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I was a girl. I’d always been a girl. I’d always dressed like a girl. But then I went to school and they told me I was a boy.

Skirting the Dress Code, by Karin Bishop

Part 5

Chapter 9: Inappropriate Attire

Shoes must be worn at all times. Flip-flops, sandals or slippers are not permitted. All shoes must be closed toed and must have a back strap.

Drake was saving a seat for me, as before, and I slid in, smoothing my skirt under me. My original plan had been to dress like most of the other girls, who wore pants because they were less hassle, less worry, than skirts. But I thought I needed to firmly establish my girlhood to Mr. Abrams and anybody else. I had to prove that I wasn’t a disturbance or it would allow them to use the Dress Code to get me out of class.

So today I wore a gray pleated skirt that was kicky and swingy and a pink top with short, puffed sleeves and a V-neckline. I wore a cream camisole underneath. My hair was down and I felt so cute and girly sliding into the seat next to Drake.

We made small talk, about movies and TV and all too soon we were at school. I walked into school with him and noticed some stares, not because it was me, I think, but because kids always stared at couples as they formed.

My classes were fine, even Study Hall; I didn’t seem to rate even a stare from Mr. Abrams. Well, I had a question about a project and hesitated to approach him, but what the heck; I couldn’t live in fear of the guy so I seized the bull by the horns. I went up to his desk.

“Mr. Abrams?”

“Yes, Miss Tilden?”

Victory, I thought; I got an automatic ‘miss’! “Mr. Sanchez, in Social Studies, has assigned a project on Martin Luther King, and we have to listen to his speeches. I downloaded some onto my iPod and was going to listen to them and take notes here, but I realized that it might violate some rules.”

That earned a stare. He was sizing me up, trying to figure if I was bluffing. I showed him my iPod with the ‘I Have A Dream’ speech cued up, and the project sheet from the teacher. He frowned and then un-frowned.

“Miss Tilden, I’m going to say no to that, but you deserve an explanation. I applaud your decision to ask me first, and I think that it would be a very good way to study the speeches of Dr. King. But I’m afraid I can’t allow it in Study Hall; it’s sort of like the summer camp cookie thing, you know?”

I stared blankly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. I don’t know what you mean.”

He smiled. “Come on; the thing with getting cookies in summer camp.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I really don’t understand. Uh …I’ve never been to summer camp.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Never?”

“No, sir. They’ve usually been too expensive.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that; some of them are exorbitant …but what do you do with your summers?”

“I read. I volunteer more down at the shelter. My mother and …”

Mr. Abrams face had suddenly clouded, enough for me to hesitate.

“Mr. Abrams?” I asked tentatively.

“Volunteer down at the shelter,” he said, partly mimicking me and partly in disgust.

“Yes, sir,” I said, confused.

“That’s not something to joke about, Miss Tilden.”

At least I was still a ‘Miss’! “Mr. Abrams, I’m not joking.”

He continued to frown. Clearly he thought I was making it up.

I sighed. “My uncle had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from Vietnam. And he was living on the streets. My mom was a little girl, but as she grew up she tried to do all she could, but …Anyway, to remember him, and others, I help out a couple of times a week …My mom says we should give back to the community, so I’ve been volunteering there for a couple of years now.”

His face was unreadable. I frowned. “This all sounds kind of hokey, I guess. It isn’t; it’s just …”

“No, no; go on,” he said gently. With the start of a smile?

“It’s just that most people don’t even see people on the street. They’re invisible. But they all have lives, personal histories; some of them might have had bad luck or some of them might be lazy or anything. But then there are the veterans, guys like my Uncle Stuart …” I sighed. “He gave his soul to his country, and came back and got called a ‘baby killer’ and worse …”

“I know,” he said softly.

“He should have gotten the same treatment and care as the guys that lost legs or arms—not that they’re not worth as much; I mean, they all sacrificed for their country. But the guys that had PTSD …got left behind. And there are a lot of them on the street. I wasn’t even alive then, or even the first Iraq war, but …when I help one of those guys, it’s like trying to pay them back for their sacrifice. And I tell them ‘thank you’.” I frowned again, seeing the faces of men and women I’d thanked, and I swallowed, wanting to be off the subject. “You’re right about the iPod. I don’t know what the summer camp cookie thing is, but I guess if other kids saw me with it they’d think it was okay to fire theirs up.” I nodded. “I should have thought of that. Sorry to bother you.” I turned to go.

“Wait, Miss Tilden,” he said. His face was kinder than I’d ever seen it. “The summer camp cookie thing—I’m sorry you haven’t had the experience—but it’s where if one kid is sent cookies from home, he has to share with everybody. But you figured it out yourself; the Study Hall rules call for no music or listening devices. And if I made an exception for you the others would , as you said, fire theirs up.” He paused and smiled. “You’re a remarkable girl, Miss Tilden.”

“Thank you, sir. Apparently it’s because of the home school I went to; Mrs. Danby in the Office says she could tell.”

“Perhaps, but you must have a remarkable family, as well. I don’t …” He frowned, but it seemed to be at himself. “When I hear personal stories such as yours, I’m reminded of how little I’ve done to …pay them back, as you said. What is the shelter you work at?”

“The Beacon. On Fourth?”

“Dangerous part of town.”

“Mom or a neighbor drops me off. And I’m safe there; a lot of the people know me and watch out for me. And I don’t know about ‘dangerous’; I just think of that part of town as ‘rough’. Rough lives lived on rough streets.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded and murmured. “I’m sorry about having to say no to the iPod and Dr. King.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Abrams. If I’d thought about it longer before coming up, I would have realized it wasn’t a good idea.”

