Pink Bow

by Cassandra Erica, 2022

Picture this:

You wake up on a Christmas morning at some baseline level of calm. Maybe as calm as you’ve ever been, what with the constant anxiety. But school is out - no class, no homework. Plus, you’re the youngest, so no one is going to run into the room screaming at you to “wake up so we can open presents!” That was you at a time... but those days are long gone. Just another five minutes in bed, in the quiet. The quiet breaks as you begin to hear rustling downstairs. Five minutes becomes an hour. Now the time is in double digits AM and you know they’re getting impatient out there. Five more minutes.

You walk out of your room at 10:45, wearing your half-decade-old pajamas that by all accounts shouldn’t fit you anymore. Downstairs, breakfast is cold, but before you can take a bite, the adults rush you into the den so they can take pictures of you opening presents before Aunt Fran has to drive back to Oklahoma. Now, you’re in a room with your mom, your brother, and half a dozen family members you can’t remember the names of. Your anxiety begins to grow logarithmically as they all stare at you. The other presents have been opened by now, leaving just yours under the tree: two smaller packages and one big box.

You pick up the smallest. Clearly some hard plastic under the five layers of wrapping paper, green plastic adhesive-backed bow, and tag that says “to Chris, from Aunt Fran.” You open it up and it’s a DVD copy of the latest Dreamworks movie. You try your hardest to smile for the loathsome camera but you feel nothing but growing anxiety. Click. You just want this ceremony to be over already.

Package two. This time, something kind of nice. The new Mario game. But do you feel anything? Nope, just the same anxiety, slowly building. Smile for the camera. Click.

The third one is different. The wrapping is immaculate. The bow is pink. The tag says “to Kris.” Just like that, the anxiety starts to grow linearly. Is this for you? You aren’t sure, but you look towards your mother and she smiles at you. You try to keep up the appearance of that calm from an hour ago but you can feel the cold sweat start to drench your pajama top for the thousandth time. “Let’s get this over with,” you think to yourself as you tear into the good intentions wrapped around the cardboard box. You open it. It’s a beautiful pink dress.

Anxiety: exponential.

They.

All.

Know.

~

I was twelve years old when the previously described events happened to me. It was a strange time - that August had marked the five year anniversary of my father leaving us. Oh, no, I don’t want you to have the wrong idea - my father wasn’t dead. He was somewhere in Bermuda, allegedly, though I never saw the place myself.

All I knew firsthand was what I remembered of him from before. He considered his task as a father finished as soon as my older brother graduated high school, so it shouldn’t shock you to hear that we were never close. He had his son, and I… I was an afterthought. A mistake. One night’s lack of restraint.

My mother never told me this, not when I was a child at least. But I think I knew. My interactions with my father numbered maybe in the dozens over the course of my first seven years of life. My father would spend every day with my brother - fishing, golfing, football-ing, hunting, making misogynistic jokes. I tried so hard to be just like them, so that maybe, just maybe, my father might love me. But the truth is, I didn’t enjoy doing any of those things. I just wanted my father’s love.

As his memory transitioned from present to past, year after year, this prospect felt less and less possible. I hated him and I loved him and I wanted him back and I never wanted to see him again. But yeah, I kept up the habit of trying to win Dad’s approval. And it’s true when they say habit makes nine-tenths of a man.

Nine-tenths a man I was - the outside bit of me, anyway. But my remaining ten percent of squishy internal goop kept going back to the mall to admire those mannequins’ skirts.

One of only a few memories I have of my father is that of him and me walking past this very place - Celia’s Styles, halfway between Steam-Hot Pretzels and Pretzels, Etc. - and seeing his face, slightly disgusted by my (I thought) subtle glance at the Raspberry Sorbet dress. I was three. I’ll never forget it.

That is why I only ever came to the mall alone. I didn’t want anyone to see me covet. I knew I couldn’t have any of the lovely things before me - especially not that beautiful pink dress in the window.

It was late November. All around was the hustle and bustle of Christmas shoppers, scuttling like crabs on the seafloor, trying to find the latest fad toy or whatever it is people buy for their children. Maybe a DVD copy of the latest Dreamworks movie. I wasn’t a fan of that one.

