Can you believe it? I was one of the “sun girls” in Aunt Adele’s Easter program and all the girls in the dance program made me feel I was one of them. What makes that so special is that I’m not a girl, but a boy, and the only boy in the dance troupe.

What a great feeling it was: to be included in a group. I had always been so alone, having been raised on a farm in an isolated area of the state. But that wasn’t the whole story, you see. I never had any real friends there mainly because I wasn’t a tough, rough nasty boy. I was always sort of . . . oh how would you say it? . . . weak and girlish, I guess best describes it. That was no way to be a boy in the hardscrabble farm country where I spent my first years of my life.

But mom died suddenly when I was 12, and I had to go live with my Aunt Adele in the big city. That’s when my life changed. I still cry almost ever night about mom; she shouldn’t have died while I was still alive and needed her. She was my best friend, and, truth be told, my only real friend up there in farm country.

My Aunt Adele tried her best to make up for my loss, and I loved her for it.

I think she knew how different I was from most boys, and didn’t try to change me. What she did was introduce me to a life of almost total femininity, and I felt right at home in my new life . . . a life that seemed to mark me as a girl.

You see, my Aunt Adele runs a dance studio and all her students are girls. That is all except me, of course. But if you looked in while we rehearsed you wouldn’t know one of the cute little girls dancing was me, a boy. I fit in with the girls perfectly, it seemed.

At first the girls giggled and gossiped when I joined them for dance class, and you can’t blame them. But I found they liked me, I think, and soon I was welcomed among them, ready to giggle along or gossip with them as well. They called me ‘Terry,’ short for my middle name of Terrence, which I always used, trying to ignore my first name of ‘Olaf,’ since I was a namesake of a great grandfather from Norway who homesteaded back in the 1850s.

In the recently completed Easter Pageant at the Eagles Club, called “Rising Spring,” half of us were “sun girls,” and the other half “cloud girls.” I ended up being a “sun girl,” and if I must say so myself, I looked really cute and pretty in my yellow and white dress and flowing veil. We worked really hard for the pageant and afterwards we really celebrated when Aunt Adele took us all to the Ice Cream Palace for a treat.

Everyone commented how pretty the girls in the pageant looked, and there were “oohs” and “aahs” when we arrived at the Ice Cream Palace. “What a lovely group of girls,” I could hear people say. Of course, I was one of the girls, too.

It felt so good to be part of this group. And I giggled and frolicked about with the others, flailing my arms as they did, excitedly talking and being totally girlish. I felt so good.

My best friend, Wanda Linkfuss, was part of the dance group, and we were always together. We seemed to like all the same things, dolls in particular, and we were both beginning to be thinking more and more about clothes. And you won’t be surprised that meant girls outfits, dresses and shoes in particular.

I think you could describe us as girl friends; sometimes one or two other girls would join us, as we might venture out to a movie at the Tower Theater nearby, still getting in for the “under 12” charge of 10 cents. I have to admit Wanda usually did some shameless flirting with the teenage boy taking tickets. Besides I went dressed as a boy, of course, but I was small for my age, so that helped us get in for a dime. Otherwise, we’d have to pay the adult fee of 25 cents, a full quarter.

Still it was strange that I often got mistaken for a girl, even when I was in boy clothes. My mother always said I had a “pretty face,” and I guess I did, since occasionally others said the same. It must have been my full lips and longish hair, and perhaps that way I brushed my hair back from my forehead repeatedly, flicking it in a dainty way. It could have been my voice, too, since it still hadn’t changed and was told it was a “sweet” voice, and obviously girlish. When I answered the phone, I was often called “miss,” so that should have been a clue.

Being around the girls all the time, I guess it was only natural that I took on their ways of doing things, in how I walked, and sat down, even tucking my feet under me at times. Anyway, I was still happy to be included with the group of girls, usually the only boy joining in their gaggle of giggling and gesturing.

*****
I really felt happy, probably happier than I’d been in my whole life. That bothered me a lot; how could I be happy when my mother lie buried in a grave in the barren country in the middle of our state.

For the first time, though, I had friends. Back on the farm, I was so lonely and my life had resolved around books and helping mom, who was always busy working. I had even won the 4-H contest at the County Fair for baking the best cookies, a feat that lost its shine when the boys in my school found out and laughed at me for winning in a “girls’ contest.”

True, now my friends were all girls and we did girl things, like giggle and gossip and look at clothes. I even found talking about boys to be fun, since my friends apparently overlooked the fact that I was a boy, too. I think they thought I really was a girl inside. What a strange boy I must be! Right?

My happiness, however, had its limits. You must remember this was 1942, and it was now only six months after Pearl Harbor had been bombed, and Franklin D. Roosevelt had declared war on the Axis countries, Germany, Japan and Italy. Even though our city was located in the middle of the nation, we were still worried about being attacked, and we had already had several air raid drills, when the city was supposed to go “all dark” for a few hours. And the war itself was going not too good: Hitler continued to roll German storm troopers through Europe and had even sent submarines to patrol the coasts of New Jersey. The Japanese had taken the Philippines and subjected the brave troops of Corregidor to a death march, putting the shame to American power.

So we were scared, and every young man in the country was being drafted into the Armed Services; I knew if the war went on long enough, I’d soon be drafted too and be forced to push my weak, skinny body through all sorts of torture in basic training camps and eventual conflicts. Would I ever be able to do that? I doubted it.

Yet, my happiness always emerged from those dreaded depressed moments when I joined the girls in the dance group or skipped along with them in whatever girlish endeavors they were headed off to. I was with friends.

“I love you as my friend,” Wanda said one day as we walked home from school. With that she punched me playfully in the arm and skipped off in front of me.

“Oh, I’ll get you for that,” I said, charging after her, trying to maintain a hold on my books as I ran.

She stopped suddenly, and I bounded into her, both of our books falling to the ground, and loose papers floating about in the light spring breeze. We worked feverishly to gather them up, finally succeeding in getting them into our hands.

“Which ones are yours and which are mine?” she asked. We both stood there our books piled in front of us, both holding handfuls of school papers.

“I guess we’ll have to sort them out,” I said.

“We’re closest to your Aunt’s place,” she said. “Can we go there to sort them?”

I agreed that was best idea. We stopped first in the studio to tell Aunt Adele our plans; she was working in a small office she had set up to handle billing and other business matters that arose in running a dance studio.

“I fell into Wanda,” I began haltingly, “And we both dropped our books. Our papers got all mixed up and we have to sort them.”

“It was my fault, Miss Adele,” Wanda said quickly.

“No it wasn’t,” I protested, quickly. “It was mine.”

With that I looked at Wanda, and she began to giggle; then I did too. We were both in high chirping voices.

Aunt Adele just laughed. “You two, you’re like two giggling little girls.”

That only made us giggle more.

“Ok, off with you two, now,” Aunt Adele said. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen. There still are some of the oatmeal cookies you baked, Terry, for you and Wanda. And there’s plenty of milk in the ice box too.”

“These are so good, Terry,” Wanda said. “You baked them?”

Her question was one of astonishment, I could tell. Obviously, she didn’t think boys should bake cookies. I merely blushed, not bothering to reply. Besides, my mouth was full of cookie at the time.

It took us no time to sort out the papers and Wanda had just finished her fourth cookie, still obviously relishing the taste. They were good, if I say so myself.

“So you baked these, Terry? They’re scrumptious.”

“Yes.”

“You amaze me, Terry,” she added. “I don’t know any boys who bake.”

“I like to bake,” I said simply, “Besides, I had to cook on the farm, since mom always was too busy working.”

Wanda nodded, seeming to accept that as reason enough for me to be doing “girls’ work.”

“You should enter these in a contest,” Wanda said. “I know the Electric Company has baking contests.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I already won a cookie contest, at the County Fair last year.”

“Really, you are special Terry.”

“Can you stay a while, Wanda?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She paused for a moment, finally blurting out, “Show me your room. I’ve never seen it.”

Well, I didn’t want her to see that room. I never did change the room; it still was a girl’s room. In fact, I had even made it more frilly and feminine since I moved in.

“No, you don’t want to see it,” I said. “It’s all messy.”

“I do, I do,” she persisted.

Well, she pleaded and pleaded, but I held firm. Well, I did until she grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back, until I gave in. She always was so much stronger than I was.

She gasped when I opened the door to my room. She just stood at the entrance looking at the pink and frilly bedroom, its sweet scent permeating our nostrils.

“It’s not messy, Terry,” was all she could say.

I blushed heavily now, having exposed my private room to her searching eyes. Would I ever be more humiliated? She could tell this was a room of girl, not of a boy. And she was right of course, the room was neat and orderly. Prominent on the bed, covered with a pink and peach pattered duvet, were my three fluffy animals, a white rabbit with pink nose, a calico cat and a brown bear. There on a rocker, which had pink and white cushions, sat my prized possession, my Shirley Temple doll, holding a place of honor in my room and in my heart.

“And you have a Shirley Temple doll,” she cooed, running into the room and scooping my doll up in her arms.

“Yes, Auntie gave that to me for Christmas.”

“And you like dolls so much, I know.”

“Yes,” I blushed. “I’m sorry about that. I know it’s wrong for a boy to like dolls, but I just do. Don’t tell anyone, please.”

Wanda didn’t answer, but continued to survey the room. I knew it was a mistake to bring her here.

“This room is for a girl, Terry,” she said, both as a question and a statement.

I nodded, and explained that Aunt Adele hadn’t been able to change the room over before I arrived in the house. My moving to her home was so sudden, I said.

“I suppose so, Terry,” she agreed. “But it looks like you like it this way.”

I didn’t say anything but just let the statement sit there unanswered. I think Wanda knows I do like it kept as a girl’s room. And my blushes grew deeper and deeper. I was so humiliated.

“Don’t worry, Terry, I won’t tell,” Wanda said, later as she was about to go.

“I don’t know why I’m like this, Wanda,” I admitted.

“I like you as you are, Terry. Mind if I consider you to be my girl friend, and we can be best girl friends?”

She kissed me, and I began to cry.

Wanda turned and bounded out the front door and down the steps, returning to her home, leaving me standing at the door, tears streaming down my face.

Aunt Adele, hearing the doors opening and closing, came out of her office, and saw me standing there, crying.

“What’s wrong honey?” she said putting her arms about me.

“Nothing auntie, I’m just so happy.”

*****
Aunt Adele suspended classes for a week after the Easter pageant, giving the girls (and me, of course) some free time, but I found I missed the Wednesday and Saturday sessions when all the girls were assembled at the studios.

There were 16 of us (counting me) and the effort to put on a good Easter pageant had paid off in building a spirit, much like a team spirit in sports. We wanted to be the best, and though auntie didn’t say as much, I think we did better that the Metro Dance Group in the pageant. Auntie didn’t want us to rest on our laurels, I guess.

In those precious moments before our rehearsals began, the girls would gather about, assisting each other with their outfits, jabbering about all sorts of things, but usually it was about clothes or movie stars or Frank Sinatra. We were all mooning over Sinatra, including me, I’m ashamed to say. He was to come soon to the Riverside Theater downtown, and Wanda and I and a couple of other girls were going to try to go. I found myself waving my arms and talking as excitedly as any of the girls over the discussion.

The girls always included me in their groups now; there was a sense that I was no different than any of them. I had even stopped wearing the black tights for rehearsals, and now wore the same cream-colored or grayish tights of the girls; sometimes I even wore the short skirts as the girls did, since there were many in my closet, and they felt so liberating as I danced. The practice blouses I wore were from the girl’s outfits that auntie stored in my closet as extras for the dancers.

“I think Mark is so cute,” Serena Stinson, one of the girls in our dance class, said to me one day. “He’s in our class. Don’t you think he is?”

“Me?” I replied, surprised by the question. Why would I care if a boy was cute?

“Oh well, I guess you wouldn’t know about that,” she blushed. “I forgot you were a boy.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that remark; Serena was in my classes at school, too, and she always acted like I was sort of strange and like I was inferior to her. Well, I guess I was since I didn’t have any real mom and dad and also wasn’t as rich as she was.

That was the way my life was going. And, the way all the girls had been treating me, I guess most of them forgot I was a boy, too. It was a sweet feeling, though a bit scary.

