(Copyright 2008)
Prologue
There was gentleness about Jarod that was obvious to anyone who cared to notice; but, of course, few ever noticed Jarod, and that was how he liked it. He moved always with a soft step, almost a lilt. At Franklin D. Roosevelt High School Jarod rarely raised his hand in class, and when he was called upon he always seemed to have the correct answer. As much as he tried to retire into the background and not to display his easy ability to be “smart” in class, teachers learned to call upon him, since he always knew the answers. That meant he would face the derision of many of his bored or sinister-appearing classmates in the high school he attended in a middle-sized, decaying former factory town.
Jarod had reached his junior year in high school and age 16 having made only few close friends. Perhaps his closest and most enduring friend was Wanda, a truly lovely, athletic straw-haired blonde who lived next door and was a year older. Wanda and her family had moved into the neighborhood during the summer when Jarod turned 11 and was about to enter the 6th Grade. Their friendship began as one of convenience, since Wanda was new to the neighborhood and needed a playmate and Jarod had found no lasting friends through the first 11 years of his life.
Jarod was not the shortest boy of his age, but he was slender, and often called “skinny.” His once blonde hair had turned darker, bordering on brown and he wore it long, flowing to his narrow shoulders. Sometimes on warm days, he tied his hair in two pigtails, letting the two loose flowing strands to run down the sides of his head.
His mother would caution him: “Jarod, pigtails are for girls.” To which the boy would respond: “Ah mom, boys wear their hair every which way now.”
His only outdoor recreational activity that summer had been to ride his bike, a sturdy mountain-bike style that his mother bought at a bargain price at the local discount superstore. He loved to ride his bike the two miles to the lakefront, and bike the roadways, watching the swimmers and beach lovers. He took these lonely bike hikes whenever he could, but always after warnings from his mother to “be careful,” and to “watch out for ruffians,” as she called them. The “ruffians” were indeed a problem, since Jarod’s shortest bike route took him down Brinston Road, a neighborhood known for gangs and other troublemakers. Jarod was hardly a sturdy enough boy to handle such challenges. So he took rode through the Highlands neighborhood, where lawyers and doctors tended to live, and he could marvel at the wide lots, curving driveways and lovely large homes, all about 50 years old.
On warm days, he wore a pair of tight-fitting, sweat shorts that ended just above the knee, and either a tee shirt or tank top, which exposed his slender shoulders and skinny, soft arms. Soon Wanda would join him on these rides.
His mother had been the first neighbor to welcome the new family, taking over a batch of peanut butter cookies she had baked to introduce herself to Wanda’s mother. She learned the family name was Highsmith.
“Thank you, and please call me Helen,” volunteered the new neighbor as she accepted the cookies. “And what may I call you?”
“I’m Nancy Pinkerton,” his mother, told her.
“May I give you a cup of coffee?”
Jarod’s mother accepted and the two women began an easy and friendly conversation. Immediately it was obvious the two women were going to be warm friends.
“We have a daughter,” Helen said. “Her name’s Wanda. She’s going into 7th grade next semester. I see you have a daughter, too. How old is she?”
“A daughter?” his mother asked, hesitating. “No, I have a son, Jarod. He’s 11 and going into 6th grade.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Highsmith, who reddened in embarrassment. “I thought … ah …”
Jarod’s mother quickly interrupted, seeking to halt her new neighbor’s embarrassment over mistaking Jarod for a girl. She knew he was looking more and more girlish, it seemed.
“No, Helen. That’s my Jarod. I’m afraid he needs a haircut and for some reason he likes to tie his hair in pigtails.”
“Nancy, I’m sorry for the mistake. I . . . ah . . . just thought there’d be a nice playmate for Wanda.”
“No worry, Helen. Jarod sometimes is thought to be a girl; he’s a bit thin for a boy, I guess. But I would like that very much if Wanda would like to meet him. He needs some friends.”
“I saw some rough looking kids across the street,” Helen said.
“Yeah, Jarod rarely plays with them, but there are some younger girls living next door to us in the other side-by-side.”
“Oh nice,” Helen said.
“The little girls’ mother, Amy, keeps an eye on Jarod for me while I’m at work and he often keeps the little girls occupied. That helps their mother out a bit, too.”
It appeared obvious that the two women would have a budding friendship. It was natural, too, since they both seemed to have similar backgrounds. Wanda’s parents were both professors at the local liberal arts college, while Jarod’s mother taught English at the local community college.
Chapter One: Jarod Finds Three Playmates
Jarod never knew his father, his mother having given birth to Jarod three months after his father had fled the scene, apparently fearful of facing the responsibility of raising a child.
“Your father was a musician,” his mother told him on his 14th birthday, finally informing Jarod of the full story of his conception and explaining how her teenage fascination with the long-haired scruffy lead guitar player led her into a starry-eyed, but misguided adventure. “I have no idea where he is now. He never contacted me after he left.”
His mother’s resourcefulness had been remarkable, Jarod later realized. She had been “kicked out” of her parent’s home at 17, when she became pregnant, finding refuge in the home of the understanding parents of a girl friend. She completed her last semester of high school as her stomach ballooned, graduated with a good grade point average and gave birth two weeks later on June 23rd, Jarod’s birthday, and coincidentally the day she turned 18.
Though desiring to be an artist, she realized she had to work, finding an office job, juggling child care duties and even eventually entering college. By the time she was 25 she had graduated from the state university branch in the city with a degree in English. After several years as a personnel assistant for a large company, she returned to college, taking several years to gain her masters’ degree; that eventually opened opportunities to teach and for the last ten years she had been teaching English to adults at the community college, many of whom were hoping to get their G.E.D.
“I wanted to take art,” she told Jarod during the summer he turned 14. “But I knew I had to raise you, and get a good income, something artists don’t have.”
“Mommy, you should have done that, you’re so artistic,” Jarod said.
Indeed, their side-by-side duplex had samples of his mother’s work hung on the wall, including a startlingly realistic charcoal drawing of the city’s skyline and a watercolor of St. Gabriel’s Basilica.
“And Jarod, honey, you are so artistic, even more so than mommy,” she told him.
“Not really mommy, I can’t draw or paint.”
“Oh but look at the nice stories and poems you write; that’s being artistic.”
She hugged him, drawing his slender body tightly against hers, patting his head gently.
He loved his mother’s scents; her clothes smelled slightly of lilacs, due to the mild cologne she wore and the soaps she used in the bathroom. She was a fairly tall woman, given to a modest fleshiness that was distributed evenly and not unattractively on her person. “I have to lose some weight,” Jarod would often hear her complain, but he loved his mother as she was.
He loved to cuddle next to her on the living room as they watched a movie or read a book together, to feel comfort and safety in her soft flesh. Her round face was lightly freckled and her light brown hair was shoulder length and straight with a small bob at the end. In spite of her tendency to put on weight, his mother had always been strong for a woman, and one summer had even worked construction.
The two shared something else, a compulsion for neatness and order. Their side-by-side duplex was always clean and sparkling, and they found joy in cleaning and vacuuming and dusting at least once a week.
Even as a toddler, Jarod had shown a desire to put things in order, to keep his few toy cars in a neat line, or stored properly in the toy garage. He was not a typical boy, and usually was content to sit still, rather than run about as he grew up. At a garage sale, one warm weekend when he was four, Jarod had pestered his mother into buying a Barbie doll that some family was selling; the Barbie was a bit bedraggled, hair badly mussed, and the accompanying wardrobe was incomplete. Since the family had put a price tag of $3 on it, his mother agreed to buy it.
Barbie became “princess” in Jarod’s life and in Jarod’s young voice she was called, “Printhess.” With his mother’s help the two restored Princess to close to her original beauty, and found some more clothes for her at another rummage sale. And Princess became Jarod’s playmate for years to come.
“Why don’t you play with your cars?” his mother asked him many times.
“Because Printhess would be lonely then, and she doesn’t like to play cars,” he would explain.
One day, he asked his mother: “Can you fix Printhess hair?”
“Sure honey. How would you like it done?”
“Like this, mommy,” he said producing a drawing with a little girl with pigtails.
“You mean with pigtails?”
“Yes. Yes. Give Printhess pigs.”
“No honey, pigtails.”
In a few minutes, she had tied the doll’s hair into two short pigtails that protruded out from the back of the doll’s head.
Soon, to his mother’s despair, she found herself buying another Barbie at another garage sale and a few weeks later still another Barbie. Suddenly, she was feeling concern, watching her son develop into his own little imaginary world, populated by himself (he called himself “Jane”) and the three dolls which he named”Printhess,” “Tammy” and “Debbie.”
They played as three girl friends, going shopping, skipping rope and dressing and undressing themselves. His mother could hear the boy talking, creating three different voices, all thin and high-pitched. She was astounded as she listened, since he seemed to be creating different stories each time he played with the dolls.
“I’m the mommy,” he explained one day to his mother as he sat on the couch, flanked by the two dolls, acting as if he was reading to them.
In truth, though he was only five at the time, he was holding his favorite child’s book, “The Three Bears and Goldilocks,” turning the pages and repeating the story almost word for word as he had heard it dozens of times from his own mother. It was as if he could read and, of course, he couldn’t. He was telling the story completely from memory.
Jarod’s closeness to his mother grew through his childhood years, and he soon became interested as he watched his mother at the sewing machine. His mother’s time at the sewing machine had become her time to relieve stress after her work at the community college. She favored making one-piece dresses, having become a whiz at the sewing machine, thus saving money in the early years of Jarod’s life.
On a whim one day when Jarod was seven, she called him over to the sewing machine.
“What would you like me to sew for you, Jarod?”
“What, mommy? You want to sew me?” the boy said, puzzling over her question.
“No honey, I want to make you some clothes, like a shirt or pants. What would you like?”
Jarod seemed puzzled for a moment, finally he answered: “I want a dress, just like Printhess has on.”
He held up his favored Barbie doll, who was in a light blue baby doll dress, complete with puffed sleeves and of mid thigh length.
“Only make it pink, mommy,” he said.
“You want a dress, Jarod?”
“No, mommy. Jane wants a dress. It’s for her,” the boy said, indicating it was for his feminine alter ego.
“But, boys like you don’t wear dresses, honey,” she said, taking Jarod now, setting him on her lap, hugging him.
“But it’s for Jane,” he persisted.
His mother relented. How could she refuse? He was so earnest about dressing the part of Jane, with the two Barbie dolls. She found a dress pattern, took Jarod’s measurements and soon was busy making the dress. She began the project with great enthusiasm, knowing how cute Jarod would look in a dress and how much he wanted it; soon, however, she realized that encouraging his desires to dress like a girl could become a habit and lead to problems as he grew older.
“Mommy,” he pestered her in the days while she was making the dress, “When is Jane’s dress ready? Jane wants her dress.”
“Honey, be patient.”
“Amy and Debbie want Jane to have a dress,” he said simply, matter of factly.
His mother told herself this was “all play,” but still did some research on the internet about boys who like to play with dolls. There was a chance, she was finding, that Jarod may indeed be transgendered, but there was also a good chance he was just “playing,” and finding joy mainly because he lived alone with his mother and had no male role model. He’ll grow out of it, she reasoned, though not with conviction.
She began the project in late April, just as she was busiest at the college, grading papers for finals and writing proposals for her next semester teaching schedules. She stayed up late on a Friday night, finishing the dress, planning to surprise Jarod with it the next day.
“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” squealed Jarod the next morning as he saw his mother bring the dress out. “Is that for Jane?”
“Yes, honey, that’s Jane’s dress.”
He was elated, and ran to his room to get his two Barbie dolls. Bringing them back, holding them gently in each arm, he said, “Look Printhess. Look Tammy. Look Debbie. Here’s Jane’s new dress, almost like yours Printhess.”
She told him that before he could wear such a nice dress, he had to have a bath. She fixed him a nice bubble bath, the kind he liked so much and had wanted to share with his two dolls, but his mother soon talked him out of that idea.
“Mommy, I need real clothes for Jane,” he told her, as she started to help him back into his underwear after the shower.
“You have the dress darling,” she said, not sure what he wanted.
“No, mommy, not these,” he said, pushing away the boy’s briefs she was trying to putt on him. “Real clothes, like Printhess has.”
He picked up the doll, pulling her dress up and pointed to her panties. “Like these, mommy.”
“No these will be ok for now, Jarod. Put these on,” she insisted.
“No. Jane can’t wear those.”
Suddenly, she had a full-fledged tantrum on her hands; Jarod rarely fussed, but for some reason he had found it important that he dress fully as a girl would, even if he was only playing with dolls.
Jarod refused to put on the dress, even though he loved it, until he had panties and a cami or slip to wear under it. Finally, his mother relented, driving down to a nearby Target store with him to buy several pairs of little girls panties. Jarod insisted on picking them out, and he found cotton panties with pretty bunnies on them.
“You’re adorable,” his mother said out loud, but to herself, when she finally had Jarod dressed. He wanted his hair brushed, fixed and made into pigtails.
“You mean pigtails like we fixed for Printhess?”
“Yes mommy. Pigtails.”
“But, honey, pigtails are for girls.”
“I know, but Jane wants pigtails and she’s a girl, mommy.”
Nancy knew she could no longer argue with her son’s logic, since he seemed to accept the idea that he was “Jane” sometimes.
“Well, you have long enough hair. Let’s see what I can do with it.”
She was able to twist the strands of his hair to create two pigtails, sticking out either side of his head and drooping down slightly in a curl. When she was done, she had him stand back so she could look at him.
“There you are, my sweet. I must say you look so cute, now.”
And he did look exactly like a pretty little girl.
“Mommy, Jane loves you,” he said, jumping up and down eagerly, running to kiss her.
Soon, he was on the floor playing at the makeshift house he had created out of cardboard boxes for Printhess, Tammy and Debbie. His mother was astonished at the sight; all she could see was a pretty little girl, a very dainty, slim little girl, all pink and white and feminine. Could this be her son? What had she done?
*****
A year later, during the summer when he turned eight, Jarod began to sew, using his mother’s machine. His mother gave him scraps to sew with, and he struggled to make a dress for Printhess, a project that his mother had to finish. He knew it was not typical for a boy to sew, but he found he liked it. He had gained an interest in sewing while watching his mother late at night work intensely on the machine, smiling and whistling to herself as she worked. The machine was in her bedroom and Jarod would lie on her bed, which carried his mother’s sweet lilac smell, and read, or draw, or color in his books.
He hated summers, when there was no school. Until Wanda moved next door, he made no close friends. The Modjeska twins, Michael and Milton, lived across the street and were his age, but they were rough, and always wanted to tease Jarod, calling him a sissy because he didn’t want to wrestle or play “soldier” with them.
Michael Modjeska always was quick to punch Jarod in the arm, quick, sharp punches. Even though the twins were six months younger, they were both bigger and stronger, and they found ways to harass Jarod every time they were together. Jarod was poor at baseball or soccer, so he steered clear of the makeup neighborhood games.
During the summer when he turned 10, he asked his mother if he could make a dress.
“I’ve watched you, mommy, and I can do it. I know I can. I can do it,” he pleaded.
“Oh Jarod, you don’t want to do that,” she said.
“Yes, mommy, please. I do. I do.” His voice was thin and high registered, and he was often mistaken for a girl when he answered the phone, not an unusual happening for boys before their voices change.
Nancy Pinkerton looked at her son; she loved him so much. He had become her close companion, and except for Karen, a co-worker with whom she’d become close, her only companion. Despite receiving many bids for dates, Nancy had not become serious with any other men, pleading that she had to remain close to her son.
“You’re such a beautiful son,” she replied. “And you help mommy so much. If you want to sew, I can’t see why you can’t.”
The two of them went to the fabrics store and found a scrap of a floral pattern in pinks and purples on the $1 sale table. “There, Jarod,” his mother said, “you can practice on that.”
“Mommy, that would make a nice skirt for you,” he said, his excitement flowing.
“Oh I don’t know if there’s enough cloth there,” she said.
“But mommy, it’s so pretty.”
“Ok,” she agreed. “But you’ll have to make it for a girl, since there’s not enough cloth for my size, which is an ‘8.’”
“Thank you, mommy, after it’s done we can give it to Goodwill or something. I just think it would make a pretty skirt.”
Chapter Two: Frolicking at Amy’s
It took Jarod nearly two weeks to work on the skirt; even though he was only ten she felt comfortable leaving him alone at home. Mrs. Tankersley in the adjoining side-by-side unit was a stay at home mother, having a two and a four year old, and agreed to look in on Jarod during the day; he would be around to assist with her children, both girls. Thus, the first month of Jarod’s summer was filled that year with playing dolls and simple games and occupying the attention of the Tankersley girls, Emily and Angela. He found great fun in showing the younger girls how to make the dolls look pretty; he also taught them how to draw pictures with crayons, without using a coloring book. Then, he’d retreat back to his own unit where he spent perhaps several hours a day working on the skirt, and other sewing projects. Sometimes, he would curl up and read.
It was Emily, the four-year-old, who came up with the idea that when they played dolls that Jarod should be their aunt. “Be Aunty Jane,” she said to Jarod.
“No, honey,” her mother objected having overheard the suggestion. “He’s Jarod. He’s a boy and can’t be an aunty.”
“Aunty Jane, mommy. She’s Aunty Jane,” the child protested.
It was obvious the child cared nothing about gender, having no idea that it was strange to have a boy play with the dolls.
“Oh, Mrs. Tankersley, that’s OK. It’s just play.” Jarod responded, not wanting to upset the child.
“Are you sure it’s OK, Jarod?”
“Who’s to know, except us?” he responded.
So, Jarod became known as “Aunty Jane” by the girls next door. He found he liked the idea and even toyed with dressing up someday in his mother’s clothes and come to play as their “Aunty Jane.”
“Is he a bother to you, Amy?” his mother asked after the first week of summer
“Oh no, Nancy, he plays so nice with the girls,” Mrs. Tankersley, whose name was Amy, told his mother.
As she chatted with Amy, she watched Jarod with the girls. They were all three deep in concentration on playing with the dollhouse, arguing quietly about what one of the dolls should wear.
With his longish, light brown hair which now hung to his shoulders, she realized he looked so much like a girl. His slender legs, unmuscled and smooth, were tucked under him in a girlish manner, and his truly pretty hands were dressing one of the dolls, most daintily.
Later at home, Jarod went immediately to the sewing machine, finishing the hemming on his skirt by the time supper was ready.
“Mommy, mommy, I finished it,” he said running into the kitchen with the garment.
He held it before himself, as if to model it.
“What do you think? Isn’t pretty, mommy? Isn’t it?”
His mother put down the pot she was holding in amazement.
“Darling, it’s lovely,” she smiled.
“But supper’s ready now and we can look at it closer after we eat. Now take it back to the bedroom and then we can talk about it later.”
“But mommy, isn’t it pretty, mommy?”
“Yes, honey, now take it back and wash your hands and come to the table.”
His enthusiasm so pleased her, and for the second time in a couple of hours she realized how much he looked like a girl. Jarod hurried through his supper, and his mother knew he was eager to get back to the skirt.
“Don’t you want any ice cream?” she asked, as he began to get up from his chair and excuse himself from the table.
“No, mommy. I just wanna show you the skirt now.”
His mother smiled, and decided to skip dessert herself; her own son’s enthusiasm was enough “dessert” for her, she decided.
“Mommy, stay there. I want to surprise you,” he said, as he left the room and bounded up the stairs.
He was gone for more than 15 minutes and when he finally appeared in the kitchen, Nancy Pinkerton was shocked. Standing before her was perhaps the cutest 10-year-old girl she had ever seen. Jarod wore the pink skirt; it went to mid-thigh, flaring out in folds of pink cloth from a belted midsection. For a top, he wore a light blue girl’s tank top that his mother had found for him at a rummage sale and purchased for 50 cents at his urging. He wore black Mary Jane shoes with short white anklets and with his slender, soft white arms exposed Jarod looked so cute, his mother thought.
“Mommy, meet Jane,” he said.
He stood there with his hairbrush in his hand and two ribbons; his hair was flowing awkwardly.
“Jane is so pretty,” she said, not wanting to use his boy’s name, trying to keep his boy identity separate from his role-playing as a girl.
“Can you help me with my hair, mommy? I want pigtails.”
“You sure you want pigtails?”
“Yes, you said pigtails are for girls, and Jane is a girl.”
Nancy Pinkerton smiled, and took the hairbrush from him, drawing him over to the kitchen chair, sitting him down, and beginning to brush his hair. She now was feeling warm and close to this child, this son of hers who was quickly becoming a girl right before her eyes.
“There, Jane, look at yourself,” she said when she was finished, steering him to the mirror in the hallway.
“I’m Jane,” he said, a bemused look on his face. He said nothing more, merely looking at himself.
“You know what, Jane,” she said. “You need some makeup on your face.”
“Oh mommy, yes, I do.
She led him into her bedroom, sitting him on her bed. She got her lipstick, eye shadow and liner and mascara, and began to apply all of it, using her artistic talents in a most precise way. She was shocked to realize she was enjoying making Jane a very pretty young girl.
“There,” she said, turning his face to the mirror. “What do you think?”
“Mommy, mommy,” he said excitedly. “You made Jane so pretty. Just like I wanted her to be.”
“Honey, do you like it?”
“Yes, mommy. I like it.”
“Now, Jane,” Nancy said slowly, carefully to her son. “This is just play, honey. We won’t tell anyone about this, OK? Not Mrs. Tankersley or the girls or anyone, OK?”
Jarod looked at his mother for a minute. “I won’t, mommy.”
“Boys don’t dress like girls, honey. We’re doing this just for play.”
“I know mommy.”
He was quiet for a minute. Tears began welling in his eyes, and he wiped them with his tiny hands.
“What’s wrong, honey?” his mother asked. “Isn’t this what you wanted to do?”
“Oh yes, mommy. Yes.”
He paused again for a moment, and Nancy Pinkerton joined her son as they both looked in the mirror, looking like a handsome young woman with her lovely daughter. She held him tightly, twisting his pigtails lovingly with her fingers.
The boy’s tears subsided, and soon a smile appeared on his face.
“Mommy, why can’t I be a girl?”
“Because you were born a boy.”
“I know, mommy. I like being a girl so much.”
She hugged him, enjoying this as a special moment, but beginning to worry about this lovely child’s future. Nancy Pinkerton couldn’t imagine him being forced to be out in the world of rough boys, but he was soon approaching an age where the reality of his gender would become a cruel truth to both of them.
Chapter Three: “Aunty Jane”
“Jane. Jane.” It was Mrs. Tankersley and Jarod realized she was calling to him.
“Yes, Mrs. Tankersley,” he said, looking up from the floor where he was assisting her two daughters in arranging furniture in their large doll house.
“Oh Jarod, I mean,” she responded, red-faced now at calling the boy the name her daughters had given him.
He smiled. “That’s OK. I like being Aunty Jane when I play here.”
“Honey, you’ve been so good for my girls; they love playing with you.”
“I love playing with them, ma’am. It’s fun. Besides, I get lonely at home.”
Mrs. Tankersley smiled at the boy. He was such an unusual child, so gentle and sweet to her girls, she felt. In a year or two, she was sure, Jarod would be a perfect baby-sitter and she would trust him fully. She mused that he was not at all like the boys she knew, particularly her two brothers who were such roughnecks and “meanies” when they were growing up.
“Well, you’re welcome here anytime,” she said.
“Aunty Jane, Aunty Jane, come play. Fix the furniture.” It was a plea from Emily, the four-year-old.
He turned his attention again to the two girls, carefully examining a tiny couch, showing it to the girls, and with a dainty, light motion, placing it into a cubicle in the doll house. “There, how is that?” he said to the girls, in his high sweet voice.
Mrs. Tankersley thought to herself: He could be the cutest girl.
Her teen friends in high school had considered Amy Tankersley “cute”. All of 5 feet, 3 inches in height, she tended toward a modest chubbiness that foretold her Italian heritage; she was born the fourth of five children to Giacomo and Maria Spaniola. She still wore her full head of dark hair in the same style, a short bob with bangs, she did when she met Bob Tankersley in her junior year and his senior year at their high school. Her hair stylist had told her to change from the “old-fashioned” schoolgirl style, but Amy felt comfortable with it.
Bob, whose father owned half the city it seemed, wooed her with a passion; after her high school graduation they were married in a posh ceremony that nearly caused Giacomo and Maria to divorce, largely due to debts developed in the marriage. Giacomo ran a fruit distribution business and was modestly successful, but the cost of the wedding was astronomical.
Amy’s mother, Maria, had insisted on the large ceremony, if only to show that a middle-class family such as theirs could stage a wedding befitting the son of the wealthy Tankersley family.
Despite the Spaniola’s investment, the marriage itself turned sour quickly. Bob, who had been the typical “frat boy” continued to play, while working for his father, leaving Amy alone many nights. After the birth of Angela, Bob took off for good, divorcing Amy, but leaving her with enough child support so that she could be a stay-at-home mother. He moved from their Midwest hometown on one of the Great Lakes to head up a California office for his father’s business.
Watching Jarod at play with her two young girls, Amy remembered her own schoolgirl years. She discovered makeup at about age 10, the same age that Jarod was now, and always wanted her mother to put her in dresses, rather than jeans or shorts. Oh, how she loved to pose before mirrors, and be feminine. At 10, Amy had the same slender, pretty body that Jarod had now, and she fondly recalled those idyllic childhood years, and the joy she had when her mother helped her become pretty.
Watching Jarod at play, his dainty mannerisms featuring his every move, Amy had the strangest desire: She wanted to dress him up as a pretty little girl. She still had some of her high school clothes hanging in storage, and he’s now about the same size she was then. The clothes would never fit her now, since she had grown from 110 pounds in high school to 160 now at the age of 24.
It was an evil thought, she told herself, but she wondered if Jarod might not like the idea. There was nothing boyish about him; she never saw him out playing with other boys in the neighborhood. He was slender, soft and pale.
Besides, she had known that Jarod had taken up sewing, and spent much time with his own mother. She would talk to Jarod’s mother, Nancy, about her idea someday, she thought.
*****
Later that day, Jarod and Amy took the girls to the tot lot to play, and Jarod, still dressed in his shorts and tank top, joined in frolicking with Emily and Angela, pushing them on the swings, chasing them playfully on the sandy surface of the lot and sliding down the slides. Emily wanted to walk the monkey bars hand-over-hand, but Jarod talked her out of it, afraid he’d embarrass himself; he knew his arms were too weak to cover more than one or two bars.
“You have three lovely daughters,” Amy heard a man say.
She looked up, puzzled at first as she looked at a moderately tall ponytailed man with a goatee.
“Three daughters? No, just the two younger girls,” she said. “The oldest is just a neighbor . . . ah . . . girl who sometimes helps with my girls.”
“That’s my girl there,” the man said, pointing to a blonde, pigtailed girl who was now making herself known to Jarod and the two girls. Jarod looked over to the man, pointing to the swing as if to ask: should her put her on a swing? The man nodded, and Jarod carefully placed the girl on a swing next to Emily. The two began swinging, and yelling “higher, higher, higher,” as Jarod pushed gently from behind.
“That’s my Jessica,” the man said.
Amy felt obliged to name her girls. “That’s Emily, the oldest, and Angela, who wants to keep up with Emily and it sometimes means a fight. But, with the help of Jar . . . ah . . . Jane … they seem to play pretty good together.”
“Your neighbor girl is really good with the kids, I can see that.”
Amy smiled, feeling convinced in her desire to think of Jarod as a girl. “Yes, she is,” Amy replied. “Her mother is alone, too, so we take turns watching out for each other. Jane’s no trouble for me to watch, and she’s such a help.”
Amy watched as the man left the park bench they were sharing and went to help his daughter onto another swing; Jarod was busy trying to keep Angela from straying. He was a relatively tall man, slender, but with an angular, sinewy legs showing beneath his shorts. He wore a red Wisconsin Badger tee shirt that seemed to highlight his light brown hair. She pictured him with yellow, straw-like hair when he was a boy.
The man also moved with gentleness, and handled his daughter with loving care.
“By the way, I’m Jim,” he said.
“Amy. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“You come here often?” Amy asked.
“I have Jessica in the mornings usually, until I have to go to work, and then take her to her mother’s. We’re separated, but we get along OK where Jessica is concerned. So, if the weather’s nice, we’ll be here many mornings.”
“Yes, we come here often. We live on Manford St., two blocks down.”
“Great, Amy. I live in the brown house, across the street from the park. I’ll look for you and if Jessica is with me, we will try to come out and maybe the girls can play together.”
Amy smiled, sensing a possible growing relationship between the two. Her friends had been urging her to “get out,” but so far no man had entered her life since the divorce. Maybe, just maybe, there was a possible candidate in Jim. If there was to be a next time in the park, Amy realized she’d have to fix herself up a bit. She felt she must have looked none too attractive in her mussed Bermuda shorts, dirty sneakers and grey tee-shirt to the handsome gentleman sitting next to her. She also knew she had let herself get a bit too chubby for her frame, and felt embarrassed, thinking the man thought her ugly.
“Come girls, it’s time to go,” she yelled after a while. Jim did the same, calling Jessica to come.
They all protested, including Jarod who found he was having great fun with the girls. But after a hesitation, they all approached the bench, and Amy said, pointing to Jim: “Girls, this is Jim.”
“Me, Angela,” said the youngest girl in her squeaky voice.
“I’m Emily, and this is our friend, Jane,” Emily announced quickly.
Jim looked pleasantly at them, and introduced himself as “Jim,” adding, “And you’ve been playing with Jessica. She’s my daughter.”
“We know, we had fun,” Emily said.
“And nice meeting you, Jane,” Jim said addressing Jarod. “Mom here says you’re a great help with the girls.”
Jarod, know realizing he was “Jane” in everyone’s eyes, blushed. He said nothing.
“Well, you’re all such cute girls,” Jim said.
The two groups parted, after much hugging and girlish giggling among the three girls and Jarod.
Amy had not felt so happy in a long time; she had a perfectly sweet time in the park with the girls and Jarod and with their new friends, Jim and Jessica.
“Too bad, Jarod’s not really girl,” she told herself. “I’ll have to talk to Nancy about that.”
On the way home, Amy could hear Emily say to Jarod: “See, you’re Jane now.”
“OK,” was Jarod’s reply.
Emily continued talking, asking her mother. “Can’t Aunty Jane get a nice dress, too?”
“What, Emily?”
“Yes, mommy, a dress for Aunty Jane. She always dresses like us, and she should be an aunty.”
Jarod blushed, not sure what to say. It was true Jarod usually wore shorts and tank tops or tee-shirts, like his young playmates did.
Amy interrupted: “Oh Emily doesn’t wear dresses, honey. He’s a boy.”
“No, Mommy, he’s Aunty Jane,” she protested.
Amy realized nothing would change the young child’s thinking. Jarod had been playing the role of “Aunty Jane” for so long now that the girl probably couldn’t realize he was a boy.
“Jarod, I’m sorry about that.” Amy said to Jarod. “She seems to know you only as Aunty Jane.”
“That’s OK, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I kinda like being Aunty Jane for the girls.”
Suddenly, the two little girls begin running ahead, and Jarod was tailing after them making sure they didn’t dart in the the street. Amy watched as the three cavorted ahead, finally catching up to them as Jarod held the hands of both little girls, awaiting a break in the traffic. Once they had crossed the street, Amy asked Jarod, “The man at the park thought you were a girl. Do you mind that Emily called you Jane in front of that man?”
“Whatever.”
Jarod’s response was noncommittal, seeming to indicate he didn’t really care, but Amy still thought Jarod loved the idea of being Jane.
“Oh honey, you’re such a sweet boy,” she replied. “I’m glad you like playing with the girls.”
“Mrs. Tankersley,” he said politely. “It’s fun.”
He wanted to tell her that he was thinking of sewing a dress for himself, a dress that would be suited for “Aunty Jane.” Now that he was soon turning eleven years old and about to enter 6th Grade he was beginning to realize that his fascination with dolls and dresses was not typical for boys. Yet, he knew his only real joy was felt when he was dressed as a girl, sewing, playing with his dolls or enjoying times with Emily and Angela.
Interlude
In past summers, he had tried to play with the boys of the neighborhood, but usually ended up being bullied or made the butt of crude jokes about what a big “sissy” he was. He tried to play baseball or football with the other kids, but usually was the last to be chosen, with even Melody Frazier being picked before him. He hated baseball the most, always shaming himself when he came to bat, his weak arms rarely able to move the bat around fast enough to hit the ball. In baseball, the batter was always the focus of attention, all eyes on him as he struggled mightily to get a hit. More than once, he would hear a player on the opposing team tell their pitcher: “He swings like a girl. He can’t hit.” And, there became constant taunts of “Hey, girly, girly. Hey girly, girly.”
In one game, he came up with bases loaded, two outs and, true to form, he struck out, only to hear the others on his makeup team complain: “Who picked him for the team?” Another boy asked the captain: “Why didn’t you choose that girl first?” referring to a tiny girl who was the last chosen for the opposing team and who had two hits.
Of course, Jarod was stuck in right field, where the presumption was he’d do the least harm defensively. In truth, he had mastered the ability to judge and catch a fly ball, but his throws were too weak to be of help. “You throw like a girl,” he was told more often than not.
After the ballgame in which he struck out, he came home crying, saying to his mother: “I’m no good. Why can’t I be a girl?”
She comforted him as well as she could, but being a single mother and not having a male role model in the house, she felt helpless to strengthen his masculinity. Instead, she found Jarod growing more interested in his sewing and in writing stories and poetry. (To be continued)
Chapter Four: A Growing Talent
So far this had been the happiest summer of Jarod’s young life. He had so much fun playing with Amy’s two young daughters, showing them how to properly dress their dolls, and giving them ideas about how set up their dollhouse. What also made the summer so special was that Jarod was becoming more skillful at the sewing machine, and when he was working on the machine, the hours seemed to flow easily and happily.
It was a summer, too, that sheltered him from having to brave the neighborhood boys and their taunts. He no longer felt the desire to join the play outside, the running and punching and roughhousing in which he felt so afraid and inadequate. He no longer had to face the humiliation of being the most pathetic player in the make-up ballgames.
On the afternoon following the events at the play lot where he had been mistaken for a girl, Jarod returned to the house convinced that he would truly like to be a girl; indeed, the idea of being Emily’s and Angela’s “aunty” had excited him. At ten years old, he realized he could easily be an “aunty” of girls aged two and four; many aunts were often just a few years older than their nieces or nephews, he knew.
What would a ten-year-old aunt wear, he wondered?
Jarod knew his mother had some old pattern catalogs in a cabinet near the sewing machine, and Jarod rummaged through the cabinet, finally finding several. They were from about 15 years earlier, but he quickly went to the children’s dress section, and later to the sub-teens section.
He was looking at a sundress pattern, imagining how he’d look in the dress, when his concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Amy, the girl’s mother, and he was still carrying the pattern book when he opened the door.
“Jarod, I’m just checking on you to see if you’re OK,” she said.
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs. Tankersley,” he said. As had been his mother’s agreement with the neighborhood, she would check on the 10-year-old Jarod from time-to-time as long as he would assist with the young girls.
“What are you doing, Jarod?” she asked, as was her typical question.
“Oh nothing,” he said, realizing he was holding the pattern book.
“Is that a pattern book?” she asked.
“Ah . . . er . . . yes.”
“Let me see that. It looks familiar.”
Jarod handed it over, the booklet still folded open to the page he had been viewing.
“Oh Jarod,” she said, taking it and giving it a quick look. “I used that same book when I was a girl and learned to sew. I even made a few dresses from it.”
Jarod was feeling embarrassed now, not sure how to respond. But, Amy Tankersley looked at him without any seeming judgment, and with what appeared to be a sincere interest in the dress pattern book. She now looked more closely at the page to which the booklet was folded open.
“That’s a pretty dress,” she said, pointing to the pattern for a sundress, which was designed obviously for girls from about age 10 to about 14.
“I know you do some sewing, Jarod, Right?” she asked.
“Um . . . um . . . mom showed me how.”
“Do you like it?”
“I guess,” he said, with some hesitation.
“I loved doing it when I was a girl, too,” she said, suddenly realizing her statements seemed to infer that Jarod was a girl.
Jarod was quick now to respond. “Mom says boys can sew too.”
“Oh Jarod, of course,” she said.
Jarod took the book back, and was hoping Mrs. Tankersley was going to return home after checking in on him. His mother was due home shortly from her summer school teaching assignment.
“Jarod, I really became quite good at sewing. I’d be glad to help you sometime if you want me to.”
“Thank you,” he said, closing the door, as the woman returned to her next-door unit.
Jarod began to cry when the door closed, running to his room and jumping on his bed, curling up as the tears flowed down his face. He caressed his left arm with his right hand, feeling the slender, soft smooth skin, realizing how much he wished he could be a girl. Life would be so simple then, never having to try to be muscular or strong; he would be free to enjoy the beauty of colors and the sweetness of gentle behaviors.
Finally, the tears stopped, and Jarod found an irresistible urge to dress in the skirt he had sewn for himself, along with an old blouse of his mother’s and her sandals.
He was in his mother’s bedroom, completing his dress-up, brushing his hair and putting on a pretty pink hair clip when he heard the backdoor open. It was his mother, he realized, coming home earlier than she had said she would. Where could he go, knowing she’d head straight for the bedroom, to get into more casual clothes?
“Jarod, honey, I’m home,” she announced loudly from the kitchen.
Within seconds, she was in the bedroom, as Jarod was awkwardly and unsuccessfully trying to figure out how to undress in a hurry.
“My, what have we here?” she said, as she stood in the doorway. “What a sweet little girl!”
“Oh mommy, mommy, I’m sorry . . . I won’t ever . . .”
“Isn’t she cute?” his mother said.
Jarod began to cry, and tried to bolt from the room, but his mother caught him at the door, holding him hard, actually hurting his arm as she led him back into the room.
“Now sit nicely in the chair,” she said firmly, pointing to a reading chair she had in the room.
“But, mommy . . .” he continued to plead, but his mother just held up her hand, as if to silence him, and he said nothing. She sat down on the vanity chair in the room, removing her shoes, and letting out a moan of satisfaction at freeing her aching feet. He watched as she stepped out of her skirt, and removed her top, revealing his mother’s trim figure, neatly fitted into full white satin panties and a white matching bra, with lace. She made no attempt to hide her near nakedness from him, and he watched with great interest.
She then put on a pair of light blue shorts and a tee shirt with a university logo. She removed the pins from her hair, and it flowed freely, making his mother look so free and lively.
“Now, young lady,” she said to Jarod. “That’s no way for a girl to sit. Put your legs together so boys can’t see up your skirt.”
Jarod blushed, having been addressed as “young lady.” He obeyed, very primly putting his legs together, and sitting with his hands in his lap.
“Now, that’s my girl,” his mother said approvingly.
“But, mommy, I’m not a girl,” he said.
“Oh, you’re not? I thought I saw a girl in my bedroom now.”
“Mommy, I was just playing. I was bored.”
“No, honey, I think you like the idea of being a girl.”
Jarod, lowering his head, looked at his small hands, neatly folded in his lap. He nodded “yes” in a very tentative motion. He realized that during these first weeks of summer vacation he dearly loved playing with the two Tankersley girls and sewing his skirt. He often pictured himself in lovely dresses or shorts and tank tops, looking very slender and pretty.
“Well, then we’ll have to make you look like a real girl,” she said. “I don’t want you stealing any of my clothes, or makeup or using my hair brush again.”
“I’m sorry mommy.”
“So, we’ll have to get you your own dresses and skirts and tops and shoes,” she said.
“But mommy, I’m a boy.”
“So you are, but a very pretty boy.”
She smiled, telling him to get up and come sit next to her on the vanity. She hugged him as he sat down and directed his attention to the mirror, asking him tell her what he saw in the mirror.
“A mommy . . .” he said, stopping.
“And her daughter,” his mother finished the sentence.
Jarod smiled, and his mother took him in her arms, hugging him tenderly, brushing his flowing hair as she did so.
“What she we call you, my daughter dear? You can’t be Jarod in a dress.”
“I don’t know, mommy.”
“Mrs. Tankersley told me the girls call you ‘Aunty Jane.’ Why not call you Jane or Janey?”
“Oh that’s just in play, mommy.”
“Don’t you like Jane?”
“Oh yes, mommy. I like it.”
“Well then you’re my Jane.” She kissed him and Jarod felt safe and content in the arms of his mother, finding peace in her embrace and joy at being her “daughter,” at least some of the time.
Chapter Five: Mother Knows Best
His mother didn’t tell Jarod about the conversation she had with Amy Tankersley a few days earlier. She had returned from her teaching session in the mid-afternoon, and saw Jarod playing with the two little girls on the swing sets behind the Tankersley unit. Jarod was playing hide-and-seek with the girls, chasing them, his arms moving energetically as he ran. He was wearing what appeared to be girl’s shorts and a pink tee shirt. His long hair was tied into two pigtails with pink ribbons, matching the pigtails on Emily and Angela.
High-pitched giggles and squeals were emanating from all three as they frolicked, and Nancy Pinkerton could not help but see again how feminine her young son was becoming.
As she walked to the house, she yelled “Hi Jarod,” and Emily the oldest called back: “He’s Aunty Jane.”
Jarod merely responded with a half-hearted wave, continuing to chase the youngest girl, Angela, faking that he couldn’t catch her, until the tiny girl collapsed in giggles on the ground, leaving Jarod no choice but to tag her.
His mother could see how much joy her son was experiencing in the play, even though it seemed it was all based on his being girlish.
“Oh Nancy,” she turned and saw the girl’s mother coming out of her backdoor. “Let me talk with you if you got time now.”
“Sure, Amy,” she responded, adding that she needed to take her briefcase insite and change into more comfortable clothes.
“When you’re ready come over,” Amy said. “I have some iced tea made, and we can talk and watch the girls . . . ah . . . I mean my girls and Jarod . . . from the kitchen window.”
Nancy Pinkerton smiled, understanding her neighbor’s misstatement, but realizing, too, that the description was not necessarily too far off the mark.
For a young mother, Amy was unusually fastidious. Her kitchen was immaculate, with no unwashed dishes in the sink. The house even smelled clean, no mean feat, Nancy felt, for a mother with two young daughters.
“I’m concerned, Nancy, about whether it’s good for Jarod to be playing over her so much with the girls,” she began after the two were seated, and had exchanged pleasantries.
“Oh, Amy, I hope Jarod hasn’t done anything wrong with them,” she said quickly, worried that her son may have done something nasty, or even sexual.
“Oh no, Nancy. No. No. Jarod’s been a perfect joy, and the girls love him to come over.”
“But what then?”
Amy hesitated: “Well, I hate to say this, but being with the girls so much may be bad influence on him. Bad for Jarod.”
“In what way?” Nancy asked, knowing full well what the answer would be, but her unique skill as a teacher had been the ability to permit people to open up with their thoughts, even if she knew what they were preparing to say.
“To be blunt, he’s acting so much like a girl. And I think he likes it. And, the girls like him when he acts like a girl. They wanted him to be in girl’s stuff, and I found an old pair of shorts and a tee shirt that I wore before I got so fat and that’s what he’s wearing now. And they wanted his hair in pigtails, too.”
“Oh, that’s why he’s dressed that way?”
“Yes, and he didn’t protest at all.”
“And you think that’s bad for him, that he should be out playing ball and romping roughhouse with boys?”
Amy paused, finally answering, “Oh I don’t know. He’s such a sweet boy.”
“I think so, too,” Nancy answered. “Maybe it’s because there’s no man in the household, but he’s always been interested in what I do. He’s even taken up sewing.”
“I know, when I went to check on him the other day, I saw him looking at an old pattern book of dresses.”
Nancy smiled, remembering the book had been left out next to the sewing machine, help open to a page of sub-teen girl dresses.
“Amy, I’m not sure what to do,” she admitted, sipping the tea. “He’s always been teased and bullied by other boys, and you can see he’s not very strong.”
“And he seems so happy here,” Amy said. “He loves to play with the girl’s dolls, and I know he has a couple of his own.”
Nancy smiled. “Do you want me to forbid him to play with the girls, Amy?”
“Oh no, not at all. I’m just concerned for him, but as he gets older, it’ll be so tough for him to act so much like a girl.”
Nancy had been worried, too, about the coming years in her son’s life, when he’d begin middle school and then high school. She wanted him to get a good education and go on to college; he was very bright, it was obvious, and it would be a shame to have that stifled by his own insecurity.
“He seems so happy and comfortable doing girl things,” Nancy said.
“Well, I’m happy to have Jarod here was often as he wants, then. But I just wanted to share with you my thoughts.”
“You’re sweet, Amy. And Jarod adores you and the girls.”
Amy said that the girls would be gone for the first two weeks of July for their annual visitation with their father and his new wife in Colorado, but that she would be home alone then. “I’ll still keep an eye on Jarod for you.”
“Oh that would be so nice of you. I’ll pay you for that, too.”
“Oh I couldn’t accept anything,” Amy said. “Instead, I was going to make a dress in my spare time, and I was hoping Jarod might like to work with me. I used to be good seamstress and I could help him with his sewing.”
“I’m sure he’d like that. I was going to sign him up for day camp for those two weeks, but he hated it last year. He’d come home crying almost every night. I guess he was picked on.”
They finished their tea, and Nancy yelled to her son: “Jane, it’s time to come home now.”
Jarod, giggled along with the girls, and ran to his mother, hugging her hard. She had never seen her son so happy.
*****
Nancy Pinkerton tried to arrange her schedule for the summer so that she could be home with her son as much as possible. She soon realized how difficult that would be, since she assumed a summer school teaching schedule, largely because she needed the money. It meant that two days a week, she’d leave about 7:30 a.m., and Jarod, like most children at that age, was hardly ready to get up. On those days, she would awaken him, get him dressed and sent over to Amy’s before she left.
Two other days, Nancy’s first class wasn’t until 10 a.m., so Jarod would be up and dressed well before she left; she could leave him alone, alerting Amy she was leaving home, with a request to keep an eye on him.
Jarod was eager every day to go over to Amy’s, but he always wanted to wear the shorts and girl’s tee shirt that Amy had found for him.
“Mommy, put ribbons in my hair, too. I want pigtails,” he asked her one early morning as she was darting about the house trying to get herself ready, while feeding him and dressing him for Amy’s.
“No, honey, mommy’s got to go soon.”
“Please, mommy. Please.”
He stood before her, ribbons in his hands, looking so cute that she melted.
“OK, I don’t have time to argue with you. But don’t go outside so the neighborhood can see you like that.”
She tied the two ribbons in to make pigtails; his hair had now grown long enough to make that possible.
“Mommy, I love you. Emily and Angela like me in pigtails.”
Jarod looked so innocent standing before her, his soft complexion and slenderness making him so vulnerable.
“Ok, Jane,” she said, using his newly adopted girl’s name.
That night, when she returned home, she found Jarod playing in the backyard with the two little girls; they were again playing some form of tag, and giggling, and falling down and running about, arms flailing about. Jarod now was in a light blue sundress, with a pair of worn pink Keds she had never seen before.
“What’s this?” she asked Amy, the girl’s mother.
“Nancy, I hope you didn’t mind, but I needed to wash those shorts and tee-shirt Jarod had been wearing,” Amy explained. “I wanted to send him home to put on his own clothes, but the girls wanted him to be dressed like Jane.”
“And I guess Jarod didn’t object.”
“Oh no. He was sad he had no girl’s stuff at home, so I dug deeper in my closets for my old clothes, and found that dress.”
Nancy realized that Amy and Jarod were about the same height, with Amy maybe about an inch taller. She knew that Amy had gained weight in her motherhood, and that she must have been slender when younger.
“Oh he’ll ruin it,” Nancy said.
“No he won’t. He’s not rough on the clothes,” Amy said. “Besides I have some other old clothes I’ll give you for him if you wish.”
As she watched Jarod and the girls play, she saw that he pranced about very lightly, and seemed very careful not to dirty the dress. She almost began to cry, watching her son cavorting about, looking so totally like a young girl.
“Jarod,” she yelled. “Come here. Mommy’s home.”
“She’s Jane,” squealed the high-pitched voice of Emily, as the two skipped over to the two women, holding hands.
“Mommy,” Jarod said, breathing heavily from his running about. “Do you like Jane’s dress?” He twirled about, picking up the hems of the bottom of the dress in a girlish fashion.
“Oh yes, but Jane, it’s time to go home.” She used his girl’s name.
“We love Jane so much,” Emily said, hugging the boy, and laughing.
“OK, but Jane has to go home.”
Amy asked them to wait a minute, while she went into the house to get a black plastic bag. “Here are some of my old clothes, from high school, Nancy. If you want them, I’m sure they’ll fit Jarod.”
“Oh Amy, I can’t pay you much for them,” Nancy said.
“No take them, I’ll never fit in those again. Otherwise, they’re going to charity.”
“Mommy, take them, please,” Jarod said.
“Yes, Nancy,” the girls’ mother said. “If Jarod wants to, he can be dressed pretty all summer long.”
Jarod skipped home, with his mother smiling, realizing she now had a daughter on her hands for the summer, at least.
*****
“Mommy, look at this,” Jarod said when they opened up the bag of clothes. He pulled out a baby doll nightie in sheer pink material, holding it up to himself.
“Oh honey,” Nancy said, growing concerned how fast this young boy was growing girlish and feminine.
“I don’t know about that. We’ll just give some of this back to her.”
“Not this,” he pleaded, holding on to the nightie. “ I want to wear this tonight.”
Nancy was tired from her long week of work, and merely told him to wash up for supper; she told him to sit down and read a book, giving him a book from the Nancy Drew series. She didn’t permit any television until after supper, and then restricted their viewing to a single show.
The boy took the book from her, and moved to the easy chair she had in her room, curling up, legs tucked. Nancy often let Jarod watch as she changed clothes, and he usually read in her chair.
“My daughter Jane,” she mused silently.
*****
It was a muggy day in early July, during the period when Amy Tankersley’s children were away, visiting their father. True to her fashion, she arose early, still thinking she had to get her children up, fed and ready for the day. She awoke almost automatically at 6:30 a.m., as was her custom. Amy was always organized, efficient and prepared; yet, as soon as she sat on the side of her bed, her light blue nightie sagging to the bulge of her heavy breasts and wide hips, she realized she had no children for the day; this was the third day of their two week visit to her ex-husband.
She missed the joys of Emily and Angela, but she also welcomed her few days of respite from the whines and fights and naggings that come with mothering two little girls.
Then she recalled that it was a Tuesday, and her neighbor, Nancy Pinkerton, would be leaving early for her teaching job, and she’d have to look in on her neighbor’s 10-year-old son, Jarod. She had come to enjoy the days when she had to keep on eye on Jarod who, she mused, was the “daughter” any mother would love to have.
Amy had talked long a few days earlier with Nancy about the future for this dainty, pretty boy, who seemed so pleased to be feminine and to dress like a girl. Nancy had given in to her son’s desires, and said he could continue to dress when at home, or when playing with Amy’s two girls.
At 7:30, Nancy rapped on Amy’s door, to announce she was leaving for work.
“Amy,” she said. “Jarod’s had his breakfast, and he’s already on the sewing machine when you’re ready to look in on him.”
“Oh I know he wanted to finish that sundress,” Amy replied.
“But, he’s having trouble with the ruffles.”
“I knew he would. I’ll be over shortly and help him.”
The two women hugged, and Nancy was off to work. Amy felt warmth for Nancy, a feeling the two shared for each other that was probably enhanced by Jarod and his feminine behaviors.
Chapter Six: Mommy’s Concern
Nancy’s unit had air conditioning only in one bedroom, and during the hot summer months, she and Jarod slept in the same room, he on a day bed that had been moved into the room, and Nancy on her bed. More often than not, however, Jarod would climb into bed with his mother, cuddling tightly against her, feeling comfort in the heat and stale smell of her sleeping body. Instinctively, Nancy would embrace the slender boy, caressing him as they cuddled together.
She knew it was not proper for her to encourage this, but, truth be known, she welcomed his presence next to her. When she’d wake to find him tightly against her, she’d tenderly kiss his forehead, or find his lips to brush them with hers. She enjoyed running her hands through his long, light textured brown hair and caressing his slender soft arms.
“My daughter, Jane,” she said to herself so often these days, wondering what to make of this son of hers whose only future seemed to be in becoming a girl.
“At age ten?” she asked Dr. Marjorie Grant, a child psychiatrist she consulted.
Dr. Grant often lectured at the community college where Nancy taught, and one night in the break room, Nancy drew the psychiatrist aside and told her the concerns she had about Jarod’s growing tendency to being girlish.
“Marjorie, are you telling me that it may be time to consider raising Jarod as a girl, to even start some hormone therapy? At age ten?”
“In some cases, that seems to be OK,” Marjorie said. She was a tall, slender, angular woman who favored wearing male dress shirts and slacks. She cut a rather unique figure in the hallways of the college; yet, her reputation as a psychiatrist was solid.
“Does he even know his own mind at that age, Marjorie?”
“Oh, yes. I think children sense these things, but I wouldn’t recommend any such hormone therapy without a thorough psychological examination.”
“I don’t know if that would be covered by our insurance,” Nancy said.
“Oh I think the examination would be, and I’d be willing to give Jarod some of my time without you incurring any extra charges. That’s if you want me to. You need to choose the professional you feel comfortable with, and not necessarily someone like me, whom you know personally.”
Nancy said she’d think about it, but that she might be willing to bring Jarod in someday to see Dr. Grant.
“I’ve never seen him happier this summer, now that I’ve let him dress as a girl and do things like sew and play with the girls next door.”
“Hmmmmmmmmm, Nancy. That’s a sign that something’s happening. Does he have an boys to play with?”
“Not really. There are some boys in the neighborhood, but they’re all so rough and tease him all the time. He’s really not very strong.”
“It sounds like he needs some consultation, Nancy.”
“Maybe I do too, since I seem to enjoy treating him like a girl. It’s kind of nice to have a daughter. And, with no other males around, I guess he has no other influence to counter that.”
Nancy blushed now as she said this, realizing that perhaps she had been handling this situation wrong.
“Nancy,” the psychiatrist said, as they both got up to return to the classroom. “Don’t beat up on yourself. I find most mothers react with instinct, and usually such reactions are the best.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, and the two had a brief, sisterly hug.
*****
“Let me help you with the dress,” Amy said as Jarod unlocked the door and admitted her to the stuffy apartment unit.
She stopped over to check on the boy about 30 minutes after Nancy had left for work. He was dressed only in a pair of pink girl shorts and a blue sleeveless blouse emblazoned with figures of little girls dancing. His long hair flowed down to his shoulders now, and he looked so tender and lovely standing before her.
“Amy, I can’t get the ruffles right,” he said, almost with tears in his eyes. He had been told it was all right to address Mrs. Tankersley as “Amy.”
The sewing machine was in the bedroom, which was cooled with a window air conditioner, and Amy, who always seemed to be too hot, welcomed the coolness.
The boy brushed the hair from his eyes, using a light flick of the wrist. He did it daintily, appearing so girlish in the motion. He picked up the dress, basically and bright yellow with light green and purplish floral designs, and held it up before himself.
“It looks like it should fit you perfectly,” Amy said. “Put it on for me and let me see. Then we can work on the ruffles.”
Amy turned her head, to give the boy a modicum of privacy, and he took off his shorts and tank top, slipping the dress on over his head. “How does this look?” he asked.
“The dress is very pretty, honey, and you look absolutely so cute in it.”
Amy moved over to smooth out some of the folds, recognizing the problems with the ruffles. She told him to take it off, and she would show him how to fix the ruffles.
“Maybe we can surprise your mother tonight when she gets home,” Amy said, as they worked on it. “If we work hard, you can wear it for her tonight.”
Jarod smiled, and leaped up, skipping about the room. “Oh Amy, thank you, thank you.”
“You’ll be the prettiest Jane in town then tonight,” Amy said, using the girl’s name they had begun calling him.
Amy and Jarod enjoyed the day together, and she made him lunch. For Amy it was a perfectly delightful day; she so enjoyed working with Jarod, and found herself wishing that when Emily and Angela reached Jarod’s age, they’d be as much fun as daughters as he was in his girl mode.
“Can you fix my hair this way?” Jarod asked after lunch. “I wanna look like this girl.”
He showed her a cartoon drawing of a little girl in a sundress with two pigtails.
“You want pigtails?”
“Yes, Amy.”
“I think I could fix your hair that way. But pigtails are for girls.” She said this is a teasing way.
“But Jane is a girl,” he said, using his girl’s name.
Amy agreed that before his mother got home, she would dress Jarod in the sundress, put some light makeup on his face, paint the nails of his toes and fingers and fix his hair in pigtails. Just for a minute, Amy questioned whether she should be abetting the child’s desire to be girlish; soon, however, she was in the spirit of making this lovely child into a pretty little girl.
*****
“Mommy’s home, mommy’s home,” Jarod squealed in his high pitched voice. “I wanna surprise her.”
“OK, go in the bathroom, and wait there until I tell you to come out,” Amy said.
Jarod rushed into the bathroom, examining himself in the full-length mirror, feeling tickled to see how cute and girlish he looked. He looked so demure and sweet in the dress that featured a square bodice and a belted midriff, leading to the pleated skirt, with ruffles lining the hemline and bodice. Matching yellow ribbons tied his hair into two pigtails, that stood out at 90 degree angles from his head. He was giddy with excitement.
“OK, Jarod, you can come out now,” Amy yelled.
Jarod bolted from the bathroom, darting across the living room to present himself to his mother, who stood there amazed at what she saw. Jarod stood before, twirled about and curtseyed before her.
His mother looked at him quizzically: “Amy, where’s Jarod? And who is this girl?”
“Mommy, mommy, mommy, it’s me,” Jarod squealed, jumping up and down.
“And who are you?”
“I’m Jane, mommy, Jane.”
She took him into her arms and held him tightly to her breasts, patting his head lightly.
“And so you are, Jane,” she said. “Amy, if this isn’t the prettiest little girl in town, I’d like to know.”
“Isn’t she lovely?” Amy said. “And she did the dress all by herself, except for the ruffles.”
“Amy, you’ve been just wonderful to her and to me,” Nancy said. “Let’s all go out for dinner tonight. My treat. I want to show everyone my new daughter.”
“You sure you ready for that, Nancy?” Amy asked.
“Well, I didn’t think we’d dine in town, but go out to Five Corners. There’s a nice family place there and no one will know us.”
“Isn’t tomorrow Jane’s birthday?” Amy asked.
“Yes, tomorrow, my little girl here turns age 11,” Nancy said. “My how she’s changed.”
Jarod, now Jane, was so excited to be finally going out of the house dressed so prettily. “I’m a girl,” he said aloud with a matter of fact voice that found both Amy and his mother breaking into smiles.
*****
The two women left Jarod to preen about the living room in his dress as they went to change into dresses for the dinner trip. He had never before in his life felt so pleased with the image of himself he saw reflected back; he had always been embarrassed at the sight of himself in boy clothes, feeling he looked pathetic. In a dress, he felt he looked so real, his skinny neck, narrow shoulders and slender arms complemented his soft face, full lips and sparkling blue eyes to make a very pretty young girl.
“I like being Jane,” he announced to his mother as she entered the room.
“I know you do, honey,” she said, walking over to him, sharing the mirror view with him.
“Mommy, I like that dress,” he said, looking at the light blue print dress she had put on. The short sleeves and plugging neckline helped fill out his mother’s modest breasts, and she had let her brown hair flow loosely about her shoulders.
“And I like your dress, too, Jane.”
Amy had squeezed her more ample body into a dark blue satiny dress, with a belt. The dress had a square bodice and spaghetti straps, showing the white smooth softness of her upper body.
“Look at how pretty Amy is,” Jarod exclaimed.
“Oh I really need to lose weight,” Amy responded. “I have to get out more.”
“You look fine, and I think you’ll turn the heads of some men tonight,” Nancy said.
“And all the boys will be looking at Jane here. Isn’t she the prettiest?” Amy said.
“I’m bringing my camera along,” Amy said. “Maybe the waitress will take our picture.”
*****
“You ladies want a table for three?” the hostess said as they entered the Five Corners Eatery.
She led them to a table near the front of the restaurant, which appeared to be one that draw the most attention of other diners.
“Is this OK, ladies?” she asked.
Nancy and Amy nodded, but Jarod who was still not totally comfortable to be dressed as a girl in public just stood unmoving.
“Is this a special occasion for your young princess here?” she asked, placing a light hand on Jarod’s shoulder.
“Not really,” Nancy answered quickly.
“Well in a way it is,” Amy answered. “Janey here made this dress herself. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Did you really, dear?” the hostess asked. “That’s really something. For a young girl to do that is . . . ah . . . well, wow.”
Jarod blushed. “Well, I had help with the ruffles. I didn’t do it all.”
“You mean you did it all yourself otherwise?” the hostess continued.
Jarod nodded, now feeling both pleased, but still embarrassed to be the center of such attention.
They were seated, and as they looked about the room, they were aware that the three of them were the best-dressed in the restaurant. Amy commented that people rarely dressed up much these days, especially in summer.
“Hello, my name is Marcie. I’ll be your server tonight, ladies.” The server was a young lady, perhaps 20 at the most. She was moderately tall, with a tanned, fit body fitted into the waitress outfit, which was a sleeveless white blouse and a light purplish skirt (knee-length) and beige pantyhose, with white sneakers.
Jarod smiled, realizing that during their entire visit to the restaurant, he had been seen as “one of the ladies.” He continued to act out the part, using feminine mannerisms that he was acquiring so easily.
“And this must be the young lady who made her own dress,” Marcie said as she stood awaiting the orders. “The hostess said you made this, honey.”
“I didn’t do the ruffles. Amy did those.” Jarod nodded toward Amy.
“Well, honey, I’ve never known a girl your age to tackle something like that,” Marcie said.
“Mommy taught me,” Jarod said quickly. “I drew up the design.”
“She designed the dress herself?” Marcie asked in amazement.
“Mommy helped me make the pattern,” Jarod quickly interjected.
“Don’t be shy, princess. You should be proud. I am taking dressmaking at the Art College here, and I am not sure I could do that.”
“See Janey,” Amy said. “You’ve got a real talent.”
Soon whispers went around the room among the waitresses, some of who shared their comments with customers. Several other waitresses and customers came by to offer their words of praise, and several times, requested that Jarod stand up to model the dress.
“Isn’t she just the prettiest child?” Jarod overheard one of the customers say.
The excitement was too much for Jarod. He found it difficult to finish his hamburger and fries, and turned down strawberry cheesecake, his favorite. In his mind, he felt he now was Jane in a pretty dress and the thought excited him.
“How does it feel to be Jane?” his mother asked as they walked to the car.
“Mommy, mommy” was all Jarod could say.
“You’ve had a long day, honey, and you’ll sleep good tonight,” she said as they got into the car. Jarod hopped into the backseat, curling up and falling asleep before they left the parking lot.
“She’s really a very pretty girl, Nancy,” Amy said.
“I know, but I am so worried about her. Life won’t be easy.”
The two said little on the way home, and Nancy had to carry her son, now such a pretty girl, into the house and place him onto his bed. She and Amy gently removed his dress, shoes and bra, and put a lacy, pink nightie on him.
“What’s going to happen to him, Amy?” Jarod’s mother asked. “What have we done?”
Amy hesitated: “Nancy, maybe we went too far, but really he seems to want it. He seems so happy as Jane.”
“I know, Amy, and he never seemed happy as Jarod.”
They turned out the light, looking first at the pretty child, curled up on her bed, her pigtails now hanging awkwardly, but appealingly from her head.
(Copyright 2008)
Chapter Seven: Amy Finds a Friend
“Feel like getting some fresh air?” Amy asked Jarod on the 10th day of the absence of her children, during their two-week visit to their father’s home in California.
Jarod didn’t answer right away. He was curled up on the couch, engrossed in the Nancy Drew book he was reading.
Amy had waited until 9 a.m. to check on the boy this morning, and the day promised to be perfectly delightful, sunny and mild, with light winds. Such a combination of weather was rare in the northern climate in which they lived.
“Janey,” Amy persisted, using his girl’s name
“Mmmmm. Yes, Amy?”
“Do you want to go to the park, just to get out? It’s a nice day.”
“I guess,” he said without enthusiasm.
“You don’t seem to happy to go out?”
“Oh, I would like to. It’s just that I . . . ah . . . would have to change my clothes.”
He was wearing a light green print skirt that ended at mid-thigh and a sleeveless yellow blouse with buttons down the back. Amy had dug the outfit out of the drawer where Jarod had stored the clothes that Amy had given to Jarod; they were outfits Amy had worn as a high school girl, but were now to small for her.
“No, you can go as you are, as Jane.”
Jarod smiled: “You think I can?”
“Oh, yes, I thought we’d go to the park. Jessica and her dad might be there, remember them?”
“Yes, Amy. I liked Jessica, even though she’s young, like Emily.”
“They think you’re Jane, so you don’t have to change.”
Jarod smiled, but was apprehensive, anyway. He loved frolicking with the little girls, going on the swing sets and other activities in the play lot. But, it meant they’d have to walk, and perhaps the neighbors or even the Modjeska twins would see Jarod and make fun. It could be so embarrassing.
“I’ll drive, Janey,” Amy said. “I know it would be nice day for a walk, but no sense in letting all the neighbors see us go.”
*****
“Oh, you look so pretty, Amy,” Jarod said. “I love that sundress.”
“You think it looks ok on me? It feels a little tight.”
“I could have taken it out a bit,” he said. “But, no it looks OK, Amy. I think Jessica’s daddy will like you in it.”
Amy did look a little squeezed in the dress, which had a square bodice, and the uplift bra she was wearing helped to promote her cleavage, showing the soft white flesh of her shoulders and arms. Her tummy ballooned out just a bit against the yellow material, and her burgeoning hips forced the dress to rise up as she sat down, exposing her healthy thighs.
“Oh posh, Janey,” Amy said unconvincingly. “I don’t care about that.”
Jarod knew, of course, that Amy did indeed “care” about how she would appear to Jim. He had overheard Amy talking to his mother about the nice man they had met in the park.
His mother had responded: “Well, why not take Jarod while your daughters are gone and go to the park a few times? Maybe he’ll show up. You said Jarod seemed to like playing with his daughter.”
Amy had taken to calling him “Jane” or “Janey” almost constantly now, rarely referring to him as “Jarod” or as a boy. To her, Jarod had become like a daughter, or niece and also a young female companion. The boy’s skill at the sewing machine had grown that summer and now easily matched hers; furthermore, his taste of female fashions was surprisingly knowledgeable.
For her part, Amy had taken to mentoring the young boy in becoming more girlish; her hints at his movements and makeup were gentle and easy, and Jarod had accepted them eagerly and with enthusiasm. Since acquiring Amy’s old clothes, he was always dressed as a girl, except when out in the neighborhood.
*****
The play lot was busy, with children of all ages, up to 12, running to and fro, climbing ladders and monkey bars, taking the slides down and hopping on swing sets. The whole play lot rested in sand, to permit the children to fall without mishap.
Jarod found a girl about his same age, and they were talking earnestly near one of the slides when Jim and his daughter, Jessica, showed up.
“I thought I noticed you here, Amy,” Jim said. “Jessica saw you and your neighbor girl here and said, ‘Daddy, ‘Let’s go to the park.’”
“Nice seeing you again,” Amy said, priming her hair.
“Where are your girls?”
“Oh this is their two weeks with my ex.”
“You look very pretty, Amy,” he said
Amy noticed Jim was dressed in a fashionable light blue polo shirt and light tan shorts; he had tan muscular legs and was wearing sandals without socks. The color of his shirt matched the light blue of his eyes, which sparkled as he talked.
“Oh, it’s just an old frock and I seem to have gained weight since I last wore it.”
“You look just fine in it,” he said. It was his honest opinion; she did indeed look fine.
Jessica ran over to Jarod, grabbing his dress as he was talking with the other girl, an African-American who was a little taller. She had sinewy legs, wore shorts and a tank top and had dreadlocks.
“Janey, Janey, Janey. I’m here. Wanna play?”
“Hi Jessica,” he said, bending over to pat the child on her shoulders. “This is my friend, Latoya. Say Hi to her.”
He looked at Latoya, as if to ask if it was all right to play with the four-year-old. Latoya took the hint, and said: “Come Jessica, me and Janey will race you to the slides.”
Amy and Jim watched from the bench as Jarod (now Janey) took one hand and Latoya the other and they skipped over to the slides.
“That neighbor girl of yours is a charm, isn’t she?” Jim asked.
“She helps me out so much with the girls, and she can sew, too. I don’t know many girls who sew these days, but Jane loves it, and does so well with it.”
Amy and Jim soon found themselves in deep conversation, both sharing their backgrounds and their likes and dislikes. The three children giggled and ran about in the mild summer sun, before Jessica stumbled getting off a teeter-totter, skinning her knee. She started to cry, and Latoya and Jarod brought her to her father.
“We’re sorry, sir,” Jarod said in his high voice to Jim.
“It’s her own fault,” Jim said. He brought the young girl to his side, brushing the sand off the wound.
When the crying ended, Jarod introduced Latoya to Amy and Jim, saying that she was going into the 6th grade next fall, just as Jarod was. The whole group walked over to a picnic table, where they sat and began talking. Jessica was tired out from her cavorting and nestled next to Jarod.
“We’ve been here an hour,” Amy said eventually.
Jim nodded, looking at his watch, “So it has. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to the beach this afternoon. I’m free today. Are you, Amy? And the kids?”
Amy looked puzzled. “To the beach?”
“Yes, and Latoya can come too if her mother says OK.”
Amy said: “Oh Jim, I don’t have suit.”
“No suit?”
“Well, I don’t think it’ll fit, but I guess I could find something to wear.”
“Amy, I don’t have a suit either,” Jarod said.
“Oh honey, we can find one for you.”
It was finally settled. They were to go to the beach; Jim would pick them all up in an hour, and then get Latoya if her mother said it was all right.
On the way home, Jarod asked Amy: “Do you have a suit for me?”
“Yes, a swimsuit I wore in high school. It should fit you.”
“But Amy, I’m a boy. How would that look?”
“Darling, you’ll look like a cute girl.”
“But Amy, I don’t have . . . ah . . . you know . . .”
“Breasts,” she finished the sentence for him. “But then many girls your age don’t either. Otherwise, you look very much a girl. Don’t worry, Jane.”
“’Toya thought I was a girl.”
“Do you know her?” Amy asked.
“No, she just admired my pigtails. I told her you did them for me.”
“She has nice dreadlocks,” Amy said, as they turned down the street to their side-by-side units.
“But her grandma used to tie her pigtails, and she might like to wear them again. She thinks they make a girl look cute.”
Amy smiled as she turned into the driveway, commenting only. “But the girl has to be cute to start with, doesn’t she, Jane? And you and ‘Toya both are cute girls.”
There was one problem. When Jarod put on Amy’s old swimming suit, the skimpy bottom failed to fully cover his testicles and there was a chance his penis, small though it was, might pop out.
“Oh Amy, I love this suit,” Jarod said, looking at himself in the mirror. There would be no questioning his being a girl, given his pigtails, slender, soft arms and pretty legs, except for the bulge in the front of the bikini bottom.
Amy found another bottom; it was actually a skimpy pair of shorts that he could wear over the other bottoms. It was loose enough to cover his penis and testicles. Both the top and the bottom were pink, with a blue trim design, and seemed to match perfectly.
“There you are, my girl,” Amy said.
Jarod smiled, knowing he would look like any other 11-year-old girl at the beach. “Amy, thank you, I like being Janey so much, thanks to you.”
Amy knew he did, and as much as she loved supporting his girly tendencies, she was feeling guilty for doing so. Was she leading this loving, sweet boy to disaster? She hoped not, for he looked so happy being Jane.
The afternoon at the beach was one of the best day both Jarod and Amy had ever had; Jarod because he was accepted as Jane and he could be his gentle self, and Amy because of her growing friendship with Jim. He seemed like a perfectly excellent man, and he seemed to enjoy her company. He was seven years older, being 31, and he held a professional job with a trucking company, handling their sales programs.
Most of all, he praised Amy for her own beauty, even though she protested she was too fat. Instead, he seemed more interested in what she thought about everything, from raising children, to going to church, whether she drank and the coming national elections. And, he had a perfectly scrumptious body, slender, but sinewy and hard.
Jarod found ‘Toya to be a warm, interesting person, too. They giggled a lot, and played with Jessica, tickling her sometimes into tears, before being warned by Amy to stop.
The two of them entered the cold water of the Great Lake gingerly, holding hands and looking like two lovely subteen girls. Their presences did not go unnoticed by some other boys, about their same age, who came after them, teasing them to “get wet,” and them splashing water on them.
“Ignore them,” ‘Toya said, no doubt used to be followed by boys.
They, in turn, flirted with the boys, but then running away when the familiarity got too explicit and forward.
The trips to the beach were repeated the following day, a Friday, and it seemed like more fun than before. Jim picked up Amy and Jarod and then ‘Toya at her home in a mixed neighborhood of working class Cape Cods, all built 60 years before. ‘Toya lived with her single mother and three brothers, all older, and the yard and interior of the house were immaculately maintained.
“Can you sleep over tonight?” ‘Toya asked him as they were about to return home from the beach on the second day.
Jarod wanted to. That’s what girls did, sleepovers and slumber parties and girl talk. He wanted all of it. Only, he wasn’t a girl.
“I’ll ask my mom,” he said, dodging the question.
“Oh come on. My brothers won’t bother you,” she said smiling.
“I’ve never slept over,” he said. “My mom’s strict.”
“OK,” ‘Toya said. The two shared phone numbers and Jarod promised to call. He knew he wouldn’t sleep over; how would he be able to hide his male features?
*****
Later that afternoon, after his mother got home, he called ‘Toya, to inform her his mother said “No.” In truth, he hadn’t asked his mother; he just knew it wasn’t possible, given that he was a boy and no doubt “sleeping over” meant dressing together and likely sleeping together.
“Come on, Jane,” ‘Toya pleaded. “We can work on each other’s hair.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Mom says no.”
‘Toya didn’t answer.
“I’ve never slept over anywhere, ‘Toya.”
After another pause, ‘Toya said, in almost a mean tone: “I thought we were going to be best friends.”
“Me too, but I can’t sleep over.”
“It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?”
“Noooooooooooooo.”
“Yes, you don’t want to sleep in our house because we might have lice.”
Jarod was shocked.
“No. No. No. It’s because . . .” he halted, then added. “You’re the first nice girl friend I’ve had. I like you ‘Toya.”
“But you won’t sleep over, because I’m black.”
‘Toya slammed down the phone.
Jarod went to his room and cried. He knew the only reason he couldn’t sleep over was a reason he dare not tell: that he was a boy. Oh, how he wanted to be a girl.
*****
His mother found Jarod a few minutes later, still sobbing into his pillow, all curled up on his bed, still dressed as he had been from the beach. She went to his side, sat next to him, comforting the child.
“Everybody thinks I’m a girl. They like me as a girl. But, I’m not a girl.”
With that, his sobbing grew even more intense.
“Well, honey, if you don’t want to be taken for a girl, then you’ll have to quit dressing and acting like one.”
“No, no, no. Mommy. That’s not it. I want to be a girl. I feel I should be a girl. But, I’m not.”
To Nancy Pinkerton now came the realization that her son was not just role-playing, or having a short term fetish with being female. He felt he was a girl, and she needed to get help.
Chapter 8: Jane Becomes a Problem
The next day Nancy didn’t have to leave for teaching until after 10 a.m., and Amy was pounding on her door by 9 a.m. When she opened the door, Amy burst through the doorway and flung herself into Nancy’s arms, beginning to cry uncontrollably.
Amy was carrying and sheaf of folded papers, with a blue cover.
“How could he do this? He wants to take my girls.” Her cries interrupted her talk.
“Who?”
“My ex. The bastard. He and that skinny new wife of his. They want my girls. They’re going to take Emily and Angela.”
Nancy held the shorter woman to her chest, cuddling the ampleness of her soft body. She continued to cry. Jarod, still dressed in his pink nightie and looking very girlish, appeared in the doorway.
“And they’re blaming Jarod,” Amy burst out.
“Me?” Jarod said in amazement.
The realization that Jarod had entered the room tempered Amy’s cries. “Oh Jarod, you lovely, pretty child. They’re blaming you.”
The boy looked puzzled, and his mother looked at him. “Jarod, honey, I think you better go up to your room now, while I sort this out with Amy.”
“Oh mommy, Amy. What did I do? I’m so sorry. I love you and the girls so much.”
“Go, Jarod. We’ll let you know later.”
His mother led Amy to the kitchen, where she went to pour two cups of coffee, delivering one to the sobbing young woman and keeping one for herself. Amy wore a light robe, covering what appeared to be only panties and a bra. The robe had opened slightly and Nancy could see the soft plumpness of the other young woman. Nancy never could understand men; Amy even in growing heavy, carried her weight well, since she had obviously been an athletic young woman. And, she was what anyone would consider “cute,” with a pleasing personality. Why her husband left her for someone else was a wonder.
“Now tell me what this is all about,” Nancy demanded. “Take a breath and begin when you’re ready.”
Finally Amy began:
“Just 20 minutes ago, even while I was dressing, the bell rang. He had to buzz three times before I got there. The guy stood there and first asked, ‘Are you Amy Spaniola Tankersley?’
“Yes, I said, and he handed me this and left. Look at it, Nancy.”
She handed the papers to Nancy, but before Nancy could read what appeared to be a legal notice, Amy continued:
“It’s a notice to change our divorce agreement, to remove Emily and Angela from my custody and award sole custody to him and that skinny new wife.”
She started to sob again, and Nancy put her hand on Amy’s shoulders, saying, “But on what charges? They can’t just do it. It takes a court order.”
Amy cleared her tears. “They claim the girls are under imminent danger of improper influences, that they’re being corrupted because they’re spending so much time with Jarod. They call him an unnatural force, and this is temporary court order from a California court forbidding their return home.”
Nancy was shocked. “About Jarod? I can’t believe it.”
Amy continued: “The girls called me from my ex’s house the other night and all they talked about was Jane and Aunty Jane, wondering how she was. They were saying how much they loved her and what fun they had with her. Every so often, Emily would use the word ‘him,’ and soon my ex was on the phone, wondering about this ‘Jane.’”
“I merely said he was the 10 year old boy in the next unit whom I look after while his mother teaches. And he wondered why the girls called him ‘Jane.’ I said they were just role-playing, and he said: ‘Seems weird to have a 10 year old boy playing dolls and acting all girly. I don’t think the girls should be influenced by such a faggot.’
“He’s no faggot, I told the bastard. He’s just a sweet boy and the girls love him. And he replied, ‘We’ll see about that.’
“And this is the notice of the temporary court action, saying the children will not be returned ‘to keep them out of imminent danger.’”
Nancy was totally in shock; she looked the order over; it listed nine different instances in which Jarod, dressed as a girl, interacted with the children. There was a statement that a private detective had been hired just yesterday and had followed Amy and Jarod to the Park, noticing the boy being dressed as a girl and acting as a girl. There were no instances that showed any sexual behaviors by Jarod, nor any inappropriate hugging or touching. It just noted the “improper and unnatural” actions of a boy and speculated his girlish behavior could lead to corrupting the girls.
“My God,” Nancy said. “Jarod doesn’t even know what sex is yet.”
“I know, Nancy. But my ex has been after any excuse to take the girls from me. They’re all I have.” She began crying again.
After Amy settled down, the two began to talk honestly about the situation. Amy said she’d contact her attorney, saying she had confidence in him.
“Oh mommy, I heard. I heard. I’m so sorry, Amy.” Jarod appeared in the doorway, and then rushed to Amy’s side and she held him accepting his kiss.
“Oh honey, it’s not your fault,” his mother said.
“No sweetie,” Amy said. “It’s just my ex-husband playing games. It’ll work out.”
“Mommy, Amy,” Jarod said suddenly. “I’ll quit being a girl. I will. For Amy and Emily and Angela. And for you, too mommy.”
His mother brought the child to her, hugging him tightly, and soon all three were crying.
“This just isn’t fair, Amy,” Nancy said, when the tears stopped. “Let’s get to your lawyer. This’ll all work out.”
“I don’t have to be a girl, mommy,” Jarod said. “It’s just for fun.”
“Yes, honey, I know,” she replied, but she knew deep in her heart that Jarod was indeed a girl in soul and spirit and mind. How this would all work out, no one knew?
*****
“I guess it’s time you start acting more like a boy,” his mother told Jarod after Amy left them to go home.
Jarod was crying now, and had cuddled up next to his mother on the sofa, his legs curled up under him. He was so fragile, this tender boy, his mother knew, and had become so happy when he frolicked about, wearing girlish outfits and doing things like sewing, playing with dolls and dressing up pretty.
His mother gently twirled on his pigtails, kissing his forehead gently with warmth and softness, helping him to be comforted. Yet, his sobs continued. She knew he was ill equipped to enter back into a boy’s world; yet, it was the world he would have to enter someday.
“In September, you’ll be entering middle school, and you’ll have to be a boy there,” she said.
She knew he was frightened over the prospect that he would surely become subject to bullying and teasing over his feminine mannerisms and his general physical weakness.
“I’ll have to enroll you in summer day camp for the rest of the month,” she said. “It’s obvious I can’t ask Amy to look after you, since that will endanger her chance of keeping her children.”
“Mommy, no. Please, no. Can’t I stay here alone?”
“I know you hate it, but you’re going to have to face up to the fact that you’re a boy, honey.”
He buried his head in her bosom now, crying uncontrollably. Soon, she joined in sobbing, so sorry that she had encouraged his feminine tendencies, and not looked for another man in her life to serve a role model for the boy. Women always surrounded him; no wonder he acted as he did.
*****
Jarod spent the last three weeks of July in the summer camp, being dropped off at 8 a.m. by his mother, who picked him up at 5 p.m. It turned out not to be as fearful an experience as he had faced the year before when there was a concentration of sports like baseball, in which his only claim to fame was to have struck out five times in a row, and basketball, where his weak arms made it difficult to shoot the ball from more than a few feet from the basket.
This year, in deference to the reality that many boys these days were not physically fit, either being obese or awkward due to too much time spent on video games, the internet or television, there were craft and other sedentary activities. He found out, too, that he no longer was the weakest boy in the group; that honor went to Terrence, an overweight youngster with slender, unmuscled arms and legs, chubby thighs and even breasts.
Jarod and Terrence became fast friends, both drawn together by their general lack of physical strength. They both usually ended up last in running games or other activities, with Terrence almost crying in exhaustion.
The counselors, however, were gentle with those boys who failed in such activities, encouraging them to keep at it.
“Sometimes I wish we could be in the girls camp,” Terrence said to Jarod one afternoon, as they were sitting together during a “quiet hour” under a shaded tree.
Jarod smiled, merely nodding at the suggestion, still not willing to admit he often thought the same.
“Ever want to dress like a girl?” Terrence asked.
“I suppose,” Jarod mumbled.
“I bet you have,” Terrence pressed. “You wear your hair in pigtails. That’s like a girl.”
Jarod blushed. “I like to. It keeps hair out of my eyes.”
Terrence continued. “I put on my sister’s stuff a few times. She’s fat, too, and I look kinda cool in a dress.”
Jarod looked at Terrence, seeing the softness of his body, the round shoulders and smooth arms. “I bet you do look nice.”
“I hate myself as a boy,” Terrence confessed.
Jarod looked at this boy, seeing that in his plumpness there was no hint of masculinity; he had never seen breasts as big on a boy before, which Terrence always tried to hide by folding his arms across his chest at the swimming pool. That action, however, only accentuated the cleavage, and Jarod had felt he was looking at a fat girl.
“I’ve never told anyone that before, Jarod,” the boy said. “I think I can tell you that for some reason.”
Jarod considered his reply carefully. “I guess we’re somewhat alike.”
Terrence giggled in a high, girly fashion. Both boys still had high voices, typical of boys their ages who were often mistaken for their mothers or sisters on the phone.
“Yeh, we both hate sports,” Terrence said.
The two became partners during the rest of the summer camp, and Jarod soon confessed to having the same thoughts about being a girl.
“I’d like to make a dress for you sometime,” Jarod told Terrence one the second last day of the camp, which was to end by August 1.
“Really, do you sew?”
“Yes, I’ve made lots of clothes. I was planning next year to enter dressmaking contests at State Fair.”
“Wow. I bet you look cute in girl stuff,” Terrence said. “I love your pigtails.”
Jarod got up from the bench, and twirled about, in a feminine motion, flicking his arms about, and twisting on his pigtails.
Somehow, Jarod survived the three weeks of camp. His mother’s teaching assignments were ended for the summer and she would be home until school started. Jarod and Terrence exchanged phone numbers and promised to see each other before school started. The two boys snuck into the woods adjoining the camp on the last day of camp, and hugged each other, both coming to tears.
Jarod found the soft, plump body of Terrence to be such a comfort, and they suddenly began kissing, and Jarod began experiencing the hardening of his tiny penis for the first time in his life. He felt Terrence’s hands caressing him, his slender arms as the two kissed.
“Oh, what are we doing?” Terrence said, suddenly, pushing Jarod away.
“I know,” Jarod said. “This is weird.”
“I’m going to miss you Jarod.”
“Me too.”
The two boys came back together again, briefly hugging and sharing brief final kisses, knowing what they were doing must be wrong, must be evil. Yet, it felt so comfortable and nice, Jarod thought.
Chapter 9: Jarod Reappears; Janey Lurks in Shadows
A week after summer camp ended, Jarod’s new friend, Terrence called and invited him to go to the mall with he and his older sister, Melissa, an invitation he eagerly accepted. That whole week he had been forbidden to play with Emily and Angela, their return to Amy’s duplex unit accomplished by a court order requiring their return to their mother’s custody, but with the condition that Jarod no longer be involved with the girls.
Amy and Jarod’s mother, Nancy, had cried over the condition, feeling it was unfair; Jarod, however, surprised both of them by realizing how his girlish behavior was causing problems.
“Mommy, I will be a good son,” he told his mother, believing his own words, but not sure how he could accomplish it. His feminine mannerisms and enjoyments had become so natural.
They both hugged him, and by the end of July, Emily and Angela returned home to Amy, accompanied by their paternal grandmother. She was a kind woman, who had always liked Amy, in spite of her working class family, and felt her son was wrong in leaving Amy and the girls for the “young hussy.”
Jarod was careful not to interact with the girls in any way, not even waving “Hi” to them. He watched often from the kitchen window as they frolicked in the backyard, but turned away if the girls would look in his direction.
While he was determined to seek to act more boyishly, he refused to give up his sewing and dress designing. It meant he could spend hours of the long summer days doing something creative. He also read a lot, and even wrote a few poems. It was a time of creativity and loneliness for him; his mother, home for the month before school started again, was busy with her lesson plans for the coming school year, but found time to take him to a movie or shopping or for a meal at a fast food place.
“But, no pigtails,” she said.
“Oh mommy.”
“You know, pigtails are . . .”
“. . . for girls,” he finished her sentence.
She had forbade him to wear his hair in pigtails out of the house, and had even trimmed his hair to a point just above the shoulders, making it more easily manageable into a boy’s cut. Yet, whenever he could, Jarod was able to turn the remaining hair into short pigtails.
In a further concession to his desires, Nancy let him wear nighties to bed at night; she tried to stop him from playing with his dolls, but he dragged them out of the closet when she was busy or gone for a few minutes.
She also purchased a cheap window air conditioner for his bedroom, thus ending the practice of him joining her in bed at night.
“Boys don’t sleep with their moms,” she explained.
Jarod was beginning to understand these gender differences, it seemed, and he took the changes in stride. At times, he cried at night, wishing he could awaken the next morning and resume his role as Jane and live totally as a girl.
“I’m a girl,” he often would say to himself, and as he imagined himself as a girl, he noticed his penis would grow hard. He would caress his left upper arm with his right hand as he lay on his side in bed, loving how soft and slender his arm was. It was like a girl’s arm, he thought, and that pleased him.
One night, imagining himself a girl, his penis hardened so much it pained him and suddently a smooth white substance emerged leaving the goo on his nightie and the sheets. He had masturbated for the first time in his life, and he felt terribly guilty, finding a towel to wipe it off the bed sheets, the nightie and himself.
In the morning, before his shower, and while still in his nightie, he would parade before the mirror in his room, acting very girlish, and smiling to himself.
He also began masturbating when he thought of Terrence, the fat boy he met at camp. Terrence was so soft and squishy to hold and Jarod cherished the idea of cuddling with him again and kissing him. He recalled Terrence’s last words at camp:
“You promised to make me a dress, Janey,” he said as they had the final brief kiss in the woods. The two friends had taken to calling each other (when alone) by their adopted girl names, Jane and Terri.
Jarod would welcome the challenge of dressing Terri like a pretty girl, a fat girl, of course.
“I want to do that, Terri,” Jarod had replied. “You have very pretty face. You’ll be a pretty girl.”
Jarod recalled the smile on Terri’s round face as he said that. And Terrence had dainty girly features beneath his fat, Jarod thought.
Terrence’s sister, though six years’ older, bore a striking resemblance to him; a round fleshiness seemed to feature both of them; each had a round role of fat under their chins, but with sparkling blue eyes that were captivating and inviting. She wore a full skirt that accentuated her already wide hips and ended in mid-calf, exposing surprisingly tiny ankles and feet. She wore a peasant blouse, with puffed, up short sleeves, showing ample cleavage and soft, but not overlay fat arms.
Jarod could see how Terrence could easily fit into his sister’s clothes, and imagined him in a similar outfit. The thought of Terrence — as Terri — excited Jarod as he entered the auto that his sister, Melissa, was driving.
The afternoon at the mall passed quickly and easily; even before they left the car, Melissa confessed that she knew her brother liked wearing her clothes, and that he had told her that Jarod promised to make him a dress.
“I think that’s so sweet that you sew,” she said. “I can’t hardly do a stitch.”
“My mom taught me, and I’m alone a lot. I like it,” Jarod explained.
“Did you make that blouse you’re wearing, Jarod?”
“Yes, it’s a unisex blouse.”
The blouse had a wide neck, with an embroidered bodice and was sleeveless. It was violet in color. He was wearing shorts and bare legs with sandals. With his somewhat shortened hair, he still could easily be mistaken for a girl, and his mother had pleaded with him to dress more like a boy.
“You’re very pretty, Jarod” Melissa said. “My brother said you like to dress like a girl, too.”
Terrence giggled. “We called each other Terri and Jane sometimes at camp.”
“Well then I guess we’ll be three girls at the mall today,” Melissa said as they approached the mall parking lot.
Terrence, too, was dressed in jeans and a sleeveless top. His jeans, Jarod could see, must have once been his sisters, for they were obviously a pair of girl’s jeans. His hair, too, was long and with his soft narrow shoulders and weak arms, coupled with his wide hips, made it easy to mistake him for a girl as well.
“Boy jeans don’t fit as nice,” Terrence explained.
In fact, the three were taken for girls almost everywhere, being addressed as “girls” or “miss.” If anyone asked, they said they were “Terri” and “Jane.” Often the two boys would giggle; sometimes, they held hands, as subteen girls often do.
Melissa took them to two stores that specialized in fashions for “plus” size women and girls.
Terrence, easily falling into role of Terri, fell in love with a summer, print dress that was on sale in one store. It had a high waist, folded skirt that ended at the knee, along with an square bodice and short puffed up sleeves. It was advertised for the “full-figured teen girl.”
“Would you like to try it on, miss?” the clerk asked Terri.
“Can I?”
“Yes, of course. The fitting rooms are there, miss.” She pointed to a corner of the store, adding, “Marie is on duty there, and she can help you put it on if you wish.”
Terrence had easily assumed the feminine movements as he went to the fitting rooms.
“Isn’t she lovely?” the clerk said.
Jarod had to admit Terrence looked like a lovely, chubby girl in the dress. It was tight across the hips, and the clerk said the dress could be altered for a small extra price.
“You can have it, Terri,” his sister said, quickly. “I’ll buy it for you for your 11th birthday next week.”
