He should never have made the bet. I don’t know a lot, but I know that much. Ethan should never have looked Darren and his posse in the eyes and bet them $20 that he could get a girl to dance with him. He was doomed from the start.

Ethan wasn’t a bad-looking guy - he was just painfully shy. This does not serve you well in the tenth grade. I thought about this as he sat glumly on the bleachers, watching everyone else have a good time.

I’d just got done dancing with a pretty girl when I came and sat down next to him.

“I can’t believe it, Caden. I really thought I could do it,” he sighed.

“I did too,” I agreed. “Hey, there’s still time.”

“Yeah,” he said. There were still 45 minutes left in the dance, but he seemed resigned to his fate.

Suddenly an idea had crept into my mind. Something I thought I never thought I would be an asset to me was the only thing I could do to help my poor, shy friend.

“Ethan,” I breathed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not feeling well.” A lie.

“Okay, well, feel better. Are you going home?”

“Yes.” A truth, but only half.

“Alright,” he sighed, and returned to his moping.

Having played basketball for several years, I knew of an alternative exit from the gym. I slipped under the bleachers, opened a secret door, and found myself in the locker room closet. I successfully opened it from the inside, and, having evaded the chaperones, I was home free. I would take this same route when I returned.

I could greatly benefit from having my house be a short walk away from school. Carefully, I scuttled across the practice football field and toward the front door of my house. A light was on in one room, as my older sister Maddie was bedridden with a broken leg. My mother was presumably asleep.

I climbed through my bedroom window, so has not to disturb Mom. Maddie was reading in bed, and jumped when I appeared on her windowsill.

“What’s up?” she asked, not looking up from her phone.

“Where’s the dress you wore for semi-formal last year?”

“You had it last, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” I thought, recalling the fashion show we’d put on last week, before her bike accident.

I scurried into my own room and found the dress hanging in my closet. The bra and panties I’d worn with it were still there; I adjusted the padding a little bit, and soon I was good to go.

“You can use my makeup if you want,” Maddie hollered. I obliged, quickly applying gentle amounts of my sister’s best products. All I needed now was a wig.

I went with the brown one that matched my natural hair. ‘So cute,’ I thought to myself. Carefully, I brushed it out and added a headband. I knew I was doing everything out of order, but I was very much pressed for time.

None of my high heels matched the dress so I raided Maddie’s closet and found the pair she wore last year. I primped in the mirror for a minute and liked what I saw. Thankfully, my legs had just been shaved two days ago.

“You look pretty; what’s the occasion?” Maddie asked.

“Gotta get back to the dance,” I mumbled while yanking on my skirt.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re nervous whenever we go shopping; you seem so calm.”

“I’m on a mission.” I waved my hand dismissively and made for the window.

“You want a jacket? It’s cold?” Maddie called, one last time.

“I told you! I’m good!” It was cold, though, and I soon retreated to Maddie’s closet searching for a coat as she chuckled.

“Be careful,” she warned.

“Will do.” I thought as I left how wonderful it is to have a family so accepting of my gender bending. Not many boys can casually wear “Love Pink” leggings around the house and have no one bat an eye.

I soon found myself navigating the nooks and crannies of the locker room yet again, and finding out it was harder to do so in heels. I nonchalantly mingled in with the crowd, brushing the dust bunnies out of my hair and smoothing my skirt all the while.

Suddenly, I looked at the clock - there were only ten minutes remaining! It was time to put my plan into action. I gulped and made for the spot in the bleachers where Ethan was still(!) sitting, looking helplessly at all the happy couples.

“Excuse me,” I said in a feminine voice. “I couldn’t help but notice you over here, looking so lonely. Would you like to dance?”

Ethan was speechless, but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. He grabbed my hand and led me onto the floor and put his arms around me. Slowly, we got into a rhythm.

I was already a good dancer. I wasn’t the world’s best ballroom dancer, but I’d taken private ballet lessons for years with Maddie, so I had a good sense of the rhythm. The girls I’d danced with earlier that night had complimented me on my dancing skills. It was nice, and I felt like I was in charge.

But here with Ethan, I felt kind of submissive and graceful. I liked that even better. It was very odd. Check that - it was incredibly odd. With Ethan, I felt like a ballerina, floating on air, melting...

We danced for the last ten minutes of the dance, and then something really odd happened. Ethan looked me into my eyes with his - his baby blue eyes, but I digress - and kissed me on the lips. For five seconds, I didn’t know what to do.

I blushed. I gave a little giggle. I tugged on my skirt. And then I left.

I almost tripped on my heels, I bolted so fast. The last thing I saw and heard was Ethan telling Darren to pay up. He seemed to care little that his girl had just ran out on him. He’d kissed her and he wanted the world to know it.

Boys are weird.

---

I met Ethan in the cafeteria on Monday, where he couldn’t stop jabbering about his “mystery girl” he’d met at the dance. The other guys in my group hadn’t gone to the dance, and they didn’t believe him. I simply restated that I was happy for him and sorry I hadn’t seen it. He seemed satisfied with that answer.

Until they left, that is, when without looking up, Ethan muttered, “Thanks for doing that, Caden, but let’s never discuss it again.”

I was taken aback. Ethan was smarter than I thought.

“You’re welcome?” I stammered, although it came out as more of a question than a statement.

He simply smiled and left.

Now alone, I giggled, blushed, and fiddled with my jeans before setting to thinking how I could fool Ethan into dancing with me again.

I could start, I thought as I texted Maddie, by buying a new dress.

Duel adherent of the very different yet very compatible religions of Christianity and sports. Aspiring prima ballerina, cheer captain, homecoming queen, insert other socially desirable status for teenage girl (I'm basically Kelly Butler from my story "Seven For the Past," LOL). I write stories that speak to the hectic elements of modern life, the inherent goodness of humans, and the many routes taken to girlhood. Questions or comments regarding the stories I've written? Comment on them or PM me!

I heard the bells on Christmas Day,
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet,
The words repeat,
Of peace on Earth, goodwill toward men!

“I’m telling you, Callie, it isn’t a big deal.”

“Are you kidding me, Justine?” My roommate was ecstatic as we trudged up the stairs to our dormitory after a long walk in the winter’s cold.

“You’ve been named prima ballerina! That’s kind of a huge deal!”

“It would be a huge deal if we weren’t a college group of ballet dancers that anyone can join! I know we’re divided into levels and all,” I said, alluding to the Level I, II, and III classifications for beginner, intermediate, and advanced dancers, “but it doesn’t feel like a real ballet company.”

“I see your point,” Callie said, a little dejected I didn’t take our company seriously. “But you’ve at least got to concede you’re excited! I mean, every little girl dreams of prima ballerina! You can’t tell me you didn’t think of that when you were a little girl.”

I let that remark hang in the chilly, poorly heated dormitory air for a moment, as I caught a glimpse of the date on the calendar. December 24th, yes. Christmas Eve, yes, that too, and in an hour I would depart on an all-night drive to be with my family on Christmas morning.

But something of far greater significance for me, Justine Kameron Friedman, as it marked a decade since I, very much a little boy at the time, took my first baby steps into the pool of girlhood.

Now I made the fateful decision to carve a new milestone. Aside from my family, of course, and the government, I had told a grand total of zero people about my identity. No one had questioned it, so I’d never brought it up.

Here now was a prime opportunity for me to finally tell the truth to the only best girlfriend I’d ever had. I decided to take it.

“When I was a little girl,” I began, “I was a little boy.”

Callie got a confused look on her face, which contorted into about twenty-five facial expressions. Suddenly it turned ghost white. The realization had dawned on her she had a transgender roommate.

“Wow, I never knew that about you.” Five minutes of thinking had produced little more than five words.

“Well, now you know,” I said, blushing and further examining the date December 24th on the calendar. I simply could not believe such a clear event in my mind had occurred ten years ago.

“Ten years ago today,” I breathed, running my finger first down the calendar page, and then down by sides, all around my girlish figure.

“Ten years what?” Callie had her arms crossed. She knew I needed to talk to her. She always did that when a girlfriend of hers seemed to be hiding something.

“It was ten years ago I realized that I was a girl.”

“Ah, I see.” Callie motioned me over and I sat down on her bed. I needed to tell the full story, for my sake and hers. So I began my confession.

----

I can see December 24th, 2006 in my mind, even though I was only in fifth grade. I’m picturing it right now. It was warm, unseasonably warm. I was in my bedroom, reading or playing Nintendo DS or something like that.

I was very aware that next door my sisters were getting dressed. To the left of me, my older sister Karen, to the right my younger sister Katie, each by three years. Both gearing up for the performance of their lives.

I was very aware of all the inner workings of their ballet company, so I knew that instead of the traditional “Nutcracker” this Christmas Eve they would be performing a mixture of selections. I also was aware that they would both be wearing pretty, snow white tutu outfits.

Outfits that I knew I should be wearing. I was depressed, and I desperately wanted to be on stage with them, to dance gracefully and have everyone tell me how pretty I was. I had had the seeds of a plan in my mind for a while, and slowly, I began drawing up a plan to - and here I took a deep breath to realize what I was trying to do - dress as a girl.

The car ride that night was torturous for me as I simply beheld the beauty of my sisters’ outfits. Karen, who was in eighth grade, had a pancake tutu, white and sequined with all kinds of glittery patterns, while second-grade Katie had a more conventional outfit that still looked beautiful with a white tutu, pale blue leotard, and tiara.

And there I was in jeans and a jacket. I was infuriated. I couldn’t even wear cute jeans like my sisters, I had to wear boring boy jeans. This was an outrage.

I took my seats in the auditorium with my parents, smiling at the fact I would not be there for long. My plan was foolproof. All I needed was the right moment...

Now! “Mom, Dad, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I announced, assuring them I may be there for a while. Not feeling well. Ha! I was feeling fit as a fiddle. But I left for the bathroom anyway.

I should mention I was an extremely cunning little fifth grader. I was a master of plots and schemes; I often played jokes on my sisters using such techniques as I would use now.

I ducked carefully into the bathroom supply closet, once the bathroom had emptied and the show was about to start. My mom had always assumed I tagged along with her to some of the ballet lessons to support my sisters. While I loved my sisters very much, and enjoyed seeing them dance, I had ulterior motives, in that I often snuck off and learned the lay of the studio in order to prepare for this day.

This day had finally come, I thought, as I pushed the last of the bathroom supplies out of the way. The back of the closet, I’d figured out through two years of practice, was false, and opened into another closet, whose supplies I’d moved out of the way in the course of another sneaky jaunt two months ago. I found myself in one of the rooms where classes were held, a room without feature save a barre and a mirror on the wall. Those, and another door at the end of the room, which most I assumed figured was a closet.

False. A few supplies rearranged, a couple of mops and buckets switched a couple of times, and ta-da. A secret passage leading straight to the costume room below the auditorium stage (One of the benefits of a 90-year old auditorium).

Not thirty seconds later I was rearranging more supplies at the other end of the passage closet. I knew that the closet would empty me right behind the costume racks - ideally. There was always the chance that they had moved, and that would put land me in big trouble.

Fortunately they had not. I dropped down onto all fours, where the bottom portion of the oddly-built rack would obscure me. I didn’t have much time - there were girls scurrying everywhere, looking for costumes, and they would without a doubt discover me if I loitered around long enough.

I felt through the costume rack and basically just grabbed the first thing that I could find that felt like a tutu, pulled it off, and withdrew into the passage. I rummaged through my backpack, grabbed a flashlight, and shined a light on it.

The tutu was silver and shaped like a snowflake. 10-year-old me nearly died of happiness. I’d been waiting so long for this moment. I stripped down to my underwear, zipped myself into the leotard, and shined the flashlight downward.

All I could see in the dark passage were my bare legs obscured by a snowflake shaped mass of tulle, but that was all I needed to see. The leotard felt incredible on my little arms and body. I was hooked. I did a little twirl. It felt perfect. I was a girl, now and forever.

Then something really weird happened. The door to the passage flew open. I’d forgotten to re-stack the supplies in the supply closet and I was easily visible to the girl in the exact same tutu who was peering through the rack of costumes straight at me.

She looked about my age, blonde, with a confused expression on her face. We just stared at each other for a little while. I was absolutely petrified she was going to yell for someone. But she didn’t. I have never forgotten that gesture.

For whatever reason she left, and after hanging up the tutu I left, retracing my steps back to the auditorium and informing my parents I “felt better.” It was bizarre. The entire night was bizarre. But I have never forgotten it. And it remains my favorite ballet recital, of any kind, ever.

---

“It gets pretty simple after that,” I concluded. “I was hooked on dressing up for life. I dressed up now and again for two years, and told my parents in seventh grade. After dressing up at home for two more years I started into transitioning in ninth grade, and I’ve been living as a girl since the start of high school.”

Callie thought for a minute. “I don’t believe you.”

I was taken aback and expressed so. “I can show you if you’d like,” and jokingly reached for my jeans.

“No! No! No! No! I believe that part. The story about you at the ballet recital. That’s impossible. It’s absurd. It didn’t happen. You’re either misremembering it or making it up.”

Fortunately, I had a little momento of that, too. I rolled up my jean leg to reveal a little scar on my ankle. I’d cut my ankle on one of the wooden stairs in the passage that night and it’d never completely healed. Callie inspected it carefully.

“I’m not fully convinced, but I’ll roll with it.” Callie merely patted me on the back and we both put the finishing touches on our packing. I was taking her to see my family, as her folks were out in Missouri, many miles away from our tiny, rural Carolina neck of the woods.

My family was much closer, in Virginia, and was more than happy to host an extra guest, so Callie was coming with me. We were just about ready to leave when she decided to change, citing the fact the rain had made her yoga pants wet.

I was just about ready to close our door when I caught a glimpse of the logo on Callie’s sweats.

“McGuire High? That’s not far from where I live! Did you ever visit Virginia or something?”

