When I was finally alone, lying in a huge bed in a huge dark room, I felt terrible. It wasn't just the residue of the waxy toy makeup. It was a crippling cosmic guilt like I've never felt before. I don't pray, but that night I slipped out of bed in my Hello Kitty nightgown and got on my knees.
 

---

 

6. The Most Interesting First-Kiss Story Of Anybody
 

Now, I want to back up and tell you about my haircut.

Before Mom dropped me at Miranda's house, she took me to the apartment of a friend of Mrs. Jameson, a woman who was going to cut my hair.

I don't know how it was all arranged, but this lady, Ms. Legno, knew that I'm boy. She was going to give me a unisex cut and make me look nice for the IMAX show.

I arrived wearing my boy clothes, carrying my Juliette outfit in a hanging bag.

Mom dropped me there and left. I wasn't very comfortable with that, because I was all alone with a woman who was both strange and a complete stranger to me. I never warmed to her, the whole time I was there.

The first thing that put me off was her house. I'm not sure that I really saw her house, because it was so full of... full of... well, stuff. She had stuff EVERYWHERE! I don't think it was junk, and it wasn't clutter (because it was obvious arranged, like on purpose). But the place was jam-packed, from wall to wall and from ceiling to floor.

There was so much furniture that you couldn't walk in a straight line for more than two feet. She had little couches, big coffee tables, sideboards, chairs, bookcases, and tiny tables full of fragile-looking knickknacks. I was afraid to move, especially with the hanging bag.

Then there was Ms. Legno herself. I thought she was one of those ancient, bird-like women you often see tottering about. Mom had told me she was "very young... in her thirties." I didn't point out the contradiction in what Mom said, or in the way Ms. Legno looked. As far as I could see, she had to be at least sixty. She didn't smile, and I wasn't really sure what she looked like. I mean, she had these big, really thick glasses that made her eyes seem huge and misshapen. She looked like a cartoon character: a big pair of glasses with a tiny mouth and chin. Her hair was a yellow blonde with a dry, electrified, superteased look. It didn't give me any confidence in her ability to style hair. She was thin as a scarecrow, and her clothes looked as if they were chosen at random.

Usually I could care less what I looked like. Even today, when I was pretending to be a girl. But I didn't want her touching me. I was pretty sure she'd butcher my hair, to a degree that would horrify even me. Luckily, it turned out I was wrong about that.

In any case, I didn't see that I had a choice in the matter.

We wove our way to her tiny kitchen, where there was a small patch of bare floor. She set up a high chair, then had me bend over the sink. After she'd shampooed my head and conditioned it twice, she sat me down and combed through my hair for a long time.

"So you're a boy," she said.

"Yes."

"... who wants to dress like a girl."

"No. This is just for a Halloween."

"Halloween is next week."

After a few more questions and a little prompting, I told Ms. Legno the whole story. She didn't interrupt, she didn't ask any questions, and she didn't laugh at any of it. A couple of times I actually asked whether she was listening.

"Yes, I'm listening," she'd reply. "Go on."

When I was all done, she asked, "So you don't want to be a girl?"

"No."

"The day after Halloween you're just going to put your pants back on and go play football?"

"Well, not exactly, but something like that."

"Seems like a lot of effort, just for Halloween."

I didn't answer.

"So what's going to happen, the day after Halloween, when Miranda calls and asks for Juliette?"

"I don't know."

She snipped in silence.

"Do you like this girl?"

"Yes," I replied.

"You care what happens to her?"

"Yes."

"And if someone hurt her feelings, would that matter to you?"

"Of course!"

"How do you think she's going to feel when she finds out who you really are? Do you think she'll like the fact that you played a trick on her? Are you still going to hang out with her, go places with her, talk to her on the phone? Will you invite her to your house and introduce her to your friends?"

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Ms. Legno put me off when I first saw her. Now that we'd talked a bit, I really didn't like her. No one, not even a principal or teacher, had ever made me squirm the way she did.

"I kinda figured her mother and my mother had that part figured out."

"Maybe you better check on that. It doesn't sound like they do."

"I ought to tell her," I concluded.