*****
We gathered to begin rehearsal on the Wednesday after Easter vacation and most of us were gathered in clusters, some doing warm-ups. We were all chattering, mainly about boys and school stuff. I was on my back, doing stretching to loosen up my legs, when Serena, the girl who talked about the boy named Mark, came and lay down next to me, beginning to stretch as well.

Now, I know you’re going to find this strange, but was in a tutu, which I found in the closet in my room where auntie stores many of the ballet outfits. Auntie said I could wear it, along with the tights and a sleeveless blouse. On my head I had taken to wearing a scarf, just as many of the others did, to keep my hair from flowing about as we danced. It all seemed so natural to me, looking just like all the other girls.

I had looked in the mirror as I entered the ballroom. What I saw pleased me so much, I smiled, and even did a demure pose. I was so much a girl, with my slender, smooth arms and my long slim legs, so devoid of apparent muscle tone, even after all my dancing.

“You’re cute, too, Terry,” Serena blurted out, as she began copying my leg exercises.

“Oh?”

“You are, Terry, as cute as any girl here,” she said.

I didn’t respond, but just went about my stretching, not sure where this was going. I had never paid much attention to her, largely because she always looked so superior to me and that superiority scared me, I have to admit. Actually she was a little taller, even, with short dark hair, always brushed neatly, and flowing down to her shoulders. And, she was clearly quite athletic and strong-looking. She could easily be a princess, I thought, walking regally with her prince.

“But why do you put on skirts now for rehearsals? You could be a cute boy, too,” she persisted.

“I just like how free they make my legs feel,” I said, not really sure it was the whole truth.

Really, I’m not sure why I so wanted to be dressed in all this girl stuff. Maybe I just never felt I could be accepted as a boy and be part of a gang; so to be a girl meant I could be part of a group, at least with the girls in Miss Adele’s Dance Group.

“I still think you’re cute, Terry.”

Just then Miss Adele entered the room and gathered us together down at one end of the ballroom.

*****
“Now girls,” Aunt Adele began, as she shooed us all to one end of the ballroom. Of course, we continued our giggling and talking as we gathered about her.

“Quiet down girls,” she finally said firmly. I looked sheepishly at Serena who had accompanied me to the gathering. She nodded to me and then smiled. It was like we were part of a conspiracy.

“You can sit down now, girls,” she continued.

We all sat down on the floor, some sitting Indian-style, others with their legs tucked to one side, which is how I postured myself, purposely sitting in what I felt was a truly girlish manner. Serena smiled at me again.

“Girls, I need to ask you all something,” my Aunt began. Her assistant Donna Mae stood by her side.

“We’ve been invited to audition for the city’s big Fourth of July Program at the lakefront. It’s a real honor just to be invited, and it’ll be an even bigger honor to be picked. What do you all say to that?”

I must say we were all so excited. The news was so unexpected. Well, I yelled along with all the girls, our voices all in a higher pitched squeal of delight.

“We’ll be competing for one spot on the program, and it’s a spot for a girl’s dance group,” Donna Mae explained. “But we need to be sure we’ll have at least 12 dancers, and we know some of you may be gone on family outings that weekend. So we need you all to think carefully about what we’re going to ask you.”

It was Aunt Adele’s turn to speak.

“First of all, how many of you think we should try out, even if you can’t make it. Let me see a show of hands.”

I quickly raised my hand, as did every other girl as far as I could see.

“Ok, then, I can see you all seem to want to do it. Now, how many of you girls are certain that you will be available for this on the Fourth of July?”

I raised my hand, as did most of the girls, including Serena and Wanda.

“I only counted 12 hands,” Donna Mae said.

“Me too, but that’s just enough as long as we have no dropouts,” Aunt Adele said.

Aunt Adele told the girls that they should all check with their parents to be sure they will be able to take part. “We can’t lose anybody,” she said.

She said she needed to have slips signed by all the parents no later than the next class on the following Saturday.

*****
I waited anxiously for Saturday’s rehearsals, hoping that somehow we’d get 12 girls to agree to be in the program. That would mean the group could participate in the tryouts.

Some of them handed slips of paper to Donna Mae or Aunt Adele as they entered, and there was a lot of talk as we all wondered whether we’d get enough to dance. “Are you going to dance,” the girls asked each other.

I sort of stayed out of the chatter, content to do some stretching at the bar. I blush to state that I was able to look at myself in the mirror. What an attractive girl I made, even though I was only wearing a rehearsal outfit of beige tights, a tight pair of blue shorts and my practice blouse, a ruffled affair that had been washed far too many times. I wore a ballerina’s hairnet, and even without makeup, looked totally girlish.

“You like what you see, Terry?” It was Serena, who seemed suddenly to take an interest in me.

Well, I tell you, I blushed when she asked the question. The truth was: I did like what I saw.

“That’s OK, Terry,” she said quickly. “I liked what I saw.”

I nodded, and pretended to go about the stretches, but Serena’s questioning made me so puzzled. What was she up to?

“Let’s you and I stretch together, Terry,” Serena said.

I agreed with the idea and we did some stretching, working in tandem each one mimicking the other as we danced. Serena, who was easily the best dancer among all the girls, set a difficult pace, but I was able to keep up. The truth was I had been able to capture all of the dainty moves of the girls in my own movements, and I think I was probably soon to be one of the better dancers among the girls.

I really loved the feeling of floating about that ballet provided, even though it required so much effort to achieve that.

We were so busy concentrating on our moves that we didn’t notice Donna Mae approach. She began clapping, and we both stopped our dance, and looked at her, noticing a group of girls gathered around Donna Mae, watching us as well. We both looked at our audience, and did an exaggerated curtsey, that prompted more applause, and a comment from Donna Mae: “What a beautiful pair of lovely girls.” I blushed.

Aunt Adele signaled the group to begin rehearsals, which we led by Donna Mae.

It wasn’t until rehearsals had ended that Aunt Adele gathered us together to tell us whether she had enough girls for the tryouts.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, girls,” she began, “But we only have 11 girls signed up. That’s not enough. The contest people specifically said a minimum of 12. I guess we’ll have to pass this year.”

There was a general groan. It was like someone pricked a balloon, since all the spirit left the group.

“Is Terry among the 11 girls, Miss Adele?” Serena asked.

“No, dear, he isn’t, and you know why.”

“But Miss Adele he dances just like all of us girls,” Serena said. “Why can’t he dance? No one would take him for a boy.”

“Yes, Miss Adele,” Wanda joined in. “Why can’t he?”

“That would be cheating, girls,” Aunt Adele said.

“No, Miss Adele,” Serena persisted. “We’re not in any competition. It’s just a show, and Terry looks like a girl. And he dances so pretty, too.”

I sat silently, wanting to hide somewhere. This was so embarrassing; what would happen if people in school heard about this? But as I sat on the floor, my legs tucked to the right, I felt strangely excited. I was acting very much like a girl, even in the way I sat. Was that the real me?

“Serena,” Aunt Adele replied, “I’ll check into it. I’m just not sure it’s right.”

“But we want Terry to dance with us,” Wanda burst out. Her outburst was unusual for a girl who was always so shy.

“We do, Miss Adele,” echoed several other girls, and soon they were all clapping. There were even a few whistles heard.

I felt I couldn’t let all this pass, so I stood up, and did an exaggerated curtsey, to even further applause, and then some laughter.

“OK, girls, I promise I’ll check into this and we’ll let you all know on Wednesday at our next rehearsal.”

“OK, Miss Adele,” the girls all said in unison.

*****
After rehearsal and we had changed out of our dance outfits, Serena approached me as I was talking with Wanda over what we were going to do that afternoon. Wanda and I usually did something on Saturdays, if nothing else than hanging around each other’s homes, listening to the few records we had, maybe doing some homework or just talking.

Wanda had even introduced me to listening to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio on Saturday afternoons; I never understood the words, but found the high, beautiful voices of the sopranos and the male tenors to be so magical. And I loved how announcer Milton Cross described the stories and the costumes.

Wanda showed me some pictures from Life Magazine of some of the famous singers in their costumes. I was most intrigued by the outfit worn by in the dance scene in the “Merry Widow,” and imagined myself being led around the floor in that magnificent dress in the arms of the handsome prince.

I never even wondered about being that handsome prince; I could hardly picture myself as a strong, handsome young man. I only wanted to be the lovely princess.

“You wanna do something this afternoon?” Serena asked.

“Us?” Wanda answered. I looked at Wanda, sharing her wonder at this question from Serena; she never indicated much interest in either of us, always hanging around her clique of fancy girls.

“We’re not doing much, maybe listening to the radio,” I said.

“Can I join you two?” Serena said. “I got an idea.”

“Sure,” Wanda said. “What did you have planned?”

“Maybe you could come to my house?” she began, her slender, pretty face showing an unusual eagerness. “We have a nice ballroom and we can be there. Play records and such. I got new Artie Shaw and Frank Sinatra records. Even some Spike Jones.”

She told us where she lived. It was over on McKinley Blvd., the street with all the mansions. I didn’t know Serena lived there; we had virtually no rich kids in our school, since most of the kids who lived on McKinley went to private schools.

“There’s only one problem,” Serena said. “My mom says I can only have girls over to visit. I thought Terry could just pretend to be a girl.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’ll be easy, Terry,” Serena said. “It’s warm today, and you could wear those shorts and tennis shoes and any old shirt. If you combed your hair a little bit, no one could tell.”

“The way you act and walk and everything, it’s so like a girl,” Wanda agreed.

I wasn’t sure I liked all this talk. All this girl stuff was OK among the dance group, but I was afraid that it would be disastrous if word got out in school and among the rough boys of the neighborhood.

“Yes, let’s try it, Terry,” Wanda urged. “And we could stop by my house and I have a nice skirt for you to wear and a pretty blouse. Serena’s mom won’t know the difference. All she’d see was a girl.”

I blushed, realizing everything the two girls said was true. I know Aunt Adele would be asking me if I really wanted to dance as a girl in the tryouts. She’d not try to force me to do it, either. She was really nice that way. I’d have to make up my own decision. She knew I might be humiliated if my true identity would become known.

The truth was, I guess, that I wasn’t very strong, either physically or emotionally. I knew I was lousy at all sports, that I wasn’t muscular and that I was considered to be a sissy, fairy or even homo. I wasn’t quite sure what a “homo” was, but I thought it referred to a boy like me, who liked girly things.

And I knew Aunt Adele would try to spare me any more emotional situations. Yet, I felt I was part of the girls dance group; they all treated me so nice; they accepted me as one of them. Oh why wasn’t I born a girl?

*****
Wanda’s mother wasn’t home that Saturday; it made it easy for me to change into one of Wanda’s skirts, a pleated affair in dark brown ending just above the knees. She even had a pair of saddle shoes and white ankle socks that fit me. Wanda carefully put a pale shade of lipstick on me. Along with peasant blouse and a light, satiny babushka which was so popular then, I must say I looked cute.

“See, you’re all girl now, Terry,” Wanda said.

She was right of course; in our walk to Serena’s mansion, we even encountered some friends of Wanda’s, several boys who were gathered under a tree, reading comic books. “Who’s your girl friend, Wanda,” one of them asked.

“None of your business, Robert,” Wanda answered. “She’s too old for you.”

“Hubba Hubba,” was the response from some of the boys, using a term popular then to indicate a girl was hot.

I must say I responded by exaggerating my hip sway a bit, to even more comments from the boys. It seemed nice to be the object of such attention.

*****
Of course, I passed through the Stinson mansion lobby under the watchful eyes of Serena’s mother without much of a problem. She greeted us warmly, acknowledging how well we dressed, saying, “Aren’t you two girls lovely!” Serena hadn’t told her mom just who exactly her “girl” friends were for the day, leaving my true identity to chance.

I guess I must look pretty much like a girl, so no further explanations were needed.

Serena herself wore white shorts and a blue tee shirt and was not as nicely groomed as we both were; we thought the people in the mansions must always be dressed fancy. Guess we were wrong.

