“Gerald. Would you mind telling me what you think you’re doing?”

Mum’s voice was quiet and controlled, and enough to make the blood freeze in my veins.

I swallowed hard and tried to think through the rising panic. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea what I thought I was doing, so answering the question was going to be a challenge.

Now what I was actually doing, that was easy. I was wandering about the house in Mum’s clothes, pretending – with limited success – to be a girl.

But why I was doing it; what I thought I was doing… I’m not sure there was much of a thought process going on there at all.

I’d been doing it for some weeks now, as and when the opportunity arose. I could vaguely remember the first time. Dad was at work, Mum had gone out shopping and I was alone in the house. There was nothing on TV and I’d been bored. Searching for something new to stimulate my brain, I’d wandered into the utility room and, before I realised what I was doing, I picked some of Mums clothes out of the ironing basket.

The first thing I’d found had been a shortish dress Mum liked to wear when she went out with Dad. It was bright red and made out of a deliciously soft, stretchy fabric. It wasn’t so much the softness of the clothes that attracted me though, but rather the feeling of softness that grew inside of me as I held it and contemplated…

I didn’t even think. Carried on a wave of sensation, I stripped out of my jeans and tee-shirt, and pulled the dress over my head.

It had been… There aren’t words. At least not words that are good enough. I felt like I was coming alive in a whole new way. The dress was too big; it hung loose on me, and fell to my knees, whereas on Mum it only came to mid-thigh. It didn’t matter though, this delicious, cool sensation washed through me, a little like terror, but not so strong, not so wild. It left me breathless and panting, and feeling wonderful. It was like anything was possible. I could do anything. I could fly, I could leap tall buildings, I could be… happy; content.

For a while.

I didn’t keep the dress on long that first time. I couldn’t remember how long ago Mum had left, and the thought of being caught was, well, not something I wanted to contemplate.

With a surprising amount of reluctance, given how recent the discovery and how short the time I’d indulged myself, I pulled the dress off over my head, and put my clothes back on. The dress went back in the basket, loosely folded like I’d found it, or as near as I could recall.

Back in the living room, I sat on the sofa with my knees hugged to my chest, still a little breathless from just the memory of how it had felt. Why had it affected me so much? Going to Alton Towers and riding Oblivion for the first time, or the Black Hole. They’d been exciting, exhilarating, all the things stuff like that should be. This was different; in a way, so much more intense. It was like waking up for the first time and realising I’d spent all my life till then asleep.

I don’t remember how long I sat like that, but I was still in the same position when I heard the key in the lock and Mum calling out that she was back. It was like time had stopped, except that the clock was telling me the morning was over.

I ambled out into the kitchen to help Mum put everything away, and the surreal quality of the day receded.

I couldn’t ignore what had happened though. The memory stayed with me all through the following week, nagging at me, demanding that I revisit the experience. I couldn’t do much about it during the week though, so instead, I planned for it, and when Saturday came round again, I was ready.

Dad went off to work, as usual. I plonked myself in front of the idiot box, as usual. Mum pottered about around the place, seemingly forever, but eventually, she gathered her things together and headed for the door.

I feigned indifference, pretending to be entranced by whatever junk Nickelodeon happened to be pumping out at that time until the door closed.

I was out of my seat and up the stairs as soon as she was out of sight. It’s as well she hadn’t forgotten anything, otherwise I’d have had to explain myself all the sooner.

I watched from my parents’ bedroom window until I saw her climb on the bus. I figured I had at least two hours, and I intended to make the best use of it that I could. I went through her drawers, looking for the things I knew were there to find. In retrospect, I have to admit what I was doing was a little creepy, but the anticipation of what I knew was to come had me intoxicated.

I went the full hog that first time; that first real time. Not just the red dress, but a silky satin burgundy camisole and a pair of sheer tights. The way they felt against my skin, the way they made me feel inside, I thought I would explode from the joy bubbling up inside me.

Two hours went by in a flash. Conscious of how people would react if they found out, I kept away from the windows; closed the curtains in some cases. I wandered around the house doing all the same sorts of things I’d normally do, watch TV, play with stuff, make myself a snack, that kind of thing, but it felt so different, so amazingly different.