"The sooner the better," she said, and snapped on the hair drier. Then she shut it off again. "But don't tell her on Halloween. Don't screw up the holiday for her. It could devastate her, and you don't want her to remember it all her life, every time the holiday comes around."

---

Amazingly, Ms. Legno did a nice job on my hair, and when she was done, I went into her bathroom to change into my Juliette clothes. I was going to wear the outfit Mrs. Jameson had chosen: the brown silk skirt and the yellow top.

Ms. Legno's bathroom was as tight as her apartment. It wasn't dirty — it was just full. It was so full, I couldn't even tell what it was full of. There was cloth draped from ceiling to floor in every direction. Behind the drapes were shelves. The shelves were full of towels, toilet paper, shampoos and other things. It was all very organized, but there was hardly enough room to turn around. I don't know how anyone could live this way. There was so little room that I felt like a contortionist as I worked my way out of one set of clothes and into another.

Luckily the tub was dry. It was the only place I could set things down.

While I was struggling into my skirt, and had it halfway up, I spotted a miniature mug on a shelf above the toilet. It was a small bearded face with a tiny handle on the side, and the face was upside down. Since it was just about the only thing in the room that had any empty space around it, I found my eyes continually coming back to it. Why was it so tiny? The mug was too small for any human to drink from. Why in the world was it upside down? It got to bothering me. And so, after looking at it half a dozen times, I turned it over.

For some weird reason that I still don't understand, it turned out that the mug wasn't upside down. It was supposed to be that way! So when I turned it to make the face right side up, I really turned it upside down, and the silly thing was full of buttons. Buttons poured out of the mug and went everywhere. Little buttons, all kinds of buttons, that fell and bounced and rolled in all directions. The toilet was open, and a dozen or more fell in there. I had to flush three times before they all went away. I hunted up the others as best I could.

"You took a long time in there," Ms. Legno told me.

"It happens," I said.

---

When my mother finally came back, I was almost desperate to get out of that awful place.

I did ask Mom whether she or Mrs. Jameson knew what would happen with Miranda and me after Halloween, and Mom said, "Don't worry. We'll come up with something."

*That* didn't make me feel any better.

---

When Mrs. Jameson picked us up after the IMAX/museum visit, she asked what we wanted for dinner.

"Why isn't my mother with you?" I asked.

"She's busy," Mrs. Jameson said. "You'll be having dinner with Miranda and me."

---

I kept wondering where my mother was, and after dinner Mrs. Jameson got a phone call.

"That was your mother," she said. "She asked if you could stay over tonight."

"Oh," I replied, startled.

Miranda smiled and said, "Yay!"

"So you're staying over," Mrs. Jameson concluded.

"I am?" I asked, utterly confused. "Why didn't my mother talk to me?"

"She was in a hurry," Mrs. Jameson said. "Apparently there's something wrong with your Uncle Mickey."

"Something wrong?" I repeated in alarm. "What does that mean? Is he sick?"

"She didn't say, and I'm not sure that she even knew. And as I told you, she was in a hurry. Don't worry. I'm sure everything is fine. We have an extra room, and Miranda can lend you a nightgown and something to wear tomorrow."

I could have cared less what I was going to wear tomorrow. I wanted to talk to my mother.

"Feel free to try and call her," Mrs. Jameson said, "now and later, but I don't think you'll find her. She and your father are somewhere in Boston, probably with your mysterious uncle."

I did try, then and later, but didn't find my parents. Each time I dialed my mother's cell I got her voice mail, and I don't know my father's number by memory, so I was stuck.

It wasn't that I missed my parents, or needed to sleep in my own bed or anything like that. It was just that I wanted some reassurance: I'd used Uncle Mickey as an excuse, pretending he was deathly ill, and now something was really wrong with him! In my head I knew that it wasn't my fault... I mean, if he was sick or hurt, but it sure felt like I was to blame!

I tried to lose myself in playing with Miranda. I'm no expert on the games that ten-year-old girls play, but I did think by that age they'd have outgrown dolls and dress up and toy makeup. Neither Mom nor Mrs. Jameson had given me any tips on how to make Miranda think I was ten years old, so I simply agreed to whatever Miranda proposed, and tried to enjoy it.

