Sam and Del (Patreon)

Sam is constantly in trouble for wearing his hair long. Really long. And it's beautiful hair. Cutting it would be bad luck for someone and leaving it long is bad luck for Sam...

1. Everybody thinks I'm Strange...

Mom called to me from the kitchen as I was leaving for school. "I made an appointment for you to get a haircut this afternoon, Sam."

"No haircuts!" I yelled back and got out of there. Mom should know better. Every time I get a haircut, something bad happens. Someone in the family gets sick, or has a bad accident, or the Mets lose the World Series. Something. They should never have named me Samson Israel Tucker. We're not even Jewish.

I haven't had a haircut in five years, my hair is down past the middle of my back but I wear it in a low ponytail and it's always neat and clean. What business is it of anyone else?

Apparently Leon Frangelli thought it was his business.

Right before lunch is when it started. I had P.E. third period that year, my freshman year at Medford High. Go Bulls. Whatever.

I blame Coach Dawson for what happened. Dawson started hassling me about my hair while my team was at bat in as dull and dreary a baseball game as has ever been played. It was almost raining, and it was almost cold, and no one, but no one, wanted to be out there. Even Dawson looked miserable.

"Why don't you get a haircut, Tucker?" he asked after staring at me for most of a minute.

"Because if I got a haircut, someone might die. It might even be you, Coach," I said. I got enough of this at home, so I was kind of pissed.

"Is that some kind of threat, Tucker?" His face got all twisted up trying to think about what I had just said and if it were a violation of some sort of rule.

"No, Coach, I'm no threat. Just--stuff happens when someone tries to cut my hair."

He kept frowning. "I ought to make you run laps," he muttered.

I shrugged, deciding I was probably pushing my luck if I said anything else.

"Lookit 'im," Coach continued, talking to the other players; I guess maybe a little steamed by my attitude. "It's beautiful hair, but ain't no way it should be on a boy. Even a skinny wimp like you, Tucker. I wish you would go out for a team, then your coach could require you to get a haircut."

"Then I wouldn't go out," I said. Not unreasonably, I thought. I'm not really any kind of jock.

"Maybe he should go out for a girl's team, coach," Frangelli suggested. "Volleyball, or, or, I know, kickline." That got a laugh from everyone.

Kickline was a girls' dance team, Rockettes-style synchronized dancing with high kicks and all that. Ours was pretty good, actually, and had even been on television in one of those regional talent shows.

I glared at Leon, whose fat butt had no business ragging on anyone for not being athletic.

But he increased the ante. "I bet Samantha here could even do one of those fancy splits like they do. He ain't got no balls to get in the way, the little queer."

"Meatballs," I said. "I haven't got any meatballs and neither does anyone else, Leon, cause you ate all of them. You're queer for pasta. You've never seen a table with food on it you didn't want to get closer to. The exercise you need to do is the push-away--to push your plate away."

Leon made a ham-sized fist but his friends held him back. He was twice my size, maybe more, but I was standing right in front of Coach Dawson. "Hey," said the man. "No fat shaming."

I glared up at him. Coach had a bit of an extra belly on him, too. "Coach," I said reasonably, "it can't be all right for him, or you, to make fun of my hair and I can't say anything about his tubbonormousness."

"Huh?" said Coach. He glanced at the tablet he always carried with him outside of the gym. "Lookit the time," he said. "Period's over. Hit the showers, guys."

Everyone glared at him or rolled their eyes or shook their head. The March sky had been spitting on us for half an hour. No one with any sense wanted to get any wetter. But everyone also ran for the gym before it really started to come down.

"Tucker," Leon growled, but I didn't hear the rest because I sure as heck could outrun the lardass.

I changed clothes quickly, using a towel only to pat some of the damp out of my hair. With my oversize comb, I had paused in front of the mirrors near the outside doors to rebuild my ponytail when I was shoved sideways so hard I fell on the textured concrete of the hallway. Leon, of course.

I'd heard something break. "Smooth, asshole," I said. "I think you broke my comb."

"'I think you broke my comb!'" He mocked me in a high-pitched whine. "Listen at her!"

He was way-the-hell madder than made any sense just for a few comments about his weight. For once, I showed some forethought and didn't get up. I just moved sideways until I was sitting against the wall. I reached around to pull my backpack in front, in case he tried to kick me.

"Get up!" he ordered me but I ignored him, retrieving the broken pieces of my comb to store in a side pocket of the pack. "Get up, you pussy!"

I kept the backpack in front of me. "I don't think so," I said. "Go to lunch, Leon. The cannolis are calling you." They weren't having cannolis in the cafeteria—wouldn't that be something?

The next thing he did was unbelievable. He tried to kick me in the head. Well, he was not in training for kickline so he didn't kick high enough and caught his sneaker on the top of my backpack.

Not thinking things through, I seized his foot and pushed up and out. Down he went, thrashed once, and lay still. "Leon? I said but he didn't move. Horrified, I scrambled to my feet, calling his name again. "Leon!"

A crowd formed around us, guys murmuring. "What happened? -- Did you see that? -- What's a girl doing in the boys' locker room?" I got that last a lot but I always ignored it.

I moved to Leon's side. A pool of blood was forming under his head. I started screaming, "Coach! Coach! I think I killed Leon!"

Sam's long hair and his refusal to cut it has caused him problems. His smart mouth hasn't helped…

2. I'm in so much trouble...

Some of my friends found me during the commotion. Walter Adkins, Skip Gordon and I had been friends since grade school, probably because we were all outsiders of sorts. Plus we rode the same bus. Walter was a light-skinned, freckled, red-haired, black kid. With glasses. Yeah. Even less of an athlete than me, if possible. Skip had recently hit a growth spurt and towered over Wally and me. He had sprouted a face full of acne, too, and still wore the braces he claimed to have inherited from his older brothers.

Also, there were cops. They made me sit on the concrete, just under the overhang outside the gym doors, far enough to the side to be out of the way. I'd answered a million questions and sometime during that, Skip and Wally had shown up and sat down nearby.

It must have been lunch time but I wasn't hungry. I was worried sick about Leon, truth to tell. The paramedics had come and taken him away, so I guessed he was still alive. I felt terrible about what had happened and the cops kept having to ask me more questions because I kept bawling while trying to answer them.

Mostly a lady cop questioned me. Her name badge said she was Officer Williston but she told me to call her Sarah. "Your name is Sam?" she asked.

"Uh, huh," I whimpered.

"Is that short for Samantha?" she asked, writing on her tablet.

I stared at her. "No, it's short for Samson." I might have put the teensiest bit of snark in my voice.

She nodded but didn't write anything down. "What were you doing in the boys' locker room, Sam?"

"I was trying to comb my hair in front of the mirror there," I said, pointing, since the big double doors were open and we could all see the place where it happened. And the bloodstain. I sniffled.

"Were you waiting for someone?"

"No, I was just--just combing my hair."

"Then what happened?"

"Leon came up and shoved me, and I fell down and broke my comb." I took the pieces out and showed them to her. It was a big yellow comb with wide teeth that were really friendly to long hair like mine.

"Did you know Leon?"

"Yes. He's in the same class as me."

"Had you had a disagreement with him before?"

"I guess you could say that. He accused me of being gay, and I called him fat."

"Are you gay?" She looked at me as if this were a really important question.

"No. I'm not gay!"

She nodded. "And Leon isn't your boyfriend?"

"No! I said--"

The other officer, Sergeant Corbin interrupted then by asking Skip and Wally what they were doing there. To which they both babbled incoherently. The Sergeant waved them to silence, then asked Sarah if she had all she needed.

"I think so," she said. Then she smiled at me, "We're done, honey, but I think someone from the school needs you to wait here."

She and the Sergeant wandered off while I sat nervously playing with the pieces of my comb.

"Are you going to jail?" Skip asked, his eyes big.

I shook my head.

"Good," said Wally, "cause anyone who looks like you would be way too popular in jail."

"Huh?" I said. Skip and Wally thought that was hilarious but I still didn't get it.

Ms. Burton, one of the girls' coaches called me. "Sam Tucker?"

"Yes'm?" I said.

She came over and offered a hand to help me up. "You okay, Sam? The cops said I should take you to see the school nurse."

"Huh? I'm fine," I said.

"You're white as clean laundry in a detergent commercial," she said. "Let's go."

I followed her, turning to wave goodbye to my friends. They waved back as if they were never going to see me again. Wally's eyes were big and round and I swear I saw Skip's chin tremble.

Ms. Burton took me down some pretty empty hallways and across to the Admin building where the school nurse had an office in the basement. "Dolores? Uh--Mrs. Packard?" she called as we entered. "Got a kid here looking shocky after an accident in gym."

She explained in more detail but I kind of tuned her out. I'd never been to the nurse's office before and it smelled funny. Ms. Burton finally left, saying, "I got to see to my other girls, make sure they aren't setting any fires."

The nurse, amazingly, had heard nothing whatsoever about the incident. "If something serious happens," she complained, "I'm always out of the loop." But she did offer me a cup of tea and a packet of crackers.

"I have napkins and tampons, too, dear, if you need them," she said.

I didn't need a napkin and I sure didn't need a tampon (I wasn't real sure what the heck that was, anyway), so I just shook my head.

"Well, you just lie here, honey, and I'll make some phone calls." She proceeded to do that, calling the principal's office first.

*

Well, despite the nurse thinking she was out of the loop, she's the one who finally gave me the news that Leon wasn't dead. He had a concussion and a scalp wound, not a cracked skull. They had taken him in an ambulance to the hospital where they ended up keeping him for three days.

And I finally got called to the principal's office. Mr. Kant, the vice principal, (the kid's called him Kan't-Hardly), said, "Fighting again?"

Ouch. Until that moment I had totally forgotten about a similar incident back in the fall when someone had pulled my ponytail, causing me to spill my lunch, and I had socked him in the groin. He'd gone down, too, right in the middle of the creamed corn and mystery meat. Some upperclassman, I didn't even remember his name. Del-something.

Mr. Kant sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't just give you detention this time. Miss-ter Tucker." He'd done the same thing with my name the last time, too. "Not like the old days where I could just strap some sense into you."

Like I wasn't already in a bad mood but I didn't say anything. I didn't quite know what he meant by that last part, anyway. I was picturing him using duck tape on my head.

"Mandatory three-day suspension for fighting with serious injury, and three more days for it being a second offense in the same school year." He handed me some papers. "Your parents have to sign those for you to be readmitted to school, Miss-ter Tucker."

By this time it was already after three, so I wasn't surprised when he said, "I've called your parents to have someone come get you. You can't use school transportation, either, until those papers are signed." I could have walked home, it was less than two miles and I had done it before when I missed the bus, but the weather had finally made up its mind and rain came down in a steady drool.

He stared at me for a moment and then asked the big question. "Why don't you get your hair cut and avoid these kinds of problems?"

The school gave Sam suspension but what are his parents going to do?...

3. Salons are actually kinda cool...

Mom did the whole, "I'm disappointed in you," thing when she picked me up. Mostly with her eyes and the tone of her voice. "You aren't hurt at all?" she asked.

I shook my head. "He never touched me."

"And you put him in the hospital?"

"Not intentionally!"

"Didn't you think he might get hurt?"

I shrugged. "Honestly, no. He was trying to kick me in the head, so I pushed his foot away."

"You didn't want your hair getting dirty," she snarked. "Well, we still have time to make your appointment to get it cut."

I shook my head. "No, Mom. Leon's still in the hospital, if I get my hair cut, he might die."

She gave me a hard look. Mom and Dad were pretty exasperated with me about the hair thing, but after years of arguments, I was fed up, too.

We ended up parked behind a beauty parlor. I glared at her as she got out of the car, but I didn't move.

"I thought you might be willing to get your hair cut somewhere they really respect hair, not like a barbershop," Mom explained.

I didn't say anything. I hadn't even removed my seat belt. I just sat there.

"Samson Israel Tucker!" she barked. "You get out of this car and come inside with me."

Well, a direct order was hard to ignore. As slowly as I could reasonably do so, I got out of the car and trudged inside the salon behind her. It smelled like all salons, of chemicals and perfume.

Mom went into conference with a lady named Janet. I looked around with some curiosity. I'd been with Mom to other salons when I was younger but not this one. I'd even had my hair cut in one, years ago. Right before Uncle Trevor got in that car accident where he almost lost a foot.

I didn't want something like that on my conscience, so I was just as determined as always not to get a haircut.

Mom and Janet motioned me to come over to where they stood beside one of those complicated chairs.

"Rachel tells me that you're refusing to get your hair cut?" Janet said to me.

Rachel is my mom's name, but it always startles me to hear it. I nodded. "Bad things happen when someone cuts my hair," I explained.

"How about if I just styled it?"

"Huh?" I considered. "Styling wouldn't involve scissors, would it?"

"Doesn't have to." She examined my hair. "Such a lovely color, do you know how many girls would kill to have this ash-blond hair? They pay me a lot to get it." She murmured something that sounded admiring. "Down to your waist and no split ends. How do you do that?'

I explained my hair regimen. Shampoo twice a week, conditioner, do it up in a loose braid at night. Comb and brush as needed but never to excess. No hairdryer, either, just take the time to let it air dry. And not too much sun. It wasn't an easy thing to do, sticking to a program like that.

I could tell she was impressed. But she asked, "How do you secure your braid?"