Terrence smiled at the prospect; he had only recently told his sister about his dressing up, forced into confession after she caught him trying on one of her bras. His flabby chest had developed breasts, which were easily going to be bigger than any of the girls in his class in school.
“I suppose I shouldn’t encourage this dressing for Terri,” she told Jarod as they waited for the boy to remove the dress in the fitting room.
“My mom says the same about me,” Jarod said. “I’m supposed to act more like a boy now, but it seems so difficult.”
Terrence would be able to pick up the dress next week Wednesday, it was determined, and that prompted Melissa to suggest that would be a good day to have a birthday party for Terrence.
“It could be an all-girls’ party,” she suggested.
Terrence giggled at the idea; Jarod was a bit more restrained, realizing he’d be violating his mother’s wishes that he act more like a boy. He merely nodded in agreement.
“OK, it’s settled then,” Melissa said. “Just us three girls; we can do it at our house during the day when our mom is working.”
Jarod could not help but be excited at the prospect.
“And Jane can put her hair in pigtails,” Terrence said with glee.
“Pigtails?” his sister asked.
“Yes, he likes to wear pigtails. He wore them briefly at camp. He’s cute in them.”
Jarod blushed.
“Mmmmmmmmm,” Melissa said. “Pigtails are for girls, and I bet they look great on Jane.”
Melissa told Jarod when they were alone while Terrence went to the rest room that her brother had no other friends, and that she was so happy the two boys had become chums, even if it was because of their mutual desire to be girls.
“You two even act like little girls together,” she said.
Jarod looked forward to the birthday party. Before they left the store, they had the clerk take Terrence’s measurements, so that Jarod could fulfill his promise to make a dress for his new friend.
“If I work fast, maybe I can have it for your birthday, Terri,” he said.
As the three walked back to the car, Terri and Jane held hands and giggled. Melissa thought: What have I here? Two giggling girls?
*****
Jarod thought he could use his allowance to buy the material for the dress he planned to sew for Terri, which was how he thought of his friend Terrence. When he asked his mother to take him to the fabric store, she asked him why did he want to do it.
“Ah,” he stammered. “Ah . . . ah . . . to make something for my friend Terri.”
“The boy you met at camp?”
“Yes, Terrence. Him.”
“What do you want to make for him?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You don’t need fabric to make ‘nothing.’”
“Well, something then. It’s a surprise for his birthday.”
His mother eyed him suspiciously. “Jarod, you’re not telling me something.”
“Oh, mommy,” Jarod pleaded.
“Don’t ‘mommy’ me now,” she said sternly. “I’m your mom or mother; only girls say ‘mommy.’”
She said she would not take him to get the material until he said what he was going to make for Terrence; she had noticed a pattern book next to the sewing machine that was open to a pattern for a dress for a chubby girl. She went into the bedroom, returning with the book in her hand.
“Is this what you’re making for your friend, Terri?” she said, emphasizing sarcastically the word ‘Terri.’
Jarod nodded tentatively.
“A dress? For Terri? I thought you might have been making one for Amy.”
Jarod began to cry. “But mommy, I mean, mom, I promised. He likes to dress too.”
His mother took Jarod into her arms, hugged him tightly, and began crying herself. The boy’s desire to be feminine, she was realizing, was going to be hard to break. She had seen Terrence and had been alarmed at the boy’s obesity, realizing that Jarod had found a friend with whom he had something in common: they were both failures at typical boy things, both physically inept and both seemingly enjoy more feminine factors in life.
“He’s the best friend I ever had,” Jarod said. “His birthday’s next Wednesday.”
His mother directed him to go to the bathroom, wash his face and dry his tears, before returning to the kitchen. She placed a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream in front of him when he returned, also making a bowl for herself.
“Honey,” she began. “We’ve been over this before. You’re going to have to try to get over doing girl stuff now that you’re 11 years old. You can’t go to school all girly this fall.”
“I know, mommy.”
“Mom, remember.”
“Yes, mom,” Jarod replied.
His mother moved her chair next to him, and gently ran her fingers through his hair. She marveled at how light and airy his hair was. When he was younger, his hair was blonde and she had always kept it cut long. She had taken to tying it in his younger years in a ponytail, just to control the strands. When she let his hair flow loosely in those younger years, he had looked like the most darling of little girls, a comment she often heard from strangers.
Now as he turned age 11, his hair had turned light brown, but it still retained its softness and she had found that tying it up in pigtails made lots of practical sense, even while retaining his “cute girl” look. She cherished him as her son, but in her mind he had become her “daughter,” a sweet, loving, caring girl.
“My darling child,” she said now, twirling his hair in her fingers. “You are such a pretty, pretty, pretty thing. But, this can’t continue. It’s not fair to you.”
Jarod turned to his ice cream, which had begun to melt in the bowl. He had only taken two bites, lifting the spoon daintily and taking only tiny bites, as had become his manner of eating. His mother had noticed how virtually all of his mannerism had become subdued and girlish.
“Mom,” Jarod said slowly, carefully. “I’m trying to be the boy you want me to be. Mom, I’m really trying. But it’s so hard. I like dresses so much, and I so much wanted to do a dress for Terri.”
“Well, Jarod, you can’t. I want you to call him up and say you can’t.”
“Oh mom, I promised.”
“No, you can’t and that’s final,” she said. “Now finish your ice cream. We need to go to the mall and get you some boy clothes.”
Jarod turned sullen; it had been a long time since he had acted in such a way, Nancy recalled. Ever since he’d been acting in his girlish way he had been cheerful, sunny and a joy to be around.
“If you want, you may invite Terri here for a birthday party, but you’ll both have to be boys.”
Jarod called Terri later that night after he and his mother had returned from the mall, having purchased slacks, shirts, shoes and more male underwear. Terri said he understood, recognizing the power that mothers had over boys of their age.
Soon, the two were giggling over the phone, particularly after Terri said he had hoped Jarod would have created a dress for him that would have the boys drooling.
“I would have made you the sexiest girl in 6th grade,” Jarod said.
“With the biggest boobs,” Terri had added. The two giggled even harder.
“Michael would get hot for you,” Jarod said, referring to one of the boys at the camp.
As Jarod pictured his chubby friend in a revealing dress, he grew excited and his penis grew harder.
“Jarod,” his mother said sternly. “You’re giggling like a little girl again. Now finish your call and hang up.”
His mother had removed all of his girl clothes from his room, and substituted all boy outfits.
“No more nighties, darling,” she said as she led him to bed. “Here are your Green Bay Packer pajamas.”
“Oh mommy. Do I have too?”
“Who am I?”
“I’m sorry. You’re mom.”
“Now lets take out those pigtails, Jarod.”
“Really?”
“Yes, you know. Pigtails are . . .”
“ . . . for girls.”
They both laughed as he finished her sentence. She sat on the side of his bed with him, removing the ties for the pigtails. She kissed him good night.
“Now Jarod, sleep tight. Mommy loves you,” she said turning out the light.
“It’s mom,” he reminded her. They both laughed.
Jarod now realized he was to begin a new journey, a journey into manhood. He did not feel he was equipped for that journey. Was he “boy” enough to make it? The prospect scared him and he had trouble sleeping for the first time all summer.
Chapter 10: Jarod’s New Adventure
The month of August was ahead for Jarod, and he was lonely. He was barred from playing with Emily and Angela, the two little girls in the next duplex unit. Their mother, Amy, had cried when she told Jarod’s mother, Nancy, that she had agreed to the provision forbidding Jarod’s association.
“It’s not Jarod’s fault, Nancy,” she told his mother. “He’s a sweet boy and the girls loved him.”
“I know, and Jarod’s crestfallen about it, but he understands,” his mother said.
His mother had recognized how the boy’s girlishness was complicating the lives of everyone; she found her son’s willingness to become more masculine to be admirable.
“I can see he’s trying so hard,” Amy said.
“Except, he still insists on those pigtails,” his mother said. “But we can keep them short enough they aren’t too noticeable.”
Amy said that Jim, the man she met when she took her girls and Jarod to the park, had called, wondering whether she might join him for a trip to the zoo, along with his young daughter, Jessica. Amy said that Jim suggested that she bring Jane along, too.
“I just told Jim that Jane was busy doing other things,” Amy said. “He’s coming over to pick us up about 2 p.m. today.”
“I’ll keep Jarod out of sight then,” Nancy said, recognizing that Jim might recognize the pigtailed boy as “Jane.”
“Thank you, Nancy, but it’s too bad Jane can’t join us,” Amy said. “That bastard ex of mine is such a shit.”
“Well, Amy, I think it’s probably working out for the best,” Nancy said. “Jarod now is recognizing that life might be easier for him if he acts more like a boy.”
“I guess that’s true, but frankly, he seems to be so natural as a girl. I’ve read that to stifle his more natural inclinations, Nancy, might endanger him in the long run. Why not consider letting him become more outwardly a girl?”
Nancy didn’t answer immediately. She looked at her neighbor, a short, cute dark-haired girl still in her mid-20s and growing chubby with the challenges of being a single mother. She, herself, was only 30 years old, and, if she was to believe others, a very pretty woman; she could lose maybe 10 pounds. She realized both women had so enjoyed Jarod when he was “Jane,” but she felt her motherly responsibilities required she try to raise the child as a boy.
“I know how you’ve enjoyed Jane,” she said, finally. “I’m not going to totally stifle his feminine feelings, Amy, but I feel we need to put them aside for a while, so he can adjust to the middle school environment.”
“I know you’re doing the best you can, Nancy. We both love the child.”
The two hugged; they had become truly close friends that summer, and Nancy often looked forward to their conversations. Nancy hadn’t dated in years, even though she was obviously an attractive woman. There were no decent eligible men available, she told Amy, who agreed readily. For Amy, the budding interest in Jim was a “first,” and she had told Nancy how taken she was with the man. Amy, too, realized how naíve she was in the ways of male relationships, having had only one boy friend (her now ex-husband) and having never “dated” another man.
“I think he likes me, too, but I don’t know what he sees in me. I’m so fat.”
“Don’t be silly,” Nancy said. “I’m sure he finds you a ‘hottie.’”
“Jarod told me he thinks I look best in the peasant top. What do you think, Nancy?”
“Amy, I think Jarod knows best. He’s quite an expert on girls’ clothes. Wear the peasant blouse for Jim.”
*****
Amy went back to her unit next door without seeing Jarod, who had come into the hallway and overheard the last portion of their conversation. He ducked into the bathroom to avoid Amy seeing him. He was crying now, wishing he could join Amy and her girls in the zoo trip, but realizing it was out of the question now.
He had locked the bathroom door as he cried, sitting on the commode, its top down to provide a seat. He was wearing a tank top, which was dark blue and could be worn either by a girl or a boy. As he sat there, he played with his hair, now shorter in length, but still long enough to be formed into a ponytail or pigtails.
He twirled the hair into two pigtails, using rubber bands to secure the twists, all the time looking in the mirror, his tears ending as he saw his image transform into that of a girl.
He smiled as he saw the image, his pretty face and slender arms and shoulders.
“Jarod, honey, are you in there?” He heard a sharp rap on the door, and an excited tone in his mother’s voice.
“No,” he said. “Janey’s here.”
“Jarod, enough of that. Open this door.”
She rattled hard on the handle. He didn’t reply. She began knocking, her raps becoming more insistent as she yelled: “Jarod, Jarod, Jarod.”
Jarod didn’t respond. Instead, he found his mother’s makeup kit, the one she took with her to school. He rummaged through it, finding lipstick, some eyeliner and rouge.
The rapping finally ended. “Come out of there in two minutes, or else you’re grounded,” he heard his mother threaten.
“Jarod’s not in here,” he said in his high girlish voice.
He felt just like a girl now, as he put on the lipstick, rubbing his lips together, and then removing a bit of strayed color with his pinky finger, as he’d seen his mother do many times before. He then applied rouge and a light bit of eyeliner.
“Janey’s coming out now, mommy,” he said, almost defiantly.
In truth, he was terrified in what he was doing; he had never defied his mother so directly before, and he loved her so much he hated doing it. Yet, the pain of being denied his life as Jane was too severe, and the simple act of tying pigtails and putting on makeup had ended his sorrow, at least for a while.
When Jarod left the bathroom, he was Jane again; he wore a pair of pink shorts to complement his dark blue tank top. He wore, too, white ankle socks and a pair of pink sandal flats.
“Oh Jarod, Jarod, Jarod,” was all his mother could say.
“I’m Janey, mommy,” he responded with a smile.
“I guess you are, honey. You’re a Jane, that’s for sure.”
“Are you mad at me mommy?”
“Yes, I am. Very mad,” she said, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings. She truly loved seeing her son as Jane; he was just too adorable.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I am so sad about hurting Amy and her family.”
“Amy said you’re not at fault; it’s all a misunderstanding, but you know we have discussed this. You’re to be a boy as far as anyone else knows. OK?”
“Yes, mom,” he said, carefully emphasizing the “mom” as he had been instructed, since “mommy” was used by girls.
“OK,” she said, realizing that her stark decision to remake him into a boy would not be easy.
“Come here, Jane,” she said finally to lovely child in front of her. “Let me fix those pigtails; you did a pretty lousy job tying them.”
Jarod smiled, running to his mother, hugging her at first and then sitting down so she could work on the pigtails.
“You can be Jane sometimes at home, but nowhere else, Jarod,” she said firmly.
“OK, mommy. Can I sleep in my nightie, too?”
“I guess, so. You’re a determined girl, aren’t you?”
Nancy was so frustrated now; she knew in her heart that Jarod must truly feel he should have been a girl, but if he followed that course, he faced a life of terrible challenges. And, for the life of her, she could see no hint of a boy standing before her, just a very, pretty, dainty girl.
*****
“Now why don’t you go out and ride your bike around, honey,” his mother suggested. “It’s been a while since you did that. You used to like riding it.”
“I do, mom,” Jarod said. After the bathroom incident, he realized that if he was to act more like a boy when he went to school and was out in the public, he’d have to change his ways.
“Well take off that lipstick and put on a tee-shirt,” she said. “And put on your running shoes and that pair of sweat shorts.”
As Nancy later watched her son get his bike out of the garage, he still looked very much like a girl, even with his change of clothes. His hair, now without pigtails, poked partly out from the back of the baseball cap he was wearing. She just shook her head, worried now that he might be harassed as he rode about the neighborhood.
She heard the Modjeska boys tease him as he rode out the driveway, but Jarod had learned to ignore them and he was soon down the block away from their taunts.
“The child has guts,” she thought to herself.
*****
The following day Nancy welcomed the new family that moved into the single house next to hers, taking over to them a plate of cookies. She and the woman of the house, Helen Highsmith, quickly became friends, and shared the fact that they both had youngsters dearly in need of friends. Jarod had been mistaken by the new family as a girl, due to his slender build and habit of wearing pigtails, but the two mothers agreed that perhaps Helen’s daughter, Wanda, who was one-year older than Jarod, might still become friends.
“Jarod, Jarod.” The boy heard his name being called as he lowered the garage door after getting his bike from the garage.
He turned to see the new girl, Wanda, standing in her yard, holding her bicycle. She was wearing a tank top and pair of denim shorts, cut high to expose tanned, firm thighs. She was easily as tall as Jarod, and appeared to have broader shoulders and muscular arms. Her flaxen hair was tucked under a baseball cap, and it flowed out of the gap in the back.
“Hi, I’m Wanda,” the girl said.
“Hi. Mom told me about you.” Jarod had been looking out the window at the girl whenever she was outside, marveling at her easy beauty.
“Can I ride along with you?” she asked.
“Ah, sure. I’m not going anywheres, just riding.”
“That’s OK. Maybe you can show me the neighborhood.”
They both headed out into the road, only to be seen by the Modjeska twins: “Playing with a girl again, sissy boy?”
Jarod continued riding his bike, trying to ignore their taunts, but feeling he should show his courage by challenging the bullies.
“Sissy, sissy, sissy,” they yelled after him as the two biked down the road.
“Good for you, Jarod,” Wanda said, riding alongside him. “They’re just stupid.”
He smiled, merely nodding in agreement. Was this girl teasing him now? Or was she sincere? He wondered.
The bike ride took them past the middle school they would attend, and the two stopped, putting their bikes on their sides on a grassy plot, as he told Wanda everything he knew about the school. She shared with him about her school.
“I hope to be on the soccer team here,” she said. “I played soccer at my other school.”
“Cool.”
“It’s nice they have teams where boys and girls both can play. Maybe you can be on the team.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I’m no good at soccer.”
He wondered why she queried him on that; it must be obvious he must be no good at sports. The two of them sat on the lawn, their legs stretched out straight before them, their arms holding their backs up. Her legs were obviously strong and his showed no tone.
“Haven’t you played it before?”
“Oh some, but I don’t much like sports.”
“So my mom told me,” she confessed. She said her mother told her that Jarod was a nice boy, but that he loved doing things girls did.
“Oh?”
“You know what? I hope you won’t get mad now.”
“I won’t Wanda. You seem nice.”
“When I first saw you, I . . . ah . . . thought you were a girl.”
He reddened, knowing that he liked the idea of being mistaken for a girl, but knowing that it confirmed what the Modjeska twins were saying: He’s a sissy. He liked Wanda, since she seemed sincere and kind and he wanted to be her friend, but he was afraid she’d be scared away by his girlishness.
“Does that bother you? That I thought you were a girl?”
“No,” he said, slowly, measuring his reply.
“It’s OK,” Wanda persisted. “Each of us is different. I get teased because I’m a tomboy and like sports. Some girls tell me that I’ll never get a boy friend because I got muscles.”
“Oh no, Wanda, you’re beautiful,” he said. He meant it; she was a “hottie.”
“And, you, Jarod are very nice looking boy. I’m sure when you get older lots of girls will like you.”
“You’re just saying that,” he said. “No girls will want me; I’m not strong like a boy should be.”
“Well, you’re still growing,” Wanda said. “You’ll get stronger.”
The two soon finished their ride, ending up in the Highsmith kitchen where Wanda’s mother treated them to lemonade and cookies. Later, the two ended up in Wanda’s room, with the door open, where Wanda showed Jarod her shelf of awards. There were perhaps a dozen shiny gold and silver trophies for soccer and basketball and track. Jarod was dazzled by the display (held on a special shelf), but Wanda seemed most proud of a scrapbook she produced.
“My stories are in here. And, some poems too, plus some pictures,” she said, handing him a thick scrapbook of manila pages, crammed full of stories, the first pages have stories in a painstaking tiny neat handwriting, and the later pages obviously from a computer printer.
“You wrote all these?” he said in amazement.
“Yes, since about 3rd grade. They’re not very good.”
“Oh I bet they are,” he said.
His eyes were drawn to one page, a poem entitled: “The Girl Next Door.”
It read:
The girl next door is pretty as a peach,
With a beauty I shall never reach.
Golden hair that shall never fail
To glisten in a lovely pigtail.
Oh that I can some day be
As dainty and lovely as she.
“When did you write this?” he asked.
“Oh that one. Last year.”
“It’s a cute poem, but do you really feel that way?”
“Oh Jarod, I’m a horse compared to many girls,” she said. “I was so jealous of her, that girl who lived next to us in our old house.”
“No, you’re pretty. I told you that.”
Wanda shook her head in a negative fashion.
“You’re sweet to say that, Jarod, but I’m not to be a pretty girl.”
Jarod started to protest, but she continued.
“Why you’re prettier than I am. When I first saw you, I thought you were the cutest girl.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, now admit it. You’re a prettier girl!”
“No, I’m not,” he giggled. She was teasing him.
“Admit it,” she persisted, taking his wrist and twisting it firmly, but gently, easily overcoming any resistance he could muster. He was totally in her control, being too weak to resist her firm grip on his arms.
He started giggling and she wrestled him easily to the floor before he finally admitted: “Yes I’m the prettier girl.”
“See, now, you admit it.” Soon they were both laughing.
“Maybe that poem is a premonition,” Jarod said, now breathless from the wrestling nd giggling. “It really is about you and me.”
Jarod told her that he also liked to write poetry and that he also knew how to sew and make dresses.
“You do? That’s so cool,” she said.
“I’d like to make you a pretty dress some day,” he said. “That is, if my mom would permit it.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“She wants me to act more like a boy.”
“Boys can sew dresses,” Wanda said. “The biggest names in fashions are men.”
“You’re cool, Wanda,” Jarod said.
“You are too, Jarod,” Wanda said. “I had fun with you today.”
And so a friendship began, a friendship of understanding and honesty and openness. It was a friendship that would grow in value in the troubling years ahead.
*****
With Wanda, Jarod discovered, he could share his most intimate secrets, just as he had shared his own desires to be a girl with Terri. This was different, however, since Wanda seemed to accept Jarod on his own terms without judgment and without any personal desires of her own. With Terri, Jarod began to realize their attraction had been physical and without any breadth of interests.
“I would think you’d find me awful,” he admitted to her one day while they had stopped in their riding at a park.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m not like other boys.”
“Maybe that’s why I like you,” she said.
They were getting off their bikes as he began that conversation, and they placed them in a rack, and locked them.
“Let’s take a walk to the bluff,” she suggested.
The bluff was at a high point, overlooking the lake, with the beach far below them. They could see the white sails of numerous boats, along with the flitting of powerboats on the blue water. Far out was an oreboat, its long silhouette on the horizon.
They sat on one of the half dozen benches that lined the overlook, the others empty, since lovers rarely were out in the late morning hours.
Jarod and Wanda, of course, we not lovers, in any sense. They were two children beginning to explore life, and finding common cause in their adolescence.
“You know, Jarod, you don’t need to have big muscles to be cool,” she said, taking one of his hands in hers, actually dwarfing his tiny hand in her larger one. Jarod suddenly felt ashamed of his puny self in the company of this strong girl, wishing he could hide his slender forearms and soft biceps.
“I’m not good at any sports,” was his only response.
“I like you because you’re nice,” she said. He blushed, now focusing his eyes out on the lake, trying to locate the oreboat on the horizon.
“I’ll race you back to the bikes,” Wanda said, when they got up from the bench. Before he could protest, she was off and running, taking big strides and quickly covering the ground to the bike stalls. For his part, Jarod struggled, knowing he was slow and awkward as a runner.
He was panting when he reached the bikes, where Wanda caught him in her arms, as if to stop him from collapsing in exhaustion.
“You’re so cute when you run, Jarod,” she said in a teasing tone.
“See, I told you, I’m not much good,” he responded, still breathing hard.
“I’m sorry I did that, Jarod,” she said. “Really, I’m sorry.”
“I know, you’re thinking I run like a girl,” he said.
“Well, I thought you’d compete better with me than you did,” she said.
They got on their bikes and returned home; neither one said much, with Wanda suggesting they go on a bike outing the following morning about 10 a.m. Wanda realized she had hurt Jarod’s feelings, but was uncertain how to make him feel better.
“Maybe,” was Jarod’s only reply to her invitation to bike again the next day. He put his bike in the garage and went into his home, finding solace in curling up on his bed. He cried, so ashamed of his weakness, and wishing so hard that he could be a girl.
*****
“Wanda’s here for you,” his mother said rapping on the door of his bedroom. He had confined himself to the room after the humiliating bike ride, spending time writing a story about a little girl who wanted to save a duck that seemed to have come into her family’s yard.
“I don’t wanna see her,” he said.
“Jarod, come on out of there,” his mother ordered. “Wanda’s brought us some strawberry ice cream. It’s your favorite.”
“I hate her,” he said.
“That’s silly. She’s a nice friend,” his mother said, opening the door now.
“Dry your tears, honey. Wanda told me she’s sorry for what she did this morning. Come on out.”
She led him to the bathroom, helped him wash his face and comb his hair, leaving it flow loosely. He appeared about five minutes later, finding Wanda in the kitchen, wearing a light blue summer dress, with her hair neatly brushed and turned up.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi Jarod. I brought some ice cream and remembered your favorite was strawberry.”
He looked at her more closely. He had never seen her in a dress; she always looked like a tomboy.
“You’re pretty in that dress,” Jarod said.
“Do you like it? I wanted to wear it just to show you I can be a girl.” She giggled.
“I think it’s perfect for you,” Jarod said. “It makes you so pretty.”
The dress itself had a square bodice, with ruffles at the hems, and short puffy sleeves. It was belted high on the tummy area, and fully skirted, helping to broaden Wanda’s otherwise boyish hips. She wore white pumps, without heels.
Before they opened the ice cream, his mother had called Wanda’s mother, and asked her to join them.
“You didn’t believe my daughter would wear a dress, I bet?” Wanda’s mother said when she arrived for the ice cream.
“I always knew she was pretty, but never realized how pretty she was,” Jarod’s mother said.
“She wanted to wear this just for Jarod,” her mother said.
“I know Jarod likes pretty things,” Wanda said, looking at the boy now, smiling.
Jarod felt better now, but he merely nodded in assent. He did like pretty things, even dainty things and he was thinking about a dress he might like to design for Wanda. And, his thoughts wandered on, the kind of a matching dress he’d make for himself.
“Now, be careful when you eat the ice cream, Wanda,” her mother warned. “You don’t want to ruin that nice dress.”
That night, Jarod lay awake, wishing he was a girl and could be with Wanda to go shopping or to the movies as girl friends. Being a boy, he continued to muse, was such an awful fate. In his mind that night, he pictured he and Wanda were being girls together, wearing all sorts of dresses.
*****
The next day, he looked out the window to see Wanda practicing with a soccer ball, doing all sorts of dribbles and touches, and looking quite skillful at it. Jarod had played soccer only in school recreation classes, and had performed ineptly, either missing a ball completely, or kicking it weakly, often to an opponent.
She looked up and saw Jarod looking at her, and waved; he wanted to duck out of her view, but she had seen him already, so he waved back.
She beckoned him to come out and join her, and he wanted to decline, afraid he’d embarrass himself again as he did yesterday. Her wave was insistent, so he motioned he’d be out after he changed his clothes. He put on denim shorts, a Green Bay Packer jersey and a pair of white running shoes, with ankle socks. He put his hair in a ponytail, tucking it out through the gap at the back of a baseball cap. As he was about to leave, he looked in the mirror, realizing he still looked girly, but decided he had nothing better to wear.
If Wanda noticed how feminine he looked, she said nothing, merely tapping the ball to him, which he awkwardly fumbled and kicked back, the ball heading off to the right.
“I’m no good,” he said.
“Oh posh,” she said. “Let’s go in the backyard. I’ll show you a few things.”
He followed her at a run to the back, realizing she probably decided to move there to avoid the stares, and possible taunts of the Modjeska twins.
The session went surprisingly well, since Jarod proved to be a quick learner in spite of his physical weakness. She taught him how to kick the ball properly on the side of his foot, and he found he could send it further than he ever had. She taught him to follow his opponent’s feet if he was defending and how to accomplish a tackle or the steal the ball.
Several times he stole the ball cleanly from Wanda and he jumped with joy, squealing and giggling, although he felt she maybe let him do it to encourage him.
“You let me steal the ball, Wanda,” he protested.
“No, I didn’t Jarod. You did that cleanly.”
“Really?”
“Yes, you can be good at this game. You just need to practice.”
“OK,” he said, now out of breath. They took a break, sitting at a picnic table the Highsmiths had in the backyard.
“Yes, I know you could make our middle school team,” she said. “It’s both boys and girls, and you already have the skills.”
“Oh, I’m pretty lousy,” Jarod said. “My legs are not strong, like yours.”
“You’ll do fine, and leg strength isn’t important as long as you know how to do it.”
He held his legs out straight from the picnic table, as if to compare them with hers. It was apparent he had truly slender, pretty legs. Wanda looked at him and smiled.
“We’ll practice some each day, and with our bike riding, you’ll get strong. You’ll see.”
*****
Nancy, Jarod’s mother, had walked over to the Highsmith house, joining Wanda’s mother, Helen, in the kitchen. They were sharing coffee, while watching their children in the backyard.
“I have to admit they look like two pretty girls out there, Helen,” his mother said.
“I’m afraid you’re right. Jarod has such a lovely pair of legs, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and here I am trying to make him into a regular boy. Do you think it’s hopeless? And am I wrong?”
“I can’t tell you what is right or wrong, Nancy,” Helen said, sipping her coffee. “But I do know that if Wanda has anything to do with it, it would not be hopeless. When she’s determined to do something, she’ll do it. And I think she wants Jarod on the success team this year.”
In previous talks, Nancy had shared with Helen her concerns about Jarod becoming so girlish that he’d have problems in school; the two had agreed that it might be nice to encourage the friendship to continue between the two children.
Helen had gently hinted to her daughter to engage Jarod in her sports games to draw him out and make him more competitive. Meanwhile, she also left suggestions to Wanda to occasionally wear a dress and be more feminine.
There was no doubt, they had realized, that the two children, as different as they appeared, really had lots in common; and, they were unaware of the fact that the two shared poetry and writing and creativity, which perhaps would be their tightest bond.
They looked out at the pair on the picnic table, talking animatedly with Jarod hands moving about steadily, and Wanda being more serene.
The mothers smiled.
“There’s Jane. There’s Jane,” four-year-old Emily Tankersley squealed from the swing set in the backyard of the side-by-side duplex the Tankersley and Pinkerton families shared. Emily and her sister, Angela, 2, lived with their divorced mother, Amy, in one side and Jarod Pinkerton and his mother, Nancy, lived in the other side. The two units shared a backyard and garage.
“No honey, that’s Jarod,” her mother said. She was sitting at a picnic table, watching her two young girls.
“No, mommy, that’s Jane.”
“Honey, don’t bother him now,” Amy pleaded, giving a wave to Jarod as he went to the garage to get his bike.
He waved back, tentatively, still shy about reconnecting with Amy and her children, faced with a court order that her custody of her two girls rested on the promise that there be no contact between the girls and Jarod. The judge had scheduled a hearing on the matter for the last Thursday in August, just a week before school was to resume.
Amy had been reassured by her attorney that the judge would lift the order, which had been gotten by her ex-husband in which he claimed custody of the two girls should be taken from Amy due to the constant contact they had with Jarod. The ex-husband claimed Jarod’s girlish nature was an “unhealthy influence” on the girls and that their mother, Amy, should lose custody because of her negligence in permitting Jarod to spend so much time with them.
“They have no evidence that Jarod did anything inappropriate with the girls and he has a perfect record in school, with top grades and no behavioral issues,” the attorney said.
“Still, that bastard ex of mine will do anything to hurt me,” Amy said.
Amy watched Jarod as he took his bike from the garage; he was wearing new soccer shoes that she knew his mother bought the other day. He also wore athletic shorts that rode high up his slender thighs and a tee shirt. His hair, now cut back to just shoulder length, was tied in a ponytail.
She knew Jarod was trying so hard to become more of a boy, having watched him practice soccer with Wanda, the girl in the house next to Jarod’s unit. The girl had been far more athletic, but Jarod she noticed had picked up some skills in the sport, despite his generally unathletic appearance.
*****
As soon as Jarod closed the garage door, he saw Wanda pulling her bike out; they were both heading to Riverside Park soccer fields where the Middle School coach was to hold tryouts for the school’s coeducational soccer team; there were two teams to be picked, one for 11 to 12 year olds and the other for 13 and 14 year olds. If they made it, Jarod and Wanda would be on the same team.
“I don’t why I let you talk me into this,” Jarod complained as the two headed down the block.
“Oh you’ll do fine,” she said, suddenly picking up speed. “Let’s hurry, so we can be among the first in line.”
“Wanda, not so fast,” he protested, trying mightily to keep up with the girl in front of him, watching her muscular calves and thighs in action. He knew he was not strong enough to keep up with her, but he would try.
But she kept moving, spurring Jarod on. The boy responded surprisingly well, eventually catching up to her. He knew, of course, that Wanda had let him catch her, but she always did it in a manner that would not embarrass him.
“You’ll do fine, Jarod,” the girl said as he approached her and they turned down the parkway, toward the field. “Besides, there’ll be more girls on the team if it’s like last year. You’ll do as well as most of them.”
“Great,” Jarod said. “I play like a girl, eh?”
“No Jarod,” she said, as they pulled up to park their bikes. “I told you that you did good in our practice.”
They put their bikes in the rack, locking them dutifully, and ran to the field, seeing two lines of boys and girls. As they approached they saw a young woman, obviously a coach, wearing sweats and a sweat band, who hailed them.
“You two girls,” she said. “The 11 and 12 year olds are in the line at the right.”
Wanda grabbed Jarod’s arm, dragging him along into the line, as directed. “The coach probably needs glasses, Jarod.”
Jarod was blushing; already he had been pegged as a girl, even though he had worn boy soccer shorts and a shirt. As he looked around, he saw many girls dressed almost the same outfits, and with his long hair in a ponytail, and his slender build, he might be mistaken for a girl, no matter what he did.
Jarod kept his head down, but when he looked up, he noticed most of the potential soccer players were indeed girls.
“You’re next young lady,” someone said, and Jarod felt himself being pushed from behind by Wanda.
“That’s you,” he heard someone say.
He was standing now at the head of the line, it having moved quickly. He was peering into the face of an older man with a kind face; he was seated at folding table registering the applicants.
“Hand me your permission form and doctor’s slip, honey,” the man said to Jarod. “And, what’s your name?”
Jarod blushed, fully realizing the man also thought he was one of the girls. He didn’t answer right away, but heard Wanda say firmly:
“He’s Jarod Pinkerton, coach.”
The man looked up, realized his mistake.
“Of course, Jarod Pinkerton. You’re right here on the list, son. Sorry about that. It’s just we have so many girls here this year.”
Jarod merely nodded, handing the man his slips.
Wanda followed, going through the same routine, and when she was done, dragged Jarod over to a group of about five, four girls and one boy, who were kicking the ball playfully back and forth. As they approached, one of the girls, an African-American with dreadlocks, was suddenly in a fierce battle for control of the ball with another player, a tall, muscular, tow-headed boy. Suddenly, with a quick feint and motion, she stole the ball from him, giggling. “See I told I could do it,” the girl squealed.
“That’s Troy Huggins,” Wanda said. “He’s the best player, but, did you see what LaToya did?”
By then Jarod had gotten close enough to see that LaToya was the same girl he had met in the park while playing with Amy and her daughters.
“I can’t go there,” he said, grabbing Wanda’s arm.
“Why not?”
“She knows me.”
Jarod forced Wanda to the side and said in a low voice. “She thinks I’m a girl,” he said sheepishly.
He had told Wanda a little of his playing “Jane” with the little girls, but never of the incident in the park, nor of how often he dressed as a girl. Now it was time, Jarod realized, to tell Wanda how he refused LaToya’s invitation for a sleepover because he knew it would expose him as a boy; she, however, said the invitation had been refused because she was black. The accusation had stung Jarod badly, thinking that he hated black people.
“You see, I can’t play now.”
“Yes, you can and will. LaToya won’t remember.”
“Oh yes, she will,” Jarod protested.
It was to no avail. The boy, Troy, had seen Wanda and the new kid standing there and he came over, greeting Wanda. He dragged the both of them to the group, and they joined in kicking the ball. Jarod was pleased when Troy said he was glad to have another boy around; Jarod knew at least one person accepted him as a boy.
Try as he might, he could not steer clear of Latoya who soon came up to him as he dribbled, not too badly, he thought. Yet, in a flick of her feet, LaToya stole the ball from him, as she had done from Troy.
As she did so, she noticed Jarod’s face, and her attention sharpened, and she quickly lost the ball to Wanda, as the promptu game continued.
LaToya stopped, came back to Jarod, looking at him, finally saying, “I know you.”
Jarod wanted to run away right now, but he figured he better take a stand. He looked her straight in the eye, saying, “I’m Jarod.”
LaToya eyed him a bit more closely, shook her head, and said, “I sure know you from somewhere Jarod.”
The conversation ended as Coach Lutjack blew the whistle, summoning both teams to the bleachers to begin the session. Jarod joined Wanda and Troy (who had teamed up) and sat on the first row; he watched Jessica take a seat in the row immediately behind him.
“Do you have a twin sister?” LaToya asked, leaning over to speak in Jarod’s ear.
“No,” he said, continuing to look forward. As embarrassing as he felt, he found himself feeling pleased that LaToya had thought of him only as a girl at the Park and the beach; also he enjoyed the times he was mistaken for a girl.
To his own surprise, Jarod made the team; in fact, everyone made the team. Coach Lutjak, who had been the man taking registrations, informed everyone there were three rules that had to be obeyed: “First, you must stop talking when I or Coach Barry blow our whistles. Second, you must never criticize another player for a misplay. Remember, every one of us will make a mistake on the field once in a while and if anyone needs to be criticized, either I or Coach Barry will do it.”
“Isn’t that right, Coach Barry?” he asked, addressing the athletic young woman who had directed them to the correct line.
“Yes, Coach,” she said. “What is Rule No. 3, coach?”
“Rule No. 3 is: We’re all going to work hard to learn the game and we’re all going to have fun.”
One of the girls from the 13-14 year old team piped up: “Coach, that’s two Rule No. 3’s and how can we work hard and have fun at the same time?”
“Tiffany,” he said. “You worked hard the last two years, didn’t you?”
“Yes, coach.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes” came a chorus of voices from the team of older players. And everyone laughed, at what was to become a routine at every practice that autumn.
In the perfunctory early practice session, Jarod realized he was not the worst player on the field. While his weak legs made it difficult for him to kick the ball with any authority, his cleverness and the training with Wanda seemed to have paid off. He would be on defense, it was assured.
*****
“We have to wait a bit. Troy’s going to ride home with us,” Wanda said. “He’s talking with the coach. I think he wants Troy to be team captain.”
“Oh, Troy’s coming with us? Does he live near us?”
Jarod seemed a bit put out by this development, thinking he was Wanda’s special friend. It now appeared that Troy would be her friend.
“Oh, he’s fun, Jarod,” Wanda said, sensing his disappointment.
Jarod had found in Wanda his first true friend; she had accepted him as he was, and he always felt comfortable with her. He knew instinctively that he should have found another boy to be his friend, but so far he never had felt anything but inadequate in the company of boys. He was always afraid of saying something that would prompt them to laugh at him or tease him.
Now, he was finding, Wanda wanted to share her friendship with another person, Troy.
To make matters worse, when the three of them began their ride home, Troy and Wanda rode in tandem, the narrowness of the streets making it impossible for Jarod to join. The trio therefore rode with Troy and Wanda abreast, leading the way.
Soon, Jarod was trailing behind, unable to maintain the steady pace of the other two. He cursed his weakness, and found he was hated the muscular boy in front of him, riding with Wanda.
Troy and Wanda had stopped a block ahead, waiting for Jarod to catch up. They were at the entrance to a parkway that paralleled the lake, and as Jarod came up, already breathing hard, Wanda said:
“Troy and I are going to take the lake road, Jarod. I’ll see you at home later.”
“What?” Jarod said stunned.
Troy interjected: “Wanda and I have somewhere to go, and you can’t seem to keep up.”
“Yes, Jarod. I’ll see you later. Just follow Dempsey Boulevard to get home.”
With that, the two of them were off, heading in a fast pace along the lake road. He could never catch them. He stood, watching them move speedily, and laughing loudly along the lake road, soon to be lost in the trees that lined the route.
Jarod didn’t move for a minute, telling himself he shouldn’t cry. He had never felt so rejected in his life: his one true friend leaving him for another. He pulled his bike over to the grass along the road and leaned it against a tree. He sat down on the grass, and now the tears cascaded down his face, as he sobbed silently, an occasional whimper escaping.
A car pulled up alongside, but Jarod kept his head down, trying to hide his face and expose his tears.
“Are you all right, little girl?” a women’s voice said.
He never looked up, but mumbled a weak “yes.” The woman, whom he realized was in her car, looking at him, had not heard his answer. She asked again: “Are you all right, honey?”
“Yes,” he said, more loudly. “I’ll be OK.”
The woman persisted in her questioning. At last, Jarod said he was merely sad about something and that he could get home OK. The women, said: “OK, honey, but I don’t like to see girls out alone on the street. You be careful.”
Jarod thanked her. He wiped his face by raising the bottom of his tee-shirt and rubbing it on his face. His bike ride home was slow; he couldn’t help but think about the day’s experiences: he had to admit he had fun playing soccer, having found he loved the running about and his modest success at the sport. He realized, however, that his success was due to the fact that most of the players that day were girls of his own age and some were truly dreadful at the sport. There were a number of girls who were far better than he was: Wanda was probably the best girl on the team and Troy easily the best boy.
Then, he realized, he was mistaken for a girl at least half the time. On the field, the boys and girls wore the same team shirt and shorts, their gender distinguishable only by their hair and body mass. Jarod knew his slender arms and legs, along with his long light brown hair flowing down in a ponytail must have made him look more like a girl.
Soon, his spirits lifted as he neared his home. Maybe, he wondered, if his mother was busy with her work, he could sneak into a nice sundress he had hidden in the closet. With that thought he found the sun shining and blue skies opening up. Maybe he could be a girl for a while!
Chapter 12: Getting an Opinion
His mother had other plans for Jarod when he got home. She was having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, her school planning work evidently completed for the day. There would be no chance for Jarod to wear that lovely light blue and yellow sundress.
“Go take a shower and get cleaned up, Jarod,” she ordered.
When he got out of the shower and had dried himself off, he found his mother at the bathroom door, holding a pair of slacks and a light grey boy’s polo shirt.
“I want you to put these on, along with your good shoes,” she ordered. “I made an appointment with a doctor for you.”
“A doctor? Why? I’m not sick.”
“Just get dressed.” Her voice was unusually firm.
Jarod loved his mother intensively; she was the most important person in his life. She rarely gave such tough orders, and he realized he better obey and ask no more questions.
“We’re going to see a specialist now,” his mother said, once they were in the car heading for the downtown.
“For what, mommy? Ah . . . I mean, mom.”
“He was recommended to me by the lady psychiatrist who teaches at my school. He’s really nice, she said.”
“A what? A shrink?” the boy said shocked.
“Well, it doesn’t mean you’re sick, honey,” she said to reassure him, after she had navigated the off-ramp from the freeway. They waited for a long light to change, and she explained:
“He’s what’s called a gender specialist,” she said. “You know you’ve been enjoying doing girl things, and . . . we just need to see if you need any help to think things out.”
“Mom. Do I have to talk to him?”
“Yes, honey. It won’t hurt to talk.”
“But mom, I’m not crazy,” he said, a desperation tone entering his voice.
“No, honey, you’re not. You’re a sweet, caring and very talented boy, and mommy loves you very much.”
“It’s mom,” he corrected her, reminding her of her request to call her ‘mom,’ since boys don’t say ‘mommy.’
She laughed.
“Yes, honey, it’s mom. He’ll just talk to you. I won’t be in the room some of the time and you can tell him everything you feel, even things you won’t tell me.”
Jarod merely nodded his head, as his mother found a two-hour meter and parked the car. He marveled at how skillfully she navigated the parallel parking move. He looked at her closely, realizing what a truly pretty woman she was. Someday, he was wondering, could he be as pretty a woman? The thought suddenly astounded him: why couldn’t he be pretty like his mother? So talented and marvelous?
*****
His mother, Jarod realized, always looked fresh, usually choosing warm colors that highlighted her fairly pale, mildly freckled complexion. Usually, she wore full skirts that ended below the knees, fluffy blouses and short heeled sandals. He knew she was self-conscious about her weight, always complaining, “I should lose 10 pounds,” but Jarod felt she was just the prettiest of women. Her eyes always sparkled, even in the midst of concerns, of which there were many as she struggled with the demands of single motherhood.
His mother wore a print dress, however, for the visit to the psychiatrist, with a square cut bodice and short cape-like sleeves. Her brown hair was cut at shoulder length, and bobbed, to give her round face a youthful appearance.
Jarod realized, as the two sat in the waiting room that they were sitting in almost identical postures, erect with legs together, hands dutifully folded in their laps. “Like mother, like daughter,” he thought. His mother had told him that he had been acting more and more like a girl in recent months, even when dressed as a boy. He walked erectly, flinging his arms about, causing his hips to move; it was causing many people to mistake him for a girl, even when he was dressed in his boy outfits.
The reflection eased his tension over the visit to the doctor, where he feared he’d be exposing himself and all his feelings to a stranger. In his mind, he wondered: why wasn’t he born a girl? It seemed that’s what he felt he was: a girl. Yet, he sat in the doctor’s office wearing a new pair of boy’s slacks, a button down shirt and his hair in a boyish cut, much shorter than it had been all summer.
Jarod was relieved there were no other patients waiting when they arrived; the receptionist was business-like, barely looking up when she handed his mother the clipboard, asking her to fill out the insurance information form.
“Jarod and Mrs. Pinkerton, the doctor is ready for you now,” his thoughts were interrupted.
*****
Jarod was surprised to see that Dr. Eugene Martin, the psychiatrist, was not a bearded old gentleman, as he pictured all psychiatrists. He was instead a short man, partially balding, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a tie. What distinguished him were his pale blue eyes, which lit up when talking with people.
He welcomed both Jarod and his mother with equal openness and a firm handshake; though he seemed sort and slender, Dr. Martin was obviously an athletic man, as his hands and bulging biceps seemed to demonstrate.
He let Jarod’s mother outline her concerns, which she did quickly and succinctly, the doctor asking few questions. He took notes sparingly on a yellow legal pad, rarely taking his eyes off the person speaking.
The doctor said little, until his mother, commented: “Dr. Martin, I wished I knew what I did wrong to cause his problem. Maybe it was because there was no man in . . .”
The doctor held up his hand, interrupting her, saying firmly, but in a measured, slow tone: “His problem? His problem? I think not, Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong,” she said.
Jarod looked quickly as his mother, who began to cry now, realizing she had seemed to say Jarod was “a problem” for her.
His mother quickly continued: “Jarod’s never been a problem. He’s been a sweet, wonderful child and I love him dearly. I just want what is best for him.”
Jarod was quick to his mother’s defense. He put his hand on hers, saying: “She’s the best mommy . . . ah . . . I mean . . . mom.”
“I can see you two love each other very much, and that’s going to help us figure out what’s going on here,” Dr. Martin said, his tone softening.
*****
The doctor asked Nancy to leave the room, giving her several fact sheets he had prepared outlining the nature of transsexuals and suggesting she look them over while he met with Jarod. Nancy kissed her son as she left, saying softly to him: “Tell him everything about how you feel, Jarod. He seems to be a nice man.”
“I will mom. I love you.” He returned his mother’s kiss.
She left the room, leaving Jarod with this athletic man; Jarod had always been fearful of muscular boys and men, feeling they would judge him badly for his physical weakness. Yet, there was something about Dr. Martin that seemed warm and understanding and Jarod soon began to pour out his feelings to the doctor.
When he told how much he enjoyed being “Jane” to the little girls next door, Jarod grew excited, his hands flitting about as he talked. He truly loved those moments, and he told Dr. Martin how he had been mistaken for a girl while playing in the park and how it made him wish he could always be a girl. “It felt so real,” he explained to the doctor, not really sure whether he was describing it properly.
Jarod was a bit taken aback that the doctor made no recommendations or comments about what Jarod should do. As Jarod was describing how Jessica, the African-American girl he met in the park, was so eager to be girl friends together, the doctor stopped him:
“Was that one of the best feelings you ever had in your life, Jarod?” the doctor asked quietly.
“Oh yes, yes, doctor. The best,” Jarod said. “But doctor, I’m still a boy, and she wanted me to sleep over at her house, and I wanted to, but how could I? She’d find out I was a boy and that would be awful.”
“Yes?” the doctor said, a question that prompted Jarod to tell him how he refused the invitation, and how the girl thought he had done so because of her race.
“I want to be her girl friend, doctor, so bad. She was neat. We could have had such fun together.”
All the doctor said was “give it time, Jarod.”
After nearly a half hour, the session was ended. Jarod realized he had talked almost constantly, telling the doctor everything, even his most humiliating experiences. For some reason, he felt elated by the experience.
*****
“I’ve enjoyed meeting Jarod, Mrs. Pinkerton,” Dr. Martin said as Nancy joined them for a final wrap-up session. “He’s a very smart nice boy, just as you told me, and I hope we can help you and Jarod out.”
His mother smiled, sitting next to her son, and grabbing his hand into hers, looking at his slender forearm, so white and soft. Jarod looked up to his mother, returning her smiles. The doctor had a small sitting area in his office, a winged back love seat, where he beckoned Jarod and his mother to sit, and a winged back chair, which he took. The chairs provided comfort, yet required the person to sit up and retain a certain degree of alertness.
“May I call you, Nancy?” he continued.
“Yes, of course, doctor.”
“Nancy, I’m going to be open and direct with both you and Jarod. I hope that’s OK with you. I think Jarod is bright enough and truly so mature for his age that he will be able to understand this. Is that OK, Nancy?”
“Yes, doctor. Jarod and I have talked about this.”
Jarod nodded his approval and the doctor continued:
“Jarod, I believe, opened up to me fully this morning, and that is rare among such young persons. I found, Nancy, that Jarod seems to be most happy and most comfortable when he was being Jane. He is troubled when he is being a boy, it appears. Now, this is all very preliminary, and we need . . .”
“Oh doctor, I know that, but shouldn’t he be given more opportunities to try to mold his male behavior?”
Dr. Martin sat quietly for a minute, before answering, “He seems sincerely convinced he should be a girl, Nancy.” His words were simple, direct, matter-of-fact.
“I know doctor, but isn’t that because I raised him as a single mother. There’s never been any men in his life.”
The doctor, reached over, gently touching Nancy’s forearm, as if to reassure her.
“Ma’am, I hoped you looked at the material I gave you, and you are aware there are such persons as transsexuals.”
“Yes, doctor, I’ve looked into this on the internet, too. But, doctor, he’s only 11. How can he know that for sure?”
“Nancy, we don’t yet know that about Jarod. We need more sessions and discussions.”
Jarod became tense as the conversation between the two adults continued; he wasn’t quite sure about the transsexual business, but he felt he wished he were in a pretty skirt and blouse at that very moment, and that there would be no need for doctors and psychiatric testing and all that.
“I’m not sure we’re ever certain in matters like this, Nancy,” the doctor continued. “But I do know that Jarod’s eyes brightened when he told me about playing with the girls next door as a girl named ‘Jane.’”
“I know, doctor, sometimes I find myself even thinking of him as my daughter.”
She wanted to add that she thought that Jarod looked so pretty and feminine when he was dressed. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, recalling the moments of joy she also had when watching Jarod as “Jane,” and his dainty mannerisms.
“Doctor Martin,” she added. “I’m so scared for his future. He will have such a tough time if he tries to live as a girl and later as a woman.”
The psychiatrist looked her squarely in the eyes now: “But, Mrs. Pinkerton, if he is forced to live as a boy and he feels that is all wrong for him and if he feels tortured to be a boy, his whole psyche will be in trouble.”
Probably because Jarod was there, Dr. Martin did not add that fact that the suicide rate among youth facing such gender issues is terribly high. It was a fact that was highlighted in the materials Nancy had read.
At that point, he asked Jarod to leave the room so that he could talk with his mother privately.
*****
“All he really did was listen, mom,” he explained later on their drive home.
“That’s what those doctors do so that they get to know you, honey. Did you like him?”
“Oh yes, mom . . .” he said, almost saying “mommy,” but catching himself, trying to keep the more masculine language.
“Well, I don’t know when we can see him again,” she said. “But he helped me out a lot.”
Nancy did not make a follow-up appointment, as the doctor had suggested, largely because she was not sure her limited health insurance plan would cover the visits and that her finances were tight at the time, as she was existing on the limited pay of a community college contract teacher.
“Does he think I’m a girl, mom?” Jarod said as the car continued, his mother driving more slowly than before.
“No honey, you’re a boy, but you do seem to like girl stuff, and we won’t take that from you.”
Jarod smiled. “You mean I can still be ‘Jane?’”
“Sometimes, honey. Sometimes. But, not always.”
“I love you, mommy,” he said, feeling suddenly very giddy.
“And I love you and Jane, too,” she said.
*****
Later that day, Jarod and Wanda took off on their bikes and Nancy joined Wanda’s mother, Helen, for coffee.
“Helen, I’m so worried about Jarod. Dr. Martin was very helpful, but it won’t be easy.”
Nancy had shared with Helen that Jarod often dressed as a girl, loved being “Jane,” sewed dresses and played with dolls. The two had become close friends, Helen often sharing with Nancy the fact that her husband seemed to regularly become enamored of one pretty girl each year in his classes. “Men are no damn good,” Nancy would say, and the two would laugh.
“We’re so pleased that your daughter Wanda seems to accept Jarod as he is, never teasing him,” Nancy said.
“The truth is, she likes Jarod. He’s the best friend she’s ever had.”
“The two seem to get along, don’t they?”
“The odd couple, eh? A tomboy with your Jane.”
“Well I appreciate it that Wanda is so good with him. She’s even got him out doing sports, and I guess he’s not doing too bad at it.”
Nancy explained that based on Dr. Martin’s advice she was going to let Jarod dress as a girl at home and permit him to engage in some girlish endeavors, such as sewing and cooking, both of which he likes to do. “Jarod helps me out immensely at the house, doing things for me most boys would not,” Nancy confessed.
She said Jarod would continue to dress as a boy outside the home and in school. She said she hoped Wanda would continue to encourage Jarod to participate in more masculine activities, but not to force him to do so.
“We’ll let nature takes its course, and see where it goes,” Nancy said.
“I suppose that’s best, Nancy, but it does seem that the boy must truly be transsexual and might be better off eventually as a girl.”
“I know, Helen, but it’s so dangerous. I just read about an 18-year-old who was murdered in Colorado, a transsexual girl,” she said.
“Oh yes, Angie Zapata,” Helen said. “I saw that in the paper.”
“And, then there was Gwen Araujo,” Nancy said, mentioning the 18-year-old transsexual who was murdered and became the subject of a movie, “A Girl Like Me.”
“Newsweek recently had a story about Lawrence King, who was 15 and liked to be called Lucretia. He was murdered because he dressed as a girl,” Helen added.
“You see! He won’t be safe if he continues down this path. Helen, I love him so much and I want him to be safe and happy. Is it too much to ask for both?”
“No, honey, but I see Jarod as a very strong child, whether he is a girl or a boy. I think you’ll be proud of him.”
“Or her,” Nancy said. She said the words with a mix of joy and horror.
Helen nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “Nancy, I forgot to show you something. Here’s the picture I took the other day when Jarod and Wanda were together here, playing with her dolls.”
The two children were shown sitting on Wanda’s bed, legs tucked under themselves, holding up two dolls they had just dressed. Both were wearing tank tops and shorts, and Jarod’s hair was tied in pigtails.
“Don’t they both look so pretty, Nancy?” Helen asked.
“Oh my yes, and Jarod’s wearing pigtails! I have tried to get him to stop tying his hair that way.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Nancy,” Helen said, growing red in the face. “But, he wanted me to do it so badly.”
“I know, and he looks to cute, and it makes him look so much like a girl.”
“I know you’re trying to change some of his girly activities, Nancy. I’m sorry.”
“Oh Helen, I’m not mad at you. He just seems to want to wear those pigtails, and pigtails are for girls, I’ve told him.”
Chapter 13: Split Identity
Wanda and Jarod’s bike ride that afternoon had taken them down the River Road. They were taking a lazy, slow ride, their bikes sometimes wandering in wide curves on the asphalt road.
As Wanda occasionally rode ahead, Jarod looked at his companion, envying her tanned, muscular legs and firm arms, finding her just a perfect specimen of a girl. He loved how her sweet buttocks protruded held in by the cloth of her red shorts.
This day, he was wearing denim shorts (a boy’s model) and a tee shirt that loosely on his slender upper body. He felt immensely proud that this beautiful girl was riding alongside him. Perhaps, he thought, people thought they were two sisters or girl friends, since even with his recent haircut, it was still long and flowed freely.
“Follow me,” Wanda directed, leading him into a wooded path.
There were roots and an occasional rock that made the ride rough, and they had to go slow, single file on their bikes to avoid taking a spill; Jarod, his legs having been strengthened over the last few weeks, thanks to his bike rides with Wanda and his soccer practice, negotiated a small hill without much difficulty.
“Stop here, I want to show you something,” the girl said, setting her bike up against a tree, and indicating Jarod should do the same.
She led them on a footpath that ended at the river, at a point where there was a minor rapids, and the flowing water was constantly moving, and making sounds. She took his hand, and led him to a rock, where they sat side by side, watching the water.
“This is my favorite spot,” she said. “Isn’t it . . . ah . . . nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I say nice?” Wanda said, giggling. “There’s got to be a better word than that.”
She still held his hand; her grip was firm and his hand felt tiny and weak inside hers.
“How about . . . beautiful?” he said, knowing that didn’t fully express the view.
“Not that,” she said.
“Heavenly?”
“That’s cool,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Yes, heavenly. The rocks and the water and the rushing sound are so heavenly.”
“This is such a pretty spot,” he said.
“Yes, it is, and, Jane, I think you’re so pretty, too.”
With that, she reached over and kissed him quickly, retreating immediately, almost blushing.
Jarod felt his penis growing as she kissed him and he was puzzled.
“You called me Jane,” he said. “And you called me pretty.”
“Because you are pretty, Jane,” she gave him another kiss, lingering a bit longer.
They separated, and Jarod was totally confused now.
“Why did you kiss me?” he asked.
“Because I wanted to.”
“But you called me Jane, and you kissed me like a girl kisses a boy?” His 11-year-old mind was totally in a whirl.
“I like you as Jane,” she said. “I wish I was as pretty as you are.”
“Oh Wanda, you’re very pretty, the prettiest girl I know.”
“No, look at my legs, all muscles, not soft and slender like yours.”
Jarod liked how his legs looked in skirts and dresses and shorts, but he also knew they were not strong as a typical boy’s legs. He demurred, saying Wanda’s legs were truly lovely, and that there was nothing wrong with a girl being strong.
“Jane,” Wanda said after a short break. “Jane, I want us to be like . . . ah . . . girl friends. You know, to do girl things.”
Jarod reddened, not quite sure how to handle this, saying finally: “I guess I like that.”
“I’ve never seen you fully dressed as a girl,” she said. “I’d like to see you that way.”
“Yes, but mom wants me to stop doing that so much and to try to act more like a boy. I guess I’m some sort of weirdo. I get teased sometimes.”
He explained that after the visit to the psychiatrist, his mom had decided he would be permitted sometimes to still dress as a girl, but that could only happen inside his house. Meanwhile, he would try to be more of a boy.
“When I first moved in the neighborhood, I thought you were a girl,” she admitted. “I even saw you in pigtails. You were so cute.”
He blushed, raising his hand and flicking his hair in a girlish manner.
“There’s still enough hair, Jane,” Wanda said. “Let’s give you pigtails.”
“What can we tie them with?”
Wanda looked about, seeing a discarded curled length of monofilament line some fisherman left behind. “Here we go!”
When she was done, she said: “Jane, you’re really pretty now.”
“Am I?” He was pleased. “But, we better take them out. Mom will kill me if she saw me like this again.”
“Jane, let’s be girl friends forever. OK? Promise me!”
“Promise,” he said, but not with enthusiasm, since he knew he was doomed to live as a boy, it seemed.
“We’ll seal the promise then with a kiss, a kiss between two girl friends,” and she kissed Jarod again, this time lingering longer.
“There,” she said. “We’re Jane and Wanda, secret girl friends.”
“Yes, secret girl friends.”
So a strange and truly lovely relationship grew stronger between a handsome, athletic girl and a slender pretty boy; they were to find strength in each other as they moved from the years of middle school into high school. Each would be there for the other, offering support in times of tears and sharing joy in times of triumph.
*****
Soccer practice continued daily for two hours each morning as the beginning of the school term neared. Jarod found the other players accepted him, largely because he always tried hard to be involved and he rarely was out of position. While he occasionally was able to intercept the ball from another player, more often than not he was beat out, even by some of the girls. Yet, his passes were always precise, if a bit weak, and he found he was always being encouraged by the other players and cheered on the rare times he did well.
Jarod began to feel some limited pride in his play, and it encouraged him to work harder and do better. Coach Lutjack was able to instill team spirit into the process, and because the team historically had never won too many games, largely due to the lack of many athletic boys, he was able to make each player feel good about even modest successes. He seemed to work hardest among the weakest of players, and got the other more talented boys and girls to cheer when one of the more pathetic players stole a ball or made a particularly good kick.
“Way to go, Jarod,” the coach had yelled more than once, and Wanda who could whistle through her teeth would always let out with a long screech, bringing applause from the others.
He usually played right wing, and it was fortunate because it kept him away from Latoya, who usually played on the other side of the opposing team in practice sessions.
A couple of players, however, were not so easily won over, and taunted Jarod repeatedly with phrases like: “You play like a girl.” “Is this your time of the month?” “Why aren’t you home playing with dolls?”
In truth, Jarod realized he did act a bit like a girl on the field, always screeching in a high pitch when excited and flailing his arms about. Wanda had warned him to tone down the way he walked, expressed himself and giggled so as to not appear so feminine, but he kept forgetting the advice and falling into his old habits.
On the last week before school started, the team had chosen itself into two sides for scrimmage, and the competition became spirited and even a bit rough. Jarod found himself the sole defender against an attacking Kevin Montague, a renowned 6th grade bully, who was dribbling the ball on the way to a clear shot at the goal.
“Get him, Jarod,” he heard Latoya yell.
“Tackle him, Jarod,” he heard Wanda’s voice.
Kevin had pushed Jarod around before, calling him “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.” Jarod knowing he was no competition for the larger boy had always merely walked away; now he was heading into a direct confrontation on the soccer field with his tormenter.
“Come get me, girl,” Kevin yelled.
Jarod’s fright at meeting the boy headon was overcome with the cheers of his teammates and his determination, and, using the move that Wanda had taught him, he accomplished a perfect tackle of the larger boy, knocking the ball toward Latoya, who also playing on his side. Kevin went sailing to the ground with the tackle.
“That was a dirty tackle,” Kevin said, angrily, humiliated at being beaten by such a pathetic player as Jarod.
Kevin got up and followed Jarod, pushing him down on the ground: “How do you like that girly girl?”
The coaches’ whistles blew loud and in unison to halt the play and Kevin pounced on Jarod, who was too weak to do much other than thrash about under the hold of the bigger, heavier boy. Players gathered around, and soon Jarod realized Kevin was no longer atop him, but was being pinned down by Latoya with help from Wanda. The two coaches had moved the other players away. Coach Lutjack picked Kevin up off the ground, holding him firmly, while Coach Barry, the female coach, helped Jarod to get up, asking: “Are you hurt, dear?”
“No,” he managed a weak response. He was at once both in high spirits with his successful tackle of the oncoming Kevin and humiliated at being the center of attention because of his obvious feminine behavior.
Kevin was not to be silenced, yelling: “That was dirty. He’s a dirty player. How else could a girly girl beat me out?”
Latoya was quick to yell: “It was a clean tackle. Jarod beat you, Kevin, fair.”
“Yes he did,” the coach reiterated.
The incident caused the scrimmage to end for the day, and dribbling exercises commenced. The coach took Kevin aside and talked to him privately for a few minutes, before ordering him to join the others.
“That was a fine tackle, Jarod,” Latoya said to him as the practice ended, and they walked to their bikes. Wanda was walking behind him, chatting with Troy, as she become more and more f riendly to the boy. In addition, the coach had named both as co-captains of the 11 and 12 year old team.
“Thank you, but I was scared silly as he came on.”
“But you stood your ground,” she smiled at him.
Jarod admired Latoya’s fine tuned 11-year-old body. She had discernible firm muscular arms and legs, a cute behind and well-tended dreadlocks. She was destined to become a beautiful girl, he felt.
“Thank you for taking Kevin off of me. I thought he would kill me,” Jarod said.
“Oh, he’s just a big coward and bully. You would have handled him eventually,” she said.
“I’m not so sure, so thanks.”
*****
As they approached the bike rack, Latoya drew Jarod aside, towards a huge oak tree that stood at the entrance to the park. The girl, her dark eyes glistening, said simply when they were out of earshot, “I’m sorry, Jarod, for what I thought about you.”
“What do you mean?” he said puzzled. “What did you think about me?”
“That you didn’t like me because I am black, but now I know differently. I know about you.”
Jarod was shocked, not sure what to say, but finally mumbled, “You know about me?”
“Yes, that you were the Jane I met in the park, the girl with the pigtails.”
Jarod blushed. He wanted to sink into the ground, to hide, to forget the soccer team and Wanda and Latoya.
“I know why you couldn’t sleep over now. You’re really a boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said sheepishly.
“Jarod, I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anybody, really, I won’t.”
“How did you find out?” he asked.
“Well . . . ah . . .” she started.
“I told her,” Wanda said coming into the conversation, well away from Troy. “She asked me about you, saying she thought you were Jane, and I felt she should know. She won’t tell.”
“Yes, Jarod, you were just like a girl those days we met in the park and went swimming. I wanted to be friends with you so bad,” Latoya said.
“I did, too. I felt like we could be girl friends,” Jarod said. “I like doing things with girls. I guess that’s bad.”
“No Jarod. You’re just special and different,” Latoya said. “I like you both as Jarod and Jane.”
“I like you, too, Latoya, and Wanda, too,” he said, smiling, hugging the sweaty bodies of both girls at once.
“Will you girls stop that hugfest, and let’s get going, Wanda,” Troy yelled.
Wanda joined Troy and the two hopped on their bikes, taking off quickly, leaving Latoya and Jarod together. Even though Latoya’s route was out of the way, Jarod accompanied her, stopping at a small city park, and finding a water fountain to get a drink. They talked for over an hour at the park, before splitting up; Jarod spent much of the time telling Latoya that he’d like to make a dress for her sometime, and they also admitted to enjoying writing a daily diary. They giggled, and Latoya began referring to him as “Jane” as she admitted to having a crush on Tyrone Travis, an older boy in her neighborhood.
“I wish you could come over sometime as Jane,” the African-American girl said. “I have some new CDs you’d like, and I still like to play with my dolls.”
“You do? So do I.”
They both giggled at the admission, since 11 year old girls (or boys) were supposed to have outgrown dolls.
“I put a different outfit on my Barbie every day,” Jarod admitted.
“That’s so cool.”
“But my mother wants me to become more of a boy, so I can’t go out of the house dressed like a girl.”
“Oh, I guess she’s right, Jarod,” Latoya said. “But I like you better as Jane.”
“Me too,” he said.
*****
Chapter 14: A Troubling Time
In the last week of August, Amy Tankersley faced her custody hearing in Children’s Court to determine whether the visits by Jarod, in his role as “Jane,” would cause her to lose custody of her children. Since her ex-husband had filed a petition, questioning her fitness to raise their two girls, she had had to ask Jarod to no longer play with them.
The petition claimed Jarod’s feminine behavior might damage the girls, aged 4 and 2, a claim that Amy didn’t believe was true. Yet, she had to obey the order that called for no further meetings between the girls and Jarod until a final decision was reached.
Emily and Angela, her two girls, had missed playing with Jarod; the three had played either dolls or “house” almost every day; Jarod was always a patient leader with the little girls, giving them ideas about how to dress their dolls or how to position furniture in the doll house. When they played “house,” Emily assumed the role of “daddy” and Angela, at age two hardly understanding her role was “mommy,” while Jarod became “Auntie Jane.”
“I even found some of my old clothes from high school so that Jarod could be in a skirt or dress when playing with the girls,” Amy had confessed to her attorney. “I guess I have encouraged him to be like a girl.”
“Did he ever touch them, or play with them in a suggestive manner,” he had asked.
“Never, never. He never did anything like that. Oh God no,” she had protested.
In testimony in Children’s Court, Amy was most convincing in her testimony, although at her attorney’s advice, she never mentioned she had encouraged Jarod’s dressing-up and the question was never asked.
Amy later told Jarod’s mother that Denise Schaefer, the Children’s Court judge, interviewed the two little girls separately without anyone else in her chambers.
“And Judge Schaefer later ruled she saw nothing that would justify taking the children from me,” Amy told Jarod’s mother after she had returned home, relieved and excited. She had rapped on the Pinkerton door immediately upon returning, finding Nancy at home alone.
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Nancy said. “I can’t imagine Jarod would have been doing anything wrong like that.”
The judge did say the case would remain open for a year, and she ordered the Child Welfare Agency to make unannounced visits at least four times during the year.
“But she said there was no reason Jarod could not play with the girls, or how he should be dressed,” Amy said. “Some children, she said, have gender confusion but there is no evidence that shows they are any more prone to improper behavior with younger children than the general population.”
“Well, I think for now, when Jarod is with the girls, he should be dressed as a boy,” Nancy said.
“I know you’re asking him to become more boyish, Nancy, but I wonder how he’s taking it.”
“Oh, he’s accepting it,” was Nancy’s only comment. She said it without much conviction, realizing the boy often now seemed moody and had developed a tendency to cry at night.
“I just loved how cute he looks when he dresses,” Amy said. “Particularly when he’s in pigtails.”
“I know, but we’ve got to keep him safe. Kids in middle school will only torment him if he acts so girlish.”
As she was leaving, Amy asked: “You know Jim? The man we met at the park with his daughter, Jessica?”
“Yes, I understand he took you to dinner Saturday night. How was it?”
“He’s so sweet,” she said. “I called him about the judge’s ruling, and he’s bringing over champagne tonight and we’re having cake. Would you and Jarod join us? It’ll be about 6:30? He’s bringing his daughter.”
Nancy was about to accept, but hesitated: “Does Jim still think of Jarod as a girl?”
“Oh my, yes,” Amy said. “I don’t know what he would think if Jarod showed up as a boy.”
“Well, Amy, maybe we better not come. I’ll take Jarod out to a movie tonight so we won’t be around. But thank you for the invitation.”
“Nancy, I so would like you to come, but the girls would want Jarod to be Jane and explaining this to Jim might be tough. He’s a sweet man, but he has some old-fashioned ideas. He’s even asked about the nice girl that he met at the park and the beach, of course, referring to Jarod. I lied and said she’s out of town with her family.”
“Oh, Amy, I understand. You had no other choice.” Nancy said hugged her neighbor, recognizing the strong bond that had developed between the two women by their openness and honesty with each other.
Nancy knew also that the issue with Jim and his apparent narrow view about life issues as it might involve Jarod’s gender would rise again, if Jim and Amy’s friendship grows into a real relationship and Jarod’s true identity would surface.
*****
Jarod was able to dress as Jane only at home or when he was with Wanda in either of their homes. They did homework together with Jarod dressed as Jane. They shared kisses as girl friends would kiss, and Jarod found comfort in not having to try to become a typical boy when he was with Wanda. He was aware as he grew older that boys are expected to woo a girl. In fact, he was scared to try; he knew nothing about how a boy should act with a girl.
Meanwhile, Wanda helped Jarod strengthen his body to be able to compete more easily with other boys; he rarely was a match for most boys in sports, but he found a fondness of tennis, even though Wanda usually beat him.
Yet, the truth was that Jarod felt comfort and pleasure in his life only when he was Jane; even though he was able now to muddle through as a boy, he never felt right and felt he was a fraud. Sometimes he cried at night, and when his mother heard the whimpers, she came in to comfort him, sometimes lying with him, holding his slender body next to her. She loved to caress and smell his hair, which he shampooed daily and felt to light to her touch.
Nancy knew what she was doing was probably not appropriate; mothers do not sleep with their 11-year-old sons (or daughters for that matter). Yet, they awoke in the morning, in each other’s arms, comforted and rested.
“I like how you smell, mommy,” Jarod said one morning.
Nancy couldn’t imagine that her scent was particularly appealing after a night’s sleep, that her breath must have been stale and her feminine odors sour. But, she reasoned, the boy found comfort in her closeness and associated her musty smell to that.
“And I like how you smell too, darling,” she replied. And, she did find his scent pleasant and sweet, due largely to the evening baths he took, complete with bubbles and all. Often, at his insistence, she would apply body lotion, a feminine lotion she had, smelling of fresh peaches, and that scent lingered through to the morning.
Jarod’s little boy’s skin almost felt as smooth as that of a baby’s.
Soon, she began bringing in a baby doll nightie for him to wear, and she’d brush his hair, as a mother would do for a daughter. He’d smile and kiss her, and sleep soundly after that.
*****
Though he feared the worst, Jarod’s first days at the Harriet Tubman Middle School passed without incident. He was frightened at first, facing the prospect of attending a school with nearly 1,000 students; he soon realized he was just another anonymous face among the mass of students. With his frail physique, he expected he’d face bullies and taunts and perhaps even being beaten up. He felt he was totally inadequate to defend himself. Yet, he soon realized there were many other frightened students like him, and for the most part he survived his early days there without incident.
His mother had trimmed back his hair, much to his dislike, but he found that with the shorter hair he no longer needed to continually flick hair out of his eyes, a motion that he always did with a girly flourish. He wore typical boy clothes, shorts in the warm September days and pants as it cooled off. He always wore a boy’s shirt, and occasionally even wore the Green Bay Packer football jersey with a big number “4” on it. He cared little for football or the famous Brett Favre, but his mother hoped it might take the sting out of any who thought that he was a potential victim for bullying.
Tubman Middle School was a 75 year old, three-story structure of red brick and white trim, typical of the schools build in the 1920s and 30s. There was a square concrete block addition built on the back in the 1950s, housing an all-purpose room used as a combination gym and auditorium.
The school had originally been named for the poet Walt Whitman, but after African-Americans looking for jobs in the huge farm equipment plant or the auto parts factories flooded the city during the middle years of the 20th Century, the school’s name was changed to honor Harriet Tubman, who was renowned for leading many slaves to freedom before the Civil War through the Underground Railroad. By the year 2000, most of the plants were shut, victims of production leaving for overseas, and the industrial city of nearly 100,000 faced high unemployment, heavy welfare loads and deteriorating neighborhoods. Tubman Middle School sat in the middle of working class neighborhoods, now growing heavily in African-American, Hispanic and Southeast Asian residents who moved into once heavy Caucasian neighborhoods. Jarod and his mother lived in a neighborhood of tree-lined streets that was struggling to retain a peaceful atmosphere against growing poverty.
Somehow, the School District had maintained a good reputation; Tubman, being so large, had issues with truancy, gangs and even some pregnancies among 12 and 13-year-old girls.
“It’s a tough school, Ms. Pinkerton,” Nancy had been informed by an assistant school principal when she enrolled Jarod that summer. “But we have the lowest truancy rate in the system and we keep the hallways and school grounds safe.”
“We’re eager to enroll Jarod,” he continued. “I see he comes highly recommended from his grade school.”
“Yes, he had almost perfect grades, but I’m afraid for him. He’s not very strong.”
“I assure you, Ms. Pinkerton, that if Jarod studies hard and attends class, he’ll be OK. We take bullying very seriously here and we’re able usually to keep serious students out of harm’s way. We have a highly regarded staff, and many of our students are able to go on to enroll in the best high schools.”
Nancy had to admit she was reassured by what she saw in the school, and completed the enrollment process with some enthusiasm. Nonetheless the fear that her son would one day become victimized by his feminine tendencies still haunted her.
*****
Indeed there were gangs of young toughs congregating constantly throughout the school and its grounds, but the school staff, along with some muscular school aides, kept breaking up such congregations of kids so that the other students could enter and leave relatively in peace.
Jarod’s mother took both Wanda and Jarod to school most mornings and Wanda’s mother usually picked them up, thus avoiding possible confrontations with the bullies. Since Wanda was a year ahead of Jarod, they were not in the same classes, and Jarod tended to go through the day pretty much alone, having been slow to make friends among other students.
On the second day of school, Jarod had gym class. He dreaded that class, even asking his mother to sign a slip to have him excused, saying he had asthma or something. He knew how pathetic he would be in the class. His mother opposed writing a note that was a lie (Jarod had no known health problems) and urged him to try it out and see how it went.
As he went into the locker room to change into a gym outfit, he saw Terrence, the chubby friend he met during the summer. The boy was at the far end of a row of lockers, changing his clothes, facing tight against the lockers so as to hide from view the rolls of fat and the fleshy breasts of his upper body.
Jarod reflected briefly on how he enjoyed his short time with the other boy and his sister during the summer, how both boys wee accepted as girls when they shopped with Terrence’s sister at the mall. He remembered the cuddles he shared briefly with the other boy and now he felt regret that he was unable to sew the dress he had promised Terrence. Yet, he also realized his mother was probably correct to nix that effort. Terrence would make a cute chubby girl with his pear-shaped figure, Jarod still thought.
For Jarod, the first gym class session went easily; it consisted of the teacher, Coach Lutjack (Jarod was pleased), organizing the boys into groups and doing some simple exercises. Because Jarod was slender and had become fairly fit due to his summer of bike riding, soccer and running, he had little difficulty. He noticed there were a number of fat boys in the group, most of who were struggling to complete many of the moves.
Terrence was puffing heavily when Jarod moved along side him during an exercise. “Hi Terri,” he said in his high girlish voice.
All Terrence could do was grunt and nod, his face red with exertion and his breathing hard.
“All right, all down on the floor, face down,” the coach ordered.
He demonstrated the proper way to do pushups, with body straight and toes on the floor. “Let’s so how many you can do now,” he said.
Jarod realized his weak arms would make this difficult, but he was able to do two before collapsing. Terrence, of course, was unable to raise his fleshy body off the floor even once. To his shock, Jarod watched while some boys did 15 and 20 pushups, before being told to stop by the coach. He looked with growing envy at the hard, muscular bodies on some of the boys, doubting that he could never attain such masculinity.
“Maybe they’ll let us be in girls’ gym,” Terrence said after the class as the two walked down the hall. “I’ll never do that stuff.”
“I’m not good at it either, and oh, how I’d love to be in girls’ gym,” Jarod laughed. “I love their outfits.”
“Oh yeah, the blue shorts and white tee-shirts!”
Terrence several times suggested that Jarod come over on a Saturday so that the two boys could dress together as girls. “My sister will be there,” he said, “And she likes to dress me up.”
“I know she does, and you do look so pretty as a girl, Terri,” Jarod said, using the boy’s feminine name.
“Not as pretty as you, Jane,” he giggled. “My sister said you could win a beauty pageant.”
Jarod reddened, enjoying the brief image in his mind of the two boys all dressed up pretty and feminine and becoming girl friends.
“Come on over,” Terrence said.
“No, I better not. I promised my mom I’ll never dress out in public and with another kid,” Jarod said. He refused the invitation several times, and soon Terrence gave up asking.
While the two had no classes together, except for gym, they did join up for lunch hour in the cafeteria, giving Jarod a companion for at least part of the day. Soon, several others joined them at a table they were able to commandeer most school days, including two girls that had been Jarod’s partners in computer lab, a wide-hipped African-American girl named Keisha, and a slender, possibly anorexic girl named Mary Anne. The three of them had developed a website about the School which won the praise of their teacher and the principal. Jarod’s interest in the website had helped him feel better about the school.
He enjoyed being with Keisha and Mary Anne, two girls who were bright and strived for perfection in their website work. Jarod found that he could feel comfortable with the two girls and the three found humor in watching many of the other kids, especially the “in-crowd” of flirty girls; the three giggled about the sameness of the clothes and habits of the “in crowd.”
“I like pretty dresses,” he said one day as he walked with Keisha and Mary Anne after classes. “I like it when you two dress up nice.”
“So many girls dress like slobs,” Keisha said. The girl whose hips seemed too large for her body often wore dresses, more often than most.
“Your mom seems to have nice taste, Keisha,” Mary Anne said.
The black girl’s eyes brightened as she smiled. Keisha exuded a warm, cheerful presence that made Jarod’s friendship with her such a pleasure.
“And you, too, Mary Anne. I love the skirts and sweater outfits you wear,” Jarod said.
Mary Anne nodded. “You seem to know lots about dresses and things, Jarod. Is your mom a dress designer or something?”
Jarod blushed, longing to tell them he loves to wear dresses, but all he said was: “No. She dresses nice though.”
“I like it when a boy notices how a girl dresses,” Keisha said, as the bell rang summoning them to their next class.
*****
Jarod was quick to learn how to navigate the large urban middle school, so as to avoid the gang of toughs that gathered together. He tried, too, to minimize his girlish mannerisms that had developed naturally, to resist flicking his long hair and to walk more with a slouch to lessen the sway of his hips.
Yet, he knew, he was marked often as a “fag,” “queer,” “fairy” and “sissy,” a sampling of the hushed remarks he often heard wandering down the hallways. He was careful, of course, to either walk with friends in a group and to avoid the prominent hangout spots when he was alone.
On his way out of school one Friday in late October, Jarod was musing about the weekend when his mother promised the two of them would go as “mother and daughter” to shop in Chicago. It was the first time she had taken Jarod out as “Jane” to shop, and was a concession to his desire to dress like a girl. She had told him it was a reward for how “good” a boy he was, not pestering her to be girlish. In his day-dreaming, Jarod was paying no attention to his surroundings as he rounded the corner near the Band Room, into another hallway, an area that was usually isolated and led to a side exit, which he used regularly.
“There she is,” someone yelled, and Jarod was shocked to see he had run directly into a group of boys, perhaps a half dozen white boys who called themselves Dukes, a gang who had had numerous altercations with other groups of African-American or Hispanic students. The Dukes, Jarod had heard, proclaimed to be there to protect the “White way of life.”
Jarod was jarred out of his musings to realize he had run smack into the middle of these boys, most of whom were big and rough and smelly. He felt himself being pushed by a boy into the arms of another boy, who immediately gathered Jarod tightly to his body.
“Come kiss me, little girl,” the boy said, trying to find Jarod’s lips with his own.
Jarod squirmed and tried to kick, but was too weak to break away. He heard the other boys laugh and taunt him: “Let him kiss you, little girl,” “Squirm like a girl.”
“Pull his hair, Tommy,” he heard one boy yell, and soon Jarod felt his hair being pulled so that his head tilted upward to accept the boy’s lips upon his own. Jarod was terrified now, as he felt another boy grabbing his jeans and attempting to open his belt.
“Let’s see her cunt, Curt,” one boy said.
“Yeah, her pussy. Get those pants off. Bet she’s wearing panties.” Another several taunts continued.
Jarod let out a brief scream, high and girlish, but it was cut short as Tommy’s lips were on his. The boy’s mouth tasted foul and his body smelled of stale sweat. Jarod tried in vain to fight back, soon realizing his fate rested now in the hands of this gang of awful boys. In a flash he soon understood what it felt like to be a girl in real life, facing an assault from a gang of taunting males.
The kiss ended quickly and Jarod was pushed to the ground as the boys sought to remove his jeans; they continued to jeer and laugh.
Jarod had started to cry, letting out soft words of “Please don’t. Don’t hurt me.”
His words were unheeded, and only caused the boys to taunt him further. “He even cries like a girl,” one said, breaking into a laugh.
Through his tears, Jarod saw Tommy look down at him and heard the boy say: “Take this as a warning. We don’t like faggots and sissies. And we don’t like your nigger friends. The Dukes are here to protect us whites.”
Suddenly, he heard a voice yell: “What’s going on here?”
And, Jarod was instantly free from the grasp of the gang, and watched through his tears as the boys scattered. He raised himself slowly, moving to rest his back against the lockers. He began sobbing, his hands covering his face.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
The hurried questions came, Jarod realized, from Mr. Applebaum, the Orchestra director.
“I’m not hurt,” Jarod said through his sobs.
“Ok, just rest here, I’ll get help,” the teacher said. The teacher pulled out a walkie-talkie and Jarod heard him say something.
*****
Jarod was taken, his face wet with tears, to the empty band room, where Mr. Applebaum seated him down, next to his desk. A woman entered and drew a chair up alongside Jarod, patting his hand and saying:
“Jarod, I’m Miss Chang, the school counselor,” the woman said. Her round face was round and kindly.
He briefly told the counselor what happened, but said he wasn’t hurt physically. As he related the incident, he began to cry again, realizing that if Mr. Applebaum hadn’t come along, he might have been hurt badly.
Miss Chang soon was joined by the assistant principal who questioned Jarod further, asking if he knew the boys. “No, but I seen them around,” he replied. “I don’t know their names but I heard one boy called ‘Tommy’ and another one ‘Curt0.’ The one boy kissed me and the other tried to take my jeans off.”
“It’s the Dukes,” he heard the assistant principal say.
“Yes, I recognized most of them,” Mr. Applebaum said.
The assistant principal called Jarod’s mother just as she was leaving work, using her cell phone number; Jarod’s mother arrived about 20 minutes later, and Jarod had been able to wash up and clean his face; yet, he cried and ran into her arms when she walked in the door.
“I’m so sorry, mommy,” he said, his sobs mounting as she held him tightly.
*****
Jarod cried himself to sleep that night, even though he had had a warm, lovely bath and was sent to bed in a new nightie, even tying his hair into pigtails. His mother had called him Jane that night and treated him totally as her little girl. Even in the terrible memories of the incident, he found comfort in being treated as Jane.
His mother considered cancelling the trip to Chicago, but went ahead with it, figuring the trip would help take Jarod’s mind off the school incident. She had been saving a plaid pleated skirt and white blouse for the trip, along with Mary Janes and white anklets; she redid the pigtails. She located a light blue girl’s jacket for Jarod to wear in the cool October day.
“Oh mommy, I’m so pretty,” he smiled as they were about to leave. “I love you, mommy.”
His mother hugged him, and then both turned to look in the mirror, his mother twirling his pigtails in her fingers.
“Yes you are, honey, and you were made to wear pigtails.”
*****
The memory of the attack would linger long with Jarod, and his mother had asked him whether he wanted to leave the school, and perhaps be home-schooled. Frightened as he was, he felt he had begun to make some friends and was reluctant to leave the school.
“I’ll be all right, mom,” he said, reverting to calling his mother in the more masculine way.
On the Monday after the incident, Jarod’s mother accompanied him to the school, where they had a long meeting with the assistant principal and the counselor. The assistant principal was apologetic that Jarod had been attacked, saying, “We just will not tolerate such hoodlumism.”
He assured Jarod’s mother that most of the boys involved had been suspended, and may never return to Tubman.
“Fortunately, Mr. Applebaum was able to positively identify four of the six boys involved. And, Ms. Pinkerton, we won’t even need Jarod to identify any of them, thus making it unnecessary to get involved at all. That would be so awful for him, I know.”
The assistant principal said he had checked Jarod’s school file, and found that in the short time he had been there he had been a good student and was doing well in activities, such as the soccer team and the website group.
“We truly want to keep students like Jarod at our school, Ms. Pinkerton.”
Apparently, the school’s prompt action in stifling the Dukes must have worked, since Jarod never saw any of the boys again. He was pleased, too, that the school had been working to intercept gang activity among other groups as well.
Word of the incident got around to others in the school, including Wanda, Terrence, Keisha and Mary Anne. They questioned Jarod about it, but he passed it off as a minor incident, not wanting to dramatize it.
Wanda, however, knew about the whole incident, since Jarod’s mother had told of the event to Helen.
“You need to get some lessons in self-defense, Jarod,” she said as they waited for their ride home from Wanda’s mother later that Monday afternoon.
“Oh, Wanda, I’m not so strong. Not sure I could defend myself.”
“There are things girls can do in those situations,” Wanda said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I there’s a class on Saturdays at the YWCA for teens like us,” she said. “It’s free because they don’t want girls assaulted.”
“But I’m a boy.”
“Oh boy’s can come, too,” she said.
Wanda and Jarod enrolled in the next classes at the ‘Y,’ beginning for three weeks on the following Saturday. The enrollment form indicated the classes we co-educational, as Wanda had said, but when they arrived for the first session, Jarod was the only boy among some 15 others.
He wanted to leave, but the instructor urged him to stay. “There’s no shame in learning how to protect yourself, dear. Lots of boys can use this class.”
“But . . .” he started to protest.
The group changed into shorts and tee-shirts, and with Jarod’s long hair and slenderness, he looked like he belonged with the group. Indeed, the instructor began giving orders, usually saying, “Now, girls, let’s . . .” Sometimes she added, “. . .and Jarod,” but usually she addressed them all as girls. Jarod soon found he didn’t mind being lumped in as one of the girls.
Jarod learned a number of tricks and ideas about how girls defend themselves; he also realized that with his physical weakness, the tricks would become useful. Several times, in the role playing, he was asked to take the boy’s part, but in each instance the girl he was “attacking” was able to beat him off.
Wanda, being a year ahead of Jarod in school, had developed her own group of friends while at school, even though the two neighbors usually were together going to and from school.
In addition, he continued to play on the soccer team, which was headed toward its best season in several years; for the first time, the team was to win more than it would lose, thanks to the leadership of Troy and Wanda, the two team captains. When the soccer season ended in early November, Coach Lutjack praised the team, and said its success was due to the teamwork shown by everyone.
At a pizza party at the end of the season, with parents present, Troy was named the team’s most valuable player, Latoya was named “most inspirational player” for her always constant cheerleading, and, to his surprise, Jarod was named the most improved. In his acceptance, Jarod had said his victory in this category was “easy, since I was so terrible to start.”
Thus, the first semester of middle school came to an end with but one the single scary incident, much to the relief of Jarod and his mother. Jarod put the October attack behind him, and began to enjoy school and the new friends he made who had accepted as he was.
*****
At Christmas break, signaling the end of the first semester of middle school, Jarod brought home an almost perfect report card, with A’s in every class, except for a C in physical education. After seeing the card, she kissed her son and said she was proud of him for doing so well, and by maintaining his boyish demeanor in school.
“You’re due for a reward,” she said. “But, it’ll come from Santa.”
“Oh mommy what is it?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” her eyes seemed to show an impish glint.
The surprise appeared on Christmas morning as Jarod and his mother opened gifts. The first box he opened, tied in pink and blue paper picturing pigtailed little girls dancing, contained two sets of nighties with a hand-written card, stating: “To Jane. May she have sweet dreams.”
“Honey, you may wear these every night now, along with the panties I bought, my darling,” his mother said.
“Oh, mommy,” he said,
He was overjoyed, and immediately leaped up, leaving the Christmas tree where they had been sharing gifts to run to his room and try on the nighties and panties. He found both of the nighties to be just perfect, and he ran out wearing the second nightie, a satiny white, with the picture of a little girl in pigtails on front.
“Mommy, mommy,” he exclaimed, his voice high and girlish with excitement. “Mommy, how do I look?”
“Like just the cutest little Jane,” she said with a smile.
He danced about, arms moving about, pausing only to look at himself in the hallway mirror.
“Oh mommy, I love you so much,” he said planting himself on her lap as she sat on the floor.
“But there’s more, honey,” she said pointing to a smaller box, wrapped in pink and white paper with light green bunnies.
He opened it, slowly, precisely as he did everything, and finally looked in. “Mommy, hair ribbons! I love you.”
She led the boy in his pretty nightie to the bathroom, where she brushed his hair out and fashioned two pigtails.
“Now there’s a pretty girl,” his mother said when she finished.
Together they hugged, looking in the mirror.
“Oh mommy, can’t I be Jane always?”
“No honey, and you know why, but you can be Jane for Christmas for a while. Wanda and her mother will come over and you can be dressed as Jane all day, if you want.”
And Christmas Day was just the most scrumptious of days. Wanda and her mother, Helen, came over about four o’clock after a visit to Wanda grandparents, bearing gifts. Helen had separated from her husband a month earlier; her husband had come home saying he had found his “true love,” a 22-year-old graduate student. Helen said the marriage was over, and Wanda missed her father, who had been her mentor in sports.
In the last month, she and Jarod talked often, sometimes crying together. Wanda felt betrayed by her father and Jarod continued to express his desire to be a girl, a fact that Wanda seemed to understand and appreciate. It had become too cold to ride their bikes, but several inches of snow had fallen and the two had taken to sled-riding and stopping off for hot chocolate at the Red Barn, a popular teen hangout. When out he always dressed as a boy.
They kissed, but it was always briefly as when welcoming each other or saying good-bye. They were 11 and 12 years old and still hadn’t understood the male-female relationship fully; Jarod knew that sometimes his penis would harden and Wanda began feeling tingling sensations and finding moistness developing in her female parts.
“Jane, you’re my best friend,” Wanda would say often. In their private moments, she always treated Jarod as her girl friend.
Their mothers had also become best friends, sharing their own concerns about men and their two children and seeming to understand the strange relationship growing between their two children.