I smiled and went back to my seat, but I distinctly heard Mr. Abrams say to himself, under his breath, “God bless you, Miss Tilden.”

Wow.

* * *

At Lunch, Shannon and I sat and commented on the circus around us. When I went to throw my lunch things away, Amy suddenly appeared next to me.

“Hi, Laurie.”

“Amy! Hi! How you doin’?” I said, genuinely glad to see her.

Now she appeared uncertain. “I just …wanted to see if, you know …it was okay to know you …”

I chuckled. “I think that’s a maybe. And I only said that for your sake, you know? Because all the adults told me I was going to have such problems with haters and stuff. I had one guy screw up my locker—”

“Yeah, that Brady guy. Got busted yesterday.”

“Right. But I think he’s …” I stepped closer. “I let him think that it’s just a clerical mistake, about ‘Laurence’. Just a screw-up in my name.”

“Cool! God, I don’t even think about you that way anymore.”

It was true; we’d been very friendly if not closest friends in our home school class, and often rode together and had done sleepovers and swims together with Rachel and sometimes Tricia or another girl.

I shrugged. “I just wanted you safe, in case I got dumped on; I didn’t want it to spatter on you, so to speak. I know it’s only the second week, but it already looks like things are calming down.”

“Well, watch out for Jennifer Malkins. I hear she’s kind of a bitch and she’s said some dumb stuff about you.”

“Thanks for the warning, Amy. You doing okay, with the new school, I mean?”

“Yeah. It’s weird seeing so many people!”

“I know!” I laughed. “And I’m kind of amazed …” I looked around and whispered. “How dumb some of them are!”

Amy laughed. “I know. But it’s like they always told us; the public school has to teach to the lower third.”

We both looked around and realized we had both been trying to spot ‘the lower third’ and laughed.

Amy said, “Hey, you wanna do a sleepover this weekend? Maybe Saturday?”

“I’ll check with Mom. Who’s coming?”

“Beside the two of us—if you can make it—I’ve asked some new girls I’ve met. Erika Lengstradt, Carmen Moreno, Ellie Corbett. And …maybe Jennifer Malkins.”

“Um …didn’t you just say she’s a bitch?”

“I thought maybe if I at least ask then I won’t be a target.”

“Good thinking. And if she accepts?”

“I figure three things can happen. Either she’s not a bitch and it’s cool; or she is a bitch but decides I’m okay and doesn’t bother me; or she is a bitch and gets ammo to target me. So, I have two-out-of-three chances of something good happening.” She shrugged. “Seems like a good strategy at this point.”

I chuckled. “Yow. You are your father’s daughter.” Amy’s dad was ex-military and spoke in military terms—ammunition, damage assessment, target acquisition …always viewing life in strategic terms.

We headed off for class and I couldn’t wait for school to end so I could ride with Drake. And it was a replay of the morning, and today, he rode with me to my stop and walked me home. I had just put my hand on my door knob and then he did it.

“Laurie, I was wondering if you wanted to do something this weekend? Maybe go to a movie, or even just hang out at the mall or a park or something.”

“Um …sure,” I smiled, without even thinking. “But I have to check with Mom. I’m not sure what she’s got planned for me. What day? Or night, I guess?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I might be doing something Saturday night, I know that, but it’s not firm yet. Can I let you know tomorrow?”

“Sure. Well …uh …goodbye.” He frowned and was about to turn away.

I read his look, and risked being forward. I put my hand on his arm.“Drake? Yes, I want to do something with you this weekend. It’s just the scheduling; really. I’ll let you know when, as soon as I know.”

“Cool!” he smiled, and that smile was wonderful!

I smiled back and said goodbye and went inside and felt like I wanted to shout, to scream, to burst! I was so full of feeling! I ran to a side window so I could see him walking, his cute butt tightening with each step …and I felt something in me, too, watching that!

When Mom got home, I told her about Amy and then about Drake, and then about Mr. Abrams; all three in a rush. She thought long and hard and said ‘Let’s talk about it over tea’ which meant serious talk after dinner, with a pot of Earl Grey.

Once we were settled on the couch after dinner, she went through all of the boilerplate and stuff the mysterious Parent Handbook said she had to say, and finally we settled that I could do the mall or an early movie with Drake until ten on Friday, and if I wanted to, I could do the sleepover as well. She liked the idea of potentially widening my circle of friends, and she especially liked Amy’s plan to ‘keep her enemies closer’ with Jennifer Malkins at the sleepover.

Chapter 10: Inappropriate Attire

No pajamas, tank tops, bare-midriff, or see-through blouses may be worn.

Friday, I rode with Drake on the morning bus but not the afternoon. We’d been kind of giggly—or I had—sitting next to each other, and everything seemed to take on new meaning, even the way he flicked his hair. I was starting to crush pretty badly, and I wondered if it was because we were going out tonight, or just part of it.

When we left the bus, he managed to whisper to me, “I’m really looking forward to seeing you later. Five at the theatre?”

“Absolutely!” I grinned, feeling like I was walking on air as I entered the school. I wore a gray skirt and tights and turquoise top with a scoop-neck and felt like the prettiest, luckiest girl because Drake Russell was taking me on a date tonight!

The buzz was about Brady Kellner returning to school after his one-day suspension. I caught a glimpse of him at lunchtime; I heard Rose mutter, “Jerk!” and I swung around and she was watching Brady and his little entourage, which included two girls.

“Who are the girls?” I asked and thought I knew the answer.

“The blonde one is Jennifer Makens or Malter or something,” Rose said.