I’ve said that the Stinson place was a mansion. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, since it was much like Aunt Adele’s place. This area was the original settling ground for most of the early rich families in our city so the houses were really big. The Stinson’s ballroom took up the entire third floor, and apparently the family had purchased an old jukebox upon which they had 24 different 78 rpm records. This was so neat, having access to 48 songs (there were two sides to each record), most of them marvelous dance tunes, including some grand waltzes and polkas which made for great dancing.

And dance we did, playing one record after another, adjusting our dance to the beat of each song. Two of us would dance together, while the third person would sit and watch, and then we’d change places.

We twirled about and when I was dancing with Serena, I followed her lead, and she twirled me about and I felt like I was flying. It was so magical, feeling my skirt flow freely, the breeze tickling my thighs. Serena was so much stronger than I was and I seemed to relish letting her take control.

“You two are hot together,” Wanda said. “I can’t compete with you.”

“Sure you can, Wanda,” Serena said, as we finished up dancing to Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”

“No, Serena, you and Terry make a really great pair, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”

I giggled, and Serena looked at me, smiling. I felt like I must have been Ginger Rogers in our dances. I know Serena must have felt the same.

“You know, Terry and you, Serena, should work up a routine for the Miss Adele’s 4th of July pageant,” Wanda suggested.

And there was born the idea that Serena and I’d form a dance team!

*****
I could tell Aunt Adele wasn’t too keen on the idea of me dancing in what was supposed to be an all-girl’s danced troupe. It just didn’t seem honest to her, that I’d be dancing a lie.

One thing about our family, we were always terribly honest about everything. Maybe it was our Norwegian heritage, always rather plain, drab and not too exciting. That is, except for Aunt Adele, who was anything but plain and drab. But, she was honest.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Terry?” she asked me late that same Saturday afternoon, when I returned from our outing at Serena’s. I had stopped over at Wanda’s house and changed back into my boy’s outfit.

“I think so, auntie,” I said. “All the other girls seem to want me to.”

“I know they do, honey, and I know you love to dance with them. It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I nodded in agreement. I realized I was standing at the door of the kitchen, watching auntie fix beans for supper. I realized I was in a girlish stance, leaning against the door jamb, my feet crossed and both of my hands held to together, at my chin, my wrists bent. I knew what auntie meant: what if people found out? Would that bring shame to her dance studio? Worse yet, would I get harassed for being such a girlish boy? I had gotten teased lots during my one semester at Wisconsin Avenue School for my mannerisms and general ineptitude in boy activities. If I was found out, it might be almost impossible in the next school year.

“Auntie, I want to dance with them. I don’t care what some boys say about me.”

“Oh honey,” she said, dropping her knife, and picking up a towel to dry her hands. “You really are so adorable.”

She took me in her arms, and I nestled next to her, feeling her tiny, firm breasts against my puny chest. I placed my face onto her neck and began to cry. Auntie gently brushed my hair, and my crying slowly subsided.

I heard auntie sniffing, and finally she stepped away from me, and looked me straight in the eye.

“I smell cold cream and makeup on you, Terry,” she said, accusingly. “What’s this mean?”

“Oh, do you? I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me Terry,” she persisted. “Were you into my makeup drawer again?”

“No auntie,” I said truthfully.

“Well then, what?”

I looked down, wondering how I could explain off the cold cream and makeup scent. We had used the cold cream to clean the makeup off my face at Wanda’s.

“Terry, look at me. Tell me the truth now. You know I’ll forgive you almost anything, except lies. Now what were you doing.”

Finally I broke down and told her how Wanda dressed me as her girl friend, and that we went to Serena’s where we practiced dancing and played together. I told her that Mrs. Stinson accepted me as just another girl friend of Serena’s, and that we had practiced dancing as a team.

“I liked being a girl for the afternoon, auntie,” I confessed.

“Oh my dear,” she said, coming back to hug me. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to you. My sweet little niece.”

Of course, I cried some more. What girl wouldn’t?

y

“Now, darling,” Aunt Adele said to me after my sobbing stopped, “Go dry your tears, and let’s see how pretty you can be tonight.”

“OK, auntie,” I said, taking the dainty hanky she had provided.

She told me to take off my clothes and to get ready for a bath. “I’ll fix you a nice tub so you can look and smell like a pretty girl, OK?”

“What? Like a pretty girl?” Aunt Adele had never before wanted me to dress like a girl before, except for when I was dancing, and that was just to fit in with the others. She had never stopped me from wearing dresses, but she tried not to encourage it.

“Yes, honey, if you seem to want to be a girl, I want to help you be one, at least for tonight.”

What was this about, I wondered. She must have noticed my puzzled looks, for she quickly announced, “We’re going to the ballet tonight, dear.”

“Oh auntie, you mean the Ballet Russe? You didn’t tell me you had tickets for them tonight.”

I knew the Ballet Russe was performing in town; the troupe was among the top ballet companies in the world, and since the war began some of the dancers were based in nearby Chicago, they could make short trips for engagements, in spite of wartime travel restrictions. I wanted so badly to see them, particularly their star, Alicia Markova.

“Yes, honey, I got them today, while you were out. Would you like that? And tonight you’re going as my niece. Would you like that?”

I didn’t know how to answer Aunt Adele. I truly wanted to see the Ballet and I had heard so much about Markova, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to go out in public as a girl.

“Oh yes, auntie,” I said finally, “But really, as a girl?”

“Yes, dear. If you’re going to dance on the Fourth of July, I need to see how you look as a girl in public,” she explained. “You know you’ll have to arrive at the Fourth of July show dressed like a girl, even before you’re in costume. So we need to see how you’ll look and act.”

“Oh is this like a test, auntie?”

“Yes, honey, it is. I need to see how much of a girl you can be, before I say ‘yes’ to you dancing with the girls.”

It seemed to me that I’d have no problems passing the test; so I shouldn’t be wary, but I felt suddenly sick. The fear of truly being in a public place as a girl both scared and excited me. I dreamed constantly of being a girl, and now I’ve got my chance. But that meant acting and talking and sitting and walking as a girl did. Might something I do or say give me away? Might someone see the boy that was still part of me, sense that I had a penis? Then, what would happen? Would everyone laugh at me, scorn me, find me repulsive?

Of course, I said, “Yes, auntie. I’d love to be your niece tonight.”

*****
I must say auntie was treating me like a princess; she had drawn my bath, and as I entered the bathroom, already steamy from the hot water running in the tub, I found my nostrils filling with the delicious odor of sweet flowers. The tub was full of pinkish bubbles, and auntie had hung a light blue robe of sheer, gauzy material on a hook, obviously for me to wear. The collar and hemlines were trimmed in pink ruffles.

I smiled when I saw it. “Perfect” was the most fitting term.

I felt absolutely in heaven when I entered the tub, burying myself in the pink bubbles. It seemed I could feel my body grow smooth and soft as the soap water penetrated my skin. How could a girl not relish this feeling?

Aunt Adele entered the bath as I finished drying myself, using a clunky hair dryer to dry my hair, which had grown to cover my ears. My hair was a light brown, almost blonde, and quite light in texture.

“You have lovely hair, darling,” auntie said, as she took the hair dryer from my hand and finished the job. “Sit still here on the toilet, while I brush it.”

She brushed it out straight, then stepped back and looked at me, her face gaining a quizzical look. Finally she shook her head ‘no.’

“We need to give you some bangs, Terry,” which she did by brushing strands of hair at the front of the scalp to the right and forward, covering about halfway down my forehead. She applied some conditioner to set the hair, and then brought out a dark purple hair band with sparkling sequins to fix over the top of my head.

“Good,” she said, smiling at me, a smile that seemed to show satisfaction at what she saw.

“Let me look in the mirror,” I asked.

“Not just yet, honey. Let’s finish dressing you.”

I’m not sure I had a happier moment in my life, realizing that my auntie — I loved her so much — was making me so pretty and that I was to be her niece, well, for at least one night.

I couldn’t believe my eyes as I entered my bedroom, still having the pink towel wrapped around me. On the bed was a light blue dress, full of ruffles and lace, along with all the undergarments a 12-year-old girl would wear, plus stockings.

“Oh auntie,” I squealed, rushing to the bed. “Is this for me?”

She smiled at me, nodded. “It’s for a pretty girl and the only one I see in this room is you, darling.”

I put on the panties, a light blue satin, and she showed me how to put on the garter belt, which she explained had snaps to which to attach the stockings. Then she assisted with the bra; well, it was a training bra actually.

“You’ll have to learn to put this bra on yourself, darling,” she said. “Girls don’t always have someone around to help them.”

“Yes, auntie, I can do that. But do I have to wear a bra now? I don’t have any breasts to show.”

“Few 12-year-old girls do have breasts, yet, dear, but you need to learn to wear one anyway.”

“Wanda’s already got breasts, auntie. Will I ever get breasts?”

Auntie didn’t answer the question; instead she ordered me to sit down on the bed, and told me to hold out my legs, one by one. She put on the tan stockings, hooking them to the garter belt snaps, smoothing each stocking by running her hand up and down my legs.

“My, oh my, Miss Terry,” Aunt Adele said, as he looked up from a kneeling position. “You have beautiful legs. All that dancing has firmed up your legs, and without giving you a muscular look. So very pretty.”

She held up a slip, and told me to raise my hands over my heard, so that she could put the slip on.

“You really have lovely arms and shoulders, Terry,” she said as she accomplished the task.

I must have blushed. I knew I was never very strong, and hated to compete in any kind of sports since I’d know I’d always lose or be last. I remembered that back on the farm during one summer picnic with kids from my school, I got roped into an arm wrestle with a girl one year younger than myself. I thought I could beat her, since she was a girl. I remember trying real hard, but she downed my arm in just a few seconds. I remember the taunting: “Terrence can’t even beat a little girl.” “Go back to baking cookies.” “Miss Terry.”

I was so happy now; my arms and shoulders were pretty.

“This dress should be perfect for you my dear,” auntie said as she pulled it down over my head.

And, it was “perfect.” The dress had a square bodice, thick straps over the shoulders and a belt. It flared out from the belt, ending just above the knees. My shoes were black sandals, with a slight heel, which I found so adorable.

“There, now, Terry, let’s stand up and get a good look at you,” she said.

I stood up and auntie stepped back, eyeing me slowly, a smile growing on her face. “You’re just adorable, dear,” she said, leading me to her own room where she had a full-length mirror.

“Oh auntie,” I said. I think I actually squealed, too.

I felt so light and airy, so lovely and dainty, so soft and feminine. It was a magical feeling. I did a twirl before the mirror, hardly able to take my eyes off the pretty girl looking back at me.

*****
It turned out we were going to the ballet with her friend, Matilda, and her son, Matthew. Auntie explained that she and Tillie, which is what auntie called her, had been in a dance company together when they were younger and though they rarely talked often, they remained good friends, and would often go to cultural events together. She said, “She just knows I am raising my sister’s child. I never mentioned gender.”

When auntie told me I’d be sitting with a boy who was just two years old than me, and he would only know me only as Aunt Adele’s 12-year-old niece, I grew scared. “What if he figures out I’m a boy, auntie?” I protested.

“Don’t worry, he won’t, my dear,” she said. “No one could mistake such a beauty for a boy.”

“Auntie, please don’t say that. I’m scared. Do you think I ought to change back to Terrence?”

“No, certainly not. I told Tillie that you’re my niece. That’s all she knows and that’s all her son will know.”

“I don’t know, auntie.”

“Just be yourself, dear,” she smiled.

*****
We met them at the lobby of the Pabst Theater, an ornate old show house that was the usual venue in our city for ballets, symphonies and major theatrical presentations. I sort of hung back, holding my head down, my hands clasped nervously in front of me, feeling very much like a shy little girl.

“This is Terry,” she said in introducing me to her friend, still as slender and trim as my auntie was. Her son, Matthew, was tall, also fairly thin, but with wide shoulders, and long gangly arms. He had neatly combed dark hair and dark eyelashes. He was so handsome and immediately connected him with the actor Tyrone Power, thinking that would have been how the actor looked at 14. He was dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt and dark tie.

“Hi Terry,” said Matthew, words that came out so faintly I could hardly hear them. Was he as shy and scared of meeting me as I was of him?

“Hi Matthew.”

“Speak up my dear,” Aunt Adele said. “Young ladies need to speak up, dear.”

