If you don't know who you are, how do you find out?

I woke up thinking about Pete and going to school on Tuesday. And I remembered something I had forgotten. I sat straight up in bed. “Oh, shit!” I said. Luckily no one heard such unladylike language.

I got out of bed and glared at my reflection wearing the blue nightgown. “I’m wearing a dress,” I muttered. “With lace and a bow at the neck.” I shook my head, annoyed but I had a bigger worry now than just Mom talking me into a nightgown. Well, I hadn’t put up much of an argument, and I shoved down my embarrassment. Things seemed different in the morning, and I had a new thought to worry about.

First, I made a trip down the hall to the bathroom. Pulling up my nightgown, and pulling down my panties(!), I sat down to pee. I didn’t have to but keeping the gown out of the way would have been awkward, I told myself. Instead of giving it a little shake, I used a small wad of tissue to make sure I was dry down there, and things were tucked back before standing up and readjusting stuff.

I blushed when I saw myself in the darkened mirror, but I had things to think about. I hadn’t turned on the lights, and I didn’t flush for number one, just putting the lid down. You don’t if you live in a desert and don’t have city water or sewer.

Back in my room, I sat down on the bed and considered something Daphne Ross had mentioned to me on that picnic in June. The middle school in Rosa Morena requires girls to wear skirts except on Fridays or the day before a holiday when they can wear pants or shorts. And boys can wear shorts on those days, too. But they don’t have to wear skirts, Monday thru Thursday; how is that fair?

I squeezed my eyes closed. Maybe I could go to a different school? What the heck was with such a rule anyway? Didn’t they know it was 1979?

Nibbling on the pad of my little finger, I tried to think of a way out of being forced into skirts. I could pass as a boy, even naked unless someone did an ultrasound of my insides. Well, a boy with boobs, but I should be able to go to school as a boy until, and if, I finally had an operation to look like a girl, you know, down there. Yet here I sat with a girl’s haircut and wearing a girl’s nightgown.

The fact that I had mostly enjoyed being treated like a girl yesterday afternoon didn’t matter to my mood this morning. And my behavior in the bathroom made me squirm a bit. I didn’t have to act like a girl when I was alone and in the dark, did I?

I might as well go to the doctors and tell them to get rid of my useless penis instead of going through the charade that I was only trying out being a girl for a while. If I started going to school in dresses, how would I ever be able to go back to being a boy?

“F-f-fooey,” I said, chickening out on using a really bad cussword, even alone. I felt like such a wimp that I tried again. “F-f-fudge ripple!” I said, which was one of mom’s fake cusses. I lived around cowboys, I knew lots of cusswords, but I never had been comfortable using them after several lectures from Mom when I was little.

Thinking of her, I turned my head, listening. Daylight had not yet begun to peek around my drapes, but a glance at the clock showed it must be nearly morning. Which meant Dad and my brothers would be gathering for coffee-and before going out to do chores. So Mom would already be in the kitchen to make coffee, heat up rolls, or toast bread. I’d heard her go down the hall while I was in the bathroom, I realized.

Coffee-and was family slang for the not-quite-meal before breakfast. Usually, just coffee with a buttered roll, toast with jam, or maybe a piece of cold meat in a biscuit. But sometimes Mom, with my help, made cinnamon rolls the night before and got up early to pop them in the oven.

Not on a Sunday morning, though. Still, I could hear people moving around the house. No one had woke me, but it was time to get up and join in. I was halfway down the hall before I remembered that I was wearing a nightgown. I shrugged, feeling a bit resigned to my fate.

Barefoot, I walked into the kitchen to find Mom buttering the small finger rolls we used while wearing a nightgown much like mine. Coffee dripped into the big stainless steel carafe from the coffeemaker next to the stove, and the rolls, reheated in the warming oven smelled delicious.

“Morning,” she chirped. “We were going to let you sleep in, so much has been happening.” She handed me a packet of cocoa and a cup, and I turned the heat on under the teakettle after sloshing it to make sure it wasn’t empty.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said. “But I’m awake.” I sighed, climbing onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and discovering that this was a different process when wearing a long skirt. I almost fell on my butt when I trapped the hem between my foot and a rung of the stool. Flustered, I figured it out and got seated where I could watch Mom at work.

She didn’t need any help, so I just stayed out of the way. I hadn’t had any responsibilities for morning chores since the Crisis and felt a little bit guilty about that. On a ranch, everyone works.

I felt even guiltier when Mom snatched up the whistling kettle, poured hot water into my cup, handed me the mini-whisk, and put the cream crock within reach. At nearly the same time, she placed the tray of buttered rolls on the bar and poured coffee into thermal cups just as the guys started arriving.

Morgan was the first, coming in from the utility room end of the bar. Two sugars, double cream, a roll into a pocket, one in hand and one in his mouth. “Cute,” he said around the roll while pointing at me with another.