The phone rang at one point. Just some telesalesman, but I could feel my heart thumping as I declined his kind offer to replace our boiler for free (or whatever). If only he’d known that the boy he’d been talking to had been wearing a dress…

Was that why this felt so amazing? I remembered something Dad had said one time about forbidden fruits tasting the sweetest. He’d explained what he meant when I’d asked. Did this feel so amazing because I was doing something that I shouldn’t be allowed to do; that other people would be upset if they knew about it?

No, it couldn’t be. I felt different in all sorts of ways. I felt softer, gentler, and strangely, more me.

I kept an eye on the clock, and after an hour and a half of heady delight, I went upstairs and changed back.

It was a harsh return to reality. Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. One of Dad’s favourites. Dr Seuss, I think he said, and it does sound a bit like something the Cat in the Hat would say. Easy to say as well; much harder to put into practice.

I’d been careful to put things back exactly where I’d found them. The dress back in its place, the wardrobe door partially closed, just so. The camisole, folded as neatly as I could manage and back in its drawer. The tights, a little stretched from me wearing them, but I assumed, hoped perhaps, that they’d shrink back if I left them.

Mum came home an hour later. Enough time for me to get over the withdrawal.

That had become my pattern for the following weeks. Monday through Friday marking time and planning for my next excursion into girlhood. Saturday morning, waiting impatiently for Mum to go out so I could indulge myself. The rest of the weekend hanging onto the memories of the feelings.

It had all worked so well until today. Maybe I’d become complacent. Certainly I’d stopped watching and waiting for her to get on the bus, but what was the point? She always went into town shopping on a Saturday morning. She never forgot anything. So why was she back so soon today?

I needed some way to answer my mum, but all that filled my head were terrified proto-thoughts. Wondering how she’s caught me, what I’d done to give myself away, what she was going to say to Dad.

That was going to be the worst.

Knowing Dad, he’d listen in silence as I, with much prompting from Mum, told him what I’d done. He’d look sad and despairing, maybe ask a question or two. Then would come more silence.

That was Dad’s superhero power, the silence. It would have been easier to endure if he’d gone off on a rant, or introduced my head to the back of his hand. At least I imagined it would be. I had nothing to compare against except my imagination. Dad was too gentle; he wouldn’t, possibly couldn’t, so much as yell at me, and as for hitting me..?

There had been this one time he’d laid into me. Tried at least. I can’t even remember why. I’d done something wrong, something that merited more than the silence. So he’d hit me. I know he did because I’d felt something, but there hadn’t been that much to feel. Mum doesn’t have a lot of strength, not much more than an average woman, I suppose, but the few times she’d been mad enough to get physical, it had hurt a flipping site more than Dad’s pathetic attempt.

But even Mum at her worst never hurt as much as Dad’s look of silent disappointment.

Not helping. What could I say? Why was I wearing a dress and tights, and a pair of heels a couple of sizes too large for me? How on Earth had she caught me unawares like that?

I’d been so careful. I’d made sure the clothes went back exactly where they’d come from; same dressing table drawer, same gap in the wardrobe. I’d waited until Mum had said she was going out to the shops, I’d waited till she’d grabbed her keys and left, I’d waited another ten minutes to be sure she’d gone and wasn’t coming back in a hurry, so why hadn’t I heard her? How come she was back already when I should have had at least a couple of hours in my fantasy world?

Looking back, maybe I hadn’t been that careful. The tights still had that stretched look about them whenever I put them back, and try as I might, I’d never managed to fold her underwear as neatly as she did. Nearly but not quite, never quite enough.

I’d been acting differently too. I could tell because Mum had been giving me odd looks recently.

So it shouldn’t have been such a surprise that she’d noticed, set a trap, sprung it so neatly and caught me in my very secret identity.

An idea scratched at the edges of my brain. Some poor, bedraggled, half-starved and feral thought, pawing at the door, waiting to be noticed. Something I’d said. Maybe two somethings.

Superhero powers, secret identities. It was an answer of sorts, and it was on my tongue before I’d had a chance to review it for idiocy.

Worst luck.

“I’m being a superhero,” I announced.

It sounded stupid even as I said it, and Mum’s twitching eyebrow told me all I needed to know about what she thought.

The trouble is, once you’ve started with a lie, you have to follow through. No matter how poor the opening gambit, you have to build on it. The moment you change your mind, you’re caught in the lie, and you’ve lost control of the situation. Nothing you can say after that has any credibility. I had no idea how or even if I could pull anything off after such a disastrous start, but I had to try. My ever-fertile imagination kicked in, drawing, as was so often the case, the seeds of an idea from something I’d seen on TV.