“So do you young gentlemen,” Tillie warned her son.

Matthew took the cue, moving closer to me, saying simply, “Call me Matt, Terry.”

We talked very little before the show began, but it seemed Aunt Adele and Matt’s mother maneuvered the seating arrangements so that the two of us sat next to each other during the show. I was so scared something might happen if we sat together, that he might realize I’m really a boy. That made me nervous, and perhaps as a way to end it, I started talking. I was so happy my voice still hadn’t changed, as most of my male classmates’ voices had deepened.

“Do you like ballet, Matt?” I said in a shaky, little girl voice.

“It’s OK,” he said, his voice deep, but still muffled. “I play basketball, too.”

“Oh that’s nice. I bet you’re good at it. You’re so tall.”

“I’m on the Peckham Junior High team.” His answers were short, clipped, like he was embarrassed to be talking to a 12-year-old girl. After all, he was 14.

“I’ll be 13 next month,” I told him.

He looked at me, smiling now. “Well, Happy Birthday.”

“Not yet, silly, wait ‘til next June 22. Then you can say it.”

He blushed.

Just then the house lights dimmed, and I grew silent. Was I flirting with this handsome tall boy? How disgusting! I’m still a boy. Or am I?

*****
After the ballet, we went to Child’s Restaurant, a popular downtown restaurant, for an after-show meal, where Matt and I continued our conversation. I couldn’t believe how interested he became in me, asking me lots of questions, which I found myself answering easily.

I told him about life on the farm, about how I helped the ladies in the kitchen and threshing time or joined with other girls in cleaning up and serving the men.

“I won the county fair baking contest, too,” I said proudly.

“Well, I know farm girls make the best wives,” he said, with a wink.

Auntie overheard the last remark, and smiled at Matt. “Now, Matthew,” she said. “Terry’s too young to be thinking about that.”

“I know, ma’am, we’re just talking.”

“OK, keep it that way, sweetie,” she said.

*****
It was obvious I passed the test that night. At the following Wednesday rehearsal, Aunt Adele announced to her class that it would audition to perform in the big 4th of July Pageant as an “all-girls dance troupe,” with me, of course, as the 12th girl in the group.

They all cheered and I cried. Both Wanda and Serena hugged me, and I loved their warm embraces, but mostly was thinking of my mom, wishing she could be here and see how pretty her daughter was.

*****
By the time auntie decided that I could join the dance group as one of the girls, there were only two weeks of school left before summer vacation. That meant each day I’d have to shed my life as a girl and revert to being a boy — at least for the school days. Otherwise, I have to say, I was living in a girl’s world.

Even though auntie refused to let me dress often as a girl now, I thought constantly about being a girl. It just seemed natural to me, I guess. When I got home from school, I tried to dress in outfits that could be considered either for boys or girls, and I don’t know how many times I pranced about, glancing in a mirror, posing as a model would do to show off a dress.

My vanity got the best of me, too. I am shamed to say that I must have posed 20 or 30 times a day in front of the full-length mirror in the ballroom, and proclaim to myself, “I am a pretty girl,” or just plain “I am a girl.” And, I certainly looked all girl; I particularly liked to look at my arms; they were so slender and soft, very much a girl’s. And my legs, too, were those of a girl, even though they were growing stronger due to my dancing.

Aunt Adele did let me dress in girl outfits when I practiced dancing; she recognized that if I was to dance as a girl on the 4th of July Pageant at the City’s huge program, I probably should get used to the girl outfits. Naturally, going into the large closet in which she stored dance outfits, I always chose the most frilly and girly ones. And how I loved to wear a tutu and a lace cap so often featured in ballet costumes. That’s exactly what I was wearing when Aunt Adele caught me dancing before the mirror in the ballroom.

“Oh Terry, you really should cut this out,” she warned me.

“What, auntie? Don’t you want me to practice?”

“Yes, dear,” she said gently, “but this priming and preening in front of the mirror is just too much. You’re acting like a prima donna, like a diva.”

“Really?”

“You don’t want to act so vain,” she explained. “People don’t like that. It shows you think you’re better than others.”

“But, Aunt Adele, I don’t think that way at all. It’s just that I finally like how I look. And I know I look nice as a girl.”

“You could look nice as a boy, too,” she said.

“Auntie, I’m not like other boys. I don’t even think I look like a boy. Boys don’t want me playing with them.”

“Oh honey,” she said, coming to me and pulling me into her body. I felt my fragile body surrender into her strong arms.

“I know, my dear, but you are a boy and sometime soon, you’ll be out in the world and it’s time you begin to act and think like a boy.”

“But auntie, I’m so happy this way.”

“I know, darling. I know.” And she held me tightly, and I cried.

*****
In my last two weeks of school, the fact that I was a boy haunted me almost everyday. My mannerisms, I realized, had grown so feminine that I became the butt of nasty comments from both boys and girls alike. I had become the class fairy, which was the name almost constantly given me.

When Miss Hankinson, our 7th grade arithmetic teacher, overheard one of the girls taunt me in the hallway outside of her room as a “fairy,” she scolded the girl.

“You don’t call people names,” she warned the girl. “I never want to hear that term again.”

“Yes, Miss Hankinson,” the girl said automatically, but she had a smirk on her face, and knew that as soon as she was out of the teacher’s hearing, I’d be a “fairy” again.

Of course, there were always snickers and giggles to be heard when I passed by a group of kids.

My best defense, I found, was to walk with a group of girl friends, usually Wanda and Serena. Just being with them seemed to silence any out loud taunts, which seemed to help. Serena, it turned out, was my best defense. Her general popularity and her own tall, athletic body was fair warning against any who would insult me openly when she was around.

But I couldn’t always be in their protection. It’s a terrible feeling to be so frightened just to walk the halls in your own school. I remember grandpa telling me once to “stand up and fight for yourself” after I ran home crying from our one-room schoolhouse back on the farm, dodging the taunts and threats of Billy Gustafson, who bullied me constantly in grade school.

I knew that wouldn’t work. There wasn’t a boy in my school back home or now here who probably couldn’t have beaten me in a fight. I didn’t like the idea of fighting anyway. I couldn’t see hitting anyone. Getting hit and hurt didn’t seem to bother me, and the few times boys tried to fight with me, I just cowered and let them hit me. Otherwise, I ran.

In the last week of school, an unusually hot and humid day for early June, I wore a pair of shorts, and since I had none of my own, I had borrowed them from the ballet costume closet. I didn’t know shorts were either for boys or girls, and not necessarily the same for each. These shorts were long ones, ending just above the knee and they were light green. I didn’t realize they were not boy shorts when I went into the boys’ bathroom to pee and found they had no opening in the front.

The room was full of boys, taking advantage of the time before recess ended, to use the facilities. I hated using the boys’ room, because that’s where I got taunted the most. It was no different this time, and I entered, realizing I’d have to find a stall to take down my shorts to pee.

“The girls’ room is down the hall,” one boy said to me as I entered.

“No girls in here,” came another. With that came a shove from the first boy, who pushed me toward the second boy.

“Leave me alone,” I said. But, my voice came out like a girlish whine, and that only made matters worse.

The laughter was derisive as I was passed from boy-to-boy, until finally one of the bigger boys, an 8th grader I knew only as Bert, who was perhaps the tallest boy — and probably the strongest — in the room, grabbed me, and held me tightly, saying to the others: “Let her alone and let her get to a stall. Don’t you see she has to go?”

With that he guided me to the door of an empty stall, and ushered me in, motioning off the others. The taunts ended and I stayed in the stall until the room grew quiet as the boys went off to class. Feeling it was safe to leave, and knowing I’d be late for class, I finally left the safety of the stall.

Bert was there, obviously waiting for me. Otherwise the room was empty.

“I’ll escort you to your class, and if the teacher wonders why you’re late, let her talk to me. I wait a minute outside the classroom.”

I looked at Bert, wondering what prompted this act of kindness.

As we approached my classroom, Bert said, “You’re very brave to wear girl shorts to school, Terry.”

“You know my name?”

“Yes, I’ve watched you recently. You’re very pretty for a boy.”

I didn’t say anything, not sure how to respond.

As we got to my classroom, he announced: “I’ll wait for you after school at the 28th Street entrance, OK? I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t need to do that; my girl friends usually walk me home.”

“That’s OK, I’ll be there. I like you.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Why was an 8th grade boy, obviously a big strong boy, interested in being a friend of a boy like me?

*****
I was thankful that day that Wanda couldn’t walk home with me. She usually did, and I was glad for that, since it protected me from being hassled by some of the roughs. Needless to say, I was fair game for thoughtless, stupid boys who like to bully people.

This day, however, Wanda was staying after school to finish up a project, and I was happy to welcome Bert’s promise, just for his protective presence. I did wonder about what this boy, who was so popular in school and one of the better players on the Wisconsin Avenue School baseball team, wanted with me. I was a bit scared, too.

Bert was there, as he promised, and greeted me with a smile. “Hi, Terry.”

“Hi, Bert, you don’t need to walk me home,” I said, cradling my books in the arms, in front of my chest.

“Well, I walk partly that way, anyway, Terry, and I know some of the guys might be out here giving you trouble.”

“They were?” I asked as we began our trek down 28th Street.

Bert merely nodded. He waved to a few friends, who had gathered at the end of the schoolyard, and they waved back, but then I could see they were pointing and talking among themselves, looking every so often in our direction.

“Can I carry your books for you, Terry?” he said.

“You have your own to carry,” I said, noticing that he carried his books in one arm along his side, as I suddenly realized that’s the way most boys carried books. Except, I guess, me. Since I seemed always to be in the company of girls, I supposed I began carrying my books as they did. I realized another thing, too: when my books were cradled in my arms, I walked with more hip movement, just like girls do.

(Historical Note: Book bags were not around in those days, and children carried their books either cradled in their arms, as girls did, or along their side in one arm, as boys did.)

“No, I want to, Terry. They look so heavy for you and I can put my books in one arm and yours in the other.”

“But it’s not like I’m a girl,” I blurted out suddenly feeling I said something stupid.

He looked at me, smiled and took the books from my arm, securing them under his left arm. I could see he was struggling a bit keeping the books from slipping, and I had to help arrange them so they wouldn’t slip from his grasp. We continued our walk.

“Would you like to do something Saturday?” he asked, when we got to my block.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have dance classes Saturday morning and then Wanda and I get together. But I think she’s going somewhere with her mom that day.”

“In the afternoon then?”

“I’ll ask my aunt?”

“OK. Do you have a bike?”

I nodded that I did have. Auntie had bought me a bike as an Easter present. It was a light blue Schwinn, with a basket.

“We could go on a bike ride to the Park and the Zoo,” he said.

“Let me ask auntie. I’ll call you later.”

We parted, and he helped me cradle the books in my arms for the last block home. He was so gentle and sweet. It’s like he was treating me as a girl. He was a strange boy, but I liked him. I watched him walk away, toward his home on McKinley Blvd., and strong, broad-shouldered boy whose already muscular body tested the cloth of his tee shirt. I noticed his thick neck and blonde crew cut. He was so strong.

Auntie was thrilled that I had made friends with a boy, finally. “Oh, that’s so nice you’ve got a friend like Bert,” she said.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the girls I hung around with; she did, since they were all dancers and seemed to be nice girls. I guess she felt I should be with boys more often.

It turned out to be raining Saturday, so our bike trip was off, but auntie said I could invite Bert over to visit me in the afternoon.

“You two will have the house to yourself, honey,” she said, “But I think you’re both old enough to be here alone. And I think you’ll not do anything silly, dear.”

It was so nice for auntie to trust me, and I would never betray her. She had volunteered to work at the local Veteran’s Hospital for the day. Actually it was called “Soldiers’ Home” in those days, and it was already beginning to handle the servicemen who suffered long and difficult recovery from war wounds suffered overseas.

The day had turned warm and stuffy, the steady rain making it even worse, and Bert arrived after a 4-block walk from his home, fairly wet and hot. He was carrying a model airplane he wanted to show me and a game of Parcheesi that we might play. I had also gotten out auntie’s Monopoly game, in case we wanted to do that.

