Recently I blew the dust from this very early story and was happy to get reacquainted with the Mendoza family. Please note: I do not speak Spanish, but was helped by a friend from Málaga, Spain, who lived for a time in Buenos Aires. Any errors in translation or idioms were probably typos on my part and not necessarily her fault!

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An Obvious Girl, by Karin Bishop

Part 1

Chapter 1. Failing Grades

Friday’s Geometry class started it all. I sat staring at Susan Berger’s pantyhose. They had a sheen to them that made her legs look creamy, and I wondered how they felt–

“Mr. Preston? Care to join us?”

My heart nearly stopped when my teacher called on me. He called everybody ‘Mister’ or ‘Miss’ but it was his tone that was a warning. I tried to regroup.

“Uh ... yes ... the angle of C is ... uh–”

The class snickered at my failure.

“Mr. Preston, we finished that problem ten minutes ago. Pay attention, won’t you? Now, then, Miss Allen, could you tell us the cosine?”

The class resumed and I breathed a sigh of relief. No doubt he thought I’d been checking out a pretty girl. That would be normal; he might not think that what I’d been thinking about was normal, but it was a normal thought for me. Class ended, and as I gathered my books together he called me up to his desk.

“Mr. Preston, your inattentiveness is affecting your work, not to mention disrupting the class when I call on you. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry and I’ll do better?” I hoped he didn’t think I was brown-nosing; it was the truth.

“Not good enough, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to send a note to your mother–”

“Do you really have to?” I fought the whine in my voice.

“I’m afraid I do, for several reasons. With only three weeks left before finals, you’re going to be very unhappy with your report card unless you shape up. I need to see some immediate improvement; you’ve got this weekend ahead of you to get your head turned back right. I know it’s an uphill battle, but you’ve got to do it, and I’ve got to help a smart boy get his mind off the pretty girls and back on geometry.”

Oh, if he only knew! I thought. Well, it could have been worse; it could have been my Spanish class–there were only boys in it, so there would be no excuse. Of course, there wouldn’t have been pantyhose, either. But I would have been daydreaming about Susan’s pantyhose, or Brenda’s cute hairstyle, or Heather’s skirt …

Sighing to myself, I accepted the note unwillingly, mumbled another apology, and went off to my next class, the last for the day. It was PE, my least favorite. The coach was always on me about my long hair, which was dirty blonde and hung straight from a center part just to my collar. I didn’t see what his problem was; my mom obviously knew I had long hair, and I wasn’t going out for a sports team, so why should he care?

He told us to run laps; I walked the last part with Santiago Mendoza, a boy from Argentina. He was a bit chubby, maybe; enough that guys called him ‘fat boy’. Everyone assumed he was gay; in fact, ‘Argenteenan’ had become locker-room slang for ‘queer’, as in, ‘Don’t be so Argenteenan’, which was the way they said it, even though the word really should be ‘Argentinean.’ Santiago’s English was not the best, and it seemed like he assumed everyone was speaking positively about him, because he bobbed his head up and down and smiled. I walked with him for two reasons; first, I was tired, and second, I could practice my Spanish with him and help him with English. And then we’d gotten to be friends.

Our concept of doing laps wasn’t good enough for the coach, of course. He waited until we came up to him and leaned down.

“If you two faggots can’t run with the boys, maybe you’d like to transfer to the Girls’ PE?”

He’d said it quietly so there were no witnesses, and he knew we’d never haul him up on charges of talking to us that way. It was funny, though, because I would have given anything to be in Girls’ PE ...

After showering in silence, paying no attention to the glares of some of the other boys, I walked home, and couldn’t help but watch groups of girls in twos and threes walking together. I thought about being a girl, my skirt swinging in the breeze, walking home with my girlfriends, our books clutched against our breasts, talking about our day, and about the cute guys in class, and about new makeup, and–

I was nearly killed as a car braked and honked; I’d walked into the street without noticing. The driver still leaned on his horn, shouting at me, as I had to pick up the books I’d tossed when I was startled. I debated picking up my note from Geometry, but I knew I’d have to, and I got out of the way as quick as I could.

I got home without further incident, but the near-crash had shaken me. My mother wasn’t due until 5:30, so I got some cookies, focused on my homework, tidied up a bit and was looking through a People magazine when Mom came home. She worked so hard since the divorce, so I helped out with things like cleaning, doing laundry, taking out the garbage, and occasionally cooking. We’d always been very close, but lately I felt myself growing distant from her. Out of …self-preservation, I thought.

Mom had groceries; I went to help her put things away and we chatted about her day. Then I had to mention the Geometry note, which she wanted to see. I got it, handed it to her, and stood quietly while she read it.

“Well, honey? Do you know what this says?”

“No; I didn’t read it, but I can imagine: ‘Stop daydreaming. Pay attention!’” I said in a gruff voice like my teacher.

She smiled thinly. “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that. He says that he suspects you might have ADD or be using drugs or something. So that’s pretty serious.”

“Mom, I don’t have ADD!” I protested. “And I’m not using drugs; you know that.”

“Yes, I do know that,” she said softly, reaching out and stroking my hair. “But I could still be wrong.”

