----------=BigCloset Retro Classic!=----------

The Summer I Became
Part 1

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Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Tuesday 05-29-2012 at 09:34:37 pm, this retro classic was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers.~Sephrena
 

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Chapter 1: Waiting Room Memories

School ended at noon on a Wednesday, and I bounced out of school and into Mom’s waiting car, but to my surprise we didn’t go straight home to our little apartment. She’d told me she’d taken the day off from her job at the county administration office so we could ‘do the end of school right’, which I assumed had meant we’d go celebrate as soon as I got home and dressed.

Of course, I was still in boy clothes; part of the arrangement was that I had to go to school as Thomas but as soon as I got home, I would shower and change into my real clothes and be Mom’s daughter Hannah. Weekends and holidays, I was Hannah 24/7. I could even put on nail polish–not practical during the week–and live my life as it should be. That meant, as a girl. My entire life I’d known that I was a girl but had to play the part of a boy, and the bliss of being Hannah for a whole week at Christmas and Spring Breaks had me anxiously awaiting this afternoon, when I could become Hannah until …well, pretty much until September. And maybe beyond?

But we weren’t celebrating just yet; Mom told me we were on the way to see my doctors. I had two, Dr. Fletcher, my psychiatrist, and Dr. Carroll, the doctor that was working with her. We pulled into the clinic like always, I stopped at the lab as always and gave blood and urine as always, and then we went to Dr. Fletcher’s office and sat to wait. We were informed that Dr. Fletcher had been in a slight car accident but would be coming in but delayed; did we want to reschedule? Mom said no, we’d wait. I wanted to get out of my boy clothes, to stop being Thomas, and the waiting time gave me a chance to think.

I thought about how much I’d hated having to ‘be’ a boy, from the moment the pre-school teachers took dolls away from me and told me I had to leave the girls’ circle and go play in the boys’ circle with trucks and toy soldiers. I didn’t want to; I’d cried and been scolded and then laughed at and then scolded some more. Mom had come down and yelled at them and I never went there again.

Flash forward to the first elementary grades; the only kids I got along with were girls. Not all girls, of course, because some would say I couldn’t play because I was a boy, but others would let me skip rope with them or play house. It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with the boys in my class, it’s just that they were …well, strange. They did things and said things and acted in ways that I just didn’t get. I got girls; we thought the same way and we spoke the same language.

And, of course, it led to problems just like in pre-school. Parents talked to other parents and Mom got called in and I was basically told to play with boys or sit in the classroom. I chose to sit in the classroom. It seemed the logical, simplest thing to do but was exactly the wrong thing to do, I learned. If I’d chosen to play with the boys there was no law forcing me to do anything; I could’ve just stood around and been the quiet one. But choosing to sit in the classroom, reading, rather than play with boys put me way outside the social code. The only saving grace was a dark-haired, freckled girl, Becky, was also sitting in the room; she had some ‘anger issues’ the teacher said, but we got along fine.

One day in fourth grade, Becky and I were walking home, talking about something we’d started in the classroom, and she invited me over for snacks. Her mom was there and kind of half-nodded to me and didn’t seem to mind when Becky took me up to her room after we got some Cokes. It was the first girl’s room I’d ever seen, outside of the Penney’s catalog, and it was gorgeous! I was so jealous and started to cry and then Becky said a single sentence and my life changed.

“You know you’re a girl, don’t you?”

“Wha …what?” I sniffed.

“You’re a girl. Oh, sure, the school says you’re a boy, and I’m sure you’ve got a dick and everything …but you’re a girl.”

Hearing her so casually talk about my ‘dick’ scared me and thrilled me and shamed me all at once. “I don’t …I never thought about it …”

She shrugged. “‘Course not. Girls never stop to think ‘I’m a girl’ because they just are. Boys never look in the mirror and say, ‘Am I a boy?’ because they know that they just are. But there are certain people who …I don’t know how but I know this is true …look like one but are really the other. And that’s you.”

“Me? I …” There was a tremendous feeling of pressure, and then release. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been, how ignorant. Or maybe it wasn’t me; maybe it was the teachers that told me I was a boy when it was obvious that I was a girl! So I simply said, “Yes …I guess I am.”

She nodded. “I knew it last year, about you. And this year even more.”

“But how did you know?”