“Lived there for three years,” Callie declared as we made our way down the stairs. “Fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. Best three years of my life. Good people, better than the folks in Missouri.”

My curiosity was piqued. “McGuire’s a fairly small town. Where’d you do your ballet?”

“The Coogan School. Something like that.”

“No way! My older sister went through the Coogan, I danced there for four years, and now my little sister’s in her last year there! That’s unreal!

“So you remember the old Boone Auditorium! Now do you believe my story?”

A few yards from my car, in the middle of the parking lot, Callie just stopped. An expression that kind of horrified me crossed her face. She was clearly thinking very hard.

“I-I-I believe,” she stuttered. I suddenly realized what was on her mind, and I, too, was stunned.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said repeatedly, as Callie screamed and burst into tears of joy. We hugged about ten times. I could not express my gratitude. “Ten years ago, you made me into the woman I am today.”

I heard, from far off, church bells. I checked my phone clock. Midnight. It was Christmas. My best friend and I jumped in my car and drove off into the mild, December Appalachian night.

Soon she was fast asleep. As I wound through the desolate roads, I looked Callie over several times. The blonde hair, the distinct facial expressions. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

Being prima ballerina was a big deal. Just getting to be a ballerina was a big deal. Just getting to be a girl, and wear makeup, and have long hair, and live my life, was a big deal. Callie’s gesture was a big deal. It meant the world to me then, it meant the world to me now, and it would mean the world to me forever and ever.

The turning point of my life had been dismissed as a strange but relatively unimportant occurrence by the person responsible for it. This was strangely satisfying to me.

Callie stirred suddenly, catching me staring at her. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and giggled. “What?” she asked.

Like her ten years ago, I was moved to silence. I just grinned, and we admired each other for a moment. For the first time in my life I had a true friend. A girlfriend. It felt incredible. Everyone should have a Callie Elizabeth Hudson.

I thought that I needed to become a girl to be happy. And it was true. I did need that, and I was happy now. But even if I did that, I still needed people for lasting joy. And I’d found it. A person who loved me no matter what. That was the biggest deal of all.

That night, there was peace on earth, and peace in me, Justine Kameron Friedman.

Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward Men indeed! Merry Christmas, and enjoy the Holiday season. I’ll be back Monday with new content. Until then.
-Kayleigh01

In the living room
Underneath the beautiful tree
In the pale glow of the late Christmas afternoon turned night
My brother is wearing a tutu

He squeals and leaps
As he stretches at the barre we got him
The joy from the morning pasted on his face
Fourteen years old
But a little girl still

His beauty is pure
His excitement over his gifts true
His wig, a shield from those who would intrude
His Sephora gift card, a weapon
No goddess ever better armed

He twirls, a delicate snowflake, his spaghetti strap reveals
A pink lacy bra strap beneath
A giggle and an adjustment, and a curtsy
Wardrobe malfunction, to him no barrier
After all these years of waiting

Waiting for this day, when
The pink lacy bra and
The Sephora gift card and
Leggings and skirts and dresses and blouses
And a sugar plum purple tutu a princess would die for
Would call his closet home

In the living room
Underneath the beautiful tree
In the pale glow of the late Christmas afternoon turned night
My sister is wearing a tutu

“You want me to loan you what?”

I had to do some kind of an auditory double take when I heard just what my brother had asked.

“You see,” my brother Todd explained, “I was walking in the hall the other day behind Jillian and her friend when I heard her say that, she liked, well...”

“What?”

“Big butts on guys, okay? And that’s why I need to borrow your butt pads. The ones you bought when you wanted to impress that one guy, remember? Please? I need them.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Come on, Stephanie. You remember what it’s like to be obsessed with someone. You changed yourself to impress them, and I really want to impress Jillian. It’s our first date.”

“Okay,” I agreed - as far as he knew. Please. Todd was only being nice to me because he wanted something. And that remark about “remembering what it’s like to be obsessed with someone?” He wasn’t fooling anyone. When I had been going out with Murray he’d taken every opportunity to make fun of me as much as humanly possible.

For a moment, the image of my eighth grade brother in his smallish figure wearing butt-pads appeared in my mind. That alone almost made me laugh out loud. But suddenly, I figured a way to twist that into my final revenge on Todd for the teasing he’d done over the years.

I fished through my drawer innards and handed him the padding. He disappeared into my closet and put it on. When I saw it, I disappeared into giggles. My plan could begin.

“What’s so funny?” Todd demanded.

“Nothing, nothing.” Todd in a boyish polo and jeans with a curvy booty was the funniest thing I’d seen in a long time. “You just look kind of weird, is all.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I may have an idea...”

“Leggings?” Todd was incredulous.

“Come on! Guys are wearing them all the time these days.” I picked up a fashion catalog to back up my claim. Gullible as he was, I knew I could convince him.

So there my brother was in leggings with a massive bottom, looking comical but convinced he was some sort of avant-garde fashion star. “Girls will come like a moth to light!” I told him. “I know I can’t get enough of boys with leggings.”

I almost died laughing in my brain at these outrageous falsehoods that I was telling. Guys with leggings? If any of my girlfriends or I saw a curvy boy with leggings trying to hit on us, we probably would run away. Fast.

My little game would only get better. “This polo shirt,” said Todd, in as thoughtful a tone as he can muster, “looks kind of odd. Can you fix that? Maybe with something plaid?” He was already wearing a plaid shirt.

I thought about how Todd had destroyed my relationship with Murray, the only boy I’d ever loved. Berated him and I mercilessly. Saw to it I was miserable. Inflicted emotional pain no one should know.

“A pink plaid flannel shirt?”

“Why not? Pink is in for guys?” The fashion catalog again. More nodding from Todd. My brother with curves and leggings and a flannel; thumbing through his phone he could have passed for any girl in his grade or mine.

Why stop there? “A lot of guys are wearing makeup these days?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No! No!” Another catalog, this one featuring a pop artist wearing eye liner. Girls mobbing him. Todd impressed. Todd wearing lipstick and eyeliner. Todd pimping in the mirror.

“I’ve always wanted a little sister,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?”

“You look so handsome!” My brother/sister smiled gleefully at his/her reflection.

The doorbell rang. “Wish me luck!”

My brother smiled. I liked him as a girl. He seemed softer somehow. If he was this sweet in leggings, I wondered what a dress would do to him?

Todd skipped downstairs, and I snuck to the loft to watch the scene unfold. The pretty, prissy boy dressed as a girl about to go on the date with the pretty, prissy girl. I treasured this moment.

It didn’t last long. Jillian apparently had Todd’s taste in fashion. The two “girls” in pink button-downs, leggings and Converse looked each other over with wide eyes. The only difference between them was that one ran.

“Will a manicure help?” I jeered as I watched Todd fume as Jillian biked out of sight. “A lot of boys are wearing dresses nowadays.” He glared at me. I just smiled. What a girl. “She” already had the bitchy stare down to a science.

They are wrong - sometimes, once in a blue moon, revenge does satisfy. And I made note of the fact that from (pink) top to (cute bubble) bottom, this had been the best day ever.

---

All the bridesmaids were in hysterics. Tori just blushed and fiddled with her wedding dress. Her eyes met mine, and a wry smile crossed her face. The same one that had looked in the mirror fifteen years ago and liked what it saw.

“To my sweet little sister and her cute, now real bubble butt! To the boy that saw the beauty in her leggings and Converse when no girl did! I wish you years of good health.”

Jillian popped the champagne and the bachelorette party began. I caught a glimpse of her and Tori laughing hysterically, as the bride fiddled with her makeup, fixed her hair, and shifted to accentuate her curves in her gown. Satisfaction came over me. It’s a weird thing, revenge.

I refuse to look back thinking days were better just because they're younger days...

“Merry Christmas, Bella!” Uncle James’ big voice boomed through the house and sliced through the cold New England night, as he rushed to envelope me in a warm hug. I obliged.

“Wow, you are a truly beautiful young lady!” he said, looking me over. Aunt Marissa stood behind him, nodding in agreement. “You look as if you’ve never been a boy!”

My parents joined me, both very excited to be here. I wasn’t.

My first semester as a girl had been an unmitigated success. I’d been accepted for the most part, and I’d slid right in to roles on the cheer and dance teams. I got to go to the annual Snow Ball dance in a poofy gown and dance with boys - that was fun! Everyone, it seemed, was willing to be friends with me, Bella Mackenzie Alexander.

Except the one friend I needed the most. I never had a sister, so growing up, Uncle James and Aunt Marissa’s daughter, Lexi, had been the closest thing. We played together, laughed together, often dressed up together. But the minute I got serious, and told my parents I was a girl, we grew distant, and in the two times I’d seen her since then, she’d been icy toward me.

Now was no different, as she offered a timid “hello” from her room and then retreated back inside. Uncle James and Aunt Marissa dismissed it and whisked us into the kitchen, where we snacked on cookies and other baked goods.

“Before I forget,” Aunt Marissa announced after a while, “I have an early present I want to give you, Bella.”

She returned clutching the hanger of the most beautiful tutu you have ever seen. It was white - so white - and came attached to a pretty leotard.

“This is - wow,” I said, exasperated. I couldn’t wait to try it on, but I was incredibly tired. “Tomorrow I’m going to put on a ballet for you,” I said, twirling in my jacket and leggings.

Five seconds later I was back downstairs, with a childish grin on my face.

“Can I take the tutu upstairs? I want to look at it while I sleep?” I asked my aunt.

She and my mom burst out laughing and nodded. I hung the tulle mass on the closet and crawled into the guest room bed - again, for only about five seconds. Now I was thirsty.

As I stumbled around trying to find the bathroom in the relative dark of the upstairs, I suddenly found myself kicking something solid under the bed. Frightened, I jumped back, got on my hands and knees, and searched until I discovered a box.

“Photos,” was the label on the shoebox, which felt very heavy. I crawled onto my bed, turned on my cell phone backlight, and saw two very familiar photographs on top.

One was labeled “Xavier and Lexi - ballerinas!” It depicted Lexi and I wearing matching Minnie Mouse tutus. The other carried the label, “Xavier and Lexi enjoy some basketball!” That photo showed the two of us playing basketball at the Old Gym, a court down the street from my aunt and uncle’s.

I was on the verge of tears, as all the memories of all the good times of years past came flooding back - ballets and princesses and lots of basketball, sometimes all in one day. I missed Lexi dearly. I had to talk to her. I began making a plan.

Lexi left early with Uncle James to do some shopping, giving me time to execute my idea. I carefully smuggled the tutu into the restroom, and set about applying heavy makeup - as in, the stuff I usually only wore for cheer and dance. I wanted Lexi to see I was just another girl.

I set my hair into a bun and slipped on the tutu, adding some white tights I planned to wear to church Christmas Eve. I looked myself over in the mirror and did a few plies. Dance had made my figure flexible and soft, which I had no complaint about.

I’d taken enough time getting dressed that Lexi had returned and was now in her room. Carefully, I crept out of the bathroom and opened the door to her bedroom. She was on the opposite side, facing the window, buried in her phone.

“Hey, Lexi,” I began.

“Hey.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine, you?”

“I’ve been good.”

Pause. I fumbled for what to say next.

“So your mom got me a present,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Yeah? What?”

“Turn around?”

Lexi complied and her mouth fell open. I simply smiled, curtsied, and tried a pirouette.

“Why did my mom give you my tutu?” she cried.

I was taken aback.

“That’s my tutu! I haven’t taken ballet in two years; she must’ve figured I didn’t want it or something and gave it to you!”

“That can’t be,” I fired back.

“And why not?”

“Because-” and I pointed to a white, tulle-y mass that was easily visible in Lexi’s walk-in closet.

“Oh.” She calmed down, took a seat, and returned to her phone.

“Hey,” I persisted, strutting over to the closet and taking the tutu (sure enough, it was identical) off the hanger, “Why don’t you teach me?”

“Ballet?”

“Yeah.”

She just shook her head repeatedly, a motion that stopped when I pulled the picture of us doing ballet together out of my bra.

“Come on, Lex! Remember how much fun we used to have?!”

Silence.

“I’m rusty! I’m on the dance team but we focus on modern stuff! I haven’t done ballet in almost three years! Look!” I felt the need to demonstrate. “All I remember is plie-” here I dropped to my knees and returned “- and pirouette.” My demonstration started out graceful, but quickly went off the rails, as I flopped onto the bed, only visible to Lexi as a pair of tights-covered legs.

She giggled. Small victory, I thought to myself.

A half-hour later, after a tiring but fun session of ballerina delight, we both flopped onto her bed in an array of snickers. With white tutus, brown hair up in buns, and huge grins on our faces, we looked like twins.

“That was fun!” Lexi laughed. “I forgot all about our ballet games. We were practically a two-woman company!”

Two-woman. A reference to me, Bella Mackenzie Alexander, as female. Small victory number two, I thought, as the grin on my face widened.

“What should we do now?” Lexi mused aloud.

I caught sight of her glittery Boston Celtics phone case. “Still an N.B.A. fan?” I questioned. Lexi was all girl but lived and died with her Boston Celtics, having played basketball through seventh grade.

“You know it! Celts all the way.”

That reminded me of the other photo in my bra. Lexi looked it over quickly and made a snap judgement.

“I’m clearly kicking your butt in this picture.”

“Oh, really?”

“Look at me!” The picture depicted Lexi shooting as I helplessly dove for a block.

“I could still take you,” I asserted.

“Then do it.” In one fluid motion she reached into her dresser drawer, shoved a couple pairs of jeans aside, and produced a basketball which she flung into my arms.

“OK, let me go get changed.”

“Don’t,” Lexi responded. I eyed her curiously.

I did even more so as she and I trudged down the street in an inch of snow in full ballet regalia. We hadn’t even taken our hair out of buns. Lexi tossed the basketball up and down, clearly out for blood. I was more concerned with brushing the snow out of my brand-new tutu.