“You’re not wrong. I don’t use drugs!” I said with finality.

“But you do know what the problem is, don’t you?”

She looked me in the eye and I squirmed involuntarily. I was suddenly aware of everything–my day, the kitchen, her eyes–everything needed adjusting, including me. I had a sudden flash of the car’s horn and the driver’s anger, and I knew that this couldn’t go on. My self-preservation thing wasn’t working; trying to stay hidden was costing me too much. So it was time to tell my mother the truth.

“Mom, let’s sit down,” I said as we both sat at the kitchen table. I helped her fold the paper bags; it was welcome busy-work to cover my nervousness.

“Mom, there’s no way to gently tell you, so I’ll just tell you outright.”

She looked closely at me. “Kind of like pulling a band-aid off quickly?”

I smiled weakly at that. “Something like that. Okay ... I think that …No, I am …transgender.”

She looked at me and said nothing, so I went on.

“Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like a girl, not a boy. I think about it all the time. Being a girl, I mean. What my life would be like as the girl I should have been. Every movie I see, every book I read, every song I hear, I see it or read it or think about it. I’m just more and more convinced that I should have been born a girl. And that I am a girl, in the way I think and feel.”

I looked at her; she was still giving me a neutral look. She knew I wasn’t finished, so I nodded once and went on.

“Today in geometry, I was looking at Susan Berger’s pantyhose and wishing I was wearing them. I was wishing I had long hair like hers that I could hold back in a scrunchie. But it wasn’t just that I wanted to wear girls’ clothes; just that it would …it would validate me to the world. And it’s more than just clothing; it’s the way I think. Like, well …some of the other girls in class had been talking about going to a slumber party and I was wishing I was going to, thinking about the fun we’d have. The coach called me a faggot and threatened to transfer me to Girls’ PE, which I really, really wanted. Because I’d have to be a girl, then, right? And then coming home, I was nearly killed by a car because I was thinking about makeup and didn’t pay attention. Mom ...”

I started to run down, and renewed my strength. “Mom, if I don’t get this taken care of, I’ll be miserable until the day I die, and that won’t be far off!”

I stared hard at Mom, as if defying her to dispute me. She looked at the stack of folded bags, thought in silence for some time, and looked back at me.

“The coach called you a faggot?” she said sternly.

I was saddened that after all that I’d said, it was the first thing she latched onto. I shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s not the first time.”

“Not the first time? How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since the semester started. Only he does it right in my face so there’s no witnesses.”

She digested that. “We’ll see about that. Anyway, let me ask you, how does that make you feel?”

“Feel? Well, I’m pissed off because he knows it’s wrong but he’s getting away with it anyway. But I don’t really mind; I just shine him on.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, he’s a Neanderthal!”

She chuckled. “I think I know what you mean. Well, you won’t have to see him until Monday, so you’ve got two whole days without Neanderthals. Now, honey, we’ve got to get real serious now. Since you’ve been so open, talking about this, I’m going to be just as open. Here goes: What do you want to do about it?”

Actually, that stumped me. Ever since I could remember, I’d been wishing I’d been a girl. Every day I wished I’d been born a girl. Every night I prayed that I’d wake up a girl. But I’d never thought about doing anything about it; I was pretty well reconciled to a life of misery, hoping that maybe reincarnation was real and in my next life I’d be born female. But ‘do about it’ right now?

“Mom, I ... I don’t know. I never thought about it past …just wanting it. I just wished I’d been born with two X chromosomes, and since I wasn’t ...”

“Well, honey, think about it. And let me know what you think you want to do. I’ve got to get dinner started.”

And she left me, just like that! I’d been expecting yelling or tears or …anything but a head nod and ‘what do you want to do about it?’ I sat on the couch, staring out the window. I’d done so much reading on the internet about being transgender. So much research, so many nights of anguish, all the time wondering why I couldn’t have just been born a girl? I think I knew what she was getting at; that I should try being a girl–or at least dressing like one–to see if this was just a passing fancy, or if I was just a transvestite and wanted to stay male, or whether I was truly transgender. I felt certain it was the latter, but she was going to make me ask for it.

I’d been staring out the window, not really looking at anything, when Jennifer Bowen from around the block rode her bike past our house, probably on her way to the market two blocks further. She had a pair of white shorts on, which flared out over her tanned, shiny legs. She wore a pink and green tank top, and I could see the white straps of her bra next to the tank’s straps. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back in a white scrunchie. God, if only I could be wearing clothes like that, on a bike like that, out with Jenny or another girl, just best girlfriends …

Okay, that was it! Such a feeling of envy welled up inside of me that I threw embarrassment aside and went into the kitchen.

“Mom, I want to talk to you.”

“Gee, honey, I thought you were talking to me,” she chided me.

“I’m sorry, you know what I mean. About what we were talking about, you know, before ...”

She turned to me, drying her hands on a towel, and sat down at the table. I sat down too. She just looked at me, so I plunged in.

“Mom, I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but–I want to be a girl. Not pretending, but really. But of course, I’m a boy. So what do we do?”

She smiled. “Yes, what do we do?”

I hesitated. She wasn’t making this easy, for some reason. Okay, so I’d have to shock her.