It was my thought that this was the perfect cover to look around at what secretly interested me. But what I didn’t notice until it was too late was that Celia’s had barely a soul in it. Shoppers passed behind me and I looked down at the checkerboard floor, taking a bite of my pretzel. I was startled by a voice.

“Excuse me,” said the voice of a kindly old woman. “I saw you looking through the window. Would you like to try something on?”

I looked to my left and saw her standing near the entrance. She was in her eighties, at least, shrunken by age, and with glasses as thick as hockey pucks. Her eyes looked the size of grapefruits through them, and yet she still squinted to see me. I shakily gestured towards myself, pointing at my still-chewing face.

“Yes, you,” she said. “I’m not very busy, so I can help you find the correct size.”

This, I’d come to find out, was Celia herself.

“Of course, I will have to ask you not to bring that pretzel inside, my dear. No food or drinks are allowed in the store. My name is Celia, by the way. I own the shop.”

I came to find that out rather quickly, incidentally. What was I going to do, then? I’d always wanted to try on one of these outfits - for almost ten years, at the very least. Every opportunity I’d had for something like this, I’d turned down out of some fear of displeasing my father, or being mocked. I always worried that a friendly girl offering to do my makeup would then turn around with a flashing camera and post photocopies of my shame around the school campus.

Still… What harm could an elderly shopkeeper do? Can she even tell what I look like? Does she even know I’m a boy? I mean, I thought the buzz cut and cargo khakis gave it away. There’s no way she knows anyone at my school, though, so…

I cheerfully tossed my half-eaten pretzel into the trash and followed her inside.

~

She showed me around the shop. There were so many beautiful gowns, skirts, cloaks, sundresses, the list went on. It would have been near-impossible to choose one if I hadn’t already set my eye on the pink dress in the window.

Celia measured me up with her tape and told me, excitedly, that I was a perfect medium, though I didn’t quite know what she meant. She flipped through the rack until finding the right one, and rushed me into the dressing room. This was it. Here I stood, in a private room, with a dress hanging from my arm. Was I really doing this?

Of course. Of course I was doing this! I stripped down, unzipped the back, stepped into the silky fabric, struggled to zip it back up, finally succeeded, and looked in the mirror.

Wow.

I looked great! I did a little twirl. It’s okay, no one could see me. But quickly, I got cold feet. I wasn’t meant to be doing this. And I certainly wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. I saw my smile fade in the mirror. I reached for the zipper on the back, and I…

I couldn’t reach it. Why didn’t I take flexibility more seriously in my P.E. class? A deep dread washed over me as I realized what I would have to do. I needed Celia to help me take this off. And to get her aid, I needed to go out into the store wearing this.

Oh, dear God. What if someone sees me? Someone I know? Someone who has working eyes?!? I frantically grasped for the zipper, but to no avail. How long have I been here? Five minutes? Ten minutes? A week?!?

A relieving voice called out from just outside the dressing room. “Is everything alright in there?”

I flung open the curtains before she could walk back to the register.

“Oh! You look lovely in that, my dear!”

I blushed a little.

“Would you like to wear it out? I can give you a bag for your other clothes…”

“N-no!” I said in the highest register I could manage. “I, uh, just needed help getting the zipper back down.”

“No problem, my dear, no problem at all.”

Her shaking hand unzipped it just a few inches so that I’d be able to reach the puller. I thanked her and went back into the dressing room. I looked in the mirror again upon donning my T-shirt and pants. This wasn’t so bad - no, really. It covered my bits and kept me warm. What else did I need… right?

I made my way to the register with the dress back on its hanger.

“Alright!” Celia said. “I’ll start ringing you up. Even with my aging eyes, I could see how much you love this dress - I love it too. Any fun plans for it?”

“Actually, uh… it’s not for me.”

“Hmmm? Who are you getting it for, then? Your twin?”

“No, I mean…” I didn’t want to let on that I was a boy, in case she didn’t know. “I can’t afford it. I don’t get an allowance.”