“Here, Miss Prissypants, catch,” Lexi quipped, tossing me the ball. A deliberately high throw, I could barely keep on the sidewalk as I caught it.

Tutu be hanged, I thought in a half-joking, half serious manner, I want to beat the snot out of her.

The Old Gym - built 1931 - is every bit as rickety as it sounds from name alone. It is entirely without feature, except for the court, a set of bleachers, and a poster commemorating when Bob Cousy brought his act here while at Holy Cross. It was musty-smelling and the heating was primitive. Thankfully, no one was there, so Lexi and I could hoop in peace.

“To 21?” I offered.

“Put a half-hour on the clock,” Lexi shot back. I obliged, reflexively operating the ancient scoreboard, carrying as I did the memory of several games in past years.

The clock started and we shot for possession. Lexi’s was true. Mine airballed.

She laughed as we both removed our jackets. “How’s cheerleading working out for you?” she taunted.

That got under my skin, but I knew it was all an act. Lexi was a very good trash-talker. That and other memories about my cousin continued to flood back.

The sight of two girls running up and down the court, face-guarding each other, getting in each other’s faces while wearing beautiful tutus would assuredly have sent any spectators into hysterics. Lexi and I often stopped and burst into laughter.

The game and the gym were made for each other, as the score at the halfway point could have been from 1931, with Lexi wielding a 10-8 lead. A few notes can be made however: Firstly, both of us shot horribly. There had been, by my unreliable count, six three-point shots taken, and all of them missed.

Secondly, neither of us were very fast to begin with. Both Lexi and I had dancer’s builds, but it seemed we expended more energy in our respective hobbies on flexibility and speed.

Last - and perhaps the biggest one - is the fact that it is pretty gosh-darn hard to play basketball when your opponent and you can barely see each other over the furry masses around your waists. Both Lexi and I could probably claim our tutus as our leaders in steals and turnovers induced. The skirts were apt defenders as well.

One play, I dribbled the ball off my sneaker and it ricocheted off my tutu and out of bounds. The two of us spent about a minute of game-time just laughing at the sheer absurdity of our situation.

Lexi actually nailed two threes in the second half and led 18-14 with a minute left. I was panicking. I was not helping my attempt to show her nothing had really changed during my transition. I made a quick basket and called timeout with 30 seconds left, both to gather myself and tie my shoes. Lexi laughed at me when I covertly tried to fix my skirt, which had sagged a little.

I almost instantly stole the ball from her and sprinted around the court like a maniac. Time was ticking down. I weaved from one part of the court to another, trying to evade Lexi, when she called her timeout, with 5 seconds left. I smoothed my tutu again - more laughter - and prepared a clever play.

I started the clock and quickly picked up the ball. My quick gait forced Lexi to slip and fall, leaving me only able to see a white mass. Gathering speed, I sprinted the length of the court, did a little pirouette, and fired the ball toward the backboard.

It kissed off and in as the buzzer sounded, shaking the Old Gym. I celebrated like a madwoman, flapping my arms and twirling around the court, curtsying like I’d just finished a performance.

Lexi had recovered herself and stood to face me, smoothening her own tutu all the while. She gave a cough, as the buzzer had shook cobwebs from the gym roof.

“Five-minute OT?” she groused.

“You got it,” I said.

Back and forth we went, tired, huffing and puffing, still graceful but more than a little sweaty, still trash-talking each other, me poking fun at Lexi’s rusty hook shot, Lexi zinging my constant checking up on my polished nails, all the while having fun just as we once did...

I called timeout with 43 seconds left, intent on holding the ball and forcing double-OT with the game tied at 22. Lexi was guarding me fiercely, though, until suddenly, she stopped.

“Hey Bella?” she said, after drawing me to midcourt. I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry.”

I halted my dribbling and cradled the basketball in my clean-shaven underarms.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you after you became a girl, okay? It was hard. I didn’t want you to commit to a gender. I always remembered us playing both ballerinas and basketball, and I didn’t want you to become all girl. I wanted you both.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize that.” I was stunned.

“But now I see you, as a beautiful girl, and, well,” she stopped. “I love you, cuz, in a tutu or with a basketball or both or whatever.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m glad that’s off my chest, but one more thing.”

“What?”

Lexi punched the basketball out from my underarms. It rolled off my tutu and started into a bounce. She dribbled, imitated my pirouette move to the T, and laid the ball through the iron.

The Old Gym heaved as the buzzer sounded. Lexi shrieked with joy. I could beat Lexi at ballet but she could beat me at basketball. In a backwards way, all was right with the world. I smoothed my tutu and smiled.

It was time for Jared to take - quite literally - a good long look in the mirror. For the first time ever, he recognized that something was wrong. Eyeing his body, he realized his boy clothes just didn’t fit right - for one thing, they were baggy, not tight, and his shoes were dirty and ugly, and...

All that we see or seem/ is but a dream within a dream...

WINTER comes in upstate New York whether you like it or not. It does not discriminate. It buries the rich and poor and middle-class folks like us in snow like you would not believe. It drives many out of town quickly. Those who stay are True Believers in the power of the area.

My parents were True Believers, unfortunately. Good people, simple people. Their ancestors had settled upstate and never really left.

Thus days like January when I was in sixth grade. 11 degrees, a foot and a half of snow on the ground, no school. Girly boy I was even back then (I had been crossdressing in my house for two years at the time), I would be devoting the entire day to practicing my ballet for my recital with the other private-lessons students.

As I put on some light classical music, threw on a leotard and tights, I heard a great ruckus. My twin older brothers Will and Mike seemed bent on destroying the basement. A basketball hoop mounted to an old door was Ground Zero for vicious dunks, and two basketball-loving sons were doing their best to bring down the house in a not-that-figurative way.

I slouched down to the basement and implored them to keep it down.

“You know, Sam,” Will said, patting me on the shoulder. “I’d love to, but I don’t want to.” Quick-witted even in the eighth grade.

“Just try!” I whimpered. I turned around and headed for the stairs.

“Sam, come here.” Mike situated me under the basket. I knew full well what was coming next. I played along.

I soon found myself on the ground while Will and Mike celebrated maniacally another dunk, this one over me. I’d become so used to it by now, I picked myself up, straightened my hair, and dusted myself off.

“You guys see my tutu?” I asked them as they resumed their bizarre escapades.

“Not my problem, princess,” Mike dismissed. I bristled and went to find my skirt. I would need it in my recital.

“Why do you guys do this so often?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” they responded in unison.

“I mean dunking and stuff. When I’m in a ballet recital I don’t just practice showy moves. I carefully work on every part of my routine so everything is perfect.”

Everything got very quiet. That frightened me. There was no better way to tell that my brothers were about to teach their younger brother (I wasn’t there yet) a life lesson. They were very much like preachers, in that they always had some wisdom to impart and they definitely wanted you to know when they were imparting it.

“You have a dream, Sam?” Will asked.

I was thinking of how to respond to that when Mike cut me off.

“Well, Sam, we have The Dream.” He almost spat the words “The Dream.” I was caught off guard.

“What’s that?” I perched myself in a chair and listened.

“It’s very simple,” Will began.

“We’re down by 3 in the state championship with four or five seconds left, or something like that. Mike sets a screen and I roll around it. I shovel it back out to him, and...”

Mike continued “Bam! We’re tied. Just like that! We plunge into overtime. We get an early lead, but they come back! It’s us by two when all of the sudden...”

“They hit a three, and we need a big play! Time’s running down when all of a sudden...”

“Will breaks to the hoop! I feed him over the middle and he slams home a monstrous dunk - and he gets fouled...”

“I nail my two foul shots, and Mike blocks a tying three-pointer! We win!”

My two brothers were going crazy. They’d clearly ran through this scenarios ten million times before. It was adorable in a way. I smiled.

“So Sam, what’s your dream?”

It was a highly philosophical question. Keep in mind I was only in sixth grade at the time. I had several dreams. Which one was I going to tell my brothers? They would undoubtedly bring it up again. They were always doing stuff like that, moralizing.

I went back and forth between several childhood longings. To be Clara in a Nutcracker production was high on the list. I also wanted to be a cheerleader. Then there was the one girly dream I told no one about, which I briefly considered revealing but quickly reneged on. Finally, I settled on one I came up with off the top of my head.

“My dream,” I stuttered, “is to be the first girl you run into when you achieve yours.”

Will and Mike beamed and resumed dunking violently. They seemed satisfied.

I was as well. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about how happy I would be if I could be there, with my brothers, when they accomplished their life goals. I took that thought and ran with it. I, Sam Ashburn, had a new dream.

---

“Wow. I’d forgotten all about that.”

My brother Will rocked apprehensively back, and forth, and back, and forth again on the bench. He was still trying to process everything, and I’d just made it twenty times harder.

“The Dream. Wow. It’s all coming back now.”

He waded apprehensively on to the court of the Times Union Arena, where he’d three hours ago hit the winning shot in overtime to win the New York state championship. It was dark. Only a few solitary lights were on. The party was in the locker room. On the court, it was just Will.

Cheer captain and basketball captain, sister and brother, both recovering from the greatest moments of their lives. I’d come out of the girls’ locker room to search for my favorite bobby pin, which had fallen out in the wild celebration. I hadn’t anticipated finding my brother, nor had I foresaw having to relive one of my most vivid childhood memories.

I bent down, adjusted my skirt, and tied my shoes. When I came back up, Will looked like he was dancing on the court. Quickly, I deciphered the fact he was reenacting the Dream, exactly as I remembered it.

“Well, now what?” said a voice.

Mike limped onto the court from his hiding place in the tunnel, nursing a tweaked knee.

It seemed as if my brothers spoke their own language.

“The Dream, man,” Will said, welling up.

“The Dream.” I stood off to the side. My brothers were the happiest guys on Earth.

“So we’d better make a new dream.”

“Absolutely.”

“College next year, I suppose.”

“Let’s win the NCAA Tournament. What the hell.”

They did their little handshake. It then got very, very quiet. Uh-oh.

“You gotta make a new dream, Sam,” Mike said.

“I do?”

“Yeah, sis. You already accomplished yours.”

Memories: 180 minutes seemed like forever ago, me desperately cheering as we trailed 69-68 with the clock ticking down, yelling, screaming, Will shooting, and then screaming, dancing, laughter, with my girlfriends, with the team, and with my brothers. It occurred to me that I had indeed been the first girl to greet Will and Mike after the final buzzer sounded, just as I’d wished for that snowy weekday four years prior.

I did need a new dream. This time, though, I didn’t have to think alone.

“You were already Clara last year, so that’s out,” Will said thoughtfully.

“Obviously, you made it as a cheerleader,” Mike added.

“I guess that leaves only one,” Will said. “You wanna tell us?”

I thought for a moment. “I think I’ll keep this one to myself.”

“Fair enough, Samantha Ashburn,” Mike said, making me chuckle. It got very, very quiet again. Will paced slowly toward me and looked me in the eyes.

“Life is like three-point shooting,” he said. “Aim high and don’t be afraid.”

I resolved to apply this to my new dream.

It was a cold night in upstate New York, and sure enough, it was snowing like a madman. I had to change quickly, leaving my cheer makeup and hair intact as I swapped my uniform skirt for leggings and threw a black jacket over my “Hanson High” top. I scurried toward the bus. My cheer girlfriends were all chattering with one another, texting, flirting. I needed a moment with my thoughts. I sat alone, right behind my brothers.

I put my ear against the seat. Will and Mike were describing to their teammates “The Dream.”

“I swear to God, Trey, we predicted this years in advance...Yeah, some of the details were a little fuzzy, but we had overtime, and a winning shot! Come on, man, take a leap of faith!”

I almost laughed out loud. I shoved my face against the window and simply took in the snow. For only a moment, however.

“Is this seat taken?” said a voice.

It was Jared, the team manager. He was smiling, and I smiled politely back. I scooched over, made room, and continued watching the snow. Jared set to work doodling on a clipboard. He was drawing up plays or something.

I looked out the opposite bus window expecting to see more snow. What I wound up looking at was, upon further review, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Jared was just doodling on the clipboard, like I said, but he was smiling. He took joy in it. His baby blue eyes lit up. His handsome haircut seemed to have a little extra spike in it.

Suddenly, he dropped his marker. I reached down to grab it, so did he, and our hands met. I gave a little giggle, and I felt all tingly inside. I smiled my biggest smile into the window, praying Jared wouldn’t see the reflection, and took a deep breath.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he responded. Back to the clipboard in that weirdly adorable way.

I brushed a lock of hair out of my face, and smiled. “So about three-point shooting...”

The Dream.

“I’m stunned. Absolutely stunned.”

No one was around to hear it - the store was dead quiet - but Karen Nettles had to tell someone. Even if her dance boutique was dead empty, someone had to know about what she’d just seen on her phone.

She had an app that used sensors to find any strange security footage in her home - and she’d found that, alright. Shock overwhelmed her - and disgust.

Every mother will definitely be surprised when they find their twelve-year-old son holding a fashion show replete with every dress, skirt, and blouse in his mother’s wardrobe. But Karen felt contempt for her son Trevor.

In her mind, she offered several rationalizations for this feeling. Crossdressing isn’t natural, she told herself. Boys wear boys clothes and girls wear girls clothes. And that is that. Besides, even if she did allow it, Trevor would be bullied mercilessly, by both his friends and probably his two older brothers.

But she wouldn’t allow it. That was a foregone conclusion. She did her best to shut the thought out of her mind.

Another thought she tried to shut out of her mind was her lack of sales the past few weeks. Sure, there was usually a bit of a sales lull this time of year, but sales had been unusually low lately. On this Friday afternoon turning into evening, it was quiet throughout the store. Leotards, tutus, tights, and everything in between stood ready to be enjoyed by some beautiful young girl or woman.

Karen was just about ready to take inventory of her supplies for the umpteenth time when she heard footsteps outside the store. Customers! Excitedly, she rushed behind the counter and acted busy.

