A snow globe, of sorts, of an insulated world where dreams can come true over several holidays.

Academic, by Karin Bishop

Part 5

Chapter 13: Shocking Tea

I came home a very different person than I’d been when I woke up that morning. I was exhausted, deliriously happy, and looking forward to life–and absolutely terrified. But Mom had a basic rule.

“This might be self-evident, but it’s important that it be acknowledged between us. From now on, Benjamin is no more. Alright? Don’t feel that you have to hold back with anything. Don’t censor yourself or your actions because they might seem too girlish. You are a girl. Benjamin is over. If you try to somehow keep Benjamin alive, all you’ll do is cause problems for yourself. You are Abigail from now on.”

“What about school?”

“Is that going to be your new mantra?” Mom looked disapproving. “How about, ‘What else can I do?’, huh? Benjamin is the past and you’re living in the now and moving into the future.”

“Mom …”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know; ‘what about school?’ Okay. I’ll call Barbara Carey tomorrow. So you can’t do anything about anything until then, right? So go to sleep, my darling girl, and dream sweetly.”

I did, in my nightgown and trying not to think about anything, as ordered. No dreams, though, which was probably a blessing.

In the morning I got up, showered, powdered and wrapped myself in my robe and had breakfast and Mom said she wanted me to put on my school uniform. There was something about the way she said, “It’s hanging in the back of your closet.”

I wondered if she was curious how girly I would look dressed as Benjamin so I approached it as just something to humor her–and find out for myself–and went to my closet. To my complete and utter amazement a complete Morton uniform hung there, brand new–a girl’s uniform! Light blue and white blouses with the familiar Peter Pan collars with a plastic bag holding the ribbon ties around the hanger. The blazer was the same–until I looked closer and saw that it was a girl’s, with a different cut and the buttons reversed, of course. Slacks appeared the same but were cut differently, too. And best of all …best of all …was the skirt! Three of them, actually. And hanging against the wall was the girls’ PE outfit.

“Mom!” I shouted.

“Abby, I’m not deaf,” Mom said, so close she startled me.

I turned to her grin. “What’s all this?”

“This is what a well-dressed Morton Academy girl wears to school. Why? What did you think it was?”

“When did …how did …”

“I’m guessing that the answers are ‘About three weeks ago’, and ‘While you were having breakfast’. So …try them on.”

I was so excited that I disrobed and pulled on panties and a bra. I noted with happiness that my nipples on my little breasts hardened in the sudden chill when the robe came off. I knew they’d embarrass me in the future but the doctors were pleased and I was overjoyed with how my breasts were developing.

I put on the blouse and then pulled on the skirt and tucked in the blouse, then opened the bag to the ribbon ties and tied it properly, then the blazer. Finally, I quickly stepped into black flats, added my jewelry and took a deep sigh at myself in the mirror. Miko’s hairstyle was brilliant; it looked cute when it was sleep-tousled, and brushed out it looked great!

And I looked great–and I looked ordinary. I looked like any pretty girl at Morton. My breath caught in my throat. I think Mom had the same reaction.

“Oh, sweetheart! You’re a Morton Girl!”

I turned to her and hugged her. “I hope so. God, I hope so! But thank you for letting me see what I’d look like. I was kind of worried.”

Mom smiled at me and surprised me by telling me to grab my coat and purse. And then we went right to the school! I was super nervous, but I was carried along by how wonderful–and yet again, how ordinary–it felt to be there dressed like I belonged. To my further surprise, we went to Mrs. Carey’s living quarters at the back of the school. It was actually the original house that the school had grown from; her daughters were grown and married and she’d been widowed when I was little.

And Mrs. Carey was expecting us.

“Come in, come in, Marion, Abigail,” she smiled.

Whew, I thought! At least I didn’t have to go through an explanation.

We got settled and she had tea already made–I guess when Mom alerted her–and we sat, all very domestic. Mrs. Carey looked at me, smiling.

“I must say that I was wrong. I always thought that Benjamin would make a pretty girl. I had no idea that she would be so lovely. You really are remarkably pretty, Abigail.”