"With a ribbon I tie at the end."

"What color ribbon?"

I looked at her. What possible difference did the color of the ribbon make? "Blue," I said. "Well, more of a turquoise, really."

"Uh-huh." She and Mom exchanged a glance. What was that about? "Your hair is beautiful," she admitted. "But it's so straight, have you ever wished it had a bit of curl? Like a body wave?"

"Uh...." I said. I had indeed wished that very thing, sometimes. You know, just for variety. But, "I get teased enough about having long hair at school. If I had curly hair, it would probably be worse. And if you're talking about a perm, huh-uh. No chemicals. You use chemicals on your hair, and sooner or later, you have to cut it."

"But you're not going to school for two weeks, your Mom says."

I realized she was right. This happened on a Thursday, Friday was tomorrow, then my six-day suspension would last all next week. And the week after that was Spring Break. Wow. This was punishment?

"So," said Janet. "We could experiment and see how you like different looks. No one has to know, because, according to your mom, you're not only suspended for two weeks, you're grounded."

I hadn't known that, but it made sense. I was still feeling guilty about Leon, so I didn't even resent it. I deserved grounding. But she had made me curious. "What would you do?"

"Well," she said. "If you use big curlers and just water—nothing harsh—you could give your hair a body wave. You'd have to do it every day to keep it, but I can show you how. And any day you want to leave it straight, I can show you how to do different braids, so it isn't just hanging straight down your back."

Mom had said something about a salon being somewhere they respected hair, and I could see that Janet did. And she seemed to respect my determination not to get it cut. I looked at Mom, and she smiled and nodded. "Janet is a wizard with hair. That's why I brought you here."

"Okay," I said. "Let's do this. But if I see scissors in your hand, I'm out of here."

"No cutting," said Janet. She waved at the big chair. "Have a seat."

I sat and Janet started telling me what she was going to do first.

It took a while, but I ended up with big curlers in my hair, some of them as large as three or four inches across, and sitting under a hairdryer with no heat, just gentle air blowing my hair dry. I looked at myself in one of the mirrors covering the walls. The gigantic curlers with my hair done up in them made my head look enormous and I grinned at my reflection.

After a bit, I picked up one of the magazines on the little table beside me and read about how to tell if my boyfriend talking to me about football meant he wanted to have sex. Well, duh, he's a guy, of course he wants sex. I grinned because the whole idea struck me as funny.

From other articles in the magazine, I got the idea that women had no idea what men thought about anything. Imagine that.

Janet came by to check on me a couple of times. "Uh," she said, "maybe you want me to find you something else to read?" I made a face and nodded so she went away and came back with some other magazines, these mostly just about hair and nails and how to run a salon. I had to admit, I found them much more interesting than the soap opera-ish concerns of the first one.

I wondered vaguely what it might be like to have my own salon some day.

Sam agrees to a salon visit, but if he sees any scissors, he's out of there…

4. My mom is up to something...

While I sat thumbing through a salon-centric magazine, another woman approached. "I'm Layla," she said. "Sam, right?" I nodded. She had to talk loud for me to hear her, and I didn't feel like shouting back. She said, "Your Mom says you might want a mani-pedi."

I glanced at Mom across the room, getting her own hair done, and she nodded, smiling at me. I shrugged and looked back at Layla. She had coffee-with-cream-colored skin, hair and eyes and a style to go with it—sophisticated but relaxed. I liked her immediately. Maybe it was the braids.

She went on. "No color, just clean up your nails and shape them. Maybe some clear matte polish; no one can tell you're wearing it. You'll love it." She made it sound good.

I was still suspicious. Mom was smiling at me like she does when we're having eggplant for dinner. But who doesn't like getting pampered? While Janet worked on my hair, I had already seen an older gentleman getting his nails done. And not a gay guy, just an average-looking businessman who probably worked in one of the downtown offices.

Who was going to know? "Okay," I said. Honestly, it would be interesting to see what her work looked like.

Layla told me that all the clear polishes weren't really matte and had a slight shine to them. "We can pick an almost invisible matte color, like the same color as your nails."

"Um? Show me," I said.

We ended up with a color so close to my own nails that it really was invisible. Layla used it on my hands and feet, both. After shaping and filing the nails, she smoothed them and applied a base coat, then two coats of the magical invisible color and a clear non-gloss top varnish. After each layer, she put the hand or foot involved under a hood where an ultraviolet light and fan helped dry the polish quickly.

We finished about the same time Janet came to turn off the dryer. Just like Layla had described, my nails were neat and clean, without obvious polish on them. They looked great, and I told her so. "Thank you," I called back as Janet led me back to her station in front of the big mirrors. I caught another glimpse of myself with my hair done up in the huge rollers.

Layla grinned at me. "Next time, we'll do French nails," she teased, and I made a face at her to get her to giggle. Okay, I may have giggled, too. I liked Layla.

I liked Janet, too. Her blond hair was almost the same color as mine as she undid the rollers and gently combed and brushed the curls into a cascade down my back. I watched how she did this in the mirror, debating if I were willing to commit to such an arduous task every morning. Maybe not.

But the effect was stupendous. My hair had never looked so good!

"I love it," I told Janet.

"It's beautiful, Sam," Mom said, coming over to get a better look. She winked at me, or maybe at Janet.

Something was going on there that I wasn't catching. Mom seemed to have a plan. You should always be suspicious when your mom looks like she's got an egg to hatch. Or one to plant. I should have been more wary, but I was enjoying myself.

Mom looked at my hands and asked, "What color did they do your nails? I got mine in Wine and Roses."

I sniffed. "Nothing so girly for me, though they do look nice, Mom. I think the bottle said 'Champagne', but it's almost more of a 'Seashell', huh?" I spread my hands out where she could see. "What do you think?"

"Good choice," she said. She grinned at me, then nodded toward Layla, who smiled and wrinkled her nose.

"They dried them really quick with that UV light, so we don't have to wait," I mentioned. "I think I kind of like how it looks, and you really can't tell, can you?"

"Not at all," she agreed, smiling at me.

Well, there are mirrors everywhere in a salon, and I spent a while admiring my new curls since I could easily see myself from every angle. This hadn't turned out to be such a bad idea after all. Mom was busy finding out the damage done to her credit card, and I didn't want to have to know.

The afternoon had completely gone by the time we were done, and maybe it hadn't cost quite as much as I had supposed. Janet mentioned something about a discount, and Mom had had her hair and nails done, too, so all the financial injury wasn't mine.

"Now, Sam, do you want a set of curlers like those for yourself? And maybe a handheld air-only hairdryer?" Mom asked. The salon sold those things, but the prices seemed high. We paused at the door to look at the hair tools in the display case.

"Uh?" I said, looking at the colorful curlers in their boxes. "Well, it might be nice, but that would cost more money." One box was labeled 'The BIG Assortment' and included rollers from teeny-tiny, less-than-a-quarter-inch, up to mondo-hugeness-six-inchers. I wouldn't use the little ones, but the whole box still appealed to me.

She shrugged. "I want you to be happy, Sam. Your hair is obviously important to you. Enough that you're willing to hurt someone for it."

I winced. "I didn't do it on purpose," I protested. I pushed the door open and followed Mom out to the parking lot.

She looked back at me and shook her head. "Oh, I think you did. You could have just screamed when he attacked you and let the coaches deal with it. But you used force against force, and you might have killed that boy. That's why you got suspended." Mom could spread the guilt like a pro.

I sighed. I couldn't argue, and I did regret what happened to Leon. He was an asshole and a bully, but I didn't want him seriously hurt. "Yes, ma'am," I said. I sniffled a bit. A moment ago, I'd been so happy with my new curls and my nails.

"Cheer up." She let up on the scowling and smiled at me. "Let's talk to your father," she said as we climbed into the car and fastened out safety belts. "Before we spend any more money. Maybe he'll have a new idea about how to deal with all this."

This kind of surprised me. Dad was often the softie of the parental-units, willing to accept explanations and work out compromises. Mom had a stiffer attitude about transgressions, usually. "Okay," I agreed. "Do you think he'll like my hair?" I asked, all innocent and stupid.

"I'm sure he'll have something to say," she offered with an aubergine smile.

Back home with his new hairstyle, Sam faces his dad, prepared for a lecture. But then things go off the rails....

5. My dad must be crazy...

When we got home, we found Dad and my older sister Hannah unpacking two medium pizzas and a box of salad from our favorite pizza delivery shop.

"Your hair," said Hannah, staring at me. We look something alike, the same golden hair, roundish faces and hazel eyes. She even wears her hair long, almost to her waist, too. But Hannah is five inches taller than me and very curvy. She's a seventeen-year-old junior at the same school I go to but never rides the bus because her boyfriend picks her up every morning.

Dad has brown hair and eyes, and mom is a sugar blonde with blue-gray eyes. Dad wasn't looking at me, but his sour expression meant he had seen. "Let's eat, I'm starved," he complained. There were sodas, though Dad drank a beer like he usually does with pizza. One beer is all he ever has, but he'll get up and go buy a six-pack before he'll eat pizza without one.

The smell of the food reminded me that I hadn't actually had any lunch myself, just a package of saltines with the nurse. With Mom watching, we all ate a plate of salad first. Then while I reached for my second slice of mushroom and pepperoni, Dad hit us with news of a phone call he received.

"Mr. Frangelli is pretty upset about what you did to Leon, Sam," Dad began.

I started to say something, but he shook his head no and continued. "He called you a lot of names, some of the politer ones were faggot, thug, queer, assassin, terrorist, and freak." Those were the polite ones? "I ignored most of that; he's upset. They're afraid Leon may have brain damage."

"Uh--," I wanted to say how would they ever know, but that would definitely get me in even more trouble, and really wasn't how I felt about what happened, anyway. Besides, Dad shook his head at me again, holding his hand up for silence.

"You keep getting into fights about your hair. It's apparently very important to you. Your mother offered you another chance to get it cut today, and even after what happened, you refused." He took a breath. "Instead, you got it styled and even had your nails done."

Suddenly, I didn't want any more pizza and tried to put both hands behind me, sort of self-conscious about the nearly invisible polish. But Hannah grabbed one hand, saying, "Lemme see! Oh, nice! But you didn't get any color. Some of the senior guys are getting their nails painted blue or green or black. Kinda radical."

No one said anything until Hannah realized this, let go of my hand, and shut up.

Dad spoke again. "Is there anything you want to tell us, Sam? Anything at all? You know we love you, and if there are any secrets you want to share, we're open to anything you want to say. And we'll always love you."

"Even if you are a terrorist," said Hannah, adding a gulp, and a "Sorry," when she saw how that went over. Hannah is almost as much of a goof as I am with the same poor filtering software I have.

But I wasn't getting what Dad was trying to say. "Like what?" I asked. "I don't have any secrets." At least, I couldn't think of any. I may have found a few porn sites on the internet and browsed them briefly, but that shit seriously embarrassed me, and I hadn't gone back to any of them.

Dad looked uncomfortable. "Like if your gay or...or transgender? Do you ever wish you were a girl, like your sister?"

Unaccountably, this made Hannah giggle. I glared at her and shook my head at Dad. "No, I'm happy being a boy, really. I don't want to be a girl."

"Your sister does not get hassled about the length of her hair," Dad pointed out.

"Yeah, well, that's--I don't--Leon is a moron, Dad."

"Even the morons leave your sister alone."

Hannah nodded, still smirking. The point was debatable. Her boyfriend, Gronk, was a Neanderthal, if not actually moronic. His real name was Peytr Bronkowski, but everyone--well, maybe not his parents--called him Gronk. A senior, he'd already been scouted by the NFL, the CFL and something called the AAFL. And several colleges, though that seemed unlikely.

"Huh?" I said. Dad had been talking while I glared at Hannah.

"What about this other boy you injured? Pasco DelForte? What did you do to him, and why? Back in October? You remember?"

Pasco? No wonder he went by Del. "Uh," I didn't want to say. Dad waited until I spoke. "Uh, he pulled my ponytail and caused me to spill my food. So I punched him... in the balls. Everyone thought it was funny, but I guess he went to the nurse. Cause it hurt."

Hannah made another noise. I wished she would leave the room instead of sitting there, stuffing her face with pizza and enjoying my demolition.

"So, it was about your hair again," Dad said. Not a question, but I nodded just the same. "Were there other incidents involving your hair? Ones that didn't result in medical interventions?"

I nodded and shrugged. Hardly a week went by when someone didn't say something. But I hadn't broken anyone else's head or family jewels.

Dad sighed. "Sam, your hair looks nice. We know you like for your hair to look good."

I nodded but stayed wary. "Thanks, Dad," I said. "Mom took me to a hair salon and they really know what to do with hair there."

Hannah put in a comment. "It's so shiny! And those curls! You didn't get a perm, did you? You've alwayss warned me not to get one."

"Uh, no," I told her. "It's just a water set. I can show you how to do it, but we'll need some equipment."

Dad made a noise and he and Mom traded significant glances.

"Sorry, Dad," I said. I knew the lecture isn't over. "I'm listening."

He looked pained. "Your mother and I have talked about this. We think we need to do something to help you."

Huh? Help me what? How? I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I was worried. Were they going to ship me off to military boarding school or something?

"Sam," Dad finally continued. "We think you should take this two weeks to experiment with your identity."

I know I looked blank just then because I had no idea what he meant.