To her surprise, four boys in gym gear appeared in the doorway. Karen was used to having male ballet dancers come through the door, but they usually were in their twenties and dressed nicely, contrasting with these boys, who seemed teenage and unkempt.

Karen was unsure what to do. After the boys deliberated at the front of the store, they moved en masse to the back, not making eye contact with her. As the boys stood apprehensively in front of the checkout counter, Karen reluctantly initiated a conversation.

“Can I help you boys?”

The tallest of the quartet - and tall was a relative term, as all were shorter and slighter than 5’10” Karen - shuffled forward, looked Karen in the eye, and spoke in a quiet voice.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Terry, and these are my friends Sherm, Kaden, and Evan,” he began. The only normal words, in Karen’s eyes, spoken in the boutique that night.

Terry took a deep breath. “We’re the Scottsville Teen Crossdressers Club, and we’re on our way to a convention, and we need costumes, so...”

Evan spoke up. “We were hoping we could be fitted for girls’ leotards and tights! It would be a big help to us.”

It took every fiber of Karen’s willpower to prevent her from letting her jaw fall open. First Trevor, now this? Were boys masquerading as girls conspiring to take over her life?

Karen’s hand rummaged below her desk for a sign she almost never had to use. She clutched with both hands a paper reading, “We Have the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone.”

But Karen looked up, and beheld the dead serious expressions on the boys’ faces. This moved her just a little, and considering this and the thought of a PR nightmare to go with already dwindling business, Karen caved.

Never thought I’d have to use this, Karen thought as she pulled out a binder from under her desk, fingered through it, found the page she was looking for, and gave it a once-over before showing it to the boys.

She gestured to Terry. “You can look around, find the brand of leotard and tights you want, and this chart will tell you what size you should get it in.” The men-to-women size chart finally came in handy.

Terry, who wore a plain jacket, a Dodgers cap, and a stoic expression until now, melted into a smile. “Thank you so much!” He drew his friends’ attention to one of the racks. “Come on girls!”

If letting boys play pretend in her shop for one night made her money, Karen decided, so be it. It didn’t mean she condoned what she still saw as a social negative.

She tended to the shelves near the checkout counter, anticipating the boys wouldn’t take long with their decision, when she was shocked to see the boys Terry had identified as Sherm and Kaden showing off bras in one of the store’s mirrors.

Karen gagged internally. Really? If these boys wanted to fool around, why couldn’t they have done it in some department store? Instead, they were doing so in her small shop. Disgusting.

She moved closer to Sherm and Kaden, intending to eavesdrop on their conversation. What she heard surprised her - the two were engaged in a serious fashion discussion.

“We already have black bras - why don’t we just do black leotards and pink tights?” asked Sherm.

“Come on, Sheri. These lace white bras are pretty and feminine and that’s what we’re going for, right?” Kaden came back with.

“Kayla, we already decided on black bras and leotards with pink panties and tights. If we go with this bra, it messes the whole thing up. Be reasonable here.”

How reasonable can you be, Karen thought, when you’re boys dressing as ballerinas on a Friday night?

She withdrew to her desk and looked out over the store, and suddenly, a thought came over her. Here were these boys, in her store, shopping quietly, using their manners, putting together potential outfits, and calling each other by girls’ names. And she thought to herself: most girls aren’t that ladylike. In a way, these boys were the girliest girls that had ever come through her store.

This Karen decided: although it was weird and socially unacceptable, if crossdressing could get teenage boys to act like every mother’s ideal daughter, it must not be all that terrible.

Soon Evan skipped over to the checkout counter holding a black leotard and pink tights. “Ma’am, if it isn’t a problem, we’d like to try these on.”

Karen couldn’t hold it in. “Such nice manners!” she said to the blushing boy. “Gather your friends, and I’ll show you to the fitting room.”

Terry opted to go first. “Hold on just a second, please.” He ran out of the shop and returned with a box, from which he pulled a bra and a pair of panties.

“Would you mind stepping out while I...”

“Sure thing.” Karen retreated while the boy changed.

When she returned to the fitting room, there was a complete change in Terry. Although he still lacked makeup and had a boyish haircut, if you only viewed him from the neck down, you would think you were viewing a graceful ballerina ready for class. Terry’s legs were delicately shaped and his leotard hugged a figure complemented brilliantly by a padded bra.

Terry tried some ballet positions, which he executed to perfection. Then he spoke, still pimping in the mirror but talking to Karen.

“I’m sorry I don’t look too good right now,” he began. “I’ll look better tomorrow, when the girls and I get our wigs worked on. I’ll be able to tie mine into a pretty bun, and I’ll look like a real ballerina. Evan, our resident artist, will do our makeup and nails on the way to the convention.

“There’s a chance we might stop here on the way back, however. If we win one of the competitions there, we decided we would all stop back here and buy tutus. None of the other girls have ever worn one. Can you believe that? Tutus are what got me hooked on dressing up all the way back in second, third grade.

“Of course, the other girls are new to the dressing game - they’ve only been at it since seventh, eighth grade. And only because I convinced them it would be fun. I had no idea it was that much fun, that they would want to do it over, and over, and over again.

“But they did and this year, we formed a club, and we applied to this convention and got accepted! My mom is driving us; she’s actually waiting in the car.

“See, I’m the only one of us who’s out,” Terry’s speech neared a close as he moved a hip alignment belt up and down his waist. “And I’m only out to my mom, dad, and older sisters. Sheri, Kayla, and Emeline - those are the girls’ names when we dress up - are in the closet for right now.

“But I’m planning to live as a girl full-time when I start college in a couple years. And this summer I’m going to wear a dress to my sister’s wedding. Sheri and Kayla intend to go my route, but both of them want to try out for cheer and it’s easier to do so in high school than college. And Emeline - not sure what she’s going to do. Dressing up is good enough for her right now.”

Terry finished his speech with a blush. “Sorry to vent to you, Mrs. Nettles,” as he had apparently read Karen’s name tag. “But that’s our story. You probably don’t get too many customers like us.”

She had to laugh. “No indeed, Terry. But here’s the deal,” she continued. “You win any kind of prize at that convention, you come back to my store, and I’ll give you and the girls the girliest, fluffiest tutus I can find, at half price. Even if you don’t win something, you come back and tell me how it went. Got it?”

Terry thanked Karen and shook her hand, and went to show off to the other girls, who all swooned at their friend’s appearance. Karen chuckled.

Beneath that chuckle was a series of thoughts racing a hundred miles an hour. Karen had always had this image of crossdressers as freaks and creeps. How wrong she was being proved tonight. Terry was polite, eloquent, friendly, and sane, the complete opposite of her image of a crossdresser.

The act of crossdressing may not be weird, and it may help boys behave nicely, but it still wasn’t socially acceptable, Karen came to the conclusion. Not the worst thing you could do, but definitely not something she would encourage.

Terry had been Karen’s trial balloon for fitting, and she now sent Sheri, Kayla, and Emeline into the three separate fitting rooms so they could each try on their outfits.

When they were done, the girls gawked at each other’s appearance, as well as their own in the mirror. There was giggling, some selfies were taken, and at the end Karen obliged when Terry asked if she would take a picture of the group.

The girls were still talking and giggling in their outfits while Karen rung them up when the door flew open. A customer Karen recognized from yesterday burst in.

“Hi, did I leave my wallet here?” the girl, a twentysomething, asked innocently. In her peripheral vision from the checkout counter, Karen saw the girls standing petrified.

She handed over the wallet and the girl was grateful. As she turned to leave, she caught sight of Terry, Sheri, Kayla and Emeline cowering in the corner area.

Karen saw her smile good-naturedly, and say with sincerity, “You four are certainly quite pretty young ballerinas.”

As she left, Karen went to apologize but Emeline politely told her off.

“Girls. Do you know who that is?” she exclaimed. “That’s Maria Pelley! She’s the best young ballerina in the area.”

“Oh my God, you’re right!” Terry practically shouted. Her hands clasped her heart and she swooned. “Oh, and she thinks we’re pretty.”

“And I do too,” Karen said, as the girls went silent. “Listen, I wasn’t a big fan of crossdressing before tonight, but...” She took a breath.

“You girls have convinced me otherwise. I always thought it was weird, unbecoming of a young gentleman, and socially unacceptable, but now I see it’s none of those things. And you ladies are certainly not gentlemen, that’s for sure.

“The bottom line is, you four will always have a home here at my boutique, where you can dress up in peace.”

Terry stepped forward and tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you - so much,” she stammered, hugging Karen as the other girls rushed to join in.

“Now don’t y’all have a convention to get to? Get outta here!” The girls laughed, cheered, and made for the car, waving as they went.

Before closing up the shop for the day, Karen reviewed the footage of Trevor’s “fashion show” one last time. This time, her thoughts were decidedly different:

“He has blue eyes, why doesn’t he just play off of that?...That dress looks disjointed without a bra...Trevor must be wearing my panties. I’ll get him some of his own...He could have a great figure, he just needs a little help... Tessa! That’s what we were going to call Trevor if he were a girl... His high heel walk is better than mine... Mother-daughter shopping trips! Yes!... Oh my God, if he grew his hair out, he’d look just like me... No matter, I can just get him a wig and take him to my salon... Was that a curtsy? He’s a natural princess!... So graceful. She’ll make a great daughter... She could be a ballerina! Tessa could help out at the store and take lessons... Crossdressing isn’t that bad... A tutu wouldn’t look that bad on her, come to think of it...”

Who knew the biggest sports story of the weekend could be the inspiration for TG fiction? Yet here we are...

Once again, I would have the house to myself on a Friday night.

I say this because it had been such a foreign concept to me in years past. My son, Brendan, had for years insisted upon staying home on Friday nights, avoiding our small New York town’s high school football games like the plague. So naturally I stayed home with him.

But now Brendan was Jenna and everything was different. Usually, when he stayed home Fridays, he’d be reading about or watching sports, and we would get ready for tomorrow’s Syracuse football game. Now she’d lost interest in sports, our main bonding mode, and the place football and hockey had once held in Jenna’s heart had been replaced with dance and boys.

I was not angry of Jenna’s shift in interests - no, far from that. I was ecstatic she was finally her true self - indeed, my tears upon seeing her in her homecoming dress three weeks prior had been of joy. But I felt like something was lost.

I cracked open a beer - something I rarely did - and I prepared to watch my alma mater’s game, and I thought about the games Jenna and I had attended at the Carrier Dome, and how we’d shared in the highs and lows of Syracuse football through the years. I shrugged these off, however, as the game began.

The Orange met Clemson, the second-ranked team in the country, and I felt defeat was certain. Syracuse as a national power was something my daughter had never known - our appearance in the Orange Bowl was two years before her birth.

It was a tight game early, which shocked me. My team took a 14-7 lead in the second quarter, and I thought how Brendan would have loved that. But things had changed. The disconnect filled the air even as Jenna was ten miles away. I hoped she was having a good time, but I couldn’t help feeling she was missing one with her father as well.

Last week, Syracuse had played Pittsburgh, and in a way, I had hit rock bottom. The Orange had won and I was happy, and I hummed our fight song as I waltzed into Jenna’s bedroom. I was surprised to find her there.

“Hey, sweetie! We won today!”

“Did we? Cool.”

I had been taken aback. “You didn’t know?”

“Leah and I were out shopping. Didn’t check my phone.”

I looked at my daughter in her white sweater, with her flowing hair and skin-tight jeans - suddenly very aware I was seeing a sixteen-year-old girl. I said nothing.

“Hey, Daddy.” Her voice stopped me from leaving the room.

I returned to see her posing in the mirror in a ballet leotard.

“I bought this today. Do you think it looks good?”

I thought for a minute, and then smiled wryly. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart.” I left a little less whole.

And just like that it was halftime, and ‘Cuse led 17-14. I was anxious. I called some of my college friends, and we dissected the game thoroughly, even as the friend I wanted there most was elsewhere.

I flipped to a local station midway through the third, after Clemson tied the game at 24. The score “Hickory Falls 38, Midway Memorial 28” flashed on the ticker. That meant our town’s game was over. Jenna would likely go for food afterward - probably, I thought, with that boy Galen Hoffbauer whom I secretly loathed.

In the fourth quarter, the good guys kicked a field goal to lead 27-24. I was psyched out of my mind. Here, for the first time in years, I could feel proud of my football team. All those forgettable losses - watched with my daughter, and my wife, whom I sorely missed at this moment - could be washed away if Syracuse could just hold on.

The teams battled and battled and battled. Clemson reached our 41, and their drive began to stall out. If we could hold on third-and-six, they would have to punt.

I knelt down in front of our television. I didn’t care. I wanted this one badly. And not just because Clemson was the Number 2 team in the country.

“Come on, hold ‘em!” The voice was not my own. I turned around and my daughter was energetically clapping her hands together, clad in her gold sweatshirt and leggings from the school’s “Gold-Out.”

Incomplete pass. I clapped my hands. Jenna screamed.

“I had to come home to watch this!” she smiled.

Clemson faked a punt the next play. Incomplete pass. More cheering. Soon the game was over and I was crying and hugging my daughter.

I sat a half hour later, still contentedly sipping my beer, calling my college friends, one-by-one, and sobbing into the phone. Was I sobbing because of the win? Maybe. But it was the sight of my girl prancing about in an orange Syracuse sweatshirt and tutu that produced the feelings that football alone cannot give.

“There are parties, Tom, and then there’s Lee Hunter’s New Year’s Eve Party.”

Those are the words my brother George had tried to convey to me as he arrived home from his high school, wielding in hand a golden ticket to the Party of Parties.

I had merely rolled my eyes. I can’t pretend I wasn’t angry when I saw that. I really thought I had a good chance of being invited to the party, but I guess I wasn’t that kind of guy.

That was a month ago. Now, on New Year’s Eve, I was pacing back and forth, waiting for my friends to come over.