“Um, thank you, Mrs. Carey,” I blushed. “Do you mean that? About always thinking that about Benjamin?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, as if it were the most natural, trivial thing. “Your father and I talked about it, as well as talks I’ve had with your mother. The question wasn’t so much ‘if’ as ‘when’.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We were fairly certain, from your very first few years, that you were transgendered, although I have my suspicions that there is a medical cause underlying that. But there was little doubt that you always were female in your soul. Quite frankly, we worried about your safety.” She sipped her tea. “Amazing that it was only yesterday that the danger finally manifested.”

Mom said, “From what I understand, Benjamin had mastered the art of being invisible.”

Mrs. Carey nodded. “A good description. But by Middle it’s impossible to be invisible on matters of sex and sexuality. It’s all they think about, once they start thinking about it.” She made a small smile. “I wouldn’t teach Middle schoolers for all the tea in China.”

“Well, as you said, the danger has manifested,” Mom said.

Mrs. Carey put her cup and saucer down, folded her hands and addressed me. “Strictly off the record, could you tell me what happened?”

I told her everything, especially praising Shelly and Monica, but also the other girls that had run defense for me all day once Lu reported what she’d overheard.

Mrs. Carey nodded, with a pleased smile. “If there was any doubt as to your acceptance as a girl by the girls, yesterday dispelled that. They see you as one of their own. I don’t foresee too much difficulty in January. There are a few potential problem children, but I’ve reviewed the files and feel that we can weather any difficulties they present.”

“Ma’am?” I asked, unsure of her meaning.

Mrs. Carey looked a little embarrassed. “When we pre-screen applicants, one of the areas that has caused some concern in recent years has been religious extremism. We and other schools have found that the …demographics for schools such as ours generally enjoy a very low percentage of …zealots, shall we say. But some may be in any school and their presence becomes known only when a situation arises that …inflames their zealotry.”

I said, “We’re not talking suicide bombers, but ….”

Mrs. Carey’s mouth pursed in a small smile. “No, I believe not. But religious zealotry and bigotry still rear up from time to time. Greenwood school was blindsided with a lawsuit–particularly tricky to fight, the way it was constructed–over three gay students, brought by two so-called Christian families. They were demanding the sin of homosexuality be cleansed from the school. And, in a dazzling display of hypocrisy altogether consistent with religious extremists, they completely ignored four lesbians, all of whom were quite open.”

“Did the gay students win?”

“Eventually. And yet not at all. Two of them left the school and the one remaining family toughed it out but suffered business losses engineered by the extremists.”

I looked at Mom. “Suddenly I’m scared.”

Mom smiled. “I’m not.”

I said, “Mrs. Carey, I don’t want to bring any dishonor or notoriety on Morton Academy. I love it here and it’s my home, but rather than cause problems, maybe I should just transfer to a public school.”

“That’s gracious and courageous of you, Abby,” Mrs. Carey smiled, “and just what I would expect from a Russell woman–and a Morton Girl!”

I felt wonderful–but still scared.

“Seriously, Mrs. Carey,” I said. “I would dearly love to attend but it will cause too many problems.”

Mrs. Carey pursed her lips again. “Among the many points of pride here at Morton Academy is our inclusive nature. We tend towards a very liberal student body. Now, there will always be homophobes such as Steve Duncan, no matter where you go. Our student body is multiethnic and multicultural. Steve’s behavior was reprehensible and utterly unacceptable in any civilized society. If we were to sweep the problem under the rug, so to speak, or have you remove yourself to another school, then Steve Duncan–and any who would agree with him–will not learn the barbarism of his actions. Even if punished, to his way of thinking, the punishment would be either due to getting caught–and not the action itself–or would be perceived by him merely as a way of protecting the victim. In either case, he does not learn the error of his ways–to put it mildly.”

Mom said, “The only true way to let bigots or racists learn that their beliefs are out of step with society is through exposure to peer pressure. When they learn that almost nobody else thinks and believes as they do, when they learn that they are ostracized or even ridiculed for their beliefs, then they can examine their wrong-headed ideas and begin to change.”

“Take a family of Klan members in Alabama or Mississippi,” Mrs. Carey said casually. “To children growing up in that family, racism is taught as a matter of course. They think everybody knows that blacks are inferior to whites. They think everybody knows the Catholic Church is secretly trying to enslave them. And any of the other silly ideas they have. It’s only when they get out of that family, that community, that racist environment, that they discover that hardly anybody believes the same things. And that they suffer a social stigma if they continue to cling to their racist beliefs.”

