeks with Mom and Judy, and hanging out with Susan, but this was the first time with other kids that might have known Alan.

He asked, “So is this … is this temporary or permanent? And what are you going to do?”

I told him, “This is me, now and forever. Everything makes sense now, and I’m far happier in the short time since I’ve become Alyssa, than in all my years as Alan.” I sighed and asked him, “Scotty, isn’t your life better now that you got in shape?”

I felt a catch in my breathing and my heart when I thought about him being in shape.

Scotty turned and looked at the pool and admitted he never would have been here if it weren’t for losing the weight. And, yeah, he felt better all around.

He turned back and asked again. “So what are you going to do?”

I told him, “About school, I don’t know. About life, well, it’s going to be as a girl. Because that’s what I really am.”

Susan, God bless her, nodded and said, “Scotty, I’ve known Alan all of his life. I’ve known Alyssa almost all of her life, and I know boys from girls. This is my friend Alyssa, and she’s a girl, one-hundred-percent, absolutely.”

I could have hugged her right then. Scotty nodded at what she’d said, and said that I was right; everything made sense now. Then the million dollar question: he asked, “But what about guys?”

I told him, “I don’t know; I’ll have to work it out. The old me says no way, but the new me says … to forget the old me. So we’ll see. Everything is still changing with me; to get all lyrical about it, I’m on a journey and I’m only part-way there yet, wherever ‘there’ is.”

He nodded again, and said, “Well, for what it’s worth … you look great. You look fantastic …” and then he blushed and looked down at his drink.

I thanked him and looked at Susan, who nodded and said it was time to go, and we headed back to the grass and retrieved our things. We walked into the house—I caught a glimpse of Scotty watching me—and Susan asked if I wanted first shower or second. I chose second because, well, I didn’t want to get out of my bikini so quickly.

And while she was showering … well, I did spend some time checking myself out in her full-length mirror. It showed a girl, pure and simple. Creamy skin, light brown hair darkened by water but hanging past her shoulders, green eyes and a cute face—not babyish, but sweet. Small boobs, yeah; but curvy and, I had to admit, pretty.

I was still trying to grasp all of this when Susan came out of her bathroom tucking in a towel at her boobs, and told me there was another towel and robe. I went in and reluctantly peeled off my bikini—I loved it so much now!—stepped in, rinsed the bikini and then washed, shampooed and rinsed. I wrapped the towel around my chest and went into her bedroom; she was brushing her hair. I thanked her again for everything and she waved it away.

“Just girlfriend stuff; no biggie,” she said.

Her face got serious and she asked if she could ask me a hugely personal question. I had some idea what it might be, and said go ahead. She asked what I did with … and pointed below my waist. I decided to show her; just girlfriend stuff, right?

I turned my back, did a quick tuck and turned back. I lowered the towel. Her eyes grew wide when she saw what looked like a typical girl’s mound. She said something like, “But how …” and I told her about tucking. I didn’t tell her about the testicles, but she guessed. She awkwardly asked about my penis. I’d gotten smaller in the last month or so, and so when I relaxed and widened my legs, there was this little droopy blob hanging between my legs. I quickly tucked it back. She asked if I was going to have surgery, and I smiled and said, “As soon as possible.”

Since I’d shown her my most embarrassing, revealing part, it seemed silly to be modest with her anymore, so I let the towel go to the floor, rummaged around in my bag and stepped into a pair of panties. “Looks perfectly natural!” Susan said, about how I looked in my panties, and I felt a rush of happiness. I put on a bra—a new one for me—and pulled on a white silk-like cami. I wiggled into some white capris that rode low on my hips and finished with a peach camp shirt hanging open. I began brushing my hair.

Susan, meanwhile, had slipped on a yellow printed sundress, and I was instantly envious—she looked so good in it; I wanted one—or more!

I had an idea; I called Mom who said it was okay for Susan to come over for dinner if it was okay with her folks. She went down to ask her Mom; it was fine with her—she’d have more than enough to handle with Patrick’s party winding down. I gathered up my stuff, Susan grabbed a bag, and we went out to the front lawn to wait for Mom.

Scotty came over; he’d dressed (jeans and t-shirt) and was already out front. We had this awkward moment again, and then Susan snapped her fingers and said she’d forgotten something, and ran indoors.

Darn her! Now I was alone with him!