"Your gender identity. You seem confused," he amplified.

I shook my head, but he waved at me to stay quiet. "For the next two weeks, we want you to try living as a girl. We think it might help you...make up your mind."

I stared at him, stunned. Make up my mind? About what? I didn't ask out loud, but Dad answered the question anyway.

"About whether you prefer being a boy, or being a girl."

Mom and Dad's plan was so crazy, it just might work. If Sam doesn't die of embarrassment....

6. My sister is so weird...

"I'm a boy!" I protested. "I like being a boy." I may have weakened my protestation by shaking my head because all my new curls danced around my face.

Dad shook his head, too. "Not from the evidence we see. We think it would be worth finding out if you'd rather be a girl."

"That makes no sense." I could feel my face go pouty and tried to resist. Why was I able to be firm about not getting my hair cut, but seemed to wimp out when my parents got foreful on other subjects.

Mom jumped in. "Dear, I took you to a hair salon, and you behaved exactly like your sister did at that age. It was all about being pretty with you."

"Snerk," said Hannah. Not the sound, she actually said, 'Snerk.'

I glared at her. "Yeah, well," I said. "I like having my hair look nice." That sounded weak. "And there was a guy there getting his nails done."

"Mr. Lancaster has diabetes. Pampering his hands and feet are good for his health," Mom said.

"Really?" I said. "How?"

"Improves the circulation and keeps the nerves stimulated," said Dad.

"I read about that," said Hannah. "Especially older diabetics who might have numbness in their limbs."

"Huh," I said. We were in danger of going off on a tangent. I'm the nerdiest nerd in the family but not the only one.

Dad headed us off at the pass. "What we were thinking, was that for the next two weeks—when you won't be in school because of your suspension and spring vacation—during this time you dress as a girl, and try to act like a girl--well, more than you do--"

That hurt. Did I act like a girl? That much?

"--and we'll support you in doing that. Buy some clothes for you--"

"Augh!" I interrupted. "You guys are crazy!"

Mom put in. "We think this will be best for you, honey. We really think you might be happier if you were a girl."

"And all you would have to do to prove us wrong about that would be to get a haircut. Which we are pretty confident you aren't going to do." Dad looked at me, meaningfully. "You're as stubborn as any of the women in the family, and there's that, too."

"Hey!" said Mom and Hannah at the same time.

Dad and I laughed at them, but, really, the joke was on me. When I stopped laughing I looked at my parents warily. I knew I had been set up with the trip to the salon. But—and here I got distracted by a glimpse of myself in the entryway mirror—but, my hair looked great!

"Hmph," said Mom, noticing where I was looking. "Here's our plan. For two weeks, you give it a try. Be as much of a girly-girl as you can—we'll call you Samantha, or Sam for short," she made dimples at this joke, "and as long as you're giving it a real chance, we'll ease up on the grounding rules."

I blinked. "So... I am grounded?"

Dad nodded. "You'd better believe it. Samson is grounded, no internet, no video games, no leaving the house without your mother or me, no watching movies in your room, no friends coming over."

Yikes! I'd never been grounded that hard before. "It's not fair! I didn't do anything." My guilt over breaking Leon's head was forgotten for the moment.

"Honey, you almost killed someone. You had reason to react, but you didn't think through the consequences. And we still don't know how bad Leon is hurt," Mom said gently.

I felt ready to cry again. I really did feel bad about hurting Leon, even if he was a fat, shit-headed, bully. "He started it—he was trying to hurt me."

"And you defended yourself, as you had a right to do. But not to the point of putting him in danger of getting killed."

"I didn't mean to," I said in a small voice.

"We know," said Dad. "It wasn't vicious, but it was too much. You need to think about things."

Mom leaned over and hugged me. "It's okay," she said. "But Leon would not have been tormenting you if you were a girl."

"Huh?" I said. "If I were a girl, I wouldn't have been in the boys' locker room." Hannah handed me a tissue, and I wiped my eyes.

"Exactly," Mom said. "Hannah never has problems with bullies."

"Yeah, well, she's dating the Gronk, and no one wants to be Gronkalized."

"Only because they haven't tried it," said Hannah, which earned her a glare from all of us. She grinned, unembarrassed.

"Even before she was dating," Mom said. Then to Hannah, "Honey, did you ever have trouble with a bully?"

"Well, only one girl--Emma Tork? I called her a stork once, and she nailed me one, right in the ear." She put a hand over the injured member. "But we got to be friends after."

"But no boy bullies?"

"Uh," Hannah looked thoughtful. "Well--you mean like them calling me names or pulling my hair? That just means they like you."

"What!?" I yelped. "Are you saying that Leon and that Del creep call me names and pull my ponytail because they like me!?"

"Pretty much," Hannah agreed. "Boys are dumb. They don't know how to get your attention. And I think you confuse them."

I hadn't realized I was standing up, so I sat down again.

Hannah rubbed it in. "I mean, you're really pretty, Sam. With your hair, and you've got a cute smile. In fact, you look almost exactly like I did four years ago."

"You're only three years older than me."

"Two and a half. But you're a late bloomer."

Mom and Dad had watched our back and forth with grins. It was at that point that I realized that I was going to get talked into this because they would keep throwing it up to me that I didn't have to go along with their plan if I would just get a haircut. I sighed.

"I don't understand," I said to Dad. "I'm your only son. Don't you want me to grow up to be manly, and--and--"

He didn't let me find the words. "That ship sailed when you were four and threw a fit in Target because your sister got bows tied in her hair, and you didn't."

I blushed. Yeah, well...

Mom remembered the incident better than I did. "I said you can't have a bow because you're a boy, and you said, make it a blue bow, then." Mom and Hannah laughed, and Dad rolled his eyes.

I know I turned bright pink, as pink as the bows Hannah had worn that day. "Yeah, well," I muttered, aloud this time.

"C'mon," said Hannah. "It'll be fun. And you get to start with a wardrobe right away, 'cause you're so skinny, you can probably wear anything that doesn't fit me anymore." She was famous for not throwing anything away.

I made an awful face and surrendered. "I won't have to wear dresses, will I?" I whined.

Sam has to face some ugly facts...and pretty dresses...

7. I don't have to wear dresses...

Yes, I do have to wear dresses. Rats.

Mom, Hannah and I were in my sister's bedroom, going through her closets. Yes, plural. Hannah was extracting mounds of stuff she figured might fit me and that she couldn't wear anymore. Mom sorted things into acceptable, unacceptable and judgment-deferred piles. The acceptable collection seemed to be mostly dresses. I watched it grow with dread and trepidation, and other 18th century English Literature words.

I didn't actually help more than someone made me because, for my part in this debacle, I was getting cold feet. In fact, just watching was encasing me completely in ice. "I didn't agree to this, yet." I tried to point out, sitting in Hannah's media chair in front of her desk.

"Pfft," said Mom, retrieving another wispy piece of feminine clothing from the depths of Hannah's geological record. "'Yet,' means that you know that you will so you might as well admit it. Oh! This yellow sundress is just going to look terrific on you, honey!"

I made a face, and the ice moved into my gut. Eight or ten dresses were in the acceptable pile, and all the full-length pants had gone into unacceptable along with some boyish-looking tops. The waiting-judgment stack consisted mostly of skirts, shorts, capris (which are neither shorts nor pants), one-piece jumper suits, and tops to go with the bottoms.

"Doomed," I muttered. "I'm going to get killed if I wear this stuff in public." I knew it was true. Even my friends would turn on me and laugh, even if they didn't throw rocks in the great stoning-me-to-death party.

Mom shook her head, and Hannah shrugged like it really wouldn't matter to her. "It's getting crowded on the bed," Mom said, pushing the reject pile off onto the floor, then scooping up all the dresses as a bundle and pushing them on me. "Go put these in your closet, Samantha." Part of the deal was that for today, at least, everyone would call me Samantha as much as they could.

Wincing, I took the bundle of clothing and headed out and across the hall to my room. Slightly smaller than Hannah's (it didn't have two closets), it was occupied by my father, who was industriously boxing things up. My closet was already empty of all clothing, even my shoes, and Dad was starting on my dresser drawers.

My old box of boy-type toys had been dragged out of the back of the closet and sealed up with only Pookie Bear and Space Robin (an off-brand androgynous action doll) lying on the bed, looking forlorn. Pookie's torn ear had been taped up, his plastic nose re-colored with a Sharpie, and he'd been re-stuffed with polyester fiber-fill years ago, but he couldn't have looked more forlorn if his skin had been empty and his ear hanging by a thread. Some part of me still remembered the taste of his nose.

Lying next to Robin did not help Pookie, the poor little Starbound adventurer was missing half of the yellow and green spacesuit that had been in the original box. A mint condition Space Robin was worth more than $200 on eBay, but my toy was priceless only to me.

"Hi, sugar," Dad said cheerfully—for contrast with my own mood, I'm sure. "Just put those in the closet." He grinned. "There's plenty of room for them now." He meant the dresses I was carrying.

"What, uh, what happens to my old stuff in the boxes?" I asked, not moving yet.

"We're going to burn it," Dad said with a straight face. I don't know what my expression looked like when he said that, but he immediately added, "No, I thought we'd just put it out in the storage building until things get settled. Hmm?"

I struggled with the bulky wad of dresses, trying to hang them all up at once. "Dad, I know you were kidding at first, but you almost gave me a heart attack." I didn't like the idea of my stuff in the storage building, which was sometimes visited by possums at night, but the idea of burning all my boy-toys had scared me. At least, if they were in storage, I could hope to get them back someday.

Dad laughed—the shit. "Look, honey, this is all because we think it will be better for you. Now don't try to press all your pretties into the closet like that. Take them one at a time and hang them up nicely."

Well, pushing them at the closet bar was not working anyway, so I laid them on the bed and picked one up. It was a blue party dress with little roses around the neckline. By chance, I saw myself in the mirror holding it, almost as if I were checking to see how I would look in it. My jaw dropped open.

I remembered Hannah wearing this when we went down to Virginia Beach on vacation, and we attended a party at a beach house, three years ago. She'd looked good, but I saw that with my beautiful new curls, I would look better. Oh, crap.

"You'd look good in that," Dad observed.

"I could get killed in that," I said, hurriedly hanging it in my now forlorn closet. "I'm a boy!"

Dad snorted. "With your looks, that hair, maybe a little makeup, in that dress... No one would believe you were a boy. Samantha..."

I looked at him warily, picking up the next dress.

"Come around this side of the bed, honey. Where you can see yourself in the big mirror on the back of your door."

I blinked. Sure enough, there was a full-length mirror on the back of my door where my poster of R2D2 and BB-8 used to be. "Where did that come from?"

"It's been in the back of your mother's closet for ages. But she already has a long mirror, so she never needed it. But you do."

"No, I--" But I'd already moved to stand in front of it.

"Hold the dress up," he ordered.

It was the yellow sundress that had white lace trim and poofy sleeves. I held it up. The last of the afternoon sun came through the window, lighting up the dress and my yellow hair. Did I look like... a golden angel?

"Don't tell her I said so," Dad remarked, "but you're prettier than your sister."

I nodded, numb with dread. If I looked that good as a girl, would they ever let me change back?

Time to clean out the closets...

8. Why did it have to be possums?

The four of us worked the rest of the evening, moving things from Hannah's room to mine and from mine to storage. Not just dresses but makeup, jewelry, and even intimate items. Hannah had two packages of panties she had never opened, and now she was too big for them—plus Mom, having planned this had bought stuff.

Including bras.

"I don't need a bra!" I protested, sure that my face was red enough for a stoplight.

"So your clothes will fit right," Mom said. "All the girls your age are wearing bras."

Hannah put in, "And some of them will be padding them as much as you will." She snickered.

I didn't have a chance; they ganged up on me. At least I didn't have to put one on right away; the bras went into one of my dresser drawers. Three of them, all size 28A. They had to explain bra sizes to me. The number is how big around you are, and the letter is the cup size. "You're tiny," Hannah noted. "I was wearing this size when I was twelve."

"Well, these are new, so they probably don't have your cooties," I said. Girl cooties, sure, but not my sister's. They were just plain white training bras, but really, I was trying not to be terrified. What would it feel like to wear a bra? Mom showed me the little pads, like tiny pillows, that would fill out the cups, and I thought I might faint.

I didn't have time, though. There was so much to move. Dad kept taking my old boy stuff out to the storage shed behind the garage, an area I stayed away from after dark because of the local wildlife I didn't want to think about.

Mom, Hannah and I kept busy. Shoes. Purses. Billfolds. Jewelry box. Girls had so much stuff! And my sister was a packrat that had kept everything. She even gave me a stuffed pink panda that she said had never gotten along well with her other plush animals. "She's a prima donna," Hannah had explained. "Like you."

I stuck my tongue out at her, and she laughed. "You're weird," I said. "And I don't need a two-foot-tall pink bear." Pink! Ahh!

"Aw," she hugged the bear. "Samantha doesn't love you. And Roary the Lion says he's going to eat you if he finds you on the bed again. I guess you'll have to go live out in the storage shed with those scary possums."

I gasped. Not fair. Hannah knows I am terrified of possums. They're why I won't go into the backyard after dark. "Give me the bear," I conceded. Hannah handed her over, all soft and silky, unlike my Pookie bear whose fur had mostly worn off long ago. "What's her name?" I asked, holding the plushie so I could look at her face. She had big eyes with pink rings around them and lavender-pink nose and ears. Way too cute.