I nodded. “That all makes sense, but …to the black man they’re lynching, he might hope for a speedier, less violent learning process.”

Both Mom and Mrs. Carey laughed at how I’d put it, as I’d intended.

Mrs. Carey was still chuckling. “You are your father’s daughter, the way you phrased that. Well done!”

I said, “If you’re sure the school can …handle the uproar …” Inside I was glowing from her comment about my father.

Mrs. Carey picked up her cup and took a sip of tea. “Are you sure you can handle the silence when you show up as Abby and everybody shrugs and says, ‘So you’re a girl? We knew it all along. What’s for lunch?’”

Mom chuckled. “Terrible blow to a girl’s ego!”

I looked from one to the other. “You’re kidding, right?”

Mrs. Cary put her cup down again, laced her fingers and smiled at me. “Unless you present me with a serious objection, I am ‘handling the uproar’ by expecting Abigail Elizabeth Houseman to be in all of her classes the first school day of the new year.”

Chapter 14: Rearranging Things

Actually, I had a serious objection. But I forgot about it, carried along with the euphoria of walking back to the car. Mom gave me her Cheshire Cat smile and was quiet for the short drive home. Back in my room, I carefully and lovingly removed the uniform and put on a denim skirt over gray leggings, and a fisherman’s knit sweater over a white camisole. I thought I was just going to lay around the house, but Mom told me once again to grab my coat and purse–frowning at my flats–and then we were off to Hartford.

I loved my black boots and Mom took us to two shoe stores where I acquired a lovely brown pair and some black low boots that were perfect for snowy winter walking and also fit my outfit. I wore those new boots, but was still careful in the snowy parking lots. Next, we went to a huge furniture store and found a white vanity and bureau set, and arranged for it to be delivered the next day. Only then did we hit the clothing stores proper. Mom told me that we were looking for more ‘everyday’ clothing.

“After all, you’re going to be dressing as a girl every day!” she teased in a ‘golly-gee-whiz’ kind of voice. Then in her regular voice, she added, “Because what else would a girl wear?”

We debated a movie but decided on dinner in town and then an early night. The restaurant host said, “Right this way, ladies” and I was thrilled and wondered if it would ever sound ordinary to me.

A slow dark drive back and once home, I didn’t so much put my things away as stack them; everything would be moved around and placed differently once the furniture arrived.

We watched an old Julia Roberts movie with cocoa, our legs curled up under us, enjoying things. Then something a character said made me remember my ‘serious objection’ that Mrs. Carey had asked about.

“Mom, it’s not all about me,” I said. “I mean, going to Morton as Abby …it’s not about will Steve hurt me or won’t he.”

“Good, because I vote for ‘won’t he’,” Mom grinned.

“Seriously, Mom; it’s about the other kids. To be really graphic, what restroom am I going to use? Or showers, in Upper?”

“How is that graphic? The girls’, of course.”

“I mean, don’t you think somebody might object–and not just religious extremists–to the presence of a boy in the girls’ restroom or showers?”

“But you’re not a boy, are you? We’re pretty clear on that.”

“That’s the graphic part. I have a penis. Regardless of how I feel about it, don’t you think some girls or some parents will object to …the presence of a penis in the girls’ restroom?”

“An interesting way to put it, like it’s disconnected and somehow walking around by itself!” she chuckled.

“Yeah, and I wish it was disconnected,” I grumbled.

She turned to really look at me.“You really do, don’t you? You really don’t want your penis.”

“No. I’ve never had a connection to it. It’s funny; since my breasts have started developing, it’s become really obvious to me that I love them as an extension of myself, of my femininity. Oh, I know that little girls before they develop–or women after breast surgery–are every bit as feminine even without breasts, but they’ve had a life as females since birth. My breasts are so new that I have to look at them differently. They’re like an expression of my gender. And I …don’t love my penis as an expression of my gender, and never did.”

“You were going to say that you love your breasts and you hate your penis?”

I sighed. “I go around and around this with Dr. Nielson. I don’t actively hate it. It just doesn’t belong there! I told Dr. Nielson it’s like having a sixth finger on a hand. Or a little third leg sticking out of my hip. It doesn’t belong there and should be removed.” I shrugged. “It’s as simple as that. But I know that the law says I have to wait until I’m eighteen.” I groaned. “Five years stuck with it!”