Jarod’s gift that lovely Christmas Day for Wanda was a sweater he had knit for her, having taken up knitting that autumn; Wanda gave him a panty and bra set (it was a training bra) along with a set of breast forms, just the right size for a subteen girl.
“If you’re my girl friend,” Wanda said, with a teasing glint in her eye, “You need to fill that out,” pointing to his slender chest.
His mother led him to his bedroom, leaving Wanda and her mother alone. “Let’s put a fresh outfit on you honey, and you can try on Wanda’s gift and see how you look.”
When Jarod emerged from the bedroom, Wanda and her mother were awe-struck.
He was dressed rather formally, in coffee-colored pantyhose, Mary Jane shoes, and plaid, pleated knee length skirt, a white blouse with long sleeves and a gold necklace with a gold cross. His small new breasts filled out the blouse, the cross dangling against his soft white skin of his chest. Small snap-on gold earrings hung discreetly framed by pigtails tied in blue ribbons.
“Such a pretty girl,” Helen said first.
“Oh Jane, Jane,” Wanda said. “You’re so beautiful. I’m so envious and wish I could be so pretty.”
Jarod was so pleased with his look that he at first paid no attention to her remark. Soon, he realized what she had said, and he went over to her and pulled her up from her sitting position on the floor.
“Wanda, I think you’re the prettiest girl I know,” he said with all sincerity, since he truly admired her.
With that he kissed her, quickly, and the two smiled. It turned out to be the best Christmas in Jarod’s young life, since he could be Jane for a day.
*****
He cried that night in bed, quietly so as not to awaken his mother. He loved her so much and did not want to burden her with his problem of wanting to be a girl. Soon the holidays would be over, and his short periods of being a girl would have to end as he returned to school for the second semester as Jarod, a shy, but less-frightened boy.
(To be Continued)
“Mommy, I don’t belong with the boys,” Jarod said one cold late autumn Sunday afternoon in his second year (the 7th grade) at Harriet Tubman Middle School.
He had snuggled up next to his mother on the couch in the living room, legs tucked underneath. His long light brown hair was in pigtails. He was wearing dark blue tights, a short light tan mini skirt, a light blue blouse with dark violet scalloped trim and girl’s tennis shoes.
His mother merely nodded, as she was concentrating on Figure Skater Michelle Kwan as she completed a maneuver in quest for a championship; they were watching the series of figure skating championships on television, a regular Sunday afternoon feature for several months each fall and winter season. The figure skating competitions were held at the same time the men in many households were watching National Football League games. In Jarod’s area, virtually every television at that moment was turned to the Green Bay Packer-Chicago Bear game; if the household had a second TV, it often meant the women on the household were watching figure skating.
Jarod and his mother never watched football; on Sundays, they watched figure skating if it was on, as it was on this early December afternoon.
Jarod was knitting a wool winter cap, and his slender fingers literally flew as the knitting needles clicked away. He had taken up knitting two years ago, and found it a fascinating exercise becoming so proficient at it that he entered the State Fair knitting competition, only one of two males to do so, the other being a 60-old-man with heart disease who had taken it up for therapy.
His friend, Wanda, had urged him to enter, after he had knitted a sweater for her for Christmas last year. “You’ll win easily, Jane,” she told him, saying that she showed the sweater to her aunt who was a top knitter and the aunt said it was exquisite and that the “girl” who knitted it should enter the competition.
Jarod and his mother kept his alternative self (a lovely girl named “Jane”) at home, a secret that was shared by Wanda, who was a year older than Jarod and now in the 8th Grade; Wanda’s mother, Helen; an African-American girl classmate, Latoya, who had accidentally discovered Jarod’s feminine behaviors; and Amy, the young mother who shared the other unit in a side-by-side duplex with Jarod and his mother. Another who knew Jarod had dressed was another male classmate, Terri, who also dressed as a girl sometimes, and his older sister.
It was perhaps a minor miracle that these six have been able to keep the secret for nearly two years; yet, they all had become close to Jarod and had developed a fondness for the frail girlish boy. In truth, they all appreciated Jane and found her to be a lovely girl.
Yet, Jarod’s mother, in concern for her son’s safety in the urban middle school, had made him go to school as a boy, as well as to never leave the house, except as a boy or in rare circumstances.
A routine had developed: Most every weekend, Jarod dressed fully as Jane, his hair in pigtails, nail polish on his toes and fingers and satiny undergarments, including a bra with breast forms. Sundays in particular were reserved as mother and daughter days; the two baked cookies, sewed, brushed each other’s hair, and did whatever would be typical for a mother and daughter who loved each other.
“Mommy, I love Sundays so much,” he said again, once the figure skating competition had been interrupted by commercials and his mother had put the television on “mute.”
“I do too, Jane,” his mother said, her arm tightening around his slender form. She understood what he meant: on Sundays, he could be a 13-year-old girl totally and completely.
“I have the prettiest mommy,” he said, looking at her, seeing her blue eyes filling with tears.
“And I have the prettiest daughter and she is the prettiest girl in 7th grade,” she smiled.
Jarod giggled and protested; yet, he knew she may be correct. When he saw himself all dressed up in the mirror, he saw a very pretty girl, a girl with lovely hair, a slender neck and round shoulders and soft arms. All his life and even in his boy outfits, Jarod had been mistaken for a girl due to his full lips, round cheeks, long hair and slender body. It was as if nature had declared that he was a female but somewhere along the way tacked on some male anatomy.
“What do you think of Michelle’s outfit?” he asked his mother, referring to the skating outfit of Michelle Kwan.
“Honey, I wasn’t watching her outfit, but was watching her moves. She is so perfect a skater.”
“Oh mommy, didn’t you think her outfit was too plain?”
“I guess,” his mother said. “You always notice what they’re wearing.”
“Of course, those girls are so exquisite,” he said.
“Exquisite?” his mother wondered. “That’s pretty high sounding word from a young girl.”
Jarod laughed. “It’s a good word, mommy. I looked it up.”
“You’re too smart for me, darling.”
“Even Johnny Weir wears a prettier outfit that Michelle,” Jarod said, referring to a champion male skater who usually wore sparkling costumes, sometimes almost feminine in design.
His mother nodded: “You know he designs his own, Jane, just like you design outfits.”
“Wow, and he’s such a good skater, too.”
“Yes, honey, now be still and get back to your knitting. I wanna see if the Russian judges will score this on the fair and square for Michelle.”
*****
Nancy Pinkerton looked at her son carefully once the skating competition ended, seeing what she has seen now for several years: The boy was indeed a tender, sweet girl, without a hint of boyishness. She looked at him as his knitted away, his lovely legs in tights, tucked underneath him and his tiny wrists moving as he knitted.
She began to cry, realizing that this girl child before her was suffering as he continued to live outwardly as a boy. His days as a girl were few, usually all day Sunday and then at bedtime, when she permitted him to sleep in panties and a nightie; their evening routine had become the highlight of their day: a sweet smelling bubble bath, time to braid his hair in pigtails he loved so much and then to bed in his nightie, holding a pink teddy bear he called “Snookums.”
“Mommy, you’re sad,” Jarod said, looking up from his knitting.
“Not really honey. I was just crying a bit, seeing what a pretty girl you are today.”
“Oh mommy, I’m not dressed very pretty today; just these shorts and tights.”
Nancy smiled, and drew him tightly against her side, saying, “Honey, you’re always pretty to me.”
*****
For Nancy Pinkerton, only one thing truly mattered: the future of her son, Jarod. Everything she did in life now was aimed at providing for him and preparing him for life: His birth had become the defining moment in a life that had been previously without purpose or direction.
She herself had been raised as an only child of a determined, hard-minded mother; her father was in her life only for two years, when he left never to be heard from again. Like Nancy, her mother had been committed to raising her child alone, always doing what was proper and always within the rules of good child-rearing practices. This made for a strict upbringing for Nancy Pinkerton. Nancy was always under the eye of her mother, and a rigid eye it was.
That ended suddenly, when Nancy was 16; her mother developed a pancreatic infection that within three weeks ended her life, leaving Nancy totally alone. There were no surviving relatives to care for a 16-year-old girl, her grandparents having been long dead. Nancy became a ward of the state.
In the first three months, Nancy was bounced between three foster homes, finally settling into a foster home operated by a multiracial couple, Fred and Judith Benson, who cared for three teen age girls besides Nancy. They included one African-American girl, Maleka, age 15, and two white girls, Amber and Julie, both 16. Nancy roomed with Julie, a chunky girl who loved to put on flashy makeup and wear outfits that were too tight for her billowing figure.
The Bensons were caring foster parents; their house rules were simple, requiring the girls follow curfews, perform certain chores and “never, never, never” to sass Mrs. Benson. Fred Benson wore a graying Afro and had a round, kindly face, but it was soon realized that when he spoke, his word was law. He was a retired school teacher and basketball coach and he made it known that he would help any of the girls with their homework.
“I think he’s got the hots for me,” Julie said one night as she and Nancy were preparing for bed. “That’s why he likes to help us with homework.”
“No, Julie,” Nancy had said answered. “He’s never shown that to me. He seems nice.”
“That’s cause you’re so straight.”
She was right; Nancy was straight-laced and was taken to wearing long skirts and jeans and pants, rarely showing any thigh, while Julie was always displaying healthy chunks of soft white skin.
As far as Nancy could tell, Fred Benson never touched any of the girls or showed any improper behavior to them. It was probably that Julie was dreaming that he would; for an older man, Fred Benson was pretty “hot-looking” himself.
It was Julie who got Nancy to accompany her to a rock band rehearsal one night, in hopes of meeting a guitar player she had her eye on. Julie never got to first base with the guitar player, but Nancy found herself the object of attention of Jamie Storch, a long-haired drummer.
Having never dated while her mother was alive (she would never allow it) and finally learning about the ways of boys and girls from her foster sisters (all with fairly rough backgrounds), Nancy was a total innocent, and Jamie whipped her off her feet. For the first time in her life, someone other than her mother paid attention to her. Was it any wonder that at age 19, a few months after she left the care of the Bensons to be on her own, that she gave birth to a lovely baby boy? Jamie was never around to see his son, and efforts to find him failed, thus leaving a lonely 19-year-old girl with a baby son to raise.
Her resourcefulness was remarkable: she had worked since her mother’s death at a child care facility where she was quickly recognized as a hard, conscientious worker; with the birth of Jarod, she was able to place her son in care at her workplace, while she was employed there, and begin college.
Everything she did was for Jarod, she told herself, and she had succeeded in many ways. Jarod was a good student and a lovely boy. Now she worried constantly as she wondered about how to handle this child in his desires to be a girl. Was there a correct decision she could make?
*****
Nancy’s effort to keep Jarod’s lifestyle as boyish as possible was slowly being eroded; though the boy generally followed his mother’s rules, she could see he was struggling with staying away from girly things. To other students and adults, he appeared outwardly as a boy whose hair might be a bit longer than most and who was slender, almost fragile in his body; yet, he was able to curb feminine mannerisms that seemed to come so naturally to him.
By the time he was in 7th grade, she had accepted the fact that every evening he would sleep in a nightie and panties; sometimes, after supper and with his homework being completed, she would let him put on a dress (his favorite being a one piece pink nylon dress, with a scooped bodice, a belt and full skirt that went to mid-thigh) and they would enjoy times together as mother and daughter.
Nancy soon was admitting to herself that she enjoyed those moments as much as she felt Jarod was.
“Do my pigtails, mommy,” Jarod usually asked, and she’d comply after some hesitation, still fighting the urge to encourage this girlish act.
Together, then, they’d sit on the stool before her own vanity, as she twisted his hair into pigtails, applied makeup and shared in doing each other’s nails.
“Mommy, you have the prettiest hands,” Jarod said more than once.
Nancy had always felt one of her truly prettiest features were her hands, which despite being slender and long-fingered, retained a softness and smoothness of a teenager.
“You’ve become quite a good manicurist,” Nancy said one October night, as Jarod worked on her nails.
“Thank you, mommy.”
The boy had a precise, light touch as he worked around Nancy’s cuticle and applied the polish. His own hands were much like hers, with long fingers and a soft slenderness.
When they finished, Nancy hugged her son as they looked at the sweet reflections being returned from the vanity mirror. “Mommy, I feel just like Jane now,” Jarod said.
“Oh honey, we are just like any mommy and daughter, aren’t we?” Nancy said.
She drew the fragile body of her son tightly against her, and they both smiled into the mirror, her right hand playing gently with one of his pigtails.
“Oh mommy, mommy, why was I born a boy?” he said suddenly, words that were soon followed by tears.
Soon, his body was rocking as his cries grew more intense and his mother held him even more firmly, her own eyes tearing up. She got up, pulling the boy with her and led him to her bed, where they both laid together, almost entangled as lovers. They cried together in a moment that was, for both, a time of exquisite love and sadness. Nancy felt such warmth and tenderness as she held Jane, knowing full well that in the morning he would arise and go off to school as Jarod.
She felt something else that night. In their tight embrace, Nancy felt the boy’s small penis harden against her own thigh, and felt him begin to rock.
“Oh this is so wrong,” she said, breaking their embrace, but keeping her hand on his forehead, gently caressing it.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
“Well, honey, you’re a boy and I’m your mommy, and boys of your age don’t sleep next to their mommies like this.”
“Oh mommy, I love you so. What’s wrong with this?” The boy’s eyes were red with tears, and his lipstick was smeared.
Nancy laid on her back, still caressing his head, and fighting back her own tears.
“Jarod, my darling. Your mommy loves you better than anything in the world, and wants you to be so happy.”
“I know, mommy, but I am happy with you always. But, I’m really happy when I’m your Jane.”
“Let’s watch ‘Hannah Montana’ now,” she suggested, noting that the show was about to begin. It was one of their favorite things to do together.
Jarod went to bed that night in his nightie and with his hair in pigtails. The pigtails would be taken out the next morning, as he prepared for school, since, as his mother often said, “Pigtails are for girls.”
*****
“Your sleepovers with Wanda will have to end, darling,” Nancy told her son on the following Saturday.
“Why mom?” Jarod asked. “She invited me over tonight, along with Latoya. We were gonna watch movies and have popcorn and paint our nails.”
About once a month, Jarod joined with the two girls for “pj” parties, where they would spend an evening doing nails, braiding hair, giggling about boys and finally putting on nighties and sleeping in Wanda’s room. Jarod, in recognition of his growing gender differences to the girls, slept on an air mattress on the floor.
“Why can’t Jane sleep on the bed with us?” Wanda had asked her mother several times.
“It’s just not right,” Helen replied. “Remember he’s still a boy.”
“Oh, mother, he’s just one of the girls,” she responded, but the rule stood.
“Otherwise, Jarod will have to go home at night,” she said.
Nancy realized that her son got aroused when they had hugged a few nights earlier, and that his male sexual desires may be awakening, even as he dressed as a girl and felt he was female.
“And with Wanda now 14 years old and Latoya 13,” Nancy told Helen, Wanda’s mother, “I just don’t think Jarod should do these sleepovers.”
“I guess you’re right, Nancy, even though I don’t think Jarod would do anything,” Helen said, as the two shared an evening cocktail that Friday night. It had become a Friday night routine for the two women friends to get together for a 5 o’clock drink to share their week’s experiences. Sometimes, too, Amy, the Pinkerton’s next-door neighbor, would join them.
Amy was not with them this particular evening, and Nancy replied: “But both the girls are at an age where girls get desires, and I think Jarod’s approaching that, if he’s not already there.”
“Those three have such fun together. They’re really very innocent girls,” Helen said, linking Jarod in as a girl.
“I suppose, but let’s not take the chance. Jarod is still a boy with male desires, in spite of his desire to be a girl.”
*****
Even though Jarod protested his mother’s demands, he understood. Unbeknownst to his mother, he and Wanda had talked about boy and girl desires several times. One warm fall Saturday, they took their bikes to their favorite private spot along the river, sitting on the already fallen leaves while they viewed the yellowing aspens and reddening maples along the river.
Despite the cool bite in the fall air, Wanda wore blue athletic shorts and bikers shoes without socks, exposing her tanned, muscular legs; she wore a red Wisconsin Badger sweatshirt and her hair was tied in a ponytails. Jarod, too, wore similar girl’s athletic shorts, had his hair in a ponytail and wore a blue windbreaker jacket. He wore pink girls tennis shoes and anklets.
They sat on the damp ground, their legs holding straight out before them. The contrast couldn’t have been more striking, Jarod’s slender, pretty legs next to Wanda’s.
Wanda reached over, taking Jarod’s more dainty hand into her larger, calloused hand, and drew the boy closer, kissing him lightly on the lips, a kiss that lingered just a bit longer than ever before.
“I love you, Jane,” she said.
Jarod felt tiny and weak alongside this strong girl; he strangely liked the feeling that he was subordinate to her and was comfortable that she was controlling him. Jarod found himself eager to satisfy her desires and commands.
“I love hearing you say that, and calling me Jane.”
“Oh Jane, you’re my best girl friend. We always must be girl friends.”
Jane kissed him again, almost a sisterly kiss this time. Jarod’s small penis had become aroused as she had touched his hand and had kissed him.
“I am your girl friend,” he said, nestling closer to her, and the two clutched each other firmly, both becoming more heated.
They both laid back onto the ground, finding comfort in each other on that cold morning; they listened to the brook as the sparkling waters rushed over a collection of rocks; they heard squirrels with their high chirp and the sweet warble of a cardinal somewhere off in the woods.
Jarod began to cry, his sobs soon wracking his body, making him shake in Wanda’s arms; she drew him in tighter, comforting him as his mother did on the many nights when he cried. He always cried for the same reason: When he felt so comfortable as a sweet, gentle girl, he still faced the realization that he was a boy.
“Wanda will protect you, honey.”
“I know you will, but regardless what you say, I am not a girl.” His sobbing grew more intense.
“Yes, you are, Jane. You’re more of a girl than I am.”
“I think I am a girl, Wanda, but I have this boy thing,” he motioned with his head to his lower body.
“I never want to be with you as a boy, Jane.”
“Don’t you want a boy friend, Wanda?” he said, his tears finally ending. “Oh I don’t mean me, but say, what about Troy?”
Jarod referred to Troy Huggins, with whom Wanda had been co-captain of the coed soccer team in the 6th and 7th grades. Jarod had noticed Troy hanging around Wanda often recently.
“Oh, he’s just a friend, but I don’t want a boy friend yet,” she said. “I got girls basketball starting soon, and I think I’ll make the team.”
“I guess,” was all Jarod could answer.
“Remember this summer, at this same spot, I said I want you as a girl friend,” Wanda said. “That’s still how I feel. You’ve taught me so much about being a girl, Jane, and you know so much about clothes and makeup. I’ve never thought I was pretty, until you helped me.”
“I like helping you, Wanda,” Jarod said, blushing now. “And you think of me as Jane, too.”
“My mom says you can’t sleepover with me and Latoya any more, unless you go in different room,” Wanda said.
“I know my mom told me that, too. She thinks I might try to rape you or something.”
“Or we might do boy and girl things together.”
“As if I’d know what to do,” he said, laughing, his voice moving to a high girlish giggle.
“Oh we’d probably figure it out, but I’m not sure I want to try. I’m afraid to be with a boy in that way.”
“Well I’m not much of a boy anyway, and before I could rape you, you’d have me pinned to the ground,” he said. He giggled again.
“I love it when you giggle like that, Jane.”
He giggled again, and Wanda said: “Let’s fix your hair in pigtails, Jane. How come you don’t wear them often?”
“Mom says pigtails are for girls, and I shouldn’t wear them.”
“But you look so cute in them.”
“I know, but we better not today, since we need to get back home,” he said.
Jarod giggled some more and flicked his hair, using an exaggerated effeminate mannerism that he usually avoided. He and Wanda had become the kind of friends who could tell each other everything, including their deepest thoughts and fears and desires. It was a rare friendship, a type that hardly ever developed between young teen boys and girls, but was more common between girls.
Both had admitted that they were afraid of being involved with members of the opposite sex; they knew the rudiments of sex, of course, but Wanda just didn’t seem to want to act in a female role, which she assumed meant to be submissive and weak and not in control. Jarod felt he could never be manly enough to satisfy a woman, that his physical fragility and his penis (smaller than the other boys, he suspected) would bring laughter or derision from any female partner.
“We can tell each other anything, Wanda,” Jarod said, the two now sitting up, and taking turns tossing small twigs into the stream.
“And I know that we’ll never tell our secrets to anyone.”
“I know I will never tell yours, ‘cause you’ll beat me up if I ever did,” he giggled.
“I could never hurt you, Jane. I love you too much.”
“Let’s become blood sisters,” he said.
“Yeah. You mean to cut our fingers and hold them together to share blood.?”
“Yeah, blood sisters.”
Jarod had a small penknife in his pocket, and removed it, each placing a tiny cut on the little finger of each other’s left hand. They held their fingers together, small streams of blood dripping on the leafy ground.
The act symbolized how close Wanda and Jarod had become friends, as girl friends. Both, however, realized that Jarod’s days of dressing and acting like a girl were to become fewer and fewer as he entered the higher grades of school. Jarod loved his moments with Wanda when he was Jane and he would look forward to every such moment in the future.
*****
“You’re always sitting with girls, Jarod,” Keisha said one lunch hour at school as the two joined at the lunch table awaiting the arrival of two other classmates who usually ate with them, Mary Ann and Latoya.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Don’t you have any friends with boys,” she persisted.
“Not really, unless you count Terrence, but I don’t see him much anymore.”
“I just wondered,” Keisha continued. She was a good student, and her mother always was sure that she was dressed modestly, but with good fashion. Jarod was certain Keisha would grow up to be a beautiful woman, now beginning to lose some of her baby fat.
“Don’t you want me around with you?” he asked.
“Oh no, Jarod. I’m sorry, I like you to be here; you’re so sharp and can be so funny sometimes.”
“I feel comfortable with you and Mary Ann and Latoya. I don’t seem to like what boys talk about. They’re so crude sometimes.”
She smiled at him and added: “I like you, Jarod.”
Soon Mary Ann and Latoya joined them, and the four took up their usually chatter about what other girls were wearing, which boy was the “hunk,” and the weird actions of teachers. At a quick glance, it was a table of giggling girls.
Chapter 16: Girl Friends Face Challenges
Terrence, the fat boy whom Jarod had befriended in summer camp before 6th grade, never showed up at the lunch table once they had entered the 7th grade. Instead, he was across the lunchroom, usually with a group of rowdy, generally tall and muscular boys.
Jarod had not seen Terrence at all during the summer before 7th grade, but he thought of the chubby boy often, remembering how the two had dressed together as girls and recalling how much the other boy looked like a girl. He often relived the kisses the two had shared at the camp and how smooth and soft the other boy was. How often pictured himself with his head on the boy’s rounded, squishy breasts and his penis would grow with expectations.
The two boys had giggled like girls during their several visits together at Terrence’s house when the other boy’s older sister, Melissa, encouraged their dressing as girls.
Jarod had called Terrence’s home several times during the summer, but never found the other boy home. He left messages, but Terrence never returned the calls. The last weeks of summer vacation were difficult for Jarod, as he dreaded the return to school and his need to show more masculinity.
“I miss Terri so much,” he wrote into his diary about missing his friend. “She was such a sweet girl and so cute. I wonder why she doesn’t return my calls. Is she mad at me?
“We were such girl friends and I loved to think of us cuddling together and kissing (Blush). I know that’s strange, since I guess we’re both boys. But Terri appreciates me as a girl and I love her the same way. I wonder: Are we both queer? Is that bad?”
On the first day of school, he found Terrence had grown a few inches, now towering over Jarod and he didn’t seem as fat.
When Jarod saw the other boy in the hall, he attempted to wave at him, but Terrence seemed not to see, or to ignore him on purpose.
Later, in orchestra, Jarod was able to corner the other boy in the instrument room, and he shyly greeted him” “Hi Terri.”
“Oh hi, Jarod,” the other boy said quickly, then said in a whisper: “Don’t ever call me that again. I’m Terrence.”
“Ok, but what happened to you?”
“Nothing, I just got smart,” he said in a nasty tone. “I’m no faggot. You stay away from me.”
“But Terri!” Jarod said shocked.
“You’re a fag, Jarod. A sick fag. Just leave me alone.”
Terrence turned and fled the room before Jarod could answer. Try as he might, Jarod could not hold back the tears that filled his eyes, his onetime friend gone with some terrible insults. Jarod picked up his flute and, eyes still red, assumed his position in the first row of the orchestra, a row composed of girls, except for Jarod.
For the school year, Jarod watched Terrence from a distance, seeing how the boy was ingratiating himself with the boys who were on the football team. Though Terrence still retained some of his soft fat, it was obvious he had been exercising during the summer, and perhaps even using weights.
Jarod was haunted by Terrence’s rejection for weeks to come, wondering what had become of the boy who found so much joy in dressing as a girl. Jarod wondered if Terrence still had desires to be a girl. “What a waste,” Jarod wrote in his diary a few days later. “Terri could have become a very nice girl.”
Several weeks later while shopping with his mother at the local Target store, Jarod noticed Terrence’s sister, Melissa, working as a shelf stocker.
“Oh hi, Jarod,” Melissa said, interrupting Jarod as he was looking at a pair of boy’s shoes. He was alone at the time, his mother shopping in another department.
Jarod looked up to see the round sparkling face of Terrence’s sister, still as chubby as ever, but looking quite pretty. Her tag name said “Lissa.”
They exchanged some quick, “How are you’s,” and then Jarod said quickly: “Terri doesn’t want to see me anymore, Melissa. Why?”
The girl took a moment to answer: “Well I guess he wants to put that ‘Terri’ stuff out of his life now. It’s nothing personal.”
“Huh? But he called me a fag. I’m not a fag.”
“Oh honey, I know that,” Melissa said, taking Jarod’s hand. “But our dad returned home and he and mom have reunited. Dad insists on Terrence becoming more of a boy, I guess. Terrence is going out for football.”
“Oh?”
“Thus, he wants to forget he ever liked being Terri, but I know he still likes you. He can’t be seen with you around school. The other guys would tease him, he’s afraid.”
Just then, Jarod heard his mother call, and with more tears coming to his face, he turned his back on Melissa and walked to his mother, wondering how he’d explain the tears. He had never told her how close he had felt to Terrence and felt she wouldn’t understand. After all, they were shopping that day to fill out his wardrobe with more boy clothes.
He merely said he was talking to a girl he saw at school. His mother felt there was more to it, but felt it best to let her son tell her in his own good time.
*****
Jarod often thought about Terrence, particularly as he lay trying to fall asleep at night, usually wearing satiny nighties. Mainly, in those moments he felt he was Jane and the other boy was Terri; they had found a common thread that bound them together.
Terri had the same desires to be a girl as he had; Terri, with his round, soft body, had taken to being a girl with such eagerness and joy at the summer camp. “We’re sisters,” Terri had said to him after their kiss.
Jarod never forgot that moment, buried as he was in the flesh of this boy who wanted to be a girl. Often he would get hard thinking of Terri and the kiss, and sometimes he would masturbate, the slick juices caught in the folds of his nightie, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice. It was unlikely his mother would notice the hardened ejaculation, since Jarod had been taken to doing the laundry on a regular basis.
And now Terri, his sister told him, was going to play football and lift weights and get muscles. “I don’t think Terri wants to be a football player,” Jarod said to himself several times. “We’re sisters and he loved my pigtails.”
Jarod found joy in his lack of masculinity; his shame at being called “fag,” ‘sissy” or “girly” was slowly decreasing. He loved looking in the mirror before he went to bed in a nightie that had spaghetti straps to see his narrow shoulders and pencil thin arms, soft and smooth. He usually tied his hair in pigtails for the night, and applied some gloss to his lips and liner about his eyes.
“My lovely daughter,” his mother said one night entering the room as he was enjoying his moment of self-adulation.
“Oh mommy, I love you,” he said, looking at her reflection as his mother wrapped her two hands about his upper arms, squeezing them gently.
“Did anyone ever tell you, you have a beautiful face?”
“Yes, mommy, you did, many times.”
Nancy had to admit the boy indeed did seem to have natural feminine facial characteristics; it was a fact that bothered her constantly as Jarod continued to act as a normal boy outside of the house.
*****
By early October, the 7th Grade Football team had played two games. Jarod made it a point to find out whether Terrence had made the team and was surprised to learn that he had, being named a reserve tackle. One day, he made it a point to wander near the practice field to watch the team play in a scrimmage.
He didn’t see anyone that looked like Terrence on the field, but after further checking he spied someone he thought was Terrence on the bench, his head down, filling up a wide section of the bench. He was one of the few players not out on the field. The scrimmage continued and Jarod headed toward the far end of the field to get a better angle to see if the player was Terrence.
Just as he began looking, the boy raised his head, looking squarely at Jarod, and then quickly turning to look down again. It was Terrence, Jarod knew, apparently ashamed at being seen on the bench.
Jarod felt like crying as he left the field. His friend was unhappy, it was obvious, although Jarod wasn’t sure what the reason was. Was he hurt? Was he a failure at the game? What was it? The questions haunted Jarod on his bike ride home. He realized he cared deeply about Terrence, even though the boy’s derision of Jarod as a “fag” was cruel and mean.
The next day at school, Jarod found Terrence waiting for him as he approached the lunchroom. Though Terrence the boy had grown a few inches during the last, he still retained the fleshy softness in his face and arms, and even an oversized dark brown shirt could not contain the outline of his ample breasts.
Terrence moved Jarod to a small alcove, out of the traffic of the other students, and drew his face close to Jarod, saying, “My sister said you were hurt by what I said the other day.”
“Yeah, I guess, but that’s OK.”
Jarod tried to look away from Terrence, but the boy grabbed his arm, his large hand literally enveloping Jarod slim bicep.
“Jarod, I’m sorry. I want you as my friend,” Terrence said.
Jarod nodded, now seeing wetness in the other boy’s eyes, and his affection for Terrence heightened in that moment. Jarod saw the tenderness and beauty of Terri, a
natural warmth that can only come from a lovely girl. He wanted the large boy to hug him right there in the midst of the mob of students, even though they would be mocked and the subject of terrible hoots.
“Jane,” Terrence said so softly that Jarod hardly heard him. “I need you, Jane, more that ever, but I have to do this football thing. You know, for my dad and mom.”
“I understand, Terri,” he replied, also softly.
His use of the feminine name brought a faint smile to Terrence’s face, and Jarod’s urge to kiss the other boy almost became overwhelming.
“But, I must join the other boys, Jarod. You understand.”
“I do, and I know you must be with them, Terri. You must go, I know, but I felt we were special together.”
“We were and we’re still friends, Jarod. Let’s get together soon, maybe on Sunday, OK?”
Jarod nodded, and asked: “Where? My place, or . . .”
“Why not go shopping at the mall?” Terrence suggested, adding, “As guys, though.”
“Sure,” Jarod agreed, then quickly said, “I’m sorry I was kinda spying on you at football practice yesterday.”
“I saw you there, and it bothered me.”
“Why?”
“Well you saw me on the bench. I’m not real good yet.”
“Oh, but it’ll get better for you, Terri,” Jarod said, again using the girl’s name.
“The coach likes me for trying, I guess, but all the other boys are so strong and I’m the slowest runner.”
Jarod looked at his friend with feelings of sadness, knowing that Terrence had always faced the reality that he was physically weak due partly to his obesity and also to his dislike for exercise. Perhaps that’s why Terrence took so readily to acting like a girl, Jarod felt.
“But my dad wants me to make the team, so I’ll try very hard. I’ll call you for Sunday, OK? Gotta go.”
With that, Terrence charged out of their quiet alcove, heading to the lunchroom. Jarod did understand the situation, and he felt sad for Terrence who now must hide his desire to be a girl to please his family. Jarod watched his friend waddle away, his wide hips swaying and thick thighs chaffing together as he walked. He feared his friend must face multiple humiliations every day at practice, plus possible injury due to his weakness and inability to compete.
*****
Jarod’s mother was happy to take him and Terrence to the mall that Sunday, pleased that they were going as boys and even more pleased that Terrence was out for football.
“Thank you for picking me up,” Terrence said upon getting in the car. His voice still had the high pitch of a boy whose voice hasn’t changed.
“You’re welcome, Terrence,” she replied, still astonished at how fat the boy was and wondering how he was able to compete on the team.
Almost immediately the two boys started chattering, Jarod leaning back from the front seat. Nancy looked in the rear view mirror at the chubby boy in the backseat, at first dazzled by his bright blue eyes, which seemed to dance as he talked. Her initial pleasure at knowing Terrence was playing football now and would be a positive influence on Jarod was tempered as she heard the girlish inflections of his voice and watch how he flicked his still longish hair.
Jarod had become similarly animated, she noticed, as she heard the two boys giggle, their voices in a high register.
It was with trepidation that she dropped the pair off at the mall; the two boys would stay there until Terrence’s sister, Melissa, who worked at the Target store in the mall, would be off work and would take them both home. She feared the two would be haunting the girls’ clothes departments or looking at dolls, rather than going to the video games place or looking at sporting goods.
She watched as the two walked off, Terrence in his hip-swaying waddle and Jarod literally skipping along at the other boy’s side. Terrence, she noticed, was wearing girl’s jeans, probably because they fit his wide-hipped body, and while Jarod was in boy jeans his loose-limbed skip made him look terribly girlish. She almost leaped out of the car when she saw Jarod grab Terrence’s hand and the two walked hand-in-hand through the mall entrance.
Her neighbor, Amy, had invited her over that Sunday afternoon for margaritas, a practice that occurred about once a month during the cold weather; the two women each had only one drink and usually played Scrabble.
“It’s our excuse to gossip,” Amy said cheerfully to explain the outing.
“It’s our time,” Nancy agreed. As two single mothers, still young, they looked forward to the girl talk, which was interrupted periodically by Amy’s two young daughters, Emily, now 6, and Angela, 4, engaging in sibling rivalries.
“No popcorn today, Nancy,” Amy said. “I’ve got to start losing weight.”
“Fine by me. My tummy’s growing and that’s gotta stop.”
Amy could be described as cute; she was short with an ample bosom and roundness of stature. As a stay-at-home mom, thanks to the generous support money from her wealthy ex-husband, she was spared the need to work and was able to care for her children herself. Her stomach and hips had ballooned in the years since her husband left her, but her straight short dark hair framed a pretty face, highlighted by full lips and a pert nose.
“Since Jim quit coming around, I’ve not been out at all,” Amy complained. “It seems all I do is care for the girls and eat.”
Jim was the man Amy had met at the playground in the summer before Jarod entered 6th grade. Jarod had played often with her young daughters that summer, accompanying them to the playlot where he was mistaken for a girl. With his long hair and slender body, the mistake as easy to make, particularly since Amy’s two girls insisted on calling him “Jane.” The two adults had met several times at the park that summer, when Jim, a divorcee, finally asked Amy for a date. They dated several times during the year, but Jim’s job took him out of town often, so the dates were few and far between. When the following summer came, Jim no longer was around.
“Yeah, what happened with him, Amy? You two seemed to get along fine.”
“I guess he lost interest,” Amy said, pulling out the Scrabble game, hoping to change the subject. “Maybe I got too fat.”
“Oh Amy, it’s none of my business, but I do care about you,” Nancy said, putting her hand on her friend’s arm.
“I’ll be all right, Nancy; it’s just that I do wish I could talk to more adults, and now with both girls in school, it gets lonely here.”
Nancy was gone everyday to her teaching job at the community college and during the school year Jarod was gone.
Amy continued: “You know, Nancy, I miss having Jarod around. I know you don’t want me to say this but I liked to think he was like having an older daughter. The girls just loved playing with him until that damned ex-husband of mine went to court.”
“Jarod loved that, too, we both know. But, he’s got to live as a boy, at least outwardly.”
Amy paused for a moment as she set the Scrabble board on the table, and set out the tile holders.
“I guess I better tell you why Jim quit coming around,” she said. “I don’t want you to take this wrong, Nancy. Please.”
“What?”
“Well Jim kept asking about where that nice girl, Jane, was? He said Jane was so good with the girls, including his daughter, Jessica. By then we had had to keep Jarod from the girls due to the court order.”
“Yes, that was so awful,” Nancy interjected.
“Finally, one day, the girls saw Jarod in the yard while Jim was over with his daughter, and Emily yelled, ‘There’s Jane.’ Well, Jim looked out the window to see Jarod getting on his bike in the yard and he said, ‘That’s not Jane. That’s a boy.’”
“Oh my, Amy, so he thought there really was a ‘Jane?’”
“Yes, and when I told him that Jarod loved to act like a girl, Jim got all sorts of weird, calling him names and wondering what kind of a mother I was and how could I let my girls play with such a weirdo. Oh, it was awful, and I cried.”
Nancy got up and went to the other side of the kitchen table, hugging her friend.
“I started to tell him how nice Jarod was and how nice you were and he got even nastier, saying he didn’t want his daughter playing with a faggot.”
“Oh my darling, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh I couldn’t. I love you and Jarod so much; you’re such a good friend and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Amy, we both care for you and you can tell us anything,” Nancy said, patting her friend on the shoulder.
“You know what I did, Nancy?” Amy began to smile.
“What?”
“I told him that if he didn’t like my friends he could get the fucking hell out of my house and never come back. I was so mad.”
“In those words?”
“Yes, in those words. I said ‘fucking hell.’”
The two women burst out in instant laughter.
“And thus I kicked out the only man I’ve had around since my bastard ex left.”
The laughter died, and Nancy said, growing serious: “I’m so sorry darling. I’m sorry that Jarod has caused you so much trouble.”
Amy smiled: “I’m not sorry. I‘m glad I found out what a bigot Jim was early on and that’s he’s gone. If we had gotten serious, it would have ended in a disaster.”
“Oh Amy, I still feel bad, but I understand.”
“Let’s toast to that! Let’s toast to your lovely daughter, Jane.”
Nancy smiled, and added: “And to my son, Jarod.”
“See you have both a sweet daughter and marvelous son, all in one,” Amy said.
“Yes I have, and I’m not sure how to handle it.”
That day, they both had two margaritas.
By the time he entered the 7th Grade at Harriet Tubman Middle School, Jarod had learned how to avoid confrontations, largely by trying to remain lost in the back rows of the school. Thanks to his friendship with Wanda and her interest in physical activity, Jarod had toned up his body so that he was able to survive gym class without being a notable failure. He even created for himself a mild swagger, something he had learned in the self-defense class he attended in the 6th grade.
“Girls,” the instructor had said addressing the class in which was he was the only boy, “When walking in tough areas, never show fear, even if you’re scared stiff. Walk erectly and proudly and with a sense of purpose.”
“You mean, like a tough boy walks?” one of the girls had asked.
“That’s right. Like a boy,” the instructor said, realizing Jarod was the “boy” in the class. “I don’t suppose Jarod could demonstrate.”
He blushed openly and wanted to crawl into the floor, but Wanda came to his rescue. “You mean like this,” his friend Wanda said quickly, marching about the room in a military-like manner.
“That’s it!” the instructor said.
Jarod never forgot incident, as humiliating as it was for him since he doubted he could have demonstrated the boy-like walk. It left an indelible mark in his mannerisms and he soon adopted this firm, almost manly step in his routine at school. Anyone looking closely at Jarod would see this masculine motion was not natural to the boy, that there was just a hint of a lilt and flittering that was held under wraps.
On their walk home from the self-defense session, Jarod thanked Wanda for stepping in so quickly, saving him from trying to demonstrate manliness.
“You’re my girl friend, Jane,” Wanda said, reverting to using his girl’s name. “I knew you were shy about it.”
‘Yeah, and I wasn’t sure I could do it right like you did.”
“Oh I’m sure you could, but I can do it easier,” she said.
Jarod nodded, knowing that was the case. His mother had chided him many times: “You’re walking like a girl,” or “Quick flicking your hair like that.” He was trying so hard to provide a masculine demeanor, but often found himself falling back into his feminine habits.
Others at school, mainly boys, noticed this, and every so often he was greeted with choruses of “fag,” “sissy, “femme boy” and the like. So far, after the initial attack, and with constant reminders by the school that it was going to be tough on bullies, Jarod had been spared any physical attacks. Nonetheless, Jarod experienced a constant dread about how he was being viewed by other students.
It helped that Wanda’s nagging and work in strengthening his body, since he was able to at least keep up minimally with others in gym class and in sports. His friend, Wanda, of course was growing more and more athletic; she led the coeducational 7th Grade basketball team in scoring, easily beating out all of the boys. She was a natural athlete, and Wanda said her coach had told her that at least one college scout had been to a game to watch her play.
Despite all this, Wanda had her girly moments, and those she liked to share with Jarod. Most of the time, Jarod would be Jane, dressed as a girl in whatever style fit the occasion. If they were riding bikes or playing tennis, as they did often during the warmer months, For such activities, his hair was tied in a ponytail and he wore a pair of girl athletic shorts, a short sleeved tee-shirt with a scoop neck, anklets and Keds. They pair looked like two girls, with Wanda being larger and more muscular.
Their tennis matches soon became fairly competitive, but Jarod thought Wanda was maybe letting up on her effort so as not to discourage the boy.
On the summer before 7th grade, Jarod and Wanda had been playing tennis one June morning at Douglas Park, when their game was interrupted by a women in a tennis outfit: “You’ll have to quit now, girls. This court is for the girls’ tennis club classes beginning now.”
“Can we finish this set, coach? We’re nearly done,” Wanda said.
“Ok, girls, you have five minutes.”
It was a game in which Jarod enjoyed a slight advantage, leading 5-4 in games and with the game at “deuce.” Jarod, who had the serve, was aware that the woman was watching, and, with his usual insecurity mounting under inspection, promptly double faulted, giving Wanda the advantage.
“Take your time, young lady,” the coach said kindly. “Don’t press.”
“Bring it to me, Jane,” Wanda yelled, in a teasing mode, from across the court.
Jarod bounced the ball a couple of extra times to intensify his concentration, and then let fly a serve, applying spin that truly fooled Wanda. It was “deuce again.”
Jarod won the next two points, scrambling to hit back Wanda’s more assertive hits. Jarod struck the ball more gently, but usually with more precision and that turned out to be a successful weapon against his more powerful friend. Too often, Wanda in her aggressive style would hit too hard and the ball would go astray.
They had 7 volleys in the final point and Jarod won; both exhausted, they rushed to the side of the net, hugging each other and beginning to giggle.
“I hate to lose to a girl,” Wanda whispered in his ear as they hugged, their sweating bodies linked together.
The woman coach interrupted their hugs, and said: “You two girls play pretty good. Would you like to stay in join our tennis club?”
“I dunno,” Jarod responded. “What’s the cost?”
“Just the normal recreation fee, dear. $15.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My mom is not working this summer,” Jarod said.
Jarod knew how difficult times had become for his mother, since she still was not a fulltime teacher at the community college, being paid only when she taught. There were few classes at the college in the summer, so there was no regular income.
“What’s your names, girls,” the coach asked, again in a gentle tone.
Wanda answered quickly: “I’m Wanda and my friend is Jane.”
“Well, Wanda and Jane, it just so happens I have some openings for slots that would be free, paid for by the Douglas Park Tennis Club. How about it? Wanna stay now and see what we do?”
Jarod and Wanda both nodded yes, as they saw about 15 girls, all about their age, come onto the court.
“Oh, Wanda and Jane, this is an all girls’ club, so we don’t need to deal with boys. They sometimes ruin our classes.”
Jarod blushed, and wondered whether he should go through with this charade, being “one of the girls” on the club. Wanda, sensing his hesitation, said to him: “Jane, you’ll do fine here.”
“Yes, you will Jane,” the coach added. “You play a very nice game of tennis. You two may be as good as any of the other girls.”
*****
And so it happened: Wanda and Jane became members of the Douglas Park Girls Tennis Club, which met every Tuesday and Thursday morning for instructions and competition. The only complication came when Jarod needed to provide a permission slip from his mother. She signed it without carefully looking at it and before Jarod had filled in his name as “Jane.”
Many days when they had tennis club, he’d sneak out of the house with his hair in pigtails, violating his mother’s rules. He would always win Wanda’s praise when he wore pigtails. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” she’d say in admiration.
The other girls in the class liked Jarod’s pigtails, and several began to copy the style as well. He was both embarrassed and pleased to be told by several of the other girls that he was “cute” or “pretty.”
“We want to be as pretty as you are, Jane,” a slender, dark-haired girl named Lauren told him one day after she had fixed her dark hair in pigtails.
As the classes continued, the coach sought to team the girls up according to skill, so as not to put a struggling girl up against a more accomplished player. “That’s no fun for either of you,” she said in ranking the girls. “I’ll try to set it up so you’re all competitive.”
Once Wanda had several tennis lessons, she learned to hit the ball more precisely and she soon became the best player in the club, without a doubt.
Jarod, however, fit pretty much in the middle, with about half the girls ranked higher than he was. With his slender arms, he realized his strength was that of a normal girl and that he couldn’t hit the ball hard.
Throughout the summer season of the Douglas Tennis Club then, he became Jane. None of the other girls ever suspected he was anything other than a girl. He used the girls’ bathroom without question, with Wanda usually going to the toilet with him, as is typical among girl friends. His voice still hadn’t changed and he spoke in the soprano register.
At the final session in early August, the boys and girls clubs combined for several doubles matches, each team having a boy and a girl in competition. It was to be a fun day, ending with a short graduation ceremony complete with lemonade and cookies.
As the teams gathered for the competition, Jarod noticed the boys eyeing the girls, giving them a close look. He noticed several of the boys, seemingly looking in his direction, then smiling. One, tall gangly boy, even seemed to wink at Jarod.
“That tall one’s got his eyes on you, Jane,” Lauren said, sidling up. Lauren and Jarod had been teamed together, since they both played at about the same skill level.
“Nah,” Jarod said. “He’s looking at you.”
“At me? No, Jane. You’re the looker here.”
“I guess. He looks kinda goofy to me,” Jarod said.
“I think he’s kinda cute,” Lauren said.
To be sure, the girls were doing the same, eyeing the boys. Jarod enjoyed the giggling and flirting that was the nature of a group of young teen girls. He felt so natural being among the girls, rather than trying to compete as a boy.
*****
It turned out the tall boy, whose name was Jake, was teamed up in doubles with Jarod, and the two made for a surprisingly winning combination: Jake turned out to be an erratic but powerful player and Jarod, with his patient, almost dainty way of hitting the ball, had become precise and even a bit crafty, learning to spin the ball or to place it in locations that would handcuff the opponents.
Though Wanda was easily the best among the girls, her male teammate was temperamental and their team, expected to win, lost as Wanda’s partner blew up in the semi finals of the matches, leaving Jarod and Jake in the championship, facing a team of a short Hispanic boy and tall blonde girl.
It was a tight match, and as Jarod and Jake struggled, he could hear Wanda’s yells, “Play it, Jane . . . spin it, Jane . . . go girl.”
Jarod was wearing white tennis shorts, a pink trimmed sleeveless tennis shirt and the pink girls’ tennis shoes, with pink anklets. His hair was in pigtails, tied in pink ribbons, and they bounced as he played.
Early on in their double play, Jake began issuing quick praises when Jarod made a good shot: “Great play, Jane.” Soon if became a steady refrain, sometime accompanied by a light tap on Jarod’s back, and even once, a tap on his butt.
It was clear Jarod and Jake were outmatched from the start, since their opponents, a team of Jorge and Susan, were infinitely better trained and skilled. Yet, Jarod and Jake made a battle of it, losing a close match in a final point that involved many volleys. As Jarod’s final shot fell inches short of going over the net, he collapsed in frustration and exhaustion to the hot asphalt, panting and sweating. He was surprised to find Jake’s hand on his back, and he looked up to see the anxious eyes of the awkward, gangly boy.
“Are you all right, Jane? You played so good, we almost made it.”
Jarod was overwhelmed by his obvious concerns about “Jane,” and he got up, smiling at him, saying, “Oh Jake, I’m so sorry I lost this for us.”
“Jane, Jane, you played great; I lost points too,” he said.
Jarod leaned down to pick up his racket, saying only, “I guess.”
“I liked playing with you, Jane,” the boy said, slowly.
Jarod looked over. The boy was actually blushing now, as they walked off the court.
“I liked playing with you too, Jake,” and Jarod did something on the spur of the moment that surprised himself. He got up on his toes and gave Jake a quick peck on his cheek.
Shocked at his own action, Jarod turned on his heels and ran off the court, ending up in Wanda’s company. The girl was giggling slightly, as Jarod arrived.
“That was so lovey-dovey, Jane,” she kidded. “I thought you said he was goofy.”
Jarod didn’t know how to respond; he knew the sight of a pigtailed girl reaching up to kiss a tall boy must have been a sweet sight.
“He’s nice, Wanda.”
“I think he’s hot for you,” she said.
Jarod reddened, and was about to say, “No,” but he realized the tall, gangly boy had been excited by watching him play, as he bounced about the court, pigtails flopping. To avoid any detection that he was a boy, Jarod had indeed run about most girlishly. During the previous weeks, the boys often arrived at the courts before the girls were finished, lining the fences, watching the girls play. Jarod had seen them laugh and point at some of the girls, and it soon became apparent that their pointing often was aimed at him.
“I suppose,” was all Jarod would say.
“Well sweetie, with those pigtails, you are the cutest girl on the court,” Wanda said.
*****
The group assembled for the brief graduation ceremony which basically involved passing out paper certificates, signifying they had completed the course. Both the coaches of the boys and girls teams gave brief speeches and then the lemonade, cookies and ice cream was brought out.
As might be suspected, the two groups separated, girls with girls and boys with boys, but that soon began to break up; some of the girls split off into side conversations, as did the boys. Wanda, Lauren and Jarod held fast at a picnic table, where the conversation quickly turned to Jarod’s kiss on Jake after the match.
“That was so sweet, Jane,” Lauren said.
“Oh, get ready, Jane, here he comes,” Wanda said.
Jarod looked up to see Jake approaching. His face was red, and he was moving slowly.
“Oh hi, Jake,” Jarod said, using a sweet, soft voice.
“Hi Jane.” The boy stood there awkwardly, alternately putting his hand at his side, and then at his back, almost hopping from one foot to the other.
“Jake, these are my friends, Wanda and Lauren.”
Both girls responded with smiles to the boy’s tentative “Hi.”
“Sit down,” Wanda said. “You and Jane fought hard out there. Too bad you couldn’t win.”
“They were too good, and I was so bad,” the boy said.
“Oh no you weren’t, Jake,” Jarod said, putting his slender hand on Jake’s sinewy forearm. “You were great. I just loved playing with you.”
“Wanna play again, Jane,” the boy asked.
“Now?”
“Oh no, I thought maybe we could play here again some time.”
“Really? Could Wanda play too?”
Jake hesitated. “Oh, I guess.”
Wanda quickly interjected: “No that’s OK. You two can play sometime.”
Jarod coyly cocked his head, and in a timid tone said, “Oh I’m afraid you’d beat me so bad, Jake.”
“No Jane, you play good for a girl. I would have trouble beating you, I bet.”
“Yes, you do, Jane,” Wanda said, encouraging the conversation.
It was finally agreed that Jarod (as Jane) would meet Jake on the following Tuesday at the park at about 10 a.m. to play.
“Did you see the smile on Jake’s face when you agreed to meet him again?” Wanda said as they turned to head for the bike rack and head home.
Jarod smiled in agreement, realizing that his girlish flirting had melted the tall, awkward boy’s heart and mind.
“I think he’s bragging to the other boys that he’s going to see you again, Jane,” Wanda continued.
“I don’t think so. He’s so shy.”
“You know, Jane, all of those boys were eyeing you up as the hottest girl here,” Wanda added.
“You think so?” Jarod asked, even though he too had noticed how often he’d see some boy ogling his as he pranced about the tennis court.
“And those pigtails, Jane, they make you so cute.”
*****
They rode their bikes to their favorite spot along the river, a quiet spot where the water rippled through minor rapids. Sitting next to each other on the mossy bank, tossing twigs and small stones aimlessly in the water, they said nothing for a while. They were used to long silences when together. Wanda took Jarod’s small hand, and with her thumb caressed his palm gently.
“Oh, you’re getting calluses, Jane,” the older girl said. “I love how soft your hands are. Don’t let them get too rough.”
“I won’t, but it’s the tennis that does that. I have nice lotion at home I use.”
Wanda gave Jarod a kiss on his cheek, as sisterly as ever.
“Oh Jane, you’re my best and sweetest girl friend,” she said now bringing Jarod to her in an engulfing hug.
Their bodies were damp and smelled of stale sweat but to Jarod it was intoxicating, as the two girls (yes, he felt he was a girl) embraced.
“I am so happy you want me as your girl friend, Wanda,” he said, running his hand through her short-cropped blonde hair.
“I think it must be the pigtails that I like,” Wanda said, with a giggle.
“And pigtails are for girls, right?”
Chapter 18: The Punishment
Jarod, still in his pigtails, and wearing the girls’ tennis outfit, was astonished to find his mother home. She was supposed to be at school preparing for an orientation session. As he placed his bike in the garage, he noticed she was watching him from the kitchen window.
Terror filled his heart; for the entire tennis club sessions, he had been able to sneak out in the girls outfit without being caught, violating his mother’s order never, never to wear girl stuff outside the house. Now, on the last day, he was caught.
He opened the door into the kitchen and tried to walk past his mother quickly, silently.
“Where do you think you’re going, Jarod?” His mother spoke in a firm, authoritarian tone not typical for her.
“For a shower, mom,” he said, trying to move through.
“Aren’t you going to call me, mommy, like a good little girl?” his mother said in sarcasm.
He began to cry and between the sobs, mumbled. “I’m sorry, mother.”
“Oh, it’s ‘mother’ now? You don’t know what you are, do you?”
She took his arm and led him to a chair opposite her at the table. His crying continued and grew more intense, his whole body now rocking.
“Jarod, listen to me!”
“Yes, mom,” he said, his crying dissipating as he tried to get control of himself.
“You disobeyed my direct orders, didn’t you?”
He nodded in agreement.
“Say it out loud. You disobeyed me.”
“I disobeyed you, mom.” He said, the tears ended.
“Was there really a tennis club? Or were you and Wanda doing something naughty?”
“No, mom. There is a tennis club and that’s where we were. And Wanda would never be naughty with me.”
“Why do you dress in that outfit?”
“Well . . . mom . . . ah . . . ah . . .”
“What? Tell me,” she persisted, her voice growing angrier.
“It’s a girls’ tennis club.”
“Oh my God, how did you pull that off? Didn’t I sign something?”
“Yes, mom, but it was for ‘Jane.’”
His mother was speechless for a moment. She looked out the window, her eyes not focusing anywhere.
“Jarod Pinkerton,” she said firmly. “Not only did you disobey me, but you were dishonest, and that’s terrible.”
“I know, mom, but I just felt I had to. You know, so I could play there with Wanda. We were invited to the club when coach saw us play.”
“I see.”
“And she thought I was a girl.” He blushed now.
“Because you were in pigtails that day? Right? Against my orders?”
Jarod nodded.
“You disgust me, Jarod. I can’t trust you and now you’re a liar too. Go get your shower and get cleaned up and come back totally dressed as a boy. I’ll have no more of this nonsense.”
“I’m sorry, mom.”
“Just go.” Her tone was dismissive, almost cruel.
He began crying again.
Her voice grew more derisive: “Go, cry like a girl now. That’s the last time we’ll tolerate it. I deal with you later. Get your shower.”
*****
Jarod had betrayed his mother, he knew; yet, he couldn’t help but feel her anger was wrong. How could she be so mean now? He always felt that his mother understood how much he needed to be a girl, but thought her reluctance in accepting that fact was due to her love for him, for her fear about his future. He cried in spurts as he took his shower, dried himself off, and returned to his room to put on boy shorts, his rarely worn New Balance runners and a Green Bay Packer tee shirt.
When Jarod’s mother saw that Wanda’s mother had arrived home, she called her and asked if they could talk for a minute.
“Of course, Nancy, let me get comfortable and I’ll be over in about ten minutes. OK?”
“Great, Helen.”
Helen arrived about 15 minutes later, wearing a colorful, print shift with her hair pulled back in a pony tail.
“You look so bright and happy, Helen,” Nancy replied, offering her a glass of iced tea.
The other woman smiled, and commented that she had acquired a boy friend, a professor, slightly younger than herself. It was her first attempt at developing a male friendship since her husband left her.
“Oh Helen, I’m so happy for you,” Nancy said, noting that in the last few weeks that her neighbor had been dressing in brighter clothes and fixing her hair more stylishly.
“Thank you, but what you need to talk about, Nancy?”
Jarod’s mother took her time, reaching over, touching the other woman’s hand.
“Helen, I’m so worried about Jarod,” she began.
“I know, honey, and we have talked about this before. What’s happened now?”
“Well, I found out today that Jarod has been playing for the last six weeks in a girls’ tennis club, along with Wanda.”
“Oh, my,” Helen said. “I knew Wanda was doing that, but I thought Jarod was in the boys’ group.”
“Well, Jarod, disobeyed my strict orders. He was not, never to wear girl stuff outside of the house, and he snuck and then lied.”
“Nancy, please don’t think too harshly of the boy,” Helen said. “He’s such a sweet boy, and I think he’s confused.”
“I know, but he disobeyed me and I’m only worried about his safety. He even had his hair in pigtails.”
“Oh Nancy, I know you’re worried, but Wanda was with him and you know she’ll be there.”
Nancy nodded, realizing how ironic it was that her son had to turn to a girl for protection; she was hoping as he grew older he might become stronger and more masculine, but that didn’t seem to be occurring.
“Helen,” Nancy began, a bit tentatively, “Do you think those two are the best influence for each other?”
“In what way, Nancy? I know Wanda really isn’t yet thinking about boys in a sexual sense, and I don’t see Jarod much aware of such things, either.”
“Oh no not in that way. I just think Wanda is encouraging him to be like a girl,” Nancy said. “Like going along with this girls’ tennis club deal.”
Helen thought for a minute. “They do seem to act like girl friends when they’re together, don’t they?”
“I know when they’re together they’re always giggling. They sound like 3rd grade girls when they’re together.”
“I guess you’re right. I even hear Wanda refer to him as ‘Jane’ so often now.”
Nancy then provided the zinger to the conversation. “Look, Helen, I hope you’ll talk to Wanda and tell her I’m trying to keep Jarod less exposed to being a girl. Somehow I got to get him through this school without being hurt. He really can’t defend himself, Helen, since he’s so fragile.”
Helen agreed she’d talk to her daughter, indicating how they’d like her to soft-pedal the girly behaviors with Jarod.
“I hope Wanda can help in this, Helen,” Nancy said, hugging her friend.
Nancy began to tear up a bit, finally saying, “Helen, you’re such a sweet friend. I only hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“I’m not sure there is a right way to handle this, Nancy, but your love for the boy will help.”
Nancy Pinkerton smiled, realizing too that even if she loved her child completely could she be ruining his future. Yet, she pictured him now in her mind as he was dressed that morning in a girl’s tennis outfit, and said, “He really is so cute in pigtails, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Nancy, he really is so cute. My Wanda keeps saying that he’s so much prettier than she is.”
And, she knew, too, that her child was happiest as Jane.
*****
Jarod sobbed that night in bed, wearing his Green Bay Packer pajamas for the first time in months. The pajamas felt rough and hard against his skin and he yearned for the sweet feel of his satiny pink nightie as well as the subtle hint of lilac that they emitted. His mother had removed his female nighties and all his panties and lingerie from the drawers of his dresser.
“I’ve got them well hidden, Jarod,” she announced. “You’ll not wear girls stuff again, unless I said it’s ok. You understand?”
“Yes, mother,” he said through his sobs.
“All your dresses and skirts and blouses are still in the closet, and I’ll take care of those tomorrow, Jarod,” she added. “You’re not to touch them tonight.”
Jarod cried sporadically that night, and sleep was slow in coming. His thoughts ranged from: “Why doesn’t mommy love me?” “Is she mad because I lied?” “Why doesn’t she like Jane?”
He wanted so badly to please his mother, and now she was showing disgust with him, almost a rejection. He loved it when she let him lay down next to her and he could smell the sweet scent of perfumed soap she loved so much. It had been several months since she had permitted him to share her bed, and he missed that greatly. His mother loved to hold him tightly, caressing his long hair and treating him like he was her daughter. Those were magical nights, but they ended when she noticed his tiny penis would grow stiff.
“I’ll never be the boy she wants,” he told himself that night. “I’ll never have muscles and be strong and manly.”
“Why can’t mommy see that I am Jane?” That was his last thought as he drifted into sleep.
*****
Nancy Pinkerton, too, cried that night, hating what she had done to Jarod. The boy was the most important thing in her life, and now, she reflected, I had been mean and nasty to him.
“I had to do it,” she reasoned, almost saying the words aloud. “He had been sneaky. He had violated our rules even though I had let him be Jane often at home.”
She wanted, too, to bring him to her bed, all fresh from a bubble bath and dressed in a nightie so that she could hug him and caress him as her daughter. She loved to reflect what a slender, smooth girl she was.
As she imagined him lying next to her, her sobs ended and she felt a sweet contentment sweep over her. She felt the body next to her was that of a young girl, a warm, lovely slender girl. The girl had a dreamy quality; that was how she pictured her Jane as sleep came.
What an image!
*****
“I guess I’m grounded, mother,” Jarod said the next morning as he appeared in the kitchen still in his Green Bay Packer pajamas, his eyes still red from the night of crying.
It was already 10 a.m. and since it was still summer vacation, Nancy let Jarod sleep in; it was a rare thing for Jarod to stay in bed much beyond 8 a.m., since he loved to spend time in the bathroom each day when there was no school, taking a prolonged bath, washing his hair and applying lotion to his body. “I need to keep my skin soft and smooth, mommy,” he said many times when Nancy would object to his continual use of cosmetics.
“I’m sorry I ever let you put on makeup,” Nancy said many times, exasperated at how the boy would linger in the bathroom.
He always applied lipstick, eyeliner and a little mascara. At first, he chose to put on the most garish red lipstick he could find in his mother’s vanity until his mother put a stop to it.
“No, honey, if you go outside like that, you’ll be teased and beat up,” she warned. “Here, if you must put on lipstick, use this neutral color so no one will know you’re wearing it.”
Jarod agreed to his mother on this, since what he enjoyed most was the act of putting on makeup, of rubbing his lips together, and of putting polish on his finger and toe nails. He usually used clear polish, again so as not to draw attention.
When he took too long in the bathroom, which was nearly everyday, his mother would pop into the room (she had forbid him locking the door) to hurry him up.
“Let me see how you’re doing, darling,” she would say.
“Mommy, don’t I look pretty?”
“Yes, you do. Now hurry up.”
Jarod loved to pose in the mirror, loved to watch himself put on the makeup. Usually he would already be in his little girl panties (his mother had provided him cotton panties decorated with pink bunnies or flowers or even angels). He also wore a light peach colored slip, exposing his pencil thin arms and narrow shoulders.
Nancy found this sight too sweet to resist and she’d sit down on the commode, helping him tie his hair in his beloved pigtails.
“Mommy, we look like mother and daughter,” Jarod said more than once, always ending it with a smile and a light kiss on her cheek.
For both, these were magical moments, as both smiled in sweet satisfaction at the lovely view in the mirror.
Now, those days were ended. Jarod’s mother had banned the use of makeup, and said he must henceforth take showers like other boys did. “No, Jarod,” his mother said firmly, “you are not grounded.”
“But, you are no longer to be using makeup, wearing girls clothes and acting like a girl,” she said. The words came out tentatively, without conviction, but she meant them. Or, at least she hoped she meant them.
Jarod knew that he had to be Jarod, at least for the time being. He wasn’t sure how long he could handle that.
*****
The first day of staying totally within his “boy mode” dragged on for Jarod. He dutifully took a shower, but felt a moment of welcomed girlishness when he donned his mother’s shower cap to keep his long flowing hair dry. He let the warm water flow down his body, and toyed with using the perfumed soap he so loved, but thought the better of it, knowing his mother would smell the sweet scent, and punish him even more.
He dried himself, using one of the fluffy pink towels he always loved. He dried around his balls and penis, looking at the tiny appendage with disgust. He knew from gym class and the locker room that his penis may have been one of the smallest in his age group, a fact he tried to hide in the locker rooms by keeping his back turned to the other boys.
As the fog cleared on the bathroom mirror, he looked at his naked upper body, so white and slender. He removed the shower cap, and began fingering his hair most girlishly, yearning to again feel his mother’s hands working his hair into pigtails. Was this only to be a memory now, never to be done again?
“I am a girl,” he said aloud, looking at his face, hair and pretty arms and shoulders.
He looked down at his penis, now slender and tiny, almost retracted. That ugly thing, he thought, makes me a boy; yet, he thought again, “I am a girl.” In all other ways, he felt, he was a girl. He wondered about what would happen if he cut it off, but rejected the idea quickly, realizing he’d make a bloody mess of the job.
“What are you doing in there, Jarod?” It was the stern voice of his mother. “Get moving. Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Yes, mommy,” he said, his voice still in its high register, and then realizing his mistake, he said in a lower tone, “Yes, mother.”
“Ok, hurry, and I don’t ever wanna hear ‘mommy’ from your lips again.”
Jarod felt it was only natural to call his mother “mommy,” but she had told him only little girls used the term; he was to call her “mom” or “mother.” He took one last look at himself in the mirror, draping the towel about his shoulders like a shawl and enjoying the sight of what appeared to be a lovely girl.
*****
“Mother, may I call Wanda up? I need to ask her something,” Jarod asked as he completed lunch that day.
“Yes, you may, as long as you talk only for three minutes and don’t cook up anymore schemes to hide from me.”
“I won’t mother,” he said rather stiffly.
She frowned, noting a bit a rebelliousness entering his attitudes, something that hadn’t been within his character in the past.
He had been restless that morning after breakfast, since he was trying to resist doing his usual summer morning activities that included straightening up the house, doing the morning dishes and sometimes even the laundry. His mother had become used to this, since she still needed time to prepare her curriculum for the coming school year. As a new teacher, Nancy was still unsure of her ability to be a good teacher and her need for time to prepare was critical.
His mother had let Jarod dress as a girl during these moments, particularly if he was not going to leave the house. Sometimes, he stayed in his nightie as he worked; other times he wore mini denim skirts and tank tops or maybe, on cooler mornings, a pink girl’s sweat outfit. Always, he tied his hair in pigtails as he did the chores.
His mother would marvel at how happy her son was on those mornings as he flitted about the house, sometimes singing in his soprano voice.
When he finished the chores, Jarod often would station himself at the sewing machine, working on a dress he might have designed. Currently he was about to complete a skirt he had designed for Amy, the young mother in the next-door unit.
“I want to make Amy look so sweet,” he told his mother. “It’s for her birthday.”
“Oh, darling,” his mother said. “She’ll love it, I’m sure.”
“I feel so bad that she lost that boy friend because of me,” he said.
“Oh honey, it wasn’t to be for her,” his mother said. “When she found he wouldn’t accept you as you are, she realized how narrow-minded and selfish he was. Your being there just seemed to give her a warning of what kind of a man he was.”
“Still, mommy, I feel bad for her.”
Jarod had overheard Amy’s conversation with his mother, explaining why her budding romance with Jim ended.
Yet, even though only a few hours work would be enough to finish the skirt, Jarod felt too listless to work on it. Besides, he wasn’t sure his mother wanted him working on dresses and skirts, since he was now to be a boy.
Thus, on this morning, the dishes remained unwashed in the sink and the house was cluttered as Nancy retreated to her bedroom office to work on her curriculum.
*****
Having been given permission to call Wanda, but also feeling a bit sorry that he had not helped his mother out that morning, he quickly washed the breakfast and lunch dishes and did a quick pickup of the living room.
He was about to make his call to Wanda when his mother, coming out of her bedroom, noticed what he had done.
“That was nice of you to do that, Jarod. You may call Wanda now, but no more than three minutes.”
Her tone was kinder now; yet, he knew she still was firm about his remaining in a boy mode and about keeping the phone call to a three-minute limit. He was able to make the call out of his mother’s earshot, most likely because he felt his mother knew the two friends needed some privacy.
“Oh Jarod, I’ll miss Jane,” Wanda said when Jarod called.
“I know. Mother has been firm on that,” he said, beginning to choke up, afraid he was about to cry.
“Is this forever, Jarod?”
“I guess. She’s taken all my clothes away.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to be a cute boy then, Jarod,” she said, the two forcing a slight giggle.
“I would rather be a cute girl.”
“I always said you were cute and we’re such good girl friends.”
Jarod didn’t answer, but began sobbing audibly into the phone.
“But, we’ll always be friends, Jarod,” Wanda said quickly.
“Wanda?”
“Yes, Jarod?”
“What’ll we tell Jake? He expects Jane to play tennis next week.”
“Oh yes, I forgot about that.”
“I can’t go there as Jarod.”
“No, you can’t. Look, I’ll go instead. You stay home. I’ll tell him that your mother doesn’t want you dating or being with boys until you’re older.”
“Would you do that, Wanda? Would you do that for me?”
“Oh yes, honey, I will. We’re girl friends, right.”
“Yes, we are and we are . . .”
He was interrupted by yells from his mother: “Jarod, get off that phone. It’s five minutes now. Off that phone!”
“Gotta go, Wanda. Thank you, I love you.”
“Love you too, Jane.”
Jarod smiled as he hung up the phone. At least Wanda still thought of him as “Jane” and he still felt the two would be girl friends forever.
*****
In the last week before school began as Jarod was to enter the 7th Grade, he worked hard a becoming more of a boy. His mother had softened on her prohibition of him doing anything feminine, permitting him now to wear nighties to bed, sleep with his favorite bunny and even to occasionally braid his hair into pigtails, as long as he would remain in the house.
Wanda’s mother’s new boyfriend was becoming a fixture at their house, and he purchased a basketball hoop, which he set up on the Highsmith garage on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. He and Wanda played hoops there, and Wanda wasted no time in inviting Jarod to join them.
“No, Wanda, you know I’m no good,” he protested when she came to the door.
“Oh come on,” she pleaded. “We’re just having fun.”
“I can hardly shoot the basketball,” he added.
But Wanda was persistent and grabbed the boy’s slender forearm and dragged him to the hoop.
“Bill, this is Jarod,” she said to a fairly short man in jeans and a white Milwaukee Bucks t-shirt.
Jarod gave a diffident wave to the man, who quickly tossed him the ball, which Jarod, of course, fumbled badly, finally awkwardly picking it up just as it was about to enter the flowerbed.
“Bad pass by me, Jarod,” the man said a bit condescendingly. “Shoot, boy.”
Jarod tried to dribble, approaching the basket, but the ball bounced out of his grasp. He fumbled after it, finally picking it up just a few feet short of the hoop, where he stood, taking an awkward two-handed shot that missed even touching the basket, bouncing to Wanda who took a quick jump shot that pierced the net perfectly. Jarod watched the ball go through the hoop and nearly began to cry; he felt so totally pathetic now.
“You’ve never played much, have you, Jarod?” Bill said, approaching with the ball.
“No sir,” he said, looking down. “I’m no good.”
“Yes you are,” Bill said. “Everyone can do good with a little practice.”
Wanda added: “He got good at soccer last year, too, Bill.”
Jarod knew that was a slight exaggeration, knowing that he had become about as good as half the girls on the coeducational 6th Grade team, but was still probably the poorest player among the boys.
That afternoon, however, Bill was able to teach Jarod how to dribble so that he didn’t kick the ball away; he also showed Jarod how to shoot the basketball so that he got the most out of his limited arm and body strength. Where Jarod did seem to thrive again, was in defending other players, just as defense had been his forte in soccer.
After nearly an hour of playing hoops, Wanda’s mother came out with lemonade and cookies for the three. Bill was winded, largely due to being a bit overweight; yet, it was obvious that he must have been a good athlete in his youth. Wanda, while sweating profusely, still seemed fresh and ready to go. Jarod felt total exhaustion and he laid back on the grass, breathing heavily.
Bill excused himself to go to the bathroom, and Wanda moved next to Jarod, still laying on his back, and whispered with a glint in her eye: “You play pretty good for a girl, Jane.”
Jarod smiled at the reference, wishing the girl would lean down and kiss him with one of her sisterly touches. It was not to be because Bill was soon back, along with Mrs. Highsmith, Wanda’s mother.
Nonetheless, the basketball hoop proved to be a welcome addition to the neighborhood, even attracting the Modjeska twins to join them. Jarod had successfully avoided them after some early teasing from the two bullies. Fortunately, they both went to the Catholic school, so they weren’t around much.
They came over a day after the hoop had been set up, asking if they could shoot baskets, too.
Wanda looked at Jarod, who wanted to say “No,” since the boys had grown bigger and stronger that summer. He was sure they’d play rough and that he, with his slight, fragile body, would be overwhelmed, and maybe even hurt.
“Sure, but you two have to play fair,” she said. “No roughhousing.”
One of them, it could have been either Michael or Milton, said, “Oh we’ll be nice. We don’t want to hurt your girl friend here, Wanda.” He looked squarely at Jarod as he said this.
“You won’t play here if you talk like that,” Wanda said. “Jarod’s my friend.”
The other boy quickly interjected, “Oh he’s just teasing.”
“That so?” Wanda said, grabbing the first boy’s arm and twisting it behind his back, her strength too strong for the boy to resist.
“Okay, Okay, Okay,” the boy said, suppressing squeals of pain.
As it turned out, Jarod was able to play fairly competitively with either of the twins, largely because they were slow afoot and Jarod was able to steal the ball from them several times. After a bit, the played two-on-two basketball, Wanda and Jarod against the twins, and they beat the twins, even though Jarod made no baskets, his arms too weak to give him the ability to shoot the ball well when challenged. His role, he discovered, was to play good defense and to feed Wanda, whose shot always seemed to go in.
When the game finished, the four sunk to the ground, and Jarod began laughing, giggling loudly and unable to stop.
“What’s that for?” one of the twins said.
“See, we girls can beat the boys,” he said, giggling.
“You’re no girl,” the twin said. Soon he was laughing, seeing the irony in the situation in which a real girl and a weak sissy boy could combine to beat these two muscular boys.
It was a delicious time, and helped Jarod to be ready for the coming year in which he would have to be a boy.
*****
“I saw you out there playing basketball,” his mother said when he came in. “You didn’t do too badly.”
“Oh mom, you know I play like a girl,” Jarod said, still flush-faced from basketball.
“No, I saw you steal the ball a few times. You play fine. Didn’t you and Wanda beat those boys?”
“Yes, mom, but Wanda scored all the points. I still played like a girl.”
His mother looked at him: “I really wish you’d get over that. Many boys don’t play sports well.”
Jarod had enough of this talk. “I’m going to take a shower.”
As he left the room, his mother said that she laid out the clothes for him on the bed. When he got there, he saw she had put out a new pair of jeans (boys’), a tee shirt and a Milwaukee Brewers sweatshirt. What was with his mother’s desire to identify him with sports?
That night, wearing his nightie again, he pranced about eyeing himself in the bathroom mirror, flirting with himself, and dreaming of the time he can be a girl again. His mother rapped on the door, telling him to hurry up, no doubt suspecting that he was performing in his effeminate manner.
He tried to find sleep that night, but instead began wondering about how he would handle 7th Grade in his urban school. He looked forward, however, to seeing Latoya and Terri again, the other two people in his life who knew of Jane other than Wanda and the adult women in his life. He had little contact with them through the summer, and smiled when he thought about how Latoya had accepted him as a girl and how he and Terri had enjoyed their brief time together as girls. Would those joyful times ever come true again?
In the 6th grade, he had shown he could survive in the urban school, winning top grades and getting involved in some activities. He gained a few friends, all girls, except for Terri, and avoiding being beat up. Yet, it was a time of despair; the demands of entering 7th Grade and his mother’s restrictions meant that the time available for him to enjoy his feminine pursuits or to be “Jane” was growing more and more limited.
He cried that night before falling asleep.
“You know, Nancy, you’re my closest friend.”
The words came haltingly from Helen Highsmith, who was Nancy Pinkerton’s neighbor and the mother of Jarod’s best friend, Wanda.
“I know you are, and I love you, Helen, and I know you’re dying to say something I won’t like.”
It was the summer before Jarod was to enter the 9th at Franklin D. Roosevelt High School. The two women were sitting on the patio behind the Highsmith home, enjoying an early evening margarita, as became their usual Friday night custom.
They were attractive women: Helen was tall, prematurely gray woman with straight short hair. She had a trim figure that belied her age in the early 40s. She wore light grey Capri pants and a navy blue tank top, revealing firm slender arms. She wore rimless glasses that gave her a professorial look, fitting since she was a professor at the local university. Her light blue eyes sparkled, much like her daughters’ eyes did, giving out a warmth and welcome that was inviting.
Ten years younger, Nancy was a softer woman, somewhat shorter than her friend. She was quite pretty, with a round face that might have been strikingly beautiful if she did not have such a serious demeanor. Her brown hair was light in texture and flowed in straight strands to the neck, sometimes looking a bit wild and unbrushed. She wore a yellow and green summer dress with fat straps, exposing her fleshy shoulders and arms. She wore no makeup.
The two women had much in common: both were without husbands, Helen’s having left her for a younger graduate student at the university where they both taught, and Nancy having never been married, having conceived Jarod in a brief fling with a musician who left, never again to be found.
Both had some brief relationships with men in the last two years, but none of them lasted. Either the men faced serious challenges of their own, such as guilt over the breakup of their own marriages or alcoholism or both, or the women lost interest in the men when they realized they were only interested in bed partners.
Thus, many of these Friday night margarita sessions, degenerated into semi-drunken confessionals, in which dinner became an afterthought, made necessary only by the need to provide a meal for their children, Jarod and Wanda.
“Do you think Jarod’s happy, Nancy?” Helen began. She started this line of conversation only after the two women had begun on their second drink, knowing that discussing the topic was not good when under the influence, yet failing to have the courage to bring it forth in a totally sober moment.
Nancy sipped her drink before answering; she knew she was not much of a drinker, so she always drank slowly, particularly after the first drink. The first drink was so exhilarating, following a warm day of teaching, that she nearly wolfed it down, and she felt her head a bit light now.
“I don’t know, Helen, to be honest.”
“He’s such a lovely boy, Nancy, and so smart.”
Nancy knew exactly where Helen was going with this conversation now; she knew that her friend would be urging her to get counseling for the boy, something she had avoided doing partly because she had no health insurance until recently and partly because she wasn’t sure it would help.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Nancy asked, a bite to her voice.
“Of course, you do, Nancy, but it’s just that I think he’s unhappy.”
“How would you know that, Helen? I live with him. All I know he has been very quiet in the last year or so. In the 7th and 8th grades, you know, he became not the same joyous child he had been.”
“And you thought that was just the fact that he was in those troubled years all kids go through?”
“Yes, partly, but I know what you’re getting at, Helen. So say it. Don’t hold back.” Now her voice raised in a testy tone, and she stopped to take a larger sip of her drink, which no longer tasted as inviting as it did earlier; now there was sourness in the taste, as if there had been a bitter lemon added.
“OK, I will,” Helen said, noting the defensiveness in her friend’s voice.
“Nancy,” she continued, reaching over from her lawn chair to old her friend’s empty hand. “You know full well the only time that boy is happy is when he is Jane. Wanda confessed to me last night that she is very worried about Jarod.”
“Oh?” Nancy removed her hand from under her friend’s grasp. For some reason, she did not welcome her friend’s touch at this moment.
“Let me confess something first, Nancy.”
“Ok, what is it?”
“I pretty sure Wanda is a lesbian,” Helen said.
“Oh, Helen, just ‘cause she likes sports and is as strong as a boy doesn’t mean that.”
“Well, there are signs, Nancy,” the other woman said slowly, her face growing red with apprehension.
“I know Troy . . . ah, you Troy Huggins, the boy on the soccer team . . . well . . . Troy has asked her out on dates, and she’s refused him,” Helen continued. “And I like Troy. He’s very much a gentleman.”
“Oh maybe Wanda doesn’t like him,” Nancy said, trying to bring some balance to the topic.
“No, she likes him a lot; he’s been over to the house, shooting baskets and even playing Scrabble with us. They have fun together.”
“Well, maybe Wanda’s just not ready for the boy-girl thing, yet, Helen. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Well, she’s almost 16 now, Nancy, but the other thing is this: she considers Jarod as her best friend.”
Nancy smiled: “Well, they are best friends, Helen.”
“Yes, Nancy, but they’re best girl friends, I’ve learned. That’s girl friends.”
“Oh, I was afraid of that,” Nancy said. “Did Wanda tell you that?”
Helen paused for a minute, took another slow sip of her margarita. “Well, yes, but only after I overheard her talking on her cellphone to Jarod earlier. I heard her calling him “Jane,” and finishing up with a noisy kissing sound.
“Oh, my goodness.” Nancy took a long sip of her drink; she was feeling flush now and maybe a bit light-headed.
Helen continued: “I asked her what that was all about, and of course Wanda said it was nothing. But then she started to cry; my Wanda who never cries began to cry almost hysterically. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Over a phone call with Jarod?” Nancy asked, puzzled. “Did she say why she was crying?”
“It took a while, she was crying so, but finally she blurted out: ‘I love Jane so much . . . I love her so much. Why can’t she be girl?’”
Nancy took her eyes off her friend, looking into the darkening sky, with the sun now down below the horizon. She said nothing at first, an actual panic beginning to attack.
“Oh this is too much,” she finally said. “She looks at Jarod as a girl and as a girl friend? This is too much.”
Helen reached over, grabbed her friend’s hand, and continued: “I had told Wanda to begin treating Jarod as a boy, as you wanted. She said she did that, and as you know she did get Jarod doing lots of sports and stuff.”
“I know, and I was so happy with that, Helen. It seemed to help Jarod so much.”
“But, I’m afraid there was more going on. It seems Wanda thought of Jarod as a girl friend, not a boy. I’m so sorry Nancy.”
“I was afraid of that,” Nancy said. “But Jarod always seemed to want to be with Wanda. He was always so happy with her, and I felt he needed some friends, since he has so few. And she was always making him do physical things and he so needed strengthening.”
The two women grew silent for a moment, a silence that was finally broken when Nancy inquired of her friend: “But there’s something more you want to tell me, isn’t there?”
“Yes, when Wanda got done with her crying spell, she told me something very troubling,” Helen said.
“Yes, go on.”
Helen took a deep breath, pausing momentarily to take another sip of her drink. “Jarod’s been very depressed, she told me. He’s trying so hard to put up a good front for you, Nancy, because he loves you so dearly, but he just can’t seem to rid himself of the notion that he should be a girl.”
“I’ve known that for some time, but I just don’t think it’s right to consider seriously now. He should get through school first,” Nancy said, quickly and a bit defensively. “And he rarely seems sad to me: we still do lots of things together and I do let him wear a nightie to bed at night. That should satisfy him for now.”
“Oh Nancy, Jarod is holding all of his feelings inside of himself,” Helen said. “He won’t tell you because he knows you’ll be disappointed or mad or something.”
“Oh I love that boy so much, Helen. He’s all I have.”
“He knows that, but he’s really bottling things up inside himself now. Wanda told me he writes long entries into a diary. She says his entries read like he’s a girl; he’s shown some of those entries to her. She says it’s a little girl’s diary he found somewhere and hides every night.”
“Oh dear,” Nancy said, putting her drink down on the patio table. She brought her two hands to her face for a moment, as if to hide from the truth.
“Nancy, you should have that boy see somebody again, even if it costs, dear. I know it’s been tough on you, not having any health insurance.”
“I know you’re only thinking of Jarod, Helen, and by August I should be covered by health insurance, now that I have been accepted as a regular teacher at the college.”
“Oh that’s so good to hear, Nancy. I knew you’d make it. I had several transfer students who had you at the community college, and they thought you were a dynamite teacher.”
“Thank you, Helen. You know I’m not ignorant about this business. I’ve been reading on the Internet and I talked with my friend at school, the psychiatrist, about transgenders. I just didn’t think we should move so fast until we’re sure.”
“Oh darling, please don’t mention the diary business to Jarod,” Helen said, grabbing her friend’s two hands, looking her in the eye. “I know Wanda would be mortified if she knew I told you that, but I felt I had too.”
“Of course I won’t, Helen, and I know little girls keep their diaries secret. I won’t touch Jarod’s.”
“I think the time is now, dear,” Helen said. “Wanda is worried Jarod might do something drastic.”
Nancy nodded, removed her hands from Helen’s grasp, and said: “I need to go home and get something for Jarod for supper.”
“OK, but where is Jarod? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“In the house, mainly in his room. I’ve let him do some sewing again; maybe he’s doing that. You know he promised he’d make a dress for Amy?”
Helen rose as Nancy got up to leave. She hugged her friend, giving her a quick, sisterly kiss on the cheek, saying: “You know, I love you, Nancy. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
“I know that, Helen.” She returned the kiss and she noted there were tears beginning in the eyes of her neighbor as they broke up.
*****
Jarod did a lot of day-dreaming that summer; he was sleeping much later in the morning than he had ever done. Maybe it was because his mother had given in and let him wear nighties to bed and he wanted to stay in them as long as he could. He would lay awake in the morning, content to think of himself as a girl, perhaps to stay there all day.
Only his mother’s threats to take away the nightie privilege would get him up many days. It was the best time of day for him, since he rarely had much he wanted to do that summer once he got out of bed.
Perhaps the highlight of the summer was the renewed friendship with Amy, the young mother in the next door unit of their side-by-side duplex. It turned out that Amy’s ex-husband gave up his attempt to regain custody of the two girls, Emily now age 7, and Angela, now 5.
It was now possible for Jarod to be hired as a baby-sitter for the girls, which he did at least once a week when Amy went shopping and at other special times.
Jarod, of course, always dressed as a boy when baby-sitting the children, and they no longer called him “Jane,” their recognition of that name long gone in the memories of young children.
He joined in playing dolls with them, showing them how to dress them, but in any games he was always the “daddy.”
Amy, who was only 26, was still young enough to remember her teen years, and found a great joy in sharing some of her experiences as a teen girl with Jarod. He relished those conversations.
“I must be boring you Jarod,” she said many times.
“Oh no, Amy, I love your stories.” And, he did. So often he imagined himself as a teen girl, flirting with the boys as Amy said she did.
“I was not so fat then,” she said. “I had a nice figure.”
Jarod imaging that she likely did look cute and appealing to teen boys.
“You’re not fat, Amy,” he would argue. “You’re still cute.” Jarod meant that; he thought Amy was particularly fetching.
About halfway through the summer, he volunteered to make a dress for her 10th year high school reunion which would be coming along the next winter.
“Oh that would be fun,” Amy said. “And I’ll pay you.”
“Let’s go through the fashion books together, and see what we can find, and then I’ll design one just for you. It’ll be an exclusive.”
He giggled with excitement.
“It’ll be a Jane Pinkerton Exclusive,” Amy announced, joining in the excitement of the moment.
It took them several weeks to decide on a design, finally selecting a knee-length cocktail dress, of a dark violet satiny finish, a square bodice and wide straps over the shoulders; he would finish it off with a light crá¨me colored wrap. The dress would flow loosely from a high belt.
Jarod’s mother at first balked at this idea when Amy approached her.
“I really was hoping he’d get away from this feminine behavior, like sewing, Amy,” she said.
“Oh the biggest designers are men, you know, Nancy,” Amy argued.
Nancy Pinkerton thought it over for a while and finally agreed that it would be okay. At least, she reasoned, working on the outfit would give the boy something to occupy his time that summer. Jarod had been moping about the house, basically doing nothing, except for the times he babysat for the girls or visited with Wanda, which was happening less and less as the summer progressed.
*****
Wanda had become active on two girls softball teams and, having turned 15, began working at Burgers ‘r Us. Besides, in their reasoning, the two had become too old for bike riding, having ridden to their favorite spot along the river only once. On their only trip together that summer, Jarod went completely as a boy, hair cut shorter and in boy shorts and tee-shirt.
They sat on the shore, aimlessly tossing stones and twigs into the rushing rapids. They even held hands and kissed lightly a few times. Though neither one said it, they both felt that somehow it wasn’t the same. Now, dressed as a boy, he found his penis failed to become aroused as quickly as it did in the past.
They talked about Wanda’s job and how she was doing on the softball team.
“I guess I’m doing pretty good,” she said, reluctantly. “I’m playing shortstop and hitting cleanup.”
“You always were so good at sports,” he agreed. “You helped me so much and I’m still no good.”
“Oh, but you’re so smart, Jarod, and so talented,” she said, now using his boy’s name. “By the way, how’s the dress coming, the one you’re making for Amy?”
“Pretty good, but I can’t seem to get moving on it. I’ve hit a wall, I think, and can’t decide on the hemline.”
Wanda took his hands and engulfed them with her own. Jarod felt the calluses on the girl’s hands as they gripped his smaller, soft hands.
“Jarod, Jarod, Jarod, you have the prettiest hands. I so envy you.”
“Wanda, you are still my friend, I hope,” he said, sensing that there was a strangeness enveloping their friendship.
“My best friend,” she said quickly, reaching over to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re my best friend, Jane.”
The sound of “Jane” now excited him as it was obvious Wanda was now thinking of him as a girl. The realization of her thinking of him as being feminine now hardened his penis; he smiled.
The two friends had never done anything more than hold hands, hug and kiss lightly. Both in truth were naíve and frightened about sexual relationships, but they were aware that, as two girls, they had a special feeling, a rare, wonderful sensation.
They had done that bike trip in late June, but Wanda soon was too busy to repeat it; besides she had found some budding friendships with many of the girls with whom she played softball.
*****
“Oh mama, oh mama, who is me?
Oh mama, oh mama, can’t you see?
A girl, that’s me!”
The refrain popped into Jarod’s head one summer morning as he lay in bed, unable to rouse himself. Being summer, he wore a pale yellow shorty nightie that bare covered his butt. It was a light cotton with thin shoulder straps and trimmed in tiny embroidered flowers of blue and pink.
He lay on his side, hugging himself, with his hands caressing the soft skin of his arms, so slender. As he did this he squeezed his penis between his thighs, and it grew hard as he imagined himself in a pretty summer dress looking dainty and feminine. In his mind, he pictured his hair tied into short pigtails that poked upward. He was a beautiful young girl.
That thought made his penis grow painfully hard, ready to discharge its white ooze, staining the nightie, the sheets and himself. He tried to withhold the ejaculation, knowing his mother would be mad when she noticed the hardened stain on the sheets. This was happening more and more regularly, and Jarod always tried to resist the ejaculation, thinking that it was an evil act, that he was giving away to temptation. To hide this act from his mother, he had been volunteering to do the laundry, something he loved to do; after all, it was women’s work.
But the joy provided by this exercise of masturbation was becoming harder and harder to ignore. During those moments before the wetness, he was in sheer ecstasy in his dream world of being Jane. That morning he held back, his body still tense with excitement as he rose from bed. He looked at himself in the mirror seeing only Jane looking back.
He skipped to the closet, finding the game “Clue” among the stack of games on his shelf; carefully removing it (since it was third from the top in the stack because he hardly ever played it). In side the box was a pink book, entitled “My Diary.” He removed it, opening the title page, he looked longingly at title page:
It was Jarod’s most prized possession, a book he bought for 25 cents a year ago when he and Wanda stopped at a rummage sale while on one of their bike rides; its previous owner had never used the book.
“Every girl should have a diary,” the woman at the rummage sale said, barely noticing the Jarod was not really a girl, a mistake easily made when looking at his long hair and slender body and androgynous clothes.
“Don’t write naughty things about me,” Wanda kidded.
“No this will be my own private diary,” he said as they walked to their bikes. “Just my own thoughts for no one’s eyes but my own.”
“Why don’t you use the computer, like all the other kids do these days?” Wanda asked, suggesting he set up a My Space site.
“Mommy won’t let me,” he said. “She monitors my use of the computer, besides I like doing a diary, just like girls did in the old days.”
He planned on entering something everyday, but that soon became burdensome, but rarely a week went by without him spending time writing something. The truth was he loved to write; he always scored high in school when it involved writing and he won great praise.