"She likes to be held like that, like a baby. Her name is Sugarpie," said Hannah. "But you can rename her."

I winced. "You are so weird, sis," I said. I couldn't think of a better name than Sugarpie—it seemed perfect for the adorable bear.

Hannah giggled, nodding, tapping her nose and pointing at me. I hugged the pink panda and stuck my tongue out at my sister again. If I'm going to get treated like a girl, I'm going to take advantage of the license to be a brat. My sister had been getting away with it for years.

Mom came in about that time with another pair of shoe boxes. I had gone from owning four pairs of shoes to owning twelve. This would make fourteen, no fifteen, one box had two pairs in it. And these were just shoes my size—well, my size in women's sizes—that Hannah had had in the back of her closet. Mom opened the boxes to show me—high heels.

"No! F-f-f-!" I yelped.

"You'll need to get some practice with them, Samantha," Mom said, nodding as if she agreed with me. "Now," she said, "it's after ten and tomorrow is a school day for Hannah, so time for bed."

Hannah nodded, grabbed me in a hug and kissed me on the forehead. "G'night, sis," she said. "Don't let the possums nibble on your toes."

"Mom!" I screamed. Okay, I screamed, I was wound pretty tight. I also almost hugged the stuffing out of Sugarpie. Once when I was about four...but never mind, I didn't want to think about that. I couldn't help it; possums are just gross.

Mom was so startled by my scream, she sort of ran backwards into Dad, who was coming in the door to see what the heck was going on. They all started to laugh at me until they saw I was crying.

Daddy said, "Hannah, that was mean," looking at her, all fierce. He put an arm around me, and I didn't try to get away. I'm as brave as the next guy, but possums made me want my daddy. "You shouldn't scare your sister like that," he accused.

Hannah hung her head and agreed. "Yeah, I guess it was. I didn't mean to really scare her. It was supposed to be just teasing." She looked up at me, "I'm sorry, Sam," she said.

"Samantha," Mom corrected her. She moved close to me on the other side.

"I'm sorry, Samantha," said Hannah, then gave me a hug, which turned into all four of us hugging.

"Samantha," Dad asked. "Do you forgive Hannah?" He bent his head close so he could look me in the eye.

I was all embarrassed by then, more than I was before, which seemed incredible. "Yeah, I guess. She was just being her usual stupid self." Another hug and Daddy kissed me on the forehead.

He took Hannah across the hall to her room. "We're going to have a talk," he promised, and I could almost hear her swallow because that meant a lecture. Poor Hannah, but I didn't quite feel sorry for her because my heart was still pounding and my toes wanted to curl up and hide.

Possums. Eww!

Just let me fix my hair...

9. No, I'm NOT Samantha

I was actually getting used to being called Samantha. Which was cringe-inducing weirdness, but everyone had been doing it for hours.

Mom turned to me. "We've let you stay dressed as a boy all evening," she noted, "but now it's time for bed. And you have to braid your hair, of course." She looked at me appraisingly and added. "Confidentially, if I had hair like yours, I wouldn't let anyone cut it either."

Mom laid out some clothes for me on the bed, nightclothes—a package of panties and a nightgown. Looking at them, I heaved a huge sigh. I'd agreed to this, hadn't I? I couldn't remember. But I didn't have to like it.

Mom stepped out of the room and shut the door. I stripped off reluctantly, Shirt, pants, socks, and last, my jockey underwear. I never wore an undershirt that had to be pulled over my hair if I could avoid it.

I stared at the package of panties. Panties. "I'm a boy," I whimpered. Sugarpie had somehow migrated to my pillow, the only eyes watching me besides my own. I looked in the mirror to confirm, yes, I am a boy.

Very little evidence of puberty, though. No pubic hairs or even underarm fuzz. No muscles; in fact, my bones were pretty obvious. I knew I was about 5'1", weighing 95 pounds, more or less. My waist was smaller than Hannah's, and my hips not much larger than my waist.

"Can I come in?" Mom's voice came from the hall.

"Not yet!" I said, my voice squeaking.

I grabbed the package of panties and tore it open, sending colorful underwear flying. I picked up a pair and slipped them on, cringing, but they really didn't feel that much different from my own tighty-whiteys. They weren't white. Hurrying, I had grabbed a lavender pair.

I looked at the mirror and gasped. With hair curling down to my waist and the panties, I did look like a girl—especially if I hid the view of my chest with my arms—a skinny girl. I pulled the nightgown on to hide the view as much as anything, but it didn't really help.

It was a simple garment, pale blue, with poofy short sleeves and a wide neck trimmed with figured lace, more at the hem. I pulled my hair out of the nightgown and let it flow down my back. I sighed at my reflection. Covering up my skinniness made me look cuter. "Don't say a word," I told Sugarpie.

*

Mom had gotten tired of waiting and opened the door enough to peek. "Oh, you're dressed," she said and came on in.

"I'm..." I began but couldn't think what to say. I plopped down in the chair in front of my dresser and got out one of my big combs.

Mom gathered the scattered undies and put them away, then sat on the bed and watched me. "You're going to braid your hair?"

I nodded. I did this every night because that's what you have to do if you want hair like mine. First, I combed it to get tangles out. There seemed to be a little more than usual tonight. Well, it had been a long day, and the curls I had gotten at the salon probably encouraged a few more tangles.

Some people, other people—okay, girls and women—have something they add to their hair at this point, but I don't. I just comb it out then use my brush to work up the natural oils from the scalp all the way to the ends. Done right, this prevents lots of hair damage. Done wrong, it is a major source of damage.

"Do you brush it like a hundred times?" Mom asked.

"No," I said. "That's a myth, twenty or thirty times for each section is enough." Thinking about it, though, right and left, front and back, that does amount to about a hundred strokes. But I don't count them.

"You have such beautiful hair, Samantha," she said.

"Um, thanks," I said. Until she called me that name, I had almost forgotten that I was sitting there in a pair of girl's panties and a nightgown. Brushing my hair has always been soothing, as if each stroke removed a layer of stress.

"You're brushing out all the curl," she noted.

"Uh-huh, I have naturally straight hair, so if I comb or brush it, it's going to lose any curls it got from just being water-set." Okay, I'd read up on this stuff. I'd wanted for a long time to try curling my hair with water only but had not had the nerve to do it. I collected enough flak for just wearing it long.

"You're smiling."

"Um," I said. "I like doing this." I liked it a lot. Taking care of my hair was the chief pleasure of wearing it long. I didn't just like doing it. If I couldn't do it or even got delayed too long, like tonight, I felt gross, cranky and depressed. Getting into my hair routine finally was doing a lot to make me feel better.

I started using the combs to divide my hair into sections, tucking each section between my fingers as I worked. Looking in the mirror made this a bit easier, but it wasn't necessary. I'd practiced doing it without looking many times. One of the keys is getting the four sections as near to the same size as possible, which I could do entirely by feel.

And I'm quick. I had it all done in just minutes. Mom handed me a ribbon to tie off the end. It was a wide pink ribbon, and I usually used a narrow blue one. "Tie it in a bow," Mom suggested. So I did. I'd tried it before, but it looked too girly. Now.... Well, it didn't matter, now, did it? Besides, I would unbraid it first thing in the morning and....

Was I going to try curling my hair like the salon did? I had to admit, I wanted to. I didn't have the big curlers and the gentle air-drying machine, but maybe I could leave my hair in braids until Mom and I could go shopping?

Was I suddenly looking forward to going shopping?

I turned my head this way and that, checking to see that the braids were even and tight enough to keep my hair from tangling in my sleep. My waist-length hair now reached only a little past the middle of my back. It looked nice and...and the ribbon looked good too.

Mom nodded. "Don't tell anyone I said so," Mom confided, "but you're prettier than your sister." Dad had said the same thing. I just smirked at my reflection because I knew it was true.

Does my hair look all right?

10. My dreams are just wrong!

Mom kissed me good night on the cheek. "Get some sleep, honey," she said. "We're going shopping in the morning to get you more of your own stuff." To avoid giggling in embarrassment, I gave her a swift peck on the cheek too. I hadn't kissed Mom goodnight in years.

She left, and I turned around to look at my room. It didn't look that much like a girl's room, at least not yet, but the decorations that identified it as a boy's room were gone. The tallboy chest of drawers in the corner had a lace doily on it that hadn't been there, and a decorative lamp I didn't remember seeing before.

What had been there had been a lamp, the base of which looked like an old-time race car. Now it looked like...something inspired by Bo Peep? Lambs and a girl wearing a pink bonnet. I rolled my eyes. It was a thing a little girl would think really cute.

Feeling a bit sheepish myself, I put on a pair of fuzzy pink slippers and padded down the hall to the bathroom I shared with Hannah. After I closed the door, I stood in front of the toilet bowl and realized something. Panties don't have a fly, and holding your nightgown up while peeing is likely to be awkward and lead to accidents.

So, giving in to the inevitable, I pulled down my panties and sat down to pee. No one can see me blushing with just the nightlight on, I told myself. I couldn't even see myself. It's harder to shake yourself dry sitting down, so I just sat there for a bit, contemplating what the next two weeks were going to be like.

Was I still grounded? Probably. No, wait, they said if I did this, I wouldn't be grounded, just on restriction. A subtle difference, if there was one. Could I still see my friends? Did I want to? What were they going to say? I could just picture Wally and Skip braying their enjoyment of my predicament. And since I hadn't killed Leon with the blow to his head, maybe a belly laugh would finish him off.

For some reason, that upperclassman I had a run-in with last fall came to mind, along with Hannah's observation that boys annoy girls just to get their attention because they like them. What would Del think of my new appearance?

Veering away from that confusing and embarrassing line of thought, I tried to come up with something else to worry about.

My parents had confiscated my phone and turned it off, but there'd been calls on the house phone during the evening. I suspected a few of them had been from my buddies, but no one had called me to the phone. Which would be part of being grounded, not allowed to talk on the phone except for necessary stuff.

I sighed. I finished business as well as I could, convinced for some reason that one teeny little drop of pee had gotten into my panties when I pulled them up. I flushed and then used a washcloth to clean my feet before putting on my slippers and going back to my room.

Climbing into bed, I discovered fresh new sheets. Probably pink, I decided, but I couldn't tell in the dark. I grabbed Sugarpie off the other pillow and cuddled her up close. It had been a long time since I had slept with a stuffed animal, but if I was going to live as a girl for the next two weeks, I didn't have to deny myself that comfort.

And I could use the soft security. It must have worked because I was asleep before I could wonder if I should roleplay the part to the hilt and kiss Sugarpie good night.

*

I walked out to the bus wearing my nightgown and slippers, carrying Sugarpie hugged to my chest. I'm dreaming, I told myself. The other kids looked as bored as usual, ignoring me while I took my usual seat across from Skip.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied. He didn't make a comment on how I was dressed or that I had my hair in the soft curls from the salon this morning, and I didn't mention that two or three of his pimples were oozing pus. I finally managed to stop staring at them.

Sugarpie tugged on my nightgown and I bent my head so she was inside the tent of my hair and could whisper in my ear, but I couldn't make out what she was saying. It sounded like, "Watch out for the possibles." But that didn't make any sense.

Skip and I had each saved a seat for Wally, who is the last stop before the bus heads for the school. But we didn't stop at his house or go on to the school, either. In fact, we drove right past it and stopped in an industrial area near the river. Wally was there. He climbed on and came to me.

"This is where you get off, Samantha," he said. His caramel-colored complexion looked especially pale today and his freckles really stood out. He looked frightened. "The teddybear, too," he added.

Sugarpie cuddled against me. I stared out the windows. It looked gloomy and scary, like a scene from Stranger Things. The only way to make that show creepier would be to add a bagful of possums dumped on a table.

*

The possums squirmed and jumped off the table and chased me around the room. What happened to the bus? How did I get here, I wondered, scared out of my mind? I tried to scream for my mommy and daddy, but the possums had my toes in their sharp little teeth and wouldn't let go.

Sugarpie had turned into Hannah, holding my hand like she had when she walked with me to kindergarten years before.

"I told you to watch out for the possums," Hannah said. We were at school, and we were both wearing the yellow sundress. Or, I guess each a copy since we wouldn't both fit into one dress. Hannah opened her locker, and the possums tried to get out, but she closed it on them, and only one ran down the hall, squeaking and waving its naked tail at us.

I shuddered.

School was boring, but at least the girls passed notes back and forth in class. I got one that said, "I think Del likes you."

Somebody pulled my ponytail, and I turned around and there he was. DelForte. I grinned at him, but only because I now knew his first name was Pasco. He was a junior, and I was a freshman, and we didn't have any classes together. "You're not supposed to be here," I said. I tossed my head, just to feel my hair settled back around my face.

He had a big, lean face with dark hair and green eyes. He grinned at me. "You're prettier than your sister," he said.

"I know," I said. "But I'm a boy, and you're not supposed to be in the girls' bathroom." The bathroom was around us, and all the fixtures were shining pink, and I was sitting on a stool with no stall around me.

*

There's no plot to dreams, and the logic doesn't make sense. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, I pulled my braids out from under my head then I lay there in the dark before I could get back to sleep. I spent some time worrying about why in my dreams, I was Samantha, not Sam. The possums were bad enough but that part was really scary.