Mom didn’t say anything further that night, but I thought I saw a touch of the Cheshire Cat about her, but I was sleepy and that was it for the night.

Sunday snowed and I worried about the truck but the guys made it, crunching through the new drift to bring boxes to the porch. They stamped their feet and put on booties and carried the boxes into my room. I’d spent the morning taking things out of my old boy’s dresser and putting them on the bed.

The guys came in and asked, “Where do you want the items, miss?” and I loved being called ‘miss’ and pointed where each one went and then was pulled out by Mom, who whispered to leave them alone ‘with their big boy stuff’.

They left with every scrap of box and packing material and with my old dresser to donate. Then Mom and I rearranged everything else in the room and began the sorting and folding and hanging and that took the better part of the day–she insisted that I have an ironing lesson along the way–and then ordered a delivery pizza for fun. I pointed out that it wasn’t fun for the delivery guy, and Mom laughed and said if New England stopped doing things when the snow fell, nothing would get done half the year.

I had a doctor’s appointment Monday morning so it was an early night. In the morning I put on my cold-weather boots, tights, skirt, and sweater, and went to see Dr. Nielson, followed by a meeting with Dr. Randall.

And then I met Dr. Kramer …

Apparently Mom’s Cheshire grin on Saturday night was because she knew all about this, of course. It was a three-step process. First, we told Dr. Nielson my determination to start the new year as Abby full-time. She smiled and nodded. We talked about genitals and I told her my concerns about the protests of others. She asked if I could wave a magic wand, what would I do? I grinned and said, “Make all traces of Benjamin vanish. All documents and all physical traces.” She nodded and smiled and wrote in her file, handed it to Mom and I was off to see Dr. Randall.

Paper gown time; I was gently probed and felt up and told to remain where I was, in the stirrup chair. Mom was smiling at me but not coming up with any explanation. Dr. Randall left and returned with Dr. Kramer, a blonde woman that looked Scandinavian. We were introduced and then an explanation came–and a good thing I was in the stirrup chair or I would have fallen to the floor.

Everybody was in agreement that the time was right for ‘the procedure’. I’m sure it had a fancy name with a lot of syllables, but among them it was only called ‘the procedure’. Dr. Randall promised that he and Dr. Kramer could basically tuck all of my Benjamin genitalia and make it look like Abby’s genitalia. My testicles were still inside me, otherwise they’d be placed back in my abdomen. But I would be catheterized and my penis folded back on itself and up. There was some discussion about my perineum, the part of the body that boys called ‘the taint’ that was between the anus and the scrotal sacs. The length is apparently one of the skeletal factors used to determine the sex of the individual–boys’ are longer. And mine was shorter, much more like a girl’s, and was just one more checkbox in my favor for life as a girl. The empty scrotal sacs would be pulled down and everything surgically glued into place. The final result would look like a girl’s external genitalia; even six inches away it would look pretty authentic.

Wow.

I wanted it, absolutely, but I raised my last objection. “Couldn’t it still be said–I’m thinking of the lawyers for parents that complain about a penis in the girls’ restroom–couldn’t it still be said that it’s super-glued but it’s still there? As in, still present?”

“A very smart question to ask, and you might have a career in law,” Dr. Kramer nodded. “And let me answer by speaking in generalities. In legal terms, the presence of a penis determines sexual categorization, but it’s the potential activity of a penis that determines threat. This has all been ruled on, many times, so there is a large body of legal precedent.”

Dr. Randall said, “The androgen blockers and hormones you receive have eliminated any chance of an erection.”

“But I’ve never even had an erection,” I pointed out.

He countered. “That’s in your favor as a patient, but as a potential defendant, it’s meaningless. If a man let a pit bull run loose on the grounds that ‘he’s never bitten anyone’, would you feel safe that the dog never will?”

“Uh, no …”

“So your personal history has no bearing, legally,” Dr. Randall nodded. “But medically, we can prove that you are incapable of …activity with your penis.”

“Sexual assault,” Dr. Kramer said. “He’s pussyfooting around what he means. But I do want to warn you to avoid a physical fight with another girl at all costs. A sharp lawyer would say it was sexual aggression.”

“But I’ve never done anything like that!”