“Oh…” Celia said, a bit disappointed. “Ah, but good news! Christmas is coming up! I’ll hold onto this for you, just in case. What’s your name?”

“Chris,” I said, without thinking. Dammit! I didn’t want her to know that!

“Kris? Such a pretty name. Short for anything?”

“Oh, uh, yeah… Kristen.” Whew. Crisis averted.

“A good friend of mine is the Aunt of a child named Kris. Ah, but I haven’t seen Francine since around this time last year. I wonder if she’ll come to visit again.”

Uh oh. She knows Aunt Fran.

~

Click.

Here I was, sitting on the carpet in front of the Christmas tree, looking at the pink dress with its black ribbons and intricate stitching. I can only speculate as to the exact events that took me from that to this.

The dress was as lovely as ever, but I couldn’t think about that. I was more focused on the (approximately) ten people in the room, all staring right at me. My body was entirely still, like a gazelle who has just seen rustling in the grass. I could almost feel my soul leaving my body, sitting just behind me to whisper in my ear, “that’s rough, kid” and dissipate into the æther. I wasn’t sure anymore if it was sweat or tears running down my face.

Christ. Ten years of hiding, all down the drain.

“I hope you like it,” my mom chimed in as she lowered the camera, breaking the brittle silence. “It’s from all of us!”

That’s the last thing I remember from that morning, because I’m told I became white as a sheet and fainted immediately when she finished the sentence. I didn’t wake back up until lunch.

As I came to in my bed upstairs, I almost wondered if all of this had really happened. Was it a dream? That thought didn’t last long, since I quickly caught a glimpse of the dress hanging in my now cracked-open closet. Surely there must be a way out of this. I can plead ignorance! I have no idea what that is! A… “dress”? Never heard of it! That’s girl stuff! I would never have any interest in that! What a funny joke for you to buy this for me as an expensive Christmas present! Ha ha! Good one! Very ironic!

Or maybe, if they have some kind of proof, I can just fake amnesia! “It was a split personality that did it,” I’ll say, “the ghost of my lost twin sister!” No, no, they’ll have me committed. I’m afraid of commitment. Wait, if I can say I have a split personality, why don’t I just start living as that personality? Maybe if I go down there wearing it, they’ll have to accept it as my alter taking over. Chris is dead, long live Kris! Maybe they’ll just see it as me leaning into the joke - I’ll play it by ear!

No. No, that’ll never work, none of it. I wouldn’t have fainted if there wasn’t something to this. There’s no getting out of it. They know. What do they know? I don’t know. I barely know whatever it is they know.

As my mind spun me in circles, I heard a knock on the door.

“Are you awake yet?” my mom asked.

I was hesitant to answer, but I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere sitting in here grinding my gears into molten steel.

“No.” I replied. Going with the irony angle - that’s bold, very avant garde.

She opened the door, glancing towards the dress, then to me. “Honey… do you want to talk about what happened?” My focus moved to the cluttered floor. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She closed the door and took a seat in the chair across the room.

Now, I should mention before we go any further that my mother was a respected psychologist in the area. If you had a brain problem other than a tumor, she was the one you went to. Even the mayor was one of her patients. So I figured she’d have some kind of Freudian analysis of my behavior, like that my lack of a father figure was stunting my blah blah blah or perhaps I desired to please her by giving her the daughter she never blah blah blah blah blah and it was all alright as long as I didn’t dress like a girl in public or talk about this again and we’d have a nice mother-son hug and that’d be the end of it. Instead, she said:

“Do you know what ‘transgender’ means?”

~

It was immensely surreal knowing my secret was out. Even more shocking was that my mom seemed… supportive.

She told me she thought I might have “Gender Identity Disorder” or something like that, but that there was nothing wrong with me and millions of people have it. Gee, mom, if there’s nothing wrong with me, why is it called a disorder? But I shouldn’t nitpick. She was immensely kind about it - she asked me some questions, like, how long have I been dressing up (“just this once, but always wanted to”), do I like being a boy (I shrugged), do I like boys or girls (“mom, I don’t even have any friends”).

But the question that came next was the one that made all the difference.