“Mom, I’d like to start wearing some girls’ clothes at home. I mean, to try. I mean–”

“I know what you mean.”

There was a pause, while my stomach did flip-flops. Then she spoke again.

“Anything in particular?”

“Pardon? I don’t understand.”

“Anything in particular you’d like to wear? A blouse, a skirt, a dress, panties, a bra, a prom dress, what?”

I think I blushed at the word ‘panties’, because–yes, damn it, I did want to wear panties. And dresses, and skirts, and everything. But I think I knew where she was going, because she’d listed the items in ascending order of femininity, at least to a boy. I think she also wanted to gauge whether it was the clothes that were important, or being a girl inside of them. I knew that was the case.

“Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. Yes and yes! Mom, this’ll really freak you, but I want to wear the same clothes I would wear if I had been born a girl.”

“Hmm, I see. So, you mean, you want to wear jeans, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes?”

I gulped. She’d described exactly what I was wearing right now!

“Come on, Mom, that was a trick question!”

“Was it? I don’t think so. I wanted to make a point. There’s a lot more to being female than wearing a dress. Let me put it this way; think of a girl.”

“Okay.”

“I mean a real girl, not a celebrity. Who are you thinking of?”

“Jenny Bowen. I just saw her ride past.”

“Fair enough. What was she wearing?”

“Tank top and shorts.”

“Okay, if Jenny were here and the two of you were to switch clothes, you’d put on her tank top and shorts. She’d put on your jeans and t-shirt. Right?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Would that make you a girl? Or more obviously, if Jenny were wearing your clothes, would she be a boy?”

“You know she wouldn’t!”

“That’s right. That fact that she is female is inside her, no matter what she’s wearing. She could be dressed like a football player, with pads and even a cup, and she’d still be a girl.”

I felt depressed; this obviously meant Mom was against the whole idea and I’d embarrassed myself for nothing. She still had to drive her point home.

“And if you were wearing her tank top and shorts, would you be a girl? Obviously not. So where does that leave you?”

“Mom ...” I started, lamely. “It’s more than just wanting to wear the clothes. Like I said, I feel like a girl about things, and I think like a girl; sometimes I scare myself because I have the same reaction to things as the girls in my class. When it’s different from boys’ reactions, I mean. I hear them around me, girls and boys. And when the girls talk about things, I get it. I understand why they say the things they do the way they do. But when the boys are talking, it’s like …some foreign language. I can’t relate to the things they think are important or the way they …just the way they view the world. And the things they say about girls!” I was almost shouting. “I get so disgusted!”

“Locker-room bragging, probably,” Mom said dryly.

“Not just there. Mom, I don’t go for ‘guy’ stuff, you know that already. But the real thing is, if I could be and act the way I feel inside, my room would be yellow with white accents, maybe butter cream. I’d have a crocheted bedspread like I saw in the Penney’s catalog. I’d be best friends with Jenny Bowen. I’d learn how to really cook and sew and help you. I’d wear ... I’d wear ...Oh, it doesn’t matter what I wore if the world would only treat me as a girl!”

It was all too much for me and I broke into tears. I put my head down on the kitchen table and sobbed. Mom stroked my hair and kept saying things like, ‘There, there, my poor little angel’. That phrase both shook me and comforted me; she used to call me ‘her little angel’ when I was a kid. Hearing it now sounded odd. Finally, the crying jag was over and she handed me a tissue. As I dabbed my eyes, she gave me a strange smile.

“I think you just proved something. To both of us. Let me attack my own argument for a moment. Jenny Bowen is female, knows she’s female, and will always be female for three main reasons. First, because her body is flooded daily with female hormones. Second, because she was brought up to be female and feminine. And third, since that’s how society views her, that’s how she reflects society’s view of her. Dear me, that last one was a little convoluted! And by ‘society’, I meant everyone from her family to her teachers to her classmates. They tell her she’s female and it reinforces her sense of herself as one–”

Mom broke off, frowning. I let her regroup, and then she went on.

“Well, but the first reason I said was internal, her own body full of hormones. That’s something that …well, let’s just set the whole ‘medical’ category aside. But the other two reasons were, let’s call them ‘external’. Try it this way: Jenny looks and acts like a girl, so society accepts her as a girl and holds up a mirror that shows a girl, so she is allowed to act like a girl to match the reflection. With me so far?”

I nodded, sniffing.

“So, perhaps we need to start some re-education. Hmm. Wait here a moment.”

She left the kitchen for a few minutes, then came back with a catalog and some ad inserts from the Sunday paper.

“The internet must have thousands of sites for girls’ clothes, but I don’t know any of ‘em offhand. So let’s do things the old-fashioned way, browse the Juniors section and see what we see, alright?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t need any further urging. We looked through the ads first. Mom asked me about some of the girls in the pictures; did I like this girl’s hair, or what about that top, or weren’t these cute shoes? I decided to be perfectly honest and not keep anything back. By being my true self–my female self–I could comment on this skirt or that hairstyle, and I think we almost had a mother and daughter kind of time together. If anything, it was something we’d never have done if I was a boy. Mom even looked at me …differently somehow, as I described things. I dropped all of my self-preservation cover and just spoke and gestured as naturally as I felt. Mostly it seemed like I just went along with her comments, but two pictures made an impression.