“Yeah, my name’s Spandexia,” I struck what I hoped would be an impressive superhero pose, legs apart, fists planted firmly on my hips, jaw raised and jutting out proudly, “and woe betides any criminal I meet on the streets.”

There’s no way it should have worked. I mean what sort of superhero would go around in an elastane dress and oversized heels? Still, where Mum’s involved, cute and silly also has a chance of working whenever logic fails.

I certainly looked cute standing proud and defiant in that red dress.

Silly too.

Mum’s mouth began to twitch and I knew I’d won.

I just wasn’t prepared for the prize.

“Come on,” she said, pointing at the stairs. “I think I have something a little more suitable.”

I followed her up to her and Dad’s bedroom, clomping carefully along in her oversized pumps. It took me longer to climb the stairs than her, largely because of the footwear malfunction. I made it through her doorway in time to see her pulling down a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe.

“You’d better take those clothes off,” she said as she worked at the straps holding the old case closed.

I tried not to show my disappointment as I stepped out of the shoes and pulled the dress and camisole over my head. I was about to slide the tights off when she stopped me.

“You can keep those,” she said, “though I think we’d all be better off if you wear them with some pants. Yours probably won’t look right under the circumstances, so give these a go.”

She threw me a pair of pants from her dressing table. They were white and plain; a lot like mine except without a fly, and made of a stretchy material that was as soft as anything I’d found in Mum’s wardrobe. I pulled them on over the tights, grateful to be able to hide my bits, even though Mum wasn’t paying me any attention.

“Here we go,” she said pulling something out of the suitcase. “This would be much more appropriate for Spandexia don’t you think?”

She held up a hot pink catsuit in some soft, shimmering material. Sort of satiny, like the camisole, but stretchy. It was a kind of low cut at the front, but went all the way up the back, with long sleeves and legs.

“I bought this for a party a few years before you were born. I only wore it the once, and I doubt I could get away with it now. Try it on.”

I wasn’t about to say no. For one thing, Mum still had the option of getting angry with me and getting Dad involved. For another, just the sight of the costume had my adrenal gland working overtime.

It was easy enough to climb into. Big gap at the top and stretchy throughout, it was just a case of sticking my arms and legs in until they came out the other end.

Except they didn’t exactly.

There was enough length in the legs to cover me beyond my toes, and the arms were much the same. The arms were easy to fix as Mum just rolled back the cuffs until my hands appeared. The legs she pondered a little longer before diving back into the suitcase.

“I bought these to go with the catsuit,” she said holding up a pair of pink boots. I thought they’d be a bit big for you, but maybe with the legs of the suit over your feet as well. Let’s try something.”

She rolled the loose ends of the legs up until the material was smooth all the way down to my toes and I had a small amount of material at the end, then she slipped my feet into the boots, settled them until I said they felt comfortable enough, and zipped them up.

I stood up and almost fell straight back down. I hadn’t noticed the height of the heels until it felt like I was almost standing on tip-toes. It took a few moments, but I found my balance. The wad of material at the end of my toes served, not only to fill out the boots, but to give me some padding there as well. It felt weird, but comfortable, and oh so amazingly wonderful.

“No, that won’t do.” Mum was staring at my middle. I followed her gaze and found a bulge spoiling the appearance of my costume. “Probably why Superman wears his undies outside, don’t you think? I don’t have anything that would work like that, but we could try this.” She pulled out a piece of wispy, floaty material. It was light mauve – lilac, mum told me – and so lightweight it seemed to ignore gravity, floating about by its own set of rules instead. “It’s not big enough to make a cape, but it will serve for this purpose.”

She wrapped it around my middle, which was when I noticed the waistband and all the fixings on it. She stepped back, nodding approvingly to herself.

Grabbing me by the shoulders, she steered me in front of the full-length mirror in her wardrobe.

“So, Spandexia, what do you think?”

I think she was trying to humiliate me a little bit. There was something of smugness as well as quiet amusement about her face, but I didn’t care because what I really thought, where it mattered, was that I looked amazing. It wasn’t quite a fit, still a bit baggy in the crotch, but that was as much hidden by the wrap-around skater skirt as my embarrassing bulge. It didn’t matter that I had short hair, my features were still young enough, and I looked naturally girly enough, that all it took was the clothes to transform my appearance.