“Malkins?” I asked, and Rose nodded. I studied Jennifer, a cheerleader type. “And the other girl?”

“Don’t know her,” Rose said. “If she hangs with Jennifer and Brady, don’t want to.”

“Sandy Brown,” Shannon said, sitting. “Really! Can you believe her parents?”

Rose giggled. “They actually named her Sandy Brown? Why not Violet Blue?”

Shannon teased in a Valley Girl voice, “Because their last name is Brown …Duh!” She laughed. “But I know what you mean. Sandy’s …well, I don’t think she’s actually mean, like Jennifer, but more …well, she’s not very bright and she’s a follower. She’s the type that’ll say, ‘Yeah!’ after Jennifer says something cruel, no matter what it is. But I don’t think Sandy’s cruel; just dumb.”

“That’s a dangerous combination, though,” I said.

“Got that right,” Shannon nodded. “But Brady is …well, he surrounds himself with those kinds. Or they gravitate to him. It’s a strange dynamic that I, for one, do not care to dwell upon,” she said daintily. “Check it out!” and she spun the first edition of the school paper to me, the Herald.

There was a section on locker vandalism, with a warning against taggers and telling people it was okay to squeal on vandals. I was gratified that it merely noted ‘several lockers’ had been hit, although as far as I’d heard mine was the only one.

On the second page was a column welcoming the new-to-the-district, foreign, and home-schooled kids—basically, everybody that wasn’t a regular district school kid that came up from sixth together. I don’t know why they did this, spotlighting us that way, but fortunately they listed the names alphabetically without noting the groups. I noticed that they’d gotten some foreign names backward, so Kim Su-Hyun was listed as Su-Hyun Kim. There was a Singh and two Mohammeds—I wondered about the Brady-bigots out there making Al-Quaeda cracks—and mixed in were Tricia Bagnio, Amy Swanson and Laurie Tilden. Thank God they hadn’t put Laurence! And there were three names after mine so I was kind of lost in the mix. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and scanned the rest of the paper without anything popping out.

I did notice Brady talking and the two girls and one of the boys around him all looking at our lunch table. Shannon muttered, “If DeLauro wasn’t in view I’d flip ‘em off.”

“Be cool, girl,” I grinned.

She frowned. “Are you really going to your friend’s sleepover if Jennifer’s there?”

I nodded. “Friends close—”

“Enemies closer, yeah, I got it,” she nodded. “But watch out. Your bud Amy’s cool, but she might not be aware of Jennifer’s tricks. And who else is going?” I told her the names and she nodded. “You should be okay. I used to be pretty friendly with Carmen in fourth and fifth grade. But she got all Goth—which is kind of silly at that age—and I stopped hanging with her.”

Rose said in an attempt at a commercial voice, “Come shop at Hot Topic and dress like every other Goth in America!”

We laughed, both at the thought as well as her lousy radio voice. I noticed that Rose was drawing. I asked and she suddenly turned shy and put it away. “Nothing.”

“Come on, Rose, I won’t say anything bad,” I nudged. She looked at Shannon. I said, “And Shannon won’t, either, or I’ll tell everyone the truth about her and that German Shepherd.”

And Shannon, being Shannon, grinned and said wistfully, “Ah, yes; his name vas Kurt unt he vass vunderful! Unt zen he hat to go to herd zee sheep.”

I slapped her arm playfully but Rose was looking at me quietly. There was something in her look, some sort of assessment …I was extra-sensitive to that because of my two weeks scrutinizing everybody around me. I guess she came to some decision because her eyes went to Shannon and back to mine. I read the look to mean, ‘Okay—you but not her’ and I gave her a tiny nod. Still looking me in her eyes, she began pulling her sketchpad back out. She was making it so only I could see. I looked at the pad and was stunned, looking quickly at her and then pulling the pad cover over and sliding it to her.

Shannon said, “What?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s just say that our Rosie has a career in art like she has a career in radio.”

“Ah,” Shannon said, nodding. “Well, there’s always dental hygienist.” She grinned and looked away, waving to somebody.

But I locked eyes with Rose to let her know her secret was safe with me, and she gave me a grateful look. The lunch buzzer ended fun and games two minutes later and I headed off to class, stunned by what she’d drawn.

It was a vagina.

And it was a perfect vagina. It was stunning in its realism, every sparse pubic hair curly and in place, the lips of the vulva …

Besides being completely unexpected, there were two things that rocked me to the core—well, three, if you count the fact that Rose was a phenomenal artist. The first was this intense longing in me to have a vagina. I know I’ve wanted a vagina since I was about two or three, maybe, and I always thought Rachel’s and my other girlfriends’ were so pretty. I’ve lived my life with that envy—take that, Freud!—but I’m forced to live with the fact that barring some special dispensation, legally I have to wait until I’m eighteen.

But the second thing was maybe tied to that longing feeling due to my own unique situation: I really got the feeling, the sense, the intuition …that Rose loved that vagina. I didn’t get the feeling it was hers; I got the sense that it was another girl’s vagina that Rose had studied up close, and my intuition led me to think that Rose was or had been in love with that girl …and that Rose was or might be a lesbian.

And, of course, my brain immediately leaped to, ‘I’ve got to have Rose and Rachel meet!’ and at first I berated myself for being so superficial—like, just because they were lesbians they’d automatically go together—and I remembered that old joke about, ‘Hey, your grandfather lives in Miami? My grandfather lives in Miami! You can’t miss him—he always wears a white belt!’ Once Mom explained that to me, I had howled at that.