“Would you like to try living as a girl for a while?”

I had never thought about it, but… maybe this is what I’ve always wanted? Who else but a girl would want to wear dresses so damn badly? And if my mom says it’s okay…

“Yes.”

“That’s fantastic, honey! I’m so excited for you!”

She got up from her seat and sat on my bed next to me to give me a hug. For once in my life, perhaps for the first time, that baseline anxiety dissolved away.

Still, it didn’t take long for my nerves to go back into overdrive. This was new territory, and years of mockery, imagined or otherwise, don’t evaporate overnight. I didn’t want people to know I was doing this. The idea of seeing my bullies (or rather, them seeing me) while I wear a dress… no, no, I think I’d die right there. Because they’d murder me.

My condition for this little experiment was that I changed schools during it. That way, no one has to know my past. No one can point and laugh. I’d just be one of the girls. Not some pale imitation which would invite abuse. Mom agreed, and as luck would have it, there was a trans-accepting girls’ school in just the next town over. She said she could pull some strings and get me into it starting January.

But she had conditions, too. If we were to do this, she said, if she was going to go to all this trouble, I needed to be all in on it. That is to say, I do whatever “girl things” mom says I’m supposed to do. And the school, being an all-girls’ boarding school, had a standard uniform policy. You know, the typical plaid skirt, white blouse, white socks, brown shoes sort of affair. This all sounded intimidating, to be sure, but what did I really have to lose?

At least a little, it turns out. Mom told me girls don’t play videogames. So I guess Mario would have to wait. It wasn’t as though I needed the distraction, anyway; there was so much work to do before school started back up. For one, there was no chance of my hair growing out in a week, so we needed to get a high quality and convincing wig. As it happened, there was a fancy wig shop just across from Steam-Hot Pretzels. We spoke to the proprietor and got me measured up for a wig that’d be finished in a few days - real human hair, the same dark brown color as mine, just a little curly and down to my shoulders. Mom said I was too young for makeup, so the next task was finding clothes.

We went back to Celia’s Styles and I picked out a bunch of things I liked, but my mother told me this store was higher end, and that we shouldn’t go too crazy here just for an experiment. I ended up with a mauve skirt and a blouse with blue and pink roses on it - Mom said these were good because they were “neutral.” Celia pinched my cheek when we checked out. I usually hate that, but I have a lot to thank her for. And I still wasn’t sure what gender she thought I was.

The boarding school would provide my uniform as part of tuition, so all that was left was casual wear. We went to one of the many generic clothing stores in the mall (I honestly do not recall which, there were like seven of them) and I got some skinny jeans and T-shirts. What? Not everything has to be super girly all the time! I had to get used to this, and mom said skinny jeans were “just barely feminine enough.”

As it turned out, getting used to this was not as simple as flicking a switch. I started wearing my jeans and T-shirts right away, but going out in skirts and dresses still terrified me. Mom noticed, of course, and as soon as my wig came in, she came to me with a demand.

“You need to get more comfortable with yourself, honey. Your wig is here - let’s put it on you, along with your nice little skirt and blouse, and go out someplace for brunch.”

I remember my hesitation like it was only minutes ago. I can picture it: I stood there staring at our front door, unmoving, unable to reach for the knob. What if the mail person was here? What if there was a neighbor walking by with their dog? What if my bullies had heard about this and came to beat me up? What if an asteroid crashed into Earth? That last one wouldn’t be so bad, actually.

My mother laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder and said, “it’ll be okay.” I almost believed her.

~

We arrived at Tropic of Chorizo at about a quarter to eleven. I couldn’t believe I was really doing this. Was I really doing this? I kept pinching myself so often that I was starting to develop a bruise on my left forearm.

I was paranoid as we entered the front door, looking around, back and forth at all times. Who was looking at me? Did that guy in the window booth figure me out? The waitress who took us to our table barely acknowledged me - was she trying not to stare?

I picked a seat in the corner so I could see the whole restaurant. No one was sneaking up behind me on this day! I was sure that at any moment, people would gang up on me, en masse, to expose my deception - but they didn’t. I think my mom could see the discomfort on my face.