But I also knew she’d done it on purpose, and I loved her for it.

The awkwardness built, until Scotty said, “So, are you going back to school?”

I said, “Well, yeah. State law and all that.”

He said, “I mean, what are you gonna wear?”

I knew what he meant, and decided to go for the truth. “I don’t know,” I told him, “I’m just playing it by ear. Now that you’ve brought it up, I’m terrified of getting laughed at or beat up. And I have no idea what the Administration’s going to do. But I don’t want to be Alan anymore.” I chuckled ruefully. “I think I’ve changed too much to pretend to be Alan anymore.”

He said, “That’s for sure; you don’t look anything like a boy.”

I smiled and probably blushed; and I got a warm buzz hearing that. I thanked him, but then tried to wave it away.

“Anyway, it’s for the doctors to decide, really. I’m just …” I kind of lost it and started blabbing. “God, Scotty, I know I don’t look anything like a boy, and I don’t feel anything like one, either. I feel like I’ve found myself, or I’ve come home, or something like that. It’s hard to explain, but the bottom line is I just want to fully live my life as a girl. As Alyssa.”

“By the way,” he smiled, “it’s a beautiful name, and it suits you.”

I thanked him again, and I know I blushed this time!

Susan came back out, discreetly, as Mom pulled up. Scotty said, “Hello, Mrs. Cunningham” and we all laughed a bit because it sounded like something from a rerun of Happy Days. We said goodbye and got in the car; as we pulled out, Mom said she couldn’t get over how Scotty had changed; he was almost a hunk, now!

“Not almost,” Susan chuckled, and nudged me with a twinkle in her eye.

And I’m going to make him my hunk!

End of Part Five

Angry Diary, by Karin Bishop

Part Six

So that’s where I am, Dear Diary, here at the end of May, at the end of Spring, when things bud and blossom—interesting that both words are used to describe breast development!

Judy joined us for dinner, and the four of us had a great time. Susan told them about the pool party, and they shared stories about their own teenage girlhoods, and we laughed a lot. I told them about Scotty, and they all went, “Ho-ho!” and so that cat’s out of the bag.

“I have an announcement,” I said at this point. “I think we all pretty much know that there’s no Alan left; I want to be … No, not ‘want to be’,” I shook my head. With more confidence, I said, “I am Alyssa from now on.”

I heard Susan mutter, “Pretty much always was …”

I had to hug her for that, and my announcement earned me a hug from everyone and a special kiss from Mom. Then it was time to get practical.

We discussed what to do about school, and it was really pretty simple. Judy, as my doctor, would write a letter to the principal and I would be excused from the remainder of the semester—a whole three weeks. She said she’d done it before, once at my school and twice at a school across town, and that principals were usually very understanding. I asked the reason for the excuses, wondering if they were like me. She said once, at another school, it was a girl becoming a boy.

Susan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing; we’d had the exact same thought—who’d want to do that? But I sobered up immediately; I know first-hand that if your body’s not right, nothing’s right. Judy said the other excuses were asthma and a hernia operation. The point is, she said, some people blow out of school early to get a head start on vacation, and schools don’t like that. It’s far easier to get your work finished early and get a good grade when there’s a medical excuse.

So, we’ll call for the soonest possible appointment with the principal first thing in the morning, Mom will hand him the letter, and if all goes well, that should do it. I may or may not have to be there, depending on what the principal says when we set up the appointment.

We debated whether I should go dressed in super-feminine clothes, in a pretty dress, makeup and jewelry, or go in boy clothes and look terribly out of place. Susan suggested—rightly, I think—that I just go dressed like a regular schoolgirl. The point for the excuse was not really about me, other than my safety from being killed by homophobes. The point that would carry the most weight with the administration was that the last weeks of school would be disrupted, while everybody else buzzed about my change. Judy said she was right, and she knew our principal; it should work out.

That takes care of school, at least this semester. Now, about the rest of my life …

Judy said she can enter me in a program at the hospital. The downside is that I’d be part of the research, so I’d have to be willing to be interviewed constantly, about the most personal and embarrassing details of my transition—because as far as she is concerned, I am officially ‘transitioning’ to female.

Yay!