I couldn’t keep the delight from my face as I looked up at her, just as she couldn’t quite keep the concern from hers, given my reaction.

“Well, if you like them that much, you can keep them.”

I squealed. I’m not usually given to girly reactions like that, but it seemed appropriate.

“Take that lot off before your dad gets home though, won’t you? I’m not sure he’s ready for something like this just yet. To be honest I’m not sure I am.

“And let me have it all back when you do change out of it. I’ll take it in a little for you.”

-oOo-

Spandexia spent the afternoon helping Mum. She – it had to be a she looking like this – hoovered the house from top to bottom, cleaned the bathrooms, unloaded the dishwasher. They were the kind of jobs that I usually did, or at least helped with, around the house, but this time I did them all with a will and smile. The heels became second nature after a while, but the novelty of being dressed like this didn’t wear off. The stretch of the fabric and the way it pulled against my arms and legs as I moved about, the occasional glimpses I caught of myself in mirrors and windows as I made my way around the house, they were all gravy on the roast beef of my day. I did keep half an eye on the clock, but it was Mum who let me know when playtime was over.

Again there was a sense of stepping back into the shadows as I climbed out of the lycra bodysuit and into my jeans and tee. I toyed with wearing the tights and pants under my jeans, but decided against it. The full experience was too massive, too important, to cheapen it with halfway houses.

Mum appeared at my door and collected the catsuit and boots. She had a tape measure in her hand and instructed me to strip down to my smalls again so she could figure out how big I was. A few minutes, a few measures, a few notes later and she backed out of the room. The dejection in my face didn’t pass unnoticed, and she offered me a sympathetic smile before nodding at the tights and pants on the floor.

“Don’t let your dad see those, eh? You can put them in the washing hamper in the bathroom, and I’ll make sure they’re ready for you for next Saturday.”

I dressed and did as I was told. By the time Dad came home, I was on the X-box, but not particularly enjoying myself. It was a good enough game, but I got to a bit that was too hard. I switched the machine off before I lost my rag with it.

The week went by much as usual. School wasn’t much of a challenge. I’d do the work I was set, then spend the rest of the lesson daydreaming. In the past, I’d asked for additional work, but now all I wanted to do was be Spandexia, and if I couldn’t be her for real, then I’d find ways of being her in my mind.

In English lessons, I’d write about her exploits, vanquishing her evil foes, most of whom were caricatures of some the less pleasant amongst my peers, their names usually poorly disguised anagrams of the original. Tom Marsh, for instance, became the Mmosh Rat in my stories. Our English teacher was either extremely dense or extremely wise though, because he never let on that he knew I was writing about my classmates.

Science, I’d do the experiment or whatever, then spend what remained of the lesson designing cool, futuristic weapons and gadgets for Spandexia. Geography, I’d read and write what I was told, then draw maps of Spandexia’s secret island hideaway. History, I’d learn the dates and names and events, then I’d work on Spandexia’s past.

Descended from the deposed Russian royal family, her great-grandparents had drifted slowly West into Europe, settling in Frankfurt and setting up a small pawn broker’s shop. Her grandfather had inherited the business, but he and his wife were later killed in a robbery, leaving their only daughter to be raised in an orphanage, where she’d grown to hate criminals and love the law. She’d trained as a barrister and indoctrinated her daughter with a strong sense of right and wrong.

The system didn’t work though. The legal process was flawed, allowing too many criminals to evade justice. One such, a high-level criminal, reputed to be a descendent of one of Rasputin’s illegitimate children, bribed judge and jury to escape punishment and vowed revenge on all who had opposed him, including Spandexia’s mother.

She wasn’t called Spandexia then. She had been christened Svetlana Panin-Metzger, and she’d been at school the day her parents died. Her father had gone to meet his wife for lunch, and both were inside the courthouse when the bomb exploded. There were sixty-two casualties of the blast. Sixty innocent strangers, and Svetlana’s two parents.

Like her mother, she finished her childhood as a ward of the state. Grief gave way to anger, and a drive to see justice served. Everyone knew who had been responsible for the bombing. He as much as admitted to it every time his arrogant sneer appeared on television, but there was never enough evidence to convict him. Her parents went unavenged, and the experience convinced her that the law was too weak to see the evil punished, so she committed herself, body, mind and soul to becoming someone who could do something about the situation.