“Um …” She actually blushed. “We gotta make a deal. I just told you something special, and if I say anything about me, well, we could hurt each other. By telling our secrets to other people, I mean. So you gotta absolutely swear to not breathe a word of what we talk about to anybody.”

“I swear,” I said with nervous excitement.

“Swear on your mother’s grave.”

“But she’s not dead?” I was totally confused.

“That’s what I mean; if you tell, she’ll die. So, swear.”

“I swear on my mother’s grave to not breathe a word of what we talk about to anybody,” I swore breathlessly.

She looked at me and then nodded. “Do you like girls?”

“Yeah, girls are great.”

“Do you like boys?”

“They’re okay.”

“But you’re not …into boys? You don’t want to …kiss one?”

“Ick! No!” I was shocked at the thought.

“Okay. But you know that when we get older, boys and girls kiss each other?”

“Well, yeah; I mean, everybody knows that like high school kids go on dates and stuff, duh!”

“Most boys like girls, and most girls like boys, right?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know what ‘gay’ means?”

“I think so …like what the guys call faggot or fairy or fruit …” I trailed off, blushing.

“They call you those things, don’t they?” Shamed, I nodded, and she did as well. “Because I’ve heard them call you that. Jerks. Those are mean words, meant to hurt. But gay just means that you’re interested in somebody of your own sex.”

“But when people talking about ‘having sex’ …” I trailed off, confused. I was so naíve!

She waved a hand. “That’s when people act on their feelings for the other person. So gay means a boy that is interested in boys the way most boys are interested in girls. It also means girls that are interested in other girls the way most girls are interested in boys. Got it?”

“I think so,” I nodded, and vague mysteries of life were clearing, as if a fog lifting. “So when the boys called me ‘gay’, they meant they were saying I was …interested in other boys the way older boys like girls.”

“You got it.”

“But I don’t! I’m not! I mean, I’m not …” I was still confused.

She waved again. “You’re not interested in anybody, you mean. Interested that way, I mean. I get it; it won’t come to you–and most of our class–for another two, three years, maybe.”

“So why would they say that about me?”

“Because you’re a girl,” she said, very matter-of-factly. “Anybody that’s not all macho and silly like them must be a girl, and to those jerks being a girl is like second class.”

“But girls are wonderful!” I said, automatically, absolutely certain of it.

She smiled. “See? Okay, I’m going to tell you the absolute truth about me, and then we’ll work on you, fair enough?”

I nodded.

Becky took a sip of her Coke. “I’m gay, I think. I already know that I’m …interested in girls and won’t be in boys. And that’s how I knew you were a girl. I could feel it. If I’m in a darkened room, I can tell if somebody is a boy or a girl, even without them saying anything. It’s just a …vibe, I guess. And you, Thomas,” she gently poked me on my thin chest. “…are a girl. You might grow up to be interested in boys like most girls, or you might grow up to be interested in girls like me. Or …you might grow up to actually get to be a girl.”

Dr. Fletcher’s waiting room came back into focus as Mom nudged me and showed that she had that motherly skill of reading my mind.

“Remember that mess with your friend Becky? What was that, fifth grade?”

“End of fourth. What about it?”

“Sometimes I wonder if things could have turned out differently, you know?” she sighed, and went back to the magazine she was reading.

“Differently how?” I asked. “You mean, without all the ugliness?”

“Just …different,” she said, not looking up from her page.

“Don’t know,” I said, and remembered …

The days after school with Becky had become a habit; we’d become friends. As outcasts, we banded together, and the …sexual differences between us and our classmates drew us together as friends. Inevitably, Becky wanted me to try wearing girls’ clothes, and of course I wanted to, as well. After that first day, her mother never seemed to be around; the few times I saw her she’d just kind of absent-mindedly wave a hand. I was tempted one time to stick out my tongue and see if she noticed, but if I guessed wrong, it could be messy.

The first time was just a top, a shimmery yellow off-the-shoulder top. Becky fluffed my hair and I sat at her vanity and we stared at the two girls in the mirror–one of whom was me. Over time, Becky had me try capris, then super low-cut jeans and a top showing my tummy, and finally …ta-dah! …a skirt. And it was bliss! My legs looked great, it sat perfectly on my hips, and she said I moved naturally in it. I never wanted to take it off, never, never, never!