“You know, you just look like a normal preteen girl to me.”

My eyes grew wide. “Mom! We can’t talk about this here!”

“Even if anyone could hear us over the chatter, no one is listening.” She could tell my concern hadn’t been subdued. “You need to understand: you’re different, but you are not a freak. They aren’t staring - there’s nothing more than a normal little girl to stare at. And if they’re staring at a little girl… Honey, they’re the real creeps.”

I looked around and everyone still seemed to be going about their business. The waitstaff were talking to customers, the cook was flipping hash browns in the kitchen, the older woman at the next table ordered yet another mimosa, and a middle-aged man chased a cherry tomato around the salad bar with a spoon.

“By the way - are you sure you don’t want to pick a different name? There are all sorts of cute girly names - what about Kayla?”

“No, mom, Kris is fine. It’s easier that way.”

“You can’t live your life just doing what’s easy. You have to be authentic! You’re already so brave for doing what you did to get this far.”

The words rang a bit hollow. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like I was just doing what she told me to do. “It’s okay, Mom - I like the name, Kris.”

My mom ordered the eggs benedict and I got a short stack of pancakes. I could never pass up the pancakes here - they have this wonderful coconut syrup, and it doesn’t cost any extra! I mean, maple and raspberry syrup are available too, but… come on! Are you really going to say no to coconut?

By the end of the morning, I’d had one too many glasses of orange juice. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge the mimosa woman. But now comes a dilemma: what bathroom do I use?

I was wearing a skirt, as you may recall, and a blouse too! That combined with my long hair meant the men’s room was out of the question. But… the ladies’ restroom? Had I earned this yet? I hadn’t been inside one of those since I was four! Back when I was with my mom and couldn’t go alone.

“Come to the bathroom with me,” my mother said, as though she could read my mind.

“What?!?”

“You have to go, don’t you? I do too. Let’s go.”

I almost began to speak in disagreement, but protesting seemed pointless - the two of us were going to this bathroom whether I liked it or not.

We began towards the restroom door, step by step, and the door seemed to grow larger and taller as I crept closer, like an immense monolith towering over my very soul. The image of it consumed me, the dark mahogany rectangle sporting that foreboding plaque, that navy circle and striking white impression of a figure wearing a triangular dress, arms held wide out. I looked down at myself, and realized I now embodied this graven image. I was destined to be among the others, the goddesses of the toilet. Standing in the shadow of this door I witnessed it open. I stepped into the blinding light, unsure of what I might see, what horrors and wonders and secrets and -

It was a bathroom.

I don’t know what I was expecting.

I did what I had to do and washed my hands like a good little girl, and when I walked out of the bathroom I noticed a single-stall unisex restroom to my left.

~

Mom was finally satisfied that I would fit in with the other girls after a week of outings much like that brunch. My confidence grew with every occasion of people not staring at me, and I was now ready.

I packed up my new life and we drove to the Emily Dickinson School for Girls. I was excited - nervous, but excited. Maybe I’d make some real friends now that I didn’t have to act so unambiguously, inauthentically boyish all the time. And, especially, now that there weren’t any six-foot-tall thirteen-year-old full-bearded linebackers around to beat me up anymore.

A staff member showed us to my room, where I met Kylie and Britt for the first time - my roommates. Before I was able to get to know them particularly well, I was whisked away to go over my class schedule. It all seemed very important at the time, but what I remember about this time in my life is not the whimsical history teachings of Mrs. Duran, nor the rust-dull mathematical ramblings of Ms. Audrey (though she taught me some great ways to describe my anxiety). What really stuck with me was the relationships I built with the people around me.