She became a gymnast, and only failed to make the Olympic team because of an injury in practice a few weeks before the games. It didn’t matter to her; she wasn’t interested in accolades of that sort. Instead, she redirected her athleticism down the routes of the martial arts, becoming a proficient fighter in all every discipline she could find that benefitted from her flexibility and dexterity.

She applied her mind to mathematics, the sciences, engineering, languages, anything that would give her an edge in the war she intended to wage against crime. When she finally completed her formal education, she felt she was more than ready for the task she had set herself.

Shortly after she left school, she was contacted by a firm of solicitors. Other members of Svetlana’s family had been searching for her grandparents since shortly after they fled their homeland, and the publicity surrounding her parents’ deaths had brought her to their attention. They bided their time, checking her history and following her academic career closely until she came of age. Then they came forward, contacting her through their legal representatives, and welcomed her back into their midst. It meant she inherited a small fortune; enough to set her up with all the equipment and resources she needed to become a vigilante. It also meant she had a family again, but by then she’d lived alone long enough to develop a wilful independence, so she declined her grandparents’ advances and refused to become the debutant they wanted.

The little girl she had been the day her parents died had been suspended in time, even as the justice machine she turned herself into grew from that point. Her little girl’s love of pinks and purples was reflected in her costume, and the name she adopted. Adapting it from her real name, it was both playful and a little naïve. It worked for her though. The bad guys would be unable to take anyone with a name like Spandexia seriously, right up until the moment when they realised that maybe they should have.

By the time she felt ready to face the criminal world, Manfred Mösh, the man who had arranged the killing of her parents, and who was now known as the Mmosh Rat, had moved his operation to England. Spandexia followed, immersing herself in the anonymity of her new environment, she adopted the alter ego of a young man. She wasn’t so physically well-endowed as to find it difficult to pass as a member of the opposite sex, and it gave her perfect cover. As Spandexia’s reputation grew, anyone who wanted her dead would be searching for a young woman to kill. By jumping the gender gap, she was giving herself another layer of disguise.

You can see I had a lot of spare time in history.

Friday came, and with it the weekend. Friday night was usually family time. We’d order in and watch a couple of films from BlinkFilmFlix. The way it worked, I’d get to choose the first one, and Mum and Dad the second. That way if they chose something too schmaltzy, I could sneak off to my room and leave them to do whatever parents do when their kids really don’t want to know.

I chose Aeon Flux after considering and rejecting both Elektra and Catwoman. They went on the list as possible future Fridays along with the two Tomb Raider films.

Mum gave me a few concerned looks during the film. I mean it was usual that I’d choose something with a bit of action, but this was the first time I’d deliberately gone for one with a female good guy. I just returned her glances with a steady gaze. I knew what I wanted, and she’d actually shown me the way.

Mum and Dad’s choice wasn’t too bad for once, so I stayed up to watch it with them. They picked Inception, which had loads of cool effects and guns and fighting and all sorts of things. I’m not sure I followed much of the plot – something about people inserting themselves into other people’s dreams. All sorts of stuff about alternate realities. I enjoyed the action, but the storyline was about as confusing as the Matrix.

It was late by the time the credits started scrolling up the screen, and I was yawning like a hippo. It didn’t take much to persuade me to head off to bed.

-oOo-

I guess I’m kind of a morning person. It doesn’t seem to matter how late I go to bed, I’m usually awake before my alarm. Despite my tiredness the previous night, Saturday morning was no exception.

I’m not sure if I get it from Mum or Dad or a bit of both, because it seems the two of them are usually awake before me, no matter how early I get up.

The only time I remember this not being true was a Christmas a few years back. Mum and Dad remind me of it often enough, so I don’t think I’ll ever be allowed to forget it. Apparently, one year when I was too young to know any different, I had run into their room and bounced on the bed in my excitement because Santa had been, not realising that four thirty in the morning was not an acceptable time to wake them, especially since they had both been working hard preparing for Christmas until well past midnight, and had only slept a few hours before my interruption.

This Saturday held something of the excitement of that Christmas. I woke to the sounds of Mum moving about the house, and climbed out of bed to use the bathroom.

Mum was in my room when I came back. She was sitting on the bed, waiting, something pink and glistening in her hands.