The first showed a girl with frizzy bleached hair, dark roots showing for three or four inches. She wore a pink v-neck sweater, which was okay, but carried her purse slung across her chest, with the strap between her breasts. I said while it might be comfortable, it never looked comfortable. She had a short black skirt with a slit up the left thigh; I told Mom it looked too sleazy for day wear. Finally, she had chunky black platforms and purple toenail polish, but her fingernails were peach. Didn’t match.

Mom stared at me for a moment. “Have you seen this picture before?”

“No, it just came out Sunday, right? I haven’t read the whole Sunday paper yet.”

“Your eye–” She broke her thought and went on thumbing through the pages. Two pictures later, I stopped her hand and looked. It was a shot of two kids dancing. The girl had straight blonde hair held back by two cute barrettes, and wore a short pink sweater over a soft pink satin minidress. She had silver strappy high heeled sandals, great legs, was tastefully made up, and just seemed to be having a great girlish time with her partner, a dark-haired boy in a tan suit.

“What is it, honey?”

For some silly reason, I felt tears well up. “Mom ... I just wish it was me ...”

She studied the picture. “What is it that makes you feel that way?”

“Just her cute outfit, and the sandals show off her pretty nail polish, and the dress looks like it makes her feel pretty, and her smile, and she’s having such a good time, and …” My voice trailed off, but I decided to plunge on, into the embarrassing land of honesty. “And I wonder what her girlfriends are wearing, and what kind of bag goes with this outfit, and my hair is darker, but I wonder how that shade of pink would look on me ...and I bet it feels good in his arms ...slow dancing …”

She sat back and looked at me. “Wow.”

I looked at her. “Wow?”

She nodded. “Wow. Do you usually think that way?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Only without the tears, usually!” I sniffed them back and shrugged. “Like today, when I got busted in Geometry, I was looking at Susan Berger and thinking about how that shade of stocking would look on me, with my coloring–”

She burst out laughing, then immediately looked embarrassed. “Sorry! I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with recognition. It was the words, ‘my coloring’, because I always used those words when I was talking with my mom. ‘Mother, I can’t wear that sweater, it doesn’t match my coloring’. You have an excellent eye for fashion details. My God!” She stopped abruptly, with her mouth slightly open, staring in the distance.

“What?” I felt tempted to look over my shoulder at whatever she was seeing.

“I just realized how it must be for you. Oh, honey, oh, my poor ...” She leaned across the table and hugged me. “... my poor angel.”

She held me for a long time. I returned the hug, but wasn’t sure what had happened, or why. Finally she gave me a final squeeze and leaned back. She looked at me strangely, then reached out and moved some hair off my forehead.

“Mom, what is it?”

She smiled sadly. “Just saying goodbye to someone. My son Andrew.”

“What?”

She folded her arms and looked at me. “You are my child. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a son or a daughter, okay? You’re still my child–that’s the important part, and always remember that. And it’s my job and my responsibility and my loving duty to see that my child is happy. I’ve just learned that my son is so unhappy that I can’t bear to see him go on this way. But the upside,” she said with the start of a smile, “the upside is that my child will continue and hopefully be happier. As my daughter.”

“You mean it?” I couldn’t believe she was saying this!

“I mean it. I was hugging my little boy Andy one last time. And now, I think that you and I should get to know the girl that’s inside of you, because if I had any doubts about it before, you’ve dispelled them.”

“Well ... how do we start?” I really had no idea.

She pulled the catalog over, pushing the ads away. “Let’s say that you’re going exploring to some uncharted part of the world. What’s the first thing you do?”

“I guess I’d do research on the place I was going, and start figuring out the things I’d need to take. What kind of clothing for the climate; that sort of thing. If there was a lot of hiking and stuff, I guess I’d have to get in shape. Maybe try to learn the local language, if there is one.”

She chuckled. “Exactly right! My God, you gave a concise definition of what we’re going to do! Only you’re going to explore girlhood, honey.”

I laughed. “I can’t believe that it fits so well!”

She nodded. “It fits exactly. So we’ll start by going through the catalog to ‘figure out the things you need to take, the kind of clothing’, as you said. We’ll ‘do research’ by picking up Seventeen, whatever the other teenage girl magazines are–and you’ll study them. That’s also how you’ll ‘learn the local language’, as you put it. So that only leaves ‘getting in shape’. For that, we’ll have to seek medical help.”

That rocked me a bit. “Medical help? Are we rushing things, maybe?”

She looked at me very directly. “Getting cold feet? I thought this was what you wanted?”

“It is, it is; it’s just that ... well, what if I’m no good at it? Being a girl, I mean?”

She patted my hand and gave me a warm smile. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m absolutely convinced that you will be far better at it than you think. Even–”

I knew she’d censored herself somehow, so I helped her. “Go on, say it.”

She sighed and looked directly into my eyes. “I’m absolutely convinced that you will be far better at being a girl than you have been at being a boy. I’m sorry.”