But now I thought more about my matchmaking. It was a far cry from just matching up a cute boy and a cute girl. My own amazing luck with Drake aside, it was an entirely different world for gay and transgendered kids. It is tough to be different, and if you’re closeted—something I could relate to if Rose was—it’s incredibly tough. And from what I’d learned, just having somebody to talk with, some support from someone who understands, can be more important than a romance. So I didn’t have to play matchmaker; if Rose was gay or questioning, it would help her to have Rachel to talk to because Rachel is out and proud.

* * *

All of those thoughts went out the window in Mr. DeLauro’s class because we had a quiz, and although I’m pretty good in Science, it doesn’t help test-taking to be thinking about your friends. Or your enemies, because Sandy Brown was in my class. She’d looked kind of familiar but sat in the back corner from me so I’d never really noticed her. It made me realize I needed to pay more attention to learning all of the kids, since most of them already knew each other for years. Friendships and groups were already formed and in place and I was just playing catch-up.

After the test, on the way out, I heard a little hiss behind me; I turned and it was Sandy. Out in the hall, she said, “What did you do to Brady?”

I frowned. “I didn’t do anything to Brady. Brady Kellner, right?” She nodded. I shrugged and looked confused. “What happened to him?”

“You know what happened! You told on him writing on your locker—” Her eyes widened as she realized she’d admitted he did it, and switched. “I mean, you told the principal that you thought he wrote on your locker!”

I didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. “You’ve got it all wrong! First of all, I had no idea if Brady was tagging my locker or not! All I knew was that somebody did mine and a couple of other kids’ lockers.”

She frowned. “A couple of other kids? I hadn’t heard that.”

“It was in the school paper,” I said, thanking my stars that I’d just read it. “Anyway, somebody ratted out Brady but it wasn’t me. I don’t even know him. I don’t really know you, either, because I’m so new.” I’d said this last in a semi-pitiful tone which seemed to work.

Sandy seemed to soften a little. “Well, I heard that you went to the principal’s office and told about Brady.”

I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Well, yeah, I did go to principal’s office that day—about a problem in Study Hall—but Brady and his dad, I think, were already there. With the principal, I mean. I just reported the thing to Mrs. …what’s her name?” I asked, trying to seem naïve.

“Danby,” Sandy said off-handedly. “What Study Hall thing?”

I improvised, mashing events together. “Oh, I had an assignment to listen to a speech that was on my iPod—a Martin Luther King thing?—and got busted by Mr. Abrams.”

She nodded. “He’s a jerk. Was that for Sanchez?” I nodded and she did, too. “We’re doing Kennedy. You know, the one that got shot?”

I nodded while not pointing out to her that two of them got shot …

“So you didn’t rat out Brady?”

I shook my head slowly and solemnly crossed my heart. “Absolutely not. I didn’t even know the guy until everybody pointed and said, ‘That’s the guy that wrote on the lockers’.”

That seemed to satisfy—and confuse—her. “Okay. Sorry I jumped at you.”

“Who did rat him out, then?”

“I don’t know. Probably Overton.”

“Callie Overton?” I said innocently. “I’ve got a class with her.”

“No, her big brother. Callie wouldn’t have done it, but he sure would …”

I could almost hear her mental wheels grinding, thinking about reporting this back to Brady and Jennifer.

Tentatively, I said, “Maybe nobody ratted him out. Maybe he just got …caught, you know?”

“Oh, you mean like a teacher walking by or something?”

I nodded.

She nodded too. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Look, um …you’re Sandy, right?” I asked tentatively.

She nodded. “Sandy Brown.” She was either so used to the silly name or it never occurred to her because of the familiarity.

“I’m Laurie Tilden.”

“I know,” she said. “Everybody knows who you are.”

“Everybody knows …oh, because of the paper,” I nodded.

She frowned. “Paper? No, because you’re …” Her frowned deepened and she seemed to pull away. “You’re that …that boy.”

“Boy?” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “I can’t believe this is still going on …”

“You’re a boy named Laurence,” she said defiantly. Then she retreated slightly. “They say …”

I waved like it was nothing. “It’s a typographical error in my records. I was home-schooled until this year, and somebody goofed; it’s all being sorted out. Look,” I said, taking the newspaper from my backpack.

She handled the paper like it was a strange object. It was obvious she wasn’t used to the newspaper. She opened it and I pointed. “See? The ‘Welcome New Students’ thing? There’s me. And they got it right,” I said as I pointed directly to my name.

“Laurie Tilden,” she read slowly, either because she was surprised or because she reads slowly.

I pointed to the other page. “Here’s the thing about the lockers getting tagged. So I don’t know how many or what they said but mine was because somebody thought I was a boy.”

“But she said—” she started under her breath and caught herself. She handed the paper back to me with a stunned look, still not believing.

I decided to play off her look. “I know. I was surprised they got a whole student paper out by only the second week, too.”

“Hmm?”

“The student newspaper. But I guess there were kids that did papers at their other schools.”

“Um …yeah. Listen, I gotta go.” She started away.

“Me, too. See you, Sandy!” I chirped pleasantly.

I giggled to myself, thinking about sending Sandy back in among ‘the enemy’. She might put them off their game a little. That made me think of Amy’s dad, and the military way Amy thought. Which made me think of the sleepover Saturday.

Which made me think of Friday, tonight—and Drake!

Chapter 11: Inappropriate Attire

Tank tops, ‘spaghetti’ straps, string straps, backless tops, low-cut tops, tube, or halter-tops are not permitted. All shirts must have sleeves or straps at least 2" wide.

Even though I’d thought of little else, as soon as I got home I panicked about what to wear on my date with Drake. And it was a date, a real date, and I had to keep myself in check as we sat next to each other on the bus, or I’d get so giddy he’d call it off because he thought I was a freak.