Barry, Joey, and I couldn’t have cared less about the Lee Hunter Party. We were probably the only seventh graders who really didn’t care that we didn’t get invited. The L.H.P. was meant for rich and athletic kids and we were neither. The first Lee Hunter began the tradition of having a blowout New Year’s Party in 1953 or whatever and he never looked back, leaving three generations of children with inferiority complexes because they’d never been invited to the Party of Parties.

I almost collided head-on in the midst of my pacing with George, who was frantically adjusting his suit, the only one he owned. Our parents were out of town, so George had to dress alone. Big mistake.

“What do you plan on doing with your friends?” George smiled.

“You know,” I shrugged. “Guy stuff.”

“You have fun with that.”

“I will,” I smiled. A honk outside gave notice that George’s ride was here. George jumped in, with a huge smile on his face. With one last wave he was off.

Barry and Joey would be arriving soon. I could hardly wait.

I saw the invitation to the party still on the island counter. I tore it up and threw it into the trash.

“Who needs Lee Hunter?” I said out loud. I guaranteed to myself that my friends and I would have more fun than George that night, even if our party didn’t have a camel or former MLB players or a pool of soda.

The doorbell rang. The guys.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. Barry and Joey had brought backpacks with them. Perfect.

“What did you tell George we were gonna be doing?” Joey asked.

“Guy stuff.”

We all burst out laughing.

“I’m already wearing my bra,” Joanne said, stretching her football jersey to reveal a pink, lacy undergarment.

“Amateur hour!” Bailey proclaimed. “I have a bra and panties.”

“As do I,” I told the girls. Lee Hunter. Please.

I loaned Bailey and Joanne a pair of my panties and we all made our way to the bathroom in our skivvies. Makeover time!

“Bailey, you promised to bring the kit!”

“And I did.” She giggled as she produced a starter makeup set. She took pride in explaining the shades of lipstick.

“Dark red for Taylor, hot pink for Joanne! And plum for me!” Bailey said in a singsongy voice.

Supermodels would be at Lee Hunter’s party, and they still wouldn’t have as much fun as we would.

“What outfits did you bring?” I asked as I pulled jeans and a “Gurlz Rule” top over my undies.

“Don’t tell my sister, but I snuck her favorite pair of yoga pants!” They were a little big, but Joanne had a pair of tights to wear under them, so he could fill them out quite nicely.

Bailey was probably the girliest of all, a frilly pink top with even pinker jeans. We all laughed at our outfits and went to watch the New Year’s special.

We giggled, we sang, we danced, we did our nails, we gossiped, we shaved our legs. I really felt like I had two girlfriends. We belted out song lyrics at the top of our lungs - every boy band cry tune, every pop anthem, everything.

I can guarantee you this - no one at Lee Hunter’s party was accomplishing a dream she’d had ever since she first tried on her mother’s wedding dress at 6 years old. No one. Taylor Hoffman 1, Lee Hunter 0.

The moment of truth came at 11 p.m. when I led Joanne and Bailey upstairs. We approached my closet and I opened it to reveal three beautiful dresses.

“A grey party dress for me, a red gown for Bailey, and a blue formal number for Joanne here. Bought them last month at a thrift store. High quality but dirt cheap.” The girls screamed.

About fifteen minutes til midnight we were sitting in the living room. Bailey was fiddling with her dress, and Joanne was texting. Neither really made a big deal out of the fact that they were wearing dresses - dresses!

I brought up the elephant in the room. “So, girls, are you sad you didn’t get invited to the L.H.P.?”

“No!” Bailey and Joanne screamed in unison.

“I know we’re not being jealous of his party,” Bailey continued, “and I know he five years older than us and all, but that Lee Hunter is CUTE!”

“I know, right?” Joanne added on. “I just want to wrap my arms around him and-”

“Kiss him for so long he has to come up for air? I’d do it!” I said and we all giggled.

“You’ll get your chance, Tom” said a voice. “Lee lost your invitations and suggested I bring y’all over. And don’t change, those are pretty. There’s some lonely-looking thirteen-year old boys for you to be entertained by.”

The silhouette of a disjointed suit that had appeared in the window appeared to spit. “Guy stuff.”

Hi everybody! It's good to be back. I've decided to take a little break from Kayleigh's Story for the time being, but I will be posting a few short stories. Enjoy!

Charles and Philip were biting their nails, wringing their hands, deep in thought, anxiously awaiting the most important moment of their lives.

The eighth grade talent show marched on for what seemed like an eternity. Act after act after act came and went, some good, all prolonging the two boys’ suffering.

The last day of eighth grade was supposed to be a happy occasion. And it would be, hopefully, for Charles and Philip, although that would come much, much later.

But for now it was all tension, even moreso when the two boys were tapped on the shoulder by one of the coordinators and told they needed to start getting ready.

“This is it,” Charles breathed, and, after making sure no one was watching, he squeezed his his best friend’s hand.

The duo ducked into the room that had been designated just for them to change in, a room lacking windows with a single light that flooded the room with just the right amount of illumination. A mirror would give the girls a chance to see themselves before their performance.

Charles and Philip opened their garment bags and gulped. Wearing girls’ clothes was not new for them. Wearing ballet leotards and tutus was second nature. Bras and panties only made them yawn.

The hard part was doing so in public. Charles and Philip had only told one person their true identities before, and that was Mr. Wakefield, the talent show director, who’d been a lifesaver in making sure the two ballerinas were as ready for the show as possible.

Other than that - well, let’s just say both the boys’ families and all of the boys’ friends were sitting in the audience completely unaware of the fact that the “Mystery Act” being performed by “Charles and Philip” as advertised on the program was in fact a mini-ballet recital being performed by the girls soon to be known as “Charlene and Rachel.”

As the girls began getting dressed their nerves calmed somewhat, and they began to reminisce about their remarkable ride.

“You know, you started this,” Rachel jokingly scolded Charlene as the two adjusted their breast and butt pads to be worn with their bra and panties.

“What do you mean? The whole dressing up thing? Or this?” She gestured around the room.

“Both, actually,” laughed Rachel. She fit her panties effortlessly up her clean-shaven legs and rummaged in her bag for her makeup kit.

“You’re right,” Charlene’s face glowed. “I remember now, it was in third grade. I suggested we wear my cousins’ first communion dresses...”

“And in a way, we never really took them off,” Rachel exclaimed, as she blissfully heaped eyeshadow on her lids.

“Hey, you know what?” Charlene thought of another memory the girls had shared. “We decided to do this shortly after the first time we wore makeup.”

Rachel confirmed Charlene’s story. The girls had read that not a lot of girls wore makeup until eighth grade, so they swore off the stuff until after school on the first day.

“It was that day, looking at me and you in the mirror with our faces covered and our t-shirts and leggings, that I knew we had to come out.”

“And I’m glad we’re doing it,” Charlene added. The makeup portion of the preparations was done, and now came the part that never ceased to enthrall the girls: dressing like ballerinas.

“Hey, Rachel,” Charlene said to her girlfriend. “How many times you wear ballet tights to school under your jeans?”

“Oh, I’ve lost count,” Charlene responded, making sure the tights covered her butt-pads nicely. “They’re the bomb, honestly. They feel so good, and they make me feel like a real girl. That’s enough for me.”

“You may have worn tights to school,” Rachel said with a grin crossing her face. “But can you claim to have worn a leotard under an outfit?”

“No, I cannot.” Charlene sighed as she zipped herself into the baby pink leotard. She looked herself over in the mirror and Rachel did likewise.

“I can kind of, sort of, still see a boy in there,” Rachel said to no one in particular. “But not for much longer.”

Carefully, apprehensively, the two girls stepped into their matching pink tutus. They let the skirts rest on their waists, adjusted the waistbands a little bit, and went through the whole smoothing ritual.

“Holy cow!” Charlene said as she gave a practice twirl. “We look hot.”

“Yeah,” Rachel allowed, “but this boyish haircut isn’t doing much for me.” And the girls set to work getting each other’s wigs just right...

There were now five minutes til curtain. Any moment Mr. Wakefield would come into their room and escort them to the stage.

“This is it,” Rachel said, realizing just what they were doing. “We can never go back after this. We’re gonna be girls now.”

“Nervous?” Charlene asked.

“A little. But the more I think about it, we’re not just now becoming girls. We’ve always been girls. Now we’re just telling people.”

The girls were sitting on the floor, and Rachel leaned her head on Charlene’s shoulder as Charlene set to stroking her hair, careful not to mess up the pretty bun.

“You know what?” Charlene said. “Now we can be ballerinas and cheerleaders. Now we can wear our hair in buns and put on makeup every day. Whatever we have to take from the haters will be more than worth it.”

Charlene kissed Rachel on the cheek and readied the outfits the girls would change into after their performance - Charlene would keep her leotard on and slip some leggings over the bottom while Rachel donned a springy skirt to go with a striped top. And then the knock came.

The doorknob turned and Mr. Wakefield’s voice was unmistakable. “You girls ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” Rachel chirped, pimping in the mirror one last time as Mr. W succinctly told the girls they looked very pretty.

“I have daughters,” he laughed while escorting the girls backstage, “and if only they were as put together as you two are.” Charlene and Rachel chuckled. The tension was eased a little bit.

Mr. Wakefield whispered instructions quickly as they arrived backstage. “The minute I announce you, just step on through that door, curtsy or something, and launch right into that routine. Don’t think about it. You’ll be alright.”

He added, “As someone who has seen more ballet recitals than Tchaikovsky, I was blown away when you practiced your routine for me the other day. Everyone else will be too.

“What I’m trying to say is, dance now, ask questions later. Good luck.”

Motivated by their teacher’s little speech, the girls were ready to introduce themselves to the world. And then the announcement came from Mr. Wakefield. And then the girls clutched each other’s hands. And then the ballerinas stepped through the door. And then Charlene and Rachel dipped identical curtsies. And then...

Dear Jaycee -

Welp, I did it. That’s right. I made all of my dreams come true. It’s like you always said - “If you can dream it, you can do it.” I dreamt it, and I did it.

Seven things. You and I set seven goals for ourselves over the years. I kept them in a notebook. I keep a lot of things in my notebook. This one was the most important.

I skimmed the list right after you left. It was perfect. I knew what I needed to do. And one by one, I did everything. Everything. You’d be very proud.

FIRST GRADE. You and I on a pristine December day, stuck indoors, hanging in our room. I was already well into dressing up at that point. I remember distinctly you and I shutting ourselves up in your room for hours, just trying on all your dance outfits. Pink tutus. White tutus. Black tutus. All kinds of leotards and tights, and giggling at all of them.

One day I was wearing a pink tutu, and you were wearing a black tutu, and we were dancing, and being happy, and then we decided to watch “The Nutcracker” on VHS - can you believe it was that long ago? As we watched, you said to me, “Kellen, one of us is going to be the Sugar Plum Fairy someday.” I wrote it down.

And a decade later, voila! I was profiled in the Seattle Times. Something about the first transgender Sugar Plum Fairy. I don’t know. You wouldn’t have cared for it. I know that, except for performances and stuff, you didn’t really care for the limelight.

SECOND GRADE. You and I tagging along with Dad to a Washington football game. That was a lot of fun, remember? I don’t remember the score of the game or the opponent, but I remember we sat near the cheerleaders. I was instantly drawn to cheerleading. By drawn, I mean drawn. I spoke of nothing else for a week, if I remember correctly.

You said to me, “Kellen, one of us is going to be a cheer captain someday.” I dismissed it at the time with a giggling fit. But a funny thing happened, and here I am. Cheer captain at Phelan High School. I’m wearing “cheer” sweats right now. Wish you could see it.

THIRD GRADE. You and I now at the eighth grade talent show. Last day of school. Both of us anxious for summer. Antsy paying little attention to the acts on stage.

Until, that is, the dance team came out. Wow. I was impressed. So was everyone, and so were you too, Jaycee. I remember, you leaned over and told me, “One of us is going to be on the dance team someday.” I giggled. I wrote it down. Have I told you how funny things happen in life? Nothing really ever turns out the way you want it to. You of all people should know.

You should see my dance costume. It’s the cutest thing. I stuck a picture of it in the envelope. Hope it helps you imagine.

FOURTH GRADE. A cold night for football, this time of the high school variety. We were shivering. I remember that night because you let me wear your training bra. I was wearing your panties, too. I never told you that. Anyway, this time the majorette was the focus. You and I couldn’t take our eyes off her, with her shiny costume and skirt. That was another goal of ours. To be majorettes. Remember that?

I do. Every time I twirl a baton in a parade I think about it. You should see it. I’m not going to lie. I’m kind of beautiful.

FIFTH GRADE. Womanless beauty pageant. Every boy loathed it but me. Check that, every boy loathed it. Because let’s face it. There was a girl in the womanless beauty pageant.

I hadn’t even told Mom and Dad about my dressing up yet when I was thrust into a light blue ballgown and a red wig and made to sing in front of a billion people. I really don’t like attention - except in beauty pageants. That’s right. You always said, that day, after I won, when I was fussing over my gown and hair and whining about cracking a nail, one of us would become a beauty queen. Me again - surprise!

SIXTH GRADE. I’ve told Mom and Dad now. You know. You were there. You remember how that conversation went. It took some negotiation to get them to let me wear leggings to that high school football game. Somehow I convinced them. They chalked them up to curious onlookers as “thermal-wear.” Somehow I doubt the pink North-Face jacket I put on when I got cold in the third quarter helped that argument.

Anyway, at that game we were pointing and giggling, naming boys in the student section we wanted to kiss. Remember that? And remember how you said one of us would get a boy to kiss us at a football game someday? My boyfriend Dawson is sitting here as I write this. I could kiss him right now. Heck, I just did.