Sugarpie disagreed with me just before I fell back asleep. "It might have been a dream, but your hair looked so nice," she whispered.

"You're so cute!" Mom gushed.

11. Don't Lock the Bathroom Door!

Hannah was grouchy when she got up and found me in the bathroom before her. I'd just gone in to pee, but discovered that my braid had come loose a bit. Since I intended to leave it in place until Mom and I had shopped for some new haircare thingies, I had partially undone the braid to re-tie it.

The problem seemed to have been the new wider pink ribbon I had used. I hadn't properly threaded it through my braids when I tied it in a bow. I didn't usually with the narrow blue ribbon I used, and this unraveling had happened a few times before. It should only take two minutes to repair, and I had told Hannah so less than a minute before.

But she didn't want to wait. When she banged on the door, she almost caused me to undo more braid than I had intended to. "Open the door," she snarled.

"Give me a minute," I said.

"That's what you said a minute ago," she protested.

"No," I told her, "I said a couple of minutes."

"Mom!" she shouted, startling me again. "Sam is hogging the bathroom! I need to get ready for school, and he's not going today, so he should get out and let me in! He can play with his hair later!"

"Samantha and she, dear," Mom called back. "Samantha, are you being a princess and hogging the bathroom?"

"Uh." I repressed snickers. Being a princess is what I accuse Hannah of when she monopolizes the bathroom. "I'm almost done."

"I need to pee," Hannah whispered fiercely at the door while Mom admonished us to be more sisterly and work out a way to share the facilities.

"Open the door, Samantha," Mom ordered.

Shrugging, I reached over and flipped the lock to let Hannah in. She had on something I think is called baby doll pajamas. She rushed right to the bowl, sat down and started making tinkling noises. I glanced at her in the mirror, and she scowled at me.

"Don't lock the door in the mornings, SIS," she said. "Dad was in the other bathroom, and I couldn't go in there."

"But you could come in here?" I said.

She glared at me. "Yes, because you are Samantha."

"That's just—that's just pretend!" I protested.

"I wasn't pretending to need to pee! And you're in here fussing with your hair like a—a prima donna."

I winced.

She suddenly grinned at me. "Your hair looks nice like that, in a braid. I thought you were in here, brushing it out."

"No," I said. "We're going shopping for rollers and a hairdryer. For me." I refused to blush. "Then I'll come back and do my hair like the salon did it yesterday." I was just finishing up, re-tying my bow. I threaded it through all three strands of the braid, this time, so it wouldn't come loose.

"Really?" she said. "That looked great. And I like that bow. Can you braid my hair like that sometime?"

"Sure, I guess." She'd never asked before, though I had been braiding my own hair since before middle school.

Hannah used paper to wipe herself dry, then stood up and headed back to her room. "But get out of the bathroom quick. I need to use the mirrors. When I'm gone to school, you can stand here and primp all you want."

"Okay," I agreed. Sheesh.

I went to my room and discovered Mom in there laying clothes out on the bed. "I thought you could wear either the yellow sundress or the blue pedal pushers with the lavender top. What do you think?"

I thought maybe I would go hide in the closet.

*

Okay, I tried the pedal pushers, but they presented a problem. I didn't look properly girlish wearing them, because.... Well, because of lumps in places a girl shouldn't have any.

"Can you tuck it all backwards or up inside you or something?" Mom asked.

I cringed but pushed Mom out of the room so I could try what she suggested, pulling down the capris (Mom called them pedal pushers) and my panties(!) and trying to deal with the offending lumps. Bending the leader backwards behind my legs, then pulling the panties up tight while putting gentle pressure on the two assistants so they went up inside me sort of worked.

It felt so weird!

I pulled the pale blue calf-length pants back up, and it all looked smooth. It wasn't exactly comfortable, though. After a bit more adjustment, I decided it all might stay in place as long as I didn't do anything too strenuous. I needed something tighter than just the blue pants, but a little stretchy to hold everything in place.

I snorted. What would work would be a pair of bike shorts to wear under my pedal pushers. I didn't have any (I mentioned that I'm not any sort of jock), but I thought Hannah might have a pair from when she was dating someone who was into long bike rides and competition. It hadn't lasted long, but typical of her enthusiasms, she'd acquired as much stuff as she could wheedle Dad into buying for her.

I let Mom back into the room, and she immediately put a hand over her mouth like she was trying not to laugh. I glared at her. "What?" I demanded.

"You're so cute!" she gushed.

I rolled my eyes and pushed past her to knock on the bathroom door. "Hannah?"

My sister opened the door and looked at me. "You are cute in that," she confirmed with a grin. I guess she had overheard Mom. She pointed at me with her toothbrush. "You're so skinny! Y'know, I wore those pants four years ago, Sis."

"Uh, huh," I grunted. "Do you still have those tight, spandex bike shorts?"

"Somewhere, I guess?" She stuck the toothbrush in her mouth and scrubbed her molars while thinking about it. "Look in the bottom drawer of my dresser, left side, under those winter jammies, maybe?" she offered.

I managed to make out the instructions amid the mumbling around her toothbrush. "Thanks," I said and headed to her room to look. I found them, but I'd forgotten they were hot-pink-and-black camouflage pattern—for if I ever needed to hide in Paris Hilton's lingerie drawer. I sighed, but no one was going to see them.

Off went the capri pants and I slinked into the tight bike shorts, concealing the evidence of any masculinity I had left. Hannah came in just as I was examining the snugness in her triple mirror. The shorts were high-waisted and almost knee-length, and the panties I still had on under them did not make visible lines through the fabric.

My sister nodded. "If you had any booty at all, you'd be hot in those."

"Hot?" I frowned at her.

"Sexy," she said, "but you've still got a boy-butt." She thought for a moment. "Some guys like that. You've got some shape back there, just not a lot."

I sneered at her opinion as I pulled the capri pants back on. "I'm not trying to attract the looks of any boys. I just don't want anyone to be able to tell I am one."

She grinned. "At least, with three layers in the crotch, you won't be showing any camel-toe."

"I—what?" What the heck was camel-toe?

"You're slender everywhere you need to be, and two places you shouldn't be," Mom said.

12. Shopping is just a drag!

Sis explained camel-toe to me before she left for school. Gross. I think it took most of fifteen minutes for me to stop blushing. I would have a worse problem if something showed through my panties than imaginary desert ungulates, but the bike shorts took care of that. The front of my capris stayed completely flat.

"We need to do something about that flat butt, though," said Mom, watching me walk away.

"What? Why?" I protested, turning around. Someone being critical of the shape of my butt was not an entirely new thing, but the usual remark from coaches and guys at school was that mine was fat, not flat.

"You're slender everywhere you need to be, and two places you shouldn't be," she said.

"Huh?"

"We've got the top taken care of with a padded bra. We need to get you a padded panty, or better, a padded girdle, so you don't need those bike shorts." Mom beamed at me.

I shook my head. "No," I insisted, but she must not have been listening because the first place we went later that morning was a lingerie shop. I almost panicked as she steered me inside the temple to femininity.

"They'll just throw me out, you know," I said for maybe the fourth time, looking around nervously for the Amazon guards.

"Stop worrying," Mom reassured me. "You're a girl. You've got every right to be here."

"Ack!" I mentioned.

The colors and textures in the place were amazing, and I was transfixed just inside the door by a mannikin (femmikin?) wearing a bra and panty set that was just the golden color of the highlights in my hair. How had they known I would be coming here today?

"You like that?" Mom asked.

I must have nodded because she moved us both closer and examined the items. The satiny shimmer of the panties and the panels in the cups changed with the angle of viewing in an elegant way. It reminded me of the effects in some anime I had watched. And the lace trim on both pieces had the delicacy of the fine hairs that grow at your temples and down your neck.

"No one can accuse you of having cheap taste, Samantha," Mom commented, showing me the price tag.

I gasped. "For underwear that no one is going to see?"

A saleslady had suddenly appeared. She chuckled. "Well, maybe that special someone," she suggested.

"Careful," Mom warned. "She's just fourteen."

"Oh," said Rita (it was on her nametag), "has someone suddenly outgrown being a tomboy?"

"Something like that," Mom agreed. "She wants to get some shapewear to define her new look."

Shapewear? They were just making words up. But I had a different question. "The color of this set," I asked, "is it going to look as good on someone as it does on this black mannikin?"

"Would you like to try it on, sweetie?" Rita offered.

"Uh." Put up or shut up. "Yes, please," I said, blushing. What? I mean, What!!? Well, it was obvious Mom and Dad's project was affecting my brain.

The saleslady explained some rules. "You can only try on the panties over something, but you can try on this bra or some other one. Do you know your size?

I did! "Twenty-eight-A," I said.

"Mm, hmm," Rita murmured. "I'll make up some sets for you to take into a booth."

Mom and I looked at a lot more stuff and added things to the pile on the counter by the booths. The price of the lingerie set that had attracted my attention coming in had inspired me with a plan. If I could make it too expensive to continue this insanity, I could go back to being just a boy with long hair instead of a fake girl.

Doing this required me to show some enthusiasm, so I cooed and giggled over the choice of cherry red satin panties ($28) and lacy lavender garter belts ($39). Those last were beautiful but seriously, $39 for something to hold your socks up?

Mom may have twigged to what I was doing because she started putting some of the expensive stuff back, with reasons. "Too grown up," or, "Not this time," or just, "No, Sam."

And that was funny, too, so I kept giggling.

But the moment arrived to go into the dressing room and try stuff on. In I went with three bras and two pair of padded panties. Rita had also supplied little wiggly insert thingies to fill out the bra cups better than just tiny cloth pillows. For some reason, these were named after a fast-food chicken place.

Mom followed me in, and I decided not to object to that because my embarrass-o-meter was already broken. But right away, I found something to protest. "This is not a 28A," I pointed out, holding up the first bra.

"A 28B," she agreed, "but that brand runs small."

I already had my top off and was removing the plain white training bra I'd already been wearing. "Mom!" I whined, just for effect.

"Don't be so dramatic," she ordered me, adding in a whisper, "How in the world have you got away with pretending to be a boy for so many years?"

"I—what?" That sort of derailed me. I whispered back. "What's that supposed to mean?" in exasperation. I may have gestured.

Mom frowned at me like she was really more amused than annoyed. "Just try the stuff on," she ordered.

I did, and it fit, I suppose. I mean, the bras wouldn't fit without the wiggly padding, and the panty girdles were too tight, but they were supposed to be.

"Keep that set on," she ordered me when I had donned the cherry red panties and bra. "We'll take the tags off, and you can wear them out."

"But I like the gold bra better," I whined, not sure if I were play-acting at all.

"We'll get that set too, and the inserts, leave them in."

I gasped. This was turning into an expensive shopping trip already. The pair of chicken fillers cost as much as one of the nice bras.

After we sorted things with the saleslady, she suggested that I get some nice hose to wear with my beautiful undies. I couldn't do anything but blush.

"Pantyhose, stay-ups, or stockings?" Rita asked.

I had no idea. Of course.

Pantyhose must be the default option because that's what we ended up with. "We'll get cheap ones somewhere else while you learn how to take care of your hose," Mom explained, adding only one pair of nice ones to our loot.

I shrugged, still puzzled about how I felt about all of this girliness. I kept blushing, but I wasn't freaking out about it, and in some ways, I seemed to be enjoying myself.

"Earrings," Mom said when we emerged from the lingerie shop.

I saw the jewelry kiosk she was looking at and clapped my hands over my ears. "No, please, no," I begged.

"Samantha, every girl in your class has pierced ears, I'll bet," she pointed out.

I couldn't think of an exception, and lots of guys had pierced ears, too. So I just shook my head.

"They'll look nice, peeking out of your hair and making your new curls look even better," she continued.

"No fair," I complained. Honestly, I had thought about getting earrings before, but something more like black studs, no jeweled ponies or pearls.

"Just think," Mom suggested, "if you wore pearls in your ears, how nice a pearl diadem would look in your hair."

"Argh!" I mentioned again.

We stopped in front of the kiosk, and I looked at all the colorful stuff. I know I'm a sucker because I said to her, "Lie to me, tell me it won't hurt."

She didn't even hesitate.

"Samantha!" Mom snarked at me from down the corridor. "There are more mirrors you can look at this way."

13. This is NOT happening to me!

Getting my ears pierced didn't hurt as much as I expected. And the little pearl studs did look nice peeking out of my hair. Maybe I spent just a bit too long admiring them.

"Samantha!" Mom called to me from further down the mall corridor. "There are other mirrors in the mall you have to look into."

I made a noise like a squeak, embarrassed because the jewelry kiosk lady was grinning at me, then I hurried to catch-up with my parental unit. I was grateful I had worn sneakers, instead of the heels Mom and Sis had teased me about.

Still, I was dressed as a girl and I wasn't quite sure how to hurry gracefully. I sure didn't want anyone to think I was a boy in girl's clothes. Seeing that I was following her, (what choice did I have?) Mom turned and went on ahead.

Then I stopped so suddenly I almost tripped myself. Up ahead, Mom had gone into a trendy dress shop (oh, joy), but between her and me a boy had come out of the game store. And I knew him.

I turned quickly before he could see and recognize me. It was Del, the boy I had gotten in trouble over back in October! Wasn't he supposed to be in school? What was he doing here?

"This is not happening," I muttered.