Jarod had perfected a tiny, precise handwriting, which carried over into his writing for school, often bringing wonder to teachers who wondered if it was a girl’s writing. His 7th Grade English teacher quizzed him on his first submission in her class: “Did someone else write this, Jarod? The handwriting is so . . . ah . . . precise. Not many boys write so neatly.”
He blushed and quickly demonstrated how he writes, convincing her that he indeed did the paper.
That morning, he dated the paper “August 14, 2005” and wrote:
“Oh mama, oh mama, who is me?
Oh mama, oh mama, can’t you see?
A girl, that’s me!”
Chapter 20: An Encounter in the Park
“It’s for you, Jarod,” his mother yelled up to him as he was thinking about what to write in his diary a few days later. It was only a little after nine in the morning, and Jarod was still in his nightie; he had heard the phone ring but knew his mother would answer it, since he never got any calls.
He bounded down the stairs, the fact that he was still in the nightie drawing scowls from his mother, and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Jarod. It’s Latoya.”
“Latoya,” he answered surprised. He hadn’t seen her since school term; the two lived over a mile apart, and as the school year had ended, Latoya seemed to have gotten in tight with a group from her old neighborhood.
“How are you, Jarod?” the girl asked. Her voice was tentative.
“Ok, I guess.”
“Good, but it’s kinda boring here.”
“I know what you mean,” Jarod said. “It’s kinda boring here, too, now that Wanda’s so busy with her job and softball.”
“Wanna do something?”
“Like what?”
There was silence on the other end of the line, but before Jarod could think of something to say, Latoya answered:
“You know that park where we first met? When I thought you were a girl?”
Jarod smiled, remembering the incident in the summer before he entered 6th Grade when he accompanied Amy with her two small children to the tot lot.
“Sure. You wanna meet there?”
*****
Jarod got to the park a few minutes before their appointed time of 11 a.m.; he told his mother that he and Latoya were going to meet and ride their bikes a bit; his mother agreed.
His hair was growing long again, but still was acceptable for a boy, and he wore a pair of shorts, old running shoes without socks and a tee shirt.
Latoya was a few minutes late, wearing light blue sport shorts and a halter, showing the bronze color of her trim body. Jarod could see the summer had changed her, as her breasts seemed fuller and her hips a bit wider. She had always had a waif-like body, slender and under-developed; yet, now at 14, she was becoming a woman.
“Jarod, oh Jarod,” the girl said excitedly as she rode up. “I’m glad you came.”
“Let’s go over here,” he suggested, leading the girl to a park bench set up on a hill, away from the park walks.
They sat side by side on the bench for a minute, before Latoya began:
“I think you’re the only person I can talk to, Jarod. You’re so nice.”
Jarod nodded. “I’ve always thought we were honest with each other. Well, after you found out I was a boy.”
Latoya laughed. “I know that was something.”
“And thank you for never telling anyone you knew me as a girl.”
She smiled. “I still like to think of you as a girl . . . ah . . . that is, like a girl friend to me so that I can talk to you . . . ah . . . girl to girl. You know.”
Jarod nodded.
“Hope you don’t mind I said that, Jarod, since you’re really a boy?”
“No, I like being like a girl friend to you.”
Latoya grew silent, and Jarod looked at her, seeing the girl’s eyes moisten, as if she was fighting back tears.
“What’s the matter, Latoya? I know something’s bothering you.”
The girl sniffled, and then began: “You know Demetrius?”
“Yes, he was hanging around you, Demetrius Walker, I know him. He’s in high school.”
“Yeh, gonna be a junior this year,” Latoya continued, her eyes clearing. “He’s two years ahead of us.”
Jarod sensed where this was headed. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Yes, and he’s ignoring me. Nearly all summer.” The girl almost started crying again.
“Has he got a new girl friend?”
“I don’t think so. He’s just hangs around with all the guys, calling themselves ‘bro’ and all that stuff. They play basketball and when we walk by they just laugh at us.”
Jarod took Latoya’s hands in his, held them. The girl was quivering; she really liked this boy, it was obvious. But Jarod was mystified as to why she came to him; what could he do for her?
“He’s just doing the boy thing, Latoya,” he said. “He’ll come around to you. You’re so pretty.”
“Oh I don’t know Jarod. I think I lost him.”
“Why? Did something happen?
The girl nodded. She explained that on the Fourth of July she and Demetrius went to the park to watch the fireworks.
“We found a nice quiet spot, somewhat private, where were couldn’t really see the fireworks,” she began. “We had a blanket and we sat together on the ground. We kissed and hugged a bit, and he began touching me all over.”
Latoya paused. Jarod sat silent.
“I’ve never been touched like that, Jarod, never in my life. I liked it.”
She paused again: “Oh, why am I telling you this? You won’t understand, how can you? You’re a boy.”
“I’m your friend, Latoya. You know that. I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me. It’ll be our secret.”
“Oh Jarod, you’re so sweet,” she kissed him. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed to tell you this.”
She paused, and he squeezed her hand a bit more firmly. He looked at their two hands, both feeling slender and smooth, with her dark brown skin contrasting with his pale skin; she had pressed-on nails, dark purple in color and Jarod’s nails were pink, long and prettily manicured. He loved the symbolism: the pretty hands — one brown and one white — linked in friendship.
“Well,” she began, “He started coming up my shorts with his hands . . . you know . . . touching me there. You know?”
Jarod held her hand and listened, and the words just poured out of the girl in a gush:
“And I got so excited, Jarod, and wanted him to touch me there, but I knew it was so wrong. Oh, Jarod, was it wrong? I told him it was wrong and naughty, that I took the pledge, you know, the pledge we took at church. . . You know, the pledge to stay clean. Oh I wanted him to play with me there and I was squirming so hard, but I said ‘no’ to him. And then suddenly, I wet my panties. Jarod, I wet my panties. Oh it was so awful. But I couldn’t help it and I told him ‘no,’ and he got mad. And he grabbed my arm and he dragged me home before the fireworks had even begun. And now he won’t talk to me. I like him so much Jarod. I do. I do.”
By now the girl was crying and Jarod held her in his arms as her body shook uncontrollably.
“I’ve never told this to anyone,” she said finally, emerging from their hugs. “I felt I could tell you. I know you’d understand. Oh, Jarod, you’re so sweet to listen, but what am I to do? Will Demetrius ever talk to me again?”
“Are you sure you want him as your friend, Latoya? If he’s mad because you won’t give him sex, maybe he’s not the boy you want. You’re so pretty that you’ll have lots of boy friends after you get in high school.”
“I guess so, but he’s so . . . so . . . cute and strong and marvelous.”
Jarod had to admit Latoya was correct: Demetrius was indeed a “hunk,” as the girls had called him last year in school when they discussed Latoya’s crush on the boy. The discussion came up at the cafeteria table, where Jarod usually was the only boy at a table of girls. He had been accepted by the girls, he thought, because they felt he was “one of them” due to his easy identification with feminine ideas and thoughts.
“You didn’t break your pledge, ‘toya,” he said, using the shortened version of her name. “He never touched you there, so you’re still pure.”
“But I wanted him to touch me there, to play with me, Jarod. I was evil,” she added.
“No, you weren’t, you resisted those urges, ‘toya,” he leaned to kiss her lightly on the cheek, a sisterly kiss in his view.
Due to their intense discussion, the two didn’t pay attention to two boys who were walking to their bench until one of them yelled:
“’toya, you bitch. You slut, you refuse me for this white sissy.”
It was Demetrius yelling at them and running up the hill, his friend following behind. Before Jarod could break away from Latoya, he was grabbed by Demetrius, brought to his feet and pushed to the ground.
He was too stunned to react, a sudden fear erupting inside him, not sure what was going to happen next. Before he could get up, the other boy was upon Jarod, pinning him to the ground. Jarod was on his back now, looking up into the chest of a dark-skinned boy with a massive chest stretching his grey muscle shirt to its extremes. Jarod realized he was powerless against this monster of a boy, his skinny arms pinned easily to the ground.
For the moment, the boy held Jarod to the ground, not otherwise hurting him.
Jarod was able to see Demetrius holding Latoya by both arms, yelling at her: “You slut. You refuse me. You refuse a brother. You chose this sorry sissy, instead. You bitch.”
His words spewed out of his both in a vehement, strangely rhythmical fashion. He could see terror in Latoya’s eyes, and Jarod began to yell:
“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. We’re just friends.”
Suddenly, he heard Latoya yell toward the boy holding Jarod down: “Don’t hurt him, Marquise. He’s just a friend, really.”
The boy called Marquise continued to pin Jarod down; Latoya and Demetrius soon were yelling at each other, but he could see Demetrius was not going to hurt the girl. The boy was angered, it appeared, at Latoya’s fraternizing with another boy.
Soon, Jarod was pulled up to his feet and the four young people formed a circle. The tension seemed to have lessened.
“We’re just friends, Demetrius,” Latoya was explaining. “Just friends.”
“Yeah, just friends?” Demetrius said, still not convinced. “Then why were you kissing?”
“Oh, Demetrius, I didn’t kiss him like we kissed on the Fourth of July,” the explained.
“Oh, why kiss him then at all?”
Jarod felt compelled to explain. “They were like sisterly kisses,” he said quickly, not realizing immediately what he had said.
“Sisterly kisses,” Demetrius replied in astonishment.
“Well, it’s like Jarod and I are sisters,” Latoya began. “We’ve known each other all through middle school and we talk a lot to each other. He’s very understanding.”
Demetrius looked at Jarod, as if judging the boy’s longish hair, slender face and puny body, and perhaps deciding that Jarod was no threat to his romantic desires for Latoya.
“And do you know what we were talking about, Demetrius?” Jarod began. “We were talking about you. ‘toya was sad that you were ignoring her. I was comforting her.”
“You mean you were like girl friends, then? Just talking?” Demetrius asked.
“Yes,” Latoya said. “Jarod is really just like one of the girls.”
“Yuck,” said Marquise who still held Jarod firmly by his upper arm, pressing his strong hands into the soft flesh. “You really are a sissy!”
Demetrius nodded in agreement. “Just like my cousin Wyatt. We call him Winifred. Are you one of those, Jarod?”
The tone was mocking and Marquise picked up the chatter: “Yeah, maybe next time he should wear a dress.”
“Lay off him, you two,” Latoya warned, coming to Jarod’s side. “He’s my friend and you should know that he was defending you, Demetrius. He cares about me being happy.”
Demetrius stopped: “You mean?”
“Yes, he was telling me to be patient, that you were just doing your macho, boy stuff, and that you liked me.”
“He did?” Demetrius’ tone changed, as he looked at Jarod.
“Yes, and he told me that I was right to honor my pledge,” Latoya said.
Demetrius and Marquise were silent, and after a few more exchanges, along with Latoya’s entreaties to treat Jarod nicely, the two boys said they were sorry for attacking Jarod and Latoya. They four sat on the grass and began talking.
“So you’ll be at Roosevelt with Latoya next semester,” Demetrius asked.
“Yes, I guess,” Jarod said.
“It’s kind of a rough place, Jarod,” the other boy said.
“I know, but I think I can handle it,” he replied, without conviction. “I had some problems at Tubman but it was ok.”
“Look,” Demetrius said. “Marquise and I will be juniors, but if anybody gives you any shit, you let us know. Any friend of ‘toya’s is a friend of ours.”
Jarod smiled and a few minutes later, he watched as the two boys and Latoya walked off to their bikes, Demetrius holding Latoya’s hand. It was a pretty sight on a warm, sunny August day. Someday, he dreamed, there’d be a nice boy holding his hand as they walked slowly in the park.
*****
“How you doing, girl?” It was Wanda, returning home from soccer practice, still perspiring, a sweatband around her head and her tanned, muscular thighs showing from beneath her muddy shorts.
Jarod was reclined in a picnic chair in backyard, his one leg tucked beneath the other, wearing shorts and a tank top. He wore a pair of his mother’s sunglasses, a pair she had discarded and were emblazoned with sequins. He had covered his bare skin with lotion to protect it from burning and was reading another of the “Traveling Pants” series of books. To his mother’s dismay, he had taken to reading books meant for teen girls.
“But mom,” he had argued, “They’re good stories.”
The real reason, of course and as his mother suspected, was that Jarod was finding he identified with the girls in the books.
He was deep into the book when Wanda came up, and was startled from his concentration. He looked up and said: “Oh hi, Wanda.”
“You know, Jane,” she began, “You look just like a girl laying there are you are.”
“Aw,” he blushed.
Wanda pulled up another plastic outdoors chair, placing it next to Jarod. She sat down, began caressing his slender arm.
“Where’s your mom?” she asked.
“At school,” he said.
“Jane, Jane, Jane, I didn‘t think you’d be out here like this if your mom was home.”
“I wouldn’t,” he agreed. “She’d be pissed if she came home now. I got another hour or so before she’s due home.”
Wanda continued to caress his arm, moving her fingers slowly up and down his arm, sometimes taking his slender hand in her strong hand and squeezing it gently. He loved it when she did this, feeling she wanted to feel his femininity, his weakness and vulnerability. It just intensified his feelings of being a girl, but it also brought his small penis to stiffness and made him a bit light-headed.
Wanda smelled salty and sour, but the scent seemed to intoxicate him. He moved onto his side, his legs still curled in a most feminine manner, and with his free hand caressed her muscular thighs.
The two sat together like this for several moments, saying nothing, but feeling a warmth toward each other that was unexplainable. It was a strange sisterhood they had built, she being everything he could not be as a boy and he being everything she was not as a girl. Jarod felt he wanted to be engulfed into her arms, smothered with her love and protection.
“Your arm is bruised here,” Wanda said, finally.
She examined the soft flesh of his bicep, which had suddenly turned a yellowish purple, showing the clear outline of the fingers of Marquise who had held him tightly to the ground at the park.
“How did that happen? Who held you there?” she demanded.
He hesitated but soon told her the whole story of the attack at the park and how he had been roughly held to the ground until Latoya’s pleas caused Marquise to loosen his hold.
“My poor Jane,” Wanda said, leaning over to kiss him, employing the same sisterly kisses the two shared regularly. “I wished I had been there to protect you, darling.”
Jarod blushed, realizing the irony that he needed girls to come to his rescue. In truth, he found sweetness in the thought that he was so dainty and weak.
“Why did she call you,? Wanda asked. “I haven’t heard from her all summer.”
Jarod nodded, “It was the first I heard from her this summer, and she said she tried to call you, but you were at practice.”
“She told you things she wouldn’t tell any other boy,” Wanda said.
“I know, but she probably was sure I could sympathize with her, or something,” he said, realizing that Latoya probably considered him to be a friend with whom she could share all of her girlish thoughts.
“You know ‘toya and I both think of you as a girl,” Wanda said. “We’ve both agreed to keep your ‘Jane’ a secret, but you really are just like a girl to us.”
With that, Wanda gave Jarod a quick kiss on his lips, and left, headed to clean up.
*****
Wanda’s visit and the affair at the park that day had buoyed Jarod’s spirit, and he ended his sun-bathing in the yard to return to the sewing machine to work on Amy’s dress. He was concentrating heavily on the project when his mother arrived home from work. He was humming to himself as he toiled over the dress. He was nearly finished with it, and several times he got up and walked to the mirror, holding it in front of himself to judge how it would look when finished.
He was in the midst of a sashay, holding the dress in front of himself, when his mother popped into the room.
“Oh there you are,” she said.
“Hi mom, what do you think?” Jarod said, posing in front of her.
“It’s lovely, dear,” she said. Even though she had originally opposed his doing the dress, she had become enthused over the project, thinking the boy’s design and skill in sewing had accomplished a truly beautiful dress.
“Is it too short?” he asked.
“Maybe, you know how sensitive Amy is about her legs.”
“I know. I guess she’ll have to try it on soon. I know I’d love a dress like this.”
“Now, Jarod, you just forget that thought,” his mother said sternly.
“Aw, mom, I was just teasing you,” he said, without meaning it. He had indeed tried the dress on several times, but it hung badly on him, since he was thinner than Amy. He had thought to himself several times how nice it would be to have such a dress.
“Jarod, where did you get those bruises on your arm?” his mother asked suddenly.
He was still wearing the tank top and his bare left arm had now become even more colorful, the bruises now defined like fingers on his bicep.
“Oh it’s nothing,” he said, returning to the sewing table.
“No Jarod, bruises like that are not ‘nothing.’ Tell me what happened. Who was beating on you?”
“Oh mom, it’s OK now. It was nothing.”
His mother persisted until Jarod finally told of his encounter at the park, but purposely leaving out some details, passing it off as a misunderstanding and saying that the boy who gave him the bruised arm didn’t really mean it.
“How did you happen to go there, Jarod?” she asked when he finished.
“Well, Latoya asked me to go there. She was sad about something and wanted to talk to me.”
“Why you? You haven’t seen her since school let out,” his mother asked perplexed.
“Well she thought she could talk to me about her boy friend,” Jarod explained.
“But why you? I don’t understand.”
Jarod grew silent for a moment, finally answering: “Well, mom, she said I was the only one she could talk to besides Wanda and Wanda was at practice. She knew I’d understand.”
Nancy Pinkerton said: “OK, Jarod.” Her face developed a quizzical expression, as if confused why her son was the only person available with which a teen girl could share her problems.
His mother said no more and turned to leave, telling Jarod to clean up the sewing area and to get dressed.
“We’ll go to the mall. You need to get you some clothes for school, Jarod,” she said. “You’ve shot up a bit this summer.”
“Ok mom,” Jarod said as his mother left the room.
Jarod wondered if his mother really understood. Should he tell her that Latoya wanted to tell him her problems because he, Jarod, was just one of the girls? His mother obviously knew that girl friends tell each other their feelings and thoughts and joys and frustrations. She also knew that teen girls would never think of sharing such thoughts with a boy. But then, he hoped, his mother would realize that Jarod was indeed something special, something different. It’s been something girls have done together since the beginning of time, he felt.
*****
It was partly to tease his mother, but also partly to satisfy his interest that he dawdled as they entered the department store through the girls’ clothing department in order to get to the boys’ clothes.
“Mom, look at this gown,” he said, pausing at a rack of gowns marketed for teen girls who were aiming perhaps at a homecoming dance or prom date.
He removed the gown, a dark green belted model with a plunging neckline. He held it in front of himself; it ended at mid-thigh. He was grinning, but his mother returned a stern scowl that would have turned an all-star football tackle into butter. He placed it back on the rack reluctantly.
He also saw a rack of Capri pants which also intrigued him, wishing he could stop to look through them. He really wanted to own such pants; they would go so neatly with sandals which he would wear to expose his slender feet and painted toenails. He supposed he could even wear them in a boy mode.
“Come Jarod, let’s hurry here,” his mother chided him.
Indeed, Jarod had grown during the summer, now hitting 5’7” which would likely no longer make him look so tiny among other boys. His frame, however, retained its slender, almost dainty structure, so that fitting him with shirts was difficult. His narrow shoulders were dwarfed when he found a shirt with sleeves long enough to fit his arms.
After an hour of numerous trips to the fitting room, his mother and he finally agreed upon a pair of dress pants, two pairs of jeans, several shirts and sets of briefs and tee shirts. “You’re not going to wear panties to school, Jarod,” his mother explained as they purchased the briefs.
After shopping, they stopped for a cone at the Chet’s Custard Stand. (Such custard stands were fairly unique to their community and popular among people of all ages. The custard they served was a soft form of ice cream, made richer with use of more eggs in the recipe.)
“We’re going back to Dr. Martin, honey,” his mother told him as they sat in the car licking their cones.
Daintily licking his cone, Jarod was silent. He was sitting with his knees tucked together, pointing outward, and his feet tucked the other way. Jarod looked at the car next to them, spying a teen girl, wearing a tank top and in pigtails, obviously waiting for someone to bring her a custard. A tall lanky boy soon arrived, carrying two sundaes in plastic cups, topped with whipped cream and cherries. The scene prompted a day-dream: he was picturing himself as Jane, a lovely teen girl in pigtails, sitting at the custard stand with her boyfriend.
“What mom?” he said still in a trance over his day-dreaming.
“I made an appointment for next Thursday to see Dr. Martin again,” she said. “At 9 a.m. in the morning, so I don’t miss too much work.”
“Dr. Martin?” Jarod was still into his day-dream.
“Yes, that Dr. Martin, honey, the one we took you to about your behavior.”
“Oh, the shrink? Mom, I’m not crazy. I don’t need that,” he said, returning to licking his cone.
“Sweetie, he’s more than a shrink, dear. You know that.”
He continued to lick his cone, taking small licks, and wondering why his mother wanted to go to Dr. Martin again.
“Ok, mom.”
She started that car, taking a slower than usual drive home. They had gone several blocks before she spoke again.
“You know Jarod,” she began slowly. “You really can’t shake the feeling you’re a girl. I can see that, honey.”
“Oh, mom, I’ve tried so hard. Really, I have.”
“I know you have, dear,” she said, as they approached the house. “We’ll see what Dr. Martin says.”
“Ok mom.”
*****
Nancy Pinkerton had spent two years as a provisional teacher at the community college, working without benefits. The pay wasn’t bad, but she worried about the lack of health insurance and visits to Dr. Martin were expensive. Their one visit had been worthwhile, Nancy felt, since it helped her accept that Jarod may indeed have some special qualities and may have a gender issue. She wanted to recognize that, having noticed how naturally Jarod had become involved in activities of a feminine nature. Yet, she feared he would be ostracized by society, never able to fulfill his potential if he continued in his girlish ways. The boy was so marvelously intelligent, it was obvious, and could have a shining future, she felt.
“Now that I have health insurance coverage, I think Dr. Martin can help us out, Jarod,” she said.
*****
“You’ve had a busy day, dear,” his mother said after they got in the house and put the shopping bags away. “And, you’ve been such a good boy to his mother tonight.”
“Thanks, mommy,” he said, reverting to his little girl’s voice. He often did this at night as he prepared for bed, usually getting reprimands from his mother to act more like a boy.
This night, however, his mother smiled, and said: “You go and put on that lovely light blue nightie, you know? The one with the thin straps over the shoulders? The satiny one?”
He was overjoyed; the nightie was his favorite.
“And wear some panties tonight and let me see you when you’re done. Come out in those pink fluffy slippers, too.”
“Oh mommy, I love you,” he said, rushing to hug her.
“And then we’ll fix you’re hair. I think it’s long enough for pigtails.”
“Oh mommy, it is. It is.” He giggled as he skipped to his bedroom, arms flailing about.
In his mother’s efforts to downplay his feminine tendencies, she had not fixed his hair in pigtails for two years; she had relented to let him wear nighties and panties to bed at night, and on occasions at home when he could dress as a girl. These times had become less frequent.
“Oh mommy, this is so special,” Jarod said as he sat on his mother’s vanity stool as she began twisting his hair into pigtails.
“You’re mommy loves it, too, Jane,” she said, using his girl’s name for the first time in months.
“Yes, mommy and daughter,” he said, as they both mugged into the vanity mirror. The smiles on the two faces exuded charm and magic.
“But, honey, this is just for tonight, OK?”
“Yes, mommy, I understand.”
His mother looked at the bruise on his arm, now turning an even more ugly yellow. “Does it hurt, honey?”
“A little, but not as bad as it looks.”
She finished tying the ribbons onto the pigtails. “Now there’s a pretty little girl.”
Jarod smiled at the sight.
“Oh honey,” his mother began, again holding his bruised arm. “I so worry about you. You’re not very strong.”
“Oh mom,” he reassured her. “This was nothing. I know how to defend myself.”
“How?”
“Remember I went to the self defense class with Wanda?”
“Yes, I guess that’ll help.”
“It will mom,” Jarod said. “Besides, I made some friends today. They will help me.”
“Ok, time for bed darling,” his mother said.
Jarod had put up his hair into pigtails; he sat at the desk in his bedroom wearing a crisp new nightie of a thin peach material. The nightie had a square bodice and short puffy sleeves, exposing his thin white arms.
He had finished his bath, complete with bubbles; he then applied lotion to his upper body and arms and legs to keep his skin smooth and silky to the touch. In the last few weeks, since his mother had loosened up on her rules and permitted him to sleep as Jane, he had loved this time each night. Every few nights, he would steal the diary from its hiding place in the Clue Game box, and write an entry.
This night he had pulled out his favorite Barbie Doll, the prom queen, and found a new gown for her. It was a teal blue with a dark green trim, and he took time to tie the doll’s hair in pigtails, even though he knew it was not appropriate with a prom dress. He just liked pigtails.
He smiled at himself from the mirror over his dresser, flicking his hair ever so daintily, even giggling to himself for a moment. He cherished the feeling that he was so fragile and weak.
He pulled the diary from its hiding spot, and brought it to his desk. The pink book was locked with a clasp, its gold tarnished with age. He held it in his hands for a moment, caressing its faux leather cover, feeling very much like a little girl of many years past. He had put the key into a small jewelry box he kept on his dresser along with some clasp earrings, a locket, barrettes, hair pins and other trinkets a teen girl would have. With mock ceremony, he removed the key and unlocked the diary, placing it on top of an opened comic book on the desk. Jarod had mastered the trick of hiding the diary in case his mother should suddenly pop into the room.
He began writing, using his tiny, precise script, to write into the diary:
August 28, 2005 — An entry by Jane Pinkerton
I think I’m in love. Today I meant the most scrumptious boy. He’s the friend of Toya’s boy friend. His name is Marquise and he’s black African American.
He’s so strong and I loved his hard muscles and he has the sweetest face and cutest smile. Oh, at first I was afraid of him, since he pinned me down to the ground, thinking I was ruining Toya’s love for his friend. But it was all a misunderstanding.
He was so strong that with one hand he held my arm and bruised it. My arm is all yellow now, and the bruise displays his finger marks. I should be mad at him, but I look admiringly at his marks on me. I think now of those moments when he was pinning me down, feeling more like he was my lover than my assailant.
I hardly know him, so how can I say I love him? But he was so nice and he said he’ll be around to protect me in high school this year. I’ll need it, I’m sure, since the school is so tough on girls like me
But I’ve never had a boy friend before. Mommy said I have to be 16 before I can date. She’s old-fashioned. And I just turned 14. So I have to wait a full year. I’ve never kissed a boy, and most girls by now have done everything. I’m so behind.
I’ll dream about Marquise tonight.
Jane
When Jarod began using the diary, he usually wrote down his thoughts as a boy; soon, he began writing an occasional entry in his role as Jane. During the summer, he wrote only as “Jane,” and this fictional girl became more and more real as he wrote.
Jarod put the pen down, and spent several moments re-reading the entry; it spurred his thoughts of Marquise, sweet, loving thoughts of being a tender, charming girl in the arms of a lover. He wondered as he went to sleep that night whether he would ever feel that joy for real.
*****
“No you can’t wear pigtails today,” his mother insisted as Jarod dressed for the trip to see Dr. Eugene Martin, the psychiatrist they had seen when Jarod was in sixth grade.
“Oh I know that, mom, I was just playing with my hair,” he said.
“Well hurry up, Jarod. We can’t be late.”
His mother had popped her head into his bedroom as he was posing before the mirror, still in his nightie. Jarod spent many moments before the mirror each day, posing often as a fashion model would, sometimes fixing his hair, putting on makeup and picturing himself as a pretty girl.
That day, of course, he had to get ready for their 9 a.m. appointment with Dr. Martin; he recognized it would be an important moment in his life, signifying that his mother now was perhaps ready to open her mind to accept the truth that Jarod was indeed a girl.
He had confessed to his friend Wanda the previous night that he had liked Dr. Martin when they had meet three years before. “He listened to me, Wanda, seeming to want to hear anything I said,” Jarod said as the two young people sat at a picnic table at the drive-in custard stand.
“Oh Jarod, it sounds like he understands you, the real you,” Wanda said.
The evening was warm, even though late August nights in Wisconsin can sometimes be chilly, and Wanda was dressed in yellow short shorts and a light blue tank top, exposing her tanned, muscular arms and legs. Her light brown hair was clipped short, and modeled in a boyish cut.
Jarod wore denim shorts and a tee shirt, his hair flowing freely down to his shoulders. Both young people were the same height, about 5’7” and at a casual glance the two looked like teen girls chattering at the picnic table. The fact that Jarod was often addressed as “miss” tickled the both of them.
Friends now for more than three years, the two had grown to even more closely relate to each other than ever. They told each other secrets they shared with no one else, Jarod about his continuing desire to be a girl and Wanda about her growing awareness that she was likely lesbian, wondering if that was why she was unable to find satisfaction in the approaches of her acknowledged “boy friend,” Troy Huggins.
In their private moments, they called each other “sister,” and Wanda always called him “Jane.” Their embraces and kisses were sisterly in nature.
Jarod, however, had grown jealous about Wanda’s growing interest in sports and athletics, since it meant their time together was growing more and more limited. Wanda was always off participating in some activity, plus with her job, they rarely saw each other.
It had been a largely lonely summer for Jarod as he approached entry into 9th grade, but the coming visit to Dr. Martin seemed to brighten his outlook.
“Oh Jane, I hope the doctor can help you,” Wanda said quietly as they sat devouring their sundaes amid milling teens and families with toddlers lining up for the summers’ night treat at the custard stand.
“He’s so nice, Wanda, and I know he’ll do his best to convince mommy that I’m a girl, I do, really, I do.”
“I do too, but it won’t be easy for you,” she said, taking his slender hands into hers, calloused from all the softball she had played that summer.
*****
It was obvious Jarod was the doctor’s first appointment that morning. He and his mother had to dart through a raging late August rainstorm from the car to reach the doctor’s office in a new medical building located in a campus that had been carved out of an old industrial complex. The formerly grey brick buildings had been tuckpointed and sandblasted, and grassy strips with trees and colorful plantings took the place where once rusted industrial equipment and materials were located.
Despite sharing a large umbrella, Jarod and his mother, Nancy Pinkerton, still got wet from the driving rain. They arrived at the doctor’s office to see a receptionist, a middle-aged woman, stylishly dressed in a brown suit and crá¨me-colored blouse shaking her own umbrella to release rain water.
“Hello, you must be Jarod Pinkerton and his mother?” she greeted them as she moved to her receptionist desk.
“Yes, we are,” his mother answered, as she was trying to decide where to place her umbrella.
“Here, let me take that for you,” the woman said. ‘I’ll leave it open in this empty conference room. Mine and Dr. Martin’s are already there.”
She introduced herself as Grace, and said she was the doctor’s assistant. “The doctor will be just a few minutes. Won’t you have a seat? I’m making coffee in case you want any.”
Both Jarod and his mother declined. They watched as Grace settled herself at her desk, booted up her computer and pulled some papers out of the desk, arranging them neatly and precisely on the desk. Jarod watched the woman as she worked speedily, but with precision, in setting up her workstation for the morning. He admired how the woman worked, picturing himself some time in the future to be a similarly efficient office secretary. Jarod, too, loved the feel of the office, with its efficient, yet fashionable environment.
The reception area was airy and pleasant, with unusually high ceilings, topped off by the skylights. The doctor’s office was on the top floor of this former factory building, and pipes and vent runs were exposed, brightly painted. The office was a distinct difference from the doctor’s former space in a dowdy, dingy downtown office building.
Jarod was aroused from his musings by a door opening and hearing the voice of Dr. Martin who had entered from his office.
“Jarod, I’m happy to see you again.”
Jarod arose from his seat to greet the doctor who seemed not to have changed a bit in the last three years. He blushed a bit, and nodded affirmatively.
“I hope you won’t mind if I talk to your mother for a moment,” the doctor said. “Grace will keep you company for a bit.”
“No, that’s fine, Dr. Martin,” Jarod said, his voice timid and low.
His mother patted him on his arm as she arose to accompany Dr. Martin into the office.
“Eager to get back to school next week?” Grace said to Jarod, in an obvious effort to begin a conversation. Her voice was low, but distinct and easy to hear. There was a bit of huskiness, but she spoke in a slow, almost musical manner.
“I guess. It’s my first year in high school,” he said, recognizing in his own voice the girlish pronunciations that had begun to fill his speech patterns.
“It’s kind of scary to think about it, isn’t it, Jarod?” the woman asked, as she pulled up a file on the computer.
“A little, but I think it’ll be OK,” he said, more confidently than he felt.
“I was scared, I remember,” the secretary said. “But I liked school. It was so long ago for me. Too long.”
The woman gave out with a giggle, putting her hand to her lips in a dismissively shy manner.
“Oh, you’re not old,” Jarod replied quickly, suddenly wishing he hadn’t said that. He was too young to say that to an adult. His mother had scolded him for venturing into adult conversations.
Grace put him at ease quickly, saying: “Well, honey, thank you for the nice compliment.”
“Is being a secretary difficult work?” he asked.
“Sometimes it is, dear, but it’s interesting, too, particularly when you get to meet people like here.”
“OK.”
“Were you thinking of being a secretary?” Grace asked.
“I don’t know, I just liked the feel of office work and you look so pretty doing it,” Jarod said, again blushing.
“Well, thank you again dear. You’re sweet to notice. But really you might want to do something beyond that, too. I’m in training to be a psychiatric assistant which is more interesting.”
Grace described her training at the community college, and admitted to knowing of his mother who taught at the school.
“I never had her for a class,” Grace said, “But I heard she’d a tough teacher, but very cool, too.”
“You’re going back to school?” Jarod said, his question acknowledging that he noticed Grace’s middle age and inferring a disbelief that she was in school at such a late time in life.
“Yes, honey, I guess I’m getting a new start.”
“That’s cool,” Jarod said, hoping that Grace was not offended by his intemperate remark.
“So darling,” Grace continued. “My advice, concentrate on your education now, so you don’t have to go back to school as an old woman as I had to do.”
She smiled as she said that. Jarod had a strange feeling that Grace was looking directly into Jarod’s mind, that she knew something about how Jarod was feeling and thinking. “You’re hardly old, ma’am,” he said, “And you wear such a stylish outfit, too.”
“How sweet of you to notice, Jarod. Not many boys do notice such things.”
Jarod wanted to tell Grace about how much he noticed women’s clothing, that he loved to sew and to even design dresses and skirts and blouses. He felt, however, that he should not offer that information to this woman who was, after all, a stranger. He merely nodded, then put his legs together and rested his hands, folded together, on his lap, sitting erect. It was, he knew, the way proper girls sit, but he seemed powerless to change his position. Grace smiled at him, and then returned to her computer.
Their silence was brief, ending as Jarod’s mother returned to the waiting room and informed Jarod that the doctor was ready for him. He walked in alone, leaving his mother in the company of Grace.
*****
Dr. Martin’s office had the same sparse environment Jarod recalled from his earlier session. Plain, with a few landscape paintings on the wall, the room contained a matching love seat and easy chair, designed in the slim contours that connoted a European touch. The seats looked that they might be uncomfortable, but when Jarod was directed to the love seat he found it’s firm fit to be most relaxing. He sat down, first sitting erect, legs together and hands placed primly on his lap. Then, realizing that he was, by habit, sitting in a girlish manner, he tried crossing his legs, but that, too, he knew was also effeminate.
Dr. Martin took the easy chair, just a bit to Jarod’s left. He wore dark trousers and a white shirt and tie with short sleeves that exposed his muscular arms. He was tanned, and Jarod suspected he spent time outdoors.
Jarod always felt humiliation among muscular men and boys, his own frail body being a shameful reminder of his lack of manliness. For some reason, however, this man, whose own demeanor seemed to be open and friendly, put Jarod at ease.
“Tell me what you’re thinking right now, Jarod,” the doctor began. “Whatever it is, even if it seems goofy to you.”
Jarod paused, not sure what to say, but Dr. Martin persisted: “Tell me, Jarod, now!”
“Well, this may sound strange, but I was wondering how you got such a nice tan,” he said, immediately sorry he mentioned it.
“Well, Jarod, I play lots of tennis and when I can I go to the beach and swim in Lake Michigan. And, I’m lucky that I don’t get sunburned.”
Jarod smiled, knowing his own fair complexion caused him to stay protected against the sun, always using sun block when he sunbathed.
“I’m sorry doctor. Was I rude to ask that? But that’s what I was thinking at the moment.”
“No, Jarod, I want you to be honest with me. Always be honest. Nothing you tell me goes any further. My code of ethics makes this all confidential.”
He focused his dark eyes on Jarod: “I noticed you were uneasy when you sat down. Why was that, Jarod?”
This time Jarod was reluctant to answer, but the doctor’s eyes seemed to demand an answer: “Well, I was afraid I was sitting too much like a girl. I was trying to be more like a boy.”
“What feels more natural to you, Jarod?”
Nervously, Jarod flicked some hair from his face, realizing suddenly that movement also was effeminate. “I don’t know, doctor.”
Jarod immediately unlocked his crossed legs, and attempted to sit back, almost in a slouch that was typical of teen boys, but immediately returned to the prim posture, with his two feet placed firmly on the ground, his knees together and his hands in his lap.
The doctor remained silent during this maneuver, and the silence bothered Jarod, who realized that he needed to say something.
“I guess . . . ah doctor . . . that I sit like a girl more often. I guess.”
The doctor nodded, offering Jarod a comforting smile. “Sit anyway you like, Jarod. I’m not taking pictures. I want you to be comfortable.”
Jarod spent nearly 30 minutes alone with the doctor. He told just about all of his feelings, though he did not mention his hugging and cuddling experiences with Terri, the fat boy with whom he had cross dressed when they were both 11. Nor, did he mention the desires he continued to feel for the boy; he had never forgotten that experience, and many nights he yearned to again hug the soft flesh of the other boy.
When Jarod’s interview was over, Dr. Martin spoke privately with his mother for about 10 minutes and Jarod returned to the reception room.
Grace was busy at her computer, nodding at Jarod as he returned. He instinctively picked up a copy of Vogue magazine that was sitting on the coffee table, amid issues of Sports Illustrated, Time and Travel. Soon, he was engrossed in the glossy front pages of the magazine, examining the fashion advertisements, amazed at some of the exotic dresses on the models.
He had propped the magazine upon his crossed knees, daintily turning the pages and occasionally flicking his loose hair. He was musing that some of the fashions seemed terribly impractical when his thoughts were interrupted by Grace’s voice: “Some pretty strange dresses their, right?”
Jarod looked up, saw the smiling face of the receptionist, and nodded in agreement. He felt he had been caught red-handed, preferring a fashion magazine to a sports magazine.
“I like more plain outfits myself, Jarod.”
“Me too,” he said quickly adding: “But they should be stylish, like yours ma’am.”
“Thank you, Jarod, I see you have a good eye for such things.”
“Yes, I guess I do,” he said.
The conversation ended as his mother returned to the waiting room. They made another appointment for late September, about a month in the future.
*****“Mom, what did the doctor say?” he asked after they got home.
“He wants to see you again before he makes any further recommendations, Jarod. He thinks you’re a very nice young man. He was impressed with how observant you are and feels you have a nice future,” she said.
“But mom, what about Jane?” he persisted.
“Jarod honey, mother has to get to the college now. We’ll talk about it later.”
“OK mother,” he said, recognizing that she had to leave.
“And, Jarod, you may dress like Jane the rest of the day, if you want, but you can’t go out of the house, OK?”
“Oh mommy, can I?”
“Yes, I said you could, and you can work on Amy’s dress if you like, but you can’t leave the house as Jane. You understand?”
“Oh yes, mommy, I won’t. I love you.” He was now giddy and hugged his mother excitedly.
“Amy’s home,” his mother said, “If you need anything. And, she can help you put your hair in pigtails, too.”
Chapter 22: A Girl’s Dream
Once the school year began, the late afternoon hours became girl-time for Jarod and Amy, the young mother in the adjoining unit. He hurried home from school, sometimes even running in order to preserve their precious two hours together before Amy’s two children got home from school.
Jarod quickly changed into his Jane persona, completely changing from undies to outer dress, sometimes into a simple one piece dress or a skirt and blouse, sometimes into mini-denim shorts and tank top and sometimes into a lovely formal dress. It was all clothes that Amy herself had worn ten years earlier as a teen when he own body was slender. Jarod’s problem was that he was now two inches taller than Amy, who no longer could wear the clothes, having put on a few pounds with childbirth and her stay-at-home status.
“You always look so much better in my clothes than I did, Jane,” Amy said one day in early September. They were at the sewing machine where Jarod was lengthening one of the dresses to accommodate his greater height.
“Not true Amy,” Jarod replied. “I’ve seen pictures of you in high school. You were so pretty.”
“Maybe, and you make them look even better,” Amy smiled. “And I love to watch you work. You’re so patient and precise, Jane. So dainty, too.”
Jarod looked at his hands, slender and smooth, as they worked on the cloth. They were indeed, lovely, he thought to himself. He was wearing a layered white blouse, with short sleeves, over dark blue Capri pants. He loved the blouse, with its scoop bodice.
“I enjoy these times with you, Amy,” Jarod said, his voice low, soft with a lilt.
“I know we’re like girl friends. And, I’m so happy your mother has let you be Jane now.”
Jarod nodded, pleased that he could be dressed while at home, and for occasional trips to an adjoining city dressed as Jane, and joined by the two girls who knew of his desire to be female, Wanda and Latoya. The two girls even joined Jarod at his home for a pajama party one night, with popcorn and soda and pizza while they viewed a movie from the “Traveling Pants” series.
“Dr. Martin has told me that I should let you dress at home anyway you please, to see how serious you are about changing genders,” his mother told him on the evening after their visit to the psychiatrist.
“For the time being, you’ll still be a boy at school and outside of this house, honey,” she said as they sat at the kitchen table. “You’re too young to make any decisions about this, and we’ll see how you adjust to being a girl.”
“Oh mother,” Jarod said. “You know how I feel. I am a girl.”
“Be patient, honey, it’ll work out in the long run.”
*****
Despite his certainty that he should live as a girl, Jarod also recognized that to begin going to school as a girl would be difficult, that he would be harassed even more than he was now and that there would be confusion among other students. He would see Dr. Martin once a month as a comfort to his feelings and to help him adjust.
His freshman year at Franklin D. Roosevelt High School began on a horrifying note; this once proud school which had even a U.S. Supreme Court justice among its illustrious alumni had gone the way of so many inner city schools. Boys hung around in gangs as Jarod approached the school on his first day, most wearing baggy pants falling down about their hips and the cynical, angry looks so many boys seem to take on. The girls had their own collections of toughs, many looking gothic in style.
Jarod realized immediately as he walked toward the school (he lived about a mile away a distance that was close enough to walk) that he would be immediately seen as weird; he realized his fears that he would be seen as a “fag” or “queer” would become reality. Jarod was dressed neatly in black slacks and a light green dress shirt; he had tied his longish hair into a pony tail at the back, like many boys did. He had dressed carefully that morning, hoping to show as boy-like a demeanor as he could to avoid attention.
As he mounted the eight steps at the front entrance of the high school, between two pillars that held up a towering canopy, Jarod heard giggles from a covey of boys along the steps. To be sure, he heard the words “fag” and “queer” emanate from the group. He knew from experience to keep looking ahead and enter the building as if he heard nothing.
“Oh there you are,” he heard the welcoming voice of Latoya as he entered the building.
She was waiting for him just inside the door, wearing jeans and a tee shirt, her already burgeoning breasts testing the strength of the cloth.
“Latoya, were you waiting for me?”
“Yes, ‘cause I see we go to same homeroom. Isn’t that cool?”
“Yes, I feel so alone in this school. It’s so big.”
The two stood in line together, awaiting their walk through metal detectors which had become typical of big-city high schools. Jarod realized that he had dressed far too neatly for the styles typical of teen boys his age. Would he fit in wearing baggy jeans and too large tee-shirts?
“You still walk like a girl, Jarod,” Latoya whispered to him as they headed to their homeroom.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Well, be careful, there’s a gang of thugs in this school you gotta watch out for.”
“I know, ‘toya,” he responded. “I’ll be so careful.”
“And you remember the promise of Marquise?” she reminded him. “He’ll be around if you need him. We’re to meet him and my boy friend for lunch. You can join us.”
“Cool.”
“Marquise even asked about you,” she said, a slight glint in her eye. “Wondering if you’re going to be in Roosevelt.”
“Why would he care?” Jarod asked.
“I don’t know,” his friend said, her eyes taking on a mischievous look. “Maybe he thinks you’re cute.”
Jarod slowed his walk with that remark, forcing Latoya, to slow down, too, and urge him on, “Come on, we don’t wanna be late on the first day of school.”
Marquise’s apparent interest in Jarod was both pleasing and troubling at the same time. Was Marquise gay? Or, had Latoya told either her boy friend or Marquise about Jarod’s feminine side? Were they going to harass him, perhaps even hurt him?
The warning bell rang, and the two new freshmen hurried to their homeroom, giving Jarod no time to ask Latoya about her two friends’ ideas about himself.
Latoya’s boy friend, Demetrius, and his friend from the park encounter, Marquise, were both to be juniors that year, two grades ahead of Latoya and Jarod. Why indeed would two African-American boys care about a white, shy, inconsequential boy? It puzzled Jarod immensely.
*****
The first day of school went without incident. Jarod was in an intense state of confusion, trying to navigate the long corridors, their strange cut-offs and alcoves, tucked in among the rows and rows of lockers. Between classes, the hallways and stairways were masses of students, jostling each other, in the din of constant chatter and occasional high laughter and squeals. Jarod soon realized in this mass of self-centered teen humanity, he was hardly noticed and began to realize that he could literally become anonymous, become a cipher in the school of 1,345 students. (In his curiosity, he had gone to the Internet to find the school population. It was the eighth largest school in the state.)
Outside of having Latoya in his homeroom, Jarod saw none of his classmates from middle school during the morning hours. Nor did he see Wanda, but that would be understandable since Wanda was a sophomore and would likely not be in any of his freshmen sessions. But, he wondered, where was his other friend, Terrence, the boy with whom he had joined in crossdressing under the direction of his sister?
Though they hadn’t seen each other since June and the end of school, Jarod thought often about Terrence. He had tried calling the boy several times, but it seemed he was never home. He never returned Jarod’s calls.
With Terrence (whom he called “Terri,”), Jarod felt so totally a girl. The two of them, Terri being fat and soft and Jarod being slender and girly, made lovely subteen girls several times when they were 11 and 12 years old. They giggled together and prissied themselves up under the guidance of Terri’s older sister, until Terri’s stepfather put an end to it.
In 8th Grade, Terri had been ordered to play football and to lose weigh by his stepfather; and he indeed did lose weight and tone his body up a bit, but he confessed to Jarod that he never forgot their girly moments, and secretly wished he could again dress.
There was sadness in Terri’s face as he confessed this to Jarod on the last day of school in June; they found a deserted place and hugged and kissed each other. It was both a sad and delicious moment.
“I’ll think of you always, Terri,” Jarod had whispered.
“Me, too, Jane,” the other boy said. “But my stepdad would kill me if he saw us now.”
Tears began to stream down Terri’s chubby face, and Jarod felt a sudden sense of fear enter his heart as he pondered Terri’s future.
Now, where was Terri? The question bothered Jarod on that first day of school. He should be here, Jarod felt. Yet, he was not to be seen on that first day.
*****
Marquise slid slightly to his right making room for Jarod to sit at the lunchroom bench. “Here’s a spot,” the boy said to Jarod, who hesitated for a moment, looking puzzled. The table included Latoya and her boy friend, Demetrius, and another girl, a slender, lovely girl with sparkling black eyes and with braided hair tight against her skull.
“Join us, Jarod,” Latoya said, smiling.
He slid his leg over the bench, slightly jostling Marquise as he did so, and grabbing the boy’s shoulder to balance himself. Marquise grabbed Jarod’s arm to assist him, the boy’s large calloused hand wrapping itself fully around Jarod’s slender wrist. Marquise looked up into Jarod’s eyes, smiling.
The other girl was also a freshman and was introduced as Aneisha, Marquise’s cousin. She was 15, but was tiny, almost looking like a gradeschooler.
Aneisha was shy, and looked down at her food most of that first lunch hour, mumbling only a “yes” every so often, and whispering into Marquise’s ear. Latoya was giggling mainly with Demetrius, not paying much attention to anything else going on at the table. For his part, Marquise talked almost constantly to Jarod, wondering about what classes he was taking, and telling him about the literary magazine he was editing in the high school.
That information momentarily floored Jarod, remembering the angry young boy who had pinned him down at the park during that summer incident. Now, this athletic and muscular boy was talking about poetry and literature; it puzzled Jarod, but he welcomed the idea.
“I like to write,” Jarod said.
“You do? What?”
“Well, I keep a diary and write lots of poetry in it,” Jarod said, blushing.
Jarod suddenly felt embarrassed, realizing he had never told anyone, except Wanda, that he kept a diary. And, to admit that to another boy! What boy keeps a diary and writes poetry? And to write in a little girl’s pink diary, with its lock and all?
“That’s OK,” Marquise said.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jarod said quickly. “Just something I started for fun.”
He felt Marquise’s hand upon his arm, tapping it gently, reassuringly. He whispered then: “Jarod, nothing wrong for a boy to write poetry. I do, too.”
He suggested to Jarod that he bring in some poetry to share with him some day. “But not your diary, that’s yours to keep secret. And only poems you want to share.”
He felt welcomed at the table, and he soon forgot that he was the only white student among the group. In the days that followed during his first semester, he usually joined Marquise and his friends at the lunch table, most often chattering away eagerly with Marquise, sometimes about television shows or stuff on the internet. He soon found himself, apparently by happenstance, to be seated next to Aneisha, whose shyness seemed to melt away when Jarod began talking with her.
“That’s a pretty dress,” he volunteered one day to Aneisha. He had been impressed how well the tiny girl was dressed each day, usually in styles that drew attention to her African heritage, but were restrained in colors and gimmicks.
The girl looked up, her dark eyes beaming through her granny glasses, and nodded eagerly. “Thank you, Jarod,” the words came out in her tiny voice.
The deep blue cotton dress had heavily pleated off-the-shoulder "sleeves" with light white designs marching vertically up the dress to the white collar. It was knee-length.
“You dress so nice,” he continued. “I like to see a girl all dressed up.”
“You do, Jarod?” she looked up, for perhaps the first time, directly into his eyes. “I sometimes wish I could dress like the other kids.”
“Oh no, Aneisha, I really do like how you dress and all of your clothes have been so pretty on you, Aneisha. Is your mother a fashion designer or something?”
Marquise, who had been listening to the conversation, interjected: “Aneisha’s mom is very strict, Jarod. She requires her to dress as a lady all the time, no jeans or shorts or anything.”
The girl nodded in agreement to Marquise’s statement, quickly adding:
“My mom makes most of my clothes. She loves to sew and she does the choir robes for church, too.” Her words rushed out of her mouth.
“Oh that’s cool,” Jarod replied, wanting to add that he sewed, too, but fearing to admit to his joy in designing and making women’s clothes would mark him forever a sissy in his new high school.
From across the table, Latoya said, “And Jarod, her mom won’t let her date boys until she’s 18, right Aneisha?”
Aneisha dropped her head, refusing to acknowledge the statement, and Jarod looked at her, feeling sorry for the shy girl, who hated getting such attention.
“Now Latoya, don’t get on Aneisha,” Demetrius said quickly. “You know how strict her mom is.”
Marquise echoed his friend’s warning, adding that Aneisha was a very pretty girl and soon would get plenty of boys wanting to be with her. “Her mom isn’t that strict, she’s just worried and hopes that Aneisha doesn’t get in with a bad crowd,” he told Jarod in a low tone. “I’m sure she’ll let Aneisha date the proper boy.”
Soon the group bored of discussing Aneisha’s clothes and the table talk was restored to its usual chaotic cacophony. Jarod, feeling sorry for his seatmate, tried hard to resume conversation with the girl, but her answers were mere grunts of assent. The girl felt humiliated by the conversation, it was obvious, and nothing Jarod could do would restore the brightness that he had seen earlier in Aneisha’s eyes.
Jarod felt a kinship with this mere slip of a girl, a shyness and a gentleness that he felt was a common bond between the two of them. The types of clothes she wore because they were based on the girl’s ethnic background also intrigued him. He also found his own stereotypes of the African-American community blown away by his friendship with this group. Marquise and Demetrius often wore the same baggy jeans and sideways placed baseball caps which seemed to mark them as typical ghetto youth; yet, they seemed to be caring and intelligent teen boys.
*****
Sept. 10, 2005 — Jane Pinkerton’s diary
I think Marquise likes me. He’s asked me to sit with him and his friends at the cafeteria. I get so excited, and wish I could dress up so pretty, like his cousin Aneisha. I’m trying to figure out what kind of dress would impress him? Should I have a nice African dress, like Aneish wears? Or, a more typical girl’s outfit, like most of the white girls wear?
Can I even dream of ever being his girl friend? What a sweet dream! We’d show the whole school: my lovely boy friend Marquise and me. Could I even be pretty enough for him? Am I too young for him? And would he want a white girl like me?
Latoya, I think, wants Jarod to be Aneisha’s boy friend. She hinted at that today. I’m not sure how Jarod feels about that. He’s a nice enough boy, but he’s such a femme boy.
I think Aneisha would like to be girl friends with me; maybe we could sew and make dresses together.
Marquise wants me to bring in some poetry. I don’t know about that. I need to do it. I think he likes smart girls, so I better bring in some good poems.
I’m beginning to think I’ll like high school.
Jarod looked at the entry, done again in his precise, tiny girlish handwriting, pleased with it. He then paged back through the diary, trying to locate a poem to show Marquise. Nothing quite fit his needs, he felt, since all of his poems were written from a girl’s point of view. He had signed all of them as “Jane Pinkerton.”
He realized he’d have to create a whole new poem. What could he write? The thought bothered him, making it difficult for him to sleep. That night, realizing he had to write a poem from a boy’s perspective, he dug deep into his drawer to find the Green Bay Packer pajamas his mother had forced him to wear until recently, eschewing his lovely pink nightie for another night.
That weekend he finally wrote the poem:
Dream Girl
Dark-rimmed glasses framed her face
Shiny dark eyes pronounced her grace;
Tiny and shy and rarely did she speak,
The boy was enthralled, his attention to peak.
She was no beauty, nor luscious to see;
Yet, he found her a portrait that had to be
Etched in his mind all day and all night
A view he could not erase despite all his might.
He looked at her slender neck smooth and trim
Her hair framing it enthralled and excited him;
What was it that was this girl’s lure?
Her pigtails made her his love, for sure.
He knew the rhythm was bad, and some of the rhyming was weird and contrived; yet, he liked the poem because it expressed his honest love of pigtails, and, he knew, he own belief that he indeed was the “girl” in the poem.
*****
Jarod’s poem may not have been the best of poetry, but Marquise said it proved that Jarod had an interest in writing and in literature. He asked Jarod to work on the literary magazine with him. The truth was that Marquise could find no other boy who showed the slightest interest in the literary magazine. And, he had been able to recruit only two girls to join the staff, both sophomores of limited imagination, he thought.
Marquise had to withstand considerable teases and nasty comments when his friends learned he was editor of the literary magazine.
“That’s for sissies,” one of them taunted.
“And fags,” said another.
Demetrius even joined in the taunts at one point, until Latoya jabbed him in the arm with her fist at lunch one day, proclaiming: “What’s wrong with a boy who likes to read and write?”
Marquise had a ready answer to anyone questioning his manhood because of editing the literary magazine; he was one of the best wrestlers on the school’s team, and his quick moves and strength were hard for any bully to match. Soon, the taunts faded away.
“Thank you, Marquise, for inviting me to be on Odyssey,” Jarod said as they headed for their first after-school magazine planning meeting with the faculty adviser, Ms. Audrey Krebs.
“Jarod, I’m glad you accepted. You’ll be a big help and Latoya told me you were really good in English, and I have problems with grammar,” he said as they approached the room.
Ms. Krebs was a tall, square woman with a large body, almost shapeless in a one-piece dress. To Jarod, she was “old,” and in truth she had been at the school 29 years and if she had any “love” in her life it must have been through literature. She appeared singularly unattractive, and was the constant butt of behind-the-scene snickers, mainly speculation by boys that she “needed a good man” to make her human.
She brooked no nonsense in her classes, and was known as a tough grader. Yet, she was known to win over the attention and admiration of several students each year, and this year she won the attention of Marquise. She seemed to find several “nuggets” who showed potential interest in literature and would nurture them to build good resumes for college.
She greeted Jarod and Marquise with a perfunctory “sit here at the conference table” demand. They sat, without ceremony, joining two bespectacled girls who were already there. Their names were Melanie, a tall, soft fleshy girl with unruly blonde hair, and Jennifer, a slender, dark-complexioned girl with pimples dotting her face. They were both sophomores, and appeared to be good friends.
“I’m so happy to have two boys with us this year,” Ms. Krebs said once introductions were made. “Welcome Jarod, and I hope you like writing and literature and reading.”
“Oh yes, I do, ma’am,” he said in a low tone. He flicked his hair, in a nervous gesture at that moment, realizing he must have unknowingly used his girlish mannerism, and hoping no one noticed.
“Well good,” she said. “Marquise is the first boy to join the committee since I started the literary magazine four years ago.”
She nodded in his direction, and he smiled.
“I hope it wasn’t too bad on you, Marquise, being teased about this being only for girls,” she continued.
“No, it wasn’t,” he said.
Melanie, the blonde girl, interjected: “I know if they gave Marquise any crap, he’d take care of them.”
They all laughed, since Marquise was certainly no one to be trifled with, being on the wrestling squad and the star shortstop on the baseball team.
Miss Krebs, however, cut her laughter short, looking sternly at Melanie and warning: “We don’t use words like ‘crap’ in literature, Melanie. Words like that are crude, and don’t convey any real meaning.”
“Yes, Miss Krebs,” the girl answered, dropping her head at the rather curt comment from the teacher.
“But, ma’am,” Jarod said quickly, before thinking too clearly. “Kids talk like that all the time. Why not write the way they talk?”
“Master Jarod, I thought you were a smart boy, a literate boy, but I see you want to stay in the streets,” she said, with sarcasm.
Jarod blushed.
“No, my young writers,” the teacher continued, showing a kindness that belied her fierce demeanor, “You may use words like ‘crap’ and ‘stuff’ and ‘pretty’ when they’re the words of your characters in a story, but never, never use them in your day-to-day talk and other writing.”
The four students nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Miss Krebs said. “I can see you all will display your dignity and value through the use of precise and descriptive language. Now let’s think about what we’ll put in the December issue.”
Jarod knew the school bullies might not treat him so kindly though, with his effeminate mannerisms and slight body, and he wasn’t too sure he could live up to Miss Krebs’ rule to use only precise language and no slang. Through the use of slang (and some four-letter words) he felt he could become more masculine and sound less like a sissy. He was a bit worried about this literary magazine project, but he was eager to join with Marquise and, besides, he truly loved to write and read.
The magazine was published twice a year, in December and again in April, and the group would meet once a week on Wednesdays during lunch hour; if need be they’d schedule extra meetings to handle copy.
*****
Jarod’s other school activity was the cross country team, which he joined at the behest of Latoya, who also decided to run.
At first he told Latoya “no.” He was so afraid he’d make a fool of himself since he never was much of a runner; in soccer, other players, including the girls, often outran him.
“Oh it’s not speed in cross country, Jarod,” Latoya said. “It’s endurance and with all the bike-riding you do, I think you’ll do fine. Come on, don’t be such a sissy.”
In fact, cross country was the perfect sport for Jarod; there were no typical jocks on the squad, since most of the boys were slender and fairly short. The boys and girls teams practiced together most nights under the encouraging eye of the male math teacher, Mr. Cummings, and the female physical ed teacher, Miss Stroud.
“We’re here to do three things,” Mr. Cummings said, in assembling the group before they started their first practice. “Practice hard. Respect others and don’t criticize, and last but not least, have fun.”
As they broke up to join the boys and girls groups, Jarod headed with the boys, only to be stopped by Miss Stroud, who grabbed his arm, turning him back, saying, “The girls are over here, honey.”
He realized that with his hair in a ponytail now, and wearing a light blue tank top on the warm fall day, he must have indeed looked like a girl. It was becoming an almost daily occurrence, being mistaken for a girl.
“I belong with the boys,” he said, quickly, blushing.
Miss Stroud, a severe looking woman with close-cropped dark hair with prominent streaks of grey, looked at Jarod closely, and merely nodded, turning away, shaking her head.
In practice, the boys and girls teams often ran the beginning of races together, before the girls turned off to complete the shorter routes. Often at the beginning of the practice races, Jarod ran with Latoya as a partner, until it was her time to head off in a different direction. The boys on the team largely ignored Jarod, which was not an unusual situation for freshmen runners. Jarod found himself in early practice sessions running alone, usually following the pack of boys who continued yards and yards ahead.
“Just keep moving along, young man,” said his coach, running alongside Jarod for a while. “You’re doing fine. Don’t worry about them up ahead. Just keep running. You’ll do it.”
And the coach was right. He was unusually understanding for an athletic coach, seeming to support a boy as long as he was trying and doing the best he could.
“You finished,” the coach said later, patting him on the back as he stood panting, having ended the first practice run in last place, maybe 30 yards behind the previous runner.
“Oh coach,” Jarod tried to talk, but his breathing was so heavy he couldn’t finish his sentence, in which he was going to tell the coach he wouldn’t return to practice, since he was so lousy a runner.
“No, young man,” the coach said, most likely sensing what the boy had on his mind. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re on our team. You’ll be back for practice tomorrow and our next practice run on Friday.”
Despite the coach’s encouragement, Jarod felt sadly out of place among the other boys. None of them paid any attention to him, and he felt alienated from their chatter, which so often involved making fun of one of the girls.
When the two teams reconnected after the race, Jarod found himself in the midst of several girls, brought together by the summoning of Latoya, now glistening with sweat from her practice run. He felt totally at home among the girls as they sat cross-legged on the ground while Coaches Cummings and Stroud discussed the coming training schedule.
*****
With her athletic teams and part-time job, Wanda was rarely around home during this school year, and since she was a year ahead of Jarod, the two saw each other only a few times a week, and then Wanda was usually in the midst of her own gaggle of girls, most of whom were athletic.
Whenever she was free, Wanda sought out Jarod, either coming over to the house, or telephoning him to see what he was doing. When she called, it was usually the same greeting: “Hey, Jane, what you doing, girl?”
He instantly was elated by such calls, and easily reverted to speaking in his soft, feminine voice. It had become a rule now that the two acted as if they were girl friends, and would get together for a few hours, doing what teen girls do when they were together: fixing each other’s hair, putting on nail polish, giggling over teen magazines or some silly television program.
Wanda had become, even as a sophomore, the star on both the girls’ basketball and baseball teams. Her arms and legs had become toned in sinewy muscles; yet, she retained her blonde feminine beauty, perhaps due to the soft blue of her eyes and the ready smile on her face.
“What am I to do about Troy?” she asked one Friday night as they sat watching television at Wanda’s house, with Wanda doing twists to fit Jarod’s hair into pigtails. “He always wants to be around.”
“Troy thinks he’s your boy friend and wants to be with you,” Jarod said.
He was in his “Jane” mode for the weekend, and was spending the night in a two-girl “PJ” party with Wanda. Both of their mothers were out for the night, joining Amy in a “girls-night” outing to a local bar that catered to singles. Jarod and Wanda were both wearing flannel pajamas, pink, girly ones and had gorged themselves on hot fudge pecan sundaes. The two had convinced Wanda’s mother that they were friends (well, “girl friends’) and that they could enjoy an evening together without fear of any sexual liaison.
“He’s like a little puppy dog following after me,” Wanda continued her complaining.
“He’s a sweet boy friend, Wanda, and he’s so . . . ah . . . what shall I say. He’s such a hunk.”
“I know, and he’s nice to be with, but, oh, I don’t know. He just doesn’t excite me.”
Wanda finished tying the Jarod’s hair into pigtails, saying: “Now, look at that. Don’t you look cute?”
Jarod sprang up, running to the bathroom mirror to view his teen girl visage, with the pigtails tied in a new way. The light brown hair was tied into two bunches, high on the head, with the two pigtails dipping downward, wrapped in light blue ribbons.
“Oooooooh, I love that Wanda,” he said, returned to the couch, and hopping upon it, landing on his knees and kissing and hugging his girl friend, who responded enthusiastically.
Soon they were wrestling together on the floor, giggling, teasing each other and intermittently kissing. Wanda easily pinned Jarod to the floor finally, laying flat atop him and kissing him firmly.
The close physical contact, the smell of Wanda’s hot breath and the warmth of her muscular body excited Jarod. He felt his penis grow hard and his desire to keep kissing Wanda intensified and soon he felt himself held tightly in the strong arms of the older girl. He wanted Wanda to continue to dominate him, to direct him in what to do and to be her very own plaything.
Jarod had felt such passion before only once: his time with Terrence, his chubby crossdressing friend two years earlier. This time, it was different and more real to him.
Wanda breathing grew more intense and she was panting heavily.
“I love you so, Jane,” she said breathlessly.
“I want to be your girl friend, too,” he replied as the two clutched each other, his penis becoming painful now. They rocked together, almost in rhythm.
“Oh noooooooooo,” Wanda squealed, and she released Jarod from her arms, sitting up.
“What?” Jarod said, disappointed to be freed from her grasp.
“I wet myself.”
“You did? I almost did too,” he giggled.
“What was that we were doing?” she said, after she returned from the bathroom, having changed her panties and PJs, choosing now a light blue, satin nightie. She wore a terry cloth robe and fluffy slippers, and she shuffled back to the couch, sitting next to Jarod, taking her hands in his.
“I don’t know, Wanda, but I liked it. I liked how you held me and kissed me and told me you loved me.”
“Oh Jane, I did too,” she smiled, running a free hand around his neck, lightly touching it.
Jarod was confused. She called him “Jane,” and treated him as her “girl friend,” which he liked. Did she like him now as her boy friend? He wondered.
“Did you ever kiss Troy like that?” he asked.
Wanda merely nodded negatively. She took on a reflective mood, and silence grew between the two. They both sat, Jarod moving more tightly against Wanda, nestling his slender body tightly against the terry cloth robe, smelling the fresh soap the girl had used to clean herself.
“I love you, Jane,” Wanda said softly.
“You love Jane?” he asked, puzzled.
“Yes, silly. You’re Jane, my girl friend, and you’ll always be my best girl friend.”
Jarod smiled. He felt so happy that he would be her girl friend. He wasn’t sure how to be a “boy friend,” he felt. He felt inadequate to assume the role of a boy and ask a girl out for a date. What girl would even want him, he wondered?
“Jane, I’ve never seen you as a boy, you know that, right?”
“Yes, Wanda, and you’re my best friend.”
Wanda paused for a minute, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, saying, “I guess I’m different. I seem to only like girls.”
“I guess,” he agreed.
Jarod knew that he, too, was different.
Jarod was early for his September appointment with Dr. Martin, having taken the city bus from school. His mother was to meet him there, arriving from her teaching job at the community college.
“You’re mother won’t be able to be here for the visit, Jarod,” the doctor’s assistant, Grace, informed him as he entered the empty waiting room.
“Oh?” Jarod responded, unconsciously flicking his hair.
“Yes, honey. She said there were some problems at school she had to clear up but that she should be here to pick you up afterward.”
“Ok,” he said, moving toward the love seat to await his appointment.
“And how is your new school?” Grace said when he got settled. “Are they treating you OK?”
Jarod was a bit startled at the question, wondering why this receptionist or physician’s assistant or whatever she was wondering about his schooling, or that among the many patients she must see, why she would remember him and his schooling.
“I guess,” he said, almost with a shrug.
“Yes, going to a new school can be rough, sometimes,” she agreed, returning to the computer to work, and leaving Jarod to his musings.
Jarod tried to concentrate on a copy of Vogue, looking at the fashion ads, and thinking the clothes appeared so outlandish to him. He could not, however, keep from glancing over the top of the magazine to look at Grace, admiring her classic beauty and precise way of dressing. He had never before seen an office worker who dressed both so stylishly and prettily.
When he had commented upon Grace’s outfit to his mother after their earlier visit, she merely responded that Dr. Martin must want his assistants to be dressed in fashion.
Grace looked up from her work, catching Jarod’s eyes, focusing in upon her. She smiled: “I could never wear clothes like those,” she said. “They’re too over the top.”
“Me either,” Jarod responded, without thinking.
Realizing his mistake, he gave out a nervous laugh, and Grace merely smiled back at him, a smile that exuded comfort and friendship.
“You like your girl friends to be in clothes that are more conservative, don’t you Jarod?” she said.
“I guess, but I don’t have a girl friend yet. I’m too young.” He blushed.
Grace smiled as she responded, “Oh yes, of course.”
“But you’d look good in some of these clothes, ma’am,” he volunteered to Grace.
“Thank you, honey.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by the patient from the previous appointment coming from Dr. Martin’s office. The doctor followed, instructing Grace on the middle-aged woman’s next appointment, and turning to Jarod and inviting him into his office.
*****
“Remember, Jarod, I want you to sit comfortably and to be natural,” the doctor instructed him.
Jarod, however, was tense, not sure how to act. He tried to sit upright, his knees together and his hands folded primly in his lap, the posture, he felt, of an obedient, respectful young girl. But the natural comfort of the chair seemed to preclude him from sitting erect, forcing him to lean back, folding his legs.
“There, just relax Jarod. We’re just going to talk now.”
Dr. Martin’s voice was gentle and soft, almost the antithesis to his strong, masculine body and bull neck.
After initial questions about how he liked school, Dr. Martin asked him unexpectedly: “When you get home tonight, what’s would you most want to do?”
Jarod was stunned for a moment.
“If you could do anything you heart desired, what would that be?” The doctor persisted.
“The truth?”
“Yes, Jarod, the truth.”
He paused, knowing what he was to say was preposterous, but it was something he had been dreaming about so often. “I’d like to be a . . . a . . . a mommy with a baby,” he said finally.
Dr. Martin didn’t appear the least bit shocked by the statement, merely asking, “How long have you thought about that?”
“Oh doctor,” Jarod said quickly, stammering in his answer. “I know that’s ridiculous, but I thought about that often, since I started helping Amy with her two girls. I guess I was 10 or 11.”
“Did you wish you could get pregnant, too?”
Jarod reddened, knowing he was talking nonsense. “Yes, doctor.”
Dr. Martin quickly moved on to different subjects, and the 30 minutes passed quickly. Just before ending the session, the doctor asked Jarod: “Have any questions, now?”
“Yes, doctor, I just wanted to say your assistant, Grace, dresses so nice and so feminine. I wondered where she gets her clothes.”
The doctor laughed, saying: “You better ask her.”
Returning to the reception area, Jarod saw his mother waiting there, and he went to her, receiving a quick hug.
“I’m sorry darling,” she said to her son, who now having grown taller was equal to her in height. “But we had some disciplinary problems at school I had to clear up.”
“That’s ok, mom,” he said.
Dr. Martin interjected: “Yes, Mrs. Pinkerton, Jarod and I had a good conversation. Now, Jarod, I’d like to talk to your mother for a few minutes. I let you and Grace talk about fashions.”
Jarod smiled and Grace turned up from her work with a questioning look. “Yes, he wants to know where you buy all those nice clothes.”
With that, he shook his mother’s hand and directed her into his office, saying: “We’ll only be a five minutes.”
Jarod took the same love seat, and picked up a magazine, but Grace interrupted immediately, speaking in her husky voice: “So you like what I’m wearing?”
“Yes ma’am, you’re so classy and dress so nice.”
“And you want to know where I get these clothes? Such a strange question from a boy?”
Jarod looked down at his hands, neatly folded in his lap as he sat erect, knees tight together, looking very much like a proper young lady.
“Yes ma’am,” he answered shyly.
“Jarod, you’re sweet to ask. I got this out fit, the skirt and suit coat from Penney’s. They really have nice clothes for a professional woman.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“You are observant, my young man.”
“And this white blouse, I got from a second hand outlet. In fact I get most of my clothes from a second hand store. You’d be surprised what a girl can find there.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Jarod said, his interested suddenly peaked.
“Yes, Jarod, you’ll find some lovely gowns in such stores,” Grace continued. “For proms, weddings, parties. Women buy them, maybe wear them once or twice, and then send them off to the thrift shop.”
“And they’re cheap, too, aren’t they, ma’am?”
“I got this blouse for $2.50,” she said, then quickly adding, “And they have clothes for men and boys, too, Jarod.”
Jarod laughed outloud, recognizing the playful tease in the assistant’s voice. He realized full well that the assistant had perceived the reasons for his visits to Dr. Martin, and was just trying to further justify the boy’s intense interest in clothes.
Their conversation ended when Jarod’s mother re-entered the room, and another appointment was set for Jarod in a month.
“And, Jarod, I gave your mother a reference to see another doctor for a physical,” Dr. Martin said. “I want you to go to her — she’s a lady doctor — so that we can see how you’re maturing now.”
Jarod started to raise a question, but his mother held him off. “We’ll talk about this at home.”
“Bye Jarod,” Grace said, “As they got up to leave. Happy shopping?”
“We will,” Jarod said, almost skipping from the office.
*****
In the car home, his mother asked: “What was that ‘happy shopping’ remark all about?”
“Oh mommy,” he said, reverting quickly to his girlish manner of speaking. “She’s get the coolest outfits at thrift shops.”
“Yes, honey, I know, but I always hate to wear somebody else’s stuff.”
“Oh but, mommy, I know it’s clean and some stuff has been worn only once or not at all. And they have such cool dresses and gowns, Grace said.”
“I suppose you want to go there sometimes?” she asked as they were stopped at a red light.
“Yes, mommy. I getting too tall for all those clothes we got from Amy.”
“I know those dresses are way too short for you,” his mother said, a gleam in her eye. “But you don’t have to worry about showing off your legs, honey. You have very pretty legs.”
“Oh mommy, you’re so cool.”
“Oh, oh, you’re really such a girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, mommy. Can we go shopping?”
“We’ll see, dear. Maybe Wanda or Latoya would love to go with you sometime. You could go as Jane and we could find some thrift shop not too close.”
“Oh mommy, could we? Could we?”
*****
That night, as he was preparing for bed, having completed his evening bath, and while standing in the bathroom, his mother knocked on the door and asked to enter. Jarod was still only in his panties, but opened the door.
His mother lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down on it. She was already in her nightgown for the evening, with her hair up. Jarod noticed how lovely her skin was and felt he had the prettiest mother around. There was a little flesh around her upper arms and chest, but Jarod felt it just added to her femininity.
“Let me look at you,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh, looking closely at it, and then holding his forearm. Jarod liked the feel of her hands.
“See, Jarod,” she said. “You’re beginning to get some hair on your legs and arms, just like boys of your age normally do.”
“But you can hardly see it, mom,” he protested. “Some boys have lots of hair.”
She put a hand to his chin, raising it to look at is better. “And you’re getting peach fuzz on your lip. Soon you’ll have to begin shaving, like a boy.”
Jarod was crestfallen. He knew this as happening to him and he even noticed some light hair on his chest, even though it was so fine as to be nearly invisible.
“And I suppose your penis is growing, too?” she asked.
He nodded, realizing that while his penis was small compared to some boys, it was nearly normal size compared to others. He knew this was all a sign that he was physically maturing into a man, even though he had only just turned 14.
His mother took his hands in hers, as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, his lovely legs held together, as had become his manner.
“Dr. Martin seems nearly convinced that your desire to be a girl is real,” she began. “I guess I’ve always known that, but I’ve always been afraid of what would happen to you if it were true.”
“I know mommy, since you care about me,” he said.
“So he’s convinced me to let you live in secret as a girl just so you get used to it, and understand what it means. That means you can dress at home whenever we’re alone, and that you can go out as girl to other parts of town and with your two friends, ‘Toya and Wanda, as Jane. We’ll keep doing that through high school, at least for a while.”
“Ok, mommy,” Jarod said.
“But we need to look at how you’re maturing physically,” she said. “That’s why we’re going to see Dr. Adaboya soon.”
“Yes, mommy. What will she do?”
“I don’t know, but you’ll soon be taking on more male characteristics. You’re voice is already changing from the sweet little girl’s voice you always had.”
“Can we do something about that?”
“I don’t know honey, but that’s what Dr. Adaboya will tell us.”
Jarod could hardly sleep that night, realizing that his life was about to undergo many changes. He wanted the changes, he was sure, but the future now looked scary and uncertain to him. Sometime in the future, he would no longer be able to rest in the comforts of his girly self within the barricades of his mother’s house. He would sometime be out in the world as a girl and then a woman. He knew it was going to happen. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it yet. He rubbed at the thin strap of his nightie, as he massaged his slender shoulders and dainty neck, dreaming of being a pretty girl in a prom gown, and also wondering what troubles a pretty girl might face.
*****
It was the week before Thanksgiving before Jarod was able to go shopping with his girl friends. Until then Wanda and Latoya had both been busy with school activities, Wanda with soccer games and Latoya with her work as wardrobe girl for the school play. The leaves had already left barren trees lining the streets in the city and a dark grayness hung like a shroud, as the three girls joined Jarod’s mother for a ride to do shopping in the larger city just north of Douglas.
“Mom is cool with me going shopping as Jane with you, but we gotta go where we won’t meet anyone we know,” Jarod explained as he invited each of them for the Saturday trip.
“That’ll be so much fun,” Latoya said, as she and Jarod talked after lunch in school.
“How are you dressing?” Wanda wanted to know when he skipped over to the other girl’s house after supper one night.
“Kinda like this,” he said, referring to the Capri pants, girl tennis shoes and pink sweatshirt with bunnies he was wearing.
“And my pigtails,” he added quickly.
“Just casual, then?” Wanda asked.
“Yes, why not?”
“Well, we could dress up a bit more,” Wanda said. “You look darling in anything you wear, Jane. I always look like a horse.”
“Oh? You wanna wear skirts? Like the rich girls do?”
Wanda’s eyes lit up. “Sure, let’s look sharp and show them how classy us girls from Douglas can be.”
“Let’s.” Jarod giggled, and hugged his friend, exchanging a sisterly kiss.
After Jarod’s mother dropped them off, she told them she’d meet them in three hours at the food court. It wasn’t long before the girls were attracting the eyes of many of the boys in the mall that afternoon; the three were easily the best dressed girls among the shoppers it seemed. Most of the teen girls wore jeans, sweat shirts or men’s work shirts. Many of the tennis shoes were soiled and jeans ripped.
They easily drew the attention of store clerks as well, usually eager to serve these three chic girls in the mistaken view that the three must have had lots of cash to spend.
“Let’s stop here,” Latoya said as they approached Claudine’s Apparels, a store that featured formal dresses at relatively modest prices. Claudine’s, though a local store, was becoming popular with most teen girls through its rather up-to-date styles.
“Yes, let’s. That’s where lots of girls get their prom dresses,” Jarod said.
“I didn’t know that, Jane,” Wanda said. “She knows everything about clothes, our Jane does.”
“Of course, she does,” Latoya echoed.
Jarod only giggled as the three entered the store. Jarod headed directly to the “formals” area, the two tagging along.
“You must have been here before, Jane,” Wanda said, realizing Jarod knew exactly where he was heading. The trio stopped before a bank of long, flowing gowns, all gauzy and pastel.
“They’re all strapless,” exclaimed Latoya.
“Oh I’d look ugly in those,” Wanda added, self conscious over her muscular shoulders and arms.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Latoya said. “You always think you’re not pretty, Wanda. But, you are. You have such a good body.”
Wanda just blushed, and then pulled out a light blue gown, full of ruffles and obviously strapless.
“This gown is just perfect for Jane, here,” she said. “She has the prettiest shoulders of all of us.”
It was true that Jarod’s upper body was more dainty and soft looking than either of the other two girls. Latoya’s arms were not as bulging with muscles as Wanda’s, but they displayed a slender sinewy structure.
“What are you girls looking for?” The question came from a stylishly dressed middle-aged woman clerk with flowing black hair, tipped with strands of gray. She wore a colorful paisley pleated skirt, a colorless blouse and a v-neck sweater vest.
“We love your prom outfits,” Latoya said quickly.
“We’re just looking,” Jarod said, hoping to dismiss the clerk.
“She needs a gown,” Latoya interjected, a teasing lilt to her voice.
“No, I don’t,” Jarod said. “I just love looking at the gowns.”
“You are just so lovely, young lady,” the clerk said addressing Jarod. “Would you like to try one on?” the clerk persisted.
“Can I?” Jarod responded, almost too quickly, trying to keep his voice low to hide the growing masculinity that was beginning to show in his voice.
“Yes, honey,” the clerk said. “Pick out the one you like and you and one of your friends can help you put it on?”
“But, ma’am, I can’t buy it today,” Jarod said. “My mom would have to be here.”
“Go ahead anyway, dear,” the clerk said. “See how it looks on you. And meanwhile, if either of you other two want to try some on, let me know.”
“No, that’s OK,” Wanda said. “We’ll help Jane.”
*****
The store had large fitting rooms, big enough for all three to be inside one of them. They giggled as they assisted Jarod into the gown; never did he feel more completely a female than when in the company of Wanda and Latoya, who treated him only as a girl, totally ignoring his male appendage, which was not too big and could be easily tucked into a tight jockstrap which he wore inside the panties.
“We’re so jealous, Jane,” Wanda said. “Everyone thinks you’re so pretty.”
“Yes, Jane, we oughta hate you,” Latoya echoed.
“But we don’t. We love you, Jane,” Wanda said, as they completed putting the dress on.
Now fully outfitted as a lovely teen girl, Jarod gave a graceful turn, the white skin of his shoulders and arms smooth and porcelain that he dipped into a curtsey.
“She’s just the daintiest of things,” Latoya said, adding a giggle.
“Now let’s see what the clerk thinks, Jane,” Wanda said.
Jarod left the fitting room first, feeling regal as he walked into the store proper, taking short, straight-ahead steps, bending his arms at the elbows. He realized his practice at walking like runway models had paid off and he felt certain he must have been perceived as a girl without question. He smiled, as he’d seen runway models do on television and in pictures in fashion advertisements.
“Oh my,” exclaimed the clerk. “You are a vision, my dear. A real lovely vision.”
Jarod made a practiced turn and placed himself in front of the three-paneled mirror, seeing himself, his narrow shoulders, slender arms and dainty neck exuding a soft and pale sheen. He turned several more times, fearful he might be exaggerating the effeminate mannerisms.
“Oh thank you for letting me try this on,” he said to the clerk. “But I don’t have plans for the prom yet.”
“No boy friends. And such a pretty thing you are, too?”
Wanda interjected. “She’s only 14 and her mom doesn’t want her dating yet.”
“You girls can admire your friend for a few minutes. I want you three to remain here, I have to see the manager about something and I’ll be right back. Don’t leave.”
After several minutes of Jarod preening before the mirror, and wandering back among the racks, looking at other gowns, the clerk returned with an older grey-haired dignified looking man, slender and tall.
“What’s your name honey?” the man said, addressing Jarod.
“Ah . . . ah . . . Jane.”
“Ok, Jane,” the man began. “Let me see you walk to the center aisle and back. Just like you walked before.”
Jarod was puzzled. “How did I walk?”
“Like you were a model on the runway,” the female clerk said.
Jarod suddenly realized he was being watched; he hadn’t really thought too much about how he walked coming out of the fitting room. Now, he was to demonstrate the way he walked, and he was unsure if he could remember exactly what he did. He hesitated.
“Just be natural, Jane,” Wanda whispered in his ear.
Jarod blushed as he began the walk. Since he was wearing flats, he felt his walk might not be too feminine; yet, he need not have worried, since he completed the trek as ordered. He followed that with a few graceful turns, at the request of the man. He was ordered to raise his chin and to look left and right.
The man examined Jarod’s actions with a studied eye, not smiling once.
Finally, he said. “Ok Jane. Take the dress off and get back into your regular clothes.”
“Mr. Marcineau would like you three to come to his office when you’re changed, girls,” the clerk said.
“Why? Did we do something wrong?” Wanda asked.
“No. No.” the clerk said. “Not at all, but we’d like to talk to Jane for a minute. It’s nothing bad.”
*****
In the administration offices at the back of the store, the girls and Jarod were shown to a tiny waiting room with three narrow, straight back chairs, a coffee table with fashion magazines and small television set which was not turned on. They were all offered bottled water, which they accepted.
“Jane,” the clerk said. “Mr. Marcineau would like you to join us in his office. You two make yourself at home here.”
Wanda objected. “Do you want us to come with you, Jane?”
“I dunno.”
“Really, girls, Mr. Marcineau and I have an idea that Jane might like to hear. She’ll be ok?”
She led Jarod into the man’s office, an awkwardly narrow office, but tastefully decorated with stylistic drawings of models in ball gowns through the centuries. She directed Jarod to sit in a spare, but comfortable straight chair at the opposite side of the man’s desk. His desk was like he was: clean, orderly and handsome.
The clerk, whose name he had been told was Marcia Holland, sat in a similar chair.
“Your name is?” the man began.
“Jane.”
“Yes, but your full name and age and address and home phone please.”
Jarod suddenly became fearful. His mother had warned him about giving out too much information.
“What’s this all about?” he said, not answering the question.
“Well, I guess that’s fair, Jane,” the man said, his face growing gentle.
“Jane,” the woman clerk began. “We noticed how lovely and dignified a young lady you are. And we noticed how well you walk and hold yourself.”
“Thank you, Miss Holland,” Jarod said.
“You may call me, Marcia,” she smiled.
“To get to the point, Jane,” Mr. Marcineau said. “We need to find a girl about your age to model soon, and you might just be that girl.”
Jarod was speechless, looking at first the man, and then the woman.
“Yes, dear, you handle yourself very nicely,” the woman said. “Have you ever modeled before?”
“No. Well, yes, at home, when I try out the dresses I make.”
“You make dresses?” the man said. “How old are you?”
“14.”
“And you sew your own dresses? How marvelous.”
The two questioned Jarod a bit further about Jane’s interests, her schooling, and basic information. Jarod told the truth about everything, except for the fact that he continued in the fiction that he was a 14-year-old girl named Jane.
After 15 minutes, he was given the cards of both Mr. Marcineau and Marcia Holland and told to ask his mother to call either of them to set up an appointment if she was interested in having “her daughter model.” They asked that Jarod’s mother call them soon, since they had a photo shoot set up for next week. Jarod had not given them his full name, address or phone number. They had accepted that, hoping that the mother would want her “daughter” to model and would call.
*****
“They what?” Wanda said in astonishment as they walked out of the store.
“They want me to model for them,” Jarod said sheepishly.
“Not as Jarod, for sure,” Latoya said.
“As Jane,” he answered.
“Oh my god,” Wanda said. “This is too funny.”
“What are you going to do? You never let on you were not really a Jane, did you?” Latoya asked.
“No, to them I’m still Jane.”
The three of them giggled as they walked down the mall.
“What are you going to do?” Latoya asked.
“Nothing,” Jarod said. “Just forget it.”
“Not tell your mom?”
“Why should I? I can’t go through with it. They’ll have to be told I’m a boy.”
“I guess,” Wanda said. “But it is funny. I always said you were a better girl than me.”
“And me.” Latoya said.
“But you oughta think about it, Jane,” Wanda said. “Modeling pays good money, and I know you could use it if you want to go to college.”
“I suppose so,” Jarod said, just beginning to think that it might indeed be something to consider.
When they hooked up with Mrs. Pinkerton later in the food court, she wondered how there day had gone.
“Nothing special,” Jarod volunteered.
At that point, Wanda and Latoya started giggling.
“Nothing special? What’s so funny then?” his mother said.
“Nothing, mom. They’re just being silly.”
Wanda and Latoya looked at each other, and their laughing became uncontrollable.
“Now girls, what’s going on here?” his mother demanded.
Wanda finally stifled a laugh long enough to turn to Jarod and ask: “Are you going to tell her?”
“No, and you better not either,” he said.
“Tell me what?” his mother was now looking worried.
Wanda looked at Jarod, as if to say she was sorry, and began:
“Claudine’s wants Jane here to model for them.”
“Yes, they say she’s a natural,” Latoya added.
His mother looked at Jarod, her face assuming that stern, silent stare that stirs heavy panic in his stomach.
“Are they serious, Jarod,” she asked finally.
“Yes, mom, and they gave me their card and want you to call them.”
He handed over the two cards, turning his face to look down.
“We’ll talk about this at home,” she said, her voice still stern. “Let’s go, girls.”
“I’m thirsty, mom,” he said.
“You can get a drink at home. Let’s go.” His mother stood up abruptly, and stalked out of the food court to the parking lot, leaving the three teens to follow. They gathered themselves up and walked behind the angry woman.
Jarod was afraid he’d begin crying; he had never seen his mother so stern and sharp in her anger. The drive home was made in silence. His mother dropped Latoya off first, and the girl put a hand gently on Jarod’s shoulder as she left the back seat. By then, Jarod had been fighting off tears.
“Mrs. Pinkerton,” Wanda began, as they continued the drive home. “We egged Jane . . . ah . . .err . . . I mean Jarod on. Don’t blame him.”
“I don’t want to hear anything from you, Wanda. It’s up to Jarod to obey me.”
*****
“But what did I do mother?” Jarod asked when they had gotten home. “You said I could go as Jane.”
“Yes, I did, and I was wrong to let you do that. I should have known you’d carry that to an extreme.”
“Mom, I didn’t do anything special. The clerk just thought I looked so pretty. She got the manager and said they needed a girl like me to model for them. I could make lots of money.”
“No, Jarod. You’re not ready for that yet.”
“Oh mother.”
“Don’t mother me. Get out of that outfit and put on your boy clothes tonight.”
“But, mother, I thought I could be Jane at home.”
“Not tonight, Jarod,” his mother said. “The issue is closed. Go change.”
His mother’s tone was firm. Jarod knew he had no choice but to obey. He went and changed, putting on a pair of boy jeans and a collared shirt. He left his hair in pigtails, but took off the earrings and toe rings.
They had a silent supper, neither speaking, except for simple requests to pass food or drink. Jarod kept his head down, seemingly studying his food but in reality not really seeing it. His mother’s silence bothered him; she rarely acted like this, even if she was angry with him.
Her face had lost its earlier angry demeanor; now, she merely looked sad and resigned to whatever future might come.
“Mother,” he started to speak after dessert was finished. “Mother, I just . . .”
“I don’t need explanations, Jarod. I just need to think about things,” she said.
“But, mother . . .”
“No honey. We’ll talk soon,” she said, looking at him, patting his arm gently. “You can use the computer, if you wish tonight.”
“No thanks. Maybe I’ll just be in my room.”
In his room, Jarod took off his boy clothes; he still wore panties and the bra with breast forms underneath. He looked at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, emulating the moves of a model. He flicked his hair, tilted his head and smiled coyly over a cocked shoulder, growing more and more pleased with the lovely figure he saw in the mirror.
The initial invitation by Mr. Marcineau, the store manager, that as Jane he could be a model for girl fashions had come as such a surprise, he had rejected the thought without much reflection. As the idea began to sink in, he recognized how much it might be possible.
“I am so pretty,” he said to himself, almost aloud.
His underdeveloped arms and shoulders looked enticingly and convincingly girlish; and, he noticed he seemed to have gained a bit of curve to his buttocks, perhaps due to his stint as a cross country runner.
He locked his door, got Jane’s diary from its hiding place in the Clue game box, hopped on his bed, tucking his legs under him and began to write:
Oct. 21, 2005
Can you imagine? Me as a model?
I was trying on gowns today at Claudine’s Apparels and the store people said I could be a model. They said I was a natural.
I never thought I was pretty enough. Even so, I have always dreamed about being homecoming queen or prom queen or even Miss Wisconsin.
Amy next door and my best friend, Wanda, always said I was the prettiest girl in the school. They probably just told me that because I was complaining about not having a boy friend.
They said Marquise liked me, but he’s never told me that. He’s always nice to me. I think he’s just shy. Maybe if he knew I could be a model, he’d like me. Do you think?
When mom heard about this model thing, she was mad. She said I’m too young for that, or for boys. She doesn’t want me to date until I’m 16. That’s two years away. Who’ll want me then?
Oh, but they said, I really was perfect for what they wanted. Besides, they said they needed someone my age to model the clothes. Maybe, mom will relent. After all, it pays pretty good and we need the money. I so want to be a pretty model.