“I got so wet coming over here I gotta change, Terry,” Bert said upon arrival. “Do you have an extra shirt?”

“I think so, but not sure it’ll fit you,” I said, noticing how muscular and broad his body was, compared to mine.

“Let’s check it out,” he said. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“This way,” I pointed to the stairs and he bounded up the stairs, not waiting for me to even nod “yes.”

I followed him up the stairs, realizing he would see how girlish my bedroom was, and I desperately wanted to avoid that. But, Bert was too quick, having reached the top of the stairs, seeking which door to enter. I pointed to a door, upon which a figure of a ballerina was mounted, realizing with horror he’d soon see the true me. I sought to talk my way out of what his eyes would see.

“Don’t pay attention to how the room looks, Bert. Auntie is planning to have it redone.”

It was too late. He had opened the door, stopping short.

“This is your room?” he asked, turning to me in puzzlement.

“Yes, and as I said, auntie is supposed to change the décor for me,” I said, lying, of course.

He surveyed the room, obviously noticing how neat I kept it; the bed was made, and the two stuffed animals were in their usual perched on the bed, with the Shirley Temple doll still in its prominence in the dainty rocking chair. Even the room smelled sweet and feminine.

“Oh my, it’s so pretty,” he said. “It’s nice.”

I looked at him strangely. Didn’t he think it weird that a boy would have a room like this?

“The bed is comfortable,” I said, dodging the topic.

“Well, I like it,” he said.

“You do? Really, you do?”

“Yes, why not? It’s more for a girl, but it’s nice.”

I blushed, and I guess he noticed, since he then said: “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

I went to a dresser, choosing the top drawer where my boy clothes were kept, hoping to find a shirt big enough for Bert. The other drawers had mainly skirts and blouses and lingerie in them. The truth was that I had more girl stuff than boy clothes, since I dressed almost always in girl outfits when at home.

“Sure enough, this should fit,” I said, pulling out a new tee shirt, which auntie bought recently that I felt was too big.

Just then he saw the shoes I had neatly placed near the vanity. Two of the pairs were obviously girls, both sandals with a pink pair having short 2” heels.

“Do you wear these?” he asked, picking the pair up and holding them out to me.

My reddening face gave him the answer. I wanted to run from the room, from him and suddenly from myself. But he must have sensed my dread, and he grabbed my wrist, feeling so slender in the tight grasp of his large, hard hand.

“You do, don’t you? These are yours, you sweet little girl.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling so ashamed.

“As I said, Terry, I like you,” he started, “And I won’t hurt you or tell anyone else. I had a feeling that you maybe dressed like a girl sometimes. You really are so pretty.”

“Don’t tell anybody, please, Bert. I hate I’m not strong like you.”

“But I’m not pretty like you,” he said, smiling. “I pictured you often as a little girl, really.”

“You thought about me before?”

“Oh yes, from when I first saw you, I said, ‘Terry’s as pretty a girl as we have in school.’”

“I suppose so,” I said, slowly getting comfortable with the realization my secret was out to him.

“Would you dress up for me now, Terry? I bet you can be so beautiful.”

“Oh, I don’t think auntie would like that.”

“But I’d so love to see you in a dress, just to show me how you look.”

“You really don’t mind me being like a girl?” I asked. “Most boys would make fun of me or beat me up.”

“I might like you as a girl,” he said, smiling. “I’ll make a deal. If you dress up for me, I promise I’ll keep the other boys from teasing you and taunting you.”

Finally I agreed, and I told him he could dry off in the bathroom and change tee shirts, while I dressed up for him.

*****
My chest was pounding with excitement as I rummaged through the dresses hanging in my closet. I had some really cute ones that auntie and I had found at the Schuster’s store on Vliet St. They always had the most darling of clothes for girls, auntie said, and I had to agree, although I really hadn’t shopped much anywhere else.

Part of the large closet in my room, as I’ve mentioned before, is composed of ballet costumes, used mainly for the students of auntie’s dance studio, but auntie had carved out a section for my clothes, all dresses and skirts and blouses. I loved to go into the closet, if for no other reason than to smell the flowery perfume that emanated from some of the outfits.

I couldn’t imagine why this strong boy was so intent on seeing me dressed up as a girl. But then, I was only 12 years old, was very naíve, and I had little idea about how boys change at my age. As I rummaged through the closet, my mind raced in wonderment as to what Bert would like to see me wear. I really wanted to be “beautiful,” which was the phrase he used about me.

Finally my eyes took me to a peach-colored summer dress, with light green and lavender flowers. It had puffy short sleeves, a belt and pleated skirt, ending just above the knees.

“Good,” I said, feeling pleased with myself knowing I had both ankle socks and a head band of matching peach color that I could wear.

Auntie had fixed a training bra for me, which was permanently stuffed to provide me with smallish breasts so typical of a 12 year old girl. And, I found the most darling of cotton panties, also peach with tiny colored flowers adorning the trim. Even before I put on the dress, I paraded in front of the mirror, wearing only the panties and bra, looking at my smooth, lovely body. What a girl!

“I’m done and changed, Terry,” I heard Bert yell. “What should I do?”

“Don’t come in here!” I yelled back. “I wanna surprise you.”

“OK? But where should I go?”

“Wait in the ballroom. I’ll be down in about five minutes.”

“OK. Hurry up, I can hardly wait to see you.”

I heard his footsteps as he went downstairs, and I finished up, brushing my hair so that it flowed easily, adjusting the headband and applying some lipstick. I also used rouge to brighten my cheeks. I put on the ankle socks and the shoes, and I was ready.

*****
“Oh,” Bert said, suddenly speechless as I walked into the ballroom, where he was standing nervously awaiting my arrival. He just stared at me, and I knew I must have started to turn red before him. He said nothing, and I grew frightened over what he must be thinking.

“You’re a girl!” The words came out suddenly, and he continued to stare. “You are a beautiful girl,” he said finally.

Naturally, I blushed, and I curtsied before him, holding up my dress daintily as I bent my knees.

I looked up at Bert now, noticing how his broad shoulders and muscular arms seemed to burst out of the tee shirt he was wearing. He had combed his hair, and I was taken aback at how marvelous this boy looked.

“Can we play some music?” he asked. “Maybe we could dance. My mom has taught me how to dance with a girl.”

“I guess we could, Bert, as long as we don’t break any of the records,” I said. I really wasn’t sure auntie would like me going into the collection of records, which were only used for dance classes. She was afraid, I guess, of breaking any of the records, which would crack apart if they fell to the floor.

“Do you know how to dance with a boy?” he asked.

“Yes, since we’ve practiced dancing the fox trot and waltz in classes, and I have danced the girl’s part often.”

Auntie had installed a sound system in the ballroom, with a record player, amplifier and record collection located in a former closet. I had learned to use the system because at first I merely assisted auntie in her classes, before joining them as one of the “girl dancers.”

“How about ‘Moonlight and Roses?’” I asked. It was a slow sound, good for a start.

“OK,” he said, crowding into the tiny room with me. “My you smell nice, Terry.”

“I put on some cologne. Do you like it?”

“Oh yes, very much. You are so sweet.”

I had noticed I was acting so much like a little girl, now, with even my voice seeming to take on a lilting, higher pitched quality.

Soon we were on the dance floor, the sounds of music gathering us up in its magic; I found myself easily following Bert’s steps, surrendering myself to his direction.

“Your mom has taught you well,” I told him.

“I liked dancing with her, but you are a good dancer too, Terry. This is the first time I’ve danced with a girl, outside of my mom, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said, pulling myself closer to Bert, placing my hands over his shoulder as I’ve seen them do in the movies. We had been dancing at arm’s length to start.

Soon the music stopped, and I had to put on a new record. Auntie’s sound system had a high quality turntable, which had to be loaded with a new record for each song, and most songs were limited to three minutes of playing time, due to the length available for music on the typical 10-inch record.

By the 5th song, Bert and I were dancing “cheek-to-cheek,” in the words of a popular song of the day. I nestled my head on his strong shoulder and he enveloped me, his muscular arms easily holding my seemingly fragile, slender upper body. The music stopped and we stood there as the record player continued to twirl, sending out rhythmical clicks and hisses as the record continued to spin at the end of its track.

It felt so good to be in his arms, but Bert seemed to be shaking now, almost violently and I wondered what was happening to him. I was a few inches shorter than Bert, and I could feel something protrude from his crotch into my own lower tummy. He was trembling. I wasn’t sure what was happening.

Then, suddenly, he kissed me, almost violently, and pulled me tightly, like he was holding on for survival. Our lips met and pressed together. At first, I didn’t know how to respond, but soon I returned his kiss, feeling a stirring in my own penis area.

The record kept spinning sounding its alternate hiss and click, and I was growing light-headed under his hold. Finally Bert broke away from me, running off to the bathroom. As he bolted from me, I felt the tension in my penis lessen. I was confused about what all was happening to me as I danced as a girl with Bert.

I puzzled as to what happened to my friend, and when he returned, he seemed a bit pre-occupied.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I just had to go to the bathroom real bad,” he said, mumbling a bit.

“You left so suddenly, I thought you got mad at me or something.”

“Oh, I couldn’t get mad at you, Terry,” he said. “I I want you to be my girl friend,” he said, as he was about to leave.

“I wish I could be, too, but I’m only 12 now, and auntie wouldn’t let me date so young.”

“I know, but you really are so nice to be with.”

“And I’m still a boy,” I said with a coquettish smile.

“Not that I can see,” he said, kissing me again, as he began to leave.

I closed the door, and watched him walk down the steps and up the sidewalk. And I danced, twirling about, flinging my arms lightly into the air and feeling complete joy!

*****
In the few remaining days of school, I rarely talked with Bert, with me being busy with my girl friends, and he being with his friends. Yet, I noticed he somehow was always around during the times before and after school, making sure that Wanda or Serena or one of my friends would be with me as I walked to and from school.

“Hi Bert,” I said as I we happened to meet in the hallway on the Tuesday following our Saturday visit.

“Hi Terry,” he said looking squarely at me. “Are you doing OK? Anyone bothering you?”

“No,” I said.

We both spoke softly, so no other kids could hear in the din of the halls. It was true; I had not been teased or taunted at all.

“I hope you didn’t mind being forced to dress for me on Saturday,” he said. We had moved into a side alcove to talk. Everyone could see us talking, including a group of his friends who I could sense were looking strangely at us.

I must admit I blushed a bit, and said to him. “No, I liked it.”

He nodded at that. “I liked seeing you that way. You looked so pretty.”

“You’re not telling anyone are you?”

“Oh no, Terry. I gave you my word.”

“Your friends are watching us,” I said.

“I know that and they can like it or lump it,” he said, smiling.

The warning bell rang, summoning us all to our classes, and we parted. I knew I had a strong boy to protect me. For some reason, it seemed only natural for a girl to want to have a boy who will protect her.

*****
The school year ended without any more teasing or taunting. Oh, I continued to get some occasional stares that seemed to show disgust at my growing feminine mannerisms, but no one directly bothered me. Somehow, I guess the word of Bert’s protective shield must have gotten around.

Wanda and Serena and I became even closer friends, as Aunt Adele increased the ballet group’s rehearsal classes to four mornings a week, at least for those girls who were to participate in the 4th of July program. Mostly, we worked on synchronized dances, perfectly our ability to dance totally in unison, without missing a step.

I must say Auntie and Donna Mae, her assistant, worked us relentlessly, forcing us into repeated performances of the same steps over and over again. For the first time in my life, I felt moments of hate for my dear auntie, as she forced into dancing through terrible exhaustion. Yet, I knew she was being so tough in order to make us the best troupe of girls ever to perform.

“What’s our theme going to be for the program, Miss Adele,” Serena asked after about a week into rehearsals. “All we’re doing is basic practicing.”

Auntie had assembled us in a circle. I was seated on the floor, my legs tucked under me just like the others. In my tights, shorts and blouse, I know I mixed in perfectly as one of the girls.

“Yes, Serena, I think it’s about time we talk about the program,” Auntie said. “First of all let me praise all of you for working so hard this past week. I know it hasn’t been easy, but we needed to get you all into the need to be perfectly in sync with each other.