But of course I had to. That was the downside. I’d have the heaven of dressing and acting like a girl–Becky was coaching me on how to move and how to speak, at first anyway, until I learned how to be ‘normal’ and that took next to no time at all!–and then the crushing misery, the pure hell, of having to take everything off, wash my face and go home dressed as a boy. I washed my face because of course we added makeup, little by little, and we did the exaggerated silly makeup of pre-teen girls and tried things in magazines, and eventually I got so I could put it on myself. But always, always …the depression when I had to put on those Thomas clothes and trudge home, fiercely wishing I had a swaying skirt instead of baggy jeans.

And it was inevitable that we’d escalate. Once we ran downstairs, giggling at something, to refill our Cokes, and ran into her mom. I froze and saw Becky’s face twist with concern, but she waved her head at me and we got our drinks quietly and retreated to her bedroom and worried and giggled about what had just happened. At no point did her mother make any comment that she knew I was a boy or a girl.

The escalation came to a head when Becky made me promise to go out for a walk with her. I was scared to death, but desperately wanted to do it. I wore a ruffled jean skirt and flip-flops, a white camisole and a short jean jacket. My hair had always been long and was almost to my shoulders; Becky had styled it with a barrette and she’d done my makeup and given me a purse. I didn’t know that her plan included a trip to the mall; after the exhilaration of walking the streets–walking with a skirt was every bit as wonderful as I’d thought it would be–I balked and refused. We had a little yelling match; I’ve got to admit that she didn’t call me chicken the way boys would. Instead, she just played on how good I looked and how much I owed her. And she finally said that the cute girl in the skirt was me, she was me–and I realized that Becky was helping me, not threatening me.

So I agreed to the mall, and trembled as we walked into Penney’s. I’d told her one store only, no food court, and no central area. Just walking the corridor to the department store was nerve-wracking, but Becky was determined that I get to spend time in a Juniors section like a normal girl. And then it was glorious! We were just two girlfriends flipping through kicky skirts and giggling and having a fantastic time–a fantastically normal time–and for that time I’m forever grateful to Becky …but it all went bad with a roll of the cosmic dice.

Coming out of the mall giggling and heading home, a car pulled up next to us. There were four boys in it, high school and younger. The driver leaned out and half-sneered, “Hey, Beck. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Beat it, douche-bag.”

I’d never heard that tone in her voice before, the disgust and …hurt?

“Oh, is that the way to speak to your dear, dear brother?” the driver cooed, to the laughter of his friends.

“Douglas, just leave us alone, okay?” Becky pleaded as we kept walking.

“This your new girl friend?” her brother said with a nasty tone. “Does she know you’re a dyke?”

His friends exploded with laughter. Becky’s cheeks were flaming red and I could tell she was fighting tears. I had an impulse to move to her and put my arm around her to comfort her, but instinct told me it would be all wrong under the circumstances.

It only delayed the ugly.

One of the guys in the car, younger, shouted out, “Hey, I know her! She’s a guy! Fourth or fifth grader! He’s a dude!” he screamed as he pointed at me.

Becky turned to me and quickly whispered, “God, I’m so sorry! Run!” and then shouted, “Leave us alone, you jerks!” and she took off in the opposite direction the car was traveling.

I ran after her and thank God the guys were slow on the uptake because they pulled over and scrambled out to chase us, but had done it so slowly that we were far ahead. I was having trouble trying to run with my toes curled to keep the flip-flops on, so I stopped for an instant and pulled them off and ran, holding them, following Becky. We took several turns and went through two backyards before she pulled over, winded. I put on my flip-flops–my feet were burning–and panted next to her.

“I …didn’t know …you had a …brother,” I wheezed.

“Half-brother. Lives with my father. I live with Mom. A real soap opera,” she gasped. “I can’t believe he’s even around …he’s such a jerk …”

“Oh, God,” I said, as I thought about the boy recognizing me. “It’ll be all over school.”

“No, you’ll be okay, I think,” Becky said, putting her hands on her hips and straightening, catching her breath. “He’s older and I don’t think he knows your name. If he confronts you, or spreads the word, just act like you don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ll tell kids about my douche-bag brother hassling me and a girl I know from Catholic school, and that’ll counteract whatever he says. You’ve just gotta play dumb, it wasn’t you, you don’t know what they’re talking about, blah-blah-blah. Just don’t ham it up.”