And so, for the first time in my life I played with dolls. We dressed and redressed Barbies. We acted out a trip to the mall using the dolls as proxies. It wasn't much different than playing with toy soldiers, except that Barbies don't shoot guns or throw bombs.

We played dress up by draping outselves in huge pieces of colored cloth, wrapping it round our heads and bodies. We danced in our improvised saris, and tried on some of Mrs. Jameson's wardrobe discards.

We watched some episodes of Darcy's Wild Life, which is another TV show I'd never heard of. I actually liked it, and Miranda and I sang and danced to the show's theme song each time it played.

Honestly it wasn't fun. I mean, I laughed some times, but the problem was Uncle Mickey. When I walked my Barbie into an imaginary Body Shop, I pictured my uncle lying in a coma. While I sang, "Darcy used to hang out and go dancin' / Go to parties and make important plans and," I picture my mother weeping and my father putting on a stony face.

And though (my morbid preoccupation with Uncle Mickey aside) it might sound as if Miranda and I did a lot already, we managed to fit in "makeovers" with toy makeup, painting our lips, faces, and nails with this thick, waxy, highly colored stuff that I couldn't wait to wash off.

When I was finally alone, lying in a huge bed in a huge dark room, I felt terrible. It wasn't just the residue of the waxy toy makeup. It was a crippling cosmic guilt like I've never felt before. I don't pray, but that night I slipped out of bed in my Hello Kitty nightgown and got on my knees.

"God, I'm sorry that I never pray. And I'm SO sorry for joking about Uncle Mickey being sick and dying. I don't know him at all, but I don't want him to die. I especially don't want him to die because of what I've done. I don't want him to be sick. Make me sick if you want to, but please spare Uncle Mickey.

"And I'm sorry for deceiving Miranda. She's a nice person, and I like her a lot. Please help me tell her who I am without making her hate me.

"I don't know what I can offer if you do those things. I can try to be a better person, but aside from lying about Uncle Mickey and lying to Miranda, I don't think I'm bad. Maybe you can give me an idea of what I could do better. If you do, I'll do it. I promise."

---

I don't remember crawling back into bed, but I woke at sunrise in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Somehow today I had to tell Miranda. I couldn't stand it any more. The guilt was killing me.

Okay, it wasn't killing me, but it wasn't a good situation. The Uncle Mickey situation, on the other hand, *was* killing me. I had to know what was going on, and soon.

While I was going over all this in my mind, Miranda slipped into the room.

"Hi," she said softly. "Don't talk too loud, or you'll wake my mother, okay?"

I forgot to mention that Miranda had asked her mother why the two of us couldn't sleep together. I didn't know what to say, but Mrs. Jameson had an answer ready.

"Her mother says that Juliette kicks in her sleep. If you share a bed with her, your legs will be black and blue in the morning."

That, of course, sent Miranda into a gale of giggles.

Miranda asked how I slept and whether I'd kicked enough. She hoped that everything was fine with my Uncle Mickey, and said she could see how worried I was.

She also told me that the Hello Kitty nightgown was cute on me and that I should keep it.

"Thanks," I said.

"Oh, get ready for today," she said. "Brace yourself, because my mother's going to pick your outfits. There isn't any point in fighting. Just go with it."

"Outfits?" I repeated. "Plural? As in, more than one outfit?"

"Yeah," she replied as if were obvious. "One for church and one for after."

"Oh, I don't go to church," I said.

She laughed. "Today you will."

While I mulled over this and looked for some way to object, Miranda asked, "Do you like Victor?"

"Victor?"

"Your brother?"

"Oh, I know who Victor is. Yeah, he's alright."

"How old is he?"

"Fourteen. He's a freshman."

"Freshman? What year is that?"

"Ninth grade."

"When you and your parents are here in Boston next weekend, what's Victor going to do? Do they let him stay home by himself?"

"No, he's staying at his friend Lou's house. Lou is having a Halloween party."

"Is Lou his best friend?"

I hesitated. "I guess. I don't know. Um, why are you asking about Victor?"

"I'm just interested in your life. You, your classmates, your family, you know? I'm an only child. I don't know what it's like to have family. You know?"

I nodded. I knew what that was like.