Anyway, the upside of the program is that it’s a sort of fast-track for treatment if I’m approved (and she sees no reason why I wouldn’t be), leading all the way up to the surgery when I’m eighteen. I fit the criteria, and we’ll try to enroll me into the program this week, so I guess that’s our second stop once school is sorted out.

Judy also said that acceptance in the program greatly helps the documentation problem, something Mom and I hadn’t even thought of. Things like ID, birth certificate, insurance papers, and all the rest can be a nightmare if we try to do it by ourselves; Judy said that’s part of the routine for the hospital, so that’s a big load off our minds—a load that we didn’t even know we had!

The documentation issue also touched on school, for next year, I mean. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to attend as a girl, but that would be a problem at my school, so I’ll have to go somewhere else. That bummed out Susan, but Judy said we probably wouldn’t have to move—nobody except Susan and Scotty knew where Alan lived—so we could still see each other.

We all figured it would work out better if I did my last year of middle school somewhere else, then entered the same high school I would have, anyway. We would have the legal name change, and enough students would have forgotten about Alan Cunningham by that time—not that anybody really knows me, anyway, besides Susan, Amanda, and Scotty. There’s also the possibility of going to another school, maybe a private one if we can afford it. I thought that would be best—except for the money, of course—because there’d be no chance of anybody knowing Alan, and I could see Susan and Amanda and maybe Natalie and I’d just be another girl from another school, hanging with them at the mall …

Susan reached over and squeezed my hand. “Soon, girlfriend. Soon!”

Then it was time to get Susan back home. Mom produced the freshly laundered skirt, sandals, bra (a new one to replace the loaner), and necklace that Susan had loaned me. Hugs all around, and then Judy volunteered to do the dishes while Mom and I took her home.

On the way to the McMillans, I told Susan again how much I valued her as a friend, and how eternally grateful I am to her. Mom said she was, too, and said we could never repay our debt to her. Susan said she’d already been repaid, because now she had a great girlfriend. I got tears thinking about how lucky I am.

When we got home, I was tired, I was wired, I was scared, I was blissful. Starting tomorrow, my life will change. For the better, I am absolutely sure. And it will be painful, in a lot of ways—of that I am sure, as well.

But before I move forward—the only direction open to me—I had to settle something.

We got home and Mom and Judy did their loving hug and kiss and regarded me fondly. I smiled.

“Tea, anyone?” I asked lightly.

“Oh, honey, it’s too late, I think …” Mom said, but trailed off as she saw my face.

Judy picked up on it, too. “I’ll get it. Rose Hips?”

We all agreed; tea was made, we sat. We sipped. We set cups down.

I folded my hands and studied my fingers, the cute polish, and then looked at the two women.

“You did this to me, didn’t you?”

The looks on their faces were not guilt, not shame, but more like … more like I’d passed some sort of test.

Huh?

Judy turned to Mom. “Sweetheart … me or you?”

“I’ll start. I’ll get bogged down, and you’ll save me.”

“Of course,” Judy smiled.

Mom laced her fingers with Judy. “You always do.”

I’d already long ago appreciated that Judy saved Mom—saved us—so I sat quietly. Took a sip and waited.

Mom said, “Easiest to start with his death, isn’t it? You were so angry and so unhappy and you’d been so unhappy for so long—we both had, living with him—but it was different for you. I’m going to fall back on a cliché, but it’s true nonetheless. A mother can tell. And I’m going to speak in the third person. I certainly knew about Alan’s size, and Alan’s … delicacy, and Alan’s slim-to-none chances of anything changing. And it was tearing me up.”

She shook slightly; Judy put her other hand on their clasped hands and Mom quieted and went on.

“I met Judy and my life changed, improved, started …” She looked at Judy and smiled with such love. “And it seemed that even though I’d been living in a dark hell, I could be pulled up into the light. And, oh, Alyssa! Those sessions helped me so much!”

Mom’s face lit up at the memory and I had a sudden thought.

“Sessions … you mean you were seeing Judy as a patient? I mean, she was your doctor? Before you two …” I wiggled my finger between them.

“No,” Judy said solemnly, shaking her head. “When I met your mother, I …” She glanced at Mom, who happily squeezed Judy’s hands. Judy nodded. “I had always been one-hundred-percent heterosexual. Never had a gay thought, even with the pretend-kisses with a girl in middle school. I outgrew it and right into boys. I was a straight woman, attracted to men and always had been. I dated them and … had relations with them, and—”

“Sorry!” I giggled. I’d rolled my eyes automatically at how delicate she was trying to be.