By mutual consent, we each got off at our regular stops; he actually did a little squeeze of my hand when he got up to leave. Even on the buses, Public Displays of Affection are forbidden. But my hand glowed from the feeling of his hand until I got home.

Immediately I called Shannon. “Need your help! I’m, um …” Suddenly I froze. What was the proper etiquette? Was asking for help dressing for a date sort of like dissing her that she didn’t have a date?

Shannon surprised me. “Hot date with Drake?” She paused. “You wanna make Drake wait or be Drake bait?”

“Very, very good!” I complimented her.

“You don’t have a video cam on your computer, do you?”

“Nope. We’re Amish, doth thou not remember?”

“Doth thou? I’m not sure that’s right.”

“Me, either. Dost, Doest …? Something like that?” I waved it away. “Um …I wanna look good but I’m freaked, you know?”

“I know, girl. I asked about the video cam because then I could really help you. I got myself grounded.”

“No!”

“Yes!” she mimicked me, and laughed.

“What’d you do, come right home and pull a knife or something?”

“Just a …an unfortunate series of events. Straw breaking the camel’s back, that sort of thing.”

“Something you did or something you didn’t do?”

“Both. Something I said and not apologizing for it afterward.”

“Ouch. Double-whammy.”

“Got that right. Well,” she sighed. “I’m stuck here until school Monday. I’ve got all the time in the world. Tell me what you’ve got.”

And so I tried this outfit and that outfit and this one once again—all the time describing the clothes fully and discussing them with Shannon—and we finally settled on a tiered denim skirt and three upper layers: A lacy cream cami under a forest green cap-sleeved v-neck with a raspberry long-sleeved sweater. Black flats. My hair, my hair …up, down? I finally let it fall loosely but held back on the sides with silver clips. My favorite rings and bracelets and a spritz and I was ready and so nervous!

After we hung up, I made a mental note to look into computer camera systems …

The mall was a couple of blocks sort of behind our block and a bit farther away for Drake. But he got there first and I was walking across the parking lot towards the theatre and I saw him and felt this zing! throughout my body and I had to look at the ground so he couldn’t see my huge smile or my blush.

“Hi!” he said as I got close.

“Hi!” I said back, brilliantly.

We stood looking at each other and just the knowledge that we didn’t have to observe school or bus rules, or have only a few minutes together before a bus stop separated us …I was almost giddy with anticipation.

Drake turned to the marquee. “Uh …anything you’d like to see?”

My brain giggled, ‘Just you!’ but aloud I said, “What do you want to see?”

He shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Wasn’t raised that way. I asked you on the date, you get to choose.”

“So this is a date?” I asked neutrally.

He looked surprised. “Uh …yeah. Isn’t it? I thought it was.”

I smiled. “I hoped it was. Good! Because I want to be on a date with you!”

We just looked at each other, grinning, feeling young and foolish and also growing older by the second, moving into uncharted waters together.

Drake snapped out of it first, and said, “Movies are great, but if there’s nothing that you really, really want to see …” He glanced up at the marquee and back to me. “I’d just as soon skip the movie and maybe walk around with you, maybe talk without kids on the bus around us.”

I smiled warmly, feeling a tingle down to my toes. “I’d like that!”

He turned and extended a hand, like a guide. “To Oz?”

I grinned. “To Oz!” I took one step and held up a finger. “But no singing!”

We walked and talked. That’s all. Just walked and talked. But it was wonderful. He was a nice guy, and a fascinating guy. He had a story about visiting his cousin in France, and the difference between the people in Lyon—who were delighted that you’d even try to speak French—and the Parisians, who were offended that you’d even try to speak French. He had me laughing as he imitated the long-suffering glares of the Parisians.

I think maybe one of the reasons he seemed so well-grounded was that he was aware of history, through his father, and other countries, through traveling to Europe. To a lot of kids our age, the world begins and ends with the school and the mall. I was sort of guilty of that, too, but even though I’d never traveled like Drake had, I was a little more aware than my classmates, maybe. I credited Mrs. Rosen and her broad teaching. I think it might be part of what Mrs. Danby had noticed and commented on.

We talked about school, of course, and the classes and general stuff like that—Drake did a hilarious impersonation of his gym teacher instructing the boys on hygiene—and inevitably, the Brady Kellner business. I filled Drake in on how I’d worked the operation in the principal’s office, and he said not only was I beautiful but I was brilliant.

Of course, at that point my brain screamed, ‘He thinks I’m beautiful!’ and drowned out everything else so I had to ask him to repeat what he’d said.

“I said that Brady’s family is sort of like so macho it’s like toxic testosterone. I’ve heard some things about his older brothers that are pretty rough. I won’t tell you about them so don’t ask, but …if you ever hear anything about them, just know that most guys are not like that.”

“I know that, Drake,” I said gently and smiled.

As if by magic, our hands kind of flowed together, and I could never tell you if he took mine or I took his. But we were holding hands and smiling like idiots—

And coming out of the sports shoe store three doors down were Brady Kellner, Jennifer Malkins, Sandy Brown, another girl and two other guys. They turned in our direction and started walking.

“Two toxic trios,” I said, voicing my thoughts. “Sorry. I do that sometimes.”

“Alliteration, too?” Drake chuckled. “But you’re right. You know the girls?”

“I’ve spoken once with Sandy. Jennifer I just had pointed out to me today. I don’t know the other girl.”

“I don’t either, and the two guys go to another school.” He tensed. “You don’t know Jennifer?”