As it turned out, not a single person at school said anything about me wearing girls’ clothes–but that was after the feces hit the fan. By the time we got home, Douglas had already caused trouble. Becky’s mom was waiting for us and barked, “Get in here, you two!” before we even got to the door.

Meekly, we followed her into the kitchen and sat. She yelled, she cried, she made me feel absolutely terrible and wicked and dirty and the upshot was that she called my mother. We sat there under ‘house arrest’ until Mom arrived, and by the time she got there I’d been crying so hard that my makeup was ruined. Fortunately, when Becky’s mom went to the door to let Mom in, Becky grabbed a kitchen towel, wet it, and quickly wiped my face as clean as she could. It was still obvious I’d had makeup, and had been crying, though. Becky smiled sadly and straightened my hair as her mother entered, Mom in tow.

“Get away from …him,” her mother snarled. She then proceeded to tell a complete fabrication of events, supplied to her by Douglas, about how we’d been kissing in public and then approached his friends for sex.

Becky suddenly slapped the table loudly, startling her mother into silence. “That–all of that–is a complete lie! Douglas always lies and he’s lied to you again and there’s not a word of truth to it! And why,” she slapped the table for emphasis, “do you believe Douglas completely and you haven’t even asked us what really happened?”

My mom said quietly, “I think I’d like to hear what Becky has to say, if it’s alright with you?”

Becky’s mom threw up a hand. “Alright, but she’s just going to spin some outrageous lie.”

Mom, still in the quiet tone, said, “I’ll take that as advice. Becky? What happened?”

Becky told her the absolute truth, from us walking to the mall and the encounter and the run. There was this glaring hole in it, though; it was the elephant in the room. Why was I wearing her clothes? She tried to say it was a dare, she thought it’d be fun, but Mom didn’t press. She looked at me when Becky was done; I just nodded that it was true. I don’t think I could speak.

Mom said, “I’ll take my child home now, and perhaps the children …not see each other outside of school for awhile.”

“If I had my way, they wouldn’t even see each other then!” Becky’s mom sneered.

“Why?” Becky pleaded. “What did we do that was wrong? Douglas and his friends were going to hurt us, Mom; doesn’t that count for anything?”

But her mother was being incredibly mean to her; Becky and I locked eyes and communicated our goodbye. I walked to the car with Mom, my cheeks flaming at wearing a skirt in front of her, and Becky suddenly ran down to us with my clothes.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she said to my mother. “We didn’t do anything wrong, honest. She’s my best friend; I’d never hurt her! It’s not her fault that we–” She broke off, realizing she’d said ‘she’ and ‘her’ about me. Her eyes widened. “Oh, God! I didn’t mean …” She trailed off, knowing the damage was done.

Mom nodded and gently said, “Thank you, Becky. I’m sorry your mother is so upset; I hope things calm down. But now …It’s best we go home now. And we’ve got some talking to do.”

We drove off, and I watched Becky dwindle in the mirror. I never saw her again. She wasn’t in school on Monday–I was alone to dread the ‘Thomas wore a skirt’ catcalls that never came–and I found out that her mother had put her in a different school and within a month they’d moved.

And as we drove home that day, I told my mother that I was a girl.

Chapter 2: Decisions at the Doctors’

We went through the whole process, Mom and I. I explained; she denied it. She called it a phase, a passing thing, a childhood fantasy. She’d said variations of ‘grow up’, and ‘be a man’, and then turned it on herself and said ‘this is my fault’, and ‘I should have never …’ and she would finish the sentence with everything from ‘let you play with the girls in pre-school’ to ‘take you to The Nutcracker’. It went on and on for months.

Meanwhile I had no outlet; Becky was gone forever and nobody else would have anything to do with me. Kids were civil, girls mostly, but they had no interest in doing anything with me, whether it be eating lunch or being invited to birthday parties. I understood, but Mom kept coming up with ways I could ‘meet new people’. But ‘people’ weren’t the problem, I told her over and over–I was the problem; I was a girl and they could pick up on the disconnect. We had yelling matches and crying spells and accomplished nothing for most of fifth grade.

The only respite was when I went to music camp during the summer. During the year I took piano lessons once a week and was pretty good, but there was no real music curriculum at our school beyond a lousy marching band. So I practiced at home, dreaming of playing my recitals in a beautiful gown, heels, my hair up ...In the summer between fourth and fifth grade Mom found a music camp that had piano classes as well as band instruments. I went and discovered I loved it.