I snatched a roll before they disappeared and pointed at him with it. “Stupid,” I said. He grinned, and I blinked at him, my substitute for winking.

Dad came in from the other door to the kitchen, gave Mom a squeeze, me a pat, grabbed a coffee, one sugar, and two rolls before following Morgan through the utility room. “Thanks,” they called as they dodged around Lee-Viathan making his sleepy way in between the washer and dryer and chest-type deep freezer.

Lee Junior, the only member of the family who was not truly a morning person, took his coffee black. He peered at me from under the shaggy brows he inherited from our grandfather back in Oklahoma. “Chicklet,” he said. “You should take over the early shift from Mom, let her sleep in some mornings.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “You’re right.” I liked that idea. Being responsible for the almost-meal would go a long way to relieving my guilt for avoiding other chores.

He peered some more. “That blue suits you. Despite what I said to Beth Ann, I don’t know how we never noticed before how pretty you are,” he rumbled, grinning to show that he was at least half-teasing. “Ma,” he added, “you should get her some ribbons to wear.”

I glared at him for that, but he only grinned wider. For some reason, I never could tease Junior back like I could Moose.

He scooped three rolls into one of his big hands and turned to shamble out after saying thanks to Mom.

She gave him a piece of motherly advice before he disappeared. “Open your eyes, so you don’t fall into any holes in the ground, Leland Albert,” she called.

“Once,” he called back, laughing. “That only happened once.”

After they were gone, Mom yawned widely, poured herself a coffee, and climbed up on a stool beside me.

I had used the mini-whisk to get my cocoa all smooth and then dumped the little utensil into a glass of water. I hate lumps in my cocoa.

We sat quietly, sipping hot liquid and nibbling on the last of the rolls. The guys would be back in a bit less than an hour, and they would want a real breakfast, but we had time to relax.

I considered bringing up what I had remembered about the middle school dress code but decided it could wait till we maybe had some time to do something about it. Like what, I had no idea—another reason to delay.

“I don’t mind getting up early,” she said after a bit, responding to Junior’s suggestion that I take over coffee-and.

“I know,” I said. “But we should figure out how to divide the job up somehow. I don’t want to go out to the barns with the guys to toss hay or shovel, uh, manure.”

She chuckled. “I always kind of enjoyed that when I was your age. Physical work, even if it was a bit smelly or nasty.” Mom really was a tomboy.

I put my knees together and smoothed my nightgown over them.

She laughed. “You’re going to work this to your advantage? Be a girl when it suits you?” She offered me an evil grin.

I gave her a shaky one back. “There ain’t a shiny side to every cowpie, but it don’t hurt to look,” I said, using one of Grandpa Decker’s sayings. Mom’s father was a chewed-up old rancher in western Oklahoma who had never managed to stay married despite having a store of country wisdom that would ‘make a hoot owl blench.’ Whatever that last part meant, quoting Grandpa always gave Mom a smile.

She did so and since she couldn’t wink either, gave me the sort of squinchy blink both of us used instead.

We giggled. I can’t call the sound of our enjoyment anything else.

Mom shook her head, looking at me sideways. “Your father always said he wished we had a daughter he could spoil. You’re going to be able to wrap him around your little finger, sweetie.”

I had the grace to blush because I had already noticed Dad’s new favoritism. And my brothers seemed to be prepared to spoil me, too, despite the teasing they considered my fair share.

I made my eyes big and round as I looked back at her. “Does that mean I can finally have that pony I’ve always wanted?”

She almost fell off the stool, laughing. I’ve never asked for a pony. I can ride, but I don’t want my own horse because I know exactly how much work owning the beasts is. And spoiled or not, you can bet that I would be required to take care of any asked-for animal.

I tried to keep a straight face but ended up failing to stifle more giggles.

After only a few more minutes of conspiracy, we set to work making breakfast. Mom stirred up biscuits while I washed and peeled and cut up fruit. We had cantaloupe, tangelos, grapes, and apples, some of which were right from orchards or fields on the ranch.

With biscuits in the oven, Mom began arranging bacon on a broiler pan while I put the fruit into individual bowls. Moose and Junior might complain if they didn’t get what they considered enough meat, but in truth, they inhaled fruit whenever they were offered it, so they got bigger bowls than the rest of us.

Bacon in the broiler and fruit on the table, Mom got out the eggs, and I began grating cheese and chopping onions and peppers for the scramble. Just like with chopping the fruit, I sat at the breakfast bar to do these chores. I’d only recently gotten tall enough to use the kitchen cabinet surface to work on and was still more comfortable sitting on my stool.

Mom separated out a few egg whites, added a splash of water, beat them fluffy with the rinsed off mini-whisk then folded them into the other eggs, and added my freshly grated cheese.