Judy chuckled. “No; I understand. You’re old enough that …” She shrugged. “I dated several men, was serious about a few, had sex with them and enjoyed it immensely.”

She looked at me for a moment to see how I took it; it was fine to me and understandable. I gave her a small smile and a nod.

She went on. “I was even engaged. For nearly two years. An orthopedic surgeon in Chicago; he broke it off when he …”

I saw Mom squeeze her hand; she obviously knew this story and its pain for Judy.

Judy swallowed. “He was sleeping with one of his nurses. Had been for most of our engagement, and figured he’d continue after we were married. I confronted him and he … chose to fool around, so he said the engagement was off.”

She stopped there and I gave her the silence her memory seemed to need.

Mom said, “He was a fool but I’m damned glad for it. Otherwise, she might not have moved here and we might not have met.”

Judy leaned over and they kissed softly, and Judy whispered something in Mom’s ear and she nodded. Judy sat back and said, “I don’t hate men. I was mad at Steve but then I realized I was really mad at myself for not seeing it, the long lunches, the phone calls.” She shrugged. “I was a fool, too. But, yes, I moved here for a fresh start and …” She smiled at Mom. “A fresh start.”

“The point is, honey,” Mom said, “that Judy isn’t a man-hater.” She gave a little wicked smile to Judy. “Except for Steve, maybe!”

Judy nodded and said, “The only thing I can say is that when I met your mother … when we met, it was like we were two tuning forks vibrating in tune, identically. Resonating. It didn’t matter what the sex or gender was, between us, there was only us. But I am professional, and it would be unethical to treat your mother because of my personal feelings for her.”

“Judy referred me to two doctors, including a therapist. I went for months.”

I’d never had an inkling that Mom had been in therapy.

Mom waved her free hand. “Oh, I was in terrible shape, on the edge of malnutrition—stress can play havoc with your system—and there were some imbalances that had to be taken care of, but the main thing was when I realized that love is love, and I loved Judy. And somewhere in all that, learning to deal with gender roles and sex roles and suddenly being a lesbian after years as a straight woman, I—”

This time I raised a hand. “Mom? Judy? As far as I’m concerned—from everything I’ve seen and heard and felt from you two—I think that neither of you ‘discovered you were a lesbian’, or ‘suddenly became a lesbian’ or anything like that. I don’t think you’re lesbians.”

Judy and Mom looked at each other with a slight frown. Judy went for humor. “Well … I’m kinda pretty sure we are.”

Mom smiled and nodded. “It took a lot of talks between us, but we accept that we’re lesbians.”

I shook my head. “No, not like the usual. Neither of you is attracted to women. You’re attracted to each other. Outside of Mom, Judy, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women. Outside of Judy, Mom, I think you’re probably not interested in sex with women, either. You’re probably not interested in sex with men, but not because they’re men, but because that would be betrayal of your true love—each other.”

They stared at me.

Mom said, “You’re a wonder! How’d you get to … how’d you get to be so smart?”

Judy said, “When she discovered herself. When she stopped hiding.”

I blushed slightly under their beaming gazes, covered with a sip of tea, and set it down.

“Yes, about that,” I began. “When I ‘discovered’ myself. That brings me to my first question. You did this to me, correct?”

I gestured to show my girlish body and clothing.

Mom was shaking her head, opening her mouth to speak, but Judy squeezed her hand and Mom stopped.

Judy said, “I will answer that, and fully, but you must let me tell it in my own way. Because, Alyssa, the answer, right now without any explanation, is no. And yes. And it’s also yes, and no.” She reached to take a sip, the edge of her lips twitching slightly. When she’d swallowed, she said, “So, may I tell you the answer?”

I couldn’t resist. “Yes. And no. And no and yes.”

Fortunately, they chuckled and it cleared the air. To my surprise, Mom disengaged herself from Judy and moved to the arm of the couch.

“Honey, I got the feeling it looked like we were ganging up on you. This is the medical part of things, Judy’s got the floor, so I’m a spectator.”

“Mom, I know you love Judy. You’re a couple! Geez, go ahead and sit with your sweetie!”

They looked at each other with such love but Mom said, “Nope. Gonna stay here. Judy has the floor.”