For two weeks I was alone with my thoughts and dreams. I wore shorts and t-shirts; the girls at the camp wore shorts and t-shirts. Occasionally they’d wear skirts, and my jealousy kicked up when I saw that. Because so many of the kids at the camp were orchestra nerds or band geeks, there wasn’t a lot of the macho horseplay there would be in a typical summer camp. I attended my classes and swam and spent my time alone, often on a hill looking at the camp’s lake, watching the girls in one- and two-piece suits, imagining what it would be like, feel like, to be one of them.

When I came home after camp the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I was so depressed that for the first time, suicide seemed an option. After all, my body was just going to turn into a boy’s, although not much of one. We were Scandinavian and I had white skin–I had to use high SPF sunscreen at camp–and big red lips that got redder in the cold. And straight, straight blond hair. That’s one of the reasons I could grow it long; once it was in a ponytail at my neck, it could go down the back of my shirt and nobody could tell if it was collar-length or went to my butt. But I’d been reading on the internet, and I knew that all-too-soon the effects of that darned Y chromosome would kick in and I’d start to look like a male. True, I was small for my age–‘small-boned’, Mom had called me once–and that worked in my favor. But to never become a girl? I was beginning to feel that Death was preferable.

Mom realized that this depression was very different from my usual moping around. She took me to a shrink–supposedly for teens–who got it right and wrong. He said I had some gender identity problems but that I’d probably grow out of it. He was of the ‘it’s a phase’ school. God bless her, Mom didn’t buy it anymore. The ‘phase’ had gone on too long and was too serious and, I think, she was beginning to realize that maybe it was not a phase but the truth. She took me to a second shrink, at the University, and after many tests, both physical fluids and psychological, said that I definitely had Gender Dysphoria but that it was beyond his specialty and referred us to another part of the University Medical Center and that’s how we met Dr. Carroll and Dr. Fletcher. He was the perfect Hollywood image of a kindly doctor; Mom said there was an old guy on TV called ‘Marcus Welby’ and said that’s what he was like. He was also world-renowned–Mom checked on the internet–and was only at the clinic for three years to get it up and running. Dr. Fletcher was a ‘well-kept woman’–Mom’s words–in her forties or fifties who was full of kindness and was also absolutely relentless at sniffing out and hunting down an untruth. I learned very quickly to trust them both and tell them absolutely everything.

The GD Clinic was in a new wing of the ‘U-Med’ Center and still smelled of new paint. We met with both doctors and their ‘teams’, a revolving door of specialists, and I was subjected to a battery of tests. My last week of August was filled with daily testing of every sort, from blood and urine and cells to Rorschach blot-types to retinal movement gadgets to psychological scenarios. Oh, and they discovered that my testicles had never descended, but heck–I could have told them that. Then we all sat down and they basically said, “Guess what? Thomas is a girl” and on one hand it was earth-shaking and on the other it was a ‘duh!’ But at least Mom knew now for certain that it wasn’t a phase, or a prank, or something she did or didn’t do. I wasn’t going to outgrow it; I was a girl with a penis. Thomas, her daughter. So we formed a plan of action, and first was my name, and that was easy. Apparently Mom had been told that I was going to be a girl at birth, and I was going to be Hannah Sorensen. So, twelve years later, I was Hannah Sorensen, in my mind always, and everywhere but school, where I would still have to be Thomas.

It was too soon to do anything about school, but our plan involved my regular visits, and following doctors’ orders, Mom would allow me to be a girl at home after school and weekends. On the day I was fully diagnosed and we were all agreed, I got a painful shot in my hip and a bottle of pills that were ‘blockers’, to keep from developing any male puberty. They were constantly testing and monitoring my fluids, as well. So every day I trudged to school as Thomas, kept to myself, and came home quickly and became Hannah.

Actually, I was Hannah all the time, but only pretended to be a boy at school. Thomas was a costume, a mask, and no more real to me than a Dracula costume would make me a vampire.

That first shopping expedition with Mom was amazing! It actually started in the doctor’s office. After pretty much everything had been said, and they handed us a thick packet of papers, Mom sat in silence, then nodded.

“Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Carroll …I think I might be different from the parents you’ve encountered. It’s just me; but I think that I won’t consider that I have a transgendered son. I think–”

Dr. Fletcher burst out, “Please, Mrs. Sorensen! There’s no doubt whatsoever that your son is transgendered!”