Jane
Jarod went to sleep early that evening, still picturing himself in stunning clothes, strutting in a beautiful motion down the red-carpeted runway, hearing the “ohs” and “ahs” from stylish women who were impressed by the grace and loveliness of the model.
Chapter 24: The Fashion Shoot
“You doing anything now, Nancy?” the questioner on the phone was Helen, Wanda’s mother.
“Not now. Just reading the Sunday paper,” Nancy Pinkerton replied.
“Let’s have coffee. Stop on over if you’d like.”
Nancy replied she was not dressed, and that her neighbor should come to her home. “The coffee’s just been made, and I baked a nice strudel.”
“Where’s Jarod?” Helen asked as the two women friends settled down in the Pinkterton kitchen.
“Sleeping still, I guess.”
Nancy’s strudel, still warm from the oven, sat between them on the table, emitting tempting scents of cinnamon, sugar and maple syrup.
“I shouldn’t bake this stuff,” Nancy said. “Just smell it and I gain five pounds.”
“You gotta treat yourself sometimes, Nancy, and besides you’re not fat.”
“Oh posh, Helen. I am too. How I envy you? You can eat anything and not gain.”
The other woman smiled, recognizing the truth of the words. She indeed had one of those rare metabolisms that permitted a person to eat anything and everything and not gain weight. Perhaps that explained her daughter Wanda’s husky body that also carried little fat.
The two soon dove into the strudel, discussing their lives, both currently without men. Helen’s professorial ex-husband, she learned from Wanda’s weekly visits with him, was now living with his grad-assistant, a fact that angered Helen and embarrassed Wanda, who was only five years younger than her father’s current girl friend.
“The only guy flirting with me these days,” said Nancy, “is Greek guy who runs the deli at the Corners.”
“Nobody at the college?” Helen inquired, referring to the Community College where Nancy taught English.
Her friend laughed: “Not really. They’re either married or gay or too young.”
*****
Jarod was awakened by the conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen. He looked at the digital clock on the stand, seeing it read 10:11. It was time to get up, and as he listened he realized it was Wanda’s mother visiting his mother for their regular Sunday morning kaffee klatsch.
He had grown to love these Sunday get-togethers with the two women, listening to their laments about men, their views about recent fashions and their opinions about the news of the day. He found himself often dreaming of the day he, too, would be a mother and would enjoy the friendship of other women.
He hurried himself into the bathroom to freshen up, brush his hair and do his teeth, hoping to join the conversation before Helen left for her home. He knew he could still wear his nightie, a light blue satiny outfit with thin straps that kept sliding off his narrow shoulders. Helen was well aware that he slept in nighties and dressed as a girl while at home.
“Hi, mommy,” he said, literally skipping into the room like a 5-year-old girl. His hair bounced as he bounded into the room, kissing his mother on the cheek.
“Hi, Mrs. Highsmith,” he said, squeaking out the words in a high voice.
“Good morning, Jane,” the neighbor replied, going along with the boy’s play-acting as a little girl.
“Jarod,” his mother’s voice was firm. “Quit being so silly. You can get your own cereal and milk, honey.”
“Oh mommy, can’t I have some coffee cake?”
“Oh Jarod, quit this now.” His mother, however, got up and fixed him a bowl of cereal, cutting up a banana to top it off.
“Did you have fun shopping yesterday, Jarod?” Mrs. Highsmith said, returning to his boy’s name.
“Oh yessie,” he said between spoonfuls of cereal.
Several minutes later, his cereal finished, Jarod regained the conversation, asking:
“Did Wanda tell you want happened yesterday at Claudines?”
“No, she didn’t say much about the trip, except that it was fun going with you and Latoya.”
His mother shushed him, saying: “Helen doesn’t want to hear about that.”
Jarod looked at his mother, feeling disappointed that he couldn’t tell that he was being recruited as a model. He still hoped it would become possible.
Mrs. Highsmith didn’t protest, and the conversation soon went onto the War in Iraq; both women opposed the Bush Administration’s actions in that country. Their anger at the Bush Administration grew as the conversation continued, with even Jarod entering an opinion every so often.
“You looked so cute yesterday morning, Jarod, when you and Wanda left for shopping,” Mrs. Highsmith said when Jarod’s mother left for a trip to the bathroom.
“Thank you.”
“I love how those pigtails look on you. You’re really getting to be a pretty young lady, and I think my Wanda’s jealous of you.”
Jarod nodded, becoming tempted to tell her about the modeling invitation. He held his tongue, however, knowing how mad it would make his mother.
“Your mother tells me you’re seeing a doctor now. I hope you like him.”
“He’s OK. He listens to me.”
At that point, his mother returned, obviously hearing the end of their conversation.
“You didn’t mention yesterday, did you, Jarod?” Her words again came out firmly.
“No, mother.”
His mother paused for a moment. Both Mrs. Highsmith and Jarod looked at her expectedly awaiting comments. Finally, she said:
“I guess I better tell you, Helen. This has bothered me all night.”
“You know you can confide in me, Nancy.”
“Should I leave, mom?” Jarod asked.
“No, honey, you can stay. This involves you.”
His mother then told about the invitation that Jarod (as Jane) become a model for Claudines. “They had no idea he’s a boy,” she said to end her comments.
“Oh my, Nancy. I can understand that. I know Wanda considers him to be more of a girl friend for her.”
“They said I was a natural as a model,” Jarod added.
“What are you going to do?” Helen asked.
“We could just forget about it. Jarod didn’t give them our last name or address, so they don’t know who the pretty girl was.” His mother smiled at Jarod, as she said this last phrase and used the words “pretty girl.”
“There’s good money in modeling, Nancy.”
“I know.”
“You could call that store manager up and tell him the truth. Let them decide if Jarod would fit their plans. If they do, fine.”
“But he’s still a boy.” His mother reached over, caressing his shoulders.
“Oh Nancy, I think they’ve used boys to model girl clothes before, particularly when they’re as lovely as our girl here.” She also reached over, to massage his shoulders, the two women looking fondly at Jarod.
Jarod grew excited at hearing the praise for his femininity; but his joy became unbounded when his mother agreed she’d call the store the next day to talk about the modeling invitation.
“Now don’t get too excited about this, Jarod,” she warned. “It may not happen, particularly when they find out you’re a boy. And, we can’t let the modeling job interfere with your schooling. Besides, it’s up in the big city and that’s a 45-minute drive.”
“I know, mom,” he said, kissing her.
“Let’s each have another piece of strudel, then, to celebrate this,” Helen said.
“So what’s another pound of flesh,” his mother said, laughing.
Jarod tilted his head, flicked his hair and sat demurely on the chair, feeling like a happy young girl.
*****
“Call me Jacques,” the store manager said a few minutes into the phone call that Jarod’s mother made Monday afternoon to Claudine’s Apparels.
“Ok, Jacques, that’s a nice name,” she replied, somewhat taken aback by this friendly man on the line.
“So, you want me to believe that lovely young lady I saw Saturday is really a boy . . . ah . . . your son?”
“Yes, Mister . . . ah, Jacques.”
“There was nothing that gave that away, Mrs. Pinkerton. By the way, what’s your first name?”
“It’s Nancy.”
“Nancy, both Miss Holland and I thought Jane was perfect for our needs. I know boys have been used before to model girls’ clothes, though this would be a first for us.”
“I’m uneasy about this, Jacques. We’re fairly certain Jarod is possibly a transgendered child and may someday want to live as a woman, but he’s only 14, and I hate to push him into that direction too early in life.”
“Nancy, I’m well aware that some boys have such tendencies, and you’re right to take it slow.”
“But maybe doing this modeling would push him into being a girl too soon.”
“Nancy, let me assure you, we use a very professional photographer and I’ll let it up to her to decide whether Jane (or, Jarod, if you’d like) is suitable. We’ll do nothing to embarrass Jane or to compromise her in any way. Besides, we’ll want you present at every shoot.”
Nancy had called Jacques Marcineau from her school office, and waited until getting home that night to relay the news to Jarod.
“He’s a very nice man,” she began. “And he assured me that they do their photo shoots in very private settings, and that I can be there.”
“Oh mom, you mean you’re going to let me try out?”
“Yes, honey. We’ll go into Milwaukee Tuesday night to meet the photographer. They said they’ll find some nice outfits for you to wear.”
“Oh mommy,” Jarod gushed. He felt like Jane again.
“It doesn’t mean you’ve got the job, honey. It’ll be up to the photographer and the art director for the advertising agency.”
“I know, mommy, but I just feel so lucky to be able to pose as a girl. They really liked me.”
“I know, dear. Mr. Marcineau thinks you’re a beauty and is eager to work with you, but we’ll see.”
“Oh mommy, I love you so.”
*****
Jacques Marcineau urged Jarod’s mother to get Jarod to the photo studio, located in the rear of the store, on a lower level, as close to 5:30 p.m. as she could. She told him it would be a tight time for her, since her last class on Tuesday ended at 4:30.
Jarod was able to get Marquise to drive him to the Community College after school, so that they could save time by leaving for Milwaukee directly from his mother’s work. Even though Marquise was two years older than Jarod, the two boys had cemented their relationship during the early weeks of school, finding unusual common interests in the literary magazine. They were busy in recent days trying to figure out a new design for the publication, and were deeply involved in discussion and computer programs. It was a fact that the two boys kept to themselves, largely due to the teasing they’d likely get; in Marquise’s case, his friends in his African-American neighborhood would likely find knowledge of that particular fodder for harassment.
“Why you going to Milwaukee?” Marquise asked as they got into his car. The boy had recently gotten his driver’s license, and occasionally drove his mother’s car to school, particularly when he had an after-school activity.
“Oh, we have an appointment,” Jarod said, a tentative tenor to the answer.
“An appointment? A doctor?”
“No, just something.”
“Something?” Marquise was not to be denied an answer, it seemed.
Marquise was stuck at a stop sign where cross traffic had blocked the intersection; it was his first time driving into the busy downtown area, and he found he had to concentrate on the traffic. With cars stopping suddenly and turning right and left in front of him, Marquise had all he could do to keep his mother’s car from being struck. By the time, he dropped Jarod off at the community college, his determination to learn what kind of “appointment” was drawing Jarod to Milwaukee had been forgotten.
Jarod breathed a sigh of relief, pleased that he did not have to reveal to Marquise, the only boy whom he could consider a real friend, that he often dressed as a girl. Nonetheless, he was worried what would happen on the day when Marquise would have to be told.
*****
“So you’re the young lady that has Jacques all ecstatic,” said the photographer, an excitable, middle aged woman who could easily be mistaken for a bag lady had she not been surrounded by thousands of dollars in photographic equipment, lighting and gauzy, bright backdrops. The woman was tall, maybe close to six feet in height, and her long once black hair, now streaked with grey, hung in straggly links. She wore oversized trousers, a dark turtleneck and a vest full of pockets stuffed with papers and film cartridges.
Jarod merely nodded to this strange woman. This was the famed “Sylvia,” he was told, one of the area’s premier photographers. He had seen some of her photos hanging in what the store called their “Green Room” where he had waited along with his mother and several teen girls (all several years older than himself) and their mothers. One by one the girls had been called out for their audition sessions or for fittings of the outfit they’d wear for the shoot.
“This is Jane, girls,” Jacques said as he introduced Jarod and his mother to the girls waiting in the Green Room. “This is her first time, so be kind, girls, and she’s no competition for any of you, since she’s in the middle school area.”
The girls barely looked up, all four of them busy checking their outfits or redoing their makeup, under the watchful and sometimes nagging direction of their mothers. These girls, he felt immediately, were old veterans at the model business, all frighteningly slim and with almost perfect skin and complexions.
Two girls muttered “Hi Jane,” a third nodded and the fourth said nothing.
Sylvia, it turned out, was all business. She was accompanied by a plain-looking young woman in a brown skirt, white blouse, scuffed two-inch heels and a clip board. The young woman was called Steph and was identified only as the “art director,” and she stood quietly during the shoot, eyeing Jarod critically.
The shoot, it appears, was under the firm control of Sylvia, the unkempt photographer, and she was having no backtalk. “First of all,” she began by addressing Jarod’s mother. “Because Jane’s so young, I have to let you be here in the shoot. You stand over by the door and sit down in that chair and don’t say a word. If you do, Jane’s outa here, you understand?”
“But,” Jarod’s mother began, only to be cut short, but the firm husky voice of the woman.
“No buts, I’ll not tolerate second-guessing or you telling me she has a better side. All you can do is yell ‘Stop’ if I’m doing anything obscene or that you object to. If you do that, I’ll stop and the session’s over. You got that?”
“Yes,” his mother replied, sheepishly moving to the designated chair.
Sylvia then asked Jarod to stand near before a drapery and to make several turns, do a curtsey and to flick his hair.
“OK, you’ll do,” was all Sylvia said after several minutes of this modeling posing.
The store had dressed Jarod in a short party dress, the kind that might be worn for a spring outing. Since this was now late October, it was apparent the store was creating advertisements for the spring outfits. Jarod’s dress was a crisp white material, with pink and light blue piping along the hemlines and on the thick straps that went over the shoulders. They had tied Jarod’s hair into two pigtails with matching ribbons of pink and light blue.
Jarod found it surprising that the makeup crew applied only a foundation and natural lip gloss, keeping his face very natural and plain.
“You have a really pretty face, dear,” said the slender man who did his makeup. “No sense in covering it up with lots of junk.”
The actual photo shoot was done in about 10 minutes, with Jarod being told to dip low, straighten up, flick a pigtail, curstey, give a teasing smile and on and on, with each pose being accompanied by a click of the camera.
The lights were hot and the shoot had to be interrupted as beads of sweat developed on his face and neck. Sylvia yelled, “Gary, you bitch, come here and fix this girl up,” and the skinny makeup artist arrived to sponge Jarod down.
Twice Sylvia yelled angrily at Jarod when he didn’t do exactly what she wanted, and Jarod got tense, but the photographer just kept demanding poses and shooting away.
“You’re done, Jane,” Sylvia said. “Go wait in the Green Room. Jacques will get you.”
Without further ceremony, she ushered Jarod and his mother out, directing them back to the Green Room.
*****
“I don’t think she liked me, mom,” Jarod said as they sat waiting.
“I don’t know, Jane,” she said, using his girl’s name in case the other girl in the room and her mother overheard them talking. “She’s certainly all business.”
“I tried so hard, mom, I really did.”
“I know you did, honey.”
“Oh hi,” the other girl in the room interrupted. “I’m Heather. You must be Jane.”
“Yes,” Jarod nodded.
“Was this your first time with Sylvia? Were you auditioning?”
The girl was a milky-white complexioned blonde with a tall willowy body. She had a round face with absolutely stunning blue eyes.
“Yes, my first time. I don’t think I did very good. She yelled at me.”
The girl laughed. “No if she yelled at you, you’re in, Jane.”
“Really. She seemed so mean,” Jarod said, picking up the conversation with the other girl.
“If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have said anything, and would have kicked you out of there in two minutes,” Heather explained. “If she was yelling at you, she thinks you’re going to be good model. You’ll see.”
Jarod thanked Heather, and soon the two mothers were talking, too. Jarod could hear his mother refer to him as “my daughter,” and the words thrilled him. Hearing his mother begin to accept him as a girl were the highlight of the day, even more than hearing from Jacques a few minutes later that they’d like to hire Jarod (as Jane) to be a regular model.
“Didn’t Sylvia know that Jane here is a boy?” his mother asked Jacques when they were discussing details of Jarod’s budding modeling career.
“Yes, she knew, but all she cared about was whether Jane would photograph as a teen girl and do justice to the clothes. As far as she could tell, Sylvia said Jane would be one of the best models she ever had among 13 and 14 year old girls.”
“Oh, Jacques, this is both good news and troubling news,” he heard his mother say. “It just means I must accept my sweet lovely child as a girl sooner than I wanted.”
“Nancy, please, we won’t rush this,” Jacques said. His voice had become low and took on a confidential tone. “Just think of it as a job for your lovely child. As long as she poses in a professional manner, we’ll ask nothing more.”
“You’re so kind, Jacques. I’m sure I can trust you.” His mother smiled, and, it seemed to Jarod, was almost flirting with this elegant man.
“You’re kind to say that, Mrs, Pinkerton,” he said, assuming a more formal manner. “Once we get Jane here on a regular shoot schedule, we’ll be seeing more of you too. We like our parents to be involved and supportive.”
“That’s good to hear, Jacques,” his mother said, still keeping it more personal. He could see his mother’s face redden. The final details concerning hourly pay rates, parental permissions and rights were completed. Jarod and his mother were about to leave, but Jacques urged them to stay a moment longer.
“I think what really helps Jane to be so charming and girlish are those pigtails,” Jacques said. “I want Steph to come in here for a minute.”
“Oh, you mean the art director?” Jarod asked.
“Yes, she’s really very talented,” he said, as he left the room, obviously to summon the art director.
“I wonder what he’s got on his mind, Jane,” his mother said while they waited.
“I don’t know, mom. It’s something.”
When Jacques didn’t return immediately, Jarod looked at his mother, whose usual worried looks were replaced with a smile, as if she was satisfied about something. He pondered that for a minute, and began smiling himself.
“You like Jacques, don’t you mom?”
“He’s nice man, Jane, and he’s been nice to us. That’s all.”
“He likes you too, mom. I can tell.”
She brushed a hand in his direction, in a motion of dismissing his comment as nonsense.
“And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring, mom.” Jarod persisted.
“That’s enough of that now,” she said firmly.
“Mommy, I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy, dear. Now that’s that.” Her smile turned to a scowl, but soon, Jarod could see, the earlier contented face returned.
“This is Stephanie Johansson, the art director,” Jacques said, returning with the young lady, who Jarod could see was a mere slip of a girl.
“Hi Jane and Mrs. Pinkerton. Just call me Steph.”
“Now, Steph,” Jacques began. “You watched Jane’s shoot. Tell me first what you thought about it and if there was anything unique about Jane.”
Jarod froze at hearing the question, wondering if Jacques was attempting to see if Steph noticed his true gender.
“Well she was a natural. I liked how she posed and she has such a lovely body. It’s toned, but soft looking. Very natural for a 14-year-old girl. And she could photograph as a younger girl, too.”
“Anything unique, different about Jane?”
“Well I love her ordinary, old-fashioned name. But, something else? I don’t know.”
Jacques persisted: “Look at her closely. What is she wearing?”
Steph’s face lit up: “Oh, pigtails. How obvious.”
“Yes, and she wears them so charmingly!”
“Yes, she does,” Steph said.
“Well,” Jacques said. “We’re trying to develop a theme for our Spring campaign. What’s wrong with spotlighting girls in pigtails? It would show all of our Spring outfits to great advantage.”
Steph’s face lit up. “Oh yes, pigtails make me think of fresh young girls, all cute and bright and lively and pretty. What an idea?”
“See Jane, you have given us the idea,” Jacques said. “And we’d have only noticed it because you’re everything a pretty little girl should be.”
“She’s a delight!” Steph added.
Jarod and his mother sat shocked at this conversation. Where was it headed?
“I can see our theme now, ‘Pigtails are for spring!” Jacques said.
Steph paused: “How about ‘Pigtails are for girls!?”
At that, both Jarod and his mother burst out laughing.
Both Jacques and Steph looked at them in puzzlement. When she settled down, Jarod’s mother said merely: “It’s just a joke between Jane and myself.”
Claudine’s Apparels’ “Pigtails Are for Girls” campaign captured the attention of teen girls throughout southeast Wisconsin by mid-March after their advertisements, featuring an unnamed lovely teen model began appearing in newspaper supplements and on several internet sites.
“We’re seeking to draw out the sweet young girl in all teens,” said Stephanie Johansson, who had become the store’s spokesperson for the style campaign.
She was quoted extensively in a feature story in the Milwaukee newspaper’s Style section, which showed photographs of Jarod posing in various dresses, shorts and tops, all accentuating styles more associated with 12-year-old girls, rather than 15 and 16-year-olds.
“We’re not sure why this ‘pigtail’ idea has resonated so well with the girls,” Stephanie was quoted as saying. “Usually teenage girls want to look older, but for some reason it has taken on a life of its own.”
Claudine’s had contracted with a local dress manufacturer to produce the new style of youthful girls’ clothing; the order actually saved the manufacturer (one of the last remaining in Milwaukee which had once been a leader in women’s clothing manufacturing) from bankruptcy.
Claudine’s found that most of their models, who were 17 and 18 years old, weren’t suited for the campaign, and had recruited an slender, tiny mixed race dark skinned girl to join in the campaign. Her name was Ania, also 14 years old, who truly looked to be 2 or 3 years younger.
Ania was shy and always accompanied by her mother, a small, wizened woman who was Hmong in origin. Apparently, Ania’s father was mixed Hispanic and African-American, giving Ania perfectly lovely skin, dancing black eyes and a fragile build.
Jarod was known only as Jane by everyone at the photo shoots. Only Sylvia the photographer and Stephanie knew that he was actually Jarod, a boy.
He shared the dressing rooms with the other models, using the women’s bathrooms and thankful that the restrooms all had partitioned commodes, affording him protection from peering eyes who might notice his penis. He was constantly in fear the penis (though small by comparison with most boys his age) would grow erect and pop through his panties at the wrong moment.
Ania and he formed a common bond, though they rarely spoke. Jarod had become a support agent for Ania, who seemed to move about in a fog of mystery as to what was going on. Jarod soon found himself helping Ania with putting her hair in pigtails, while the other girl helped manicure his nails. He learned that Ania was already working in her mother’s nail salon in Milwaukee. They were called the “pigtail girls” by Sylvia and Stephanie, but some of the other models, jealous of the sudden popularity of the pigtail campaign, called them “piggie whores.”
Jarod was nearly brought to tears one day when two of the older models began harassing him and Ania, claiming they were lesbians and began speculating loudly whether they were sleeping with Sylvia, the rather manly photographer, or Stephanie, the youngish, lank-haired art director.
“Don’t bother with them,” suggested Heather, a tall blonde model who had befriended Jarod from the beginning. “They’re just jealous.”
Jarod soon learned that modeling clothes was hard work. Not only were the photo shoots demanding, often requiring standing in awkward poses for minutes on end, but the preparation for each shoot meant hours of applying makeup, reapplying it for a different pose, making sure you ate the proper food, since zits were so common among 14-year-old girls. The shoots were done for several nights in a row about once a month; sometimes they were done more often.
It also meant some creative scheduling by Jarod’s mother to assure that he’d get to Milwaukee for the shoots; since most of the work was done over winter, some of the drives were done on snow and ice, so typical of that part of the country.
“Oh mommy,” Jarod said one night as they headed on a icy highway in the late afternoon winter darkness, “You’re so nice to do this. I love you.”
“It’s OK, darling,” she said.
Nancy told Jarod they were being paid well for the modeling and that she was setting up a college fund with the money.
“Why don’t you use some of this money for yourself, mommy?” he had asked.
“Oh Jane, this is for your college, dear.”
On these trips to modeling sessions, Jarod also assumed his feminine role, speaking in a soft, fairly high voice and calling his mother a girlish “mommy.” His mother in turn recognized her child beside her as “Jane,” a fact that made these sometimes-difficult trips to Milwaukee most enjoyable.
Jarod was asked to participate in a television report about the “pigtail craze” that had been drawing so much attention. He and Ania reported to the Milwaukee studio with Stephanie and Jacques Marcineau, the store manager, for a brief showing and walks down a small runway in the studio.
Stephanie and Jacques were interviewed by the television reporter while the camera focused on the several dresses modeled by Jarod and Ania.
“Do you think the success of this campaign came partly due to the attractiveness of your models, particularly the taller model?” the reporter asked.
“I must confess her little girl charm may have been a factor. She really captured the feeling, I think. And the other girl has a sweetness that is so compelling, too.”
The comments came from Jacques and it was for Stephanie to add another point:
“The tall girl also has designed some of these outfits. She’s an excellent seamstress and designer.”
“And she’s only 14 and still in school?” the reporter asked.
“Yes, she’s been designing clothes since about age 10.”
When the reporter asked where the two “girls” went to school, Jacques replied that the identities of the two models would be kept secret, since they were minors and still in school.
By April, the campaign truly took off, with reports on the nightly news about the “pigtail craze” sweeping the country.
*****
“Is every girl in school going to be in pigtails soon?” lamented Demetrius one day at lunch.
“What’s wrong with pigtails?” asked Latoya, who had squeezed herself about as close to the boy as possible without being seated in his lap.
“You better not wear them,” he said, a half-smile in his face.
“I did when I was 12,” she said, winking at Jarod, seated across the table, next to Marquise with whom he had become a fairly constant companion.
Jarod sat quietly, trying to hold back blushes that he felt were certainly coming. The speed with which the pigtail fetish had grown was astonishing, and it seemed virtually every girl at Roosevelt High was wearing hair that way, even many African-American girls.
“They make the girls look like they’re 12,” Demetrius said, scornfully.
“I think they’re kinda cute,” countered Marquise.
Though she rarely spoke, Aniesha entered the discussion. Fingering her own dreadlocks, she said: “I like them, too, but are they right for us black girls?”
“Why not?” Marquise asked.
“Well, really dreadlocks are more African-American,” Aneisha said. Aneisha was Marquise’s cousin.
“What do you think about these pigtails, Jarod?” Latoya asked, a teasing glint in her eye.
“I don’t know,” he said, slowly. “It’s up to the girl.”
“Do you think boys should wear them, too?” Latoya persisted. “How about you Jarod? Your hair is long enough. You wear a ponytail lots. Why not pigtails?”
Jarod said nothing, not willing to rise to her bait. She was teasing, he knew, and would never blow his “cover” and reveal he was the “girl” in the ponytail ads.
Marquise looked at Jarod. “Boy, if he wore pigtails, he’d really look like a girl.”
The whole table laughed, even Jarod, realizing the irony of the remark. Just then the warning bell rang and they got up to get to after lunch classes. Marquise nodded to Jarod, saying he’d see him at the literary magazine committee meeting after school.
As they were about to part, Marquise grabbed Jarod’s arm, saying: “I’m sorry about that remark, but it just seemed funny to me.”
“It’s OK,” Jarod said.
“Hope we’re still friends,” the older boy said.
Jarod nodded, secretly thinking how sweet it would be if he indeed were a girl and Marquise was courting him. He knew he’d wear pigtails to please Marquise. That is, if he were a girl.
*****
Jarod rarely met up with Terrence, his onetime partner in crossdressing, during the 9th Grade. Their paths didn’t seem to meet during the school day and they had different lunch hour periods. Nonetheless, Jarod thought about the other boy often, remembering the joy they had in dressing as girls. In their prepubescent years, both had the sweet high voices of boy sopranos; their bodies were soft and white and fit so easily into the girl’s clothes they both wore. They both loved to prance about girlishly, waving their arms and flicking their hair. Jarod most often reflected on Terrence in bed at night, his penis growing hard and excited as he reflected their kisses, the full lips of the other boy and his somewhat sour body smell that was so intoxicating. Jarod believed he would always remember those times. Mostly he could not forget how sweet it was to cuddle with Terrence, how he enjoyed cupping the other boys fleshy breasts, bringing them together so that there was a cleavage.
He remembered that one time they cuddled like that, naked except for panties on Terrence’s bed while his mother was gone. Jarod wondered if they could ever be together again.
When they dressed as girls, they both agreed that they looked totally like girls. Terrrence was able to create a cleavage with the help of a bra he stole from his sister. His body was pear-shaped with narrow shoulders and soft fleshy arms, and Jarod remembers Terrence dressed in a peach colored summer print dress with puffy sleeves and a flared bottom that exposed pudgy thighs.
“What do you think, Jarod?” the other boy asked that day, making a turn.
“”You’re a girl. That’s what I see.”
“A fat girl, right?” The boy giggled.
“I guess, but a very pretty girl, too.”
“Not as pretty as you.”
Jarod by then had put on a skirt and blouse, also provided by Terrence’s sister. They were a bit too big, but with a few tucks they fitted him fine.
“You’re the only friend I have, Jarod,” the chubby boy said.
“Oh, you’ll have friends some day, once people get to know you.”
“Nobody loves a fat boy like me, who’s so weak,” the other boy said that day, beginning to cry.
“You’ll have people to love you,” Jarod assured him, but the words didn’t help, and the other boy began crying as the two lay together, sobbing into Jarod’s chest. They laid there for a long time, before realizing that his mother would soon be home, and they had better return to their boy clothes.
Terrence’s sister, Melissa, had encouraged their brief time as crossdressing partners but it ended when Terrence’s stepfather insisted the chubby, unathletic boy become “a real boy” and join the football team.
Terri (that was Terrence’s girl’s name and the way Jarod like to picture him) had gone out for freshman football and made the team. He worked out and became stronger, but never was a particularly good player. He lost only a little weight, and in spite of lifting weights and football workouts, still looked cherubic and soft.
“I hate that football stuff,” he complained to Jarod one day in school. “I’m glad we have only one game left.”
“You’re looking good, Terri,” Jarod said.
“Thanks, and I still think I’d look good in a dress, too,” he said with a smile. They were speaking in low tones and standing near the school entrance in the morning, just before school was to start.
“Both of us do,” Jarod giggled.
“Maybe someday, we can be girls again,” the boy said.
*****
Jarod’s friendship with Marquise blossomed as the two had worked together, editing and getting out the first semester’s issue of Odyssey, the literary magazine, assisted by the two girl staffers.
They spent much of the Thanksgiving weekend together working over Jarod’s mother’s computer, assembling the articles and designing the pages of the 16-page magazine.
“Wow, you’re good at that computer, Jarod,” Marquise said on Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.
“It’s kinda fun designing the layout,” Jarod said. He had learned a graphics program by himself, having used it to design dresses and skirts; now he put those skills together in adding graphics to the magazine.
It was Marquise’s imagination, however, that gave life and exuberance to the project. He had a dry humor that found its way into headline writing and little comments that made for filler as blank spots developed in the layout. Together, the two boys did some cartoons, with Marquise thinking up the theme and blurb and Jarod doing the graphics.
Jarod’s mother cleared a space in the dining room for the editorial staff of the magazine; her computer was in a corner of the room. The two girls sat at one end of the dining room table, reading proof and rewriting some of the stories.
There were giggles, coupled with some brief arguments over layout or wording. Mostly the four worked for several hours, broken only when Jarod’s mother served them lunch, mainly homemade sub sandwiches and soup.
The two girls left first, leaving Jarod and Marquise alone. The two boys played a computer game for a while before retiring to the kitchen for cocoa.
“You have your own room, Jarod?” Marquise asked.
“Yes, but it’s all dirty now.”
“Oh, I just thought we could hang out a bit.”
“Oh my mom would kill me if she let you see it.”
Jarod’s mother who was standing at the kitchen sink, nodded in agreement, adding: “I’ll see he cleans it tonight so if you’re over tomorrow you two boys can hang out there if you’d like.”
“Ok, Mrs. Pinkerton,” Marquise said, calling her “missus” even though Jarod’s mother had never been married in order to use the title. “We have some work left to do, and I’ll be over tomorrow for a while, if that’s OK.”
Jarod felt relief that his mother went along with his lie. In truth, his room was immaculate, but it was also pink and frilly, with several dolls lining the book shelves.
That night, he and his mother “boyified” the room, replacing the frilly duvet with the Green Bay Packer spread, tacking up some Milwaukee Brewer pennants and hiding the dolls and other dainty accoutrements in the closet. Even though the curtains were pink and frilly, they remained, since the other “boy” stuff seemed to provide a masculine enough theme.
“You’re like a spy, darling, leading a double life,” his mother said when they finished.
“I know, and I hate lying to people.”
*****
As the “pigtail campaign” gained steam that spring, the photo shoots took on more urgency, requiring full days of work. A few additional sessions were scheduled on Saturdays to accommodate the girls who modeled so as to not interrupt their schooling. Jacques Marcineau explained to Nancy at the last photo shoot in early March that the campaign had become so popular that it would require more hours of modeling for Jane.
“Jacques, I’m not sure I want Jane to be doing so much of this,” she said. She and Jacques had left the studio to have a quick lunch at the food court, leaving Jarod in the hands of Sylvia and Steph.
Jacques invited her to join him for lunch, and Nancy had agreed, realizing that both Sylvia and Steph had been most professional in dealing with Jarod. There was no reason for Nancy to be ‘babysitting” the shoots as she had at the beginning.
“Why is that, Nancy?” he said. “You know we’ll be paying more for Jane’s services, not only for more hours, but at a higher rate.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m just so afraid of pushing her into girlhood so soon, Jacques,” she said.
“I understand, but she’s so talented, Nancy, and so truly feminine, it’s a shame to hold her back now,” he said.
Nancy pondered the sub sandwich she had in her hand. “Oh Jacques. I don’t know what I’m going to do. She’s so happy to be Jane, but I’m so worried for her.”
Jacques reached over and touched Nancy’s hand. “Jane’s an intelligent girl, and I think she’ll do OK.”
“Oh Jacques, I know, but please don’t push this too fast. Jane’s gotta have a chance to grow into this.”
“I won’t dear,” he said.
“I knew you’d understand,” she said, suddenly taken aback by his use of “dear” in addressing her.
Nancy realized now that she was blushing, and that Jacques still had his hand on top of hers. The hand felt warm and comforting, and she at once felt both a sense of peace and excitement. The man sitting opposite her in the chaos of a major shopping mall food court seemed to offer protection and adventure at the same time.
“You need to think about yourself more, Nancy,” the man’s voice said, gently. “Your whole existence seems to be centered around your beautiful child.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, but you’re beautiful yourself, my dear,” he said, not answering her question.
“Jacques, don’t be silly,” she said, pulling her hand out from under his. “Hardly pretty and too fat.”
Jacques laughed out loud. “You won’t take the word of an expert? Are you questioning my judgment as a beauty expert? A man who has judged many, many beauty contests?”
“Maybe you need your eyes examined,” she said, getting into the spirit of the banter.
“No, seriously, Nancy, my dear, you have lovely facial features, warm eyes, a pert nose. And, yes, you don’t have a model’s figure like your daughter, but you have perfect dimensions and balance. And, you too could model clothes.”
Nancy considered his comments; Jarod had told her the same thing, and that had been echoed by both her neighbors, Amy and Helen. They had both raised questions about why she never went out on dates, but she always passed it off as being too busy caring for Jarod or with her own teaching schedule.
“Well, Jarod’s old enough to stay home alone now, Nancy. Go out and have fun,” Helen told her just a few days earlier, when she had said she thought Jacques had taken a fancy to her.
Jacques informed her that he was divorced, shared joint custody of a son, who was a senior in an expensive academy in Milwaukee and was aiming for a scholarship at the University of Chicago.
“Nancy,” he said, his voice now more serious and tentative, “I have tickets to a play at the Reportory Theater Saturday night, and I am hoping you’d accompany me.”
“Me? With you? To a play?”
“Yes, Nancy,” he smiled. “Would you be my date?”
She was shocked. Why would this handsome successful man want to ask her out on a date? He was maybe ten years older and so smart.
“Oh my.”
“Don’t you like plays? They’re doing ‘Death of a Salesman.’ It’s kinda depressing, I guess, but it’s a good play.”
“Oh, Jacques, you’re so kind. I love plays. I teach English, you know, and I know about ‘Death of a Salesman.’”
He smiled: “Then you’ll go, right?”
Nancy was both excited and scared. She had not been on a date with a man since high school, her life being consumed with raising Jarod, earning a living and keeping a house.
“I guess it’s a ‘yes,’” she said. “But, what’ll I wear?
“Why not ask your daughter? She’s an expert in women’s wear,” he said.
“Yes, she is! Jane’s been telling me how to dress for about three years now.”
“Then it’s settled for Saturday night,” he said. “Only, don’t let Jane talk you into wearing pigtails.”
“Don’t worry, Jacques,” she said and they both laughed.
*****
“Mom, you’re going out with Monsieur Marcineau? How marvelous!”
“Yes, honey, but don’t make too much of a fuss about it,” she said. “It’s just to go to a play.”
“But a date, mom! That’s so cool. I can’t wait until a boy asks me out.”
“Jarod,” she said firmly. “Let’s have no talk like that. You’re still a boy and you’re still only 14.”
“Aw, mom, I know, but what are you going to wear?”
“Jacques said you’re to help me find the right dress,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be fancy, but I would so like to look pretty for him.”
“And we’ll have to fix your hair, too,” he said, going over to her, and running his hands through her short brown hair.
“And I need to lose 10 pounds in two days, too,” she said.
“No, mom, you don’t.”
They decided that on Thursday night they’d drive to the Douglas Mall, where they felt Penney’s might have something for her.
“Mom, some of the girls were saying that they thought Marcineau was gay,” he said as they drove to the mall that night.
“Why would they say that? He’s a perfectly nice looking man. And quite masculine, too.”
“Well, mom,” he said with some hesitation. “They said he’s never hit on any of the models, never. And most of them get hit on all the time.”
“Darling, they’re still teenagers and he’s in his 40s,” she said. “And besides he doesn’t want to mix business with his love life, I guess.”
“I suppose, but isn’t he mixing business with his dating life in asking you out, because you’re my mother?”
“No honey, I don’t think that’s the same.”
For the shopping trip, Jarod dressed as a boy, being unsuccessful in pleading with his mother to go dressed as Jane. “We’re shopping in our own town, Jarod, you know that, and you can’t go out as Jane in Douglas. Chances are we’ll meet somebody we know.”
Jarod therefore dressed in dark slacks, light-colored running shoes, and turquoise blouse, covered by a light blue hoodie. He left his hair untied, flowing freely, requiring him to flick his hair regularly.
“Your daughter has good taste,” a young, stylishly dressed clerk said, as Jarod had pointed out a purplish pleated dress with a v-neckline.
“You mean my son,” his mother responded tersely.
The clerk who may have been in early 20s studied Jarod a bit closely, and said quickly, “Oh yes, your son. I’m sorry.”
“That’s ok, he should get a haircut,” she said in explanation.
The clerk reddened. Jarod nodded to her, saying to her after a moment’s awkwardness: “You have a lovely dress on, miss.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I got it here, and it wasn’t expensive.”
“Your store has nice clothes for good prices,” Jarod said.
“You know about such things, young man?” The clerk had a rather plain face and wore little makeup, but she had a healthy figure, well-proportioned. It fit neatly into the black dress she wore, which had a square bodice that hinted at a generous bosom.
“A little, I guess,” he replied.
His mother’s patience finally grew thin. “Let’s see how that dress fits on me.”
They ended up buying the dress, which had been on sale, and as they left, Jarod walked off with a little sashay. He noticed the clerk began whispering to a co-worker, nodding in the direction of he and his mother. He knew exactly what they were saying, and he realized he didn’t mind the attention at all. He gave a little girlish flick of his wrist as if to acknowledge their obvious talk about such a “girly boy.”
*****
Jarod wondered how long he’d be able to keep his secret from people in the school; so far, the knowledge that he was dressing and living as “Jane” part of the time was known only by Wanda and her mother, Helen Highsmith; Amy who occupied the other unit in their duplex; and Latoya. So far, they had kept the secret.
Now, with his modeling at Claudine’s, the circle of people who knew Jane is still Jarod in gender had expanded to Jacques Marcineau, Stephanie Johansson, the store’s art director, Sylvia, the photographer, and the clerk who first discovered Jarod’s modeling potential. Then, there was the fact that Jane’s photos were appearing almost daily in the newspaper advertisements of Claudine’s, some television spots and on Internet ads.
The modeling photos had attracted unusual attention of the public. Jarod was sitting at the local fast food place with Wanda one afternoon, when a pair of older ladies, looking at the newspaper, began “oohing” and “ahing” over the Claudine’s advertising section.
“That girl in the pigtail ads, isn’t she just the cutest thing?” one said.
“She’s such a little darling,” the other agreed.
“No wonder the pigtail craze has taken off,” said the first woman. “Look around, there’s several girls here with pigtails.”
“Yes, we never used to see them.”
One of the women looked directly at Jarod, who was sitting in the next booth with Wanda. The look turned into a brief stare, and ended as the woman shook her head, as if to indicate: “No, that can’t be here. That’s a boy.”
Jarod didn’t know what the woman thought, of course, but inferred that she may have made the connection. Of course she didn’t, he knew. Yet, the popularity of the ad campaign put Jarod into constant fear that some people, most seriously his classmates, would soon realize that the “pigtail girl” was this effeminate boy in their class.
Wanda laughed, “See, how hot you are.”
“Oh Wanda, please don’t.”
“Don’t you like modeling?”
“It’s hard work, Wanda, but the money’s so good.”
“As the woman said, you are the most darling of girls, Jane. You really look like a cute 12 year old girl.”
“Oh, sometimes I feel that way, too.”
“It’s getting hard to keep your secret, Jane. I so want to tell everyone you’re the cute ‘pigtail girl.’”
“Oh, don’t. Don’t”
“I won’t, you know that.”
Jarod sipped on his chocolate shake, finally melting enough so it will come through the straw. He nodded in agreement with Wanda’s statement, knowing he could trust her loyalty.
“You’re really so much a girl, Jane, that I don’t know why your mom won’t realize it and let you go fulltime.”
Jarod felt tears welling in his eyes. “I know, I want it so bad, but it’s for my own good, she says.”
Wanda looked quizzically, not saying anything.
“Yes, she’s afraid what’ll happen at school if I try to be girl fulltime,” he said.
“She’s probably right, but Jane, you’re all girl to me, you know.”
He reached across the table, taking his friend’s large hands in his, smiling and nodding in agreement. He knew Wanda was right: He was a girl, but was it time to let everyone else know that, too. He feared he was in agreement with his mother: It was best to wait a bit longer. Yet, would his secret other life soon become common knowledge. If so, how would he handle it?
*****
“Jarod,” Marquise said to him at lunch one day in early April. “We’re close to deadline on the literary mag. Can you work today?”
Jarod hesitated to answer. He was scheduled that evening to do an important modeling session, to complete work on a quick ad campaign. “Oh no, Marquise. I have to go to Milwaukee this afternoon with my mom.”
“Oh,” he said, his face getting a questioning look. “You seem to be going up there a lot these days. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, then why are you going? We really need to get to work on the mag. I need you there Jarod. Those girls don’t know anything.”
“Well, it’s something, and it’s with my mom.”
Latoya, who was overhearing this conversation, interrupted. “Marquise, forget it, he just has to go with his mom. It’s a personal thing.”
Marquise looked at Jarod. “Are you all right?”
There was real concern in the boy’s face, but Jarod merely shook his head in a negative direction.
“That’s OK, if you’re seeing a doctor or something,” the African-American boy continued.
“No, I just have to go with mom. I’m sorry Marquise, but I can work tomorrow.”
“I guess that’ll have to do,” the boy said. He was clearly disappointed, and Jarod sensed his disappointment went far beyond the fact that they’d get further behind in their editing work. He sensed Marquise had developed an intense interest in him.
Chapter 26: A Modeling Career
The work on Odyssey grew more intense as the April deadline loomed, and Marquise and Jarod began spending more time together, particularly at the Pinkerton duplex, requiring Jarod to keep his room in its boyish style, complete with athletic pennants. Jarod’s despair at hiding his female identity from his friend heightened. He hated being deceptive and dishonest, but mostly he wished with all his heart that he could be the girl who would be wooed by the handsome young man.
The final touches on the magazine were done during the Easter vacation week, with the two boys spending several hours a day at the Pinkerton house, sometimes joined by Wanda after the editing work was done each day.
Nancy Pinkerton was surprised to see how innocently the three friends acted with each other; they laughed a lot, watched a little television and even involved her in their games of Scrabble. She, of course, reciprocated by being a welcoming hostess, complete with hot chocolate, cookies and even popcorn.
“It’s like these three are 10 years old again,” Nancy confessed to her friend, Helen, Wanda’s mother. “I don’t understand it. Marquise is 16, Wanda 15 and Jarod 14 and there doesn’t seem to be any indication of pot or beer or sex.”
“Well, you oughta be thankful for that, Nancy,” he friend said, with an accompanying smile.
“Don’t get me wrong, Helen. I think they’re all great kids, but in this day and age, it does seem odd.”
“For one thing, Nancy, all three of them are good students, and they’re all achievers. I think they may enjoy being together so that they can be ‘kids’ again, without the pressure of school mates. And you’re so open to them. But as I said, they’re all achievers. My Wanda in athletics, Marquise seems to be good at writing and Jarod . . . ah . . . well, he’s good at being Jane.”
Nancy laughed, but was quick to add: “Well, Jarod’s really good at other things, too, you know, like computer design and in writing, too.”
“And in sewing and dressmaking,” Helen added.
“That, too. He’s really so skillful.”
“That ad campaign was really something,” Helen said, changing the subject. “Jarod looked just so lovely in the pictures. Even though I knew it was him, I couldn’t really tell from the ads. He looked just like the girl he wants to be.”
“I know, and I’m still conflicted on what to do.”
Helen looked surprised: “I thought you had decided that you would begin to transition Jarod eventually. And that the doctor thought that was best.”
Nancy shook her head. “All I said was that Jarod’s desire to be a girl was a real feeling on his part. I’m open to it, too. But, he’s still only 14.”
“Oh darling, I know you want to do what is best, but every time I see Jarod, I think of Jane. That’s who he really is, Nancy. He’s really Jane.”
Jarod’s mother merely nodded her head.
“And you know he’s happiest when he’s Jane, Nancy. You know that.”
Helen persistence finally wore her friend down. Nancy Pinkerton nodded yes, adding: “He’s really only happy when he’s all feminine. In fact, I think he acts and thinks like a girl even when he’s in boy’s stuff.”
“See,” Helen said. “What’s stopping you?”
“Well we’ve decided to hold off at least until his junior year, just because of the reaction of other kids.”
“Yes. I guess you’re right,” Helen said. “A mother usually knows best.”
*****
During March and into April there had been a steady schedule of photo shoots for summer clothes, even sapping Jarod’s enthusiasm for the work. The Saturday trips to Milwaukee, sometimes on the icy roads typical of late springs, had begun to drain on both Jarod and his mother. Furthermore, it had begun to affect Jarod’s school work, and he got an incomplete in oue course in the mid-semester grading period and a “B” in another where he usually got a “A”.
“When this course of shoots is done, Jacques,” Jarod’s mother told executive at Claudine’s, “I think Jarod ought to take a breather.”
“What do you mean, Nancy?” Jacques said, stopping before taking a bite out of the chicken breast sandwich he had raised to his mouth during one of their regular lunch breaks. “We’ve got the whole campaign outlined for fall.”
“No more, Jacques,” she said. “I mean it. I told you a few weeks ago that we need to cut back on this. I think we need to stop it now, and not for just a few weeks, maybe for a full year, until we see whether Jarod fully transitions.”
“Oh darling,” he said addressing Nancy in the affectionate way that had become regular among the two. “Jane is such an integral part of this. Is the money the problem?”
“No, Jacques, the money is fine. It’s just that it’s time to slow this feminization down. My son is acting so girlish now, I’m not sure he’ll survive in school next year.”
“And you think she’ll become more of a boy?”
Nancy shook her head in a slow “no.” She added: “It’s just that she can hardly help herself now. Because of this modeling, she has to literally be a girl, in manner and style.”
“And she’s done that beautifully,” he said.
Nancy Pinkerton was firm. Jarod was not to model for the next year, and he was to concentrate on school.
Jacques was disappointed, saying that the store had been thinking up ambitious plans for Jarod, possibly giving him national exposure as Jane. He said Jane exuded an intoxicating charm through the camera, a charm that was both inviting and mysterious. “She absolutely has the tools to be one of the most successful models ever, Nancy.”
“But, Jacques, she’s still a boy. And, she’s changing physically, and soon will be shaving. My God, Jacques, this is all so strange. And, I ‘m all alone, not having a man around.”
Jacques put down his sandwich, and reached over to caress her upper arm. The two had already had one “date” together, attending the Milwaukee Theater production of “Death of a Salesman.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Jacques said, in an abrupt change of conversation. “It’s Sunday and I thought you and I can do something together.”
“Oh that’s kind of you, Jacques, but I should prepare for classes and I like to keep Jane company.”
Jacques was always solicitous of Nancy’s desires and needs, and said kindly: “You need to get out and enjoy yourself, Nancy. Jane is 14 and can take care of herself.”
Nancy finally agreed that she might enjoy his invitation for a visit to the mansion of a long-deceased beer baron, which had been turned into a popular museum with many artifacts of the 1890s. As she prepared for this “date” she again puzzled over her clothing, this time trying to satisfy her desires without counsel from Jarod, whose eye for style and fashions was far superior to her own. She tried on a pair of navy blue slacks, quickly rejecting them because they seemed to make her hips look even broader than they were.
She examined her closet, which she realized was fairly barren, populated mainly with business-like skirts and blouses, suitable only for the grubby surroundings of the urban community college where she taught.
“Jane, Jane, come here and help your mother,” she yelled to Jarod who was in the kitchen preparing a quiche. “I don’t know what to wear, honey.”
“Oh mommy, Jacques will like you in whatever you wear,” he said. Jarod bounced into the room, wearing, of all things, a pair of ancient light green pedal pushers he found among the discarded clothes that Amy, their next door neighbor, had provided. He had on a pair of sandals, exposing his orange-red painted toe nails and a short-sleeve girl’s violet tee shirt; his hair was tied in the back, covered with a flowered silken scarf.
“Aren’t you the cutest thing this morning?” Nancy said.
“Oh mommy, I wouldn’t let anyone see me like this. These are clothes for work around the house.”
Nancy smiled, looking at her son closely, and seeing only a young girl standing before her, his slender, arms and legs, coupled with the innocent face with dainty features, completing a picture of gentle femininity.
“Sweetie,” his mother said, drawing the boy close to her. “You’re beautiful in whatever you wear. I never was as pretty as you are and that’s why I need help in finding something to wear today for Jacques.”
Jarod cherished these moments when his mother hugged him. He loved the clean odor of the lightly scented body wash she used as she held him tightly to her soft bosom. He look forward also to times like this when his mother treated him like her daughter.
“You like Jacques, don’t you mommy?” he asked, looking into her eyes directly.
“Yes, honey, I do,” she said, patting Jarod’s head.
Jarod said nothing, and his mother sensed sadness had descended upon her lovely child. “What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you happy for your mother?”
“Oh yes, mommy,” he said, releasing himself from her grasp, and speaking with a false enthusiasm. “I like Jacques.”
“But?”
“Oh nothing, just that I love you, mommy.”
Nancy knew what her child was thinking now. Up until now, her entire life had been devoted to raising her child; now that child was realizing she might have another man in her life.
“I know you do, honey, and I love you. Nothing will ever come between us, dear.”
“It’s just that what will you say if Jacques wants to marry you?”
“Marry me?” she laughed out loud. “This is really only the second date, honey, and we’re only going to the Beer Baron’s Museum.”
“Aren’t you going to supper with him, too?”
“Yes, and Amy will have you over for supper tonight. You know how you enjoy Amy and her girls.”
“Yes, mommy,” he said, smiling since he always enjoyed his time with Amy her daughters, Emily, now 8, and Angela, 6. When they were younger, he had played with them dressed as a girl, but now he always appeared in boy’s clothes when they were around. Nonetheless, he enjoyed playing board games, doing some imaginary role playing and even dressing their dolls. The girls loved having Jarod around, and at their age thought nothing strange in this boy who enjoyed doing “girl” stuff.
“Now, help me pick out a dress, honey,” his mother urged.
Jarod nodded his head, still not totally comfortable with the growing closeness his mother was developing with Jacques. Not that he didn’t like Jacques: he liked him immensely and the man had always been friendly and kind to him. Yet, Jacques was taking his mother away from him, he felt.
“Mommy, I want you to be happy,” Jarod said. “I made something for you.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“Just wait,” he said, skipping out of the room, suddenly feeling joy, even though he was conflicted with his mother’s affection for Jacques.
“Here it is,” he said, entering the room, holding up what appeared to be a full, pleated skirt, with a lovely floral design, featuring dark reds, contrasted with pinks and light greens.
“What’s this?” his mother asked, amazed.
“It’s a skirt I made for you,” he said, rushing over to hold it against his mother’s body. “I hope it fits.”
“Oh honey, for me? It’s lovely.”
“Just for you, mommy. I think it would go good with one of your white blouses, and I also made you a vest, in navy blue with some red and pink trim. Let me get it.”
The words gushed out of him, almost taking his breath away and he bolted from the room, returning with the vest.
“Try it all on, mommy. Please. I wanna see how you look.”
*****
Jacques arrived precisely at his promised hour, 1:30 p.m., and Jarod let him in.
“Aren’t you looking cute, today, Jane?” Jacques said.
“Oh, Mr. Marcineau, these are just my stay-at-home clothes, but thank you,” he said, giving the visitor a slight curtsey.
“Is you mom ready?”
“Yes, I am,” Nancy said as she entered the room wearing the outfit Jarod had made for her.
“Wow,” Jacques said.
“You like?” she said, doing a quick turn.
Jacques stood silent for a moment, taking in the sight before him, and Nancy continued, spewing out the words nervously: “Jane here made the skirt and the vest for me. I think she did well, and it fits, though the skirt is tight. That’s not Jane’s fault. I gotta lose weight.”
“Oh you’re beautiful as a picture,” Jacques said.
“I think she is too,” Jarod said.
“And you did this, Jane? You’ve made her look so young. And, dear Jane, I never thought anyone could be prettier than you, but right now your mom is.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Jacques,” Nancy said.
“Seriously, I think people will think I’m robbing the cradle,” he teased. “That outfit makes you look so young and fresh.”
Nancy did another turn and went over and kissed her son, who was standing in awe of his pretty mother.
“I think the credit for this has to go to the young lady who created this, Miss Jane, here,” his mother said.
“Brava,” Jacques said, using the feminine form of “bravo” to salute the dressmaking skills of Jarod, alias Jane.
*****
After their visit to the mansion, the couple ended up at a popular and expensive lakefront eating establishment, finding a quiet table with a window. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the restaurant was quiet, perfect for their conversations, which had been growing more intimate. Nancy enjoyed her moments with Jacques, the two of them becoming more open with each other. Part of their closeness may have come, Nancy realized, because of the attention both were giving to Jarod and his modeling career as Jane.
Nonetheless, Nancy found herself revealing so much to Jacques, about her insecurity as a teen who always considered herself too “fat” and not equal to the “in girls.” She admitted to him as well that she was a real amateur at “dating,” telling him he was the first man who ever had such a relationship with her. Her time with Jarod’s musician father amounted to haphazard meetings and hotel room liaisons at a time she was a groupie-blinded teenager.
Jacques, too, opened his own life to her, telling that he was a graduate of the Philadelphia design school and that he had visions of being a dress designer himself, but soon found his real talents rested in administrative work and production. His ten-year marriage ended eight years ago, he admitted, with his own indiscretions with an attractive buyer from a major department store. He shared partial custody for the couple’s now 16-year-old son, Peter, seeing him every-other weekend and for longer periods during school vacations.
“I moved out here to Wisconsin to be closer to him,” he told Nancy. The boy’s mother had returned to her Wisconsin home and was living on her family’s farm about 15 miles outside of Douglas.
“This must be disappointing for you out here in Hicksville,” she kidded him.
“No, actually, I’ve grown to love it, even the cold weather.”
“That’s hard to believe after the excitement of the East Coast.”
“Nancy, believe me, this has been a good opportunity for me. Claudine’s owners have given me full reign and I’m hoping to put this store on the national map.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and with the inspiration of your daughter and the pigtail campaign it looks like we’re onto something. That’s why I’d like you to persuade her to continue modeling.”
She didn’t know how to respond and wondered, for a brief moment, whether Jacques (who was more than ten years older than she was) was dating her to persuade her to change her mind about halting Jane’s modeling career. Nancy looked at her partner with an obvious sadness, and it was apparent Jacques saw the distress in her.
“No, honey,” he said quickly. “I know your feelings about wanting to give Jarod time, so I won’t press you.”
“Thank you, Jacques. I love her so much,” she said, suddenly surprised she used the feminine pronoun.
“I know you do and I respect that Nancy and I won’t do anything to harm her or to upset you.”
He smiled and gave her forearm a gentle, loving pat, adding: “I have so enjoyed being with you Nancy. I find you so special.”
She wanted to bound across the table and put herself in his arms to find his caresses and kisses, but she merely said: “I find you special, too, Jacques.”
When he dropped her off at her home that evening, she invited him in, but he demurred saying he had work to do that night to prepared some cost estimates for an early morning meeting with the owners of Claudine’s. They sat and talked for a while, before Jacques reached his arm about her, drawing her close and the two found the sweet feeling of each other’s lips. Nancy had never before experienced such a loving, passionate kiss and she wished then to give herself to him, but he ended the kiss with a friendly “good night,” leaving Nancy to dream about what might be in the future for her and Jacques.
It was only 8 p.m. when she entered the apartment unit, finding Jarod already in his nightie, gauzy pink robe and fluffy slippers. He had piled his long hair up under a scarf that was tied at the front about his head and his face was caked with white cream. His legs were tucked under him and he was deep into “Little Women,” a book he was now reading for the third time.
“Oh you must have had a good time?” he said looking up from the book.
Realizing her face must still be flushed from the long good night kiss, she nodded and said: “He’s a very nice man.”
“I hope he doesn’t hurt you mommy,” Jarod said.
“Oh, don’t be foolish, Jarod. I know what I’m doing. And, what’s that on your face?”
“That’s cold cream, mommy. I’m afraid of getting zits.”
“Oh my Jarod,” she said with a sigh, and realizing that perhaps she should have used “Jane.”
*****
The junior prom was only four weeks away, and Marquise still had not found a date. He lamented that fact at lunch one day to Jarod, noting that his friend Demetrius was going with Latoya.
“And Wanda’s going with Troy,” Jarod added.
“I guess I could take Aniesha,” Marquise said, “but who wants to go with a cousin?”
“She’s pretty, Marquise,” he volunteered.
“But she’s so young.”
“Marquise, you’re so good looking,” Jarod said. “I think any girl would be glad to go with you.”
The boy was handsome, to be sure. He had a slender, wiry body and was just under six feet tall; he kept his hair cropped short and had a clean complexion. From across the table, Latoya was listening to the conversation and offered, “Should I get you a blind date, Marquise?”
“Not.” Marquise said simply.
“Maybe you should put on a gown, Jarod,” Latoya said with a wink toward Jarod. “I think you’d make a pretty date for Marquise.”
Jarod frowned at her, giving her a nasty look, but to Jarod’s dismay, Marquise picked up on the idea.
“You really would be hot in a gown, Jarod,” the boy said, adding a laugh.
Deciding to play along with the game, Jarod flicked his hair in a girlish manner and raised his voice into a falsetto, saying: “I’d love to go with you Marquise.”
“See, she’s perfect,” Demetrius said, entering the conversation.
Latoya, realizing she may have gone to far in embarrassing Jarod, changed the subject quickly, adding: “I’m sure Marquise will find a perfectly nice girl for the prom.”
*****
A few days later, Marquise and Jarod met to work on Odyssey, getting to the literary magazine’s room several minutes before the other members of the committee.
“Jarod, I’ve asked Janita Johnson to the prom,” Marquise said. “She’s in my advanced algebra class. Do you know her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She knows you, at least by sight. And she was surprised I asked her to the prom.”
“Why? Isn’t she pretty?”
Marquise smiled: “Oh yes, very pretty and I was surprised she didn’t have a boy friend.”
“So happy for you,” Jarod said.
“You know why she was surprised?”
“No.”
“She thought I had a girl friend already. You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, she’s seen us together all the time and she just assumed you were my girl friend. You know, must be your long hair and all.”
Jarod was speechless.
“And she said you were so pretty, too.”
“No, you’re wrong, Marquise. How could she?”
Marquise hesitated: “Look at yourself, Jarod. You’re so slender and your movements are kinda like a girl and that hair you’re flicking all the time.”
“Oh really, Marquise? You should have told me; sometimes I get carried away.”
“Don’t worry, Jarod. I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t care how you look.”
“And you’re my friend, too, Marquise.”
Marquise smiled, then said: “You know Latoya and Janita are right. You would look pretty as a girl.”
Jarod blushed fully now, wishing he could indeed be the girl who caught the attention of this handsome African-American boy. But all he said was “too bad I’m a boy.”
*****
The school year ended with little excitement. Jarod’s trips to Milwaukee to model ended, after his mother stopped his modeling career.
“You miss modeling?” Latoya asked him one day near the end of school.
“Not really, it’s hard work, Toya, and I didn’t like the other girls much. They were always so much into themselves.”
“All of them?”
“Well, not all. I liked Ania, the other pigtail girl, but she didn’t say much, and Heather, but she never stopped talking.”
He laughed, recalling the constant chatter of the blond model, whom really meant no harm, but sometimes got on his nerves.
“I’m kinda bored now,” he said. “Now that the magazine is out, I miss the time I spent with Marquise.”
Latoya smiled: “He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”
Jarod smiled, his face growing red.
“He’s spending so much time now with Janita,” Jarod said. “She’s so pretty.”
“I know, and she’s nice, too. Makes you a little jealous, Jane?” she asked, using her sometimes teasing tone.
“Oh, shut up!” he said, laughing. It was absurd, he thought, but he truly was jealous of the other boy’s affection for Janita. In his dream world, Jarod always felt he was Jane in the arms of her own Tarzan, Marquise.
*****
Jarod’s venture into girlhood had been stalled as the school year ended. While he was still able to dress and be a girl at home, his mother was now more severe in restrictions. No more could he venture out of the occasional shopping trips, dressed as Jane, with Latoya and Wanda.
The visits to Dr. Martin, the psychiatrist, had been reduced to once every other month, due to restrictions of his mother’s health insurance program.
Jarod’s examination by a medical doctor turned up nothing other than the fact that he was a normal 14 year old boy who was just a bit late in developing his male physical accoutrements. No, the doctor said, there was nothing about him physically that made him more female, except for his lack of muscle mass in his upper body.
The doctor, who was aware as a result of the referral from Dr. Martin that Jarod thought of himself as a girl, told he and his mother after a full examination: “You’re a normal boy, Jarod.”
Jarod almost cried at the pronouncement, hoping the doctor would find some genetic disposition to femininity. It wasn’t to be so, he was told. Soon he would need t o start shaving and his penis would grow to average size, the doctor said.
“I would recommend Jarod start exercising,” he said. “His upper body is so undeveloped, that he might feel better if he built those muscles up.”
“I don’t want to do that, doctor,” he said. “Most girls don’t have muscular arms.”
“He ran cross country last fall,” his mother informed the doctor.
“Well, keep doing that,” the doctor said, “but if you’re bound and determined to eventually transition, I still suggest you at least do some regular aerobics. It’s important for your long term health, dear.”
*****
His mother found an aerobics class in the local municipal recreation program that met three mornings a week during the summer at a local high school gymnasium. While the class announcement indicated the class was co-educational, he was the only boy in the class of about 15 teenagers, most of them being chubby to obese girls seeking mild exercise.
There was initial surprise by the others that a boy was joining the class, but that soon ended as they others began treating him as one of their group. Since he was as physically challenged as most of them, he fit right in.
That kept him busy three times a week that summer, but otherwise it was a lonely summer. Wanda was either playing softball or working; Latoya, being a few months older than Jarod was able to find a fast food job and was spending her free moments with Demetrius; Marquise also was working almost 40 hours a week for a cleaning service run by his uncle and he had, much to Jarod’s chagrin, taken Janita as his steady girl.
His morning began late, as he usually slept in, enjoying laying in his perfume scented sheets in a nightie. His dreams of being a girl flourished in those lazy morning hours, often prompting him to masturbate, an activity he still associated with being “naughty.” Once he ejaculated, his guilt rose, and he’d quickly get out of bed, shower and dress in boy clothes; that lasted usually through his breakfast when he would change to girl outfits, usually shorts and halters over panties and bras.
Most of his days were taken with dress-making activities, either designing them in charcoal or colored pencil drawings, or sewing together some of his designs. He also tried to write each day in his little girl’s diary.
“I wish you’d get outside more,” his mother said several weeks into the summer. “You’re so pale, honey.”
“And do what, mom?”
“You used to bike a lot. Why don’t you take a ride?”
“All alone?”
“Sure, why not? Just be careful.”
“Ok, ok, mom.”
He did take a few bike rides, but they only got him all hot and sweaty. His mother was gone most days, since she had taken a full teaching load in summer school; many evenings and weekends, she was busy with Jacques, who had begun dating her with steadily.
Jarod cried some nights, too, thinking of all the fun he was missing since he was not a girl. He pictured himself looking lovely and cute with tight shorts and tank tops and sandals and his hair in pigtails, wandering the malls with her girl friends, giggling and looking at boys.
Even though his mother had all but promised she’d let him transition in two years, perhaps in his junior year in high school, he felt that was just not soon enough. I’m a girl now, today, he told himself.
“In your junior year, dear, we’ll look seriously at letting you begin to live fulltime,” she told him. “Dr. Martin agrees this would be best to wait.”
“Oh mom, I know now. I can’t ever be a boy.”
His pleadings always ended with him in tears, but agreeing on two things: first, he loved his mother, and second it was best to wait until he was 16 at least.
The only real joy that summer came when he and Amy, the woman next door, would be together doing sewing, or chatting or playing with her girls. As Jane, contrary to his mother’s wishes, he had several nice evening visits with Wanda, even going one warm Sunday to their favorite spot along the river.
Meanwhile, Jacques and his mother were together constantly when they were off work. Jarod met the man’s son, who was two years older than Jarod and attended a Catholic high school in Milwaukee. Peter was a chunky teenager with surprisingly slovenly habits, considering the fastidiousness of his father.
Yet, Jarod and Peter, perhaps out of mutual loneliness, formed an uneasy friendship, even getting to some movies together. Usually, the two boys got together when Peter rode with his father to Douglas for a visit with Jarod’s mom.
“I think they’ll get married,” Peter said one day.
“It looks that way. Do you like the idea?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I like your mom. She’s cool. Don’t you like the idea?”
“Oh,” Jarod hesitated. “I guess. If she’s happy.”
Jarod, however , wasn’t pleased with the idea, but realized, too, that he was being selfish in wanting to keep his mother to himself.
*****
In August, Jacques took Jarod and his mother to a fancy restaurant where he announced: “Jarod, I have asked your mother to marry me.”
He should have seen the announcement coming, but Jarod was shocked, not saying anything in response, looking blankly at Jacques and then at his mother, tears forming in his eyes.
“You’re not going to cry now, are you?”
“No,” he said, snifling, with tears beginning to run down his cheeks as he tried to hold back any audible crying.
“I hope those are tears of joy, dear,” his mother said.
“They are Nancy,” Jacques assured her. “Girls always cry at engagements and weddings.”
Jarod, realizing the irony of the situation, found his tears turning into laughter, mixing his joy at seeing his mother happy with his tears that much would change in his life now, that he would no longer be his mother’s only interest.
“Honey, look at the engagement ring Jacques got me,” his mother said, bringing the bject out of her purse and putting it on her finger.
Jarod held his mother’s hand, looking through his wet eyes to the sparkling gem set in silver on he finger.
“It’s so lovely,” he said. “Mom, I love you.”
The two hugged. Jarod knew his mother’s love for him was true and forever, but he also wondered about the future of his other self, the self that was Jane. Yet, he began to project, what would his mother’s marriage to Jacques do about her concerns about him becoming a girl? Hadn’t Jacques encouraged him to become a lovely teen model, a girl? Might he not help him eventually fulfill his desires?
*****
Earlier that summer, Jarod had his hair cut, still leaving it long enough so that he continued to be mistaken for a girl occasionally, but too short to tie into pigtails. Now that summer was ending, maybe he could let the hair grow so that he could again create pigtails. He smiled.
(To be continued)
“Jarod?” The caller on the line was an older male, and his voice sounded familiar, though Jarod had trouble placing it.
“Yes, this is.”
“Jarod, this is Bruce Cummings, your cross country coach. Just calling to inform you that we’ll be starting practice on Aug. 28. That’s the Monday before school starts.”
“Oh.”
“Are you coming back this year?”
“Oh, Mr. Cummings, are you sure you want me? I was pretty slow.”
Jarod had been thinking about whether he’d try out for cross country in the coming fall semester. He had been the slowest runner on the team last year at first, but had ended the year moving into the role of second worst. It was hardly much to show, and he remembered how hot and exhausted he would get. It seemed hardly worth it; yet, he remembered the camaraderie that developed among the teammates, and the joy he felt in running with Latoya, since the practices often combined the boys and girls teams.
“Of course, we want you back, and you were improving as the year went on, Jarod.”
“I haven’t run much this summer,” he said, realizing he had not run in either July or August. “I’m in poor shape.”
“Jarod, I liked your hard work, and I think this is a good sport for you.”
Jarod smiled to himself, realizing how accurate the coach was; not to take anything away from the athletic demands of cross country, Jarod realized that his physically weak upper body knocked him out of anything like football or wrestling. And, also, he hated to participate in any activity that would create muscular arms or shoulders.
“OK, coach, I’ll try to make it.”
Mr. Cummings said he’d mail the necessary forms for his mother to sign, and that he’d have to bring $20 to the Aug. 28th session to pay for a physical examination.
*****
School began on the Tuesday after Labor Day, and as always seemed to be the case in Wisconsin, the weather that first week was stifling, hitting well into the 90s. The perversity of weather in the area seemed to dictate that summers would be cool (that year there had been no temperatures in the 90s during the summer) and that the first weeks back in school would be stifling. Most schools in Wisconsin were not air conditioned, and Roosevelt High was no exception.
“Let’s see what you’re wearing today, Jarod,” he mother said, ordering him into the kitchen.
“I’m a boy today, don’t worry!”
“Just let me see.”
Jarod at first put on girl shorts and a pink girl’s tee shirt, parading in front of the mirror, but he knew that wouldn’t be allowed; instead he exchanged the girl outfit for a pair of long boy denim shorts, a tee shirt that hung too big on his narrow shoulders, and his New Balance runners with athletic socks. He let his hair flow because it was short enough to be considered boyish.
His mother asked: “Wouldn’t you rather wear pants?”
“Oh mom, it’s going to be so hot in that school.”
“I guess it’s ok,” she said, shaking her head.
Jarod knew instinctively what his mother was thinking: she realized his legs were so slender that with his longish hair he might still be mistaken for a girl or a sissy and face harassment from some at the school.
He had grown some during the summer, and was now a slender 5 feet, 7 inches tall. Hints of masculinity were showing, the peach fuzz on his face and some hints of chest hair. Even his penis had grown beyond its tiny preadolescent stage. He had viewed all of these changes with sadness, sometimes even crying as he found he was being changed by the relentless march of nature that would eventually make him a man.
Latoya was still in his homeroom in the new school year, but there were changes in the lunch room assignments, leaving Jarod and Latoya in the early lunch period, but separated from Marquise and Demetrius who were assigned to the later period.
“Guess Marquise is in the other period,” he said to Latoya as they sat down, soon to be followed by Aniesha, who had been at their table in the previous year.
“Yes, but he lucked out,” Latoya said.
“How?”
“Janita’s got the same lunch hour so the two lovers will be together,” she said. There was a catty tone to her voice.
“I thought you liked her, ‘toya?”
“She’s always whining, and is making him her slave. I don’t see what she sees in him.”
“She’s pretty, ‘toya.”
Latoya got a conspiratorial glint in her eye, leaning close to Jarod, and whispering, “Not as pretty as you are. You still make the prettiest girl.”
“Well, I’m not a girl,” he said, only half believing himself. “And Marquise deserves a real girl for a friend.”
“I can’t wait ‘til you go all girl,” Latoya said. “When will that happen?”
“I don’t know, ‘toya. I don’t know.”
With Demetrius and Marquise, both now in their senior year, no longer at their lunch table, Jarod could see this year would not be the same. He missed the closeness the five friends had developed. This year, it appeared, the other three seats at the table would be occupied by a random sampling of students.
*****
Even with his effort to portray himself as more masculine, Jarod still found himself unable to shake the effeminate manner that he had developed in walking with his body erect and with small tight steps to create a sway to his hips. As he flicked his light brown hair, still longer than most boys wore, it was hard not to picture him as a girl.
More often than not he was addressed as “miss,” or “young lady,” and for some reason he seemed not to mind. Usually this came from strangers, like a clerk or another teacher in the hallways of school, who honestly mistook him for a girl. He felt happy when he heard it.
While he had survived his first year in the urban school without too much harassment (due largely, he felt, to his recognized friendship with Marquise and Demetrius), he feared this year would be different.
It began in the first week of school as he walked out of school, heading for his half mile walk home. Just outside of the school grounds on E. 12th St., three sloppily dressed boys, all large and menacing, met him. He attempted to cross the street, but they cornered him, the smallest of the three, but still huge in comparison to the slender Jarod, grabbing Jarod by his bicep, and twirling Jarod around so that the two were face-to-face.
Jarod recognized him as Stanley Howard, a sophomore like himself. The boy said: “What do we have here? A girl or a boy? She’s got arms like a girl.”
“Bet she’s wearing panties, like mommy’s little girl,” said one of the others, a boy Jarod recognized, but whose name he did not know.
Jarod tried to hit the boy with his free arm, but his fist merely flailed helplessly, landing weakly on the other boy’s shoulder. Jarod felt panic grow, as the boy easily propelled him into the school forest that was part of the campus. He was too weak to fight the action, and began screaming: “Don’t. Don’t hurt me . . .” Tears began streaming down his face and he began sobbing.
The boys stripped his bookbag from Jarod’s shoulders throwing it in the bushes, and soon Jarod too was pushed down on the ground into the sturdy limbs of a forsythia bush, and he began crying aloud. He tried to get up and run off, but the boy named Stanley was on top of him, pulling Jarod off the bush and into the clearing. Jarod attempted to curl up into the fetal position, but Stanley straightened out his legs, forcing Jarod onto his back.
“She’s pretty enough to kiss,” laughed the third boy, a stranger to Jarod.
“Bet she’s wearing panties,” said the other boy. “Why don’t you check Stanley?”
Jarod’s fear grew, but he was determined to defend himself, as Stanley hopped on top of him, temporarily taking away his breath. He recalled the self-defense class he took at the YWCA several years ago, a class meant mainly for girls to give them tactics to head off attacks.
As Stanley slid his body down lower, Jarod saw his chance. He felt his attacker fumbling with the belt and buttons on his shorts, and Jarod knew what he had to do. He bit hard on the boy’s shoulder, which was near his mouth, and at the same time kneed the boy in the groin.
“Yeeeeeeeooww” a scream came from Stanley who released his hold, permitting Jarod to get up and run from the scene, his legs taking him faster than he ever realized. The other two boys who had been watching and jeering Jarod were taken by such surprise they were unable to stop Jarod.
He ran the whole way home, fumbling badly as he tried to open the door. Finally, panting heavily, his heart beating in panic mode, he got the door open, running to his room and plopping himself down on his bed and beginning to cry uncontrollably. He wanted so badly to find the comfort of his mother’s arms, but she would not be home for two hours from her teaching job.
The attack unnerved him badly; he felt terribly violated, and even more so that his weakness was now exposed. Now he realized how girls must feel when they are raped, being so defenseless to stop a terrible humiliation. He cried and cried, and for a long while he could do nothing to stop his sobbing. How was he going to be able to continue going to school, even functioning in a world that was so cruel and mean? He was too weak, too pathetic to exist.
He kept reliving the panic he felt during the attack, and the tears kept coming. He put himself into the fetal position, his left hand clutching his slim soft upper right arm that was folded under his head. “I’m just a girl, a soft defenseless girl,” he murmured in a low tone.
Soon the crying stopped and he lay motionless on the bed, beginning to create images in his head of how pretty he would look in a prom gown. He even began seeing Jane come to life as the “queen” of the prom, leading the grand march with Marquise at her side. It was a beautiful, comforting thought.
“’toya thinks I’m pretty,” he said to himself. “Prettier than Janita.”
Just then he heard the doorbell ring. He did not move from the bed, wondering who could be at the door; he didn't want to talk to anyone now. He was also disturbed that the doorbell had broken into the daydream he was having.
It rang again, and then again for a third time. Still Jarod lay motionless.
Finally he heard heavy pounding on the door, followed by a voice; it sounded like the voice of Marquise yelling, “Open up Jarod. I know you’re in there.”
More heavy pounding.
“I’m coming,” Jarod finally yelled, wiping the tears from his eyes with a towel he had taken from the bathroom.
*****
“I found your bookbag and brought it to you, Jarod,” Marquise said as he entered.
Jarod felt humiliated. He must have looked terrible. He hated to see Marquise, the boy he one day hoped would be dating his alter ego, Jane.
“How are you feeling, Jarod? I heard something of what happened.”
“I got jumped by Stanley Howard and two others, and they threw me into the bushes, and . . .” He started to cry again, interrupting his narrative.
Marquise stood dumbfounded, not sure what to do about the crying boy he saw before him. Finally, he asked: “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said, finally breaking off his sobbing.
“What were they after?”
“I don’t know. They were just picking on me for no reason. Maybe because I’m not a big tough guy.”
“They’re just fat cowards, that Stanley Howard and his buddies,” Marquise said. “But how did you get away?”
Jarod began to smile.
“Well, I bit Stanley and kneed him in the nuts. I guess I got him good.”
“You must have done a number on him. I heard him yell and saw you run off. That’s what brought me to the scene and I found your bookbag.”
“Oh Marquise, thank you.”
Jarod directed Marquise into the house, directing him to the kitchen, telling him to find a soda in the refrigerator.
“Wait here, until I clean myself off.”
“You better hurry, Jarod,” the other boy said. “The cops are going to be coming here. School security caught Stanley and he’ll no doubt implicate his buddies.”
“Oh no, do the cops have to come?” he asked.
“I guess so, to find out what happened. I'll be here. I know your mom is not home yet.”
Jarod wanted to go over and hug Marquise, maybe even kiss him. But then, as Jarod, he could not do that. Again, that afternoon, he wished he were Jane.
*****
Jarod’s mother had been alerted by the school at her job and returned home just as the police were arriving. She was pleased to see Marquise there, as she hugged her son, now cleaned up and wearing slacks and a knit golf shirt, looking trim, and she realized, very handsome.
She sat and listened as Jarod told his version of the attack; she nearly cried as Jarod related the violence of the mugging, realizing how defenseless her son was.
But she laughed, as did the two police officers, when Jarod told how he bit and kneed his attacker to get free.
“That’s what we teach girls to do,” one of the officers said.
“I know,” Jarod said. “I learned that at the YW classes.”
“Good job,” the officer said. “See, even a boy can benefit from those.”
Jarod lied again to the police when they asked what the boy’s motivation for the attack was, saying he had no idea. He felt too embarrassed in front of Marquise to say they attacked him because of his girlishness.
*****
As it turned out, the three boys were expelled from Roosevelt for the attack. Jarod was not asked to provide testimony, since Stanley Howard implicated the other two, and Marquise identified them as the two he had seen leaving the wooded area.
“Is there no school for boys who are a bit different in our school system?” Nancy asked the school principal the following day when she was summoned along with Jarod for a meeting. A vice principal and the school counselor were also at the meeting.
“No, I’m afraid not. Our system is too small for that,” the principal said. She was a smartly dressed African-American woman, whose glistening earrings seemed to dominate her presence.
“We know we have some gay and lesbian students here,” the counselor said, “And we’re trying to arrange for a support group for them.” She was a short women, of slight stature, but with an authoritative air. Her name was Anita Shouster.
“My son is not gay,” Nancy said, rather pointedly.
“I didn’t say he was, ma’am, but I think you’ve noticed he does move about with some effeminate mannerisms.”
“That doesn’t make him gay, Ms. Shouster” Nancy said.
The principal, Mrs. Marquerite Jones, interrupted. “I think Ms. Shouster was just trying to help. I think we all recognize that Jarod just portrays himself a bit differently, Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“I guess so,” Nancy added.
As Jarod heard this he was ready to begin crying, but he knew that would only worsen the situation. He agreed, in his own mind, that he was indeed “different,” and that he probably didn’t belong in this school.
“I’ve got Jarod’s records here,” the principal began. “I must say he’s an excellent student, and he causes his teachers no trouble. His grade point last year was 3.86, really tops.”
“And, Mrs. Pinkerton,” the vice principal said, “I have been told it was your son’s talents that help us put out two smashing editions of Odyssey last year. And he ran on the cross country team, too.”
“Yes, ma’am, and he’s exactly the type of student we hope to keep enrolled here at Roosevelt,” the principal said.
“I am happy to hear that, Mrs. Jones,” his mother said. “But can he be safe here? Is there no other school in the district which would be more accepting and friendly to students like my son?”
“Not in our district, sad to say,” the principal replied. “We really not a big enough district to have such a school.”
“There are schools for such students, Mrs. Pinkerton,” commented the counselor. “Milwaukee has its ACES program.”
“Aces?” Jarod asked, his interest piqued.
“Yes, the Allied Campus for Exceptional Students,” the counselor replied. “Especially for gay and lesbian students and others who may face harassment because of their differences.”
“Oh but that’s such a daily commute, even if she could get into the program,” his mother said, quickly realizing she used the wrong pronoun. “I mean ‘he,’” she corrected herself.
“Well, the district could arrange a transfer if you’d like,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Mom,” Jarod said. “We can stay here. It’s OK.”
After a short discussion, it was agreed Jarod would remain at the school; the school security would be notified to keep an eye out for him and to provide him protection if he needed it. In addition, there would be a greater presence by the police around the schoolyard both before and after school.
“We’ll make sure this won’t happen again,” Mrs. Jones said.
Jarod found himself liking this stylish school principal; she had a reputation for being firm (some kids had called her “mean”), but Jarod felt she understood his situation.
“I’ll be OK here, mom,” he told them. “I have some nice friends and Marquise and I have plans for the literary magazine.”
“And Mr. Cummings said you’re going out for cross country, too, Jarod,” the counselor said. “He said you have promise in the sport.”
The principal asked everyone, except Jarod, to leave the room. She wanted to speak to Jarod directly. His mother was about to protest, but Jarod said that would be OK.
“Jarod,” the principal said when they were alone. “You realize you do present a bit of difference in this school, don’t you? That you do really act a bit girlish?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Her comments were direct and without emotion, but Jarod felt he could trust this woman with the sparkling earrings and fairly stern demeanor but surprisingly warm, dark eyes.
“That will cause some to make fun of you, regardless what the school can do, and I think you know that, Jarod.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now I don’t care how you act or dress, as long as you stay within our dress code, but you must realize you may face other attacks and humiliations if you dress and act as you do.”
“I can’t help it, Mrs. Jones,” Jarod said, again fighting back tears that were ready to burst out at any time.
“Mrs. Angstrom is forming a group for our gay and lesbian and transgendered students, Jarod, and if you’re interested, you may contact her.”
Jarod kept silent and accepted without comment the principal’s card after she had written the phone number and room number of Mrs. Angstrom on the back. He thought briefly about whether to tell her of his transgender tendencies, of his desire to be a girl, but felt he still wished to keep it private.
“On the front, Jarod, is my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything, OK?”
He nodded.
“Now before you go, do you have any teacher you trust and like the most?”
Jarod thought for a minute; none of his teachers fit such a description, but then he said: “Yes, he’s not one of my teachers, though. Mr. Cummings, the cross country coach. I like him.”
Mrs. Jones smiled. “Yes, honey, Mark Cummings is a good man and if it’s OK, I’ll tell him that if you wish to talk with him about anything, he should find time to talk with you. Is that OK, Jarod?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
For some reason, Jarod felt better, even though implicit in the discussion was the point that he better begin acting more as a boy. It was something he didn’t feel would be easy, but it would be necessary if he were to stay at Roosevelt.
Chapter 27: A Boy’s Life
It turned out that the attack on Jarod had become the gossip topic of the school, even though the school administration had sought to keep the incident private. Too many students saw the school security forces and police arrive on the scene; in addition, cohorts of the three perpetrators had spread the message that they had been treated unfairly in the expulsion, that their motives had been to shame the “sissy boy” and “fag” in hopes he’d leave the school.
Word of this got back to the school administration, which decided to react by seeking to develop training on diversity and to announce that there would be severe penalties for anyone participating in gang activities. Perhaps news of the expulsions helped, since there were no new incidents developing during the next few months.
“Mom, I know I need to finish high school and go to college,” he said the weekend following the incident. “And I know I’ll have to do that as a boy, at least for now.”
“Honey, you’ll have to try,” she said. The two were finishing the breakfast Jarod had prepared, including a very light, tasty quiche. The two were still in their nighties, with Jarod’s now short hair covered with a scarf, tied under his chin, looking very much like the few Muslin girls who had begun attending Roosevelt.
“I know, but I guess I walk and sit like a girl, and act like one all the time. It’s so hard to change.”
“I know, but if you don’t change how you look, you’re just setting yourself up for more harassment and maybe even more attacks.”
At that point, there was a knock on the door. Jarod opened it up to admit Wanda, who was now a junior in school, and her mother, Helen.
“How are you two ladies doing?” Helen said, addressing Jarod and his mother. “Sorry to bust in on you, but we smelled the food you were cooking from out here.”
“You’re always welcome,” his mother said. “Jarod, dear, can you make another quiche?”
“Yes, mom, and hi, Wanda.”
Wanda was wearing shorts and a halter, since it was still stifling hot for September. Her hair had a short boyish cut. Her tanned arms and shoulders literally rippled with muscles and her bare tummy was firm and hard.
“I heard about the attack, Jarod,” Wanda said. “Those cowards!”
“It was pretty scary,” he replied.
“But I guess you gave them something to remember,” Wanda replied, giggling.
“I guess I bit him good!”
“And kicked him where it hurts, too,” the girl said, and the four began laughing.
*****
Later, Wanda and Jarod left the two mothers and walked down to a small park. Jarod by then had changed into a pair of longish shorts and a Milwaukee Brewers tee-shirt, topped with a Brewers baseball cap.
“You’re all boy now,” Wanda said.
“Not really,” he replied. “I still want to feel and act like Jane would.”
“I know you do, but since you’re going to stay in school at Roosevelt, I guess you better at least look like Jarod, a boy,” she said, as the two sat on a park bench, watching a half-dozen young children running and laughing on the playlot.
“I guess I better be a good actor, or actress,” he said, grinning.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m doing the same thing.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Jarod, I’m pretending at liking boys, you know,” she began slowly. “I’m now convinced I’m lesbian.”
“Are you sure? You seem to like Troy a lot and you really are pretty.”
“And Troy likes me,” she said. “And we consider each other our steadies.”
“You make a nice couple,” he agreed.
She stopped to pick up a ball that had rolled into their bench, tossing it back to pigtailed blonde little girl, wearing a pink dress.
“She’s a cutie,” she said.
“Have you ever had sex with him, Wanda?”
“No, but I think he wants it. I just tell him I’m saving it for my husband on our wedding night. What a liar I am!”
“I think the only guy I could have sex with would be you,” she giggled. “But only if you were in a dress.”
The two sat together silently for a while, watching the children.
“Well, I guess we’ll both be acting this school year,” he said finally. “You as a hot sexy girl and me as a macho boy.”
“If we pull that off, it’ll be a miracle,” she said.
Jarod stopped laughing. He knew it would be a tough year.
*****
Marquise and Demetrius stopped Jarod after school on the Monday after the attack, catching him as he was about to leave the building.
"We'll walk with you, Jarod," Marquise said.
"Oh, you don't have to," he said. "I can take care of myself."
“You can?” Marquise laughed. “Didn’t do so well the other day.”
“I got rid of ‘em,” Jarod said, realizing he was showing false bravado.
“Don’t be foolish, Jarod,” Demetrius said. “You’re our friend. We’ll keep an eye out for you here.”
“Yeah, just walk along with us,” Marquise added.
Thus, it became an almost daily practice for either of the two boys, both seniors now and respected in the school, to accompany Jarod as he left the school, walking along with him until he was well on his way home. The two friends were careful not to indicate to Jarod that they questioned his ability to protect himself, but Jarod realized that was the reason. With his growing effeminacy, he was becoming more and more a possible target for harassment or even physical abuse. And, he was well aware, that he was too weak and soft to challenge most other kids his age.
The fall semester of school continued in this manner, with Jarod finding his friends, whether it was Marquise or Demetrius or, sometimes, Latoya or Aniesha, seemingly always around to walk with him through the hallways or outside after school.
It became obvious that his friends were standing by to keep Jarod safe from attack. As a slender, gentle boy, Jarod would have been an easy target. It helped, obviously, that four popular students, all African-American, made their friendship of Jarod known to the school. No one, it seemed, was ready to mess with Jarod since they’d have to deal with reactions from his friends.
“Latoya,” Jarod said in early October, “I feel weird having you guys protect me.”
“What do you mean? Protect you?” Her response was one of faux puzzlement.
“Oh don’t try to fool me, ‘toya. You and the boys never seem to let me go anywhere alone. You’re afraid for me.”
“Well, shouldn’t we be?” Latoya asked. “You’re hardly able to protect yourself in this school.”
“I think I can,” he said.
Latoya laughed, grabbing Jarod’s left arm and swiftly pinning it behind his back, her strength overwhelming him, as she twisted it.
He cried out. “Yeeow”
She released it, and he looked at her.
“Did I make my point, Jarod? I think even little Aniesha could bring you down.”
He rubbed his forearm, the red marks of her fingers still showing on the whiteness of his skin.
He nodded. Yes, she had made her point. He was hardly strong enough to protect himself from bullies; nor did he have the inclination to fight, to be aggressive. He couldn’t imagine hitting someone.
“Jarod, you’re our friend,” Latoya said. “We don’t want you hurt. You’re always ready to help people and you’ve always been there for me.”
“Well, I like all of you, and I haven’t done anything special for you, ‘toya.”
“Oh yes you have, Jarod. You’ve always been there when Demetrius seems mad at me.”
“I just listened.”
“And gave me advice, Jarod. You always talk to me and that makes me feel good when I’m sad. You’re like my closest girl friend.”
Jarod felt Latoya’s hand wrap around his and he felt a warmth and friendship for this dark African-American girl. He wanted so bad to be her girl friend and, for some weird reason, was so happy that he was weak and gentle and fragile.
*****
“When are you going to let Marquise in on your little secret?” Latoya asked Jarod a few days later as they sat on a bench at the high school campus on an unusually warm autumn day during the lunch break.
“I dunno,” he said.
“You won’t be able to keep it secret much longer from him, Jane,” said Latoya, emphasizing his girl’s name to make the point.
“I hate to lie, but mom wants me to keep this stuff secret.”
“When your picture was plastered all over in the pigtail ads, I’m surprised no one recognized you.”
Latoya shook her head. “I wish you’d come clean on this, Jane. You really are so much more a girl.”
“I know, and I feel that way, too, Latoya. And I hate to not tell Marquise the truth. He’s been my only real friend I’ve had. Well, I mean only real boy who has been a friend. You and Wanda are my real friends, too, but we’re girl friends.”
Latoya smiled: “Marquise is getting sick of Janita’s jealousy and nagging. I don’t know why he asked her out.”
“I know, Latoya, he could have any girl in school. Why choose her?”
“Because Jane wasn’t available,” Latoya giggled. “I bet he’d ask you, Jane, if you ever came out to him.”
Jarod laughed off the suggestion from Latoya, but the idea grew more real in his mind.
*****
While Jarod felt more and more that he was a girl, nature had different plans for him. By the time he entered school that fall, light hair had developed on his arms and legs, while a covering of fuzz covered his upper lip. His penis had matured, and no longer was tiny; it was still not large as some boys displayed in the gym locker room, but his had grown to be almost “average” and large enough so that he no longer had to hide it out of embarrassment.
His voice deepened as well, forcing him to speak more softly so as to hide the masculine nature of his voice.
“Should I start shaving, mom?” he asked one day.
“Not yet, honey,” she said. “I’ve been told once you shave the hair comes back darker. And your hair is still very light and hardly noticeable. It’s ok for now.”
“I guess,” he said. “Oh mom, why do I have to have these boy things happen to me?”
“Because, physically you are a boy, dear.”
“I don’t wanna be a boy.” Tears began coming to his eyes and his mother smothered him, pulling him into her bosom and patting his head as he sobbed.