I stopped in the doorway, the excitement bringing weakness to my legs until I didn’t trust them to carry me across the room.

“You know you don’t have to do this don’t you?” Mum seemed as nervous as me, but in a different way. “When I suggested this last week it was a sort of joke. I think I was interested to see how far you’d be prepared to go with it, but if you’d rather not…”

“Can I see it?”

A little uncertainly, she held up the shimmering spandex. I haven’t mentioned before, but Mum’s a whizz with her sewing machine. I’d been looking forward to seeing what she’d achieve, and she didn’t disappoint.

Whatever her feelings now, she’d evidently been caught up in the moment when she reclaimed the suit the previous week. Apart from the colour and texture of the material, it was almost unrecognisable.

Somehow she’d taken in the seams at the shoulders and sides, making the suit shorter in the body and tighter; closer to my frame. She’d shortened the sleeves to match my arms, and then she’d used some of the excess material to put a heel into the leggings, shaping and sewing them shut at the end so they had feet to them. The neckline was higher somehow, with an insert of thin lilac material from the skater skirt, so more of my chest would be hidden. The skirt itself had been shortened so it no longer overlapped, but formed a single, complete layer, sewn into the waist of the suit. As finishing touches, more of the reclaimed spandex had been sewn across the back to give a short, decorative cape, only long enough to hang halfway down my back, and she’d sewn another piece of the skirt – cut into a jagged S, a little like a lightning bolt – into the front.

It was perfect, and in my excitement, I all but snatched it out of her hands.

“Don’t forget these,” she told me, handing me the pants and tights from the previous week. She smiled, but there was an odd, concerned sadness about the expression. “You should wash your hair as well. It’s getting a bit greasy, and, well, it wouldn’t look right.”

I dropped the clothes on the bed and ran back to the bathroom, showering properly and doing the biz with my locks as instructed.

Mum was still waiting when I got back. I was impatient to try on the costume, but she wouldn’t let me put on anything more than the pants and tights; pants first this time. She made me sit down on the bed while she sprayed something on my hair and attacked it with a brush and hair drier. It took her longer than usual, and she seemed to be pulling it in all sorts of different directions. I trusted her though, so I sat as still as my fidgeting rear would allow, and let her do her thing.

When I finally put the catsuit on, it was like sliding into a second skin. It was tight against my body everywhere it covered, already different and so much better than last week. It felt more comfortable in the feet without the rolled up excess of the leggings at my toes, and, I don’t know, the whole thing just seemed so much more right.

The catsuit had a breast band sewn in. Somehow Mum had inserted two small pieces of stuffing. There wasn’t much to them, but they made all the difference in the world.

That amazing, cold feeling washed through me again. There was a catch to my breath as I settled everything into place and turned to Mum with a smile on my face a mile wide.

Her returned smile was a little wider than it had been, a little less tense, but it still didn’t reach her eyes. Not quite. I’m not sure I truly noticed that at the time, but I see it in my memories. Just then all I knew was that things weren’t quite right; Mum wasn’t quite happy, but she was trying to be.

She passed me a few extras, a small handful.

First were the boots. They weren’t Mum’s. Last week they’d seemed almost comically large, and without the rolls of legging in front of my toes, they wouldn’t have fit today. Instead Mum had bought me a new pair in my size.

They didn’t come as high up my calf as Mum’s had, and they only had dinky little heels, but they were mine; Mum had bought them for me, and that made them all the more special. They were as good a fit as the redesigned catsuit, and they felt so much better.

Next came a wide belt. Not entirely necessary, but it fit snugly around my waist, and it had pouches around its length. A bit like Batman’s utility belt, only in a lurid pink. Darker than the catsuit, but enough of a very similar hue to match it.

“Because I don’t have pockets,” I said grinning up at Mum, who nodded and widened her own brittle smile.

Last was a tiara, made from a thin band of golden metal, with a single, large lilac stone in its centre. I settled it into place, feeling the odd way my hair now stood away from my head.

She took me by the shoulders and guided me through to the bedroom she shared with Dad.

“I’m not sure Gerald’s appropriate anymore, is it?”

I couldn’t speak, so I shook my head slowly from side to side. Short as it was, there was a slight mobility to my hair. The rest was, well, so different.

“What do you think?”

I think she may have been hoping that I was enough of a boy to be horribly embarrassed by the pinks and purples, the tight clothes and the skirt. I would have liked to give her what she wanted, but I couldn’t. I felt amazing, and I couldn’t hide it.