“We thought you understood that,” Dr. Carroll added, frowning with concern.

Mom held up a hand, smiling. “Doctors, please …yes, I fully accept your diagnosis. I fully grasp that by your definitions–by any definition!–my son is transgendered. What I’m saying is that to me, in my mind, I think it might be better to think of my child as my daughter. I can relate to her better that way. If I thought of my child as a boy becoming a girl, there would always be that odd feeling of watching him act effeminate. If I think of my child as a girl who for some silly bureaucratic reason must attend school as a boy, it will be much easier to relate to her. Much easier to deal with her femininity, and much easier to establish a mother and daughter bond.”

The doctors looked at each other, smiling. Dr. Carroll said, “I think that’s an outstanding point of view. Dr. Fletcher has postulated this very thing some time ago, right?”

“Right, at the MPAA conference last year,” Dr. Fletcher nodded. “For the very reasons you so perfectly stated, Mrs. Sorensen. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“Thank you, doctors,” Mom said, and I was so proud of her. Then Mom said, “So we’re concluded here? Yes? Alright, but I have one final request. Do either of you have a cloth measuring tape?”

Dr. Carroll produced one from a pocket and Mom had me stand up and measured me in several places, noting the figures. Then we thanked everybody and left. She drove us straight to Target and told me to stay in the car and read the information the doctors had given. For some reason I didn’t question it or wonder what she was up to; she just needed something and wouldn’t be long. Actually, I had finished the packet and was getting kind of worried when she came out with several bags. Then we drove home.

Mom told me to shower and come out in my bathrobe. When I did, she made a frown of distaste and wrote something down. “Now then,” she said, smiling, “let’s see what I got for you, Hannah. And leave the tags on in case we have to take things back.”

She’d laid things out on my bed. There were three-packs of lingerie! Panties in pastels, and another ‘fun-pak’ with Hello, Kitty and fruit clusters and stripes. Then two packs of camisoles, three in white and three in pastels. And a denim miniskirt! And sand-colored capris! And three tops, green, rust, and yellow. And pink flip-flops! It was all so wonderful that I collapsed on my bed and cried. She sat next to me with her arm around me and handed me tissues. I finally got it together and chose panties with clusters of cherries, a light blue cami, and the rust top–scoop-necked and cap sleeved–and the skirt. But Mom told me to try the capris first; they fit and felt wonderful, and I knew I’d love wearing them, but I really wanted to try the skirt, to which she nodded. To my joy, it fit and I stared down at my legs, remembering Becky’s skirt that I’d worn so long ago.

Then Mom brought me to the vanity in her room, sat me down and began brushing my hair. She had me stand, bend over and shake it, and then sit again while she brushed it out. I always parted it in the middle and wore the ponytail, but she parted it on the side, brushing and brushing, and then took a pretty silver barrette and clipped it. The style transformed my face. Since I didn’t look like I usually did, I could see myself with fresh new eyes, and I saw Hannah. I think that’s why Mom did it–so she could see Hannah, too–because after we stared at the girl in the mirror, she hugged me and I saw tears in her eyes. She put a silver necklace on me and then grinned.

“Piéce de resistance,” she said as she tore open a sample packet of a teen cologne and dabbed my wrists. “You can pick your own scent, of course, but this is what I liked.”

I stood and walked and, again, almost crumbled in tears. I was Hannah.

Chapter 3: Building Hannah

There was this moment, frozen in time, while I stared at Mom and she at me. At the same moment we let out ragged sighs and it was all I could do to stay standing.

“Hannah, you’re lovely,” Mom said, beaming.

“Thank you, Mom. I …” I drew in a breath. “It just feels so right!”

“That’s because it is right, my darling daughter,” Mom said, holding her arms out.

I rushed to her and hugged her. She stroked my hair, then kissed the top of my head, and said, “If you’re up for it, I have something difficult for you to do.”

Thinking she meant chores or something, I said, “Anything. You name it.”

“I want you to walk to the garage.”

“Walk to the …”

She nodded. “We’re going out. Doctor’s orders. So you can walk with me or alone. If we bump into somebody we know, you’ll have to be introduced as a niece and all sorts of complications can arise. If you walk alone, chances are nobody will say anything and even if they did, you could say your girlfriend was waiting in the garage. Most likely we won’t see anybody, anyway. But it’s your choice.”