SEVENTH GRADE. Last but not least, our night on the town after Homecoming. I’m dressing up virtually everywhere but school now, and that includes when we went out for girls’ night. It was me, you, and your friends Debbie and Pauline. I was wearing a tattered sweatshirt and leggings and looked like a mess. You three were still in your gowns.

And then you asked your girlfriends which one of us had the best shot as being named Homecoming Queen. Without hesitation, they pointed at me.

“Kellen does.”

Remember that? I blushed out loud. And then even more so when you said, “It’s Kelly.” I’d never even thought of getting a girl’s name before. And you gave it to me - like that! Your spontaneity. One of the many things I miss about you.

Kelly Butler is a homecoming queen now. She’s the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen, if she says so herself. And she couldn’t have done it without you. You taught me not to be ashamed of who I was.

Unfortunately, through no fault of your own, you left too early to see the fruits of your labors. How many more sleepovers, ballet recitals, and double dates we could’ve had I’ll never know. Kids, don’t drink and drive.

Dawson’s telling me that’s no way to end a letter. Oh my god, he’s so cute! You’d love him. And speaking of love, I love you. I love you every day when I fix my hair or do my makeup or laugh or cry, because I know before I did all those things with anyone else, I did them with you.

Save me a place up there.

Your prima ballerina, cheer captain, dancer, majorette, beauty and homecoming queen, boy-crazy sister,
Kelly Butler

Lacey started to change out of the dress and heels she planned to wear for Thanksgiving dinner. This was going to be a Thanksgiving dinner unlike any other - one she would remember for the rest of her life.

I knew my mom was quirky, but this was a new one, even for her.

Here was a woman who scored the winning goal in the NCAA Women’s Soccer Final, became a recluse, wrote five novels, came out of hiding, had a torrid affair with a now-deceased minor politician, and finally settled down far from the madding crowd in Fedora, Montana. But those, in my somewhat biased opinion, paled in comparison into what she was asking me and my brother to now.

“You want us,” I pointed at my twin brother Hayden, and then at myself, just to clarify, “to be your bridesmaids?” My mother was getting married for the first time next month.

“Look,” my mom said, a sorrowful expression crossing her face, as she us down at our kitchen table. “The bridesmaids are supposed to be the most important women in the bride’s lives, and, as you well know, I have no women in my life, really.” She sighed. “It’d just mean the world to me if, for one day - one day only! - you smiled, put on a dress, and looked pretty so I could feel like I have a conventional wedding.

“Nothing in my life has been conventional, boys. I just want something to be normal when Dave and I say ‘I do.’” She paused and cleaned her glasses.

“Please.”

“Look Mom,” I said. I planned my words carefully. I knew this would break her heart. “I want you to have a great wedding, a normal wedding, too. But you’ve got to realize what you’re asking.

“We’re boys. Teenage boys, and a lot of our friends are going to be at your wedding. And you’re asking us to be bridesmaids. That’s not just, say, wearing leggings to a football game so we don’t get cold. You’re asking us to put on a dress.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I really am, and I think Hayden would agree with me. But we simply cannot wear a dress to your wedding. That’s final.”

I looked back at Hayden. He wore an emotionless expression. He nodded silently.

“Okay,” my mom breathed. Wiping her glasses again. My heart sank. “That’s about the answer I was expecting.”

She looked at the clock. It was late. “Get some sleep,” she urged. “I do have some more wedding stuff to take care of in the morning. We can pick out your tuxedos then.”

The three of us smiled and Hayden and I made for bed.

It was a cold night in our small house. My mom’s sporting-goods business had made a lot of money, but she insisted on living small. This, she said, would enable us to “remember where we came from.” She prefered to spend money on clothes, vacations, and (many) charitable donations.

I thought about my mother. I loved her very much and I wanted her to be happy. But this was simply something I couldn’t do. As I lay on my mattress, I felt at peace with my decision.

For the moment. There came to me a low sound from the other side of our bedroom. It sounded like sniffling, was followed by whimpering, and soon turned into all-out wailing. I rose, sauntered over to the other bed, and was met by the teary-eyed face of my brother Hayden.

“What’s wrong?” I asked harmlessly. Hayden buried his head in his pillow. A muffled sound was all I could make out.

“What did you say?”

“I said, I want to wear the dress!” Hayden continued crying. I turned the light onto a dim setting and sat beside him on his bed.

“Why?” I questioned him. This was very strange. Hayden wanted to wear a bridesmaid dress, which would undoubtedly be filled with frills? Odd.

“Because, Edward.” He sat up and became dead serious. I did likewise, knowing he meant business.

“Because being a boy doesn’t feel right, and I want to be a girl. There.” Hayden buried his face in the pillow again. Again I was confused.

He turned around and elaborated. “Look, all my life I’ve been lying to myself. I was not meant to be a boy. I try on Mom’s clothes when I’m home alone. I’ve been paying a senior girl to give me dance lessons. I mean, look at me right now.” Hayden removed his shirt to reveal a lacy pink bra, which I recognized as Mom’s from the laundry.

“This was my one chance to show the world who I really was. To be a girl in front of everyone. Just for a day. One day as a girl. That was all I really wanted.”

Hayden stared into space for a while. I pondered his words. I realized I had two people who were counting on me to stand at the altar and watch my mother tie the knot in a gown better suited for Cinderella. Also, these were the two people I loved the most.

If I went ahead with it, my mom would be happy and my brother would achieve his lifelong dream, but I’d be humiliated in front of practically all my classmates. If I didn’t wear that dress, I’d save face, but my brother would be a miserable girl in a tuxedo and my mom - well, I didn’t really want to imagine how my mom would feel.

Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to. “I’ll wear the dress,” I told Hayden, a resigned smile on my lips. He practically jumped for joy. It warmed my heart.

So did my mom’s reaction. “Oh my God, thank you, Edward,” she said, enveloping me in a hug. “I know how hard this is for you - thanks for reconsidering! I’ll start making arrangements right away.”

A week later Hayden and I traipsed through the snow towards the Fedora City Boutique. It was the day of reckoning, when he and I were to be fitted for our gowns. Hayden was beaming while I showed no emotion as we neared our destination.

A few shops away from the boutique, I stopped and mustered a smile. “You’re so excited about this,” I observed.

“Absolutely! This is only the greatest day of my life!” It was clear to me he wasn’t lying.

Silence as we neared the boutique, and then Hayden spoke.

“Hey, Edward?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you,” Hayden asked in an inquiry laced with giggles, “call me Hannah?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hannah,” Hayden barely managed in between snickers, “is my girl name.”

I looked Hayden over. His hair had kind of a curl to it and was a little long. The sun on this cold January day gave a shine to his lips and eyelashes, kind of like makeup would. Hayden could pass for a Hannah. There was no doubt about it.

“Hannah it is.” I held the boutique door for my new twin sister as she giggled unceasingly.

“Hi there,” the receptionist greeted us. “Are you here to be fitted for tuxedos? Right this way!” She gestured toward the tux section.

“Actually, that’s not the case.” I smiled wryly at the receptionist, hoping she would understand.

“I see. Lara Jansen’s sons?”

“That’s us. I’m Edward and this is my brother Hayden.” Hannah would have been hard to explain, and she didn’t seem to mind using her birth name as opposed to the name she’d had for literally forty-five seconds.

“Right this way.” She pointed to a new room. When we entered, it was dark. Light was soon cast, and the room was revealed to be empty, except for some hooks on the back wall.

“We rarely use this room, but I thought we could fit you in here. There’s some women in for fittings in our regular dress fitting room, and some men in the tux fitting room, and we didn’t think you fit into either per se...”

“That’s perfectly fine.” I cut her off. It was a nice gesture. She smiled and continued.

“Your mom really, really seems to want you to look like real girls, so you’re going to have to wear a bodysuit under your dress with fake boobs and curves. Does that bother you at all?”

I looked the receptionist, whose name was Carey, directly in the eyes. “We are boys being fitted for bridesmaid’s dresses. I think we passed ‘bothering’ a long time ago.” She laughed.

“Just checking,” said Carey, before producing the bodysuits. She turned her head and we put them on. Hannah clearly liked what she saw in the mirror; she was doing every suggestive pose in the book. I found it quite funny - until I turned and looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. My body felt weirdly good. Huh. Strange.

We’d been given tiny, tight panties to wear under our bodysuits, so our - well, you know - would not be a problem. That problem had been taken care of. Another hadn’t, as Hannah was quick to point out.

“What are we gonna do with the hair on our legs?” she chirped. I’d never really notice that my sister’s voice had kind of a feminine touch to it. Hannah really did suit her.

“That, dearie, is where pantyhose come in.” Hannah grinned. Carey handed us something that looked like a combination of socks and pants. I’d never really considered what panty hose looked like before. I was fascinated.

Hannah had her pantyhose on in 10 seconds - I kid you not. I struggled but eventually slid into the silky stuff. It felt really, really nice on my legs. If only I could wear these every day! Wait - what was I saying?

A similar situation followed not long after when Hannah clipped her bra flawlessly but I needed Carey’s help to get mine just right. After Carey had done this, she took some measurements.

“Perfect! I’ve got just the right gowns for you two. I’ll need about five minutes.”

Hannah sat in a chair Carey had wheeled in and thumbed through her phone. I felt like I was looking at any girl at my school. It made me happy to see my sister so happy.

And then I took another gander in the mirror - bliss filled me. I couldn’t explain it. There was a certain satisfaction I took in running my hands from my shoulder, down over my boobs to my flat belly, and then through my curves onto my bubble butt. I was beginning to see where Hannah was coming from with all this “wanting to be a girl” stuff.

Things only got better. Carey returned with two mobile hangers that held the most beautiful things I’d seen in the history ever. That the gowns were white and very frilly was all I noticed at the time. Later I would be able to appreciate the bodice, and the built-in petticoat, and the waistline, and all that what-not. All I was appreciating at that moment was that the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen was staring at me whenever I looked into the mirror.

Hannah was unapologetic. She curtsied and danced and twirled around. Carey laughed, thinking she was doing so ironically. I knew the truth, though. I saw a light in my sister’s eyes that day. She was truly happy.

I took a look at myself in the mirror and gave curtsying a try. It came naturally. I put one foot behind the other, picked up my dress, and simply squatted. It felt absolutely incredible. Where had dresses, curtsying, and general prissiness been all my life?

As Hannah and I changed back into our boy clothes and made arrangements to pick up the dresses around the wedding day, I knew I was hooked. That was the greatest thing I’d ever worn. Hannah was right. Being a pretty girl trumped being a dull boy everyday.

I was thinking of how I would tell my sister I was a girl too when Hannah’s phone buzzed. She answered cheerily, but her expression suddenly changed to one of dead seriousness. After a few minutes, she put the phone down and eyed me.

“Mom crashed her car and broke both legs. She’s going to be bedridden for almost a month.”

I got very quiet. “We have to go, Carey,” I said calmly. “Thank you for everything.”

“No problem. You’re good boys. And girls,” she chuckled. “Hope your mom gets well soon.”

A half-hour later, we looked upon our mother in her hospital bed. She was up and talking, but appeared in great pain. She and Dave were conversing as Hannah and I texted friends to let them know what happened.

“I’m sorry, Lara, but we’re going to have to move the wedding.”

“Why? Why? Why?” pleaded Mom. “Please. We’ll get married at home. I’ll marry you in my bed. We don’t even need to invite people. Just you and the boys. They already have their gowns. You have your tux. It won’t take long. I love you.”

“Look, Lara,” Dave said sternly, in a tone I’d never heard from a man I’d greatly admired. “You wanted this wedding to be perfect, to show the world you were a normal human being, not a recluse, not ‘the other woman,’ or anything like that. You deserve the best, and if we have to wait a while for the best, so be it.”

Mom agreed to it but I could tell she was not happy.

A few weeks passed. Not much changed. Hannah and I would pass the boutique. She’d look inside longingly, wondering when the day would come when she could dress up again. Covertly, I’d do the same. And then we’d move on.

Dave, meanwhile, juggled the wedding date, debating four different weekends as an unexpected infection in my mom’s leg came and went. Uncertainty reigned supreme. Hannah grew glum, and privately, so did I. We were both now looking forward to the day when we would be two princesses, pretty as can be, instead of just two plain old boys.

One day - the day after Dave had moved the wedding for the fifth time - Hannah and I were loafing around with some other guys, waiting for our school’s hockey game to start. We were playing our rivals, and hockey was pretty much the only non-girly thing that gave Hannah joy anymore. I also liked the sport, and we were psyched to see whether our team could pick up its tenth straight win.

Hannah was admiring a girl - from the direction of her eyes, you could tell she was checking out her dress - when her phone buzzed. She tapped me on the shoulder. “It’s Dave.”

She and I ducked into an open supply closet, shut the door, and turned on speakerphone. Dave, usually calm, cool, and collected spoke tersely, frightening us.

“I am marrying your mother tonight, due to extraordinary circumstances. Do not ask questions. I will pick you up, and I am meeting Pastor Mark at the hospital at 5 o’clock. I dropped off your gowns. You’re going to have to change somewhere at school. I don’t want to hear anything about it. This is important.” Thus ended what could barely be called a “conversation.”

“What do you think he meant by that? Extraordinary circumstances?” Hannah asked.

“I don’t know, but I do know we’d better find our gowns. A place to get changed would help too.” We stopped by the school office and left with two garment bags.

“Here.” I led Hannah into the dark-room where pictures were taken. A mirror in the back, lighting, and a windowless door - it was perfect.

The two of us slipped on our bodysuits, bras, and pantyhose. We began to zip ourselves into our dresses, when suddenly Hannah stopped.

“Everyone is going to see us come out of the dark-room wearing bridesmaids’ dresses. What are we gonna do?”

Admittedly I had no idea. “I don’t know. I don’t know how we’re going to chalk this one up. Hopefully everyone will just roll their eyes and say, ‘Lara Jansen.’ Dave sounded serious, Hannah. We’ll figure this one out later.”