Judy took another sip of tea, set her cup down, and her demeanor shifted slightly. I realized it was her professional posture; I’d seen it enough in her office.

“When you first came to me, I had you undergo a complete physical. You, too—” She broke off and glanced at Mom and back to me. “I’m going to use Alan in the third person, too, and male pronouns where they’re needed.”

I nodded and she started again.

“Your mother’s doctor had already transmitted her records to me, and Alan also showed the near-malnutrition and similar deficiencies. That’s not unusual in the same family with the same living conditions. But there were complications with Alan; his immune system was sluggish, and there were disturbing imbalances in his endocrine system. That was never a cover story, but quantifiable medical truth, and it’s all in your records. I sent the tests out to two different labs and they came back with identical results. Then I sent the results to two doctors, an endocrinologist and a specialist in pituitary disorders; I also sent one to my old professor at Columbia. They all came back the same.”

“Judy discussed this with me before she contacted all these people,” Mom said. “She showed me the files before she sent them and our names were removed. So please don’t worry about your privacy; the files had you down as an anonymous patient. And then she showed me the … “

She glanced at Judy and back to me. “She showed me the results, too.”

“What was that look?” I asked, pointing back-and-forth between them.

Mom sighed. “First, I want to say that they did all come back with the same results, the same predictions, the same … future for you. For Alan.”

She let me think about that; I nodded and she went on.

“That look was because … well, Judy will tell you in medical terms, but as your mother, it was all just so … depressing.”

Judy gave her a look of sympathy and then resumed her clinical speech. “The doctors were unanimous in their diagnoses and prognoses. They agreed—without knowing about the others—that the standard procedure would be a major improvement in diet, rigorous exercise and weight training, a strict and severe regimen of vitamin and mineral supplements, and an aggressive, massive hormone therapy. Male hormone therapy.”

“Boost the testosterone, you mean,” I said.

She nodded. “Exactly. But even in … let’s say ‘normal’ here, meaning un-stressed, relatively placid individuals, alright? Even in normal patients, testosterone therapy has a whole bagful of nasty side effects. Acne, unusual bodily hair growth, an unpleasant skin aroma and others—and rage. We’ve all heard of ‘roid rage, from steroid abuse. An extremely unpleasant and potentially dangerous side effect. Not just a danger from getting into fights, but serious degradation on other bodily systems.”

“I’ve read something about that,” I nodded. “One of the science magazines, I think.”

Judy nodded again. “Quite well documented. So … the patient presented with symptoms indicating the necessity of massive testosterone increase—but the patient already exhibited rage.” Judy fixed me with a direct look. “You were twisted with hatred. Alan was, I mean. Seething, boiling, erupting all too often. In agony.”

Mom nodded slowly and solemnly agreeing. “I was too, sweetheart.”

Automatically, I wanted to defend myself. “No, I …” But they were right. I gave it up and nodded, too. “Yeah. I was pretty messed up.”

“And not through your fault, either,” Judy said, “which adds injustice to your anger and it just gets toxic. And then to think about adding more testosterone, already known to increase rage? Unthinkable.”

“So you … what? Gave me female hormones?”

Mom said, “I’ll take over for a moment, then Judy can get medical again. Honey, for years I’ve known there was somebody in Alan. For years. Quite frankly, I thought Alan was gay. I remember thinking ‘If only his father could be out of his life and he could discover himself without fear’. But I knew that inside the mask you presented to the world was somebody else. Judy?”

Judy said, “I’m licensed in hypnotherapy as part of the holistic training I’ve undergone. I’m not a practicing psychiatrist, though; I’m an M.D., but with extensive psychological training. So that first time … I noticed you slipping into sleep.” She chuckled. “At first I wondered, am I that boring?”

“No, no; it wasn’t that,” I said automatically, but what had it been? Wait … “So you didn’t hypnotize me?”

“No, I truly didn’t. I was trying to explain how we’d address your under-nutrition and I realized that you’d gone under, all by yourself.”

“I really just fell asleep? All on my own?”

“Yes, but there’s sleep and there’s sleep, and yours was closer to a trance state rather than just dozing off—there’s an odd calm that’s recognizable. I had not tried to induce a trance but you were very nearly there already, all by yourself. There’s clinical evidence that in some cases of anxiety, the subconscious mind wants to unburden itself; it wants to relieve the stress. I did not perform any hypnotic procedure …” She chuckled at the memory. “I never even had any reason to, at that point. And I certainly never told you that I was a hypnotherapist, and my certification isn’t on the wall of my office.”