“I think it’s perfect, Mum.”

“I could always make you a boys superhero costume if you prefer; Spiderman or Batman, or anything else.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes off my reflection. I shook my head, biting my lip a little as I stepped forward to take in every detail.

“I’m not sure I feel happy calling you Spandexia, and like I said, I can’t see a Gerald anywhere, can you?”

I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I turned, shaking my head.

“How about Svetlana?” I asked, thinking about my extracurricular activities during the previous week.

“Svet… Where did you come up with that name?”

“It was just an idea I had.”

“Can we shorten it to Lana?”

Like Lana Lang from Smallville. She ended up as a superhero in the end, didn’t she? I liked it and squeezed a few more millimetres out of my smile. I’d have to stop soon as my jaw was beginning to ache.

“Well Lana. I know housework doesn’t sound exactly like the sort of thing a superhero would normally do, but how about it?”

Which is how I spent the morning. However much housework and superheroing didn’t go together, I still managed to do it all superfast, and by the time afternoon came round, I’d done all my chores and helped Mum with a few of hers. The house sparkled, and we both settled down for a well-deserved lunch together.

-oOo-

“I get the impression you’ve enjoyed yourself this morning,” Mum said, spearing a tomato and transferring it to her mouth.

I nodded my head enthusiastically and grinned around a huge mouthful of sausage sandwich.

“If you had the choice, do you think you’d like to be a girl all the time?”

My sandwich froze halfway into my mouth. I’m not sure why I thought I might avoid questions of this nature, given my recent enthusiasm for pink spandex, but somewhere in my apparently immense capacity for self-denial, I’d allowed myself to hope things might continue as normal.

It wasn’t just the question itself though. It was also her stillness and the quiet control in her voice which told me this wasn’t a question to be taken lightly. I withdrew the half-eaten sandwich and placer it back on its plate. It took a while for me to formulate a reply; long enough that Mum tilted her head on one side, watching me.

“I’m not sure,” I said, eventually. I know; well worth waiting for. “It’s complicated.”

“How is it complicated?” Another forkful of salad disappeared into Mum’s mouth. She was deliberately trying to keep things normal, to keep me at ease, emphasising how far from normal things actually were. A bitter, acrid taste was rising in my throat, threatening to throttle me. I swallowed it down with some difficulty and hunted carefully for my next words.

“I know I’m a boy,” I started slowly, carefully. “I have a willy and everything. Everyone else knows it as well, which means they expect me to behave like a boy. My friends, my teachers, you and Dad. As long as I do the things that other boys do, then I’m normal; I’m behaving the way I should and nobody’s upset.”

“But…”

“But when I’m dressed like this, everything’s different. I feel more… more normal to me, I suppose; more like the me I want to be. I feel more natural. It’s like I don’t have to try so hard to be the person I am when I’m like this.”

“So you would like to be a girl?”

I screwed up my face in frustration. I mean yes, of course I would, but it’s not just about me is it?

“The thing is, I don’t think you’re that happy about me being like this, are you? It’s been an amazing morning, and I’ve loved being this way, but there have been times, when you didn’t think I was looking, you kind of looked worried, or upset a bit.”

“Well surely that’s my problem, isn’t it? Gerald, I want you to be happy.”

“It’s not just you though. Last week you wanted me to change before Dad came home. I expect you’re going to want me to again today, so I’m guessing Dad would be even more upset.”

Mum opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn’t think how. A few seconds later, I continued.

“And my friends at school would all laugh at me if they saw me like this.”

“Well, maybe they’re not such great friends if they do that…”

“Except they’re all I’ve got, Mum. It’s not like there’s an unlimited supply of people lining up to be friends with me. I can’t just say, ‘All you losers who don’t like the idea of me dressing like a girl, stand over there,’ and then choosing from the ones who stay behind.

“And my teachers would seriously freak out. They’d say I was trying to disrupt the class, and it wouldn’t matter that that wasn’t what I was trying to do, it would have the same effect, and I’d get done for it.”

“When it comes down to it, I can either be Gerald, which isn’t too hard; I mean I’ve had a lot of practice.” I grinned to show I was kind of joking, “or I can be Svetlana, which I like more, but then I’d have to deal with everyone being upset with me because I’m not acting like a boy like they think I should.”