She was satisfied by this explanation - for the moment. As she zipped herself into her gown she was visibly nervous. By time we rolled up our socks and slipped into our shoes, she was visibly shaking.

I took my sister’s hand. “Look, I really didn’t want to wear a dress for the wedding. But we made the decision that we wouldn’t care what our friends thought, that this was about our family. Come on. It’ll be alright.”

We shared a hug. Hannah took out the makeup kit she always kept hidden in her backpack and started to cover herself. When she was sufficiently satisfied she passed it to me.

“Do you want me to-” She faltered, especially when she saw what I was doing. I was applying everything - lipstick, mascara, eye-liner - perfectly. Hannah was visibly shocked.

“How do you know-” I cut her off this time with a wave of the hand, as if to say, “I’ll explain later.” She shrugged and fixed her hair. I did likewise, putting in a matching, girlish curl.

We resolved to put on the tiaras in the car and took deep breaths. I held Hannah’s hand and we counted to three. One, two, and we threw open the darkroom door.

Gasps. Snickers. Pointing. Dirty looks. ‘Too bad,’ I thought. The Jansen sisters were passing through whether they liked it or not. A few girls took pictures. Hannah, subtly trolling them, fixed her hair and posed for a few as we made our way to the front exit.

Dave wore an immaculate tuxedo and an emotionless expression as we crowded our fluffy selves into the back of the car. He did not speak as we got in. He did not speak as we drove. He did not speak as we got out. Something was going on. Hannah didn’t seem to recognize it, concerning herself more with retouching her eyeshadow, but I felt uneasy as we made our way into the hospital.

Pastor Mark greeted Dave and us up front, complementing our outfits, and led us back to Mom’s bed. She was asleep at first, but the rustling of our dresses against our bedside roused her.

“Oh my God,” Mom said succinctly. “You two look amazing.”

Hannah and I simply smiled. Mom turned to her groom. “Are we doing this now?”

Finally, Dave wore a smile. “Yes, we are.”

Pastor Mark started in. “Dearly beloved...”

And soon ended. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Mom and Dave embraced. Hannah and I hooted and hollered. With no flowers to throw we instead found a few stray pieces of tulle within our gowns and tossed them, humming the wedding march as we went. Smiles abounded on all four of our faces, a scene I will not soon forget.

Later that night, Dave had departed, intending to bring back pizza for what he termed a “gourmet wedding dinner.” Mom fell back asleep, resting, fighting another leg infection as she sawed logs. Hannah and I watched over her, still clad in our white frocks. Dave had allowed us the chance to change but we declined. We stayed dressed right down to our tiaras.

“So Edward, explain this.” Hannah crossed her legs and sat facing me. “That makeup job you did early - best I’ve ever seen! And I’ve watched a lot of tutorials.”

“Yeah, so have I. I’ve learned a thing or two.”

Hannah did a double take. “You’ve what?”

I addressed her directly. “This whole ‘being a girl,’ thing,” I explained to her. “Kind of a good deal. I mean, we could wear dresses all the time. I could join you at your dance lessons. We could maybe date cute hockey players.

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. I’ve been thinking ever since we were first fitted for our gowns. Maybe you could use a twin sister. I mean, girls have to stick together.”

I could tell Hannah could barely believe what she was hearing. I reached over and closed her wide open jaw.

“I mean, our friends kind of already know thanks to today. So there’s that.”

I closed my argument. “We’re already ten steps ahead of most girls our age in terms of fashion, makeup, and mannerisms. Why not join them?

“Come on, Hannah. Let’s be girls.”

I let that sentence hang for a while. Three words. A whole world of possibilities. Sure, there could be more pretty dresses like the ones we’d worn to the wedding. But there could also be a plain jacket and leggings. Casual skirts, maybe some jeans. So many options.

Finally, Hannah spoke.

“Okay.”

I could barely hear her, but I knew what she’d said. “You serious?”

“You’re right, sis. Let’s do it. Girl power.”

We performed our secret twin brother handshake, with one wrench: where we usually bowed to each other, we picked up our gowns and dipped a curtsy. We both sat back down and descended into giggles.

The giggles stopped when a third voice started: “As I suspected.”

Our mother’s eyes were wide open and a cunning smile crossed her lips.

“W-What do you mean by that?” Hannah blushed and stuttered.

“Come on, girls.” My mom looked us over. “I know I’m a little quirky, but I’m not insane. I didn’t ask you to dress up like girls for no reason.

“Hannah,” my mom said, using my sister’s name. “You think I’ve never noticed my clothes moving around? The countless stretches in my leggings? The odd divots in my foundation?

“And you, Evie.” She directed her attention to me. I’d never been referred to as Evie before, but I liked the name. I decided to run with it. “You may not realize it, but subconsciously, you’re girlier than your sister.”

Hannah bristled at this perceived insult but subsided when Mom broke it down. “Walk from one side of the room to the other.”

I followed her instructions, strutting from the doorway to the window, when I heard Hannah.

“Oh my God! You’re right! She walks girlier than I do.”

“Really?” I asked when suddenly Mom and Hannah erupted into more giggles. “Oh my God, I heard it!” I had a distinct squeal in my voice.

More laughter. “Now what?”

Hannah pointed. I had my finger in my hair and was twirling it. A carbon copy of the girls my age I saw every day. Mom was right. I’d always been a girl. In a way, it was shocking I hadn’t figured it out earlier.

“So, Mom,” Hannah took charge, smoothing her dress, crossing her legs, and putting Mom on the spot. “Evie and I want to be girls. Can we?”

“I always knew this day would come. And it’s here. And I’m ready for it. You have to make one promise for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Be good girls for your father.”

Hannah and I were very confused. “What do you mean?” I piped up.

---

“So this is what she meant.”

I wiped a tear from my face, unsuccessfully. It rolled off my cheek and onto my dress, sliding down the black bodice, almost rolling down the sequined skirt, and being absorbed my pantyhose. Hannah wore a similar dress and facial expression.

We beheld my mother’s gravesite as Dave - I mean, Dad - put a hand on both our shoulders. We leaned on him. Hannah and I felt deeply for him. Here was a man - a man of high character, but still only one man - tasked with raising two girls into womanhood whom he’d met for the first time two years ago and met for the first time as girls two weeks ago.

Dad rubbed the tombstone. A steady rain began to fall. The pallbearers - including Carey, who’d befriended Mom in her last month, sharing resources from her own war with bone cancer - lowered the casket slowly onto the table which would soon be removed from its perch over the hole in favor of dirt.

After Pastor Mark read an invocation, we bid my mom farewell for the final time. Dad, Hannah and I clambered into the hearse. Hannah retouched her black lipstick, looking depressed. I put my arm around her and she reciprocated the gesture.

Soon, both of us were looking up at our father, in the passenger seat next to the funeral director. He was studying something very intently. It was his wedding ring, which I’d handed to him to give to his bride only a fortnight prior.

Dad looked at the ring for about thirty seconds, then back at us. He shook his head. Hannah and I both pondered what that meant, until he riffled through his pocket and removed something.

Whatever it was we could not quite make out, but Dad seemed very attached to it. He ran it through his fingers. He rubbed it on his cheek. We both gasped when we saw what it was. It was a piece of tulle from our bridal gowns. He’d saved it for this day.

Hannah and I smiled and sobbed quietly, in that weird, happy-sad way that only girls cry. Dave had seemed detached from everyone and everything on this surreal day, but our weeping must have caught his ear. He turned around, smoothed our now-long hair, and smiled reassuringly.

“Your mother was a good bride,” he said, eyeing the tulle while summing up our whirlwind of a six weeks. “You two were good bridesmaids. And you are even better daughters.”

I'm back! And so happy to have returned with some new stories to come hopefully in the next few weeks.

One sunny morning, her last at Fairlawn High School, Libbey Loughlin crept quietly up to the door of the cosmetology wing at the east end of the building.

She fiddled with her hair and waited for Mrs. Joseph, the teacher, to come to the door. A minute passed, and she didn’t, so Libbey found the key hidden under the mat and pushed it ajar.

The tall, blonde girl looked around at all the hairdryers, and then at a dim light coming from the office. When she went to investigate, she was greeted by Mrs. Joseph, who was there after all.

“Libbey,” she grinned. “I thought you wouldn’t be coming today. It’s commencement day!” Her expression changed. “Commencement day. Can you believe it’s all over?”

“Absolutely not,” Libbey sighed, as she hung up the garment bag containing her cap and gown. She sat down and crossed her legs. She looked around.

“Mrs. Joseph,” she sighed again, shaking her head now. “I’ve grown up in this room. I’ve become a lady in this room.” She laughed at the corniness, in her mind, of her statement. Her teacher didn’t.

“I don’t know what to say. I really don’t,” Mrs. Joseph chuckled. “I can’t believe I am finally rid of the Loughlin family, forever.” Libbey laughed again, heartily. Her older sisters, Kaitlyn and Korey, had both come up through the cosmetology program at Fairlawn. Both were now in various stages of college - Kaitlyn a rising senior, and Korey a junior.

“Do you remember your freshman year, the first time you came in here?” Mrs. Joseph asked.

Of course Libbey did. It was the annual orientation day, and Libbey Loughlin was Brad Loughlin then - instead of a pretty, prissy girl, Brad was a freshman boy being dragged into following his sisters to the cosmetology lab as they filled out paperwork.

“I think I was whining a lot that day.”

“When I heard you whining and bitching like that, I should have known right then what was coming next,” Mrs. Joseph chuckled. Memories flowed, as merry laughter filled the room.

Brad had a tough time adjusting to high school - especially high school baseball, which was his life at the time. He was a fantastic second baseman, already on the varsity team, but he felt alone sometimes.

“I was looking for someone, anyone,” Libbey reminisced. “My sisters answered the call. They became my heroes.”

Brad was quiet, and baseball players are loud, so the toxic mix had already been established. With only acquaintances, no friends, on the team, he turned to the cosmetology girls for support.

“And I remember one day, after practice,” Mrs. Joseph thought out loud, “Korey wanted a date to Homecoming, and everything changed.”

Indeed, early on freshman year, Brad had taken almost no role in the cosmetology girls’ discussions. He’d sat patiently, and quietly, while Kaitlyn and Korey talked with their core group of friends. They talked school and boys and dance and Brad found all of it boring for the most part, content watching Netflix on his phone or listening to the Cubs on the radio with earbuds.

One day, however, Brad was fired up from an especially taxing practice; he’d been turning double plays with Fairlawn’s junior shortstop/stud Griffin Henry, and he came in whooping loudly and excitedly, finally feeling like he was fitting in with the team.

“What’s with you?” Korey had asked him.

“Best practice ever! Griffin Henry and I-”

Brooklyn Green had cut him off. “Koreyyyyyyyyy,” she giggled slyly.

“What is it?” Brad asked.

And suddenly Brad was running interference between the baseball team and cosmetology girls. The freshman, fond of spy novels, thought of himself as a secret agent. He set up Korey with Griffin Henry, Brooklyn with Darius Henley, Colleen Mayer with Michael Dunham, Rosie Harris with John Forrest - the list went on and on.

“You know how long I’ve known your family,” Mrs. Joseph told Libbey, back in the present. “I was so happy to see the third Loughlin come out of his shell.”

“You just didn’t know someday it would be her shell,” Libbey laughed, as the reminiscing continued.

It was the height of baseball season - the Fairlawn team was 10-2 and riding high. Brad entered the cosmetology room before a big rivalry game, chattering away with the girls he had come to trust. Eight girls formed his core group of friends - Kaitlyn, Korey, the three juniors, Brooklyn, Colleen, and Rosie, two sophomores, Cecilia Shepard and Blair Drury, and cosmetology’s only freshman, Julie Hill.

Brad whirled into the room, chattering away, taking the lead in the conversation, buzzing about this couple or that kiss, finally, in full baseball uniform, taking a seat next to Julie.

Julie held up a nail polisher applicator, gesturing to Brad with a grin on her face. Brad had shaken his head, as Julie had been trying to get him to let her paint his nails for weeks.

“It ain’t gonna happen!” he’d laughed.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” Colleen chimed in. “If you guys lose to Cresthaven today, you have to let Julie paint your nails.”

“Deal,” Brad said confidently. “We’re not gonna lose.”

The next day, Fairlawn had lost 7-4 and Brad looked pretty with pink nail polish. Even weirder, he felt pretty.

“And that was the moment,” Libbey said as she helped Mrs. Joseph tidy up her room, “I knew something was up. I was confused. I needed someone to turn to.”

Someone to turn to. Brad spent the week soul-searching, but found nothing. He was looking at everyone differently now. He had gone, in the span of a year, from loathing to loving to wanting to be his older sisters.

Then came the last day of the baseball season - the day of the banquet. The entire Loughlin family was going to the formal dinner, to celebrate a successful debut season for Brad, the only freshman on the varsity team. Libbey had recounted the story of what happened that day to Mrs. Joseph before, but as her graduation neared, she thought of the effect it had had upon her life...

Brad was witness to a great debate between Colleen and Rosie, going back and forth over whose boyfriend was hotter (Brad favored Michael, but kept to himself) when Korey strode into the room, garment bag in hand.

“Y’all need to keep an eye on this,” Korey said firmly. “This is my dress for tonight.” And like that she was gone.

Not unlike today, Brad and Mrs. Joseph had been left alone in the room - only, as Libbey reminded Mrs. Joseph whenever the subject came up, she had been asleep. Bored and curious, Brad tiptoed into the girls’ dressing room where he’d seen his sister leave her garment bag.

He left the room back in his normal clothes, but in a reverie - “I could have transitioned right there,” Libbey said now. The boy (if he could still be called that) had simply melted running his hands down his already skinny frame. He had wished he had breasts and a butt.

Now, Libbey prodded her bubble butt and adjusted her bra. She looked around the room. Everything blurred together after that - the day she sat her eight friends down and told them, the day she told the baseball team, the ways in which everyone had supported her...