It hurt, but not as badly as she thought. “Don’t be, Mom. It’s true. I’ve been miserable for years, although I didn’t want you to know. And I don’t really have any friends, and the teachers don’t like me, and I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

She got very serious. “Being female has its downside, too, honey. First of all, there’s the inequality–of pay, of treatment, of opportunities. Not all girls have friends, and believe it or not, teachers don’t like all kids. They may even dislike some girls! And the big plus of being female–having a baby–will be denied you.”

“So–we’ll adopt!”

She burst out laughing at my joke. “Fair enough. And there are mean girls, and you’ll find that there are teachers that don’t like girls just as much as they don’t like boys. Although maybe you will make friends, once you’re happier …” She shook her head, changing the subject. “But first things first. I’ll call to schedule an appointment for the right kinds of doctors. You start going through the catalog and make a note of the pages that have something interesting.” She slid a pad and pencil over to me. “When I’m off the phone we’ll go over the pages, maybe do some measuring, then head off to the mall and see what we can find. And we’ll pick up the magazines.”

It was a great plan. She went into her office–really just a spare bedroom–and I could hear her muffled voice. She was in there a long time; I don’t know if it was with one person or a dozen. In the meantime, I looked through the catalog and found several outfits I liked, quite a few I hated, and a few I loved. Finally Mom came back, flopping the phone book onto the table.

“All set for Thursday. Amazingly lucky, really, because they just had a cancellation; the next opening was next month. How are you coming?” She looked at my notes. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”

We went through the pages; she made some notes to herself. I’d mostly picked some tops, shorts, pants. At one point she looked sternly at me.

“And where are the skirts and dresses?”

I squirmed a bit. “I was kind of waiting for you to get back.”

She lightened up. “Okay, what about this one? Ooh, look over here. What about that?”

With her prodding we selected a few skirts and dresses, including one of the dresses I loved but was too embarrassed to ask about. She put down her pencil and rubbed her forehead.

“Honey, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, because you seem embarrassed about things.”

I looked down at the table top. “I am, I guess.”

She brushed some hair off my face. “Don’t be. Actually, I think I know why you might be embarrassed; you’re still thinking about being a boy telling his mother he wants to wear dresses, right?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Exactly.”

“Fair enough. First, let me tell you I already don’t think that way; I already told you that I said goodbye to my son Andy. I’m already working on accepting that I have a daughter. And I’d be talking about skirts and dresses with my daughter, right? So there’s no reason to be embarrassed on my account, okay?’’

I nodded.

“But more importantly ... I think we need to get you out of thinking of yourself as a boy.”

I looked up at her. “Well, isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”

“We’re starting, but it’s going to be all uphill the way it’s started, and this should be a joyous time. I think I know what will help.”

She gave me a Cheshire Cat sort of look. The silence lengthened and I had to break it. “What will help?”

“You need your name. Your girl’s name. It’ll be hard to be embarrassed as a boy if we treat you like a girl with a girl’s name.”

That relieved me considerably, and excited me. “Well, what name did you have picked out if I’d been born a girl?”

She smiled ruefully. “We didn’t. We knew you were going to be a boy very early; we had tests done.”

“Okay, dead end. But was there a girl’s name you liked?”

“Oh, there’s lots of names I like. But first let’s ask you the same thing. What names do you like?”

“Well, it just seems like there’s a lot of girls with the same names right now. A few Heathers, a lot of Jennifers; a couple of Susans, I don’t know.”

“I don’t have a baby name book any more, but let’s wander through the phone book at random.”

We went through columns of names, stopping briefly at ‘Zoe’, ‘Katie’, ‘Rebecca’, ‘Beverly’, ‘Danielle’–we both decided we didn’t want a name that could be a feminized boy’s name, like making ‘Andrew’ into ‘Andrea’.

Mom said, “It might help if we think of the negatives of each name, too. And nicknames, shortened names. For example, um, if you chose ‘Rebecca’, your nickname might be ‘Becky’. I don’t know if that’s really you or not.”

I laughed. “No one knows who ‘me’ is! If you’ll excuse my syntax.”

“It’s excused. Well, you’ve got Beverly becoming Bev, Catherine becoming Cathy, Kate, Cat, and–” she broke off and started to smile. “You know, there was an old movie called A Thousand Clowns. A long time ago; my mother loved it and made me watch it. Anyway, this boy could pick his first name, and keep changing it until he found one he liked, up until he turned twelve. Then he had to settle on one name for the rest of his life. I remember that he kept getting library cards with the new name so he could see how it looked and felt. Anyway, we could try that; we’ll see what names you like up until, let’s say the doctor’s appointment next week. What do you think?”

“Sounds great to me. But I don’t know if I’ll do too much changing; the more I think about it, the more I like ‘Angela’. You remember? You used to call me ‘your little angel’ when I was little?”

She gave me a big smile and hugged me. “And you were a little angel, so cute, so ... pretty ...” She looked at me sheepishly. “Honey, I swear that I never tried to make you into a girl–”

“I know, Mom. Believe me, if you had tried to, I’d have changed happily and fast!”

She chuckled. “That might have saved us some heartache, do you think?”

“No kidding!”

Mom frowned. “Wait a second. Are you saying …are you saying that you felt like this, like a girl, when you were little?”