She asked, "Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to have a brother or sister?"

"Yeah," I said. I have often thought about that.

And then I realized what I'd said.

Miranda's face lit up. In a whisper, half-afraid she might be wrong, she asked, "You're Victor, aren't you?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I was lying here trying to think of a way to tell you. Are you mad?"

"I don't know yet. Do you want to be my friend?"

"Yes," I replied. "I like you a lot. That's why it was hard to pretend like this."

"Were you really trying to think of how to tell me?"

"Yes." I scratched my head. "How did you figure it out?"

"Wait," she said. "Does my mother know?"

"Yes," I said. "I don't know what she thought was going to happen after Halloween. Or my mother, either, for that matter."

Miranda shrugged.

"So how did you know?"

"Well," she said, "after I met you, I looked to see whether you were on My Space. A lot of girls in my class are, but you aren't. That was one thing, even if it wasn't so strange. But when your mother mentioned 'Victor' that night in the pizzeria, I googled your name and found some pictures of you."

"There are pictures of me on the internet?"

"Yes, there's a family picture: it has your father, your mother, and you. But Victor-you. Plus there was a picture of you winning a costume contest last year, and I could see your face very clearly."

"Oh, yeah."

"Plus the glass glasses, and that thing you said about being short. Are you really fourteen?"

"Yes," I admitted. "Do you mind?"

She shrugged and smiled.

I thought it over. "So all the time we were together yesterday, you knew?"

"I was pretty sure, but not 100 percent. Pretty close, but not sure-sure."

"Huh." I fell back against my pillow. "And last night–?"

She smiled and almost laughed. "I was teasing you a little. Also, I didn't know what to do. You were moping so much about your uncle." She paused. "That *is* what you were moping about, right?"

I nodded. "You're so smart."

"Hmmm," she said. "That reminds me... I wanted to ask you. Don't be offended... but, when you're Victor, are you ditzy as when you're Juliette?"

"Ditzy?"

She hesitated. "I mean, I know you're smart and everything, but sometimes you come off like a dumb blonde. Is that an act?"

"Oh!" I said. "No, no. I'm not as dopey when I'm Victor. I don't know why, but when I'm with you I always feel kind of slow."

She smiled.

"I'm not in love with you or anything!" I quickly added.

"I know," she said softly.

Then I told Miranda the whole story. It didn't take long, because she knew most of it already, she just didn't know the Victor parts of the story.

She said, "So... I understand that you might get dressed up for Halloween, but why dress up for the whole weekend?"

"Oh," I said simply, "So I could be with you."

She smiled. She even glowed a bit.

"So, we'll still be friends after Halloween?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I want to. Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"So do we tell your mother that you know?"

She thought for a minute then said no. "If we're going to be friends, we need to share a secret. For now, the secret is Victor. After Halloween, the secret will be Juliette."

I blushed and agreed. "I'm so relieved!" I said. "I was afraid you were going to freak out or be hurt. I'm so glad you figured it out."

"So," she said, "when you come over, after Halloween is over, are you going to want to dress up?"

"You mean girls clothes? No."

"Okay," she said. "But if you ever want to, you can. You look nice."

At that we fell silent. Then she looked at me and said, "And you don't kick at night, do you?"

"No."

She nodded. "Can we do one thing?" She blushed. "If you don't want to, I understand. But could we kiss? I've never kissed a boy, and if I kiss you now I'll have probably the most interesting first-kiss story of anybody."

"Oh," I said, a little alarmed.

"Don't worry," she said. "I mean a story for when I'm older. When I tell, I'll make sure nobody knows it's you."

We kissed. It was nice, just one kiss. But there was no fire, no excitement. It was like kissing my sister. If I had a sister.

And then I realized that it was *my* first kiss, too.

"Oh!" I said afterward, scrabbling for some way to change the subject. "What do I have to do in church? I've never been."

"Never?" she asked, incredulously. When I shook my head, she smiled. "I think it's better if you find out for yourself. It'll be more, uh, interesting that way." She grinned wickedly. "But I will tell you this: whenever they say amen, they expect you to let out a fart."

"Oh, get out!" I cried as my cheeks flushed. I grabbed a pillow and gave her a whack!

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way