I looked for some place to hide. A ladies' shoe store seemed the only nearby refuge and I ducked in there, heading for the back aisles. A saleslady followed me.

"Miss," she called out. "Can I help you find something?"

The back of the store had racks and boxes and displays but still was pretty open to the mall and not that deep. I maneuvered to put one of the taller displays between the front of the shop and my distinctive hair, keeping my back turned.

This involved walking sideways which must have looked odd, but I didn't care.

"Miss?" the saleslady inquired. "Are you looking for something?"

"Uh, no," I admitted. "I'm hiding from someone." I tried to peek around without really showing my face to the front of the store. My hair swished around me and I tried to grab it into a mass I could keep behind me.

Deirdre (it was on her name tag) looked amused. She moved to help conceal me then gave me a report. "Is it a tall dark-haired young man carrying a Nite-n-Day Games bag?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. Del had bought some cool game? I wondered what it might be?

"Nice looking boy," Deirdre commented. "He's apparently meeting up with an older man who resembles him and now they are heading on down the mall toward the Yukon Outfitters store."

"Cool." A lot of jocks at school shopped at Yukon but the important thing was it was in the opposite direction from where Mom went, so maybe I could slip past them. The older man was probably Del's father. "Please, tell me when they're in the Outfitters," I asked Deirdre.

She smiled, keeping an eye out for me. "Ex-boyfriend?"

I probably blushed, causing her to snicker. I reflected on Hannah's observation that Leon and Del liked me as the reason for their harassment. "Sort of," I said. I didn't want to get into any sort of explanation.

"They're inside," she observed and quick like a bunny, I headed toward the exit.

"Thanks," I called to her. I felt just a tiny bit bad that I had used her workplace as a refuge without even pretending to look at merchandise. "I'll be back to look at shoes," I promised, as much to soothe my conscience as anything. I didn't really want more girl's shoes, I had a small ocean of Hannah's excess on the floor of my closet already.

"We have some ankle boots in urban camouflage," she mentioned.

That was kind of funny but I didn't respond and hurried on toward where I had seen Mom disappear.

"Where did you go?" she asked when I found her looking at—school gym uniforms?

"I saw somebody who knows me," I told her. "We've got to get out of here."

"Hmm," she murmured, apparently unconcerned. "Your school colors are red and gold, right?"

"Mom!" I protested.

"Red and gold?" she persisted.

"Yeah, yeah. But a boy from school is here and I can't let him see me."

She pressed a pile of clothing into my hands. "Go hide in the dressing room and try these on."

"Mom!"

She pushed me toward the back. "Go on," she urged. "You can't keep wearing your sister's hand-me-downs."

"I can if I want to!" I retorted. Mistake.

I'd gotten Mom's Irish up, meaning her temper. We're more English than Irish, really. But I guess it's the principle of the thing, not the measure. Temper in most of our family takes the form of stubbornness, usually.

"What did you say?" Mom asked, glaring.

"I'm going to go try these on?" I offered meekly, waving the armful of clothing around.

Mom coldly nodded and I slunk off to the changing rooms, feeling lucky that I had escaped with no worse than a bit of side-eye.

I took a tab showing how many items I was carrying from the attendant, seven, and entered the changing room hallway, without thinking too much about where I was and why. After all, I decided, this was probably for the best. Del, even if he realized where I had gone would not follow me here. And who said he had even seen me?

I looked over what Mom had given me to try on. A gym uniform in our colors plus skirts and tops of the sort other girls wore to school. Other girls? Well, for the next two weeks, but when I went back to school I would not be wearing any of this stuff.

I knew I really did have to try things on, though. Mom would ask and I would tell her the truth. With Dad, you could fudge things a bit. Tell him what he wanted to hear and he wasn't so keen to ask more questions. Didn't work that way with Mom.

I did try on the gym uniform with the red shorts and the polo-style shirt with gold collar-and-cuffs and red pin-stripes. It fit my temporarily augmented figure well enough but something seemed off. After looking at myself from different angles in the tri-fold mirror, I decided that the thing bothering me about my reflection was my legs. They somehow looked very girly.

"Eesh," I complained. The one modest athletic accomplishment I really could claim was running, and such exercise had given my legs a not unappealing shape. It seemed likely Mom would insist we buy the uniform but I personally hoped never to wear it again.

When I went back to school in two weeks, I would be going as Sam, not Samantha.

I regarded the other clothes Mom had chosen for me to try on with a scowl. Having seen what my legs looked like in gym shorts, I suspected that they would maintain the illusion of girliness in the skirts Mom had picked out, too.

But before I could start changing, Mom's voice called from outside the little changing room, "Are you trying things on?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

"Well, come out and let us see what you look like in something. What are you wearing now?"

"The gym uniform," I replied, pushing back the curtain before I realized I hadn't established just who 'us' was.

"She can look at herself in a mirror for hours. Can't you, Samantha?"

14. Mom has gone too far this time!

I hadn't realized Mom was talking to someone else until I came out of the curtains around the changing booths in my little girl's gym outfit. I gave the dark-haired lady with Mom only a glance and took a bit more time to look at myself in the big mirror there.

I sure didn't look anything like a boy, I realized. The red shorts seemed to imply more shape than I actually had, while the pin-striped shirt flattered my slimness.

I still had my hair up in braids, which made it easier to change clothes for one thing, but I pulled them around in front to see how that looked. Not bad.

Mom was talking to the other lady, but I overheard her say, "She can look at herself in a mirror for hours. Can't you, Samantha?"

I know I blushed when I realized she meant me, but I shot her a glare just the same.

Both the women laughed. "Girls!" said the dark-haired lady I didn't know. "Weren't we the same at that age?" They beamed at me, so I naturally smiled back. A little weak, but it was a smile.

"Sophie tells me that her son is here in the mall somewhere, too," Mom commented.

My braids were too heavy for my hair to stand on end, but I felt the prickle in my scalp nonetheless.

"Samantha?" the dark-haired lady chimed in. "Do they call you Sam at school?"

Yikes! Mission abort, abort! I tried to turn and retreat into the changing rooms, but first the clerk and then mom got in my way. This had to be Del's mom, Mrs. DelForte! There were only two people in the world I wanted to meet less; Del, himself, and Mr. Kant, the vice-principal.

"They do!" Mom was agreeing. "I named her after Elizabeth Montgomery because she had that bewitching blonde crown when she was born?" She did? I was? But my real name is Samson!

Mrs. D, if it was her, laughed. "My boy hates his first name, Pasco. We call him Pesky at home." More laughs. "But the kids at school call him Del."

Oh, jeez! It was her! I froze, which I judged was probably better than flailing my arms wildly and screaming.

But Mrs. D. was talking to me now. "And if you're the girl called Sam, then you're the one he got suspended over back in October."

"Ah—ah—ah!" My mouth froze in the open position. Some momma bird was likely to come by and stuff a worm down my gullet. I could have died of Deep Vein Embarrassment.

Mrs. D. sputtered, laughing, "He pulled your ponytail, and you punched him in the crotch!" She almost choked laughing. "He got suspended for the rest of the day and had to use an ice bag."

"What!" I protested. "Just for the day? I got suspended for three days then, and my latest suspension is for a week because of that!"

Mom was laughing too. She even pointed at me while trying to say something.

Mrs. D. managed to ask, "Another suspension? Did someone else pull your tail?"

I know I must have pouted because Mom made a pouty face back at me. I shook my head. "He-uh-he broke my comb." Jeez, did that sound petty!

Mom supplied more detail. "She sent him to the hospital with a broken head." Oh, the two of them practically howled. I made faces at them, but it didn't help. They were having hysterical melt-downs over me almost killing Leon Frangelli.

What's with these Italian kids giving me trouble? Well, if you live on Long Island, you're going to meet a lot of Italians, I guess.

Mrs. D was wiping her eyes. "Hoo boy! You're a dangerous woman, Sam," she said. "Was this Leon character sweet on you, too?"

"Too? He? Who--what?" As if I weren't embarrassed enough, now I was squealing like a possum. "No! Leon hates me!"

"Are you sure about that?" Mrs. D. asked. "In my experience, if a boy makes trouble for a pretty girl, it's because he likes her."

Mom was nodding. "Your sister told you that, too," she pointed out.

"Yeah, well," I muttered. At least the laughter had died away. "Leon thinks I'm a boy," I pointed out. Heck, he knows I'm a boy, but I didn't say that.

"Mm, hm," said Mrs. D. "Pesky says you dress like a boy but that you have the prettiest hair in the school. He just wanted to touch it."

Pesky Pasco. Heh. That made me smile, but I had to protest again. "He yanked it so hard I spilled my cafeteria tray!"

The ladies shrugged. I looked down at the girl's gym outfit I was wearing. I glanced at my reflection in one of the mirrors. If I'd been dressed like this.... Uh? I sighed.

"Look at her pose," Mom commented to Mrs. D. They both chortled like middle-aged women do. I wanted to glare at them but got distracted, wondering if this would look as good with my hair loose. "You do look nice, dear," Mom observed. "Not as athletic as your sister, but you're so slender!"

"Augh!" I mentioned. Hannah is only as athletic as her current boyfriend wants her to be. She's had enthusiasms for long-distance running, tennis, handball, and golf, and she usually excels in them until she loses interest or changes main squeezes. My only athletic endeavor has been outrunning bullies.

"I have to get changed!" I said, disappearing back into the change rooms. I'd had enough of the momma see-saw act they were putting on.

"We'll wait here to see your next set," Mrs. D. Said.

"Try the green skirt and yellow top, dear," Mom suggested.

I'd been just about to do that thing, so I put on the blue skirt and red top instead. I pulled my braids down in front and looked at myself in the mirror. The red seemed to bring my face into focus more, and white wasn't really my color, I decided. The blue skirt was a bit skimpy, like six inches above my knees, almost as brief as the gym shorts had been.

I put my hand to my throat. The deep v-cut of the blouse's neckline demanded some jewelry. Hannah had a piece of red and blue transparent stones that would look terrific with this outfit. Could I steal the necklace from her?

What was I even thinking about? I squirmed then shivered when I overheard Mom and Mrs. D. outside the changing rooms discussing my fate.

"You said Sam's only fourteen? Do you let her date yet?" Mrs. D. asked.

"Well, she hasn't yet. I think her looks scare the boys her age off," Mom countered.

Huh? Mom knew that wasn't why! My face heated up with the thought of a boy asking me for a date. Yikes!

"Would it be all right if I encouraged Del to ask her?"

Omigod! No!

"Hmm?" Mom hesitated for only a moment. "I know. We'll arrange a double date with her sister. Hannah's boyfriend is a monster, so he can keep order in case Sam tries to punch your boy again."

Mrs. D laughed like bells ringing for my funeral.

"Sam, you look like the ingenue in a musical."

15. Never thought I'd be trying on dresses!

I had to go out to break up the Great Mom Conspiracy, so I put on a big smile and pulled my braids in front before exiting the changing room.

"What do you think?" I asked, almost but not quite twirling. The skirt was long enough that it sort of swished around my legs.

Mrs. D smiled approvingly, and Mom smirked at me.

"You look lovely, dear," Mrs. D enthused. "Those dramatic colors make you look like a starlet."

"Uh—?" I blushed. I glanced at the big mirror but pulled my eyes away before Mom could comment on my vanity.

She had a different zinger ready. "Sam, you look like you're ready to sing a song, like the ingenue in a musical."

The what now?

"Do you let her wear makeup?" Mrs. D asked. "Not that she needs any, but you mentioned performing, and I think she would be a natural on stage."

"She's certainly the chief source of drama around our house," Mom agreed with a glint in her eye that someone else might have described as a twinkle. But I knew Mom—she was hatching a plot. "She hasn't had much interest in makeup until just recently."

Oh! A bald-faced lie! I was not and never had been interested in makeup.

"Maybe just a touch of mascara and some lip color," Mrs. D suggested.

I retreated to the changing room again.

"How many more outfits do you have to try, dear?" Mom called after me.

I looked: the last top-and-skirt combo, yellow-print blouse with white daisies and soft green short skirt, plus the purple dress. "Two," I said.

"Okay, honey," she said. "Don't dawdle, and we can go get some lunch afterward."

"Uh—." I sensed a trap. I wasn't even hungry, and Mrs. D had already suggested she would meet her husband and Del in the food court. "Can we go to the Cheesecake Factory?" I asked, trying to sound innocent. CF was at the far end of the parking lot, well away from the mall lunch stalls.

Mom snorted but did not reply, but I heard her and Mrs. D hatching some plot.

The green skirt was way short, but the white and yellow flowers in the top looked terrific, even with my hair still in braids. I stepped out to let the ladies get a look, and the cashier clapped her hands together.

"Oh!" she said. "Those legs! Do you ride a bike all the time?"

"Uh, no," I said. I looked in the mirror. Okay, face it, I did have very nice legs.

Mrs. D commented, "You need heels with that skirt, young Sam. Make those games look even longer and more slender." Then she cackled. "If Del were to see you now..."

"Isn't he meeting you for lunch?" Mom asked.

"Yes," Mrs. D replied. "He and Umbert will meet me there. I want Chinese, Umbert wants a steak sandwich, and Del will probably get one of those monster burgers with the onion rings inside."

"I want to go to Cheesecake Factory," I tried again. "We never get to the one that's closer."