I nodded.

“How …” Her frown deepened. “How young were you when you first felt that you were a girl?”

“Well, however old I was when I was first in a mixed group of girls and boys. I wanted to play with the girls–in fact, I remember the teacher making me go sit with the boys.” I frowned. “The room had blue walls and yellow walls and I wanted to sit with the girls on the pretty yellow side. I hated leaving the girls ..”

She stared at me. Then she swallowed. “Meadowdale Kindergarten. Oh, sweetie! You knew at five? You should have said something then.”

I thought about it. “Maybe. But maybe I had to reach this decision at this time on my own.”

“I think you’re right. Oh, my sweet angel!”

“And that’s what I’ll always be for you, Mom. I’ll be your Angel. Your Angela.”

Tears came to her eyes as she hugged me. “I love you, my sweet daughter Angela.”

I got the most incredible rush of warmth; not just a blush but like a blush all over. To my mother I was Angela! God, it sounded so good!

“I love you, Mom.”

She ended the hug. “Let’s see what else we need. You end on page 896; what, no shoes? No underwear?”

I started to blush, but she headed me off.

“Angela, honey, a girl as pretty as you has to have pretty underthings! Let’s see what we can find!”

Chapter 2. First Time Shopping

We looked through the catalog and made notes, then Mom told me to strip down to my underwear. It felt strange yet natural at the same time. Using the diagrams in the catalog, she took a tape measure to me and measured, computed, and wrote down what should be my Juniors sizes. We did the same with shoes; she figured out what my foot measurements were for boys’ shoes, then translated them to the appropriate girls’ sizes. She said that for shoes there was really nothing better than actually trying them on, but it was too soon for that. She said she was determined to get me some Mary Janes ‘just because’, and some flats. For the other clothes, though, it would give us a good start, and even though there was no standardization in girls’ sizes, we could always take something back if it didn’t fit exactly right.

Mom figured the best place to go would be Target, because they had a wide variety and a great return policy. I was wearing my uniform of jeans and a t-shirt; we decided that Mom would do the shopping while I browsed the electronics section. I figured we’d get just one or two items like a jumper or skirt and sandals, but I wasn’t prepared for Mom’s determination!

I’d been in Target a million times, but this time would be the most important, I thought. Mom suggested I hang with her, looking bored, for the first few minutes. We passed through the sportswear section, and she pointed to some shorts. As we kept walking, she turned and spoke quietly.

“See the denim shorts?”

I nodded.

“Okay, we’ll have to work out a signal. I didn’t ask the right question. When I say, ‘do you see the denim shorts’, what I mean is, ‘do you want the denim shorts?’. Then if you nod I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. We’ll just cruise through the section, then you drift off and I’ll pick things up.”

I smiled and said quietly, “I’d love the denim shorts, Mom.”

She said, “What about the khaki or white ones?”

“Both look great.”

“Okay, look past me at the tops. There’s a gray, white and black tank–”

“Cool.”

“A white halter, then some scoop-necked tees in various stripes.”

“Tees are cool. I don’t think the halter would work.”

“Just checking; wanted to see if you were just saying ‘yes’ to everything. I didn’t think so about the halter, either. Okay, let’s cut through to electronics, passing through dresses.”

I swallowed; this would be hard. Although I’d always longed to wear dresses, and admired other girls’ dresses, I had always avoided walking through that department. It just hurt too much to think about dresses in so much detail, if I never could have one. I looked at everything I could, as nonchalantly as I could, and when we got to hardware Mom turned to me.

“Well? See anything you like?”

“Actually, all of it. But do you want me to choose one?”

“Just tell me which ones strike your fancy.”

Turning to view the store, then turning back to Mom, I began in a quiet voice.

“I like that denim jumper with the embroidered flowers; the gray and black t-shirt dress–no, maybe not that one; but definitely that blue and gray scoop-necked dress; oh! and that yellow sundress–”

“Hold it down, honey, you’re getting excited!”

“Sorry! I don’t know; whichever one you think we should try. I just wish I could feel the fabric.”

She gave me a searching look. “Spoken like a true female. Tell you what, honey, go get a shopping cart. I think I know how to proceed from here.”

I did that and brought it back to her; she told me to go to electronics until she got me. I browsed through the little computer section, cameras and stuff, and looked at Nintendo, but it didn’t have the thrill for me that it was supposed to; never really had, anyway. I wanted to be among the dresses and skirts. I wanted to be a daughter shopping with her mom. I didn’t know if Mom’s little experiment would work to her satisfaction, but I had a feeling it would work to mine.

I was getting bored in electronics when Mom swung by with a shopping cart piled with things. Not just clothes, but some boxes. I could see a desk lamp, and realized that all this stuff wasn’t for me. I relaxed a little, because I didn’t want Mom spending a lot of money on me and putting extra pressure on me because of the money spent.

We went through the checkout line; I looked at an Entertainment Weekly magazine while she grabbed a few magazines and threw them in. I really wasn’t paying attention; it was my role in our little play–the bored kid. As I pushed the cart to our car, she beeped the car and then surprised me.

“I just thought about some other things I need. I’m going back in; please load up the car, take the cart back, and then you can wait for me and look at the magazines.”