“Oh, God …Um …Mom, I want to walk proudly beside you. But we do have to live here …And I do have to be Thomas at school …”

“We’ll be walking together once we’re away from here. Do you have the courage to walk proudly–but alone?”

I thought for a moment, feeling the fullness of my fear. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Yes. I didn’t have a problem years ago with Becky. I’m a girl and I’m walking to my girlfriend in the garage.” I thought about Becky, painfully and forlornly as I always did.

“Good,” Mom said, and kissed me on the top of my head again. “Off you go. Oh, here’s the spare car key.”

Clutching it, I went to the front door, looked through the peephole, and stepped outside. I walked down the corridor to the elevator–the one really scary part–and to my relief nobody was on. And nobody got on, and nobody was waiting in the garage. All that fear for nothing! I’d been so wrapped up in it that I’d completely forgotten to enjoy walking in my skirt! I opened the car and sat the way I knew that girls in skirts did; I’d dreamed of it for so long that I knew what to do. In a few minutes, Mom got in and we took off.

“Shopping time, sweetheart,” Mom said. “And I must commend you for sitting properly, knees together.”

If she’d only known how long I’d dreamed of sitting in a skirt in the car! She was in such a good mood; I hated to burst her bubble.

“Um …Mom? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, dear. What about?” She was looking around as she negotiated a tricky intersection.

“Money. I don’t …I don’t want you spending money on me.”

“Honey, that’s what moms do, you know!” she chuckled. “But why?”

“Well, we don’t have much, and you work so hard, and the doctors have got to be costing a fortune, and I’m just so blessed that you want me as Hannah, dressed like this. I’m perfectly happy with what I’ve got. You really don’t need to spend more.”

She sighed deeply. “Hannah, I love you so much, and one of the many reasons is because you’re so thoughtful. I appreciate your concern about money, but let me tell you several things you’re not aware of. You’re a big girl now and it’s time you learned some truths, pleasant and unpleasant.”

I giggled. “I love that! You’re so casual about saying things like ‘you’re a big girl now’.”

“It’s like I told the doctors; it’s best if I consider you my daughter and not my transgendered son. It’s so much easier just to speak with you that way.”

“I understand. It’s just that it’s so wonderful to hear it.”

“I understand that, too, honey. Okay, about money …” She trailed off as she entered the freeway. Once she was up to speed, she began again. “Divorce is awful for everybody. There are lots of reasons why people get divorced. For now, it’s important for you to know that your father and I got married for the wrong reason but you were born for the right reason. We didn’t have to get married, if that’s what you’re thinking. You were very much wanted–you need to know that–and also that you had absolutely nothing to do with why we split up.”

“Thank you for that, Mom,” I said.

“If you hadn’t been born, we still would have split up, and that’s important for you to remember. But the split was …ugly. And there were complications. To make a long story short, your father–actually, your father’s family–paid me to not contest the divorce. He couldn’t get around having to pay alimony, but it was set at a comfortable level by an understanding judge. Your grandparents have more money than manners …or love,” she added softly, “and with my darling baby I needed their money. So it’s been socked away, invested quite nicely.”

“I had no idea.”

“I know. I’m not proud of who I was then, and I’ve tried to make amends. That’s how I got into working for the county. Do you actually know what I do there now?”

“Just …work in the administration office. I mean, I visited you last year on that school trip.”

“That was two years ago, honey. Yes, I work there, but I’m an administrator–a suit–and have a whole wing working under me. I’m paid quite well due to some strikes that occurred before I started. So the whole point is that we are doing pretty darned good, financially.”

“Why do we …well, our apartment is kind of dinky; why didn’t you buy a house? Isn’t that supposed to be a good investment?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But this particular area has very good schools, it’s close to my office, and …well, I got lazy, I guess. It was only supposed to be an interim apartment for me and my infant. Then my toddler, then my pre-schooler, and now that you’re growing I have to admit that, yes, it is kind of dinky.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Mom. I love the place; I grew up there. But I was just thinking about you. I know you wish you had a garden, for instance.”

“I’ve got my containers on the patio; that’s enough to keep me busy. But,” she tapped my knee, “the important thing is for you to not worry about money, okay?”

“Okay.”

“That didn’t sound convincing, so look at this way. And bear with me for the names I use and how I …phrase things. Alright; Thomas cost very little, as children go. He didn’t have any outside interests other than piano, so it was the cost of a spinet piano–I really do wish we had a bigger place so I could get you a grand!–and lessons. Oh, and twice at music camp.”