“I certainly hadn’t told you,” Mom said. “I didn’t know she even did hypnotherapy until she called me.”

“Right; because you’d gone to a different doctor and therapist,” I nodded, putting the pieces together.

“That’s right; she did,” Judy nodded with me. “So there you were, suddenly in a trance sleep induced by yourself, not by me. I was flattered that you felt comfortable enough, safe enough, with me to relax,” she smiled. “You see, subconsciously, the part of your mind that wasn’t boiling with anger was trying to find a release, a safe place to vent. It happened to be in my office; if I hadn’t been able to recognize the nature of your sleep, you would have woken a bit refreshed just from your mind taking a respite, a mini-vacation of sorts, from your anger.”

“You were so angry, sweetheart,” Mom murmured, almost to herself. “All the time, just simmering.”

Judy said, “But since I am licensed, I immediately called your mother and explained the situation. She gave her approval for me to truly induce a trance state, so I put you under deeper, to at least give you some chance to ease your anger and guilt.”

“Guilt?” I asked.

“Guilt,” she nodded firmly. “The natural guilt of a child who knows he’s supposed to love his father, but can’t. It can be devastating, and when coupled with your anger, and sense of injustice … as I said, toxic. So if I could put you under, it would give you some respite, give your system—that was so tightly coiled with rage—a bit of ‘down time’, and I’d start giving you tools to let your subconscious ease the pressure.”

Mom said, “You do know she couldn’t make you do something you didn’t want to do, right? You know that about hypnosis?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “Never was sure if it was true.”

“It’s mostly true,” Judy said, “and I’ll explain the mostly part in your particular case.” Another sip and she was ready to go. “The first time you went under and I called your mother, we agreed to try relaxing and calming suggestions. That was all; just to give you that down time from anger.”

“It worked; I felt great,” I nodded. “Well, better, anyway.”

She nodded. “And then, during your second session, you relaxed even further than your first, and everything changed. Everything. Your physicality, how you held yourself in your chair. Your gestures. Your speech patterns. You didn’t have a name but you were …” She trailed off and frowned. “I’m going to change what I was going to say. I was going to say, you relaxed and you were Alyssa. But that’s not accurate, because the girl on the couch—and make no mistake about it; that was a girl on my couch!—was nowhere as fully-formed as you are now. So I’ve got a new name for that time. Back to what I was saying, everything changed. You were no longer Alan; you were proto-Alyssa. Unformed at that point and yet I discovered she’d always been there. I did some regression with you and no matter how far back we went, proto-Alyssa was still there.”

She stopped there, looking at me to see if I believed her or not. My face must have shown ‘or not’, so she gave proof.

“Do you remember the time you tried to ride the bike?”

I shuddered at the memory. My father had obtained a two-wheeled bike somewhere, grumping about ‘Time for him to learn to be a regular boy’ and picking me up and setting me on the seat. That should have clued him in—the damn bike was too big for me! But there was no girl involved …

Judy said, “Proto-Alyssa was frightened to death. Inside, she was shrieking, ‘Daddy, no!’”

I shook my head. “I never called him ‘Daddy’. He got really upset when I did when I was really little, so he always had to be ‘Dad’.”

“She’s right,” Mom said, looking guilty and angry. “He thought it was more manly.”

Judy’s look to me was direct. “There, on my couch, you—as a little girl on that bike—screamed, ‘Daddy, no!’ quite loudly, with tears and shaking. It took me a bit to calm you.”

The implications of Judy’s story sank in, because I knew I’d never told that story to her, and Mom had not been home that day—she was working while he was trying to get me to ride this huge bike and …

I gasped. “I just remembered! He had a drink in one hand!”

“Usually,” Mom said bitterly.

“No! I mean, I never remembered it before, but I can see it clear as day! I remember the smell, too! He spilled some, and licked his hand!”

Judy said, “I think it’s proto-Alyssa updating Alyssa. You may find more memories coming to you now, things you either suppressed or haven’t been willing to remember. More memories like that one surfaced under hypnosis in later sessions. All, without exception, were from a girl’s perspective. Not once were any of your memories from a male point of view.”