“Okay. I didn’t notice; what’d you get?”

She grinned. “Your new favorite reading, I’ll bet. Seventeen, Teen Vogue, and something called J-14. And a CosmoGirl. Those should give you a good start!”

I couldn’t believe my luck–all along I’d tried to sneak looks at those magazines, and now she was encouraging me to go through them! I put the things away, almost tossing them in because I wanted to get to the magazines, then curled up in the passenger seat and began looking through Seventeen. I didn’t even notice the time passing before she called to me to unlock the door; she had another shopping cart of things! She unloaded the cart quickly; I took it back to the stand, and we left to get something to eat at Denny’s. We found a booth in a corner, empty on either side, and after we ordered salads–I’m not sure why I did, but it seemed right somehow–she began talking quietly.

“Here’s what I was thinking. We can put away the things from Target, then start getting to know Angela. We’ve got the weekend to start, but you’ll have to stop when school starts on Monday. Here’s the deal: I know there’s less than a month of school left, but if you can get your grades up, maybe we can spend more time with Angela. Is that a deal?”

“Deal. Oh, I hope you like me and don’t laugh!”

She gave me a strange smile. “I’m sure I will like you and I’m sure I won’t laugh. And, I’m sure you’ll like being Angela; something just tells me that she’s what’s missing from your life.”

She might even be my life, I thought.

Chapter 3. Getting Ready For Bed

We got home and to my surprise she told me to start a bath. I began drawing the water, and she came in with some boxes which she placed near the tub.

“Honey, I’m going to put some bath oil in with your water. I want you to stay in at least twenty minutes so it can soften your skin. Then, use this cream to lather your legs, and use the razor to shave your legs.”

“Mom–”

“Oh, you don’t want to go that far?”

“That’s not it; I just don’t have very much hair on my legs; you know that.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s one of the reasons why I think this will work splendidly. Well, shave what you have, carefully, okay?”

I nodded. “But wait …what about PE? The coach will–”

“Don’t worry about the coach; I’ll handle things on Monday morning. Okay, once you’ve shaved, drain the tub, run the shower, and shampoo and condition with these bottles; they’re much better for your hair than what you normally use. Plus, the shower will rinse you and the tub clean. Be careful not to slip; the tub will be oily.”

“Got it.” I started for the bath oil box.

“Not so fast, honey. Every girl has a regimen, and this is your first time so it may seem like a lot, but it’ll all be second nature very quickly.”

I wondered what else would be second nature, but I nodded and sat back down on the edge of the tub.

“Next step–pat yourself dry, and then use this oil on your legs; then use the hair dryer on cool all over your body, but here’s where I want you to try something different. When you dry your hair, don’t just stand there and use a brush. Instead, bend at the waist so your hair falls forward, use the dryer all over your hair, then splay your fingers and use your hand for a brush. When you stand back up, don’t brush the hair or anything; let me see it first.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything else?” I said with a grin.

“Yes, silly, use that deodorant, and then fluff that talc over your body. I think you’ll like it!”

Then she left me. I was really looking forward to this bath, and did exactly as she requested. While I sat in the bath oil for the twenty minutes, I looked down at my penis and testicles gently floating in the water. Suddenly I thought, ‘Not for much longer, fellas!’ I don’t know where that thought came from, but it was strong and sure. Well, I might be able to get started on things …I’d read somewhere that Sumo wrestlers did something with their testicles, so in the relaxing warmth of the bath, I decided to try it. I felt around for a bit and found the holes where my testicles had descended from my abdomen, and gently as I could, I shoved them back up. It kind of hurt, and made my stomach knot for a bit, but once they were up I decided they were going to stay there for as long as I could keep them there. I wanted them gone, anyway, I reasoned.

Shaving my legs felt strange, but only because I’d never done it before. Mom hadn’t said anything, but I decided to shave under my arms, too. I went super-slow and didn’t even nick myself–I was lucky that I had almost no hair there. The shampoo and conditioner really thickened my hair, and smelled like apricots.

Getting out and toweling off, I really noticed the difference in the way my legs felt–I just felt sort of sleek all over. After doing the bend-over thing with my hair, I looked at myself in the mirror. It looked like a lion’s mane. Well, I thought, it’s what she ordered. I saw new slippers, waiting for me; backless terry things, and Mom had hung a new bathrobe on the door while I was showering, pink chenille, very warm and cuddly–and definitely not for a boy.

I went into my room and to my surprise found that Mom had put everything away. I looked in the closet and was shocked–there were several dresses, skirts, tops, and other things all neatly hung up. I looked in my dresser and was dazzled by the many colored panties and other things folded there. Mom came in while I was staring.

“Angela, are you done? Did you have a good bath?”

I got another tingle hearing my new name, but I had to say something important. “Mom ... you did all this ... I think you went overboard. You spent way too much. And I would’ve helped you put things away–”

She cut me off. “Thanks for wanting to help put things away, honey. By the way, the tags are still on everything; never remove them until you know something fits. As for spending too much, it’s important that we really see what’s what with you, I think. Rather than just wearing boys’ undies and putting on a jumper, you really need to see what wearing girls’ things is like. Just being a regular girl wearing regular girl clothes. I mean, we should give it a fair chance, right?”