“Now for a theme, Donna and I have decided we should highlight what women are doing on the home front to help our boys at the front as they fight Germany and Japan. But, we want you all to come up with specific ideas to incorporate into the dance program.”

“Like what, Miss Adela?” asked Judy McQuistion.

“Well, for example, lots of women are working in defense factories, making tanks and guns and planes. You could figure out making up a dance of women working on the assembly line.”

“Oh,” Judy said, growing excited. “Like being a nurse for an injured soldier?”

“Yes, that’s it, and I know you all have ideas. I’ll give you time now to break up into groups of two or three girls, each group to come up with an idea.”

It was only natural that Wanda, Serena and I would join together, and at first we didn’t know where to start.

“What could we do as three girls . . . ah . . . or women for the country?” Serena asked. Of course I was considered a girl by them now. It was just to be expected.

“Hmmmmmmmmm,” muttered Wanda. I said nothing, but my mind was twirling in all sorts of directions, picturing the three of us as army nurses, or assemblyline workers or even bus drivers.

“I got it,” Wanda proclaimed. “Let’s be USO entertainers.”

“That’s it,” Serena proclaimed.

“What would we do?” I asked. I didn’t think our troops liked to watch ballet, and that’s all I knew that we could do.

“What about being like the Andrews Sisters?” Wanda said.

“But we can’t sing?” I protested. The Andrews Sisters were a trio that had captured the attention of the nation during the war, singing many popular songs.

“I bet we can, and we can add some dance steps, too,” Serena said.

“I don’t know,” I protested.

“Yes, I know you can sing Terry,” Wanda said. “You sing in the 7th grade chorus, and you have a beautiful voice. And Serena is also in the chorus as an alto. I think I sing, too.”

Serena beamed. “Yes, we can do it, Terry. Your voice still hasn’t changed.”

It was true. My voice was still able to hit high girlish levels, since my voice hadn’t changed, being one of the few boys of my age with such a high voice.

“You can be Patty, Terry” Wanda said, smiling, naming the youngest of the three Andrews sisters. “She’s the cutest of the three.”

“And I’ll be Maxene,” Serena said, choosing the sister who had the greatest range of voice.

“Leaving me for being Laverne,” Wanda said.

“Yes, we’ll be perfect,” Serena said enthusiastically. “With his light colored hair, Terry’ll be a super Patty.”

Later, as they described their plans to the group, all the girls hooted and giggled, with Terry bursting into a high-pitched phrase from one of the Andrews Sisters’ top tunes, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” He had been listening to a record of the Sisters singing that popular song, and knew all the lyrics, having sung along with the music many times.

The other three groups of girls described their ideas, and Aunt Adele said she’d be able to weave all of them into a performance, finishing with a grand finale when all the girls would be on stage.

“I can hardly wait to start setting up our act,” Wanda said.

“You’ll get your chance right now,” auntie said. “All of you spend the next half hour within your group to come up with a 3-minute program to perform.”

Auntie let us put the “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” record on the player, and let us crowd into the control room to hear the song, while the others did their planning in small groups at the corners of the room.

“Do we have any pictures of the Andrews Sisters?” Wanda asked.

“I must have,” I said, knowing I had a stack of movie magazines in my room. Other boys my age usually had collections of comic books, but I found them kind of boring. Instead I gathered up auntie’s old movie magazines and pored over them in my room. I blush to admit that I looked mainly at the young actresses, not because I lusted for them, but mainly ‘cause I envied them, wishing a could be like them, wearing sexy outfits. I particularly wanted to have legs like Betty Grable and wear white shorts that ended at the top of my thighs, seamed stockings and high heels. Grable’s picture in those shorts had found its way into the lockers and seabags of thousands of soldiers and sailors.

Actually, I knew I had pictures of the Andrews Sisters, having only recently cut one out from an old magazine because of my love for their singing. And now to actually be one of the Sisters was truly exciting.

I ran up to my room, gathered up the picture, returning to the studio, where we discussed what we’d wear and how we’d look. Their hair had curls, so that would mean we’d all have to have our hair curled, probably at a beauty salon.

“Let’s do it,” Serena said. “I’ll get mom to make an appointment for us a couple of weeks before the program at her hair salon. You’ll have to go with us, Terry, as a girl.”

“Oh can’t we do that here, at home?” I asked. “I’m not sure I wanna do that.”

“Yes, Terry, do it, please,” Wanda added. “No one can tell you’re a boy, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” I protested. My early excitement at this plan was being quickly deflated, as I began to realize what I’d have to be doing. I really wanted to do all this, but it meant transforming myself totally into being a girl, and not just for the dance, but for numerous outings as we got prepared for the big event.

“Come on, Terry, you’ll do it, I know you will,” Serena said, proclaiming that she’d be making an appointment for all three of us.

Of course, I did it!

“I’m so happy with all of you girls,” Aunt Adele said, after each group got done describing what ideas they had for the performance.

We were all giggling a lot, as each group outlined its plans. Our high-pitched voices filled the room, mine along with the rest. I don’t when I’ve seen girls so excited about something once they had a role in planning each dance. Judy McQuistion’s group decided to do a dance routine to working on the assemblyline at the local engine plant; Bertha Schmitter’s group would be passing out doughnuts and coffee to troops; and Nancy’s group would act as air raid wardens.

“We’re going to both sing and dance,” Serena explained, as she outlined our plans. “I’ll be Maxene and Wanda will be Laverne, and Terry here will be Patty.”

“That’s marve’,” one of the girls said. “Terry will be a perfect Patty. She’s so cute . . . ah . . . I meant he’s so . . .”

I blushed so much in hearing that, but I didn’t want her to feel bad, and I merely curtsied to let her know it was OK to call me “she.” I certainly felt like one of them.

For the next five weeks before the 4th of July, we rehearsed our programs and refined them. Wanda, Serena and I spent many hours trying to imitate the Andrews Sisters, which was not easy. The Sisters were truly in tight harmony when they sang, and we had difficulty achieving that. Donna Mae, who played the piano, learned “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and accompanied us when she could.

Besides Donna Mae had studied singing in college and helped us train.

“You have the loveliest voice, Terry,” she said as we ended one practice. “It’s still a true soprano, and it’s so sweet.”

“Nobody can tell I’m a boy, then?” I asked anxiously, as I was growing more and more concerned I’d be found out, and the whole charade exposed.

“No honey, no one could ever think of that voice as anything but a girl’s. It’s great your voice hasn’t changed yet.”

As the rehearsals continued during the summer, and I spent hours and hours with Serena and Wanda, it just seemed I was really all girl. I had very little “boy experiences,” preferring to be doing whatever 13-year-old girls do. I had my 13th birthday in mid-June, and we celebrated it by having a small party in auntie’s ballroom with Wanda and Serena. Wanda gave me a new outfit for my Shirley Temple doll; she knew how much I adored the doll. Serena gave me a small makeup kit, one of those that are made particularly for girls in their early teens.

You should have heard me gush over both presents, so much so that auntie told me to “tone it down.” But, those presents were just “perfect” for a 13-year-old girl.

Most of the time I dressed now as a girl, except when I had to go somewhere. Even then I was often mistaken for a girl, having let my hair grow since we wanted it long for the performance. I must admit to having mixed feelings about all this; I really felt comfortable as a girl, but I recognized that school would come in September, and I’d have to become a boy then. I worried about the teasing I’d get in the 8th Grade, sure that my girlishness would draw attention and derision. The fact was I was a failure as a boy, having neither the muscles nor the inclination to engage in typical boy behaviors.

*****
My only boy friend and that was what he was becoming, a boy friend to a 13-year-old girl, namely me, was Bert. After our time together dancing, with me in a dress, he treated me as a girl, even going so far as to opening doors for me. And, of course, I was tickled pink to go along with the charade.

Bert had taken over a newspaper route for the summer, delivering the evening paper; he also played on two softball teams, one in a muni league and the other in a league for newspaper boys. So he was busy most of the summer. Yet, sometimes he’d bike over in the morning and we’d bike together to the lakefront or out to the parkway on the west side of town.

“You should really ride a girl’s bike,” he said to me on one of our morning trips.

I nodded, as I was puffing hard to stay abreast of him; even though he tried hard not to speed ahead of me, sometimes I just didn’t seem to have enough strength to keep up with him. I wondered about his remark, realizing that a girl would have a bike without the bar, so that she could ride it more easily in a skirt.

“Come, let’s go in on this path,” he said leading us off the parkway into a wooded section of the park. He led us carefully along a narrow, rough, path, with the branches of trees and bushes hitting us as we rode.

“Where you going?” I asked, somewhat miffed at him for leading me into this darkened pathway with all its bugs and things.

“You’ll see. It’s not far now.”

He stopped his bike at a clearing that had formed next to the river bank, and announced, “Here we are. Isn’t this a nice spot?”

I got off my bike, and watched while he took a light pink blanket from a duffle bag he had carried on the basket on his bike.

“What’s that?”

“A blanket, so we can sit here.”

I looked at the rough ground, damp from the morning dew, with weeds and a few fallen tree limbs laying about. I seem to have forgotten my first 12 years of living on the farm where such rugged places were common. I was suddenly worried about sitting on the ground.

“And have all those icky bugs crawl all over us?”

He laughed. “Just like a girl. Come on, sit down.”

He spread out the blanket, and he pulled me down so that I fell onto him, and we laid together, his arms around me. We were on our sides, facing each other, and he looked directly into my eyes, his blue, clear eyes piercing into mine.

I was still clutching him, not breaking my hold after we fell down together. My hands held his hard, muscular arms, as he continued to look at me. Finally he freed one of his arms, and I felt his hand on my forehead, brushing the hair that had fallen across my face. His touch was gentle and soft and I felt a strange attraction to his handsome, strong boy.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

Suddenly I felt myself drawn into him, and his lips were on mine. I wanted to turn away, but his mouth was so firmly on mine, his hand behind my head, holding my tightly. His other hand was caressing my arm, a big strong hand moving up and down rhythmically on my thin, under-developed bicep.

I surrendered to him, responding almost without thought to return his kiss. I had never before really kissed anyone, except for the light pecks from my mom, grandma or auntie. As we kissed, I felt my penis grow hard. It began to throb. What was this, I wondered? Never before had I had that happen.

And my desire to kiss him grew and grew. His hands were caressing me and we were both rocking together on the blanket, and my penis ached now but I couldn’t help myself. We continued in this kissing, and caressing and rocking together for a few minutes. My penis grew more hard and began aching, and I wanted him to continue kissing and caressing me. Soon, he released himself from me, and I wondered why.

“I feel like your girl friend,” I said, breathing hard.

He had moved off me, got up, and went to his duffle bag, withdrawing a small towel. He proceeded to open his shorts and then used the towel to dry off his genital area. I guessed he had done what was called "jacking off." I'd heard boys talk about that, but wasn't quite sure what that meant. My own penis had softened and the pain was gone. Soon he joined me on the blanket, and we laid there for a while, saying little, listening to the ripple of the water, traffic noise from the highway a few blocks away and birds chirping.

“I want you as my girl friend,” he said after a while.

I nestled closer to him now, kissing him lightly on the cheek, his hand now caressing my arm. I felt so happy.

We moved together, kissing, each of us having a hand on the other’s penis. I felt his growing harder and he was growing more violent in his embrace of me, beginning to call me his girl, telling me he’d protect me from everyone else.

“You’re so soft and weak,” he said. “You’re my girl, my sweet Terry.”

The more he moved on me, the more he talked, the more I felt his hands on my soft flesh the more I felt I was a girl, the harder my penis became again. It was throbbing, pain growing, the pressure hurting. Something must happen, I felt.

I loved the feel of his hard body next to me, his strong hands massaging my sweet inner thighs, my slender arms and my narrow shoulders. I imagined myself a weak little girl, and I felt warm liquid on my thighs. I must have jacked off myself, but I held back as hard as I could, hoping to stop the flow of juices.

I moved away from Bert, and my penis softened again, the pain leaving me, my panties now a bit soggy. I knew what I did was sinful, and I felt bad about it.

We began our trek home on the bikes, taking our time. We were both exhausted, but I felt a strange exaltation, since Bert still treated me as his girl.