“That sounds like a lot.”

“Are you kidding? I hear other mothers talk at work. Three hundred bucks for soccer team stuff, five or six hundred for baseball–did you know some bats cost two hundred dollars?–and football! Several moms have spent over a thousand dollars on football equipment.”

“I had no idea. Maybe swimming is best; a Speedo and you’re good to go!”

Mom laughed. “Yes, but if you’re on a team, there are dues and fees and matching sweats and bags and all that adds up. And daughters, besides keeping them in clothes; my God the costs add up! Horseback riding lessons, ballet lessons, cotillion lessons, and on and on. Not that we’re in a debutante’s tax bracket! But being a boy for twelve years who only played piano, Thomas cost–believe me–very little. And he never ate much!”

I had to laugh at that; it had always been a thing between us. “But now …”

“So we’re playing a little catch-up on girl expenses, so what? And besides getting you what you need, there’s something you haven’t considered–how much fun it will be for me to have a daughter!”

I grinned all the way to the mall. But not our mall; while we were talking Mom had driven about twenty miles away so nobody would know either of us, so I wouldn’t have to be nervous. She told me I was just a daughter out with her mother, remember? So the first five minutes, walking across the lot and into the mall, I was nervous, but the feeling went away very quickly and suddenly I was enjoying the swish of my skirt, the slap of my flip-flops, and my hair streaming around my shoulders, since I nearly always kept it in a ponytail.

Mom said, “I’ve got this planned; I’m not taking charge but thought about the most efficient way to shop. If you want to do anything different, let me know.”

“I’m in your hands, Mom. I’m just …delighted to even be here like this.”

She smiled. “We were talking about money, and one way we’ll be saving money is that since Thomas is going to school, we won’t need a couple of weeks’ worth of school clothes. Girls wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same thing twice, if they can avoid it! But we do have to get you some necessities.”

We went to Penney’s and picked out nightgowns and chemises, robe and slippers, and Mom crossed ‘nightwear’ off her list. Then in their Juniors department, a few more skirts, capris, some shorts, three girls’ jeans, pink and gray sweat pants, and a lovely white lace semi-formal dress that Mom said was for ‘special’. Special what she didn’t specify. A trip to the car to relieve ourselves of bags and then on to shoes, and Mom warned me about male shoe clerks trying to look up my skirt. I could only giggle at that; in all my fantasies of being a girl I’d never thought of boys being interested in me! I got several varieties of flats, skimmers, what-have-you, and some white strappy sandals with a two-inch heel. I really, really wanted some black dress heels, but Mom said ‘we’ll see’. Finally, Penney’s accessories department where I got my first ever purse, a butter-soft dark brown hobo bag, and some belts. And back to the car.

We were both hungry so we went to the food court. I’d put on a pair of flats to start breaking them in and I loved how my feet looked in them. I was completely over my nerves and we had salads and smoothies and talked about what other girls were wearing. Mom said two places were left on her list. The first was Claire’s, the teen girl hang-out. Since I couldn’t wear pierced earrings–yet!–I got some magnetic ones that pinched a bit at first but were quite pretty. I couldn’t help but look at myself in every reflective surface, to Mom’s chuckle. I got bracelets and rings and necklaces and scarves and Mom declared us done at Claire’s. We’d gone nuts because in addition to their low prices, they were having a sale.

Mom hadn’t told me about the ‘second’ place; it was a swimwear boutique, where I started to get nervous again. She told me to relax; she did most of the browsing, holding up suits against me to see my coloring, and bought a blue and white flowered two-piece and a black one-piece. That’ll teach me to bring up the word ‘Speedo’!

We left the mall and to my surprise didn’t hit the highway; instead she swung back to Target. We stocked up on cosmetics, cleansing supplies like astringent and moisturizers, barrettes, hair bands, scrunchies, brushes, and mirrors. Just all the supplies for a girl to take care of herself, including deodorant, talcum powder, and so on. Whew! If we hadn’t had the talk about money before, I would have been freaking by now!

Then we went home and had a fashion show before removing tags, put everything away, and Hannah went to sleep for the first time with her face cleansed and moisturized, her hair in a sleep braid, and wearing a pretty pink satin chemise.

End of Part 1