“No. I’ve heard, um …not-nice things about her, but I’ll meet her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“My friend Amy from home-school is having a slumber party and invited her. And me.”

“She invited Jennifer?”

I could tell somehow that put Amy in a negative light. “She said keep friends close and enemies closer and wants to find out what kind of girl Jennifer really is away from her gang.”

He nodded. “Smart. Dangerous, but smart. Look, Laurie …” He hesitated and looked at the approaching group and back to me. “The main event is probably going to be about Brady. But Jennifer and I …”

I stared. “Omigod! Did you guys go out or something?”

He shook his head. “No, no. This past summer she thought she could …add my head to her trophy wall. I didn’t go for it and she spread some nasty stuff among my friends …” His glance at the group was bitter. “Fortunately, I wasn’t even in the country when she said I’d done stuff and my friends knew it and called her on it. She didn’t take that kindly. Okay, battle positions,” he murmured.

“Hey, Russell,” Brady called out.

I thought, why do jock or macho types like to use last names? Then I had a flash—maybe using first names shows more vulnerability than they dare. Same reason they use all the nicknames; it distances them from anything really personal. Hmm …have to think more about that later.

“Brady,” Drake nodded.

It was like a gunfight, each group approaching the other. Technically, they ‘shot’ first by calling out Drake’s name. Now they attacked.

Brady sneered, “Who’s the dude with you?”

Drake squeezed my hand once for reassurance and said casually, “Brady, dude …you gotta get your eyes checked. You won’t be able to see the football if you can’t tell the difference between a dude and this lovely lady.” He smiled at me.

Jennifer snorted; she’d crossed her arms under her breasts and stood with a hip out. In a voice dripping with malice, she said, “Everybody knows he’s a boy.”

Drake acted innocent. “Everybody knows I’m a boy? That’s good, because I am one.”

She frowned. “Not you, stupid—that! It! Whatever it is!” She pointed at me.

I took my cue from Drake. As casually as I could—even though I wanted to launch myself at her and scratch her eyes out—I said “Oh, wait. You mean me? You don’t think I’m human?” I smiled. “I assure you, I am. Got a doctor’s chart to prove it and everything.”

That deepened her frown. “The doctor’s chart says you’re a boy!”

I knew that she didn’t know what my charts said. Calmly, I said, “No, it doesn’t. It says girl. Actually, it says ‘female’.” Bull by the horns time … “Actually, though, you have a point. My school record is a typo and says ‘Laurence’ instead of ‘Lauren’.”

Sandy Brown turned to Jennifer. “See? That’s what I told you.”

“Shut up, Sandy,” Jennifer said automatically, like brushing away a fly. To me, she said, “You’re a boy.”

Drake said, “Jennifer—”

I squeezed his hand and shook my head slightly. “Jennifer, I’m not, any more than you’re a giraffe. Really. You guys are getting all worked up over some clerk hitting the wrong keys.”

“Wrong keys, bull,” Brady said.

“It’s true,” I said, keeping calm. “My name is Lauren Marie. The clerk added two letters—two letters!” I held up two fingers. “A ‘C’ and an ‘E’. Making it ‘L-A-U-R-E-N-C-E’. Like Olivier.”

“Who’s that?” Jennifer said.

“A British actor—never mind,” Drake said.

“But a guy, right?” Jennifer smiled triumphantly.

“Exactly right,” I said, and saw her deflate a little. “It’s pronounced just like Lawrence with a ‘W’. So what happened was, according to what the Administration said to my mother and me, part of the computer program automatically puts a little ‘M’ or ‘F’ in the box that matches the name in their database.”

One of Brady’s goons snickered. “A little M-F!” The other one snorted.

“Shut up, Stevie,” Drake said to the first goon.

I went on, explaining as calmly as describing a pencil sharpener or something equally boring. “The software saw the name—not knowing the extra letters had been added—and matched it to the boy names in the database. Simple. But the name’s long enough that they don’t have room for the whole middle name. So until they correct it, the teacher’s roll sheets lists my name as ‘Laurence Mar’ and ends there. The dumb thing is, if there’d been enough room for my whole middle name, the computer and the teachers would see ‘Laurence Marie’ and then they’d at least ask what was up. You can check it out; look on the roll of any class I’m in.”

That was absolutely—sort-of—true. I’d seen the roll sheet and that was exactly the way it was written, with only -the M-A-R. Of course, the whole truth was that it was registered as ‘Laurence Mark’ and they only dropped the ‘K’ but I was going to use this to my advantage.

Drake said, “Look, this is all lame. Laurie here is a girl and why are we even talking about this?”

Jennifer gave him a mean grin. “Because it explains why you don’t want to go out with me. You’re into guys.”

“Yes, that’s absolutely right, if you mean this guy right here,” Drake said, smiling at me and releasing my hand so he could put his arm around me. “And only this guy right here.”

“So you admit she’s a guy?” said a confused Sandy Brown.

Even Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Sandy! He’s screwing with you.”

“He is?” said Sandy in a small voice, more confused than ever.

Brady said, “I don’t know. This is all too slick.”

I was formulating a response of some sort when Drake said, “Slick or not, it’s the truth. We gotta go meet someone.” He started walking with his arm still around me. I liked it there.

Jennifer said, “Oh, yeah? Who?”

“My brother,” Drake said, casually and half over his shoulder.

“This ain’t over, Russell,” Brady said threateningly.

“Yeah, it is, Brady,” Drake said, sounding tired.

“See you at the sleepover!” Jennifer shot at me in a nasty, nasty voice.

Behind us, I heard, “What sleepover?” followed by “Shut up, Sandy!”