“Can’t I start hormones, mommy?” he said after his crying stopped.
“We’ll see, honey. We’ll see.”
Jarod’s monthly appointments with Dr. Martin had continued. The doctor told his mother that he was convinced that Jarod was an appropriate candidate for eventual gender change, including hormone treatment, certain bodily enhancements such as breast implants and facial changes, hair removal and finally sexual reassignment surgery.
“It’s my recommendation that he try to continue on as a boy through high school, Ms. Pinkerton,” the doctor has said. “High school can be so cruel to him if he tried to change now.”
Also another doctor told that his maturity as a male had progressed too far to place him on drugs that could have retarded the development of his male physical features.
Jarod cried when he heard that recommendation. He wasn’t sure he could hold out that long, but he understood the doctor’s reasoning. “I’ll try, mom, at least into my junior year.”
Jarod would try to continue to be a boy to outsiders; yet, Jane remained this lovely child’s real person and she would be struggling to emerge each day of his life.
*****
Jarod’s school day took on a routine and he soon found that if he kept himself in the background, he would be rarely noticed. He tried not to answer questions in class voluntarily, although that became difficult when the teacher posed a question he knew the obvious answer to, only to see no others raising their hands to answer. Some of his teachers, eager in this urban high school to embrace cooperative and smart students, realized that they could usually call upon Jarod to answer.
Try as he might, he could not avoid the feminine inflections his voice was taking on. And, he realized that he sometimes sounded either like a flagrant faggot or a girl as he spoke. He knew such outward appearances would draw unwelcome attention and perhaps even attacks.
“You’re a boy?” The question came from a nerdy looking girl early in the semester in his English class. He didn’t know her, and she sat in front of him, her long strawberry blonde hair tied usually in a ponytail and her slender arms looking soft and white. She wore grandma glasses, and sometimes pushed them to the top of her head.
“Why, yes,” he said, beginning to show his quick tendency to blush.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the girl said quickly. “I guess I didn’t look at you closely.”
The two had left the classroom, and found themselves walking together to their next class.
“That’s OK. How could you tell? I was sitting behind you.”
“Yes, I guess. It’s just that your voice . . . well, it kinda sounded . . . well … anyway,” she stammered. “I’m Tiffany.”
“Hi, Tiffany. I’m Jarod.”
“Yes, so I heard today in class when Mr. Davidson called you ‘Jarod.’ You’re so smart, I can see why he calls on you.”
“No smarter than some others,” he said. “But they won’t talk, I guess.”
“Nah, Jarod. You’re a brain,” she said, smiling. “For some reason, I guess I thought you were a girl. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Jarod felt both shame and pride, a strange combination he knew. Shame at not being the boy he was supposed to be, but an exciting pride that he was looked upon as a girl.
“Oh, it must be my hair,” he said, realizing it was actually more than that.
At the next hallway, the two split, and Tiffany said eagerly: “Jarod, I hope we can talk again.”
He waved as she charged down the other hallway, both now headed to their next classes. Jarod felt growing comfort after the encounter: Tiffany seemed not to be bothered by his girlishness.
Several days later, Tiffany joined Jarod, Latoya and Aniesha at the lunch table, becoming a fourth addition to the table and its usual menu of girl talk, giggling, ogling at boys and eyeing the clothes of other girls with sometimes critical and not too kind comments. Jarod, in truth, never was comfortable in the company of other boys; he found their crude and boisterous talk to be disgusting, particularly when they talked about “hooters” or “caboose” to describe some girls’ anatomies.
*****
As the school year went on, Jarod found himself identifying more and more with the group of girls within which he mired himself. Their lunch table soon became a magnet for a whole host of new girls interested in joining in the laughter and discussion that emanated from the table.
“Your table’s the place to be,” Tiffany said to him one as they headed for lunch together.
“I know. We sure seem to attract a lot of girls,” he said, smiling.
“It’s you, Jarod. You. You’re the attraction,” she said.
“Me?”
“Yes you. I notice how all the girls seem to hang on your every word. You’re fun to listen to.”
Jarod had wondered as the school year went on why so many girls seemed to try to join the group. He thought Tiffany was wrong when she said “he” was the attraction.
“Well, it can’t be because I’m such a stud,” he said laughing, giving his hair a girlish twist.
“You are kinda cute, Jarod, but, nah . . . you’re no stud.”
It turned out Tiffany (whose last name Stankowski, he learned) had moved into the school district at the start of the semester, and was still trying to make friends. What seemed to make the table popular was that it seemed to have turned into an informal democracy where anyone was accepted. It may have been a coincidence, but Jarod had noticed most of the regulars participated in one of the school activities, usually something to do with the arts.
The group soon grew to about a dozen regulars, staking out an additional adjoining table. Occasionally, another boy might join the group, often dragged by a girl friend into the midst of these giggling teen girls and Jarod. He had tried to remain in the background saying little, but Latoya often dragged him into the conversation, asking his opinion on what one of the teachers or one of the students was wearing.
“Jarod knows fashions,” she announced to the group one day. “He really does.”
As it turned out, Jarod had developed an ability to mimic others, mainly women, usually in a kind but incisive way. He would get up and often with an exaggerated feminine flourish discuss the woman’s clothes, to the great glee of others.
Jarod tried to resist efforts to make him the center of attention, but he soon found himself loving the opportunity to show a bit of his feminine self to others, even though it meant he was being tagged by some as a “fag” or “queer.” Strangely, most of the girls seemed to enjoy his presence there.
There was a lot of performing, some outlandish enactments and some just plain funny. Each girl — and Jarod — seemed to create an individual persona which they acted out at the lunch group.
“We’re terrible actors,” one of the girls yelled out one day when another girl had tried in an awkward effort to imitate Britney Spears dancing.
“We need a name,” Latoya said.
“Yes, let’s have a name for this table,” agreed Aniesha, who also came out of her shell, taking on the role of Miss Cecily Jackson, the always overly dramatic English teacher who also coached the school’s Drama Club.
“How about the ‘Bad Actors,’” offered Tiffany.
“No . . . no . . . I got it. How about the ‘Bad Girls of Roosevelt High?’” It was a suggestion from Aniesha.
“But none of us are ‘bad’ like some of the girls here?” protested Latoya.
It was true. If anything, the group could have been called the “innocents,” Jarod thought as this discussion went on. None of the girls had become pregnant yet, which in this urban high school seemed often to mark the difference between “good” or “bad,” even though Jarod knew such an act by one of the girls really shouldn’t mark her as “bad.”
“I didn’t mean ‘bad’ as in the ‘bad girls’ show on TV,” Aniesha said. “I just meant like we’re ‘bad’ actors.”
“And what about Jarod?” asked, Tiffany. “He’s one of us, but he’s not a girl.”
Jarod turned red, and glanced at Latoya, the only girl at the table who knew his secret. She was trying to stifle a laugh.
“Oh that’s OK,” Jarod said, displaying an exaggerated feminine flick of his hair, using a high falsetto voice.
They all laughed, and some one said. “He’s just one of the girls, now.”
*****
Jarod saw less and less of Wanda because she was occupied with the girls basketball, the Lady Vikings and the on and off romancing by Troy. It was typical, however, for Wanda and her mother, Helen, to join Jarod and his mother for Sunday brunch, with the two younger people often spending a few hours after the brunch together, while the mothers gossiped.
“I’m becoming such a preppy,” Wanda confessed one cool autumn Sunday afternoon. Jarod was dressed as Jane as he always was for these Sunday get-togethers, this particular Sunday wearing girl, low-rider jeans and a crá¨me-colored layered blouse with a scoop neckline. His hair was in pigtails, tied with ribbons. The two went into the den at Wanda’s house, and where they turned on the Packers football game. They were only half-watching the game, even though Jarod seemed to be taking some interest in football. Of course, Wanda always had an interest in the games.
“Why do you say that, Wanda?”
“You know, I’m going to the homecoming dance with Troy.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make you a preppy.”
The two had long ago concluded they did not want to be “preppies” or the upwardly mobile children of the rich families. Because they were as sexually confused as the two had come to know they were, neither felt they could conform to the demands of such a life style. They had created a true bond, the girlish boy and the boyish girl.
“Oh, Jane,” she said, reverting using his girl’s name as she often did when they were together. “I have to get my hair fixed in the ‘style’ of the girls here and really can’t find a dress I like.”
“You got a month before the dance,” Jarod said.
“But, Jane, Troy is the homecoming king, you know, since he is captain of the football team. That means I’m his queen. Everyone will see me.”
She made an ugly face.
“You’ll be a pretty queen, Wanda,” Jarod said. He meant it, too. In spite of her fit, muscular body, the blonde Wanda with her short-cropped hair and truly warm facial features was a really beautiful girl, a fact she never seemed to accept.
“But what’ll I wear. All the dresses they show have bare shoulders and arms. And look at my arms. They’re so damned big.”
Jarod thought a minute.
“Wanda. Let me design and make you a dress. We’ll design it together to be just what you want.”
“Oh no, Jane. That’s not necessary.”
“Let me try. OK?”
They spent the rest of the afternoon back at the Pinkerton household, delving into Jarod’s collection of fashion magazines and patterns. Jarod’s enthusiasm blossomed as the two teens sat cross-legged on the floor or on their tummies. With his truly elegant fingers he turned the pages of the publications, pointing out the dresses he favored and stating why some would look great on Wanda.
“Jane,” Wanda said after their search landed nothing appropriate, “I can’t wear any of those. They all expose my arms and shoulders.”
“But, except for that, you do like this gold model, don’t you Wanda?” he asked pointing a pattern displaying a full length flowing gown of gold taffeta, a high belted waist and a halter with thick straps.
“Yes, Jane, I like that best, but my arms will be bare,” she protested.
“Let me show you what I can do,” he said. He quickly used a charcoal pencil to sketch a new top, providing a sloping sleeve arrangement, the sleeve ending tightly at the elbow.
“I like that,” Wanda said. “Jane, you’re a genius.
The two were on the floor and Wanda reached to hug him, her strong arm pulling him tight against her as she kissed him firmly and warmly. She held Jarod’s slender body for a few moments, and Jarod felt her firm hand caressing his narrow shoulders, and as they kissed, her other hand began playing with his pigtails.
“You’re absolutely the best girl friend, Jane,” she said. “If you were a girl, for real, I mean, we could be lesbians.”
Jarod loved the sound of those words, and he melted into her grasp, and, when they finally broke up, he was spacey, his eyes moist and he felt light headed.
“Thank you, Wanda. I so want to be your girl friend. I can hardly wait to start on the dress.”
*****
The fall suddenly became busy for Jarod, with his cross-country practice and meets several days a week, work with Marquise on the Odyssey, the school literary magazine, and now with his sewing of Wanda’s dress.
He finished the dress several days before the homecoming dance in mid-November, and after some minor adjustments, Wanda found great joy in wearing it.
“You’re so pretty, Wanda,” Jarod’s mother said as they were fitting the dress.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pinkerton. Jarod’s got a magic touch.”
“More like a feminine touch,” his mother said, with a smile.
“Oh yes.”
Jarod briefly considered going to the homecoming dance as well, but he was sure no girl would want to go with him. The girls in the lunch group, particularly Aniesha and Tiffany, seemed to like him and might be interested in being his date for the dance. On the other hand, he argued with himself, they might be embarrassed to be seen with him since he was not a strong, masculine boy.
On the Sunday after the dance, Wanda and her mother joined the Pinkerton’s for their typical brunch session. Both Jarod and his mother were eager to hear all about the dance.
“Everything was so . . . what shall I say . . . wow,” Wanda explained.
“And everyone said she was one of the prettiest queens they ever had, thanks to your dress, Jane,” Helen, Wanda’s mother, said.
“Yeah,” Wanda continued, “They wanted me to tell them where I got it, and I wanted so badly to tell them my girl friend, Jane, made it, but you swore me to secrecy.”
Jarod smiled. He felt so pleased his friend had a nice evening; while he would have loved to have everyone know he was the dressmaker, he knew it would cause him no end of teasing and perhaps even physical attack.
*****
He confessed to Dr. Martin at his monthly sessions that he seemed to be handling his dual life without too much stress. “I’m Jane at home, and I’m able to be the girl I feel I truly am, Doctor,” he said. “And at school, I seem to be doing fairly good as a boy.”
“What bothers you most now, Jarod?” he asked in his low toned, gentle voice. He spoke so softly that Jarod often found himself straining to hear what the doctor said.
“I’m still scared sometimes by some of the boys. They can be so rough.”
“It’s natural to be scared, my dear child,” he said. “What are you doing about it?”
Jarod explained the school’s policies against bullying seemed to be working, and that he found the security aides to be paying more attention to him. “And, my friends seem to be looking out for me,” he said with a smile.
He told Dr. Martin that he was afraid to ask any girl to be his date at the homecoming dance, even though he had wanted to be there to see Wanda as queen of the dance. “I just don’t feel comfortable as a boy. I can’t imagine any girl wanting me as their boy friend.”
“Lots of boys your age feel like that, Jarod,” he had said. “Few boys, or anyone, for example, feel they have good looks or bodies.”
“I like how I look as a girl, doctor,” he said at the session. “And, I know I look pretty.”
“Yes, you are a very pretty person, Jarod,” the doctor said, adding, “But you can also be a very handsome boy.”
It was true, Jarod realized, that he had learned during the school year how to masquerade as a boy and to be able to function without becoming the butt of mean-spirited remarks and attentions.
“But doctor, I feel I’m faking it as Jarod. It just doesn’t feel right,” Jarod said finally.
Dr. Martin said finally: “As either Jane or Jarod, I have found you to be a very strong person. You’re smart and are learning how to function in a world that is full of challenges.”
“I guess so, but I so often feel scared and frightened and wish I could just go home and be a little girl again,” he said.
“My sweet child,” the doctor said, obviously recognizing Jarod’s need for protection but also seeing Jarod’s strength of character budding under the surface. “I want you in the coming months to work on something for me.”
“What is that, Dr. Martin?” Jarod asked, puzzling as to where this was taking him.
“I want you to come up with one project you can do in the coming months that will help somebody or some other people. And you should tell me what that project is at our next meeting.”
“A project?”
“Yes, perhaps a community services activity, like mentoring unprivileged children or working at a food bank.”
“How about working on a school committee?”
“Yes, that’s OK, but you’re already doing the Odyssey work,” the doctor said. “Something that will involve you deeply.”
“OK, I guess.”
Jarod promised the doctor he would try to think of something. Nonetheless, he was confused by the doctor’s request, and, when he told his mother, she, too, seemed to wonder what it was all about.
“I got it,” he said to himself that night, as he lie in bed, his mind racing over the doctor’s request. “I know what he’s up to: he wants me so busy I don’t have much time to think about being a girl.”
Jarod knew he’d follow the doctor’s instructions, but he also knew the work on “worthy projects” alone would never clear his mind of the constant feeling he was a girl.
On Christmas Eve, Jacques visited Jarod and his mother, bringing gifts for both of them. His mother, with help from Jarod, prepared dinner. Jarod spent the whole day decorating the living and dining room, using poinsettias and several bouquets of flowers amidst pine boughs and colorful lights. All day long he wore Capri pants and a short sleeved white blouse with Christmas red trim. And, he wore his hair in pigtails, topped with a Santa hat.
“You’re so cute,” explained Amy, their next door neighbor who had popped over for eggnog and to examine the decorations.
Jarod pirouetted about for Amy, who wore a Santa hat and a lovely plaid skirt and red blouse with green trim and a Christmas bell design on the breast.
“And you look cute, too, Amy,” his mother said.
“Jane,” his mother said, using his girl’s name, “Why don’t you run into you room and bring out the dress you’re going to wear tonight for Jacques?”
His mother had told him he could wear a pretty dress she had bought just for Christmas, since Jacques, of course, was aware of Jarod’s female personality.
“What do you think, Amy?” he said returning from the bedroom, and holding the dress in front of him. It was an elegant red gown, with spaghetti straps and a square bodice, and is ended just at his knees.
“Oh darling, you’ll look so lovely in it, I’m sure. You must let me see you when you have it on.”
Jarod was so excited. He hadn’t worn anything so elegant in his life; this was a dress his mother found at the Goodwill Store, of all places. It apparently had been worn only once or twice. The tag on the dress was that of a first class dress-maker, so the dress may have cost over $200 new.
“I had to take it in a bit,” Jarod said, “but otherwise it fits perfectly.”
“I don’t think you should wear pigtails with that dress tonight, darling,” his mother said. “You should let your hair flow freely. I’ll brush it nicely for you.”
“Oh mom, Jacques likes my pigtails. Look at all the money it made him.”
“No, dear. Not tonight.”
Jarod nodded. He knew his mother was right; this dress called for a nice, more womanly hair style.
*****
“My, aren’t you lovely tonight, Jane,” Jacques said when Jarod opened the door for him.
He arrived with two wrapped packages, both fairly small, as well as two corsages, one for Jarod (as Jane) and the other for his mother.
“Let me put this flower first on this very pretty girl I see before me,” Jacques beckoned to Jarod to stand before him.
He carefully pinned the corsage to Jarod’s front, smiling gently. “You’re prettier than ever, Jane, but where are your pigtails?”
“Mom said they wouldn’t look right with this dress.”
“Mother always knows what’s best, right Jane,” he said, winking at Nancy.
They withheld the gift-opening until after their dinner, served by candlelight and accompanied by wine. Jarod was permitted one glass, accompanying the toast made by Jacques: “To a lovely woman and her pretty daughter.”
The gifts were opened, with Jacques giving Jarod a sparkling necklace and matching earrings with a note: “A pretty neck needs to sparkle. Hugs to ‘Pigtail Girl’ from her friend, Jacques.”
“Oh, Monsieur, that’s so exquisite,” Jarod said, taking two steps to the man, hugging him and putting a quick, girlish kiss on his lips.
“Put it on honey,” his mother said, smiling.
Jarod did, and was astounded at how much the adornment made her eyes sparkle with joy. In the mirror, Jarod felt he never looked more feminine in his life.
Jacques produced a wrapped gift for Jarod’s mother. The box was tiny.
“Open it, Nancy,” he said, tenseness in his voice. He actually seemed to be shivering.
She struggled with the wrapping, but Jacques patiently let her work at opening the gift. Finally open, it revealed a red suede box, which when opened revealing an engagement ring.
“Oh no!” his mother exclaimed, looking at the ring, but not removing it.
“What is it, mom?” Jarod asked.
Before his mother could answer, Jacques said simply: “Will you marry me, Nancy?”
He grabbed both her hands in his, balancing the box between the two of them. “Nancy, will you?”
Nancy began to cry, and she looked quickly at both Jarod and Jacques, tears streaming down her face.
“Well, mom, will you?” Jarod asked impatiently.
“Oh yes, yes, yes,” she said finally, and Jacques gathered her in his arms, kissing her gently and then with passion.
Then his left arm pulled Jarod into the embrace and the three of them hugged tightly. Both Nancy and Jarod began crying, tears dropping onto their corsages. Jacques towering over the two, smiled.
“I wanted to ask you in the presence of Jane, here, Nancy,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh Jacques, no, that was so kind of you. After all it was Jane who brought us together.”
“Yes, except for this pretty girl here and her pigtails we would never have met, Nancy. I love you so much, dear.”
It was the best Christmas Jarod ever had, perhaps the greatest gift was the fact that both his mother and Jacques treated him as Jane, the girl he really was.
Jacques suggested a traditional June wedding as they talked later in the evening, and it seemed the idea satisfied Nancy as well. Jarod smiled at the idea, picturing the gown he’d wear as bridesmaid. Sadly, however, as he thought about it, he would not be living fulltime as a girl by the time of the wedding. He would have to go as a boy, perhaps in a tux. He knew he’d look handsome enough, but he still felt he’d love to be attending as a “maid of honor” or “bridesmaid.”
Nonetheless, he was happy: his mother deserved the happiness that Jacques seemed ready to provide.
*****
Jarod often thought about his onetime crossdressing friend, Terrence, though not as frequently as he once had. He remembered Terri, as he called his chubby friend, as being soft and feminine. The two boys met him in summer camp before the 6th Grade when they both found themselves to be the least physically strong among the boys and failed in many of the activities of the boys. There they both discovered their common interest in dressing as girls, and in thinking of themselves as girls.
Since entering Roosevelt, Jarod rarely saw Terrence in school, since the other boy had, under the firm command of his stepfather, joined the football team and had begun working out to develop a masculine body. Terrence, in an effort to separate himself from the feminine activities he had enjoyed with Jarod, had begun hanging out with the jocks from the football team. Furthermore, in the sophomore year, Terrence had been on the different lunch hour.
Though Terrence had firmed up his body and turned much of his accumulated baby fat into muscle, Terrence still had a soft, cherubic appearance. Jarod wondered if he still retained the fleshy breasts he had had at age 11.
After football season ended and as the Christmas vacation period was about to begin, Jarod was pleased one afternoon to find Terrence waiting for him. “Can I walk with you, Jarod?” the boy asked.
“Of course, Terrence. What’s up?”
“Oh not much, I just wanted to see you again.”
“Cool,” Jarod replied. “I’ve been missing you, Terri. May I call you that?”
“I was hoping you would, and can I call you Jane?” the other boy said as they both zippered up their jackets to leave the school and enter the windy cold of a Wisconsin December day.
“I would like you to,” he said, as the two boys headed out of the school grounds.
Terri told Jarod that his sister who was now in her early 20s had her own apartment and that he would be spending some time with her.
“Maybe you’d like to come over some day? To my sisters? Over the vacation?”
“I guess. I don’t think my mom would mind now,” Jarod said, realizing that his mother’s objections to Jarod’s friendship with Terrence developed when she was trying to stifle his strong desires to dress as a girl.
“You must still dress a lot, Jane? Don’t you?”
“Almost fulltime at home now. My mom’s more OK with it, but she’s scared I might get hurt here in school if I go in public as a girl.”
Terrence nodded and grew silent.
“My stepdad gets real nasty if he thinks I’m not being a boy. He’s mad that I didn’t make the first team in football. He says to me, ‘damn, you’re big enough. Just get in there and hit the other guy.’”
“Oh?” Jarod asked as they headed on the street toward Jarod’s home.
“Jane, he’s so disappointed in me, and so is my mom. He’s so brainwashed my mom, I can’t stand it. And, my sister hardly ever comes by anymore, ‘cause he treats her real nasty, calling her a fat pig and everything.”
“Oh Terri, that’s awful.”
“I know, I feel so lonely, Jane,” the boy said, and Jarod sensed a heaviness in his voice.
“Well, you seem to get along OK with the boys on the team. They seem to accept you. At least it appears that way when I saw you at lunch last year.”
“They’re OK,” Terrence said. “But, I can’t call any of them ‘friends.’ You’re the only real friend I ever had, Jane.”
“Terri, Terri, Terri, my girl friend,” Jarod said, wishing he could embrace the larger boy right there on the street.
“Yes, Jane, I’ll never forget that time Melissa dressed us both up. We had so much fun, and no one guessed we weren’t girls.”
They agreed that Terrence would call Jarod to set up a time they could get together. He said his sister would probably come by and pick Jarod up to take him to her apartment to meet Terri.
*****
They never met during the Christmas vacation. Melissa called Jarod on the day after Christmas; she said their stepfather had gotten drunk and gone on a rampage, attacking Terrence, daring him to fight back, and calling him a “fat lazy ass.”
“When I tried to intervene, he hit me, too, and ordered me out of the house,” she said.
“And now Terrence is grounded for the holidays and can’t go out,” she continued. “I’m so sorry Jane. I wanted so much to get you two girls together, ‘cause I know how important it is to Terri.”
“Can I call Terri, Melissa?” Jarod asked.
“You better not, ‘cause that’ll get him into more trouble,” she said.
“Terri must be devastated,” Jarod said. “What does your mother say about what the stepfather is doing?”
“She defends him, thinking he’s right to get both of us on a diet and for Terri to become a man.”
“I don’t think Terri can ever be happy as a man,” Jarod said.
“I think you’re right, Jarod. Let’s hope he can get through school and when he’s 18 I’ll let him move in with me.”
Jarod felt tears coming after he hung up, tears on behalf of his friend, Terri, whose only happiness would be in living as a girl. During the spring semester in school, Jarod saw Terri only four or five times, with most meetings being brief, as Terri was trying his hardest to become “one of the boys.” He had assumed a “tough guy” demeanor, and Jarod was shocked to find out he had been suspended for a few days for fighting and beating up a younger boy.
“Your friend has become a bully, Jarod,” Latoya said to him one day. “I’ve seen him call other guys ‘sissies’ and ‘fags’ too.”
“It’s not like him to do that,” Jarod said, puzzled as to what had happened to Terrence, the sweet, gentle person he knew as Terri.
He called Melissa that night, reporting what he heard.
“Yes, Terri’s become all unstrung, trying to be macho,” she said. “He’s faking it, and being real bad.”
“I know. Wasn’t your mom mad he got suspended?”
“No, my stepdad was proud of him, saying it was a badge of honor, and my mom’s too cowed to argue. It seems stepdad links bad behavior to being macho. He was suspended many times in school, he told Terri.”
“Oh poor Terri,” Jarod said. “I know Terri liked school before.”
“I know,” Melissa said. “And, Terri can’t even talk to me now. Stepdad forbids it.”
*****
Jarod continued in his sophomore year at Roosevelt, maintaining his male persona in school with some surprising success. He found that his less-than-masculine physique was less and less noticeable in the high school. Still, he continued to enjoy the company of the “Bad Girls” group at lunch, and most of them seemed to accept his presence there without much wonder.
“Jarod, you talk our language,” Aniesha said one day when he asked why the girls accepted him. “You’re just one of us.”
It was teenage girl talk that filled the lunch hour everyday and Jarod easily joined in, often sharing the girly secrets from one or more of the girls. Latoya almost weekly engaged Jarod in chatting about her ongoing relationship with Demetrius, who would graduate and head off to one of the historic black colleges in Georgia.
“He’ll forget about me when he gets with those college girls,” she complained.
Mostly, Jarod would hold her hand and convince her that she was pretty and that Demetrius would be hard-pressed to find anyone as pretty and as smart. He also helped her with how she dressed and wore her hair, and she nearly always followed his advice.
He was able to maintain a feminine lilt to his voice, while not forcing himself to speak unnaturally. The tone was deeper, and more masculine, but with the softness of his voice and the inflections his voice had shown a remarkable gender-free identity. Thus, on the phone he was just as often taken for being a girl as a guy; on the few times he ventured in public as Jane, he was always accepted as female.
Outside of Marquise, he had developed no friendships with boys. His thinking and his frames of references seemed to always be female: with his mother, Wanda and Latoya, among the girls at the lunchtable. Even the new male in Jarod’s life, his mother’s fiancé, Jacques, treated him as a girl, and on the occasions he joined his mother and Jacques to go out, either to a restaurant or to shop, he went as Jane. His truly feminine physique seemed to help carry his feminine identity.
Since he was competing in no sports activity in the spring semester, he had to attend physical education classes. He hated gym class, since it meant disrobing and showering and displaying his weak, unboy-like body to others and to failing miserably in such activities as pull-ups and rope climbs.
“You got arms like a girl,” one kid teased him after he was unable to raise himself off the floor in a rope climb.
Yet, he somehow blundered through these humiliations, finding some kinship with other boys who also were without masculine attributes.
“Are you gay?” his friend Tiffany asked one day.
“Why do you ask?”
“I dunno,” she said, blushing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask that.”
“It’s just that you seem. . . ah . . . so happy to be with girls and you . . ah . . . never do anything with boys,” she said, stammering a bit.
“I just like being with girls,” he answered.
“Don’t you ever want to date a girl?” she asked, growing red.
“I suppose, but no girl would want me,” he said, telling his honest feelings.
“How do you know that, Jarod?” she asked, putting a hand on his as they sat on a bench on a warm lunch period in April. The “Bad Girls” had finished their lunches quickly and many went outside to enjoy one of the first warm days of the year to finish the lunch hour. The two friends found themselves sitting together.
“I don’t feel girls like boys like me,” he said.
“You’re perfectly handsome, Jarod, although sometimes I think you look more like a girl, with that long hair.”
“I like the long hair, but mom wants it shorter,” he replied. “You think a girl would really want to date me?”
“Definitely.” Her answer came without hesitation.
Jarod was puzzled. Was this nerdy, but also lively-eyed, interesting girl interested in him as a boy? Or what?
“Nobody’s asked me to the junior prom, Jarod.” The girl said this haltingly and with obvious shame.
Jarod pondered the situation: What was he to do? Ask her to the prom? He’d never dated a girl before. He didn’t know what he’d do.
“Jarod?”
“I never thought about the prom,” he said with a blundering, direct question: “Do you wanna go with me?”
Tiffany smiled, her eyes dancing lively through the lens of her granny glasses. “Yes, silly, but I don’t wanna force you.”
“I guess,” he answered.
The die was cast. Jarod was to have his first date, but as Jarod, not as Jane as he dreamed it would be.
The news that Jarod had asked Tiffany to the prom raised eyebrows among the “Bad Girls,” especially Aniesha, whom, it was apparent, had her own designs on Jarod. Latoya gave him several sideways glances and knowing looks, as if to say: “What do you know, girl?”
*****
His mother was pleased, as was his future stepfather, Jacques. The whole event forced him to cut his hair a bit, and ruin any chance of fixing it in pigtails. Jacques sprung for a tuxedo for Jarod, and the truth was by the time he picked up Tiffany for the prom, he looked like a handsome young man, one who most women would be pleased to have on their arm.
Jacques sprung for a limousine, and the couple doubled with Demetrius and Latoya. It actually made for an awkward mix, since Demetrius and Latoya were all hugs and caresses, while Jarod and Tiffany, both neophytes in dating, sat stiffly across the limo seats, somewhat embarrassed by the public display of love by their two friends. Jarod didn’t know what he was supposed to do.
Tiffany had gotten rid of her glasses for the night; well, actually she carried them in her tiny purse with her cosmetics, since she really needed them to see much detail. She truly looked lovely in the rather austere, high necked gown which trailed to the floor. She fixed her hair so that it swept up, but with two ringlets running down each side of her head.
Jarod survived the dance, and the after-dance party, getting home by 2 a.m. Tiffany proved to be a clumsy dancer, but the two found themselves talking a lot, mainly about their families and, strange as it seemed, about a young man in Illinois who had announced he was running for president.
“I like him,” Tiffany said. “His name’s Obama or something like that.”
Jarod had heard something about the man. “He’s black, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“He’ll never win,” said Demetrius, who broke off an embrace with Latoya as they rode in the limo.
“”You don’t think so?” Tiffany asked.
“You think a black man could ever be president in this country?” Demetrius asked derisively.
“I don’t know,” Tiffany said, adding. “I’m signing up to work for him. There’s lots on the Internet.”
Demetrius returned his attention to Latoya and the conversation ended. Jarod’s interest, however, in this man called Obama was whetted. Tiffany suggested the two of them might help form an “Obama for President” club at school; Jarod said he’d think about it.
Jarod had no idea how to approach Tiffany as they stopped at her house to end the evening. He had not put his arm around the girl during the entire night. Should he kiss her as they say good night, or would she reject it? Tiffany solved the problem for him, pulling him close to her as they stood at her front door; she raised her head, inviting his lips to hers. What followed was a clumsy meeting of the lips and a bumping of their noses. He tasted her sweet teengirl lips, tainted with the spicy Mexican food from the hors ‘oeuvres at the post prom party, and he enjoyed the sensation.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Jarod,” she said, entering her house where he was sure her mother was still up awaiting a full summary of her daughter’s first date.
It was a nice evening, Jarod recalled, and he even considered asking Tiffany out again on a date. Mostly, however, he pictured himself as the young girl, experiencing her first big dance date. Would it ever happen?
Chapter 30: Sweet Sixteen Summer
The last few days of school before vacation began were unusually warm and stifling; it was an oppresive heat that seemed to dampen some of the yearend hi-jinks that often feature the last days of school for teens. There was a listlessness that permeated the stuffy halls and rooms of Roosevelt, and students came dressed in scanty outfits, boys usually in muscle shirts or tees and shorts and many girls in tank tops and mini skirts or shorts. Such clothing was technically against the dress code, but the untypical readings of 90 plus temperatures caused the school administration to look the other way.
Jarod stuck to wearing a boy’s tee shirt, but several days wore a pair of denim shorts, which if anyone looked closely, would realize were girls’ shorts. He wore sandals without socks on the hottest days, prompting Tiffany to state one lunch hour as the “Bad Girls” group sat on the campus lawn: “I wish I had Jarod’s legs.”
At the moment, Jarod was sitting on the lawn, his legs stretched out, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree. He looked at his legs, smooth and slender but gently proportioned, thinking with a momentary self-pride that Tiffany was right.
“I bet he’d win any beauty contest with those legs,” Aniesha echoed.
“Awww, no. No.” Jarod responded.
“Yes, yes,” Tiffany countered. “Anyone here wanna challenge Jarod for the prettiest legs?”
“I don’t,” Latoya chimed in. “Mine are too knobby.”
“Mine, too,” said Tiffany.
“And my thighs are too fat,” said another girl.
“See Jarod,” Tiffany said, poking him playfully on the thigh. “You’re the choice to be the ‘Bad Girl’ with the prettiest legs.”
Jarod suddenly felt embarrassed, drawing his legs up and folding his arms about them, realizing that he secretly was relishing the praise he was hearing, but knowing he was coming dangerously close to revealing his true girlish being.
Aniesha, whose desire for Jarod’s attention had become obvious, saw the boy’s discomfort.
“I just think that makes Jarod so much more handsome,” she said, covering her mouth, realizing that her comment would reveal her enrapture over Jarod to the others.
Not to be outdone, Tiffany said: “I do too,” adding another comment destined to sting the other girl: “And. he was so handsome at the prom.”
Jarod’s unease at this attention became obvious, and soon the girls began talking about what they were going to be doing over the summer. Aniesha and Tiffany, who had become close, both were able to win internships at the public library; their closeness was cooling, probably due to their mutual interest in attention from Jarod. Latoya was able to get a job at “Burger Palace,” a drive-in that was open only during the warm months of the year.
To Jarod’s relief, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch hour and the need to return to the muggy classes, where bare thighs would sweat and stick to the varnished seats of the classroom chairs.
*****
Jarod, who would not turn 16 until August, had no job planned for the summer, although his future stepfather, Jacques, thought there might be an opening at Claudine’s, the apparel store he operated in Milwaukee.
“How can he do that?” his mother, Nancy, asked when Jacques brought the idea up.
“Why not?” Jacques said. “I do need a stock boy, particularly with the popularity of the pigtail fashions.”
“Jacques, don’t you realize?” his mother said, taking on the definitive tone of voice Jarod had known only too well. “They all know him as a girl, as Jane, the model. Are you nuts to think they wouldn’t recognize him?”
Jacques nodded, saying only: “You’re right, of course, Nancy.”
Jarod was in the kitchen with the two adults as this conversation went and wondered whether the romance between his mother and Jacques could overcome his mother’s tendency to be “bossy” and to always think she was “right.” He noticed Jacques scowl a bit, and then reach over to touch Nancy on the forearm, looking at her with obvious affection.
“Jarod, your mother’s a lovely woman, and I am so happy to soon be part of this family,” Jacques said with sincerity and affection.
The two then kissed. Jarod so enjoyed seeing them be affectionate toward one another. At first, Jarod had resented that Jacques was intruded upon the closeness that Jarod and his mother enjoyed, but the gentleness and generosity of his future stepfather soon prompted Jarod to lose that feeling of intrusion. If anything, Jacques brought an openness and understanding to his mother that was refreshing.
As it was, Jarod did do some work for Claudine’s, using his seamstress skills at home; Jacques purchased a commercial sewing machine and cloth-cutting unit and had it delivered to their Pinkerton home. Almost daily, Jacques brought home clothes that had to be repaired or altered specially for customers. He also encouraged Jarod to try his hand at designing some dresses, with the potential of having the designs purchased.
“Jarod, your skills at this are truly top-rate,” he said.
He also introduced Jarod to Miss Amelia, who in reality was Anastasia Szymczak, an aging Polish woman who had developed a small, loyal following among wealthy women in Chicago and Milwaukee for her special designs. He paid for weekly lessons with the woman at her South Side Milwaukee home, an overly decorated home that belied her otherwise good taste that featured her fashions.
There, he learned how better to design outfits that more comfortably featured the feminine body and would help flatter women by accentuating their appealing body features or overcoming their shortcomings.
The woman was tough talking and very demanding; she looked critically at Jarod when he first entered her home, taking him to her basement workshop that was brightly lit and covered with hangers of dresses, rolls of material, several sewing machines and cutting boards.
“My darling, you are the best student I ever had,” she said by the third week of sessions with Jarod. Her voice was husky and still heavily accented. Every so often her husband would be around, and Jarod noticed they only spoke Polish to each other.
“Thank you,” he said, noticing with relief that Mrs. Szymczak was beginning to treat him more gently.
“You’re the first boy I ever had to teach,” she said. “And I must admit, I didn’t like the idea and I told that to Jacques, but he said you were special.”
Jarod nodded, unsure how to respond.
“You understand the female body,” she said. “And you have the most talented hands.”
Together, they designed his mother’s wedding dress as well as the dress for Helen Highsmith who would be the matron of honor. It was to be a simple ceremony, so the dresses would elegant, but informal in design. Both would be knee-length in design, with high necks and short, puffed sleeves. There would be plenty of material to develop flowing folds, drawn in by a belt just under the breast line.
“We have a problem here, Jarod,” Mrs. Szymczak told him. “Your mother is full figured and Mrs. Highsmith is slender and almost without curves. So I think this kind of design will fit both.”
The material was an opaque combination cloth, crá¨me-colored for the bride and light blue for the matron of honor. Jarod did most of the sewing at home, giving him a chance to fit the dresses more closely than if he did it at the home of Mrs. Szymczak. Despite the short time left to complete the dresses, Jarod (with the help of Miss Amelia) completed the dresses three days before the wedding which was set for the last Saturday in June.
It was to be a simple ceremony done at Breezy Point Park, a public park in Douglas overlooking Lake Michigan. The park was named because it was on scenic site on a point known for high winds and as the graveyard of hundreds of sailing ships in the 19th Century.
“We’ll be married outdoors, if the weather cooperates,” his mother said.
“Which in Wisconsin in June we’ll never be sure of,” added Jacques.
The reception was held in the park pavilion, which had both an indoor meeting room and an outdoor picnic area under a roof.
Jacques son, Peter, was his father’s best man, while Jarod was an usher, since there were no groomsmen in the simple affair. Both boys were dressed in rented tuxedos, Peter in black and Jarod in a maroon color that seemed to highlight his long, brown hair, tied into a neat ponytail.
“You’re so handsome in that,” his mother told him, kissing him.
He was happy for his mother, but as he looked at the dress he had designed for his mother and Helen, he wished he too could be in a dress. He found he wore the same size as Helen, and often during the sewing of the dress, had tried it on, modeling it for himself, onetime calling his mother in to look.
“Mom, I could be your bridesmaid, like Peter is his dad’s best man,” he said.
“Guess you could be. You do look pretty in that dress, dear, but for my wedding, you are my son, Jarod.”
“I know mom, I was just dreaming.”
The wedding went off without a hitch, the weather cooperating magnificently. The photos taken show the marriage party standing on the lake bluff, the blue waters of Lake Michigan sparkling in the background. Jarod cried as the two newlyweds kissed to end the ceremony.
Jarod was praised many times for being “so handsome.” One friend of Jacques volunteered, “I have a daughter for you.” Jacques son, Peter, and he spent much time together, speculating about where the couple would live, and where Jarod would finish school.
Peter still was unaware of Jarod’s feminine desires, but did ask his father: “Is Jarod gay? He acts so femme.”
“My dad says you’re the artistic type, Jarod,” Peter said when the two took a break from the reception and stood talking atop the bluff.
“I guess I am,” he said. “You know I made the dresses?”
“Yes, and I guess I thought you must be queer.”
The boy suddenly reddened, adding quickly: “I didn’t mean to say that, Jarod.”
“That’s OK,” Jarod smiled. “Since we’re almost brothers, you should ask. No, I don’t think I’m gay, but I do seem to like to sew and make dresses.”
“My dad told me the top designers in the world were men, so I guess I shouldn’t wonder,” Peter said.
Jarod had enjoyed the few times the two boys had gotten together. Peter apparently had gone through a rebellious period after his parents divorced, but seemed now to be getting his life in shape, having lost some weight and was taking more interest in attending college next year.
Jarod realized that soon he would have to tell Peter that he really preferred being Jane.
*****
He spent much of the summer vacation at the sewing machines working on the altering jobs and dress designing orders provided by Jacques for Claudine’s. He found himself lost in his work as the hours passed by, usually dressed in panties, a loose skirt or denim shorts and a tank top. And, on most days, he tied his hair in pigtails.
He often tried on the dresses or outfits that he was working on, modeling them in front of the mirror, pleased with how convincingly feminine he looked.
Somedays, Jarod would be asked to babysit Emily and Amanda, the two young children who lived next door. He enjoyed those chores, even if he had to dress as a boy, since it was agreed that he not raise questions among the young girls. Yet, when babysitting, he curled up like a teen girl, playing with dolls with the two girls.
By the time August arrived, Jarod was still pale, having rarely ventured out into the sunshine. His arms and legs had grown soft from inaction, and he realized that, in spite of the success he had had in his sophomore year in cross country, he probably would not run in the next school year.
Rarely, indeed, did he dress as a male, and Jacques and his mother seemed to accept him in the house as a girl, as Jane, usually using that name when he was around.
Wanda spent the summer again as a day camp counselor and on most evenings participated in one of several softball teams, where she was quickly being recognized as a skilled shortstop and power hitter. Several times that summer, Wanda asked Jarod to join her as she used her mother’s car, and the two would venture to a drive-in custard stand or cruise along the lakefront. On these ventures, Jarod was dressed as Jane, pigtails and all. The two teen friends usually took long walks along the shore park, sometimes even holding hands and gaining looks of both curiosity and disgust from people who viewed the two as lesbians.
Jarod also felt safe and comfortable with Wanda; she always accepted him as he wanted to be and that was as a tender, caring girl named Jane. He loved to feel her hard, calloused hands envelop his slender soft hands, and would look for her to caress his weak arms and sometimes hold him tightly to her strong, muscled body.
“When are you coming out?” Wanda asked him one muggy night in late August as they sat on a bench looking out at Lake Michigan, the reflection of a yellow rising moon bouncing along the waves.
“I don’t know, Wanda,” he said. “Mom is still scared for me, but I feel I’m ready.”
“You are, Jane,” the girl said. “My god, you’re all girl to me.”
Jarod smiled: “I wonder what Marquise will say if he finds out about Jane. He might be so mad at me.”
“I don’t think so, Jane. He’s smart boy and I’m sure he knows about trannnies.”
“I like him so much and we’re such good friends, Wanda.”
“Well, you’d be a better girl friend for him than that Janita girl,” Wanda said, squeezing him more tightly as she said it.
Jarod didn’t say anything, and he suspected Wanda knew that Jarod pictured himself as a girl in the arms of the good-looking African-American boy. He knew that he wanted so badly to be a fragile girl, awaiting the kisses and affections of this most desirable boy. He dreamed that night about sitting on that same lakefront bench with Marquise, being his white girl friend, her pretty pale face with its sprinkling of freckles, contrasted to the dark skin of a trim, muscled young man.
Chapter 31: Another School Year
He did not talk to Terrence, his onetime crossdressing friend, during the summer, but he saw him on the first week of school, as he was wandering around the cafeteria looking for the “Bad Girls” group from the previous school year. Before he could find them, he saw Terrence, seeming just as fat as ever, but now talking loud amidst a group of his loutish friends, making disparaging comments about just about everything. He was wearing pants that drooped down low on his hips with a shirt that hung loose over his massive, flabby body. He had developed a scraggly growth of facial hair, which, to Jarod, seemed to make him most unappealing. He couldn’t picture this boy as his onetime friend, who was so dainty and fastidious about his dress.
Jarod decided not to pass by the group, but Terrence saw him, hailing him: “Hey bitch girl, ain’t ya’ gonna say ‘Hi’?”
Jarod decided to respond with a tentative “Hi,” and then leave quickly.
Terrence, however, responded, demanding that Jarod join him at the table with his friends. Jarod tried to head away, but Terrence grabbed his arm, almost causing Jarod to drop his tray of food, forcing him to sit at the table with the others, all boys seeming to be similarly gross in their attire, habits and conversation.
“How you doing, girl,” Terrence demanded in a loud, stage voice once Jarod was seated, his tray set out in front of him.
“Hi, I’m Jarod,” he said to the table as a whole, ignoring Terrence’s chiding.
“You’re with the girls usually, aren’t you?” one of the boys said.
Jarod nodded, and tried to begin eating his food.
“That was a table of a bunch of ‘goody goodies,’” the boy said.
The group laughed, and then Terrence added: “Now you’re with real men. How does that make you feel?”
Jarod nodded, uttering a faint “fine, I guess.”
“I think he belongs with the girls,” the other boy, now known as Spike, probably due to his spiked haircut.
“Terrence,” pronounced one of the other boys, “Have you fucked her yet?”
“Nah, she’s saving it for that black stud,” Terrence said.
“I bet she’s just a prick teaser,” the comment came again.
“Why are you doing this to me, Terri?” Jarod asked, tears forming in his face, as he tried to getup from the table, but unable to rise because one of the boys grabbed his arm and held him down.
“’cause you’re such a sissy bitch,” he said cruelly, although the words came out tentatively.
“Let me go,” Jarod cried out loud, his face red with humiliation and rage.
“You’re such a . . .”
Terrence’s phrase was cut short by a demanding loud voice booming over the table: “What’s going on here?”
It was Jerome, the huge African-American school aide who was assigned cafeteria duty, and was able to bring order to the most chaotic of situations, merely by booming out his deep, demanding voice and towering over just about any situation.
“Oh we’re just having fun,” said one of the boys.
“No, you’re not. I’ll give you a warning now. Don’t any of you ever pick on this student or any others. I saw what you’re doing.”
The boys stayed silent.
“Come with me, Jarod,” Jerome said. He led him to a table where several of the girls from last year’s “Bad Girls” group sat, and directed Jarod to sit down.
“Those kids are no good, Jarod,” Jerome said. “Stay away from them. You’re too good for them.”
Jarod wanted to run off and cry, but he held back tears, and soon felt at home with the girls, getting involved in their girl talk.
*****
Jacques moved in to live with Jarod and his mother, commuting daily to Milwaukee for his work. Thanks perhaps to Jacques equanimity and generous behavior, the family flourished. His mother seemed less highly strung, and Jarod helped the situation out by preparing supper most nights for the two working adults.
Jacques had accepted the fact that Jarod most of the time was “Jane” at home, and the two adults used that name regularly.
The only complication was Peter, Jacques son, who visited every other weekend, sometimes coming down to Douglas to also visit with Jarod. On those visits, Jarod made sure his room reverted to its more “boyish” setting, and wore all male clothes.
Peter had become used to Jarod’s effeminate mannerisms, and the two became even closer, finding kinship through certain movies and video games, which Peter brought and which Jarod was learning, somewhat surprisingly to begin to enjoy. Nonetheless, Peter was uneasy when the two boys would go out to the burger stand or the mall together, obviously not wishing to be identified as being friendly with such a faggish-looking boy.
Overall, the new family relationships were warming up, and Jarod was happy for his mother.
“Maybe we should tell Peter about Jane,” Jarod ventured to his mother after a recent visit in early October. “He probably suspects something.”
“I don’t know what he’ll think, Jarod, and I don’t want to damage his relationship with his father,” his mother replied. “They’re getting along so well together.”
*****
“How’s Marquise like college?” he asked Aniesha at lunch one day.
“He loves it; he’s already on the university newspaper staff,” she said. Aniesha, who had been a shy bookish girl, had matured in the last year, filling out her figure and becoming a most attractive girl.
“Cool, I knew he’d like it.”
Marquise had been given a scholarship to a highly rated small liberal arts university in Wisconsin after finishing his high school years as an honor student.
“He’s broken up with Janita,” the girl said. “I’m so glad. She was so stupid.”
Jarod giggled, but suddenly felt a tinge of expectation arise, still imagining himself as Jane in the arms of this talented boy.
The “Bad Girls” group failed to reorganize for the new school year, perhaps due to changes in lunch schedules and the fact that some of the girls had found boy friends. Jarod’s “date” from his sophomore year, Tiffany, was on a different lunch hours schedule so the lunch groups usually included Aniesha, Jarod and Latoya, who was usually silent, still wondering about her boy friend, Demetrius, attending the state university on an athletic scholarship where he might eventually become that school’s first starting black quarterback.
Jarod had turned down Coach Cummings’ urging that he rejoin the cross country team, and now concentrated mainly on the Odyssey, the school literary magazine.
Jarod felt more and more like he should be attending school as a girl, and his mannerisms grew more effeminate. He cried often at night, wishing he could now live as a girl; he hated the lie he was living, lying to Marquise and to Peter and to good friends like Tiffany and Aniesha. In the morning, however, Jarod awoke slowly, often having to be asked several times to get out of bed, a change from the past when he would be eager to rise and dress for school.
*****
Though he tried to avoid Terrence and his friends, it wasn’t always possible. In late October, Jarod was hurried down the hall to work on the Odyssey after school, and his mind was concentrating on the theme the magazine would adopt. He did not see Terrence or a group of his friends, turning the corner into the hallway and running right into one of them.
“Watch where you’re going,” the boy said roughly, pushing Jarod away so hard that he lost his balance, falling on the ground, his bookbag opening with its contents spilling on the ground at the feet of the boys.
“It’s the sissy bitch,” said one of the other boys.
“Hey, it’s your girl friend, Terrence,” the first boy said.
Terrence laughed and kicked one of the books away from Jarod as he was about to pick it up.
“Let’s get outa here,” one of the boys said, and they scurried away.
Jarod gathered up his books, this time refusing to let tears to come. With the help of several girls, he gathered up his materials, and started to head to the literary magazine staff meeting.
Before he could go, the huge school aide, Jerome, arrived, stopping Jarod: “Those same boys attack you?”
Jarod nodded, but added, “It was partly my fault, I bumped into one of them coming around the corner and fell.”
For some strange reason, Jarod felt a need to protect Terrence, and he purposely tried to make light of the situation.
“No, Jarod, one of the girls told me they purposely attacked you,” Jerome argued. “Is that what happened?”
“No I fell,” he said.
“OK, have it your own way, Jarod, but we’ll get to the bottom of this,” the aide said, sending Jarod on his way.
He felt sad, not for himself, but for Terrence, his onetime sweet friend, who had turned into an obnoxious bully. He knew Terrence had been kicked off the football team for his bad behavior and he felt something must have been bothering the boy. Maybe, he thought, he should call Melissa, Terrence’s sister.
*****
Though it seemed the teasing and verbal harassment continued almost daily, Jarod seemed to have grown used to the taunts. Instead, he tended to continue to show his femininity almost in defiance of his tormentors. He never flaunted it, not seeking to be a “flaming queen,” but rather just to be the type of girl he felt he honestly was, a thoughtful, caring and loving girl.
As he went to school on the day following the hallway incident, Jarod was nonetheless wary of what he might face. His onetime good friend, Terrence, had taken up with a group of about ten white boys, who were known to roam the hallways and the streets around the school to bully the several known gay students. His feminine mannerisms easily marked Jarod as a target for the bunch. As far as Jarod could tell, he was the only crossdresser in the school, but he was sure there must be others.
Latoya had told Jarod after the earlier school lunch incident that she heard the group of white toughs called themselves “The Protectors,” and were taken to “protecting the school from the “gays and fags and lazy undesirables.” She said the last group likely meant the blacks and Hispanics in the schools. “They’re like the KKK,” she said.
All during the day, Jarod saw no sign of Terrence or any of the other boys from the group; he wondered about it, thinking that perhaps they had all been suspended for the hallway incident, even though he had denied being attacked. That possibility bothered Jarod for two reasons: he might become a more dedicated target for attack and he truly didn’t want to get Terrence into more trouble.
He was joined by Latoya and Tiffany as school ended; they walked with him out of the building, and as they reached the street, a voice yelled out: “Jarod, oh, Jarod, over here. Can I talk to you a moment?”
The voice belonged to a well-dressed young woman, slightly overweight with a round soft-featured face. At first Jarod wasn’t sure who was calling him; quickly he recognized it was Melissa, the older sister of Terrence.
“Hi Melissa, I didn’t recognize you at first,” he said.
He introduced Latoya and Tiffany, noticing that the young woman’s face was flushed and her eyes red and moist.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’d like to give you a ride home, Jarod, if you’d like,” she said, looking to the other two girls for agreement.
“Sure,” he said, wondering what was up. Meliisa clearly had been crying.
“Go ahead, Jarod,” Latoya said.
“Yes, go, and nice meeting you Melissa,” Tiffany added.
They entered Melissa’s car, a late model Ford Focus, which carried a slight odor of perfume mixed with a new car smell. A tiny pink bunny dangled from the rear view mirror mount, giving the car a comfortable girlish atmosphere. Jarod felt surprisingly at home in the car, and with Melissa.
She drove in silence, refusing to respond to Jarod’s pleading questions, “What’s wrong?” “What’s going on?” “What’s happened?”
Melissa drove into the parkway that adjoined the river, stopping finally, and turning to Jarod, tears beginning to flow from her face.
“Terri is dead, Jarod. Our dear sweet Terri . . .” she could not finish the sentence and broke into tears, crying profusely, grabbing Jarod and hugging him. He removed his seat belt so that he could more easily receive the embrace.
At first he didn’t understand what he heard. Dead? Who? Terri? Our dear sweet Terri? Dead? Dead?
“Oh no. No. Not Terri,” he finally yelled out loud and he began to cry.
Jarod still was confused. How could Terri, who only the day before as the loutish Terrence had assaulted and humiliated him, be dead? He was too big and strong to be dead.
“How?” he finally asked, still unable to comprehend the situation.
“He took his own life, Jane,” she said, now composing herself, and using his girl’s name.
“His own life?”
“Yes my darling girl,” she said addressing him, her eyes still moist with tears as she dabbed at her face, then using a fresh tissue to wipe the tears from Jarod’s own face.
“How? Why?”
“My mother found him this morning,” she began. Her words came in spurts as she sought to hold back tears.
“Hanging from a pipe in the . . . ah basement. He was so . . . oh Jane . . . so pretty. I saw him before . . . Well, he was all dressed as Terri. He was so pretty. No, Jane, she, Terri, she was so pretty.”
Jarod sat silently, picturing his onetime girl friend, Terri, and how feminine she could look, even as a chubby girl, she was almost dainty and weak and defenseless. He could see almost a smile behind the glistening eyes of Melissa as she described how her brother was dressed.
“Jane, Terri was so lovely,” she began, talking as if she were describing a sister. “She wore my prom dress from high school. I was pretty fat then, and he fit perfectly into it. It was off a dark blue, flowing material with a high waist, and square bodice and sleeves down to the elbows. You know, we had to hide my fat arms.”
Melissa gave a little chuckle as she continued.
“She fixed her hair in an up style, and it’s too bad she didn’t have long hair like yours, Jane, so that she could have covered her fat neck. But she was so lovely, with bright glossy pink lipstick, matched by the color of her nails. She wore natural hose, with 3- inch sandals, blue with sequins. And, she wore a necklace I bought her for her 13th birthday before our stepfather moved in with us and ruined everything.”
“Oh she must have been lovely,” Jarod said, almost regretting his words.
“She was, Jarod, and she left a note for me and my mom.”
“Oh,” he said, the two had separated from their embrace and sat calmly and almost in a matter-of-fact manner talked.
“It said only: ‘Dear Mom and Melissa. I’m sorry for all the pain I have caused you. I am happy now. Love, your daughter and sister, Terri.’”
As she ended, Melissa burst into tears again; Jarod did as well, and the two hugged each other, their cries rising to almost screams for assistance.
“And, she left this for you,” Melissa said when their crying subsided, handing Jarod a sealed pink envelop which had dancing bunnies printed on the corner. It was addressed, “Dear Jane.”
Inside was matching pink stationery paper, with Terri’s precise, almost dainty handwriting:
“My dear Jane. I am so sorry. I hurt you so. Please, please forgive me. You were the only real friend I ever had. You knew me like no one else, except maybe for Melissa. I loved you so, and I hurt you. I can’t live with myself, knowing how I hurt you and that I must continue to live as Terrence. It was Terrence who hurt you. Terri loves you too much.
“My darling, I hope you find happiness and soon can live as Jane.
“Now I am happy. I am Terri. I leave you as Terri. Please be not sad for me.
“Hugs, kisses and my eternal love, Terri.”
As bright red imprint of red lips emblazoned on the bottom.
Jarod took the letter, gently kissing the spot containing the lip imprint. He handed it to Melissa to read.
They were silent as Melissa drove him home; they kissed briefly, said nothing to each other and he left her car, carrying Terri’s note. No one was home, and this was one night when Jarod would not prepare supper. Instead, he went to his room, found a nightie and panties, put them on and lay upon his bed, crying.
*****
His mother found Jarod still laying on top of his bed, the lovely floral-patterned duvet rumpled as he had pulled it over him as he lay in the fetal position, his eyes red with tears.
She head for the bed, sitting besides him, seeing the dampness on the bedclothes, and raising his fragile body into a sitting position, hugging him tightly.
“What’s happened, my dear? Why are you here crying?”
His sobs intensified and he retreated into the strong arms of his mother, accepting her warmth and love, finally answering:
“Terri . . . oh . . . you know . . . Terrence, my friend when we were in middle school. Remember, mom?”
“Yes, honey, what about him?”
“He’s dead mother.”
“Oh?” his mother said, mystified as to why Jarod was taking this boy’s death so hard. “I didn’t think you hardly knew him anymore.”
Jarod’s sobbing began again, and through his tears, he said, almost defiantly, “Mother, you wouldn’t understand. He was like me.”
“Like you?”
“Yes, mother, you remember, all he wanted was to be a girl, but his stepdad forced him to forget and to be all boy, and to play football. Now he’s dead!”
Nancy Pinkerton released her son from the hugs, and took his two hands in hers, looking almost sternly into his eyes. “Honey, you have a loving mother and your new father, Jacques, loves you too.”
“Mom, don’t you see,” Jarod removed his hands from her grip, “It’s not that. It’s that I should be a girl, like Terri should have been a girl. That’s why he’s dead, and I maybe was the cause of his death.”
He explained that Terri (he only used the female name) had become part of a gang of thugs in his quest to become masculine, and that he had helped harass and even try to beat Jarod up.
“He didn’t want to do that, mom. He really wanted to hug me and to love me. We were to be girl friends, but he felt so bad, he took his life.”
Jarod told his mother how Terri had been dressed and how he took his life. He told of his meeting with Melissa, who had given him all of the details. He did not, however, tell his mother about the note. He would save the note for all of his life, and store it away in the pages of his diary.
“I didn’t realize you felt so close to him, Jarod,” his mother said. “Are there to be any services?”
“No, Melissa said they’ll cremate Terri, and that there will be services for the family only. Even I can’t come.”
“Oh my poor darling,” his mother said.
“Terri’s stepdad said Terri disgraced the family and wants him done away with soon and without notice,” he said.
“That’s so cruel,” she said.
Nancy told Jarod that he should probably take a shower and clean himself up, and suggested he dress in any way he wished that night. Jarod had a black dress in the closet that Amy, the next door neighbor, had saved from her high school years. That would be a fitting dress for the night, he felt.
*****
That night, after the hurried supper Nancy prepared from a box of spaghetti and hamburger, Jacques suggested the three talk together, without turning the television on or indulging in any other distractions. Jarod felt Jacques understood how he felt; his new stepfather offered questions gently and without apparent judgment.
“Mother, Jacques,” Jarod said after nearly an hour of discussion. “I’m going to live from now on as Jane. Always as Jane. Jarod is no more.”
His voice was firm and strong.
“Oh no, Jarod, you can’t go to school that way,” his mother objected. “You’re not ready for it yet.”
“No Nancy,” Jacques said in a low, but direct voice. “I think Jane is ready.”
Jarod smiled to his stepfather, hoping his mother would finally agree. She began to argue, but Jacques cut her short.
“Nancy, it’s time. I know you’re his mother, his own blood, and I’m new to the family, but I think Jane is ready. Now.”
“Oh Jacques, honey, I’m so scared for him,” she protested.
“Nancy, you’re the mother, so I won’t interfere, but I really think Jane is ready.”
“But he . . .”
Jarod interrupted her: “Mom, I’m Jane. I’m a ‘she.’”
A rap on the door interrupted the discussion; it was Wanda, who hurried into the room after Jarod opened the door.
“Oh Jane,” she said, grabbing Jarod and holding his slender figure tightly against hers. “I just heard about Terri. How awful?”
“Yes,” was all Jarod could respond, before he began crying again.
“Come in, Wanda,” Nancy offered, as Jacques rose to greet her.
*****
“I’ve made my mind up, mother,” Jarod said. “I’m going to school tomorrow as Jane, and I will be Jane Pinkerton from now on.”
He assumed a girlish position on the couch, and grabbed the hand of Wanda, holding it tensely as he made his statement. It followed another half hour of discussion about Terri’s suicide and Jarod’s future.
Wanda had remained largely silent, not wishing to intrude in the discussion. Jarod’s mother continued to raise objections about his plans, most of them of the usual practical nature: “You’ll get hurt.” “Your studies with suffer.” “How will you ever get a job?” “The cost of transition is high.” “The surgery is painful.” On and on she went.
Jacques patiently joined Jarod’s answers to each question his mother raised.
“Don’t you think I want you to be happy, Jarod?” she asked.
“Yes, mother, you do, but let me decide. It’s my life.” Jarod’s voice assumed a firm, almost definitive tone.
“Oh honey, I don’t argue that you don’t feel like you are a girl, but I just wish you’d hold off on this. It’s just not right yet. You’re still in school,” she continued.
“Do you forbid me to go to school as Jane tomorrow?” he finally said firmly.
Nancy looked to her husband in desperation, wondering how to answer. He neither nodded “yes” nor “no,” but sat rigid, realizing Jarod was her son, not his, and she’d have to make the decision.
“No, honey, I won’t,” she said finally.
“Oh mother, I’ll make you happy you said ‘yes,’ really, I will,” he said, rising from the couch and rushing to hug her.
Chapter 32: It’s Time for Jane
Jane arose early the next day, still tired from lack of sleep, and a nagging fear at concern over what kind of greeting she’d get among the students. She showered, brushed her hair and put on her favorite panties; they were simple cotton panties, nothing fancy, but they were light blue with pictures of cute pigtailed little girls. She also put on a plain white bra, within which she had fashioned breast forms, giving her tiny, but noticeable breasts.
The big question was, as it was with most teen girls every morning: What should she wear?
“A skirt and blouse?” she wondered. “Not many girls wore them, or even a dress, to school anymore.”
She tried on jeans with bell-bottoms that looked like they would be in a fairly typical teen fashion, Jane thought. “But they’re not feminine enough.”
Then, just out of a whim, Jane put on a pair of purple tights, and whirled about in front of the full-length mirror, admiringly looking at her legs. “I do have pretty legs, don’t I,” she mused, breaking into a full smile.
She found a multi-colored shift, splashed in random designs of reds, and greens and purples, which seemed to complement the tights beautifully. The shift had a ruffled scoop neck and bare arms. She put on a pair of black flats with a strap across the top of the foot.
She then retreated to the bathroom, where she stood in front of the mirror, tying her hair into two pigtails at the top of her head, the strands flowing out in a cute style.
“Jane, let me see you, honey,” her mother yelled. “I have to leave soon and I want to make sure my girl looks OK.”
“I do, mother,” she said. In truth, she felt her mother might be a bit shocked at her choice of clothes.
“Jane, you look like a hippie from the 60s,” she said.
“Mother, I think I’ll look cool.”
“I don’t know, and what’s this with the pigtails?” her mother asked. “They make you look 13 years old.”
“But, mother, I love my pigtails,” she pleaded.
“Yes, I know,” she said, beginning to laugh. “And, pigtails are for girls, aren’t they?”
Her mother was now resigned to letting Jane dress as she wanted, with the belief that Jane might become more conventional once she realized how weird the other kids might think she is.
Actually, Jane had observed the other girls in school, and realized that while most seemed to follow a sameness that involved jeans and oversized tops in cold weather and shorts and tank tops in warmer weather, the girls she hung around with often wore styles that could be called “outlandish.”
Once her preoccupation with her clothes was ended, Jane began to feel a slight panic begin: what would happen when she entered school for the first time as a girl? Would everyone laugh at her? Would the toughs try to beat her up? What bathrooms could she use? Would they even let her attend?
Her tension became obvious, as she went twice to the bathroom, sitting down, of course, to pee. (In truth, she hadn’t stood up to pee for about year, always assuming the female posture to urinate.)
“Are you sure you want to do this, Jane?” her mother asked, sensing her tenseness.
“Oh yes, I have to,” she said. She thought of Terri, the girl whose life had ended because she could never live the life she needed to live.
*****
Wanda, true to her word, came over to walk with Jane to school, to help her through the process of walking into the school, showing her ID, which still said “Jarod Pinkerton” “Male.”
Jane put on a light blue hoodie, padded to protect against the Wisconsin cold. She brought out, too, a pink and green girlish bookbag, using it in place of the Green Bay Packer bookbag she had been using.
She felt so natural now, so much the girl she felt she always was. No more did she have to assume macho mannerisms, which came so hard for her.
As the pair approached the front of the school, Jane was astonished to find about a dozen of her girl friends, standing on both sides of the walk approaching the main entrance.
“What’s this? I can’t go through with this now? Why are they here?” Jane said to Wanda, grabbing the girl’s coat, and stopping dead still.
“Oh no you don’t, Wanda said. You’re going to school today as Jane.”
“But, all my friends are here.”
“Yes, I know, I called Latoya and Tiffany last night and told them what you were doing, and they both said, ‘It’s about time.’ They must have told the others.”
“Wasn’t Tiffany surprised? She didn’t know about me like you and Latoya did.”
“She suspected, Jane, as I think a lot of others did, too. You acted just like one of us,” Wanda said, pulling on Jane to resume the walk to school.
“Come on they’re waiting for you to escort you in,” she said.
A huge cheer went up as Jane and Wanda approached, the girls running up to Jane to hug her, offering words of encouragement. “Wait ‘til I tell my boy friend,” one of the girls named Grace said. “He thought you were just a sissy or fag, but now I can tell him you’re a girl.”
“Jane, I love you,” Latoya whispered in her ear, hugging Jane hard.
“Oh and you’re wearing pigtails,” Tiffany said, as Jane’s hoodie fell off, exposing her head, and the cute pigtails in their light blue ribbons.
“Yes, pigtails are for girls,” Jane responded, followed by a giggle.
*****
The walk up to the main entrance is sometimes like running the gauntlet, but being accompanied by the other girls made it easy, reducing the chance for some of the toughs to make comments or pushed Jane around.
Jarod noticed that Jerome, the huge school security aide, was staffing the metal detectors they were using at school. He and another male aide also checked the IDs.
“Oh are you a new girl here in school, miss?” Jerome asked, looking right at Jane, puzzled when she produced her school ID card, identifying “Jarod Pinkerton.”
“What’s this?” he boomed. “Jarod, is that you? Why are you dressed like this?”
“It’s Jane Pinkerton now, sir,” she said, addressing Jerome in a polite, respectful manner, using her soft, girlish voice.
Jerome told Jane to stand in the corner and wait; Wanda and Latoya wanted to stay with Jane, but Jerome ordered them to head to their rooms. Jerome got on his walkie-talkie and talked into it.
In less than a minute, Mrs. Marguerite Jones, the school principal, appeared. Jane was so happy it was the principal since she had so understood the attack Jane suffered in her sophomore year.
“Is this a lark, Jarod?” she asked, after taking him to her office and closing the door.
“No ma’am, I feel I am a girl and should go to school as a girl.”
“Oh darling, you’re going to make life so difficult for yourself here, and you’re such a good student.”
Mrs. Jones sighed, obviously reluctant to deal with the issue that Jane (whom she still insisted upon calling “Jarod”) was raising. She asked Jane to sit outside in the receptionist’s area for a minute, while she made some calls.
Jane sat quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her purple-tight clad legs held together. She watched the busy secretary handle calls from parents and others in a most expeditious manner, but still politely. Jane was impressed and wondered if she could ever be such an efficient secretary.
“Ok Jane, you may come in now,” Mrs. Jones said.
After Jane was seated, Mrs. Jones said she called Jane’s mother, receiving confirmation that she had approved, though with reluctance, the decision for her son to go to school now as a girl. Mrs. Jones also said it was school board policy to honor the gender orientation of students and to make appropriate arrangements. The principal also suggested that Jane’s mother get a statement from the psychiatrist attesting to the fact that Jane’s desires were not merely whimsical and based on the child’s actual feelings.
“We’ll have to accept your decision, Jane, though I must say it’ll be causing us some fuss here to accommodate you as a girl.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,” she said. “I hate to cause such trouble, but I just can’t continue living as a boy.”
Jane wanted to tell the principal about how Terri died because she could not be the girl she felt she was. Jane knew, however, that Terri’s family wanted her death hushed up and forgotten. The thought of Terri clouded her mind, and Jane felt she was going to begin crying, but held back any noticeable tears.
“Darling, please don’t feel badly,” Mrs. Jones said. “You’ve always been a good student and a credit to the school. We’ll make the arrangements.”
*****
Jane was sent home that day, and told to return the following day when she would be admitted as a girl. She would be given new credentials, identifying her as Jane Pinkerton, female. Her classes would be the same; all of her teachers would be told of the change. The only change would be to remove her from the physical education class for boys, and placing her in a special dance program they had for exceptional students.
“That’s for retarded kids,” Jane objected.
“Honey, we don’t use that term. Some of these children are developmentally disabled, but there are a number of able-bodied students in there, and I’m sure you’ll fit in.”
The principal explained that anatomically Jane was still a boy, and that she could not be assigned to the regular girl’s physical education programs. The other disappointment was that Jane would be allowed to use only several unisex bathrooms that existed in the school building.
*****
At home later, Jane took removed her off-beat outfit, replacing it with shorts and a girl’s tee-shirt. She kept her hair in pigtails, and put on white ankle socks and pink tennis shoes. She gleefully took all of her boy clothes from the dresser drawers and the closet and dumped them into two huge black garbage bags, with the desire to take them to the Goodwill Store. She included the Brewers and Packers pennants she had kept in the room to fool people that she was a boy.
She cleaned the house and prepared lasagna and a tossed Italian salad for her mother and stepfather when they returned home. She set up their dinner in the dining room, complete with candles and cloth napkins and table covering.
When the work was done, Jane went to her closet and found a cute black dress she had inherited from Amy. It was plain, with some dark purple trim, and a square bodice; the dress reached to Jane’s mid-thigh. She put on a pair of thigh high stockings, sheer black, and sandals with three-inch heels.
There’d be no pigtails tonight, Jane decided. She untied her hair, and brushed it vigorously, letting it fall naturally about her shoulders. She applied light pink lipgloss and a touch of eye shadow; she trimmed her eyebrows.
Jane wanted to put on nail polish, but suppertime was near and soon her mother and Jacques would arrive home. She wanted to be ready for them, welcoming them dressed as Jane, their daughter and stepdaughter.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her lovely shoulders and slender arms, so milky white and soft contrasted by the black dress. “I am so pretty, so feminine,” she said out loud in a moment of self-praise.
Though Jane missed her pigtails, she realized that they would not go with her dress that night. She felt so excited, feeling that she was indeed the loveliest of young ladies. Her joy was tempered, however, when the images of Terri entered her brain; it was the sacrifices of Terri, Jane’s girl friend that provided courage for Jane to make this step to womanhood. Jane would never forget Terri.
“Tonight is for Jane,” her mother said, when she arrived home, stunned at the beauty of her daughter.
“Yes,” Jacques said, hugging his stepdaughter. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Jane loved her parents, but realized that after this joyous celebration, she’d have to return to school as a girl; it was something she longed for all her life. But would it be easy?
(To be continued)
The news that the new girl in school, Jane Pinkerton, was in fact the boy who used to be known as Jarod spread quickly through the school.
“You really made an impression this morning, Jane, when you entered school,” Wanda said in a phone call before Jane went to sleep after the first eventful day.
“I was so scared, Wanda,” she said. “You guys were so great. I thought sure I’d be beat up or something.”
“So did I, but all the other girls were so cool,” Wanda said. “And I’ll go with you tomorrow, too, and we’ll meet Latoya and Tiffany and maybe a few more.”
Jane smiled; she was still excited over the day, her first time in school as a girl, her dumping of all her boy things and the warm approval of her parents, particularly her stepfather. It was already 10 p.m. when Wanda called; Jane had just emerged from a long leisurely bath, in which she was immersed in perfumed bubbles and was calmed and feeling so soft and lovely. She donned a knee length, sleeveless light cotton nightie with a scalloped collar. It flared out a bit from her hips, leaving her slender legs exposed.
“Oh Wanda,” she said. “You were always so right, telling me I really am a girl. It feels so true.”
“I saw you as a girl the first time I saw you on your bike when we moved here,” she said.
“And remember how you tried to make me strong and more like a boy,” Jane said, laughing at the pathetic attempts she had made trying to make Jarod “one of the boys.”
“And, Jane, you were hopeless. I just love you as my girl friend,” Wanda said.
There was silence on the phone for a bit. Jane’s thoughts returned to her friend Terri, soon to be cremated, and realized that Wanda never realized how close she had been to Terri, how much she considered the soft, warm Terri to be a girl friend.
“Wanda,” she said finally. “I feel so guilty.”
“Guilty? About what?”
“About Terri . . . I mean Terrence,” Jane began. “I never told you, but he wanted to be a girl too. Really did. And now he’s dead, and I’m alive. And the only reason I’m here as Jane is because his death told me I had to be a girl now.”
“Terrence? A girl? He was such a bully, Jane. I can’t believe that.”
Jane’s voice became heavy as she related how she and Terri had dressed as girls back one summer, and how Terri had been abused by his stepfather.
“He was a sweet girl, Wanda,” Jane said. “He was so confused. He couldn’t satisfy either his stepfather or his own need to be a girl. So he’s gone.”
“Oh Jane, I didn’t know.”
“And they won’t have any service for him and he’ll be cremated. It’s awful.”
“You poor girl, but you’re not to blame,” Wanda said. “It’s a world that won’t recognize differences and won’t recognize boys wanting to be girls.”
When they finally finished, Jane was able to curl up under the covers in her frilly feminine room and fall into a deep sleep.
*****
Jerome, the monster of a school aide, was all smiles as Jane entered the school, accompanied by about a half dozen of her girl friends, about to begin her first full day in school as Jane Pinkerton.
“Miss Pinkerton, I believe,” he said. “You’re looking pretty today, young lady.”
Jane smiled. She had taken care to look feminine, but not too sexy, on this important day in school, choosing a knee-length plain dark blue skirt, a crá¨me-colored top without sleeves and with a ruffled bodice. She wore coffee-colored hose and flats with a strap across the instep. She wore her hair loose, and it fell about her shoulders, giving her a casual, soft appearance.
“Mrs. Jones said I should escort you to the office to get your new credentials,” he said.
The girls who accompanied Jane to the school entrance watched, most of them smiling; Jane noticed, however, that Tiffany and Aniesha were somber, apparently not sharing the event, even though they had joined in escorting Jane through the mob of students. She wondered why the two girls were so unenthusiastic about the transformation. Jane cared about both girls; they were two of her first friends in the school. She would have to ask them, she thought.
Jane heard some giggles, and several comments, some crude, as they had walked into the school. Wanda told her that most of the students had heard about Jane’s arrival the previous day, and had greeted that rumor with a mixture of unbelief (a boy being a girl?), disgust (it’s against God’s rules), expectancy (he was such a girly boy anyway) and even praise (what courage!).
“I’m prepared for the worst, mother,” Jane said when she left for school that morning. “But it’ll be OK, mom.”
Mrs. Jones, the principal, met Jane without ceremony, quickly handing over her new ID card, identifying her as “Jane Pinkerton” and with the welcome word “Female.”
“This is only your temporary card, Jane,” she explained. “Here’s a pass for you to go during your study hall period to Room B23 to get your new picture taken for your new permanent ID card.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” she said, her smile growing as she saw the word “female.”
“Jerome and the rest of the aides and security people will keep an eye on you Jane for a while to be sure you will be safe,” she said. “Not everybody likes what you’re doing, but we’ll try to protect you the best we can.”
Jane nodded, agreeing she’d be quick to seek help from a teacher or one of the aides if she was attacked or bothered in any way. She noticed how cold Mrs. Jones seemed, compared to their first meeting. Perhaps, Jane wondered, the other kids were right: she could be a mean principal. And, maybe too, Jane’s sudden appearance as a girl may have unnerved her, forcing her to face some possible unpleasant duties.
“Mrs. Jones,” she said. “I am sorry to cause you all this trouble, but I had to.”
“I know honey,” the principal said, her fairly business-like expression softening. “I’m sure Jane will be a very good student.”
Thus began Jane’s first full day of school as a girl.
*****
Jane’s first class that day was advanced geometry, which, she hoped, would not offer much of a challenge from the other students, since they all tended to be more serious about their schoolwork, and might not be ready to heckle or gawk.
“You’re late, Miss Pinkerton,” the math teacher, a rather prissy older man named Mr. Bristol. He exaggerated the “Miss” in his question.
“Here’s my slip, Mr. Bristol,” she replied, her face growing flush. “I was with the principal.”
The entire class, about 15 students, looked right at her, and Jane felt like she wanted to duck under a seat or melt into the floor. They were examining her minutely, and she saw at least two students shake their heads in what she felt was disgust.
“Ok, Miss,” the teacher said, taking the slip from Jane’s hand.
He then turned to the class, employing his sarcastic manner, said: “Now class, let’s all welcome our new student here, Miss Jane Pinkerton. Let’s applaud now, all together, to this lovely new student.”
They applauded hesitantly and weakly. Jane felt just horrified now, embarrassed and weak at the knees.
“Jane,” the teacher said, again with the sarcasm dripping from his lips, “You sit here, in the seat formerly occupied by Mister Pinkerton.”
Jane looked down to the floor, trying to hide tears that were forming in her eyes, and rather awkwardly taking the seat at the desk. Somehow, she suffered through the class, never volunteering an answer in class and, thankfully, never being called upon by the teacher.
As the class ended, Jane tried to scoot out without any conversation from the other students, but she quickly found herself accompanied by Samuel Ostering, a boy she knew only from this class; he always seemed a bit crude and she feared the worst. He was a tall, slender boy with straggly hair and a pockmarked face.
“Bristol is so gross,” he quickly volunteered. “I wanted to bop him for the way he talked to you.”
“Oh, Sam, really?” she replied, surprised.
“Oh that was awful, you must have felt terrible?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering the reason for Sam’s interest in how she felt about this. Sam never struck her as a particularly sensitive boy.
“May I walk you to your next class? It’s history with Miss Hendrix, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, Sam. That’s so sweet of you,” she said, suddenly pleased with the attention from this gangly boy.
“I think you may need someone with you,” he said.
Jane smiled, realizing that she certainly did need an escort through the halls of the urban high school, where fights could break out at any minute or she could face terrible harassment.
“I think you’re very pretty, Jane,” the boy said, as he deposited her at the door of Miss Hendrix’s room. “Do you need an escort to your next class, Jane?”
“Thank you, Sam, that’s very nice of you, but my girl friend Latoya will be doing that next hour,” Jane said, giving him a big smile, but not wanting to encourage him; she hardly knew the boy, and until now he hadn’t particularly impressed her. However, she told herself, he does have a nice smile.
Jane, of course, became the focus of everyone’s attention in the classroom, but Miss Hendrix paid no particular attention as Jane took the seat previously occupied by Jarod. Miss Hendrix had reached 40, but retained a cuteness, perhaps due to her slightly chubby body, and looked almost like a recent college graduate.
Though short, she had a commanding presence in the room, perhaps strengthened by her true interest in her topic, U.S. History, and she succeeded in spicing up her teaching with personal tidbits about the historical characters. That day she made Andrew Jackson come to life, taking some of the classroom attention off the new girl in class.
Latoya had the same classes for the rest of the morning until lunch hour; she accompanied Jane through the hallways, and her presence meant Jane suffered no more than glances and stares and some under-the-breath comments. There were scowls, she could see, on some; downright disgust from others.
Jane, wearing the skirt, walked with ease and comfort, assuming the feminine mannerisms that she had perfected through the years. It came so naturally, she told Latoya.
*****
A good half dozen girls staked out seats at the table of the one-time “Bad Girls” group, eager to welcome Jane, the new “girl” into the bunch. There was lots of “welcome, Jane,” “You’re so pretty today, Jane,” comments as Jane joined them. Aniesha and Tiffany, however, remained silent, almost pouting.
It bothered Jane; these two girls had been among her longest friends, and now they were snubbing her. Soon, however, Jane got carried away with the conversation at the table, and the snubs by Tiffany and Aniesha were put in the background of Jane’s mind
“I hate you,” Tiffany said, as Jane left to go to her first afternoon class. Tiffany always joined Jane in this walk, and Jane was hoping she would today.
“You hate me?” Jane said, softly, keeping the conversation between the two of them.
“You shoulda stayed a boy! This is so sick.”
“Oh Tiff, I just couldn’t. It didn’t feel right. I always felt more like a girl. You know, I always felt good with the girls here.”
“You could’ve told me,” she said. “Latoya knew. Why didn’t you tell me? Or Aniesha?”
“I couldn’t. My mom didn’t want me being a girl. But I can’t help it.”
“You didn’t tell me. You were so nice to take me to last year’s prom. You were so handsome in the tux.”
“I’m sorry, Tiffany, I just couldn’t tell you.”
Jane felt so bad that she hadn’t clued Tiffany or Aniesha into her secret. The price of deceit was beginning to mount up, she realized.
*****
It didn’t take long for Jane to realize that no matter how hard she tried she’d be a topic of discussion and the target of looks by the entire school. The word had gotten around, she was soon to hear, that there was “a boy in the school dressing like a girl.” No longer could she melt into the background of life and retreat from the critical eyes of others. She was now, in her own small way, often viewed as a celebrity, a notorious character or someone to be dismissed as a freak and curious mistake of nature.
The school day had ended without any major confrontations; no band of crude boys (and Roosevelt High was full of them) accosted her or pushed her into a corner to see what she had under her skirt. She was glad she wore a long skirt for the day, for she was always conscious of the need to be sure the skirt would not rise up too high on her thighs when she sat.
It was apparent, she was confident, that she was viewed by most in the school (who did not know otherwise) that what they were seeing was a genetic female, a real teen girl, her lovely slender arms and legs and pretty face attesting to her natural femininity.
“Oh, I can’t believe you used to be Jarod,” one girl said as she sat next to Jane in her final hour of classes, an elective course in English literature. “You really are so much a girl, Jane.”
Jane smiled, certain the girl meant that as a compliment.
“Now you can play the girl parts in Shakespeare, just like boys did in the old days,” she added.
“I know, but I like to think I am a girl, and therefore would not be allowed to act in theater in the Elizabethan times.”
The girl giggled, her quiet laughter brightening up her sprite-like face. She was called Ginger and she was a tiny girl with sinewy arms and legs; she had a plain face and was without the natural feminine curves; obviously she would develop those as she matured. Jane mused that the girl could easily be mistaken for a young boy, a thought that brought a smile to her face. She thought Ginger could easily pass as such a boy and gain a girl’s part in a play in the 1600s, as Gwyneth Paltrow did in the movie “Shakespeare in Love.”
Jane faced the same questions over and over during the day: “Are you the guy who . . ?” “Are you her?” She finally realized that just about every one in school wanted to see her, and her response usually was to simply state: “Hi, I’m Jane,” letting the questioner reach their own conclusion.
Latoya had a suggestion as the school day came to an end. While they walked from the final class, Jane complained about the stares and the crude questions she got.
“Why don’t you just go before the school assembly tomorrow and get up on stage and say: ‘I’m Jane,” and do one of your curtsies?” she said, laughing.
“I’m half tempted to,” Jane agreed, but realized that she was not quite ready for such a dramatic step.
“Jane, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” Latoya said as they went to their lockers. “You’re a perfectly pretty girl and you’re nice to everyone.”
Jane could only mutter, “Thanks.”
“By the way, Aniesha text-messaged Marquise at college and told him about you,” Latoya said.
“Oh, why did she do that? I wanted to tell him first.”
“You can’t blame her, Jane,” Latoya said. “She is still mad at you for not telling her sooner. You two were becoming such friends.”
“I know. Both Tiff and she won’t talk to me now.”
“They both had a crush on you. They liked you as Jarod.”
Jane was silent, not sure what to say. She had felt there had been a jealousy between the two girls for Jarod’s attention; in truth, she liked both girls, since they were smart and lovely and fun to be with. She wanted to be girl friends with both of them, and had no desire to be their boy friend; she never thought of herself as a boy, and felt so inadequate in the role of “boy friend.”
Latoya and Jane shut their locked almost in unison, and headed down the corridor to leave the school and walk home. Wanda was to join them at the exit and play escort for Jane on her first full day of school.
“What did Marquise say?” Jane finally asked, afraid to put too much emphasis on the question in order not to betray her feelings for the young man.
“He’s pissed at you, too,” she said. “I didn’t want to tell you all this at first.”
“He’s pissed at me?”
“Yes, what do you think? He’s a guy who thought you were a guy; now every one will think you two were gay or something.”
“We weren’t. We were only friends, ‘toya.”
“I know that, and it’s too bad you haven’t told him,” she said. “He’d think you’re the prettiest girl and certainly prettier than that Janita he’s been dating.”
Jane didn’t confess to her friend how often she thought about Marquise and imagined herself holding hands with him, kissing him, feeling his arms about her. She loved to think about how she’d run her hands up his strong arms and massage his masculine shoulders.
“I guess I lost him,” Jane said as the two met up with Wanda.
“We’re ready to head home,” Wanda said. “And Troy’s going to come along.”
Troy had been dating Wanda all through high school; they were an ideal couple, both athletic and handsome. Troy had been a two-sport athlete for the Roosevelt Vikings and had gained a football scholarship for the state university where he was expected to play quarterback.
Troy hugged Jane as they met and whispered in her ear: “You’re so lovely, Jane. Wanda and I are so proud of your courage.”
Even though it was one of those perfunctory hugs people often exchange, Jane felt a tinge of excitement during the brief encounter. Maybe Wanda sensed it, too, for she said quickly:
“Now watch it Troy. I’m watching you.”
Then she laughed, as if she was joking, but Jane wondered if she might have built up a bit of jealousy to her longtime friend. Jane certainly didn’t want to break the two up, since she owed so much to Wanda for her support all these years as she struggled through this period of confusion.
Troy and Latoya accompanied Wanda and Jane to the Five Corners area, and the group split up, Wanda and Jane continuing on to their neighborhoods.
“Thank you so much, Wanda,” Jane said.
“For what?”
“You know, helping me through this. I could never have gone in that first day as Jane without you being there, and for all this.”
“You’re my friend, and, now, finally, my girl friend. I always wanted you as a girl friend, you know that, honey,” she said, giving Jane a quick hug as they walked on.
“I’m sorry about that back there,” Jane said.
“Oh, you mean that hug?”
Jane nodded.
“Don’t bother, Jane. I’m mad at him, but I can’t really blame him; you’re so darn pretty.”
“Oh Wanda, you’re always so sweet.”
“I don’t even know why I got jealous back there. I keep telling myself I’m lesbian, so why should I care about who he looks at.”
“Well, you two are so close, Wanda. He really loves you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I guess,” the other girl said. “But I’m so happy for you, Jane. I love you so much.”
“Thank you, Wanda.”
The two girls stopped for a while at Wanda’s house; no one was home, and Jane told Wanda about her concern over possibly losing the friendship of Aniesha and Tiffany, as well as that of Marquise.
They commiserated over tea for a while, did some brief hugging and kissing, before Jane went home, comforted by the love and friendship she found in Wanda and Latoya and others, but worried over the loss of other friends. Not everyone, it seemed, would take kindly to her new identity.
*****
Jane was exhausted when she got home, and she stripped down to her panties, removing her bra (with its breast forms) and putting on a chenille pink robe. She pinned her hair up, and before collapsing onto her bed she looked at herself in the mirror, feeling very much a girl.
She was about to doze, worrying that she would not awake in time to prepare supper for her parents, when she heard a rapping on the door. She roused herself and headed for the door when the second set of raps began.
“I’m coming,” she said, in her falsetto voice.
“It’s Amy.”
“OK, Amy, just a minute, but I look terrible.”
“That’s OK. So do I,” said Amy, who was the young mother who lived in the adjoining unit.
Jane opened the door to see Amy, dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt, her hair tied in a bun.
“Sorry to bother you, Jane, but I need someone to look after the girls for an hour ‘cause I need to get to the lawyer’s office to sign some papers,” Amy said.
“Oh, OK,” Jane said, still groggy from the half sleep.
“You look so tired, dear, I won’t bother you now,” she said. “I can take the girls with me.”
“No. No. No. I can handle it, Amy. I need to get up anyway. Can you bring them over here? I need to get supper going for mom and Jacques.”
“Sure if that’s OK, Jane? I told them that you’re now Jane, and they didn’t seem to understand, but they’ll have to see you as a girl from now on, right?”
“Oh yes, Amy. I want to be a girl friend for your girls, like I was when they were little. And, have them bring over their dolls, will you?”
“They’ll love that, Jane. I’m so happy for you, honey. Now you’re the girl you always felt you were.”
“Yes, and I am happy,”
“How did school go today?” Amy asked.
“Not too bad. I got a lot of looks and stares, but it’s OK. I felt really good in school now, as Jane.”
Jane quickly dressed in a beige Capri pants and a cami, covered with a white blouse; she put on ankle socks and pink tennis shoes and waited for Amy to drop off Emily and Amanda, the two girls, now 7 and 9 years old.
They were happy to see Jane, and each brought two dolls along; Jane enjoyed dressing and undressing the dolls with the girls, and the three giggled as they sat on the floor. Finally, Jane had to end the playtime, and she had the girls help her prepare the supper, set the table and clean the dining room area.
Amy was gone just about an hour, as she said, returning to find the three back on the floor, fussing with the dolls.
“Did you girls have fun?” Amy said as she picked them up to return home.
“Oh, yes,” Emily, the oldest said. “And we helped her prepare supper.”
“We love our Auntie Jane,” added Amanda.
Jane smiled. She was so happy being able once again to enjoy the two young girls as “Jane,” the older girl next door.
*****
“Jacques and I will clean up the dishes,” Nancy announced as the family, with their new daughter, completed supper. “Jane, you may go and relax in your room, and put on something comfy if you wish.”
“Oh I can help, mother,” Jane said.
“No you won’t,” Jacques said in a faux anger tone. “You will relax. You have had a long day.”
Jane, recognizing that her parents had made a firm decision, quickly obeyed, feeling a bit at loose ends following a day that brought her face-to-face with constant uncertainties, coupled with the possibility of terrors that thankfully never happened, following by rewarding joys.
“No gain without pain,” she thought, having heard that term often from her onetime cross country coach when the pain of running reached almost intolerable levels.
She pulled out the play they were studying in English literature, “Hamlet,” where she had identified closely with Ophelia, the young lady whose love for the handsome, but hesitant Hamlet, went unrequited. She was reading the part where Ophelia’s body was found floating in the river, a sad conclusion to her adoration for Shakespeare’s Prince of Denmark.
Was her love for Marquise to be similarly rejected, she wondered? She had developed fantasies about their life together over the last three years, picturing herself (having outed herself as a girl) many times in the arms of this handsome, trim young man. Did Marquise ever know of her love for him? Was he now, even as she lay on her tummy, booked opened up before her, the pages unseen by her teary eyes, in the arms of the hated Janita?
Her musing was interrupted when Jacques rapped on his door, and asked: “Are you decent, Jane?”