“I’m leaving it all now,” Libbey says. “Damn cosmetology school. I wish I could stay here forever.”

Libbey whisked Mrs. Joseph on a tour of the room, as if she hadn’t been teaching there for twenty years. “Remember this? When Julie and I cried together after Jacoby abandoned her at the dance?” Junior year - Libbey’s first dance as a girl, her best friend had been stood up, and the two commiserated in the back of the room, with a late-working Mrs. J providing the tissues.

“Your first ballet lesson.” As Libbey had begun transitioning, toward the end of sophomore year, she expressed an interest in ballet. Brooklyn and Rosie, ballerinas with senioritis, had transformed the unused boys’ dressing room into a ballet studio, and shown a tutu-clad Libbey the ropes.

Libbey was crying now. She didn’t want to leave the safety of the Fairlawn High School cosmetology lab. She wanted to stay a little girl forever. She buried her head in Mrs. Joseph’s arms and bawled.

“Wait a minute!” cried the teacher. She raced into her room and emerged with a binder. “This is for you.”

It was a scrapbook, filled with all kinds of pictures. They spanned the entirety of Libbey’s high school career, from early freshman year to senior year. All kinds of memories. Brooklyn as Belle in Beauty and the Beast - which Libbey had seen wearing Julie’s jeans, her first time wearing girls’ clothes in public. Cecilia and Blair posing in their softball uniforms, with Libbey in a pink and white romper. And the late nights where Mrs. Joseph had left the key under the mat so the girls could have a hangout all to themselves - for crying jags after dances, for first kisses, for being a teenager.

“You and Julie - you’re the last of the Big Eight. You’ve been a special four-year group.” Now it was Mrs. Joseph’s turn to wipe a tear from her eye. “I don’t know what to do now. Maybe I’ll retire.”

“Don’t do that!” Libbey exclaimed, and both of them laughed. She checked her phone.

“I gotta get home, Mrs. J,” Libbey smiled. “I’ll see you at graduation later?”

“Bet on it,” Mrs. Joseph said, smiling warmly. Suddenly, she found herself wrapped in a hug.

“Thanks for everything,” Libbey whispered - it was barely audible, but Mrs. Joseph heard it loud and clear.

“Good luck, Miss Loughlin.” Libbey seized her garment bag, fixed her hair in the mirror, and departed, leaving the key under the mat. A light rain began to fall.

Once at her house, Libbey stripped out of her casual clothes and began to ready herself for commencement. She looked out her window, at the Fairlawn baseball field she’d once dreamed of playing on. It called out to her, but she felt nothing. She stuffed her binder in the top of her closet next to her old baseball cap.

From under her bed, she removed the pink tutu Brooklyn had gifted her. She put it on, wearing it over her nicest bra and panties, and did an impromptu dance. The rain let up and, behind the baseball field, the cosmetology room was just visible. Already, Libbey missed home.

“Ugh. I’m bored.”

Paige Vanderlay flopped onto her bed, throwing a pillow at her friend, Riley Beaty, who laughed.

“How can you be bored when your nails are so pretty?”

“I don’t know, Riley. I don’t know.” Paige stood up and brushed the lint out of her leggings. She paced back and forth, deep in thought.

“We should do something crazy,” she concluded. “Come on! Both our parents are out of town until tomorrow. It’s only 5 o’clock. Let’s do something.”

“Okay.” Both Paige and Riley wondered internally as to what this would be. Their options were limited, most notably by the fact that Paige and Riley were merely aliases for Peter and Ralph. But both Paige and Riley thought of themselves as boys in name only - the time was coming when they would no longer have to hide.

As it was, Paige and Riley only really remembered they were boys when they looked down. And they knew that would not be a problem someday. It hadn’t for sometime, really. Neither had worn briefs to school since at least eighth grade (both were juniors). They kept a joint list of the hottest guys in their grade (updated monthly), and their knowledge of ballet and football had passed each other in the opposite direction years ago.

But for all the girly energy pervading Paige’s bedroom, neither of the occupants could think of something to do for about ten minutes. Finally, Riley jumped up.

“I have my license now. We should go shopping.”

“Where?”

“We gotta go where no one would recognize us.” Riley thought for a moment. “There’s a JC Penney’s about a half hour away, it’s never crowded. Let’s drive down there.”

“Alright,” Paige agreed.

Both were very nervous as they scanned the top floor of the store. Rows and rows of girls’ clothes stretched as far as the eye can see, but shoppers were sparse.

“Let’s find the dresses section.”

Both giggled as they were able to riffle through the dress racks without interruption. Both knew their dress sizes by heart, and they took turns trying on beautiful outfits, complementing perfectly the bras and panties they wore beneath their “boy clothes.”

“You know what I just thought?” Paige wondered aloud, as Riley slipped out of a lime green skirt.

“We don’t have any real dresses.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. We have leggings and jeans and shirts and shorts and rompers and even ballet tutus. But we don’t have a single real dress.”

“Wow,” Riley fingered her hair. “I never thought of that. Now’s the time to buy one. How much money do we have?”

“I have $50.” Paige whipped a Grant out of her pocket.

“Me too,” Riley said, producing two twenties and a ten.

“We each can probably buy one dress,” Paige declared. The two girls set about looking for their pieces.

“I like this orange one,” Riley said, fingering a sundress. Paige chose a white cotton dress perfect for summertime. Both headed to the checkout to make their purchases.

And that’s when they saw it.

Both Paige and Riley dropped their dresses in sync as they gazed upon the most gorgeous article of clothing either of them had ever seen. It was a strapless black number with a tight bodice and a flared skirt that made both of them nearly explode with delight. Both ran over to the rack to investigate further.

“This is...”

“Oh my...”

Both were lost for words, even more so when they figured out the dress was exactly their size.

“And we’re the same size. Awesome!” Riley exclaimed.

“I don’t see a price tag,” Paige said.

“Let’s ask the checkout lady.”

“Are you sure?”

“Come on! This dress...” Riley’s voice trailed off. Paige nodded and the two girls strutted over to the counter.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Paige asked. “How much for this black dress?”

The cashier was a little caught off guard, but eventually warmed. “That will be $90,” she smiled.

The two girls nodded, conferred, and agreed to split the cost. An hour later, they hung the dress up in Paige’s room, and simply admired its beauty.

“So who’s gonna be the first to wear it?” Riley piped up.

“I don’t know. It’s too pretty to wear.”

“Somebody’s gotta wear it.”

“I guess. We’d be letting the dress down if we didn’t.”

“Exactly right. So who’s gonna wear it?”

“How about we flip for it?”

“Alright.” Riley took a coin out of her pocket and gave it a whirl, calling heads. It was tails.

“Yes!” Paige pumped her fist and began pulling down her jeans. She soon wore only her underwear, and carefully the girl stepped into the dress, zipping it up and smoothing the skirt while she looked all the while at the mirror. Both Riley and her were mesmerized.

“You look stunning,” Riley observed.

“I know!” Paige beamed, and even though the cold night air of April swept into her bedroom through the open window, she felt infinitely warm.

“It’s my turn now!” Riley declared, and began undoing her jeans.

“Wait a minute!” shrieked Paige, still lost in her beautiful, girlish figure. “I’ve been wearing this dress for two minutes. You can’t just take it from me! You can’t do that to a pretty princess!” she giggled and blushed.

Riley sighed. “Paige, my girly-girl,” she said, putting her arm on her friend’s shoulder. “Clearly, this dress is driving us apart.”

“Clearly,” Paige concurred. “Something must be done.”

It took a half hour, but the two girls drew up a deal. Each girl could have the dress for a week, and Riley would go first, although Paige could keep the dress on for the rest of the night.

The two girls watched TV for a while and talked music and boys before Riley tired and opted for bed. “Good night, Paige,” she said. “Now can I have the dress?”

“Fine.” Paige reluctantly stripped out of the gown, into her bra and panties, while Riley slipped it into her bag, folding it ever so carefully, trying desperately not to harm the thing which she so dearly loved.

At home, she quickly disposed of her boy clothes and found her cutest bra and panty combination. Once this was on, she added a few twists: panty hose, which she rarely wore, a headband, and a black petticoat that added a little more flair to the dress when she put it on. She was in love with the girl she saw in the mirror; transfixed the way Paige had been, and immediately loathed the fact she would have to share what was now her most prized possession.

One day, a few weeks later, after Riley had sadly given up the dress after her designated week (she now wore it virtually non-stop - at one point, when her parents were out of town again, she webcammed her parents with the dress on - but a sweatshirt fit so neatly over it they would never know!), she decided to do some ballet to cheer herself up. As she carefully fitted her tutu over her comfiest yoga pants, she looked across the street to Paige’s house (which she could see into on a clear day) and saw, clear as day, the girl twirling about in the dress.

The dress. Riley wanted it now more than ever. It represented something to her. The dress stood for princesses and dances and dates with cute boys. Even the tutu she was wearing had nothing on the girly sensations that washed over her when she looked down and saw the flared circle enclosing her delicate legs.

So what did she do? She stole it. After a late-night pedicure session at Paige’s, she took the dress, and hid it in her bedroom, saving it for a night home alone.

When that night came, Riley was jubilant, and Paige seethed with anger. The former finally would get an opportunity to slip into the outfit that had dominated her thoughts for four days. The latter found the dress missing, and had no idea where it went. Paige’s every moment was filled with dread that her parents had found her out, but she breathed a sigh of relief when she glanced across the street and saw her best friend’s hourglass silhouette in the window dressed in a black skirt.

But at the same time, Paige was not overly thrilled either. Her best friend had taken the dress from her, and it was her week to wear it. Betrayal! Angrily, Paige stalked over to Riley’s house aiming to teach her a lesson. But a better idea crossed her mind.

So what did she do? She stole the dress back. She waited for an opportune moment, and took the dress and returned it to her bedroom and hid it in her closet, confident Riley couldn’t find it.

But she did. And suddenly everything had changed. Both began freely stealing the dress from one another, the week-at-a-time system be damned. And so the subtle element of distrust crept into Paige and Riley’s relationship, and for seven long months they kept it inside, until one late November morning when their parents were out of town again when out of nowhere Riley threw the door to Paige’s bedroom open and yelled...

“Where’s the dress, Paige?”

Stunned, Paige played dumb, trying to keep up an illusion that had disappeared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you had it.”

“No! I don’t! Give it to me!”

“Well, you’re going to have to take it from me, then!” A sassy tone infected Paige’s voice, and she tossed her lengthening hair. “And besides, I need it.”

“Well, I need it too, probably more than you!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m coming out to my parents at Thanksgiving dinner!” The words burst from Riley’s mouth like a shotgun blast, even moreso because Paige had been planning on doing the same thing.

Paige again tried to hide her intentions from her friend. “Don’t you think the dress is a little overkill? Why don’t you go with something light? Like a fall theme - jeans and a jacket?”

“Paige,” Riley said adamantly, “that dress is the prettiest thing I own, and when I talk to my parents, I don’t want them mistaking me in any way for a boy.”

This moved Paige, and she revealed her own idea of coming out, which also involved the dress.

“Now this is a problem,” Riley ventured.

“It really is.”

“I want to wear the dress, and so do you.”

“That’s what I’m gathering from this.”

“So who’s going to?”

“I don’t know.”

Their conversation had gone nowhere. Both wanted their coming-outs to be perfect. Both Paige’s and Riley’s parents were writers, and both were always travelling, so neither had any intent of budging from their zero-hour date in which they would reveal their true selves.

“We have to settle this in a fair way,” Paige declared.

“And that would be?”

“A competition of some sorts.”

“Alright, what kind?”

“It has to be a girly competition.”

“Absolutely!”

“I’ve got it!” A light bulb went off in Paige’s head; she had a girly game she and Riley could play that could fairly decide which of them could wear the beautiful dress on the big night.

And, like everything about the saga of the dress, it was bizarre.

“Here’s the game,” Paige explained to her girlfriend. Both wore girly jackets and jeans as they stepped into Mrs. Vanderlay’s two pairs of high heels.

“Only you could have thought of this!” Riley chuckled. It seemed like, with the dress situation out in the open, she and Paige’s relationship was back to normal again.

The two girls surveyed the length of Paige’s living room. “Ten times. Back and forth. In high heels.” Paige said. “Winner wears the dress, loser may wear whatever they please. Deal?”

“I don’t know how you put me up to this, but alright then,” Riley laughed.

So the two girls raced. Each walked deliberately, back and forth, the length of the living room, stumbling occasionally, but never falling down. Riley grabbed the early lead, at one point gaining almost a full room-length on Paige, but she stumbled and Paige was back in the twenty-length race.

Back and forth the girls strutted, looking like idiots, laughing, giggling at the absurdity of it all, forgetting their quarrel and once again feeling like girlfriends rather than basic bitches.

They headed into the home stretch. “I’ve got you now!” Riley exclaimed. She set her eyes on the end of the living room for the final time when Paige picked up steam.

“That... dress... is... mine!” she shrieked with laughter, and she and Hannah dove into the fireplace that marked the end of the room, out of their minds with hysterics, and called it a tie.

“Let’s flip for it, I guess,” Riley shrugged when the laughter subsided.

“We don’t want a repeat of last time, remember? Our friendship was almost...”

“It won’t happen again.” She cut Paige off, pulled a quarter out her pocket, and examined it. Tiredly, Paige removed her jacket, and stood in only her bra and jeans.

Riley flipped the coin. It sailed in the air for an eternity, and she waited anxiously for it to hit the ground. But it never did. She looked directly at Paige’s closed fist, and then turned to look at what her friend saw: their parents, home early.

And as their parents froze in place, Riley seized the dress from its hanger, pulled down her jeans, stepped into it, walked over, and pecked her father on the cheek, sashaying upstairs in the dress both her and Paige would happily wear to parties, proms, and first dates for years to come...