“And not likely to, young lady,” Mom said, keeping her hand in.

Dr. Kramer soberly said, “But the dog hasn’t bitten anyone …” and her point was made.

Dr. Randall said, “It’s part of your file that you are …well, the common term is ‘chemically castrated’, which means–”

“I know what it means, Dr. Randall,” I smiled. “And don’t worry; it’s fine with me. Castration is something I want. Okay?”

He grinned. “I know you do, Abby. And you’re there already. Actually, you may have been even before you took the blockers, but we’ll never know.”

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “But I had to do something.”

“Understood,” he nodded. “But now we can conclusively prove, medically, that your penis is not a threat. And then, with the procedure, it renders the whole issue moot.”

“Um …I’m pretty sure what that means, but I’m not sure if we’re there yet,” I said. “I have a scenario. Two scenarios. Nightmares, actually. Tell me how the procedure works in these cases. First, I’m in the girls’ restroom with my girlfriends, touching up our makeup, and a girl walks in and screams ‘There’s a boy in the girls’ room!’ and a big brouhaha and her parents come with a lawyer and say, ‘Our daughter knows that just last month, that was a boy named Benjamin and now you expect us to believe he’s a girl all of a sudden?’

The adults looked at each other. Dr. Randall started to speak but Mom quickly said, “And what’s the second scenario, honey?”

“The second scenario is I’m jumped by Ste–by some boys. They’re screaming ‘Get the sissy!’ and that sort of thing. They flip up my skirt and pull down my panties. What then?”

Dr. Kramer said with some force, “You’re being raped. They should be arrested and prosecuted. But you’re wondering about them knowing that you’re a boy but then seeing what appears to be a vagina. So they retaliate.” Suddenly she gasped. “Or they try to really rape you, and discover …”

I nodded. “Nightmares.”

There was silence. Then Mom said, “Lie.”

The doctors looked at her with confusion.

The lightbulb went on. “Shelly,” I said, and Mom nodded.

We explained Shelly’s advice to me to lie that I’d been born female but with a birth defect that had looked like a penis. Dr. Kramer was nodding and murmured, ‘Enlarged clitoris’ and I knew we were on the same track. I finished up and they all began speaking in rapid-fire medical talk. Mom and I shrugged and left them to it. Dr. Randall called Dr. Nielson and then told us she’d be there in five minutes.

“Can Abby get dressed now, or can we at least get a blanket for her?” Mom asked, and a blanket was draped over me and I was grateful. But why couldn’t I just get dressed?

The doctors seemed to be throwing ideas against the wall when Dr. Nielson walked in, concerned. Dr. Randall spoke quickly and they did the multi-syllable thing back and forth and even what sounded like some legal cases. Finally they finished and faced Mom and me.

Dr. Randall said, “Your friend had a remarkably astute idea, especially since I assume she’s another thirteen-year-old?”

I nodded. “Where I’m smart in English and History, she’s the Science whiz.”

Dr. Kramer said, “I would encourage her in that direction. I’d like to meet her. Doctor?”

She deferred to Dr. Randall, who said, “It’s a bit of a stretch and yet not much, so ethics are observed. Your detailed medical records are completely confidential, of course; I want to assure you of that right from the start. Now, you’re in need of what we could call ‘a cover story’. One that would explain Benjamin in December and Abigail in January.”

Mom and I nodded.

“And do I understand correctly that you have the approval of the headmistress for the …transition?”

“Absolutely,” Mom said. “We met with Barbara Carey yesterday; Abby was in her girl’s uniform and was welcomed.”

“Alright then,” Dr. Randall grinned. “This is almost too easy! We can craft a public document–in the sense that it’s in your personal file at school or for legal situations but is not your complete medical file. The document will state essentially what your young Science whiz surmised. The baby that had been expected to be female was, in fact, born female but was subject to a late-term hormonal event that spurred penile development of the clitoris. At birth you presented as a small male–they don’t look too closely sometimes–and your parents hurriedly came up with the name Benjamin, after months of being assured they would have a daughter, Abigail.”

Dr. Nielson said, “We’ve covered your childhood thoroughly; there’s nothing inconsistent with a gender-variant or misdiagnosed female. In other words, your childhood was not a boy’s.”