“Oh yes, I’m still dressed, dad,” she answered, smiling, so pleased to realize her stepfather was acknowledging that she was a girl, and therefore he would no longer walk in on her as he might have for his son.
Jacques entered and sat down on Jane’s desk chair, as she turned one to her side, tucking her legs back, looking sweet. Soon, her mother appeared at the door, sitting on the side of her bed, touching and gently caressing Jane’s slender right arm.
“Jane, this is Peter’s weekend to be with me,” Jacques began, referring to his 17-year-old-son who lived with his mother, except for visits with Jacques.
“Yes, it’s your weekend, dad.”
“You know, Peter tells me you two get along well together, Jane, but he knows you only as Jarod.”
“I know, dad, but I’m Jane.”
His mother interrupted, offering a clarifying question: “Jane, Jacques wants to know if you’re ready to be Jane with Peter? Or, should he come up with some excuse to head him off?”
Jane smiled, a bit of panic entering her stomach, realizing that her life a Jane would be a constant stress as she introduced herself to friends and acquaintances.
“Oh mom and dad,” Jane said. “He’ll have to know Jane; better now than later.”
“I thought you’d say that, but I wonder if I should tell Peter in advance about Jane,” Jacques said.
“Sure why not?” Jane said. “If he is uncomfortable with it, then let him decide not to come, dad.”
“I thought you’d say that, Jane,” he said. “You’re a strong young lady.”
It was no surprise to Jane that Peter, when told about Jane, decided to come for the weekend. Jane was excited about meeting her stepbrother now that she would be considered a stepsister.
*****
“Well, Jane, it doesn’t look like you and Peter will be able to sleep in the same room now,” Nancy Pinkerton said, as they prepared for Jacques to bring Peter home. Jacques was to stop to pick up his son and bring him down to Douglas from Milwaukee after he ended work on Friday.
Jane blushed at the thought. In Peter’s previous visits, a cot had been set up in Jarod’s bedroom and the two boys spent much of their time together; strangely they seemed to hit it off. Peter was a passive, phlegmatic boy, never having shown much initiative. Jacques claimed the boy had been devastated by his parent’s divorce.
“His mother just lets him lay around,” Jacques said one night at the supper table.
“Be fair, Jacques,” Nancy said, often seemingly putting herself in the strange position of defending the ex-wife. “She works fulltime, and really doesn’t have much time.”
“Nancy, you work fulltime, too, and yet you’ve been able to stay close to Jane, and she doesn’t lack any motivation,” Jacques argued.
“Peter’s your son, Jacques. Maybe if we encourage him he’ll respond,” she said.
In the nearly five months that Jacques and Nancy were married, Peter had spent about five visits in the house with Jane; however, all those visits were with Jarod. The two boys found common interest in music, some video games (Peter was more practiced at that) and in just plain talking.
“Peter’s really interested in politics, mom,” Jane told her mother as they were setting up the cot in the room that had been using as a combination office and sewing room.
“He is? I hope he’s on our side,” Nancy responded.
“Mostly he is, mom. We’re both looking at this guy Obama from Illinois. He’s kinda cool.”
“Yes, he is, Jane, but why don’t you like Hillary?” she asked referring to Hillary Clinton who was at that time still favored for be the Democratic nominee for President.
“Us girls have to stick together,” his mother added with a smile.
“I suppose I should, mom, but Obama is so young and smart, and, he’s kinda cute.”
Jane blushed. Nancy had learned that her new daughter had a dream boy, Marquise, who was a younger version of the dynamic young man from Illinois. Both light-complexioned and trim and athletic; only Marquise didn’t have the big ears of Obama, she mused.
Peter was a big lunk of a boy and he arrived wearing oversized jeans that rode low on his hips, and a hooded sweatshirt. In a sense, he was a carbon copy of the boys in his big-city high school. He shuffled his feet as he walked, and rarely looked up, but then that was typical of so many teens, Jacques told Nancy. She recalled, however, that in the previous visits, the boy seemed to open up after a few minutes, and his conversation became surprisingly articulate and intelligent.
“Peter’s a smart boy, Jacques,” she had told her husband.
His arrival that Friday was no different than before; he shuffled in, murmured a muffled “Hi,” but then stopped and stared at Jane, who stood erect in the living room, wearing a plaid, pleated skirt, a white blouse, coffee-colored hose, and sandals with short heels; her hair was in pigtails, tied high up on her head.
“Hi, Peter,” Jane said, giving him a slight curtsey. Her voice was soft and sweet, though in a low tone.
“Jarod . . . ah . . . Jane,” he said. His mouth had dropped open.
“Meet our daughter Jane,” Nancy said, winking at her husband.
“Hi Peter, nice to see you again,” Jane said, walking over to him and taking his gym bag, obviously stuffed with his clothes for the weekend.
The boy stood there transfixed, finally moving to follow Jane into the combination room where he was to sleep for the weekend visit.
Nancy moved next to her husband, who wore a dark suit, seemingly tailored to his trim frame, and welcomed an arm, which drew her next to him. She smiled.
“I don’t think Peter knows quite what to make of all this,” Nancy said.
“Right, Nance,” he said using the affectionate form of the name that he favored. “I told him she was a very pretty girl, and that he should treat her like any boy would treat a sister.”
“Do you think he can accept this?”
“I think so, Nance, but if he doesn’t Jane will charm him into it,” Jacques said. “She’s good at that.”
“Oh Jacques, I’m so happy for her now,” Nancy said. “In spite of all the difficulties in school with the change, she’s so happy now, and she’s coming out of her shell.”
Her husband kissed her, as the couple heard a giggle emerge for the combination room, a girlish giggle coming from their new daughter, followed by a rougher laugh from Peter.
“I think the two will do just fine together,” Jacques said.
“Unless they fight like all brothers and sisters do,” Nancy said, still smiling.
*****
That weekend convinced Jane that her stepbrother was unhappy and felt his life was going nowhere. The two had spent hours talking over the weekend, usually in the combination room where Jane worked haphazardly on a dress she was making for herself and Peter aimlessly played a game on the computer.
“I’ve never had a date, Jane,” he confessed. “I didn’t go to my junior prom and now this is my senior year and I’ve never even kissed a girl.”
“You’ve kissed me,” Jane teased.
“Yeah, but you’re my sister and that doesn’t count.”
For her part, Jane said that she was not sure how she would act if a boy ever asked her on a date. “I’ve dreamed about it so much,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be fair to him, ‘cause I’m still not all girl.”
“Yeah, I guess, but you’re so pretty, Jane, I’ll bet you get lots of dates.”
“But should I tell him I still got that boy thing before we go out?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Peter said, shaking his head. “You can kiss him and just keep your legs together.”
“Oh that’s no help,” Jane giggled. “I’m not strong enough to fight off a boy who wants to play around.”
“Jane, except for that cock, no one can see you’re a boy. Really, girl.”
“Peter, you’re so sweet,” Jane said a bit later. “I’ll tell you what: I’m going to help you get a girl.”
“How? I don’t want any blind dates,” he said. “That’s only for losers.”
Peter laughed, and added: “Guess that means me.”
But Jane quickly protested: “No, no, Peter. No one is a loser. Really? No one is a loser. We all have our own charms, honey, and you have plenty. Believe me.”
“I do?” The boy responded, not fully believing his stepsister’s words.
*****
Jane convinced Peter that he should join her that Saturday afternoon for a meeting of a group, calling itself “Peace at Roosevelt,” that was meeting at the Community Center. Her friend Tiffany had been instrumental in bringing together a group of Roosevelt High School students who had been concerned at growing violence at the school, particularly among rival gangs, often ethnically based. There were the Black Knights and the Gunmetals, two rival groups of African-American students, fighting each other, and then the Conquistadors, a group of Hispanic students, followed by the Guerrillas, a group of Southeast Asian students. Finally, there was the Snow Devils, a White supremacist group.
Not only had there been threats and challenges thrown between the ethnic groups, but there was also harassment of those students perceived to be gay. So far, except for the attack on Jane, there had been no other physical attacks.
Jane knew Peter shared her interest in justice and equality; Peter was a gentle soul, who was very much like herself, in that he believed each person deserved a chance. The two realized that they hated to see people abused for any reason, whether it be for their looks or their beliefs or their race or religion.
At first Jane was uncertain about going to the meeting, particularly since Tiffany, and Aniesha who would most certainly also be there, had soured on their friendship. Yet, as she told Peter, “I think I should be there. After all, I am a victim of some of these attacks, and I think it’s important that we stand up and be counted.”
“I won’t know anybody there, Jane,” he protested.
“Don’t worry, all of the people there are nice,” she said. “They’ll welcome another boy and especially from the big city.”
“I don’t know. I’ll just stay home,” he said.
“No you won’t. Your little sister wants to show you off.”
On Saturday morning, Jane got Peter to wash his hair and take a long shower. Then, sitting in her nightie, she dried his long light brown hair, which hung to his shoulders. She brushed it, and formed it into a slight pompadour at the top, and sprayed it to put in nice hold upon it.
“Is that all you got to wear?” Jane asked, spying the oversized jeans he was wearing.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“They’re gross,” Jane said, summoning her mother and suggesting they run down to Target to get Peter some new jeans and perhaps a nice shirt.
*****
“This is my brother, Peter, from Milwaukee,” Jane said, as the two entered the meeting room at the community center.
Jane and Peter arrived a few minutes after 2 p.m., just as the meeting was about to begin. Tiffany, seated at the head table, with Aniesha off to one side, near the head table, scowled at the entering brother and sister.
“We’re starting now, Jarod,” she said, staring directly at Jane.
“Hi everyone, I’m Jane Pinkerton,” she announced, “And this is Peter, my brother.”
There were perhaps 15 others in the room, all girls, except for Samuel Ostering, the tall gangly boy from her advanced geometry class. He looked relieved to see Peter in the room, waving at the other boy.
Jane was pleased to see that Tiffany’s snit with her was short-lived; the other girl got the meeting started in a very business-like manner. Several of the participants were members of the “Bad Girls” club of the previous school year. Besides Aneisha, there were only three other African-American students present, and no Hispanics.
The group stumbled around for most of an hour, and several students got restless, and we about to bolt the room, when Jane got up:
“Look, we all care about Roosevelt, and we all must thank Tiffany and Aniesha for bringing us together. We all agree on one point: There should be peace at Roosevelt. We’re calling ourselves PAR, Peace at Roosevelt. Let’s set up a plan.”
Tiffany looked, with gratitude at Jane, realizing she had saved the day. The group set up a plan, involving recruiting people from all of the ethnic groups in the school, plus the gay groups. It was agreed they would inform the Principal about the plan, but that they wanted to do it without faculty participation.
“You’ll have better luck, if they think it’s not run by the teachers or the principals,” Peter interjected at one point. He described how a similar group had settled things down at his high school in Milwaukee. “There were no teachers around and that helped.”
After the group ended, Tiffany came forward to Peter: “Thank you for coming, Peter. You were very helpful.”
Peter merely blushed.
“Really, you helped put this in perspective and now we have an idea that we can do some good.”
Peter shook his head: “No, I thought Jane did that!”
Tiffany scowled. “Well, she helped, I guess.”
Peter, knowing of Tiffany’s problems with Jane, quickly offered to take Tiffany, Aniehsa and Jane to the Coffee House for a post mortem on the meeting. The girls all agreed.
At the coffee house, Jane noticed that Tiffany seized the initiative, sliding in next to Peter at the booth, leaving Jane and Aniesha to share the opposite seat. There was a moment of tension as the three girls refused to acknowledge each other, but it was broken by Peter, who said quickly: “What a powerful threesome you all make. I think you’ll do wonders.”
“Really, we didn’t have too many people there today, and Sam was the only boy, I guess, not counting you Peter, ‘cause you’re not from here.” It was Tiffany speaking.
“Yes, you three make a tough group,” he said, hoping that Tiffany and Aniesha would soon renew their friendship with Jane.
After a while, the awkward situation remedied itself, largely because both Tiffany and Aniesha began focusing their attention on Peter. The three girls were all giggling as they finally left the coffee shop.
“I’m going to rescue my brother from you two girls,” Jane said, as they all headed to the car. Peter borrowed his father’s car and agreed to drive the girls to their homes. Jane quickly assumed the front seat, thus avoiding any dispute among the other two as to who would sit in front with Peter.
As each girl slid out of the back seat and were dropped off, they expressed great pleasure in meeting Peter and gave Jane a girlish kiss, saying, “See ya’ Monday, Jane.”
“Love ya’” was Jane’s easy response in both cases.
Jane smiled as Peter headed home, realizing her stepbrother’s male charm was helping to renew her friendship with both Tiffany and Aniesha.
“I think they both like you, Peter,” she said.
Peter, who was not used to getting attention from girls, blushed. “They’re both very nice,” he said. “And thanks to you, Jane, you made me look pretty good.”
“You have your own charm, Peter,” she said.
That night, as they talked during the commercials of the movie they were watching together, Peter wondered whether he should ask either Tiffany or Aniesha for a date. “I’m afraid they’ll say ‘no.’”
“Hardly, Peter,” Jane said. “They’d jump at the chance.”
It had been a full and rewarding day for both of them; their parents went to dinner, leaving the two teens home to fix their own supper, and Jane took particular joy in preparing her favorite dish, lasagna, while Peter proved adept at keeping her company.
This innocent teenage romancing stirred Jane’s thoughts of Marquise, causing her to wonder if she’d ever see him again, whether he’d even call when he came home from college for either the Thanksgiving or Christmas holidays, or whether he was back with Janita, accepting her charms. She cried that night for a while, musing over her fate with Marquise. She now knew what it was like to be a girl in love.
Chapter 34: A Girl’s Life
“You are the prettiest girl we’ve ever had enter our office,” Grace said, looking up from her computer as Jane and her mother entered the office of Dr. Eugene Martin.
Jane blushed, and managed to mumble a “thank you” to the doctor’s office assistant.
It would be Jane’s first visit to the psychiatrist since she had begun living fulltime as a girl two weeks earlier. Since it was a frigid January day, Jane wore slacks, a heavy tan coat with faux fur trim and a hood, along with snow boots. Even that heavy clothing could not hide her sheer femininity.
Dr. Martin was astonished when Jane and her mother entered his office. “You are absolutely so real, dear Jane,” he said. “You seem so comfortable as Jane.”
Despite intense questioning, the doctor was unable to find any sign that Jane was sorry about the transition she had done so far. And Jane was pleased to hear her mother confirm that her child had never seemed as happy as she was since assuming the identity of Jane.
“She’s just a natural, doctor.”
He ordered another complete physical for Jane, after which he would prescribe hormone treatment.
“Some transgendered persons change more quickly that others under hormones, and we’ll just have to see,” he said.
He confirmed that Jane should continue to live as a female, and to not attempt to backtrack to her onetime male identity. “If you feel the urge to resume wearing male clothes or to assume the male role, please call me immediately so that we can talk it over,” he said.
“This is still a period of trial, Jane, to see if you can follow through into your new life,” he said.
“I know, doctor, but I’m sure.”
The doctor agreed to write a firm letter, acknowledging his opinion that Jarod Pinkerton has assumed a female identity due to being an acknowledged transsexual. He said all authorities should acknowledge her female gender in so far as the law permitted.
“By the time she’s 18,” Dr. Martin said, “We’ll be able to know for sure whether she should eventually get sexual assignment surgery, as well as facial surgery and breast enhancements to aid in her female gender identity.”
Jane and her mother agreed that the doctor’s course of action made sense.
“I can hardly wait ‘til I’m 18,” Jane said.
“I feel Jane is my daughter, doctor, just as she is, but it would be great if she can some day be a complete woman,” Nancy said.
“You mean, mom, like I can have a baby, too?” Jane followed the comment with a tiny giggle.
“Don’t be silly, you know that’ll never happen,” Nancy said.
“But you and your husband some day can adopt,” the doctor added.
On the way home, Jane’s imagination took hold of her: she pictured herself with Marquise, two toddlers in hand, walking along a park path on a fresh June morning in the lush green of early summer. It was such a pretty picture, particularly since Jane was looking up into the eyes of her husband. Is it too much to expect in life?
*****
The Douglas Police Department was present everyday at the beginning of school at Roosevelt. Some days there were two and three DPD squads out front, and uniformed officers stood by, watching all the entrants closely. It was an unhappy sign: cell phones were now forbidden within the school, no visitors were permitted on the grounds and the lines at the metal detectors had grown maddeningly long, causing many first hour classes to begin late. Every exit was equipped with loud alarms to discourage students from sneaking out or, more importantly, letting in drug dealers and pimps who were hanging around the area.
“It’s like a police state here, now,” Tiffany muttered to Jane one cold January morning. Since the meeting of the PAR group, the two girls, along with Aniesha, had mended their friendships. Latoya had told Tiffany and Aniesha of Jane’s long struggle in seeking to realize her femininity.
“I know, but it seems the fights have ended and there may even be less harassment,” Jane replied.
“You’re not being hassled much any more?” Tiffany asked.
“Not too much, but then I don’t seem too mind it anymore,” Jane said.
The truth was, however, Jane was bothered by the almost daily confrontations she faced over her new identity. She longed for the day when she would only be recognized as a female, and where her former male life would be unknown.
Her parents had discussed moving to Milwaukee, where Jane could be enrolled in the ACES School, and a high school for exceptional students that had been developed to provide a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered students. After all, Jacques business, Claudine’s Apparels, was in Milwaukee and Peter attended school there. Jacques said he had been looking at some attractive homes along the lakefront.
“I don’t want to leave Roosevelt, mom and dad,” Jane protested.
“Why honey?” he mother asked. “You’d be in a safe place.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to miss my friends here. And I’m not bothered too much now.”
“We’ll still think about it, Jane,” Jacques said. “I realize your mother has a job here in Douglas, and I like it here, too, but we want you to be safe, honey.”
“But, mom and dad, our PAR group is just getting under way, and I so much want to save Roosevelt,” Jane said. “It’s our school.”
“I don’t understand your allegiance to such a place,” Nancy said.
“I don’t either, mom, but it’s my school,” Jane responded, realizing her feelings seemed to have no logical explanation.
*****
Jane and her mother became even closer as the school year went on. It continued to be customary that Jane, who got home before her parents most days, prepared supper, a chore that the teen girl relished. Jane loved the “oldies” of her mother’s generation, and played CDS softly in the background, often humming along. While her voice retained a bit of male huskiness, she had cultivated a sweet warm tone that her stepfather had told her was “captivating.”
More than once Jane put on a long, dark violet evening gown with a plunging neckline and split skirt, fashioning herself as a chanteuse. The family’s next-door neighbor, Amy Tankersley, found Jane doing her mock performance one afternoon and persuaded Jane to perform that night before her parents.
“You’re a picture of sultry sensuality,” Amy gushed.
“No, Amy. Not me,” Jane protested, but in reality she knew that she had achieved the femininity she had long desired.
It also soon became the custom that Saturday’s were mother-daughter days, since Jacques worked at the store those days. They awoke late, lounged around in nighties and robes, eventually enjoying a later breakfast, often joined by one or more of their neighbors, including Amy and occasionally Wanda and her mother Helen.
Jane loved these Saturday sessions, with their girl talk about fashions, or new foods, or their jobs, or their men, or sometimes their lack of men in their lives. In her previous life, she had wanted to share in these female gatherings, but usually felt out of place due to her then confused gender state of mind.
Amy, in particular complained about not finding a “decent man,” with the other women giggling over a comment almost always made in unison: “Let me know when you find one.”
In the afternoon, mother and daughter were off to do something special, sometimes shopping at the mall, other times going to one of the museums in the area and always stopping at a chic tea room which had been developed on a bluff overlooking the lake. The tea room was an anomaly in the area, but it was located close enough to the affluent sections of town, to attract a regular clientele. Jane and her mother were usually the youngest persons in the place, which seemed to be populated by neatly coiffured ladies of the grandmother generation.
It was a dainty, frilly place which featured dainty, frilly pastries, which looked calorie-free, but in reality were chock full.
“Mother,” she said one Saturday, “I feel like Lady Jane in the tea room.”
“My darling, you are Lady Jane in my eyes, and in the eyes of the ladies in this room,” Nancy said. “They all look you over, muttering how divine you look.”
“Oh mother,” she said, seeming to disdain the compliment.
The truth was, however, that she pictured herself as a dainty, fragile feminine creature; such extreme femininity, she believed, was basic to her nature.
As the school year went on, the mother-daughter relationship grew to the point that each one considered the other to be their “best friend.” Jane soon realized this tight relationship developed because her mother was afraid to let loose of her daughter, recognizing the girl’s sheer beauty would be whetting the desires and juices of teen boys as well as adult men.
Nancy informed her daughter that there would be a “no date” rule in effect in the household until further notice.
“You’re hardly able to defend yourself, darling, and you never know how some boy would act when he learns you still have your penis,” she said.
Jane nodded, and put up no protest since she was fearful of how to act with a boy, and basically felt naíve over the female role. Besides, she still considered herself in love with Marquise, about whom she mused in ecstasy most nights as she tried to sleep.
“Mother, I love you,” she said. She felt comfort being within the protection of her mother.
*****
Jane became busy during the school year, working hard with the PAR group that held once a week meetings after school to discuss their strategies. She assumed the editorship of Odyssey, the school literary magazine, and that consumed two more after-school period a week for six weeks until publication deadline of early December.
Except for occasional gawking or crude comments made sotto voc, Jane seemed to be accepted as a teen girl, her onetime boyhood forgotten. The presence of police in the halls and on the school grounds, along with added security, had brought an uneasy peace to the school.
“I hate all this cop stuff,” lamented Aniesha at a PAR meeting in late October.
“But it’s keeping the school safe,” argued Tiffany.
“There’s still gangs and people hating each other,” Sam Ostering said. He was still the only boy among the ten students who composed the active members of PAR.
Jane agreed, urging the group to develop a plan to help begin to break down these hatreds. Though Tiffany had convened the group originally, it was Jane who offered leadership and who urged a course of action. “What do you think, Jane?” was asked more than once.
The plan was finally developed. It called for identifying the key groups (or gangs) in the school and seeking out the leaders of each group. The PAR group would try to talk to the leaders separately over the month of November, seeking to learn each group’s issues; they would invite the group leaders to join PAR, but they doubted any would, since it would mark them as “wimps.”
Next, the PAR group decided some form of education plan was needed, in which kids themselves talked to kids about violence. “It’s no good coming from teachers or the principal,” Jane said, gaining full agreement.
“You mean we gotta talk to those gang leaders? Asked Tiffany. “I don’t know about that. Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“Maybe, but it’s our only chance,” Jane said. In truth, she was frightened of the idea, but once she proposed it, she felt she would have to go through with it.
At the following meeting of PAR, Sam mentioned he had told his parents about the group’s ideas. They applauded the idea, he said, and suggested he contact a Professor Angleton at the local branch of the State University. “He’s a good friend of mine,” his father said, “And I know he has an anger management program there.”
“He’s willing to meet with us next week,” he said.
Professor Angleton, a tall African-America man, clean-shaven and balding, told the group they were headed in the right direction. “I have a grant I can use to help you out, but I need to get approval of the principal, first,” he told them.
Mrs. Jones was aware the group was meeting, and she let them continue, even though there was no faculty advisor involved. The professor joined Tiffany and Jane in meeting with the principal, who readily agreed to continue the process. Jane, as it happened, did most of the talking, since the plan was largely hers.
“It’s great you students are doing this,” the principal said. “Because district rules require a school adviser, I’m assigning Mr. Cummings, Jane. You know, the cross country coach and PE teacher. You liked him.”
“Yes, he’ll be fine,” Jane replied, adding, “But he’s got to stay in the background. This can’t be viewed as coming from the teachers or you, Mrs. Jones.”
The principal smiled, impressed with Jane’s direct and firm language.
Thus, the Peace at Roosevelt campaign began, kicked off by a lead article in Odyssey, written by Jane, citing Ghandi, Nelson Mandela, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Cesar Chavez.
*****
By the start of the second semester, all of the groups had been approached. As expected none joined PAR. All but one of the group leaders, a boy by the name of Emil “Butch” Czaczyk of the White Knights, agreed to participate in the anger management sessions. There was a debate in the group whether to pursue the group, largely since they had shown signs of being uncompromising white supremacists.
“They don’t have too many members,” commented Aniesha.
“But they make lot of noise,” Jane responded. “I’ll try to talk to Butch. Anyone wanna join me?”
“Don’t be silly Jane. Those guys’ll beat you up, sure as you’re sitting here,” protested Tiffany.
“I think it’s worth a try. I’ll do it on my own,” Jane said.
The group was silent for a moment before Sam finally opened up: “Jane, I’ll go with you.”
They all looked at Sam; he was slender and not very imposing. He was the typical nerd who likely could never hold his own in any physical altercation. He looked scared as he volunteered.
“I’ll do it, Jane,” he persisted. “I’ll go with you.”
*****
Jane and Sam located Butch the next Tuesday afternoon at the end of the school day, finding him outside with a bunch of his cronies. With the large police presence at the school, Jane felt relatively safe in bounding right into the midst of the group, Sam right behind.
“Butch, you need to talk to me,” she demanded.
“Ah the fag is here and the other sissy fag, too,” mocked one of the boys.
“Yeah let’s reach up her skirt and see what kinda balls she has,” said another.
“You wanna see?” Jane said firmly (yet with fear mounting). “It’ll cost you.”
The boys all laughed, and began to push her slightly, but not enough to alert the police who were eyeing up the group.
“Push me once again and I’ll scream,” Jane said, again displaying a bravado she did not feel. “What would it look like? You big bullies picking on a girl?”
“You’re no girl,” Butch said. “You’re a fucking fag.”
“My school ID now says ‘female,’” Jane said.
“Whaddaya want?” Butch finally said, knowing that they dare not take a chance in beating up Jane or her friend with the police watching.
“You care about finishing school here, Butch?” she asked. She had drawn Butch away from the group and continued the conversation out of earshot of the others.
“Yeah, what about it?”
Jane knew Butch had good grades and was the son of a conservative businessman in town who wanted his son to go to college.
“It wouldn’t do you any good to get kicked out,” Jane said quickly. “We need you to come talk to PAR about your group.”
“What if I don’t?”
“They’re cracking down on gangs, and you don’t want to get kicked out, Butch,” Jane argued. “We’re only trying to help make Roosevelt better.”
“It’d be better once we get the n-----s and s---s and gays outa here,” he said.
“They’re here to stay, Butch, and you better learn to live with it,” Jane said. “Come join us.”
Jane invited him to talk about the White Knights at the next PAR meeting the following week. “I won’t show up,” he said, but Jane felt he likely would.
“That was a gutsy thing to do Jane,” Sam said as they walked away. “They could have deep-sixed us in a second.”
Jane let out of long breath, finally steadied herself. “I know, I was scared stiff,” she said. “What girl wouldn’t be?”
Butch didn’t show up at the following week’s PAR meeting, but he did hunt Jane down one day as she walked to the cafeteria, asking for more information about PAR. Away from the group he really wasn’t such a bad guy, except for his racist and sexist attitudes. He agreed to come to one meeting, which he did several weeks later, putting in a rather perfunctory appearance.
PAR struggled most of that year, failing to put together the anger management training because the groups still were uneasy about meeting one another; yet, it seemed their violence was toned down.
*****
“You know, Jane, I can’t figure you out,” Sam said as they talked after a PAR meeting as the school year neared an end.
“Why? I was born into a boy’s body but I’m a girl. What’s to figure out?” Jane said. The two had lingered in the classroom where they held the meetings after the others had left.
“Not that,” he said. “I get that.”
“What then?”
“It’s just that when you were a boy, you were scared of everything, so shy, and now that you’re a girl, you’re not afraid of anything,” he said.
“Oh, I get plenty scared,” she said.
“But you stand up to be counted. You’d never do that before; as a boy you were such a wimp, and as a girl . . . well . . . it’s like you’re courageous. You got strength you never had.”
Jane was silent for a minute, finally saying: “I never thought of it that way.”
“Maybe, just maybe, now that you’re really who you are, that you’re a girl, you’re comfortable with yourself, you know yourself.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “I am comfortable being Jane. Maybe you’re right.”
Yes, Jane thought that night, living now as Jane was all she needed to become a strong person and someone who had a future ahead.
Chapter 35: Lovely Fashions for ‘tweens'
By the summer before her senior year, Jane noticed the hormones she had been taking for about eight months began to have an effect. Her skin felt softer and her breasts began to hurt; in particular, she found her nipples had become sensitive to the touch.
“I think my breasts have grown a little, mother,” she said, perhaps out of wishful thinking more than reality.
She walked before her mother, alone in the kitchen, wearing no top and only panties. Her mother looked at Jane, seeing a slender nubile body with undeveloped thin arms that might be more typical of a 13-year-old girl. Jane had grown to 5’ 7” tall and weighed only 120 pounds, but had a cute bottom and somewhat broad hips, probably due to the running she had done in the past for cross country.
“I don’t see much there, honey, but you have the body of a model, that’s for sure,” Nancy said.
“Do you think Jacques will want me to model again?”
“I’m not sure, honey, but I think he has some plan to use you this summer in the store,” she said. “He’ll pay you, of course.”
“To do some sewing?”
“Not sure. Ask him tonight, dear.”
*****
“We want you to come up with some more designs for a second pigtails campaign, Jane,” Jacques said at supper that night.
“Oh, really. Will this be for older girls?”
“No, we want to stay with the tweens, honey,” Jacques said.
“Do you think I can still model for that age?”
“Probably, we can make you up like a 13-year-old, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Oh?”
“We have a couple of young girls we’re looking at for models,” he said, expecting Jane would be disappointed.
“That’s cool,” Jane said.
“I thought you’d be sad about that, Jane,” Jacques said. “Don’t you still want to model?”
“Not really, daddy,” she said. “That’s hard work, and I like to design.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’ve retained Anastasia to work with you on designing. You’ll work in the store, and Anastasia will come in a couple of times a week to review your work.”
“Anastasia?” Jane wondered.
“Yes, Miss Amelia, the woman who trained you last year.”
Jane smiled, realizing that Jacques wanted to ensure that her work would meet practical dressmaking needs, something an experienced dressmaker would know.
“I want you, Jane, to be the idea girl, you understand.”
“Really, daddy? You think I can do it?”
Jacques reached over a grabbed Jane’s hand, looked into her eyes and said: “I know you can Jane my dear. We’re doing to market these clothes under the name of ‘Jane.’”
“Jane?” her mother interjected.
“Yes,” Jacques said with firmness. “Jane. Just plain old Jane. We’re going to make ‘Jane’ the clothes every tween girl will pester her parents for.”
“Will they wear pigtails?” Jane asked.
“Of course, silly,” Jacques said with a smile. “Pigtails are for girls, and all girls must wear ‘Jane.’”
*****
“Oh, you’re Jane,” a tall, blonde young woman said. “I remember you from some years ago when you were the pigtail model.”
Jane looked at the girl who was fashionably dressed, but it was obvious had put on some weight. It was Jane’s first day of work at Claudine’s, and she had been driven to work by her stepfather, and introduced to the other workers. Jacques had made a workplace for Jane out of a small room that had been used for alterations, complete with drawing board and easel and sewing machine.
“Remember me?” the girl asked. “I’m Heather. We modeled together.”
“Oh yes, you were always nice to me.”
“Yes, those others were so jealous of you,” she said. “I’m a sales clerk here now during the summer. Am at college otherwise, and work here some during weekends and vacations.”
Jane was eyed suspiciously by the others, largely because she had at onetime been a star model and because she was the boss’ stepdaughter. Nonetheless, her co-workers seemed pleased to meet her, and Jane looked forward to a happy summer.
“No one there ever suspected I might have been a boy once,” she told Jacques as they drove home that night.
“No honey, and many had asked me whatever happened to that hot young model we had in the pigtail campaign.”
Jane worked hard that summer, readying designs for the later winter and early spring “Pigtails Are for Girls” campaign and the introduction of the “Jane” line. She had numerous arguments with Anastasia, whose criticisms always were made harshly and direct, always with a tone that seemed to indicate Jane was stupid.
It took several weeks, but Jane soon realized all of Anastasia’s corrections were made for practical and cost reasons, and never were critical of Jane’s artistic themes. She began every session with some criticism or other, and the remark always began with: “Why in the world would you do . . .” said with her heavy Polish accent.
Never did Anastasia compliment a design and Jane sometimes wanted to cry, but she knew she should never want to show weakness before this woman. By the end of the summer, Jane became fond of this overbearing woman who truly only cared about the professionalism of her work.
“You’re a lovely young woman, Jane,” she said one day. “Don’t you haf any boy friend?”
“Not really. Mother doesn’t want me to get serious yet,” Jane replied.
“Vell, I haf a nephew. He cute honey. He need girl friend.” Anastasia acquired a mischievous grin as she announced this fact.
“Oh, well, I have one boy friend, Miss Amelia, but he’s off at school,” Jane said, hoping the mention of Anastasia’s nephew was only idle chatter.
Anastasia’s offering of her nephew as a potential boy friend was becoming routine for Jane, particularly among boys and young men who never knew of her genetic origins. Even when she dressed casually, Jane drew looks and occasionally got advances from young men. During the summer, Jane was reluctant to walk alone in the halls of the mall in which Claudine’s was located, having been subjected to lustful looks or even crude invitations by the crude boys and men that populated the hallways.
“Are all men so rude?” she asked one day.
“You make me so jealous,” Heather said as the walked to the food court for lunch. “All those guys want you, honey.”
“No Heather, they’re looking at you, too,” Jane responded.
“Sweetie, you’re the beauty here, not me.”
The two had become quite close during the summer, even though Heather was a few years older. They shared a common interest it turned out, in movies and politics as well as fashion. Heather was studying political science and history, having become active in the College Democratic Committee on campus.
Sometimes Wanda joined them for lunch. She was working during the summer at one of the athletic shoe stores in the mall, and arrived wearing the basketball referee’s shirt, which was required uniform for store employees. Wanda, as it turned out, had become an outspoken supporter of feminist causes, having battled the high school administration to ensure they gave girl’s sports in the school all the support they deserved under Title Nine rules.
As the summer wore on, Heather and Wanda began chumming around a lot; they invited Jane along to their outings, but Jane soon realized she was a “third wheel” in the relationship and usually begged off. It was never mentioned but Jane was convinced the two had developed a lesbian relationship; Jane was pleased for both of them.
*****
“Don’t you think you’re working Jane too hard, Jacques?” Nancy asked her husband as the summer moved into August.
“She seems to thrive on it, Nancy,” he replied. “Besides, she’s made lots of friends at the store.”
“But six days a week for a girl that’s only turning 17 this month is pretty much, dear. She’s getting awfully thin, and she’s got no color at all.”
Nancy had tried to get Jane to eat more, but as the summer wore on she merely picked at her food, usually eating the greens and the vegetables, leaving the meat portions untouched.
“I wonder if it’s those hormones, Nancy?” Jacques asked.
“I don’t know, but Jane seems to have as much energy as ever, doesn’t she?”
“She’s a whiz at the store, working on the designs for the campaign, sewing sample dresses, even taking time to model them. Jane has so much enthusiasm she just seems to infect the whole place.”
It was true Jane seemed to be a whirl of teenage energy, alternately running and skipping through the store and backroom areas, giggling, her hair flying and the pigtails flapping. Jacques told Nancy she looked like a 13-year-old sometimes, and everyone seemed to love her.
“I know she’s excited more than one young man in the store,” Jacques said, laughing. “Eric our stock boy hangs around her like a lap dog, and Jane seems to relish the idea. She flirts with him mercilessly, I’m afraid that boy will die of disappointment if she never agrees to date him.”
Nancy looked sternly at her husband: “Jacques, you know we’ll have no dating for her yet, not until she’s a girl through and through. You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh I know that. We’ll keep Jane under wraps for now, but don’t you ever let her out, she’ll cause devastation among the young men of the city.”
“Jane tells me that Anastasia keeps wanting to hook her up with her nephew, Jacques,” Nancy asked. “Is that right?”
“She keeps persisting at that, but Jane just puts her off.”
“I thought Anastasia knew that Jane still has her male parts,” she asked her husband.
“She does, but she thinks Jane is so divine that such things don’t matter,” he laughed.
“Jacques, I’m so worried about her. She’s really naíve about sex and relationships, I think.”
Jacques smiled: “Oh Nancy, my sweet, I don’t think Jane’s as vague about these things as you think.”
*****
Dr. Martin had referred Jane and her mother to Dr. Jennifer Braunschweiger, whom he called the best gender specialist in the area. The doctor had prescribed the hormones and followed the medical treatment of Jane since she began living as a fulltime girl in October of her junior year in school.
Dr. Braunschweiger, in spite of her rather ponderous name, turned out to be a tall, striking blonde woman of early middle age. She wore her long blonde hair tied in a bun in the back, and wore no makeup that one could determine. She smelled of fresh soap, seeming to eschew perfumes of any type.
It appeared the woman took no interest in beautifying herself, yet Jane found her to be one of the most attractive women she’d ever seen.
“Her eyes are a magnificent blue, Jane,” her mother said after their first appointment.
“I wanna rush her to a beauty salon, fix her hair and put on some stylish clothes, mom,” Jane said. “She’d be the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Nancy smiled at her daughter, who would get so excited and expressive at times, the words rushing buoyantly from her lips. She was finding the new energy in her daughter to be so stimulating.
“Honey, she’s already beautiful, so why should she work at it?”
“But she could be so much more beautiful. She’s a natural.”
“She doesn’t need to be more beautiful; she’s already a big success. She’s helping people and she’s nice and I see she has a nice family. You saw the pictures on her desk.”
“I guess.”
“Makeup and dresses do not a beautiful woman make, dear. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
Jane pondered the statement for a minute, adding: “I guess the important thing for us is whether she’s a good doctor.”
“Yes, dear. For you that’s much more important.” They both laughed.
Dr. Braunschweiger scheduled monthly appointments for Jane, just to monitor the hormones.
“We’re beginning you with a slightly higher dose than usual, Jane,” the doctor said on their first appointment.
“Is that wise, doctor?” Jane’s mother asked.
“It’s OK as long as we monitor Jane closely, Mrs. Pinkerton. If there are no side effects, it should go all right. Jane’s a healthy girl and seems strong enough. We’ll schedule once a month appointments and if you feel anything other than the changes I said you’d face, Jane, you must contact me immediately. You understand?”
“Yes, doctor,” Jane said. She had a printed sheet that outlined the changes she’d experience as the hormones began to work.
“I agreed to increase the dosage based on Dr. Martin’s recommendation,” the doctor explained, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, a motion that distracted Jane momentarily as she wanted desperately to fix the woman’s hair.
“Yes, I know,” Nancy Pinkerton said. “The doctor is totally satisfied that Jane needs to become a complete woman as soon as practicable.”
“Yes, I can see that, Mrs. Pinkerton. Jane is all girl now it appears mentally and psychologically; all we need do is correct the physical part, right?”
“Yes, doctor,” Jane said eagerly.
Their August visit was their 10th with Dr. Braunschweiger, and the doctor appeared wearing lipstick and with her hair fixed up.
Jane was so astounded at seeing the doctor more beautiful than ever that she couldn’t help blurting out: “How beautiful you are today, doctor?”
“Jane,” her mother scolded. “You shouldn’t address the doctor like that.”
“That’s all right,” Dr. Braunschweiger said, smiling broadly. “When Jane was awaiting for me last time, I saw her looking at a fashion magazine, and wondered how strong her interest was. You, Mrs. Pinkerton, had left the room, since she and I were to have a private consultation.”
“I remember.”
“Jane told me she worked this summer for your husband’s store, Claudine’s and did dress designing. I was astounded. She’s so young.”
“She’s been studying dresses since she was a little tyke.”
“So I asked her what she thought of my fashions. And she told me.” The doctor laughed.
Nancy looked sternly at her daughter: “You didn’t?”
Jane merely nodded, her head hung low.
“Yes, she did, and was pretty honest about it, too.”
Jane reddened, wishing she had never said anything.
“And,” the doctor said. “I realized Jane was right. I’ve been so busy with my practice and my kids I forget about myself sometimes.”
Jane looked at her mother, not sure what to say. The doctor added with a smile: “In this case, the patient was the doctor.”
The visit turned suddenly businesslike. The doctor ordered Jane’s weight and vitals taken by a nurse.
“Well you’re really turning into quite a young lady,” the doctor said. “But we need to fatten you up. You’re getting too thin.”
The scale had said 116 pounds, underweight for her size of 5’ 7”. Jane now stood before the doctor in only her panties; her mother was out of the room.
“You never developed boy muscles, that’s clear,” the doctor said, examining her arms, one by one, noting their slenderness and lack of muscle tone. “You’re frame is truly that of a young girl, Jane, so your transition in that way should go nicely. I’m pleased with the growth of your breasts, too, dear.”
“But they’re still only training bra size, doctor?” Jane protested.
The doctor explained that later on, Jane would need breast implants, since hormones on their own won’t do much to grow the breasts.
“But Jane, you should gain more weight,” the doctor said. Her voice was firm. “The hormones shouldn’t cause weight loss. If anything, they should increase your weight. But, if you don’t put on about 10 more pounds, I’ll have to cut back on the hormones and that would delay your transition.”
“I don’t want that, doctor,” Jane said. “I’ll try.”
“Now get dressed and I’ll talk to your mother for a minute. And, Jane, thank you for the style hints. What do you think of this suit today?”
Jane looked as the lovely Dr. Braunschweiger arose from her chair, and did a model’s turn, showing off her elegant long legs and smart dark blue skirt. “It’s truly stylish, doctor.”
Leaving the room, Jane was astonished to realize that the doctor, who must surely be a sophisticated and worldly person, was looking to her, Jane, for modeling hints.
*****
It takes until August for Lake Michigan to warm up enough for any serious swimming; even then the water temperature keeps out all but the hardiest. Yet, Bradford Beach in Milwaukee was always a great place for girls to throw down a few beach blankets and sunbathe on the beige-colored sand, even if the water was too frigid.
The beach was mobbed when Latoya, Heather and Jane arrived on a Sunday in mid-August; all of the sand volleyball courts were crowded with prancing girls in bikinis and their tanned boy friends playing and giggling over inept volleyball games. The three found a spot to throw down their blankets and their cloth coolers with snacks and cold drinks. There were other clusters of girls doing the same, while the boys tended to hang out near the concession stand, eyeing the girls or just acting crude. Jane no longer could contemplate hanging around with boys like that; it just felt so natural to be with the girls, and, more importantly, to be one of them
“That damned Demetrius,” Latoya said, as they settled on the blankets, all lying on their tummies, their books laid out in front of them. “I think he’s hot on some girl from college.”
“Oh no, ‘toya,” Jane said. “I thought he really loved you.”
“I did too, Jane, but he’s only seen me a couple of times this summer, and he seemed so quiet, so unlike himself. He claims he’s busy at work, and he is taking some extra course too.”
Jane put her arm around her friend, murmuring, “maybe he’s just preoccupied.”
“He should be preoccupied with me,” she said in an almost mean-sounding tone.
“Men are no good,” Heather said. She was several years older than Jane and Latoya and the three girls agreed to go together to the Beach to brighten up an otherwise boring Sunday. Jane found that she relished these moments with her girl friends, sharing girlish small talk.
“We need to get this lotion on, Heather,” Jane said. “Or else we’ll both burn quickly.”
Latoya whose dark skin precluded the need for much sun protection, helped as they took turns applying the lotion on each other; even Latoya used some, since sun damage can also be done to dark-skinned persons.
“Dammit Jane, you have the loveliest body of all,” Heather said.
Jane enjoyed feeling the hands of both her friends massaging the suntan lotion onto her smooth, almost dainty back, and her truly skinny arms and lovely shoulders. She felt their hands covering her thighs and legs.
Then it was Heather’s turn to be covered with lotion; the young woman had grown a bit fleshy since her modeling days when she was 16 and 17 years old. Her breasts had filled out as well as her hips and thighs. Jane felt she was truly a pretty and appealing woman.
“I bet you girls would like some help with the massages,” a male voice came, interrupting their activity.
Jane looked up and found she was staring directly into the sun, looking at the outline of a boy, his features hidden by the glare.
“No thanks,” Heather said. Being older, she was used to these approaches and moved quickly to stifle the advances.
“Aw, he was just kidding,” said another voice.
They realized there were three boys standing before them, two wearing only swim trunks and displaying trim masculine bodies with the third boy wearing a tee shirt over a somewhat chubby body. The boys introduced themselves as Tom, Anson and Caleb.
“Can we sit with you a bit?” the chubby boy, named Caleb, asked.
The girls looked at each other, gave an approving nod, as if to say the boys looked ok, or at least “not too bad.”
“We all graduated from King here this year,” the boy named Tom announced. He was referring to Rufus King, the premier high school in Milwaukee for the college bound.
“Well, good for you,” commented Heather, a bit sarcastically, knowing that King grads often acted a bit arrogant.
“We’re not like that,” the other boy, Anson, said quickly, picking up on Heather’s intended slur. “Really, we aren’t.”
The three girls introduced themselves, and announced they were from Douglas, the city to the south.
“You come here for the boys?” Tom teased.
“No, because this is best beach around,” Jane said firmly. “There are plenty of boys in Douglas. We don’t need boys from here.”
“Oh listen to that!” Tom said. “She’s too pretty to have a mouth on her like that.”
“She told you off,” Caleb said, laughing at his friend.
“Jane may not look like she’s strong enough to swat a fly, boys, but don’t get on the wrong side of her,” Heather said.
“I can see that,” Tom said.
As it turned out, Tom ended up talking most with Jane, Anson with Latoya and Caleb with Heather. The boys bought the girls ice cream and they even took part in a makeup volleyball game, Jane embarrassing herself by her athletic ineptness. She felt her arms too weak to make decent servers, but everyone giggled and laughed, and several times she fell in the sand, once landing in the arms of Tom who hugged her briefly.
Both Heather and Jane wore skirt type bottoms and full halters to make up their two-piece suits. Heather felt the fuller suits were necessary because of her heftier figure, while Jane realized that her penis, small though it was, might show through a tight swim suit bottom. Latoya, who had a magnificent figure, wore a bikini.
“I enjoyed meeting you, Jane,” Tom said.
“I did, too,” Jane said. She had truly liked Tom; they talked about his desires to go to the State University to study politics; he was active in the Presidential campaign that year, and even asked Jane to get involved, but she begged off, pleading her busy scheduled, which was truthful.
“Can I call you up sometime?” he asked as the afternoon was about to end.
“Mmmmmmm,” Jane paused.
“No you can’t,” interjected Latoya. “She’s got a boy friend.”
“Oh,” Tom said, growing red. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
The afternoon ended suddenly as a cool breeze arose from the lake and the sky darkened, foretelling the coming of a thunderstorm. Everyone scrambled from the beach and headed to leave, the girls reaching Heather’s Focus just as the downpour began.
“Did anyone give up their phone number?” Jane asked as they paused in traffic on the crowded lakeshore parkway.
“Not me,” Latoya said.
“Well, I gave Caleb my number,” Heather admitted. “I don’t think he’ll call, since I’m two years older than he is.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Jane laughed.
“I’m sorry, Jane, that I wouldn’t let you give Tom your number,” Latoya said. “But you know how your mother feels. No dates for you yet.”
Jane nodded, realizing that as lovely a girl as she was, she still was equipped with a penis and several other male characteristics which could cause her harm or embarrassment. She, too, admitted to herself that she still considered Marquise to be her boy friend and, thus far, the love of her young life.
Chapter 36: Resolving a Dilemma
Except for the trip to the beach and the every-other-week visits by her stepbrother, Jane’s summer vacation was concentrated on her work at Claudine’s and the preparation for the release of the store’s new fashion line for ‘tween girls, those from 10 to 13. Since the line was to carry the name “Jane” in stylish lettering, Jane felt she had to give it her greatest attention.
Thus every weekday and for half days on Saturday she rode with Jacques to and from her job at the Milwaukee store to spend the day drawing designs, cutting and fashioning samples and trying them on models and herself. It was a labor of love, but it was labor, nonetheless, and she was exhausted by the time the weekend came.
Everyone who saw the designs raved about them, except for Anastasia who constantly carped about production concerns.
“I love her, dad,” she said to her stepfather after one particularly troublesome day of fighting, “But how can she be so ornery, so nasty?”
“Listen to her, my pet,” Jacques said with a smile. “Between the two of you, you’re creating a gem.”
“I know, but I could kill her.”
Jacques looked at his stepdaughter, astounded at the degree of anger she showed, so much a change from the sweet, kind child who never had a bad word to say about anyone.
“You two are quite a team, dear. Now the only thing is to see if the new line will sell.”
Jane knew that Jacques had put a lot of money into the project, and it could either make or break the store. She loved her stepfather without reservation; her mother had been so fortunate to fall in love with this man who treated Jane as his own daughter.
“I’ll work with her, daddy,” she said. “I know how important it is, but I could have killed her today, you know.”
At Jane’s insistence, Jacques had decided to make all of the JANE line in Douglas, taking over a onetime dress manufacturing company that had gone out of business as the work had been out-sourced to China and Sri Lanka. Jane had learned from Latoya’s mother that she had lost her job in the plant, and that there were still skilled workers in the area, needing such work.
“We should be able to say ‘Made in USA’ on our labels, daddy,” she said.
Jacques scheduled to have the plant reopened in October, rehiring some of the previous workers and even a few supervisors to work in the formerly abandoned plant. Most of the equipment was still useable. The Douglas Journal-Times called the reopening the “Miracle of 6th Avenue,” referring to the street location of the plant in an otherwise rundown, largely abandoned industrial district.
Even the Wall Street Journal highlighted the prospect of the plant reopening, noting that it would be the only clothing plant to be opened in the US during the year, bucking the trend to send work overseas. The newspaper wrote:
“The plant is to manufacture a promised new line of clothes for girls from 10 to 13 called JANE / USA. The new line of clothes is to be based on the sensational ‘Pigtails’ campaign of several years ago, which was a six-month phenomena among young teen girls.
“The company, Claudine’s Apparels of Milwaukee, says only that the designer of the clothes is herself a teen, but will give no other details. Her designs are being previewed under strict secrecy in the company’s place of business.
“Several teen magazines have been sending reporters to Douglas and Milwaukee to seek to ferret out this mystery teen designer. So far, the young ladies identity seems to be unknown.”
*****
“Guess who called me?” Heather said on the Tuesday morning after their trip to the beach, stopping Jane as she was sorting materials before beginning to sew a new sample dress.
“That kid from the beach?”
“Yes,” Heather answered, her face growing a bit flush. “Caleb.”
“I figured he would, Heather. He was hot for you. And, he seemed kinda nice.”
“Not really, Jane. The other two were nicer, but all three are too young for me.”
“You mean you’re not going out with him?”
“Well, ah, yes, I am. We’re going to the movies on Friday, and he says Tom wants to take you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, Jane. They all wanted you. You drew all the attention, Jane. I think Caleb called me because Tom wants you so bad.”
“But you know what my mom says, Heather?”
“Oh Jane, you’re 17 now,” Heather said. “You can’t stay unkissed forever.”
Jane laughed. She had become acutely aware of the allure that she held for many boys; yet, she was aware she still could not “date” in the usual sense. Tom would probably want to feel her up and then what could she do.
“Well, I just can’t, Heather. Really I can’t.”
“It doesn’t make sense Jane,” Heather said. “You’re so lovely and smart. Why won’t you go out? Don’t you like boys, honey? Really you can tell old Heather. I understand those feelings.”
Jane nodded, recognizing that Heather had seemed to find an attachment for Wanda, who had long felt she was likely lesbian. Heather, it was apparent, was having confusion over her own sexual feelings.
“No Heather, I like boys. It’s just that I can’t date yet.”
“Well, I guess I understand, but poor Tommy will be disappointed.”
Jane desperately wanted to tell Heather about her gender situation, but she knew she had been accepted as a girl at Claudine’s, ever since she first tried on clothes during her middle school years. All of the employees and the models accepted her as a girl and Jane knew that to expose herself now might upset her stepfather and damage the campaign to market the Jane line of clothing.
Besides, Jane told herself, she really had a boy friend, at least in her fantasy. In her mind, she pictured Marquise, now grown to six feet in height, slender and wiry with neatly cropped hair. Almost nightly she envisioned herself in Marquise’s arms, accepting his kisses.
*****
“Sooner or later,” Nancy Pinkerton told her husband, “the newspapers are going to find out about our Jane.”
“I know,” Jacques said. “They’ve been nosing around, trying to find the high school our Jane went to. They’ve scoured all the schools in Milwaukee, and sooner or later they’ll put two-and-two together and realize she’s at Roosevelt here in Douglas here.”
“Yes, Jane’s kind of a legend now at Roosevelt, even though the novelty of her sex change has worn off.”
The two were discussing the matter over an early weekend in September, enjoying an ice tea on an unusually warm day. They sat at the picnic table in the backyard and soon were joined by Helen, their neighbor and mother of Jane’s best friend, Wanda.
They shared their quandary with Helen, who had been involved with Jane’s switch from being Jarod from the beginning.
“You’re marketing that line of clothes to middle schoolers, Jacques,” Helen said. “And their parents will hardly like it that they were designed by a transgendered girl.”
“I know,” he said. “We’ve purposely tried to keep the clothes in good taste and not too racy.”
As they continued talking, Jane appeared from the house, carrying a diet drink, and wearing a pair of short shorts and a tank top, with a floppy sunhat on her head. Her slender, lithe figure literally flowed and her pigtails bounced as she walked to the group. She heard enough of the conversation to realize they were talking about her and the problem of keeping her gender a secret.
“Sooner or later, honey, the world will have to know,” her mother said.
“I know, mother, but that’ll kill the sales for our Jane line,” Jane said.
Jane sat down next to her mother, using her left hand to play daintily with one of her pigtails, pondering the dilemma.
“I hate being dishonest, mother,” she said finally.
“But once it’s known, the whole clothing line will die,” Jacques said. “And all the new jobs we created with it.”
“Not to mention the investment you’ll lose, Jacques,” Nancy said.
“I know,” Jane said, her demeanor becoming morose.
*****
The conversation on that warm afternoon bothered her for several days: Jane was struck with the irony of it all: If you’re dishonest or gloss over the truth, you’ll succeed but if you’re open and honest, you’ll fail.
“I’ve been dealing with this dishonesty about myself all my life,” Jane told her friend Wanda on the following weekend as the two had stopped at their favorite coffee shop. Wanda had an athletic scholarship at the state university in women’s basketball, and returned home about every fourth weekend.
Wanda had grown nearly six feet in height, and her body had hardened, but retained a warmth and femininity, which made her attractive and even alluring. She usually had a warm smile, brightened by sparkling blue eyes and framed by short, well-maintained strawberry blonde hair. By contrast, Jane was almost a wispy slender twig of a girl whose natural beauty attracted the attention of passers-by.
“Jane, sweetie, you’ve only had to hide who you are because you had to,” Wanda said. “You’ve always been a girl, a female, but you had to hide that before because of your mom.”
“She was afraid I’d get hurt, you know?”
“Yes, and she was probably right, but you got hurt a few times anyway.”
“And now, I’ve got to hide the fact that I still am a boy, in one way at least, and hide the fact that I once was only a boy.”
“Oh, I know, it does seem unfair,” Wanda said, touching her friend’s slender, pretty hand.
“And it’s unfair to friends like Heather,” Jane continued. “It seems I’ve hurt my other friends, too, like Marquise, who’s mad because I hid the truth from him.”
“Doesn’t he contact you at all, Jane?”
“No, Latoya said he’s still pissed at me.”
“Maybe time will change that,” Wanda said. “I understand he’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”
Jane smiled, a hope springing in her heart for this lovely young man; yet, she feared any further friendships with him were not in her future.
Wanda said she had been out with Heather the previous night, visiting a dance club where they met some other girls. “I really like her,” Wanda said. “She’s a true friend. Do you want me to tell her about you?”
Jane considered the idea, recognizing how close both Wanda and Heather had become, most likely developing a lesbian relationship. Jane enjoyed the idea that she had developed so many friendships with other girls and that she was accepted as one of them.
“No, I think I should tell her myself,” Jane said. “When the time comes.”
*****
On October 1, Jacques held a formal factory-opening; he had hired about half of the eventual workforce he expected would be needed to handle the JANE brand of clothes. The governor and Mayor of Douglas both appeared for a ribbon-cutting ceremony to herald the first employees to enter the plant.
“We’re so proud to recognize Claudine’s Apparels for re-opening this garment factory,” Mayor Maryann McCormick said in her speech. “At one time, Douglas was one of the leading clothing manufacturing cities in the United States, specializing in children’s clothes. Foreign trade has taken its toll and we’ve lost all the jobs in the industry. Now, we must salute Jacques Marcineau for his enterprising beginnings here.”
The ceremony included four models walking across the platform, showing creations that were to be manufactured at the plant. The girls were all 14 and younger, since the JANE apparel line was to be aimed at girls 10 to 14. Three of the four models wore pigtails as if to highlight the age bracket.
In his few remarks, Jacques thanked the mayor for his encouragement and the governor for speeding up an application for a small business development loan, but then he had a special acknowledgement: “None of this would have been possible except for our Jane, the young lady who gave us the idea of the JANE clothing line and has designed all of the clothes.”
“Where is Jane?” someone yelled out.
“Jane’s here and we’ll introduce her soon,” Jacques answered.
“There’s no Jane,” someone else yelled. “She’s just a marketing ploy.”
Staring down the heckler, a young woman wearing a camouflage outfit, Jacques said: “Yes, ma’am, there really is a Jane and she will be revealed when she is ready. She’s the genius behind the designs and the pigtail trademark. If you’ll recall the pigtailed girl that four years ago set off this campaign when she was 14, that was our Jane.”
The hecklers had a point: Jane’s identity had been kept a secret, and there was speculation that she was merely a gimmick to sell clothes. There had been posters set up, showing the first fashions that Jane had modeled, and displaying the logo that would herald the new line. The logo was simple, a stylistic cartoon of a girl with pigtails, with the words “JANE / USA” emblazoned fashionably.
A Milwaukee-based advertising agency, with strong New York fashion industry connections, had set up the JANE / USA campaign, and it was hoping to take the sub-teen fashion world by storm.
Jane nervously waited in the office of the factory, located just behind the platform that had been erected for the event; the governor’s black huge General Motors SUV was parked nearby, with two motorcycle officers from the County Sheriff’s Department, standing guard. Several hundred people, mainly the new employees of the factory and their families, along with union representatives, several business officials and other dignitaries gathered about the platform, listening in the mid-morning sun, still low in the eastern sky.
All three major television stations in the area had crews there, along with Channel 9 from Chicago, which beamed nationally through the cable systems.
“Is JANE / USA the rebirth of garment making in Douglas?” headlined the Douglas Journal-Times the morning of the reopening ceremony.
“If what they’re doing today in Douglas, Wisconsin, is any harbinger for the future, this once thriving manufacturing capital for women’s clothing will again be going strong,” commented the reporter for a National Cable news network which was taking the TV feed from a Milwaukee station.
“This is a big story, Jane,” Jacques told her several days earlier. “During these tough times, people are looking for signs of hope, and we’re giving it to them. On second thought, it’s you, yes you, who is giving them hope. You insisted on the clothes being made here.”
“I know, daddy,” she said. “And now I’m maybe going to blow it for you.”
“Don’t say that, honey,” Jacques said. “This whole thing is a gamble, but I have faith that you being honest and letting the world know you began life as Jarod will not matter.”
“Oh, I hope so, daddy, I’m so selfish to insist, and you’re such a cool daddy.”
Jacques smiled. “Jane, I think your need to be honest is so important. Let’s go for it, right.”
“I love you, daddy,” she said.
Jacques had the most to lose in the venture; he had mortgaged the business to begin production at the plant; he had convinced a local businessman who strongly supported revitalization of Douglas to join in the venture, at the tune of several million dollars. Yet, he readily agreed to let Jane go public, even though it might bring bankruptcy. Jane’s mother, Nancy, was very reluctant, urging that they just keep Jane in the background, and continue as they were.
“But, mom, that’s dishonest,” Jane said in a heated argument.
Jacques, however, prevailed, stating the happiness of his new family and his daughter, Jane, was most important, as well as basic honesty.
*****
But news that ‘JANE’ is boy shocks all
DOUGLAS, Wis. — This community’s expected rebirth as a fashion capital of the nation began with both major fanfare and a shock that may threaten the success of the venture.
JJ Fashions opened its doors Tuesday to usher in the first of some 120 employees it expects to hire before the end of the year. The opening followed a ceremony before more than 200 bystanders outside the plant on W. River Road. The plant-opening was heralded in a ribbon-cutting shared by plant owner, Jacques Marcineau, Wisconsin Gov. Will Boylston and Douglas Mayor Maryann McCormick, and watched by both local and national television crews.
“This is big news, not only for Douglas, but for the garment industry throughout the state and nation,” Mayor McCormick said to great cheers.
The big news of the day, however, was sprung at a press conference held after the event inside on the factory floor.
“I’m Jane,” said a willowy, pretty teen girl with long flowing light brown hair. “And I was Jarod until last year.”
The announcement by this teen girl whose fashions form the seed for the new factory was simple and direct, and the fact that Jane was a transgendered girl at first didn’t register on the news reporters, who were expecting a typical news conference to hype the new JANE / USA clothing line.
“First of all, I must say I am sorry for deceiving so many people, some who viewed me as a female. I was never honest with them that I was born a boy.
“Second, I must tell you all that I have always felt I was a girl, and I am currently under doctor’s care and am in the process of transitioning to be a female. That’s a process that will continue for several years.
“Third, I must thank my mother, Nancy, and my stepfather, Jacques, for their support. I must have been a difficult girl for them.
Her announcement revealed, too, that she was the stepdaughter of the plant owner, who has put significant investment into opening the plant. Both parents were at Jane’s side during the announcement.
Also at Jane’s side was Anastasia Szymczak, known professionally as Miss Amelia, a prominent woman’s clothes designer from Milwaukee. She had been hired to oversee the young girl’s designs to assure that they would meet the demands of mass-production.
“I assure you,” Szymczak said, “The designs were all Jane’s, and I merely looked over her shoulder. This lovely child is a true talent.”
Jane said she had always felt she was female, even as a young child. “I loved dressing dolls and designing clothes for them,” she said. “I just felt more real as a girl.”
Jane is a senior at Franklin D. Roosevelt High School in Douglas, where school authorities said she maintains a 3.89 grade-point average, is editor of the literary magazine and president of a club entitled, Peace at Roosevelt, formed to decrease violence at the school.
Principal Marguerite Jones said Jane switched to attending school as a girl in her junior year, and that after some hassling by other students, the change was relatively peaceful. “She’s a credit to our school,” the principal added.
Jane appeared on platform wearing her trademark pigtails, a symbol of the new JANE / USA clothing line. She wore one of her newest designs, an autumn outfit, which featured a v-neck, sleeveless top of turquoise with a dark blue swirl below the ‘V.’ Her mid thigh-length skirt was layered with dark blue cloth, each layer trimmed in lace. She wore flats and matching turquoise ankle socks. The outfit made her look about 12 years old, instead of 17, her real age.
Four years ago, when she was 13, she modeled clothes for Claudine’s Apparels in Milwaukee. At the time, her stepfather said, everyone knew her only as a girl, except for himself, the fashion photographer and publicist.
Heather Young, a Claudine’s employee and former model, told a reporter: “I modeled with her then and have since worked two summers very closely with her and never suspected. As far as I knew, she was merely a pretty teen girl.”
Young said Jacques had assembled all Claudine’s employees the day before and had Jane admit to her gender.
“We were all shocked,” Young said. “Some of us were mad that she was deceiving us, but you have to put yourself in her place. She must have felt very confused.”
Not everyone was pleased with the announcement. Whitney Helgeson, president of the Douglas Association of Commerce, commented that Jane’s revelation might kill the JANE / USA line even before it started. “There are likely to be boycotts and all sorts of fuss, and all this will be for nought. I wish she’d have kept her mouth shut. Or his mouth shut. Whatever!”
Within two hours of the ceremony, six persons identifying themselves as members of the Witness for God Evangelical Congregation began picketing JJ Industries, carrying signs that for a male to wear women’s clothes was an abomination. “We’re notifying churches everywhere to boycott this line of clothes in protest to this young man spitting in the eye of God.”
Marcineau, JJ Industries owner and Jane’s stepfather, said: “We’re aware that some persons may be uncomfortable with Jane’s situation. She really had no choice in the matter. I’ve looked into this transgender issue and realize that some persons are really born in the wrong body. That was what happened in Jane’s case.
“Also, I want everyone to understand that Jane is a very moral and ethical person. She wanted to be totally honest about her gender, even though it might cost sales. Furthermore, you must not confuse gender with sex. Jane is changing her gender, and not participating in sex. As a boy, she had several dates, all very innocent, and she has yet to date a boy in her new gender.
“Her mother and I are proud of her and all of Douglas should be as well. It’s been her inspiration that has been at the heart of this today.”
Marcineau’s eyes teared up as he completed his comments.
“We think Jane’s designs will sell themselves,” commented Szymczak. “They’ve been very popular with young teen girls. I don’t think Jane’s gender should be an issue.”
*****
All of the news coverage brought Jane back into the spotlight at Franklin D. Roosevelt High School. Jane dressed like any other student in the school the following day, jeans and a sweatshirt, with her hair tied in a bun. She wore only neutral lipstick and no eye make-up. She was determined not to stand out in the school, or to draw attention to herself. But she soon realized she could have dressed as a homeless girl and still become the center of attention. There were hoots and whistles aplenty as Jane approached the school the morning after the plant opening ceremony.
“You’re the queen of the school again,” Latoya said as the two met on the street in front of the school.
“I’m afraid so,” Jane said.
“Oh, oh,” said Latoya. “Look what’s up ahead.”
The Witness for God Evangelicals had positioned themselves on the public sidewalk near the entrance, with about a dozen middle-aged persons and a few younger men in their 20s forming two lines along the sidewalk, leaving just enough room for arriving students to walk single file through their makeshift gauntlet. Arriving school buses lined the curb, making it difficult for students to avoid walking between the protesters whose signs, carelessly printed in markers, complete with misspellings, proclaimed: “God Says NO to Fagots,” “Boicott JANE,” “JANE is Godless Wierdo.”
“Oh damn,” Jane said, realizing she’d have to brave the gauntlet. “I’m going through it, I’ll show those cowards.”
“Where are the cops when you need them?” Latoya asked.
“I don’t know, but things have quieted down here at Roosevelt. Maybe that’s why they’re not here,” Jane replied. “Let’s go.”
With that, Jane moved forward resolutely, her head held high, ready for any hitting or taunts they had to give. She remembered Jacques philosophy: “Do not hate them. They think they’re right, but they don’t know any better. You are strong so don’t be dragged down by them.”
Yet, as resolute as Jane appeared on the outside, she was trembling with fear inside, and hoping it didn’t show; Latoya followed right behind her to show common cause and purpose. Jane took strength from her friends, girls like Latoya and Wanda.
Just as Jane reached the group, she saw Jerome, the huge security aide appear at the other end of the gauntlet, his voice booming authoritatively:
“All right folks, let the young ladies through. Or else there’ll be trouble for you all.”
“Are you threatening us?” a middle-aged man who appeared to be the leader protested, his voice weakening as Jerome looked at him with a menacing scowl.
“I’m warning you. These young ladies have a right to go to school without your harassment. Open up your ranks now.”
His booming voice carried a no-nonsense quality that caused the protesters to back up, although reluctantly, but without some mutterings about their right to assemble being abridged.
“Welcome, my young media star,” Jerome smiled as Jane and Latoya emerged from the gauntlet. He escorted the two onto school property, right in the midst of a throng of students who were milling around the entrance, waiting to enter.
A huge cheer went up, and Jerome said: “That’s for you Jane. We’re all so proud.”
Jane smiled, and like a celebrity, waved at the crowd, and many cheered back: “Way to go, Jane,” “We love you Jane,” “Kisses Jane,” and as she high-fived several friends, she noticed a handful of boys turn away in disgust at the demonstration, and Jane realized she would always be the subject of scorn for some people and a focus of curiosity by others. That would be her life from now on.
“Jane,” Jerome said as he directed them into the school and through the metal detector, “I owe you a personal debt of thanks.”
“Why, Jerome?” she looked up at this giant of a man, his face almost in tears.
“My mom was one of the workers who went back on her job in your plant yesterday,” he said. “She said it was like being reborn, to get back into the garment trade.”
“Jerome, that makes me so happy, really, it means more to me to hear that than anything. I’m so happy for your mom. What’s her name?”
“Mom’s name? Oh, it’s Sylvia, Sylvia Jackson.”
Jane felt so elated as she headed to her locker and classes for the day. She thought, too, of Latoya’s mother, who also got a job in the reopened factory. She discovered the realization that it may have been her own insistence at having the JANE / USA line manufactured in Douglas that made it possible for Sylvia Jackson, Latoya’s mother and many more like them to get their jobs back. Little did she realize it then, but the recognition that she, Jane, had positively helped other people marked the beginning of a change in her life, even more than the gender transition she was going through.
*****
Most of the preparation work for developing the JANE / USA line of clothes had been completed during the summer, and Jacques insisted that Jane should concentrate on her senior year in high school. He hired Anastasia fulltime to be the company’s design director, and Jane’s activities were relegated to occasional trips to the plant for consultations and promotion work that was being developed for winter and spring to accompany the release of the JANE / USA line to the stores in March. She also worked several Saturdays a month at Claudine’s Apparels mall outlet store, where Jacques felt she’d get ideas by waiting on customers and signing autographs, which became a side-effect of her recent celebrity status. She enjoyed the Saturday work, particularly since she got a chance to work with Heather.
After the splash of news that accompanied the plant-opening, there were numerous requests for Jane to make public appearances; two of the major networks invited her to appear on their morning news shows, but Jane’s parents, with Jane’s approval, turned down all media interviews, saying: “Our daughter is still in high school and needs to concentrate on her studies.”
The advertising agency handling the JANE / USA account agreed to keep Jane under wraps, though they did allow a reporter and photographer from Vanity Fair to spend time in Douglas for a long feature story that would highlight both the new clothing line as well as outlining the truth about transgendered teens. In addition, another reporting team from Teen Views, a magazine directed at young teen girls, was permitted to interview Jane and her friends and to review the coming fashions.
On the Saturday after the plant-opening ceremony, Jane was surprised to see Melissa, who was the sister of Terri, enter the store.
“I’m so happy for you Jane,” the young woman said. She was dressed casually, but with good taste, and she appeared thinner than Jane remembered her.
Jane agreed to meet her for lunch at the food court, and was startled to see Melissa sitting with an older woman, a pleasant-faced woman with a husky build, wearing slacks and a colorful wrap.
“This is my mother, Jane,” Melissa said, introducing the woman as Jane took a seat. After the three got their food, they settled in for conversation.
“I’ve followed your story with great interest,” said the older woman, whose name was Deborah. “I only wish I had met you when you and Terrence were friends. Maybe he’d still be with us.”
“Mother, dear,” Melissa interjected. “I think she’d like to be remembered as Terri.”
The woman’s eyes moistened: “I know, honey, but I can never get use to that. He came into this world as Terrence. I miss him . . . ah . . . her so much. And, I must blame myself for not paying more attention.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Heller,” Jane said. “Terri said her stepfather was strict about being all boy.”
“That’s true, Jane, but I should have listened to both Melissa and Terri then. I know now he was like you, I guess. You know, really feeling he was a . . . ah . . . girl.”
“She really was only happy, I think, mother, when she was Terri,” Melissa said.
“I know that now, honey, and my marriage to that man was so bad and he hurt our family so much,” she said. “I’m rid of him now.”
Jane smiled, gaining affection for this family, as the conversation went on.
“I made a good divorce settlement,” Mrs. Heller continued. “And Melissa has helped me understand the transgendered people better. If I had only known.”
“And mother wants to start a Foundation to help young boys who face similar situations as you and Terri did,” Melissa said. “She’s made good investments, and built up a nice bank account. So we thought it might be nice to use some of that money to help begin a Foundation to assist in educating people about transgendered youth.”
Her mother added: “We’ll call it the Terri Heller Foundation, in honor of Terrence . . . oh, darn, I mean Terri. I’ll never get used to that.”
Melissa explained that they had hired an attorney and begun to incorporate the Foundation, and suggested that Jane might eventually want to get involved, perhaps to lend her name to the Foundation.
“Of course I would, just let me know how.”
As they ended their lunch, the three hugged briefly, and Melissa said: “Jane, I can’t tell you how lovely a young woman you’ve become.”
“Thank you, Melissa, and you’re looking great.”
“Oh still too fat, and how I envy your figure.”
Mrs. Heller smiled: “She’s lost 30 pounds and I think she looks great. And, Melissa show Jane your engagement ring.”
Melissa reddened, holding out her hand to show a silver engagement ring, with a large ruby centered by four small diamonds.”
“Wow, congratulations, Melissa. Who’s the lucky man?”
“Mark is an attorney in Milwaukee and he’s sweet man,” Mrs. Heller said. “The wedding is the second Saturday in June.”
Jane hugged Melissa again.
“Gosh, I’d love to make your wedding dress,” Jane said.
“Really, we were hoping you’d want to,” Melissa said. “We’ll pay you of course.”
“Let me do it for you, no charge, Melissa, in honor of Terri.”
“Not for free, Jane, but in honor of Terri, yes, Melissa said.
Jane watched the two walk away, and realized she was eager to design a dress that would flatter the young lady to make them all proud. Melissa’s fleshy body would pose a challenge, but Jane would be determined that the dress she designed would make Melissa, who was such a generous and lovely friend, a dazzling bride.
*****
Her senior year at Roosevelt continued to be busy. As editor of the Odyssey, the school literary magazine, she found the weeks before the late November publishing deadline to be unbelievably busy. Fortunately, she had two other girls on the committee who worked, along with her co-editor, Aniesha.
The theme of the December issue was respect, and Jane found one of the girls particularly talented in graphic arts, and they designed a cover called “Respect at Roosevelt,” containing a stylish collage of students, emphasizing the great diversity within the school, touching all bases: Caucasian, African-American, Hispanic, East Asian, American Indian and, cleverly, gay.
Articles within the covers were written by persons of each of the ethnic groups, including one by the gay students group president, with an opening comment by Jane, as editor, reflecting briefly on her own transition and the welcome she received from both the school administration and most of the students.
*****
The Peace at Roosevelt (PAR) group finally succeeded to getting the leaders of the various groups (or gangs) together to meet each other under the auspices of Prof. Angleton. They held weekend sessions, in which the participants were given gift cards and refreshments to reward them for attending. The sessions started on a rocky note, but by the second day, the rival groups were laughing and telling jokes. There was no formal truce announced, and none was sought, but Jane saw enough progress to prompt her to hug each of the boys (they were all boys) at the end of the session.
“You know what I think helped to cool things down?” the professor said after the sessions ended.
“What?” Jane asked. Tiffany, Aniesha and Sam were also there doing a post mortem on the sessions.
“You Jane, telling them all why you want to be a girl,” the professor said. “That was so courageous.”
“Yes, her honesty I think shamed them all,” Tiffany said.
“I just wanted to get them focused on something other than their hatred for each other,” Jane said. “The sessions seemed to be going badly.”
“They were,” the professor said.
“You almost had me crying when you finished, Jane,” Sam said.
Gangs continued to exist at Roosevelt; it was inherent to the community at the time, but there was a relative peace and but few random acts of violence. Soon, police presence was decreased and school continued, less chaotic and a bit more orderly.
The principal visited a PAR meeting in the middle of Jane’s senior year praising the group for its efforts and initiative in seeking to make Roosevelt a better school. Though she singled no particular member of PAR for special recognition, she did indicate the “extraordinary courage” of a certain student with “special characteristics.”
“That’s Jane,” Tiffany interjected. “She’s our girl!” The group cheered.
(To Be Continued)
“I don’t know what’s going on with Jane,” Nancy Marcineau (nee Pinkerton) said to her husband one Sunday morning in early December as they looked out upon the dull grey morning. “She’s still in bed, and that’s not like her.”
Jacques looked up from the business news section of the Sunday paper where his concentration had been focused on the recent downturn in retail sales, a reality that may doom the success of the JANE / USA clothing line campaign in spring.
“What?” he said, his mind still focusing on worries over his considerable investment in the clothing factory.
“Darling,” Nancy persisted. “Jane. She’s been so moody.”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry,” he said, sipping his coffee, which he let cool off due to his deep study of the business section. “Yes, I noticed that, too. She seems depressed.”
“This past week particularly, Jacques. What do you think? Is it the hormones?”
Jacques pondered the question. “Perhaps. You women do seem to have those periods of the month.”
“But she’s not a woman yet,” Nancy protested.
“But the hormones could still be affecting her. What does her doctor say?”
Nancy nodded, getting up to refill their cups and looking out the kitchen window onto the back lot that bordered woods; they regularly saw squirrels frolicking from tree branch to tree branch and sometimes were likely to see a deer or possum roaming. The family had moved over the Labor Day weekend to a log cabin home in a secluded forested area along the Douglas River, just inside the city limits.
“Maybe it’s just the weather, Jacques,” Nancy said. “It’s been so grey.”
“I’m scheduled to take her to Dr. Braunschweiger on Tuesday,” Jacques said. “We’ll have to have her look into it.”
*****
Jane awoke that morning and drew herself into the fetal position, cuddling under the blankets and began sobbing. She lay on her left side, her right hand caressing her left upper arm, content to feel its thin softness. It comforted her, she realized, that she was so fragile and slender.
Yet, she was crying, and she couldn’t understand it. She had found acceptance, for the most part, at school, where her grades continued to soar and her leadership in the literary magazine and with PAR was accepted. She nestled deeper into the bed clothes, and reflected: Was it the move to this more rural area, away from Wanda and now needing a ride from her mother or father to get to and from school? No, she didn’t think that was it: she found she liked walking back into the woods, particularly in the autumn, and, besides, she was now taking driving lessons and Jacques had promised her a car once she passed the driving test.
Was it the fact that she still had a penis, though it wasn’t big, compared to the boys she knew, but still it was there. No, she didn’t think that was what bothered her; she knew this would happen and felt she was prepared for what had to be done to complete her transition to being female.
Was it the fact that Marquise had never called her, contacted her, or even emailed her? Most every night in those few moments before sleep and again in the morning as she lay half asleep after the alarm sounded she imagined she was in his arms, her soft, smooth body next to his wiry muscular torso. She imagined, too, his kisses and wondered if they would be as magical in reality as they were in her dreams. She was a girl without experience in these matters, but as a voracious reader of teen girl novels and romance stories she had developed an idyllic picture of young love.
“Oh my dearest Marquise,” she repeated over and over. “I love you, I want you my darling.”
Her memory of the times they worked together on the Odyssey, sitting close to each other, viewing the veins that pronounced the strength of his bronzed forearms, contrasting with her own slender, soft, white skin; she wanted to cuddle up to him then, to receive his kisses, but that would have been impossible at the time, since he was still Jarod. Her memory had changed the picture a bit: in her memory now, she was not Jarod, but a teen girl named Jane.
Of course, at the time, in her own mind, she was a girl, always a girl, never the boy she outwardly portrayed.
She conjured up a picture of attending the prom in April with Marquise, she in a peach colored, gauzy strapless gown and hair piled stylishly atop her head, and Marquise in a purple tux with a crá¨me colored sash. The picture stilled her tears for a while.
“But that’ll never happen,” she said aloud. “Never happen.”
And the crying began anew. She was hopelessly in love, an unrequited love, a cruel love. Her sobbing grew louder, more persistent until there was a knock on her bedroom door and her mother asking: “Are you OK honey?”
Her “yes” came out between sobs.
“Can I come in dear?” her mother persisted.
Her sobbing subsided, and she said a tentative “yes,” and her mother entered. Jane looked up through her teary eyes to see her mother approaching with a concerned look and Jacques standing poised at the door.
“Oh mother,” Jane said, accepting the hugs of her mother, and bursting into a full-blown crying jag.
Jacques, too, entered the room, pulling the vanity bench next to the bed and taking Jane’s hand into both of his as her mother hugged her tightly. The sobs continued as her mother said: “Just let the tears come, dear.”
It seemed an eternity, but Jane stopped crying in a few minutes, and wiped her eyes with tissues produced by Jacques. She sat up in the bed, looking fragile and tiny in a light blue nighty with tiny straps, and looked at her mother and stepfather, realizing how lucky she was to have such caring, sympathetic parents.
“Tell us what’s wrong, Jane,” Jacques said. “We’ll understand.”
“It’s OK, I’m done crying now,” Jane said, reluctant to share her feelings about Marquise, which she now realized where foolish and the stuff of dreams.
Jacques got up and as he left the room said that he was going back to his coffee and the newspaper and suggesting it might be time for a mother-daughter talk.
*****
After some prodding Jane finally told her mother everything, including her long-standing love for Marquise, even before her life as Jane.
“I’ve always wanted to be in his arms, in his protection, mommy,” Jane said finally.
“Oh my darling,” her mother said, hugging her tightly.
“It must just be an infatuation, mommy, but why can’t I get over it? He doesn’t want me, probably thinks I’m a weirdo, which I guess I am to him.”
Nancy let go of her hug, and separated herself from Jane, grabbing both of the girl’s hands in hers and looked directly into her daughter’s bright, but teary blue eyes. “Oh my dear, dear Jane,” she said. “You are really just like any other 17-year-old girl, I can see that. You’re in love, and to you it’s real. Enjoy it honey, every girl should feel that.”
“Oh mommy, really? Is that how you felt toward my father?”
Nancy blushed a bit: “Yes, I was a starry-eyed girl then, only 17, and I was in love, I thought. I dreamed of him every night, just like you are doing, but he’s not half the young man as your Marquise.”
“You think so mommy?” Jane asked, using “mommy” as she often did in such moments.
“Yes, darling. I think your Marquise is a good young man. He’s smart and he doesn’t really know Jane yet. Give him time, but maybe he has another girl, but don’t worry, when this is all done, you’ll be the prettiest girl in town. There’ll always be another Marquise.”
The minute Nancy said that, she was mad at herself, and Jane was quick to protest.
“No mother, there will not be another Marquise. He’s special.”
“OK then honey,” Nancy said, changing her tone. “Make sure you get word to Marquise that you’d like to see him again. Tell your friend Latoya to suggest it.”
“He should be home next week from college,” Jane said, a smile coursing her face, still red and puffy from crying.
“Don’t be shy, dear, but don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t take the bait, dear.”
“I won’t I promise,” Jane said, not really sure she could keep such a promise.
“Now get yourself cleaned up, take a nice bath and we’ll fix your hair into pigtails.”
“OK mommy,” Jane said. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes, honey, Jacques wants to take us for brunch at the Lakeview. You should wear your new winter outfit.”
“Oh mommy, I love that outfit,” Jane said. It was a colorful red and green skirt and white-layered blouse, especially designed for the holiday season. “I’ll look so Christmassy.”
*****
“You know Jacques, her only problem is that she’s truly a 17-year-old girl,” Nancy said as she returned to the kitchen table.
“I know. She’s always been a girl, honey.”
“Yes, and I never realized it, Jacques,” Nancy said. “I wished I had and we could have begun her transition before all these male things were happening to her body.”
“Is that what’s bothering her?”
“No, she knew that would happen. She’s in love, Jacques. Just a girl in love.”
Jacques smiled: “This, too, shall pass, but not without more tears, I’m sure.”
“Don’t belittle that, Jacques,” she scolded. “To a girl this love is real. I know. If I hadn’t been so blind and in love at her age, I’d never have gotten pregnant and given birth to her.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I know how she feels. I cried like that, too, when that bastard left me pregnant. I thought I was in love. These are real feelings for a girl, something I guess you men will never understand.”
“So you don’t think it’s the hormones?” he asked.
“No, but we better ask the doctor anyway. But, I think she’s just a girl in love.”
*****
“The ‘Bad Girls’ are getting together for a reunion,” Aniesha told Jane on the last day of school before Christmas vacation.
“Cool,” she replied. “That was back when we were sophomores and freshmen, Aniesha. We had quite a noontime club then.”
Aniesha laughed. “Yeh, we were pretty pathetic and so innocent then.”
“We were the original geeks, I think, and I was pathetic Jarod then,” Jane laughed.
“Yes you were, but I thought I was in love with you, and wanted you for my boy friend. What a sad case I was.”
“Yeah, to want me. That was pretty sad. I was not much then.”
Aniesha shook her head. “You’re wrong Jane. You were hot; I wasn’t the only girl who thought you were something special. But you paid no attention to any of us.”
“I did. I was with you girls all the time. I loved being with you.”
Aniesha changed the subject. “Well, you going to join us? We’re meeting on Saturday after Christmas about 1 p.m. at Hooters.”
“At Hooters?” Jane asked. “I’ll be jealous with my tiny tits.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still the prettiest girl among us. Come on join us. Tiffany will be there with her boy friend, and Latoya and Demetrius, and I’ll be there with Maxwell.”
“How about Marquise? Will he come?” Jane asked, almost too eagerly, she thought.
But Aniesha didn’t seem to pick up the anxiousness in her voice, replying only that Latoya had asked him to come.
Aniesha had filled out most attractively; as she always had in the past, she dressed conservatively, but in a classy style. She had never had a boy friend until just recently when Maxwell Livingston, who was headed to become valedictorian of the senior class, asked her to the homecoming dance. Aniesha had carefully groomed cornrolls and wore stylish glasses and Jane thought had become both beautiful and intelligent. She had a scholarship for Howard.
Jane told Aniesha she’d come to the get-together and asked whether she should ask Sam to join her.
“I wouldn’t, Jane,” Aniesha said. “He’s not really your boy friend, is he?”
“No, just a friend, but he’s always been sweet,” Jane said.
“I still wouldn’t, honey. He really was never part of the group,” she said.
Jane thought Aniesha’s response to Sam was strange; she’d always liked Sam, even though he was not the most handsome of boys; in fact, he was somewhat of a loner, always a bit awkward. Yet, he was exactly the kind of boy who would fit in with the geeky group that made up the “Bad Girls.”
Perhaps, Jane thought, Aneisha felt Sam’s presence might indicate to Marquise that Jane had a boy friend, and further stifle his interest in Jane. Maybe that was why he shouldn’t be invited.
That night, Jane’s dreams of Marquise heightened over the expectation that the boy would be at the Hooters get-together. She had been tempted earlier that night to call Latoya and ask about him, and whether he still was with his old girl friend, Janita. She had heard they had broken up, largely because Marquise was out of town in school and Janita always seemed to be a girl in need of constant attention. She decided against making the call, out of fear Latoya would tell Marquise of her interest and that might scare him away.
Several times during the fall, she had told Latoya she felt bad about deceiving Marquise, and wondered whether she should write him and apologize.
“No, Jane, just let it rest. Marquise will come to you when he’s ready. I think he always liked you.”
It was a dilemma; Jane trusted Latoya and welcomed her advice, but couldn’t help thinking she might be wrong about Marquise and that it might be better to contact him personally.
“No darling, I wouldn’t call him, really,” her mother said after she disclosed her feelings about Marquise as the reason for her morose demeanor. “Latoya’s right.”
Jane took their advice, content for the time being to fantasize each night and each morning about the tall, slender, heavenly Marquise. She was in love! But would he be?
*****
Jane thought of nothing else but Marquise in the days before Christmas and the expected get-together at Hooters; would he show up? Should she call and invite him? What should she wear? How should she act? What if he brought a girl friend? She tormented herself over and over with these questions, never finding a satisfactory answer.
Her mother noticed the distraction that featured her daughter, and guessed correctly it had to do with Marquise. She got Jane to help her bake Christmas cookies and decorate the house for Christmas, which the girl did, but without the old enthusiasm that she had shown in previous years.
Yet, Christmas this year was to be special; Jacques son, Peter would be joining them, winning a reprieve from his mother’s household, telling his mother he wished to be with his sister, Jane, since the two had hit it off so well. Peter also had found a girl friend in Douglas, and she would be joining them for Christmas dinner.
Since he entered college, Peter had blossomed, lost weight and found Colleen, an “Irish lass” in the words of Jacques. She was an English major at college, and Jane and she became friendly, though Jane, to her own shame, felt some jealousy because she and Peter had always been so close.
“Peter, I’m so happy for you,” Jane told him at Thanksgiving after Colleen joined them for pumpkin pie dessert that day. Jane really meant it; she was happy for Peter, but lamented that her close relationships with her half-brother were changing. They had shared so much together, once they had become comfortable, and she realized they had indeed become brother-sister.
And, Jane realized she now had a new friend in her life with whom she could share feminine enjoyments. In fact, for a while following the pumpkin pie dessert, the two girls snuck off to Jane’s bedroom, where they lay on their stomachs, examining several designs of dresses Jane had been designing.
“I love your designs, Jane,” Colleen said, her blue eyes sparkling in her round freckled face. “They’re so free and flowing and, truly, so darling.”
“I try to design my dresses so that the girls can have some fun in them. Do you know what I mean, Colleen?”
“I think so, and I like that. Nothing too serious for me. I’ve never been able to wear much in fashion anyway like you, Jane.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You have the loveliest figure, Jane. Really you do. I can’t believe you ever were a boy.”
“Thank you, Colleen,” Jane said. “I know Peter told you all about me, and I’m glad that doesn’t bother you.”
“You’ve been very important for Peter,” Colleen began, her voice hesitating. “He told me how he felt like a loser until his father married your mom, and he met you. He said you really encouraged him, and he loves you so much, just like a little sister.”
“Colleen, I never thought of Peter as a ‘loser,’” Jane said. “He’s a kind, considerate and really very smart and creative guy.”
Colleen blushed a bit at the words, finally blurting out, “Maybe that’s why I love him so.”
Colleen grabbed Jane, hugging her tightly, their lips meeting in a sisterly kiss.
“And I love you like a sister, too, Jane. Even though I am so envious of you. You’re so pretty, Jane.”
They both laughed. Colleen did not have the classic figure of a model; she was a bit heavy in the waist and did not have much of a bosom; yet, she had fresh, milky complexion, mottled with freckles that exuded a winning charm. Her smile, Jane concluded, was infectious and Peter was indeed fortunate to have found such a lovely young woman as a friend.
“Don’t be envious, Colleen,” Jane said. “You really are very warm and lovely. Someday, I’d love to create a dress for you.”
“Really? Would you?”
“Yes, but for now, do you know what?”
“What?”
“I’d like to fix your hair in pigtails,” Jane said.
“Oh that would be cool,” Colleen said. “Then we can skip out and show the others we’re pigtail sisters.”
They both laughed and giggled.
*****
For Christmas, Jane found a nice simple dress off the rack at Claudine’s; it was a blushing pink in light taffeta, with a layered skirt bottom, tied with a dark red sash and trim. The neck was high, with long sleeves that tightened at the wrists, giving the sleeves a ballooned look. She wore simple dark red pumps, with 3-inch heels and sheer, coffee-colored hose. She tied her hair in pigtails, but her mother objected, convincing her to put her hair up to expose her neck. “You have a lovely neck, darling,” she told Jane. “Show it off.”
The family’s first Christmas Day in their new home was indeed a festive affair; there had been a fresh snowfall on Christmas Eve, with some 6 inches of fluffy snow falling, turning the wooded yard into a winter wonderland. Christmas Day was sunny and clear, but bitterly cold, making the warmth of the Marcineau home so much more welcoming.
There were few gifts, since Jacques and Nancy had agreed there should be only one major gift for each person; Jane’s gift was a fake set of car keys for a new Chevrolet Malibu, which she would get once she has taken her driver’s test and gained her license.
*****
In the two days after Christmas before the Saturday afternoon get-together at Hooters, Jane’s stomach tensed up and her nervousness became apparent to all in the family. She called Latoya repeatedly, wondering to find out if Marquise would really show up on Saturday.
For one full day, despite leaving messages on Latoya’s cell phone, the girl didn’t return the calls, causing Jane to go into a deep funk. She worked both days at the store, and it was busy with post-Christmas returns, and Jane seemed only to be going through the motions, not greeting customers with her normal cheerfulness.