"Del likes the place too," Mrs. D commented. "Perhaps you and he could go there?"

That stopped me. "Del and me?" I squeaked. "Go together?"

Mrs. D nodded, looking pleased. Mom seemed about ready to bust a gut, so I glared at her on general principles. "Del doesn't like me. He pulled my hair!" I protested.

"Well, he did apologize, didn't he? He told me he did."

"Um, yeah," I admitted. He apologized several times while he was crouching on the floor, and Mr. Kant made me apologize for punching him.

"Everything fits, doesn't it, dear?" Mom asked.

"Sure," I said, startled. I looked down to see what I was wearing. "Oh, I haven't tried the purple dress," I remembered.

"It's a wrap style. I'm sure it will fit. Go put that on, and you can wear it out. Just pass me all the tags, and I'll pay."

"All of them?" I tried not to cringe.

"Mmm, hmm," said Mom. "That's the agreement. We buy you new clothes, and you wear them."

I sighed, heading for the changing room again. Two skirts, two tops, a dress and a gym set: I would be well supplied with girl's clothes of my own and not have to borrow from Hannah. Oh, joy.

I quickly got out of the green skirt and the top, wondering vaguely if I would ever wear them again. The skirt was awfully short, "And besides," I told myself quietly, "I'm a guy."

Mom poked her head in while I was standing there in my girly underwear to collect all the tags. "Jeez, Mom," I complained.

"Oh, hush," she said. "Put the dress on, and we'll go get some lunch."

"Cheesecake Factory?" I said hopefully.

"Maybe," she lied, and we both knew it, then she withdrew with the tags.

"Huff," I said, staring at the dress on the hangar. But I had to wear something.

The wrap-around styling baffled me for a bit. You put it on kind of like a shirt, tied a little string to a hidden loop inside at the waist, then wrapped the rest of the dress right-to-left across and tied it off with a big cloth belt. It had lots of ruffles at the shoulders, neckline, waist and hem, part of what confused me.

The color was more lavender than purple, and the price tag said $78. I hoped that paying that much would make Mom and Dad wince. The only suit I owned hadn't cost that, and it was more than half as much as the other three sets of things put together.

At least it almost reached my knees, but the way it folded in the front gave a glimpse of my inner thighs. I stared at myself in the mirror. This was a sophisticated party dress, and it made me look older than fourteen! And sexy. No other word for it. Holy crap!

"Mom!" I called out, almost panicking. "Mom! Come here, please!" I went to the curtain and stuck my head out, but Mom was using her credit card at the counter.

Mrs. D beamed at me and started to say something, but just then her phone rang. While she dealt with that, I called to Mom again. "Mom, please. I'm not leaving this booth until you come see."

"What? The dress?" she peered over her shoulder at me. "Just come out far enough to show me."

I heard Mrs. D say to someone, "Yes, we're in LaRue, looking at dresses."

I stepped out where Mom could see me. Her eyebrows went up. "Which of us picked that out?"

"You did," I accused. The real problem was at the hem, but the neckline almost showed the lace of my bra! I didn't know what to do with my hands.

"Oh, my, Sam," Mrs. D said. "That's stunning." She held her phone up, pointed at me. "Can you see this?" she asked someone.

I didn't like that, but Mom had said nothing else, so I prompted her. "Mom, please? Do you want me to wear this?"

She blinked, then smiled. "You're going to need shoes...."

Now I was supposed to waggle my wings to show I understood.

16. Who could possibly eat lunch?

It happened so fast. We got out of LaRue's with a huge bag of stuff, me wearing the lavender wrap dress and Mrs. D still babbling on the phone to her husband.

"Ask Del how he feels about taking Sam to the Cheesecake Factory. She wants to go," she said.

I—what? Distracted by the swishyness of the wrap skirt, it took me more than a moment to realize what Mom had suggested. This was not going according to plan. I looked around, trying to plot an escape route, but we were practically in the middle of the mall.

Mrs. D broke into a peal of laughter then waved her fingers at me. "Del is asking if you promise not to punch him this time if he admires your hair?"

"I—no!" I wasn't going to promise any such thing! I shook my head, then put a hand on one of my braids. Now Mom was laughing at me!

"She won't," Mrs. D told her phone, choosing to misunderstand me. Grinning, she turned, putting the phone away. Then she pointed at the other visible end of the curving mall hallway where someone was waving. "There they are!" she said.

I squinted, peering that direction. Yikes! It was Del and the man I had identified as his father, waving at us like we were going to land on their carrier. I saw that in a movie once, I think. Now I was supposed to waggle my wings to show I understood.

To heck with that! Maybe I could hide in the shoe store again? But no, they were between me and it, now.

The tall, dark-haired boy who had pulled my hair in the cafeteria called out to me. "Sam?" He had a smiling mouth but the same sad eyes I remembered.

"It's me," I said—no point denying it. I moved the bag of clothes I was carrying in front of me, sort of trying to hide behind it. It was big enough, being the bag with all the outer clothes we had purchased.

Del (yes, it was him) stepped right up to me. "Let me carry that for you," he offered. He took the bag, and I hadn't thought I would let him, but I was busy noticing how tall he was. Over six feet by some inches, I was sure. I know I'm not very big, but I felt tiny.

I blurted out a question, "How tall are you?" I knew it was rude when I asked.

He grinned. "Six-three," he answered. "How tall are you?"

Equally rude, so I didn't answer.

He put the bag under his arm and fell in beside me, following our collective parents. We were evidently going somewhere, but I had no idea where.

"You're a freshman, right?" Del asked. "Do you have Mr. Muller for Science?"

"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. I nodded. "The man is insane!" I laughed, and Del nodded agreement.

"He's a hoot," he added. "Has he done the trick with putting sodium in a bucket of water yet? Almost set the building on fire when he did it my freshman year."

We both laughed.

"He mentioned that when he did it for my class. Said that was why he was using only five grams instead of twenty!" We laughed again.

I was still smiling at him when he apologized. "I'm sorry about pulling your hair last fall," he said. "The guys dared me to do it."

"Yeah, well," I said, a bit sour. I'd almost forgotten for a moment that he was one of my mortal enemies. "It wasn't very nice, but apology accepted."

He was still grinning down at me. "You got me pretty good with that punch. Who knew such a small girl could hit so hard."

Now...now was not the time to tell him I was a boy, standing there wearing padded underwear and makeup with a lavender dress swishing around my knees. Instead, I made a fist and tried to glare up at him. "I guess I'm just the right height?" I said.

He laughed even harder. I stared at him, then glanced around to see if we were attracting attention. Apparently not. Even our parents were ignoring us. I kept staring at him. Even while laughing, his eyes looked sad, like they had missed hearing the joke.

I felt bad about having punched him in the crotch six months ago, now. I hadn't before, not even after getting detention for it or having my suspension lengthened because of it. "I am sorry about punching you," I said when he paused in his laughter to wipe tears from his sad eyes.

"That's okay," he said, smiling more guilt down at me. "I guess I deserved it."

Okay, I giggled a bit at that. Embarrassment? Maybe.

He went on, accepting more responsibility for provoking me. "The guys kept telling me you were a guy, and all that hair was a wig. So they started making bets, mostly that I wouldn't go over and pull your—uh—your wig...." He saw my expression. "What?" he asked.

Would there ever be a better time? I tried to sound as serious as I could, trying to communicate that I was telling the truth. "But, Del, I am a guy!" I told him.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Remind me never to play poker with you," he said. "That is the deadpanned-est delivery I've ever seen." His grin even reached his eyes this time, and they lit up as his caterpillar brows climbed up his face, and his sleepy eyelids opened up to show his enjoyment of my joke.

Oh, good grief!

"No, really," I said earnestly.

He laughed harder.

"You don't believe me?" I asked. Well, it was obvious that he didn't. I don't know why I asked.

He shook his head, still grinning and chuckling.

I brought up my fist. "I could punch you again," I said. "Would you believe me then?"

He shook his head, trying not to laugh in my face.

It was so ridiculous. I poked him in the belly button with my closed fist. "Del, I am a boy!" I said, but I was giggling myself by now.

He closed his big, basketball-engulfing hand over my tiny one and pulled me closer. "If our parents weren't right there, I'd kiss you and find out for sure."

"Huh?" I managed to say. "What do you mean?" Stop giggling! Had my brain stopped working for some reason?

"I think I could tell kissing a girl apart from kissing a boy," he said, still smiling.

Despite the draft on my legs in the wrap-around skirt, a rush of blood to my face made me feel hot. I choked off the giggles and opened my mouth to dare him to kiss me!

Mrs. D saved me from that foolish thought, "Del, you and Sam head over to the Cheesecake Factory. She's got her heart set on it."

Mom was holding her hand out with something that looked like money. She pulled me close and whispered to me, "Let him pay if he wants to, but here's enough to cover you if he doesn't." I took the money, but Mom took it back and slipped it into the purse I had forgotten I was carrying.

Del took my hand while his parents and my mom waved at us. He led me to a side door to the mall's inner parking lot. "Do you want a burger or just get a dessert?" he asked.

"D-d-d-d-Del!" I protested. Had Mom just suckered me into going on a date with a boy?

Maybe I could hide in the shoe store again?

17. Am I on a date with a boy?

I like Cheesecake Factory but I'm not actually as fond of it as I just pretended. And that had backfired spectacularly, because now I was traipsing across the parking lot with Pasco-freaking-DelForte who I had been trying to avoid with my dumb-show about cheesecake!

"Careful," said Del as we reached the stairs leading from the upper parking lot to the lower one next to the restaurant. Who puts stairs in the middle of six acres of parking? How much is an acre, anyway?

There were no guide rails on the stairs, more insanity. They weren't that steep, but still.

Del reached for my hand, asking, "Are you wearing heels?"

"No," I said but I let him take my hand anyway. His felt rough and hard, not like my hand at all. He had huge hands, in fact—the better to play basketball, I supposed.

We went down the steps holding hands. I couldn't work out why I was letting him hold my hand. I felt giddy and severely tempted by giggles.

"You have a nice smile," he commented.

I opened my mouth and closed it again.

Somehow we reached the restaurant, still holding hands. The place was filling fast but we beat the crowd and were taken to our table quickly. Del held the chair for me, and I sat down, nervously looking from side to side to see if anyone looked scandalized at our behavior.

An older couple smiled at me, both of them. What were they thinking? Heck, I'm such a poor telepath, I didn't even know what I was thinking. At least we weren't holding hands anymore.

The menu seemed to be printed in Old High Church Slavonian, but the pictures were nice. I kept looking up from the menu and seeing Del. He had a long lean face, dark hair in a plain cut that suited him, and warm brown eyes with flecks of green and gold in them.

Which is when I realized we had been sitting there staring at each other. I looked down at the menu quickly. What did he think he was seeing when he looked at me with his sad eyes and a smile so near his mouth? Did I look as much like a goof as I was feeling?

The waitress stopped at our table. "Something to drink?" she inquired. I pointed at the picture of the raspberry iced tea. Del ordered something brown and fizzy. The waitress went away.

The noise in the room increased as an early lunch crowd filtered in. The sound became a wall around our table. I kept trying to read the menu but found myself studying Del's face while he studied mine. What is happening, I wondered? What is happening to me, to us?

The waitress returned with our drinks. "Have you decided?" she asked. Decided what? That we're on a date? That no one has ever looked at me the way Del is? That I've never seen anyone who fascinates me like he does?

Del ordered something, a burger with ham and an egg on it. Huh? I wrinkled my nose at him and he laughed. The waitress asked again what I wanted and I pointed to a picture.

"The California burger?" she asked and I confirmed by nodding. "Do you want fries?"

I shook my head.

"She can have some of mine," Del offered.

I smiled.

After she walked away, he commented, "Calling it California means it has avocado on it."

I nodded.

"Do you like avocado?"

I shrugged.

He laughed softly. "I wonder what they call it in California?"

I thought about that but couldn't think of anything to say on the subject.

"Maybe they have something they call a Long Island burger?" he suggested. "What would that have on it?"

"Not avocado?" I ventured after a moment. "Maybe grape leaves and coney sauce?"

He laughed and I liked the way he laughed. "So you can talk again?" he observed.

I bit my lip and opened my eyes wide.

He shook his head and laughed some more. "Why grape leaves?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Why grape leaves on the Long Island burgers in California?"

"I don't know. Maybe they think we have a lot of Greek hamburger stands?"

He had trouble replying to that and I got the giggles, too.

"That makes no sense!" he finally managed. "They don't put grape leaves on hamburgers in Greek burger places!"

"Well, not here," I said. "But maybe they do in California?"

"And that—that makes it a Long Island burger?"

"Sure!" I nodded, feeling my braids move on my back. I put a hand up to pull them in front and arrange them better.

He watched me, smiling. "The coney sauce makes sense."

"That would probably be good," I agreed.

"They put coney sauce on spaghetti noodles in Detroit. They call it a Michigan," he noted.

I shook my head, making my braids move again. "That's their own state. They're doing it wrong." We both laughed and when we stopped, I felt my face burning.

Del reached across the table and caught my hand with his, right beside the raspberry tea. I stared at him and he looked back, his steady brown eyes smiling this time, though his eyebrows still made him look sad.

I took a deep breath to say something but I don't know what because our food came just then. The waitress brought our burgers each on their own plate and a whole platter of french fries which she set between us. We moved our hands to make room, and she smiled at us both and winked at me.