Dr. Randall resumed. “With the onset of puberty your true female nature was discovered; medical evaluation determined that you are a female misdiagnosed at birth. A minor surgical procedure over the holidays and you can begin your life properly, as Abby.”

I was amazed but had to ask, “But what about the operation at eighteen?”

“Oh, you’ll still have that,” he nodded. “But you’ll have five years of completely establishing yourself as a girl. And then maybe some …abdominal problems, perhaps, to explain your need for surgery then?”

Dr. Nielson grinned. “One of those ‘women’s problems’ perhaps?”

Dr. Randall laughed. “Exactly! Nobody will know. But the important thing is that you will have those precious five years. And can start your new life in a few weeks.”

Mom said, “Any boys that you saw naked will be creeped out, probably, but that’s not legally actionable. The vitally important thing is that both of your scenarios are answered. The girl in the restroom scenario is handled by the information that you’re not a boy and never were. If you were feeling frisky you could even pull your panties down and show her–that should shut her up!”

There was some laughter at that. Mom went on. “And the far more dangerous gang-rape scenario–and we will do everything possible to protect you–could be defused by proving to St …” She broke off as I had, reluctant to say his name, and looked around.

I said, “Mom, I did the same thing. I was almost attacked; I was certainly chased. We’ll just call him Steve.”

Mom grinned. “Alright. Steve objects to a sissy. Steve has no objections to girls. I’ll talk with Barbara Carey; perhaps over the holidays we can contact his family and tell them that you’re a girl and not a boy and hopefully eliminate that threat.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I murmured.

Dr. Nielson said, “I’ll get started on a draft of the document, and I can run it by your legal department?”

Dr. Randall nodded. “Absolutely. I was going to suggest that.”

I said, “I probably shouldn’t bring this up but …aren’t you …um …lying? I mean, Mom and I can say whatever we want for …my protection, I guess.”

“Honey?” Mom said, worried.

I looked at her to acknowledge her concern but turned back to the doctors.“But, I have to ask …you are all bound by your oaths to tell the truth, right? So you can’t tell the story about me being born female.”

There was a very odd look shared between the doctors.

Dr. Kramer spoke first. “Actually, I think you’re referring to the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s …it’s about doing our utmost to heal, basically. And to respect your privacy. In fact, one sentence goes like this: ‘I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know.’ But there’s nothing in there about being bound to tell only the truth.”

Dr. Nielson said, “It’s an elective oath, too, by the way; a lot of medical schools no longer require it, sad to say.”

“I agree,” Dr. Randall nodded. “It was one of the proudest moments of my life. But …” He looked at Mom and said, “Mrs. Houseman?”

There was the strangest smile on Mom’s face. “I think it’s time to tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I demanded. “You guys are freaking me out!”

“I don’t think the oath says we can’t freak out our patients, does it?” Dr. Randall said.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Dr. Kramer grinned.

“Sometimes a good freak out is just what they need!” Dr. Nielson chuckled.

“You guys!” I almost shouted.

“It’s not a lie,” Dr. Randall said, grinning at me.

“Huh? What? What’s not a lie?”

“That you were born female,” Dr. Nielson said.

“Wait …you’re …I don’t ...Mom?” I turned to my only certainty.

Mom spoke calmly, although her smile was twitching with glee. “Doctors, could you please tell my daughter why she’s my daughter?”

Dr. Randall said, “I’d be honored. Abby, when you were born the doctors looked at your penis and declared you a boy.”

“Well, they generally do go together …” I joked. “But …”

He held up a hand. “Had they done genetic testing you would have posed a puzzle to them.”

Dr. Kramer said, “Still only two places when she was born.”

“Huh?” I said again. “I’m sorry; you’re talking like I have some information I don’t.”

Dr. Kramer said, “I’m sorry; my remark was to Dr. Randall but he’ll explain what ‘two places’ means.”

Dr. Randall said, “Abby, you said your friend is the Science whiz, but I know you’re an extremely intelligent girl yourself. Do you know about DNA, about the determination of sex by chromosomes?”

“You mean, XX girl, XY boy?” He nodded and I did, too. “The basics. That’s about it.”

Dr. Kramer said, “Abby, those letters, XX or XY? That’s two places. One place for each letter, each chromosome.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you were saying that if I’d been tested for DNA at birth, I’d have been …what?”