“But … what about when I tried to fight him?” I asked, and felt my hands starting to curl into fists, like a reflex at the memory. I relaxed them.

Judy noticed that but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she said, “Do you think only boys fight off attackers? It was plain from what you said that you were a daughter trying to defend her mother.”

Mom looked sheepish. “Sweetheart? I have a confession to make. Judy’s revelations were so shocking to me—and wait! You’re going to ask about doctor-patient confidentiality, but you’re a minor, so she had to tell me. And you couldn’t give consent for things you didn’t even know about; it was part of the hypnosis.”

Judy nodded. “It had all started to just let you release steam, so to speak. You could vent freely and without guilt, and the ability to do that is clinically proven to be beneficial.”

There was a moment of silence so I took a sip, as did Mom.

Judy sighed. “So back to hypnotherapy. Your mother attended several sessions, entering the room after I’d put you under. And it’s late and we all have a big day tomorrow and I think all the preliminaries are done so here it is in a nutshell: We discovered Alyssa. We did not create Alyssa. We never suggested you become a girl. The only thing we did was to allow you to allow yourself to think and act without guilt and fear. To give you respite from that coiled unhappiness. Basically, I gave you permission to give yourself permission to relax. To accept that your father was truly gone and had no power in your life. You had permission to be yourself. And that began the … blossoming, you could say, of Alyssa.” She quickly held up a hand. “Ah, you say, but what about the physical blossoming? Okay, yeah, I did do that, but not the way you think.”

“Testosterone blockers,” I murmured.

Judy smiled and nodded.

I went on. “From what I’ve read, they’d halt the testosterone flooding my system and … what’s that word … stoking my rage. Because I was pretty angry.” I smiled sheepishly at Mom.

“We both were,” Mom said gently.

“Gonna git all medical on ya, here,” Judy chuckled. She took a sip of tea and set the cup down before going on in her professional voice. “Biologically, emotions primarily begin in the amygdale, in your brain. They analyze threats and largely tell humans to run or to fight.”

“Fight-or-flight; I’ve read about that, too,” I nodded.

“Right. Your brain releases neurotransmitters called catecholamines that speed up your heart, your breathing, and narrow your focus to the immediate threat in front of you. More neurotransmitters get dumped into your system—I mean, nearly instantly—like adrenaline and noradrenaline and others. That’s a lot of chemicals flooding the brain and nervous system. Also, the adrenaline doesn’t leave your system even after your prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that handles judgment—tells your body to stand down. Your heart rate and respiration may slow, but the increased adrenaline levels may last for a day or more. And the adrenaline already in your system tends to lower your anger threshold.”

“So I was angry all the time,” I said.

“We both were,” Mom said again, nodding.

“Not in the same way, though,” Judy said with a raised finger. “See, the average person isn’t faced with fight-or-flight that often. You two were faced with it nearly every day. The critical difference is your age, because your body—any adolescent and teen’s body—is at a critical stage in development. In terms of anger.” She pursed her lips. “Your system was being adjusted to the constant adrenal surge. To accept rage as normal. You could become addicted, in a way, to rage. Constant rage that would cause violence.”

I could only stare. It all fit; her description of me was accurate, even before she knew me. My breathing would get fast, my fists would curl and the focus thing … that made all the sense in the world. It was why I just couldn’t get my father out of my mind, and the anger would trigger again and the cycle continued.

Judy was absolutely right about what my body was doing to itself, and about the future for Alan. I’d read about children in battered families and the terrible toll abuse took on them as they grew. And in my case, that daily cycle, year after year? Anger triggering more anger, and that rise in anger firing up even more anger … and yes; I might have become like my father—addicted to rage and violence.

I sighed. “I had to block the testosterone. I mean, you had to. And thank you for that. But the other shots …”

“Vitamins and minerals, to counter your malnutrition and to help metabolize some foods better. The B complex, niacin, folic acid, and so on. Pretty potent, too; much more than over-the-counter,” Judy nodded.

“I got them, too,” Mom said. “But from the doctor I was seeing, and I knew they were working, and I approved them for you. They also gave me a diet plan; you probably noticed we ate better.”

“I just thought it was better because he was gone,” I said. Then I frowned. “So you didn’t … or did you … give me female hormones?”

“Only the last month, on a trial basis,” Judy said. “Blind test. And you took to them quite happily.”