Chapter 12: Inappropriate Attire

Leggings, tights, hose, etc. must not be worn as outerwear. They may be worn under dresses, skirts, shorts, and pants. They must not have holes or be torn.

As soon as we were a sufficient distance from them, Drake removed his arm from me. “Sorry,” he said rather sheepishly. “All part of the act, what we had to do there. I don’t want you to think I’m too forward or anything. Sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t be,” I smiled and took his hand. That earned me a huge smile and a hand-squeeze. “You were great. And it’s not your fight, but you were great.”

“Yeah, it is my fight. They’re insulting you, so it’s my fight.”

I sighed. “It’s really not, but …thank you. Thank you, Drake,” I said, stopping and looking him in the eyes to show how much I meant it.

He looked me in the eyes and half-frowned. “Why wouldn’t I fight for you? You’re …” His eyes widened a little bit and his frown softened almost to a look of surprise …

And then he leaned in and I leaned in and tilted my head and we kissed and it was sweet and wonderful and my heart was beating and I was forgetting to breathe and maybe he sensed it because he stepped back from the kiss and squeezed my hand. “Um …okay?”

I knew he meant, ‘Was it okay for me to kiss you?’ but instead I responded, “It was better than okay. And I hope you’ll try to improve on it.”

That surprised him for a moment, then he grinned and nodded. “I hope so, too.” Two quick hand-squeezes. “Come on. Where do you want to go next?”

“Just away from those bozos,” I said, referring to the Kellner Gang.

“Amen,” he muttered.

We found ourselves in a huge Barnes & Noble, and I showed him some books I liked and he showed me some books he liked and again, in one of the little alcoves, we kissed and this time I got to give him a big hug before we separated for decorum. I think Mom figured we’d go to a movie, sit in the dark, talk about the movie for ten minutes after it ended and it would be time to be picked up—she was picking us up at ten. I don’t think she’d expected that we’d be kissing and hugging already.

But I felt so safe and warm and happy being with Drake. I was about to burst from happiness.

Finally, though, it had to end by the clock so we made it back to the theatre and stood just around the corner and really kissed and I felt his tongue very tentatively touch my lips and I opened my mouth and welcomed him in with flicks of my own tongue, and my breathing really got going then! We separated and I had enough presence of mind to fix my lipgloss and calm down and then we stood, not holding hands, right out front as Mom picked us up. Drake really was going to meet his brother for a ride home, so he got my door and I slipped in and felt a glow at him looking at my legs, and he thanked Mom and we drove off and of course it started.

“Well? How was the movie?” Mom asked.

“Mom, can I tell you the truth? I mean, always?”

“I hope that you will, always, sweetheart,” Mom smiled as she drove. “But there may be times you feel uncomfortable with the truth. Do us both a favor, okay? If that’s ever the case, don’t lie. Don’t make up something. Just don’t say anything. I’ll know to back off, and when you’re ready to talk about whatever it is, we’ll talk. Or we won’t. But I’m not going to be one of those parents who always demands a full accounting, because those parents …get lied to a lot. Okay, sweetie?”

I nodded and felt such a wave of love for my mother. So I told her everything, from passing on the movie to the confrontation with the Brady gang to the kisses and I knew she was concerned but understood. She just said to play things slow and cool and it was the first boy for me, and it was only the second week of school, and it was possible that things at school might warp out of shape and Drake might be embarrassed …

“What about me being embarrassed?” I asked, half-teasing.

She grinned. “I’m not worried about you. You’re a strong girl. You can handle anything they throw at you.”

Great; now I was worried about people throwing things at me!

* * *

The next morning Mom announced that she had some errands to run downtown and when she got back she’d take me to the mall for some ‘extras’ for the sleepover. A gym bag, for instance; never being athletic, I’d never acquired one. When I’d gone to Amy’s for sleepovers in home school, I’d just wrapped everything in my sleeping bag but Mom said it was time for me to be prepared for sleepovers at other girls’ homes.

I just felt the need to go to The Beacon. Maybe it was because I felt so happy after my night with Drake, but I wanted to give back. And maybe it was because I was really, really nervous about the sleepover after my meeting with Jennifer, and I wanted to get my mind off of it.

Mom checked with Brenda who said she could use me for a couple of hours to get the food started, so we headed into town. Bearing in mind Brenda’s fashion advice, I wore baggy cargo capris—I didn’t have anything baggier; all my jeans are pretty tight—and a black t-shirt under a blue plaid shirt Mom loaned me. I rolled up my sleeves and it was a little big but that helped, I think. Brenda saw me, grinned and gave me the ‘thumbs-up’.

I was working on a soup stock, stirring away and adding stuff, trying to figure out why Jennifer was the way she was. Nobody seemed to like her, outside of her little circle of friends. I could understand why she didn’t like me if she thought I was a boy masquerading as a girl, but then she …

I realized I was being observed. Ken was watching me, his head tilted. He said, “If I had a penny, I’d give it to you for your thoughts.”

I smiled at him. “And if I had a million dollars, I’d give it to you!”

He roared with laughter. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t! You’d go shopping!” He laughed at that, and then got more serious. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d give it to your mom. I know you. Or you’d give it to this place.” He shook his head. “But, oh dear Lord, do not give it to me. I’d just blow it.”

“No, you’re cool—”

“Definitely not cool, darlin’,” he grinned. “I’ve got myself kind of together; I don’t need that kind of temptation. No, keep your million.”

“Alright, I will,” I said in playful spite, sticking my nose in the air, which brought a laugh.

Ken handed me the next box of noodles. “There’s something on your mind. Like I said, I know you. Is there anything I can do?”

