The day before school starts, we are in Dare’s bedroom, trying on every single piece of clothing she owns. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. Shoes. (Even though her foot is a size and a half smaller than mine.) Dare even borrowed a couple of her mom’s flowing scarves for us to glam it up with.
Once, when we were little, and did this during a sleepover, Dare’s mom, Ophelia, looked at me strangely for a few moments, then came into the room and joined us. And when I asked her to put makeup on my face like she was doing for Dare, she did but said, “Don’t you tell your parents I did this. Okay?”
Even back then I knew it would be okay to tell Mom but not Dad. But I didn’t mention it to either of them. Just in case. It made me feel so good that Ophelia accepted me for who I was. That she didn’t think there was anything wrong with my wanting to wear makeup, too.
Now I’m wrapped in a fabulous purple scarf and wearing a long black skirt and silky navy top with a plunging neckline that shows exactly how flat my stupid boy chest is. A pang of jealousy hits me as I look at Dare’s new and improved boobs. She’s so lucky her body made them over the summer. She didn’t even have to do a single thing to make it happen. I’ll need to take estrogen hormones if I want my body to make boobs someday. But before I can do that, I need hormone blockers to stop my body from betraying me and developing male characteristics. I’ve got to make Dad understand how important the blockers are, how they can buy me time before permanent, irreversible changes take place. All the wrong changes.
But I don’t need to think about that right now. For the moment, I can take a break from worrying.
Dare is wearing pink sweatpants and a purple T-shirt with fake gems in the shape of a heart on it.
“So,” Dare says, trying on a rainbow-colored scarf. “Are you gonna finally do it?”
“Do what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means. I’m stalling.
Dare rummages through the mess of clothes we piled on her floor. “Do this,” she says, depositing a pink skirt and my favorite light blue blouse on the bed. “First day of school. You, being you.”
I touch the silky fabric of the blouse—so much softer than the boy clothes Dad buys me. I rub it against my cheek, and it feels just right against my skin. Dare has no idea how much I want to do this. But I think of Dad and how he hates when I dress like a girl. Then I think of the kids at school who already make fun of me. I think of Dunkin. I look at Dare and say, “Maybe it would be better if I wait a year and do it when we start high school. The kids will be more mature then. Right?”
“Ugh!” Dare throws her beautiful brown arms up in total despair. “What am I going to do with you, Lily Jo McGrother?”
I clutch Dare’s soft pillow to my chest. “Be my friend.”
Dare plops down onto the bed. “I can do that. But at least take these home with you. Think about it.”
I love that Dare calls me Lily when we’re not in school. Mom calls me Lily now, too, even though Dad doesn’t like it. And Sarah told me she’d call me Lily when I’m ready to fully be Lily.
“Okay,” I say. And with that one word, I make a promise to myself.
I will try again.
