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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Lexi,” I began.

“Hey.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine, you?”

“I’ve been good.”

Pause. I fumbled for what to say next.

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

“Yeah? What?”

“Turn around?”

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

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

I was taken aback.

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

“That can’t be,” I fired back.

“And why not?”

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

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

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

“Ballet?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

Silence.

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

She giggled. Small victory, I thought to myself.

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

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

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

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

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

“You know it! Celts all the way.”

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

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

“Oh, really?”

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

“I could still take you,” I asserted.

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

“OK, let me go get changed.”

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

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

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

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

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

“To 21?” I offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Five-minute OT?” she groused.

“You got it,” I said.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

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

“What?”

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

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