The big skillet was already pre-heating on the stovetop with a thin layer of bacon grease from previously saved drippings. The biscuits, all golden and smelling like heaven, came out to cool, and Mom turned the bacon with tongs, put it back in and cranked the oven up to broil while I poured juice into glasses. Orange for the brunets, apple for Daddy and me because acid didn’t agree with us so much. I loved OJ, but it had never liked me back.

Mom made quick gravy with part of the drippings when the bacon came out all fragrant and smokey, and I ferried things to the table.

It all came together as the sun rose and we heard the guys coming in the back, laughing, cleaning their boots with the putty knives kept by the doors and washing their hands and faces in the laundry tubs. They stormed in through the utility room into the dining room, all appetite and noise.

Biscuits in napkin-lined baskets, bacon on a pile of paper towels, scramble with cheese, onions, and peppers in deep bowls; I felt so proud I could burst when Daddy complimented us on such a beautiful meal. He always did, but somehow it was special this morning.

“Audrey,” Mom said, bursting my bubble a bit, “go put your slippers on. A lady doesn’t sit at the table with bare feet.”

“I don’t have slippers,” I protested. I didn’t think I would cry, but my eyes suddenly burned. I knew the rule about shoes at the table, it applied to boys, too, but I had forgotten.

“One more thing,” Mom sighed. “Well, wear a pair of mine, quickly, honey.”

I hurried out of the dining room then raced down the hall into my parents’ bedroom and opened Mom’s end of the closet. Slipping my feet into the first pair of slippers I saw, I headed back out to join the family at breakfast.

I didn’t even take notice that the slippers were pink with rhinestones and bows. That they were too big, I was aware of since I nearly tripped running down the hall before slowing to a fast walk through the living room.

They were waiting for me to take my seat; coffee poured in front of them and prepared as they each liked it. I sat next to Mom, across from Morgan, whose gaze had locked on the pile of bacon. A half cup of coffee sat by my plate, too, with lots of cream and sugar already added.

“Audrey,” said Dad, “would you say the prayer for us this Sunday morning?”

I closed my eyes and bent my head. “God bless this food, this family, and our happiness,” I prayed.

“Amen,” they all said. Morgan might have rushed it a bit.

* * *

The guys cleaned up the table while Mom and I started in washing up the pots and pans we’d used and loading the dishwasher. I got a hug from Daddy, a “Good job,” from Junior and a sloppy kiss on the ear from Morgan. Way more appreciation than I had ever gotten for my kitchen work as Audie. I could get used to this, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

Finally, Mom and I had it all sorted out. She noticed that I was still wearing her slippers and commented. “Do you want to go do more shopping today? There’s still stuff that you need.”

“I guess so,” I admitted. “What’s open on Sunday?”

“Nothing in Presley and not much in Rosa Morena,” she said.

Now was a good time to tell her. “Do you know about the dress code in middle school?” I asked. My insides turned icy while my face went hot.

She blinked. “Oh,” she said. “I got a letter back in May. Something, they… Do they…?”

I nodded. “Girls have to wear skirts, Monday through Thursday. Or at least they did last year, according to Daphne.” Something else suddenly occurred to me. “Can we find out if that’s still the rule?” I felt like I might start to cry.

Mom glanced at a clock. It wasn’t seven thirty yet. Not everyone keeps ranch hours so she couldn’t call anyone for a while. “I’ll ask around, but I think so. Go get dressed. We have to go shopping anyway. Take your time. Stores don’t open for quite a bit.” She looked thoughtful. “Marsha might be up, and her daughter Rhea is your age.”

Rhea Braun, a tall girl I had gone to school with for years. Long gorgeous blond hair. Did I feel a pang of—something? She lived on the Blackberry Ranch, even further from town than we did but closer to Rosa Morena. Her dad, Oskar, was a pilot and ran a small crop-dusting service from an airfield on the ranch.

Rhea had shot up in height the year before, taller than any of the girls or boys our age in school. And near the end of fifth grade, she had started developing a shape. Her birthday was in October, so she had been six months older than me. Would I look like Rhea in six more months?

Mom caught me staring at nothing. “Go get dressed. You took a bath last night, so it won’t take you long. But we have plenty of time. Nothing opens before ten on Sunday.”

“Kmart in Rosa Morena does,” I said.

Mom made a face. “For your first day of school, we want something better than Kmart. I’m thinking Nordstrom’s.”

I headed toward the hall, asking, “Where’s that?” I knew, but it didn’t come to mind at the moment.

“Closest one is Tyler Mall.”

I did a take, almost turning around. “Mom, that’s over an hour away!” In Riverside. It would almost be closer to go to Palm Springs or San Diego.

“But they have the nicest dresses,” said Mom.

I opened and closed my mouth several times before she said go, again, and I went. Chills had gone down my spine, but I had had a weird thought. Did Rhea shop at Nordstrom’s?