I kept stirring as I told him about Jennifer being at Amy’s sleepover tonight. I just knew she had something nasty planned. When I was done, Ken nodded his shaggy head.

“You do understand that I don’t know anything about teenage girls, don’t you?”

I nodded and his craggy face broke into a grin.

“But I do know a thing or two about enemies. I was taught by a wise old guy that it’s best to take somebody out before they know you can, you know?” He frowned. “I’m sorry. All of my experience is either bar fights or killing enemy soldiers.”

“I understand, Ken,” and I thought, not for the first time, what an incredibly rough life he’d led.

He nodded. “Okay. I won’t sugar-coat things. You’ve got the advantage in that she’s lost her tactical advantage of surprise. You’re expectin’ her. And that’ll keep you cool, calm, and collected when she does attack. So you can repulse her attack. Now, I heard something about you wanting to take Aikido?”

“Uh-huh,” I nodded. “To get in shape and for the discipline.” I’d been chatting with Brenda about it; she’d pushed for dance class for me.

He grinned. “I’m glad that you didn’t say ‘to kick somebody’s ass’ because that’s the wrong martial art if that’s what you want to do.”

I chuckled and started chopping carrots. “No, I’d like to keep my ass from getting kicked. But from what I heard it’s a good mental discipline.”

He nodded. “One of the best. But I want to tell you something about it right now that’ll maybe help you. One of the principles in Aikido is to let your opponent’s force work against themselves. The simplest example is, they charge and you just step out of the way. If they’re going to mow you under, roll back before they clobber you. They sail right over you and you’re already up the other side, ready for ‘em.”

Brenda passed the doorway. “Are you teaching her knife fighting or something, Kenny? Knock it off!”

I turned and grinned. “No, no, Brenda; he’s telling me about Aikido.”

She frowned. “Well …okay.” Then she laughed. “Wait until she’s fourteen before knife fighting!” Cackling at her own joke, she walked away.

“I don’t think Jennifer’s going to …charge me,” I said.

“Metaphorically. Is that the word I want?” Ken tilted his scruffy mane. “Yeah, think so. Too many verbal arguments go like this: ‘You’re blah-blah!’ ‘No, I’m not!’ ‘Yes, you are!’ ‘No, I’m not!’,” he laughed. “Know what I mean?” I nodded. “And even responding to the attack puts you in that silly tennis match.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard kids do that kind of thing all day long.”

“And the advantage is to the attacker; never forget that. So, how about this? The attack comes, ‘You’re blah-blah!’ and you say, ‘That’s a strange thing to say. What makes you say that?’ and then they have to explain themselves, which already weakens their attack. So they usually say, ‘Everybody does!’ and you turn to somebody else and say, ‘Do you say that?’—make sure it’s not one of their gang—and they’ll probably say, ‘No, I don’t’. And you can turn right back to them and say, ‘I don’t think everybody says that’ and so on.” He grinned. “They usually end up grunting and leaving.”

I stared at him. “That’s brilliant, Ken! But what if we’re alone?”

“Chances are you won’t ever be. Sounds to me like this Jennifer person likes her audience. So she’ll attack in a group. And she probably doesn’t have the guts to confront you directly, mano-y-mano. Or …girlo-y-girlo!” He laughed so hard his wheelchair shook.

I wiped my hands on my apron and leaned down to give him a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Ken. You’re the greatest!”

“Yeah? So why ain’t I rich?” he cackled.

* * *

The strangest thing happened not ten minutes later. Ken had gotten himself into a hard-core game of dominoes with some newbies and I was testing the soup when I heard a familiar voice. Well, two familiar voices.

Brenda was saying, “We can certainly use another volunteer. And the fact that you’re a teacher could be great with the families we get, especially around the holidays. Are you, by any chance, CPR-trained?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I used to be Red Cross certified, but I guess that’s lapsed.”

I spun, still holding my ladle. “Mr. Abrams?”

He grinned. “Hello, Miss Tilden.”

Brenda said, “You two know each other? Oh, wait; do you teach at her school?”

“Yes, I do. I regret to say that I don’t have Miss Tilden in my regular classes, but I do have her in Study Hall.”

I smiled at his compliment and said, half-playfully, “Are you checking up on me or something?”

He assumed a gruff manner and voice. “Harrumph! Yes, that is correct; I am checking up to see that you have added the proper vegetables to your soup.”

The three of us chuckled at that and he smiled at me like I’d never seen him smile before. “I thought long and hard about what you told me about …‘giving back’. I decided it’s time for me to do that, and I thought I’d start here. And,” he hesitated. “…maybe there was a little bit of ‘checking up’, too.”

“That’s okay,” I smiled. “So, Brenda, can we use him?”

“Geez, Laurie; you if anybody should know we need more help going into winter!” To Mr. Abrams, she said, “Laurie’s been coming here for years now, ever since she was just a tiny little girl. And she’s a big middle-schooler now!” She beamed at me.

“Yeah, almost ready for drivin’ and drinkin’!” I said with a redneck accent.

“Not for some time, Miss Tilden,” Mr. Abrams chuckled.

“And never together!” Brenda said, trying to look serious.

I said, “Mr. Abrams? If you’re going to work here, could you call me Laurie while we’re here? You can go back to ‘Miss Tilden’ when we’re in school, but here …we’re family.”

“Got that right,” Brenda muttered.

With more force, I said, “We’re family helping family, okay? But I’ll always call you Mr. Abrams.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Laurie. And may I say, you are an exceptional girl.”

“Got that right, too,” Brenda muttered, with a satisfied nod.

End of Part 5

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