Kylie, Britt, and I were practically inseparable. If we weren’t in class, we were always  together, giggling in the corner of the cafeteria or practicing makeup in our dorm (Britt’s mom let her buy lipstick and eyeliner, so she helped the two of us get some, too). We were very close, and talked about almost everything, except…

I hadn’t told them I was trans. I was so nervous they’d treat me differently if they knew, and I couldn’t bear to lose them. So I kept it to myself. To be safe, I always got changed in a private bathroom stall. You couldn’t see anything amiss downstairs unless I was totally naked (which I almost never was), but I wouldn’t take the chance. I still recall the first time I opened my suitcase in the dorm room and saw that my mother had bought me “gaff panties” to wear - so I frantically zipped it back up to make sure no one saw. It’s already embarrassing when your mother buys underwear for you, but when your mother buys panties for you? Mortifying. And panties made to hide my junk? Kill me now, I thought at the time… but it was nice having them. One less thing to worry about.

I also rarely removed my wig. It was starting to get itchy as my real hair grew in, but I was determined not to ruin a good thing. Even if hiding a part of myself started to feel familiarly inauthentic. I would have kept it up if not for a fateful game of Truth or Dare.

There we were, the three of us, sat in a circle on our dorm room floor. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and I’m pretty sure we were supposed to be asleep, but we didn’t care. The room was dimly lit by a flashlight pointed at the ceiling.

“Truth or dare, Kris?” Britt asked.

“Truth,” I replied, uncharacteristically confident that the question wouldn’t be something like, “do you have a penis?”

“Okay, uh… what boys do you like?” We all giggled.

“I, uh… I… I don’t know. None of them stand out to me much. They were all mean to me at my old school.”

“Ugh, me too, girl.” Kylie chimed in. “I don’t understand them. Boys are so barbaric.”

‘Barbaric’ had been a vocabulary word that week in Mrs. Blunt’s English class; otherwise I don’t know that she would have used it. I was starting to get self-conscious though. All this negative talk about boys… did it reflect on me, too? I was one of them. Do I really get to count myself as a girl, or would my best friends turn on me if they knew what I really am?

“My mom told me that boys are only mean when they like you.” Britt said.

“You mean, like, like like?” Kylie replied.

Kylie and I both said, “Ew!” at nearly the exact same time.

“That seems wrong,” I said. “I don’t think any of those boys liked me, and I don’t like any of them. They’re the worst.”

“I dunno,” Britt said. “I think they’re kinda neat, sometimes.”

“Okay, Kylie, Truth or dare?” I asked.

“Truth.”

Maybe we were all too cowardly to pick “dare,” because it kept going like that for a while. I don’t have to tell you that adolescent girls have dirty minds, and for that reason (as well as the privacy of my friends) I will not be sharing intimate details of this conversation unless necessary to tell my story. What is necessary for you to know, however, is that eventually Kylie did pick “dare.”

“Okay, Kylie, I dare you to… kiss Kris on the lips!”

The two of them giggled and looked at each other. It was as if they’d planned this all along.

“Is that okay with you, Kris?” Kylie asked sweetly. I blushed, but tried to play it cool.

“Uh, yeah… sure. If… if that, uh… if you want to.”

I wasn’t good at playing it cool.

“Close your eyes.”

I did, and sat there in the darkness of my eyelids. This was the last moment before my first kiss. And then, it wasn’t. Lips are much softer than I expected - it was like two satin pillows were pushed against me, soft and comforting like hugging a stuffed shark. After a few seconds, she pulled away. I opened my eyes and saw her like I never had before. Her wavy, flowing brown hair framed her cute cheeks and hazel eyes. Even though her skin was a little darker than mine, I could tell she was blushing too.

The game went on for another hour, maybe, but I don’t remember much of it. All I could think about was that kiss. As it turned out, Kylie felt the same.

Later that night, when Britt went to the bathroom, Kylie popped her head down from her top bunk and smiled at me.

“Hey Kris, can I come down there and talk to you?”

“Sure.”

She whipped back up and climbed down feet first - right side up, this time.

“So, um, about earlier…”

“The kiss?”

“Yeah, uh… I kinda think I like you. Like like.”

I blushed. “I like you too.”

“This was my first time kissing another girl. It’s so different from when I kissed a boy, once. That, I didn’t like - but this, I do. I didn’t think I was supposed to, but you’re just so cute… I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while and Britt said she would dare me so I wouldn’t have to ask!” She laughed.