“Only the last … but my breasts …” I was stunned. “My skin, my … hips …” I was wide-eyed.

Mom nodded slowly. “All you, sweetheart.”

Judy said, “With the blockers halting your testosterone, the estrogen your system was already producing is what brought on your physical changes. Some of the mental and emotional ones, too.”

“Huh …” I frowned, musing. There was something not fitting but I couldn’t quite—ah!

“But if my testosterone was enough to cause rage, was that the endocrine imbalance?”

Judy shook her head. “No; there were several deficiencies in your hormonal system. Your eicosanoids were all wrong; they control growth and immunity, both of which were lower than normal.”

“My size was from that?”

“Well, other factors as well. The amino acids and peptides were compromised so you weren’t processing protein very well. But your natural testosterone production was well below norms. In fact, that’s what was so curious! You had very, very little testosterone in you, and it was all out of proportion with your rage. In other words, your rage wasn’t hormone-fueled. Some tests we did, some of the mood-swings you may remember last fall, the one time you got sick …” She shrugged. “Testosterone poisoning.”

“Poisoning? Myself?”

“Yes. Not uncommon, but certainly life-altering for you.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You’re right; it’s late, and I’ve just discovered that the two women I love didn’t force me to become something I’m not. Wasn’t. Whatever.” I waved a hand and looked at them. “Under hypnosis I told you, or at least gave the indications, that I was female. Should be female. And you blocked the testosterone to help calm the rage, but my body also said, ‘Wow! Cool! Thank you very much! Let’s get busy making boobs!’”

They laughed at the unexpected image.

Judy was chuckling and nodding. “Pretty much.”

“And the reason I changed so far so fast is because it’s what I was always pretty much meant to be?”

Judy frowned slightly, then nodded in agreement, but Mom was already nodding. “So that’s the truth, sweetheart. Alan had no hope for a decent life, but Alyssa has every chance at success. Isn’t that what everyone wants for their child?” Mom gave me a direct look. “We did not conspire to turn you from a boy to a girl. You told us you were a girl and always had been and wanted to live as one from now on, and you went on and on about Susan and Amanda and other girls we’d never even heard of, and the things you wanted to do together but you couldn’t and it was breaking your heart. Broke my heart, too, to hear you hurting like that.”

Even with everything I’d learned that night, I was shocked at the admissions I’d made.

Mom’s face softened even more. “And my heart broke when you told us how miserable you were all the time, and about how grateful you were for Scotty as your only friend. And over time, you started telling us that you wanted to be more than friends with him and oh, God what were you going to do? So we blocked your rage, to ease your anger and anxiety. And then you began developing faster than we’d even imagined and so I gave my parental consent to experiment with the estrogen. Because by then you’d stopped being proto-Alyssa and you were Alyssa.”

Judy said, “But even that recently, not as fully-formed, as … real … as the pretty Alyssa I’m looking at.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s because every new experience just reinforces that I am pretty Alyssa. Huh …”

There was a comfortable silence as we all thought about what had brought us to this point, and where we were headed in the future, together, as three females.

“One thing,” I frowned slightly and looked at Mom. “If it’s too private, I understand, but when you two kissed a while ago, Judy whispered something to you.” I looked at Judy. “It was when you talked about moving here and meeting each other.”

Judy nodded but Mom just smiled and sighed happily. “Sweetheart, Judy had just said that we might not have met, remember? Then we kissed, and she whispered to me, ‘And we might not have met your daughter.”

My eyes stung and my throat tightened. I swallowed with difficulty and nodded. “Thank you!” I sniffed and looked down, blinking my tears.

Mom said, “I’ll clean up. Don’t worry about it, honey. You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted, Mom, but there’s this … floaty feeling of happiness.”

Mom’s smile was bright. “Because you’re so happy as Alyssa.”

“That, and because the two women I love most didn’t conspire, didn’t plot to make me a girl. You allowed me to … you allowed Alan to release Alyssa. And—” I had to stop for a yawn. “And so I’m declaring to you both, now that I know everything, that I absolutely agree with your decisions. Starting tomorrow, we all move forward making Alyssa the only Cunningham child. Your daughter.”

I stood and Mom stood and we hugged. Judy joined us.

And I knew that burying my father was the start of the best of our lives.

The End