My face burned again but I stuck the tip of my tongue out while I stole a fry off the platter. Then I moved my braids back behind me to keep food off them.

I took the top off my burger to look at the avocado slices. "No grape leaves," I said, trying to sound disappointed.

"You just can't get a good Long Island burger around here anymore," Del said mournfully, like it was a real tragedy. He did it so well, I got the giggles again. "You have to go to California," he added, finishing me off.

"Or, or, or Michigan!" I sputtered.

We ate burgers and fries and talked about more silly stuff. And laughed. A lot.

I was having a really good time with the boy who once pulled my hair and caused me to sock him in the crotch when my phone started ringing. Del's phone rang at almost the same time. "Probably the parental units," he said.

"The who?" I said, distracted while I remembered that my phone was probably in my purse. "Why do you call them that?"

"It's from an old TV show, my Dad quotes it all the time," Del explained. Then he simply pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and answered it.

Me, I first had to retrieve my purse hanging from my chair back, and then the strap got tangled with my braids so that the phone had quit ringing by the time I had it in my hand. Caller ID said, "Mom" but I had figured that already. My own personal parental unit.

It rang again while I still had it in my hand. I pushed the button to answer it. "Gah!" I said.

"Having fun?" Mom asked. "Ready for some more shopping?"

"I guess," I admitted. "I think I'm going to need some high heel shoes," I suggested, looking at Del. "He's like a foot taller than me."

Mom just laughed. Had I said that out loud? No fair, she caught me by surprise.

Both my braids were between us, so I pushed them back.

18. Del isn't such a bad guy, after all.

After we got off our phones to our respective parental units who were going to meet us outside the restaurant in ten minutes, Del asked, "So what are you doing Friday night?"

"Gah," I replied. He grinned at me, making his sad eyes crinkle up. We were only waiting for the server to return with the charge slip for Del to sign.

"I'm not allowed to go on solo dates," I managed. At least, that had been the rule when Hannah was my age. "I mean if that's why you're asking." I made a face, too, like I was apologizing.

Did I want to go on a date with Del? That question buzzed around in my head like an Amazon delivery drone looking for 334 Olive St. I'm not sure I heard the next thing he said.

"Huh?" I said. Well, it works for other blondes. I pulled at one of my braids to enhance the image.

"You've got a sister, right? Maybe we could double date with her?"

"Uh...." I considered how that would work. I shook my head. "On Fridays, she goes to the gym to watch her boyfriend commit assault on opposing wrestlers." It wasn't football season.

"Perfect!" he said.

I laughed at him. He looked and sounded so absurdly pleased.

"No, seriously," he said. "She can be our chaperone, and then we can go get burgers or pizza with her and Gronkowski after the match."

"Bronkowski," I corrected him. "He's the Gronk because of some cartoon character, but his name is really Bronkowski."

"Is he sensitive about it?"

"Uh...." I giggled at the thought. The Gronk was about as sensitive as a slab of asphalt. It escaped before I could think about whether I should be giggling.

Del still seemed pleased. "I don't know him well," he explained. "He's a senior, and we don't do the same sports."

"Hmm," I said. I thought of something. Mom and Mrs. D had already talked about setting me up on a double date with Hannah. I started to feel a bit trapped.

Del smiled at me, and I smiled back. It was like automatic. I couldn't help it. Somehow, we were holding hands again, my two dainty mitts covered by his huge ones.

We stared at each other for a bit, long enough for the server to return for the signature freeing us to leave. I don't know what was going through Del's mind, but I had been considering how to get out of a Friday night date that seemed foreordained.

And secondarily, did I really want to get out of it? We seemed to do a lot of staring at each other, not saying anything, just staring. His eyes were a warm dark brown with glints of gold and green and even blue. I think I said that before.

What did he see when he looked into my eyes? The server came back with the card he had used just then, and I blinked as he took his hands off mine to take the clipboard she held out for him to sign.

I gathered my purse, surprising myself by remembering it, and Del helped me stand. It was an odd feeling, especially since he kept hold of my hand as we left the restaurant.

I heard him thank the servers and the hostess, and I nodded and smiled at them. They did the same back. Was this some sort of girlfriend protocol? Did I not have to say anything because he took care of that?

What was happening to me? With my long hair, people had been mistaking me for a girl for years. But this was different. Del, and everyone else, were treating me like a girl, and I was just going along....

Was I liking it? I decided I might be, as play-acting, it was kind of fun. But when my two weeks were up, I would naturally go back to being a boy.

Wouldn't I?

We found some shade under tall trees that must have been planted when the mall was new. A green-painted steel bench that was only long enough for two people to sit close together waited there for us.

Del held my hand while I sat, brushing my skirt out from under me, exactly like I had been doing so since kindergarten. Then he sat beside me, smiling with his sad eyes and still holding my hand. He'd said a few things as we left the restaurant and found our resting place, but I hadn't heard a word, just the sound of his baritone murmur.

"You're quiet," he observed.

I considered answering with a terse, "Yep," but decided to just nod instead.

He grinned, and another giggle may have escaped me.

He put an arm around my shoulders, and I—I leaned against him. What am I doing? I wondered. He felt so strong and solid. Reliable? I wasn't sure.

"I think I like quiet girls," he said aloud.

"Oh, now you've spoiled it," I said in a light voice. I'm teasing him. Am I flirting?

"I know I like you," he said. And he bent his big head toward me. I turned to face him, and he kissed me on the forehead.

I couldn't breathe! I'd just been kissed by a boy! My face felt hot, my middle felt cold, and my brain was being freeze-dried between them. What would happen if he were to kiss me on the lips?

I made to pull away from him, and he instantly let go of my hand and took his arm off my shoulders. He still smiled down at me, though.

"It's a good thing you're so tall," I said, my heart thuttering in my chest like a bird against the high windows in the multi-purpose room at school.

"Why's that?" He murmured the question so quietly I had to lean toward him again to hear.

Both of my braids swung around between us, so I brushed them back. I turned my face up toward his and whispered back, "Because you missed." I did something with the tip of my tongue. "My lips are down here," I said.

What the heck am I doing!?!

His sad eyes announced his intent to kiss me again, and I tried to brace myself for the impact. Then he straightened up and leaned away from me again. "The parental units are here," he said.

I almost landed face down in his lap! How embarrassing would that have been?

I heard Mom's voice announce their arrival. "We got here as quickly as we could, and none too soon, I see." She sounded more than amused.

Mrs. D chimed in. "We're using your father as a pack mule, Del. Come take a few packages off him, please." She sounded neutral, if not slightly disapproving.

"Do," grunted Mr. D. "You can see how your girlfriend tastes later."

Ack!

The adults laughed, but for me, mortifaction had begun, and I sat unmoving and certainly unable to speak.

"Sam's not my girlfriend," Del announced. "Yet," he added after two beats. He turned to smile at me and offered a hand to help me up from the bench.

My heart had started beating again, so I took it and stood.

Del and Mr. D juggled packages while Mom slipped an arm around my waist. "I talked to your sister," she said quietly. "She's down with being your chaperone. Did Del ask you out?"

I nodded, afraid of making squeaking noises if I opened my mouth.

"Hannah even seems eager for the chore," Mom observed.

Oh, jeez! She's already plotting how much she's going to tease me!

I wondered what he would look like in basketball shorts...?

19. I guess I'd better confess...

After more yak-yak by the adults and Del and I not really having time or space to talk, it seemed settled. Del and I would be double dating Saturday night with Hannah and the Gronk. Not Friday because Gronk had a wrestling match at another school's gym, but not Thursday because Del was on the junior varsity basketball team, which would be playing that night.

"You and Hanna should come see me play," Del managed to get in edgewise. I wondered what he would look like in basketball shorts even while I was already nodding.

"Hey, uh, and Friday, I could go with Hannah to see her guy gronkalize his opponents, and, uh, maybe you could be there too?" What did I just say!?

Del's dark broody eyes lit up at that suggestion. Oh, shit, oh, shit. Have I just set up three dates with... my boyfriend? You could probably have toasted marshmallows on the heat from my face just then, but wow, I felt all light and bubbly inside!

*

I don't know how we got out of there, the DelFortes went one way and Mom, and I headed back to the mall. "You said something about needing shoes?" she reminded me.

I nodded, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. But—"I'm going to need some heels, Mom!" I said. "I know you didn't let Hannah wear them till she was fifteen but—but..."

"But Del is so tall?" She was smiling!

"He's even taller than the Gronk! By inches, plural!" I said. "I feel like a midget next to him." I pulled my braids nervously in front of me like I was trying to hide behind them. "And, and there's this shoe shop I was in that I promised them I'd be back...." I looked maybe a bit hopefully at Mom. This expedition was costing a ton, and we still hadn't bought the hair kit stuff that I had really agreed to this shopping trip for.

She laughed at me. Okay, maybe my expression was funny or something. "Is my little tomboy Samantha turning into a girlie-girl?" she asked.

She might as well have hit me with a fish! A three-day-old smelly mullet from the alley behind Charley's Chowder Haven—okay, maybe not. That would be more just gross instead of astonishing. I'd only been dressing as a girl for a couple of days, and I was... what was I doing? Planning on enjoying myself with my new boyfriend? The same guy I had punched in the nuts last October?

Well, yeah, I guess so.

But it must have been the buying of the shoes that forced me to confess. Okay, okay, I kind of like being a girl. I confessed to myself, not to my Mom. She had her own opinions of how I was acting.

I tried to dial it back a bit. I really tried. But everyone was being so nice to me, and since dressing as a girl, I'd got nothing but compliments on my hair. No one suggested cutting my hair, even once. And no one seemed to have even a clue that I was a boy.

Still, I mean, who else but a girlie-girl would end up spending almost two hours picking out shoes she was buying mostly because the guy who is sort of her boyfriend is almost a foot taller than her? Than him? Than me!

Mom didn't tease me much, just offered advice when I asked. The mall had like fourteen shoe stores, and we may have hit them all, starting with the one where I had hidden after seeing Del and his father going into Yukon Fitters. Wait. What had happened to the game store bag Del had been carrying? I'd meant to ask him what he'd bought.

Then I remembered Mr. D. had taken that bag when Del and I set out for the cheesecake factory. I'd have to remember to ask when I saw him again.

I stopped right in the entrance back into the store on that thought—that I'd be seeing Del again. It had given me a little thrill.

Mom paused beside me. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing!" I said, and she laughed at me. And winked as if she knew exactly what I had been thinking. I huffed at her and went on into the shop. Mothers think they know everything.

But Deirdre (the shoe store lady) remembered me, and I bought my first pair of high heels from her before going on to look at other shoe stores.

I ended up buying two pairs of high heels, one black, one red, both three-1/2 inches tall. Mom's rule was less than four inches, tops. And two more pairs of low heels, a yellow-dun pair and one in navy. And a pair of really kitschy high heel sneakers! Four-inch hidden heels, taller than the wedge heels I bought — and these shocking purple laces! Love them, wore them out of the store.

Okay, so who spends over $300 on shoes? Only a girlie-girl, like me, I guess. I got a ton of bargains but -- yikes!

I kept expecting Mom to put her foot down, if not on top of mine. But no, she was all in, pointing out that I couldn't keep wearing my sister's old shoes that didn't fit her anymore. Even if she did have a humongous supply of them. I mean, if I'm going to end up with as many shoes of my own as Hannah, I've got a lot of catching up to do.

And we didn't just buy shoes. I ended up with two handbags, a billfold and some stockings, too. Well, pantyhose. Mom actually vetoed the pair of patterned stockings I liked, possibly because they were red.

"You don't have anywhere to wear those," she said. "At least, nowhere your father is going to let you go wearing them."

I got the giggles and admitted that, yeah, they were probably a little too far out there.

Last, we got the hair curling kit I wanted: the big one with the nine different size tubes, the mister, the no-heat, hand-held, wide hairdryer and a bottle of stuff for the mister that had only all-natural ingredients that wouldn't damage my hair. I could barely wait to get home to try it all out. Who wants to wear braids all the time?

"You're done?" Mom asked as we headed toward the car with our bags.

"Huh? Yeah, I guess...." I looked at her sideways. Mom had used a certain voice inflection there that I was suspicious of. She seemed to be setting me up.

"Yup," she said in a tone of conclusion. "You're done."

"What does that mean?" I asked as we loaded our purchases in the back of the car.

"You know, your father and I were not having you dress this way as punishment." She motioned at what I was wearing, and I looked down at myself for a moment. "It was really an experiment."

I rolled my eyes at her. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."

We got in the car and buckled up, me being careful not to muss my clothes with the belt. She watched me, grinning.

"For all of your protests and whining and begging off...." We bent toward each other and traded awkward hugs. "We knew you really wanted to do this."

I sighed. "How could you know when I didn't?" I asked her.

She rolled her eyes before starting the car. "Honey, everyone knew. That's why the boys gave you such a hard time at school. You've always been Samantha, my younger daughter, the prettier one."

I giggled and smirked at that. "Okay, okay." I pulled down the mirror in the sun visor and looked at myself: make-up, hair braids, jewelry. I pulled my braids back in front and folded the mirror back up as we turned onto the avenue.

"You aren't going to be changing back at the end of the two weeks," Mom commented.

Not a question but nope. I shook my head, feeling my braids swish. I'm Samantha.