I nodded, dumbly.

“Besides ...” she trailed off. Then, firmly, she said, “Besides, I want my pretty daughter Angela to have lovely things.”

I’m sure I blushed; I do know there was a warm rush to my head, heart, and stomach. Or tummy, I guess I should say. I realized that I could finally allow myself to be thinking like a girl and using girlish words and gestures openly, directly, with my mother. I was so excited by the prospect that I almost couldn’t stand.

She looked at me carefully. “Are you alright, honey? Did you stay in the bath too long? By the way, you smell wonderful.”

“Thanks, Mom. No, I feel great ... maybe greater than I’ve ever felt before. It’s all a little overwhelming, that’s all.”

“I thought as much. Well, trying on your nightie might be a little overwhelming as well. I hope you like it.”

She handed me my new nightgown. All my life I’d wanted to wear one but had always been too cowardly to sneak into one of my mom’s, and here she was–smiling and handing me one! It was a simple chemise, white with sprigs of yellow flowers, with a lacy neckline, and a shirttail hem with ruffles. I loved it immediately.

Well, I thought, this is it! Right here in front of God and Mom, I was going to dress as a girl. There were panties that matched the nightie, so I took the panties from Mom and stepped into them, pulling them up under the robe. Sliding them up my legs, they felt quite nice, but when I got to my crotch, there was an obvious problem. I looked at Mom; she understood and turned away and began thumbing through one of the teen magazines laying on my bed.

My testicles remained up inside me, so I did my first ‘tuck’. With the testicles gone I could easily tuck my penis back between my legs and pull the panties up tight. Looking down, I was amazed at how real I looked. I’d seen girls’ crotches in magazine pictures and catalogs, and I’d been too embarrassed to tell Mom that I certainly knew the websites for girls’ clothes, so I knew that in my panties, I just looked the same as any other girls. I resolved again to never let the testicles down, and to get used to being tucked–and to look forward to the time when all that stuff would be removed. I was sure of it!

Then it came time to slip the nightgown over my head. I let the bathrobe fall around my feet, and held my arms up with the nightie; it slid down my body like a caress. I felt like I was passing through a special, magical tunnel, and when the nightie rested on my shoulders and I pulled my hair out of the neck, I felt utterly transformed. I wanted to take a moment and feel the nightie against my skin, but I was too embarrassed in front of Mom. I even wanted to hug myself, but instead I bent down and picked up the robe, carried it to the bathroom, hung it up, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I think I studied myself too hard, because all I could see was a boy–me–in a girl’s nightie. That bothered me, because I noticed Mom smiling at me from the doorway, and she didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. So I glanced back at the mirror, like a refresher look, and was startled–staring back at me was a cute girl in a short, pretty nightie. Her hair was tousled and needed brushing, and she could use some makeup, and she was very flat-chested, of course–but she was a pretty girl. Mom’s smile became huge.

“You’re so pretty, Angela, even dressed for bed! Now we’ve got to do something about your hair. Thanks for following my instructions not to brush it.”

She took a brush, stood behind me, and began brushing as she talked.

“You’ll need to do this for yourself, of course, but the first one’s on the house. Brush your hair gently, don’t break it, and brush it back.” She pulled my hair back behind my shoulders; I have to admit it was a luxurious feeling having her do the work.

“I always wanted to do this with my little girl …” she said softly. She began gathering my hair in her hands. “Then pull it together, and put this ribbon around it.” She put a light blue ribbon under my hair and tied it over my head. “In fact, I think you could use a soft braid.” She braided my hair loosely a few times, then tied off the end with another ribbon. She looked over my shoulder into the mirror. “There. How’s that?”

I reached up and felt the hair. It felt wonderfully full, not at all like a boy’s hair. “It feels great, Mom.” I especially loved the bow of the ribbon at the top of my head.

“Now, like all good girls, moisturize. Here, use this.” She handed me a new Bonne Bell jar.

I began applying it to my face like I’d seen in commercials. I wiped the excess with a tissue and looked at myself again. The strange thing was, with my skin all shiny from the cream, I looked even more like a girl!

I got into bed, and Mom actually tucked me in, like I was a little kid. Mom gave me a big hug.

“Sleep well, Angela. This might seem like a lot of work, just to go to sleep, but it’s worth it, believe me. And it’ll go faster as you get used to it, and it will all become second nature to you. See you in the morning, my darling daughter.”

After she left, I stared at the ceiling in the dark for awhile, thinking about everything. Was this all happening just because I looked at Susan Berger’s pantyhose? Mom’s reaction to my admission about wanting to be a girl was so beyond anything I’d imagined, it must have just been the tip of the iceberg. I mean, when I first put on the nightie and looked in the mirror, thinking the old way, I just saw me as a boy. But when I looked with fresh eyes, not thinking about seeing a boy, there was a girl looking back at me–an obvious girl. Maybe all this that Mom had done–and whatever she had in store for me tomorrow–was a way of ‘seeing with fresh eyes’ what was obvious to her, that I should be a girl. Well, all I knew was that I was happier than I could ever have imagined!

End of Part 1