My appetite fled and I sat there staring at the unfinished remains of my lunch.

“Maybe I should get changed. Maybe it’s better if I’m Gerald all the time; that way no one will get upset with me.”

I stood up from the table and turned towards the stairs.

“So that’s it?” Mum asked my back. “You’re going to give up on what you want because it’s easier that way?”

I didn’t much care for her tone. She’d never spoken to me like that before. It was like she was taunting me; making fun of me.

“I’ve enjoyed having Lana around this morning.” Her voice softened, and the mum I loved was back. “I’ll admit it was a bit strange to start with, and I was worried because of what other people would think, and because I wasn’t sure why you were doing this.

“Lana, if being like this makes you happy, then I don’t want you to go away. We’ll find a way to make it work, with your Dad, with your friends…”

“What if we can’t? What if everyone hates me because of this?”

“Then everyone would be fools.”

I hadn’t noticed, but she’d come round from her side of the table. She was crouching beside me with her arms around me. I turned and buried my face in her neck, sobbing wildly and throwing my arms around her.

I could feel Dad’s disapproving glare, even though he wasn’t there. ‘Big boys don’t cry,’ he’d said to me often enough, and I wanted to yell back, “Why not!” Even though he wasn’t there.

“I just wish things could be different,” I managed to stutter through my tears.

“Me too sweetheart. Hey, maybe that could be Spandexia’s superhero power.”

I sniffed and felt her pulling me gently to arm’s length. I looked into her eyes. I wanted to be miserable, to lament the unfairness of life, but all I could see was her acceptance of me, regardless of who or what I was. I couldn’t fight the smile the came to my lips.

“It wouldn’t be much of superpower,” I said.

“Are you kidding? I’d love to be able to change the way things are. I could wish I wasn’t fat, or that your father didn’t spend so much time at work.”

“it wouldn’t be much of a story though, would it? Spandexia sees something she doesn’t like. She thinks really hard about how she thinks things should be. She opens her eyes and everything’s different; better.”

“And once again I have to ask, are you kidding? You could explore how every decision has deeper effects. Spandexia changes the thing she thinks needs changing, and immediately afterwards, this has a knock on effect and a whole bunch of other things happen which make the situation worse. Eventually, she learns to use her power only after considering all the consequences. That sounds like a story with some mileage.

“But anyway, what do you want to do this afternoon? We could go out. I asked your father if he’d mind taking the bus today, so we have the car.”

“I’d have to get changed.”

“Why? We could go a few miles out of town, where no one knows us; where if the people we come across think they’re meeting a little girl and her mother, then maybe we can just let them carry on believing that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not? Go and get your wallet while I find my shoes and bag.”

“My wallet?”

“Well, what would be the point of me taking my daughter shopping if she didn’t have the means to buy anything?”

I didn’t need telling twice. How is it Mums know just the right thing to say and do?

My wallet fit neatly into one of the pouches on my belt, and my mobile slid into another. I thought about other things that might be worth taking, but none of them was girly enough, and I didn’t want to give myself away.

Mum was ready and waiting by the time I reappeared. Our driveway goes down the side of the house, so getting into the car unseen was a no-brainer. My heart was beating fit to burst out of my chest as we pulled into the road. This was so much better than pretending to be a girl in the privacy of my home.

I hunkered down and hid when we drove past the park where a number of my schoolmates were kicking a football about. As we approached the edge of town, heading into unfamiliar territory, I became more complacent, sitting up in my seat so I could see better.

Unfortunately, if you can see out, it follows that anyone who’s outside can see you inside. I should have waited a few more minutes before sitting up because guess who came ambling around a corner right at the edge of town, just as we approached?

Dirty tee-shirt and genuinely distressed jeans, by which I mean jeans that had come by their tears and worn patches through the more conventional method of being worn outside, climbing trees and the like.

Still, it didn’t matter what he was wearing. What mattered was that Tom Marsh was walking down the pavement towards us as we approached. I couldn’t hide, not at that late stage. He’d have seen me duck down. I had to hope that he wouldn’t recognise me. I mean I did look a lot different from normal.

I kept my eyes looking further down the road, pretending to ignore him, and I fought hard not to let the rising panic show on my face. He looked up at me as we passed, giving me way more attention than I wanted. A second later, we were round that corner and gone, but it was a second too long in my mind.