“I think you should come to the social center Friday night,” he said as we were about to part our ways a block from my house. “They’re having a summer dance about 7 o’clock and you could be my date.”

“Oh I couldn’t,” I said.

“Yes, you could. You would be just my girl friend.”

I liked the idea, but I’m sure somebody might realize who I was, since there’d obviously be people from school there. I turned him down, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

*****
The rehearsals went along in the remaining weeks before the 4th of July, with the girls and I gaining in excitement for the big presentation. Oh, sometimes, auntie got mad at us when we didn’t always perform to our best, or when some of us girls chattered too much. She particularly seemed to blame me for the giggling that often filled the room.

“Terry, stop that giggling now,” she’d reprimand me. “Quit being such an inspiration.”

“But, Miss Adele . . .” I began, having been told to call her “Miss Adele” when in the classes, rather than “auntie.”

“Just be quiet and tend to your dancing, girl.” Her voice was firm.

I reddened, hearing her firmness, and Wanda, standing near me, touched my arm comforting me.

After the classes we over, Aunt Adele never said a word to me about my “giggling” or her reprimand. Instead she acted like it never happened, and we reverted to our normal relationship, which was growing into one of a loving aunt with her adoring niece.

I seldom saw Bert after that day in the park; he and I went for some bike rides and even biked to the lakefront. Bert blamed his newspaper carrier duties and his busy baseball schedule that kept our outings to a minimum. That may have been true, but I had the feeling Bert was no longer as interested in me. To be sure, he still called me “his girl,” but I felt something strange about the way he said it. Did he mean it? When we were sure now one was looking, he’d find a way to kiss me, and I loved feeling his lips, but he made no attempt to lure me into private locations where we could repeat our awkward love-making.

I was both comfortable and disturbed by that. My time in his arms felt so special, as did my introduction to “jacking off,” and I kept reliving that moment. Yet, the fact bothered me that we were still two boys — in spite of my girlishness — doing “dirty things” together. It’s funny: I felt so good during that episode; yet, my mind told me it was wrong. I knew the pastor at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church, our church, would not approve, nor would my grandpa and grandma. But it was funny, I wondered whether my mom would approve, or auntie. For some reason, I thought they might be OK with it. But I didn’t think I’d test that thought by telling auntie.

On a warm, absolutely beautiful sunny day in late June, Bert and I found a park bench overlooking Lake Michigan. It was hidden from the view of persons on the park path by heavy bushes, and we were seated together. Bert took my hand in his, holding it gently, using a finger to gently caress my inner wrist. My hand felt small inside his grip and I felt my penis begin to harden.

I looked at Bert, and his eyes were focused on mine.

“I see my pretty Terry,” he said, softly.

“Oh Bert,” I said.

“Why aren’t you really a girl?” His voice was plaintiff, almost sad.

Tears began to form in my eyes, and Bert reached up with his free hand to lightly brush the moisture from beneath my eyes. His leaned over and kissed me lightly, our lips hardly touching, but the feeling of those lips excited me as much as if they’d been deeply passionate. I don’t think that a 13-year-old girl (or boy of 15 for that matter) can experience love at such a young age, but I felt I was in love anyway. Bert must have felt the same way.

At that moment I saw myself only as a girl, as a bride on her way to the altar to join her handsome, muscular husband-to-be and as the mother of his child. I wanted that so bad.

Suddenly, he ended the kisses, and moved away from me. Still holding my hand, Bert said simply, “I guess we better go.”

I could tell he was in distress, since I knew he wanted me, but must have felt it was the wrong thing to do. It was 1942, and there was a war going on, and boys were meant to fight for their country and have girl friends, real girl friends, not a girl like me. Despite the love Bert and I felt for each other, we knew it was an evil love, a love that could hurt us both in the future.

I fought back tears on the bike ride home. I felt that Bert might never call me again that summer and that our bike rides and romance ended on that park bench overlooking the blue sparkling waters of Lake Michigan on just a magnificent summer day.

*****
“Serena’s here with her mother,” auntie yelled to me as I was dressing for our trip to the beauty salon.

It had been a difficult morning, since I hemmed and hawed over what to wear. I knew I had to look completely like a 13-year-old girl, and in spite of the fact that when I was dressed either as a girl or in more androgynous clothing I was always taken for a girl. Still, I was still worried about this trip into an all-female establishment, like the salon.

“Auntie, come up here. I need you first.” I yelled back, as I was struggling to button up a summer dress.

Aunt Adele entered. I could tell she was frustrated with me, since I had been fretting over this trip to get my hair fixed in curls so that I could look like Patty Andrews.

“What?” she said.

“How do I look?”

“Absolutely adorable, dear. Now come on, Mrs. Simpson is waiting.”

“But, auntie, really,” I pleaded. “Can anyone tell?”

“No, Terry. You’re all girl, now come on.”

Mrs. Simpson and Serena were waiting in the foyer, as I went down the stairs, daintily carrying my purse, my yellow summer dress rustling as I walked. Serena told her mother all about me, and all of the parents of girls in the class had been informed that a boy, namely me, would be dancing as a girl in the troupe so as to complete the needed size of the group. Some of the parents had balked at the idea, but their daughters prevailed upon them to accept it. “Terry’s just one of us, mommy,” Bertha Schmitter had told her mom in pleading the case. Eventually they all came around, and for the most part were eagerly awaiting the moment the girls appeared on stage at the big 4th of July pageant.

“You’re adorable, dear,” Mrs. Simpson said, strangely using the same words that auntie said.

“She makes me jealous mom,” Serena said to her mother. “Terry’s really the prettiest girl in the group.”

People kept telling me that, and I guess I was starting to believe it. But auntie had other thoughts:

“Beauty is as beauty does.”

It was a gentle reminder that I should not let all this praise go to my head.

*****
The three of us “Andrews Sisters” all were scheduled to have our hair done that morning, and Wanda was already started when Serena and I, along with Mrs. Simpson arrived.

“Here are the other two girls,” Wanda announced as we entered.

Betty, the beauty salon operator, was a slender, middle aged women with heavy makeup and a hair stylethat piled her curls atop her head. She was blonde, but I sensed that was not her natural hair color.

She had almost a burlesque look, but she had a warm smile in welcoming us.

“One of you was going to bring a picture for us to follow,” she said.

I had clipped a picture from Life Magazine that showed the three sisters, and pulled a folded copy from my purse.

“Thank you, dearie,” Betty said.

We occupied the three chairs in the salon for our permanents, and I found I’d be handled by Betty herself.

“So you’re going to be Patty?” she asked as I sat down.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, you’re a lovely young lady. You should do OK.”

“Thank you,” I said, as she began working on my hair.

To make conversation, Betty asked: “So what you like to do, Terry?”

“Sing and dance.”

“And what you want to do when you grow up?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe go to college, be an engineer.”

I don’t know why I said that, since I didn’t know what an “engineer” did; I knew the job was not running a locomotive on the railroad, but that it was a good job and paid well.

“Girls can’t be engineers, honey.”

“No, why not?” I asked naively.

“Well they just aren’t. It’s for men. You could be a secretary or a nurse or maybe a teacher.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“That’s just the way the world is for girls, honey,” Betty continued, almost laughing as she spoke. “Don’t be a hairdresser, though dear. I wouldn’t want more competition. A pretty girl like you would get lots of business.”

I giggled.

*****
We practiced and practiced on “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” so that even though Wanda seemed a little overwhelmed by the task we had mastered the harmony that was the Andrews Sisters’ trademark. (To see the Andrews Sisters sing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, "Click here.">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pfCFU3Mqww>)

We went back to the Tower Theatre three times to see the Sisters perform the song in “Buck Privates,” the 1941 Abbott and Costello movie, after deciding that we’d try to recapture how the Sisters performed that song in the movie. Since Patty had the only solo in the piece, I would be called upon to sing that part, but I protested it wouldn’t be fair to Wanda and Serena.

“No go ahead, do it that way, Terry, you have the best voice of all of us,” Wanda said, with Serena nodding in agreement.

To recapture the film, we had to dress in plain khaki skirts and military shirts, with ties, a well as Army overseas caps. The shirts and ties were no problem, but the skirts had to be made from scratch and Mrs. Linkfuss offered to make them to fit each of us. Serena had an uncle who was a veteran of World War I, and he was able to find some old overseas caps for the girls.

“Now, we need somebody to play the trumpet,” Serena said, as we walked home from spending all Saturday afternoon at the theater, sitting through “Buck Privates” twice that day.

“I’ll ask Bert,” I said, not thinking before speaking, which was beginning to be a problem for me.

“Good, he’s a good trumpet player, the best in the school band,” Wanda said, who was playing clarinet in the band. “And I heard him playing ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ one day in practice. The teacher didn’t like it.”

“Was he good?” Serena asked.

“Oh, he was hot.”

My chance to ask Bert came the next day, when he called me unexpectedly and asked if I wanted to ride to Washington Park with him. We hadn’t seen each other for a week, and I had been mooning about the house all the time, waiting for his call. I began thinking he must have found another girl friend, and that made me sad. Only the fun I was having in planning the performance seemed to cheer me up.

“Bert,” I cooed over the phone like a love struck teen girl. “I’d love to.”

“I’ll be over about eleven this morning,” he said. “I gotta be back by two, since I gotta do my paper route.”

I was giddy, almost ready to scream in excitement over the phone that I loved him. But, instead I said, “I’ll pack us a lunch.”

“That’ll be nice, honey,” he said, his voice warm and soft.

It was a picture perfect day, with bright sun and only a few tiny fluffy white clouds moving slowly across the sky. And day for lovers, I felt.

I dressed in boy stuff, naturally, but I chose it carefully, wearing white shorts, saddle shoes with ankle socks, and a blue tee shirt. I knew that with my longish, now curly hair and slender body many people might mistake me for a girl. And, that’s how I wanted Bert to see me.

It was so much fun packing the lunch basket. I had seen girls do that for their lovers in movies, and I pictured Bert and I sitting together under a large elm tree, we had lots of them in our city, with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair, occasionally leaning down to kiss me.

To tell the truth, I was nervous about this outing. Maybe, I feared, Bert was going to tell me he found another girl, and he wanted to let me down easily. I thought the worst, since he had obviously been avoiding me since our incident at the lakefront. Also, I needed to ask him to play the trumpet for us, which meant I had to tell him I was performing as a girl in the 4th of July program. I didn’t know what he’d think about that.

“You look so nice,” he said, as we took off for the 20 block trip to the Park.

We sauntered slowly down the streets, gaining the attention of a few persons out on the sidewalks, including two old guys waiting for a bus while we had stopped to a red light. “You treat her nice now, young man,” one of the old guys said, winking in Bert’s direction.

As the light turned green, we began and I heard the other old guy say, “Hubba hubba,” followed by laughter and the first guy saying: “When she grows up, she’ll be a heart-breaker.”

I blushed, since it was obvious they meant me.

Still I was afraid to ask him about performing with our group, and it took me until after we finished our sandwiches that I told him about the coming performance.

“You never told me,” he said, before I could get to the request I had for him.

“Well, it’s supposed to be a secret, Bert,” I said, trying to defend myself.

“What’s the secret?”

“It’s supposed to be an all-girl dance group, and they needed me to fill out the troupe.”

It took a few minutes before he understood why I kept it secret from him. “OK, I guess it’s all right, but you should have told me. You know I’ll keep your secrets.”

“And I have something else to ask?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you play the trumpet for us for the performance? Wanda says you already know ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.’”

“What? Do I have to dress as a girl, too?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “You’d look silly as a girl.”

Then I explained his role would be to play the opening bugle call of the song, while Donna Mae accompanied us on the piano.

“I don’t have a lot of time to practice,” he said. “But, yes, I’d like to try.”

*****
I never saw the girls more excited than when Bert showed up for the next rehearsal. I knew he was the object of the longing eyes of most of the girls, since he was so strong and handsome. They also thought that he still had no girl friend, so as you might expect they all acted silly around him.

I watched all this and sort of laughed to myself, while also getting those fits of jealousy that seem so natural. I couldn’t help myself. Such jealousy felt natural, at least to me. I don’t know about other boys.

Bert took it all in good humor, and later whispered to me as he left, “Don’t worry, you’re still my girl.”