I started to feel guilty. I’d stolen her first kiss. She thought she was kissing a girl, and I… what was I? I started crying.

“Wait, what’s wrong? Did I say something?”

“No, no, it’s…” I struggled to speak around the knot in my throat. “I…” I slowly reached up to my head, hand shaking, and pulled off my wig. “I’m not a real girl!” I began inconsolably sobbing, my hand tightly gripping my wig, holding it up to my eyes to catch my tears. But the next thing I knew, I felt a pinch on my arm.

“Ow!” I yelped.

“You seem real to me, Kris.”

“You know what, I mean… right? I’m a boy! I’ve been a boy this whole time! But I - I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I - I -”

“I’m trans, too.” Kylie said.

“What?” I choked out through salty tears and a flowing nose.

“And you better not be calling me a boy, or I’ll have to pinch you again! I hate boys!”

“I’m not ca- wait, really?”

“Yes! All three of us are! You didn’t know?”

“... no.”

“And so are all the girls in the next room over!”

“Huh, I… I didn’t realize.” My tears stopped. Kylie handed me a tissue.

“I’m not kissing you again while you have snot all over your face!” She laughed.

I blew my nose.

“You’re a real girl, Kris, as long as you wanna be.”

I sniffled and looked into her eyes. “Thank you.”

I heard the door crack open. Kylie turned around and gave a thumbs up. Britt came back in, yawned, and climbed into bed.

Kylie switched over to whispering. “So, uh, what I wanted to ask you was… will you go to the Spring dance with me?”

I said yes.

~

My last class of the week was over, and I was itching to get out of this wool skirt. I was itching all over, really - the wig wasn’t fit for my real hair growing underneath, which was now a few inches long, and I didn’t want to get a haircut. I worked hard for this hair! Or at least I waited a while for it.

I ran to the dorm room, threw open the door, and quickly pushed it shut (though the hydraulics fought against me). The wig came off first, and then the skirt, and I quickly threw on the skinny jeans I’d left sitting on my bed. As I was zipping up, I turned around and realized Britt was in the room with me.

“Eeek! I didn’t know you were here, I’m sorry!”

She looked up from her book, unmoved. “Don’t worry, I didn’t look. I’m not even into girls. Boys, on the other hand…” She mimed a chef’s kiss.

“I don’t see what’s so special about them.”

“Oooh! Oh! Oh!”

“What? Is there something really good happening in that book?”

“No no no no no, I just remembered - we’re going to hang out at the mall today for your birthday, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” Usually I would just have family over, and my mom would throw a small party with a cake from the grocery store, but for the first time ever, I had friends who enjoyed my company. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Yes!” She clapped her hands, rapidly. “I’m almost done reading… uh, for class. I’m just, like… EXCITED! This boy I’ve got a crush on is working this afternoon at Pretzels, Etc.!”

I squinted my eyes a little. “How do you know that?” I said. But something was wrong. There was a little hitch in my voice. It cracked. Oh no. What do I do?!?

“Oh, no, no, no, this is bad.”

“What?” Britt asked, panicked.

“I think puberty is starting! Boy puberty!” I felt around my face for beard hair. “Oh, geez, is that a pimple?!?”

“Oh,” Britt said, clearly relieved by the change of topic. “That’s no biggie. We just have to get you a blocker.”

“Blocker?”

“They’re just these little things they put in your arm to stop puberty from happening when you don’t want it.” She poked at her arm, revealing a little lump. “I’ve got one.”

“I guess I should ask my mom about that.”

“She’s, like, really supportive, right? She’ll get it for you. Don’t worry about it.”

Britt popped a stick of FreshMint gum into her mouth and looked back to her book. I think it was that one about the teen girl and the sexy octogenarian vampire. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Blunt didn’t assign it.

Kylie showed up just a few minutes later with a peck on the cheek and another “happy birthday!” We all got ready - all I had to do was change into my go-to pink T-shirt and put on my wig - and we went out to the front of the school where my mom was waiting to pick us up. She dropped us off at the mall by ourselves, saying that we could call her if there was an emergency but she had something to deal with.