The following morning, Latoya finally called Jane, who fortunately was on her morning break and was able to talk.
“Sorry I didn’t call you yesterday, but we were at my grandma’s in Chicago, Jane.”
“Oh that’s OK,” Jane said, trying to hide the breathless excitement in her voice. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“You must have left a dozen messages, Jane. And, yes, Marquise is coming.”
“Wheeeeeee,” Jane let out a girlish squeal.
“Cool your jets, girl,” Latoya said. “He’s still not sure about you.”
Jane was alone in her sewing room at the back of the store, and she sat down on the chair, reaching her legs out in front of her, seeing the hosed toes in her sandals, and fighting back tears.
“Oh, I want him so much to like me, ‘toya.”
“You’re asking a lot of him, Jane. He’s never seen you as Jane.”
“I know, and I’m so worried, he won’t like me. Is he still with Janita?”
“No, I think that’s all over, Jane. Right now, he has no girl friend.” Latoya’s words brought a smile to Jane.
“Maybe . . .” Jane began.
“Don’t hold out hope, honey. Remember he still knows you only as Jarod.”
“I know, ‘toya, but how should I dress tomorrow.”
“Simply, honey. Don’t overdo it. I’m just wearing jeans and a blouse and sweater, Jane. Just dress like you’re shopping with us girls.”
Latoya offered that she and her boy friend, Demetrius, would pick her up about 12:30 Saturday. Jane thanked her, her mind set at ease for the moment, but then her heart began beating with excitement. How would her first meeting with Marquise go? The thought never left her that day.
*****
Nancy and Jacques lay together, savoring their recently completed love-making. Jacques was breathing slowly, calmly in the early moments of sleep, content with the ejaculation that left him exhausted. Nancy was more awake, still on her back, the scent of her mild cologne mixed with the odor of the sweat and juices of their passion. She was still fingering her vagina where Jacques sperm a few moments earlier had spurted into her, as she squealed in an orgasm.
Jacques was a super lover, she felt, particularly in the long foreplay he used, his gentle caresses and light kisses, both of which grew in passion and intensity, allowing Nancy to experience her orgasm almost always as he hit his peak of excitement. Yet, as he collapsed afterward, she wanted more, but Jacques was done, at least for a few hours. Maybe she’d be awake when his passion reignited in the morning, but then she really only wanted her sleep to continue, uninterrupted by love-making. It was the eternal mystery between lovers: why couldn’t the passion of each person be reached jointly and maintained in togetherness?
Before meeting Jacques, Nancy had been with only one man: Jane’s father, the itinerant musician whom she slept with only three times as a 17 year old girl and became pregnant. Still, from what she had heard from her girl friends and read in women’s magazines, Jacques compared to most men was a superb lover. She realized she was smiling in contentment as she reflected on her marriage to Jacques. What a marvelous man and so very good for her daughter, too!
She heard a door open, and some gentle padding of footsteps in the hallway and a creak of boards so constant in the aging house.
“Jane’s having trouble getting to sleep,” she whispered to Jacques. “She’s so excited about meeting Marquise tomorrow.”
Jacques grunted something that sounded like “yes.”
“I’ve never seen her so out of herself, Jacques. She always seems so in charge of things, but this business with Marquise has her all out of sorts.”
“Can’t understand that,” Jacques said, finally. “She hasn’t seen him in over a year, I think.”
“He’s really such a nice boy, Jacques. So considerate, and so smart too.”
“I know, Nancy,” her husband said, now fully awake, as he listened to the toilet flush as Jane obviously completed her business.
“I wonder if she’ll ever experience love like I just did with you, Jacques. You’re so marvelous.” She leaned over to kiss his forehead, lightly, and brush is hair, still thick and slightly graying.
Jacques pulled his wife next to him and held her tightly, saying tentatively: “I don’t know honey. Will she ever experience love like a real woman? I don’t know, dear.”
“I read some about this and it seems that if she gets the surgery, she’ll have a vagina very much like a real woman’s and should get orgasms just as strong and sometimes stronger than the lovely one I just had, thanks to you.”
Jacques kissed his wife and held her lightly. “Jane’s such a good girl. She deserves the best.”
The bathroom door opened and closed, the creaking boards in the hallway sounded, and Jane’s bedroom door closed.
“I should go in and comfort her, Jacques,” Nancy said. “Maybe get her some milk and cookies or something.”
“Can she really love this boy?” Jacques asked.
“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “They were very close when she was still Jarod and we hid any sign of Jane from the boy, even to the point of keeping his room empty of outwardly girl stuff.”
“Do you think they ever made gay love, dear?”
“No, Jacques, definitely not. I think I would have known. No, they were just very compatible.”
Nancy slipped out of bed, found her robe and slippers and turned to leave the room. “I think she needs a mother-daughter hug, darling. Sleep tight, dear.”
*****
“Am I being ridiculous, mom,” Jane asked as her mother sat on the side of her bed.
“No honey, but you know you haven’t seen him in over a year, and he’s never known you as Jane. So don’t expect too much.”
“Oh mom, I love him so much,” the girl said, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her mother.
“He’s a nice boy, Jane. You know how fond I’ve been of him, but he’s older now and been to college.”
“Isn’t he so handsome, mom?” Jane question ended, sobs entering her voice.
“Oh darling he is. So handsome, just like that Obama guy running for president, only a little darker and without the big ears.”
“Mother,” Jane scolded. “I think Obama’s really cool and handsome, too. You shouldn’t make fun of his ears.”
“But, honey I’m right. Marquise is really handsome like Obama.”
“Yes, mother he is, and he deserves a pretty girl friend.”
“Which you are!”
“But I’m still not a girl, really, not a girl. Not yet.”
“Jane,” Nancy said firmly. “You are a girl. You always have been, even though I didn’t always know it. Just a few simple changes and you’ll soon be a girl for real.”
“Oh mommy.”
“And I think Marquise will find you very pretty when he sees you tomorrow.”
*****
Jane finally got to sleep, thanks to her mother’s late night visit, as well as the cookies and milk she provided.
“See you are hungry,” her mother said. “You hardly ate anything tonight, honey, and you know the doctor said you should gain weight.”
“I can’t get fat, mom. You know that.”
“Fat! You were down to 125 pounds last time we checked and I think you’ve lost weight since then. And with your height that’s too thin, even for a girl.”
“I need to be thin, mom, to be pretty.”
“Not like this.” Nancy grabbed Jane’s wrist, easily encircling it with her fingers. She ran her hand up Jane’s arm, feeling its slender softness. “You should get better nutrition and follow the doctor’s orders.”
“Mom,” Jane pleaded. “I’ll be OK.”
Nancy found Jane’s obsession with weight to be troubling. Even with the girl’s strong fashion consciousness, she had not succumbed to the vanity that comes to many girls her age. It was only now, with this passion for Marquise, that she seemed worrying so intensely about how she looks.
Nancy worried too about what would happen if Marquise rejected Jane, or perhaps even mocked her in some way for the girl’s incessant approaches. How could she tell Jane how often girls in the throes of infatuation have those feelings dumped upon cruelly, leaving the girls in deep dark depression?
Well, Jane’s a smart girl and has lots in her future, Nancy felt. Besides Jane couldn’t get pregnant.
*****
“Does this look OK?” Jane asked Latoya when she arrived, along with Demetrius, to pick her up for the lunch at Hooters.
“You’re fine, Jane,” Latoya said, hardly looking at Jane.
“You didn’t even look much, ‘toya. Tell me how I look, please.”
Latoya stood in the living room in the winter coat she was wearing against the cold, below zero weather of the day. She looked more intensively at Jane, and said: “You’re fine. You look good in anything you wear, honey. Come on now, Demetrius gets impatient easily.”
Jane had tried on at least six different outfits that morning, before finally settling on a flowing, layered skirt and a peasant blouse with a multicolored vest. She had boots with a short heel that went to just below the knee.
“You don’t think I overdressed, do you?” she pressed her friend.
“No, you’re fine. I’m not wearing a skirt, just slacks here,” Latoya said.
“Should I change?” Jane asked.
“No, no, no, Jane. Just let’s go.” Latoya’s voice was insistent and firm.
“Bye, honey, have fun,” her mother said as the two left the house into the subzero Wisconsin cold.
*****
Jacques had heard the exchange between the two girls from the kitchen. As his wife returned, he said:
“Well, I don’t doubt any more that she’s a girl,” he said, laughing. “No boy would go through that clothes thing like she did this morning.”
Chapter 38: Lunch at Hooters
Latoya, Demetrius and Jane were the last to arrive, and, as luck would have it, Jane was forced into the only free seat at the other end of the table from Marquise, who was sitting next Aniesha. The two had arrived together, along with Maxwell, Aniesha’s boy friend.
“Here’s the pretty Jane,” announced Aniesha from the other side of the table.
Jane acknowledged the greeting with a dainty flick of her hand, saluting the group in a very feminine manner. Demetrius assisted her in taking off her winter coat and scarf, proving to be the perfect gentleman as he then assisted Latoya in doing the same. There were an even dozen at the table that had been set up at the back of the restaurant.
“We’re sorry we’re late,” Demetrius said. “But then I had to wait while these two girls tried to decide what to wear.”
The group laughed, most eyes still focused on Jane, who decidedly had dressed more formally than any of the others.
“That was Jane, not me,” Latoya protested, laughing.
As she took her seat, she realized that nearly all eyes at the table had been upon her; she still drew lots of attention, even from among her friends who continue to marvel at how lovely this onetime boy had become. Everyone at the table knew of her background, but as Jane looked about the room, she noticed other eyes followed her, obviously taken by her natural beauty and femininity.
Her beloved Marquise, she noticed, had not looked at her, keeping his head down, staring at the empty plate in front of him. She saw Aneisha poke Marquise, and state: “Jane’s here, Marquise. Say hi.”
“Hi,” muttered Marquise, hardly looking up as he said it.
“Hi Marquise,” Jane said, trying to hide her anxiety at seeing the young man for the first time in a year.
He was more handsome than ever, Jane thought, noticing he continued to have close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. Her mind wandered as she stared blankly, unseeingly at the menu in front of her, feeling herself in his arms, looking up to him expecting to feel his lips upon hers.
“What do you think of Obama now?” Jane’s magical musings were interrupted by the question coming from Tiffany Stankowski, her longtime friend, who was seated to her left.
“Oh? Ah. Yes, Obama,” Jane stammered.
“Yes, silly, Obama. You know him?” Tiffany had taken to wearing glasses again, a true necessity given her awful eyes; the girl chose granny type frames, helping to create a bookish appearance. Jane felt the look was most becoming for her friend.
The “Bad Girls” group and their friends amounted to an even dozen, eight girls and four boys, counting Marquise, Demetrius and two others who accompanied their girl friends. The table was soon abuzz with laughter and conversation; Tiffany talked with great excitement over her volunteering as an “Obama girl” in the primary campaign. She urged Jane to join the group, something Jane wanted to do, but found she had little time for. Every time she saw Obama’s picture, her mind immediately jumped to picture Marquise. The two looked so alike, she felt, except that Marquise didn’t have the Senator’s big ears.
The lunch was great fun, except for one thing: Marquise never said one more word to Jane, leaving with Aniesha and Maxwell before any of the others, saying he had to get to church with his mother that afternoon.
“Church on a Saturday afternoon?” one of the girls questioned.
“Yes. I’m preparing for Sunday service. I gotta go,” Marquise said, addressing the group in general, but careful not to look in Jane’s direction.
Jane wanted to leap up and run after him, drawing the lovely, handsome, scrumptious young man tightly into a passionate hug. Instead, she had all she could do to sit quietly in her seat and hold back tears.
*****
“We should have warned you,” Demetrius said, as he walked with Jane and Latoya after the lunch. “I noticed you almost cried in there, Jane.”
“Come let’s sit here,” Latoya motioned to a lounge pit in the mall with several empty couches and chairs.
The three sat together on a long upholstered bench seat, Latoya taking Jane’s hands in hers, and patting them gently.
“You’re in love with him, Jane, aren’t you?” Demetrius asked.
Jane nodded her head, still fighting back tears, not wishing to make a scene in the mall.
“I told you that, Demetrius,” Latoya scolded. “You didn’t believe me when I said Jane was in love with Marquise.”
“Well, Jane, it seems Marquise has gotten real religious at that college he attends,” Demetrius began.
“Yeah, he’s joined that same evangelical group that demonstrated at our school about you,” Latoya said.
“That group?” Jane was shocked. How could he? Those people hated her, called her an abomination for being a boy in girl’s clothes, quoting all sorts of obscure Bible lines to call her the agent of the devil.
“Yes, that group, Jane,” Demetrius continued. “There’s a church of that denomination in Reynoldsville where he goes to college, and it seems he’s gotten in tight with the minister there. He’s even quit playing basketball so that he could devote more time to his ministry.”
“Yes, and he’s after Demetrius to join that church, too,” Latoya said.
“I won’t, that’s for sure,” Demetrius said. “Those people are nuts. I don’t what got into Marquise, but I think that minister in Reynoldsville has a spell over him or something.”
A million thoughts went through Jane’s head that evening, and she hardly slept. She still loved Marquise, she knew; yet, it seemed to be an impossible love.
*****
Wanda was home from college only for two days during the Christmas holiday, mainly due to the fact that she was playing varsity basketball for the State University women’s team. Like most top college teams, men’s and women’s, the teams were busy during the holidays with practice sessions and scheduled games.
She had grown to nearly six feet tall, and developed a solid body, with toned arms and rock hard legs. In spite of maintaining a boyish cut to her hair, she retained a unique beauty and drew lots of attention from men and boys. She had ended her friendship with Troy when they both graduated the year before with Troy finding a new love in a girl he met at a summer camp where both were counselors.
“Don’t you miss Troy,” Jane had asked the previous summer, shortly after the breakup.
“A little,” Wanda said. “He really was so sweet and nice.”
“And a hunk, too.”
Wanda laughed. “I guess so. I just wasn’t turned on.”
The person who truly excited Wanda was Heather, the girl who worked with Jane at Claudine’s, the former model who was nearly as tall at Wanda, but who had grown somewhat fleshy as she left her teen years. They were inseparable when Wanda was home, and Heather had driven several times during the school year to Madison to watch her friend play basketball and then visit with her. As the school year went on, Wanda began communicating by email and text-messaging and cell phone to Heather almost nightly. Jane actually realized she had grown jealous of Heather, who would periodically relate some of the topics of their messaging.
Jane remembered all those years when Wanda and she expressed love for each other, a warm love between two girls, although Jane at that time had still be in her outwardly boy mode.
“I hate myself for being jealous,” she reprimanded herself several times while stewing over the situation.
She knew she should be grateful to Wanda for all the support she gave when they first met, for being one of the few people who overlooked his pathetic male being, and encouraged his eventual journey into femininity. And, too, she felt both Heather and Wanda were dear friends, and deserved happiness.
During the holiday period, Jane worked at Claudine’s, and, as was their usual practice, she and Heather went on lunch break together to the food court.
“You seem so quiet today,” Heather said.
“I guess,” was Jane’s muttered reply.
Heather pressed Jane, realizing the girl was sad about something, finally saying, “You looked close to tears several times this morning. What’s bothering you?”
“Marquise hates me,” Jane blurted, glad to get the information out.
“Why would he hate you? Why would anyone hate you, Jane? My oh my, but you’re just about the kindest person on earth.”
Jane remained silent for a moment and then quickly told the story that Marquise’s religion told him that for a boy to dress like a girl was an abomination before God. She burst into tears when she completed telling the story.
“He’s stupid, and that religion is goofy,” Heather said. “Marquise’s a smart boy. He’ll come to his senses.”
“He’ll never . . . ah . . . never love me, Heather.” Her crying grew more intense, and she found herself being hugged by her friend on the bench in the food court.
“You’ll find love, my dear,” Heather said.
“I hope so.”
“I’ll tell you what, Wanda’s coming home about supper time, and she’s coming to my place about 9 o’clock this evening. Why don’t you join us? Bring your jammies and we’ll have a PJ party, just like we’re 13 years old again.”
The image of the three of them giggling together cheered Jane, but she demurred: “No I don’t want to interrupt. You two need to be together.”
“Oh we’ll have time for that. I know Wanda will love having you there, we’ll just be three girl friends hanging out together.”
“You’re sure I won’t be an interloper? I know you and Wanda want to be together.”
“Jane, she’ll love having you there, and I think the three of us sleeping in my bed tonight would be fun.”
“But, it’s just . . .”
“No, Jane, don’t be an old prude. It’s not like you’re a guy.”
Jane smiled, and the smile quickly turned into a giggle and finally into uncontrolled laughter.
The evening among the three girls turned out to be a real tonic for Jane. They watched some old girly television shows, ate popcorn and drank soda; they giggled, and agreed wholeheartedly on one point: boys were no good. They even tied Jane’s hair into pigtails and found some young teen clothes for her; they laughed as they said she could pass for 13, particularly with her puny breasts.
There was lots of bodily contact, hugs and kisses; Wanda and Heather marveled at the soft remains of Jane’s penis; it was never big, and had softened due to the hormones she had been taking. The two girls giggled over how tiny it was, tweaking it with their fingers and kissing it. Yet, it remained soft.
Both of her girl friends were heavier and stronger than Jane; they both marveled at Jane’s slenderness, her more noticeable fragility and femininity.
“Jane, how I envy you,” Heather said, aware of the fact that she had gained weight since she quit modeling at age 17. “You have such a lovely body.”
“I like you just the way you are,” Wanda said, pinching a bit of her girl friend’s fleshy thigh. “But, you’re right, our Jane is truly a beauty.”
There were more giggles and soon Jane was asleep; during the evening she was vaguely aware of moving and grunting in the bed, but never really awakening to see what her two friends might be doing.
That night she forgot about Marquise. The next night, in her own bed alone, she again came to tears about the lovely boy who now hated her.
*****
Once school resumed after the holidays, Jane was constantly busy, and thoughts of Marquise became more intermittent. Yet, she cried some nights when such thoughts re-entered her head, and found it hard to get to sleep. The realization that Marquise hated her and considered her an “abomination” continued to haunt her. He wasn’t being fair. Doesn’t he know Jane had no choice in this matter?
Not only was Jane busy with maintaining her nearly straight A grades in class, but she was still editing the Odyssey and leading the PAR group. And, she was spending nights and Saturdays working at Claudine’s as the spring JANE / USA fashions were being marketed. Then, too, there was time spent searching for colleges do attend the following year.
Yet, thoughts of Marquise surged into her mind, disrupting her dedication to her school, work and life.
In February, Emil “Butch” Czaczyk of the White Knights, the gang of whites who had been one of the problem groups at Roosevelt, came to a PAR meeting with an idea. He had early on been a reluctant participant in the organization, calling it a bunch of “fairies” and “commies.” Yet, as time went on, he had become a regular participant in the weekly meetings, even though some of the steam had gone out of the group.
Strangely, Butch had begun, too, to dress more neatly, often wearing an open-collar white shirt and dark slacks, instead of the grubby sweatshirts and jeans he previously fashioned. Jane, noticed, too, that he began to sit near Tiffany in the meetings, and seemed to defer to the bespectacled girl.
“I think Butch is falling for you, Tiffany,” Jane said one day.
“I doubt it. I’m certainly no beauty,” Tiffany said.
“Well he likes to be next to you, I see. And, he’s not such a bad guy.”
Tiffany smiled. She wasn’t used to boys paying much attention to her, and it was apparent she had noticed Butch apparently had been attracted to her.
“You know what we should do,” Butch proposed at the February meeting. “We need a project to help people outside of the school.”
“What?” Jane asked. She had become the president of the group and led the meetings.
“Well, Easter is coming up,” Butch began. “And I was thinking we could sponsor some activity for the kids in the projects. Maybe an Easter egg hunt.”
“Us?” Tiffany asked.
“Yes, all of the groups here, the White Knights, the Latinos, the blacks, all of us together.”
“That sounds great,” Mr. Angleton, the teacher adviser said.
Thus began the great Roosevelt High School Easter Egg Hunt for the kids of Douglas, to be enacted at the Lakefront Park on Easter Saturday. The group was astonished that the idea stemmed from Butch, who had been one of the nastiest and most negative of the gang leaders, and certainly one who seemed to degrade anyone who was not Caucasian. Now, he was working with kids of all races at Douglas and proposing a project that basically would involve minority children.
“What’s got into Butch?” Jane wondered, but reserved judgment, realizing that Butch’s apparent interest in Tiffany and also made him consider doing something positive in the school. Love wields strange powers, she thought.
The project would blossom into a major undertaking that would involve the whole community, and, though Jane didn’t know it, would bring love back into her life.
*****
In March, Melissa came to Claudine’s to be measured for her wedding dress; Jane had agreed to work on it during her spare time at the store, and not charge Jacques for her time. She was eager to present the dress to Melissa as a wedding gift, in honor of Terri.
“You look marvelous, Melissa,” Jane said as the young woman entered the store.
“I’ve lost another 10 pounds since I saw you last,” she said, a broad smile on her face.
“Well, you look just smashing, but don’t lose anymore before the wedding. I think I have just the dress for you as you are now.”
Melissa laughed: “Don’t worry; I’ll never be skinny like you. You are so lovely, Jane.”
“Mom and the doctor both want me to put on some more weight before I have my surgery.”
“Oh, you planning on SRS?” Melissa asked.
“Yes, this summer,” Jane smiled. “That’s if all goes right.”
“That’s such an expensive operation,” Melissa said.
“Yes, Jacques, my stepdad has been so sweet; we’ve made lots of money on the JANE / USA fashions and he’s set aside half of it for me. There’s plenty for me to become all girl.”
Jane smiled, realizing she was nearing the completion of her long trip to womanhood.
“You are such an adorable young lady, Jane. Terri would have been proud to be your girl friend, I know.”
The mention of Terri caused both girls to pause for a moment; Jane felt a heaviness descend upon her, and her eyes moisten.
“Jane, dear,” Melissa said after the measurements were completed. “Would you consider being a bridesmaid for me?”
“Me?”
“Yes, darling. I hate to ask you, since you’ll have to get a gown and you’re working on my own,” Melissa said. “I know you don’t know me that well, Jane, but . . . well . . . I thought mother would like it, in memory of Terri.”
“Melissa, I would love to. Your wedding day is a week after my graduation and a month before my surgery, so that should work out.”
“Good,” Melissa said. “And we’ll pick out ready made gowns for you and the other bridesmaid and maid of honor. Right from Claudine’s here. You won’t have to sew any. I’ll pay for yours.”
“I’ll pay for mine, Melissa,” Jane protested.
“No way and no arguments,” Melissa said. “There, it’s settled.”
Melissa left the store, her eyes sparkling, a truly happy young woman.
*****
“Good old Sam,” Latoya said to Jane upon hearing Sam had invited Jane to be his prom date.
“Yes, good old, reliable Sam,” Jane said. “He’s really a true friend, isn’t he?”
Jane felt guilty about Sam; he really was a real friend, and he never asked anything of anyone. He was always present at the PAR meetings, and often took Jane home in his car after school. He never made any overtures toward Jane or any other girls, it appeared. Always tall and awkward, Sam made few other friends, except for Tiffany, Latoya and Jane. He blushed easily and stammered often, but there was no selling him short on brilliance. He would finish, like Jane, in the top five in the class.
Now in his senior year, Sam’s appeared surer of himself; his skinny frame had filled out a bit and his face grew strangely attractive. Jane wondered why she was beginning to think Sam was attractive: his face still had the pockmarks that plagued him all his childhood, but they now seemed to provide him with a certain unique quality, which when coupled with his always alert green eyes, gave him a rugged handsomeness.
“You like him, don’t you Jane?” Latoya asked.
“Oh yes, but I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you’re thinking?”
“I didn’t think you were, Jane, but don’t break his heart. He’s too sweet.”
“I won’t ‘toya. Don’t worry. I don’t think he cares for me that way anyway.”
“I don’t know about that, Jane. He’s been given you some googly eyes recently.”
“No he hasn’t,” Jane said.
“You could do worse, Jane,” Latoya said. “Besides, you should forget about Marquise.”
“I’m trying to. Has he got another girl friend?”
“I don’t think so, he’s just so deeply involved in that church stuff, I don’t think he has time for girls.”
“I guess.”
“Just forget him, Jane.”
It was good advice. In her mind, Jane knew her friend was right: Marquise had ignored her and may even be disgusted by her; Marquise surely would want a girl who could provide him with children; Marquise was unusually handsome, and could chose any girl he wanted and why would he want Jane, who was truly not yet a girl. Yet, she cried that night in bed, yearning to feel his arms about her and his lips upon hers.
*****
“Am I gay?” she asked Dr. Bjorn Magnusson on her next monthly visit to the Milwaukee therapist who specialized in transgendered cases.
Dr. Magnusson was not a medical doctor, but had a Ph.D. in applied psychology from the University of Minnesota. The therapist has been recommended by the clinic in Montreal where she was planning her sexual reassignment surgery; they required a year of constant monitoring by a qualified therapist before they’d agree to perform the surgery. In addition, Jane would need a statement from the therapist and her psychiatrist, Dr. Martin, attesting to the reality of her need to live as a woman before they’d let her put an “F” onto her driver’s license.
“I get that question all the time from transgendered persons like yourself Jane,” the therapist said.
He was a tall, slender man in his late 30s with a narrow face, long nose and wispy blonde hair already beginning to recede. And, Jane realized, he had the bluest and most sparkling eyes she’d ever seen, accompanied by a smile that often had an impish quality. Black and white photographs of his native Norway, the rugged walls of rocky fjords and dark water; the pictures of farmers standing on hilly pastures and the streets of Oslo, were hung on the plain white walls of his office. The furniture was spare, typical of the popular Nordic style, with thin structure, but surprisingly comfortable.
“Well, I wonder, doctor,” Jane said haltingly. “I’ve . . . ah . . . been in love with a boy since I first met him, and . . . ah . . . that was even when I was still a boy.”
“Tell me about him, Jane.”
Jane began at the beginning, when Marquise pinned her down in the park when Demetrius thought Latoya was cheating on him when Jane (then Jarod) was 11 years old. She told how they became friends, sitting together almost constantly at lunch and working on Odyssey.
“Oh doctor, even when I was Jarod I dreamed about being in Marquise’s arms and feeling him caress me,” Jane said. “I must be gay.”
The doctor merely nodded, indicating that Jane should continue. Jane was blushing now, as she recalled her feelings. She looked at her hands, slender, white and pretty hands.
“I remember I wanted him to hold my hands as we ate lunch, doctor. He had such strong hands and well-formed, and I imagined how mine would be buried into his. Oh I felt that so deeply. I wanted to be his, all his.”
Jane stopped, and the doctor finally spoke: “You were reacting as a girl, Jane, even then.”
She couldn’t explain it, but Jane felt embarrassed now as she related these feelings. Indeed, even then she had pictured herself as a girl; yet, she believed that Marquise never saw her as a girl, but as a boy who was fun to be with, even though he rarely demonstrated any masculinity.
In truth, Jane’s knowledge of sex was limited; she never recalled feeling desires to kiss a girl or to “make love,” as she heard it called. She did recall enjoying the embraces and kisses she had both with Terri and Wanda. With Terri, Jane had felt so comforted by the touch of Terri’s softness and warmth; the two had embraced most passionately, hugging almost for dear life, as if the two had never before felt comfort in another’s body. With Wanda, Jane had found true protection and comfort in the arms of the other girl whose muscular body was so well formed and hard, while Jane’s body was so weak and undeveloped. Their kisses, Jane knew, were the kisses of sisters.
“Jane,” Doctor Magnusson said using slow, deliberate terms. “It’s apparent that you were born as a female with some male parts. I know you were upset sometimes with Dr. Martin for being slow to see that you indeed were a female and that to keep you in a life as a male would be torture for you. But, the doctor had to be sure, dear, that to steer you toward a female life was right for you.”
Jane had cried often during those years when she continued to live outwardly as a boy; it was so awful as she went to school everyday and yearned to wear the skirts or shorts and tank tops and girly tees that the girls wore.
“I understand, doctor, and I knew Dr. Martin and mother only wanted the best for me,” Jane said. “But I think I always knew I was a girl.”
“And, Jane, you have become a most lovely girl and now the next step is to make you complete. In the next week, I’ll dictate two letters for you: one is for the SRS clinic in Montreal in which I will attest to the fact that you have lived for over a year now as female and should be approved for surgery. The other will be for the State of Wisconsin signifying you are to be considered ‘female’ in the terms of state law for driver’s license purposes and marriage.”
Jane clapped her hands and felt like she wanted to kiss the doctor, but knew she should feel restraint.
“Oh doctor, thank you. Thank you,” she gushed. “And marriage, too.”
“Well you’re a little young for that, and it doesn’t sound like the other boy is quite ready for you. But, yes, you would be legal to marry some man after the state accepts my letter and a similar one from Dr. Martin.”
Since Jane wanted the surgery to be done early in July so that she could be healed and ready to go to college in September, Dr. Martin and Dr. Magnusson were seeking a waiver to get the surgery done before Jane turned 18 in August. Jane’s mother and her now legal guardian and stepfather, Jacques would also have to sign statements of approval.
“Now, Jane, about that young man?” Dr. Magnusson said. “I understand he hasn’t talked with you since you started dressing as a girl last year. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Jane said sheepishly, realizing that the therapist might think she was foolish to pursue Marquise.
“Jane let time pass,” he began. “I think you told me your girl friends and his friend Demetrius both support you in this. Maybe they will let him know how wrong he is to think of you as an ‘abomination.’”
“They’ve tried, doctor, but his religion is so strict.”
He rose and went to his desk, opening a drawer and drawing out a stack of brochures. He handed them to Jane. They were entitled: “What the Bible says and doesn’t say about the Transgendered.”
There were six copies. “Give these to your family and friends, and it will show that the Bible has contradictory views on the issue. In your case, Jane, we now know that you had no choice in the matter. You were born to be a girl, only part of nature made you a boy.”
“Thank you doctor.” Jane arose to leave.
“By the way, I predict Marquise will come around some day, but in the meantime, there are other boys.”
The doctor put his arm around Jane and led her gently to the door.
*****
“I don’t know if it’ll do any good, Latoya, but why don’t you give this to Marquise the next time you see him? He might find some value in it.”
Jane handed two copies of the brochure to her friend as they sat during the lunch hour on an outside bench during a surprisingly warm day in early March.
“Oh I don’t know Jane,” Latoya said. “He’s really into this God stuff and I’m sure he’ll only look at readings from his pastor.”
“Oh that’s a shame,” Jane said. “Not only about this, but everything. I think Marquise is just too smart to not keep an open mind.”
“I thought he was, too, but he’s swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker.”
Jane opened one of the copies and pointed to the section of the Bible most often quoted that says crossdressing and by implication, being transgendered, was a sin. It showed the quote from Deuteronomy 22.5 in the Old Testament that reads: "The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God."
“See how the pamphlet discusses it, openly and with intelligence,” Jane said.
Latoya studied the material for a few minutes, finally saying: “That puts this in a whole new light, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, such as is it an abomination for you to be wearing jeans today, a man’s outfit?” Jane asked.
“No of course not, and we never quote this against women wearing pants or doing men’s jobs like being cops and soldiers.”
“And the Bible was written in different times, too,” Jane continued.
“Oh yes, this same book of the Bible, I see, shows that many things are prescribed that we never do, such as killing both a man and woman when they commit adultery.”
“You see the point, Latoya,” she asked.
“I do, but will Marquise and he might be offended if I give it to him, Jane.”
“Try it, Latoya, please.”
Latoya said she’d try to find an appropriate time to talk to Marquise about it.
(Note to readers: A short and readable review of this Biblical issue can be found at: http://www.rachelmiller.info/edumat01.htm.)
*****
“I’ve quit the White Knights,” Butch explained at a meeting of the Peace at Roosevelt (PAR) meeting in mid-March.
“They think I’m a wimp for joining with all you, for planning this Easter egg hunt,” he said. “But I told them that they were just being stupid. Maybe they could do something good for a change. And then Billy Oleson got nasty and we exchanged a few blows.”
“Were you hurt, Butch,” Tiffany asked, her concern apparent.
“Nah, I bloodied his nose, and then left. They’ll have to do without me.”
Tiffany let out a sigh of relief, and grabbed the arm of Butch. She smiled at him, and Butch smiled back. Jane looked at the exchange, and wondered how much Butch’s renunciation of the gang had to do with his convictions as it did with his infatuation with Tiffany. Jane noticed also that both had taken to dressing more neatly than before.
“Jimmy McCoy will still be with us, so the Knights will still be a part of this, I think,” he said.
“Good Bruce,” Jane said. “I’m glad you’re out of the gang, but I don’t want them to desert our PAR group.”
“No, Jimmy is eager for the hunt to go on,” Butch said. “He ‘s eager, and I’ll help with them too.”
In fact, all of the major gang groups had agreed to participate in the Easter egg hunt, and worked hard to recruit kids from their own neighborhoods to join the hunt on the Saturday before Easter. A number of churches also agreed to participate, including St. Matthew A.M.E. Church, where Marquise’s family attended, and Jane couldn’t help but wonder if Marquise might be home for the Easter holiday and join in the event.
“I don’t know how you do it, Jane,” Heather said on Saturday in March as the two took a break from their work at Claudine’s.
“Stuff just has to get done, Heather,” was Jane’s simple explanation.
“But look what you’re taking on! The JANE / USA campaign is in full swing, you’re working on the Easter egg hunt, the spring edition of Odyssey is due, you’re looking for colleges and you need to study,” said Heather, rattling off the list in rapid-fire fashion. “You’ll die of exhaustion!”
“No, I like all this activity, Heather, I really do,” Jane said, playing with one of her pigtails as she spoke. She usually wore pigtails at the store, often putting on one of the fashions she had designed, even if they were for 13-year-old girls.
“No wonder you’re so thin. Maybe I should get so busy; I might lose some weight.”
The two girls laughed. It was true: Jane was now down to under 115 pounds which made her look so thin and fragile at her 5’7” of height. Yet, she seemed to have boundless energy. And, Heather had recently hit 160 pounds, and had developed a voluptuous figure on her 5’10” frame.
Jacques had tried to shield Jane from much attention during the JANE / USA campaign, but the news that Jane the designer was once Jarod the boy had sparked tremendous interest in Jane. The constant barrage of offers were fielded through the company’s public relations firm, but that didn’t stop reporters from local newspapers or free lance writers and producers from various media from trying to track her down at school or at Claudine’s.
Finally, Jacques was persuaded by the public relations company to permit Jane to go to Chicago to appear in an exclusive interview by television’s top-rated afternoon talk show, hosted by the eminently respected Olivia. The TV producer agreed that the interview would be conducted with good taste, that Jane would model several of the outfits in the JANE / USA line and that Jane would be accompanied by her mother, Nancy.
“I don’t want to be treated as a freak,” Jane told the representative of the public relations firm. “I’m just a high school girl. That’s all.”
The representative said Jane’s story was unique and that her transition would be covered, but that it would be done in an understanding manner. There would be a gender specialist on the show, who would explain how girls like Jane developed, the representative, a pert short girl with obviously dyed long blonde hair named Naomi, explained.
Jane received prolonged applause when she was introduced on the Olivia show the following Wednesday in a taping in Chicago. Jacques and Nancy drove her to the show, with Nancy following Jane onto the interviewees couch. More than 12 million viewers would be watching, Jane was told, adding to her nervousness.
“I want to assure parents,” Jane said as the interview began, “That our fashion line is aimed at promoting the dignity and beauty of the young teen girl. We will try to provide attractive clothes in a very modest style.”
“Don’t you think the young teen girl wants to be a bit more revealing, Jane?” The question from Olivia, the popular TV host, was accompanied on screen by photos of Jane herself in the clothes she modeled during the “Pigtail” campaign four years earlier.
“Not all girls want to be walking around like sluts,” Jane answered directly and with a sharp rebuke in her tone. “I think many girls will be attracted to this line of clothes because they are designed to make them look chic and pretty. You know girls in our early teen years are terribly self-conscious and we want clothes that will flatter us and make our real beauty show.”
“I agree, Jane,” Olivia prompted. “But how can you speak for young teen girls? As I understand it, you were still a boy named Jarod then.”
Nancy, Jane’s mother, interrupted, and in a firm voice said: “She was always a girl. She may have still worn boy clothes, but believe me she was always a girl.”
As the discussion continued, photos of Jane appeared on the screen: There was one of Jarod in a pink baby doll dress and his hair in pigtails, playing with the neighbor’s little girls on the swing set; another showed Jarod in his soccer uniform, looking fragile and slender next to a healthy looking Wanda; there was another face shot of Jarod at age seven, his hair long and looking very sweet.
“You were a very pretty child,” the famous interviewer said. “And you always felt you were a girl?”
“For as long as I could remember,” Jane replied.
The show ended with the gender specialist explaining in almost boring terms how a child could be born with male physical attributes might feel like a girl.
“Jane,” Olivia said, her words accompanied by her world famous smile “I am so impressed with you today. You were honest and direct. I like that, and I could see you even knew how to keep the interview from going into the more racy topics. Very good.”
“I’ve been tested all my life to defend who I am, and I finally decided to not hide anything and to live as the girl and woman I truly am,” Jane said. There was even a bit of anger in Jane’s voice as she spoke to this TV star.
The television interview was a huge hit; it had been promoted widely and was the highest rated show on daytime television that week. The producers, however, were not overjoyed, Jane later learned. She had prevented them from getting into the more salacious topic of sex changes; in fact, her straight-forward manner had brought a bit of respectability to the topic. That, they feared, would stifle listeners to stay and watch, and thus ruin advertising revenue.
Yet, stories of the interview appeared everywhere, and there were television talk shows consumed with stories about transgendered girls and boys. USA Today made their big story of the day on transgendered girls, featuring a huge picture of Jane taken as she sat at lunch one day in the food court talking with Heather. It showed Jane in her trademark pigtails, wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a floral design and long flowing skirt, and the heading, “Really, she’s still a boy!”
“I didn’t even know that picture was taken,” Jane protested to Heather that day as they looked at the newspaper.
“I didn’t either,” the other girl said.
“It makes me feel like a celebrity with the paparazzi after me,” Jane giggled.
“I was thinking the same, Jane. And who knows where they got that old picture of you modeling clothes when you first started here?”
Jane looked at the picture, smiling as she recalled how cute she looked at that age when she was still being Jarod but masquerading as Jane for the modeling work.
“You know, Jane, we were all so jealous of you,” Heather continued. “You were easily the prettiest and with the most perfect figure to be a model.”
“Heather, you don’t know how important you were to me,” Jane said. “I knew the other girls didn’t like me, but I always wanted to like them. Some days I didn’t even want to come to model, because of how mean some of the girls were, but you always were nice to me. I needed that so much then.”
For her own, Heather had become a successful assistant manager at Claudine’s and Jacques was considering putting her in charge of a new store he was planning to open along Chicago’s Michigan Avenue. Also, Heather and Wanda were becoming inseparable, with Wanda putting Heather through the same physical workout she did with Jarod to strengthen his puny muscles. In Heather’s case, it meant she had lost 15 pounds and was re-emerging as the pretty young woman she always was.
*****
As spring continued, sales for JANE / USA skyrocketed. Jacques had set up a royalty contract for Jane so that earning from her designs would continue to flow for years to come. Until she turned 21, she would receive a regular allowance (as long as earnings warranted it) that would permit her to attend a first rate university and cover most of her needs. In addition, Jacques promised, there would be sufficient funds to complete Jane’s transition, including hair removal procedures, some minor facial surgery, breast implants and, finally, the sexual reassignment surgery.
“You’ve been so kind to me, daddy,” she told her stepfather, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Honey,” Jacques demurred, “I’m giving you nothing you didn’t deserve. You must remember, dear, it was you who first brought your mother and me together, and you who first got the pigtail campaign going and you who helped make the opening of the factory possible.”
“But, daddy,” she protested. “You made it all happen. You took the risk.”
“OK, but let’s just say we make a good team.”
They both laughed. Jacques had taken Jane out for a father-daughter dinner at a first class seafood restaurant along the Lake Michigan shore on a night when Nancy was teaching a night class.
“People are looking at us, daddy,” Jane whispered. “Do they recognize me from the stories?”
“Maybe, honey, but I think they may be thinking: what’s that old man doing with the pretty young lady? And, then they’re winking and giggling about it.”
“You think so, daddy?” she asked.
They both laughed.
As they completed the meal, a man dressed elegantly in a black tuxedo approached, identifying himself as Paul English, the owner and manager of the popular restaurant. He spoke formally to Jacques:
“Mr. Marcineau, I just wanted you to know how pleased we are to have you joining us for dinner tonight, and your lovely daughter, Jane.”
“Thank you Paul. We’re sorry if we’re a distraction for your customers.”
“Not at all Mr. Marcineau. We’re so proud of Jane, too. She was so adorable on the Olivia show.”
“Thank you Mr. English,” Jane said, as the manager picked up her hand in an Old World manner, kissed the hand.
“Jane and Mr. Marcineau, the business community here so needed a shot in the arm and we wish your new factory and designs will help us out. We really are grateful.”
The restaurant had grown silent, as all eyes were on the meeting at the Marcineau table, and the restaurant manager realized what had happened. He turned to face the rest of the room, announcing in a stage voice:
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you some special guests for the evening: Jacques Marcineau and his lovely daughter, Jane.”
Applause rippled through the room, and Jacques and Jane, rose from their seats and nodded their heads in appreciation. Jane’s face became a deep red, as she was still not used to the adulation she was receiving.
*****
The new notoriety did mean also that Jane again became the focus of attention just about everywhere: in school, at Claudine’s and just walking in the mall. It meant more hate mail from the groups who opposed transexuality as well as gay and lesbian rights in general.
In bed the night of the restaurant incident, Jane wondered whether Marquise had seen either her Olivia interview or the stories in the newspapers. Her thoughts alternately shifted from: “Maybe he’ll understand me now,” to “He’ll hate me forever.” Then her mind would change again: “I should just forget him. He’ll never love me.” The excitement over her notoriety had brought new stress into her life, causing her to toss and turn for what seemed hours before finally falling asleep.
On the weekend following the Olivia interview, Jane and Heather were interrupted during their lunch break at Claudine’s as they sat munching on celery and carrots in a lounge pit in the mall. The eating regimen was part of Heather’s new campaign to lose weight, a campaign Jane was only too happy to support.
“Hi, I’m Tom,” the boy standing over them said. He was moderately tall, with a rugged handsomeness that seemed to match his light brown hair. “Remember me, we played volleyball on the beach last summer?”
“Oh yes,” Heather replied, even before Jane had a good look at the young man.
“May I join you?”
“Sure, it’s a public place,” Jane replied, maybe in a more tart tone than she should have used. A second glance stirred her memories of their brief meeting last summer, and she remembered falling into his arms as she ineptly tried to play volleyball. The picture in her mind maybe embarrassed her a bit.
“I saw you on Olivia’s show,” Tom said, looking directly at Jane as he sat on a nearby bench.
“Oh?”
“And I said, that’s the girl from the beach. I remembered her, and then I found out you worked at Claudine’s so today I wondered if you might be there. And her you are.”
“And here I am,” she said sarcastically.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Tom said, getting up quickly and preparing to leave.
“No stay. Sit down,” Heather said. “She’s just been getting so much attention these days.”
Jane realized two things suddenly: I’ve been rude and I like this boy.
“Jane,” the boy began, “I really respect what you’re doing. You know I wanted to know you better the first time I saw you. I even asked Caleb to set up a date with you through Heather.”
“I remember, Tom, and I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to date boys yet,” Jane said. “What we said about my mother not wanting me to date is true. You know, due to my special situation.”
“Do you really have a boy friend like you said?”
“Kinda,” she replied, blushing.
Tom, wisely recognizing it was an awkward conversation to mention another “boy friend,” said nothing more about it.
“But we can be friends, can’t we?” he finally said.
“Sure,” Jane said. “We can talk sometime again, and you can contact me by email.”
The two shared emails. Tom was a second year student at the community college where Jane’s mother taught, and also had been active in the primary election campaign in Wisconsin for Barack Obama. He worked parttime for his father’s construction company and was hoping eventually to finish his college at the University in Milwaukee.
“He’s a hard-working boy,” Heather said. “Caleb told me all about him, when he was trying to date you.”
Caleb had dated Heather a few times after their summer meeting, and Tom had urged his friend to set up several double-dates that would have included Jane. Jane always turned down the overtures, not because she didn’t like Tom (whom she hardly knew) but because she still feared the consequences that might occur when a boy would discover her former gender. Heather broke off her relationship with Caleb, partly because she never felt a strong attraction for the younger boy, but most likely due to her realization that her true affection had grown for Wanda.
*****
“Mother, can you help me do my hair?” Jane asked one quiet Sunday afternoon, after entering the kitchen where Nancy was reading the Sunday paper and sipping coffee.
Nancy looked up from her coffee to see her daughter wearing only a pair of cotton panties with a design of tiny light blue and pink bunnies cavorting across the white cloth.
“Oh Jane,” Nancy said in a rebuking tone. “You shouldn’t prance about the house half nude like that.”
“Why not? It’s just you and me here today.”
That was true. Jacques was gone for the weekend, attending a fashion manufacturer’s convention in Philadelphia. She had seen her daughter’s naked body many times before, and always marveled at how slender and feminine she had become. Her arms, shoulders and back were smooth and almost porcelain in appearance. Her tiny breasts bore round, protruding pink nipples. She had the body of a girl, it was obvious, with wide hips and lovely legs. How this girl could ever have been a boy mystified Nancy.
“Ok, Jane, I’ll be in with you in a minute. Then, dear, we can have a regular mother-daughter day, doing our hair and nails and the whole works.”
“Oh mommy, I’ll love that!” The girl leaned down to give her mother a hug.
“Go on with you,” Nancy said, laughing pushing the girl away.
They hadn’t had a mother-daughter day for a long time; both Nancy’s teaching schedule and Jane’s many activities, plus her work at Claudine’s had kept them both busy. In fact, Nancy realized that Jacques actually spent more time with Jane than she did. Jacques drove her regularly back and forth to Milwaukee for work, and the two had developed a healthy father-daughter relationship.
Later that day, Jane showed her mother how far she had gotten on Melissa’s wedding dress, and since her mother was about the same size as the future bride, Jane suggested she try it on.
“Melissa’s coming for a fitting on Wednesday night, mom, and I’d like to see if I need to make any changes before she comes,” Jane said.
Actually the dress likely would be slightly too big for Nancy, since Melissa, despite her weight loss, still had a larger figure.
“It’s lovely, Jane,” her mother said, after she had put it on and the two examined the fitting in a full-length mirror.
“I hope she likes it, mom. She’s really such a sweet person, and I want her to look so pretty.”
When the fitting was done, Nancy looked at her daughter, marveling at the energy the girl displayed in spite of the growing fragility of her body. Jane seemed to be constantly on the move, combining all of her schooling with the clothing manufacturing and the activities at school. Even so, she was concerned about her daughter’s health, noticing that the girl had dropped to under 110 pounds, far too little for a 5’7” frame. She was wearing size 4 in misses sizes.
*****
“We need to think about where you’re going to college Jane?” Nancy said to her daughter as the fitting was done.
“I know mom,” Jane said, neatly putting away the extra cloth and materials from the fitting session.
Jane had been offered a full scholarship at a renowned fashion design school in Philadelphia; the dean of the Dress-making Department had visited the Douglas plant of JJ Industries and was excited to see Jane’s talent and skills at work.
“You still could be a model, too,” she told Jane during her visit in February. “But, I think you’re right to work on your design skills.”
She was aware, of course, that Jane was still in transition to womanhood, but felt it would matter little, given the talents the girl exhibited.
“You are so much a female, Jane, I can’t imagine you ever as a boy,” she said. “Besides you’ve made this transition with dignity. You’ll be an asset to our school.”
The dean had arranged for Jane to visit the school, and Jacques was planning to take her the following Thursday and Friday.
“Mom, I’m not sure I want to study fashions and designs,” Jane said.
“Why, honey? You love designing clothes and sewing, and you’re even good at the business side. Jacques said you really understand the business.”
“I know, and I love dressmaking. Remember when I made dresses for Emily and Angela?” she said, referring to the two young girls of their former neighbor, Amy.
“And you don’t want to do it anymore?”
“Not as a career, mom. I might like to go to law school or study social work.”
“Why, honey? You got a ready-made place to return to here when you graduate. Jacques will want you back for sure.”
“I know, and I love Jacques. You know that. But, mom, I’ve seen so many problems out in the world; I just think fashion-designing is OK, but I feel I want to do something that more directly helps people.”
“Oh?” her mother responded, mystified by her daughter’s apparent change of heart.
“Yes, mom, I’ve been talking with Latoya and Tiffany a lot about this, and they all think I could be good in working with people.”
“But, honey. You’ve been dealing with dresses and clothes. You want to throw that all away now?”
“I don’t know mom, but I feel I should do something more meaningful with my life.”
*****
To Nancy’s amazement, Jacques was not upset with Jane’s apparent decision not to continue in the dress business. “She knows her own mind, that girl does, Nancy,”
Jacques said to his wife as they snuggled together on his first night back after his convention trip.
Nancy loved being in the arms of Jacques; she wondered often if he felt the same about her. She had confessed to her former neighbor, Amy, that she felt so inexperienced as a lover next to Jacques who had had a previous wife and other relationships besides. Both women had lamented how they each had limited experience with men, both having had one lover each, the birth of their children and the departure of the man.
Did Jacques find another woman at the conferences, she wondered. After all, there would be lovely models galore and the women of the industry itself, most of whom kept themselves thin and lovely and pretty. How could Jacques not be attracted to them, while only a dowdy, slightly overweight schoolteacher awaited him back home?
Yet, Jacques had always urged her to juggle her teaching schedule and join him at the conferences? She always refused, realizing she’d hate to leave Jane home alone and to interrupt her teaching routines.
As he snuggled his face into her cleavage and patiently and slowly began his lovemaking, Nancy’s doubts left her; he consumed her totally and completely until they both reached the peak of passions, almost simultaneously. Their after-love was almost as magical.
“I so worry about Jane,” she confessed to Jacques that first night he was back home. “She’s so naíve about love and men, and she’s had no experience at all.”
“She’s a smart girl,” Jacques said, stroking his wife’s hair, and resting his head on her shoulder.
“I know, but I want her to be smarter than me about these things, Jacques. You know how naíve I am.”
Jacques laughed. “You may think you’re naíve dear, but you are so passionate, so accepting and so loving. I have the best woman in the world next to me right now.”
“Oh Jacques, don’t tease me!” They fell into a playful embrace.
Jane announced to her parents the following night at supper that she was seriously thinking of attending the University of Wisconsin — Milwaukee, just up the road about 40 minutes from their home in Douglas.
“I’m really interested in politics and urban studies, and they’re right in the city and it’s supposed to be a good school in that.”
Nancy was prepared for this announcement and said nothing, hoping that Jacques would immediately jump on her daughter, telling her how ridiculous it would be to turn down a full scholarship at perhaps the most renowned fashion design school in the world.
“Oh yes, Jane, I know they have a strong program in those subjects,” Jacques said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice that was no more emotional than a request to pass the butter.
“I found I liked doing that PAR stuff in school, Jacques, and Mr. Angelroth suggested I try either the University in Madison or in Milwaukee,” Jane said with a smile.
“They’re both good schools, Jane, but you know we’ve made plenty of money on your clothes fashion line and you don’t have to worry about the tuition,” Jacques said. “There’s nothing stopping you from choosing one of those other schools, even out of state.”
“I know, but this way I can live at home, unless you don’t want me here.”
Both Jacques and Nancy protested strongly: “Where did you ever get that idea?” her mother said.
“You know we both love you, Jane,” Jacques added.
Jane, of course, knew that her parents loved her, and, if anything, she had no desire to leave home, to move to a strange city and to perhaps face new issues with her gender. Even though her mother had been strict about dating and keeping track of Jane’s friends, as well as being tardy in recognizing her true female self, Jane could not picture herself without her mother being close by.
“Mom, you’re my best friend,” she said, leaning over to kiss her mother, quickly adding, “And Jacques, too, he’s my best boy friend.”
“And I hope your only boy friend for now,” her mother added.
“For now, he is,” Jane said, smiling, giving her father a girlish wink, thinking of Marquise, her lovely, sweet Marquise, but realizing he may not feel the same about her.
By the end of the following week, Jane completed her registration to enter the Milwaukee school. The decision was an easy one: she could stay home for a while as she grew into womanhood.
*****
“What do you weigh now?” Wanda asked Jane as the two stopped off at a coffee house after going to a movie.
“I dunno,” Jane said, trying to avoid answering.
“You do too, Jane,” the other girl said firmly. “You weigh yourself every day. I know that.”
Jane blushed, and a garbled number came out of her lips.
“108?” Wanda said, almost loud enough for the other patrons to hear.
Jane nodded her head, readying herself for an onslaught of nagging from her friend. She had been hearing similar pleas from her parents and Latoya that she was too thin; all of them constantly prodded her with the words: “It’s not good for your health.”
Jane always intellectually agreed with them, but still feared she’d get fat if she ate any more food. For some reason, she still recalled her young teen years as a model, and seemed reluctant to beef up her body to more normal dimensions.
“I thought you were done modeling, Jane,” Wanda said, as the two sipped on their lattes. Jane, of course, had ordered the “skinny” latte that had skim milk and no sugar.
“I am, Wanda, but I just don’t wanna get fat,” she said.
“Damn, girl, I’m going to have to get you into training, just like I did when you were 6th grade.”
Jane remembered that period of time, when she was a slender, very weak boy; she recalled the great effort her older friend had made in getting her into soccer and later cross country, and had helped the child formerly known as Jarod to lead a more outwardly boy’s life. She never got very good at the sports, but was at least recognized as a competitor. Mostly, though, Jane recalled the bicycle trips the two had taken, their quiet times at the river and their sharing of their utmost secrets.
Wanda was home during spring break from college, where she was a budding star on the girls’ basketball team. The team had developed an almost perfect record in the past season, but had lost in the semi-finals of the conference tournament to a team with a lesser record. The loss had devastated Wanda, who missed two critical free throws that could have clinched the victory.
After the coffee shop, Jane comforted her friend’s sadness over the basketball loss while sitting in the older girl’s car along the river parkway, holding hands, hugging and even kissing lightly. Their friendship was like that of sisters; there would be no sex involved.
“We need each other, Jane,” Wanda said that night. “We can tell each other anything and we both seem to understand.”
“I know Wanda, and I feel the same,” she said, giving her friend a light peck on the cheek.
“But, I love Heather,” Wanda said. “You understand?”
“I do, Wanda, I love you as a friend, not as a lover, and I still think about Marquise so much. I can’t get him out of my mind.”
It was Jane’s turn to cry and to receive the comforting hugs from her friend.
“Oh Jane,” Wanda said, her hand totally encircling Jane’s slender, soft stick of an arm. “There’s nothing to you. And with your height and as a small framed girl, you should weigh at last 120, Jane.”
It was true, Jane had drifted into a life style without physical activity, ever since quitting cross country. Her constant activity in school, with the work at Claudine’s and her other activities left her little time for physical endeavors. Her legs had lost their onetime firmness and softened, showing no muscle tone; to be sure, they were the legs of a fashion model.
“We’ll start right now,” Wanda said, starting up the car and heading for Leo’s Custard Stand, a popular spot for young people in the community. Custard was a local favorite in Wisconsin, an ice cream that was smooth and loaded with eggs. It was fattening, to say the least.
Jane had all she could do to down a small hot fudge sundae while her friend downed a large malted milk. She felt bloated, but somehow finished the sundae.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” Wanda said as Jane tried mightily to eat the cold, smooth custard. “Tomorrow, I’ll get you out and we’ll run off that sundae.”
Jane the next day found herself beginning a new routine. She would try to do a combined walk-run each day for up to 45 minutes. Wanda began the process by taking Jane out for a run along the parkway. Jane found she was pretty pathetic and the run quickly turned into a walk, and the two girls began talking again.
“I feel good now,” Jane admitted when they finished their run-walk. “I’ll really try to get more exercise.”
And, she did. She realized that she had been feeling more fatigued recently, but just thought it was due to her busy schedule. Maybe more eating and exercises might help.
“Oh Wanda, you’re so good for me. Don’t ever let’s forget each other.”
“Never, never.”
The two girls hugged in the car, tears welling up in their eyes, until they were interrupted by a car pulling up alongside, a spotlight pouring onto them.
“It’s the cops,” Jane said.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Wanda replied, as the two broke their embrace.
A figure suddenly stood, blocking out the beam of the car spotlight, and there was a wrap on the window, with a words, loud and gruff: “Roll down the window, please.”
Wanda did as ordered, and as she did, the voice yelled out: “Hey, we got a couple of lezzies here. Let’s get ‘em.”
The figure at the door was not a cop, but a large, scruffy beer-scented sot of a young man. He grabbed the door to open it, and Wanda let him do it, with Jane yelling, almost beginning to cry: “No, no, Wanda, let’s get outa here.”
Instead, Wanda let the young man open the car door and she socked the man’s midsection, a soft, beer belly, and the guy doubled in pain, giving Wanda a chance to slam the door shut, start the car motor and leave the scene.
“Are they following, Jane,” Wanda said as she sped along the parkway headed for the freeway.
Jane looked back, seeing no cars following, said: “I don’t think so, but wow Wanda you really hit him.”
“He didn’t know who he was dealing with,” she said with a smile.
Jane knew she was lucky to be in the company of this strong young woman. And, Jane wondered if perhaps Wanda was right: maybe she should start making herself eat a bit more and begin exercising again.
Chapter 40: The Easter Egg Hunt and Other Adventures
The last community-wide Easter Egg hunt in Douglas had been held more than 60 years ago during World War II, when the ladies of the Red Cross held a hunt at Lakeside Park for the children of servicemen who were away serving their country. This year’s event started off modestly enough, but now was taking on a life of its own.
Butch’s idea, begun mainly as a way to help unite the various ethnic groups at Roosevelt High School, quickly became an event for the whole community. At first, Jane tried to stay in the background among the planners of the event, but within a week she had become the de facto leader of the campaign.
She named Butch and Latoya as co-chairs of the committee of the event, but whenever decisions had to be made, they were referred to Jane.
The first real breakthroughs came when Latoya and Butch both proposed the project to their respect churches; Latoya’s church was the St. Matthews A.M.E. church, an almost totally African-American congregation in the poorest neighborhoods of the city, and Butch’s was St. Luke’s Lutheran Church, located in a comfortable neighborhood.
The leadership of both churches liked the idea, as did the bishop of the Roman Catholic diocese of Douglas. Soon, the mayor’s office got involved and the local labor council; Jacques offered funds and Claudine’s was named a “sponsor” along with the WDOU, the local radio station.
Most surprising was the fact that Mayor Emil Waulten and City Council buried their constant feuding to endorse the Easter Egg hunt, with the mayor proclaiming the event is “a first step in healing the city’s wounds.” He singled out the students of Roosevelt High School for creating this “marvelous program for our children.”
Jane, recognizing that her gender status still was unacceptable to large numbers of people, stayed in the background and left all public pronouncements to Latoya and Butch to make. The fundamentalist Christian group that campaigned against the school for permitting Jane to attend as a girl continued to rant about it, holding occasional small picket lines at the school and writing letters to the editor and appearing on talk radio. Besides, Jane realized, it was time to remain in the background, her life having been so “public” in the last few years. Besides, she knew Butch and Latoya would do well, and they did in their talk show appearance on WDOU and in other efforts to publicize the event.
“You should be getting credit for this Jane,” Latoya said.
“No, it was Butch’s idea and the two of you are doing great! Besides, if I’m associated publicly with this is might hurt the event.”
“I know, and it’s so unfair.”
*****
A major planning meeting was held at the City Hall about 3 weeks before the event, and perhaps 30 persons showed up, including Jacques, representing Claudine’s, the mayor and president of the City Council, the radio station manager, and representatives of many churches.
Jane sat in the back row of the committee room where the planning discussion was being held, letting Latoya and Butch sit at the committee table, as Mayor Waulten opened the meeting. Mr. Angelton spoke for the school and noted that at last 80 students had signed up for duty on the Easter Egg hunt, handling chores like registering the children, handing out tee-shirts, keeping order and distributing gifts.
Claudine’s and WDOU had co-sponsored the tee-shirts, which carried a logo with two cute children, an African-American boy and a Caucasian girl (wearing pigtails), holding hands and running joyfully toward a giant Easter egg.
“This logo is symbolic of the spirit of this marvelous occasion,” the mayor said. “This hunt, it must be noted, is the creation of the students of Franklin D. Roosevelt High School, and proves again that our teenagers have lots of greatness in them, if only we give them a chance.”
Mr. Angelton then introduced Latoya and Butch to the committee, and praised their contributions.
“Finally,” he said, after outlining the plans being made by the school, “I’d like to introduce the young lady whose initiative and spirit has helped to revitalize the students at Roosevelt. She’s sitting in the back now, but she’s been the inspiration for our PAR group, Peace at Roosevelt, which has helped to unite the school and was responsible for this Easter Egg hunt project. Jane, dear, would you please stand?”
Jane, hoping to remain anonymous, reluctantly stood and gave a tentative wave, receiving prolonged applause. She was wearing pigtails, a full print skirt that went below her knees and a pink camisole under a light blue vest.
“She looks like she’s 13 years old,” someone in the audience was heard to whisper.
As she stood, she noticed a tall, well-dressed black woman seated in the front row of the audience; the woman looked back and Jane blushed. Could that be Marquise’s mother, she reflected? She hadn’t seen her for several years, and it was likely it was since her church had joined in the planning of the Easter Egg hunt. The woman eyed Jane carefully, and Jane quickly averted the stare, sitting down.
“I wished he hadn’t introduced me,” she said to Tiffany who was seated next to Jane. “I didn’t want my appearance here to cause any problems.”
“Oh, Jane, I don’t think you will,” she said. “The people who are here have either forgotten your changeover or don’t care.”
“I hope so.”
*****
The planning meeting ended and Jane was immediately surrounded by her classmates and Mr. Angelton, their teacher-adviser, for a postmortem. The mayor came over, interrupting long enough to say, “Jane, I’m impressed with your group, and the city is so pleased that you students at Roosevelt have taken the lead here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Jane said, slightly bowing her head. “We’re so happy for your support; it was so necessary.”
As the others nodded in agreement, the tall, black woman who Jane now truly recognized as Marquise’ mother, nudged herself into the conversation, almost elbowing the mayor out of the way.
“I think it’s marvelous you students have started this,” the woman said.
“Yes, Mrs. Jackson,” the mayor replied, smiling at the woman. It was obvious that Marquise’s mother was well-known by the mayor. Jane knew she had been active in her church, and Marquise had mentioned she was active in the Democratic Party Club as well.
There were further exchanges of information and strategies and as the group broke up, Marquise’s mother touched Jane on the arm, saying firmly: “I’d like to talk to you a minute Jane.” Jane allowed herself to be led away from the group into a side alcove where a few chairs were placed; it was obviously a place where local politicians and lobbyists must sit on a regular basis to exchange ideas.
“I’ve asked Marquise to help us out in this project, Jane,” she began.
“I thought he’s at school,” Jane replied, puzzled at this news.
“He is, but he’s coming home for the weekend; I promised the mayor that Marquise could handle some of the publicity. And of course he’ll be in town for the entire week before the egg hunt; it’s his Easter vacation period.”
Jane was both excited and frightened by the news; how could she face Marquise? She knew of his disgust for her; yet, she still felt enthralled by the fact that she’d again be working with him. She was silent.
“Jane, you know he’s been taking mass communications in college and has been an intern in the school’s public relations department,” Mrs. Jackson continued. “He’s really very good.”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Jackson, Marquise is good at that,” she replied, “But I don’t know if he’ll want to work with me.”
Jane sat primly on her chair, her legs together and both hands folded together in front of her; she was feeling tense and not sure how to respond to this news. Mrs. Jackson reached over, putting a hand on Jane’s folded hands, smiling:
“Dear, I know what Marquise has said about this, and I must admit I too have been shocked about your change from Jarod to Jane. But, I saw the brochure you gave to Aniesha about transgendered persons and did some of my own research online.”
Jane nodded, surprised that this middle-aged woman was using the Internet.
“And I can see now that you Jane probably have no choice in this, that this feeling that you are a girl is just a fact of nature. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Jackson,” Jane began, a bit anxiously. “But I heard that Marquise feels I’m an abomination or something like that, that it’s against the religion.”
“Maybe so, but that’s just some church people,” she replied. “My own church doesn’t seem to worry too much about such things. I know Marquise has been hooked up with that minister in his college town, but that guy is just too extreme. Marquise should know better.”
“Have you talked to Marquise about this?”
“A little, Jane. I mailed him the brochure and told him that the important person in all this is God. And, who knows what God really thinks about this. The God I worship believes we’re all His children and that’s good enough for me.”
“Oh Mrs. Jackson, you’re so . . . so . . .” Jane stumbled for words, but none came.
Mrs. Jackson patted Jane’s hands. “I think you and Marquise will work together just fine, just as you did on the school magazine. You know you two were quite a team!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Don’t thank me, Jane. You’ve done marvels; I can see you’re quite a young lady and I told Marquise you’re a credit to the school.”
The two parted, but as they separated, Mrs. Jackson said: “By the way, you look so cute in those pigtails.”
*****
Jane’s reaction in learning that Marquise would be working on the Easter Egg project seemed to go into two different directions. At first she felt an excitement that he would be working closely with her and that she would become his friend and maybe eventually his lover. Then, came the apprehension that he would ignore her or, even worse, continue to show his disgust for her.
That night as she prepared for bed, Jane took an inordinately long time in the bathroom, lounging through a bubble bath and drying her hair and putting it up. She stood before the steamed mirror, wiping it off with a towel and then looking at her nude body, so delicate and fragile in its thinness.
She folded her arms across the upper part of her body, hoping to exaggerate her tiny breasts, soft mounds of flesh with nipples protruding from pink areolas the size of quarters. She looked at herself through the mist on the glass, wondering if indeed she was as pretty as everyone said she was.
“Could Marquise love me?” she said softly to herself.
Am I too thin? Too white and pale? Too amoral because of my gender switching? Could he love a Caucasian girl? She questioned herself mercilessly, almost coming to the conclusion that Marquise could never find it in his heart to love her.
It seemed to take hours for her to fall asleep that night, her apprehension rising so that she tossed and turned relentlessly. Yet, morning came soon, and she was surprisingly refreshed and eager to go to school to experience another day in her own amazing life.
*****
The Saturday meeting to complete plans for the Easter Egg hunt was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m. in a committee room of St. Matthews A.M.E. Church, the church that Latoya and Marquise’s mother attended.
Jane arose earlier than usual for a nonschool day, all keyed up for the expectation of seeing Marquise again; his mother had said he’d be there. Again she tried on several sets of clothing, rejecting each. One dress was too fancy and formal for such a casual meeting, and she rejected jeans and a sweatshirt as being too ordinary for a meeting with key adults of the community. She settled finally upon wearing a beige pair of Capri pants and a camisole under a light blue-layered blouse with a scooped peasant collar.
She fixed her hair in pigtails.
Her mother entered her room as she was putting on a pair of sheer, dark brown colored knee-highs.
“You really have lovely feet, Jane,” her mother offered.
“Thanks, mother,” she replied. “Is it warm enough to wear sandals today?”
“No honey. It won’t get much above 40 today. You better wear flats.”
Jane enjoyed it when her mother and she shared their thoughts about what clothes to wear and how to dress up.
“Now try to calm down, Jane. You’re all jittery. That boy will either . . .”
“That boy, mother, is Marquise,” Jane interrupted sharply. “His name is Marquise. He’s not ‘That boy.’”
“Jane, I know his name and I’ve always liked him. Don’t jump all over me.”
“Oh mother, I’m sorry. I’m so worried about this. I don’t know what I should say.”
Nancy Marcineau stood in front of her daughter, and took hold of her by clasping her hands around both upper arms of the girl. She looked squarely in her daughter’s eyes:
“Look, Jane, I know you think highly of this . . . of Marquise . . . and he’s a good, decent young man. Today is a meeting of the planning committee. You should not think of it as being a time to deal with your feelings about Marquise. Go to this meeting as you would for any other meeting. Act as you always have.
“You’ve gained lots of respect around school and the community. So, honey, just deal with the planning stuff and try not to focus on whether Marquise loves you, or even likes you now.”
Jane dropped her head down and mumbled, “I’ll try mother.”
“You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, mother, I should take care of business first and my feelings for Marquise should not interfere.”
“Yes, honey, and I think if you make no special notice of Marquise at the meeting, and let him come to you, that might be best.”
“You mean ignore him?”
“No, Jane, of course not. Be courteous, say hi and ask him about his college work, but be very casual. If he’s interested in you, he should take the bait.”
Jane hugged her mother, and said: “Mommy, you’re the best. I love you.”
She completed her makeup and awaited Tiffany who was picking her up and taking her to the meeting. She wore a pleated jacket for the Roosevelt Vikings, satiny in black and gold colors.
*****
Nancy Marcineau watched her daughter walk toward Tiffany’s car, musing to herself. “How could she be anything but a girl? She carries herself with natural feminine mannerisms, and looks so cute in the Vikings Team jacket.”
Later that morning, Amy Tankersley, their former neighbor stopped by to visit. She brought along her two young daughters, Emily, now 10, and Angela, 8. Amy was still just as chubby as ever, her breasts seeming to have blossomed as well, obviously being held up by a firm underwire bra. As always, Amy exuded a bright, cheerfulness that was infectious.
“The girls were hoping Jane would be here,” Amy began. “They said Jane promised to show them how to sew. Paul has said he’s buying them a sewing machine.”
“Paul?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you, I’ve been dating Paul Jordan,” Amy said, blushing.
“Paul? That young man who lives across the street from you? I don’t know him that well, but he seems nice, Amy.”
“He is nice,” Amy said, “And he’s not that young. He’s 24 and taking a masters degree in computer science at Parkside.”
“I’m happy for you, Amy,” Nancy quickly recovered, knowing that the age question might be sensitive, since her friend was to hit 30 that year.
“Would Jane mind helping the girls?” Amy asked.
“Not at all, although she is so busy these days, but she loves Emily and Angela so much. I’m sure she’d find some time.”
Nancy invited Amy to join her for coffee in the kitchen, leaving the girls in the living room to watch Saturday morning children’s shows on television. Emily, however, had different ideas.
“Can I go in Jane’s room? She has such neat stuff,” the girl asked Nancy.
“I guess you can, Emily, but don’t disturb anything or use her makeup. Ok?”
Amy interjected: “No Emily. You shouldn’t go in another girl’s room without her permission and she’s not here.”
“But, mommy,” the girl said. “I just like looking at the fashion books she has and her other books. They’re so awesome.”
Nancy laughed, hearing the “awesome” coming from the lips of such a young girl. “Let her go, Amy. Jane won’t mind.”
Angela, the younger girl paid no attention to the exchange, content to sit on the floor, crosslegged and watching televison.
“Can you imagine me this morning, Amy? Giving advice to Jane about how to deal with boys? Me? How can I advise anyone about dating? I never really had any dates until I met Jacques.”
Amy laughed. “Me too. I married my ex right out of high school. He was my only boy friend, ever. Now I hope that changes.”
“Here’s what I told Jane about dealing with boys,” Nancy said, proceeding to describe what her advice was to her daughter.
“Well, I think your advice was sound, but what do I know?” Amy said. The two laughed, but in Nancy’s case, her laughter merely covered her own apprehension over what her daughter was to experience when meeting Marquise that morning.
*****
Jane didn’t return home until nearly 2 p.m. that afternoon, just shortly after Amy and her daughters had left.
“Hi mom,” Jane said as she entered through the back door. “I’m home.”
“I’m in here, in my room, dressing, honey. Come in here, tell me everything.”
The minute she heard Jane bound up the stairs, she knew it must have been a good morning for her daughter.
“Oh mother,” Jane said, bursting into the room, a broad smile beaming from her face, still red from the early spring cold. “You were right! I played it cool, and he talked to me, and we all went out for pizza afterward, Marquise and Tiffany and Latoya and Aniesha and Sam and me.”
“Oh, I’m so happy for you, honey. Do you plan on seeing him again?”
“I don’t know mommy,” Jane said. “But we did exchange email addresses, so we’ll be in contact.”
“That’s nice, Jane.”
“I don’t know what he thinks of me now, but at least he treated me like one of the girls,” she said. “It was just like old times at the pizza place, just like our old lunch table.”
Nancy was trying on a new blouse, and paused to ask Jane how she looked.
“Mom, he’s still so handsome and I don’t think he’s got a girl friend.”
“Jane, honey, don’t get your hopes up. He’s in college and he may have other interests. Don’t push it.”
“I know mom, and I took your advice. I just tried to be professional as you said, and work on the project. And, it seemed to work. He noticed me.”
“Now, Jane, I asked you about how I looked in this blouse, and all you talked about was Marquise.”
“I know mom, I’m sorry. But that blouse is perfect for you. Fits you well.”
Nancy took her daughter in her arms and held her tight, excited again for realizing how sweet it was to have a lovely and lively daughter.
*****
“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” Jane squealed as she bounded down the stairs about 10 a.m. on Sunday morning, bursting into the kitchen where Nancy and Jacques were reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.
“What is it, honey?” Nancy said, looking up from the paper, seeing her daughter, still in her nighty with her hair still put up, her face flushed with excitement.
“He emailed me, mommy and daddy, and he wants to have coffee with me at 11 a.m. before he heads back to college.”
“Calm down, Jane,” her stepfather said. “You’re giggling like a 13-year-old girl at a rock concert.”
“Oh daddy, it’s Marquise, he wants to meet me,” she said, instinctively going over to kiss him.
“I know, honey, but it’s just for coffee,” her mother said.
In her enthusiasm, she plopped herself down on another chair at the table, and lifted her legs up, putting her feet, with their painted toenails, on her mother’s lap.
Her mother pushed her feet off her lap, grunting, “Don’t put your feet up here.”
“Don’t you like the color of my nails? It’s called autumn leaf.”
“Yes, dear, and you have pretty feet, but they don’t belong on my lap while I’m trying to drink my coffee and read the paper.”
“Oh mom,” Jane protested and put her feet down.
“Can’t you get that boy out of your mind?” Her mother asked.
“Oh what should I wear?”
“Here we go again,” Jacques said, putting down the editorial page he was reading. “The world’s going to hell in a hand-basket and you’re fretting over what to wear. And all for a boy who maybe doesn’t want you.”
“Jacques,” Nancy said, gruffly, “That was so mean of you. And you’re in the business of selling women’s clothes. If it weren’t for girls like Jane, you’d be out of business. You don’t know anything about being a girl!”
“I guess I don’t,” he said.
“But I know what it’s like to be a girl,” Jane said, beginning to giggle at the remark.
“You certainly do,” Jacques replied, and they all burst out laughing.
“And daddy, I said you or mommy would drive me over to the coffee shop,” jane said. “The one on Randall? Can you?”
“I will,” Jacques said. “It’s the least I can do after my ‘mean’ remark.”
*****
“Is this OK?” Jane asked, appearing in the kitchen as she was about to leave for the coffee date with Marquise.
“Oh that’s fine, honey,” Jacques said.
“It’s not too dressy, is it?”
“A little, but that’s OK,” Jacques added. “A man likes to see his girl dressed up a bit.”
“If I know Marquise,” her mother said, “He’ll be dressed nice. He always was well-groomed and he never looked trashy.”
“I know, he’s so handsome,” Jane gushed.
Jane was dressed in a full floral skirt that featured light blues and yellows; it ended at the knees. She wore sheer tan pantyhose and dark navy blue flats. She wore a crá¨me-colored peasant blouse and had her hair in pigtails.
“Darling,” her mother asked. “Are you sure you want to wear pigtails? You’re almost 18 years old, dear.”
“Oh yes, mommy. Marquise mother told me I looked cute in them.”
On the way to the coffee shop, Jacques told Jane that she looked just so fresh and lovely, reassuring her, since the girl was fidgeting and so excited over the visit with Marquise.
“Honey, please don’t gush all over him,” Jacques advised. “Just act normal like you did when you and he were friends in high school. Your mother told me how well you two worked together on the magazine. Try to be the same person you were then.”
“Really, daddy, but I want him to see me as a girl?”
“Oh, he will honey. He will, but remember he knew you and liked you as Jarod once.”
“I know daddy.”
As he dropped Jane off, he said, “I’ll wait in the parking lot to see if he’s there.”
“Ok, daddy.”
“Do you have any money?”
“No, daddy, why would I need any?”
“Because, dear, this is not a real date, and you should offer to pay for your own, to go ‘dutch.’”
“Oh daddy, that’s gross. I’m a girl.”
“Yes, you are, but in today’s world, girls often offer to pay their own way,” he said. “That way they can feel they don’t owe the man anything. It keeps you equal.”
“Oh daddy, I don’t want to be equal.”
He smiled. “Yes, Jane, you do. Now put this in your purse. You probably won’t need it, because he’ll pay, but you need to show your independence.”
Jacques handed her several bills and some change, and kissed her as she got out of the car. He watched her walk into the coffee shop, smiling at the sight of his daughter headed so excitedly and yet tentatively for her coffee date. She waved as she reach the door, signifying Marquise was there and that he should go.
*****
Marquise was dressed a dark brown suit, with a yellow shirt and a plain brown tie, looking just elegant.
“I just came from church,” he explained, as he arose, helping Jane into the booth. They sat opposite each other.
“You look very nice, Marquise,” Jane said.
“And you do too, Jane.”
The comments were stiff and awkward; yet, it was apparent both meant what they said. To onlookers in the coffee shop, including many others who were well-dressed obviously having just come from services, they were indeed a handsome pair. They drew a number of glances, some probably critical glances because the racial mixture of the couple, but most obviously pleased to see two nice looking young people enjoying each other’s company, even if they were hesitant and awkward together.
“My mother . . . ah . . . said you’re a nice girl,” Marquise said, “and . . . ah . . . that you’re doing lots in school.”
“Yes, I guess,” Jane said. “And you’re mother’s proud of you, Marquise. She told me.”
Marquise hesitated for a while, then asked: “What can I get you?”
He started to get up to go get their orders, and Jane started to rise, too. “Let me go with you.”
“No, I’ll get it. What do you want?”
“Just a skinny vanilla latte and one of those blueberry muffins,” she said, digging into her purse for money.
“Oh no, Jane, it’s my treat. I asked you to come.”
“Thank you,” she smiled.
After he returned with the drink and food, Marquise told her about his college; he liked it well-enough since it was a small liberal arts school with an excellent reputation for its English department; it had graduated a number of known authors and poets and was often called the “Athens of the Midwest,” a title often used by other aspiring hinterland colleges.
“But, there are so few blacks there,” he said. “Oh, everyone treats me just fine and I have friends, but sometimes I feel like a duck out of water. I miss this place, even with all our problems.”
“Yes, home is still home, isn’t it, Marquise?”
He asked about some of their friends from high school, and she gave him rundown, and they were finishing up their latte when Marquise’s voice took on a serious note:
“My mother said I was rude to you yesterday. Was I?”
“No, Marquise, you were OK,” Jane answered, carefully. “You just didn’t seem to happy to see me, and you didn’t say much to me.”
Marquise blushed: “I didn’t know what to say. I kept remembering you as Jarod. It just seemed so strange. I’m sorry.”
Jane looked at him, seeing that he still seemed to be struggling in talking to her. “I suppose you still feel that way, Marquise.”
“I guess I do. But you are so beautiful, Jane. You really are.”
She smiled.
He smiled back, and said, “Jane, Jane, Jane. You know that’s the first time I’ve said your name as Jane.”
“Do you like saying it?”
He nodded yes, reaching over and patting her hand. The two remained silent for a while, before he said: “Jane, I can’t stay longer, since I have to drive back to college, but I’ll take you home.”
All eyes were upon them as they left the coffee shop. Jane wished Marquise would hold her hand as they left, but he merely did the routine gentlemanly duties, such as opening doors for her.
“You two lovely people have a nice day,” the coffee shop owner, an older man, said, as they walked out.
In the car, Jane sat primly, her knees together, and hands clasped on her lap, looking straight ahead, but steeling short glances at the young man driving the car. Marquise was truly so handsome and so sweet.
Marquise made no attempt to kiss Jane as they stopped in front of her house. He turned off the engine, though, and turned to her.
“I’d like you to read some of my poetry and writing, Jane,” he said.
“Oh I’d love that,” she said, turning toward him, shifting her legs to face him.
“Good, I’ll email them to you and I want you to be honest about them,” he said.
“Oh, Marquise, I’m sure whatever you write will be good.”
“No seriously, Jane, I respect your opinion on this.”
“OK.”
“And I want us to be friends, OK?” he said.
“Oh Marquise, you’ll always be my friend.”
Marquise nodded, and Jane began to open the door to leave, but Marquise stopped her, putting a hand on her arm to hold her back.
“You know, I’m still not comfortable with all this, Jane,” he began. “I still feel strange calling you Jane, even though you are probably the prettiest girl I know.”
Jane sat still, saying nothing, awaiting his next words.
“My mother gave me that brochure and I did lots of checking on the Internet, and I think I understand your situation, but it’s still seems weird. Mother and I talked about the Bible and all that, too, and there seems to be different opinions about what you’re doing.”
“I know, Marquise, and I respect you for that. I like you so much, and hope you can some day accept me for who I am.”
“I do too,” he said. “I always liked you when you were Jarod, even though I got teased by some of my friends for being with what they called a ‘sissy.’”
Jane nodded. “I always felt grateful to you then. You were the only boy I knew who seemed to like me. I really only had girl friends, otherwise.”
“I know, but I could always talk to you,” Marquise said.
“Everyone said we made quite a team in putting out Odyssey.”
“Thank you for having coffee with me, Jane,” he said.
“I loved it that you invited me, Marquise.” She desperately wanted to throw herself into his arms and feel his caresses all over her and their lips meeting in passionate love.
“We’ll be friends then Jane, OK?”
“Oh yes, oh yes.”
“Jane, Jane, Jane. I like the sound of your name better now.”
“Bye bye, Marquise. I always liked the sound of your name.”
They both laughed, and Jane got out of the car, literally skipping her way into the house, her pigtails bouncing along with her gait. Marquise started his car and slowly, very slowly, drove away.
*****
(Email from [email protected] apr308 2103)
Jane, dear Jane: I got back to school and my dorm room about 8 p.m. tonight. I thought about you all the time on my drive back. I was trying to think about all the things I wanted to write, but now I seem tongue-tied; no, that’s not it, maybe it fumbled-fingered. LOL
I don’t know quite how to put this, but I find you just about the prettiest, most smart girl I ever met. But, yet, I still can’t accept you as a girl. My church tells me all sorts of things about this sex, or is it gender, change business and I don’t know what to think. My mother thinks I should be more open-minded. Maybe she’s right: But what would God want me to do? Besides, I think my mom likes you, Jane. MMMMMM … I know she likes you.
I’m in tears as I write this Jane, because I want to be with you so much. You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to with total honesty. Back in high school, I always looked forward to being with you, even though I got teased for being with you.
I’m still having trouble accepting the fact that you never told me about your desires to be a girl; I would have understood, I think. Latoya told me how tortured you felt during those years and how happy you are now living as a girl.
But seeing you today almost felt like old times. You really are the same person, Jane. And that means you are kind and generous and fun and smart.
I re-read all this and hesitate to send it off. I don’t want to hurt you and I want to remain your friend always. Thinking about you, Marquise
(Email to [email protected] apr308 2155)
Dear Marquise: My eyes are still red and tear-filled. You are so important to me and I have read and re-read your message over and over. Thank you so much for writing it.
I am lucky to have so many friends here at school, but you have always been my special, special friend. Always. I hope we can remain friends forever.
I look forward to reading some of your writing, so send it soon. It’s late now and tomorrow’s school, so I will sign off now. Thinking of you, your friend, Jane.
*****
Jane wanted to write so much more: she wanted to tell Marquise that she always loved him, realizing that even when she was still Jarod she dreamed of being in his arms, welcoming his caresses and kisses. She recalled those many nights she thought about being Marquise’s lover, only to reject them because that would have signified a gay relationship, something she didn’t think Marquise would accept.
Yet, she realized she had better not express her love for Marquise too strongly, fearing she might scare him away before he could fully accept her as a girl.
She looked at her hands: they were really pretty, maybe a bit too large, but truly lovely, slender and smooth. How sweet it would feel to rub her fingers along his strong neck and muscular shoulders, to run them lightly across his lips and to feel the bristle of his beard, which always was present even though he shaved daily.
*****
More than 2,000 children, from toddlers to about ten years old, filled Lakeside Park on Easter Saturday for the hunt. The days before had been hectic, with the PAR group from Roosevelt providing the bulk of the volunteers in setting up for the event. Various civic groups set up tents offering games for the children, while a stage was erected, with a sound system donated by the Parks Department. There would be a clown, jugglers, some singing of children’s songs and a speech, hopefully brief, by the mayor.
Jane arose early that Good Friday even though there was no school. The group planned to meet at 9 a.m. to begin the setup. Jane wore jeans, a “Wisconsin” sweat shirt and tied her hard in pigtails.
Marquise joined the setup crew on Friday, working closely with Jane, Latoya, Tiffany, Sam, Butch and Aneisha who constituted most of the crew. Shortly after he arrived, Marquise’s mother joined them along with the women’s group from her church and the church’s pastor, W. C. Winchell, a tall, muscular, elderly man with white curly hair and a twinkle in his eye.
“So this is the young woman who has put this all together,” he said, after being introduced to Jane by Marquise and his mother.
“Oh, pastor, lots of people were involved,” Jane said. “The idea actually came from Butch over there.”
She pointed to the crew-cut boy assisting with putting up a tent.
“Pastor,” Mrs. Jackson interrupted. “Jane is always too modest. Without her energy this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Jane,” Pastor Winchell said, “I know about your situation here. Mother Jackson has filled me in and I don’t know how religion fits in here, but I told her that God must have special plans for someone like you. As long as you are doing good works, I think God will confer His blessings on you.”
As the pastor spoke, he looked directly at Marquise, who quickly averted his eyes.
The conversation was interrupted when Butch came running up, yelling, “Jane, Jane, the police chief is here and wants some information.”
“You better go, girl,” the pastor said, with a wink.
The day, which began with a cold wind off frigid Lake Michigan, began to warm up as the sun brightened. The setup had lots of fits and starts, a few arguments, but lots of giggles and light-hearted banter. They broke for a lunch, provided by a local pizza parlor, and resumed their work, finishing setup by 2 p.m.
“Now it’s time to hide the Easter eggs,” Jane announced and with more laughter the crew spent nearly an hour hiding the eggs (actually they were plastic eggs filled with candy) with constant warnings from Jane: “Don’t hide them too good, and not up high. These kids will be just toddlers and we don’t want them crying.”
The following, the Saturday of the hunt, dawned bright and sunny with unusual warmth for early April in Douglas. Fortunately the wind, though calm, had shifted from the west, no longer coming off the lake, which only a few weeks earlier had shed its floating crusts of ice.
The games and booths opened at 11 a.m., with the Easter Egg Hunt set for noon. The event was a huge success.
After the cleanup was done, Marquise and Jane stopped off at Chet’s Custard Stand. (Such custard stands were fairly unique to their community and popular among people of all ages. The custard they served was a soft form of ice cream, made richer with use of more eggs in the recipe.)
“You’re sure you don’t want to come to church with my family?” Marquise asked, as they shared a banana split, the custard growing soft as their conversation interrupted their eating.
“I don’t think so,” Jane said. “This is a time for you to be with your family and I’ll be a distraction.”
“No you won’t Jane, and I know Pastor Winchell likes you,” he said. “Besides there are other white people there.”
“Oh that’s not it, Marquise. I love your mother and Pastor Winchell is cool, but you know we don’t go to church. I never go to church. It would be hypocritical for me to go.”
“Oh Jane, I know you’ve always said you don’t go to church. I just wished you could believe in a God somewhere?”
“I just don’t know, Marquise,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, I’d love to be with you otherwise.”
Marquise smiled. “I know you would, but I’ll have to be with the family, so I won’t see you anymore this weekend.”
*****
Though Jane didn’t see Marquise until he returned home in late May for the summer, she talked to him almost nightly on a cell phone that Jacques gave her as an Easter present. It had unlimited minutes, but both young people were serious about their studies and other activities, so the conversations were limited to about 20 minutes each night.
“I love hearing your voice,” Marquise said one night.
“And I always want to hear yours,” she replied.
Jane’s voice had taken on an almost sultry quality as she had adapted to the reality that her voice remained in lower masculine register. She now talked softer, almost daintily, using feminine expressions. Her voice was warm, friendly and open.
The conversations mainly were about their activities that day; rarely did they offer each other open expressions of affection or love. Yet, both welcomed the nightly calls.
Jane meanwhile refused offers of dates from several boys, including Tom, the young man she had met at the beach. The sole exception was Sam: he took her to the prom, and their relationship was purely platonic and enjoyable.
*****
“My mother wants to take us out to dinner tonight,” Marquise said. He called Jane on the Saturday after her graduation from Roosevelt High School.
“Oh that would be nice.”
“She wants to honor you for graduating with honors and your awards. We’re going to the restaurant along the lake. It’s really something fancy, Jane.”
“Oh, that means I’ll have to find something nice to wear.”
“I guess,” he said. “You’ll look pretty in anything.”
“Oh Marquise, I can’t wear just anything. I know your mom will dress so nice, so I better too.”
*****
“Jane, you look divine,” Mrs. Jackson said, as Marquise joined his mother and Marquise’s aunt, who were already at the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson, and I’m sorry I made us late. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”
Marquise smiled. “Mom, she’s just like all the girls, kept me waiting, but I had nice talk with her father.”
They all laughed. Jane had fussed as usual over what to wear, finally settling on a black cocktail dress, with thin straps across the shoulders. It had a flared, layered skirt that ended just above the knees, and light trim of lace. She wore a short white jacket over her shoulders, since the weather was still cool.
“And where are those cute pigtails, girl?” Marquise’s mother asked.
Jane’s hair was piled in waves atop her head, exposing her slender neck.
“Pigtails are for girls, Mrs. Jackson. Now, I’m a woman.”
Epilogue
Jane, however, would not become a woman until July when she’d complete her sexual reassignment surgery; she recuperated easily, having gained a few pounds of weight and having strengthened her body through regular exercise.
Marquise left the outstate college and entered the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, where he hoped to finish his studies in English; Jane picked up some modest scholarships at the same school where she was to study political science and urban affairs. They remained friendly but their future together was still to be determined when classes began in September.
The JANE / USA fashion line continued to grow in popularity, and Jane contributed designs and oversaw, with Miss Amelia, the designing work. Jane, however, spent less and less time with the dress designing work; still she received royalties from the sale of the dresses, helping to make her to have economic independence. She continued to live at home, becoming even closer to her mother and father.
Her friends Wanda and Heather became partners, with Wanda becoming an acknowledged basketball star. She and Jane remained good friends, and Wanda continued to push Jane to exercise regularly and eat properly in order to lead a healthy life. “You’re such a nag,” Jane said to Wanda one day, and the two had a good laugh together.
Melissa’s wedding that summer was a warm, lovely affair. Marquise escorted Jane to the event and marveled at how lovely she looked in the wedding party. Melissa looked particularly radiant in the dress Jane had designed for her.
Amy Tankersley, Jane’s next door neighbor, still dated Paul, the young man from across the street from her house; despite the difference in age between the two, they seemed enamored with each other. Amy also returned to college, taking a light class load at Parkside.
Nancy and Jacques Marcineau beamed with pride over the successes of their daughter.
“Our girl has done so well,” Nancy said one summer night, as she snuggled in bed next to her husband.
“She really is something special, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Jacques and you have been so good to her.”
“She’s been so good for all of us, hasn’t she?”
Nancy said nothing, nestling next to her husband, truly in love with a marvelous man. Could her daughter ever find such love?