“Well, XY,” Dr. Randall said.

For some reason, that totally deflated me. I felt terrible. “Yeah, I’m a boy,” I said all grumpy.

“No, you’re not,” Mom said emphatically.

“No, you’re not,” Dr. Randall nodded with her.

“Excuse me?” I frowned.

Dr. Randall said, “We now factor the sex determination chromosomes to several places, if the individual has them. Mind you, the majority of people are XX or XY and stop there. But there are individuals who have a genetic makeup that includes additional markers. You are one of those people.”

“This is a good thing?” I said.

“For you, it explains so much. Basically you are …well, I’ll make it simple. You are XY …XXX and that’s as far as we’ve gotten–so far.”

Mom said, “You hear that, sweetheart? You are female–four out of five!”

“Maybe even nine out of ten, if we can factor that far,” Dr. Kramer grinned. “All of her indicators point towards that.”

I was numb. “So that …explains why I’m like me …but …what about legally and all that?”

Dr. Nielson frowned. “That’s the sticky part. The law in this state has only recently accepted DNA evidence in criminal cases, and they’re still woefully behind on other matters.”

“They would only read the first two markers, the first two places, unfortunately,” Dr. Kramer said.

“At least in criminal cases of evidence,” Dr. Nielson pointed out.

I said, “You mean, they’d only look at the XY and not the other Xes?”

“If the evidentiary rules of criminal cases apply to other areas,” Dr. Nielson said. “If that’s the case, legally–and you are sharp to zero in on that–legally you would be a genetic male under the law and as such, not eligible for sexual reassignment surgery until eighteen.”

“So we’re right where we started,” I said sadly.

“Not at all,” Dr. Randall said. “Two points: First, our legal department will check whether additional genetic markers are allowable in cases of identity. They’ll be looking to other states’ determinations to establish legal precedents. That’s a key point–identity. Not just your sexual identity, but your identity as certified by your state-issued birth certificate. And second, our oath doesn’t require it, but we’re not lying when we testify that you were female at birth. The overwhelming preponderance of X markers determines that.”

I stared at him. “So the letter …isn’t a lie?”

“No,” Dr. Nielson grinned. “You are a girl. You were born a girl. A ‘misdiagnosis at birth’ is not quite accurate, because the genetic testing for multiple markers didn’t exist when you were born, and if a DNA test had been performed at the time of your birth, it would have come up male.”

“Oh! The ‘two places’ Dr. Kramer said!” I sat up.

“Yes. But as far as today’s science is concerned, the truth is that you were born female but were told you were a boy. The story your friend suggested is the exact truth–and she came up with it at thirteen!–and we will provide the documentation to support it. And that should satisfy the state and federal governments as to your identity. Your true identity, as Abigail Elizabeth Houseman.”

Mom said, “Do you understand, honey? We might be able to get a revised birth certificate, and you’ll be female on your driver’s license when you’re old enough–and best of all, your passport could say female! So that should take a load off your mind!”

I did; I felt so odd, kind of floating ...like I was weightless, and I realized that it was like I’d been cut loose from Benjamin, truly severed, and was ‘up in the air’. And when I finally came to earth, I would be Abigail, forever.

Mom had this happy, happy smile and I returned it.

Then, Dr. Kramer said, “So, boy and girls …” It took me a second to realize that the ‘boy’ was Dr. Randall.

“Ah!” Dr. Randall said. “The procedure.”

They were all turned and looked at me. Mom smiled.

“Honey, I’m asking this formally in front of these witnesses. Do you understand the nature of the procedure they’re talking about?”

“Folding the boy genitalia back into something resembling a girl’s genitalia? Yes.”

“Do you understand the pros and cons?”

Dr. Randall said, “We’ll make sure you can urinate normally. You’ll have to sit as all girls do, but Dr. Nielson assures me that you already do.”

I said, “Yes, I always have. My only question is, will this procedure screw up things for the operation at eighteen?”

“An excellent question, and the answer is no, not at all,” Dr. Randall smiled. “Anything else?”

I shook my head. Mom grinned and said, “So, now, Abby, in the presence of these witnesses, do you want this procedure?”

“I want the whole operation,” I grinned, “but right now I’ll settle for the procedure. Yes, absolutely!”

Ah, but then came a shot …

End of Part 5