The first stop we made was at Celia’s. It was the best place to hide my wig when my mom wasn’t around - I just put it on one of the mannequins. Without my wig, I was able to tousle my hair into an androgynous look that I quite liked. It didn’t seem to matter which bathroom I went into, I saw people look at me confused. Somehow, that didn’t seem to bother me.

Britt dragged us over to Pretzels, Etc. - which I maintain makes the inferior pretzel of the two shops, even if I was a long-time loyal customer. But she didn’t want to actually go up to the counter. We sat across the way, all three of us, on a bench.

“Are you going to actually go talk to him?” Kylie asked.

“No! What? Are you crazy?!?” Britt replied.

“You only have a day left if you want to invite him to the dance.”

“Ugh,” Britt pouted. “You don’t understand boys like I do! He needs to come up to me!”

“Okay, you’re the boy expert.” I said sarcastically.

Kylie and I tried to keep up a conversation between the two of us, but it was distracting hearing Britt’s yearning sighs every thirty seconds or so, and we wanted something to drink. We headed over to Mango Maurie’s and got some smoothies.

“You know, Kris,” she said, sipping on her Blackberry Blast. “I think you’re really pretty.”

“I think you’re pretty, too.” I replied, struggling to get any of my Mango Classic through the straw.

“You don’t have to use the straw if it isn’t working for you.”

“They gave it to me for a reason, though, right?”

“No, no - look. I come here all the time and you’re totally overthinking it.” She pulled the straw from the cup and threw it in the garbage can across the pathway from our bench.

“Nice shot.”

“They don’t give you the straw because they think it’s the best way to drink a smoothie. They give you the straw because they’ve always given out straws.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t think any of the workers even know. But it’d be weird if they didn’t do it, so they keep doing it.”

“What’s wrong with ‘weird’?” I asked, self consciously.

She smiled. “Nothing at all. Sometimes it’s just another word for ‘real.’”

Kylie put her arm around me and I laid my head on her shoulder. It was nice. It was always nice when we did that.

Britt’s parents came to pick her up first. She seemed disappointed when she got into the car - I guess the pretzel guy didn’t know she wanted him to talk to her. He was like 16 anyway, so… that was probably for the best.

Kylie’s dad came next. He looked like such a kind man. There was some kind of calm wisdom in his eyes and his bushy mustache. I started to wish I still had my dad, but… he probably wouldn’t like how I was living my life, would he? What would he do if he found out?

My mom arrived after another ten minutes, uncharacteristically late. She seemed frazzled.

“Sorry you had to wait so long by yourself, Kris. I had a… very ornery client who needed attention.”

“Are you okay?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, honey. I’ll be just fine. I want to focus on the bright side of things. Like tomorrow! Your first school dance as a girl! We have to get you all dolled up for that, right?”

“Right!” I couldn’t wait to see what Kylie would wear. I kind of already knew what I was wearing, since Mom made me save the pink dress for the occasion.

“Hey, your wig looks a little crooked.” She said, adjusting it with one arm while driving with the other. “Be careful, we wouldn’t want it to fall off.”

“Yeah, never…” I muttered.

“How was your birthday, sweetie?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it was great!”

“I’m so glad you’ve made new friends. This weekend is about you, Kris, so if you want, we can go to brunch again tomorrow! Mother-daughter… bonding…”

She trailed off. I looked out the window and saw a man standing on our lawn.

“Son of a…”

We pulled into the driveway and she shut off the engine.

“Wait here, Kris, I’ll be right back.”

She got out and closed the door. The car was well insulated, but I could just barely make out what they were saying.

“I told you not to come here!”

“You told me - what? You’re trying to make this about me? Like I’ve done something wrong? What the fuck, Cheryl?” He gestured towards me. “What have you done to my son?!?”

Dad?!?

~

We sincerely regret to inform you that the Author was unable to figure out what our hero would do next. Kris (or is it Chris?) must make a choice, and only you can decide what that choice is. Is Kris a girl? Or perhaps, is Chris a boy? How will they settle this conflict between parents and genders? Choose wisely, my friends: this young teen’s life is in your hands. 

The Option You Weren’t Told About

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