Needless to say, all the girls and even Aunt Adele were excited about the “Bugle Boy” part of the program. We had worked out a routine that followed the movie version, with us the Andrews Sisters doing jitterbug steps while singing, and the others forming a circle around us following in the same steps. The setting of the dancing to swing music seemed to stir even greater effort on the part of all the girls.

*****
The 4th of July dawned clear and a bit cool, particularly near the waters of Lake Michigan, which rarely warm up until August. That made it a perfect day for performing, as we knew the sun would soon bring its warming rays down upon the pageant.

All three of us girls dressed into our costumes about noon at Aunt Adele’s, where she provided us a lunch of hot dogs, cole slaw and lemonade. We were to leave at about 1 p.m., all crowding onto the No. 10 streetcar that would take us to the lakefront. I know I felt giddy with excitement as I put on the plain khaki skirt, the military blouse and tie. We were able to dress in our costumes even before we left on the trip.

Wanda, Serena and I gathered about the mirror, fussing with our hair and finding trouble placing hairpin to fit our overseas caps onto the curls of our hair.

“Help me, Terry,” Wanda pleaded.

It took me a second to pin hers on so that it fit. We both looked in the mirror, and smiled at each other. “I’m glad you’re my girl friend, Terry,” Wanda whispered.

“Help me, too, Terry,” Serena asked.

She appeared to have fit hers on perfectly, and I wondered why she wanted help. I checked it, however, and found I needed to do nothing.

“It’s fine, Serena,” I said.

“Thanks, Terry. I just wasn’t sure and I wanted you to check.”

I wasn’t sure why she asked me to check. Was there a growing jealousy developing between Wanda and Serena over my friendship? I’d seen that happen before where there were three friends. Neither one I knew by now saw me as a boy anymore, but as just one of their girl friends.

For that reason, Bert’s appearance in our rehearsals seemed to add some testiness between me and Wanda and Serena, too. He always seemed to hang around me during breaks in rehearsals and after we were done. “Let’s go to the sweet shop,” Wanda said several times, but I had to decline, telling her that Bert wanted me to go with him. I always changed into boy clothes when we went out, but of course with my hair and girly mannerisms I continued to be mistaken for a girl.

I know Bert was teased for his friendship with me; more than once I heard him called a “homo,” not because I was a girl, but because I was such a “sissy” boy. Bert was such a darling, however, and would look at the boy who issued such a remark, and say, “Wanna make something of it?”

Since it was well-known he could probably beat up anybody in our school, such taunts were few and far between. How sweet it was to be defended by a big, strong boy!

Wanda and Serena would pout together as I would go off with Bert. Oh well, what’s a girl to do?

*****
I know it sounds like bragging, but the fact was that I stole the show, at least that portion of it that involved Adele’s Dance Group. If you listen to the Andrews Sisters since “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” you’ll see that Patti has the longest solo, as well as does the most dancing. I blush to tell you that I got carried away with the part and performed a few suggestive maneuvers. But I got lots of cheers in doing it, along with a few whistles and “hubba hubba’s.”

And I did the daintiest of curtseys as we took bows at the end.

Maybe I did all this to dazzle Bert. I was able to glance in his direction several times during the performance, and, with his part of playing the bugle completed, was watching in rapt attention, his eyes glued on me. That made me all the more excited to charm him. I may have only been 13, but it seemed I knew already how to excite men.

The great thing about the dance troupe was our sisterly togetherness, and it showed in the group’s grand finale, when we were all on stage doing a dance routine to the tune of Glenn Miller’s American Patrol, finishing with a smart salute to our boys fighting in World War II. I was given the honor to carry the flag on stage for the final routine, flanked by Wanda and Serena, all three of us still dressed in Army style skirts and outfits. No, I wasn’t named by auntie to do it, but I was chosen by the vote of all the girls. I couldn’t have been prouder on July 4, 1942 to stand in the bright afternoon sunshine on the stage looking out over a vast crowd on the shores of Lake Michigan.

As we marched off the stage to end our portion of the program, Bert rushed over to hug me. “You were so marvelous, Terry,” he said.

The other girls walked by, eyeing us with interest, and maybe some being envious of me being in the arms of this handsome boy.

Bert had to leave me then and gather up his trumpet, and I joined the girls, who were all gathered together downing Cokes, trying to cool off. We were all perspiring heavily from our performance in the sun.

“Terry, you pulled that off beautifully,” Judy McQuistion said. “Even your voice was great.”

“Thanks, Judy,” I said through sips of my Coke.

Then she leaned in, whispering, her tone becoming harsh, and said, “But you’re still nothing but a sissy boy. You have no business here.”

Before I could reply, she skipped off to join Bertha, and the two talked conspiratorially together, and I obviously was the topic of their conversation.

I wanted to cry. How could she do that in what should have been a moment of joy and triumph? I wanted to die. Is that what the girls thought of me? Were they only nice to me because my auntie was the teacher? I tried so hard to become one of them, to blend in with the troupe as just another girl. Am I just now someone to laugh at?

Why couldn’t I be a real girl?

*****
My moment of dark despair, a moment when I tried mightily to hold back tears, was brought to an abrupt end, when I heard someone yell out, “Terry, Terry.”

The voice came from a tall, lanky boy. At first I didn’t recognize him, and as I wracked my brain, the boy approached and said, “Terry, don’t you remember me? I’m Matthew. You remember, we met at the ballet.”

“Oh yes, Matthew, of course I do,” I said, partly lying, since at first I didn’t remember.

It had been a few months, but I felt glad to see this tall boy with his long arms. He was sort of awkward, and a bit shy, I had recalled, but for some reason I thought he was cute. I remembered we did have a good time together that night.

“Well, you were a real hit today,” he began. “And you look so cute in that Army uniform.”

I did him a slight curtsey, and blushed.

“Really, you were great.”

“Thank you, Matthew. Nice seeing you again.”

“Well, I just wanted to say hi,” he said, turning to leave.

“Oh,” I said on impulse. “Where you going to school in fall?”

I really didn’t care where he was going to school, but I didn’t want him to leave just then, knowing the other girls must be talking about me. His appearance took me out of my funk.

“Just going into 10th Grade at West,” he said.

“Oh, I’m just entering 8th at Wisconsin Avenue.”

“I suppose you’re too young to go to the movies with me,” he said quickly.

“I suppose.”

“I just thought . . . oh well . . . I have thought about you since that night at the Pabst,” he said, his voice growing faint, as his face reddened. He was such a shy boy; that was so cute.

“You have?” I said, excitedly.

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“Well, I’ll talk to auntie and then you can call me and we can talk about it. Ok?”

Our conversation was interrupted as Bert approached. He looked angry.

“What’s going on here? I saw you two talking. Who’s this?” Bert asked in a loud, demanding voice.

“Oh, Bert,” I said, confused by his angry tones.

“Hi,” Matthew interjected. “I’m Matthew. My mom and Miss Adele are friends.”

Bert looked at the tall boy, whose awkwardness seemed to dominate his presence.

“Well OK,” Bert said, his voice softening. “You just never know.”

“I have to go,” Matthew said. “Mom’s waiting for me. We came special to see you, Terry, and you were great. I’ll call you sometime.”

With that he was gone.

Later on the streetcar returning home, Bert and I sat in the back, away from the other girls. He spoke into my ear in a whisper.

“Terry, I don’t like you flirting with other boys,” he said.

“Why, he’s the son of auntie’s best friend,” I said. “He’s just being friendly.”

“I think he’s got more on his mind than friendship,” Bert said, his voice more firm again.

“OK,” I said, annoyed with this conversation from Bert.

“And why did he say he’ll call you sometime, Terry. I don’t like it.”

“I told you, Bert, he’s the son of my auntie’s best friend. We just talk, you know, about music and ballet and stuff.”

“I still don’t like it. Remember, you’re my girlfriend.”

“I’m what?”

“My girl friend,” he said again.

*****
I confess that I was flattered by all this attention from two different boys, but I was also bothered by Bert’s reaction to Matthew. What did Bert have to feel defensive about? He was clearly more handsome and athletic than Matthew, who was so awkward and shy.

Besides, it finally dawned on me Bert knew that underneath all my girly looks I was still a boy. As far as I knew, Matthew thought I was just a girl.

Maybe Bert was a “homo,” which is what some boys in school already called him because of his friendship with me. Well, wouldn’t that make me a “homo?” It was all so confusing. I didn’t know much about “homos,” except it was boys kissing boys and it was bad.

I told Serena a few days later about Bert’s reaction to seeing me with Matthew after the 4th of July program.

“It’s like he wants me to be there for him whenever he wants it, Serena,” I said. Serena had joined me on a trip downtown to the Public Library and we had stopped at a White Castle for a 5c hamburger and Coke before returning home.

“Think he’s jealous?” she asked.

“Maybe, but I don’t know about what,” I said. “I hardly know Matthew. He’s nice and everything, but he’s 15. That’s old.”

“Boys want so much,” she said. Serena had been hanging around with another 8th Grade boy, but she broke it off. “He always wanted me to do what he wanted to do.”

“And now Bert calls me every day and asks me what I’m doing,” I said. “He even asked me yesterday whether ‘that boy’ had called.”

“Do you like Bert?” She asked suddenly.

I thought for a minute. I nodded “yes,” but wondered if I was being truthful. What’s a girl know anyway about such things?

“I don’t know what to tell you, dear,” Serena said. “Maybe Bert only wants to be sure the prettiest girl is always ‘his’ girl, and you, Terry, are easily the ‘prettiest.’”

I knew it would be no good to protest. I know when I looked in a mirror I honestly felt I was certainly a most feminine, pretty girl. If there was any boy inside me somewhere, it was hard to see.

*****
I spent the rest of the summer dressed as a girl almost all the time, the exceptions being when auntie took me to the doctor and dentist and for church on Sunday. I fussed with my hair daily and worked over my makeup incessantly, doing what young teen girls normally do. Serena and I spent gobs of time together, looking at fashions in the Sears catalogue and whatever magazines we could find. Wanda was baby-sitting most of the summer, so we only saw her on weekends; we often took in Saturday afternoon matinees at the Tower Theater as a threesome.

My hair grew longer, its dirty blonde natural color becoming bleached by the sun, and growing golden. I loved to play with it, daintily twirling strands of hair between my fingers; sometimes, I tied my hair in pigtails, or Serena would come over, and we’d tie each other’s hair up. I read lots of books, too, including I think every Nancy Drew mystery. She was my hero, and I imagined myself solving mysterious crimes. That was really a stretch, though, since I’m not sure I could be as brave as Nancy Drew was.

Bert came over after supper several nights a week, riding his bike, and we’d sit on our screened front porch to avoid the mosquitoes. Sometimes, we’d take a walk to the sweet shop, and buy some candy or maybe even an ice cream cone. We kissed whenever we were alone, since auntie would have been mad if she ever saw me kiss him.

I never told him that Matthew called several times, and we talked each time for a long time; we seemed to have so much to say to each other. He wanted to take me downtown to a movie, too, but I had to refuse him telling him, “I already have a boy friend.”

“Oh,” he said, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Matthew, but you understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, Terry,” he hurried to assure me. “You’re so pretty I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a boy friend.”

“But I like you, Matt,” I said. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

“I like you too, Terry, and we seem to get along so well together.”

“We do,” I assured him.

“Well, I gotta go. Mom’s mad at me for talking so long,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion.

“Bye Matt, I like you,” I said, hoping he’d not be too disappointed.

He hung up, and I got the feeling he was probably going to cry. I felt terrible. He was such a nice boy. In truth, I was a confused girl. I felt really loved Bert like I said I did during our cuddling and kissing sessions; I so wanted to feel his arms caressing me, his lips on mine. But sometimes, I realized, we never talked about much except our own feelings of love for each other. Now, there was Matthew, and it seemed I looked forward to his calls and we always had so much to say to each other. Of course, we had never so much as held hands, so I don’t know why I felt guilty about those conversations I had with him.

And then there were Wanda and Serena, my two bestest of friends. How I loved them! They had stuck by me through the whole year, and I found myself ignoring them to be with Bert.

How could a girl be so happy and so confused at the same time?